He refused to let her leave the couch while he made tea in her kitchen. She watched the entrance to her dining area, comforted every time she saw his tall form pass the doorway. In a way, she thought she might be dreaming—if she took her eyes away too long, he would be dead again. So she watched, stared, at every movement he made in the kitchen until he returned with two steaming cups of tea on a tray adorned with sugar, milk, and a silver spoon.

"You're very pastel," she said as he handed her a cup and appraised his gray slacks and light blue shirt.

"My new wardrobe is effective. You didn't even recognize me."

"I did. Your eyes give you away."

He sat down across from her, in her leather chair, and crossed one leg over the other.

"You should try contacts."

"Contacts are uncomfortable," he said.

Irene smiled at this, because of course, even though in hiding, discomfort was asking too much of the great Sherlock Holmes.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

He tilted his chin down and lowered his eyebrows.

"Of course. You could find anyone."

"Not anyone," he said, and she wondered if that meant she was special—special or lacking in caution, she supposed.

"You could have called."

"I'm sorry?"

"If you wanted me to know you were alive. Cheaper than a plane ticket."

She watched him sip his tea before responding. "I'm not here to let you know I'm alive."

"Why are you here?"

He set his tea cup on the tray between them and glanced toward her front window. "I'm here to kill someone."

"Since when are you a vigilante?"

"Coming from the woman whose life I saved being a vigilante." He pushed out of the chair and approached the sunlight that toppled past San Francisco clouds and into her home.

Admittedly, the blond hair suited him. It shined gold in the light, almost tinted red at the roots. The blond hair also made him less striking, the mixture of blue eyes and blond hair more natural than his usual black. Less striking was good when one wanted to fit in.

"You came all the way to California to commit murder," she said.

"Tonight, yes. I leave in the morning. I'll sleep on your couch."

It was her turn to set down her tea, but her anger had returned, and the cup toppled over onto the tray as she set it down. She stood up and held the blanket tight around her naked chest. "What am I, your hotel?"

He oh-so-slowly turned to face her, hands clasped behind his back. "Ms. Adler, please don't let your anger get in the way of common sense. I'm going to kill a man tonight at a public, highbrow event. There may be witnesses. The only safe place for me before I leave the United States tomorrow is here with you where no one would think to look."

"Don't talk to me about common sense. This is about Moriarty, isn't it? A mission of revenge."

He glanced away from her.

"Look at me, you stupid man."

"Of all the things I've been called, stupid is not one of them," he replied.

"You were stupid to come here, Mr. Holmes."

"Was I?"

"Very much so," she said.

He picked up his suit coat from the back of the leather chair and pulled the fabric over his arms and shoulders as he moved to her front door. "I'll be back tonight."

"The door will be locked."

"As if that's ever stopped me before," he said, and the door slammed behind him.