Death was a flexible concept. As long as you didn't exist you were dead. And if you were dead you were forgotten.

Irene Adler wasn't dead.

And even if she was dead she wouldn't be forgotten - Sherlock Holmes didn't forget anything.

Irene knew her poisons. She could tell them apart by smell, by taste. She could feel them even when they were invisible.

She knew something was off. It was her favourite restaurant and she knew it well. Something was wrong.

Moran was there.

And she knew she was going to die.

When she'd worked that out it was only the matter of making sure that didn't happen. What was death? It was the concept of not existing, of ceasing to matter. If she was dead she would still exist – everything mattered to Sherlock Holmes and she knew she meant more than most.

Her tongue had suffered terribly - she'd torn right through it. When Moriarty had assumed she was swallowing her tea, she'd been swallowing her own blood.

She'd thrown it back up again. Back up onto her favourite handkerchief.

After that all it had taken was some dramatic stumbling and an undignified fall.

Moran had wanted to check she was dead.

Moriarty was so sure if himself he stopped only to take her handkerchief. She lay there for a while - more than long enough for Moriarty and Moran to leave.

They'd wanted her dead.

She was still alive. She existed. In their eyes she was dead and because of that they would be blind to her – for now. Moriarty was good. If she was careless she could exist again, before she wanted to.

She'd outsmarted Moriarty.

Sherlock would be impressed.

But for now she would play dead. Forgotten women, dead women, could travel much more easily.

She wanted her handkerchief back.