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

Warning: One paragraph leans towards the racier end of the teen rating. Nothing is outright stated, though, so I won't change it from T. Just be forewarned.

Inspired by: "Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)" by Frank Wilson.

January 1st, 1893: 12:07 AM

Madeline's head, at the moment, was still wrapping itself around the information presented before her. When she had first suspected that Sherlock Holmes was still alive, and conspired to keep his rooms in order with Mycroft, she had allowed herself to admit that there was a small chance she could be wrong. But no matter how much she blinked, Sherlock remained standing before her. The detective had put on some weight since their last meeting, his bodily functions no longer impeded by the pursuit of the Napoleon of Crime, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were more pronounced, but still, it was the same man before her.

The same man definitely, but something—more likely many things—had changed deep inside. The look in his eyes was unfathomable as he stared at her. Wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, he attempted a half step forward before stalling and opening his mouth.

"You've drawn your conclusions, suspected me. How long?"

Remaining in place, she replied, "For a few months now. I never was sure, but…your brother never contradicted my notion that you might have lived."

Sherlock cleared his throat, burying his hands into his pockets to still them. "I'm…well, I'm glad that he didn't do so. Contradict you, I mean. But he could do no more than that. Much had to be kept secret, even from Watson, and Mycroft can keep confidences. When it's necessary."

Madeline narrowed her eyes. "Necessary?"

"Necessary for the safety of others." He let his gaze slowly scale her from top to bottom, his expression cracking for a moment as he did so. "My living would have been your death. And that, my dear, was something I never wanted to happen."

The palpable shock and distrust lingered, causing the pair to descend into silence. Her arms crossed over her chest, her face cast in shadow as she turned it away from him. Sherlock felt his fists clench in his trouser pockets, the sense of being out of his depth bleeding through the façade of calm detachment. That was it, really; therein lay the truth of the matter. For over a year, he'd attempted to keep himself clinical, cool, and absolutely independent of emotion. It was what needed to be done. If he always gave in and thought about returning to England only to find Moran had beaten him back, standing over his kill…Sherlock would've gone mad. Properly mad, for all his eccentricities his associates didn't know what true madness he would be capable of. It still irked him to think that the ex-colonel had that kind of power, that the potential loss of this woman because of his actions caused his heart to shrink and his stomach to churn violently. He couldn't be cold like he had to be to survive.

"You fell…and then what? You stayed away, under a misguided notion that we would all be better off without you here?"

He didn't wear the sheepish look well, but his shift in stance (partially bowed head, drooping posture) indicated his sincerity. "It wasn't misguided at all. Moriarty had a hired assassin, and he all but assured me that harm would befall each and every person in my…sphere of influence."

And for a moment, he was back on the ledge, hearing that dreadful voice promising creative ends for John and Mary, a thinly veiled threat to Mycroft.

"I've a mind for a carriage ride when all is said and done, and the perfect companion for the endeavor."

It still inspired him to a red rage, despite the fact that it only ever lasted for a split second.

"Me as well?" Madeline cut through the memory, dropping her arms to her sides. He'd not said a word about what Moriarty promised, but he knew she'd figure out she was part of the equation. "Funny, I thought that I had little significance in the grand scheme of his plans."

The fury subsided, but it still shook his voice. "Obviously, there was quite a bit of significance in your position if he was determined to move against you at the last stage of the battle."

The vocalization of his theories forced Sherlock to close the gap between them, forced him to honesty.

"There were reasons beyond simple revenge. He wanted to torture me in those last moments, kill me with the final thought being what he would do…"

His left hand had left his pocket, hovered just above her right. Hesitation locked up his speech and movements at that precise moment, and though she appeared to be soaking in the information, he got the distinct feeling that he was missing something.

Her body began to pivot, she was going to move away from him. "As if the threat against me mattered at the time."

This time he did not hesitate. Both hands surged forward and gripped her shoulders, preventing her from shifting even a step away from him. Pulling her closer, there was still an inch of space between them, and the air between them practically sparked. His curled fingers were firm, but not tight as they pressed their heat through her nightgown. Peering down at her, he allowed her to see behind the wall that only a privileged few had ever glimpsed. She gasped, but not from pain.

"It mattered. If every step I took and every mode of transportation I employed to put distance between me and London could speak, it would not begin to tell of how much."

They were suspended in time, locked in their positions because of mere implications. Sherlock's insides quaked at such a betrayal; openness was not his forte, he was lithe and crafty in word and in deed as a rule. But…this woman had to know.

"Sherlock…how far did you go?"

He smirked bitterly. "Let it be sufficient to say, far enough. And too far."

He wanted to let go, wanted a clean break to give those he was close to a chance to live in safety. He was a detriment to his friends, his colleagues, and he was fully aware of it. The last moment in December, when he'd succumbed and embraced Madeline, was intended to be the last. For every mile he tread on a distant shore to keep her and Watson safe, he worked just as hard to get back. Moran was a menace, the dark head of a crime ring he had no hope of keeping alive, and he had to be destroyed swiftly. Holmes had to do it, albeit from the shadows.

Her brow furrowed. "Why have you come back now? Is the danger still not great?"

"Not to a dead man. And because I am still dead to the world, you remain unimportant to the criminals whom are left. You may be watched, followed even, but you are not truly suspected. You will stay safe. For certain, I will ensure it from now on."

He released her, but did not step back. Her presence, for months a memory and a vision incurred in dreams, was intoxicating, and he could not will his feet to move.

"It has become," he pronounced carefully, "increasingly difficult to exist elsewhere in the world."

She went so still he thought humorously that she had frozen. "Why?"

The gap closed. Toe to toe they stood, touching from chest to the ground, their hands kept away from one another. He breathed in quietly, his eyes hooded as he watched the red blush sprout from her neck up to her face.

Madeline breathed heavily, her tightly-held emotions starting to seep out. "Sherlock…things aren't as they were a year ago."

"Nothing remains constant," he replied, the rude vessel in his chest hammering over a cold fear that was crawling through him. "Some things change and weaken, and others…become stronger."

Had it become stronger? For the first time in a long while, he hoped—actually hoped, and not merely theorized—that was the case. It was stronger for him, but for her? They had had a time before, one that was not littered with games and death and the desire to king it over the other. That had been the summary of his time with Irene. Madeline was not that at all. What he'd had with her was something true, good, something he could not describe coherently. Whatever Sherlock Holmes could not describe, it usually did not get stored away or acknowledged, but with Madeline it was different. It always had been from the outset.

"…Yes, that's true."

His fingers twined themselves with hers, while his other hand slid up her arm until it cradled the precious side where her neck and head connected. "Undeniably."

Her green eyes seemed to grow brighter in an instant, her body almost vibrating under his touch. "Yes."

After that declaration, neither spoke. Rather, Holmes bent his head, capturing her lips in a binding, long kiss. One kiss turned into two, and two turned into the duo backing up against the door in a passionate embrace. The blizzard blew outside, the swirling snow gathering on the windowsill in defiance of the fire burning between him and her. The night wore on, and as the candles in the room guttered out, they determined to prove what was undeniably true to each other.

xXxXxXx

Folded up in the bed sheets, with Sherlock's arm thrown possessively over her waist, Madeline watched through the window as the dark sky began to light up, the snowstorm finally abating. In an hour, maybe two at the most, he would have to be gone, disappear into the back alleys and become a memory again. At least, for a little while. It was agreed upon that they would not meet again for at most a week (which would conceivably drive them both a little mad, but they could handle it). They had to fool Moriarty's old compatriots for a time, but thanks to Holmes securing little hideaways throughout London, maintaining their relationship would be much easier than previously estimated.

She stared at their strewn clothing (he'd managed to get the corset off her with remarkable speed, she noted in good humor), chewing her lip in contemplation.

"I have you, only to lose you again," she murmured, unsure if he was still sleeping. The hand wrapping itself in her hair and the lips pecking her temple proved otherwise.

"I'm not easily lost, darling," he muttered close to her ear, causing delightful shivers to run down her back. "Not this time."

She could take him at his word. She knew for a fact she could now.

"I do wonder something, though, my dear," Sherlock went on, propping himself up on an elbow.

Madeline asked, "And what is that?"

"If this is how you welcome chimney sweeps in your home, I'm just trying to imagine how you would accommodate someone of higher stature."

A pillow, which was wedged under her shoulder, was drawn out and used to smack him in the face. She grinned at the noise of indignation that emitted from him.

"Shut your mouth, Sherlock."

Author's note: I do realize that a "relationship" such as Madeline and Sherlock have now would be looked down upon, but hey, this is Holmes. He doesn't give a care about the norms of society, and Madeline has already had so much stuff happen to her that she has no illusions about the Victorian ideals. Besides, they're two consenting (fictional) adults, and this stuff definitely happened back then anyway, it's just all hush-hush, don't tell the little ones…

Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, we are getting close to the end now, please review, and hopefully I'll be able to review in a week. I may be a little late, because work has really been draining the life out of me lately, but still…have a good week!

EDIT: Major, major thanks to Zenyatta19 for the editing of this chapter, as she helped me realize that I had some big revisions to make in this story. She is awesome, and I cannot thank her enough for all the help she provided. Thank you so much!