Hello guys! As of recent I have become completely Sherlock addicted. I loved series one, but series two just blew me off my feet! I loved how they explored Sherlock's sexuality and his feelings through Irene and thought that a scandal in belgravia was the best episode to date.

I am now a HUGE Irene/Sherlock shipper, and I have created my own fantasy world where they do finally acknowledge their feelings for one another. Of course, their relationship is so incredibly complex and complicated that some people might argue that they're not actually in love, and that its just admiration, because Sherlock doesn't do love. I think that's perfectly possible, but I prefer them being lovers, at least in my little world.

This is dedicated to all you Irene/Sherlock shippers out there.

Oh, and this basically details Sherlock's feelings through the episode, and Irene#s too at the end. I am planning on putting more chapters up as soon as I can.

(oh, and I've used quotes rfom the episode, but I cut a lot of text. I hope that it won't confuse anybody).

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or the BBC. All quotes are taken from the episode A Scandal in Belgravia.

Laura

.

.

.

She baffled him. Confused him to no end.

He didn't understand. And that was very new.

He couldn't stand it.

He could always immediately tell something about a person, whether they were right handed or left handed, whether or not they drank or smoked, how old they were and what kind of life they led.

But he couldn't tell anything about her.

He tore his eyes away from her naked body, Mycroft's remark about sex echoing in his ears. He made himself turn away and tied to focus his mind on other things. Unfortunately, it didn't help when she stood up and walked over to John, who tried very hard to stay focused on her face.

'That's exactly why I don't think about women that way' Sherlock thought to himslef, as he watched John blush slightly. He shrugged off his coat and offered it to her, and was secretly glad that she took it.

.

.

.

He kept hearing her voice after the drug took hold of him, and that only baffled him more. Why her? He never thought of women this way, he had never thought of them this way. Woman were nice sometimes (look at Mrs Hudson) and some were pretty, but did any of that truly matter?

But Irene was different from other women. She was quick witted, and she was clever and smart. With a simple look or an arched eyebrow she could challenge all of his beliefs and deductions.

But at the same time she wasn't gentle or trustworthy. She had knocked him out with a drug and slapped him with a riding crop without seeming to care, and she hadn't seemed concerned about how he would manage at all. She had simply disappeared, after their whole united fight against the CIA agents, without a second thought.

An erotic sounding moan made him pause. He stared at the place where his coat was hanging (when had she given it back to him?) and he fished his phone out of the pocket. The text he found there confused him, but it made him smile. She fascinated him.

Days passed, and he still couldn't take his mind off her. He couldn't believe how inconvenient it all was. How did other people manage to think clearly when someone dominated their minds like this? But strangely, though it annoyed him and angered him, he liked it. It was all so new, but seeing her face behind his eye lids, hearing her voice when he didn't understand something kept him going.

He decided not to change his text ringtone. He could have, easily, a touch of a button would have done it, but he liked it. It was so her, somehow, sarcastic and witty, but at the same time bordering on the dangerous and completely on the improper. Only she would do something like that, and the thought amused him. He got so used to the tone that he forgot that people like John, Mycroft and Lestrade didn't know about it. When they asked, he would simply act as if this were a perfectly normal ringtone. He was aware of the looks everybody gave him; they all saw him as a serious man who never noticed women that way.

He liked to surprise people.

He liked surprising himself.

But even he couldn't quite imagine the devastation that settled on him when he realised that she was dead. How could he? He'd never felt this way before, and there was a very limited number of people he was close to.

Looking at the corpse was worse. Seeing her face, white and still, made him stop short. He couldn't believe this was her-no sarcastic remarks, no arched eyebrows; no glittering eyes. He quietly asked to see the rest of her body, see her one last time.

It was definitely Irene.

He turned on his heel and walked out, unable to understand the feelings building up inside him.

He returned to Baker Street, but everything seemed duller somehow.

"You barely knew her."

Mycroft was right, he thought to himself. He had known her less than a day, but she intrigued him like no other woman. He read through all their old text messages, smiling slightly at her audacity and humour. Without a word, he picked up his violin. Composing helped him think. Hopefully, he would get this woman out of his head.

.

.

.

She was alive.

She had faked her own death.

But that didn't matter.

She was there, living, breathing; flirting.

With him.

He was consumed in his thoughts as he walked back to Baker Street. He felt confused. Confused about his feelings towards her. And he felt annoyed-extremely annoyed. And furious.

She had tricked him.

Tricked Sherlock Holmes into believing that she had died.

But the other part of him felt blissfully happy.

He wasn't sure if he would see her again, but he knew she was there somewhere.

Still sending him text messages. He smiled at the thought.

.

.

.

He could see that John was concerned about him when he got home, so he acted as if nothing had happened. He simply played his violin and let go of everything else.

'Happy New Year' he texted her, smiling slightly to himself.

.

.

.

He wasn't the least annoyed when he saw her sleeping in his bed. He almost smiled. Her hair was loose and curly, and her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. She looked peaceful.

And then there was the stunt with the phone.

He was impressed. Very impressed.

Cracking the code had been surprisingly easy, even with her lips at his ear and her perfume surrounding him.

He was surprisingly comfortable sitting with her by the fire. Even with her ongoing innuendos.

"If this was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?"

That statement made him stop. Because he didn't know. He had no idea. He knew exactly what she was suggesting, and he understood exactly what would happen if he would say yes.

But he didn't have an answer. Except for that tiny little incident at her house, he had never really thought of her physical body-it was her wit, daring, courage and audacity that fascinated him.

But that's all it was, wasn't it? Just fascination, just intrigue, not anything beyond that?

Looking into her eyes, feeling her touch, his heart sped up, just a little. But he kept his face impassive.

"It's not the end of the world" he whispered quietly, as he heard Mrs Hudson come up the stairs. He let her go and the spell was broken.

Later, he realised what she had wanted to achieve with the conversation. What she had managed to achieve.

She had tricked him.

Again.

And she had made a fool out of him.

"Mr Homes, I think we need to talk."

"So do I. There are a number of aspects I'm still not quite clear on".

His tone was low and threatening, but at the same time he realised the truth of his statement. He wasn't clear on a lot of aspects. For example his feelings for her. Or how she had managed to make him feel this way. Or how she felt about him.

But she brushed past him, as if he were a meaningless object standing in her way. Her posture changed, her tone changed, to the point where it almost shocked him. He looked at her, making sure that no emotion showed. He didn't want her to see.

But then she started comparing him to Moriarty. Making it seem as if their whole acquaintance had been simple and fleeting, with no emotion on her part. Just trickery.

"No" he said. She could insist that she had been playing him all along, but he had one last card left, one last little bit of proof that she was lying.

"I took your pulse" he whispered to her. His lips were at her ear, his breath ghosting her skin and his finger gently tracing the skin on her wrist. He felt her pulse speed up and smiled to himself.

"Dilated" he continued quietly, looking into her eyes. "You pupils are dilated."

Needing no further proof he drew back, smiling inwardly at the effect he had just had on her. He picked up her phone from where she had left it, confident that he had cracked the passcode.

"This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head". He saw it in her eyes now, the slow realisation. The sentence needed to be applied to both of them. They had both played, and in a sense they had both lost. They had both outwitted each other, and they had both been even. But now he was on the winning side.

"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage" he breathed. "Thank you for the final proof".

"Everything I said, it's not real." She said. Her last effort to convince him that she didn't care for him. "I was just playing the game."

Their faces were so close now, dangerously close. Both Sherlock and Irene knew that she was lying; that she was fooling herself.

"I know" he whispered, as he pressed the final button on her phone. "And this is just losing."

The code appeared on the screen. He held the phone up to her, and saw the unshed tears in her eyes. She was trying to make him believe that she hadn't ever cared for him. But she was also desperately trying to fool herself. Sherlock decided to do the same.

He heard her fear, and he knew the same she did. She wouldn't last without her protection.

"Please" she said, in a voice filled with hopelessness and fear. She looked at him, knowing she had tricked herself. She cared for this man, genuinely cared for him. It wasn't the body or the sex that fascinated her-it was something completely different, and a feeling she hadn't experienced in a very very long time.

But he ignored her; he wouldn't even look at her.

"You're right." She said. He had been right, all along, it wasn't just a game between them, it was attraction, probably even love. She felt Mycroft's eyes on the back of her head. "I wouldn't even last six months" she said.

Sherlock finally turned around. "Sorry about dinner" he said, and for one second, for one tiny short second, she saw something flash in his eyes. Fear? Regret? Anger? Loss? She couldn't tell. But she knew. It all came crashing down on her. She knew he would simply leave her. And it was all her own fault.

Sherlock walked out of the room. He wasn't sure what was worse: Seeing her dead and believing it or possibly sending her to her death.

They had played the game.

And they had both lost.

.

.

.

Thank you very much for reading and please review!