The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

(...)

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

(...)

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

(...)

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

- Elizabeth Bishop,"One Art"

Since the age of seven, Irene Adler had only been able to experience a goodnight's sleep with a hunting knife tucked beneath her pillow. She always made sure that she sheathed it of course – for no one wanted to turn over in their sleep and end up with a sharp blade embedded in their brain. Some of her former lovers had found it strange but it gave her a sense of security. It was a comfort to know that if she was ambushed in the middle of the night she would at least have a fighting chance of killing the ambusher before they could kill her. She had contemplated swapping the knife for a gun but, even with the safety on, guns could be incredibly unpredictable.

After John and Sherlock had disappeared off on their date – which she assumed would take on the form of an eight hour argument rather than a romantic evening – she had gone in search of a hunting knife. Unfortunately her search had been fruitless and, aside from purchasing several sticks of rock and a wind chime made out of shells, she had returned to the hotel empty handed. Not wanting to spend another night drifting in and out of a restless sleep, she had settled on stealing one of the steak knives from the hotel kitchen and wrapping the blade in several layers of Clingfilm. It wasn't a perfect substitute - it had a serrated edge which could be problematic, especially when she was trying to cut open a man's femoral artery in one easy slash - but it would have to do.

Returning to the hotel room had been a particularly bleak experience. Cold light filtered in through the bare window illuminating the IV needles, the used iodine swabs and the tattered remnants of Sherlock's shirt, all of which were scattered across the floor. Patches of pre-ejaculate and rusty coloured blood – presumably both belonging to Sherlock – stained the greying bed sheets and both the pillows were slightly moist from where all three of them had slept with wet hair the previous two nights.

Too tired to do much, Irene quickly packed all the medical equipment back into the bag, stripped the sheets – replacing them with relatively fresh ones from the bathroom cupboard – and climbed into bed. She lay in the dark, rubbing the flat edges of her palms against her eyes. The pillows were so thin that she could faintly feel the outline of the knife pressing into the back of her skull. It comforted her and soon her mind began to drift.

As she teetered between the realms of consciousness, her thoughts briefly alighted on Sherlock and John. She was mildly alarmed that they had yet to return from their "date". She hoped that they weren't attempting to fuck each other in a poorly insulated windmill. It would make for a good story but she doubted that the sub-zero temperatures of early December would be conducive to a fulfilling night of unbridled passion. She smiled widely at the thought of them stumbling around each other, fully aroused, painfully hard and only now realising the difficulties of having anal sex in a windmill without a bottle of lube and a selection of prophylactics. She presumed that after all of this was over they would lock themselves in 221B with a bottle of Astroglide and finally fuck each other on every available surface.

She groaned and buried her face into her pillow. It'd been such a long time since she had had a fulfilling sexual experience with someone other than herself. She envied John and Sherlock, not only because of the impending orgasmic fuck-fest that they were about to embark on together, but because they had an end point to all of this. After they had dealt with Moriarty – which hopefully involved putting a bullet between his eyes and burying him in a shallow grave – they could go back to Baker Street and resume their comfortable, well worn, weekly routine of investigating crimes, arguing and, now, fucking each other senseless. However her situation wasn't quite so simple.

She was alone. She had no confidant or companion; she had neither a place of refuge to return to nor any place that she called 'home'. She had so many enemies and so few friends. She was presumed deceased in four countries and was currently wanted dead by a handful of secret government agencies and terrorist organisations. It was impossible for her to take root in any place too long. Even when all of this was over for John and Sherlock, she had to go back on the run. They were about to start a new part of their lives and she was simply going to continue living the one she always had. The life that prevented her from sleeping well without a hunting knife tucked beneath her pillow. The life that had taught her to only choose jewellery that could double up as an explosive device. The life that had convinced her that everything in the world represented a power play and that the only aim was to not find yourself on the bottom. And at the end of this life what would she have amassed apart from a handful of secrets and numerous scars? What would she be known for in the minds of those who knew her? Loved by none, hated by many, remembered only, in the solitary mind of Sherlock Holmes, as 'The Woman'.

She sighed and pulled the covers over her head. Now was not the time to have some sort of existential crisis. She was exhausted and she knew that in the days to come she would need every ounce of energy in order to help John and Sherlock restore the equilibrium of their own lives. If she couldn't live for herself then perhaps, if only for now, she could live for Sherlock and help him start the life with John that he had rallied so long against.

This thought appeased her slightly and before she realised what was happening, the world around her began to fall still and quiet. She drifted into an almost comatose level of unconsciousness and would have slept straight through till morning if Sherlock and John hadn't crashed their way into the room at four AM, arguing at the top of their lungs.

"I don't know why you're blaming me. I told you to watch out for the area of colloidal suspension three feet from your right. It's not my fault that you chose not to listen to me."

"I didn't choose not to listen. I simply didn't know what you meant."

"Oh, so now I'm supposed to treat you like you're stupid? Wouldn't you accuse me of being patronising then? What should I have said instead?"

"Um, for starters, "Look out for that large fucking puddle!"."

"I said colloidal suspension."

"Not the same thing_"

"I think you'll find, John, that it most definitely is."

Irene, who had initially been startled by the violent way in which her deep cycle of REM sleep had been ripped away from her, lay listening to their argument with battling levels of irritation and amusement.

"I know that you're stressed at the moment, but there's no need for you to be such a wanker."

"That seems to be such a rapid turnaround from your former declaration of love. How did I go from the love of your life to a 'wanker' in the space of less than three hours?"

"Oh fuck you."

"I think you'll find that you've already tried to do that – twice – and have failed – twice."

"Dear Lord boys," Irene mumbled into her pillow, "Let's try and keep the waves of bitchiness to a minimum, at least until the sun has risen." Reluctantly she sat herself up in bed. She thought that, as amusing as their argument was turning out to be, if she didn't intervene soon they would come to blows. Slowly she opened her eyes, fighting against the protesting ache of her head, and squinted through the semi-darkness at the figures of her two favourite men.

"I take it your evening didn't go quite to plan?" She asked, her gaze travelling over John who, aside from being flushed red with anger, was sodden from his hips down to his shoes in foul smelling, dirty water. There were smudges of mud across his brow and almost an entire forest of dead leaves clinging to his jacket. Sherlock hadn't fared much better: his hair looked as if feral animals had just clawed their way out of his skull, his coat was filthy and several buttons were missing on his shirt. Although his eyes were wild with rage, his face was deathly pale and Irene could see, even in the dark, that he was trembling.

"What happened to you?" Irene asked, firstly directing her question at John.

His jaw set tightly as he glared at Sherlock, "I was trying to keep up with him as he strode across miles of marsh land and I ended up falling waist deep into a giant puddle."

"It's not my fault that you can't look where you're going or that you have abnormally short legs." Sherlock snapped.

Irene watched as John closed his eyes and breathed deeply for a few seconds before he said, as calmly as he could, "I know that you're frightened_"

"I_"

"And because you're frightened you keep lashing out at me in an attempt to push me away. I know you, I know what you're doing and it's not going to work. We are going to deal with this together so stop acting like a glorified prick and let me help you."

Irene could tell that, although Sherlock was trying to look impassive, whatever combination of fear and pain he was currently feeling was preventing him from concealing his emotions completely. He looked raw, almost like someone had cut him apart and let all his insides fall out. He stared at John for a long time before he said,

"Fine. I accept you premise. Perhaps I have been a little... harsh. I also appreciate that you want to help but first I need to talk to Irene alone. Take the..." Sherlock corrected himself, "Please take the medical bag downstairs and warm up the car. We'll join you in twenty-six minutes."

A look passed between them and despite John's obvious reluctance to leave, he bent down and picked up the medical bag. Irene watched as Sherlock's eyes followed John's movements, he was tracing the curve of his back, the length of his legs and the features of his face almost like it was the last time that he would see him. It was like he was trying to soak up the physical memory of John, to burn the image of him into his brain in order to give himself something to remember after he had gone.

John straightened up and looked between the two of them, "I'll see you downstairs in a minute then." He said and with that he turned and walked out of the open door. Sherlock stared after him. His gaze was not one of residual irritation or anger, but rather one that expressed a level of hollow, echoing desperation and loss.

They were silent for a minute before Irene cleared her throat,

"So how was your date? I'm presuming, going by that rather tense interaction that I just witnessed, that the both of you are just about ready to get engaged?"

Sherlock finally turned his face towards her, "We have to go back to London. Now. Moriarty rang us about three hours ago when we were... in the windmill."

"And what exactly were you about to do to each other in the windmill? I'm assuming that it involved something to do with light suction and a source of wet warmth."

He glared at her, "Now is not the time for us to discuss anything pertaining to... anything other than Moriarty."

"I'm not in the mood to talk about psychopaths. I am, however, in the mood to talk about the presence of John's mouth on your_"

"Irene!"

She sighed, "Fine, what did he want? I'm guessing that he didn't call to ask for your Christmas list."

Sherlock's jaw set tightly and after a few minutes of prolonged silence, it seemed as if he was incapable of speaking, "He..." Sherlock cleared his throat to stop his voice from sounding so hoarse, "He has Mycroft."

"What?" Irene asked incredulously as she scrambled across the bed and turned on the bedside lamp. Sherlock flinched away from the light and backed himself towards the safety of the shadowy corners of the room. "How on Earth did he manage to lure Mycroft away from the collective protection of the entire British government?"

"He used the footage that he took the night he tried to get me to kill you and John. He sent the clip to us so we could see it as well. Although the lens gets obscured after the smoke bombs go off, you can hear the moment that I get shot. You can also hear me in pain. Some point after I passed out Moriarty picked up the recorder and filmed me lying unconscious and bleeding on the floor. He sent Mycroft the footage and told him that he had me in the abandoned building opposite Bart's and that if he didn't come alone to collect me then he would let me bleed to death."

"And Mycroft believed him?"

"Evidently," Sherlock said quietly as he stared blankly at the wall in front of him, "I always believed that my brother valued pragmatism over sentiment. I was wrong. And now Moriarty has turned the proverbial tables and is using Mycroft as leverage to obtain me."

"How do you know that he even has him?"

Sherlock's eyes focussed on hers, "He sent us more footage. This time it was of Mycroft handcuffed to one of the radiators. He had a minor head wound but other than that he appeared to be fine."

"Did you get to talk to him?"

"Yes." Sherlock said tightly, "Unlike me he is unaccustomed to being taken hostage so he seemed somewhat vexed by the experience. He told me that none of this would have happened if I habitually gave him text updates, telling him where I was and what I was doing. I told him that the fault lay at his own, abnormally bloated, feet for spending more time stuffing his face with cake rather than learning how to defend himself against the world's ever growing population of would-be attackers. He told me not to come for him and I told him that he would see me soon." Sherlock cleared his throat, "Needless to say, we need to head back to London immediately. I would greatly appreciate it if you would accompany us."

Irene was a little taken aback that Sherlock had even entertained the notion that she wouldn't be coming with them; after all, they had come this far together, why would he assume that she wouldn't want to continue on their journey until it had been drawn to a tidy conclusion?

"Does it look like I'm in a rush to leave you?" She asked. Sherlock stared at her for a few moments before he nodded back in thanks. He didn't appear appeased however and she quickly realised that there was something bothering him that went beyond his fear for his brother's life.

"Why exactly did you wait for John to leave before telling me all of this? I presume he knows what's going on?"

Sherlock sighed deeply and ran a muddy hand through his hair. In the dim light coming from the bedside lamp he looked absolutely exhausted, "John knows what's going on but he doesn't know how I plan to resolve the issue."

Irene waited but when he didn't elaborate she asked, "What exactly are you planning on doing?"

She heard him sigh again before he finally looked up at her and said gravely, "I need you to help me carry out Scenario 8."

Irene was rendered momentarily speechless. She simply sat staring at him blankly as she quickly ran through all their pre-prepared scenarios in her mind, double checking just in case she was mistaken as to exactly what Scenario 8 entailed. Several seconds passed before she said,

"Sherlock you can't be serious."

"Does it look like I'm currently in the mood for levity?"

"Then have you recently experienced a nasty knock to your head?" She asked as she threw the covers off herself and got out of bed, "Scenario 8 was only supposed to be carried out in hypothetical situations."

"Yes, well, now necessity has liberated it from the confines of a hypothetical world and placed it firmly in a practical_"

"This is not a valid option."

"It's the only option_"

"You can't honestly think that. There must be another way_"

"Do you honestly think that I came to this conclusion lightly?" Sherlock snapped, his semi-shell-shocked state giving way to a sudden wave of incandescent energy, "Do you think that I simply plucked it out of my head at random? The second Moriarty put the phone down I came up with a hundred and eleven possible solutions to this problem but then, after spending three hours trekking through a field, I found that I had eliminated all but one. This is not what I want to do, believe me when I say that, but what other option do I have?" He asked as he began pacing, wincing slightly as the movement caused the wound on his thigh to rub against his trousers, "He won't stop until he has ruined my life and made me suffer by hurting every person who I hold most dear. He started with you, then moved on to John and now he has my brother."

"You're forgetting that both John and I are still alive_"

"What does that matter!?" He shouted and Irene could hear the edge of hysteria creeping into his voice, "Do you think that it'll be a once in a lifetime thing? That just because he tried to kill you once means that he won't try and do it again? If we save Mycroft then Moriarty will just move on to someone else, perhaps Mrs Hudson or maybe he'll just double back and snatch John in the hope that he'll be lucky the second time around. This doesn't end Irene, not until I'm dead, not until he's seen me die in some horrific way. The only way that I can protect John is by creating the illusion that I've given Moriarty what he wants."

"But you can't_" She stopped mid admonishment as her mind finally clicked, "Wait, you're not going to tell John about what you're going to do?"

Sherlock's face took on a look of utter disgust, "Please don't make trite observations Irene, it depresses me and insults you."

"How can you not tell John!?" She said between clenched teeth, ignoring his attempt at provocation.

"It's simple, I just don't open my mouth and explain Scenario 8 to him."

"Don't be facetious_"

"Well then don't be intentionally stupid. I can't tell him because he's a terrible liar and an even worse actor. If I tell him what's going to happen then his reaction won't be believable and the entire facade will fall apart."

Irene watched as he racked his fingers violently through his hair. Bathed in shadows he looked like he was fading into the background, like he was disintegrating before her eyes.

"It will destroy him." She said quietly.

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked up at her, "I'm trying to protect him."

"He'll never forgive you, not after this, not after you put him through what you intend to. You'll never be able to heal the wound that you're about to inflict."

Sherlock's face seemed to grow paler and the skin around his eyes started to look alarmingly red, "I know." He said and his voice sounded so small and weak that it almost broke her heart to hear it, "I know and it's not a thought that I relish but, as the situation stands, I can't base my decision on what I can or cannot bare to live with." He turned towards the door, almost as if he planned to leave, but then abruptly turned back and stared at her.

"I didn't even get a chance to try." He said, gesturing in the direction of the open door, "Therein lies the hellish nature of coincidental circumstances. After spending my entire life feeling alone I finally found someone who... tethers me, who sees me, who... wants me." He shuddered slightly at this admission, almost as if it was too painful a thought for him to even entertain,

"After all the years of denying myself the thing that I want the most I finally allow myself to take a chance and let him in. I agreed to try, to throw caution to the wind and open myself up for the possibility of being ruined by another person. I am the epitome of rationality, I have lived my entire life being governed by what I know to be true opposed to what I think I feel and yet I was willing to become irrational for him. I was willing to try and now I don't... I don't even get a chance to see what it would have been like to have... him."

He shuddered again and wiped furiously at his eyes. He turned his back on her and took a few seconds to collect himself before he turned back and said,

"So I know what I'm asking of you because I know what I'm asking of myself. There isn't another way and, as much as I loath to admit it, I need your help. I've saved your life twice Irene, I just need you to return the favour."

Irene swallowed, "But you're not asking me to save your life Sherlock, you're asking me to help you end it."

He tried to smile but it looked more like a pained wince, "Only theoretically."

She sighed deeply and buried her head in her hands. She could feel the beginnings of an adrenaline rush starting to seep into her veins. Her brain was waking up, starting to run through the lists of things that they needed to do and sort out in order for this to work. What he was asking her to do wasn't so much the problem as what he needed her not to do. She couldn't tell John. She would have to fain ignorance, all the while knowing that Sherlock was about to shatter himself and, in doing so, was going to destroy both John and the relationship that they had.

"Are you sure about this?" She asked, finally looking up at him.

He stared back, his face ashen, his eyes half dead with resignation and the premature grief of all that was to come.

"Yes." He said and although he was obviously agonised over the situation there was an unwavering tone of determination and certainty in his voice.

She nodded, "Okay then." And so the die had been cast.