A/N (PLEASE READ): Hello, my lovely readers! Just wanted to clear something up really quick. A couple of readers were a bit confused a few days ago when I released the last chapter "Clever Girl." Some of you thought that one of the characters in that chapter was Irene and Sherlock's child: namely, the wild-haired young man who gave Sherlock Irene's note instructing him to meet her in her hotel room. He is *not* Irene's son. Irene isn't a mother, nor is Sherlock a father. The young man calls Irene "mum" because that's a form of address that young people use for elders in England. He was not calling her his mother. I have changed him calling her "mum" to him calling her "ma'am" to erase any further confusion on reader's parts, but I am so sorry to have to disappoint any of you who thought this was their secret child. The young man was not Irene's son. Or Sherlock's son. If any of you have any further questions about this mixup (I once again apologize profusely), please private message me and I'd be happy to clear up any confusions you might have. :)

Mycroft still had Irene's things brought from her hotel, and he believed he had every right to. She was his agent, and he wanted her back at Baker Street regardless of whether or not she had intentions to be there. His brother was willing, and that was what mattered. Besides, he needed them together for tomorrow.

He would contact her once her belongings were situated at 221B.

Despite everything she had, there was not much time taken in packing her things away. Two large suitcases full of all her possessions were all that resulted; Sherlock decided that she was used to being ready to leave.

Driving his brother home from The Langham, Mycroft said nothing to him the entire way. Sherlock just stared at the streets, which flew by like phosphorescent blurbs of colorful light. London was a show at night.

When they reached 221B, the lights shone in the upstairs windows, and Sherlock wrinkled his brow. Checking his watch, he realized it was a quarter till midnight. Had John stayed up to wait for him the entire time?

He ran up the stairs two at a time, discovering that John was indeed still there, reading a book in his armchair.

"I'm assuming it went well, then?" John asked, looking up from his novel with a look playing on his face that said all too plainly: "well done."

"Yes…why?" Sherlock asked, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the rack by the door. John chuckled, shaking his head at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked, a bit nervous.

John was about to open his mouth when someone else spoke for him.

"Doctor Watson was a bit surprised to see me here. Is he the only one?" Irene came out of Sherlock's bathroom, wearing his blue bathrobe and her hair lightly cascading down her shoulders in elegant waves.

Sherlock smiled subtly. "I'm afraid he is."

"Am I becoming too predictable, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Only to some, Miss Adler," he replied. She laughed. This time, it was a pleasant noise. Mycroft came up the stairs at that moment, leading two men carrying the suitcases.

"What's this?" John asked, eyeing the luggage with some apprehension.

"Those are mine," Irene replied, going to pick them up. Turning to John, she managed a smirk and said, "You see, Dr. Watson? I'm home."

John's eyes nearly flew out of his head. As Irene disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom lugging one of the suitcases, John turned to his friend with eyes like that of a frightened horse. "Did she just—?"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted, trying to muffle the amusement in his voice. "Yes, she did."

"Home to stay, is she, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, studying the two men condescendingly. "I hope there's enough room for you both in that tiny little bed of yours."

"I'm sleeping upstairs tonight, Mycroft. Don't lecture me about obvious matters."

"Obvious?"

"Yes, obvious. God knows I'm not setting foot in anyone's room until things are all sorted. Legally."

"How incredibly chaste of you," his brother droned, thumping his umbrella on the floor.

"I've heard it said of me many times," Sherlock replied as Irene returned into the sitting room. John gulped. Mycroft was the living picture of exasperation.

"I suggest you both get some rest. You as well, Doctor Watson. Long day tomorrow."

John's brow furrowed. "What's tomorrow?"

Mycroft smiled eerily at the doctor. Without answering his question, he said, "If you'll follow me downstairs, Doctor Watson. I'll see you out."

"Rosie's asleep upstairs; I can't leave. Not unless I wake her up."

"Then wake her up," he snapped impatiently. John was about to protest before Mycroft added: "Besides…" (he glared at Sherlock) "my brother needs the bed."

John's little tomato of a face nodded, and he dashed upstairs to wake up his daughter. Sherlock looked at Mycroft suspiciously. Irene slid her hand around the detective's arm.

"Keeping secrets are we, brother dear?" Sherlock asked.

"It's for your own good. You'll know soon enough," Mycroft replied, getting out of the way as Sherlock bent down to lug off the second suitcase. Irene smiled.

John came down with Rosie, who was half crying in the middle of some fanciful dream. Sherlock returned after having put the suitcase in his bedroom. "Allow me to apologize, John, for the lack of propriety on the part of my big brother," he said, annoyance distorting his features as he glowered at Mycroft.

John only shook his head at the detective as fatigue pulled down his neck. He cradled the fussing Rosie in his arms.

Mycroft only nodded toward the door, and with that, they both exited 221B. A brief moment of silence followed after they had descended the staircase. The door remained ajar. Sherlock cleared his throat. Irene sighed, feeling a bit saucy.

"Dinner?"

"No."

"Fine."

She took a small step toward the bedroom, as if deciding whether or not to truly abandon her pursuit, but in the end, she chose retreat.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," she said as she drifted away.

"Goodnight, Miss Adler."

And when she closed the door to his bedroom, Sherlock spotted his violin still lying on the sofa from earlier. Picking it up with the tenderness of a mother holding an injured infant, he held the instrument aloft, examining it before putting it to his shoulder to begin playing.

Auld Lang Syne was a much happier melody than what he had been hearing the last few days. He went over to the window, the dim lights of the flat accentuating the calm, yellow glow of the lamps in the street below. Despite the fact that it wasn't close to being New Year's Eve, he played it anyway.

The music was like blood running through veins, only the music ran through his brain; filling him with energy and belief. He couldn't stop a smile from spreading across his face. This was when he was most happy.

Pausing after about five minutes of playing to change the music, he was surprised to hear another voice in the room.

"Play my piece for me, would you, Sherlock dear?"

Sherlock whirled around. There was Irene, clad in his blue bathrobe and stretched out on the sofa with her eyes closed and her hands behind her head. It reminded him of when he had seen her like that in his mind palace earlier.

His lips clenched together, and he swallowed as his face turned crimson to match her lipstick. He had never told her he had written a song for her…had John? No, his loyalty could have never given out. How could the woman have guessed?

"I never said I had something composed for you," Sherlock instantly responded, his fingers moving quicker to tune his instrument.

"You never had to. I know which one's mine. The angsty, melancholic one with the fluctuating highs and lows. The one you played the night I tucked you in."

He sighed, embarrassment tugging at his hair. He wanted to protest "You did not 'tuck' me in," but he kept that to himself.

Swallowing uncomfortably, he said, "I played a lot of songs that night."

"The one you began with, then. Don't be daft, darling."

Sherlock settled the instrument onto his shoulder as Irene closed her eyes with a smug grin on her red lips.

Letting the bow slide across the strings, Sherlock played the piece he had composed for Irene after he had first met her when she lived in Belgravia…the piece he had written her after he had believed her to be dead. The death of Irene Adler had been an event that shook his emotions unlike anything had ever shaken them before; besides, perhaps, Redbeard. When Irene had died, she had been his enemy, but the thought of her had filled his mind with mystery, desire, uncertainty, and…dare he say it?

Sentiment.

The notes were long and sorrowful, high and low. Sherlock played each note fully and elegantly. The song was from his own heart, and it was written for her. Every time he thought of her, he had played it.

He always played whatever he thought of.

Irene loved hearing it again. This is what she was to him: a violin solo bubbling over with intrigue, longing, and aching forlornity. She could tell how much it meant by the fact that his back was facing her. He was looking out the window; he was thinking.

How infatuated she was with his every action!

He was a singular man; unlike any other she had met before. She could see why the doctor liked him so much.

The romantic notes resonated through the little flat, filling the entire premise with music. Even Mrs. Hudson, downstairs, could hear the melody and was silently stirred by its sounds. Unlike the last few days, the song was different; they were the same notes, but they weren't filled with complete and utter despondence.

The final measure played, Sherlock let the violin rest on his shoulder and let the hand holding the bow fall to his side. Irene's eyes were still closed, and she was finding more and more reason to be satisfied every minute. What a beautiful piece. All my own…just like him.

She sat up after a few minutes of silence to realize that Sherlock had already put his violin back in its case and was putting sheets of music into a folder. He was about to march upstairs to John's bedroom when she called to him.

"Why don't you come and sit, Mr. Holmes? It's a lovely night. I wouldn't want you to miss it."

Sherlock halted. He turned ever so slightly; just enough to meet her eye.

"Long day tomorrow. I—," his voice faltered. He didn't want to leave, and she could see it. But still, he continued in a low, coarse voice, "I need to sleep."

She wouldn't take it.

"Can't you spare five minutes? I promise I won't take up any more." Her eyes were that of a puppy's after a scolding from its favorite person.

Sherlock turned and walked toward the sofa, sitting himself down beside her. She took his arm and slowly looped it around her shoulders. He stared at what she had done with his limb and studied it with disquietude.

"I wanted to tell you something," she breathed.

"Do tell," Sherlock replied.

"You know, I've never had any desire to be anyone's other half."

"No?" Sherlock asked.

"No," she replied, snuggling up to him, "but I don't think I'll mind terribly if I'm yours, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock let her lay on his shoulder and started grinning when he felt her muscles relax. Why was he grinning? He shouldn't be grinning; he shouldn't be liking this at all. But he was.

"Really?" he mused. It wasn't posed as a question, but as a remark. He didn't say it as though he were shocked that she would say it, but as if he were merely considering her statement.

"Yes," she replied, exhaling. "And if we're going to be stuck together, I think we ought to at least try and make it worth something."

"Do you?" he asked sarcastically.

"I should think so."

She pushed herself up a little so she could look into his ever-steady, heterochromic eyes. She smiled into those eyes, and her lips parted. Sherlock glanced down at the woman at his shoulder. His expressionless face was abnormally fluctuating with desirous emotion, and it thrilled her. He leaned down toward her, and she leaned up towards him as he wrapped his arms around her.

Their lips embraced; each one pressed wholeheartedly into the other. Irene was getting what she had silently wanted for the last few years: indeed, here she was, being kissed in the arms of her clever detective.

When they broke apart, she caressed his cheek.

"Are you sure you're set on not having dinner tonight?" she whispered, inching closer to his lips again and reaching up to lace her hands around his neck. He gently took her wandering hands in his own and held them to his chest.

"Why?"

"You might be hungry."

"I'm really not."

"Good, then," she said. She had his full attention now, and as they looked at one another she could sense him trying to find something witty with which to reply. She felt him slipping into her grasp. There was surely nothing he could say…

"It could be the last night before the end of the world," she whispered as he frightfully tried to figure out what to say next. He decided on:

"Why does…this feel familiar?"

She laughed, trying to kiss him again. Before her lips met his, he said (miraculously managing to remain calm), "Mycroft told me about Ukraine."

She stiffened in his arms, and he felt the relaxation scatter from her limbs. Her parted lips closed, and she swallowed disconcertingly. Inside, he was sighing with relief: I've saved myself.

"I knew he would, eventually," she said, forsaking her pursuit with a disappointed air. "My personal requests matter little to him," she added, looking down uneasily.

"You asked him not to tell me?"

She looked up at him, her thin mouth remaining placid on her face.

"Yes. I did."

Sherlock stared.

"Why?"

"It was a personal matter, Mr. Holmes. There was…something I needed to finish."

"Which was…?"

She paused again.

"I believe I mentioned personal matters. A score had to be settled."

"Revenge?"

"Aren't you the clever one," she teased, and he felt her grow a little less tense.

"Does this explain why my brother told me you didn't bait Parliament with the photographs? It was for personal reasons, and you didn't want anything messy?"

"You catch on quickly," she said, her eyes flattering him as well as her words.

"It didn't end the way you intended, I assume?"

"Not nearly. I almost lost my head, Mr. Holmes. I hardly call that a victory."

"You still have your head, unless I'm horribly mistaken, Miss Adler."

She laughed, settling back down on his chest. He didn't want to be finished with this discussion, but if he knew anything, she wouldn't say anymore tonight. But he would hear the end of it eventually…one day he would draw it out.

And she knew that.

"You're not finished with me, are you, Mr. Holmes?"

He laughed in his chest, his arm around her tightening just a bit.

"No. Not yet."

"I shall do my best to keep you intrigued."

He grinned at this response.

She too smiled and rested her head. She could feel his heart throbbing like the steady pumping of a steam engine, and she closed her eyes to its rhythmic drumming. That would have to be enough for now.

He had won this time.

Sherlock held her with pride in his heart. Taking one of her hands in his, he wrapped his fingers around one of her wrists to feel her pulse. It was steady. Contented. Happy. She knew what he was doing, and he felt a suppressed giggle sizzling inside her as she lay against him.

They both merely sat there, without any motion, speech, or touch. None of that seemed to be required. They were quiet, and each one hearing the other's breathing was enough to keep them there.

And Mrs. Hudson was by the door, listening to their conversation.

Her eyes were brimming with tears. She was happy, even if she was confused at her observations. It was so odd: Sherlock being with a woman. She had always thought things about him and John, but, as she always said, "live and let live." What did she know? For goodness sake, here was Sherlock Holmes in her own flat: holding a woman in his arms. Would wonders never cease?

And when John Watson came back fifteen minutes later to get his book (which he had strategically left in his armchair for the sole purpose of secretly returning), Mrs. Hudson kindly told him that "the pair of them upstairs" were "having a moment and it's best if they weren't disturbed." The doctor listened for a moment, finding that it was utterly quiet in the flat. They clearly weren't having an argument. Poor John Watson was left to assume the worst. He sniffed abruptly, thanked her for her pains, and left the way he had come; only this time, his face was red as the leaves in autumn.