A/N: Hello my lovelies! I'm jumping on the I Love Irene Adler bandwagon with this story here; surprised that she's not on the character list for Sherlock yet. Anyway, I don't recommend reading this if you haven't seen the first episode of the second series (or any of the second series for that matter). I don't own the rights to Sherlock, don't own the characters either. All rights are reserved to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, and any other group that I have not mentioned.

Enjoy!


It took Irene two days after Sherlock unlocked her phone before she broke into the flat again. She had been watching the flat, keeping tabs on both her Baker Street boys, and knew that John had left for the weekend, leaving Sherlock on his own at the flat.

She stalked the flat, waiting until Sherlock had gone out to run errands, so she could enter the flat undetected. After she was certain that he was gone, she slipped in through the upstairs window and made her way into Sherlock's room, discarding an article of clothing as she went. First, it was her shoes, then her ivory silk blouse, followed by her black pencil skirt, her stockings, her garters, and last but not least, her bra at the doorway. But because this was her battle dress, the ultimate mask, this simply would not do.

There was no allure to this mask. This mask had already been stripped of all effectiveness, and if Irene Adler had learned anything from her experience with Sherlock Holmes, it was that you couldn't fool him twice, if it was possible for him to be fooled at all. He wouldn't respond if she were simply laid out on his bed in the nude. No… it was likelier that he'd respond to her favorably if she presented herself in something that he could connect with.

She figured the best way to present herself favorably would be to strip herself of everything that made her uniquely herself. Her makeup, her perfume, the remnants of any of her shampoos, soaps, lotions, etc.—it all had to be stripped away and replaced with something neutral, something that Sherlock wouldn't notice because it was so commonplace for him.

Irene headed to the bathroom and took a shower, paying extreme attention to her memory of what Sherlock smelled like. She wanted to be sure to recreate that smell to the best of her ability, her own body's chemistry allowing. She figured if he recognized his own smell on her, he'd subconsciously be more inclined to let her in. To have dinner with her.

It was nearly four o'clock when she stepped out of the shower and searched for a towel to dry herself off with. She saw a clean towel sitting on a shelf near the shower. Before she wrapped it around herself, she brought it to her face and drew in a long inhale. Even the laundry detergent that his things were washed in was enough to set her off.

Now that she was dried off, she went off in search of something to wear. Her garments just wouldn't suffice; they were already being put to use as "crumbs" for Sherlock; each article of clothing would lead him to her. No, she needed something of his. The dressing gown was the obvious choice, but that had already been tried. She had gotten far with him with the dressing gown, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Boxers and a button-down shirt, she decided. He was rather fond of his tight-fitting button-downs and based on the state of his underwear drawer, it was obvious that he was meticulous about his clothing and his appearance. He would notice his own clothing on her. Just as he would notice his scent on her. That was the thing about Sherlock Holmes: he noticed things, regardless of whether it was intentional or not.