I'd just like to say I got a review with the sentiment that someone wants me to kill off Irene, since she never actually dies in the show. I just thought that was quite funny. I won't say what she's doing in this story or if I actually plan to kill her, because 'SPOILERS!' (read that as River Song would, Doctor Who fans) but I just thought I'd mention that I enjoyed that review. That is all.


Sherlock received his first text from her almost the moment she went down in the lift.

You really shouldn't leave your mobile number written down in your desk. Any stranger could find it.

Sherlock actually did not recall where his number would've been written, but she obviously had found it somewhere, so he must have written it down. He'd have to find it and burn it.

Sherlock was immediately intrigued by her.

Irene.

The incomprehensible woman.

The woman.

Because Sherlock had never in his life looked at a woman and thought she was attractive. But this particular woman… well, it was hard not to notice.

But that was of little importance to Sherlock. Looks meant almost nothing to him—other than in respect to John. The real reason Irene was so fascinating to him was because she was utterly unreadable. He had looked at her for more than a minute as she and Greg argued—or, more, Greg tried to argue and she responded so calmly it was patronising—and he saw nothing but the painfully obvious, things anyone could see. Twenty-two years old, the same as Lestrade. Impeccable fashion sense. Slept around. Obviously clever. But other than that? Her background, anything of any consequence in her life, was completely hidden from him. He hardly saw how that was possible.

So now he had to figure it out.

It was the project he had assigned himself on the side, when at all other times he was either doing his school work, spending time with John, or doing cases.

He and John were solving cases more than ever since they got back to school more than a month ago. Originally, John was completely against the idea, but then Sherlock reminded John that the only way to learn more about Moriarty was to investigate his crimes. Also, Moriarty had already promised Sherlock's death, so how could solving a few more of his crimes make things any worse? John had agreed, partially because Sherlock was making sense, but he knew it was also for another reason, even if John didn't even want to admit it to himself. Solving Moriarty's cases made him feel like he was thwarting the man. Made him feel like he was somehow helping to save Sherlock's life. And also, John seemed to be trying to keep himself as busy as possible. If he was done with his work, and there wasn't a case and Sherlock was occupied with something of his own, then he would go to the gym for hours. His muscles were getting even better from that, but Sherlock was worried. He'd never seen John so unable to sit still. When he tried to, he'd get up and pace. He was sleeping almost as little as Sherlock nowadays. Sometimes he'd take out his frustrations in angry sex, which Sherlock didn't mind in the slightest, but he didn't want John to be so unhappy.

John was again attempting to sit on his bed without twitching. It was hardly working. Sherlock was becoming concerned again.

"John," Sherlock said after more than an hour of silence, "you know, if you don't sleep soon, you're going to fall over."

John looked up to Sherlock and he felt a pang of sadness when he saw the deep purple bags around his eyes, the seemingly-permanent downturn of his mouth.

"I can't sleep," John said. "Not with what I know is coming."

"I'm working on it," Sherlock said. "I won't let him kill me, John."

Mostly a lie to make John feel better, but he also wanted it to be true. If just the thought of Sherlock dying made John like this, then what would he be like once he was actually gone? Sherlock couldn't leave John like this.

"You don't know how to stop him," John said.

"Not yet," he replied. "But I'm close to figuring it out."

Another lie.

And John didn't seem to be buying it, since there was still no hope in his face. He stood up though, and sat on Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock's arms wrapped tight around him like they always did. "You better be," John said, leaning down and giving him a kiss. "Now I'm going to go."

Sherlock kept from sighing. "The gym?"

"Yeah," John grunted, getting up and picking up his bag. "Phone me if a case comes up in the next two hours." And out the door he went.

Sherlock spent a bit staring at the door John had just walked out of, and then brought his attention to his phone. In his alone time was when he thought of his side-case.

Her most recent message read, I'm not hungry, let's have dinner.

Sherlock grunted irritably. The woman made no sense. Why would she want dinner if she wasn't hungry?

There was a knock at the door. Sherlock knew who it was, but said nothing.

"Guessing John isn't there to let me in then?" Lestrade said through the door.

More silence, and then Lestrade pushed the door open without invitation.

"What is it with you and your aversion to opening the door for me?" Lestrade grunted, seemingly in a bad mood.

"Row with Mycroft?" asked Sherlock, not looking away from his phone.

"What? No," Lestrade snapped.

He was telling the truth there. "Oh, then with your father," Sherlock corrected. This time he didn't respond. "And you were hoping John would be here to talk about it, since my brother is most likely busy with a meeting with some foreign ambassador or king of wherever, but since John isn't here, you're considering whether you just want to talk at me about it."

"Well, since you said I'd be talking 'at' you, I guess that answers my question," Lestrade muttered. Another quiet moment, and then Lestrade said, "What the hell is so interesting on your phone anyway?"

And, quite uncharacteristically of him, actually, he grabbed the phone right from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock was so surprised by it that it took him a few moments to react. Those moments were long enough for Lestrade to look at the open text before Sherlock snatched the phone back.

"Fucking Christ," Lestrade said. "This isn't—'The Woman'? You have her in your phone as 'The Woman'?"

"Are you supposing you know who that message is from?"

"Yeah, I am, seeing as I dated Irene Adler for five years. I know how she talks. She always said she wanted to have dinner because she wasn't hungry."

Sherlock looked up. "Really? Then what does it mean?"

Lestrade's mouth opened and closed uselessly once or twice, and Sherlock knew from the furious look on his face that he had said something wrong, but wasn't sure what it was. "You're texting my ex and you want me to translate her for you?"

Ah. Jealousy. Of course. "I've never texted her back," said Sherlock. "She just texts me."

"Right. You just stare at the messages she sends you while John is gone. Nice, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt confused for a moment until he realised what Lestrade was implying. Sherlock stood and now he was feeling angry too. "What, you think I'm cheating on John?"

"Sure looks like it."

Sherlock's lip twitched for a few moments. Then, "Get out."

"What, you don't like that I guessed the truth? I don't know why I've wasted my time convincing myself you're capable of really caring about anyone. John doesn't deserve this."

Sherlock's breathing had gone hard and shallow. "Not that I have to explain myself to you, but I love John and I wouldn't do that to him."

"Then does he know you're texting her?"

"Get out," Sherlock repeated.

"Maybe I should let him know."

"Get. OUT!" Sherlock hollered, and Lestrade shook his head and stormed out, slamming the door hard on his way out. Sherlock sat stiffly in his chair and glared at the floor.

John wouldn't really mind if he knew about all the texts she'd sent, would he? Sherlock wished now that he understood what upset people more thoroughly, because he didn't see the problem. She was merely an experiment, a puzzle that he had to solve or it would drive him mad. He read what she sent, without responding, so that he could try to understand something about her. There wasn't much to glean out of a message, however, and he was having very little luck. What was her intention, texting him all the time? What on earth did she want from him?

A response, probably, but he wasn't desperate enough to actually respond yet.

His phone vibrated again.

And how about that case the other day? With the boomerang. That was really something, solving that. I never would've guessed.

Sherlock gaped at the text. How did she know about the case? How was that possible?

Lestrade said she just knew things, but people can't just know things. They have to learn them from somewhere.

And Sherlock could hardly stop his fingers from setting to work on a response. He'd pressed 'send' before he even consciously realised it.

How did you know about the case? – SH

Oh, good, I got the right number. I started to wonder after the twenty-seventh unanswered text. Let's have dinner.

The woman was infuriating. How was he ever supposed to get answers from her with responses like this all the time?

That wasn't an answer. – SH

We could talk about your case, and other things, over dinner.

Or we could talk about it over text. I don't take anyone to dinner. – SH

Other than your John? He gets dinner.

Sherlock scowled at the message.

Well you aren't John. – SH

Obviously. So no dinner tonight then?

Sherlock set his phone down in irritation. It vibrated again.

Not tonight, fine. Another time then.

Sherlock read it, but had expected something like this. He went back to his work then, wishing John would come back.

And that was the first time Sherlock gave in and responded to Irene Adler.

But it was not the last.


I'm getting to the point that there's not much to say at the end of chapters anymore. Probably I could just not do author's notes, but they're just so much fun. Just please review, as usual.

Oh, P.S., this is totally another non-ominous title. :]