Irene woke alone.
She wasn't surprised. Sherlock would want to protect her from John. She yawned, stretching her limbs.
Yawning like a satisfied cat, she rolled over to find Sherlock had left her a note.
You snuggled.
-SH

Irene chuckled and rose to find her clothes from her hiding place. She would have to find some more. Hopefully, her nights away from the flat had caused those after her to search somewhere else. She slipped into her clothes, grabbed one of Sherlock's coats for extra coverage, and slid out the window.
She had made it across the city, and one block from her flat, when the first bullet whizzed past her ear.
Irene dove into a nearby alley, scaling the fire escape and vaulting into an open window.
"Excuse me," she called to the shocked cereal eater as she darted out his door and up the internal stairs of the building. Finding a supply closet, she ducked inside.
If there was ever a time to believe in a god, it's now.
She pulled out her phone and texted Sherlock Holmes.


A sigh interrupted Sherlock's train of thought.
He was standing over a dead body, stabbed in the heart with a gaudily blue colored kitchen knife. The victim had been at the bar when it exploded. Related? Of course. But now he had been distracted. He shook it off and re-focused.
The sigh came again.
He spun towards the group of cops, with whom Lestrade had shared the story of Irene's text alert. "Who?"
Anderson smirked. "You. Re-assigned the sound to Ms. Doe?"
Sherlock made a face and reached for his pocket. He flipped through his texts quickly.
"Lestrade, I need to go."
"What?"
But Sherlock was already down the stairs.


You snore, Mr. Holmes.


Dinner? 99 Neasden Lane