News reporting, updates on the situation in Turkey….the notorious Black Widow of the Avengers was found and identified among the victims of the recent attack in Istanbul, witnesses say she got at least a dozen people out before the train station…

In an unusually quiet London flat, a tea cup fell to the floor, shattering and spilling the steamy liquid over the red patterned rug.

…collapsed. Natasha Romanoff, as she was known, was made internationally famous last year when she released all of the terrorist organizations' classified files onto the internet.

Sherlock Holmes' eyes were glued to the television screen in 221B.

Statements from the other Avengers are yet unheard. Steve Rodgers and Tony Stark refused to comment.

"Nat?"

His voice only came out a whisper. But it didn't matter because the flat was empty save for himself. Empty. As it would continue to be. There'd be no midnight visit from a red-haired enigma, no clues left on his laptop or texts as check up, no deducing each other and barely concealed smiles, no missions or cases worked together.

The complicated beautiful mystery of a woman he'd allowed himself to get close to was gone forever.

Mrs Hudson would have found him eventually. But someone else beat her.

Mycroft Holmes always knew. News that was as vital as this crossed his plate at a speed faster than the Prime Minister. Mycroft knew Natasha Romanov was dead moments after the information was released.

He also knew what she had meant to his little brother. As someone that intrigued and fascinated Sherlock, Natasha was the puzzle he would have never been able to solve. She had been a friend. Sherlock Holmes didn't have many of those.

Mycroft could predict Sherlock's reaction to a point. Sentiment always got Sherlock in the end. There'd be a plane ticket ready for him.

Mycroft made a phone call to John as a warning, as well as Lestrade to ensure no new cases were given out. There was another call to his chauffeur to go pick John up, and Mycroft's work was done for the moment. He settled back in his office at the Diogenes Club, hands steepled. Deep in thought.

Leaving his wife at work, John Watson rushed up the stairs into 221B, looking a bit frazzled and concerned after Mycroft's phone call. His eyes zipped around the flat in an attempt to find where Sherlock was. It appeared empty. "Sherlock?"

He found him in the bedroom, curled up in the fetal position on his bed with the laptop open in front of him. On the screen was the news, running updates from the terrorist attack in Turkey. Sherlock was also clutching a single book to his chest. John wouldn't have seen it save for the corner of the cover stuck up between his arms.

Sherlock lay still, with that focused look in his eyes. Yet, he'd blinked up at John, as if he'd expected his Natasha to walk through instead. The disappointment was evident. "John."

"Yeah…" John didn't quite know what to do and hesitated by the door. Eventually, he closed the distance, crouching down next to the bed to have a better look at Sherlock. His voice caught in his throat and he was left with absolutely no idea how to handle the situation. If it had been Mary who died… "Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

"Stop talking. I don't need your sentiments," Sherlock murmured. His brain was zipping about at insane speeds, taking in every last detail from the newscast.

John exhaled slowly. This wasn't another Irene Adler, manipulation and single incidence intrigue. Sherlock truly and deeply cared for Natasha Romanov. Beyond her intrigue and magnetism, there was something deeper. It was impossible to miss. But comforting a grieving Sherlock was like trying to embrace a hurricane or an earthquake. There was only so much one could do.

"Then don't take them, but I am going to be here if you need anything, alright?"

Sherlock didn't reply. With surprising speed, he rolled out of bed and made for his wardrobe. Clothes landed in piles on the floor while he searched through it, tossing what he was going for onto the bed.

John, as usual, was a bit taken aback. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

Sherlock started undoing the buttons of his dress shirt. "Work is the best antidote for sorrow," he stated blandly. "I'm going out."

John eyed the leather coat, jeans, and grey t-shirt on the bed. "Undercover?"

"Possibly." Sherlock threw his shirt towards the corner and fixed cold blue eyes on his best friend. "Now, leave. I've got work to do."

Security at Istanbul Atatürk Airport had been increased following the attack early that morning. After touching down, Sherlock breezed through customs as fast as he could, flashing a believable smile at the middle-aged woman by the desk. The smile disappeared from his features as soon as he turned away. Time was of the essense.

Dressed in black and leather, with only a backpack of supplies, he wasn't recognizable as Sherlock Holmes the famous consulting detective. He was just another face in the crowd. Except unlike these humans headed home or wherever they were destined, Sherlock was on a mission. A fool's errand perhaps. But he didn't trust the media, they were just looking for a story. He needed confirmation, concrete proof that Natasha Romanov was gone and hadn't escaped. He was an addict in need of a fix.

The location of the bombing was a mess of people, autos, and roped off space. The attack itself wasn't massive. Only two dead thus far, including Natasha, twenty injured. The intelligence that Mycroft sent said that it was a suitcase bomb. They'd found the remnants only an hour previous.

The body they'd found and identified as Natasha Romanov was mangled and crushed to the point of being nearly unidentifiable. No belongings or identification had been found on her person. Only plain black clothes and red hair. She'd been seen helping people out of the crumbling wing and the witnesses saw her inside when it went crashing down. So obviously it must have been her.

Except Sherlock knew Natasha, he could not imagine she would have died like that. She had to have found a way out, she was too clever. The police were also notoriously known for making assumptions based on only a few of the facts, piecing together what they wanted to in order to make the case simple. They weren't Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock snuck past the yellow security tape and found a space to stand. His mind whirled, images and words flashing up as he descended into his mind palace. The entire event played out in his mind. He rebuilt the station, he placed the bomb in its location, he put Natasha where she would have been in the only escape for the people she'd saved. Play by play. Flashes of light, flowing of words across space, images of people he didn't know, maps of the area and buildings, all in his mind. He reconstructed the event he'd been too late to prevent.

"Excuse me? Excuse me? Sir. What are you doing?" A man speaking in Turkish pulled him out of his thought process. "Are you injured? You need to go to the relief tent. Authorized personnel only."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but he'd gotten what he needed. Without a word to the police officer, he broke into a jog, long strides carrying him over the dusty pavement towards the west side of the building. There would be an almost triumphant smirk on his face.

He knew exactly where she was.

Sherlock didn't know Istanbul as well as London, but he'd buried his nose in the map of his phone on the plane, memorizing the streets surrounding the station, the alleyways, and paths. He had to find her. It was a pressing need, taking over his mind until he had the answer. Like a case he needed to solve. He didn't want to believe she was dead. It was that denial that fueled him, as well as the game.

He ran only a short ways down the pavement and then took a turn into a narrow street. Cars lined both sides, leaving only room for one way traffic. The dull colored houses were tiny and clustered together tightly. It was a poorer district, and more than one of the houses stood empty. He made for the abandoned one closest to the road.

Around the back, through the slimmest of alleys, there was a small window boarded up. At least that's what it was meant to look like. Sherlock knew better.

Quiet, like a predator on the prowl, he pushed the board aside and slipped into the house. There was very little light, only what streamed in through the slots in the barred and boarded windows. Whoever had lived here had taken most of the furniture too. A thick layer of dust coated the floor and broken table nearest him.

Dust was eloquent.

He stalked across the wood floor quietly, following the trail until he pushed opened the bedroom door.

Sherlock found himself face to face with the barrel of a gun. Hardly the first time, besides he knew her well enough to expect it by this point. He stilled, flicking his eyes past the gun to the woman he knew held it. "I fly fifteen hundred miles to find you and this is the thanks I get?"

"Sherlock." Natasha breathed out his name and lowered the gun. She proceeded to then collapse against the wall. "Ring the doorbell next time, I could have shot you. Or been in the shower."

"Wouldn't be the first time." Sherlock closed the distance, moving in to support her.

Natasha made a half-amused sound and leaned heavily against him. "I remember," she said against the leather of his jacket.

Sherlock gently scooped her up in his arms, since it just seemed to be easier than trying to help her walk. He'd gotten a fleeting look at her injuries. She'd escaped the collapsing building, but not without damage. Blood coated her abdomen and the way she'd favored her left leg indicated a break somewhere. "This was a hit on you," he deduced softly, carrying her out of the room. "You have information they didn't want escaping."

"Yes," she confirmed. "They're not going to leave until there's complete assurance that I'm dead. They need a body."

"They have a body. They found a woman in the rubble matching your description. Told the world you were dead."

"DNA evidence won't match, it's only a matter of time before they figure it out."

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. You're getting out before then." Sherlock paused in the kitchen again, deciding on a course of action. "I promise. I'm taking you back to London."

"My knight in shining armor," she deadpanned with the fairest hint of a smile. "I've got your back."

"As usual." Sherlock's lips twitched into a brief smile, but his serious expression returned. Work to do. Without only quiet words on instruction, he carried her out of the empty house.

Their escape from Istanbul was uneventful, going off without so much as a hitch. Sherlock had planned for it on the way over. He'd believed he wasn't going to find the dead body of a friend but rather that they'd need an escape for the two of them.

Not to mention, Sherlock was already aware the British Government had a plane standing by. Overprotective big brothers came in handy sometimes. For Natasha's sake, he allowed himself to accept Mycroft's offer. He left the stolen car at the airfield and carried Natasha up the stairs into their ride home.

Save for the pilot and co-pilot, they were the only ones on the tiny jet. There was no wait and very soon they were in the air headed northwest. Sherlock pulled out the medical kit as soon as they were airborne. "We'll hunt them down next time," he said, gesturing for her to help him.

"Good, I don't like it when men try to blow me up," Natasha said. She peeled the bloody cloth from her abdomen and shifted the shirt to reveal an ugly gash over her right side. She breathed out slowly when Sherlock covered it again with a cloth saturated in alcohol disinfectant.

Sherlock flicked his eyes to her face. Allowing himself once again to be grateful she wasn't actually dead, that he hadn't lost a friend. It'd been a long journey since that morning. Worth every moment. "I'm not too fond of it either," he replied when he continued tending to her wound.

"How many died?"

"Three in total, not counting yourself, last I was informed. Two dozen were injured," he answered. "I'm sorry."

Natasha closed her eyes and let that information soak in. People were dead because of her, families were broken, lives were changed forever. It wasn't the first time, for either of them, but it didn't make it easier. "I'll need a secure laptop as soon as we're back in London."

"Send word to Mycroft," Sherlock pulled out his phone and handed it over. "You also need a proper doctor."

"Not John then," Natasha said, peeking at him with a teasing smile.

"No, not John. Somewhere with medical equipment enough to treat getting a building dropped on you."

"Aye, aye, captain," she breathed and peeked over the phone at him.

They spent the rest of the flight quietly discussing the information she'd acquired in Istanbul. The bombing that had destroyed half of the train station was only the first of many that were planned in Turkey. It was paramount the intelligence she gathered get back to the proper authorities. Sherlock finished doing what he could for her injuries, enough to make her comfortable for the flight.

Things happened quickly once they landed in London, they were taken away in a chauffeured car. Natasha's information was sent to the proper channels, her survival was announced, and she was seen by some of the best doctors London had to offer.

By sunrise the next day, Natasha would be ready to get out of the line of questioning, ready to get away from everyone. Save for one. She didn't bother knocking, he knew she was coming.

Sherlock was perched in his chair when she entered, eyes closed, hands steepled. "Can you pass me my phone?"

Natasha's lips twitched into a little smile. "Any specific reason?"

"I want to annoy my brother."

"I can get on board with that," she replied. "Just this once, I did fracture four bones in my foot. Apparently, I should be resting it." She snagged the phone from the side table and tossed it at him. He made an annoyed sound when the phone landed solidly in his lap. She let out an amused breath, sitting in John's chair and tucking her legs underneath her

Sherlock's long fingers picked up the device and he sent off a text at rapid speed. His attention finally fully on his guest, he tipped his head up and fixed a silver blue-eyed gaze on the Black Widow. "How's it feel being back from the dead? We could compare notes."

Natasha's expression was completely amused, though she hadn't smiled properly yet. "Not so bad, I guess. Wasn't exactly a two-year adventure. And I had good help, I wasn't all by my lonesome"

"I wasn't alone the whole two years," Sherlock protested. "I had company. Even let her sleep with me a whole week."

"Only sleeping and sharing body heat, unfortunately. There was only one bed," she quipped back. "In case you forgot, Siberia is known to be a bit chilly."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Whatever."

Natasha's features softened a bit. "Thank you, by the way. For coming to get me. I'd assessed escape routes before you got there and nothing was looking promising."

"I did the same. I saved your life."

Natasha scoffed. "And I've saved yours, seems like a fair deal. We're almost even now."

Sherlock tapped his fingers together. "I don't keep a record."

"You should. You still owe me for that break out in Columbia."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to scoff. "Next time you're helping save the world, shoot me a text and I'll make that debt up to you."

"I'll keep you in mind. Granted, I also have a need to keep you safe. And throwing you into the mess that I have to get involved with isn't exactly conducive to that."

Sherlock had to think about that. "Do you? Need to keep me safe? Why?"

Natasha's answer came right away. "Because I like you."

"Well…" he cleared his throat. "That's good to know. Most don't."

There was a smile on her face now, almost appreciating how awkward he was behaving. She slipped out of John's chair with the slow grace of a dancer. Her footsteps were silent on the rug and only the quiet muted sounds of London out the window were heard. She perched on the armrest of Sherlock's. Sherlock just stared up at her while she moved. Big clear blue eyes searching for the clue, the key to understanding what she was doing. He came up short.

"Well I do," she replied. And without another word, she leaned in towards him. She gave him a second worth of warning, just in case he wanted to pull away. When he didn't, she gently pressed her lips to his. Not a kiss of distraction, cover, or even of intense romantic passion. It was a thank you, a connection, and so much more. Their first kiss, in all their years of encounters and working together.

Sherlock reciprocated like a man who had very little experience, but his hand found her neck and his long fingers tangled in her loose red hair when he kissed her back. Her lips were soft and warm, she tasted of peppermint and coffee. He couldn't yet tell what the source was, he needed more time. The intimate contact was over far too soon. His eyes fluttered open and he felt the burn in his cheeks.

Natasha smiled down at him and smoothed a hand through his unruly curls, all dialated green eyes and soft smile. "You're an extraordinary force of nature, Sherlock Holmes. Don't let anyone tell you different."