Sherlock had only just escaped from the lively wedding reception into the cool, silent night air, when a familiar scent wafted over him. He shut his eyes tightly, then opened them. He pinched the inside of his wrist, hard. The scent remained.

He spun around and there she stood before him, all alabaster skin, dark curls, blood-red lips; looking just as much The Woman as she had the last time he'd seen her, when he'd saved her life in Karachi. He sucked in a breath, which only succeeded in filling him up even further with her intoxicating perfume.

He just stared into her mischievous blue eyes, at a loss for words for what felt like forever, until Irene said, "What's the matter, Mr. Holmes? Cat got your tongue?"

"N-no," he sputtered. "Irene, why are you here?" He couldn't help but notice that her eyes lit up at his use of her first name, as he struggled to form coherent sentences. "You shouldn't be. Not safe. Someone might see you."

The corners of her mouth twitched upwards in amusement. "The only person who will see me out here is you." She looked pointedly in the direction of the reception. "Everyone else is in there dancing the night away."

He felt his cheeks burn slightly at her words, before he muttered, "You still haven't told me what you're doing here."

"You know, I'm surprised The Great Sherlock Holmes is without a dance partner," she said, clearly skirting around the topic. "I'd have thought that lovely little gooey-eyed fool Molly would've asked you. Or that Janine woman." She smirked. "I'm sure you've heard what they say about the best man and the maid of honor."

"Yes, well, they didn't ask me," he snapped. "Which is perfectly fine. I don't care for dancing much anyway. As a matter of fact, I was just leaving when you showed up…"

He stopped as Irene pressed a manicured finger to his lips. "Shhh," she murmured. "They're playing a waltz."

"And that concerns me how?" he asked, trying to sound indignant, which grew more difficult every second as her finger lingered against his lips.

"I dance an excellent waltz," Irene replied matter-of-factly. Her finger left his lips, and he felt strangely frustrated by its absence. But then she was slowly stroking his cheek and his pulse sped up immediately. He was so utterly lost in her eyes and the feel of her hand on his cheek and the buzzing in his ears that it took him a moment to process that she was still speaking. "In fact, I've waltzed with some of the best," she said suggestively.

"Do you expect me to ask you to dance, Miss Adler?" Sherlock said huskily.

"That's the idea, yes." She paused to brush a stray curl from his forehead and to lean in even closer to him. "But make no mistake – I'm not timid like those other women." You're nothing like those other women Sherlock wanted to say, though he quickly deleted the idea, as it was irrelevant. "I'm not afraid to make the first move."

Sherlock chuckled softly. "I'm sure you're not. We must retain some respect for convention, however." Irene raised an eyebrow questioningly, before Sherlock held out his hand. "Miss Adler, will you do me the honor of this dance?"

She grinned, taking his hand. "Oh Mr. Holmes, it would be my honor to do you."

He rolled his eyes as he curled his fingers around hers, and wrapped his arm around her waist. "I would've thought you'd be more of a tango person," he remarked as his eyes locked on hers.

"Well, I certainly prefer the more sensual methods of self-expression," Irene said as she placed her other hand delicately on his shoulder. "But there is something to be said for the innocent beauty of the waltz."

"A romantic, Miss Adler?" Sherlock asked as they began to waltz to the faint music.

"Speak for yourself," she countered. "You with your violin and taking people's pulses."

He allowed himself a small smile in response to the second one, trying not to think about how escalated his own pulse was right now. The first one, though, nagged at his mind. "How do you know I play the violin?"

He felt her shrug slightly. "I did my research," she said, her nose almost brushing his. "And when I faked my death – Dr. Watson said you were writing sad music." She grinned. "Definitely a romantic."

He twirled her before bringing her back into him. "Only where you're concerned," he whispered, so softly he wondered if she'd even heard it.

Something changed in her face, and he felt her body tense slightly. Apparently, she did hear it.

"Does that make me special?" she asked, so softly it was barely audible. It was not smug like most of the other things she said to him; it was in earnest, as if she wanted – no, needed, to know.

Sherlock was a little surprised that she even had to ask. Didn't she remember him saving her life in Karachi? Not something one is likely to forget. But then he thought of that night with Mycroft, how he'd cracked Irene's phone password and shattered her life before her eyes. Yes, he could see why she would be unsure.

He tightened his grip around her waist, staring into the depths of her eyes. I won't leave her unsure this time he decided.

"Obviously," he murmured, before bending forward to press his lips to hers.

There was a brief moment of uncertainty where her lips remained unmoving against his – out of shock, perhaps – before she began kissing him back. Though their difference in experience was apparent, Sherlock found it to be of little concern. He had no trouble pouring all of his feelings into the kiss; it was even liberating in a way, to be able to finally share them with her. And she definitely didn't have to struggle to match his intensity. In a way, it felt like a kiss of absolute balance. There was no battle for domination – something they were both very used to, albeit in different ways. They were equals in every sense of the word.

The kiss was long and passionate. Eventually, Sherlock had to pull away, the only reason being lack of breath. His eyes snapped open immediately, mainly out of fear that she'd vanish as she always did in his dreams. But she was there, right in front of him, her vibrant lips parted and her eyes still closed. A strange thought crossed Sherlock's mind. Maybe she's afraid of waking up.

Sherlock's hands were still cradling her face, and for reasons that were unclear to him, he couldn't help tracing small circles on her soft cheeks. She smiled and opened her eyes. "That was… unexpected." At first Sherlock thought she meant the patterns he was forming on her face, but then he realized she meant the kiss.

"I… missed you," Sherlock said lamely.

Irene's blissful smile became a smirk. "I could tell." His cheeks burned and he tore his gaze away from her to stare at his shoes, to try to call some sense of normalcy back to him. But it was no use. Everything in his life that had come before, everything that was once normal, no longer mattered. All that matters anymore is her.

He felt a warm hand under his chin, as Irene lifted it up so that he had no choice but to be mesmerized and frustrated by her once more. He noticed right away that all smugness had left her face. "I missed you too," she said softly, as she began tracing patterns on his skin, the same way he had just done to her. "I thought you were dead."

Sherlock relaxed into her touch, removing her hand from his face just long enough to press a kiss to it. "I know."

"Why didn't you send me word you were alive?" she asked as they began to waltz again, even though the music had long since stopped.

"You didn't tell me you were alive when you faked your death," Sherlock said defensively.

"I did eventually," Irene pointed out mildly.

He rolled his eyes. "Only when John forced you to."

"No one forces me to do anything," she said. "And besides, I couldn't risk any information about my being alive getting out."

"Neither could I," Sherlock replied.

Irene fell silent for a moment before she said, "So you wanted to even the score by leaving me in the dark. Are you really as self-righteous as that? An eye for an eye?"

"A life for a life," he corrected. "And yes, I suppose I am."

"Sherlock, this is not a matter of tit for tat," she said, her voice quavering even as it increased in volume. "I thought you were dead for years. Do you have any idea how much that hurt me?"

He thought of how devastated he'd been when he had thought her dead, and that had only been for a small number of days. She went through all the same pain, only hers was exponentially more painful. Something akin to remorse washed over him, something he was sure he'd only felt once before, when he'd watched John implore him to live by his "graveside."

He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. How can you apologize for something so cruel and so completely immature?

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "It was selfish of me. I'm... not very good with… emotions."

Irene looked somewhat amused but mostly touched. "I know," she said. "We have that in common." We have everything in common he wanted to say.

She paused, nodding slightly, as if reading his thoughts. "That's just one of our many shared characteristics," she amended.

He nodded in agreement before saying, "I truly am sorry."

"I forgive you," Irene said. "Just promise me that next time you decide to fake your death, you'll send me a memo."

Sherlock couldn't help smiling at that. "Only if you promise to do the same."

Irene leaned in closer so that her breath was tickling his face. "I never keep my promises."

He gave a low chuckle. "Neither do I." But he would keep this one, to her.

"You know," Irene said as they silently agreed to stop dancing for a brief intermission. "Most people don't discuss faking their deaths on a date."

"Is that what this is?" Sherlock asked smugly.

Irene leaned forward to brush her lips against his. "You tell me." His pulse, which had almost returned to normal, escalated again.

He could think of no other response but to kiss her again, and he was certain that if he started kissing her again, he'd never stop. His hands found their marks once more on her body – somehow they'd drifted so that one held her face and the other rested on her hip – and together they resumed their dance as he said, "What do most people do on dates?"

Irene frowned. "Flirt, giggle, talk about their jobs, try to convince the other person to come back to their place for a drink." She paused, her nose wrinkling in a mischievous fashion that Sherlock found adorable (though he'd never admit it). "Well, I suppose we do have our own… variations of those, darling."

"Yes we do," he agreed as he dipped her without warning. She, of course, responded immediately, leaning back quite far in a way that could only be described as provocative. Leave it to The Woman to make even a waltz sexual. "All except for that last one."

He brought Irene back to her feet as she said, "That's true." A slow smirk graced her face. "But if you're offering."

He laughed throatily. "Not tonight," he managed with tremendous effort.

"Good," Irene said, to Sherlock's surprise. She seemed to detect this and went on to explain, "We're not most people. We don't want to mirror the dating habits of the less capable too excessively." He grinned at that and immediately she did the same. "Why do that when we could mirror each other?"

"We do that anyway," Sherlock pointed out. Not that I'm bothered by it.

"But the real question is, Sherlock," Irene said. "Do we do it, or does it just happen?"

He didn't bother answering because they both knew the question was rhetorical. If I had a choice in the matter, everything would be different. No, he definitely didn't have a choice, and neither did she. Their connection, their chemistry – all of that was in their blood, the blood that right now was coursing through their veins like electricity through a circuit. All of that was buried in their DNA codes; all of that was so thoroughly wired into their brains that to kill it would mean killing them.

"I smelled your perfume 6.43 seconds before I turned around to look at you," Sherlock said suddenly, not at all sure why he was telling her this.

Irene blinked at him quizzically. "That's not like you," she said. When he didn't answer, she prompted, "Why waste time?"

He closed his eyes tightly. Now you've done it. He opened them and there she was, staring back at him, beautiful and bewitching and dangerous. He noticed a hint of concern behind her eyes. "Sherlock?" she asked.

His hand at her waist balled into a fist, and the hand clutching hers tightened so excessively that he wondered if he was hurting her. If he was, she didn't show it.

"I wanted… to make sure that I was really here," he said.

Her eyes narrowed as she reached up to touch his cheek. "Where else would you be?"

He pulled away from her, his arms releasing their hold on her. "In my Mind Palace! In… in a dream!" He was angry and he didn't know why. "The places I usually see you!"

Something in her eyes changed – they were now filled up to the brim with so many emotions that Sherlock was incapable of discerning them. Was that one empathy? What was that one… pity? And that other one… could it possibly be…? No, no, no. This was all wrong.

"Do you see me in those places often?" Irene asked slowly, her tone more gentle than snide.

Sherlock stared at the ground. "Yes," he whispered.

After a beat Irene said, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. I… think about you a lot too."

He shook his head vigorously. "No, it's more than that," he said. "I've always been able to control my thoughts, even most of my subconscious. I decide what I want to view in my Mind Palace." He ran a hand through his hair. "But you… you can just wander in and out – mostly in – as you please. I can't stop you. You're right there with me in the most… inopportune, most inappropriate of moments, and there's nothing I can do about it."

Irene closed the distance between them, lacing her arms around his neck. "What do I do in your Mind Palace?"

"Flirt, mostly," he said. "Sometimes you help me solve cases."

Irene gave him a dazzling grin that hurt his chest. "I think I'd like to live in your Mind Palace."

Sherlock shook his head. "You'd get bored."

"In that big sexy brain of yours?" Irene stroked his cheek. "Unlikely."

"You'd feel trapped, then." Irene opened her mouth to argue, but Sherlock spoke sooner. "And even if you didn't feel trapped, I'd… feel like I was trapping you."

Irene leaned in further, so that their noses were brushing. "And you wouldn't like that feeling?"

"No, because trapping you would mean… changing you." He gave her a small smile. "I could never like that."

Irene's eyes twinkled. "I'm flattered," she said. "And this only reaffirms my belief that we are nothing like ordinary couples." He raised an eyebrow questioningly and she smirked in response. "In ordinary couples, one party always wants to change the other."

He pulled back suddenly. "Are we?"

Now it was Irene's turn to be puzzled. "Are we what?"

Sherlock's voice became a somewhat desperate whisper. "A couple?"

Irene gave him an eye roll, and pulled him back into her embrace. "Our dear Dr. Watson seemed to think we were already in the baby naming stage. Answer your own question."

Before Sherlock could reply, he glimpsed a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. "The wedding guests are about to leave."

Irene nodded, untangling herself from his arms. "That's my cue to leave, then."

She leaned forward once more, and he could feel her warm breath on his face. "It's been lovely, Sherlock dear. I hope I've made you feel a little less alone." She pressed a kiss to his cheek before turning to go.

In hindsight, he should've just let her go. To keep her there a moment longer was to risk her discovery.

But in an instant of pure impulse, Sherlock said, "Wait," his fingers encircling her wrist in a firm grip.

She turned, eyebrows furrowing in what might've been irritation or sadness – he couldn't tell. He could never really tell, with her. "Sherlock, I need to…"

He crushed his lips to hers, and her resistance lasted only a second before she was kissing him back. He drew the kiss out as long as he could, savoring the warmth of her soft lips against his and the sensation of her perfectly manicured fingers running through his hair, but eventually they both had to break way, breathing heavily.

When she had regained her breath, Irene murmured, "Sherlock." He realized that he was still holding her wrist, and became fascinated by the thundering of her pulse against his fingertips.

"Sherlock," Irene repeated, a little firmer. He looked up, watching in his periphery as the wedding guests began stepping out into the night.

He didn't release her wrist. Instead, he moved Irene's fingers to his pulse point. Her eyes widened.

"They're beating in unison," Irene said softly.

He gave a small nod, before looking up to meet her gaze. "I need to tell you something," he stated.

"You don't have to," she replied, the resolve back in her tone. "I need to go, before the guests see…"

"I need to tell you something," he repeated, and she fell silent. He took a big gulp of air, and spoke in a rush, the words tumbling out of his mouth. "You've talked a lot tonight about how we are not an ordinary couple. I very much appreciate that we are not an ordinary couple – we are beyond them, in all facets imaginable. I suppose that if we were an ordinary couple I would tell you that I loved you." He paused, his throat dry, but the intensity in her eyes propelled him on. "What I'm trying to say is that... the truth of the matter is…" He stared down at their hands, each with their fingers on the other's pulse. "We are not an ordinary couple." He looked back up at her. "But I do love you."

Something in Irene seemed to melt. She hugged him tightly. "Oh Sherlock," she breathed into his neck. "How ordinary."

He smiled before pulling back so he could see her face. In the darkness, he could still barely make out the redness of her cheeks and lips, and the way her eyes danced. He wondered if she would say it back, before immediately concluding that she didn't need to. That look in her eyes was enough. Their twin hearts beating in the same rapid staccato was enough. He hadn't told her that he loved her because he needed to, but because he… wanted to. He'd wanted something that had no practical purpose whatsoever. How ordinary, indeed.

He leaned in for another kiss, trying to push out of his mind the feeling of finality it held. It was more tender than their last one, and it spoke volumes. When he pulled back, breathless, and forced his eyes open, she was already gone.

He stood there alone for a moment, his heart still pounding in his ribs, his pupils, likely, still dilated. He heard footsteps behind him, and wondered for one foolhardy moment if it might be her.

"Hey, Sherlock." But it was John.

Sherlock turned. "John," he greeted.

"Sherlock, Mary said she saw a woman with you." He paused, grinning proudly, "She has great night vision, that one." Sherlock could barely suppress an eye roll. John frowned. "Anyway, um, who was she? The woman you were talking to."

"You've just answered your own question," Sherlock said, enjoying the look of confusion on John's face. He smiled privately, thinking how Irene had told him the same thing, when he'd asked her whether they were a couple.

"Sherlock, mate, you're not making any sense." Sherlock released an irritated sigh. Somehow, he'd find a way. Him, Irene, far far away from all this painful ordinance. He couldn't help smiling again at the thought, but his smile swiftly became a frown. Was he one of them now, now that he too had fallen prey to sentiment?

"SHERLOCK, GODDAMNIT, TALK TO ME!" John yelled. Sherlock shook his head to clear it of other thoughts.

"You asked about the woman I was talking to," Sherlock said.

"Yes, WHO IS SHE?"

"She's The Woman, John," Sherlock said smugly. "Answered your own question."