Right, so chapter 2... It took a while to write and I don't know if I wrote it well. Hopefully I portrayed Sherlock OK because he's so hard to write, like literally, just so hard... Anyway, enjoy :)

Irene bit the edge of her lip nervously. She had never felt so vulnerable, so scared. She scalded herself inwardly. Why was she scared? There was no rational reason for it. Being so deep into her own thoughts she didn't notice a person approach her. When they reached out and touched her shoulder she gasped audibly and jumped violently. She jerked around nearly elbowing Molly in the stomach in the process.

"Molly! God…"

"Sorry, I didn't realise that you were daydreaming." Molly walked over to sit opposite her. Irene noticed she had lipstick on. She looked nicer, her lips looked thicker.

"I wasn't daydreaming, I was thinking." Irene said slowly.

"It's the same thing." Irene furrowed her eyebrows at her and Molly sent her an apologetic look. Irene looked around the deserted coffee shop before the fear rose up in her again. Sherlock… he didn't know that Irene knew about his fake suicide. Molly had refused to tell him and they both decided that it would be best if Irene just showed up and made it out like it wasn't a big deal. Irene was regretting that decision now. She was about to meet a person who the whole world thought to be dead. Despite her nagging feeling of regret, she felt also extremely curious. Faking your own death was hard, she should know, but to do it with only one person's help… That was completely amazing. She needed to know how he did it. She considered asking Molly but, in all honesty, Molly probably couldn't explain it neither may she understand it so Irene decided to wait until she meet Sherlock in person.

Molly tilted her head slightly looking at Irene. She was daydreaming again, sorry, thinking…

"Shall we go?" Irene looked up abruptly and nodded her head. She stood up and with one movement put her coat on. Molly smiled at her as they walked out the coffee shop together. They got into the car and Molly rested her hands against the steering wheel. Irene stared at her. Why wasn't she moving? But then, Molly reached over to her. Their faces were practically touching but Molly hesitated. Irene pouted a little and smirked. She closed the gap between them and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. It was over before it even started and they both hovered there a little. Molly sighed and pulled back. Irene's face felt cold as Molly pulled her body heat away from her. Molly started the car without a sound and continued to drive without a word. Irene could barely take in her surroundings and felt a little breathless. It was a fleeting kiss, barely felt, but she knew what was behind it. It wasn't the first time Irene had felt that towards a woman, in more ways than one, women were better lovers; gentle and soft unlike a man, who were in most cases hairy and rough. Both were pleasant, both Irene enjoyed, it just depended on her mood at the time.

Molly pulled in front of a dank, dark building. Irene pulled a face.

"Where else is a person in hiding supposed to hide?" Molly's voice ripped through the silence that they had continued throughout the whole journey. Irene's ears practically rang with it. Irene felt her stomach drop again. Why did she feel like this was such a bad idea? Her thoughts drifted to John. She'd left him again. She shouldn't have left him in such a state, he needed her. Trying to push her thoughts out of her mind, she stepped out the car and looked up at the building. It looked like a block of flats. It was in solitude from the rest of the houses on the street and its faded browny coloured bricks were covered in graffiti, damp and weeds. Irene stopped herself from pulling a face again. Molly was right; a fugitive could hardly be picky. Molly walked up next to her and tugged at her arm gently.

"You coming then?" Irene swallowed down her hesitation and willingly let Molly pull her into the block of flats. Inside was worse than the outside. The smell in the air was a mixture between damp and urine. The grey, concrete walls and floor gave the illusion of a prison. Molly walked up the stairs, Irene following closely behind. They walked up 4 flights before walking up to the door marked number '12'. Molly knocked a peculiar knock. She did two drawn out knocks; she paused for a moment then did three quick knocks. She repeated this knock and stood back a little smiling at Irene; reassuring her. Irene looked bewildered at the strange sequence that she performed on the door. The door opened silently ajar. No-one was stood at the door and it was barely open enough to get in. Molly nodded her head at Irene as a signal to follow her. Molly disappeared into the dark room and Irene stepped inside not long after. Irene's eyes had to adjust from the harsh, strong, artificial light outside to the weak, soft light inside the flat. The air was filled with the strong smell of cigarette smoke. Sherlock was leaning back into an armchair with his feet propped up on the coffee table. He was wearing a dark blue shirt that looked almost black in the lighting. He had both his hands under his chin and he looked very deep into thought. Molly smirked to herself. Irene and Sherlock looked so similar when they were thinking. Sherlock looked up directly at Irene. She felt extremely vulnerable; she could feel Sherlock's eyes prying into her life. He knew he could see everything she had done; he lapped up all the new information like it was food, like he was starved of new information.

"What are you doing here?" He barely registered her, like she was there all the time. She couldn't help but feel furious at his lack of acknowledgement for anyone else's feeling but his own. Her mouth stretched into a thin line and knew Sherlock would notice her sudden change of mood. He raised an eyebrow at her but didn't say anything. Molly looked between them and laughed a little nervously. Irene noticed that too, whenever there was an awkward moment or a rift between two people she would try to cover it up with her nervous laughing. It hit her that in the car she didn't, it mustn't have been awkward for her. She must have felt comfortable. Sherlock glanced at Molly and his lips twitched. He knew.

"How long have you known?" Sherlock voiced another topic, Irene was grateful.

"Not long, five days." Irene felt her confidence slowly return back to her.

"I suppose you'll want to know how we did it."

…

John sat, furious, at the edge of the armchair. Where had Irene got to again? He was becoming more and more agitated and needed her back. His Sherlock problems were returning and he needed someone to talk to. He had no idea where she'd gone or when she'd be coming back neither was he certain whether or not she was with Molly but then again she was always with Molly. He lifted up off his chair and stumbled slightly. His head span and he had to hold onto the armrest for support. He blinked a few times to be rid of the flash of white in his eyes and swallowed. John hadn't eaten properly in weeks but recently he'd been living on cups of tea alone, if that. His already weak looking figure was rapidly deteriorating and his subconscious limp had returned within the months; but again only recently made a major difference. He walked quite slowly to the open corridor and looked down the stairs that greeted him. He took a deep breath and took the first step. His leg hurt him, so he thought anyway, but his mind was becoming foggy again and John could barely keep him eyes open. He stepped onto the second stair and felt his foot go down further than it was needed to. John felt an instantaneous panic in his heart as his weak leg struggled to find its balance. John tried to hang on his rational thought and tried to tell himself that he leg wasn't really injured, he just thought it was; but his mind already was filled with blind panic and John's sweaty fingers loosened their grip on the handrail. His other leg buckled and John felt himself go headfirst downwards. He tumbled down the flight of stairs and didn't stop until his back stopped his body on the wall downstairs. However, John's military instincts came to light automatically when he was falling and he had tucked his head down, stopping anything from hitting it. When he landed at the bottom of the stairs John was lying unconscious but his head was still safely tucked into his chest…

…

Sherlock's flat looked very simplistic. There was barely anything there yet it still looked messy. There was no decoration on the walls and the shelves were pretty bare apart from a few books that, presumably, Molly had lended to him. The living room they were sat in had two door frames attached to it, one that led to the kitchen and one that led to the bedroom and bathroom. The walls had just a white to yellow wallpapering and the floor was covered in a 'cream' carpet. Cheap living space for people with no jobs, thought Irene.

Irene was now seated with Molly by her side. Sherlock was sat opposite them with his legs crossed and his hands together. Irene looked at them expectantly.

"So, how-" Sherlock put his index finger up to her which stopped any more words coming out of her mouth. They waited in silence for a few minutes before Sherlock spoke.

"The ball."

"Wha-" Irene was again stopped by Sherlock.

"I used the ball to stop my pulse, it's not that difficult to grasp." Irene looked at him confused, she was smart, but a medical professional she was not.

"Putting any spherical object under your armpit, where there are several veins and arteries, and applying pressure to said area will cause your pulse to slow down or cease completely. It will only apply to the pulse in your arm but it's a clever trick that could fool any medical professional that wasn't concentrating fully." Molly answered Irene's unspoken question. For the first time, Irene had heard Molly speak in a professional way, in a way that didn't give her speech emotion with every word she spoke; a doctor's words.

"But that doesn't really explain how you got away with falling off a building and surviving it."

"Several feet from where I supposedly dropped there was a parked lorry with rubbish bags in the bed of it. With a little trajectory and accuracy, I landed quite safely into it." Sherlock's response was very nonchalant, like he'd explained this story to many people before Irene, when in reality; she was the first to be told.

"But John would have seen…"

"He was knocked over by a passing bike, which distracted his already fogged
brain. It wouldn't have taken much to get his attention away from the whole thing."

"But who was-"

"Use your brain. I know you can." Sherlock looked at her with his multi-coloured eyes and gave a tiresome look. Irene frowned at him and his lack of people skills and gazed over at Molly who was smiling rather modestly.

"You were on the bike?" Irene meant it as a statement but it came out more of a question. Molly nodded.

"With his mind the way it was, he didn't even notice." She tried to sound neutral but her voice was hinted with a slight regret; a little remorse for being a part of something that hurt a man so deeply.

"I told him to stand far enough away that Molly had time to knock him over with the bike." Irene looked at them both and couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed.

"So you just fell into a rubbish truck and dolled yourself up with fake blood?"

"In laments terms, yes." Sherlock reached over to the end table beside him and took out a cigarette. He lit it with the lighter that was placed next to the packet and took a deep inhale. "Did you want something more magical?" The sarcasm in his voice was heavy.

"I thought it'd more…complex."

"Most people use complexity when they're faking their own deaths or hiding a murder they've committed. That's what people look for, that's what's expected." He took another drag of his cigarette.

"So you wanted to do something that was too simple to be looked into, but too difficult to understand completely?" Molly nodded at her and Irene sat back into the couch. They sat in silence again and Irene felt Molly shift uncomfortably next to her. She could tell she was finding it hard to be in such a heavy atmosphere so Irene gave her a way out.

"I would love a cup of tea, Molly." She smiled a little in her direction and saw Molly give her a thankful look.

"Yes, of course. Sherlock, do you-"

"No."

"Of course, well I'll be about 5 minutes." She hovered for a second before disappearing into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. Sherlock and Irene sat together in silence. It was so quiet that you could practically hear their minds spinning in unison.

"Do you ever think about John?" Irene spoke softly. Sherlock flicked the end of his cigarette so the ash fell onto the floor. He paused for a long time before he spoke.

"Yes." Irene waited for him to say more but he didn't. The silence spoke more than words could and she gave him an understanding but also sympathetic look.

"Do you miss him?" Irene was going about this subject quite delicately, Sherlock had to be opened slowly because trying to get him to talk openly made him just close back up again.

"Most of the time." Sherlock's voice was barely audible but it never wavered. He dabbed his now butt of a cigarette out onto the end table and placed his right hand against his mouth the back of index finger was slowly moving across his top lip. Sherlock was staring into space.

"Would you tell him?"

"Not yet." Sherlock's instant reply surprised Irene a little, like he'd rehearsed the answer to that question a thousand times.

"He misses you." Irene looked up at Sherlock under her eyelashes and waited for his response but it didn't come. "He can't sleep, he can't eat and he certainly isn't the John you left behind." Sherlock didn't look at her and continued to play with his top lip. His stare was unblinking. "You need to tell him. I can't, I don't want to see him like this anymore."

"If he saw me he wouldn't want anything to do with me." Sherlock's voice grew even quieter and Irene had to strain her hearing. "I told him I was a fake. I told him that Moriarty wasn't real. He wouldn't want me anywhere near him because he thinks everything I told him is a lie."

"But it's not a lie. You, here, now is the truth and Moriarty was real."

"I didn't tell you that."

"You didn't have to, because like John, I believe in you." Sherlock curled his right hand into a fist and placed it beneath his chin. He turned his head to look at Irene. She could barely stand looking at his piercing eyes and felt her heart sink a little when she saw the innocence and sadness behind them. Those prying eyes that were shielded normally by his deductions of other people showed a hint of raw human emotion and it gave Sherlock at ounce of humanity. She looked away. Silence was again deafening and both of them barely breathed. Irene wanted to say more before she felt a buzzing in her bosom. With no pockets and no bag, Irene had to make do with her bra for a place to keep her phone. She reached inside her top and drew out a warm vibrating phone. The number on it wasn't recognised and she considered rejecting the call but decided against it when she thought that John might be ringing her from a public phone because he didn't have his mobile with him. She pressed the green button.

"Hello?"

"Good afternoon, Miss. This is Annabelle Triffid, isn't it?" It was a woman's voice, she sounded friendly but she had that unnerving softness to her voice like she was a parent about to tell their child that their pet had died.

"Yes, that's me."

"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this but something's happened."

"What's happened?" The panic in her voice was quite noticeable and Sherlock leaned forward with interest.

"Your friend, John Watson, has been admitted to hospital. He's unconscious." The woman had a very serious tone but it was also mixed with sympathy. "The landlady that found him is here, she said that you needed to be called."

"I...I'll come right away." Irene couldn't fathom what she had been told. She dabbed the red button and stood up abruptly. Sherlock had an understanding in his eyes but curiosity followed it. He knew something bad had happened, just not to whom.

"It's John; he's unconscious." Sherlock's already pale face washed out to an almost pure white but his expression stayed the same. "Are you coming?" Sherlock pursed him lips in thought before giving his head a slight nod. Irene smiled at him as he pushed himself off the chair. She hurried into the kitchen to see Molly stirring a couple of mugs. She looked alarmed when she saw Irene come in.

"What's wrong?" Molly sounded genuinely concerned.

"It's John, we have to go now." Molly left the spoon in one of the mugs and walked up to Irene.

"What happened to him?" Molly's voice, like Irene, was filled with worry.

"I don't know I just know he's in hospital and Mrs Hudson is already there." Molly nodded and raised her hand up to her lips, to start biting her nails. Irene frowned through the worry and gently tugged her arm back down again. Her hand lingered over Molly's for a second longer than absolutely necessary. Molly smiled a little, embarrassed, and walked through to the living room. Irene, for the second time that night, followed suit.

"Are you coming?" Molly was staring at Sherlock who was wrapping his scarf round his neck.

"If I wasn't I wouldn't be stood up with my coat and scarf on." He looked at her with a gaze he gave to people when they stated the obvious or were blatantly being stupid.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" She said ignoring Sherlock's gaze.

"John needs to see him. I think it would be a good idea if he came." Irene tugged at Sherlock's scarf to straighten it.

"I didn't say he was going to see me."

"You can't come and then not see him!"

"I'm not revealing my fake-suicide to the world. Mrs Hudson will be there too and I'm certainly not saying anything to her." To anyone else it would have sounded like Sherlock didn't like Mrs Hudson when in reality, he respected her so much, he didn't want her to think anything less of him from the time when before he died.

"Let's just go. Whether you see John or not, we need to make sure he's OK." Molly cut short the brewing argument and stepped out the door. Irene and Sherlock had no choice but to follow her. The door slammed with finality. Irene didn't know and Molly had forgotten that Sherlock hadn't left that flat since his fake death. The one time he was brought out of it, the only time he went against his plan, was to make sure his blogger was OK…