And here it is! The final chapter! At last! I am so sorry for the delay - I have been suffering from an overload of Uni work, technical difficulties and illness, and it's taken me longer than I was hoping to get the story finished. Sherlock was also being less than helpful while I was trying to write this chapter which didn't make this any easier either :P Ho hum - tis finished now.

I just wanted to thank everyone who has followed the story so far/written a review (And J - I hope the ACTUAL story lives up to the theories you were coming up with ;) ). Here's hoping you enjoy the final installment of my story!

N.B - sentences which are enclosed with '- -' show that they've been crossed out; hopefully that'll become clear later on :P

Sherlock frowned down at the single word for several long seconds (Doorstep? What game was she playing now?) before he side-stepped the twittering Mrs Hudson and made his way quickly downstairs, possibilities and half-formed ideas flashing in quick succession through his mind. Reaching the front door he wrenched it open…

And stopped, perplexed.

This… Was his present…?

A woman stood with her back to him, a small overnight bag at her feet. Her conker brown hair cascaded round her shoulders in loose curls, standing out against the simple elegance of her fitted cream coat. At the sound of the front door opening she had turned towards him, but it wasn't until his gaze, now holding more than a hint of confusion, met hers that he finally recognised the woman. Or rather, The Woman…

Eyes narrowing even as his heart rate increased (a natural reaction, surely; her being in London was dangerous, and Mycroft had eyes everywhere. Nothing to do with the fact she'd chosen to visit him. No. Definitely not), he all but glared at the woman.

"What are you doing here?"

"And hello to you too, Mr Holmes." A faint smile playing about her lips, Irene raised an eyebrow at him. "How delightful to see you again." Waving away the social niceties, he scowled at her.

"Answer the question."

"I came to visit."

"Why?"

Her smile broadening at his question, she took a small step closer, amusement dancing in her piercing grey gaze.

"You're an intelligent man, Mr Holmes. Why do you think?"

"It's not safe for you here." Rolling her eyes at that, she picked up her bag, her expression part exasperation, part determination.

"I'm as safe here as I am anywhere. Besides," she added as she stepped past him into the hall. "Here has one advantage over the other places I have visited recently."

"Oh?" Sherlock kept very still as she moved past him, fighting the very strong impulse to close his eyes as the scent of her perfume, which had become more and more familiar with the arrival of each new envelope, all of which retained a trace of the scent, washed over him. Enveloped in the spicy, intoxicating elegant tones of her perfume, he found the violin piece he had written for her called to the front of his mind with startling clarity, the soaring notes echoing eerily through his thoughts. Yet, despite the turmoil her sudden appearance had caused, he managed to maintain his habitual cool demeanour and carefully modulated tone. "And what is that?"

Irene paused for a moment, glancing over her shoulder at Sherlock, her gaze flickering quickly over his face. Although her playful smirk still danced at the outer edges of her lips, her eyes were deadly serious, filled with certainty and another, deeper emotion Sherlock didn't dare focus on or analyse too closely.

"You." Giving a small smile, she carried on up the stairs to 221B, leaving Sherlock rooted to the spot for a few frantic heartbeats. What the-? Him? What kind of an answer was that…? Quickly rousing himself, he followed her. Absurd. He was being absurd. As was she. Clearly her time away had made her deranged.

Reaching the flat, he paused in the doorway, watching with surprise and mild alarm as he saw Irene and Mrs Hudson chattering nineteen to the dozen. The Woman and his landlady…. An unorthodox and frankly disturbing idea. He couldn't recall them getting along this well last time they'd met…

Shaking his head, he crossed the room, ignoring both of them and dropped into his armchair. Picking up a newspaper he began flicking idly through its pages in an attempt to drown out their incessant talk. He couldn't help but notice, however, that Irene had developed a subtle, yet distinct, American accent in the three minutes it had taken her to climb the stairs, and several times he heard Mrs Hudson refer to her as 'Charlotte'. Despite the newspaper, Sherlock found it almost impossible to actually concentrate on the words on the page in front of him, and several times he caught himself sneaking glances at Irene, watching her covertly from behind his paper-shield. To his great irritation, however, she seemed to sense his gaze, a broader and broader smirk spreading across her lips as she flicked her eyes to meet his, an eyebrow arched questioningly. Scowling deeply each time it happened, Sherlock drummed his fingers irritably on his paper as he waited for Mrs Hudson to leave.

After the births and deaths of several civilisations, aeons after Irene had first entered the flat, his landlady finally excused herself, leaving the two of them alone again. Glancing at him with undisguised amusement, Irene shrugged off her coat, draping it over the arm of the sofa as she wandered leisurely around the flat, smiling to herself as she picked up various odds and ends which lay scattered around the flat; remnants of previous cases and experiments.

Sherlock by this time had abandoned all attempts at pretending to read the newspaper and had instead turned his attention to trying to read something far more interesting.

Her.

Fingers steepled beneath his chin, his icy blue gaze followed her steady progress around the room. The removal of her coat had revealed she was wearing an oversized navy blue knitted jumper underneath, which looked suspiciously like it had once belonged to a man. It should have looked ridiculous, and perhaps on someone else it would have, but somehow she managed to pull it off with a natural elegance and an air of confidence. Coupled with a pair of skinny jeans, it left The Woman looking rather more casual and rather less like the Dominatrix he remembered. Except… He supposed she wasn't the woman he remembered; that incarnation of Irene Adler had died in Karachi... And yet, it was still frustratingly difficult to deduce anything about her. She was an enigma, an endless series of questions, tantalising in their complexity and yet simultaneously devilishly simple. Impossible Woman…

"This place really hasn't changed at all." Her sudden comment, now with no trace of the faint American accent which had been present with Mrs Hudson, startled Sherlock from his fruitless thoughts, and his brow furrowed slightly as he looked at her, meeting her amused grey gaze steadily. "Neither have you for that matter."

"You sound disappointed."

"Quite the contrary, Mr Holmes; after finding myself in so many new and strange places lately, it's rather refreshing to be somewhere familiar after so much change. And not just from my surroundings either," she added with a small smile as she took the seat opposite him, absently flicking her hair from her eyes as she curled her feet underneath her. Eyes narrowing at the movement, his sharp gaze followed the offending strand of hair as it caught a shaft of wintry sunlight, the lighter brown hues flaring to life.

"I thought you'd said you had gone blonde?" he asked suddenly, tone irritable, almost accusatory. As soon as the question had ghosted from his lips, however, he regretted it, and glanced quickly away, feigning nonchalance even as he inwardly cursed his stupidity at thinking, never mind vocalising such a thought.

Irene smiled at his question, tilting her head to the side slightly as she watched him, seemingly amused by his irritation and discomfort.

"So you did get my letters? I always wondered if they got here…"

"Of course," he replied dismissively, feeling unaccountably jittery and restless with The Woman in the flat. Perhaps because he hadn't seen her for so long, perhaps because John wasn't here this time, or just perhaps because those damn letters had confused him and his mind in ways he'd rather not admit to, but this time… Things felt different. And Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he liked it….

Irene, however, seemed blissfully unaware of any such concerns, and looked completely at ease.

"I was blonde, but it really wasn't working out for me… As I said, 'Brunettes have more fun'. So I changed. Again. I've become rather adept at reinventing myself now." Though her tone was as light and faintly amused as ever, Sherlock picked up on the faintest undercurrent of tension in her words, an almost wistful quality which belied her casual manner. With a slight shake of her head and a smile, however, the moment had gone; the mask was once more firmly in place. "All you really need is a clever hairdresser and the wherewithal to know how to play any officials you might meet."

"You mean you need to know 'what they like'," he murmured disdainfully, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair as he watched her carefully.

"Precisely."

"Hmmm." Making a non-committal noise, Sherlock got to his feet and moved to the fireplace. Gazing into the mirror at Irene, he remarked, "Hardly an effective disguise, Miss Adler." Meeting his gaze in the mirror she shrugged.

"You'd be surprised. Besides, your landlady didn't recognise me."

"Hardly a ringing endorsement; I doubt whether Mrs Hudson would recognise me if I turned up on her doorstep with dyed hair, and she's known me for years. Besides, she's only met you once."

"And I've only met Mycroft once."

"He does this sort of thing for a living."

"Which is what makes this all the more interesting."

Glaring at her, he turned his back on the mirror, staring intently at her.

"Well, I hope your new identity is a damn-sight better than your disguise. Name?"

"Charlotte-"

"Why?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Why Charlotte?"

"After my sister." He made a noise of disgust, looking almost disappointed.

"Obvious. Mycroft would be sure to check that."

"It's served me well so far." She paused, eyebrow arched expectantly at him, looking mildly exasperated. "May I continue?" Rolling his eyes, he nodded, waving her on. "Thank you. Charlotte Norton."

"Norton? Better. Why Norton? No, wait. Don't tell me. Let me guess. The name of your first client or something equally as tedious."

"Not quite. The name of a new lover actually; Godfrey Norton. I met him in New York; he was quite sweet actually, Godfrey… He even asked me to marry him at one point."

Sherlock, however, seemed not to hear her as she continued to talk; he had all but frozen at the word 'marry', his mind struggling to comprehend the idea that someone had dared to propose to The Woman, his woman, and he turned away from her slightly as he fought to get these frankly baffling feelings under control. He had no idea where these feelings of possessiveness had come from; all he knew was it was taking all of his self-control not to demand she takes off that ridiculous jumper, which had no doubt belonged to him, Godfrey Norton and give her his coat instead… Though he wasn't sure why it mattered so much…

"I said no."

"What?" Starting a little, jolted from his thoughts again, he reluctantly turned his gaze back on The Woman who was watching him with rather more understanding than he would have liked.

"Godfrey Norton," she explained patiently. "I said no. In case you were wondering."

"I wasn't. Why should I care?"

"You tell me, Mr Holmes."

"I don't care. You can… Marry whomsoever you like, no matter how moronic." Forcing himself to calm down, a feat made immeasurably easier with the news that Irene wasn't engaged to the man (or anyone a traitorous voice piped up in his mind after his eyes flicked to her ringless-left hand), Sherlock took a seat in his armchair again. Smiling faintly at his words, amusement beginning to dance in her grey gaze, Irene nodded.

"Of course not…" Sherlock cleared his throat slightly, keen to change the subject.

"I believe I was promised a present with your last letter, Miss Adler." He refused to call her Norton. No. It wasn't going to happen. Irene arched an eyebrow at him, her amusement at his statement evident.

"Isn't my visit enough, Mr Holmes? No? My, you do know how to flatter a girl… What more would you like?"

"An answer," he replied promptly.

"An… answer…?"

"Yes. Why did you start writing to me?"

Irene gave a small shrug, her expression slightly more wary than before.

"It helped to pass the time."

"You could have passed the time writing letters without sending them. But you took the time to write them, address them and post them. This wasn't just about passing the time, Miss Adler, and I'd like to know why."

Irene didn't say anything for a few moments, simply met his gaze steadily, almost defiantly, before giving a soft sigh and glancing away.

"I'd had to give up so much of my life; my house, my friends, my name… All gone, all at once. I suppose I wasn't ready to give you up yet too. You were the last link to 'Irene Adler' I had left, the last person who knew I was alive… I guess I wasn't quite ready for the game to be over…" She stayed silent for a few moments before flicking her gaze to his again with a small smile. "It was hardly because you made a good pen pal after all," she said, her tone lightly teasing. "You never did reply."

"How could I? You never gave me an address."

"That was rather the point. It would have spoilt the game otherwise; it wasn't real if you couldn't reply. Besides," Irene continues with a smile, "You never replied to my texts; why should my letters be any different?" Sherlock nodded, expression thoughtful, his cool gaze flickering slowly over her face. Without saying a word, he got to his feet and left the room, returning a few moments later with a small bundle of envelopes, which he handed to Irene.

"What's this?" Hesitantly accepting the letters from Sherlock, Irene gazed at the unaddressed envelopes, a faint frown furrowing her forehead. "What are these for?"

"Proving you wrong."

Sherlock watched as Irene warily opened the first letter, her expression shifting to one of surprise as she reads the words. His words.

Chicago, USA:
Let's have dinner

London, England:
How are we supposed to have dinner while you are in America?

New York, USA:
Did you miss me?

London, England:
-An absurd and ridiculous question. Why would I miss-

-Don't be ridic-

Yes.

There was a reply for each letter she'd written to him, from every stop she'd made on her journey.

Dhaka, Bangladesh:
What are you thinking about right now? Just what is going on in that big, sexy brain of yours?

London, England:
I am currently thinking about the rates of coagulation of arterial blood of a teetotaller verses an alcoholic, and how this proves that the murderer of the late Mr Jameson was definitely at the Wansworth Alcoholics' Anonymous meeting last Thursday.

-And how I really hope you were joking when you said you were blonde, although I somehow doubt you-

"You… Replied… To all of them," Irene said eventually, glancing up at Sherlock, confusion and curiosity warring in her gaze.

"I did."

"Why?"

A question he had asked himself many times since he'd started, a couple of days after the arrival of the first letter. At first he did it to help him think, in a vain attempt to get the letters (and their writer) out of his mind, but he'd been pleasantly surprised to find the rituals associated with letter writing all worked to help his thoughts flow with greater ease, much in the same way composing did. As time went on, however, he found he simply liked the idea of writing to Irene.

And so his little stack of envelopes had grown.

Stretching out a hand, he helped her to her feet. Keeping his eyes fixed on hers, he slid his fingers to the underside of her wrist, resting them gently on her pulse point as he leaned in closer to whisper in her ear.

"Sentiment."

Well there it is! I hope you've enjoyed it guys :) And thank you so much for sticking with me while I wrote it - I've enjoyed sharing this story with you, and hopefully I'll have another one for you in the not too distant future ;) My notebook's already overflowing with new ideas; it's just finding the time to actually write them now... Thanks again guys ^-^