At 221b...

Sherlock sat there playing his violin. Three months ago he had closed the case that John was calling "A Scandal in Belgravia." He was bored. Very, very bored. He had even, almost, resorted to pulling out a pack.

In light of the violin in his hands, he was composing again. He had just closed a case and didn't see another coming any time in the near future. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. John seemed to be out more and more often, coming hope less frequently at nights than he did before Moriarty showed up. Was he getting tired of Sherlock's company? He didn't know. Frankly, he didn't care. And he would do anything to convince himself of that.

Mycroft seemed less and less willing to give him a case as of late. He "ruined" the plans that they had for the Woman, and now couldn't be trusted by the government. He would normally simply hack into the person who was causing him trouble's account and find a case for himself, but this was Mycroft they were talking about. It wasn't that simple.

The texts never stopped. He never changed the ringtone, blaming it on the fact that he never had the time or patience to do so. He never replied. Simply read the text then put his phone back in his pocket. He went on forgetting the Woman. She was nothing to him. She didn't matter. No one mattered. Caring was a weakness to society and man as a whole. It should be dealt with the proper way; completely ignored.

Irene sat stroking the black cat she'd bought. Her life was a bit lonely now. She was supposedly dead. Only one knew her secret and he wouldn't respond to any of her messages. She hoped he was smart enough to change the ringtone. She knew he wouldn't though. He was too nostalgic to do something like that. He'd never admit it, but she knew.

She'd bought a place in Morocco, small, and quaint. The cat was a recent addition. Irene hated being alone. She knew no one, and didn't make friends. She had never known boredom like this before.

She wanted more than anything to go back to London. She cursed the day she made a deal with Jim Moriarty. Not that she didn't like the man, smart and clever as he is, he just ruined her life after he'd promised to make her rich.

Irene lived off of her savings, it was meager, but she survived. And waited. Oh, how she waited.