He nearly stumbled over his own feet as his feet started to run; he didn't want to look back. Sherlock did not want to know; he just wanted to get away.

Long fingers; stretched to an almost eerie length and those pointy blood red nails only made them reach even further. It couldn't be good. It wasn't. Of course it wasn't!

He barely dodged the doorframe as he sprinted out of there. She could have called out to him; she didn't. She just followed in a much more slow and calm pace; almost ghostly. It was as if she knew she would win.

The detective could stomach many things; he could handle mutilated bodies in various stages of decay and cold hearted criminal so-called masterminds. This was different. This was much worse!

He had to stop for a second; John was right about the smoking being bad news for breathing. He could feel those pale fingers on the back of his neck and his entire being froze for a second. He shivered violently at her touch. He gritted his teeth and felt his feet run even faster now. He ran. He ran… he ran right until he hauled a cab that took him home. Home to John and Mrs. Hudson and away from her.

He calmed himself down; slowed his breathing and mastered the art of illusion, no one noticed what had just happened. He still felt angsty though. He wasn't exactly safe there was he? She knew where he lived; it was common knowledge.

She sharpened her nails with a file; the blood red colour made the harsh surface appear rusty. Her pearly white teeth lit up the near dark room. 'Next time'. She didn't say it out loud but it was clear that was what she thought. Next time.

He couldn't even go out on a case to get away from this; she would be there. She always was. Never mind how. She was.

"Coming?" John's voice suddenly rang through his ears. He already had a sinking feeling that he had done it again. John had talked to him for a while and he had filtered it.

"Sure" the muscles in his throat tensed as he swallowed. He looked for his scarf and coat and to his annoyance he realized he never took them off.

How John never noticed her breathing down their necks all of the time was a mystery to Sherlock. Sure John's observational skills were inferior but it seemed so obvious. Always she lurked in the shadows. Always. Her fingernails would rest on her equally blood red lips. She was mocking him.

Sherlock wanted to avoid the corner where she stood; hidden behind the door. He had to. But he had to examine the body from that side as well. There was no way out. He had to fight his own reactions hard as her fingers carefully touched his hair; only for a brief moment but for the detective it seemed to last a lifetime. He shook his head and continued his work. He was battling the urge to panic. Especially panic about the fact that he was about to panic. Sherlock Holmes didn't feel fear; he didn't feel at all. And he especially didn't show it.

He swallowed hard when John told him he had to step out for a while. He was leaving him alone with that, she was more than just a she. She had to be. Like a snake she appeared from behind the door. Her hand stretched out towards him and her dark eyes were focusing on one thing only; the one thing she wanted. Sherlock's mind commanded his body to go into fight or flight mode. His body had other plans though and he couldn't move a muscle. Not a single one.

He heard her exhale as her long, slender fingers tangled in his curls. She softly felt the strands between her fingertips and he even saw her lick those blood red lips. He wasn't sure if it was his mind that moved slow or if she was moving in slow motion. She was gentle with him and that even made it worse for him to bear. She was careful not to yank his curls away from his scalp; he should be grateful at least it. It was some comfort seeing how incredibly sensitive the roots of his hair was. He just wanted it to be over; he needed his control back.

He pressed his eyelids together and finally broke free of his stupor. He ran as fast as his long legs could carry him. Past a baffled John who ran after him; realizing something must have been wrong.

The two men stopped to catch their breath outside in the cold night air.

"Okay?" John glanced at him; he seemed to be struggling even worse for his breath. Sherlock simply nodded. All he had inside his head was the image of her and the sensation of her caressing his hair. He could still feel her. He ruffled his hair with his fingers in a feeble attempt to diffuse the sensation. He was shaking.

"Running is good for the brain" he spoke. He walked on and hauled a cab and the two of them went home.

…

Why was she only there when he was working? She could as easily slip into 221B Baker Street. She could slide in through any crack; any shadow could hide her. Wait. Maybe she was; maybe that was why she could always be there at every crime scene. She was there constantly.

He listened intensely as he scanned the room for every shadow and dark corner. He listened for her breathing. He knew John was giving him worried looks but he brushed it off. He couldn't let John know he was actually scared. Worried even.

"Do you think they are connected?" he cleared his throat and mentally scolded himself; trying to push her out of the palace that was his mind.

"The murders?" John put down his newspaper "Do you?" he looked to the detective; knowing it was most likely a rhetorical question coming from him.

"Yes, the murders!" he rolled his eyes. Inside his head he smiled at the fact he had managed to sound like his old self. "Tell me, do you think they are connected?"

"I don't know; there aren't many similarities" John furrowed his brow thinking hard.

"You don't think she could have done it?" He had spoken before he had a chance to think.

"She? Who is she?" Watson asked confused.

"No one… you don't think one woman could have murdered them all?" he tried hard to dismiss it. Why was he so scared of John finding out about that woman who was stalking him? Perhaps it was that he wasn't entirely sure she was actually real.

"It's a possibility but she would have to be very… creative" John cleared his throat.

"And dangerous" Sherlock shivered at the thought.

…

After another almost sleepless night Sherlock left his bedroom. On his coffee table he found a small bottle of blood red nail varnish and a lock of dark curly strands tied together with a silky string of the same shade. A note written in a very feminine handwriting said "I'm not real" and on the soft, pale paper she had left a crimson kiss.

He could smell her; there were few shadows in the sharp morning light but she had to be there. He turned his head; almost contorting his neck. His eyes widened and he closed them. He smelled it; her perfume. Siren. Siren was the name of the perfume she wore. And that was what she was. He heard her breathing; deep and almost hissing like a slithering snake.

He heard himself roar as his eyes shot open. He searched every cupboard, every corner and even the fireplace. He had to find her. She was there. She was always there…

A sharp pain proved him right. She had grabbed his hair and this time it was with an iron grip. He fell to his knees and raised his hands in the air. The smell of the Siren was almost overpowering as well as the feeling of her almost ripping every strand of his hair out of his sensitive scalp with her long fingers that held their grip in his hair so harshly.

"I'm not real" She hissed and let go throwing him to the ground in the process. Gone was she. Gone but never forgotten.