Okay, I lied. I have so many plot lines running through my head right now it's ridiculous. Let's see where this goes.

"You have to let it out, John."

"I can't." John stared blankly at his therapist, the one he hadn't seen in over a year-and-a-half. She rubbed her temples, her dangling earrings swishing against her neck.

"John. Stop denying yourself the possibility. You can't move on unless you say it."

"Maybe I don't want to move on." He arched his eyebrow, waiting for her response.

She smiled. "Well, that's horrible for you. Reality sucks, John. I know. But sometimes you have to face it. Mrs. Hudson is right there with you."

"Sherlock Holmes is... Not dead." John shook his head, closing his eyes. He still couldn't believe Sherlock was gone. He wouldn't believe it.

"You were at his grave."

"The man has escaped death before. Why was this time any different?"

"Because he told you the truth. He was a fake."

"Why are you talking like he's dead?"

"Because he is."

John sighed, tears forming in his eyes. No matter how much he tried, the doubt in his mind crept back in. Maybe he was fighting for his best friend too much. Maybe Sherlock really was a fake. Maybe he was dead, deep in the ground wearing away to nothing. John didn't want to accept it. It was hard, being on your own. With Sherlock, John had independence, but he always knew he had someone to talk to. Even if it meant being called a complete idiot for having feelings. He shook his head. "No. He's not."

"Do you want to see the morgue pictures, John? I firmly believe you don't need to, but maybe it'll help you realize the truth."

"The truth is that your lying to me." He stood, grabbing his coat. "I can't take this anymore."

Sherlock never cooked. But that night was the one exception. Irene was dining with him, and he wanted to make an impression.

"I take it you don't cook much," Irene noted as she watched Sherlock struggle with the pasta. It was actually cute, but she knew her comment had frustrated him. He tried to smile, but it wasn't working very well. "Here, darling." She rose from her seat at the bar and extended her hands to him, and he reluctantly handed her the pot. She nodded towards the sink, and he followed her. "Pour it towards you, but not too close. Don't want to burn that lovely skin of yours."

Sherlock watched her, letting his eyes wander. She seemed so comfortable in the kitchen; it was natural to her. Irene was moving gracefully, and he hadn't seen a woman like that in the kitchen since his mother before she died. He leaned against the counter, folding his arms. She moved the strainer back to the pot and set it inside.

"Give it about five minutes and it should be ready. Can I trust you to heat the sauce without over-boiling it?" Irene winked at him, and he shrugged.

"It'd probably taste better if you did it, to tell the truth."

"Hint taken, love." She set the sauce to heat and turned to face him. "So, Mr. Holmes, why exactly did you call me?"

He cocked his head at her. To tell the truth, he wasn't sure, but something had been nagging him. "Well, I wanted to see how you were doing. And, I'm running low on..."

"Funds? It's alright, dear, we all do at some point." Irene turned the oven off and made Sherlock a plate of spaghetti. "How much do you need?"

"I was only going to inquire if you knew of any jobs opening up."

She nodded. "I'll invest some time in job-hunting for you."

"Thanks." He nodded as he sat down, taking a bite. It tasted great, probably because she had made it.

They ate together, making small talk about life and recent experiences. Irene was bar-tending at a local night club, but took some nights off for her client business (the owner was also one of her clients: "I know what he likes, so he keeps my schedule flexible."). Sherlock tensed at the comment, but shook it off. He explained how he'd lived off his own life insurance policy by giving it to Mycroft, who supplied him with weekly supplements. Sadly, that fund was depleting, so he'd come here looking for a new way of life.

"Are you ever going to tell John the truth?"

"Eventually, when I have a strong foundation."

Irene nodded. She glanced at her watch, realizing how late it was. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but I have to bid you farewell. I'll let you know what I find."

Sherlock walked her to the door, and they stared at each other. "It sounds like a deal, Ms. Adler."

Irene leaned up and kissed Sherlock. It was soft, a peck on the lips. "Until next time, Mr. Holmes." As she walked away, she heard the front door shut. Later, once she'd settled into her apartment, her phone buzzed.

Tonight was quite enjoyable. Inform me immediately of your findings.

Irene smiled quietly, setting her phone on the nightstand while she readied herself for bed. Before she got in, her phone buzzed again. She smirked. But, sadly, it wasn't who she expected.

Hello, Ms. Adler. Care to play a game?