Well... remember how I said I wasn't going to expand this? I lied.

I wrote a sequel which is going to develop into a full length multi-chaptered Adlock story. YAY! The first chapter is up now.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, and suggested I expand on this. I did. :)

And to tempt you... here is part of the prologue for my new story/expansion.

After he died, Sherlock Holmes sought his redemption in the arms of Irene Adler.

It made perfect sense, to him. Irene Adler had played a part in his downfall, and she would play a part when he rose from the ashes and reclaimed what was his. She was as much a ghost as he was. How strange, that once they had been together and alive and thought themselves immortal.

That was their folly. When they fell so hard they burst into flames, when there was nothing but ash and regret and pain, that was when they truly knew how foolish they had been to ever think themselves gods.

"I thought I might never see you again." Her eyes greedily drink in the features of his face. He can feel the gentle sweep of her gaze on the many bruises that mar his complexion.

"Because the papers say I'm dead?" He quirks up one eyebrow, and she makes a small noise in the back of her throat, a laugh and a moan and sob, as if to say, 'You know me better than that.'

She lets him into the generous flat, turning to find herself trapped against her own door. "Because I knew who you were facing," she whispers. "Sherlock-"

"Moriarty is dead." He lifts a hand to her face, caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers.

"Then why aren't- John, I'm guessing?" The flash of terrible anger on his face confirms her guess.

"And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade." The names sound like a mantra already, a purpose, a vendetta.

"What do you need from me?" There are many, many things that Sherlock Holmes needs from her. But as any man (for now he is a mere man- Sherlock Holmes has been proven mortal in the most fatal of ways) wishes to prolong the inevitable, Sherlock slants his mouth over Irene's and presses her against the door because it hurts too much to think clearly.

But when he had finished his mission, when he had thrust aside the shroud and walked like Lazarus into the familiar kitchen of 221B Baker Street, his lover remained a specter. It seemed for the best- it had been too easy, too tempting, to give in to the grey softness of anonymity when being dead meant being with Irene Adler.

For the rest of the prologue, go read!

See you there. :)