"Do you know why?"

The answer was a hopeless one, and it irritated him to say it. But without looking into the questioner's face and swallowing the clot in his throat, he uttered the word in a husky tone.

"No."

The clouds had grown dark around London after Sherlock had arrived home that night, and rain was beating against the windows. Irene was sitting across from him with a cup and saucer resting in her lap.

"I will admit that I'm quite interesting, but I won't pretend I don't wonder. What does she want to see me for? Surely you've…some idea?" she asked, putting the cup to her lips. He looked discomforted.

"Something along the lines of Moriarty. She says she's seen him. I don't know how that's possible, and I doubt it is, but she says she has. He's told her something…he's said something to her that's made her interested in you. How else could she have known about you in the first place?"

"You were wearing a wedding ring. That's hardly a difficult leap."

"Your name isn't exactly on it," he instantly replied, blowing her theory into a million pieces. She grinned.

"Of course."

He looked at his phone to check for any new updates from anyone, but not a single message satisfied his inquiry.

"What time did John leave earlier?" he asked.

"A few minutes after you left; Rosie started fussing, and I'm afraid he finds me too much of a formidable partner to pass time with. I hardly spoke to the man."

"Rather inhospitable of you."

"That isn't my fault. Last I checked, I thought you told him to keep me out of trouble. That makes him the host, not me; even if it is our flat."

Sherlock returned to the case file, and Irene returned to her tea. The fire was crackling in the hearth, the rain was tapping politely on the window, and the silent, repetitive, restful breathing of two people filled the flat with unequaled serenity.

Sherlock wondered just what exactly had happened to him over the course of the last month. Someone had managed to secure his attentions, he was finding himself bound to another's soul in marriage, and he couldn't account for the compulsive way he lent his arm to a woman whenever they walked side by side.

And then there were the quiet nights at Baker Street. John was absent most nights, and before the woman had returned, his usual evenings were spent in quiet solitude. Melancholic thoughts and deductions floated through his head, and there was no one to hear them. There was no one to impress with his genius, which made things quite boring. He usually called John on most dreadful nights, but sometimes (and most times) he was willing, but Rosie would already be fast asleep.

But things had changed so dramatically.

He wasn't alone anymore.

Every night there was a woman in the armchair opposite him, reading a book and drinking a cuppa with her legs crossed. She listened, she argued, she teased, she flirted.

Deductions were fascinating to her, and displaying them as though they were simple observations on his part (which was true half the time) sparked in her an intrigue, and her eyes would narrow while her lips parted. He could tell he impressed her, and while he never let her see it, he nearly always felt a burner gently warming his stomach.

He glanced up to find her looking at him with steady, unblinking admiration. He said nothing and resumed reading. She smiled to herself and girlishly bit her lip.

"I'd say domesticity suits us, wouldn't you, Mr. Holmes?" she asked. His eyes froze on the words he was reading. Is that what this was?

Without looking up from the file, he replied, "If you can call us marrying for the sake of thwarting the plans of a master criminal "domesticity," then yes…I think it suits us fine."

Although he had refused to look up from his file, she could tell he was feeling the same feelings as she. His answer had been plain enough, but she knew it only meant that he was putting off something deeper. For she too had been considering the present state of things, even if she hadn't spoken her thoughts aloud.

Ten years ago, to have thought she would ever be married would have been a repulsive idea. She had made a life of seeing people beg, cry, scream, and the thought of letting herself sink so low as to "love" someone was something she would never have permitted. Men who thought they were in love with her would return to find their trust compromised. Women who thought they had a lover would return to find their reputations ruined. It had brought her such pleasure to do it.

She didn't love people. She never let herself love anyone. Love was dangerous; love kept work from getting done; love was an obstacle in the way of success. Love was child's play and a stupid game she didn't have time for…a dangerous disadvantage and one she was not willing to fall prey to.

Yet here she was: married to the only person she had ever feared her feelings for. Here she was: giving herself the liberty to love him, and choosing to do so willingly. She mastered him, but in every sense of the word, he mastered her. She had told him that she would not mind being his other half, and she hadn't lied. She wasn't minding being his other half; she didn't mind that he was hers. In fact, she was enjoying it beyond reason.

She didn't know love. She never knew it, and she never expected she would as she was now. She had known pleasure well enough, to be sure. But she didn't know that love was the greatest pleasure of them all. Because now, she knew someone better than she had ever known anyone. She cared for someone more than she had ever cared for anyone. She thought of someone…more than she had ever thought of anyone else before.

Every embrace, every touch, every kiss was not one she had to expect payment for…it was not one she had to document for possible use as a weapon of extortion. It was freely given, freely received, and joyfully expected. Every night she had someone to hold her, and for the first time in her life, the idea of ruining that someone was a horrible notion.

And now, here she sat: Mrs. Irene Holmes. Sitting across from her husband—the clever detective in the funny hat—her chest was bursting with pride, and she looked at him steadily. He caught her glancing at him again, but he didn't smile. He only returned to the pressing case file in his hands. She loved it when he "ignored her" like that; it was almost flirting.

She had a bit of a question, and if she knew him as well as she thought, he would impress her with a bit of deduction.

"I'm still at a loss for words, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"What about?" he asked, shuffling a few of the papers into order without looking up.

"The deaths of the Wellington brothers. They were murdered at around the same time, in the same way, but in different locations. Have you come to any conclusions?"

"I have, in fact," Sherlock muttered…secretly hoping for an excuse to go on.

"Do tell," she said, setting her tea in her lap and smiling playfully.

She studied the expression on his face and could tell he was about to throw myriads of deduction at her feet. Her heart raced. Her lips twisted into a grin. How she loved this part.

"Well," he began, "there was some level of information that both men were sent regarding what my brother termed 'The National Problem.' When this information reached the brothers, they panicked, knowing what it would do to England. They left the note for my brother on his desk, but Moriarty had most likely already caught wind of their treachery. Now that the government knew a plot existed, the brothers had to be executed. And knowing how close they were (which is what Lestrade tells me of peoples' accounts of them), Moriarty would have wanted to play with their brotherly bond. If each man had been threatened, told that their death would save the other, most likely they would both have ended their lives thinking that their individual death would let the other live. But in reality, they both killed themselves and they both died. This would also explain the rope marks around their necks: death by self-hanging. Then, after they had been killed, Moriarty—or rather, Schreiber, or perhaps both—had cut their throats and positioned them in different places at different times to distort the fact that they were indeed murdered at the same time for the same purpose. While this still remains an untested hypothesis," he said, interrupting his rapid flow of deduction to appear modest (which failed miserably), "I doubt it is far from the actual truth, as most of the evidence points me inevitably to this conclusion."

He eyed her intently, knowing by the look on her face that he had managed to heighten her senses. He looked into the fire and sighed, his eyes communicating a disinterest in her response…which could not have been further from the truth.

"Dear God," she whispered. "Will you let me kiss those lips of yours?"

"Why?" he asked, remotely interested, but outwardly displaying indifference. He still looked into the fire.

She raised her eyebrows before replying with a sugar-coated tongue, "It's only just occurred to me that brainy is still the new sexy."

He inhaled slowly to keep his mouth from forming a smile, then exhaled quickly and returned to the file.

"No; not now, at least. I've work to do."

Her eyebrows shot up.

"Do you?"

"Yes."

In an instant, she was out of her chair with her hands resting on his arms, down on her knees in front of him. She slowly closed the file in his lap and set it down beside her on the floor. He didn't say anything, only stared at her hands in confusion. That didn't change the fact that his pulse was speeding up.

"Hmm," she said, pressing her hands into his skin and feeling the rapidity of the blood flow. "Elevated," she deduced, smirking coquettishly.

"Equally," he replied, doing the same to her pulse.

"You do realize we have your brother to thank for all this?" she asked, tracing lines on his arm.

"For what?"

"Don't pretend you're not pleased, Mr. Holmes. You're enjoying yourself, and there's no use denying it," she said, her eyes dimming.

He paused before responding.

"I—"

He didn't finish; in truth, he wasn't sure how.

"This feels awfully familiar," Irene said, drumming her fingers on his flesh as she would a table. He watched…watched and remembered when they had first been in this position.

"But I think you were too late last time," she purred, nuzzling her nose against his.

He softly kissed her, putting a bit of hair behind her ear as he did so. It came free the moment he let go. She breathed an infantine laugh; despite his best efforts at romance, he was still a trifle clumsy. She stole a glance into his eyes (which were silently laughing) before leaning in to kiss him again.

"Ooh! Ooh, dear!" a muffled squeak came from behind the door that was slowly creaking open. Sherlock and Irene both stood up instantly at the sound. Sherlock could have sworn the door hadn't been open five minutes ago. In all likelihood, it probably hadn't been.

"S-sorry, am I interrupting?" Mrs. Hudson timidly asked, coming out from behind the door and holding her apron to her mouth in suspense as if she were watching a horror movie.

"No, not at all," Irene chirped, spinning to face the landlady. She acted as though nothing of significance had just happened.

Sherlock, on the other hand, cleared his throat as if there was a rat stuck in his esophagus. His face was frighteningly red.

"It's just that I had some leftover biscuits from tea with a couple of friends this afternoon. Thought you might like them? It's never good for me to have so many sitting around…I get a habit!" she said, patting her stomach and nodding vigorously.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as she found a place for the biscuits in the kitchen. His head still looked like it was on fire. "I'm sure I don't know what we would do without biscuits," he sarcastically concluded.

Irene scowled at him.

After stowing the biscuits, Mrs. Hudson turned around with a face that was as red as a pimple ready to pop. She seemed almost as embarrassed as the detective, who by this time only wanted to crawl into a hole and die somewhere.

"Are you all settled for the night? Did you need anything before I hopped off to bed?" Mrs. Hudson asked, wringing her apron compulsively.

"No, I think we're quite alright, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied, forcing a smile and gently guiding (but really shooing) the old lady towards the door.

"Well, if you need anything, just let me know; I'm really very happy to help!" she asserted, smiling like a schoolgirl on her way out.

"Yes, I'm sure you are; good night!" Sherlock said, trying to remain friendly and polite, but trying not to remind the woman with a frustrated tone for the millionth time to knock before entering.

With the door shut, Sherlock massaged his forehead; he was overcome with embarrassment and felt ridiculous. Irene was in the kitchen, taking advantage of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had left.

"You mustn't be too hard on her, darling," Irene said. "She's only curious; I sympathize completely."

"The question remains: are you going to see my sister tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms over his chest and joining his wife in the kitchen. He couldn't resist a couple of these hideous biscuits, either. He picked at a few that were still whole for edible consumption.

"I think so," she said, swallowing the last bit. "These are much better with tea," she added, making a face. She took a couple with her back to her chair where her cup and saucer were still waiting.

Sherlock watched her from the kitchen.

"So, you are going?" he asked.

She finished a sip of tea, then looked up.

"Yes, I think will. I suppose it's about time I met the infamous Eurus Holmes. One does wonder if the stories do her credit," she said, with loads of imagination attached to her words.

"You've no idea what she's like, Miss Adler," he said. He saw her roll her eyes when he spoke her maiden name.

"You don't," he repeated. "Eurus is unpredictable. Tempestuous. You have to speak calmly. Give her your full attention. If she can see you're afraid, then you've lost."

"I appreciate the thoughts, darling," she said, "but I'll have you know that this won't be my first psychopath. I'll do as well as I can, which I'm sure will be enough."

He didn't say anything, but stuffed a few more biscuits into his hand and returned to his chair. He didn't even like these. He was picky about his tea biscuits, and always bought the shortbread kind packed in the little tins from the Twinings on the Strand. They were far too expensive for tea biscuits, and he really didn't have the money for them, but he didn't care. Biscuits were important.

The ones in his hand at present were the cheap two-pound alternative from Tesco. He scowled.

Crossing his legs, he found her staring at him again.

"These are horrible," he spat. A crumb fell out of his mouth.

"Better than nothing," she replied, nibbling on her own after a sip of tea.

"Then I'm fine with nothing," he retorted, refusing to take another bite. She laughed under her breath and returned to her tea. She looked at him a moment, mysteriously playing with his eyes.

"What were you going to do?"

"When?"

"If our dear Mrs. Hudson hadn't barged in?"

"To be fair, you were about to kiss me."

"I was. Were you intending to reciprocate the gesture?"

"Seems you'll never know."

"Mr. Holmes…" she whined.

And just for a moment before he returned to the file, Sherlock's mouth tipped upward and he let out a laugh.