"If you love something, let it go. If it was meant to be, it will come back to you." ~ Cecelia Ahern
Holmes looked up from his experiment when Mrs. Hudson set a bottle of wine down on a stack of miscellaneous papers. He smirked. "I'm flattered, Nanny, but I'm afraid I haven't anything to give you in return."
"It's not from me, you goose. Someone delivered it this afternoon."
She left the room carrying his dinner tray, half the food still left on the plate, muttering something about how he was going to kill himself one of these days with the way he carried on. Holmes examined the bottle. Margaux '58. Just holding such a familiar vintage made his head spin with unwanted memories. It had been her favorite... No, never mind that. There was a note attached. Setting the bottle back down on the table, he opened the crisp, folded paper.
"I don't want to run anymore. The Grand Hotel. 7pm. ~A"
His hands began to tremble. No. Surely not. Then again, could it be true? He dared not hope. His heart thudded painfully in his chest as his mind raced with possibilities. Watson entered the room after putting Mary down for the night and frowned when he saw his friend staring blankly at the piece of paper he held in his hand, his face alarmingly pale. "Holmes? Is something wrong? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
"Not yet," Holmes whispered. Then he turned his frantic gaze to Watson. "What time is it?"
Watson checked his pocket watch. "Quarter to seven. Why?"
"I'm afraid I can't explain, Watson. I haven't a moment to lose!"
He hailed a cab. Any other day, he would have walked, but this was no ordinary circumstance. Time was of the essence! As the car bumped and jerked over the cobblestones, Holmes closed his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind and think rationally. Not bloody likely. Not with thoughts of that woman muddling things up as she always did. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes tighter, gripping the edge of the leather seat he was perched upon, and tried to look past his confounded emotions and think logically. What did he know? The facts, Sherlock! What are the facts?
One, he had no proof Irene had, in fact, died. All this time he'd been merely assuming she was dead because of that damned bloodied handkerchief of hers and the word of his worst enemy. Moriarty had wanted to get inside his head, wanted him to play the game. And it had worked, all because Holmes knew his nemesis was just vile enough to kill Irene to get to him. But had he indeed killed her?
Two, the note he'd received was attached to a bottle of her favorite wine. It had been sprayed with her favorite Parisian perfume. But all that paled in comparison to the fact that the slender hand that had penned the message was hers. There was no doubt of that.
Three, no obituary had ever been posted. A detail he'd overlooked until this very moment. Granted, she was a thief and a con-artist, with no family to speak of, but surely someone other than himself would have noticed her disappearance. A dead body simply does not disappear, he knew this first-hand. Someone would have found the body. A doctor perhaps would have examined her and confirmed her death. A mortician prepared her for burial. At the very least, someone surely would have recognized her as the great temptress supreme and thief extraordinaire that she was. After all, she'd stolen some very important items from some very important people.
Then again, Moriarty could have had her body disposed of before she'd even grown cold. The bastard.
The cab lurched to a stop and Holmes nearly tumbled off the seat. Cursing himself for not paying better attention, he hastily handed the driver what he assumed was a fairly large sum, though he was in far too much of a hurry to be bothered with such a trifling matter. He didn't pause at the reception desk, for he knew exactly which room she would be in.
Standing before the ornately carved door, he was suddenly unsure. Dare he knock? What awaited on the other side but a ghost from his past? She had broken his heart before, a fact he would never admit to, and she'd likely do it again. It would be so easy to turn around and go back to Baker Street. Back to little Mary, and Watson, Nanny, and Gladstone. Back to a life without Irene... Damn that woman! Turning around now would be an impossible task. In the past year he'd realized just how much he loved her. But he thought he'd realized it too late. All those wasted years spent chasing after one another, an endless game of cat and mouse. Well, no more. He would not let her escape again. She drove him absolutely mad, but he wouldn't have it any other way. He loved her more than anything. And this time, he would not miss the chance to tell her so.
A quick rap on the door and he tried the knob, somewhat surprised to find it open. Entering the room, he saw her sitting before the fire, a silk robe pulled round her slender figure. She smiled up at him. "I knew you'd come."
He stood for a moment, simply looking at her. My God, she was beautiful. Holmes could scarcely believe he was in the same room with her again; that she was this close. It had to be a dream. Surely he was dreaming. It would not be the first time since her supposed death that he dreamed of her. But then she reached her arms out to him, and he crossed the room, taking her slender hands in his, kissing each one, and falling to his knees before her. Resting his head in her lap, he breathed in her sweet scent and sighed, "Dear one, I was so afraid I'd lost you."
She ran her fingers through his dark locks, letting them trail along his whiskered jaw, gently tilting his face upward so she could place a kiss on his forehead. "Never," she whispered fervently. "Never. Never."
Rising to his feet, he pulled her up with him. Caressing her cheek, he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was unlike any they'd shared before. It was soft and slow. Sherlock wanted to savor the moment he feared would never come again. Her lips were soft and tasted divine, far superior to even the finest of wines. Wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, he pulled her close against his chest. The whimper that escaped her throat as she nipped his lower lip melted his heart of stone. Their kiss deepened, and their mouths moved in an elaborate dance of passion. Sweeping her off her feet, Holmes carried her over to the large bed, sitting down and leaning against the plush cushions, all the while holding her close and continuing to pepper her face with kisses.
Hours later, Sherlock watched Irene sleep, her face bathed in the glow of the flickering fire and the few lighted lamps. She took his breath away. Right then in that moment, he vowed to never be parted from her again. As he gazed upon her though, he could not help but notice that she looked... different. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her cheeks were sunken, and her complexion a tad sallow. And she was thinner. Much thinner than she had been. Irene's eyes fluttered open, looking up at Sherlock with another heartbreaking smile. But he didn't smile back. "What's troubling you?" she asked him, reaching up and stroking his cheek.
Holmes sighed, capturing her hand in his own and pressed a kiss to her fingers. "For so long, I thought you were dead. I never thought I'd see you again, my dear." At this, Irene gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. "All this time... What happened?"
Pursing her lips, Irene sat up and walked over to the table. "Are you hungry?" she said, busying herself with trays of treats. "We could eat here or go out or..."
"Irene..."
"Then of course we could simply wait and have breakfast delivered. Personally, I'm not all that hungry..."
She trailed off when Holmes came up behind her, taking her hands and pinning her arms to her sides. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.
"What did he do to you, darling?" he whispered, his breath dancing across her skin and sending a chill down her back.
"Poisoned my tea."
Holmes could hardly breathe as memories overtook him. Waiting for her at the restaurant, obsessively checking his pocket watch, fear rising in his chest with each passing minute. Moriarty, shattering his world by dropping Irene's bloody handkerchief onto that damned chessboard. Wordlessly admitting to Watson she was gone and letting the handkerchief fall into the ocean. But now she was here, and God willing, she'd never leave his side again.
"It was a rare form of tuberculosis. The doctor said I may never be completely myself again," she continued, moving to the window and wrapping her arms around herself protectively. "I was sent to a sanatorium. I don't remember much. I was there for months, or so I was told. Days blurred into weeks..." She finally turned back to look at him then, her eyes swimming with tears she refused to shed. "I never stopped thinking of you, Sherlock. I waited for you to come and rescue me, like you always do. But I knew you were after Moriarty. And then when I heard you had died... I didn't know what to do. I tried to start a new life when I left the sanatorium. I went to Paris, but... I couldn't. So then when I heard you were alive, I couldn't stay away."
"I'm sorry I was not there," he said sincerely, his heart aching at the thought of all she'd been through.
Irene shook her head. "I'm not. You are the great Sherlock Holmes. You saved countless lives by taking down Moriarty. And you're here now." She crossed the room, placing her hands on either side of his face and kissing him fiercely. "Come away with me."
Her breath was sweet on his lips. Oh, how tempting her offer was. And yet, he found himself saying, "I can't."
Irene jerked away from him, disappointment and betrayal dancing in her eyes. "You've found another."
"I have."
"Do you love her?"
Holmes nodded solemnly. "Very much. More than I ever thought possible."
Blinking rapidly, she struggled to keep her tears at bay. "Well, I'm sure you two will be very happy, and..."
"Irene..."
"... I wish you nothing but the best, Sherlock..."
"Irene!"
"What?" she nearly shouted.
"Her name."
"What?" she said again, unsure how much longer she could keep her composure. "Why should I care what her name..."
"It's Mary," he said, taking her by the shoulders and forcing her to look at him. "Her name is Mary Irene Sherlock Watson." The look in the woman's dark grey eyes shifted from hurt to confused. "She is Watson' daughter. She's ten months old, and the most adorable child you've ever met."
"Watson's daughter?"
Holmes nodded again. "The Mrs. Dr. Watson died in childbirth, Irene. I've been helping Watson care for the child ever since. I named her after her mother, and after you. She's truly wonderful. She's the most precious thing in my life, except for you. And that, my darling, is why I cannot run away with you."
Irene smiled up at him and laughed lightly. "Imagine, Sherlock Holmes caring for a baby."
"Never thought you'd see the day, did you?"
She shook her head, and Holmes placed a kiss to her palm. "I love you, Irene Adler, and only you."
"And I love you."
"It's settled then," Holmes declared, leading her over to the chair by the fire and pulling her down onto his lap. "No more cat and mouse. No more games. I'll never let you go again. I'm afraid this is it, my love."
"I do hope so, Mr. Holmes," she smiled, her heart threatening to beat right out of her chest. Having faced the prospect of life without him, she never wanted to be parted from him ever again. "No more running. No more secrets. This is it."
He kissed her then, and whispered into her mouth, "Come away with me, my love."
Kissing him back, she said, "Anywhere you wish."
And then, without consulting his brain, his lips spoke his heart's deepest desire. "Marry me."
Irene smiled coyly, leaning in to kiss him again. "Tomorrow."