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The gas lamps were lit outside, allowing a burnt orange glow to rise up from the street level. It was to be their final night in Florence, catching the train tomorrow, heading to Paris. Holmes had received a telegram during dinner that a third crime had been committed in the capital of France.

It was to be the killers third and final crime, Sherlock had declared before throwing down his napkin in frustration and walking out of the restaurant, pipe already lit. Irene had followed after settling the bill and Mary and John had returned to their own hotel for the evening.

After pacing back and forth on the balcony for the best part of an hour Sherlock re-entered the bedroom shortly after Irene had returned from her bath.

"How has a third been committed?" Sherlock mused, more to himself but he spoke aloud in the hope that maybe Irene could offer her insight. But she wasn't sure either, especially after the mornings activities. Adler had yet to tell the detective of her run in that morning and it was beginning to look more and more likely that perhaps she should have done.

"Sherlock, I've got something to tell you."

"If this is about your morning activities Irene I can assure you they are the last thing on my mind right now."

"Oh I think they'll be the first if you give me a chance."

She retold the story in full and Sherlock sat with a pipe in one hand listening. When she had finished he handed her the letter, allowing her to read its entirety.

"The man I ran into was Holloway?" She questioned and he nodded. So it would seem.

"General Robert Holloway I believe. A war hero of course who was sent back from the frontline after suffering from his own shell-shock upon nearly being killed. I believe this is partly to blame for his serial killings."

"Holloway thought of war as a gingerbread house. The gunfire and injuries were just the mask slipping away from an otherwise perfect disguise." Irene sat herself on the edge of the bed as Sherlock fell into the armchair practically opposite.

"You attacking him has brought up another wave of craving. His subconscious is telling him that murder will make him better and now he has gone to Paris and struck again." Sherlock mused but his poor choice of words affected Irene.

"I'm responsible for the third death?!" She questioned, pushing herself off the bed and walking to the balcony door, not opening it, just looking outside.

"That's not what I meant."

"But it's true. I beat him, he tried to kill me and I defended myself but in turn I didn't satisfy his fix. So now some poor soul has been killed and it's my fault. I shouldn't have fought him."

"And in turn you would have been found dead in an alleyway, while he would have still continued. People would have died regardless Irene."

"Yes but they died because I didn't." She turned and faced Sherlock and for the first time since the pair had met her voice wavered, struck by an emotion she wasn't too familiar with.

"It's not your fault."

"It's got to be someone's."

"His." Sherlock had approached Irene now, a hand on either shoulder, his finger drawing concentric circles in the hope of making her feel better. It was comforting and Irene allowed his soothing motion to continue, drawing her head back again to lean on his shoulder fully. She knew that Sherlock was correct but a part of her couldn't help but feel guilty for the third death. No amount of words or comfort was going to shake that from her.

As Sherlock slept that evening Irene couldn't. She sat on the chair he had vacated earlier and watched the rise and fall of his chest as he remained peaceful. Her mind was buzzing with the revelations and the desperate desire to forget everything that had happened and move on. Tomorrow they would be leaving for Paris and to find a third body, one she had unintentionally put forward.

Sherlock

Irene's pen hovered over the paper as she thought about the right words to say. While she was heading to Paris she knew she had to go alone and try and earn back some of her conscience. With Sherlock there also, it couldn't be done. She had to go alone.

I know what you said is true. I know you meant well by saying it wasn't my fault and there is a part of me that wants to believe you. But another, bigger part is telling me that someone was killed because I wasn't and I will not allow emotions to play with my conscience.

I'm sure it won't be long before we run into one another again, hopefully with this case behind us.

Until then,

Irene.

She put down the pen and re-read the letter. It wasn't brilliant but it would have to do. Folding it in half, Irene tucked the paper into the hand of Sherlock Holmes and sighing placed a kiss on his lips. Even in the dead of sleep she felt him kiss back. Although this was most likely a figment of her imagination she allowed herself to believe it real and gripping the handle of her suitcase Irene Adler left the hotel room.

Ink dry, no smudges whatsoever. Room empty with barely a trace of perfume. Bed slept in but now cold, untouched for hours. Irene Adler had left in the dead of night with just a note to show for it.

Sherlock should have suspected it really, it was not the first, nor would it be the last time Irene Adler had showed up, stuck around and then disappeared with no warning. But this was one of the only times there had been a clear reason behind it. Not a mystery client she could no longer work for, not her own master plan that had been completed and therefore she had no reason to stay and not an engagement that had come to its end. No this was guilt and a conscience, two things Sherlock was unsure up until now that Irene was aware of.

And so it came to pass that he would be travelling to France alone, Watson declaring at dinner that he and Mary would be staying to continue their honeymoon. He had expressly commented that should trouble arise Sherlock should have no qualms about contacting him however.

The train journey was quiet with nobody to annoy him. Usually Sherlock wouldn't have complained but the last few days he had gotten used to human contact. While he was quite capable of locking himself in his rooms for months on end should Watson allow it, after spending a considerable amount of time with Miss Adler a part of him (and he hated himself for it) had grown to miss her. It didn't take a genius to understand why she had gone and Sherlock knew fully well that she had gone to Paris, just alone. Which made him curious as to what she expected to achieve before his arrival.

Paris was a beautiful city. It was one of Sherlock's better travelling spots, but he hardly ever saw it due to various cases. There was one thing he always wanted to see though, not that many knew. He wanted to see the whole of Paris from the top of the Eiffel tower. It had been finished and opened just last year and he had to experience standing at the top of the tower. But from the looks of this case, he would be waiting a while before he got to stand up there.

It was visible from when he departed from the train station. The elegant metal framework reminded him of the tower bridge back in London.

"It really is an industrious empire we live in." He murmured to himself with a smile as he strode through the crowds of people to catch a carriage.

Fumbling in his pocket after leaving the hotel room Sherlock found the address he had been looking for, the one from the telegram. He had chosen a hotel that wasn't too far from the street he was looking for it probably wasn't the best, Sherlock tended to travel with companions who can choose for him; i.e.: Watson or Irene.

The alleyways were darker and colder than in Florence, definitely more like England. The cobbled grounds were wet from the recent downpour and the gas lamps flickered from either end, leaving the middle coated in a thick almost darkness. Sherlock wasn't fazed, in fact, he was used to travelling about in the dark. It made him feel more alive, the danger and mystery of the surrounding area not being seen and not knowing what was round the next corner. The alleyway in question was no different to the others, but instead of a body as expected, Sherlock found a piece of paper.

"Sleeping Beauty." Sherlock read from the top of the page. A brief scan of the paper identified it as the page in which the young princess gets her finger pricked from the needle. On the back of the paper was a scribbled note in an unfamiliar handwriting:

"Come and find me Sherlock Holmes. Look to the skies. I'll be at the very top of France."

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