Hey guys, I just wanted to start out by saying that I was extremely flattered by my lovely reviewers! So thank you so much to Kilimiria and all you anons. It was really encouraging, considering that I've never written a fanfic before. I'm going to try to update at least once weekly, but I can't promise anything. I'm literally BURSTING with ideas, all of which I plan to cram into this fic, so don't worry I won't run out of ideas any time soon, but I can't write it all at once. I need to space it out so that I don't rush myself. I'm still not sure how long this fic is going to go on, but I think it'll be a long one.

So, as always, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter 3: Dead Man Walking

Irene scurried up the steps of her complex, nearly catapulting through her door. She threw her purse on the counter and slammed the door shut behind her, careful to lock and bolt it. A woman of her reputation couldn't be careless. Luckily for her, she knew how to stay on her toes. She never stayed in one place for too long; makes for an easy target. She checked TV, radio, newspapers, anything and everything, making sure she was safe. Well, as safe as a fugitive on the run from several governments coulda be, that is. The newspapers were initially how she had found out about Sherlock's suicide.

Funny, when she had met him, that first time in her flat, she hadn't taken him for a man inclined towards suicide. Nor the second in Greece after he had saved her life. It was just so cliche...flinging yourself from a building. It was what ordinary people did. Sherlock's damn pride would never allow him to throw away his life, he was too proud.

She'd had a lot of time since then to contemplate over what would motivate him to do such a thing as save her. He wasn't inhuman, of course. If you'd seen someone crossing the street, a bus about to crush them into the pavement, a perfectly humane person would call out. Perhaps flying across Europe and Asia to rescue a not so innocent woman from execution was second nature to him. Perhaps you don't really need a reason to save someone. Still, Sherlock wasn't one to go about saving people from busses.

Her latest theory was that his little escapade that just happened to result in her life being spared was out of sheer boredom. That was the most plausible explanation. Not necessarily the one she wanted to believe, but she didn't make it a habit to delude herself. That only complicated the matter.

She supposed it didn't really matter. She was alive wasn't she? Being cooped up in a flat for nearly four months had really rubbed her raw, and her desperation to keep her mind sharp, focused on something, anything, had led her to dangerous thoughts.

Her flat was decent, considering it was temporary. Very temporary. She'd been here a month, which was usually quite a bit longer than she would have liked to stay. She was uneasy at first, naturally, but she'd quickly grown accustomed to her accommodations. Maybe it was just the familiar London air, but she felt strangely safe in her little flat, a haven away from all the madness in her newfound life.

It was simple, functional, and simplistic, yet homey and a bit snug. She almost liked the close quarters. It beat a big, empty mansion in the upscale part of London. As nice as those pesky mansions could be, they also gathered unwanted attention from certain government officials.

All of the rooms were conjoined, with only the bathroom and bedroom quartered off. The door led straight into the living room, perpendicular to the single bedroom. The living room took a sharp turn, into the kitchen. The kitchen was the smallest space, farthest from the door, with only a white marble counter and the basics. A dining room table lined the opposite wall. Next to the table was a sliding glass door which led to the balcony, where Irene spent most her time, early in the morning, cigarette in hand. It helped her think. She wasn't one to become addicted to substances, but it gave her the rare clarity of mind she had been so desperately needing for the past months.

Now that she was situated in her flat, she put the kettle on, deciding to have one last cup of tea before packing away a few of her things and heading off to the airport. Irene had paid the landlady rent for the next six months. She knew full well she had to leave, yet she couldn't bring herself to abandon her little patch of heaven. Besides, she needed a safe house, just in case things got messy. She had had close encounters with trouble over the past few months, but nothing too catastrophic. Still, she wouldn't be taking any chances.

She had originally told herself that the reason she was here in London was because she needed to take care of unfinished business - which was partially true. Yet, she knew the real reason was to visit Sherlock. Well, what was left of him. She had waited an entire month before visiting his grave, partly out of caution, but mostly out of hesitation. She eventually worked up the nerve though, even if it did cost her time. But that's all her life would be, running, and biding her time. On the bright side, she always wanted to travel when she was younger.

I guess I've gotten my wish, in some twisted, messed up way.

She laughed in spite of herself. God, she was stupid. If she was to survive for the rest of her miserable damned life, she'd better keep it together. What the hell was happening to her? Where did this sudden sentiment for Sherlock Holmes come from? It's not as if he was any use to her dead. She sighed, her head sinking into her hands. Irene needed sleep.

I'll go to sleep at a reasonable time when I have something worth waking up for, she thought sullenly.

She folded her clothes neatly into her compact suitcase, taking only what needed to be taken, including a small sum of cash, folded her coat over her forearm and marched out the door, slipping the key into the lock and giving it a final turn.

Venice, Italy - 2 months later-

Irene glanced at the clock on her bedside table.

2 AM. Shit. 2 months and still nothing worth waking up for.

She'd done all she could to keep her sanity, and she'd even built up a client base. Nothing like her business endeavors in London, but it was something to keep the crippling boredom away.

She'd grown tiresome of the constant traveling, and had decided to settle here in Venice for as long as she could. She'd splurged a bit, and bought a waterfront house overlooking the river that ran through the city.

So much for laying low. She's built up a decent client base now, and she did need some manner of professionalism in her line of work. That was what she prided herself on above all else in her business; discretion and professionalism. Besides, she might as well try to enjoy her time here in Venice. This happened to be a rare part of the world where she wasn't on the "most wanted" list.

It was in the late hours of the night now. The moonlight would be throwing fragments off light of the rippling river, running deep through the city, as water through a great trees roots, just outside her bedroom window.

At 11:40 sharp, she heard a hollow knock at her door. Like clockwork.

That must be him now, she thought.

She peered through the door, to confirm her assumption. Her loyal client had scheduled their arrangement almost a month back. Irene Adler certainly kept busy. He was one of the more normal ones. He didn't necessarily like her dominatrix persona, he just liked seeing her. Her job was to give out scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing, but overall, it was to give the client exactly what they liked. He was a boring, fairly predictable man, who was usually a bit jumpy waiting outside her door, as if he knew someone would discover his secret. Men like him though, they often had more than just one compromising secret, therefore reason to be a bit jumpy. Yes, she knew all about this one. Hadn't taken her too ling to figure him out. She loved her work for more than a couple of reasons. She loved power play, that much was obvious. But the mystery behind all these ordinary, depraved people...unravelling the masks people tend to hide themselves behind; that's what was truly riveting for her. These strangers' mysterious lives weren't any of her concern, but delving into other people's affairs was arguably what she did best. She glanced at herself in the mirror; hair flowing down her body in subtle, sensual waves. Her lips were stained a deep shade scarlet. Well, second best.

She looked out of the peephole just in time to pull her hand back from the first chain on her door.

Where the hell was he? It's not like him to get cold feet and run.

Irene had scraped past too many near-death experiences to believe in mere coincidences. She grabbed the gun she kept locked in a drawer near the front entrance, and pressed it to her back. Slowly, meticulously, she unlocked the door.

At first, she wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or slam the door and throw herself in the canal, in an attempt to wake herself up. She stood, speechless, not a coherent thought forming in her brain, as if someone had just snapped the strings connecting body to mind. She didn't do anything. She just stood and stared for what seemed like ages. Her brain registered the impossibility of this being the man she so desperately wanted to believe it was. It had to be him. Surely her mind hadn't gone completely bonkers after all these months alone, had it? A lot of impossibilities had arisen in Irene's unusual life, but never before had she opened her flat door and come face to face with a dead man walking.