A/N: Hello my lovely readers. I want to first and foremost apologize for abandoning my story the way I have. I do realize it's been two months since I last updated. I don't mean to go on about myself, but I do feel I should be upfront with the fact that I've been severely depressed for the past threemonths, and I just haven't been able to get myself to do anything. Sorry if the next chapters are shit. I'm trying, really. Anyways, I just thought I should let you know that I won't be abandoning the story, but I might cut it a little shorter than I thought I would. Well, that being said, enjoy! And I PROMISE you I will TRY to update more often.

Irene suffered a mostly sleepless night, but after a cigarette, two shots, and finally a trip to the local bar (who was she kidding; she needed a drink), she fell asleep soundlessly. Mostly soundlessly. As expected Sherlock spent half the night up, alternating between investigating on Irene's laptop, and playing his violin. The ominous sound of the tune he was composing drifted through Irene's bedroom door and into her sleep. She felt every pluck, every lift of the bow, in her dreams.

The next morning

Irene awoke rather violently the next morning, or what was left of it. She found herself on hands and knees in front of the toilet, trying to purge the evidence of last nights misfortunes. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand, when she was certain her stomach had straightened out again. It was 10:00 AM. Quite late for a Monday morning. She wasn't a morning person, as she worked by night, but never-the-less this was uncommon for her. That and the fact that she apparently hadn't been able to handle her liquor well last night. Also unlike her. She told herself it was only the aftermath of having received the news of Moriarty's return, and not the trauma of Sherlock turning up, though she knew better. Either way, she knew she had no choice but to keep it together. Besides, she had a job to do now; tracking down Moriarty's web.

She slipped on a robe over her nightie, which she usually never bothered to wear. She walked into the living room only to be greeted by clear signs of Sherlock's presence, although he himself was missing. Experiments, reports, test tubes filled with God knows what were left scattered throughout her apartment. She walked over to the violin laying on the armrest of a chair, and lightly traced her fingers along the curves, feeling the smooth varnish. The sound of Sherlock's footsteps awakened her from her daydream about Moriarty, and her uncertain and perilous circumstances.

Sherlock gave her a meaningful glance from afar.

Irene tried not to look startled. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Coffee or tea?" she asked, walking over to the kitchen.

"Tea, thank you." Upon entering the kitchen, Irene took note of the seemingly infinite number of dishes trashing the place. She stirred her teaspoon quickly, a bit agitated.

"Sherlock." She glared at him, waiting for him to respond. John had warned her about this. "Sherlock."

His head snapped towards her. "What?"

"Maybe we should talk about the fact that your experiments are all over my house."

"It's research."

"Research," she stated skeptically. "Right. So are you researching the effects of alcohol on honey badgers?" She asked, a bit amused, while glancing over one of his many loose papers.

"That's private."

"And it's also in my living room. If this is going to work, you're going to need to clean this stuff up."

"This?"

"Our arrangement, dear. I have clients; I need my living room."

"Why would you need the living room, in your line of work? You have a perfectly good bedroom."

"My bedroom doesn't have a sofa, railing, and a view, which some of my clients seem to require"

Sherlock shifted a bit uncomfortably, as he was currently seated on the sofa.

"Well, yes, of course I can clean up then, I guess, I'll just.." Sherlock began fumbling for words.

"Look at you, all flustered", flirted Irene.

"You made it home from the bar all in one piece I assume?" Sherlock snapped back at her.

Shit. He knew. Did this man ever sleep? How did he stay awake without taping his eyelids to his forehead? Irene knew how to play this off as nothing. It was just a matter of convincing. Even she faltered under Sherlock's questioning gaze. However, her lips only curved into a sweet smile. "No need to be concerned; I'm perfectly fine."

"I beg to differ. One doesn't drink near as much when they are 'perfectly fine'."

"And next you'll tell me I'm an alcoholic?" Irene asked, keeping her cool.

"No. I'll tell you that you're emotionally unstable. Tears and alcohol don't mix. Perhaps I shouldn't have come; you seem a bit….well. I doubt you'll be much help in this state."

This comment, however, set Irene off.

"Ah yes, the case. How is it going? I'm sure the genius Sherlock Holmes has at least one lead?" Irene's annoyed, taunting smirk burned into Sherlock. They kept their eyes locked on each other in an intense stare, eyes burning. "No? Oh, I expected more from you. Luckily I got in a bit of research before I got blackout drunk, and had one of my many emotionally unstable episodes."

Sherlock only cast her an annoyed sideways glance.

"I'm sure you've found a profound piece of information I somehow missed during months of digging, figuratively and literally, I might add, all while downing gallons of alcohol."

"Actually, yes."

Sherlock only shook his head and directed his attention, once more, to his computer screen.

Irene stood by, arms crossed, patiently waiting for his undivided attention. After several minutes, she spoke up. "Mr. Holmes, I have something important to discuss with you."

"Your profound information can wait." But Irene Adler was not a woman willing to wait. She had a way of commanding attention, and keeping it fixed on herself. She slowly walked up to the desk Sherlock's many papers were occupying, shut his laptop, and climbed on top of the desk, crossing her legs, directly across from Sherlock, who sat back in his chair, just slightly.

"Now that I have your attention…" She began. "Grab your coat. We're going to a party tonight, and I need something satisfactory to wear."

"And this is your idea of laying low is it? No wonder those men found your apartment so easily. Besides, don't you have enough dresses? Surely you can find one that's suitable."

"Do I? And how would you happen to know the contents of my wardrobe, Mr. Holmes?"

"I saw your closet, back at your apartment, during my inspection." Sherlock was completely unmoved, and not at all uncomfortable, and that could just not do.

"Ah. And was my top right drawer involved in your inspection?"

"Yes. As was every drawer in the room."

"Oh, well then surely you would be able to tell me whether I left my riding crop back in London. It would have been hidden under the black lacy panties, I believe. I can't seem to find in anywhere, and I must admit, I've become quite…attached to this one in particular."

Sherlock looked a bit unsettled at this, Irene's calamity taunting him to keep his own. He only gave her an amused glance, leaning back further in his chair.

Irene slid off the desk in a smooth motion, and before Sherlock realized what had happened, she was kneeling and slightly leaning over him. Her hand found his cheek, stroking his razor-sharp cheekbones.

"You're blushing."

At this, his blush deepened into a noticeable red. She rose, Sherlock' s eyes grasping onto any and all of her. Irene had him wrapped around her finger, he just didn't know it yet.

Irene casually walked towards the door, grabbing her purse and cell phone, before stepping out into the hall. She peered back through the door, to see Sherlock sitting, deep in thought, his hands folded under his chin as though he were praying. "You coming?"

He quickly stood and followed her out the door.