Hi guys! Thank you for being patient enough to wait for this chapter, and thank you all for your lovely reviews! This chapter is going into a very unexpected direction, even for me. I had not expected to write any of this when I started it, and I hope you like it.

There is going to be a fourth chapter, but please be patient as I'm still in the middle of my exams.


Deafening silence.

People yelling. Sirens. More people. Hurried footsteps. Then nothing.

Just a black cloud inside his head.

Pain.

It was the first and quite frankly only thing he could feel when the darkness of his clouded mind had finally started to fade. He sucked fresh air into his lungs, but quickly regretted this as he felt a sharp pain in his ribs. He focused and calculated that he had broken at least three of his ribs, and he knew this weren't the only fractures his body had suffered. He was certain his left arm had been severely damaged, fractured in at least two places. It was going to be a long and boring process to heal.

At least he wasn't lying on a concrete floor, buried underneath the walls and ceiling of the warehouse. Even with his eyes closed he realized he was inside a building, lying in a bed and the lingering smell of disinfectant told him he was in a hospital, albeit not a very crowded one since no sounds from outside the room made their way into his ears. There were no visitors, just a couple of nurses walking down the hallway with the characteristic squeaking noises of the soles of their shoes.

He opened his eyes and blinked against the bright light, and a sudden wave of nausea hit him. He had expected the concussion, but he hadn't expected it to be this bad. His head hurt and he had to lie perfectly still for the nausea to subside.

Despite his concussion and physical state, he tried to keep his eyes open in order to observe his surroundings. He was lying in a white, pristine hospital bed. The walls were immaculate, almost terrifyingly clean. On his left hand side was a small window from which he had an excellent view of the hospital's parking lot. He looked at the long shadows of the cars and trees, and realized that at least twenty hours had passed since the explosion. He had been unconscious for quite a few hours, but not longer than a day.

He got slightly frustrated because he couldn't find out any other details, such as which hospital he was in. He knew every bloody hospital in the entire city, but it was as though that chamber in his mind was locked and the key was lost. He blamed the pain in his head that became gradually stronger as he turned his head to observe the room.

Sherlock realized that with an explosion this powerful he was lucky to be alive, even if alive meant slightly damaged, but it was nothing they couldn't fix. He briefly wondered if he was the only one who had survived the blast, wondered how many victims there were, and how much of the horribly dismembered casualties they would show on the news.

He wondered if the media would speak about a gas leak once again, to cover up the state of affairs.

He wondered if Irene Adler would smile as she stared down at the view of the destruction she had caused.

If she's still alive.

He swallowed as realization hit him.

Irene was the only person who mattered when it came to survival of the explosion. Apart from him of course, but he was still alive.

He couldn't help but feel a sudden guilt press upon him as he thought of her possible death. He had had to deal with the idea of her death before, and even though he didn't want the feeling of guilt to get the upper hand in his mind, he couldn't help it. He once again blamed his weak physical state for letting his thoughts wander off.

Caring is not an advantage.

Big lot of use that advice was now.

Sherlock frowned and immediately winced as his head protested.

There were no elements in the room that could tell him if anyone had gone in or out in the past couple of hours. There was one chair in the corner of the room, but the lack of indent in the seat told him no one had used it in the past couple of hours. There were no traces of anyone visiting, no one he knew, and not even a nurse. The smell covered everything and reminded him of formaldehyde, and his brains made the connection with the morgue.

He just didn't want to have to identify her body on a slab. Again.

Sherlock genuinely didn't know whether she was still alive or not, and the uncertainly was unsettling him.

He felt the sudden need for a cigarette.

His body, exhausted with the damage it had borne, felt that the best thing to do was doze off in a dreamless sleep.


It was dark outside when he woke up again, and the curtains had been closed. At least his headache and the nausea had subsided for the biggest part.

He noticed that the lamp on the ceiling of his room was on.

The light shone right upon the shape of Irene Adler.

She had pulled up the chair next to his bed, and the novel she had brought lay upside down on her lap, forgotten, the storyline forsaken. She was staring at the wall in front of her, the light of the lamp casting ghastly shadows all over the plastered wall.

Sherlock allowed himself to smile in relief, but he made sure that she didn't see this reaction.

He could see that her left wrist was enveloped in a cast, but apart from her broken wrist and the bruises and scratches she had already gotten before the explosion she looked relatively unharmed. The stitches that kept together the gash on her cheek made it look like she was a martial arts fighter of sorts.

It was not completely a strange assumption. She was a fighter, after all, but more in the metaphorical sense of the word.

Sherlock hated metaphors.

Irene was looking rather exhausted, dark circles around her eyes, and she had obviously gotten a shower not too long before she decided to come down to his room. She had left her damp hair down, making her look younger than whenever she was wearing her infamous hairdo. Her face looked slightly empty without make up, too.

"You're here because they won't ask any questions," she told him without looking up from the wall.

"Questions such as 'why are there dead people using our medical services?'" Sherlock said, and Irene looked down at him, a hint of a smile on her face.

"You look terrible," she said. Sherlock didn't reply. He had expected a similar remark already. They both stayed silent, the only sound inside the room being their breathing.

"Guess I was lucky then," Irene said, picking up the forgotten novel off her lap and rubbing her eyes with her right hand, wincing slightly since both her eyes slowed traces of blue and purple.

"There's no such thing as luck. You knew how powerful the destruction would be and which walls would be hit. You had planned all this," Sherlock said.

"You really think I'm that clever? I'm flattered," Irene smiled, her smile missing something of its power without her bright red lipstick, "let's say I was at the right spot at the right time. Relatively speaking, of course. I could've caught the shards of the door like Moran's assistant did. I believe they found his guts ten feet away from his body."

"What about Moran?" Sherlock asked, and even though she tried to, Irene couldn't hide the sudden change in her demeanor. An unexpected rush of adrenaline made his heart rate speed up, panicking for a tenth of a second, then realizing that, even if Moran had survived, he wouldn't be in a physical state to run.

"He survived, but only barely. I happen to know that the lower half of his leg got stuck under a heavy piece of plaster, and I believe he won't ever be able to use his leg again."

Sherlock sighed. They hadn't gotten rid of Moran completely. Many members of the organization had died in the explosion, but there would still be people active underground. If they wanted to take down the entire organization, they'd have to pull out the roots in order to get to the top eventually. Their lives weren't safe, and neither was John's, even if his former flatmate had no idea of the danger that was posed upon him.

Speaking of danger.

"You had miscalculated your bomb," Sherlock said, "you should be more careful with time bombs next time, they leave some nasty collateral damage."

"Wrong," Irene said, and Sherlock furrowed his brow as the word got stuck in his mind. Wrong? How could he be wrong about this? It was obvious.

"It wasn't a time bomb," Irene smirked, "it was a heat-sensitive bomb. I had conveniently turned up the thermostat, and it was only a matter of time."

"Of course. Stupid. Stupid," Sherlock grinded his teeth, irritated because he hadn't been able to connect the perfectly clear dots.

"It was worth the risk. I've always preferred heat, like I said, it's more me. I knew you'd understand my hints."

"You couldn't be certain about that," Sherlock said, "you could've gotten us both killed."

"But I didn't," Irene said, sounding slightly triumphant.

"No, you didn't," Sherlock replied, and they both fell silent once again.

"Sherlock," Irene said after a while, a strange kind of melancholia sounding through in her voice, "you said I couldn't be certain, and yet I was, and you knew I wasn't feeling any doubt. You know me better than you think you do. You know," she continued, "I've tried to change but I'm still the same."

He shook his head, knowing what she meant, she was hinting at a certain type of sentiment that was still clouding her brain. It explained why she had done all this, why she would be stupid (or was it clever?) enough to get herself into mortal danger just so he wouldn't be bored.

"Why are you saying that?" he asked.

"Because it's true, " she said, and she laid her hand on his for the shortest of moments, then pulled it back when she felt his fingers moving under hers, as though that gesture had made it too real.

"You haven't learned a thing, have you?" he said, and Irene shrugged in response. She stayed silent for a while, and then stared down at her watch.

"I believe the nurse is on her round and is about to enter this room, which means I'll leave now," she said, "no offense, but I don't wish to see your bloody bandages."

Sherlock didn't ask her when she was going to be back, if she would be back at all. He didn't tell her goodbye, he just sat there and stared, feeling glad that she had come out of this alive, then reminded himself that sentiment was definitely a weakness and he shut his brain off for similar thoughts.

He followed her movements with his eyes as she got to her feet gracefully, making sure she wasn't using her wrist. He could see that she was hiding how much it actually hurt, and she hadn't complained about it because she knew he was in a worse state than her.

Irene headed for the door quickly, her novel grasped in her hand, and had exited the room before he could blink.

A couple of seconds after she had left, a young nurse with dark blonde hair entered the room. Sherlock figured she had only just graduated from medical school and was new to the job. Her name tag told him her name was Katie, but her shoes, arms, and clothing told him details from her life story.

"Good evening, mister Holmes, I'm going to change your bandages," she said, scribbling something on the board at the foot of his bed.

"There was a woman here a moment ago" Sherlock said, "she left the room, could you please look in which direction she headed?"

The nurse stopped writing, and raised her eyebrows, "what woman?"

" You're a nurse, I expect a certain degree of intelligence, so don't pretend to be stupid," Sherlock said, clearly irritated, "the woman who left just before you entered the room. I need to know which exit she took."

"There was no one here, sir."

Sherlock sighed deeply, his ribs protesting but he didn't wince, "you've recently broken up with your boyfriend and you've bought a cat to replace him, but the cat reminds you too much of your ex and you're living with the crippling fear that you'll be single forever, and unsuccessful at your new job because of that. Now tell me, where did the woman go?"

The young woman's cheeks colored bright red, but she if she was irritated or taken aback by Sherlock's deduction, she didn't let on.

"There was no one here, sir. No woman, no one."

"Don't you think it's a bit rude to lie to one of your patients?" Sherlock asked.

The nurse began to lose her patience, "Mister Holmes, I can assure you that I am very competent when it comes to my job, and that I do not let my personal life affect my work attitude in the slightest, and I assure you there hasn't been anyone in this room today, the woman you're speaking of has not been here."

Sherlock was genuinely confused for the first time in ages. He could not find a single trace in the woman's behavior that told him she was lying, so rational thought told him she wasn't. There hadn't been anyone in the room. He looked to the corner of the room, to the chair in which Irene had been seated only moments ago, and which had been next to his bed when she left. There was no indent in the fabric of the chair, no traces of a human being, and Sherlock furrowed his brow. He did not like this feeling of doubt that had been creeping upon him but now hit him in the face with a blow.

He was certain he wasn't delirious. He wasn't on medication, which was pretty obvious since every part of his body hurt and he wasn't plugged into an IV. He knew what it felt like to be under sedation and the side effects of medicine, and he was most definitely not having those symptoms.

Sherlock wasn't sure if she had used her real name upon entering the hospital, which meant he was possibly jeopardizing her identity, and yet he asked, "Miss Adler hasn't been here? Irene Adler?"

"I don't know anyone of that name. Are you alright?" the nurse asked, "are you feeling dizzy?"

"My eyes didn't deceive me, I know what I saw," Sherlock said, "unless someone has drugged me with something stronger than morphine, which is practically impossible because I'd see the marks on my skin and they aren't there."

The woman was examining him from head to toe, a worried look upon her face, "you're not on medication, but sometimes we imagine things we want to see most, and I know it's hard to deal with loss-"

"Loss?"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," the nurse said, her voice squeaking all of a sudden, her professional attitude disappearing because she was afraid of the possible mistake she had made, "you weren't in the gas leak accident?"

"I-Yes, I was," Sherlock said, and even though he was able to read the fear on the woman's face, he couldn't exactly tell what she was scared of.

"Oh dear, has no one told you?" the nurse said and swallowed, but Sherlock already knew the direction her speech was heading, "I'm so sorry to tell you this, but there were no other survivors."