The Woman's Tears

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by Percabeth712

by Percabeth712

A Sherlock Oneshot

SPOILER ALERT! Definitly contains MAJOR spoilers for the BBC show Sherlock seasons 2 and 3 but particularly season 2. So I feel imust tell you. If you are like my friend @CyraVala3 or you ARE her (yes I'm looking at you missy ;-) and have a bad habbit of reading fanfictions and spoiling things for yourself please be VERY careful about your choice to read this or not.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock (the show), Sherlock (the character), or The Woman

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A/n I'm baaaaaaaaack! So this is a fanfiction about the BBC show Sherlock. Please don't spoil things for others in the comments or whatever. Details may be off but I'm sorry. This is how I imagined what might have happened between Sherlock Holmes and The Women. You shall see what I mean shortly. Read at your own risk.

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The Woman's Tears

Irene Adler was accostomed to a high standard of living. Was that not the point of blackmail? She had gotten quite good at it but in the process she had made enemies of the wrong people and because of it, had been very close to losing her head, literally. With the help of her friendly neighborhood highly functioning sociopath, she had been able to fool even the great Mycroft Holmes. Though, she reflected with a smile, there was absolutely nothing friendly about her rescuer. Either way, it was best she remained unoticed by most of the world and to do that things had to change. Wealth arises curiosity like poison in a festering wound. People pay attention to those with money. So, for now, The Women lived in a rundown apartment in Italy far from the life of luxury she knew.

The strange thing was that she actually liked it. There was peace in anoniminity. She didn't have to be Irene Adler anymore and she siezed the opportunity. To her landlady she was the women who was never late with her rent in Room 2D. To the couple in Room 2E she was the women who watered their plants when they went on holiday. And, to the man at her favorite coffeshop she was the women who always turned him down on his repeated advances. One thing was always the same. She was always just a women to them. A beautiful women, but still just a women who actually just happened to be The Women.

Irene Anderson was barely safe from The Women's enemies but she never could help but smile when she remembered the old nickname and the last person she heard say it. How could she not smile when she thought of Sherlock Holmes? Safety was nice but she hoped one day she might be safe with him, or atleast able to see him again. Even if it was only once. Even if it was only a photograph.

These were common thoughts for her and indeed they were going through her head on particular evening when she returned to her shabby living quarters. She looked at the tv she had bought for no real reason. She never watched it but sometimes she'd turn it on to hear another voice when it was quiet, or to drown out the Johnsons upstairs when it was anything but. Today was a loud day so the telly went on, and when it did, staring out at her with a cool indifference she knew so well, as if she had summoned him with her very thoughts, was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"What did you this time, save the Queen?". She was only partially joking. If anyone could do it, it was Sherlock Holmes. The picture didn't answer but the headline that appeared above it certainly did. FRAUD DETECTIVE COMMITS SUICIDE. The sight of it felt like a punch in the gut as she hurried to turn the volume up, praying it was some kind of sick joke. But it wasn't.

She listened to the name of the man she loved be tarnished by accusation after accusation. They said Moriarty never existed, that he was completly made up by Sherlock Holmes. The "actor" was missing and it was believed he had been murdered by the detective. She knew none of it was true. She knew him to well. It disgusted her to hear them tell their lies about the brilliant and great man. But that didn't make her shut the telly off. No, there was somehing she was waiting for and dreading.

Finally, it came. "No one is sure if he did it because he felt guilty or because he got caught but earlier today, Mr. Holmes was killed after falling off the roof of a London hospital. Scottland Yard has refused to comment but a source within the morgue tells me that all preliminary reports seem to point to this indeed being a suici-"

She couldn't take anymore and turned of the set, cutting the reporter off midword. She didn't care. At first the tears running down the beautiful face went unnoticed. It was quite a while before she even started to wipe them away but when she did she showed no mercy. Irene Anderson tried to tell herself that it wasn't a big deal because she was already starting over and that she would never have been able to see him again anyway. The Woman tried to tell herself that it was her own damn fault for letting herself care about anyone else and that the reporters were probably right anyway. Only Irene Adler refused to lie and told herself, "I need a drink."

Pushing herself back into the upright position, she moved toward the kitchen. It didn't take long. The small size that seemed so freeing only half an hour ago was suffocating now. She yanked the door to the cupboard on the upper, far left and pulled out an expensive bottle of vodka, the best of the best. She remembered buying it, after all a girl needs some luxury. But she certainly wasn't thinking about luxury as her trembling hands struggled to pour the precious liquid into the glass instead of onto the countertop.

"You know what they say about drinking alone." The Women froze. It was impossible but there was absolutly no way she could forget that voice. She turned around slowly to a sight she never thought she'd see again. There he was, trenchcoat and all, standing as if he owned the place.

She played it cool and plastered on a seductive smile to hide the chaotic thoughts going through her mind. She was good at that sort of thing. "Is there an alternative you would like to suggest Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes." He plopped another glass right next to hers. "Do pour me one too. Being dead does make one awful thirsty, but try not to make such a mess this time." There was that arrogant look again. She suddenly as unable to remember why she had ever wanted to see him again. She didn't try to hide her glare from him this time. She shoved her now full glass toward him so hard that it sloshed all over Sherlock's hand when he caught it. Then he smiled at her fury and her heart did a little dance in her chest.

Ah, that would be why.

That smile, that rare, rare smile, was why The Woman's tears were long gone.

{unedited}