AN: I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG HUHUHUHU AND I AM SO SORRY IT'S SHORT HUHUHU

—oOo—

GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY
at the present moment

Sherlock is absolutely mortified as his phone waits for the other phone at the end of the line to pick up. It's not that he didn't want to talk to her because of the sole reason that he'd be talking to her. No, he just wants to speak to her about her whereabouts. Definitely. Isn't she just wasting the life he's given her by going in public?

Of course, he is not calling her to remove the distracting nagging in his head—the one that keeps telling and reminding him that he's just here, sitting alone at the High Table in the Reception with everyone else mingling in groups together.

Suddenly feeling as if his seat is on fire, Sherlock shoots up from his seat to walk outside of the orangery—to distract himself from his growing isolation within a crowd by lingering in the silence of the garden.

It's less lonelier—to be alone in an empty space than to be alone in a lively crowd.

Betraying himself, Sherlock turns back around to look at the orangery behind him. The reception is still loud—still happy. From outside, he can still see John and Mary with their friends, laughing and sharing a story or two.

He lets out a deep breath, turning the opposite direction to look up at the now darkening sky—the colours of blue, orange, purple, and pink casting a beautiful painting in the sky. How it mocks him.

With a sigh, he glances at his phone—the other end still waiting to be picked up—but he doesn't dare cancel the call.

Cancelling the call is just as exposing as actually taking it—more so, probably. By dialling, it will already give off the impression that he himself had been swayed by his own vulnerable emotions to search for her contact number (a number he had never used for a year or more) and make the decision to call.

If he cancels, it would mean that he is so weak to fall subject to his vulnerability—that the decision to press Dial came from a sudden spurt of emotions so strong that he was willing to lose this little battle. It would show that his mind and logic were not in control of the action—that his emotions had told him to call her of all people.

Worst of all, it would show that he is too much of a coward to actually speak to her.

No, he lets his phone wait for her... because despite its vulnerable roots, he can still mask it. What he is masking, he will never truly understand, but either way, she will probably see through that... but it's better to let her know that he is never going to submit himself to the war despite just losing this small battle.

As the phone on the other end continue to ring, he starts to wonder whether she's taking her time to pick up the call precisely for the same reason as he is: to not lose the war. Irene Adler is a woman who holds her phone to the highest value, which means she always has it with her... Is she taking her time to let him know that she is not waiting for him to call? Is she taking her time to let him know that she does not revolve around him nor he should revolve around her?

Or is it a different matter entirely? Danger, perhaps?

Impossible. She's safe. The web is not after her anymore because he took care of that. She can hold her own against her former powerful clients because they had no idea that the phone was destroyed so they wouldn't dare attack her if they think she still has leverage over them upon learning of her survival. The British Government does not see her as a national threat anymore, having destroyed her phone. She's just like any other trespassing criminal.

She's not in trouble. Even if she is, he shouldn't care... right?

Before he questions himself more, she finally picks up and so he brings his phone to his ear.

"Mister Holmes?" That voice. It's been a while since he's heard it. It had been nine months since he came back from the dead, and it had been nine months since he saw her last. [1]

"Miss Adler," he greets.

A pause.

"Why are you calling me?" she asks him quietly but without a hint of emotion in her voice.

He commends her for her firmness as well as her straightforwardness. She always knows how to keep him tongue-tied, but he won't let her have the satisfaction.

"Is it not allowed?" he asks her instead, not really knowing what else to say.

"It is rather... unusual."

Uncharacteristic of him to call her is what she probably wanted to say. He doesn't blame her. His own body had betrayed him—something he really hates happening.

"What's the reason you're calling me?" she corrects herself.

A longer pause.

"I wanted to know why you're out in the open," he finally tells her after nearly blurting out about his own loneliness, and his need for human communication and interaction.

His anxiety with going back to 221B Baker Street alone is nagging on him, eating himself and the rest of his composure away. As much as the others try to communicate with him, they still have no idea who he is. They have no idea on how to talk to him, and they have no idea of the battle that's going on within himself... except her.

"I was in disguise," she answers him.

"I told you never to come here," he replies with a sigh, rubbing his temples. Though she had just gambled on her life, she was still a good enough distraction from the raging war between his many emotions. If confronting her about her decision to come here gives him a headache enough to forget about his sadness, then so be it.

"No one can ever tell me what and what not to do," she counters with her voice filled with firmness.

It was not the scolding nor teasing tone which he usually associates with her voice when she is in her icy rage. It was the kind of firmness he hears when she's trying to reason with herself instead of to him. It sounded as if she is convincing both of them of her statement—something she would have normally said three years ago.

So, why did she come here? Why did she show herself to him? Why did she gamble on her life for a stupid wedding?

"It's dangerous for you to be in London," he tells her instead.

"How?" she asks.

How indeed? How can he answer her? There is no danger for her in London except the probable incarceration from the British Government but they themselves threw her to the wolves when she was stripped off her phone. Her phone was the threat, not her. So who? Who could be the one she poses a threat to?

You, a voice in the back of his head whispers. Sherlock shakes his head to relieve himself from the path which his thoughts are straying on. Don't be ridiculous, he thinks back to the other voice.

"You are still a criminal in the eyes of the Law," he reminds her instead since it's the only reason he has.

"Irene Adler is dead in the eyes of the Law," she counters flawlessly and without hesitation. Damn this woman.

"And coming here compromises the fact," he continues, trying to remove the frustration from his voice. Does she not see how dangerous she is? Does she not see what may fall upon her if she stayed here?

"Unless I am caught," her voice breaks his thoughts.

He sighs. Of course, she knows. "You're taking a dangerous risk, coming here."

"The risk is as worthy as its return," she comments. [2]

"And what return are you expecting?" he asks her just as unhesitatingly.

Silence. A beat.

"I miss London," she finally answers.

Missing London—something he felt in his two years away. Even though she is an American at birth [3], her home is London. Just like him, she had built her empire in London—her life grew in London. She's just as in love with London as he is. He doesn't blame the fact that she misses being here.

Sherlock himself was eager to finish off Moriarty's web—not just because ridding the world of that rotten organisation would have been what everyone needed, but also because he wanted to come back to London as quickly as possible again, to use his own name again—to be himself again.

He can only imagine what she's going through right now, being on the run for three and a half years now [4] and keeping her life hidden forever—to hide who she is for the rest of her life... and she misses London, the place where she should never be again. He sympathises entirely.

"I see," he replies gently, looking up at the darkening sky, not knowing what else to say. She's been making him do that lately: speechless.

Silence.

"Mister Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you calling me?"

"I told you—"

"Yes, but shouldn't you be getting started on Doctor and Missus Watson's first dance?"

He blinks for a few moments. "How did you know?" he asks before he stops himself.

"I was a part of the reception, Mister Holmes. I know the timetable... I'm actually a bit surprised how quiet your end of the line is. From what I remember, people should still be mingling and talking around about now."

Sherlock turns around from his spot to look back at the lively orangery—where people are mingling and talking around. What a physical parallel to his emotions—complete silence and isolation from all the happy commotion. He truly is uncomprehending in the face of the happy.

"Where are you now?" he asks her suddenly, turning back around to face the peace of nature.

"If I tell you, my hiding will be compromised."

"That's not what you were exhibiting earlier when you came here."

"That's different."

"Different how?"

"I'm not playing a game right now."

Oh, but she is, isn't she? Is this phone call not a game itself? Is this not a war? A battle? Aren't they both playing with fire? Both seduced by the warmth of its glow, nearing themselves to it until the moment they get burned. Moths to a flame, they are. This game is a flame that can never really be extinguished.

Perhaps Moriarty was right to hire her all those years ago. To burn him.

"Everything is a game to you," he tells her.

"No, but sometimes it's easier to treat everything as such," she answers.

"Wouldn't it be easier to just... do things as one wants to?"

"A fist-fighter will always win in a match on a fighting ring against a chess player, just as a chess player will always win in a match on a board against a fist-fighter. It's a matter of where their areas of expertise are. If your opponent wants a match, you have to know your strengths and the opponent's weakness... then use that knowledge to win—to always win."

"And what if the chess player is on a match against another chess player? Wouldn't the game prolong too much? If they were fighting for something and they needed a battlefield, wouldn't a chess board be too... boring to use in a fight?"

"Then the one who uses a fist first gets disqualified and gets automatically removed from the game."

"But that one had done what was needed to be done: to get the message across."

"And what message is that?"

"That the game had been going on far too long and that there is no progress with the battle if they're just... sitting there, making slow moves."

"And still, they lose."

"Why?"

"Because the game was their strength... and the one who suddenly fought with a fist was driven by impatience—by emotions instead of logic. For chess players, logic is their main tool—their main weapon. In a sword fight, you never want to throw away your sword and leave yourself vulnerable. No, you cannot force a chess player in a fighting ring."

Sherlock feels as if he was doused with cold water at the statement. Wisely said, he thinks.

Silence.

"I'll never get an answer from you, will I?" she asks.

He pauses because he's not really sure which question she is talking about.

Will you have dinner with me? she asked years before. Why are you helping me? she asked after her death. Why are you calling me? she asked a minute ago. I'll never get an answer from you, will I? she asks now.

Her inquiries are dangerous—too exposing if he either answers or not. His answers would show what kind of person he is. If he replies, he admits his stubbornness and his desperation. If he doesn't reply, he admits his speechlessness and his powerlessness. If he lies, then he admits his weaknesses and his cowardice. If he tells the truth, then he admits his vulnerabilities and his defeat.

If he explains, he will look like he's defending himself. If he doesn't, then he will look like he's guilty of something he doesn't know she's accusing him of. Every question is dangerous, and there's no doubt that he will lose, no matter what.

But which one is she referring to? Or is she referring to all of them? Will he ever answer her questions?

I'll never get an answer from you, will I? she asks him. What should he say?

"No, you won't," he replies, an admission of stubbornness, speechlessness, weaknesses, and vulnerabilities—but he also admits his unwillingness to back-down, his lack of need of explanations, and his refusal to subject to her despite what she's doing to him.

He hears her suck in a breath followed by a deep sigh. She wasn't expecting an answer, that much was obvious, and he knew she understood a lot by those three words.

"Fair enough," she replies.

Fair enough? What is fair enough? What does that mean? Was it fair to show so much with so little? Was it fair to show so little with so much? Was it fair that he is unwilling to back down to a game he had just subtly told her he wished to stop?

Was it fair enough that he wouldn't let himself fall subject to her? Was it fair to surprise her when she doesn't want to be surprised? Was it fair to never answer her with the questions she needed answered? What was fair enough for her?

He will never understand her. The Woman is the one person he understands too much and too little at the same time, and he doesn't know whether to yell at her or chuckle to himself with the fact.

"Will you use the violin?" she asks, bringing him back to reality. "To their first dance?"

"Of course," he replies, feeling his throat dry up.

"A composition of your own?" she asks.

He tries to subtly clear his throat as he composes himself. "Obviously."

"And you don't need practising," she adds.

Is she inquiring whether how much he had spent his time perfecting a composition for his best friends?

"No," he admits before he starts to think too much.

It's dangerous to think too much. Over-thinking is just as much of a downfall as thinking too little. Moriarty made sure he understood that before he fell down the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

"Right," she replies.

Silence.

Had they been normal human beings, the silence would have been described as awkward by everyone else, but they were never normal, and their silences were never awkward. The silence is them trying to form the next strategy—a strategy to perform the next move.

The silence was always tense between them. It was always hard to move forward. It was hard to be in a battle where you have no idea what the opponent is doing, or what they must be thinking.

"It's a good wedding gift," she suddenly says. "The composition."

Other people would think she's starting a small talk, but she was never one for small talk. Everything she says is a dagger—a chess move, and he must tread lightly unless he wants to see himself maimed and defeated.

"Why?" he asks. Why are you saying this? he wanted to ask.

"I don't know," she admits, "but that's what they'll think."

"And you?" he asks quietly.

He could practically see her shrug. "I'll admit it's an honourable gesture."

The first two notes of the lament he had written for her rings in the centre of his mind palace, begging to be played—to be acknowledged—to be exposed to the person it is a tribute to, but he pushes it down. She doesn't need to know that.

"It's just music," he replies nonchalantly, shrugging a shoulder before he realises that she doesn't really see him as of this moment.

"From one performer to another," she starts,"I think it's safe to say that it is never 'just' music, Mister Holmes," she finishes with an almost accusing tone.

The lament continues to flow in his head so he has to physically shake his head just to rid himself the haunting melody.

"No," he agrees before sighing, "no, it's never just music..." Another sigh. "I better go."

A pause. "Till the next contact, Mister Holmes."

"Miss Adler," he says before hanging up.

Sherlock doesn't move, choosing instead to look down at his phone, as if he could see her the longer he glares at it. Her last words still ringing in his ears.

—oOo—

ENGLAND, LONDON
221B BAKER ST
seven months ago

Doodooding...

The default notification alert of his iPhone did not prepare him for the text within it, instantly taking away his plans to dine out at Angelo's tonight.

From Unknown Number:

+36 4 221-7437 [5]

He doesn't need anything else.

He replaces an old number with the texted one. Staring at it for a few moments, he deduces that she had moved to Hungary since he last saw her in Montenegro two months ago, judging from the fact that the country code of the number is a 36. It was dangerous for her to expose her whereabouts to him.

Sherlock looks up from the dreaded number to the streets of London outside his window.

She's out there, somewhere, and he left her alone in the world for both their sakes. Should he feel guilty for leaving her vulnerable and out in the open on her own? No, he shouldn't. He knows she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. In fact, that's her very nature, isn't it?—that everything she does is to for herself, no matter what the cost.

So, giving him a means of communication, does that not ruin the very nature of who she is? Or was that a very her thing to do? She did text him that she was alive all those years ago. She did text him of the gift she had when she faked her death. She never shied from the fact that she was in contact with the detective that was hired to target her.

Still, wasn't she adamant when it comes to her locations? Why now? What changed now?

Ahhh...

Sherlock freezes, and from the reflection on the window, he can see his own eyes widening at the sound. He looks down at the phone in his hands, seeing a text for him. With a start, Sherlock looks around the thankfully empty flat before, with a heavy feeling in his gut, unlocking his phone to see what she had texted him.

Is she in trouble? Is she involved in a ransom? Does she need his powers of deduction for something she needs? Does she want to ask for a favour?

Happy Birthday, Mr. Holmes

His birthday? Quickly going to the calendar in his phone, he sees that, indeed, it is the sixth of January today—his birthday.

How did she even know his birthday? No one else knows of his birthday except for his parents and, of course, Mycroft. His friends never bothered to ask him and he never bothered to inform them of it, not really seeing the point of telling them something so... meaningless. Is a birthday truly that significant to anyone?

Of course, it does, a voice in his head whispers and he quickly shakes it off but it's quite persistent in his head. You care that they don't.

How she mocks him for reminding him of his loneliness. He wants to throw his phone away—to hear it smash on the wall. No one would hear him anyway since he's all alone inside the large flat. But he doesn't, because in his hands is his only contact to—

No, he shouldn't care. Why would he care?

Ahhh...

A heavy drop in the pit of his stomach. Why does her presence seem to give him that effect?

Till the next contact, Mr. Holmes

Shaking his head, he gently puts his phone down once more on the desk beside the windows of the living room of his flat where he had taken the phone in the first place.

With a sigh, he removes his coat once more to place it on the stand beside the door since he doesn't seem to find the appetite to get himself a small meal for his own birthday, which he thought was tomorrow. He shook his head, taking the dressing gown instead.

To his dismay, he finds that it is the blue one—the one she wore on the night that changed everything between them. It was the dressing gown she wore when she asked him that haunting question about dinner. As her voice rings in his head, he was more determined not to find himself eating dinner alone at Angelo's.

He shakes his thoughts once more. What is going on with him? Why is he so unstable? Was it because of her? Was it because of his torture in Serbia? Was it because she mended him as she always did after every strand of the network got destroyed? Or was it something entirely different?

Why is he so vulnerable?

No, he knows the answer to that. His expectations of home after two years of torture and famine got too high. Mycroft warned him two months ago and yet he didn't listen, insistent that he will be welcomed to London with open arms... that he would come back with everything the same.

Yet, everything in London was different, and what's worse is that he himself was now different.

John was right. War and sacrifice change people—no matter how headstrong they are. Everyone is human and everyone can never defy human nature.

"Oh that tune," he hears behind him.

Sherlock visibly flinches at the sudden voice in the room. He turns around to see Mrs Hudson smiling at him from the doorway to the living room, holding a tray and slowly walking towards him. He looks down at his hands to find himself holding his violin and the bow, still positioned to play a high A.

"What was I playing?" Sherlock asks his landlady who places the tray on the desk beside him, just beside his phone.

"You don't know what you were—?"

"I was... thinking," he admits, not bothering to tell her that he wasn't even sure when he started playing the violin again.

"Oh..." Mrs Hudson replies before continuing, "Well, it's the one that goes—" she proceeds to hum a haunting melody that froze the blood in Sherlock's veins. "It really is a lovely tune, Sherlock. I missed hearing it."

"Missed hearing it?" he asks, his voice dry but the landlady doesn't seem to notice.

"You always played it before you... erm... died," she says, blinking profusely and smiling sadly.

Sherlock doesn't need John to tell him that Mrs Hudson had been truly heart-broken at the news of his passing... and yet...

"Always played it?" he asks.

Mrs Hudson nods, smiling at him widely before turning back to the kitchen. "You must have been deep in that funny old head of yours, now that I'm thinking about it. John and I always loved it when you played it in the past. It's usually the music we hear first thing in the morning."

Sherlock blanches at Mrs Hudson's words, continuing to stare at the now lightening sky of London as she descends to her own flat.

Music is such an exposing traitor to a composer. Yet his music's intentions still didn't give a clear meaning to the detective.

"It's just music," he whispers to himself, staring at his violin before positioning himself correctly and starting again, not bothering to sleep.

—oOo—

GOLDNEY HALL ORANGERY
BRISTOL UNIVERSITY
at the present moment

"It's just music," he whispers to himself, staring up at the now dark sky and wondering how long he had been standing there in his own silence whilst the orangery behind him continue to be filled with liveliness.

"Sherlock?" someone starts behind him as he slowly puts his phone back in his trouser's pocket, tightening his grip at the small gadget.

"Yes?" he asks, closing his eyes to breathe in the cold air.

It was a wonder he was still standing in the cold without his coat—another armour on top of his current battlefield armour... but right now, he seems to be more strengthened despite letting himself strip his own bravado by letting go of his happy awkward best man mask and back to his usual self—something even he cannot describe.

"The first dance is starting," was the reply.

Letting a heavy breath out, Sherlock opens his eyes again to turn around to see Lestrade giving him a small encouraging and somewhat sad smile. Lestrade moves to stand sideways, his hand raised towards him whilst his other hand gestures to the other, with his head slightly bowed in a 'come on, kid, let's go' stance.

It was the same position Lestrade had had when they first met—to gesture him away from the crime scene so they could talk formally in a nearby fish-and-chips shop.

Those things will kill you, Lestrade told him before, indicating the cigarette in his hands at the time.

Sherlock tightens his hold on his phone that is currently in his hands at the moment, wondering whether this was the same thing that will kill him, but he dismisses the thought for its absurdity.

With a roll of his eyes, he walks towards the orangery with Lestrade briefly placing his hand on his shoulder—the same way he did when they met, and Sherlock prays to whoever it is out there that this wasn't some sick metaphor.

—oOo—

[1] Sherlock came back to life on November 3, 2013.

John and Mary got married on August 11, 2014.

[2] Literally what my professor in Finance is saying right now. Yes, I am writing this in my class—my MAJORS class. Yes, I'm a Finance major. Today is December 5. I wonder when I'll be posting this chapter lol.

[3] BBC's Irene Adler is canon to be an American at birth (it was in the script and deleted scene in A Scandal in Belgravia). In the books, she came from New Jersey.

[4] Irene was saved from Karachi around the second week of January 2011. John and Mary's wedding occurred on the 11th of August, 2014.

[5] LMAO I'm not from Hungary so idk what the numbers there are. I only know the country code. 221 doesn't need explaining. 7437 = SHER. I can't think of any other number I'm so sorry.