It had nearly been two weeks since Watson and Mary had visited Sherlock and Jane. Only days away from moving in with Mary, Watson was busy packing the last few items away. Sherlock knocked on Watson's door quietly, sighing heavily.

"Who is it?"

"Holmes."

Sherlock waited somewhat impatiently for Watson to open the door. He heard the doctor cross the room and turn the doorknob, pulling open the door to allow Sherlock inside. Holmes stepped sufficiently enough inside for the door to shut behind him. His gaze fell upon the valises and satchels in the middle of the room. Everything else, aside from the book case, was bare.

The two stood in silence, Holmes staring at the floor, Watson's gaze drawn to his packed belongings. The quiet around them was oppressive, stifling. Sherlock moistened his lips, opened his mouth to speak, and thought better of it, his face settling back into a blank expression.

"How is Jane?" Watson finally asked, his voice quiet.

"Miserable."

"Miserable? Why is that?"

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. "She believes that, though our...dispute is over Mary, she is only making things worse. She hasn't slept in days. When she's not drinking, she's playing away on that piano. Just earlier today, she came out of her bedroom with her fingers bandaged."

"By Jove," Watson exclaimed, looking up at his friend. "Surely she is intelligent enough to realize that she has nothing to do with the matter."

"Surely," Holmes echoed, running a hand through his hair. He slid his hands into his pockets and finally glanced at his friend. "Nevertheless, I..." Sherlock sighed again. "Damnit, Watson, I wish you wouldn't go."

"Oh, really?" Watson's face contorted an expression of disbelief. "Maybe if you weren't so jealous of Mary, then - "

"Jealous!" Sherlock turned on Watson sharply. "Jealous! I'm not jealous - I'm upset! Horrified!"

"Horrified? Of what?"

"Of losing my brother!"

Silence sprung up between them again. Holmes passed a hand over his face, his gaze dropping to the floor again. Watson shifted his weight uncomfortably, his eyes upon Sherlock. Holmes rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.

"Jane was right," he said quietly, "when she said that I am afraid of losing you. She was right when she said that we are brothers - at least, you are a brother to me. As she also said, you are the only person I can trust wholeheartedly, the only friend I have." Sherlock sniffed and tugged at his nose with his thumb and index finger.

"Is that why you are so set on destroying Mary's and my engagement?"

"You have to understand, my dear Watson, you are about to enter a huge commitment, and - "

"Yes, Holmes," Watson couldn't help but snap, "I am about to take upon a grandiose commitment. Unlike you, I know how to keep to my commitments and pledge myself wholeheartedly."

Sherlock winced, and Watson immediately regretted his choice of words. He sighed heavily, passed a hand over his face, too, and paced away from Holmes. He stopped over at his bureau and turned around, his gaze flicking up to Sherlock's.

"I'm sorry, Holmes." His voice was sincere, weary. "I just can't deal with you acting like a total ass. Your words and actions are threatening my engagement with Mary, and I won't stand it any longer."

"I understand." Sherlock shook his head and looked levelly at his old friend. "And that is why I have come to wish you the best of luck."

"Luck?" Watson spluttered. "Luck? Holmes, you don't believe in luck."

"But you do, and I felt it would be appropriate to express it to you." Sherlock shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his gaze unwavering. "I have been acting like a total ass, and I am sorry. I do hope that you and Mary have a good marriage and a wonderful life."

Sherlock turned to the door, hand reaching out for the knob. Watson, startled by Holmes's sentiment, took a step forward, saying, "Holmes," to catch the sleuth's attention. Sherlock, door half opened, glanced at his companion.

"Just because I'm marrying Mary does not mean that I will no longer be your brother," Watson stated quietly. "You can't just expect me to leave you. You'd have killed yourself or been killed before morning."

A faint smirk touched Sherlock's lips. "Indeed, my dear Watson, indeed."

Holmes headed back to his room, feeling considerably lightened. At least that was one thing that was settled in Sherlock's mind. The smirk still on his lips, he was about to open his bedroom door when he recognized the familiar tread of Watson. Glancing over his shoulder, his brow furrowed.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked, turning to his companion.

"I wanted to check up on Jane," Watson answered. "If she's as burdened as you say, she may be sick."

"Excellent thinking, Watson."

Sherlock pushed open his door and stepped inside, Jane's name upon his lips. Sprawled out on the couch, Jane lifted her head abruptly and pushed herself up onto her elbows, her gaze darting between Watson and Holmes, eyes wide, pupils slightly dilated.

Watson was the first to step forward. "How much have you drunk?" he asked, glancing at the empty glass on the floor by Jane.

"More than I should have." Jane chuckled and hauled herself upright, gaze finding Sherlock's over Watson's shoulder. "I hope all has been resolved..."

"Yes." Watson crouched in front of Jane and grabbed her wrist, checking her pulse.

"Much has been mended," Sherlock affirmed, kicking the door shut with his heel.

Watson reached up to check Jane's eyes. She batted his hand away and stood to her feet. As Watson began to protest, Jane pressed her finger to his lips and shook her head, her free hand passing over her face wearily.

"I assure you, Dr. Watson," she said, "I have been worse off before. I know my limits."

Watson sighed and shook his head, Jane's finger dropping away from his lips. Sherlock realized he had stiffened, and he did his best to relax, hoping that neither Watson nor Jane had noticed the tension. As to why he had tensed, Sherlock, himself, did not know - a thought that troubled him deeply.

"Someone is at the door," Jane suddenly said, snapping upright. "A woman."

As if on cue, a light knock sounded on Sherlock's door. Watson stared at Jane, wondering how she had known. What perplexed him more was how Holmes hadn't known. As of late, whenever in Jane's presence, Watson had noticed that Holmes had been considerably distracted, to the point that he overlooked the smallest of details, things he would have noticed had Jane not been in the room. Puzzled, Watson watched Sherlock open his door.

"Irene!" It came out more a startled gasp than a statement.

Indeed, the esteemed criminal Miss Irene Adler stood in the doorway, looking at Sherlock smugly. "Good morning, Holmes," she said coyly, brushing by him.

As soon as she saw Jane, Irene stiffened. A hint of anger flashed in her eyes, but it was immediately masked. Jane stepped forward, her own eyes shifting into a blank expression.

"You must be the infamous Miss Adler," Jane said, extending her hand. "Pardon my appearance - I haven't slept in days, and I am not exactly as sober as I could be."

Irene took the hand tentatively and shook it quickly, only lightly pressured. Jane's grip was tight, more of a handshake attributed to a male rather than a female. Irene snatched her hand back as quickly as possible.

"And you are?" she asked, not at all concealing the venom in her voice.

"Jane Heathrow." Jane wiped her hand across her trousers and turned to Watson. "I do believe that you are done evaluating my current health."

"Ah, yes." Watson headed for the door, gaze darting between Jane and Irene. He sensed a hostility in the air that had not been there before. He turned to Sherlock on his way out. "Be careful," he warned, in case Sherlock, by some chance, hadn't noticed the tension in the air.

"Indeed," Holmes murmured, his eyes wide as he, too, glanced between the two women. He shut the door behind Watson and took a few tentative steps forward.

"Had I known you were entertaining a visitor," Irene said, casting a sidelong glance at Sherlock, "I would have come a different time."

Jane chuckled and stepped away from Irene, heading over to the liquor cabinet. "I must inform you, Miss Adler, I am no visitor. I am boarding with Sherlock."

Jealousy and restrained fury crackled in Irene's eyes. She turned to Sherlock. "Is this true?"

"Ah, yes." Holmes nodded his head curtly. He hurried over to Jane as she reached into the cabinet. "No, Jane, I think you have had enough for today."

"You cannot keep me from the liquor cabinet forever," Jane grumbled, rolling her eyes.

Irene watched the exchange with barely restrained fury. Jane slipped away into her bedroom, the door slamming shut behind her deliberately. In another moment, loud music, emanating from the piano, seemed to phase through the walls and door, filling the two rooms with sound. Irene glanced at Holmes and was disgusted to find his gaze lingering on Jane's bedroom door, a faint smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

"Ahem."

As if snapping from a trance, Holmes turned to Irene. "Yes, Miss Adler. What brings you here?"

"I came to see you, my dear Sherlock." Irene's voice turned coy, playful. She settled herself down on a chair, her legs crossed in the most sexiest manner possible.

So different from Jane, Holmes thought, noting the action only briefly. He took a seat across from Irene, keeping a good distance from her. They sat in silence, and Irene studied Holmes thoughtfully. She watched in revulsion and anger as Sherlock's gaze darted toward Jane's bedroom now and again. He seemed to be lulled by her music, which only gave Irene cause to become more upset.

"Have you missed me, Holmes?" Irene asked, trying her best to be as coy and seductive as possible.

Sherlock, more than distracted by his 'roommate', if you will, slowly turned his head to look at Irene. "No, I haven't missed you at all."

"That hurts, Sherlock." Irene's hand fluttered to her chest. "Is that any way to treat me?"

"You are a criminal - a thief. How am I supposed to treat you?" Sherlock's voice was flat, his whole demeanor suggesting that his statement was more than obvious.

"Surely better than this." Irene crossed her legs again and was angered to find that Sherlock didn't even glance at the action. "Why is she boarding with you?"

"Who, Jane?" Sherlock's eyes flitted over to Jane's door again. "She needed it. She is such an intelligent mind." A wistful tone crept into Holmes's voice.

Irene leapt to her feet and strutted over to Sherlock coyly, catching his attention. With a forwardness uncharacteristic of most women of the era, she plopped herself down on Sherlock's lap, her legs crossing. One arm around his neck, the other hand cradling his cheek, Irene smiled deeply into Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, playing up her seductive voice, "you don't know how much I've missed you."

"Dear Lord, Irene," Sherlock began, bringing up his hands to push her away, "you sorely misinterpret my - "

Jane's bedroom door opened, and she poked her head out. Sherlock turned his head abruptly, his eyes locking with Jane's. Something flickered in her pupils, but it was gone before Holmes could read what it meant. Jane ducked back into her bedroom.

"I hope I haven't disturbed anything," she stated. The door shut with a harsh click.

Irene smiled to herself and directed her attention back to Sherlock. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes." She leaned forward, both hands cupping Holmes's face.

"No, Irene." Sherlock's tone was harsh, and he stood up abruptly, nearly throwing Irene to the floor in the process. "I have had enough of your foolish games."

Taken aback, Irene dusted herself off, her brow furrowing ever so slightly. She glanced around and frowned, her gaze finally settling back down on Holmes. "Sherlock," she began, voice quivering with puzzlement, "what happened to my photograph?"

Sherlock exhaled explosively and fixed Irene with a harsh glare. "I destroyed it."

"What?" Irene's voice wavered with disbelief and hurt.

"I realized that it served no purpose."

Irene stared hard at Sherlock, searching his gaze, desperately trying to find the thread of awkward feelings that she had always seen whenever she was around him. She was disappointed to find that she could not see that thread. It struck her immediately as she continued to stare at Holmes's cold, calculating gaze. He no longer harbored feelings for her. Dear Lord.

"Miss Adler," Sherlock said, completely aware of Irene's hurt, "I don't want to see you again. Should I come across your path in the future - or should you seek me out - I will not refrain from reporting you to Scotland Yard. I'm sure they would appreciate discovering the identity of the uncatchable thief."

Hurt and fuming, Irene stormed off toward the door. She opened it and glared at Sherlock over her shoulder. "You will regret this, I assure you," she said. "You will come to realize that you have lost what could have been."

She slammed the door shut behind her, causing the whole room to rattle. Sherlock watched her go and sighed wearily, passing a hand over his face. Walking over to the liquor cabinet, he selected the cognac and poured himself a generous amount. Adjourning to the couch, he drank the alcohol greedily. It was only after he had finished half the drink that he stopped to think.

What Irene had discovered was true - all feelings that Holmes had harbored for her, romantic and otherwise, had been eradicated. The photograph of Irene that Sherlock had kept over the years had indeed been destroyed the day before Jane had arrived to move into her new place of residence. With a start, Holmes was hit with an epiphany.

His feelings for Irene had been demolished the moment he had heard Jane's voice and had listened to her talk about symbols. No, even before that - the moment he had run into her on the street.

Holmes swallowed thickly, trying to understand what the epiphany meant. Could he stomach the thought?

"Sherlock?"

Jane's hesitant voice broke Sherlock's thoughts. She stepped out of her room, head turning to see if Irene was still in the room. Holmes watched her as she approached the couch. Gazing at her, he couldn't help but smirk inwardly as he noticed her upturned collar.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything earlier," she said.

"No, no, not at all. You saved me from an awful situation." Sherlock found himself smiling gratefully, that lopsided, boyish grin stretching out across his face. He sat upright and gestured to the seat beside him on the couch.

"Did I really?" Jane's eyebrow rose in disbelief as she took the offered seat. "You two seemed to be enjoying yourselves."

"Not at all," Sherlock assured. "At least, I wasn't." He caught sight of Jane's eyes flickering again. This time, he was quick enough to decipher it.

Relief? he thought, perplexed. Jane reached out and plucked the glass of cognac from Holmes's hand, their fingers briefly touching. He relinquished it without protest and watched Jane swallow the rest of the contents. The idea of Jane drinking from his glass, no doubt tasting his saliva, sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine. He found his arm extending, and he brushed some stray hairs away from Jane's cheek. He felt Jane stiffen beneath his light touch, her eyes registering surprise.

"In case you were wondering, there is nothing between Miss Adler and me," Sherlock said quietly, his hand coming down to rest on Jane's shoulder. "I assure you."

"I don't know how that is relevant, but - "

"Shh." Sherlock pressed his finger to Jane's lips. "You need some rest."

Holmes was appalled to find himself drawing Jane close. She went rigid in his arms, and he stretched out awkwardly on the couch, pulling Jane with him. Her head rested on his shoulder, somewhat on his chest, forehead brushing his neck. Sherlock's eyes fluttered close; he was startled to feel content as Jane's arms hesitantly returned the embrace.

What am I doing! Sherlock cried inwardly. He made no effort, however, to correct his actions and pull away from the embrace. He felt Jane relax, and in a few moments, she was sound asleep, her breathing shallow, but steady. She was warm against him and undeniably soft and comforting. Holmes adjusted his arms around her, his nose in her hair, taking in her scent.

Lord forbid Watson or the nanny walk in, Sherlock thought for a brief moment, before he, too, felt the familiar tug of sleep.