Sherlock sat in a pattern armchair; amidst the chaos he called order. Mrs. Hudson, although intent on the fact that she was not his maid, had given up her endeavor to tidy up Sherlock's room. Tea cups, some empty and others half full, scattered the floor and table tops. The bed had disappeared under the piles of clothes, papers, and books. But that did not matter to him as he found himself unable to sleep almost every night. Unlabeled flasks sat atop a piano bench where Sherlock liked to conduct his "experiments". He purposely left them unlabeled; it gave him a thrill to combine the unknown chemicals. It terrified John, not knowing if the house would be filled poisonous gas or if it would just explode. Perhaps that is why he was off gallivanting with that girl. Mary, her name was.

The pair had met during one of Sherlock's many cases. The girl had been born in India, her mother died during childbirth, and her father, who was the senior captain of the Indian regiment, had disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Mary was sent to a boarding school and eleven years later, she had knocked on the consulting detective's door and requested his services in finding her father. Once the case had been solved, Watson had foolishly and hastily asked for Mary's hand in marriage. Although the girl was smart, she and Watson made an appalling couple.

So here Sherlock sat, alone and dreadfully bored. He thought of tracking down Gladstone to test his new serum, but decided against it. The strength enhancer he had already injected into the dog might affect the serum's results. He groaned and threw his head into the back of the chair. His hand slipped off the armrest and knocked a stack of papers to the ground. He turned his cheek into the chair and looked at his fallen notes. A manila folder caught his attention and leaned forward to pick it up.

It was the woman's folder. She had beaten him once and Sherlock devoted his life to making sure it didn't happen again. Too bad she was always one step ahead of him. He flipped the folder open to reveal her black and white photo. He stared at the picture for a few seconds and then picked it up and tucked it safely away behind the other papers. Sherlock flipped through the newspaper clippings, wanted posters, and wedding invitations; none which had her name on them, but he knew. No one would invite him to their wedding, unless it was John or if they were trying to mock him. She was always mocking him.

Irene Adler had moved to the Americas three years ago, but had returned to London about a year after she left. She had been married six times since she had returned, and each and every time, the groom had lost his most prized possession. Thereafter, Irene successfully escaped the marriage, with both her dignity and stolen object.

Sherlock raised the newest addition to the folder and read the article for the hundredth time. He was not one to exaggerate; he had truly read this clipping exactly one-hundred times. The case seemed simple: Alexander Siciliano, Italian royalty and proud owner of the largest emerald found in the history of man, was engaged to Elizabeth Hopkins. Siciliano's emerald had been stolen and his fiancé had been kidnapped. A ransom note had been left demanding €10,000. Elizabeth Hopkins was no stranger to Sherlock. Still, he found himself in a bit of a predicament: he had no way to prove it was her.

With one smooth motion, Sherlock threw the folder to its original position and stood from the sickly-yellow chair. He threw his coat over his left shoulder and sauntered into the dreary London air. He strolled down the crowded streets and then slipped into a quiet alley way. Pierre slipped out of the shadows as he recognized his usual customer.

"S'erlock 'olmes. 'Tis a pleasure to see you, no?" Pierre spoke in a heavy French accent. He was a short, balding man who Sherlock would normally have no need for. Holmes had caught Pierre stealing narcotics from nearby medical specialists and selling them for lower prices on the streets. Pierre offered Holmes the pick of the lot at inexpensive prices, hoping to keep Sherlock quiet.

"I'm not here to converse with you, Pierre."

"Yes, of course." Pierre stuck his small pudgy hand into his coat pocket and revealed a small brown bottle. "Zere you are Mister 'olmes. Is zere nuzing else I can do for zee famous inspecteur."

"That will be all." Holmes gave the man his money and dumped two of the white pills into his hand. He popped them into his mouth and swallowed them. Sherlock made the journey home, the glass bottle bouncing in his pocket as he walked.

An American accent stopped Holmes in his tracks. He whirled around, scanning the mass of people. There! The curly brown locks in the oversized hat. He shoved his way through the crowds and followed after the petite figure. The woman paid the vendor for the book she now carried in her arms and turned to leave. She turned left down the street and hailed a buggy. Hailing a cabby of his own, he directed the driver to follow the first. The horse trotted through London for a good fifteen minutes, until it pulled in front of the Grand Hotel.

The occupant of the first carriage climbed from the carriage and paid the driver. She promenaded into the lobby and up to the front desk. Sherlock closely followed; gently lifting a hat off a passing stranger and pulling it low over his eyes. The woman began to talk with the young boy who sat behind the reception desk. Ignoring the starry eyed affections of the lad, she gave him her name and information. Sherlock quietly crept closer to catch a few of the exchanged words between the two.

"Do keep a key to the room for Benedict, he will pick it up shortly." Irene informed the boy.

The boy's face fell. "Ah. Yes, one key for Mr. Humphrey. Will that be all Ms. Humphrey?"

"For now, yes. Thank you."

The boy slid a silver key across the counter. "You are in the master suit on the third floor. Enjoy your stay."

Irene gracefully climbed the carpeted stairs and disappeared around a corner. Sherlock remained focused in the newspaper he had picked up several minutes earlier, until she was no longer in sight. He discarded the hat and newspaper and made his way to the boy.

"You there! Perhaps you could give me the key to my room?" Sherlock spoke hurriedly but the young man made no motion to fulfill his request.

"Good day sir!" he responded, cheerfully. Rather sickening in Sherlock's opinion. "May I ask your name?"

"Benedict Humphrey. My wife said you would give me a key."

"Yes, sir, here you are. You are in the master—"'

Sherlock vanished up the stairs before the boy could finish his sentence. He took the stairs two at a time and took long strides down the hallway. He passed door after door until he reached the only door different from the others. This door was made a dark wood, like the others, but instead of only one door, this had two.

With quiet, steady movements he slid the key into the door and turned it once, twice and the clicking told him it was open. Sherlock wrapped his cold fingers around the handle and pushed it open with the other.

The woman stood with her back to him, staring out the window. Her hat had been removed as had her jacket. Her dress was dark green and flowed across hers skin. Golden buttons ran down her back. She turned as Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"Ah, Benedict. You got my message." She smiled, her lips as red as the carpeted stairs. Sherlock noted it was a nicer color on her than it had been on the floor.

"Irene Humphrey, is it now? This makes it your seventh attempt at a happy marriage?"

"So you did get my invitations. A pity you could never make the ceremonies. I always wondered if you'd approve of them." she sighed. "Adler, Mr. Holmes. I am, at the moment, unmarried."

"Found a way to steal the Siciliano emerald without saying the vows? I should say your gentlemen are getting quite foolish. You shall get no approval from me."

"Is that because they cannot compare to your massive intelligence, or is it perhaps, you've already picked someone out for me?"

"Where is it, Irene? I know you have it here. You would have had no time to dispose of it on your journey from Italy."

Irene walked around the table that sat in the middle of the room. She reached her small hand into Sherlock's front pocket. When she turned away, she held the glass bottle in her hand. She unscrewed the top and poured one of the pills into her palm.

"Sherlock! Pain killers? This is no way to cure your boredom!"

"What makes you think I'm bored?"

"You are far too young to have pain due to old age and if you had injured yourself you would have held the injury with care. At the moment you're slouching, with no concern of your physical health, as these pills uncover. Very unbecoming of a gentleman."

"It's on your dress."

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock walked around Irene and began to feel each of her gold buttons.

"I'm going to need more wine before we go there Mr. Holmes." Irene began to turn around but with one quick motion, Sherlock snapped off one of her buttons. He rubbed it between his fingers and the gold paint chipped off revealing a green gem. Sherlock walked to the window and held it up in the sunlight.

"Well done Sherlock. I would ask how you knew but I really don't care. Now give it back." Irene held out her hand to him but he clutched the gem possessively.

"What makes you think I would give it back when you have been absolutely dreadful the moment I walked in?"

"Dreadful? I've been nothing of the sort."

"Tricking the bellboy into giving me a key, lying to me about the emerald, and taking my pills, Irene you've have been very unpleasant. Give the medicine back to me and I will consider telling the police I found the emerald on the side of the road."

"You just know everything, don't you?" Irene put her hand on her hip and glared at him.

"Everything about you? Yes."

She smiled. "Is that so?" She walked around the table again and stood in front of Sherlock. "Kiss me."

"What?"

"You heard me. If you're so intent on the fact that you know everything about me, then you'll know how I will react."

Sherlock Holmes had intended to get the emerald and prove that he was better than Irene. But when he awoke in the morning, as naked as the day he was born, he knew he had been beaten, again. Irene had disappeared with the emerald and most of Sherlock's clothes. Only his jacket remained draped over the chair. To make matters worse, she had taken his small glass bottle with her.

John hadn't seen Sherlock since yesterday morning. Now he had begun to worry. Sherlock would often disappear only to wake John at ungodly hours to tell him of his latest adventures. There was a hurried knock at the door and Watson heard Mrs. Hudson footsteps walk to the door.

"Sherlock! What on earth are you wearing?" Mrs. Hudson's quiet cry wafted up the staircase. John threw his newspaper to the ground and hurried to see what had her so upset.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the foyer wearing a bed sheet. He had carefully tied it around his waist and his jacket was pulled across his middle, unbuttoned.

"Mrs. Hudson! I have no time for your dilly-dallying! I must speak to Watson."

"What is it Sherlock?" John called from the top of the steps.

"Quick! Fetch me some clothes! The woman is getting away!" He scrambled up the stairs, almost losing his grip on the bed sheet in the process. "Don't just stand there! Don't you understand?"

"Oh, I understand perfectly. By the looks of you, I would say she is long gone." He folded his arms and began to laugh.

Sherlock snorted. "I'm sure your night with Mary went perfectly as planned." He pushed passed Watson and headed to his room.

Watson followed with even steps. "At least I'm not trying to take her innocence."

"There is nothing innocent about Irene Adler! She had guilt pouring from her fingertips!"

"She's beaten you again hasn't she? What was it this time? Another photograph or perhaps something more?"

"An emerald." Sherlock tossed piles off the desk, looking for a shirt.

"She beats you every time. I don't know why you go back for more. Oh, wait! Yes I do. You enjoy it."

Sherlock stood on a boat, moving across open water towards Paris. He rubbed her handkerchief between his fingers. Her final breath still fresh on the fabric. Her pressed it to his nose, her perfume still lingered. He felt Watson watching his every move. With one final sigh he released his grip and let it float into the air.

Sherlock Holmes fell through the sky. The roaring water mixed with Moriarty's angry shouts. Sherlock blocked the noise out and began to think. He thought of John and Mary, of Mycroft, even of Mrs. Hudson. But one person haunted his memories. The only woman who had ever beaten him. Watson was right. He did enjoy being beat by her. Before he hit the water he whispered one thing, the last thing he would ever say: Irene.

"Any attempt at finding the bodies, was absolutely hopeless. And so there, deep down in that dreadful cauldron of swirling water and seething foam lays the most dangerous criminal and the foremost champion of the law of their generation. I shall ever regard him as the best and wisest man whom I have ever known."

John heard Mary's calls somewhere downstairs. He finished typing on his typewriter and gathered his things. He left the room toward the carriage that would take them to Brighton, to his new life. He would never forget Sherlock Holmes and he never wanted to.

Watson sat in the dining room chair in his new home. Mary excused herself from the table; she was not feeling well. He read the morning news and sipped what little coffee was still in his cup.

A knock resounded through the home. John stood from the chair and walked to the door. He opened it and revealed an old man carrying a stack of books. The old man pushed his way past Watson into the home.

"Excuse me? Do I know you?"

"Come now! It hasn't been that long!" A familiar voice seeped through the man's beard. It couldn't be, could it?

The man yanked at his beard and threw it to the floor. His nose and snow white hair shortly followed. In the place of the old man stood none other than Sherlock Holmes.

John gasped and plopped into a nearby armchair. "You're alive!"

"Now Watson. I require your assistance."

"It's not possible. You were dead, but now you're alive!"

"Yes, yes. I'm alive. Now stop giving me that foolish look! I need your help!" When he received no response from Watson he informed him of his trouble. "You know how Irene Adler was always one step ahead of me? Well, when she died I thought her secrets had perished alongside her. But I was wrong! Oh how wrong I was! She defeats me once again, and she's not even among the living, bless her soul. Do you remember that night that her and I shared in the Grand Hotel?"

"The time you woke up naked or the time you woke up naked, chained to a bed?"

"First time. Well shortly after Irene got herself into some trouble. Trouble that she left me to resolve."

"I don't see why you need my help."

"Well, this trouble is a little out of my league. One you will be able to handle by the looks of Mary."

"What is the matter with Mary? For god's sake, Holmes, whatever is the matter with you? How the hell did you survive the fall? Why didn't you tell me you were alive earlier?"

"Enough of your useless questions. Now do you want to hear why I need your help or not?"

"Yes! By all means." Said Watson. "Sherlock!"

"Irene had a…well, she had a…a…baby."

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think!