John Watson hung his white lab coat behind his office door and stretched his neck, which was suffering from a long day at the surgery. After ten hours of treating colds and migraines, two spider bites, and one shockingly neglected case of shingles, he was looking forward to a quiet evening on the couch in front of the telly. As he shrugged on his well-worn green jacket, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He smiled, expecting it to be from Mary, saying she was running late or could he pick up milk on his way home from work, and grabbed the phone from his trouser pocket.

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.

John stared at the text. His troubled knee buckled, and he flattened his back against the door to stay upright. His breaths came too quickly, and he realized he was on the verge of hyperventilating. He practiced the breathing modifications he'd learned to deal with his nightmares and slowly regained control. Before responding to the text, he called Mary.

"Hi, sweetheart. I just heard from an old client of Sher… ours, and I'm meeting her for a drink on the way home. That mess up any plans?"

Sitting in a corner table of the pub, Irene Adler owned the room. Her emerald silk blouse wisped over dark blue jeans. Her Louboutin pumps were dyed the same deep auburn as her hair. Her flawless complexion was the color of cream, with all its intrinsic decadence.

Even dead, Irene Adler was still the woman who could bring a nation to its knees.

She smiled at John Watson as he approached, knowing that he observed her power and was somehow completely unaffected by it.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. Thank you for meeting me." She gracefully gestured to the chair across from her. "Please, sit."

"Ms. Adler," John said in greeting, as he pulled back the chair.

Irene laughed, a sparkling sound that had charmed many men and women. "Dispensing with the pleasantries? I always took you for a gentleman."

"That's as polite as I can manage at the moment, I'm afraid."

"Well, then, maybe you'll feel more gentlemanly after I buy you a drink."

Irene waved at the bartender, who sent two pints over to their table. John looked at his glass and cracked a bemused smile. "You know my favorite beer."

"Oh, I've made a study of you, Doctor Watson."

"I guess you must have had a lot of time on your hands, being dead and all."

Irene leaned forward, her green silk neckline posed to draw attention. John just continued to look into her eyes. She pursed her lips and drew back. Met with silence. She sipped her beer and licked the foam from her lips in a fashion that had broken up at least two marriages. John yawned.

John Watson was a delightful creature, Irene thought to herself.

"I didn't ask you here to discuss how I faked my death." Irene leaned forward to whisper, "So, how is our favorite detective doing?"

John recoiled. "What?"

"Please, Doctor Watson, you don't have to act with me. How did he manage it? He must have explained it all to you."

"How can you ask me this?" John took a long drink from his glass.

For the first time in a long while, Irene felt unsettled. "You mean you haven't heard from Sherlock?"

His glass slammed into the table, attracting attention from other customers. John spoke fiercely, "I don't know what you've heard, but he jumped off a building right in front of me. I saw him. He made me watch." John paused, then whispered. "I saw the blood on his face, his eyes were still open. I tried to help, but…"

Irene reached out and grabbed his hand, but John pulled it away. "I'm sorry," she said. "I thought…"

"You thought he'd staged his death?" John looked at Irene, then understanding. "Like he helped you fake yours."

Irene nodded. "John, if he is truly dead, then I'm sorry for how this conversation has started."

She realized that she did feel sorry, an abnormal emotion for her, as John repeated, "If he is truly dead?"

Irene looked at the man in front of her. So ordinary. Average height, easy enough on the eyes. Nothing about him to stand out in a crowd. Yet she knew he had a gun tucked into his trousers and likely threw off at least one security detail on his way to meet with her.

"People are disappearing."

"What people?" John asked.

"To put it poetically, Moriarty's web is slowly being unraveled. You did not know?"

John sighed and leaned back in his chair. "It wouldn't surprise me if Mycroft was behind that. He's a bastard, but he loved his brother in his own way."

Irene hesitated, trying to come up with the right words. "But would Mycroft leave the message that you weren't to be harmed?"

At John's confused expression, Irene continued. "It is well-known amongst certain circles that John Watson is not to be touched, or else a storm will pass over them and many will wither before its blast." She was clearly quoting the last from memory.

"One fixed point in a changing age, " John murmured wonderingly under his breath.

"Excuse me?"

John was lost in thought. Irene was fascinated by the quick flux of emotions on his face. Disbelief, hope, grief… then they were gone, and the calm face of the brave soldier returned.

"Nothing." John shook his head. "Look, I understand why you thought he was alive, but it's been over two years. If he's been undercover all this time without getting me word, I'd strangle him with my own bare hands when he returned."

"That might be your first instinct, Doctor Watson. One wonders what your second instinct would be once you finally laid hands on Sherlock Holmes?"

"My army training would give me plenty of options."

A startled laugh burst from Irene. "It is so easy to see why Sherlock felt such affection for you. Never boring, are you?"

John laughed bitterly. "Better than a skull, at least."

"I must admit, I don't quite know what to say to that." A true smile brightened her face. "You keep me on my toes." Her smiled dimmed, as Irene said, "But you really haven't heard from Sherlock. It's not him cleaning up the mess?"

John emptied the rest of his glass. "Nice to know that somebody out there is watching out for me. I haven't spoken to Mycroft since… well… I'm sure he's been taking care of things. But how about you, Ms. Adler? Who is watching out for you?"

"Oh, nobody, Doctor. Sherlock made sure I didn't need watching over ever again."

At this, curiosity got the best of John. "Tell me, how did he do it?"

Irene contemplated lying to the man in front of her, but felt compelled to share. To tease the poor man? Or to give him hope? Irene was not used to being unsure of her own motives, but opted for a version of the truth nonetheless.

"A girl can't give away all her secrets. Let's just say, given that Sherlock had exhibited an intellectual interest in me, I chose to not disappear so completely that he could not keep tabs on me. I left a trail of breadcrumbs, so to speak."

At the mention of breadcrumbs, John flinched. Irene wondered what happened for him to react to such a mundane object.

"I know that he was infuriated that I had gotten the best of him. Oh, sure, he won that night. But I knew that he liked having an intellectual equal to engage with, that he'd be unhappy if I met with an untimely death. So I planned a way for him to save me that would work in my favor."

John asked, "But Mycroft saw your body, or at least people who he trusted did." John smirked. "He said would take Sherlock Holmes himself to fool him."

"Indeed it did. When Sherlock returned to his hotel room in Karachi, I was waiting. He realized that I'd been in control all along, placing the clues to rescue me. I'd needed to disappear so that no one, not even Mycroft Holmes, could find me. Who better to arrange that for me than Sherlock Holmes?" Irene smirked, "So you see? I am still the one woman who beat him."

She deepened her voice and tilted her head. "But I had to play along. I told him, I wanted to adequately express my gratitude for all he had done. I told Sherlock that I'd do anything, give him anything he wanted."

John remained silent, but Irene could see his control was starting to slip. Predatory was the only word to describe Irene's expression. She leaned forward, wondering if she could get the good doctor to finally crack or if he would remain ever the stoic soldier.

"Believe it or not, he asked me for something. Do you want to guess what Sherlock wanted from me, Doctor Watson?"

"Not particularly," said John tightly.

Irene laughed fondly and leaned back in her chair. "He asked me for a photograph. One to commemorate a time when he felt completely at ease. To remember a time when he felt happy and loved." She was so pleased with John's guarded facial expression that she was almost purring. "Would you like me to send you a copy?"

John snidely replied, "You must feel very proud of yourself."

Irene raised an eyebrow.

"To be the one who made him care. To be the one person who mattered."

Irene rose from her chair, dropping an extravagant amount of cash on the table to cover their drinks. She walked around the table to where John remained seated and looked down at him. "True, he flew across two continents to save me from thugs and help me disappear." She gently turned John's chin up towards her to force eye contact. "But dead or alive, Sherlock Holmes gave up his life for you. So tell me, Doctor Watson, who did he love?"

John remained motionless as Irene exited the cafe, disappearing into the darkening London evening.

Mary slept soundly next to John, as his mind replayed his conversation with Irene over and over again. He resented that she was alive. He resented that she brought back all of his hopes that Sherlock had faked his death, that there was a plan to all of the madness and pain. He resented that, for an instant, he'd allowed himself to believe he'd see Sherlock again.

John's mobile rattled on his nightstand. He glanced over his shoulder at Mary, but she remained asleep. John crept out of the bed, grabbed the phone, and entered the adjoining bathroom. He was almost hoping it was a patient emergency to distract him from the events of the evening, but then he noticed the contents of the message.

You know you want to look. (Photo attachment)

John really did not want to look, but he knew that the message would taunt him, as was its intent. Deleting it was not an option. If he had any chance of getting some sleep before his alarm went off, he should just look at the photo.

The mobile shook in his left hand. Dammit, he thought, just get it over with.

He thumbed open the attachment and gasped. The image was not what he expected.

Sherlock and John were in a cab. Just a hint of the stolen ashtray from Buckingham Palace was visible as Sherlock was hiding it back in his coat. John was clearly laughing, and Sherlock was smiling and looking completely at ease. Happy. Loved? Irene's words echoed through his mind.

John Watson dropped to his bathroom floor and cried.