Irene showered as soon as he was gone. She screamed at the second tea cup on her tray, because it belonged to him. She lit candles, because she could not get the scent of his skin out of her nose. She busied her hands with sewing a new costume in an effort to erase the feel of his face from her fingers.

Something had passed between them in Karachi, she knew. She, Irene Adler, The Woman, had admitted her love to Sherlock Holmes. She had been his first, probably still only, sexual partner. For a moment, maybe he had loved her, too, although he never admitted as much.

However, when they left that safe house the year prior, she knew the moment was gone—knew they had both returned to their callous personas before the door even closed behind them. Yet, Irene was happy with the memory of that night; now, it all seemed a farce. Now, she felt nothing but resentment for believing she had ever meant anything to the cold consulting detective.

Her sleep was fitful. The front door was locked—double-bolted—yet every time the building creaked, she sat up in bed and listened for the sound of his shoes on the floor. She was wrathful with him, and surely he with her, but she knew he would be back. He was a man of his word, if nothing else.

To be safe, she did pull a gun when she heard the window to her fire escape slide open. She tip-toed into her darkened living room, and even in shadow, she recognized his long, lanky form.

She turned on a nearby lamp. "Welcome home. Dear," she spat.

He wore a tuxedo. His blond hair, so orderly earlier, had escaped the styling product and now fell in curls across his eyes. He ignored her comment and walked in the direction of her bathroom. "You need to wash the blood from your windowpane. I wouldn't have made such a mess if the window had been unlocked."

"Blood?" She glanced at the window before following him to the bathroom, where water ran. In the bright bathroom light, she could see his hands were covered in crimson. "Mr. Holmes …"

"You have to leave town," he said.

"Why? Because you smeared evidence on my windowpane?"

"No. Because the man I killed tonight was sent here to find you."

"But I thought—"

"I know what you thought. You were mistaken. Sentiment clouded the obvious facts."

"Obvious?"

He rinsed his hands and, she noticed, used the darkest towel he could find in her bathroom, just in case there was still blood beneath his fingernails. He swept past her, using his newly cleaned hands to remove his tie. Irene followed him to the living room, where he paced. His eyes were wild, practically glowing in the lamplight.

"Obvious. Yes. Moriarty only had two men in America—in New York and DC—but I took care of them both months ago. The majority of his connections are arranged strategically in Europe and into Asia. Obvious." He looked to her for confirmation. "Seriously. Terrorists don't care about California."

"You came here to protect me."

He didn't seem to hear her. He stood by the window and looked down at the darkened street. "I'm so close. Close to erasing all trace of Moriarty's power. Close to going home."

She heard the deep sound of his chuckle, and she turned her back. She cried silent tears and did not want him to see.

"You could come back to London someday," he said. "Stay with me. No one in their right mind would think to look for you in my flat."

She covered her mouth with her hand. She wanted so badly to be in control, but the way he spoke—as if they had a future together—tore her in two. She willed him to stay away, near the window, but even with her back turned, she felt him move closer. She felt the heat of his body behind her, even as tears rolled down her cheeks.

His hand touched her shoulder, and she took a step forward.

"I don't understand why you're crying."

She laughed, although there was no humor in it. "You wouldn't."

Then, his voice surprised her. "I love you, too."

"What?" She purposely kept her back to him.

"I apologize for never returning your sentiment in Karachi, but I was not sure love existed until you disappeared from the house you rented in Paris. I thought someone might have found you, but then, you surfaced here. I felt a great deal of relief to know you were alive, which I believe speaks to evidence of sentiment towards you—sentiment I can only conclude must be love."

His words stopped her tears but not the strange, aching pain in her stomach. "Life was so much easier before I met you."

He paused, and she wondered what expression his face wore. Then: "Do you regret it? Meeting me?"

"No."

"Miss Adler—"

"Don't call me that. I'm not her when I'm with you."

"Irene …"

She turned around, willing him to look at her red eyes and wet cheeks. "I wept when I heard you were dead. For days."

"It was necessary," he replied. "To keep people safe."

"There's no such thing as safe."

"You seem … angry with me." He was unsure, she could tell. Her roller coaster of emotions threw even the great detective, apparently, so she stepped forward and took hold of his face.

"Why can't I stop loving you?"

"You will eventually. It's human nature."

She smiled through the pain. "You really are stupid, Mr. Holmes." She walked away from him and fell into her leather chair as she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. "Have you been with anyone since Karachi?"

"Sorry?"

"Think indelicately."

She watched him take a deep breath, stand up straight, and fold his arms behind him. He looked to have trouble speaking, which seemed, at the least, highly out of character. Quietly, barely above a whisper, he said, "I've only ever wanted you."

She felt her pulse increase. Her fingertips clenched into the arms of her chair, and she stared up at him.

"Well," he said.

"Well what?"

He leaned over her as she sat motionless in the chair. She willed herself not to move, waiting instead for what he might do. He rested his hands on the arms of the chair and moved forward until his face was inches from her own. Then, tentatively, he turned his head slightly and planted a single, soft kiss on her lips. Irene closed her eyes and sank against the warmth of his mouth. Then, he pulled away, stood up straight, and cleared his throat.

"You should get some rest. I'll sleep on the couch."

A sound somewhere between guffaw and grunt escaped her throat, which made his blue eyes return to her.

"What?" he asked.

Irene pushed herself out of the chair and latched onto both sides of his face. She pulled his mouth down to meet hers and shoved her tongue into his mouth. She was starving for him, and all it took was a touch of his lips to remind her how much he annoyed her, frustrated her—and how much she loved him and wanted nothing more than his bare skin.

She expected him to fight her off, as he had that night in Pakistan, but it seemed the inexperienced Sherlock Holmes had been waiting for her to make the first move. There was nothing tentative about him now. His long arms crushed her small body against his chest, so hard their lips drew apart to make room for Irene's so familiar moan.

Her chin tilted to the ceiling, and his lips moved to the pale skin of her neck. He sucked and bit, and she moaned again—almost in pain, knowing his mouth would leave marks. She could practically feel his heartbeat through his clothing as his hands moved over her body and cupped her ass. He pushed his pelvis against her, and she felt his urgent hardness against her lower stomach. Although duly impressed by his aggression, she had to slow him down.

"Sherlock …"

Saying his name did not help, because he responded by crushing her lips with his own.

She pulled the hair on the back of his head and drew their mouths apart. "Slow down, love," she said, and he rested his forehead against hers, both of them completely out of breath.

Irene looked up at him and found his eyes shut. He was drifting away from his physical form, she knew, mentally separating himself from her body in order to regain clarity.

"Sherlock."

"Mm."

"Open your eyes and look at me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't like feeling out of control."

With him so close, heat radiating off his face, Irene realized her mistake in trying to slow the great Mr. Holmes. By slowing him, she gave him time to think, and sex was not about thinking—sex was about feeling. Her initial intention of a romantic seduction in her bedroom was now forgotten, and Irene felt The Woman take over. She welcomed her.

"It's time you lost control," she whispered.

His eyes opened long enough for him to see the smirk on her face. Then, she used both her petite hands to shove him backwards onto her living room couch. She straddled him and tore his shirt open. Buttons flew.

He started to speak, and she covered his mouth with her hand. "Shhh."

She tore at his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. She reached her hand inside, and when she found him, at attention, she watched his head lean back on her couch and his eyes close. She shifted his clothing away and didn't even bother to remove her own underwear. She simply moved her panties to the side and slid down onto him.

Irene could not subdue her own moan. No other man did this to her—no other man made sex feel like more than sex.

She started slow and watched Sherlock's face, eyes shut and forehead furrowed as he took shallow breaths between his parted lips. She took time to lean forward and press kisses against his neck and collarbone. She even kissed the scar on his right shoulder: a reminder of the bullet wound in Karachi. She ran her hands down his bare chest and vaguely noticed he'd lost weight—weight he couldn't afford to lose.

She didn't want to think about what he'd been through since his untimely death. She didn't want to consider the stress of murder, revenge, and loss, so she moved her hips in small circles until she felt the bottom of her stomach quiver in delight. So lost in her own sensation, she was not prepared when Sherlock turned sideways and pinned her beneath him on the couch.

She opened her eyes and found a slight smile on his lips. Then, he drove into her, hard, and she shouted in pleasure. She felt his breath on her neck as he continued, moving fast and rough. There was nothing gentle about this lovemaking; this was desperate, necessary, and hot enough to steam up the room.

She gasped against his throat. She shoved the collar of his torn shirt out of the way and dug her teeth into his shoulder. She writhed and pushed her pelvis against him with every thrust. She spoke in tongues until she felt the wave of an orgasm wash over her. She dug her nails into his back and shouted his name, over and over, until the letters lost meaning in a haze of brain-shaking euphoria.

He was right behind her. A final deep thrust and he melted on top of her, his head buried in the crook of her neck. Her very alive consulting detective shot puffs of air against her skin. His arms wrapped around her; her arms and legs mimicked the gesture, holding him as if in a vice, holding him as if she would never let go. She kissed his forehead, salty with sweat. She kissed his closed eyes. She ran the edges of her fingers through his unfamiliar blond hair, which made him cling to her even tighter.

"Will you sleep with me tonight?" She'd never asked a man to do so before.

"Try and stop me," he replied.