This story... Has rather gotten away from me somewhat... xD It was only intended to be a short story after an idea I had about Irene/Sherlock and letters, but it's sort of... Grown from there... And it looks to now be about 4 chapters long... There's also a fair few appearances/mentions of characters I wasn't intending to even include in the story, so please bear with me with that... But... Yeah! I hope you enjoy~

Sherlock hadn't thought anything of it when the letter had arrived on the doorstep. It was a fairly nondescript envelope with his name and address carefully written on the front in an elegant hand. Female. Right-handed. Well-educated. Used a fountain pen, not a biro; suggests well-brought up. Confident in herself, yet hesitant to send the letter. Which would mean…

"Client," he murmured to himself, tone dismissive as he dropped the letter onto the cluttered desk and picked up his violin. "Boring." Placing the bow on the strings, he had closed his eyes and began to play, the very existence of the letter having already been deleted from his 'hard drive'.

When John came back a few hours later, however, it was one of the first things he noticed.

"Post's been then?" Sherlock simply grunted in reply, balancing his skull on his chest, his fingers templed beneath his chin,

"Anything interesting?"

"No," the Consulting Detective said languidly, his tone almost sleepy, as though he wasn't really listening. Which he probably wasn't, John reminded himself as he picked up the envelope and squinted at the post mark.

"It's from America!" he exclaimed, surprised, as he glanced at Sherlock, gaze quizzical.

"Fascinating…"

"Who'd want to talk to you from America?"

"A client."

"From America?!"

"Thanks to your… Blog I'm… What was it Lestrade said? 'An internet phenomenon'." The disdain was clear in his tone as he continued; "It's entirely possible someone has heard of me and now wants my help with their mediocre problems. Tedious." Closing his eyes, he settled back on the sofa again, voice softening and becoming more reflective as he sunk back into his thoughts.

John, however, was not so quick to dismiss the letter; it had piqued his interest, and he was damned if he was going to ignore it just because Sherlock was being a moody git. Picking up the envelope, he opened it, pulling out the single folded sheet inside and releasing a faint, lingering perfume which seemed half-familiar… Curiosity well and truly aroused now, John was about to open the letter itself when Sherlock barked at him.

"Wait." Pausing, fingers itching to find out who the letter was from, John glanced at his friend, both perplexed and bemused at his sudden shift in attitude.

"What?"

Not bothering to respond, Sherlock simply got to his feet, the skull tumbling to the floor, forgotten; his entire attention was now focused solely on the letter clutched in John's hand. Moving forwards, he plucked the paper from John's grasp, ignoring his protests and feeble attempts to get the letter back. Now it was in his own hands, the faint scent he'd perceived when John had opened the envelope became much more obvious, and a small part of his mind marvelled at the fact he hadn't noticed it before. He remembered the smell of course; how could he not? Yet he daren't let himself get carried away; just because /he/ associated that particular perfume with her, that didn't mean it was… Her. It could still be a client.

Opening the folded paper, however, chased the final faint doubt from his mind. It was her. The Woman…

The letter was extremely short, more of a note than anything; it wasn't addressed to anyone, nor had she signed it. But he knew.

Let's have dinner.

"Well?" John asked, by now almost exploding with curiosity. "Who was it from? A client?"

"No," Sherlock said slowly, folding the letter and slipping it into the pocket of his dressing gown.

"Then who was it? Sherlock?"

"Envelope," was all Sherlock said, expression vaguely thoughtful as he held his hand out to John. For a moment, a small, childish part of him wanted to keep hold of the envelope until Sherlock told him, but with a sigh, John handed it over, watching as Sherlock put that in his dressing gown pocket too and disappeared in the direction of his room.

Shutting the door on John's curiosity and the questions he so obviously wanted to ask, Sherlock pulled the letter and envelope from his pocket again, studying them both. The postmark was from Chicago, so Irene had clearly gone to America after Karachi… He couldn't help but admire her nerve at that; while it was undoubtedly the obvious choice, it was also dangerous. He doubted very much whether the American Government would be forgiving towards the woman who had helped foil their neatly laid plans. Still, that was Irene Adler all over; he'd never known her to willingly back away from danger. It had undoubtedly almost been her downfall.

Dropping onto the bed with a soft sigh, he read the short note again. Let's have dinner… Absurd. Just like those texts she used to send him. Yet he found himself, much to his annoyance, and in spite of his determination to ignore it, wondering whether she'd write to him again…

The next chapter is the one which really got away with me :P Expect a visit from Lestrade and John :)