A/N: Hey guys, thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I hope you're not getting bored with this story, because I'm still really dedicated to it. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Chapter XXV

A week – another week, and they were back in their element. Holmes and Watson, having lived in London for a considerably longer period of time than Clara had, were most elated to have returned. Her injury was feeling much better, but she still had a long way to go before she was back to normal. Just recently, she'd come to terms with the fact that she would always have a horrid scar as a reminder of their adventure. At first she had lamented over the blemish, but then came to think of it as a sort of right of passage – both Watson and Holmes had bullet scars as well, and she saw it as a sort of tangible reminder of their association.

"Four weeks! Four ruddy weeks, you've been gone!" Mrs. Hudson shouted upon their arrival at 221B Baker Street. "And no word – not even a letter – of where in God's name you've been! You could have been dead, for all I knew!" she ranted.

"Lord help me," she muttered once she'd calmed down, "Children. I'm taking care of children."

"Mrs. Hudson, now that you appear to have collected yourself, allow me to explain," Holmes said patiently. "Our case took us to India – that's where we've been for all this time."

"India!" she exclaimed, "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Look, Aunt Martha, we're fine," Clara insisted earnestly, "You needn't worry."

"Fine? Clara, look at you – you're clearly not fine."

The trio shifted nervously as Mrs. Hudson began to walk over to inspect her niece. If she got too close she would notice…

"Why aren't you wearing a corset?" she asked, aghast. No respectable lady would ever walk around without a corset – especially not in the presence of two men.

"Uh..." she hesitated. She didn't know which would be worse, the truth or a lie. Then, Mrs. Hudson noticed a lump in her side.

"What's that?" she asked suspiciously. She was about to prod it, but Watson quickly said, "Don't!"

"Were you – were you injured?" the landlady asked worriedly.

"Just a bit," Clara finally admitted.

"What do you mean 'just a bit'?" she demanded, now turning her attention towards Holmes and Watson.

"There was an accident…" Holmes said vaguely.

"What type of accident?" she hissed venomously.

"One involving a pistol…" Clara said quietly, her tone matching Holmes'.

"You were shot?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes…"

"I looked after her quite attentively, don't worry," Watson interjected, hoping to alleviate at least some of the concern and anger that was surely accumulating.

"Last time it was a broken wrist, now it's a gunshot wound. What'll it be next? You'll be dead by the end of the year, if you keep this up!"

Clara hung her head and shrunk back timidly – she knew her aunt was right, to a certain extent.

"Clara, when will you see – their line of work is no place for a woman!"

"It won't happen again," she assured her.

"How can you possibly know that?"

"I wasn't very careful – I should have been paying closer attention. The wound was preventable."

"You shouldn't even be around firearms, let alone dodging bullets! It's not right!"

"Aunt Martha, all of this yelling is putting a strain on my injury," she said haughtily, "I think I need to go upstairs and rest." With that, she turned sharply on her heel and began walking up the staircase. Holmes and Watson followed suit to avoid the wrath of their furious landlady.

"My room! My things!" cried Holmes in dismay upon entering his now spic and span room. "God damn it, woman!" He looked as if he might tear all his hair out in anger. Clara and Watson couldn't help but snicker. He started throwing papers and knocking things over in order to recreate his comfortable chaos.

"Sherlock, stop it! Good Lord…" Clara said, trying to calm him down. She gently put her hand on his arm, bringing him out of his frenzy. She seemed to get through to him, which surprised her. Watson seemed a bit taken aback by his obedience, too; it wasn't like Holmes to ever listen to anyone. But Clara would no longer allow herself to dwell on her interactions with the stubborn detective – she only ever succeeded in making herself feel horrible. She was quite sure that the best way to deal with her attraction to him was to ignore it.

(Later…)

The three of them sitting quietly in Holmes' room created an almost alarming sense of normalcy; it was as if they'd never been to India at all.

"We probably ought to contact Irene," Holmes said after a while.

Clara groaned unenthusiastically, but Watson said, "You're right… She seemed quite distraught about the whole thing."

"Do you think she's even still in London? We've been gone for a long time – perhaps she's left." Her tone sounded more hopeful than inquiring.

"She never leaves without saying goodbye," Holmes said bluntly. Clara chewed on her lip in clear irritation.

"She was sorry about what happened to you, you know," Watson told her.

"I doubt it – she was probably just trying to make you two believe she's not pure evil."

"She seemed pretty sincere," the doctor reasoned.

"Let me just be frank with the two of you right now – I will never like her. Ever. Nothing is going to change that. And I'm sure she feels the same about me."

Neither of the men said anything – the last thing they wanted was to get in the middle of such a dispute. Disputes between women were always by far the most dangerous.

"So dramatic," Holmes mumbled.

"You're one to talk," Clara scoffed.

"She has a point, Holmes."

"Oh, shut up. You always take her side."

"It's because I'm always right, obviously."

"Ha! That's rich…"

"Honestly, the two of you should just get married already. You have the behavior down to a tee," Watson joked.

"Don't ever say such things – not even in jest," Holmes warned solemnly. Clara, on the other hand, couldn't help but chuckle.

"But, on a completely different and more relevant note, we really must contact Irene," he said.

"Well, don't you know how to get a hold of her?" Watson asked.

"Yes, she's probably staying at the Grand."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Clara asked.

"Don't know," he said whimsically, "Let's go."

At the hotel, Holmes didn't even bother asking the concierge which room Irene was in – he already knew. He was about to knock on the door, but it opened before he got the chance.

"Ah, Sherlock. I was wondering when you would stop by," she purred. She seemed much better than she had a few weeks ago.

"You're doing well, I see," he said apathetically.

"Oh yes, that whole thing was positively dreadful. Everything's sorted now, though."

"What did you tell them the cause of death was?" Holmes asked curiously.

"I said that he'd been shot by a robber in India while on a philanthropic endeavor – it's better if people remember him that way."

"I see," the detective said thoughtfully.

"And Clara," she said, "I'm glad to see you've recovered." Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she sounded rather disingenuous.

"Thanks," she replied lamely.

"I'm going back to America soon," the other woman stated smoothly, turning back to Holmes.

"Pity," Clara said sarcastically under her breath – luckily, only Watson heard her; he looked down at her disapprovingly, but didn't say anything.

"Why is that?" Holmes asked.

"Oh, I don't know – I'm getting bored, I suppose."

"You never could stay in one place for more than a few months," he observed.

"Well, after a while, everything begins to feel so routine and dull. I hate that – surely you can sympathize."

Holmes nodded briskly. "Well, we only came here to check on you," he said, "So we'll be going now."

Surprisingly, she didn't try to stop him from leaving. "Alright. Goodbye, John – Clara. Perhaps I'll be seeing you soon, Sherlock."

(A few days later…)

As Holmes entered his room, which had only barely been returned to its typical disheveled state, he noticed a small piece of parchment lying atop his desk. He immediately recognized Irene's beautifully scrawled handwriting and quickly scanned the paper. It read:

Dearest Sherlock,

As we have reached the end of the case and our journey, it has come time for me to leave. I may not have loved Hope, but his death was, indeed, a loss to me and, like I said before, I must return home. But I truly don't want this to be the end of our time together. We always separate at the end of a case – does it really have to be that way this time? We've never even tried to sustain any type of long-term relationship – how do we know that it won't work? Please, considering coming away with me – I've asked you many times before, but I feel that now is different. Just think about it. Consider it an experiment to see if we can be together.

I am leaving for New York at 6 o'clock on the H.M.S. Oceanic, and I sincerely hope that you will join me.

Forever Yours,

Irene

He should have seen it coming, really. She had been trying to reach this point for nearly the entirety case. She didn't love him, per say, she just wanted to see if she could fully capture his heart. That's what it was – a need for reassurance. Just like he needed to find the answer to a case; he couldn't let one go unsolved because he needed know that he was clever enough to figure it out. It was more than a compulsion. It was the same with her, to a certain extent. She needed to know that she could have anything she wanted. Including people.

But, despite this knowledge, a certain part of him wanted to join her. It was the part of him that was irresistibly drawn to her – like an addiction. Had he been younger and freer, he would have had no hesitation in going with her. But he had certain aspects of his life grounding him – Watson, Clara, his profession. Ah yes, Clara. If he left, it would inevitably break her heart. He did not know to what extent she cared for him, but he did know that he was very important to her. Although, she seemed less concerned with building a relationship with him, lately. He was thankful for that...

He paused - he was, wasn't he? This was the first time he'd doubted himself. When she had been injured, he had felt something so strong that he'd nearly been immobilized. It was incomprehensible. He'd honestly felt that, if she died, life would lose all meaning. He hadn't ever felt that about anyone or anything. To be honest, the sensation frightened him. He had never let emotions cloud his thoughts. He'd thought that he just admired her – respected her. But it was stronger than admiration. What if that was love? What if he was in love with her?

No. No, never. He wouldn't allow it. But how could he stop it? He had tried everything, hadn't he? But, if he were in love with her (he wasn't, this is merely hypothetical), how would he go about dealing with such a realization? He didn't even know where to start. Did he tell her? Then what, what if he told her? The implications of love are marriage, naturally. And he didn't want to get married. That was such a drastic change – marriage was the scourge of society. He would be reduced to nothing – no individuality – there would be nothing separating him from the average, mundane, idiotic civilian. Because, with marriage, comes routine. Horrible, dreadful, monotonous routine. And by admitting his (hypothetical) feelings, he would be succumbing to the "dull routine of existence," as he liked to call it, that he so detested.

But this was Clara, not some… some Mary. That was the best way he could relate it. His relationship with Clara was nothing like Watson's was with Mary. She probably didn't even want to get married, either. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself – he didn't even know if she loved him. He suspected it, to be sure. But, if she truly loved him, wouldn't she have said something?

But he didn't want to be in love. Love was so common. Dull, boring, predictable. It was also so fleeting. And dangerous. It was the only thing with any real potential to hurt him. That one dreadful instance had caused him more pain than he could have possibly imagined. He wanted nothing more than to never feel it again. But how could he escape it?

He shoved these inconsequentially foolish thoughts out of his mind. He needed to focus. Where was he? Irene – oh yes, he would go to her. Maybe he wouldn't leave with her, but he would join her at 6 o'clock on the H.M.S. Oceanic.

A/N: Oh, Holmesie. So conflicted. Clara or Irene? He's got to make a choice. Please review, how awesome would it be to get to 400? Your feedback keeps me goingg :)

P.S. I'm going to be posting the beginning of the SH one-shots later today, so keep a look out!