John entered the house later that night to see Sherlock back to his usual self- immersed into his research, randomly flipping through newspapers, textbooks, and wearing a lab coat and goggle-microscopes. There was a chemistry set near the window instead of it's usual place in the kitchen, and one of the beakers was smoking. John chuckled to himself, feeling a sense of warmth and homeliness. Finally, things were back to normal. "Having fun?"

"Always," Sherlock muttered, scratching his head.

John looked around. It was quiet. Too quiet. "Where's Irene?"

"She went shopping."

"With what?"

"Her credit card. Duh." Sherlock looked at John with his usual look ("Are you seriously thinking that stupidly?") and John shook his head.

"Well, let's hope she doesn't make either of us carry her bags up here."

"Someone will need to carry Mrs. Hudson's bags."

"Mrs. Hudson knows you're here?"

"And Irene, too. I figured that I owed it to her."

John sighed. "I'm afraid that something is going to happen to all of us."

"Well, don't be surprised if my imposter shows up."

"Yeah, how's that going?" John nodded towards the mess Sherlock had made.

"It's going somewhere, but I'm not so sure to it's actual direction. However, I have a funny feeling I'm not away from Moriarty's network." Sherlock sighed, taking off his goggles. "Tea sounds nice. Put the kettle on, will you?" He ventured over to the window, where he picked up his violin and began to play, despite his now boiling chemistry set. John twinged at the sound, fearing his violin was out of tune. However, it seemed as though it were perfect. John listened intently, enjoying the light melody he played. When it changed to a minor key, John stopped what he was doing and stared. Sherlock was playing the exact composition he'd played soon after he'd been informed of Irene moving to America. It was hollow, filled with many sharps and naturals. John stood, mesmerized, and didn't even notice Irene waltz into the door.

Mrs. Hudson had been a peach, helping Irene pick out clothes that resembled a powerful but gracious woman. Mrs. Hudson herself admitted to being a burlesque dancer back in 1953, when she turned sixteen. Irene was surprised, however, she'd wondered how Mrs. Hudson had been able to keep herself so healthy. Irene had learned that both women seemed to have a lot more in common than she'd thought, and she was grateful that she'd finally found someone to spawn a friendship with. Even if Mrs. Hudson seemed more like a mother to Sherlock than anything.

Irene had heard the music before she'd opened the door. At first she hadn't wanted to intrude, thinking that Sherlock might be creating some elaborate plan. Then she figured that it'd probably sound better live. Hoisting her bags further up her arms, she opened the door and waltzed in. John didn't even look at her, and Sherlock kept playing, though he noticed her from the reflection in the window. Irene noted the smell of chemicals, and turned her nose up. She saw the chemistry set in front of Sherlock and smiled. It was so like him to be doing fifty million things at once. Irene placed her bags in Sherlock's room and returned to the kitchen, where she relieved John of his tea duties. He walked mechanically over to the sofa, where he watched with wide eyes. It's been a while since he's heard Sherlock play, she deduced, searching through the fridge for something to cook. However, when she ran across the thawing rat, she screamed, and the music stopped.

Both men turned quickly, Sherlock almost tripping over the table running to Irene. She had backed up, leaning against the counter, pointing at the fridge. John leaned over the door, and started chuckling when he saw the rat. Irene Adler, scared of a rat? Well, isn't that ironic.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, rubbing her back. His violin and bow were in one hand, and he cursed himself for not dropping them. He followed Irene's finger and rolled his eyes. He dropped his hand from behind her back. "For Christ's sake, Irene. It's only a rat."

"Why the hell do you have a god damn rat in your fridge?!" Irene dropped her hand, glaring at him. "I could've had a heart attack."

"Oh, that's highly unlikely. Shock is a better term to use in the instance, Ms. Adler."

Irene rolled her eyes. "What are you doing with a frozen dead rat in your fridge, Sherlock?"

"Studying rates of decomposition. It seems as though John had rid our fridge of the last bunch, so I have to start over again. I'd spent some time looking for cow eyeballs." He pointed his bow at John. "I'm going to get you back for that."

"Right. Have fun with that." John nodded while opening the day's newspaper. He suddenly had a burst of energy, and he was feeling more like himself. Maybe he'd get to stop his therapy appointments again.

"So what does this have to do with our situation? I thought you were supposed to be researching this 'imposter', not playing around with a musical instrument." Irene knew it'd hit hard when Sherlock's eyes widened with hurt. She swore he almost teared, but he blinked it away. She had to get back at him for the dead rat pun somehow.

"Actually, I've figured out who it is. However, I'm just thinking of how we're going to get to her."

"Her?" John and Irene's voices clashed, creating a dissonance in Sherlock's ears. He cringed. They really needed some musical training. And to use inside voices when in a building.

"Yes, you idiots. Her." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm going to talk to Mycroft as soon as he hears back from Ms. Monroe." He watched Irene roll her eyes. "I don't want to blow my cover, dear."

"Obviously."

"Care to share who, Sherlock?"

"Not just yet. I'll need some background information first."

"Not even a hint?"

"Well, someone who would be able to locate Ms. Adler very easily because they're exactly the same."

Irene gasped. "Are you serious?"

Sherlock nodded. "If my calculations and research are correct. Which they usually are."

John glanced between them as they spoke. They never mentioned a name, and his eyes widened. "That's not fair. I don't know Ms. Adler's back story."

"Neither do I," Sherlock murmured quietly, jamming his hands into his pockets and looking uncomfortably at Irene. She smiled deeply inside, but didn't show it outside. "I just make deductions. Very good ones."

"Well, it seems you haven't fallen too far off the saddle then, Sherlock. Shall I call Mycroft?"

"No need. He'll be here in an hour," Irene stated, putting down her phone. "I just texted him."

"Good girl." Sherlock nodded, pouring himself a cup of tea. Irene followed him, sitting on his lap in his chair. John rolled his eyes, smirking at Sherlock's annoyance. "Please, Ms. Adler, could you find your own seat?"

"Fine, Sherlock. Just know that you're card has reached it's limit." She pulled a black card out from her bra strap, throwing it at him. Sherlock stared at her with wide eyes. John actually snorted.

"I thought you said she was using her own card?"

"Well, must be she wasn't," Sherlock growled, his voice low. To Irene, it was a turn on, but he wasn't going to know that. "How did you get my card?"

"I went into your wallet when I was grabbing my purse. You really must learn to keep your things with you at all times, Mr. Holmes."

"Mmm." Sherlock nodded, staring her down as she stood in his doorway. He wanted to take her then, but John was there...

Ding. Irene smiled at the frustrated look in Sherlock's eyes. It'd be easy to get rid of John, but Mycroft? Not so much.