That afternoon, she awaited a client. One of her favorites: a pretty, young actress who always stopped by when visiting from LA.

Irene sat in a chair made of worn leather, purchased at an antique shop when she'd first moved to San Fran. The chair was her first piece of furniture, in fact, because she liked sitting in it, liked looking out the window over the harbor as the mist rose every day. She extended her slim legs and rested her red stiletto pumps on the windowpane.

Her style had changed drastically in California. In an effort to remain incognito, she chopped her long, brown hair into a short, blond bob. She replaced her usual black negligee with gaudy shades of red and gold—very Hollywood. She kept the accent, didn't try to assimilate, because clients seemed to like a dirty girl from Britain. Her posh voice acted as a stimulus as she whipped them, chained them, and tied them to bedposts.

On the arm of the chair, she spun her cellular phone. She always kept it close, although if asked, she would have denied she kept it close because of him. Irene no longer even allowed herself to think his name.

A quiet knock on her apartment door sent a sigh from her lips. Her job was all she had to keep her distracted. She had no friends in California—too dangerous to make connections. Her "connections" were now only sexual and on a paid basis. Such connections kept her safe, safe from the way he once made her feel.

Irene stood and adjusted her floor-length, red lace robe. She glanced in the mirror to the left of her front door and admired the way her bleached blond hair made her light eyes glow. She winked at herself, struck her most seductive pose, and opened the front door.

A man stood before her—tall and slim, in a gray suit and light blue shirt. Blond hair was styled back over his high forehead, but even with the assistance of product, Irene could see the hair wanted to curl. For a moment, she didn't recognize him, not until his eyes finally lifted from her robe and found her face. Those eyes: the cold, blue eyes that lingered on the edge of nightmares.

"Your client has decided to cancel," he said.

Irene's reaction was visceral but not one of joy. Instead, she felt anger tingle up her spine and into the tips of her fingers. Her palms burned, and almost of its own accord, her right hand pulled back and smacked him hard across the face. She watched his pale cheek turn pink under the force of her blow, but he soon turned to look at her again, which only angered her more. Again, she pulled back and smacked him, harder. She pulled back for a third swat, but by then, his hand reached up and grasped her wrist.

With the advent of his touch, the room spun. White dots floated in front of her eyes, and his face disappeared behind a veil of haze. Her skin felt hot, then cold. She couldn't breathe, and the tightly wound, red corset around her ribs did not aid in oxygen intake. Her knees buckled, and he caught her. Her body leaned against his, her nose right in his neck as he said, "Ms. Adler," somewhat in shock but also sounding resigned, as if perhaps he'd expected a reaction of this sort.

The scent of him only made the dancing white dots increase—the scent of his cologne and his skin, so familiar and so heart-breaking. Vaguely, she noticed she was being carried. She heard her front door close, and a moment later, she felt her back swallowed by the couch near the wall in her apartment. She reached for him, if only to touch his hand, but he was gone to her kitchen, where she heard drawers open and water run. Then, he was back, kneeling at her side. She felt a cold, wet washcloth on her forehead.

"Ms. Adler, you're having a panic attack. You need to breathe."

"Can't. Breathe."

He apparently noticed what she wore beneath her robe, because he used his dexterous fingers to unlatch her corset and pull a nearby blanket over her nakedness.

"Breathe," he said, and she tried to focus on the word, focus on his command.

She soon found herself able to take full breaths. Her skin still felt hot, then cold, and then hot beneath the silk comforter she kept on the back of her couch merely for decoration. Her vision returned, however, so she could see him and his unfamiliar hair and clothes. He stood above her, hands on his hips, brow furrowed.

"Do you have juice? You need juice." He took a step back to her kitchen, but her voice stopped him.

"Sherlock," she whispered, and something about the use of his first name brought him back to her, again kneeling at her side. She turned her gaze and focused on the details of his face: same high forehead, bright blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and pliant, parted lips. She reached her shaking hand out to touch him and cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand. She ran her thumb over his skin and sighed.

Then, on a wisp of exhaled breath, she heard him say, "Forgive me."

For what, she wondered? For pretending to be dead? For keeping her in the dark? Or perhaps for returning to her when they both knew they would never have a happy ending.