This story has been titled "A Scandal in Bohemia" and "A Scandal in Belgravia" but for the purposes of this telling we will go with the latter. This story has been told many times, never quite like this I assume. It has many players, and thought I wish to delve immediately into the tale, a precursory introduction is necessary…

A Study in Pink

Bombs and shrapnel and blood and pain and death and destruction and… She awoke with a gasp, eyes flying open, and sweat stuck her brown curls to her face. Rolling over, she started to cry, immediately wracked with sobs as the memories flooded their banks. Gone, so many good men and women gone, and she couldn't save them.

"How is your blog going Irene?" She didn't respond, instead deciding to stare out the window and ignored her therapist. "Irene…"

"It's going fine," she snaps, tapping her fingers along the handle of her cane.

"You haven't written anything have you?" This professional woman scribbles on her notepad.

"I don't have trust issues," mutters Irene, keeping her eyes fixes on the pen.

"You read my handwriting upside down." The therapist barely bats an eye but Irene scowls briefly. Reaching up, she undoes her tidy bun, letting her hair cascade off her head and hide her face.

"Irene you're a soldier." It's a fact, this woman's stating facts now. Irene looks up from where she's been studying her hands and studies that face through her curtain of hair. "Writing a blog about everything that happens to you will help."

"Nothing ever happens to me," Irene whispers, drawing herself up into a ball on her chair.

Irene knows she shouldn't be dressed like this, with the form fitting dress and heels, not with her limp anyway. Irene, however, wants to feel normal so she does herself up, decides a walk in the park can't hurt her chances, and ventures outside. "Irene? Irene Adler?" She spins a little too dramatically for her leg and her shoes and can't help the small wince she makes…and she was so much more normal earlier. She looks at this man: balding, odd tie, glasses, a bit of a paunch. "It's Mike Stamford; we were at Bart's together."

"Hello," replies Irene, putting brightness in her voice because she almost doesn't want to talk to him. He is normal and she isn't, not anymore, not that she ever really was.

"I got fat," he says quite jokingly, probably an attempt to make her laugh but she never really got people's jokes that well anyway.

"No, no, you look good, really." Irene lets out a smile; finally, someone who wants to talk to her without sharing feelings.

"I heard that out were off somewhere getting shot at, what happened?" Irene's smile falters.

"I got shot." They got coffee, Stamford insisting that he buy hers, and sat on a park bench. Irene decided to launch into small talk, hating the direct silence more than anything else. "You still at Bart's?"

"No, teaching now, bright young things like we used to be. What about you, staying in London?" That was the question, wasn't it? London: her lifeblood, her heart, but she had always been more interested in the other parts of the body. She could just leave the city, find someplace with cheaper flats, or she could leave the country entirely; visit Paris for pleasure instead of work. She gave him the half-answer.

"Not on an army pension," she said, sipping her coffee.

"You couldn't bear to leave, not the Irene Adler I knew." She tried not to glare at him.

"You don't particularly know me." It got awkward then, because Stamford didn't really know Irene. She had gotten her nursing degree in three years and she had barely been at Bart's for one year when she left with the army. She was till surprised by that; that she got a nursing degree.

"Couldn't Harry help?" Irene scoffed.

"Not likely."

"A flat share then?"

"Who would want me as a flat mate?" Stamford giggles and Irene decides that it is not too early to glare.

"You're the second person to say that today." Irene cocked an eyebrow.

"And the first?" Stamford dragged her off to Bart's as fast as her leg would carry her. He made an inquiry at the desk and he returns to her, smiling, before he takes her to a lab. There was some really nice equipment in the place and Irene could already tell how much better the budget was. "It's a bit different…" Irene decides not to finish the thought when she notices the man at the microscope. He had dark curly hair that fell slightly into his forehead, pale skin that would probably be compared to ivory in poetry, and even sitting it was obvious that he was tall.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? I have no service on mine." He had this deep baritone voice and Irene could see why people would be attracted to him. Not that she was in anyway interested of course.

"And what's wrong with a landline?"

"I prefer to text." Irene rolled her eyes slightly.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Oh use mine." She hadn't meant that to come out with such a flirty tone. Irene didn't want him and the idea of even being with a man almost made her gag.

"Oh, thank you," he said, casting a glance between her and Stamford.

"This is Irene Adler." She kind of wanted to slap Stamford. She could introduce herself. The man half yanks the pone out of her hand with his slender fingers.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Irene freezes slightly because it's harder to try normality if people know.

"What?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan, but how dare you…" The door behind Irene opened and the man started talking over her, handing her the phone.

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you." The little brunette smiled. She was straight, if the stare she was giving the man was anything to go by. Shame, this Molly seemed like Irene's type. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement, your mouths too small now." Was he really that ignorant or was he just that much of an ass? Irene gave Molly a pitying look as the girl left. "How do you feel about the violin?"

"What?" Irene refocused her brain away from Molly's bum.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking; sometimes I don't talk for days on end… Will that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worst about each other." Irene decided that he could be rather infuriating.

"No one said anything about flat mates."

"I did. Told Mike earlier this morning what a difficult man I must be to find a flat mate for," he says in that quick manner, pulling on his coat. "Now here he is, just back from lunch with an old friend clearly just back from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn't a difficult leap." Oh, he was outrageous but Irene found herself quite enjoying the man's company.

"How'd you find out about Afghanistan?"

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it." Completely ignoring the question, the ass. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Really, is that it?" Irene was secretly enjoying the situations need for sass.

"Is that what?"

"I don't know you're name, we hardly know each other, and we're going to look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

"I don't know where we're meeting either."

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan; I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, probably because he's an alcoholic, most likely because he recently walked out on his wife; and I know that you're therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid." Irene couldn't resist her smile. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He started to walk out. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon." He disappeared in a flurry of fabric. Irene let out a breathy, exasperated sigh and looked at Stamford.

"Yeah, he's always like that."

Irene got back to her pathetically drab flat when she decided to see what message this Sherlock Holmes had sent. It read: If brother has green ladder arrest brother SH. Well then, time to find out more about him. One quick type into a search engine was all it took.

Irene decided to walk to the flat and she arrived just as Mr. Holmes pulled up in a taxi. "Hello."

"Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please." They shook hands and Irene had a feeling he wasn't normally this polite.

"This is a nice place Sherlock, it must be expensive."

"The landlady, Mrs. Hudson is giving me a special deal. She owes me a favor. A few years back her husband managed to get himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out."

"You saved her husband?" Irene wrapped her coat a little tighter. Today was a dress slacks, blouse, and tennis shoes day but a chill pervaded the fall air.

"Oh no, I ensured it."

"Sherlock!" The tall man hugged the short woman and Irene got the impression that they were actually friends, more than acquaintances.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor Irene Adler."

"I'm a nurse actually."

"Well come in!" Irene didn't miss the slightly put out expression on Holmes' face when she declared herself a nurse.

"Thank you."

"Shall we," declared Holmes, entering behind her and hurrying up the stairs, waiting for her at the flat's door. He held the door open for her and she was almost surprised by his manners.

"Oh, this could be wonderful," says Irene softly, spinning in the center of the room.

"I have an extra room upstairs if you'll be needing two." Irene narrows her eyes at the insinuation.

"We'll need two." Mrs. Hudson looked upset at her tone and Irene felt a little guilty, but not guilty enough to take it back. She turned again to Sherlock.

"I moved in—" "Once we get rid of these papers—"

They stared at each other for a second. "Well, I could definitely straighten up some.." He could really, because there was stuff everywhere.

"How do you even own this much paper?" Irene sits because her leg is being irritating.

"Consulting detective," he mutters and she has no time to ask exactly what he means when a silver haired man appears in the doorway. "There's been another one."

"Yes, will you come?"

"Yes, but not in a police vehicle. Text me the details, I'll take a cab." The man nodes, shoots a glance at Irene, and leaves as fast as he arrived. The doorway had barely shut downstairs when Sherlock had jumped in excitement. "A serial murder, oh it's Christmas. I probably won't be back until late, Irene make yourself at home." Irene stared after him as he disappeared in a swish of coat.

"He's not lying when he says consulting detective."

"No he's not dear, you rest that leg. I understand, I have a hip." Irene doesn't bother responding.

"You're an army doctor." Sherlock was back again.

"Nurse, yes," said Irene, deciding facts were good enough as she stood.

"Any good?"

"Excellent."

"You've seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths…"

"Quite a lot of it."

"Want to see some more?"

"Hell yes," and then they were in a cab on their way to a crime scene.

AN: I have no explanation for this fic besides for a little bit of brain crack. Hopefully rewriting Scandal will turn out better than this.