Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Come As You Are - Nirvana

Chapter 4: Come As You Are

She stared in shock and horror at the ghostly, thin, feeble looking frame of her unexpected guest. He was a mere shadow. Her eyes swept over his too-long hair, flopping in his eyes when he looked up at her. She, in turn, reflected his sickly pale face. Their eyes locked, as she attempted to decipher his thoughts, as her own were jumbled together. What could she possibly say to him. Where to start? As if saving her from the cold grip of his eyes, his voice was the first to break the silence.

"Expecting someone?" He glanced down at her attire; a black corset laced with ribbons in back, deliciously accentuating her figure, stockings made of silk and lace, revealing only a slit of skin on her upper thighs, where they were connected to suspenders, paired with shiny peep toe black stilettos.

So consumed by her own questions, fighting for space in her brain, she put on the pretense of an expectant hostess. Slightly amused, she replied nonchalantly, "I'll put the kettle on.", as though she had been expecting him, and ghosts of dead detectives showing up in her house was a usual encounter.

She grabbed his arm, to pull him inside. He flinched under her tense grip, before slowly grabbing her wrist, removing the gun in her hand and setting it in the drawer.

Her hands were shaky as she handed him his cup of tea. Not sure of the words that would tumble out if she spoke, she waited for him to break the silence once again.

"I need your help."

"I'd assumed as much." Both mugs of tea sat on the coffee table standing in between the chair sherlock had slumped into, and the couch were irene had perched herself on the armrest. Unable to contain herself, she dove straight into the questions. "Where have you been, Sherlock?"

She didn't need to elaborate on her question. Irene Adler was a woman of few, but very effective words. In one simple question, she could ask twenty. Sherlock wrapped his head around the density and complexity her question entailed, and all the questions that came along with it; Who was in on his faked suicide? Where had he been hiding for these three months? What had he gotten up to? Why hadn't he gone back to tell John? Why did he carry the heavy scent of cigarette smoke? Why was he on the run? , to name a few.

He didn't reply.

"Then answer this; what do you want?" Irene asked inquisitively, putting extra emphasis on the word want. "Because I'm hungry and I want dinner."

"I've already told you; you're help."

"No, that's what you need to get what you want. Don't make me repeat myself."

I never repeat myself, she thought with a smirk. She was almost beginning to enjoy this. Oh, how she missed her little mind games. She missed the mystery, the intrigue of her long-forgotten past in London. But most of all, she missed Sherlock. A dead man had shown up at her door only minutes ago. How much more mysterious could you get?

Sherlock gave in, realizing he would get nowhere without first explaining what it was that he needed from her. "I've been hunting down Moriarty's network. I've managed to take out most of his lower men, but it's gotten complicated."

"Oh, so you're finally in over your head?" Irene asked with a playful smile. God, she loved it when people begged her for help. Clients begged her for a lot of things, but none of that excitement could compare to the rush she felt when the great Sherlock Holmes was asking her for help.

He looked annoyed. "Ahem- yes, in a manner of speaking," he mumbled. "As I said, it's gotten complicated and I've done all that's within my power to do."

"Indulge me." Irene leaned forward, her chin in her hand, watching him closely. She wore the same look of deep, unadulterated interest and focus as when Sherlock had been explaining the murder of the hiker and the back-fired car.

"I need connections. I figured you'd be able to help me with that."

"Connections?" Now she was really engaged, enthralled, really. Sherlock wasn't the most sociable person, and she highly doubted he was asking for her to arrange a quaint little tea party where he might encounter these desired "connections". No, these would be of the more criminal, murderous kind, no doubt.

He stared down at his cup. "It's…not really my area."

"No, I suppose not. Connections…with Moriarty's men, I presume? Well I suppose I can help you to a certain extent. Surely someone as intelligent as yourself realizes I haven't been keeping ties with them?"

"You have a substantial amount of information. I need it, Ms. Adler."

"Oh I see. And now we're really get down to business. And here I thought we were just old friends catching up." Irene got up off the armrest, taking her tea cup back to the kitchen. This, no matter how serious, was to be savored. Of course she was eager to choke answers out of him, but who didn't love a little foreplay?

"I assure you this is nothing but a business exchange. You may come to realize you need me just as much as I need you." Perhaps he had put too much emphasis on that last word.

As though he sensed her lips curling into a familiar, cheeky smile from inside the kitchen, he quickly added, "Your help."

She remained silent however, which only confirmed his suspicion that she had heard his little slip.

This woman...she can speak more with silence than with words.

"I need you just as much as you need my...help. Explain." Sherlock wan't one to bluff. Not with her, and not when he desperately needed something.

"Moriarty is alive", he spat out.

Irene faltered, dropping her tea cup, which smashed as it hit the spotless, white tile floor. She didn't even bother to look down at the shattered china, or shriek as its contents scalded her, in a collision of glass, blood, and piping hot tea.

"Turns out I wasn't the only one with a faked suicide in mind."

"Jesus Christ." Irene felt fear welling up inside her. National governments, scandals, terrorist threats; these she could deal with. But Jim Moriarty was in a league of his own.

"I take it you didn't leave his inner circle of crime on the best of terms?"

"No, not exactly." Irene quickly sat down, before she fell to the floor, further unravelling before the strange man on her couch.

Sherlock suddenly seemed more keen to talking. "I need a key code. There are numerous levels to his little kingdom of crime, as I'm sure you know, and certain information is restricted from my access. Vital information. Only someone deep on the inside, someone with direct contact with Jim Moriarty can get me that code. "

Irene was silent. Summoning the strength to speak again, she spoke clearly and decisively louder than necessary. "I can't do that, Sherlock. Moriarty, he….he was after me. That execution in Karachi…I thought that was my saving grace, a merciful alternative to facing Jim. "

She saw the desperation in his face. He had flown over from God-knows-where to find her, and furthermore, ask for help. She knew this was no trivial matter. She felt she owed him an explanation, seeing the almost pleading look in his eyes.

"He…at first he asked for no compensation, nothing in return for the information given to me." She hesitated before adding, "The information about you."

Ah , so this was about me. Sherlock's expression, emanating clarity slightly unnerved, annoyed, and excited Irene.

"What? Hoping this would be about you?", Irene spat out, causing an amused smirk from Sherlock. "Anyway, he's wanted me dead ever since after the scandal. After I couldn't…repay him."

"I take it he didn't want anything as common as money?"

Irene raised an eyebrow at his comment. Perhaps he wasn't as clueless in these kinds of matters as she had thought. "Starting to grasp the situation, are you? He wants me dead, Sherlock. A man like Jim…he gets what he wants."

"Jim?", Sherlock repeated, clearly taken aback. It was Sherlock's turn to be surprised. That was twice, twice, now that she had referred to Moriarty as "Jim".

The room was swimming with silence and unanswered questions once again.

After the long pause, Sherlock resumed. "You were in direct contact with Moriarty, and quite frequently too, I take it. You'll be able to get me in with his upper ranks. Just find some way to persuade them into coughing up the key code or anything remotely useful in getting it."

"And how exactly do you intend I…'persuade' these upper ranks?"

"I'll leave you to your own devices. Do what you have to."

Irene gave him an expectant stare. "My usual methods of persuasion can be unorthodox, and get a little messy, Sherlock. Are you suggesting I shag the organization's prominent members?"

Sherlock spoke quietly. "I wouldn't ask you to do that."

"Then what?"

"I'm sure you'll figure something out. I'll do whatever I can to help your efforts, naturally. I need your full support."

He slipped a hand inside his blazer, and pulled out a thick roll of cash. I threw it down on the table in front of her.

"What's this for?"

"Living expenses."

It had not yet occurred to Irene that Sherlock was alive; alive and in her living room. He had given her the impression of some sort of supernatural being. Surely he didn't need food or drink, or a bed to sleep in. Just murder, a skull, a violin, and his best mate. Well. His only mate.

"Where are you staying?"

"Here." He scoffed, as if it should have been quite obvious to her that he would be occupying her living space.

" And you think this is a good idea? Are you mad; hiding out together? Two people whose lives are in danger, living together? Not to mention I have clients, Sherlock."

But of course, Sherlock's thoughts were far from reason. "Don't you want to know how I found you?"

Her eyes beckoned him to continue.

"I ran into a man- a very distinctive man, one of Moriarty's men, outside your apartment in Wales 723a Providence Avenue. Don't be alarmed, I took care of him. After a quick investigation I came to the conclusion it was yours. I stayed for a week, allowing time for more of Moriarty's men to show up. You seem to be experienced in covering your tracks. It took me almost the whole of three weeks."

"Did anymore show up?"

"Surprisingly, no."

"How long ago?"

"One month."

"They're only a month behind on my trail." Irene mumbled, speaking to no one in particular. "Brilliant. And if you've led those dolts to my front door?"

"Well then they've got a lot of swimming to do. Besides, we'll hear them coming. They're not exactly graceful" He gave her a cheeky smirk.

"You said I may need you as much as you need me."

"Yes. In return, I'll offer you my protection. They won't be able to get to you while I'm here." He took a small sip of his cold tea. "Mind you, I don't sleep."

"Surely you have faith in my abilities to fend for myself?"

"Irene…" He spoke carefully, as if testing the waters by using her given name. "We share a common need. I need to take Moriarty down, and you need to avoid getting your head cut off, or worse, by Moriarty's hand. It's foolproof."

A shared dependency between her and Sherlock Holmes. Interesting. "Alright, I suppose we've come to an agreement, then. I'll help you get this key code, and you'll make sure no more men carrying guns are lined up outside my house."

Sherlock slumped back into the couch in relief, clearly exhausted. He was usually quite confident of his skills in manipulation of weak-willed, simple-minded civilians, but with Irene Adler, one never knew just what to expect. He had been right to tread carefully on thin ice.

"Oh yes, there is one more thing to negotiate." Irene got up, beckoning for Sherlock to follow after her. She threw open her bedroom door, and turned around to look at Sherlock, who stood cautiously in the doorway. "There's only one bed. I hope you don't mind.", Irene flirted, implying that she didn't mind in the least bit.

"I don't sleep.", he replied cooly.

"Beds are for more than sleeping". She winked, and slipped past him into the living room, shutting the door behind her.

So, he was back. As long as he was here, she might as well have some fun with him. But first she had to clean up the blood, china, and tea staining her floor. She bent down, scooping up the remnants of her favorite cup, and even she couldn't deny the tears forming in her eyes, and the darkness and fear creeping into her heart.