HI! Please do review... It'll take longer to update if you don't... I only got about four reviews for the other chapters and that almost killed my self esteem. It hid in the closet so I had to use Nutella to lure it out...

ENJOY. MAJOR TWIST IN THIS ONE :X

I almost thought I had lost her... for a moment there it was as if I was seeing two identical Alders, one disappearing to the left and the other to the right...

I was pushed to the left so I followed the one nearest- believing it was my imagination that there were two in the first place. I chased her until we were out on the emptying streets of London. We were about a ten minute trek of the funeral home where the ceremony was held, the whole time I was trying to catch up to her, whilst she kept evading. I'm sure she knew it was me. She had to have known. I was currently 'beardless' and the rest of the facial hair I'd placed on was withering away in the streets behind us. I had not yet caught sight of her face- that left me thinking. I was sure it was her- it could be no one else... but then...

Why had she fled? Why was she running?

I finally decided to finally speak. We were both tired and the rain had begun pelting down on us like daggers. My body still ached heavily from the fall and injuries I had suffered before- there was no way I could make it much longer without collapsing.

It had to be her...

But it certainly surprised me. I had been too shocked to speak at the beginning, but now I regained my voice. I needed to know if Irene Adler was alive. I needed t to know if she was her...

"Irene"

It was the only word I spoke. It was the only syllable I pronounced. It was all it took.

She stopped and paused. I heard her sigh from the few meters difference that lay between us. It seemed so short- yet now when I look at it, it seems so distant. I could tell in the change of her demeanour that she had come to terms with the fact that I was alive and standing behind her. She began to turn, and as soon as I saw her face I knew it was she, I knew it was Miss Irene Adler. Joy seemed to cloud my being. I had known it was her- but seeing her- not –knowing but realising. Relief washed over me like a huge wave and a closed my eyes momentarily. I ignored and blocked out the pain echoing from my joints painfully, along with the hard stabbing thundering rain showering us.

Our eyes met, and I could see that hers were truly uncertain. As if she did not know if it was me, as if she thought I was some imposter...

Irene was alive.

She was alive.

She began to stare at the wet moist ground as if unsure of what to do next. I could feel my heart thumping loudly through my chest. I chuckled to myself inwardly for my strange behaviour. Perhaps this is what one feels once they have attended their own funeral services and found a- close- friend whom they believed dead at the hands of the enemy.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps it was just me at this very moment attempting to comprehend all of the events that had taken place.

What occurred next was certainly unexpected.

She ran to me, and without a moment's thought she embraced me. Her arms wrapping around my own as she buried her face in my chest. I returned the embrace with a sigh, it felt so good to have her back- and for real this time. My heart had 'unexpectedly' shattered when I was acknowledged with her death.

But now she was here, with me.

And for some strange reason that hadn't sounded very strange itself...

I looked down at her and something undeniable caught my eye- a scar. It was almost hidden under her hairline and anybody else wouldn't have noticed it. If they had however, it would be simply and easy to assume it was a souvenir of an accident, a major trauma. However, me knowing Irene- I knew she had never had that scar. It seemed as if it were a year or so old- with magnificent repair work- Doctor Hoffman style perhaps- but he was dead...?It was barely visible, but it led to behind the ear where it seemed the skin had been torn back...

Impossible.

My eyes widened in disbelief but I did not let her see. Our embrace continued- but I could only hold out for so much longer. I had noticed that there was something... off about her voice but I had simply nudged it of through my relief and thankfulness to finally seeing her...

This... this had to be her... Moriarty was dead... this can't be... she had to be Irene...

We finally released each other, but she stayed in my arms.

"Oh Sherlock..." Yes her voice was definitely... just not right- and her Parisian perfume was not there... "I'm sorry. I ran because... well I just didn't know what to think..." the real Adler would have never used that as an excuse. Never. This was not Irene, of that I was now positive, however- I just smiled and acted as if I was falling for her plan. I also noticed that she had begun to blink rapidly as if wearing eye-contacts... I noted that Irene was a left hander, however when she made her hand movements and gestures she would always rely on her right...

But who had sent her? It was clear that she was not Irene, but I realised that the real Adler was at the service. It was her perfume I smelt- and when I thought I was hallucinating seeing two Adlers, I was in fact not at all. The fake must have been at the funeral too, to see if they had found my body perhaps? She was probably supposed to report back immediately but could not when I suddenly chased her.

So just who was this woman and who sent her?

I was about to analyse her- find out more- but I was interrupted by the clanking of a carriage behind me. Almost immediately I felt the stranger's lips on my cheek before she hurriedly turned and ran off into the cab, leaving me no time what so ever to collect my thoughts.

But this meant something.

It meant that Irene was alive due to me seeing her today and mistaking the imposter for her.

It meant that either Moriarty or his henchmen were alive and planning revenge.

It also meant it was time to meet up with Watson.

~SH~SH~SH~

If Watson was anything, he was a proud man. Proud of his accomplishments, proud of his wife, proud of their life together. If there was anything he wasn't proud of, it would be the fact that he let his best friend- and practically brother- slip through his hold and tumble into the deepest clutches of death. Or so that was what he was made to believe. Yes, he was made to believe that his dearest and closest ally had met his demise in the process of saving all of Western Civilisation. An honourable death, true. However... a death at all was what he questioned. He still had not come to terms with the passing. He still had not come to terms with never being able to see he brother through bond ever again. Nor had he come to terms with the thought of actually missing him. No, he had not- because of a single uncertain hint leading him to believe that Holmes, was in fact, not dead at all.

How had he come to this conclusion?

Through the parcel he received the evening after Sherlock's funeral. It contained none-other than the small metallic mechanism the younger Holmes seemed to be so fond of. He had no other clues, no other hint or details. Yet deep somewhere deep inside, it seemed like a strange nightmare- a nightmare he would give almost anything to awake from.

Because it was not unusual for Sherlock Holmes to glide near the withering edges of demise- but it was most unusual for him to truly, essentially, breathe his last and final breath- it was unusual for him to finally, really die.

It was a thought that Watson had often thought whilst on his cases with the- seemingly- crazed detective. Oh so many times had Holmes skated near the very ledge of death, yet he had completely kept his balance. Like a tightrope walker performing his act, Holmes would walk between the parallel worlds of the living and the dead, always tilting a little toward each side- yet never collapsing. Never losing his footing, never taking a step too large or a step too small. Just slipping. And each and every time he got back up and continued his trek to very end.

Yet when was the end?

Was this the finality of the great Sherlock Holmes? The man with a thousand lives? Was he at this very moment lying somewhere beneath loud raging waters where his body would never be found? Or was he alive, scheming and laughing silently as Watson attempted to deal with the newly found details?

What does this mean...?

Watson sighed, turning the small sharp object that could have possibly saved Holme's very life in his hands, entwining his fingers at the joints then releasing and examining it further.

He inspected it longer. His fingers trailing along its smooth golden and silver hard metal skin. He eyes it and released another intake of breath before placing it on his large, fair toned authentic oak desk.

Just give me something more, Holmes...

As if on cue, a small white, rumpled yet folded paper fell though the inside of the mask and landed gently onto the desk- it's pristinely white tone forcing the oak's colour to pal greatly in comparison. Watson jumped from his chair and sprang at the paper, his fingers nimbly fumbling with the tiny note- being unable to wait to open it.

Meet me where it all began dear Watson- the day being a single day after my passing services and the time- the moment of my 'demise'.

A large grin ripped its way through Watson's face. His eyes lit up immensely. His heart was thumping faster as he continued to stare at the note contently, a warm feeling spreading rapidly through his being. Then suddenly reading the piece of perfect paper again his eyes faltered. EXACTLY twenty four hours after my 'demise' it read. Quickly thinking, he calculated. It was a day after the funeral, then thought- Renée's time of death was at eight forty-five during the night- and Renée had passed away about a minute or two before Holmes made the drop.

He checked his silver and gold lined pocket watch-

8:15

And with that he dashed out of his study and toward the place where it all began-

221B Baker Street.

~SH~SH~SH~

It was dark when the doctor got there. The lights were all out and he wandered for a second why. Then he remembered in a flash- Mrs. Hudson was off to the country side to visit some family because- as she claimed openly- 'It's simply too hard not to here wretched violin playing at three in the morning' he chuckled at the memory. The servants and maids were taking the day off too- since there were currently no more residents living in the flat. Watson had –thankfully- brought his key.

He fiddled with it and inserted it in the key hole, twisted and heard a satisfying click. Pushing the door open, he walked inside and began making his way up the steps to Holme's rooms.

He paused for a minute and thought things over.

He would hopefully be meeting his 'dead' brother by bond in his former temporarily abandoned apartment complex. Strange it was, and it kept Watson's heart searching for light and beating faster with every step up. He skipped over the fifth stop remembering it was broken then cringed when he remembered that it was one of Holme's experiments which had caused it to be that way.

He sighed and thought of how he would greet the detective when and IF he saw him. It was all so strange... did that mean that Holmes had attended the funeral and heard everything everyone including himself had said?

Selfish bastard.

It was sudden- but he remembered calling Sherlock exactly that on the train when he literally died. Ironic. He finally got to the door and fisted his palm. His hand hit the door which creaked slightly open.

It's unlocked...

He took a deep breath and entered, completely off-guard and unsure of what to expect exactly. The first of his steps came out as loud echoes in Holme's-still- messy room. He was uncertain of what to do exactly. Yell out or just wait?

He looked around him. He was barely able to see anything as the room was completely dark. The only light was illuminated from Holme's large window where the moon glistened through it. Holmes never opened windows unless he was expecting something or someone. He was snapped out of his thought by a touch on his shoulder- so light and gentle he swore he could've been imagining it.

But he couldn't risk it.

His soldier instincts took in and in a second, his fingers were clenched and he fired his fist directly behind him where the touch was coming from. His fist collided with something soft yet rough- flesh. He turned, his arm quickly flexing and grabbing a lantern- lighting it with a match then sticking it out to see whom he had hit.

On the floor of his own room, Sherlock Holmes lay nursing a bleeding nose and a frown.

"Always good to see you Watson"

WHAT DID YOU THINK!

If you didn't understand the part with the 'fake' Irene, in A game of shadows, Holmes and Watson discover that Moriarty had used surgery to make one man look identical to another! The same aspect had happened with Irene, but she's alive... for now...

I have no idea what to put in this story, so please review and tell me what you want!

R&R

THANKS

X. Rose