Chapter 9

Irene brought over her own cup of tea and sat next to him. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes.

"Thank you, Sherlock" it was the first time in a while she'd used his first name. Sherlock assumed she meant nothing by it and shrugged,

"I know how irritating Mycroft can be" he looked into his cup instead of up at her and he could feel her penetrating eyes watching him.

The both drank in silence, only vaguely registering New Year advertisements on the TV. Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, hoping to break the awkward silence Irene spoke,

"I have to leave tomorrow" he wasn't sure why she was telling him this. She'd never told him before; she just slipped in and out of his life without invitation. Sherlock looked up for a second. She was looking away from him now, a sad almost vulnerable look on her face. He'd only seen this look once before; when he'd broken her phone passcode. Surely it couldn't be that bad could it? It wasn't as if he wouldn't see her again. His brain told him she was best avoided but other feelings in mainly his heart said otherwise. He couldn't let her slip through his fingers again. Sherlock had already grown accustomed to waking up and feeling her breath on his face, still asleep.

Wait.

This wasn't right. Sherlock Holmes does not feel. He only thinks about things which are important. Love..no not love. Irene Adler is a disadvantage. He knew that much.

He decided to put the memories of the chess game into a dark secluded corner of his mind, despite still having the white king clenched in his other hand.

"Try not to get yourself killed. Again. I might not be there this time."

Irene's mouth flickered a little. Almost a smile.

She must have given up all thought of "dinner" for the night because she stood up abruptly, left her teacup in the dishwasher and slunk off to Sherlock's bedroom without so much as a backward glance at him

Sherlock felt oddly lonely after she'd left so he turned off the television (which just so happened to be blaring out the advert. Sherlock thought it best to turn off before he lost his sanity).

He decided to wait a while before going to his bedroom. It wasn't that he didn't want to wake her, he didn't but it felt as though something had changed in the room where they'd been sitting together a few moments ago. Neither of them wanted to lose the game just yet and any feelings had appeared to temporarily leave.

Eventually, he entered the room. She looked very peaceful and she had a small smile on her face. Whatever she was dreaming about must have been to her liking.

Sherlock's dreams recently had revolved around that night. The night they'd played chess. Constantly replaying over and over.

Tonight's was different. He was in a field in the country. He despised the country but this time it didn't seem to bother him. He was with someone but he couldn't quite tell who it was. They were holding his hand, nothing more. Both of them watched a dark haired child with rosy cheeks run towards them then, just as the boy was about to collide with them, he passed. Sherlock turned to see the small boy running towards a river. The river was deep and the water was flowing fast, over the rocks causing thick white frothy foam to spew over the water. The boy was going to run into the river. Before Sherlock could say anything, the grip on his hand had loosened. The person, a woman, who'd been holding it ran after the boy, telling him to stop.

The boy turned his head, mid-run to look not at the woman yelling, but at him. His face looked familiar. He had very pale skin except for his cheeks. His neck was fairly long and slender.

Sherlock only caught a glimpse of the boys sparkling, pale green eyes before he fell. Sherlock heard a scream from the woman who had reached the water. She had long dark hair but her face was obscured. Sherlock ran to the river but too late. The woman had been leaning over the edge to search for the boy, loosing her grip as she toppled in, a last attempt to grab the riverbank, a last attempt for Sherlock to save her. He heard another scream. It was his own but also the womans. Maybe if he reached out he could find her.

Sherlock eyes burst open. He was panting, sweating, but lying in his bed. He sat up and looked around feverishly. No field. No river. No boy. There was a woman. Lying next to him still deeply asleep.

He looked at his watch; 04:17. Sherlock rubbed his eyes as he tried to forget the dream. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly who the woman in the dream was.

Slowly he lay back down and closed his eyes, praying he wouldn't have the same dream again.

When Sherlock awoke once more, the bed, apart from him, was empty. She's gone. Her luggage and clothes. Her various accessories. Even the smell of her perfume had left the room.

Sherlock felt miserable at her departure. It was nice to have someone with a 3-digit IQ in the flat with him. What did he expect? A long emotional goodbye? Neither of them were fans of that. Sherlock felt slightly betrayed. She hadn't promised him anything and a woman of that nature is bound to be busy. She felt something for him. Whether it was just liking, affection or even love didn't matter. What did matter was the worrying factor that he at least liked her back. Sentiment shouldn't be the cause of romance and this wasn't romance. Sherlock groaned, rubbing his temples. Unlike John he didn't feel the urge to find a "soulmate". Before he'd met Irene, Sherlock had seen all normal women as about as useful as chocolate teapots. Unfortunately for him, The Woman clearly wasn't normal. Sherlock decided he was just sad to see his only decent chess partner go. His mind knew this was obviously a lie.