A/N - My apologies for not posting yesterday like I said I would! No excuse really, I just got caught up in the rest of the day 😊

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Later, after making sure Mrs Hudson was truly fine, the three left for upstairs. Sherlock was the first to head in, taking off his coat and throwing it over the back of a chair.

"I need to take a look at your head, Elizabeth." John finally said when they walked back into their flat.

"Yeah, I thought you were going to say that."

"Go on, sit down on my chair and I'll be over in a moment."

After hovering by the table, Sherlock went over to look out of the window, searching for the words he was going to say - needed to say. He was nervous. How did one explain that they were sorry for practically ignoring you for a week out of grief even though it turned out the dead person was alive because they had faked their death? It was a lot to explain and one had to be sure to explain it correctly so the other wouldn't get the wrong idea. And yet he didn't feel ready enough yet to explain it either considering he was still trying to wrap his own head around the idea.

Elizabeth watched him, her eyes falling on the violin sheet music stand again. Her eyes narrowed as she looked from the stand to Sherlock. It irked her still. She had told herself that it was all part of his grief. But it still didn't sit right with her? Would it sit right with anyone in the same situation as her? Or was she overreacting?

John returned with cotton wool pads, antiseptic and surgical tape. He placed it on the table beside his chair and then knelt on the floor before getting to work on his new patient's wounds. Elizabeth hissed as the antiseptic doused cotton pad touched her cut.

"Sorry, it will hurt."

"I'm okay. Thanks, John." Elizabeth clenched her jaw.

"I'll keep an eye on you tonight."

"No, John, I'm fine. And besides you have work tomorrow."

"After a head injury like this you shouldn't be left alone. I'll need to monitor you in case you have a concussion. I'll just call in sick."

"I feel alright, if not a little tired and sore. Even my throat is getting a bit better."

"Elizabeth, symptoms of a concussion can still appear after a few days. And Sherlock she'll need to use your bedroom tonight - the sofa is hardly a comfy enough place to rest on."

"John - "

"I'll look after her tonight and tomorrow." Sherlock finally spoke looking at the two of them.

John looked between Elizabeth and Sherlock, "Are you sure? Because, you know, you'll actually have to stay with her. You can't be in another room doing whatever else you plan to do."

"You don't have to do that, Sherlock." Elizabeth said, "I'm fine."

"No. I'll look after you. We can - we can share my bed...?"

"What?" The thief and doctor spoke concurrently.

"It's a double-bed. And we're both adults." Sherlock pinched the ends of the sleeves of his blazer, "After today I'd also like to...rest - so why not share the bed?" His hand migrated to the back of his neck, "That way I can keep an eye on you also."

John looked at Elizabeth, awaiting her answer.

Whatever happened today had clearly given Sherlock an epiphany. You didn't just go from full on ignoring practically everyone to once again acknowledging their existence so quickly and even offering to sleep on the same room as them with no good reason. Being found tortured by Americans may have guilt-tripped him into said epiphany. Perhaps he was finally alerted to his absence through that. Elizabeth could tell that he was trying to find a way to make it up to her.

"Okay." She said.

Sherlock nodded, "Okay. Good."

John stood up, feeling the need to do something other than be present in their moment, "Who wants tea?"

"That would be nice. Thank you, John." Sherlock nodded again, shifting under Elizabeth's gaze.

He turned away from her again, looking out of the window instead. Sherlock had never shared a bed with anyone in his life. He personally thought he wasn't a wild sleeper - didn't think he tossed and turned much in his sleep. But what if he did? What if he ended up turning and whacking Elizabeth off the bed? She already had one head injury - she didn't need another. Perhaps this had been a bad idea? Perhaps he would pretend to sleep so he wouldn't risk accidentally harming her?

John returned with tea for the three of them and a question, "Where is it now? Irene's phone?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John, "Where no-one will look."

The detective picked up his violin from off his chair, tuning it slightly as he kept his gaze out of the room.

"Whatever's on that phone is more than just pictures."

"Yes, it is."

Elizabeth and John watched him for a moment.

"What else do you think is on there?" She asked.

"I don't know. What do you think?"

She was surprised that he asked her, "Knowing she also takes information and considering our run in with the Americans, my guess would be something to do with the government - but not just our government. Something bigger. International."

Sherlock contemplated her thoughts as he tinkered with his violin. He agreed, impressed with her work. Perhaps his deductions skills were subconsciously rubbing off on her. This filled him almost with a sort of pride.

Silence fell across the room again save for the small twang of the violin string.

"So, she's alive then."

Elizabeth looked to John, her brow knotted together as a frustrated confusion gleamed in her eyes. Even Sherlock looked round to John, an equally peeved expression on his face but for a completely different reason.

Elizabeth asked, "What do you mean she's alive?"

"Why would you say that now?" Sherlock asked at the same time.

John looked between the two of them as they looked at each other, each with their own irked expression as they spoke over each other:

"Why do you sound angry that she's alive?"

"Were you not planning on telling me?"

"No, of course I was going to tell you."

"I'm not angry she's alive. I'm angry that you sounded like you were trying to hide it from me."

"I wasn't trying to hide it."

"Then when were you going to tell me?"

"I - " Sherlock failed to come up with an answer.

John watched this exchange with bated breath. He hadn't realised that his statement would cause this much of an issue. Guilt tore it's way through him. Of course Elizabeth was cut up over this - he was mourning for a woman that A - Sherlock barely knew and B - had been flirting with him ever since she had met him.

"No. No. I get it. So you weren't going to tell me. Fair enough. I shouldn't even be as annoyed as I am but maybe it has something to do with all the texts she's sent you, the fact that you've written a piece of music for her - "

Elizabeth stood pointing at the stand. Sherlock's eyes darted to the sheet music as she said that and he looked down at the floor, ashamed.

"Maybe even because of the fact that you have treated me like I have been nonexistent for a week all because of the apparent fake death of a woman you barely knew. And I just wanted to be there for you. But no. Instead you read her texts and wrote music for her. Yeah, you were probably right to want to keep it to yourself."

And with that Elizabeth left the room, walking into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her. She let go of a shaky breath that she didn't even know she was holding in. Had she overreacted? Ugh, she didn't know. But she also felt like she had some right. So Irene wasn't dead. She was relieved about that, relieved Jim had let her go as he had said regardless of her answer. But the fact that Sherlock was planning on hiding it from her? That hurt her.

She turned on the shower. A nice, soothing shower would help her calm down a bit, she was sure.

John looked at the detective, an apologetic look on his face. The detective just turned away again, speechless.

"How are we feeling about all of that?" John was referring to both Irene and Elizabeth.

Big Ben began to toll. It was finally the 1st of January. 2011. What would this year hold in store for them all then?

Sherlock inhaled, "Happy New Year, John."

"Do you think you'll - we'll - be seeing her again?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock turned around, not daring to look at John yet. He picked up his violin bow and flipped it in the air. Once he caught it, he brought the violin to rest just under his chin and began to play Auld Lang Syne. Only then did Sherlock look at John, communicating in a single glance that it was best not to speak of it now.

John just went to sit in his chair, seemingly understanding this, as he just listened to Sherlock play.

* * * * * * *

Elizabeth had been in the shower for an hour.

Or more accurately, she had showered in fifteen minutes and spent the rest of her time hiding in the bathroom. But one couldn't stay here forever. It was already an hour into the first day of the new year and she hadn't even wished anyone.

She eventually bit the bullet and used the door that led straight to Sherlock's room rather than the hallway. Thankfully, the detective wasn't yet in the room which gave her time to change into her starry dark blue nighty. It wasn't long after this that there was a knock at the door.

"Yeah?"

"Are you clothed?" Came the detective's question.

"Yes."

"May I come in?"

"It's your room, Sherlock."

The detective walked in at hearing this. He was already in his pyjamas, seemingly having changed into them whilst she was in the shower. He shuffled on his feet.

"Right or left?" She asked.

"Pardon?"

"Do you want to sleep on the right or the left side of the bed?"

"Um, right."

She nodded, making her way around to the left side of the bed and plonked herself down, facing away from him. She flicked the switch of her bedside lamp on just as Sherlock turned the main room light off. The detective could sense an air of coldness with everything she said and did. And he knew that he was the cause for this.

After Elizabeth had tied her hair up into a messy bun, she got under the covers, lying flat on her back staring up at the ceiling. This was awkward. Very awkward. And all because she had snapped earlier instead of spoke with a calm response.

"I won't bite, you know." She looked at Sherlock, seeing his hesitation.

"I know."

Reluctantly the detective went to sit on his side of the bed, facing away from her. And he just sat there.

"I could sleep in the chair." He suggested to her, "You could have the whole - "

"Sherlock, you were the one that said we're both adults. Just lie down."

Without a word he did just that, but lay on top of the blankets and proceeded to stare at the ceiling.

Elizabeth quirked an eyebrow at the detective, "Won't you get cold?"

Again, without any form of verbal communication, the detective sat up and then stood up from the bed, almost robotically, and lifted the duvet before lying down under it again. He continued to stare up at the ceiling.

Elizabeth shifted onto her side to look at him. She watched the subtle rise and fall of his chest after each steady breath he took. Sherlock could feel her gaze on him but didn't even risk a glance at her. He swallowed, his throat unusually dry. If he just glimpsed her, perhaps he could work out what she was thinking. But Elizabeth didn't let their silence go on that long.

"Do you - like Irene?"

He turned his head to look at her, concern shining in his eyes, "In what way?"

"You know what way."

"I - I don't like her. Not in the way I like you."

"Okay...the texts?"

"I don't really reply."

She scoffed, "You always reply."

Sherlock smiled a bit, "That's what John said."

"Mm, I wonder why."

He spoke honestly, "I've only replied twice. And only to say 'I'm not hungry' and 'Happy New Year'."

"Happy New Year, Sherlock."

"Happy New Year to you too."

They stared at each other silently for a moment.

"Why weren't you going to tell me?"

Sherlock looked back up at the ceiling in search of an explanation, "I had only just found out myself. I didn't know what to expect when I followed John. I never expected The Woman." He paused looking at Elizabeth again, "I don't know. I was - still processing it myself. To have to explain it you too - I wasn't ready. I'm - sorry."

"I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to snap."

"You had every right to. I've been a ghost this past week, not only to you but to everyone. For that, I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You were just mourning."

"I could have spoken to you more."

"Water under the bridge, Sherlock. You can't change it now. We should just be glad that she's alive."

Sherlock nodded in agreement, "I'm glad that you're okay."

"Me too. Those CIA men were total bastards."

"I think they would have an equally similar opinion about us considering the circumstances they find themselves in now."

"Pft, let them. They started it. We just finished it."

Sherlock smiled warmly at her for the first time in a week. She could feel her lips reciprocate the action as they gazed at each other.

"Truce?" She offered him her hand.

"Truce." He took her hand softly, "Now you should sleep."

She rolled her eyes, "Says you."

"I'm not the one with a head injury."

"Fine." She maneuvered herself around to turn off the lamp, flooding them in complete darkness before turning back to face the detective, "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Elizabeth."