Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.

Inspired by: "In My Dreams" from The Singing Detective, as performed by Robert Downey, Jr.

December 5th, 1891

Holmes had run after her, even going so far as to bang on her front door and shout for her to come out, but Madeline would not bow to his demands. Somehow she was able to scrawl a note, begging him to depart with promises that she was just tired and wanted to rest, and slid it underneath the door. He hollered at the door that he knew she was lying, but he'd respect her wishes and go. Away he went, leaving her in peace to sob her eyes out.

Things remained tense even after Madeline's breakdown and Irene's departure. No matter how Julianne gently prodded, or Holmes nosed around the topic, Madeline would not speak of what passed between her and the American. The pain was too difficult to process, let alone explain. And she could not tell the subject of the battle the truth. It was the first time she'd ever lied to Sherlock, but her self-preservation overruled her tongue.

Irene's word echoed in her brain. "He'll never love…"

She did not know if the woman meant Holmes would never love her or just was incapable of loving period. In any case, it forced her to face the truth. Somehow, in the midst of all the blood, sweat, and tears, Madeline had fallen hard for Sherlock Holmes. Given how little she had the opportunity to experience any sort of love outside of familial, it was shock to realize how warm and comforting the feeling was. She'd never felt so…alive, not even after the blood transfusion, which was also thanks to Mr. Holmes. The sky was brighter, the streets livelier, colors were more vivid. Her arranged marriage had nothing to do with love; at best, she and Simon were friends, joined by ceremony and cleaving to one another because they had no choice. But now, her heart beat erratically at the sight of Sherlock, at the smell of him too. There was nothing about him that did not fire up her being.

And every night she dreamt of him…telling her things she knew she'd never hear, holding her close and keeping her by his side.

However, the kicker of it all was that Holmes had no idea of her personal revelation. And the blindness ate at her soul; he could pick out exactly where she'd been, what she'd done, and who with a single glance, but he was unable to read the emotion she was hiding unsuccessfully in her eyes.

If he couldn't love, or more accurately couldn't recognize what love was when he saw it, then why the hell should she still be so spellbound by him? The agonizing reality battered her heart around so much that it made her constantly edgy around him, and the ease she and Holmes had was disappearing as the sands of time slipped through their fingers.

As such, a crack broke the bond they'd forged months ago, and as the weeks wore on, it deepened. The secret she kept annoyed Holmes, and his irritating need to know everything frayed her nerves. Shouting matches became more and more commonplace with the pair, upsetting everyone surrounding them. The Watsons had enough to deal with, what with having a baby on the way, on top of the sniping man and woman. Of course, they'd mumbled belated apologies and all would be well again until the next quarrel.

What was going on between these once great friends?

Mary ventured her own theory as to why to her husband one night as they climbed into bed.

"They argue now as if they were two adolescents in love with each other and who have no idea how to express their feelings."

John snorted, pulling the covers over the both of them. "It would make sense…but only if-"

He cut himself off, turning to his wife and raising an eyebrow.

"Do you think that's true?"

Mary shrugged. "I certainly think so. At least Madeline loves him; you can tell by the way she looks at him."

Watson was taken aback, and squawked, "How could you know this?"

"Women know, dear," she'd answered smugly, rolling on her side to go to sleep. And after that night, Watson carefully observed his friends' interactions. The fleeting glances, the accidental grazing of hands, nothing went unnoticed. He chided himself for not seeing it sooner, and for not warning poor Madeline off earlier. Not to be unfair to the man who was his best friend, but Holmes had a reputation for being overly cold towards the opposite sex. Extending his hand in friendship was a big step for him, but aside from that, he generally used women as a means to an end. After all, there was that one case where he got himself engaged to a girl just to gain access to her villainous master's home…

Finally, the trio shared a civil afternoon tea after two weeks of ongoing conflict. Madeline seemed to have regained her faculties, for the most part, constricting her feelings tightly under some sort of emotional corset. Still, the unspoken-of void that had expanded was ever present, no matter the playful banter or the polite declinations that anything was wrong. After she'd left for the evening, the doctor and the detective shared a long sigh.

"Whatever could be agitating her?" Sherlock wondered to his friend, shuffling away from the table and curling up on his tiger-skin rug. "The woman vexes me so. For a fortnight she's been remote, impulsive, and dare I say curmudgeonly. And yet she says nothing as to the cause! Surely the solution to such a problem would not be difficult to uncover."

Watson's eyes slid guiltily towards the doorway. "Perhaps she does not wish to be overanalyzed. You tend to do that a lot with people, whether they ask for your assistance or not."

Rising from his own chair, John heard himself mumbling on.

"Besides, she doesn't want you to know…"

Sherlock's head jerked up, seizing upon the words immediately. "Does not want me to know what?"

Cursing himself for thinking out loud, Watson bit his lip and denied saying anything at all. After launching "you did say something"'s and "no I didn't"'s for a good ten minutes, the doctor finally got fed up with it all.

"You really cannot understand what's in her head? I don't believe that! Pull the blinders off your vision and really look at Madeline, Sherlock. You can see what's wrong in her bloody eyes, man!"

Holmes' own eyes flicked around the room, settling on the end table closest to the wall safe. Stomping out the door, John barely made it to the top step before two hands caught his elbow.

"…Irene put something into her head, sabotaging our companionship intentionally, possibly telling her to stay away from me," the sleuth announced. "But to what end?"

"Please, you know the answer perfectly well as to why Irene doesn't want another woman on her territory," Watson pressed his friend, watching with amusement as realization dawned on his face.

"Jealousy."

"Aye."

Silence passed, with Holmes' jaw slightly ajar and Watson torn between laughing and cringing at his friend's expression. Dumbfounded though he was, he found his voice again eventually.

"Of me or of her?"

"If anything, I'd assume of both of you."

Running his hands through his hair, Sherlock turned and stumbled back into his room, collapsing into his favorite chair.

"So she turned Madeline off of me, and she was furious to be told what to do, so she took it out on me."

He was so close, it was almost unreal that he still hadn't figured it out. "Uh…"

Snapping his head around, Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Your exclamation belies your further intelligence on the matter. Speak, man."

"Well, I have neither conformation nor denial of this, so don't hold me to it, but…Mary seems to think that perhaps Madeline may have…understood that there was a reason for Adler to be territorial."

"It is like pulling teeth with you, old boy," Sherlock groused. "Out with it!"

"Christ, she's in love with you, Holmes! It's plain as day, it could not be more obvious! How can you have not actually noticed?" Watson cried, throwing his hands up in defeat.

"Well…obvious facts and all that, chum…" he countered weakly, almost seeming to shrink in on himself. Watson peered at him carefully.

"Did you purposefully overlook her feelings? If so, why? Because you don't return them?"

Another bout of quietness descended on the two men, and that lack of noise, coupled with the detective suddenly blank face, spoke volumes.

"…Or because you reciprocate them, and it horrifies you that you can feel for a woman who isn't a criminal?"

"Enough." The command was gently spoken, but crashed hard into Watson's eardrums. He'd hit the nail on the head, and it nearly knocked the wind out of him. When had this happened? And for how long had he been hiding everything beneath the hardness of his logic and incapacity to tolerate anything other than deduction and reasoning in his body?

Then again, he reviewed the facts. The cocaine needle had remained virtually untouched for the past several months, he remained active, and his energy literally knew no bounds. There was an openness to his frank gazes now, rather than being entirely closed off. Certainly he was still the great Sherlock Holmes, but now he was more Holmes than he'd ever been.

"Holmes…"

"Leave me. Now."

At that moment, one of the Baker Street Irregulars pounded up the stairs, a note clutched in his dirty hand and an exhilarated gleam in his eye. Taking both the words and the boy's arrival as his queue to leave, Watson risked one backwards glance at his friend before quitting the place. As Holmes tersely dealt with the boy and his message, the doctor could see the rapid fall of depression upon Sherlock's countenance. An unbidden thought crossed his mind as he exited the house and hailed a cab: an old proverb about how bad luck comes in pairs.

There was no doubt in Watson's mind that Holmes thought himself in a doubly unlucky situation, for whatever the Irregular gave him, it had to make his life that much worse.

xXxXxXx

Holmes stood at the foot of Madeline's stoop later that night, just staring up at her door. He'd been prowling the streets for hours just thinking, and he found himself on her street. Coincidence? For once, he would've liked to think so.

The wind was bitingly cold, but it didn't bother him. He could only think of the revealed truths continuously circling his brain. Moriarty had finally slipped up and drawn the noose around his own neck…and Sherlock was overly fond of the woman just beyond the wooden portal he was glaring at.

'Hmm. Overly fond? Is that the most you can allow yourself to think?'

Yes. And it nearly killed him inside to even think that. This wasn't supposed to happen; he was Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire, loyal man of the law, beholden by no woman!

What a load of bollocks. This woman had him twisted around her elegant finger since the first time they'd officially met, and the thought almost sickened him. The dreams he'd been having every other night for the past three months also contradicted him. She came sauntering in, touching him, kissing him, swearing to never let him go…and he woke mutually satisfied and disappointed. However, he swore to himself long ago that women were a trifle not worth indulging in. And in all these years, he'd held to his word, excusing his dalliances with Irene.

Then he pictured Madeline's face, with its freckles, full lips and glowing green eyes. Her honey-brown strands falling across her cheek bone so delicately. Her smile…

Perhaps some promises, like ridiculous rules, were made to be broken. Or, at the very least, he had to indulge himself this one time. After all, he and Watson would be leaving in the morning to follow Moriarty to his hideout on the Continent…and he was unsure that he would truly survive the encounter. Death, or the expectation of it, really reshuffled his priorities. And Adler, for all her bells and whistles, was no longer the only woman he wanted contact with. Holmes had to do this, just once, to know what it was like.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Madeline was there, the door thrown open and the wind tossing her tresses.

"Sherlock, whatever are you doing out here in this blistering cold?" she asked, treading lightly down the steps. That face…so different from Irene's, so beautiful in its own way…he couldn't answer, but simply cast his gaze around the contours of her nose, cheeks, eyes…lips…

"Sherlock…"

With three quick strides he was right in front of her, inhaling the sweet scent of lavender and warmth.

"Madeline," he began to say, his blood rushing faster in his veins, "I came to say good-bye."

Her nose wrinkled in confusion. "But you've just arrived."

Blinking, he shook his head in mild exasperation. "Obviously. Tomorrow I leave London to track down Moriarty. I have him; he's finally caught."

Her smile was absolutely genuine and stunning. "Brilliant! When do you think you will be back?"

He paused, watching her face fall as the time wore on. "…I don't know."

That seemed diplomatic enough, he reasoned with himself. It was true that he didn't know when the journey would end, and it was better to leave it like that.

"I came here to give you a proper farewell," he reiterated, diverting his gaze down to his thick boots. Faltering in his resolve, Sherlock nearly lost his nerve when she opened her mouth to bid him good-bye.

Almost, that is.

Within those few uncertain moments, he drew in a sharp breath and found his arms winding around her waist. Once she was gathered against his body (and oh, he did like having her that close!), the drive to pursue his true mission overrode all instances of doubt. No more hesitation, no more denial. It was time to indulge…

And so, Holmes' lips claimed Madeline's for his own. It was gentle at first, calm and cool, but the fire catching in their blood drew them into a frenzy. The kiss deepened, causing them to draw closer to one another. It was hard to tell where she ended and he began, their lips were so interconnected. Soon enough, they separated in the need to get more air. Coughing awkwardly, the detective executed a little bow and tipped his hat.

"I promised you a proper good-bye, my dear."

Still flushed, she found herself giggling, "One would hardly deem that proper."

He winked. "Fair enough."

Pulling her back into his embrace, he held her for a few moments, pelting rain and snow mixing around them. He had to savor the moment, remember every detail, hold on for as long as he could. But he could feel his body itching with the need to flee. Not from her, not entirely…he needed to set the world right. The only way to do that was to stop the Napoleon of Crime. His indulgence, though brief and not nearly enough to satisfy either of them, was finished. And with one last peck on her forehead, Holmes vanished down the darkened London streets.

And Madeline was more confused than she'd been before.

xXxXxXx

December 10th, 1891

"Madam, Dr. Watson is here to see you."

Madeline's head bobbed up at her butler's announcement, her face lighting up and creasing with concern simultaneously. She'd been under the impression that he and Holmes had been on an outing to the continent, for at least two weeks. They'd left five days ago, after...no, she wouldn't dwell on what happened. After several days, it was still hard to fathom that the events that night happened at all. It was too perfect...

Back to the doctor waiting downstairs, then. So what on Earth-

Her breath caught in her throat. Something was wrong…dreadfully wrong. That was the only reason Watson was at her house on his own, when he was supposed to be with Holmes.

"John?" she called curiously over the banister, glimpsing only the back of his head. Pivoting on his heel, the look he shot her made her stomach clench. Tramping speedily down the stairwell, she waved away her servants and drew him into the sitting room. "Pray, sit."

He complied, almost blindly it seemed. "I'm terribly sorry to impose on you this afternoon…"

"Oh, it's no imposition, I assure you," Madeline murmured, her lips twisting into a half smile. At that, Watson shook his head, his leg bouncing in anxiety. Another indicator of something amiss. "Watson, what is going on?"

The doctor bowed his head, unable to meet her eye.

"The manhunt was a success. Moriarty is destroyed."

That statement did nothing to quell her ever-growing terror, and the icy blue of his darting gaze made her feel more anxious.

"Where's Sherlock?" she gasped, leaning forward and gripping his shoulders. John would not speak for a long moment, not even after a few shakes from Madeline. "Where is he?"

"Madeline…in destroying Moriarty, he was also destroyed. Holmes…is dead."

The unimaginable horror of losing her love ripped her to shreds inside. Reichenbach Falls was the place, where the clashing pawns of good and evil struck their finals blows at one another. In wrestling for control, the demonized math professor slipped and fell, but not before he kicked Holmes' feet out from under him and took him down. This information didn't come through until much later.

The very second after the news was broken, when her heart was obliterated and smashed to a pulp, Madeline collapsed to the floor, numbed and burned by the news. And no matter how hard she tried for the next three days, she could not stop crying.

She'd lost him, before they'd ever had a chance.

Author's note: NOOOOOOO! NOT SHERLOCK! Oh dear…I'm just mean, aren't I? Sorry, I kinda suck at romance, this is a first for me. Oh well...anyway, this story is over yet, so keep that in mind! Hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I'll see you in a week yet again!

PS: PLEASE REVIEW!