i o u

There are very few entertainments the dead can afford, particularly in an age of information. He was more recognizable in London, of course, being that the tabloids were rather enamored with their local celebrity, but even abroad Sherlock has been careful. Avoiding casework entirely, dodging police forces and the odd tourist, and keeping well away from funny hats had become daily routine.

He devotes himself to research, and to travel, filling his expansive mental database with further tidbits about a poison only produced in certain obscure parts of Nepal, distinguishing factors of fiber residue from the wools of various beasts of burden, and the workings of several Tokyo crime syndicates.

And as for Miss Adler? Well, of course he'd spared a thought or two for her in the time since he'd saved her life, but it doesn't occur to him to seek her out until a pattern emerges. By now, he's studied her delicate touch, come to better understand her methods (in a political sense, not a personal one) and can spot her deft touch a mile away. Child's play, to tail her latest client and wait for their next appointment, to watch her without her knowing, and to wait for the opportune moment to (rather inelegantly) pick the lock on the back door, duck one booby trap, and put on a pot of tea.

Which is how Irene will end up coming home to one lanky, supposed-to-be-dead, potentially-a-fraud detective sprawled out over her sitting room armchair, teapot on the table, reading the paper.

It isn't nudity, but he hopes it'll do.