She opened her flat - sorry, apartment - door to hundreds of roses, scattered carelessly across the floor. She knew they were from him: he had found her.

From the bedroom she heard the screeching of a violin being tuned and sighed: what the hell was he playing at?

It had become a game of theirs; her lifestyle caused her to move every few months or so, leaving him a small clue to help him find her, until either a) he guessed it and occasionally paid her a visit or b) one of them gave in and he asked her or she told him. Last time she'd lost, telling him she was in Amsterdam, but he honestly deserved it - a ban on both drugs and cases had to be driving him insane.

It seemed he'd won this round - though he so nearly lost it just a few weeks ago when he text her: 'You know where to find me'. Alas, at the time, she'd been busy with her move here from Amsterdam, and no amount of temptation could have dragged her away.

Well, he could have begged.

She entered the bedroom, slouched against the doorframe. He was lay flat on her bed, head the only thing elevated in order to support the instrument. In the dim light of her room, he looked almost romantic - a tight-fitting shirt and a violin surrounded by god knows how many roses - not that she'd ever tell him that, lest she put him off from doing it again.

"What are you doing here?"

The noise from the violin ceased, but his gaze remained focused on the instrument. "I came to relay my problems. I believe they call it therapy."

She scoffed, "There are professionals you can pay to do that, you know, and they do exist in England. The good doctor used to have one, I believe."

He snorted in return, "Please, the one sane living person in the world who has a brain similar to mine is you - a therapist would be useless."

She rolled her eyes, kicking off her shoes and crawling next to him in the bed. "Alright," she lounged sideways into her pillows, "what's going on in that big brain of yours?"

"My psychotic sister," he explained. Irene hummed in sympathy; he'd texted her not long after it happened.

"What about her? Still troubled over what she did t-"

"No," he cut her off sharply, evidently unwilling to talk about that just yet. "No," he repeated softly, "it's something that happened in our first encounter. She gave me a violin and told me to 'play me'. So I played a song I had composed-"

"Which one?"

"About you," he finished.

"Oh," Irene whispered, not really sure what else she could say.

Finally, he glanced at her, features softening by a fraction as he did. "The strange thing is that from the first couple of notes she worked out that w- I'd...had sex."

Irene shifted her arm away from under her head in a shrugging motion. "Well," she reasoned, "she is a Holmes."

"I wrote it before then," he explained.

Now that was interesting. How long had the detective had these feelings towards her? Shortly before Karachi, perhaps? After the reveal of her password? "When?"

The answer came quietly, almost as if embarrassed. "After your first death."

Now, that was interesting. She knew she had gotten under his skin by that point, but for him to be able to portray such feelings in music that his genius sister thought they'd actually had sex by the time he wrote it was… Well; Irene didn't quite know how to describe it.

"Oh," she repeated.

"Oh indeed," he sighed, raising his bow.

Neither said a word as Sherlock began to play, and instantly Irene heard the affection and sensuality that had gone into the song. Irene had received a lot of gifts in her time: ex-husband, clients, friends … but nothing flattered her as much as this. If the camera phone was her heart then the violin was most definitely his, and it was telling her that she was beautiful and talented and amazing.

Feeling blood rush to her cheeks, she tried to hide the blush by laying down next to him, letting the sweet melody wash over them.