So everyone keeps asking about adding some more romantic "Sherene" and I figured I'd do a small hint of that in this chapter. I'm trying to have a plot here, but sadly, I can never seem to get a plot moving.): However, I personally believe that Sherlock and Irene's relationship doesn't exist of mushy gushy romance or strange, twisted sex or even the hot, sweaty kind. I think they're more of a bantering, sarcastic couple that argues about the small things because their minds are constantly in action and they over-think things. However, I tried to keep that while aiming to please all you "mushy-gushy" readers out there.

Sorry the note was so long; hopefully you read it. (I usually don't read them. So don't feel bad.)

The ride back was silent. They were quiet; not exactly in the mood to speak to each other. Well, Irene and Sherlock weren't. And John was just too afraid of what would happen if he broke the silence. So when he got the opportunity to split from the rising tensions, he did.

It hit the wall right after they heard the front door slam. Irene threw her things down on the sofa, glaring at Sherlock. "Really? 'Ms. Monroe?'"

"What did you expect me to say? Our alias's aren't married, Ms. Adler."

"Obviously." Irene rolled her eyes, removing her earrings and the many bobby pins she was using to hold her hair up. "She was about ready to pounce on you."

"If I recall, a week ago, you were having the same reaction. I can't help women just fawn over me." Sherlock stared at her with a glaring fire in his eyes. Normally, it would seem as though they were flirting, but this was different. "I mean, at least I didn't take the last name of the man who tried to kill me!"

"It was an easy ticket to assure she'd take care of it! A power play, Sherlock! Don't you bloody know what that is?" Irene slammed her hand on the arm of the sofa. He was so difficult. "I was claiming to be a part of the family. Not his wife."

"How do I now know you're lying to me?" He growled, moving closer to her. He stared down at her; she'd taken off her heels. Her eyes were clouds of green, and they were filled with fear. Sherlock wanted so badly to touch her, hold her close and tell her he was sorry. But she was too angry with him. A woman like Irene Adler didn't cuddle. She fought.

"Because I'm not related to the Moriarty family."

"Sherlock turned away, storming into his room. He walked to the window, rubbing the back of his hand on his neck. He heard the door open; he calculated it'd be less than a minute before she walked in.

"Sherlock..."

"Don't, Ms. Adler. This isn't the time. Or place."

"I don't normally apologize-"

"I can deduce that."

Huff. "And I'm not going to start now. Sure, maybe what I did was a little catty and childish, but what other name was I going to use? Castro? I mean, do I look Cuban to you? There aren't many names that will open doors. Not everyone has the privilege of being a Holmes." Her voice softened for a moment, and Sherlock wondered if her true identity was even Irene Adler. Maybe there was more to this woman that he'd thought.

"I didn't want to look conspicuous, Irene." He was using her first name. The mood of the conversation had changed drastically. "Our covers would've been blown easier if we posed as a couple."

"But isn't that what we are?" She looked to the side.

Sherlock, for once, was lost for words. Once it was said, there would be no turning back. He wasn't sure he wanted to take that chance.

Irene saw it in his eyes. It was only a flicker, but the doubt was there. "Of course. I see." She stared at her luggage, wondering why she'd even come. Because you love him. No. Love was not an option.

"You realize how potentially nuclear we'd be? One wrong word or action, and it'd be over. We can't risk that."

"Don't you think I know that, Sherlock?" Irene glared at him. "Maybe that's why I keep wanting you. I don't understand how you can be so smart and so bloody stupid all at the same time!"

"Because I don't have feelings, Ms. Adler." Sherlock turned back to the window. Irene huffed, stripping off her clothes until she was in nothing but her lacy underwear. Sherlock could see her reflection through the glass if he squinted hard enough, but he wasn't a pervert, so he stared at the building across from them. She changed into a pair of yoga pants and a snug t-shirt, pulling her hair into a high top knot. She was shaking, and Sherlock figured it was from the argument they'd just had. Before she left his room, he heard her say:

"If you didn't have feelings, Mr. Holmes, I wouldn't be here.I owe my life to you."

He heard the door shut behind him, and he turned to stare around his room. He hadn't really noticed that nothing had changed, save the amount of dust lying on everything. The surplus of books that hadn't fit in the living room were lined on the bookshelves here, and it gave his room a homier feel. He glanced to the bottom shelf; the old photo albums were frayed on the spines. Even more dust lined them, but only because Sherlock never looked at them. That moment was the first in years he'd bent down, pulled one out, and opened it. Inside were pictures of Mycroft and himself as young boys, their nanny smiling widely with them. At the zoo, the roller rink, the playground, at Christmastime, Halloween, Easter... Things were so good back then. Of course Sherlock's father had always been taking the pictures; his mother was too busy entertaining guests or cooking dinner. Even then he'd noticed her distance, and his father's connection with their young nanny. She always acted more like their mother anyways, however, Sherlock hadn't known-

"You had those cheekbones even as a young boy," Irene noted, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder. He peered at her through the corner of he eye, watching as she pointed at him with his father at a horse stable.

"I thought you were mad at me."

"I forgot something," Irene murmured. Sherlock turned to arch his eyebrow, and she smiled, kissing him softly. He held on for a little bit, savoring the taste of her. However, she pulled away, winking at him. She turned and left the room, leaving the door open behind her.

Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. He closed the photo album and returned it to its proper place. He undid a few buttons of his dress shirt, disposed of his shoes under his bed, and followed her out to the kitchen. Irene Adler continued to surprise him, and he wasn't sure why. Or how.