A/N: I'm back. I can't seem to get away from this pairing, no matter how much I try. And for some reason, the ideas that keep plaguing me start out as light and happy, but turn dark. Hopefully this doesn't get too gloomy.

To this point, I feel that I should warn you that there will be several themes that are discussed that are triggers. I will make sure people are aware when these themes will be discussed. I have had some trouble in the past with this, especially since I didn't know the extent to which my writing would bother some people, so I am going into this very carefully, taking extreme caution. I don't want to give the plot away, but I just want to preface the story by saying that there is a very good possibility that some themes featured in this fic will be upsetting.

Otherwise, I don't own the rights to Sherlock, don't own the characters either. All rights are reserved to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, and any other group that I have not mentioned.

Enjoy!


Things would have been immensely easier had Sherlock not met Irene Adler. There was absolutely no denying this fact, but every time the thought came to mind, he found himself at a loss for words or any idea of how he ended up here and if there was any other way for this to have gone. Of course Irene was going to have a role in his life.

He only wished it had been a smaller one.


Sherlock despised the desert. He had hated it before Karachi and his daring rescue of Irene, but after that ordeal, he abhorred it even more. Sand and desolation: it would forever have a connection to Irene.

A series of crimes in the Southwestern United States had led Sherlock to this god-forsaken hellhole of a city, chock full of drugs, sex, alcohol, and other sinful activities. None of the typical activities that drew people to this place interested Sherlock, but he knew that he needed to venture around the city to gather his bearings. Sherlock didn't consider himself a religious man, but after walking a block of the Vegas Strip, he found himself almost wishing he could repent for the sins he was surrounded by. From this feeling alone, he should have known that something was going to go wrong.

Something was very bright. And for some reason, he was lying down. And he was cold in areas that he hadn't expected to be cold in. And then there was that scent… he knew that scent. He knew he knew that scent and was aggravated when he couldn't place it.

Fortunately, Irene could help him with that.

She walked into the room, her hair and makeup completely finished despite the fact that she had apparently forgotten to put clothing on, unless this was a deliberate move to unnerve Sherlock again. Her hair was now a dark-auburn color and she was wearing brown contact lenses, but Sherlock knew exactly who she was through her disguise. "Good morning, darling," she crooned as she strode across the room, showing off just how much clothing she was not wearing.

Sherlock blinked a few times and frowned. He was certain that he would have remembered seeing Irene, let alone going back and apparently sleeping in the same bed as her. He couldn't be completely sure, but he was convinced that they had had sex, based on his state of undress and her chipper demeanor. He tried to get out of bed, but was alarmed to find that he was unable to do so.

"Why am I tied up?" he exclaimed, struggling against the knots that held his wrists captive against the headboard.

Irene sat at the foot of the bed, drawing one of her long, blood-red fingernails along the bottom of his foot. She smirked as he squirmed and struggled to get away from her touch. "You were being naughty," she explained.

"Naughty, or drugged?" he growled.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes… you must know that your voice does such amazing things to me," Irene crooned as she stroked his foot again.

"Would you stop doing that?" he cried.

"Why? Does it… tickle?" she asked as she drew her finger across the roughened skin of the soles of his feet.

He glared at her. Admitting defeat to Irene would only mean that she would take advantage of this at any opportunity she got. But it was obvious, based on his reaction, that this was an Achilles' heel of his. Almost as if she knew that this was his Achilles' heel, she moved up his leg, grabbing the back of his ankle and cradling his lower leg in her hand. "Subtle," he sniffed.

Irene smirked again, and dropped his foot back onto the bed. "So, I don't even get a hello?" she asked him.

"I thought it was implied, based on the fact that apparently, we are far past the hellos."

"Well… you might have said something of the sort last night, but you, as you aptly pointed out, were drugged and were barely coherent. In fact, the only coherent thing that came from you last night was your plea for sex."

"Doubtful, but thank you for evidence against you in a court of law," he muttered.

"I got it on video, actually. Figured you would want to see the evidence."

"Of course you would," he sighed as he closed his eyes and clenched his fists. "Would you please untie me?"

"I'm not done with you yet," she informed him.

"But I've been done with you for several years."

"We both know that that's not quite the case."

"I have work to do."

"I know. And I might be able to help."

"I don't want your help."

"Yes you do."

"Irene, if I wanted your help, I would have asked you sooner."

"In theory, yes, that would work. But in this case, that would have hardly worked. You didn't know that you wanted my help. In fact, I still think you don't know that you want my help."

"I don't want your help."

"Yes you do."

"This is not productive."

She stood up from the bed. "Exactly my point."

His eyes flew open as he realized she was walking away. "Where are you going?"

Irene laughed. "Good lord… you sound like an insecure girl."

Sherlock glared at her again. "Irene, untie me."

"I'm not leaving."

"How am I supposed to believe you?"

She said nothing, but walked over to her bag and pulled a handsome black folder out. With a flick of her delicate wrists, the folder was open and she procured a moderately thick stack of papers, clipped together with a binder clip. Sherlock could tell there were more documents in the file Irene held, but she kept the file positioned so that he could not tell what they were. "They are after me too."

"Who is 'they'?" he asked slowly.

"My lovely friends. Well, I call them friends… they don't consider me a friend of theirs."

"Irene."

"Well, okay… they're former clients who were dealt a bad hand."

"By whom?"

She looked at him pointedly. "For someone so smart…" she sighed.

"Why are they after you? I was under the impression you were still dead."

"Why is Moriarty after you? Or you after Moriarty? You two are supposed to be dead."

"His death was a fake."

"And you were magically resurrected?" she interjected.

"Needless to say, my death was also fake. But your records all state that you are dead. The government files say that you are dead. How could you be reaping new enemies from the grave?"

"No one ever truly dies, Sherlock."

"Clearly," he grumbled as he crossed his ankles, despite the fact that he was no more comfortable in that position than he had been previously.

She sat down next to him and held up the stack of papers that she had taken from her file. "This is our safety net. With this document, we are safer than we were without it."

He peered at the words and paled as soon as he realized what she was holding. "A marriage license?" he hissed. "We are married?"

"And expecting our first child," she added in a mocking, sugary-sweet voice that overly excited young women would use in this situation.

Sherlock was petrified. "Sorry?"

Irene rolled her eyes. "Don't worry… I can't have children. Any child that comes from this body is certainly the work of Immaculate Conception."

He drew in a deep breath and swallowed hard. "Did we get married last night?"

"Yes."

"And I'm guessing I was not freely willing to this."

"No… actually, you were pretty excited about it."

"Doubtful."

"I have it all on film."

"Again, I doubt it."

"Honestly, you need to have a little more faith in people."

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. "Please untie me. You have me on a ball and chain now, so these ties are wholesomely unnecessary. You know that if I try to file for an annulment…"

"Divorce. The marriage has been consummated."

He let out a low groan before he continued. "You know that if I try to file for divorce, I will draw unnecessary attention to myself…."

"To us."

His eyes flashed open. "Stop interrupting."

"What's the magic word?" she sang.

"You wretched woman."

She thought for a moment. "That's a magic word… but that's not the one that I wanted."

"If I file for divorce, the unnecessary attention might blow our covers. You have me where you want me, so untie me at this moment!" he hissed.

"What's the magic word?" she sang again, irritating Sherlock even more.

"No."