London, September 2011

The first photographs she receives reveal The Virgin in all his haughty splendour. He's pretty - very pretty - with an icy beauty to rival her own. Even the sheet he wears is draped with a certain Grecian artistry that bespeaks his vanity, and that gives her something to which she may appeal should her own charms inexplicably fail.

But the other photographs... well, those tell a different story altogether. In them, he's soft and smiling, the hard lines of his face gentled, and all for the man who sits beside him. John Watson's not like them, and she thinks it an advantage at first; he's simple where they're subtle, easily baited. But though he can be caught, he can't be made to play her games, and his blunt honesty (I don't know, maybe) backs her into a corner where only the same (yes, you are) can get her out.

And she doesn't understand why such a man should have a hold over Sherlock Holmes until they're sitting at a table in the far corner of the food court at Jinnah International Airport, huddled quietly over cups of chai. Irene still can't quite believe that Sherlock saved her life. She certainly can't fathom his reasons and says as much.

He smirks and replies, "Adventure," and Irene shakes her head.

"He'll kill you if he finds out," she warns, too shaken to tease.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock says.

"John," Irene replies, and Sherlock meets her eyes for the first time since the rescue.

"Only because I left him behind."

"Why did you?" she asks, and suddenly his hands are dancing over his cup, fingertips tapping at the tabletop; he blinks but doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to; it's written in his face. It's a lark, saving her. Something to do, to distract, to win. But John...

"Does he know?" she continues with a cruel glint of comprehension in her eyes, and Sherlock pushes back from the table abruptly - stands and walks away, towards their gate, away from her.

Irene slowly smiles as she watches him go, feeling more like herself than she has in weeks.

"I'll take that as a 'no'."

Devon, March 2012

John's outdoors eating breakfast when Greg sidles up next to him, coffee cup in hand.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asks, looking around.

John doesn't look up from his meal. "He said something about a dog." Then he glances up at Greg, whose eyebrows rise in an unspoken question, and shrugs. "No idea."

Greg sits down on the bench next to John and takes a sip of his coffee. There's something he's been wanting to ask John, but he really doesn't know how to bring it up. And it's not like he needs to know - he just sometimes gets this feeling, like maybe... but, then again, it's none of his business.

Sherlock eventually strides out of the inn, his coat flapping in the breeze like a great bloody bat, and swoops up alongside Greg and John. John glances up, then turns and says to Greg, "There he is. The wanker who spiked my coffee." Sherlock gives a small shrug and rolls his eyes.

"What are friends for?" he says lightly. But Greg sees the moment their eyes meet - sees some shared thing pass between them, sees the light flush that colours Sherlock's pale skin, sees the way John's eyes drop to his nearly empty plate as he smiles to himself.

And even though he's still not sure what they'd call it, Greg knows what it is that he's seen, and it makes him grin.

London, June 2012

"This is - are you listening?"

Sherlock's scared, she can tell, and it scares her that someone so in control of himself should be this way.

"Of course I'm listening," Molly says impatiently.

"This is important. If anything should go wrong - anything at all - you're to contact this number -" Sherlock holds up his mobile and Molly scrambles to find a piece of paper to jot down the number on the screen "- and ask for... "

He pauses and looks away to the corner of the darkened room, his eyes darting about as if searching for the answer there. When he alights on it, he gives a grim smile and returns his attention to her. "My arch enemy."

Molly frowns, her mouth screwing up in a small moue. "Your what?"

"My arch enemy. The name's not important; just call this number. Ask for him - use those words. He'll know it's you and that something's happened."

She gives him an efficient little nod, then asks, "What do I tell John?"

And Sherlock suddenly stills. He meets Molly's gaze, and the intensity of it causes her to look away. But he grabs her forearm - grips it until it hurts - and says in a tone that brooks no argument, "That I'm dead. Tell him I'm dead, that you've seen it - me - with your own eyes. You must make him believe it, Molly."

Molly is horrified. She pulls her arm away.

"I can't. He'll be -"

"You must," Sherlock growls. "The last time he almost... it's the only way to keep him safe."

She shakes her head. "I can't believe that. It will - don't you know what it will do to him?"

And suddenly, the man standing before her is lost and alone and afraid. He's vulnerable, and it breaks her heart to see it.

"Please, Molly," he says quietly. "Just do as I say. Please."

And in the end she does, standing by helplessly as John Watson closes in on himself.

And when she asks, "Are you alright?" she sees him push away the rest of the world with a shuttered expression and the last words she'll hear from his mouth for months to come.

"I'm fine."