There wasn't much sleeping, yet it wasn't all love-making either. There was plenty of that, however, and Irene was not surprised to find Sherlock a quick learner. It was surely the scientist in him, treating her sexual responses almost as science experiments, complete with hypotheses, testing, conclusions, and re-testing—just to be sure.

But they also spoke, really talked to each other. Sherlock shared with her the secret of his death-defying fall from the top of St. Bart's. He admitted to how much he missed John, how much he missed London. He even admitted to being lonely. She shared that she, too, missed London. She admitted to how much she missed him, Sherlock Holmes—how she often saw him in crowds, how she sought out men who looked like him in San Francisco bars.

She slept some, off and on, always with her face planted against his bare chest, his arms around her. She would wake to either his kisses or to a panic that he was nothing but a figment of her imagination—that he really was dead and that she was off her rocker. Every time she feared her sanity, though, she would wake up, and he would be there, watching her sleep, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

A couple times, she said she loved him, just to taste the words in her mouth. A couple times, he even said it back.

Close to morning, he said, "You'll know when I come back to life in London. You'll know when it's safe …"

She heard the rest of that final sentence in her head: You'll know when it's safe … to come find me, live with me, be with me.

Yet deep in the darkest place of her heart, Irene wondered if she could ever truly take him up on the offer. They weren't the sort of people who lived happily ever after: got married, had babies, lived long lives. They were the sort who died young and alone. She drifted to sleep again, wondering what Sherlock Holmes would look like as a seventy-year-old man.

Then, he was gone.

When she awoke, the bed was still warm at her side. The sun was shining, and the clock read 8 AM. She no longer doubted his realness. The soreness between her legs told her he had been there—several times. She was glad he had not said goodbye. "Goodbye" was too final.

She climbed out of bed and wrapped herself in the nearest silk robe. She yawned, exhausted, but ready for action. Today would be the day she would move again, start a new life somewhere else, thanks to Sherlock's warning. She wandered into her living room, where, through her front window, she could see the morning sun, obstructed by a sheet of gray morning fog.

Irene sat down on her couch. Pillows were on the floor, as were buttons from Sherlock's shirt. On the small table beside the couch, she found a note with a street address in South Carolina. "Think you'd be rather fond of Charleston," it said. "Took the liberty of buying you a flat."

She laughed softly and was delighted to find she could still smell him on her skin.

Across the room, on the table by the front door, she heard the sound of her cellular phone: a text alert. Now that she knew he was alive, out there somewhere, she no longer ran with desperation. Instead, she calmly made her way and was not surprised to find the text was from him.

Simply, honestly, it read: "I will always keep you safe." And she knew he would.

THE END