Irene was getting wrinkles. The woman who lived across from her insisted they were just "smile lines", but Irene knew better. She was in her early thirties. Wrinkles were not going to be a part of her life. They just... weren't.

"Calm down, Chelsie. Everyone gets them. Poor Derek has, like, five gray hairs. He went and had it dyed last week." Amber shook her head, pouring her neighbor a glass of wine.

"But Amber, dear, where I come from in England, wrinkles signify that you've lost all power. Wrinkles make you vulnerable."

"You, vulnerable? Nah. Maybe what you need is some spice in your life." Amber winked.

Irene arched an eyebrow. "Darling, there's no one in this small town that peaks my interest." And the only one who does lives across the ocean.

"Well, maybe you should give Derek a try. He's been trying since you moved in."

"And I've continuously gotten out of it."

"Just say yes when he asks you to a movie tonight."

Irene rolled her eyes. It was Friday, one of their dinner nights. And tonight, dinner was at Amber's. She'd asked Irene to help her clean while she slaved over the stove. And, surprisingly, Irene did.

Soon, Derek and Shane were knocking on Amber's door, looking as starved as wolves. After dinner was over, they all cleaned up and said goodnight. As Irene was leaving, Derek stopped her on the staircase. "Say, there's a new movie coming out tomorrow night. Wanna go?"

Irene shrugged. "Sure. I've got nothing to do."

"We'll grab something to eat before? Say about five-ish?"

"Sounds lovely." Irene smiled, watching Derek's eyes brighten. Before he could say anything else, Irene unlocked her door and barricaded herself inside.

A date? Irene Adler didn't date...

Somehow, Irene found herself sitting across Derek at a decent looking Italian restaurant, however, it wasn't... fun. Derek was a normal guy; he did normal things. He didn't engage her mind or her senses. He didn't even make her truly laugh. He tried, so she attempted to sound like he was hilarious.

Except he wasn't.

Just as Irene had decided what she wanted (chicken parmesan was always the easy way out), their waiter arrived. Irene didn't bother to look at him, if she was going to convince Derek she "liked" him, she'd have to maintain focus on him.

"Good evening, I'm... Harry. Would I interest either of you in a bottle of wine tonight?"

Irene sighed. The service here was horrible. What happened to their original waiter?

Derek noticed it too. "I'm sorry, but what happened to Dan? He actually was on his way back with our drinks to take our orders."

The waiter cleared his throat. "He's... indisposed at the moment and asked me to take care of one of his tables. He never informed me about the drinks. I'll get those for you right away. What did you have?"

Irene rolled her eyes as she looked down over at the mirror wall beside her.

And then she saw him.

Instead of screaming, or even breathing loudly, Irene made it a point to look as though she were searching for something. Suddenly, she blurted, "Oh my goodness, is that Mayor Cremely and his family?"

"I'm sorry?" The waiter stared at her, eyes flabbergasted she "hadn't made the connection."

"Not you, you ambivalent fool." She waved her hand at him, staring at Derek. "Isn't that him?"

Derek nodded. "And she'll have a pin-"

"I'll have a bloody mary, actually." Irene smirked at his flustered face, blinking innocently. "Thanks, darling."

Sherlock continued to blink. Is she seriously so incompetent that she can't recognize me? Or is she so into this ambivalent fool that I ceased to exist in her mind? As usual, when he ran his eyes over her, only question marks filled his mind. For some reason, she was un-deduceable. And it annoyed the hell out of him.

Turning on his heel, Sherlock wound his way back into the kitchen. Strangely, no one seemed to care that he really wasn't a waiter and he really shouldn't have been back there.

He ventured through the other side door and into the men's restroom. There, he splashed cold water over the unconscious man slumped over on the floor. "Get up, Dan," he sneered, "you have customers awaiting you." He threw his borrowed bow tie next to the now-awakening body, and then he ran cold water through his slicked-back hair, causing it to curl up again. After shaking the excess water out, Sherlock donned his trench coat that was hanging on one of the racks in the stall doors and exited the restaurant.

The night air was cold on his skin; it woke him up. As he made his way down the street, he found himself sitting in a quaint bookstore with a small cappuccino. He was barely aware of the presence of the body that had sat down across from him until it spoke.

"I thought you said we were never to see each other again." Her voice was deeper than he remembered. However, it was silky and thick, like milk.

"I said that you were never to see me again. I never mentioned I couldn't contact you." He almost heard Irene smirk.

Liar. "How did you find me?"

"My brother's the most powerful man in all of Britain. How do you think I found you?"

"Well, obviously you can see I'm doing just fine, so you can leave now." Her voice has a Northern American twang to it. That's the difference.

"Not really." Sherlock glanced up long enough to see Irene stare out the window next to them and huff quietly. He put his eyes back to his book as she turned back to him.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid I can be of no use to you anymore. I've moved on. My life is..."

"Normal," he spat, almost like it was the most dreadful thing in the world. It is.

"Yes." Irene smirked. "Ironically, it's just as intriguing as my past life."

"Ms. Ad-"

"I don't go by that name here," she hissed, leaning forward.

"My apologizes, Ms..."

"Smith. Chelsie Smith."

"Ms. Smith." Sherlock paused, gently closing the book he was reading. "Actually, my brother forced me here. Needless to say, I'm not very happy with John."

"Ah, yes. He left you for someone else. A blond named, Mary, no?" Irene leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms. Sherlock took a moment to finally look at her. In the restaurant, he'd only been trying to deduce her. Now, he was attempting to seriously gaze at her appearance.

Her skin was pale, and it wasn't as red as the last time he saw her. Well, she's not running from terrorists. Her eyes were still a deep blue, however, her hair was lighter. Sherlock concluded this to be her following of the "ombre" fad that had taken over American. the entire top half of her head was her natural dark brown, but her hair continued to get lighter towards the ends. Tonight's hairstyle consisted of loose, round curls that could've been due to the wind. It was naturally make her artificial curls fall out. He vaguely remembered her outfit from the restaurant: a loose, dark blue long sleeved shirt with lace arms and half of the back, black leggings, and her classic black Louboutins. Leave it to her to remain with the same fashion sense. "Yes, he's married. But I... like Mary. The reason I'm furious with John is another matter."

"Oh, now you're furious instead of 'not very happy'?" Irene smirked again. She had watched Sherlock take in her appearance, however, it hadn't changed much. She didn't feel the need to.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took a sip of his still-smouldering drink. "Either way, I'm not happy with him."

"And why is that, pray tell?"

"Mycroft is forcing me to bring you back to London."

Irene snorted. "Not happening. I'm a United States citizen." She paused. "Well, soon to be."

Sherlock sighed. "Doesn't matter. He'll send his men to have you arrested and deported if you don't come on a 'vacation' with me."

Irene huffed again. "John found out and called Mycroft, didn't he?"

"Bingo."

"I'm going to strangle that dickhead with my riding crop. Just you wait," Irene muttered to herself, pushing out of the chair and whirling around. As she left the store, she felt footsteps beside her.

"I thought your riding crop wasn't for that sort of thing," Sherlock mused, not bothering to watch her roll her eyes.

"Why are you following me?"

"Well, I have to make sure you get home... And take your flight back to England."

"My neighbors won't be happy you're the one going to my apartment and not Derek."

"So that was the fool's name?"

"He's not a fool, Mr. Holmes. Just... Normal." As Irene unlocked the front door to the colonial, she nodded upstairs. "The one on the left," she whispered. Sherlock nodded, quietly climbing the stairs as not to be noticed. Once inside, he threw his coat onto her sofa and tossed himself onto it as well.

"Nice flat."

"It's an apartment, Mr. Holmes. If you're going to be in America, talk like an American."

"I'm only here for another few hours."

"What time does the flight leave?" Irene called from the closed door of her bedroom.

"Midnight."

"So we have... four hours?" Irene poked her head around the door.

Sherlock knew that tone in her voice. She was going to try to seduce him, and then she was going to drug him and keep them from England. Surprisingly, when she emerged from her room wearing casual clothes and her hair tied up, Sherlock felt himself arching an eyebrow. "Yes."

"Ah. No worries, Mr. Holmes, my stash of sedatives is back in England." She removed two wine glasses from the rack above the sink and fetched a bottle from her fridge. As she poured them halfway full, Sherlock watched her intently. Every move she made was an attempt to be sexy but graceful. However, he remembered that was how she moved back in England. Maybe it's just how she manipulates her body. "Enjoying the view?" Irene placed a glass on the coffee table in front of Sherlock. He picked it up, swirled the wine, and (after deducing there weren't any drugs in it) took a swig.

"Not really."

"That stings, Mr. Holmes."

"Well, Ms. Adler, the truth hurts."

Irene eyed him. "Yes, yes it does. I hear Jim's back, by the way. Did you miss him?"

Sherlock cringed. Those words. "Not entirely."

"You knew he wasn't dead."

"I had an inkling."

"Ah. Enjoying your wine?"

"Partially."

"Good."

The silence became too much for both of them. Sherlock turned to her suddenly. "Jim is the main reason I'm here, Ms. Adler."

"Oh?" Irene raised an eyebrow.

"I'm afraid with him being alive you're..." He paused, gazing away from her. "You're in more danger now. Jim's a smart man."

"I was gone long before he faked his suicide."

"You and I both know he knows where you are. And that dread you call 'Derek' is working for him."

Irene laughed. "I know."

"You know?"

No, I really didn't. But thanks for the information. "Of course. I'm not incompetent, Mr. Holmes."

"Ah. Well, anyways, if you come back to England and prove to my brother you aren't, in fact, deceased, I might be able to get you protection."

"I knew I shouldn't have gotten rid of those pictures," Irene whispered. Sherlock snorted.

"Pictures won't save you, Irene."

They locked stares for a moment. The usage of her first name confused her for a moment. He never used it. "I'm sure you can, too, Mr. Holmes."

His face deflated for a moment. "I did once before."

Irene chuckled to lighten the mood. "I never knew you could wield a machete so well."

"Neither did I."

"So you're afraid Jim is planning to kill me?"

"Or worse."

Worse? "Ah. I guess I have no choice but to go back to London."

"Exactly."

Irene nodded. Glancing at Sherlock, she smiled coyly. "I would ask you to dinner, Mr. Holmes, but I'm afraid it's a bit too late for that."

"Indeed. You should start packing." He nodded towards her room.

"Oh, no need. I always keep my bags packed in case of an emergency."

"Smart woman."

"I tend to believe so."

The chatter continued on until Sherlock stood. Irene went and got her things, and they headed in Mycroft's black car (which was waiting outside for them) to the airport. There, the henchmen showed their IDs and the group of them skipped through customs and a security check. They boarded the plane in peace. Irene sat opposite Sherlock, and she twisted so she was laying out over the seats. Sherlock, who was never one for sleep, casually watched her leg fall over the side. She was sleeping peacefully, much unlike she had when she'd stayed at his apartment. Glancing out the window, Sherlock stared at the moonlit clouds. Deep down inside, he knew Moriarty wasn't just back. He was planning a massive take down, and Sherlock knew Irene would be a part of it. All of Moriarty's secrets she knew, and she was disposable. From that moment on, everything done wouldn't be sane. Which really wasn't a problem for him. However, he knew Irene had gotten used to the "normal" lifestyle; he could read that much off of her actions. Though Sherlock knew all the insane choices made and the people lost would outnumber all the good, one thing got him smiling.

Yes, Moriarty, I did miss you.

Staring out into the clouds, he felt himself whisper:

"But did you miss me?"

Okay, it's long. But if you read the whole thing and lemme know what you thought I'll try to get something up that involves more people. Ha.