He slipped up the stairs of 221B Baker Street, wraithlike in the dark, and eased open the door to his flat. His latest case had necessitated the cover of nightfall, and as he arrived home the first glow of morning light was catching about the edges of the curtains. It was late (early even), and he had minutes ago wrapped up a most intriguing case (tipping the scale at a nine). And yet neither his exhaustion nor his satisfied euphoria kept him from missing the shift in the room.

His rooms were as he'd left them, although they existed in a more orderly state these days than they once had. Letters were still skewered to the mantle next to Billy the skull. A few of Rosie's toys lay about the rug from where he had sat and played with her only yesterday. Two teacups sat washed and dried near the sink. A medical journal rested open on the arm of the flat's most recently added chair.

Nothing appeared to have been touched by malice, but it took Sherlock only moments to pinpoint the anomaly. It stared back at him in the face of a woman he'd helped to kill.

Of course, her death (like his), had been a well maintained fiction, which explained how she was able to be sitting in his living room in a yellow armchair (that was most definitely not hers). There was nothing he could see at a glance that would explain to him why this visit was occurring.

"Irene Adler."

It was a simple acknowledgement, but he knew she'd hear the questions infused in her name. He watched her bright lips drift into a smile even before she turned to face him.

"Hello Sherlock," she purred, eyes traveling over him intensely. This was much like their first meeting in that he could read almost nothing about her. But he felt her eyes laying him bare, accurately exposed. She smiled again. "I always wondered if you'd missed me."

That phrase (even now) began a litany in his head that he focused on drowning out. He stepped father into the room, positioning himself (casually) between Irene and the rest of the flat.

He wasn't menaced by her. She had a penchant for trouble and a certain talent for criminality. She'd even worked for Moriarty for a time and had sought to manipulate him (with more success than he liked to admit). Yet they understood one another, and there was none of the threat in her presence that he'd felt when Moriarty or Magnussen or Eurus had occupied his home.

And yet he did feel a spike of fear twist into his gut. Because it wasn't only his home anymore, and there was another whose safety he valued far above his own.

Irene watched his movements and read them for what they were. Her light eyes drilled him, honest for once. "I'm not here to hurt her. Though you can imagine how surprised I was to find a woman already in your bed." Sherlock said nothing. He did take a moment to imagine her surprise, but found himself unable to appreciate the irony. Irene must have seen the tension on his face for her next words were more reassurance than tease. "I didn't wake her either. I imagine she's not had enough sleep as is."

Sherlock nodded briefly, quietly. There were plenty of unexpected visitors to 221B, and that hadn't changed even with altered living arrangements. It was the nature of the job if at times an inconvenience. But this seemed a violation of their dearly held privacy. It felt deeply wrong for another person (especially this person) to see evidence of their shared lives so unguarded.

"When can we expect the blessed event?"

She'd missed nothing. "Another three months yet," Sherlock said, choosing to be seated but settling into John's chair so that he was still between his guest and their bedroom.

The dominatrix lifted a perfect eyebrow. "I would have guessed sooner."

"It's twins."

"Manage that on the first try, did you?" she asked coyly. She crossed her knees, the gesture dignified when she did it. "I noticed the rings, too. I can't say I'm surprised."

"By what exactly?"

She fiddled with the journal on the chair, and Sherlock committed the page number to his Mind Palace should she lose the spot. "By you. Living the domestic life."

Sherlock mirrored her posture and steepled his fingers, the aforementioned ring made prominent. "Really? It's surprised plenty of other people."

"I know. I enjoyed the reactions in the paper. And I imagine John Watson remains astonished. But I wasn't so shocked. I knew right off that you could be quite the lover. And under the right circumstances you'd be a committed one. I wasn't interested." Her eyes flashed, trailing over him again, laying him bare in a way entirely lacking metaphor. "At least in that last part."

He didn't break her gaze. "I can assume then that this is not a social call. What is it you want?"

"Just letting you know I'm back in England for a while. I've missed it. Does big brother know about our adventure in Karachi?"

"You mean does he know you're alive and causing trouble?"

She smirked red lips. "One and the same, darling. But yes, does he know?"

There were no easy questions to answer where Mycroft was concerned, and he told her as much. "He's not heard it from me."

She nodded once, apparently satisfied with his answer. It was the truth. He'd never told Mycroft about his rescue of Irene Adler, and his brother had never pressed him on it. Either because she'd never managed to be caught a second time or because Mycroft had had her escape confirmed by other sources.

"Staying in London awhile?" he wondered. He needed to know the frequency with which she planned to drop into his life. It was five years since the last time, and so much had changed since then.

Irene's gaze told him that these were changes she recognized. "Don't worry, Sherlock. My business here will occupy entirely different parts of the city, and I'll soon be called away to something else."

She stood lithely, and he joined her. Stepping into his personal space, she touched a hand to his cheek in a caress. "I'd say, let's have dinner - or maybe breakfast given the hour - but we both know what the answer would be."

He already knew he'd been made, but he resented being so easily deduced. More than that, the fear sparked in his belly like a faulty lighter at what the truth revealed and risked, and so he tossed out a casual shrug and line. "So certain, are you? Plenty of men cheat on their wives."

Her eyes chilled for just a moment before a confident smile overtook her face. "No. I was right the first time. You'd make quite a lover. And a committed one." Irene inclined her head to the hallway and the closed door behind which another woman slept in their shared bed. "She holds every part of you."

Sherlock said nothing. Somewhere along the line it seemed he'd lost the ability to appear emotionless. Irene read him perfectly.

She pulled away from him and moved to the stairwell. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes." One last look and she was gone.

After a moment he went and bolted the door after her, though he knew she hadn't come in that way. He also knew she wouldn't be back.

Sherlock finally made his way to his bedroom, littering the floor with his street clothes and easing into bed beside his wife. Molly drifted into him, as if they were magnetized to one another's presence. He cradled her to him, his hold gentle yet secure. The swell of her stomach and their unborn children nestled in the small space between them. "Good case?" Molly murmured, still mostly asleep.

He smiled tenderly at her, though her eyes were still shut and she did not see. "Worthy of a retelling," he said, breathing her in. "But I'm glad to be home." A good deal had changed in the last five years. More than just the familiar rooms of 221B Baker Street, home had changed into something that he now held in his arms.

Fin.

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