A/N: Hey, y'all. I don't own Sherlock. WARNING: Spoilers for 2.01. And this is if Irene had died.

He still texted her.

Every night.

The feelings he had for The Woman were not something he had really ever felt before. They were hard to explain. He had always thought love was a chemical reaction, but it was really something more than that. It was a falling feeling, almost a loss of hope. But then it started rising, and it felt amazing.

Why did he love her?

She was smart, respectable—Well, not respectable in that sense, respectable in that she was smart.

Also, no one had ever told him that they would 'have him on his desk until he begged for mercy twice' before.

That had something to do with it.

He texted her, just one word tonight, he really couldn't think of anything else.


Love really never had happened before.

Sure, on some level, he loved Mycroft. And on some level, though he was in great denial, he thought John was probably the best friend ever to hit the earth.

But he really loved The Woman.

That's why he called her that. He really only came into contact with three other women: Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Donovan.

He didn't love any of them, and none of them were intelligent enough, or clever enough, to be called The Woman.

Irene Adler eclipsed her gender by a long ways.

But…she was dead.

It was in the way Mycroft hadn't come to tell him, the way John hesitated before saying she had moved to America.

Should he have felt something? Wasn't love enough to feel? Or did there have to be pain?

I love you. Dinner? –SH

He was just in denial.

He needed to get out of denial. How could Sherlock Holmes be in denial? It didn't work like that.

He took a deep breath, which may or may not have been shaky.

Goodbye, Miss Adler. –SH

A/N: Please review!