To other people, she might be many other things. A dominatrix, a thrill-seeker, a bitch. So many words to describe a single human being.
To Sherlock, she was just She.
Because no other woman could hold a candle to her. Because they all paled in comparison.
He refused it to the world, and even to Irene, but deep down, she was a weakness, a distraction to the great detective.
He had fallen for her. It was not just her pulse that beat faster when they touched.
Emotions were stupid, useless, yes, but from the moment he met her... all logic failed to matter.
Which was why he saved her, which was why he didn't change his number even as she kept texting him, which was why she sometimes appeared in his thoughts randomly.
Stunning, brilliant, amazing Irene.
He loathed emotions, and yet he cared about two people in this world. He loved two people in this world. Irene and Watson. His best friend and his... well, what was Irene to him?
Who knew? Did he really want to put a label to it?
All he knew was that Irene was at his doorstep, and ringing the bell, and he could not resist opening it and letting her in.