There were no tearful goodbyes when she left his apartment. There wasn't even a kiss; she couldn't bear it. She left him in his robe, at the top of the stairs to 221B, and she did not look back.
It wasn't long before she heard about what had happened Christmas Day. The official story made it nowhere hear British news stations, but she had people—she still knew what they liked—who told her things. They told her Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, had finally become a murderer. He had killed a newspaper tycoon in front of several witnesses, not the least of which was Dr. John Watson. When she heard that, when Irene heard about John, she knew Sherlock had killed someone for him—just as he'd killed someone for her. He did that for the people he loved.
She watched the news and waited, but there was no criminal trial. Sherlock's name wasn't even mentioned, which made her realize prison was the least of his worries. Something else was happening to her love, her perfect match, and she would never know of it—she supposed, not until he was dead.
Could she move on without him? She'd left her dominatrix lifestyle behind because of Sherlock. She'd left women behind because of a stupid, gangly man who wasn't actually stupid at all. She'd left women for silken black curls, high cheekbones, and blue eyes that could freeze water … but only made her feel warm. She'd left women because of his fingers, his smell, his body. She'd become someone else because of him—and she liked the woman she'd become, but what would happen once he was dead? Would she revert?
She supposed so, because why not? She felt little care for a world without him in it, so yes, she would go back to her dangerous lifestyle. Nothing mattered if Sherlock Holmes was no longer walking the earth—and how demeaning, how embarrassing an admission.
Irene continued to watch the news, but nothing—no word from Sherlock. He had killed a man, and he was gone. Gone, gone. And one day, just as she prepared to turn off her TV, build a new website, perhaps cut her hair, a familiar face appeared.
She screamed, not in horror but in glee. Because if Jim Moriarty was back, so was her consulting detective. And this time, she wouldn't play the game lying down.
THE END … ?