Author's Note: A note about the timeline: So, we see that Mycroft is releasing Moriarty at the end of The Hound of Baskerville, which means that for my timeline to be correct... He would have had to be in custody for at least 2 months. Which, yes, is a bit excessive, but I'm okay with it if you are. ;)

Also, once again, thank you all for your continuing support. Part of the fun of writing this story is being a part of such a vibrant fandom with so many cool people to share it with. Keep on sailing that ship, guys!

Come Attrition, Come Hell

Chapter 10: Type

I never expected to fall in love, so that when it actually happened, I couldn't see it at first for what it was. Then, of course, when it became clear to me that I'd fallen pray to a sentiment that I'd always believed to be at best useless, and at worst, destructive, it terrified me in a way that I can only imagine someone who has just flipped his car in to oncoming traffic must feel. Which is to say, it didn't appear to me that there was any clear resolution, least of which one that would not be horribly and disfiguringly painful.

My body has always been second to my mind, my emotional life to my work. I had succeeded for so long in ignoring that part of myself that experiencing it for the first time, for the only time, was like seeing a new colour that had always been just slightly off the spectrum. Can you imagine a new colour? I can't, and I couldn't imagine love. It was a new sense, a new structure in my mind's landscape.

You were an anomaly, and one cannot trust anomalies... and so I didn't trust you.

7 Months Earlier

"So this is where the famous Sherlock Holmes hangs his famous hat." Janine said with a smirk on her face as she stepped through the threshold of 221b and looked around.

Sherlock was relatively pleased with arc of the night, and convinced that he'd played the part of "interested suitor" quite well. He'd met Janine for dinner at a spot that she had suggested, and thank God for that because if he had had to suggest a place for a date, he may have been at something of a loss. In any case, the restaurant had been quiet and dim, and he'd managed to avoid being stared at too much. He'd suspected that being out in public with a woman in a place that was known for romantic candlelit dinners would spark a little bit of gossip - though he still didn't like to consider himself a "celebrity."

Sherlock shrugged lightly.

"Well, Infamous, at any rate." He responded. "That hat is appalling."

Janine glanced at him teasingly for a moment before continuing her scan of the flat.

"No." She disagreed, laughter apparent in her voice. "It suits you."

Sherlock laughed shortly.

"People always say that with a smile on their face as though the smile makes it a compliment."

His tone was teasing and playful, but the words were genuine. He really did hate that hat.

Janine met his eyes.

"Where's the bedroom?" She asked without preamble.

Sherlock furrowed his forehead.

"Whose?" He asked, straightening his posture and tilting his head.

She laughed.

"D'ya have a roommate I don't know about?"

Sherlock continued staring at her for a moment before his face softened in understanding.

Oh, yes. He'd forgot that this was what was done. After taking a woman out to dinner it was often customary to invite her up to one's flat for casual sex under the guise of coffee or tea or some other type of arbitrary offering. He'd never been on a proper date, and so when Janine had suggested he give her a tour of his "place", it had failed to trigger the appropriate red flag. Which he could recognize as being particularly naive now, especially since he wasn't exactly an idiot. Or a virgin.

"Oh, the bedroom." He said, and then no other words would come.

Janine quirked an eyebrow up as she stared at him expectantly.

"Oh, you'd like to see it." Sherlock said dumbly, as though he were just getting the point.

"Well, I did ask for a tour."

Sherlock swallowed, his mouth feeling suddenly very dry.

"You certainly did." He said and then presses his lips in to a tight, closed mouth smile.

The pair of them stood together in awkward silence for a moment before Sherlock cleared his throat and gestured through the kitchen.

"After you."

Janine smiled and tilted her neck a bit as she walked past him under both kitchen archways, and in to the corridor that was just outside of it.

Sherlock smoothed down his not particularly wrinkled suit jacket, and followed behind her.

"It's..." She trailed as she walked in to his bedroom, and then looked at Sherlock as he walked in after her. "Neat."

Sherlock put his hands in pockets to keep from twiddling them.

"You seem impressed."

She bit the corner of her bottom lip for a moment as though trying to stifle a chuckle.

"I don't want to sound put off... but I did notice the eyeball in a jar on your kitchen table.

He creased his forehead while looking toward the kitchen, and then he looked back at her.

"Where do you keep your eyeball jars?"

Janine laughed. It seemed she was always laughing, or smiling, or smirking. Her eyes constantly shone bright, and she seemed genuinely happy. The Woman had never smiled like this... And he thought of her now, not because he wondered where she was, or whom she was with, or what she was doing, but only because she was the extent of his practical experience in this area. She was the one woman against which he could compare any other... And no, she had never smiled or laughed the way Janine did. There had always been something lurking underneath her grins and her mirth, and he never really got the impression that "happy" had been her driving force.

And just what was happy? Happy sounded boring, and he could guess that The Woman would have agreed.

"Not on my kitchen table."

She winked at him and walked further in to the room, taking an unhurried sweep of her surroundings before her eyes seemed to settle on something in particular. She crossed the room to Sherlock's dresser and his eyes widened slightly as she took hold of the photo of him and Mycroft. She turned to him with dancing eyes.

"Is this you?" She asked, and Sherlock was struck with how rudimentary other peoples' deduction skills were, as though the person in the photograph could have been anyone other than himself.

"Indeed, it is." He answered, tilting his body a bit and looking loftily around him.

"Who's that standing next you?"

"It's..." He took a deep breath and shrugged. "Just my brother. Mycroft."

"Mike..." She said to herself as she looked over the photo.

"Well, it's Mycroft." He more or less mumbled in response.

She looked up at him.

"I have to say I never would have expected something like this in your bedroom." She started gleefully. "You don't seem the type."

Why do you keep that picture in here?

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, banishing the memory of Her from his mind, and then found himself walking toward Janine. He stopped and looked down at her.

"I'm not." He responded quietly, gently taking the photo from her hands, keeping his eyes on her while placing the keepsake back upon its perch. He flipped it over quietly, though the gaze of the woman whose brown eyes he was staring in to was locked on to his own.

"No?" She asked, her tone changing and the smile fading almost entirely from her face, though it was replaced with an almost mischievous expression.

"No." His voice was deep as he shook his head once slightly.

"Then what type are you?" She asked, taking a step toward him and closing the small remaining distance between them.

Well, this was an interesting question. What type was he? He was certain that there were several ways he could answer, most of them unflattering - though true - and he wasn't quite sure which one to respond with.

His eyes flickered over Janine's face from her eyes to her mouth and then back again, reading her expression in an attempt to figure out the answer she wanted to hear.

It was impossible to deny that Janine was a beautiful woman. It was impossible, even for him, to ignore that she was charming. He could see, objectively, that he would likely enjoy a physical relationship with her if he could somehow separate it out from his thoughts and his emotional awareness... But that would make him a different kind of man than what he was, and what he was, was not that type.

Which, given her shallow breathing and dilated pupils, was not exactly what she wanted to hear.

"The right one." He responded simply. It was adequately flirtatious, he thought, without being overtly insinuating. It wouldn't let her down, but it wouldn't encourage her eith-

Sherlock Holmes had kissed 4 women over the course of his lifetime. He'd placed small pecks on his mother's cheek from time to time, usually in the morning at breakfast, or maybe once or twice when her birthday inevitably rolled around. Then there was Mrs. Hudson, whom he'd always had a strange attachment to, and whom he would always kiss hello if the preceding absence had been long.

There was Molly, too. One small kiss on the lips, and one soft graze on the cheek. Molly and Sherlock, through years and through trials, had both earned them.

Then, of course, there was The Woman. The Only Woman.

But where there had been 4 only moments before, there were now 5.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly as Janine's mouth moved against his and her arms wound their way around his neck. He knew that it would come to this eventually, and he knew that if he were going to carry on this fiction with her that he'd have to pretend to enjoy it.

What is it that you want from me, Mr. Holmes?

Sherlock tried to lose himself in the physical sensation, because if he could just do that, if he could just turn his brain off for once in his life-

I want you out of my head.

- then maybe he could forget Her. Maybe he could forget that She had been here in this room, in this spot, with her arms around him.

I want you out of my head.

He'd said those words to her when it wasn't really the truth. That's not what he'd wanted from her. He'd wanted her in every way that it was possible to want her. He had wanted to be a different man for her that night. He had wanted to rewrite their history and tear himself apart for her. He had wanted to be her type of man. And he was her type of man.

That was one way among many that he would always be hers.

But now the words running themselves over and over through his mind were true. He just wanted to forget her. He didn't want to remember her now when someone else was taking up her space.

I want you out of my head.

Sherlock gripped Janine at the waist and pushed her up against his dresser drawers and deepened the kiss. He could do this. He would do this. It was just his body. It was just his hands. It was just his mouth. It wasn't him.

It wasn't Her.

Out of my head...

Janine's hands were in his hair and a small noise escaped from her mouth. Sherlock ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach and pressed his body closer in to hers, mimicking the movement of her lips with his own.

But then her hands were at the buttons of his shirt.

Sherlock's heart began to pound painfully against his ribcage as Janine's fingers worked their way down his torso.

I want you out of my head.

She was at the last button now and moving to pull the shirt out from his trousers.

And what about your heart?

Sherlock reached up and grabbed Janine abruptly by the wrist to stop her.

She pulled away from him a bit to look in to his face. He took a deep breath and swallowed before letting her wrist go and taking a step back.

"I'm..." He started, but while he was searching for any way to explain this behavior, Mrs. Hudson's voice interrupted him.

"Sherlock!" She called out from the parlor. "You have a client!"

Sherlock swallowed.

"Yes, one moment!" He called back out to her without breaking eye contact with Janine, and then lowered his voice. "Forgive me, but-"

"No apologizing to me, Sherlock Holmes." Janine said with an understanding, albeit somewhat disappointed smile. She took in a breath and shrugged. "Besides, I have to be up early anyway. No time to be leisurely." She added with a wink.

Sherlock smiled warmly at her, and she leaned up to place a soft kiss on his lips.

"Put yourself back together." She continued quietly, tugging lightly on his shirt. "I'll let myself out."

She walked passed him and crossed the room back to the door.

"I'll solve you a crime." Sherlock thought to say just before she disappeared in to the corridor.

Janine looked at him and flashed a smile.

"Do that," she started. "And then call me."

He smirked, and then Janine was gone... and then the smirk was gone.

Sherlock stood rooted to where he was for several moments before running his hand absently through his hair, and beginning to button up his shirt.

And what about your heart? The Woman had asked.

Sherlock corrected his posture and hardened his face as he started toward the door.

What about it? He thought as he went to meet his client.

3 Years Earlier

"It's done." Mycroft's grave voice came from the other end of the phone that Sherlock held to his ear.

Sherlock, sitting alone on his armchair, stared distantly across the flat at nothing in particular.

"Wonderful." He responded in monotone. "What's he doing now?"

A beat.

"He's being... interrogated at the moment."

Sherlock raised his head, his eyes remaining unfocused.

"Well, once you're done cleaning up after his 'interrogation'... do give him my best."

Sherlock lowered the phone from his face and ended the call without sparing the device a glance.

One Month Later

In just a little over half a year, Sherlock's whole life had been turned completely on its head. He'd gone through so many phases of emotion and had inflicted so much double thinking upon himself, that he could hardly recall who he had been before he had ever met The Woman whose nails were currently biting in to his shoulders through the fabric of his shirt.

Except he could... and that only made all of this that much harder.

If he could trace his steps and double back, he now wondered what exactly he would have done differently. The truth is, he didn't know if he would have prevented any of it from happening the way it happened, and that was the most frightening thought; the idea that he could be presented with a way to take it all back, and refuse it. It meant...

Well, what did it mean?

He couldn't focus with Irene's hands on his body. He couldn't think with her heat soaking in to his skin. It felt like he had been asleep for a long while and was just now waking up to what the real world could be like. What the real world felt like. He'd been walking in a dreamscape where feelings were dulled and it was impossible to have this. To have her.

But now he was awake, and now he remembered.

He remembered how he'd nearly been willing to give himself up that night in his bedroom. The night that was so far removed from everything else he had ever experienced that he had almost convinced himself someone else had lived it... But someone else hadn't lived it, he had, and he remembered. He remembered how he had run out to the street and in to the rain searching for her, his heart breaking and that part of his world ending, because it had ended. It had. And yet here it was. Here she was.

Here they were.

Sherlock leaned up and, without thinking, began bunching the black fabric that The Woman still wore up and around her hips.

"Sherlock..." She let out in a breathy moan, her eyes half lidded and clouded over with something Sherlock couldn't exactly identify at the moment.

His mind went nearly blank at the sight and sound, though his hands kept working until her legs were completely exposed and he had settled in between them, catching her mouth once again.

Yes, he did remember this. He remembered all of this. He knew that there was very little time now and that he was teetering precariously close to the last in a very delicate line of dominoes - that he was going to topple over and they were going to topple with him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He had shut this part of his mind up, had filled it in with data and cases and algorithms, but it was all clearing out now...

And all that was left was Her.

He pulled away from her kiss and leaned up, holding up his weight with his palms on the bed at her sides. Her chest rose and fell in quick succession as he looked down at her, retracing the lines of a face that had been committed to memory months ago. She was beautiful, yes, but she was much more than that, too. It was physical and cerebral, something he didn't even have a word for.

Or maybe he did, and just didn't want to use it.

"Did you miss me?" She asked, a slow, lust filled smile spread across her face as she ran her hands up his torso and began to pull his black shirt open one button at a time.

Sherlock swallowed, pressing his too dry lips together as she unclasped the second button.

Did he miss her?

Sherlock thought back through the days and the weeks since he had least seen The Woman below him, and he could immediately recall an unpleasant feeling that had subtly gnawed at him from the back of his mind throughout the whole period of time. He'd mostly ignored it, had mostly been able to adjust his awareness so that it didn't matter to him... but it had been there. And it had definitely been that he had missed her.

You're going to regret me...

Sherlock blinked as the reality of the situation poured back in to his consciousness as though water in to a kettle.

He was going to regret this just as he regretted everything he'd done that night in his bedroom. She knew it then, and he knew it now. He had a choice here, just as he'd always had. He didn't have to give in. Not again... Because the fact of the matter was that if he could change things, if he could do it all over again, he would never have walked in to that posh Belgravia flat on that sunny day all those months ago. He understood that now, and now he was being given another chance to do things the right way.

He didn't have to regret another moment of his life.

"No." He answered quietly, and then he pushed himself up, pulling away from Irene and her fingers that were just about to move on to the next button of his shirt. He shifted his whole body, and came to lie softly on his back beside her - his fist clenching and unclenching against his forehead.

He didn't turn to look at The Woman, and she didn't turn to look at him. The two of them lay in bed next to each other silently for a few long moments.

"You want me." Irene stated plainly, her voice only just discernibly shaking.

"Yes." Sherlock responded honestly, and then ran his hand over his face before sitting up.

"Then why?" She sat up as well.

Sherlock pressed his mouth together, biting the inside of his bottom lip.

"Because I am not my wants." His tone was nearing on defensive as he stood up from the bed completely. He turned to look at The Woman. "I'm not my desires or my feelings. I'm not an uninhibited id running rampant, blindly giving in to my-."

Irene shook her head slowly, hurt spreading across her face as she shook her head.

"That's not what this is."

Sherlock pointed at her with his whole arm, his hand spread.

"That's precisely what this is..." He dropped his hand back to his side.

She looked disappointed and frustrated, but there was something else there, too. Something that he'd seen in his own face before, but he didn't want to focus too long on that. His stomach was sinking, his chest was tightening, and he knew he had but little resolve when it came to this woman, and as much as he wanted her, as much as he had missed her, he couldn't allow this to happen again.

"You're a coward." She said.

Sherlock laughed ironically at that, though the shooting pain coursing through his body from his chest to his fingers and from his abdomen to his toes rebelled and flared at the sound.

"And you're boring." He responded with a shake of his head. "If you're going to insult me, at the very least say something worth your breath."

She raised her hand to slap him, but Sherlock caught her wrist before her hand connected with his face. His posture and face barely registered the movement at all as he stared into her intense and angry gaze.

"Careful." He said derisively, releasing her wrist. "You could cut yourself."

He turned away, buttoning the two buttons she had undone as he began toward the door, feeling that he was making the right choice but in the wrong way, but having no alternative recourse.

He opened the door and stopped for a moment. He looked at Irene who had crossed her arms over her chest and appeared to him as lost as a child without her mummy. He'd seen that look on her face before, too. The night he'd guessed her passcode. The night everything changed.

No, he couldn't think of that now.

"I'm going to find someone to examine your head." He started coldly, knowing no other way to proceed. "I know that you'll want to use this time to do something spectacularly stupid like trying to run away before I come back, but while that would make my life easier, I've also gone to quite a bit of trouble to arrange for your escape, and I'd very much dislike for it all to have been for nothing."

He didn't bother waiting for a response, and he stepped through the door - closing it behind him.

As he made his way down the corridor to the lift, he found himself almost hoping that she would be gone when he returned.

3 and A Half Years Later

Sherlock grunted in pain as he slipped his shirt over his body, already having spent nearly all of his energy pulling his trousers on.

There had been a long few hours, possibly a day or more, when he'd been virtually incapacitated in his hospital bed - drifting uncomfortably from scattered lucidity to unconsciousness and back, over and over, making it very difficult to focus on anything or to work any of his problems out. He had known that he couldn't just lay here in hospital while John Watson remained unaware of what Mary was capable of, and that he couldn't just leave his best friend alone in the lion's den... but there had been very little do be done about it. Especially if he couldn't stay awake long enough to think about it.

Which meant, of course, that he had to keep the morphine tap low.

Since Janine's... entertaining visit, Sherlock had turned the tap almost all the way down, and had left it that way. He'd been operating for the rest of the day under an almost unbearable amount of pain... but he could focus through pain. He couldn't focus through fog.

Now as he shrugged his suit jacket on, he had a fully formed plan ready to go... as long as he didn't lose consciousness during phases 1-3. It was perfectly acceptable to lose consciousness during phase 4; in fact it may have even been the preferable outcome. Better than dying, at any rate, which honestly was a risk he knew he was taking. The possibility of internal bleeding was not a trifle to be overlooked, yet here he was... about to overlook it.

He grabbed his coat, which seemed somehow heavier now than it ever had before and began pulling it over his arms slowly when something caught his eye.

A single rose.

Settling his coat over his shoulders, Sherlock approached the rose, though his hand reached for the card that had been placed in front of it - a large black "W" embossed over the front. He furrowed his forehead slightly as he opened the card.

He read the words to himself, and even though the card wasn't signed, there was no mistaking who it was from.

He had a vague recollection of gentle hands running through his hair, of a voice gently breaking through his haze... But for how intangible it was to him now, it could have been a dream. He didn't know if it had been real, if she had truly sat at the foot of his bed and spoken to him for the first time in years, or if she'd quickly come and gone only staying long enough to leave the flower. Or even if, perhaps, someone else had left it in her place. He only knew that this flower meant... everything to him right now. It was of singular comfort when everything else in his world had failed to live up to its own standard. He felt now that Irene Adler had always remained a constant in his life even though he'd only ever spent hours in her presence. She'd given him strength through the hell that was his crumbling reputation with 4 simple words...

Let me come forward.

And now she was doing it again with this flower and the few words carefully penned on to the card. She didn't have to be his, and she didn't have to be present... She only had to be Her. The Woman.

He took the rose and the card and tucked them both carefully in to his inside coat pocket and opened the hospital room window. Closing his eyes for a moment to the breeze that wafted in and against his face, he took a deep breath.

He would tell her this time. After everything was sorted out, after John was safe and Mary was taken care of... He would tell Irene Adler what she meant to him. What she'd always meant to him. And as he climbed out the window and on to the ledge outside, he knew this time that he meant it.

Just as he knew that she'd meant the words she'd written on the card.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

TBC

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