Sorry for the long wait, my dears. This just took a long time to figure out, and life got in the way a bit.

SHERLOCK SEASON THREE IS ALMOST HERE. I'm hoping Irene will make an appearance, but I wanted to get this out of the way before we get a definite canon.

If you noticed the lovely new cover, it was made by kilimara, who included A Scandal in Burleith in her tumblr countdown. Thank you!

Now, onto the last chapter in this little story.

Chapter Seven

The darkness of Irene's sitting room was a comforting lack of light; not the kind that emphasized the severity of the shadows, but rather softened the glory of the light. Irene admired the play of shadow and lamp-glow on Sherlock's features. His cheekbones were sharpened, the hollows of his face deepened, and the marble stretch of his forehead only broken by inky curls. Long fingers flexed and leaping tendons sent shadows dancing along the backs of his hands, and whenever the light caught his eyes they went from indigo to a blue-green so clear it reminded her vaguely of scuba diving in Mexico.

A smirk tilted the corners of his mouth up. "You're watching me," he remarked causally.

She didn't blush or demur. "Yes," she answered. You are beautiful. The angular shapes of his face were so harsh, and yet they drew her eyes again and again.

"I wish I had my violin," Sherlock sighed. "I-"

"-like playing after cases," Irene finished. "You didn't bring it with you?" She had thought perhaps it was at the hotel. John had left with Alice driving less than fifteen minutes ago.

Sherlock shook his head, changing the shadow play on his face again. "I- I wasn't thinking straight."

"And John probably packed for you," added Irene, smirking herself. "How many clean suits do you have left?"

He bristled slightly at the implication. "I made sure to tell John to pack at least one nice one in case we were honored by the President."

Her smile turned predatory- she could feel it happen as the thrill of the chase rose in her. "Excellent," she purred. "Then it won't be a bother if I rip this one off of you."

He really did look thrilling in a suit, even if he needed his shirts tailored a bit more to fit conventional standards. She didn't mind the straining buttons at all though. The tight fit did wonders for slimming his waist and legs and making his shoulders broad and powerful. Suits for men were to women as lacy panties for women were to men- although, come to think of it, Irene wouldn't say no to a Sherlock in lacy panties.

"Your thoughts are going somewhere scandalous," Sherlock drawled. "Should I be worried?"

Lascivious. That was the word- she felt lascivious. "Depends on how fast you get over here and stop my thoughts," said Irene in her own drawl.

They were sitting across from each other in armchairs- Irene could see the instantaneous darkening of his eyes as his blood heated and his pulse sped up, pounding at his throat. That was the benefit of staying separated for long periods of time- the sex was always hot and the only time they fell into routine was when they deliberately wanted to.

He rose and stalked toward her, taking long strides to cross the short distance between them in only a few steps. Irene stayed seated, tilting her head slightly to look up at him.

She gave him a knowing smile, spreading her reddened lips across her teeth with a slowness that would draw his eyes to her lips. "Best hurry. I'm wondering where I left my riding crop."

A large hand was offered, she considered it for a moment before uncrossing her legs and laying her own hand daintily in his. In a moment she was in his embrace, and with just an instant of their eyes meeting- can i kiss you yes you can kiss me now- his mouth was slanted over hers, rough, demanding.

Before cases- or rather, in the lulls of time between them- Sherlock was a ball of frustrating nervous energy, chafing at the boredom that was suffocating him. Sex with him during that time was interesting in that he was so desperate to focus on something that it needed to be terribly interesting to him. He wanted to make a study of her body, its reactions to various types of touches and kisses and caresses. During cases he was alive with the thrill of the fight, unable to concentrate on much else. If it was a special occasion or a case that was not particularly challenging, sex would be enough to make him relax and get him as close to resting as was possible when the mystery went unsolved.

But after cases- after cases, Sherlock was a cocky bastard still high on the thrill of being completely right. He was full of energy, he was confident, he was eager to show off even more and ride out the high. It was as close to drugs as he would go, and the rush he got was evident in the barely concealed thrumming of energy in his muscles, the way he was tensed and poised to go. Sex with Sherlock after a case was positively thrilling to Irene. He was more confident than he normally was, more likely to trap her hands above her head or kiss her forcefully- as he was currently doing- or take her roughly against the wall.

As he kissed her Irene reveled in the unique type of relationship she had with her consulting detective. His kiss was familiar, the way he held her against him confident and knowing. But they had not been 'together' enough to become bored, to know exactly what was coming next. There was always the unknown lurking in the background, the sense of not quite being able to predict the others' next move, but also nearly complete trust in the other person. She adored it.

Nimble fingers at her back unzipped her dress; she pulled away just enough to let it pool on the floor as her own fingers quickly unbuttoned and untucked Sherlock's dress shirt.

"Leave it here, the maid will fold everything," she said, parting her lips from his to impart the information before suckling the white expanse of his throat. She stepped out of the dress, considered toeing off her heels, and then kept them on with a smirk.

Sherlock was a sight in front of her, lips bruised and neck marred and shirt on the floor. She was quite sure she made a sight herself, in only her heels and garters. "Bedroom?" she asked.

"Yes," he said succinctly. "Now."

Yes, Irene thought, sex with Sherlock after cases was certainly fantastic. There was a pleasantly sore feeling between her legs, the not-quite-unwelcome odor of a shared cigarette still in the air, and a sleeping detective next to her.

Sleep still evaded Irene Adler, so she watched him absently. The first half hour she spent staring, gazing, cataloging. Curls on her pillow, lovely lips slightly open, a slight snore. There was an arm thrown possessively across her waist, and the scent of his cologne overcoming the tobacco scent.

The rest of the hour she considered him. Her Sherlock. Her lovely, brave, lonely god among men.

She knew she was elitist, that she didn't share exactly the same fascination with humanity that Sherlock did. She made a study of the normals, yes, but to exploit them and use their pithy little secrets to play the great game. Sherlock was truly fascinated with them- John for example, his unending attempts to understand the unwaveringly normal man and ferret out all the things that might make him unique. She quite liked John, really, but to be honest if he hadn't held such importance to Sherlock she would have given him a cursory evaluation and then dismissed him.

But it was the truth and if anything Irene didn't like lying to herself. Sherlock fascinated her, she was entranced with this man who kept up with her and surpassed her in most ways.

She stroked his curls, smiling as he moved closer to her. They were so alike, but so different. What they had now was good, it worked. They would drive each other mad if they lived together more than a week or so.

Crime fighting, sex, good food, more sex, and then a quick goodbye and promise to meet again. That was what worked for them. She wasn't one to pine, and she wasn't endlessly interesting enough to hold Sherlock's attention for the next fifty years. No, they needed each other in small doses. Their particular brand of love was potent, too potent, like medicine that healed in some doses and killed in others.

Like nightshade. A dab in the eyes had been used to make them brighter, shinier, bigger. A spot too much and one was dead.

"Do you want to help me with something?" Sherlock's voice is terse, his eyes terribly intense. He is only toying with the food on his plate, although the wine glass is more than half empty.

Irene chews a mushroom, narrowing her eyes slightly. "What kind of something?"

An insincere smile flicks across his face, tightening the skin of his cheekbones. "I need a partner for this next one. Someone who can shoot straight and who can attract attention while I slink around in the background."

A sip of wine, considering the play of liquid ruby and clear glass. "Of course. When do we leave?"

"Tuesday," Sherlock says, some of the tension leaving his voice. "What kinds of guns do you have?" He rises halfway out of his seat before Irene stops him.

She points her fork at him, lowering it so he knows to sit. "Now, now," she said sternly. "No playing with weapons until after you finish your dinner."

Sherlock gives her a look which she returns with a raised brow. "I didn't go through the trouble of cooking for you not to eat it," she continues. "So. Finish your vegetables at least and we can go through my collection."

Sullenly he obeys, viciously stabbing at the mushrooms in wine sauce. "In a bossy mood tonight then?"

"Yes, darling," purrs Irene, letting the stab of annoyance leak into her rather predatory gaze. "So after we look at some absolutely spectacular weapons we're going to the bedroom and you are going to use that lovely mouth of yours on me until I tell you to stop. And for that you need your strength."

He frowns. "I can smell it, you know."

"Hmm?" Irene doesn't know what he means.

Sherlock's gaze is black as his eyes examine her, brutally tearing apart whatever information he sees on her. "The cologne."

Cologne? And then she remembers, that incident earlier in the day that put her in this particular mood. "What about it?" she asks coolly.

"It's cheap, for one thing," hisses Sherlock. "Too strong, too liberally applied. I could smell it when I walked in."

"And...?" she drawls. Let him draw the wrong conclusion.

He continues to deduce her, and she continues to tap her red-painted fingernails on the table until he runs out of steam. "Finished?"

He glares. "Yes," he snaps. "So? Am I right?"

"No," she says promptly. "I didn't have a client today. However, I did attend a luncheon and I was propositioned in quite the uncouth way. Some young men don't quite understand the distinction between a dominatrix and a... prostitute."

Sherlock is cowed. "I always get something wrong," he mutters.

Irene laughs humorlessly. "Yes, you do," she says bluntly. "Where are we going on Tuesday?"

"Turkey," Sherlock answers automatically. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to go buy the plane tickets and you are going to go down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the third room on the left. The passcode... I'll let you figure it out. You're in a deductive type mood, I see."

She leaves the table, the anger that had been flaring all day biting at her temper. She needs to cool down and Sherlock's presence is the opposite of conductive to that.

He finds her an hour or so later, brushing her hair at her vanity. The heavy brush is a reassuring weight in her hand, for all the movements seem unfamiliar. Kate used to brush her hair. Alice doesn't, but then again, Alice isn't Kate.

"I don't like being jealous," Sherlock says in a stilted voice. She can see him in the mirror without turning around. He is a mix of sheepish and defiant, like a child who has made a mistake and admits it while expecting praise for coming forward instead of the punishment it can sense on the horizon.

She gives him a brittle smile. "You do realize what I do. It wasn't what you thought it was today but it might be any other day you come in."

He walks closer to her, still holding her gaze in the mirror. She sets the brush down. "I do," he says quietly. "It doesn't matter."

Irene turns away from her mirror and stands. She lets the robe that was loosely held around her fall to the ground. "Prove it," she says, her eyes hard with the challenge.

He does.

Watching Irene at the President's Ball was a delight. She worked her craft, the game she played for a living. A slow smile here, a hand brushing a shoulder there, a sigh, a whisper, a promise. She played the room and Sherlock watched.

Irene, resplendent in scarlet accented in black velvet. Normally Irene was a contradiction in elegant designer business dresses that screamed sensibility while her eyes and lips told of scandal and sensuality. Here, this night, there was no hiding behind a mask. She was the temptress, she was the night and all its secrets alive and whispering. Creamy shoulders gave way to collarbones that led to the shadow between her high breasts. There was nothing quite like Irene Adler in a room full of respectable politicians and their boring wives.

On Sherlock's arm, she didn't so much shine as smolder. Willingly enough he followed her as she moved from man to woman to man. A handsome man with a blonde woman on his arm received a sidelong glance. Three out of the five wives of a group of talking men (all with shiny medals decorating their military uniforms) couldn't help blushing when Irene winked at them.

"You play them like I play my violin," Sherlock murmured under his breath.

"Impressed?" Irene asked. He heard a raised eyebrow in her voice but her face was still set in that dangerously predatory smile.

He kept his own face impassive. "Very," he admitted.

The full force of that face turned to him, Irene's pleased eyes scanning his face. "And do you find it..."

What does she mean? Do I find it attractive? Not it the conventional way. But... it is strangely stimulating. "I'd assume that it's approximately the same feeling that you get from watching me... deduce."

Her eyes darkened and the hand on his arm tightened. "Then I'll go on consorting with the lovelies."

"Or you could dance with me," Sherlock said quickly. I've timed it right. The last dance is a waltz and it is approximately thirty seconds from finishing which gives her that long to make her decision.

However it did not take her that long; Irene's slow smile accompanied a nod of the head in just a moment. "Of course. I'm assuming it was something that Mummy Holmes insisted you learn?"

"You'd assume correctly," replied Sherlock. "I considered deleting it but dancing requires coordination and agility."

Being the object of the envy in the room was an interesting situation. One that made Sherlock feel a bit uncomfortable, but proud of having Irene on his arm. They poised to dance, waiting for the music to start.

Moving in the flesh-memory steps of the waltz was more like third-nature than second, a distant memory that was remembered nonetheless. He knew he was graceful, Irene doubly so. They moved well together, he thought, each knowing what the other had in mind.

"Flying back to England on the morrow then?" Irene asked quietly.

He turned her expertly and had her back in his arms with ease. "Yes." You know this, Irene. Why are you asking?

"I'll be coming by for Christmas, I expect," she continued. "Visit you and John at Baker Street. Maybe even make an entrance at Scotland Yard." Because I wanted to lead into this.

Oh. I see. "And from there?" asked Sherlock.

When their eyes met it was clear what her answer was. From there... somewhere else.

"Paris, I'd expect," she said sadly. "Maybe Morocco if I'm in the mood." We can't live together. You know that as well as I do, my dear.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "Well. I've heard that Karachi is lovely in the spring." Feelings, despicable sentiment was welling up inside of him with alarming quickness. That ugly fear lent his words a bite of bitterness, of sarcasm, that he hadn't meant to reveal.

The hand that had been resting easily on his shoulder stroked his skin through his jacket. "Sherlock..."

"Or not," he continued. "Too many armed executioners for my taste last year. I don't think I'll be returning." He refused to look at her again, refused to give her the sliver of connection needed for her to completely deduce him the same way he deduced her.

Corners of her mouth are tight; she's upset. But she's not angry at me in particular, because she's not cold and defensive. She's mad at herself. She's sad. There- regret. Self loathing. She is upset because she knows that it wouldn't work if we lived together and she blames that on herself.

He cleared his throat again. "Not everyone can be a John, you know. Or a- a Kate."

The tight corners of her mouth loosened and one end tipped up in a smile that lacked all humor. "No, no. I suppose not."

"And come to think of it Karachi really is much better in the summer," he tried. He didn't want her to be sad in the same way he hated it when John gave him that look.

"Fewer armed executioners," Irene added. "Now. That was a lovely dance but I believe that Mr. Harper is looking forward to introducing you to the President. Try to behave yourself, darling."

Ugh. Politics. Politicians. If I don't behave for the bloody Queen there is no reason why I should for an eight-year-maximum 'leader of the free world' who was elected because his story of growing up on a farm was more believable than his opponent's, never mind it was a hundred and forty acre plantation.

He straightened his tie and followed Irene, beckoning to John on the way.

The dry air of the plane irritated Sherlock's throat. Normally he could close himself off to all distractions, ignore the irritating rasp of breathing or the headache that was pounding at the base of his neck, but for some reason (irene she's always the reason) today he couldn't separate himself from his body.

John was snoring next to him, a soft whuffle that nonetheless intensified the pounding.

He hated saying goodbye to Irene, as much as he understood it was necessary. Today she had been all regret yet firmly decided, giving him a knowing smile as she left for her shower- her lonely shower- and he had smoked in her bed.

The fucking wasn't all they had, he told himself. There was something more. He wasn't a man of the flesh, one constantly occupied with sticking his dick into something warm. What he and Irene had was elevated above all that somehow. It had been a meeting of the minds first. The cohesion of the body had been secondary, a fulfillment of all her brain had to offer, a way of become superficially closer.

They had parted at her home. The kiss was easy, gentle. Her hand had been on his pulse, his at her waist. There was no fiery passion, no burning need. Just a goodbye.

A promise, that is, that they would see each other soon. Christmas. Only a couple months away. He liked Christmas with Irene. Or, he liked Christmas with Irene when she wasn't faking her death.

Mantelpiece.

There, on the mantelpiece, was a small box, wrapped in red paper and tied with a black cord. He knew for a fact it was the exact color of her favorite shade of lipstick (Pomegranate Temptation) and the cord was a silky black thing that made him think of her, spread eagle on a bed, wrists tied to the headboard.

They had taken turns. She had her way with him, and he had his way with her. It had been fun. They had agreed to do it again sometime, but hadn't quite gotten around to it.

He fled to his room, a growing sense of excitement and dread growing in him. The last time had seen Irene, she shoved him down and rode him furiously, leaving marks on his chest and neck that had been nearly impossible to hide from John and Mrs. Hudson.

There, in the box, was her camera phone.

It was a strange sense of his entire world crashing down on him, while everything remained exactly the same. He knew it was because the grief would be his and his alone. Mycroft would be glad to be rid of The Woman, and John and Mrs. Hudson had no idea what was going on. Everything would change, and yet, everything would remain exactly the same.

He had to be sure, though. He had to be one hundred percent sure before he lost his mind to mourning. He could feel the oncoming storm, the fury and rage and sorrow that was beginning to build in the deepest recesses of his mind.

Sherlock clenched his fists and slowed his breathing. I need to be sure. Mycroft would know, or he could find out.

No. This coming Christmas would be better. He would see if John wanted to stay or if he would be off to see Henry. Mrs. Hudson would stay, she always stayed. Or maybe this year she would go see her sister. If not, then maybe Sherlock would meet Irene somewhere else in London.

Or she could stay at the flat with him and John. Although, knowing her, a five star hotel was more her style. She enjoyed living in luxury when she could.

Who knew? He might go home one day to find her sleeping in his bed or using his shower. Irene was fluid, constantly in flux.

But they were not. They were constant.

Mycroft's office smelled of leather and old wood, the smell of wealth and money and power. The man sitting at the heavy desk was smiling thinly at Sherlock, disapproval in the beady glint of his eyes.

"Miss Adler isn't dead," he said flatly. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave his own thin smile. "Mycroft?"

A heavy sigh, and then Mycroft's eyes were trained on John. "You didn't know. I checked myself."

"Yeah," John said, clearly uncomfortable. " Bit of a nasty shock, yeah."

"But not for Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "Is that right, brother?"

Obviously, thought Sherlock. He just raised his eyebrows at his brother. "I'm assuming Bellinger called you?"

"A very old friend," ground Mycroft, controlling his desire to grind his teeth.

Sherlock laughed. "Oh? Do you go umbrella shopping together?" Yes, I think they do from the way Mycroft's ears just reddened. Dear me, he is turning predicable.

"I was informed that not only did you refuse to explain how you solved the case or who was the culprit, you demanded that Miss Adler be given protection from your own government!" exclaimed Mycroft. "Sherlock, she's a danger to national security, not an old friend! She used you for Christ's sake-" He was standing now, a flushed contrast to Sherlock's tightly controlled demeanor.

Anger tightened the cords of Sherlock's neck. "We came to an understanding," he said roughly. "She- she had good intentions."

"Like blackmailing the queen?" Mycroft asked sarcastically. "What on earth were you thinking?" His gaze darted to John, who was very pointedly looking out the window and trying to ignore the fight. "Do you have any idea?"

John looked at the two of them, then stood quickly. "I'm staying out of it," he said. "Sherlock, I'll meet you back at the flat."

Mycroft thumped his fist on the desk. "No one is going anywhere," he said quietly. "Explain, now."

"She's going to behave herself," Sherlock said, standing and pulling on his coat. "As much as The Woman can behave. She won't cause us any trouble. Might even throw a case or two my way."

"In exchange for some information?" Mycroft asked sourly.

"Um-" interrupted John. "She's actually quite the lovely woman. You know. For a- well, for a dominatrix. Nice, and all. Helped us out."

Mycroft heaved a great sigh. "If she messes with anything I have my fingers in, I will personally arranged for her demise despite whatever you can cook up, Sherlock."

He will never lay a finger on her. Or pay someone to do so. "Understood," he said in a clipped voice. "Come now, John, we're leaving."

At least they were in the car before his phone sighed.

Covenant Garden, Christmas Eve. #221.

Sherlock couldn't help the smile.

Midnight. I'll be there. – SH

And so ends this story!

A Scandal in Burleith is over. Thank you to everyone who read and left lovely comments!

There will not be an epilogue, but I might add on to the story later. If so, I'll let you know.

If you are still in the mood for adlock, I have several other adlock stories.

Comments here or on tumblr are appreciated!

Thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this little story! (Okay, not so little. It turned out to be around 60 pages or so.)

Enjoy season 3!