Just a short little one shot of how I think Irene feels after Sherlock's death and when she realizes he's still alive. These two people are exceedingly hard to write, so please no reviews about 'Sherlock/ Irene would never act/treat each other in this way and I think you should make them act/treat each other in this way for this to be acceptable' I know it will probably be very OOC but it wouldn't leave me alone so here we go...

I don't own Sherlock, the BBC or any other the other characters mentioned here.

There are 5 main stages of grief that are meant to come one after the other in a very linear way that I find ridiculous. If you lose someone you care about the response should not be predictable and charted, and I've never really responded to things the way I should, or ever done as I was told so it was no surprise I didn't do grief in the right order either.

Denial and Isolation is meant to come first, meant to carry you through the first wave of initial pain. I had neither, no pain, and no denial to help me through it. I went straight to stage to stage two (I've always been very forward thinking), anger. I screamed every swear word I knew, obviously not actually. I have standards to keep. But in my head I was screaming at the heavens and to hell and to anybody who even looked in my direction. I was screaming at him, at Sherlock, for dying and leaving me in this mess and I was hating every person who seemed to look even remotely happy. I was just angry with the world and there was nothing I could do about it. Which scared me; I'd not been out of control since I moved out of my parent's house when I was 18.

Since I'd already done anger I moved onto bargaining. I should have helped him, kept better tabs, a closer eye on him. He kept me so firmly in his sights that he's now the only reason I'm alive and it should have been the same with him. I obviously did keep an eye on him, because I knew he was doing the same with me, but I had limited resources. I couldn't draw too much attention to myself and when I realised this was why I'd left him to his own devices I felt such all consuming guilt that I had to sit down for a few minutes. Not that it lasted long, it passed and I went back to my silent, internal bargaining that I knew did no good but couldn't help anyway.

Then I did the denial and isolation thing. I locked myself in my flat for two days, convincing myself he wasn't dead, that he couldn't be dead. He was Sherlock; he found his way out of anything and everything. My sexy smart detective (and I had no idea why I said my at the beginning of that when I first thought it). I must admit that was when I went a little crazy. I started talking to myself and going round in circles in my mind. When you're as used to human contact as I am, going two days without it is like going two days without food. Extremely uncomfortable. So I forced myself to leave my flat and that's when I moved on.

To acceptance I had finally reached the end of the journey and was quite pleased I'd skipped the whole pain and depression bit. I'd done the whole thing in two weeks flat and felt thoroughly exhausted after all that emotion. I'd finally accepted it and I counted the facts in my mind. Sherlock is dead. There was nothing I could have done to save him. It is not the worlds fault. And then I felt better and I went back to my quiet and incredibly boring life. I lasted for 3 whole weeks in this blissful state, walking the streets, smiling, eating properly. I was walking down an old back street when I looked through an old vintage shop window and I realized acceptance should be the last stage, but it wasn't for me.

Stood proudly in the shop display window was the most beautiful chess set I'd ever seen. It was made of fine polished wood and marble, as were the pieces and the case. Each one carved to perfection, a piece of art in its own right. But it was worn and battered, obviously old and that's what he would have liked about it. Its sturyness, its ability to stand times hardy test. I was drawn to the beauty; he was drawn to everything else. Then the pain hit. It started as an ache deep in my bones and by the time I got home had wound up to a burning inferno in my heart. I stumbled to the bad, collapsed on my sheets and cried. Pain radiated outward, paralysing me and making it hard to breathe. It didn't fade, falter or stop. It didn't pause, wait for me to catch my breath and then carry on; it blazed through every heartbeat. It was so bright and burning that I lost all sense of time. All I knew was pain; all I wanted was for it to stop. They were my only thoughts until a sharp military knock pushed through my haze of grief.

"Go away!" I called in fluent Arabic, hoping they would get the message and leave, but they knocked again. More persistent this time. So I sat up, wiped my tears, pulled my now greasy hair into a tight ponytail and headed to the door. I expected to see the same dark skinned dark haired and dark eyed people that frequented the block of flats I now lived in but instead I saw the pale skinned, blonde hair and blue eyed form of Dr. John Watson and I could barely choke out my words.

"John... oh John" and I then did the singular most embarrassing thing I have ever done. I fell into his waiting arms sobbing. He smelled like the flat. He and Sherlock used the same shampoo, everything about him reminded me of Sherlock, but I had never felt so comforted in my life. "I can't believe he's gone" I mumbled into his neck between sobs.

"I'm not" a deliciously familiar voice said in front of me. My eyes flew open and I looked over John's shoulder, not believing what I was hearing was true. But there he stood, still in the coat even in the stifling heat and I stepped around John as if in a haze. I knew I looked awful, all pale and doe eyed and lost, but I couldn't help myself. My hand reached out of its own accord and ghosted along his cheek, making sure he wasn't just an illusion conjured up by my pain addled brain. But he was real, standing in front of me and defiantly not dead. My hand stopped caressing, drew back and met his face again in a short, sharp slap.

"For letting you think I was dead?" he asked and I nodded with a stony expression on my face, before leaning up to press a lingering tender kiss to his, as ever, un responsive lips.

"And that was for being alive" I said in my best subtly seductive voice. His eyes changed then, I don't think I've even seen him look so... so hungry. He came forewords quickly, startling me and pressing his lips to mine with such force I thought he would bruise them. We stumbled back, pushing John out the way and he pressed me against the wall, ravishing my neck with kisses, pausing to swirl his tough over my pulse point which was hammering away at about a million beats a minute.

"Let's have dinner" he panted "Being dead really works up an appetite" I heard John mumble something about going now and seeing us later in an awkward voice but all I could focus on was Sherlock's hands and lips and body on mine and we stumbled towards the bedroom.

When we were done and I was resting against his bare chest in a deliciously loved up haze he let out a short chuckle. "5 weeks and you only reached pain?" he asked teasingly

"I didn't exactly do it in the right order" I explain which silenced his laughter

"no." He said "I don't expect you did"

So I hoped you like it and please review