Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.

Chapter 2: A dinner and a surprise

Sherlock shrugged his long cloak closer to his tall body to warm himself in the bitter chill of London. He stood just outside 221 B Baker Street, impatiently awaiting The woman. He still hadn't decided if the idea of having dinner with her was a good idea or a very, very terrible one. Either way, there was no point regretting it now.

With feigned interest he watched the common people around him on the streets, while secretively letting his gaze search for Irene's familiar form in the masses, but she was still nowhere to be seen. Sherlock glanced down at his wrist watch once more. 17:07. He had never pictured Irene as being the kind of person who was even the slightest bit late for a meeting. Then again, he had never been able to fully comprehend the essence of her. The knowledge of which irked Sherlock to no end.

"It took the end of the world after all," a quite dark and ever so familiar voice sounded behind him. Sherlock silently cursed himself, for he had been so convinced she wouldn't be able to sneak up on him this time

He recollected himself and swiftly spun around, only to find himself face to face with none other than Irene Adler. She stood right in his personal space as it was, and Sherlock fought off the impulse to step back. He didn't want to give her any ideas.

Instead he stretched taller to make himself appear more at ease and in comfortable control, but to no avail. The piercing look in Irene's deep eyes made her stand as proud in mind, if not in height, as the consultant detective. Sherlock allowed himself to quickly take in her appearance in order to find clues of her life. He was all the more annoyed when her clothes and facial expression, as usual, told him very little about her.

As far as his mental image of her went, she looked just the same as he remembered her. She wore a simple cut, grey dress that hugged her thin frame in a flattering way and ended right above her knees. Over that she wore a pale trench coat to keep her warm, which ended an inch further down than her dress. Her long, brown hair was down and slightly curly, not up in one of her elaborate hair styles typical of her dominatrix days (something Sherlock had expected). Her lips were painted bold red, however, and there was a recognisable twinkle in her eyes with the color of an ocean storm.

He could smell her perfume clearly when she stood so close to him, and his nose recognised it from past days. That time, which now seemed so long ago, when she had invited herself into his house and slept in his bed he had for several nights afterwards fallen asleep to the very same scent on his pillow. He had tried to wash it out, but it had taken several attempts with John's "secret washing mixture" (that consisted of white vinegar and lemon juice) to succeed.

"What do you mean?" he asked quickly, in response to her first words.

A smile spread across her thin, redpainted lips, "Us having dinner, of course. The end of the world came and went without us having dinner."

The detective frowned down at her and though his mind was superior to most, he could not understand hers at this time. She noticed his confusion and her smile turned teasing. Sherlock suddenly had a mind to blow off their dinner and storm into his flat to sulk, but resisted that urge, too. His home wouldn't be empty anyway, with the "surprise party" John thought he was preparing without the detective's knowledge.

Irene's eyes travelled across his face briefly, as if reaquainting themselves with what they saw. "Since you've already fallen to your death and I've been beheaded most brutally, one could claim that the end of the world has come and gone for us."

"I see," he acknowledged her point but otherwise kept his face impassive.

"You look well, Mr Holmes."

"As do you, Ms Adler."

"It's been a long time."

"But I wonder if it was long enough."

"Time is relative, Mr Holmes. You of all people ought to know that today."

"Of course I am highly aware of Einstein's little theory of relativity. I don't believe me being in possession of this knowledge has any special importance today of all days."

"Except it is a new year today."

Sherlock huffed mockingly and shook his head as he turned his coat collar up. "New years… I don't much care for them. Or birthdays. One day every single year that people spend being stupidly sentimental about their lives, about what they've accomplished and what they claim to accomplish next year but never will. All the while dreading the fact that they'll be one year older and thus one year closer to death, but not taking into consideration the fact that life could end anytime. I could be run over by a bus tomorrow."

"I hear you're the type who prefers to fall off high buildings," the woman mused.

"Jump, actually. And yes, that, too, is an option," Sherlock said shortly. "Regardless, neither are options that ordinary people consider on new year's eve. They merely spend their day in a… bubble, making it out to be a special day when in fact it's just as humdrum as the other 364 days a year. The celebrations are plain silly."

"And still you agreed to dinner with me."

To this, the detective had no reply. Irene seemed to take his silence as proof of her having won something the man was sure he had not agreed to play. Instead, he raised an arm and pointed with his palm to the little café just beside the couple. "Shall we then?"

"I thought you'd never ask," she smirked and winked at Sherlock, who kept his face impassive as a response.

The dinner commenced with Sherlock and Irene's very own way of small talk. To an outsider it must have seemed like a sort of dance with words. Irene teased and flirted, while Sherlock side-stepped both of her tactics in order to try and deduce anything from her she didn't openly admit. When they were served their meals, it was the woman who broke their previous small talk by broaching a new topic.

"I've read all about your little adventures on John's blog," she said casually, though Sherlock suspected there was nothing casual about her checking up on him. "I think it's sweet he still writes about you two and your little adventures. He so very much adores you, I believe. I do particularly like The Empty Hearse."

The man gazed up at the brunette, who in turn seemed focused on her own plate, though Sherlock saw a smile on her lowered face. For a second he tried to dissect what it meant, but coming up short he merely nodded.

"Yes. That's in my top twelve favorites of our adventures, too," he mused and thought back on the case in question. It had been his first case back in London and his so-called return to life, after having fooled the world of his death. He could still remember the look of complete shock and anger on John's face when he had appeared before the army doctor very much alive despite contrary belief. And that silly mustache!

"How did you do it?" Irene asked, her voice lower and all the more commanding. Sherlock could not help but wonder if it was a voice she had used regularly in the dominatrix business.

He cleared his throat and glanced about, "I constantly do a lot of things. More things than I keep count of, as a matter of fact. What thing are you refering to this time?"

"You know what I mean," the woman's gaze was unrelenting and when the man's eyes finally met hers, it was as if two magnets had came in contact with their polar opposite sides. Sherlock found himself unable to look away, partially due to the challenge presented in her eyes. If he was to look away, he would admit defeat and with her, that was not an option.

"There's not much to tell," the tall man shrugged and noticed her disbelieving eyes. "Don't look at me that way. I'm sure it appeared I was in quite the bind with Moriarty, but it was all a matter of illusion. I simply made everyone believe in what they thought they had already seen. The tricky part wasn't to beat Moriarty and fake my death, the tricky part was staying hidden afterwards. Moriarty's henchmen are quite relentless, I assure you. I spent a great deal of time travelling to avoid losing what I had already pretended to have lost. I needed the time, too, to end his criminal network. Took me two years."

"Where did you go?" Irene asked and the man deduced a level of interest in her tone of voice she had not managed to conceal behind her cleverly built up walls.

"Everywhere," the detective smiled. "Germany, India, Mecca… and some other places of little importance."

"What made you return to London?" the woman asked and this time she made no attempt what so ever to keep her interest hidden. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, when she quickly raised her hand and placed her index finger against his lips to stop him. He was somewhat surprised by her gentle touch against his full lips and so simply faltered, letting his answer die out somewhere in his throat.

"Let me," she asked and lingered a moment before lowering her finger. "It was the thrill, wasn't it? The murder mystery waiting to be solved."

"Partially, yes. Initially, my brother needed help. He'd received word that there was an imminent terrorist attack that threatened London. He asked me to stop it. Thankfully, Mrs Hudson had left the flat untouched and I could move right back. John... he raised a little hell after I surprised him and revealed I wasn't dead. Over-reacted. Ultimately, returning to my old life was simple and yes, the thrill beckoned me home."

"I read the papers after your miraculous return to life and glory. I also read between the lines. You prided yourself on ending Moriarty's reign, but that self-praise soon stopped. Not a word uttered on the topic. And that was before his stint on the telly. I know why, of course. You believed Jim Moriarty was still alive long before the public did..." the woman deduced after a minute of silently examining her dinner companion. As she awaited his answer, Irene let her fingers play around the opening of her wine glass. Another subconsious move that portrayed her interest in the topic. Or him. Sherlock couldn't quite make out which one.

He smiled stiffly. "Now it's my turn to ask you a question."

"The answer is yes. You, The virgin, I would very much like to dominate in bed," she teased and her gaze was once more relentless.

"My question," the man ignored her offer, "is the same as yours. What made you return to London?"

There was a pause in their otherwise rapt conversation, in which the slim lady leaned back in her seat and watched the man opposite from her for a lengthy time without blinking even once. "Business," she replied at last and then smirked devilishly, "and some pleasure."

Sherlock mirrored her and leaned back in his own seat. The silence once more stretched out between them across the great abyss as they attempted to read the other. "I'm sorry your marriage didn't work, Ms Adler," he said in a low voice. "I noticed the tan line on your ring finger earlier".

"I know you did," Irene mused. "I didn't try to hide it, Mr. Holmes. …Someone sounds very jealous."

"Who? Certainly not me."

"Of course not…" the woman smiled teasingly and took a small, slow sip of her wine. When she sat her glass back down on the table, Sherlock noticed a slight shift in her behavior. It was very subtle, but to someone who spent such great effort trying to read her every move, the detective saw it as plain as if she had been attempting to spell it out for him. She had all the sudden raised another wall between them, though she masked this one behind a cold, yet stunning, look in her eyes, "And no need to take pity on me. I assure you, I shed no tears when I ran off on our honeymoon with his 'satchel of gold'. Some of that gold helped me return home."

"I had already figured out as much. That and the fact that your ex-hubby won't attempt to follow his little satchel, for you know a secret about him he's willing to sacrifice both his wife and gold for."

"You don't have to impress me, Mr Holmes. I already like you," Irene smiled and leaned forward while casually placing her hand atop of his, where it rested on Sherlock's end of the table. He glanced down at their hands inconspicuously but gave no remark. "How did you know?"

The man replied as he slowly raised his eyes from their hands. "I've seen you wield your power over meek men in the past, as you might recall. Your eyes got this glint to them back then. It's the same look I see in them now."

"Maybe that's just because I'm with you," she cooed seductively and the man glanced down as her hand began to gently stroke the top of his hand. The sensation of her fingers was something Sherlock was highly unaccustomed to. The physical response in his body was one he both wanted to experiment with in order to rationalize it and one he wanted to be rid of at once.

"Flattering," Sherlock said in a deadpan voice and boldly met Irene's eyes. "But it's not."

"You should never be so sure, Mr Holmes."

"I'm always sure, because I'm always right," the man said stubbornly; much like a child who refuses to behave as his parents tell him to, even though he knows it's the right thing to do.

"One day you won't be."

Sherlock frowned at her cryptic words. "But I am today."

"Yes," Irene finally admitted and all the sudden the warmth of her hand atop of his was gone. "Today you are right. Now… My stomach's full. Thank you for dinner, Mr Holmes. And Happy New year!"

The two stepped onto the dark streets of London once more as the clock around Sherlock's wrist turned 20:12. He grimaced to himself. With any luck the guests for the new year's eve party John and Mary were planning to surprise him with hadn't arrived yet. That would only further sour this evening.

"So," Irene broke their moment of peace and stopped just outside 221B Baker street to gaze up at her date. "Now we've had dinner. Won't you invite a girl up for a drink? Or at the very least kiss a girl good night?"

Sherlock exhaled in amusement and felt a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. "No. Good night, Ms Adler."

With that as his final words he turned around to walk up the steps to his own front door. At the same moment, two things happened very quickly. The first was that the man's keen ears acknowledged the screech of tires as a car suddenly came onto the small, otherwise empty, street. The car; a black Citroën C3, 2010 model, without number plates and – from the sound of it – a mild trouble with the exhaust pipe, came to a screeching halt next to 221 B Baker Street.

The second thing that happened was Irene's sudden movement, in which she grabbed hold of the man's right sleeve and pulled until he was forced to turn half-ways towards her. There was a frown upon her brow and the serene look he'd previously seen was completely erased. In her right hand rested a syringe which she stabbed into his arm before he had time to react.

Sherlock's mind reeled round and round, like a crazy ferris wheel with no stop. As the man tumbled to the ground, the brunette had been prepared for it and caught him to soften his fall. She leaned in close to his ear and whispered seductively, "Our date's not over yet… Mr Sherlock Holmes."

The last thing the man saw as the world around him swirled and faded in and out of different shades of black- beside Irene's wide, blue eyes- were two men clad in black suits, who stepped out of the car and roughly pulled him from her grip in order to toss him into the backseat. The detective landed in a heap across the seats and though he tried to fight the drug to stay conscious, he knew it was a losing battle.

He heard the engine roar to life and then everything turned black.

To be continued.