Chapter Two - Irene Adler

I know you're not dead. Let's have dinner.

Standing on the pavement outside of Lestrade's house, he decided this was the right time. Two people told in one day; like killing two birds with one stone. Reading the message once more, he began to write his reply.

Eleven miles away, Irene Adler was walking through her wardrobe, deciding what outfit she was to wear for her next customer. There was a lot of choice, but at the moment, she had trouble deciding. Silk was always the best and safest option.

She picked up a cerise silk robe and walked back out to her dressing room. Her phone sounded from its place on her pillow. She placed the robe over her chair and picked up the phone. Her password was the same as it had so long ago.

You're right. But I'm not hungry. I'll pick you up at seven. -SH

She had to reread the message twice. Irene wasn't surprised at all that he was alive, but inviting her to dinner? It was certainly not what she was expecting and completely out of character. This was what caused her to begin to wonder whether this was actually him.

Perhaps someone had faked this to lure her to them? There was no doubt that someone somewhere was plotting against her, which was inevitable. But faking to be Sherlock? Would someone stoop that low?

Irene walked out of the room to the landing at the top of the stairs. "Emily, are you there?" she called down.

Emily emerged from her coffee room, with a tray of teacups and a teapot. She looked up at Irene. "Yes, Miss Adler?"

"Cancel my next appointment. Tell him I'll make it up to him in the worst possible way."

"Yes, Miss Adler. Is there a reason for your cancellation?"

"Yes." Irene walked back to her room.

The last time Irene had seen Sherlock in person, he had saved her from being beheaded in Karachi. This was still such a vivid memory for her as it was a much unexpected surprise; Sherlock Holmes draped in black cotton, faking to be a terrorist.

In fact, the more she thought about it, the more unlikely it sounded that this text was from Sherlock. She had lost the game, let emotion get in the way and in the process, let him take her pulse. Why would he be trying to contact her now? The answer was that he wasn't. Irene couldn't fall for this; it was a ridiculous scam to try to get her to blindly walk into the path of what she suspected was assassins.

Irene spent the next few hours trying to ignore the thought of Sherlock. It was over a year ago, yet she couldn't deny, she had fallen for him. It was a complete mistake, acquiring feelings for a man you are supposed to be using is not a useful thing to do.

Although she did not seem like this type of girl, while Irene had no customers, she loved lying on the sofa in her television room with her favourite pyjamas on. Sometimes she did just enjoy escaping the dark world around her to watch how the lighter side lived. She found it funny how plain they lived, with no excitement besides maybe an oddly-shaped crisp. There was certainly no recreational scolding- which Irene found incredibly dull- and everyone was so ordinary.

The doorbell sounded downstairs. She heard Emily's heels making their way to the door. Emily was talking to someone over the intercom, but couldn't make out the words; she presumed it was her next customer who obviously hadn't gotten the cancellation.

"Miss Adler?" Emily called up.

Irene didn't really want to rise from the sofa, but she reluctantly got up and leaned over the landing banister.

"What is it, Emily?" Irene said, making sure Emily could tell she wasn't interested.

"Someone is here to see you. He says his name is-" she paused and waited for the visitor's reply. "Sherlock Holmes."

She was getting bored of this. "It's probably not him. What does he look like?"

"Uh, curly black hair, quite colourful eyes, long navy coat?"

Time seemed to stop. Was he actually here? Or was this what the visitor had told her to say? She leaned further over the banister to see Sherlock Holmes walk into her hallway. She quickly straightened up and contemplated her next move. The problem was, it was too late.

Sherlock came walking up the stairs and stopped when he reached the top.

"Miss Adler in pyjamas? Well, isn't this a treat." He said, smiling at her.

Irene was speechless. She opened her mouth twice to speak, but couldn't find the words. Sherlock noticed this.

"You didn't think I was coming, did you?"

"No."

Sherlock chuckled. "You should probably get ready. Don't try too hard, you don't need to, you look fine how you are to be honest, but I'm sure you don't want to go to a restaurant in pyjamas. Be quick, our reservation is in 10 minutes. I'll be downstairs." He announced, and walked back down the stairs, only stopping once at the bottom to look up- where he met Irene's gaze- and then continued to the lounge.

Irene was still puzzled as to what had just happened. Sherlock Holmes had arrived at her house and was taking her to dinner. Was this real life?

Whatever it was, she needed to get ready. She saw her cerise robe thrown over her chair, and picked it up on her way to the wardrobe. What to wear, what to wear? She settled for a black pencil dress. She took out her favourite pair of black shoes, and walked down the stairs and into the living room where Sherlock was sitting patiently.

As she walked into the room, Sherlock looked up at her and smiled. Irene smiled back at him.

"Shall we go?" he asked.

"I'm ready if you are."

Sherlock got up from the sofa and walked over to Irene. He placed his hand on the small of her back as he directed her out of the door. It was colder outside than she had thought and she soon began to shiver. Sherlock could feel how ice cold her skin was, even though she tried to hide it. He stopped on the pavement.

"Here," he said, taking off his coat and placing it round her, "you're freezing."

Irene pulled the jacket round her tightly. It wasn't the first time she had worn his coat, but last time, she hadn't been wearing much else.

They continued to walk in silence down the pavement towards the restaurant that Sherlock picked. It wasn't awkward silence, not at all; they were just taking in the scenery and relaxing.

The side of London they were walking in had high buildings, with many windows and ornate stonework. It was a dark night; the streets were only lit by the lights from inside the shops. The buildings were illuminated red, blue, green and it made the area come alive.

Finally, they reached a small restaurant on the corner of one of the many tall London buildings. Irene looked up and read the sign: 'The Ivy'. Sherlock walked up to the door and held it open for her as she walked inside. It was much warmer in here, so she removed his coat.

"Thank you." she passed the coat back to him and he draped it over his arm.

The lighting of the restaurant was a lightly dim orange colour, giving the place a very relaxing atmosphere. The tables were covered with pure white sheets and each had a candle set in the middle. The more she looked around, the more she was given the impression that Sherlock Holmes had just invited her on a date. This wasn't just dinner, no, it was more. Once again, she hated to admit it, but she was perfectly okay with going on a date with him. It's not like she hadn't thought of it before.

The maître d' invited them to sit at a small table Sherlock had reserved by the window. He allowed her to walk in front of him. Sat at the window, the view outside was of neon colours and couples walking together, smiling without a car. Irene looked over at Sherlock; he was looking out of the window. She took this chance to study him. He was wearing a dark purple shirt, one she had seen pictures of him in before, and a pair of black trousers. He had the same daft hair as he had before, it was perhaps a shade darker than she remembered, the same sharp cheekbones, that she had once threatened to slap, yet his eyes were different.

Of course, they were still the same rainbow of colours, but they looked tired; like he hadn't slept well for a while. What had been troubling him? She soon realised, he hadn't told everyone he was back yet. She had believed that she was the last person he told, but it was obvious that she was one of the first. But why? That was a different matter.

Irene looked up again, and saw that Sherlock had just watched her every move and he was slightly smirking. She blushed, and reached for the menu that had been placed in front of her. They ordered their food and Sherlock leaned forward.

"So tell me, how have you been? I haven't seen you in over a year."

How could she describe the past 14 months? They had been spent misbehaving and renewing her career as a dominatrix, she had gotten herself into at least two more deadly situations and thinking about Sherlock.

"I've been fine, just fine," she leaned forward herself. "Why are you telling me that you are alive before John?"

Sherlock went speechless and seemed to just completely stop. His eyes went blank as he stared at a spot just behind her. She didn't push him to answer; she continued to look at him with confused eyes. This question had made him think; think more than he usually did. Of course, his work used a lot of brainpower- it was extraordinary what he could do- but this was different. The answers that came to him during his work came easy to him, but thoughts concerning actual human emotions were much more troublesome and complex.

"I don't know." He answered, plain and simple, without moving his eyes. To be fair, he barely moved his mouth to say the words. He opened his mouth to speak again. "I can't tell him yet. There are a few people I haven't told yet; it's just you and Lestrade."

"Surely you would tell John first? He's the one that's hurting the most. Of course, we were all hurting, not that anyone considered me, but John was always the worst. You were his rock, and then you left him lost and alone." She blurted out, without even thinking.

She could tell she had made a bad decision when Sherlock went back to his blank face.

"Sherlock-"she started.

"Do excuse me." He said, getting up and walking towards the back of the restaurant, disregarding her attempt at an apology.

He had walked into the bathroom, and ten minutes later, had not returned. Irene contemplated whether he was still in there or whether he had left the restaurant. Either way, she did not enjoy sitting at the table alone.

Another fifteen minutes later, and his frame emerged from the door she had been watching. He had a slight stumble to his walk and his eyes were raw. She knew exactly what he had jus t done, but went against bringing up the fact that his eyes were still glazed by tears.

"Sorry about that," he said, sitting back down and replacing the napkin on his lap, "I had to take a phone call."

"Oh, sure sure, that's fine." She knew he was lying, but what was the point of bringing it up?

Half an hour and a starter course later, their main courses arrived. Halfway through, Irene began to wonder about something. How on earth did he survive?

"Sherlock-" once again, she was cut off.

"Don't ask the question. You know how I did it. Just think."

She thought to herself for a moment, she visualised the area, the street walk, the top of the building, the position of John...

"John couldn't see you land. You fell, you landed on something, you survived and a body, or yours, was placed in the blood." she blurted out. Sherlock smirked.

"You've been learning."

"I learnt from the best. But why-" she was interrupted again.

"Moriarty. Don't ask details, I'm not interested in giving them." he went back to staring out of the window.

It was evident that there was something about this whole ordeal that had really hit him; the feeling was unnatural and emotional, therefore he couldn't come to terms with it. She doubted he would ever properly open up about it.

They got to dessert without another dead-end conversation. It had honestly been a great evening, she was glad Sherlock was back. After the conversation earlier, things were going better, Sherlock was smiling and it was like it was all forgotten.

"So," she said, leaning closer to him over the table, "Is this going to happen again?"

Sherlock's head snapped up from where he had been looking at his dessert. He looked at her bewildered. He took a second to think about what had just happened and what he was going to say next.

"What do you- oh!" Sherlock looked surprised when the ends finally met inside his brain. He realised his mistake. "Irene, you know this wasn't a date, don't you? I don't date, I never have, I never will, I'm married to my work."

Irene leaned back. She had totally misread every sign tonight and had now made a complete fool of herself. Why had he gone to all this trouble then? What was the point of asking her?

"Irene, please speak. I'm sorry, I didn't realise."

She realised she hadn't spoken for at least five minutes. She shook her head.

"I just don't understand."

"Look, I'm sorry, truly. The thing is, I have other commitments-"

The bell above the restaurant door chimed. Sherlock's eyes locked on the figure that had just walked in. This was the worst timing and the worst person to walk through the door. He certainly hadn't been planning on seeing this person just yet.

Without him even realising, the figure was walking by the table. The figure stopped when it realised who was sat in the seat. They locked eyes.

"Oh."