(In 221B Baker's street. John is packing up, then unpacking, constantly torn between leaving and staying. Irene enters.)
"John."
"What-Irene! I thought you were dead! What are you doing here?"
"Now, now, doctor one question at a time. No I am not dead. Really, though, John, did you really expect he would just let me go?"
"Stop talking. Please. Don't…Don't…"
"What? Sherlock? No, don't wince, John. It had to be said. Sherlock Holmes is gone. I was gone too, remember. And yet here I am."
"Well that's fucking marvelous for you, isn't it? Now get out."
"So cold! I don't know what to say."
"My friend is dead, Ms. Adler. And you remind me of why I miss him. Isn't that enough?"
"John…"
"What now? Don't you dare offer me your condolences like every other fucking prick in this city. All the sneers at the fake detective they think I don't hear, and I'm the only one who even cares he's gone!"
"He's a bastard. A cold-hearted bastard."
"And you're a cold-hearted bitch. Get out."