"It's a bit dark..." A woman's voice clawed through the cold air. She was surprised, upon opening the front door, to find light from only one distant and grainy lamp. It played desperately against the floor, changing nothing.

"I thought you'd prefer it this way."

"I'd feel better with some lights on." she decided, sliding the door shut.

With a half-betrayed shrug, the man dragged himself from his chair, plodded across the floor, and flipped up the nearest switch. The ceiling-lamp hummed into existence, and the room warmed. Her high-heels clicked across the wood foyer, requesting the man's attention:

"Irene Adler," he said, watching as she set down her suitcase, "You are just as they told me."

"A woman?" her laugh was gentle and suggested comfort. She peeled a glove from each hand, and stuffed them into her purse.

"The Woman."

"Who told you about me?"

He selected a chair for her and insisted she use it. Irene crossed her elegant legs, clasped her hands over her knees, and slipped free of her shoes.

"That," he said, "isn't something I can say. Yet."

She followed his eyes as they lapsed her body. They hovered, supposedly, at her neckline, so she tugged innocently at the string of pearls she wore.

"Those are nice." He said, without moving his gaze, "A present?"

"From a friend... she knows what I like."

"I wasn't expecting to have competition."

He sat at the chair across from her and studied her face. He found the thickness of her makeup somewhat disorienting, and settled on staring at her lips.

"I think this case could do with your help, Irene." his eyes grew darkly apologetic, and he grasped nervously at his coat-collar, "May I call you 'Irene'?"

The woman slid her shoes beneath the chair, and stared after them.

"I am 'Ms. Adler' to my professional clients, if you wouldn't mind."

"Ooh," he stood, "a power play! You haven't heard much about me recently, have you?"

"I've heard enough to come back, haven't I? Couldn't refuse a safe place to stay, free of charge."

"Ugh," he said, "you make it sound so boring. I wouldn't call it safe, and I especially wouldn't call it free."

"What should I call it then, Mr..."

She brushed her fingers over his trouser-pockets. The back ones. He took a jerky step away.

"Oh, no, I don't think so."

"Hmm?" She curled up her fingers and whipped them away, as if she'd just touched a boiling tea-kettle, by accident.

"No, that's alright." her hands returned, "But you shouldn't call this that. Or me."

"What should I call you?" her eyes were intense, and her voice was hollow.

"Jim." he extended his hand, which she shook, then used for support as she stood.

She was refreshed to find their faces at the same level; his eyes were fascinating.

"James." she decided. She returned to her seat, and twisted round to face the window. With a sharp, stinging glare, she demanded he draw open the curtains.

"Three wishes." he told her, once he'd followed her instructions, "And that was one."

"I'm not very well-behaved. Whoever you talked to, I'm sure they told you that."

"Please," instantly, his voice became strangely cold, "none of my employees are."

She chose not to argue further, and resigned herself to a long, though very profitable, line of work.

"What are you needing my help with, James?"

"I need you, Irene, to play a game with me."

She scrambled to open her suitcase, which he dismissed:

"I've some cards to deal this evening, and I need someone to watch the house."

"I can do much better than that!"

"Safe and free." he reminded her, beginning a thoughtful pace about the room, "I'm going to visit a friend of mine... Sherlock Holmes. Have you heard of him?"

She shook her head.

"I'll tell you all about him when I get back. Won't that be fun, a bit of gossip?"

Feigning a delicate smile, she nodded.

"Sherlock and I have played this game before, though, so he's learned to cheat. The last time we spoke..."

"Yes?"

"Well, usual getting-to-know-each-other stuff... I promised to burn his heart out, and he just said he didn't have one. Isn't that boring?"

"Dreadfully." she bit her lip. The contrast, the white atop the red, reminded him fondly of a knife-wound; deep and clean.

"I hate to admit this, but he's given me a rather interesting idea. He said I've got strings, and I tug them to make him dance."

"Oh?" she was slightly more intrigued.

"I think, if I can sever all the strings at once, his pathetic, self-constructed world might collapse on top of him. And then, you can help me pick up the pieces. There are some valuable ones, I'm afraid."

"His heart?" she asked, leaning in and resting her chin over her hands.

"No; just its strings. I'm going to cut them. Every. Single. One."

The Title Challenge: want me to write you a oneshot? Review or PM me the meaning of each chapter title (there will be eight chapters total. You can submit one at a time or all together.) There's no limit; I'll write for everyone who gives the right answers, and I'll write for any fandom/pairing you want. Have fun, guys! Join the mystery... You know you want to!

Thanks,

Sally