Sherlock had slammed the door behind him making the windows rattle in their frame, much to his satisfaction. Sometimes The Woman was just too much to handle. Damn it she was frustrating. He had forgotten how much her presence had affected him, how he had mourned for her the first time. Was it so selfish to wish to not go through that again? When he had received intelligence that The Woman was in danger he had sprung into action doing everything in his power to make sure she would be safe. He could not let her die, not when her blood would be on his hands. The weight of his guilt would be too much. He glared at the chair in the corner where he had spent most of those first two days.

Day 1:

"Run" Sherlock's voice was low, meant only for Irene to hear. Her very life depended on it. He was beyond pleased when she obeyed. He swung the sword and she ducked low. The curved blade ripped through the captor. The rest was a blur, a mad dash to the exit, sliding into the Audi, Sherlock giving the demand to Tubbs to "Drive," Irene collapsing in his arms, and him cradling her limp frame all the way to the hotel.

He spent the rest of the long night in her room, barely leaving the chair, only to check her pulse and breathing every five minutes. He didn't sleep.

Day 2:

The morning light crept into the room slow at first and then in a sudden brightness that made Sherlock wish he had something to cover his eyes with. He walked over to check Irene's vitals again, he was only checking every half-hour now. He would never forgive himself if something happened, if she died. He couldn't, not knowing how close they were. She was dehydrated.

He set up a makeshift saline drip. Sherlock spent most of that day pacing back and forth between the two rooms. Tubbs brought him food, but Sherlock couldn't eat it, not when Irene just laid there. He had thoroughly worn a path out in the carpet when Tubbs grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to take a sit. Reluctantly Sherlock obeyed his knees collapsing out from under him.

"She's doing fine man, she'll be fine, stop worrying about her and just sit for a few, yeah." Tubbs encouraged playing up his New York accent.

Sherlock sat for thirty minutes exactly. He didn't need to look at the time to know he just knew. He was in the room again kneeling beside the bed checking Irene's pulse. It was weak but steady, just like every other time he checked it. What was he looking for? Did he suddenly expect to feel a jump in her pulse, like he had that night? Why should he, and why did it matter if he did? He turned and sat on the floor propping his back against the bed.

"Caring is not an advantage, you know" he spoke aloud "it doesn't save lives. I, I had a dog once. Man's best friend and all that. Like all first pets he taught me how to care. I learned to care by looking after the dog's needs. Then the unthinkable happens, like all first loves he taught me that it didn't matter. He died, as animals do, and I was left with a broken heart. It didn't matter that I cared about him, he died anyway. After that I learned not to get so attached." Sherlock paused in his thought process, why was he telling Irene all this, it's not like she could hear him.

"The problem with not getting attached is, you sometimes do anyway. And the harder you try not to care about something the more you find yourself caring. Look at John for instance; he was just supposed to be someone to share the rent with. Now my livelihood depends on him and his bloody blog." It felt good to talk aloud and knowing Irene would register none of this made it easier.

"You told him that he and I were in a relationship. He denied it, but he's wrong. It's not a romantic relationship, certainly not, but everybody has some type of relationship with another person. He's my flatmate, co-worker, sales representative, image consultant, he basically is my PR department and God help me but I care, about him. Possibly more than Mycroft, defiantly more, but like a brother I suppose. What's that word, bro-mance? I love him like I would a brother. Ridiculous concept." Sherlock fell silent, and eventually fell asleep for a few hours.

Day 3:

When Sherlock woke his neck was stiff and it was dark in the room. Had he really slept the whole day? He checked his watch for the time but he hadn't changed it, the bed side clock read sometime after mid-night on Tuesday. After checking Irene's vitals he got up and went into the other room. Tubbs was asleep on the pullout bed and Sherlock tried not to wake him as he exited the hotel room. He was capable of common courtesy after all. Knowing Irene would be fine for sure had eased his mind. She had just been too hard on herself. The shock to her system had put it in 'sleep mode' she would wake up fully restored in no time.

Later that morning Sherlock sent Tubbs to go in and check on The Woman, she should be waking up soon and he didn't want to resend her back into shock, or deal with conversations. They already had large portions of the plan ready to mobilize but Sherlock had allowed himself seven days to get everything in order and damn it he'd use the time he'd allotted himself. Where Irene and her safety were concerned everything had to be perfect.

After a couple minutes he could here Tubbs talking and Irene replying, she was awake oh good. He yelled for Tubbs and then made preparations to go out and pick up a few things for The Woman's benefit.

On his way back for the second time John rang his Mobile chattering on about a case in Edinburgh Mycroft wanted him to take. Top-secret, hush-hush, and all that "I'll be home by Saturday, I promise." Somehow saying it out loud made it truer, "send my love to Mycroft" he added sarcastically. That would teach the pompous git for trying to put his bulbous nose in places it had no business being.

Sherlock launched himself into the corner chair, repulsed by the very site of the bed where she had laid.

Hours later he could still hear them talking on the other side of the door. Tubbs was quizzing Irene on possible Canadian facts she may need to know to cross borders. He heard them order room service and was thankful they had decided not to disturb him. He did not leave the room, or the chair, for the rest of the night. He did not fall asleep. Questions that had no answer kept circling around in his mind, did it bother him she hadn't said thank you? Should it? Why did it? Did he in fact care? Was it more than guilt that had pushed him into saving her?

Tubbs let Irene sleep on the pullout, he had to finish the work on her passport, ID card and other fake certificates.

Day 6:

"It looks like a bloody Pride Flag" Irene observed of the colourful money laid out before her.

Tubbs had managed to buy a hundred seventy-seven dollars and ten cents in Canadian money from the hotel safe. It wasn't much, just enough for it to be plausible. It also made learning much easier.

Irene was now the proud owner of 2 fifty-dollar bills, 3 twenty's , a ten, a five, a Toonie which had polar bears on it, and a dime which had a ship on it.

"It would have been nice to have this yesterday" Irene complained

"I know, but you have them now. And it's not a ship, it's called a schooner. The Bluenose to be precise, it was quite the famous racing schooner built in Nova Scotia you know."

When Sherlock finally exited the bedroom they were still going on about useless facts.

"Did you know, that Nova Scotians are also known as Bluenosers and that the name comes from a ship that was built there?" Irene quipped. If she had expected Sherlock to answer, she was sorely mistaken.

They did not speak to each other for the rest of the day.

At about nine o'clock that night Sherlock stood up from his spot on the sofa and announced, "I am going to bed" and started making his way toward the room.

"That's not fair, poor Tubbs didn't sleep last night because I was out here." Irene protested.

"Well I haven't slept in a bed atoll the entire time we've been here." Sherlock countered.

"And whose fault is that? I am sleeping in that bed tonight." Irene got up and marched after him, she shut the door behind her, and stood in front of it in an attempt to barricade the way out.

Sherlock had stalked over to the window. Irene huffed out her frustrations then a thought occurred to her. They were alone, she would let him be if he'd just answer one question for her.

"Why did you save me?" There it was out; she finally had the guts to say it. She closed her eyes and stiffened her resolve waiting for the non-answer she was sure to receive. More denial and refusals, perhaps they'd have another massive row. A proper domestic. She'd take whatever it was he wanted to give her. After tomorrow they'd never have to see each other again.

"It was my fault." He said, barely above a whisper. He was looking out the window but didn't see anything.

"What?" Irene asked, confusion leaking into her voice. Where was the yelling, the "no's", the "it's none of your business."

"It was my fault you were there in the first place." He repeated, a little louder, leaving no doubt about her hearing.

"No, Sherlock, no-" She protested shaking her head.

"Yes, Irene, don't you understand, I took your protection away." He turned to look at her but the cold steel that she was used to seeing in his eyes was gone. He thrust his fist into his chest.

Irene stared at him in stunned silence.

"That night, in Mycroft's office, I was going to let you win." He turned away from her; he couldn't bear to look at her face.

"Letting you win was easier then admitting I'd been fooled. In your eyes you'd already beat me. I told Mycroft to give into your demands, to hush you up. And then you ruined it all. You destroyed the illusion I'd created by mentioning his name." at this Sherlock turned back around. Marching towards Irene and pointing a finger at her.

"I don't know all that he told you, how he expected me to react, he never could have predicted… 'Jim Moriarty sends his love'." Sherlock spat the last word so violently spit sprayed part of Irene's face. She didn't blink just nonchalantly whipped it away.

Sherlock about faced and began pacing back the other way. "love" she heard him echo, "I remembered everything from before and it suddenly made me angry. I don't know why, but I just couldn't, and then it all clicked into place." Sherlock tapped his fingers into his brain.

"So stupid, I thought, so simple, she would never… but you did. You thought you were being cleaver but, and I knew I had you. The look on your face when you didn't think I'd do it." His voice softened out at the end. He was mostly talking to himself, Irene was having a hard time following his one sided conversation.

Sherlock turned and forced himself to make eye contact once more. Irene's hand hung limply over her mouth and silent tears ran down her eyes. He had cruelly taken away her protection, but knowing she wouldn't survive without it had come to save her. Irene felt, hurt and angry, and sad and happy, all at the same time. What did it all mean? Had he saved her because she loved him? Or because he loved her in return? Or simply because he felt guilty? Did it matter?

The emotional overload had Irene so confused she didn't know if she wanted to hit Sherlock or kiss him. She felt momentum moving her forward and she folded herself around his body in a hug. She rubbed her face over his chest and her tears stained his expensive silk shirt.

"Thank you" she said into his chest, "thank you, thank you, thank you."

From the moment she had pulled him into an embrace Sherlock had frozen. He didn't know what to expect from Irene, he had no way to calculate her reaction to his confession. Now her arms were entwined, resting on his back, and her face pressed up against his chest, no doubt ruing his favourite shirt with her teary eyes and possibly snotty nose. Then she was thanking him, and Sherlock wasn't even sure what for. Telling the truth? Surely not, that had been brutally laid out.

Suddenly she shifted and looking up into his eyes, hers still glistening, she said "Thank you for saving my life."

"You're welcome" he said seriously.

Irene nuzzled back into his chest and he let his head drop, coming to rest his chin on the top of her head. At the same time he brought his arms up and rubbed Irene's back a few times with his hands. He wasn't sure what it meant, but it felt, logical. He was grateful when Irene stepped back, dry eyed and a faint smile on her lips.

"Let's get some rest. We've both got a long day of travelling tomorrow." She flashed him a weak smile then turned and made her way to the bed. Sherlock followed her.

Day 7:

They had fallen asleep on opposite sides of the king size bed. Neither one willing to admit they needed human comfort.

When Irene woke up there was something warm and solid beneath her head, and a possessive arm draped across her back. Wait, an arm? Where had that come from? Lifting her head gently Irene noticed it was Sherlock's broad chest she was using as a pillow and she was ever grateful it was a t-shirt clad chest.

When Sherlock woke up it was to the sound of the shower running and a sudden chill. He must have moved the blanket recently because a part of his chest right over his heart was still warm. No, that wasn't right; he put his hand out to pat the left side of the bed. Hadn't someone else been here, John? No, not John, he sniffed, Irene. He and Irene had fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed, Sherlock remembered closing his eyes while facing the wall on his right side. So how was he now laying in the almost exact centre of the bed, on his back, facing the room? Usually when he slept he didn't move positions so much.

Check out was 11:30am sharp.

Irene and Tubbs would leave first at eleven and Sherlock would leave half-hour later.

When Irene exited the bedroom Tubbs was gone to get the car and Sherlock was on his phone.

"Tell Mycroft I'm taking the Edinburgh case. No, I couldn't get a direct flight, I have to fly from here to Abu Dhabi, to St. Petersburg, to Edinburgh. No, no I'll meet you there. Jane and Brian Wilson got it." He hung up and took a seat on the sofa.

"Well Mrs. Dare, all ready to leave, I see." He said.

"It's Miss actually, I'm not married." Irene toyed wiggling her fingers at him. She was glad they were back to friendly banter instead of intense shouting matches.

"What happened to using Shakespeare for inspiration?"

"Well Beatrice is the name of a rather feisty female character in Much Ado about Nothing, I rather fancy her actually."

"Did you know same-sex marriage has been legal in Canada since July 20th 2005 and in Nova Scotia since September 2004?" Sherlock asked.

"No, I didn't." Irene said with mild surprise, she'd never really thought about marriage, much.

"That means if you find someone to be with, you can marry them." Honestly where were these words coming from, he should just shut up, let her go.

"Odds are I won't though, I never fancied myself the marring type." She answered. "Dominatrix come Housewife, not exactly a keeper am I. Not the sort of girl you bring home to dad." A sad smile crossed her face, where was Tubbs, they needed to leave soon.

"What would you do, if you had a million dollars?" Sherlock asked suddenly breaking the almost awkward silence.

"If I had a million dollars, I'd be rich, wouldn't I? I don't know."

"Well I would buy a house first." Sherlock pulled a thin piece of paper from his suit jacket pocket and Irene clutched her hand to her chest.

"Consider it compensation, from Mycroft's account, of course. Or your pension fund, either way, you can't start a new life with no money." He handed the check to her and Irene's hand shook violently as she slipped it in her purse.

"I, Mr. Holmes, I don't know what to say." Irene was on the verge of tears again, happy tears.

"Don't say good-bye, never say good-bye." They were making eye contact, at some point Sherlock had made his way over to her, they were standing so close.

Irene was sure Sherlock would be able to hear the pounding in her chest but she didn't care. That look in his eyes told her everything. Her trembling chin was being held in his slender fingers, she had nothing to lose. This was it, after today they may very well never see each other again. Sentiment be damned, Irene launched herself at him, their lips connected and her arms slid around his neck, she kissed him. She didn't know for how long just that she had to perch on her tippy-toes and that it was soft and warm, no tongue just lips, all that she had ever wanted and when she pulled away she was smiling because he had closed his eyes, and he had kissed her back.

Safely on the other side of the door Irene leaned against it to catch her breath. In that moment she knew for certain, she was Ophelia, and she would choose to be Ophelia every time. Drowning had been worth the wait.

When Sherlock opened his eyes it was too an empty room, his mouth was suddenly dry and he felt empty in a new strange way. He walked through the hotel room once more but everything was already gone. Tubbs had taken what meagre possessions Irene had with him when he left earlier, his stuff was packed and waiting by the door. Walking past the bathroom Sherlock took a moment to glance in the mirror. He approached it like a man who wasn't sure what he might see.

Much to his dismay, he didn't look any different. Tentatively he brought his finger tips to his lips. It was the worst trick The Woman had ever pulled.

"Caring is not an advantage." He told his reflection, he flick off the light and made to leave the hotel room altogether when something caught his eye.

Left on the desk was a pad of hotel paper where Irene had practiced her new signature. That was evidence, damn it, he'd have to take it with him. Sherlock was admiring her rather neat cursive when one of the signatures a few pages in stuck out, one of these things is not like the other.

Right in the middle was three words together Sherlock thought he'd never see; never want to see, until now:

Mrs. Irene Holmes