Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC, I only own my OC, Amelia Wilson.

….

A Scandal In Belgravia, Part 1.

Sherlock's hands were steady, not wavering as he aimed the pistol down at the bomb vest in-between him and James Moriarty, both men's eyes fixed calmly on each other's as James gave a half smile, seeming to be almost amused by the situation as Amelia swallowed hard, her heart racing in her chest, when…

Suddenly, 'Stayin' Alive' by The Bee Gees rang out.

Sherlock and John frowned, looking around, confused, as Amelia struggled to fight back the mad urge to laugh. It was just…such a comedic thing to happen, right in the middle of a stand-off involving a bomb.

James sighed exasperatedly, closing his eyes briefly, "D'you mind if I get that?" he asked them.

"No, no, please," Sherlock shrugged, gesturing with his gun, almost sounding casual about the whole thing, "You've got the rest of your life".

He reached inside his pocket and pulled out his phone, raising it to his ear, "Hello?" he answered, still looking slightly annoyed as he paused, listening, "Yes, of course it is. What do you want?" he looked back at them, mouthing 'sorry' to Sherlock, who sarcastically mouthed back 'Oh, it's fine'. He turned away from them, rolling his eyes before spinning back, suddenly furious, "SAY THAT AGAIN!" he shouted into the phone as Sherlock and John frowned, exchanging a look with Amelia, "Say that again," he commanded once more, his tone deadly, "And know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you," he hissed out the word 'skin,' listening for a moment, "Wait," and lowered the phone, slowly approaching the bomb vest, looking thoughtfully down as Sherlock adjusted his grip on the gun, eyeing him, "Sorry," he finally said, looking back up, "Wrong day to die".

"Oh," Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him, his tone calm, but he kept the gun firmly aimed at the vest, "Did you get a better offer?" he nodded towards his phone.

James glanced down at the phone in his hands and slowly turned away, "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock," he told him, strolling back towards the door that he had originally entered through, lifting the phone back to his ear, "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich," he said into the phone, "If you don't, I'll make you into shoes," he lifted up his free hand, snapping his fingers, and the lasers disappeared as he left the room.

Sherlock looked around, but was disappointed to find that there wasn't any sign of the snipers as Amelia closed her eyes, breathing deeply, and John sighed in relief, "What happened there?" he asked, looking up at them.

Amelia opened her eyes, looking at them. It was still strange to see her with brown eyes, rather than blue, "That was someone changing my dear brother's mind," she remarked quietly, looking uneasy, "And that, I'm sure you can imagine, is never a good thing".

Sherlock looked back towards the direction that James had disappeared, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully, "The question it, who?"

….

A few weeks had passed since the incident at the pool, and things at Baker Street had…slowly, improved. John had taken Amelia up on her offer to go on a trip away from London, and even they're relationship had begun to slowly rebuild trust wise.

John was sitting at the living room table, typing his latest blog entry up as Amelia sat on the sofa, ideally flickering through the magazine, while Sherlock was going through a newspaper, standing across from John, sipping from a mug.

"What are you typing?" he asked John, not really seeming overly interested.

"Blog," John replied.

"About?"

"Us".

"You mean me," Sherlock corrected, titling his head, "And maybe Amelia".

Amelia sighed, holding up her hand, "Leave me out of this, Sherlock," she shot him a look.

"Why?" John questioned, still typing.

He coughed, clearing his throat, "Well, you're typing a lot," he reasoned, making the other man look at him, just as the doorbell sounded, "Right then," he sat the cup down on the table, heading towards the door, "So, what have we got?"

"Here we go again," Amelia remarked softly, straightening.

…

Weeks went by, and there seemed to be a never ending stream of people coming and going from Baker Street, all consulting with Sherlock. It had become such a regular occurrence, that they had even started sitting up one of the kitchen chairs, facing the fireplace, for there possible clients to sit in.

"My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the officer," the latest client, a man in his mid-fifties, began to tell them.

"Boring," Sherlock announced.

Well, that was little slow. The last one hadn't even made it over the doorway before being sent away.

…

"I think my husband might be having an affair".

"Yes".

Amelia sighed tiredly, rubbing her forehead, "Way to break it to her gently, Sherlock".

….

"She's not my real aunt," a young man explained to them, clutching a funeral urn, looking to John and Amelia, Sherlock paced behind him, "She's been replaced, I know she has. I know human ash".

"Leave," Sherlock practically ordered, pointing at the door.

….

A business man in a sharp suit sat in the chair, while two other well-dressed men stood behind him, their hands clasped together in front of them, "We are prepared to offer any sum of money you care to mention for the recovery of these files," he informed them.

"Boring".

….

"We have this website," a young man, hardly seeming to be out of his teens tried explaining to them, while two of his other friends stood behind him, shifting nervously, "It explains the true meaning of comic books, 'cause people miss a lot of the themes…" Sherlock, losing interest, turned and began walking away, "…but then all the comic books started coming true," he quickly finished.

"Oh," Sherlock walked back, finally looking curious after weeks and weeks of interviews with different people, "Interesting".

….

Later, John sat in his chair in the living room, writing up there latest case as Amelia sat across from him, fiddling with her phone, just as Sherlock popped up over his shoulder.

"'Geek Interpreter,'" he read, frowning at the screen, "What's that?"

"It's the title," John replied easily.

"What does it need a title for?"

"Leave him alone, Holmes," Amelia told him lightly, not looking up as John smiled tightly at him as he slowly straightened, walking off.

….

"Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock asked John as they and Amelia examined the body of a young blonde woman lying on one of the metal tables at St Barts Hospital, covered in little strange specks all over her body. Lestrade stood off to the side, watching them.

"Oh, not this again," Amelia muttered, shaking her head as she glanced at them.

"Where do you think our clients come from?" John asked him, a touch of annoyance lacing his voice.

Sherlock shrugged, continuing his examination with the help of his magnifying glass, "I have a website".

"In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash," he rolled his eyes slightly as Sherlock looked up at him, "Nobody's reading your website".

Amelia gave Sherlock a sharp look, noticing him glaring at John, "Let it go, Sherlock," she told him firmly as they straightened from the table, "Just let it go".

"Right then," John continued, not seeming to notice Sherlock's glare, "Dyed blonde hair, no obvious cause of death except for these speckles," he frowned, bending closer to the body, "Whatever they are," and used his finger to point the specks out, looking up, only to see Sherlock strolling out of the room. He blinked, glancing at Amelia.

She sighed, shaking her head, seeming to be caught between amusement and annoyance, "I don't think he liked your little remark about his blog…"

…

Back at the flat, John sat up at the living room table, typing as Amelia sat across from him, sipping a cup of tea, just as Sherlock walked in, eating a piece of toast and carrying the newspaper. He paused and sidled closer, looking at the screen.

"Oh, for God's sakes!" he exclaimed through a mouthful of toast.

"What?" John hardly glanced at him, having grown used to this sort of thing happening almost every time he wrote something new for his blog.

"'The Speckled Blonde?'" Sherlock rolled his eyes and walked off, shaking his head.

Amelia groaned, "You know, I think he does that on purpose," she commented to John, "He just likes something to complain about, so he picks on your titles," she shook her head before pausing, casting him a look, "John, just…ah, promise me if I happen to get murdered, you won't title mine something to do with my appearance?"

John blinked at her, "Who said anything about murdering you?"

"Oh, just my brother, for one person…"

…

It was night time, Amelia and John were both sitting across from each other in the chairs in front of the fireplace, looking at two little girls sitting together on the dinning chair that they used for clients, while Sherlock stood beside Amelia's chair.

"They wouldn't let us see Granddad when he was dead," one of the little girls told them, "Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?"

"People don't really go to heaven when they died," Sherlock replied, not softening his voice in the slightest, "They're taken to a special room and burned".

The little girls exchanged distressed looks.

"Sherlock…" John scolded.

"That's it," Amelia shook her head, looking appalled, "You are never allowed to talk to kids again, not without either John or myself to be there…or though, I can't say that really helped this time".

….

"There was a plane crash in Dusseldorf yesterday," Lestrade explained to them over his shoulder as he led them across opened ground, towards an abounded car, "Everyone dead".

"Suspected terrorist bomb," Sherlock remarked, rolling his eyes, "We do watch the news".

"You said, 'boring,' and turned over," John shook his head, casting him a look.

"He also said the same thing while flickering through the newspaper," Amelia added, a hint of amusement in her voice.

They came to a stop around the back of the abounded car to find a man's body inside the boot of the car, "Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board," Lestrade told them, looking at a bag of evidence as Sherlock began looking around the boot of the car, "Inside his coat he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits," Amelia took the little bags from, looking through them closely.

"He even has his passport stamped at Berlin airport," Amelia commented thoughtfully, handing the bag's back over to Lestrade, "How…interesting".

"So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday, but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark," he finished, frowning at the body.

"Lucky escape," John shrugged slightly, but still looked a little puzzled.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, who was examining the dead man closely with his magnifier, "Any ideas?" he asked, sounding hopeful.

"Eight, so far," Sherlock answered.

Amelia looked at him curiously, "Seriously?" she sighed, looking disappointed, "I only have four, and even those ones don't seem right".

He continued his examination, pausing as he frowned down at the man, "Okay, four ideas," he straightened and looked at the evidence bags, frowning again as he looked at them, and then looked up at the sky, just as a passenger jet passed over head, "Maybe two ideas".

…

Back at Baker Street, John was typing as Sherlock, wearing safety goggles, thick protective gloves, and carrying a blowtorch in one hand and a glass container with some sort of green liquid inside it, frowning as he looked over John's shoulder.

"No, no, no," he shook his head at him, looking annoyed, "Don't mention the unsolved ones!"

"I've said it a thousand times, Sherlock, just let John do what he wants with his blog," Amelia told him, casting him a stern look from where she was sitting on the sofa, "He writes about me all the time and you don't see me complaining," she shrugged.

John sighed, "People want to know that you're human".

"Why?" he asked quickly.

"'Cos they're interested," he replied.

"No they're not," Sherlock rolled his eyes before frowning at him, "Why are they?"

Jon smiled at the laptop, "Look at that," he nodded to something on his screen and Amelia, feeling curious, walked over to take a look to see the front page of his blog, "One thousand, eight hundred and nighty-five," he remarked, looking pleased.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock looked back at him.

"I re-set that counter last night," he explained, "This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours," he looked up at him, "This is your living, Sherlock, not two hundred and forty types of tobacco ash".

"Wow, nice," Amelia smiled brightly at John.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed less pleased, "Two hundred and forty-three," he grumpily corrected him, firing the blowtorch and heading back towards the kitchen.

…

"So, what's this one?" Sherlock asked John as they walked across the stage of a theatre, police and forensic officers still wondering around, "'Belly Button Murders?'"

"'The Navel Treatment?'" John suggested jokingly.

"Eurgh," he groaned in distaste as Amelia laughed.

They headed backstage when they almost ran into Lestrade, "There's a lot of press outside, guys," he informed them as they made their way down the narrow hallway, towards the back door.

"Well, they won't be interested in us," Sherlock replied.

"Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon," he glanced at them, seeming to find the situation amusing, "A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you three".

"You have got to be kidding me," Amelia sighed heavily, shaking her head as if she didn't want to believe it.

"For God's sake!" Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, looking very annoyed as he opened them, throwing John a glare, who just simply gave him a small smile back in return. They passed a dressing room and he quickly ducked inside, "John," he called, chucking a cap at him, "Cover your face and walk fast," he told him, quickly unlooping his scarf from around his neck, and passing it to Amelia, "Put that on and keep your head down".

Amelia looped the blue scarf around her neck, feeling grateful that she had worn a high collared coat that night, "You do realise, that now the press are going to think you and I are having an affair," she glanced at him, but thankfully, he ignored her comment.

"Still, it's good for the public image, a big case like this," Lestrade was saying ahead of them as they continued walking down the hallway.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I'm a private detective," he replied, putting his own hat on, which turned out to be a deerstalker, pulling it low over his face, and tugging his coats collar higher, "The last thing I need is a public image".

They stepped outside to be greeted with the flashes of photographs, journalists shouting and clamouring to try and get closer to them as the police held them back. Madness, complete madness, and all they could do was try to keep their heads down and away from the cameras.

….

"So, this is your idea of breakfast attire, is it?" Amelia raised her eyebrows at Sherlock, who was only wearing a white sheet around him like a toga.

He cast her a look, "Why, did you expect me to come wearing Westwood and Louboutin's?" he sarcastically shot back at her.

"Children," John cut in, holding up his hand, looking tired as he sat his tea cup back down on the table, looking in between them both since he had taken the middle seat, while they had both chosen to sit at the ends of the table, "Can we please just have breakfast in peace, for once? No augments…"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and threw a look around Amelia's living/dining room area, "I don't see why we had to have breakfast here, anyway," he remarked, sounding annoyed.

Amelia sighed, having already gone over it with him four times the night before, "We are having breakfast here so that Mrs Hudson, who really shouldn't have to, can help clean up some of your mess," she tried to calmly explain to him, but she was sure that some of her own annoyance made it into her voice, "And I offered to host breakfast in my apartment. Now, please, just eat you toast, Sherlock".

"You're in a mood," he commented, eyeing her. He could usually tell what mood she was in, just from what she wore, which was a Westwood red, grey, and yellow tartan skirt suit with matching blazer, over the top of a red blouse, black Louboutin heels, back-seam sheer stockings, and small gold drop earrings in the sharp of little flowers. Red lipstick, nails, little eyeliner, and a classic style bun.

Ah, so she was trying to overcompensate for the lack of sleep, since she had gone to the effort of picking out clothing that practically screamed out money. That's what she usually did, used her outward appearance in an attempt to make herself feel, that and the press had taken a shine to her, so no doubt she wanted to make sure that she wasn't caught off guard again.

"Sherlock, has the last months living next to me taught you nothing about woman?" Amelia raised an eyebrows at him, shaking her head, "You never say that a woman is in a 'mood,' not unless you want to end up being ranted at. Honestly, even John knows that".

John coughed as they both focused their attention him, "Ah…yeah, she's right," he nodded, picking up a piece of toast and biting into it.

Suddenly, Mrs Hudson shouted, "Boys, Amelia!" they frowned, exchanging looks, "You've got another one!"

….

Once they had hurried back across the hall and into the kitchen, they found Mrs Hudson standing over a rather large man, who appeared to be unconsciousness. John quickly set to work checking him over and found that he was fine, estimating that he had only feinted, and so, once the man had come to, they got him to sit down on the dining table chair in front of the fireplace, while John sat on the sofa, Sherlock stood, still wearing only his sheet, by the fireplace, and Amelia took John's usual chair.

"Tell us from the start," Sherlock told the man, who turned out to be called Phil, firmly, "Don't be boring".

….

Sherlock walked into the kitchen, yawning, and still only wearing his sheet, despite how many hints Amelia had dropped that perhaps he put some clothing on.

"You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating?" John called from the laptop that had been set up in the living room, Amelia sighed and nodded in agreement from where she sat in front of the computer.

"It's okay, I'm fine," he yawned again, picking up a cup of what Amelia assumed to be tea, and walked into the living room and over to the computer, "Now, show me to the stream," he told him as he took a seat beside the brunette.

"I didn't really mean for you," John replied, rolling his eyes at him.

"Look, this is a six," Sherlock said to him, adjusting the screen slightly, just as the front doorbell rang. Amelia glanced back over her shoulder towards it, but he completely ignored it, "There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven," he continued, "We agreed. Now, go back. Show us the grass".

John walked closer to the stream, obviously holding the laptop screen out in front of him as he crouched down, giving them a view of the grass, "When did we agree that?" he asked.

"We agreed yesterday. Stop!" they both moved closer to the screen, looking at the mud on the ground, close to the streams bank, "Closer".

John swung the laptop around to face him and another man, presumably the detective in charge, "I wasn't even at home yesterday," he shook his head, "I was in Dublin and Amelia was off with Molly all day".

"Well, it's hardly my fault you weren't listening," the doorbell rang again, this time for long, and he looked back towards it, calling angrily, "Shut up!"

Amelia winced and rubbed her ear, "Yeah, thanks, I didn't need that one for hearing or anything," she sarcastically commented.

"D'you just carry on talking when Amelia and I are away?" John questioned, frowning back at them.

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugged, looking back to him, "How often are you away?"

"So says consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes," Amelia stopped rubbing her ear and shook her head, looking amused, "He can't tell you when he's flatmate and neighbour has gone out, but he can give you a profile of your life from one look".

"Concentrate, Amelia," he cast her a look before refocusing back on the computer, "Now, show us the car that backfired".

They could hear John sigh loudly as he turned the laptop around, holding it up higher for them to see a car sitting on the road, "It's there".

"That's the one that made the noise, yes?"

He swung the computer back around to look at them, "Yeah," he nodded, seeming to be walking back up towards the road and away from the stream, "And if you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't shot, he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer," Sherlock and Amelia both looked thoughtful, "That's gotta be an eight, at least".

Sherlock sunk back into his chair, running a finger back and forth over his top lip, deep in thought. Amelia blinked and pulled her eyes away, suddenly aware that she had been watching the motion for a second or two longer then she really ought to have.

"You've got two minutes, then I want to know more about the driver," the other man, who seemed to be following John around, told them firmly.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, "Oh, forget him," he said to the other man, "He's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?"

Amelia cleared her throat, casting Sherlock a pointed look, which he ignored as the other man glared at Sherlock, "I think he's a suspect!"

Sherlock lent closer to the laptop, looking annoyed, "Pass me over".

"All right, but there's a 'mute' button and I will use it," John warned him.

"Up a bit! I'm not talking from down here!"

John sighed and tried passing the whole computer to the other man beside him, "Okay, just take it, take it".

John disappeared off to the side of the screen, out of sight, as the other man took the laptop fully, "Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult not just with one detectives, but with two?" Sherlock immediately asked him, talking very fast, and raised his eyebrows, "Fair play?"

"He's trying to be clever," the other man responded, "It's over-confidence".

Amelia shook her head, "That's what you're going with?" she raised an eyebrow at him, not looking impressed, "Seriously, you think that he's being over-confident?"

"Did you see him?" Sherlock sighed, exasperated, "Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict, and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ, and a limited life expectancy, and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?" he laughed and turned around to were Phil was sitting in John's chair, having been there the entire time, "Don't worry, this is stupid".

"What did you say?" Phil gasped, sounding very anxious, "Heart what?"

Amelia glanced back at him, trying to give him a comforting smile, "Don't worry, just make sure you see your doctor once you leave," she said to him calmly, "I'm sure it will be fine".

Sherlock turned back to the screen, "Go to the stream," he ordered the other man.

"What's in the stream?" he frowned.

"Go and see".

"Sherlock, Amelia!" Mrs Hudson suddenly walked into the room, two men wearing suits following, "You weren't answering your doorbell".

One of the men, seeming to be the one in charge, glanced back at the second man just behind him, "His room's through the back," he pointed off in the direction, "Get him some clothes".

Sherlock and Amelia frowned at them, "Who the hell are you?" he questioned.

"Sorry, Mr Holmes, Miss Wilson," the man began walking closer to them, "You're coming with us," and placed a hand on the laptops lid, slowly closing it on John's calls of alarm, wanting to know if he and Amelia were okay, just as the second man returned, placing the folded clothes and shoes on the table.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at them and shrugged, making no move to stand or pick the clothing up.

"Please, Mr Holmes," he tried again, his hands clasped together in front of him, "Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed".

Sherlock glanced back at him, eyeing him closely, clearly deducing him before smirking smugly up at the man's face, "Oh, I know exactly where I'm going," he remarked.

Amelia smiled, quickly running her eyes over the man herself, spotting the traces of dog hair on his trouser legs. Three, she guessed, the work lines on his forehead, the lack of dried mud or marks on his shoes, so indoor work, the lack of a weapon, and lastly, the price of his suit. She glanced at Sherlock.

"Good thing I put some effort into my outfit today," she remarked to him, adding teasingly, "Shall we, Mr Holmes?"

…

Sherlock, who had refused to actually put on his clothing, was sitting beside Amelia in quite a large, ornate style room on a sofa, still bundled up in his sheet. A small, rounded coffee table was in front of them, were Sherlock's clothing and shoes had been placed, and on the other side of the small table, a second sofa was facing them.

They both looked over to the double doorway as John entered, giving Sherlock a look as if to ask what was going on, but Sherlock simply shrugged and rolled his eyes. He nodded, glancing around the room as he slowly approached them, and sank down beside Amelia, placing her in the middle. For a moment, he simply stared ahead of him before he glanced over at Sherlock, eyeing the sheet, and turned away again, "Are you wearing any pants?" he asked him.

"No".

"Okay".

Slowly, the three of them glanced at each other and burst out laughing.

"At Buckingham Palace, fine," John gestured around, still smiling as he tried clearing his throat, trying to control himself from bursting into another fit of laughter, "Oh, I'm seriously fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray," Amelia and Sherlock laughed again as he shook his head, "What are we doing he, Sherlock, Amelia?" he glanced around the room, "Seriously, what?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, still smiling.

"Here to see the Queen?" he suggested.

A moment later, Mycroft strolled inside from the other end of the room, looking his usual self.

"Oh, apparently yes," Sherlock remarked, causing all three of them to burst out laughing again.

"Perfect timing, too," Amelia giggled, quickly covering her mouth, trying to regain control over herself.

Mycroft looked at them, obviously exasperated already by their behaviour, "Just once, can you behave like grown-ups?" he sighed, moving further into the room.

"We solve crimes," John shrugged, regaining control after their little fit, "I blog about it, she likes to play dress-ups, and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope".

All the amusement on Sherlock's face faded away as he looked up at his brother, looking annoyed, "I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft".

"What, the hiker and the backfire?" he turned to him, slipping his hands inside his trouser pockets, "I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent".

John looked at Sherlock, startled as Amelia frowned, looking thoughtful, wondering just what it was that she was missing.

"Time to move on, then," Mycroft took his hands out of his pocket, bending down, and picking up the clothing and shoes from the table, holding them out towards his brother, who just looked down at the clothing, seeming bored, "We are in Buckingham Palace," he sighed, "The very heart of the British nation," his tone turned stern, "Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on".

Amelia coughed, struggling not to laugh again as Sherlock shrugged, "What for?"

"Your client".

Sherlock stood, "And my client is?"

"Illustrious…" they all turned as man in a dark suit walked inside the room, "…in the extreme," John quickly stood respectfully and, slightly slower, Amelia followed suit, "And remaining, I have to inform you, entirely anonymous," he smiled across at Mycroft, seeming happy to see him, "Mycroft!"

"Harry," Mycroft smiled at him, walking over to him, shaking his hand, "May I just apologise for the state of my little brother?" they turned back to them.

"Full-time occupation, I imagine," Harry remarked as Sherlock scowled at him, and looked away, "And you must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," he smiled, holding out his hand to John.

"Hello, yes," John nodded, shaking his hand.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog".

He blinked, looking startled, "Your employer?"

Harry nodded, smiling, "Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch".

"Thank you," John cleared his throat and gave Sherlock a smug look.

The man held his hand, turning to Amelia, "Miss Wilson," he greeted as she shook his hand, giving him a friendly smile, "I have heard quite a bit about you. Your Mother did wonderful work".

Amelia's eyes widened slightly, surprised, "Oh, well, she loved trying to help people," she said after a moment, "Charity work was just something that she loved doing," she coughed, glancing away as they released each other's hands, "Ah…I guess it must have skipped my brother".

Either too polite to say anything else in regards to her remark about her brother, no doubt sensing that it wasn't the best topic to get involved in, he walked over to Sherlock, "And Mr Holmes the younger," he smiled at him, "You look taller in your photographs".

"I take the precaution of a good coat and a shot friend," Sherlock responded, glancing at John pointedly, forcing both him and Amelia to step back as he strolled up to his brother, "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work," he looked around at Harry, "Good morning".

He turned and began to walk away, but Mycroft stepped forward and onto part of the sheet trailing behind him, nearly pulling the entire thing off Sherlock, who only just managed to grab enough of it to cover himself from his waist down. He tried tugging on it, looking furious as Amelia instantly felt her cheeks heat up and quickly looked away.

"This is a matter of national importance," Mycroft snapped at him, looking almost as angry as his little brother, "Grow up!"

"Get off my sheet!" Sherlock hissed.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll just walk away".

"I'll let you".

"Can we please not do this?" Amelia sighed heavily, still keeping her eyes adverted from Sherlock, "This really isn't the place to be doing this".

"Who," Sherlock grounded out furiously, "Is. My. Client?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, "Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God's sake…" he broke off, his temper rising as he glanced at Harry, forcing himself to not shout, "…put your clothes on!"

Sherlock inhaled deeply, closing his eyes tightly, and released it.

….

Sherlock, now thankfully dressed, was sitting on the sofa again beside Amelia, who was beside John as Mycroft and Harry sat on the other sofa across from them. Mycroft smiled over at the other man beside him, pouring tea from a teapot, "I'll be mother," he commented.

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock pointedly looked at Mycroft.

His brother sat the teapot back down on the tray, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's remark.

"My employer has a problem," Harry began, his attention focused on them across the table.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature," Mycroft continued after him, "And in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen".

"Why?" Sherlock asked quickly, eyeing them, "You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?"

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr Holmes?" Harry raised his eyebrows questionably at him.

"Not, to date, anyone with a navy".

"This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore trust," Mycroft explained to them.

John frowned at them, "You don't trust your own Secret Service?"

"Naturally not," he replied, shaking his head, "They all spy on people for money".

John smiled slightly as Harry glanced at Mycroft, "I do think we have a timetable," he reminded the other man.

"Yes, of course," Mycroft nodded, "Um…" he reached down beside his feet and grabbed a briefcase, popping it open, and pulling out a glossy photograph, handing it over to Sherlock, "What do you know about this woman?" he asked him.

Sherlock looked closely at the picture of a dark haired woman done up in a bun, "Nothing whatsoever," he replied.

"Then you should be paying more attention," Mycroft told him, "She's been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participant…separately".

Amelia raised her eyebrows, "Goodness, that sounds rather exhausting," she remarked, shaking her head, "And pointless…or perhaps that's just me".

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia," Sherlock said to his brother as John took a sip of tea from his cup, titling his head as he looked at the picture in Sherlock's hands, "Who is she?"

"Irene Adler, professionally known as 'The Woman'".

"Professionally?" John asked and Amelia glanced over at Mycroft.

"There are many names for what she does," he informed them, "She prefers 'dominatrix'".

Sherlock frowned, seeming almost thoughtful, "Dominatrix?"

"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft glanced at him, "It's to do with sex".

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock's head snapped up to him.

Mycroft smiled snidely at him, "How would you know?" he raised his eyebrows at his brother, who stared at him.

Amelia coughed, shifting in her seat, "Could we perhaps not bring personal details of a person's life into this, Mycroft?" she cast him a pointed look, a small smile tugging on the corner of her mouth, "Since I'm sure that Sherlock knows quite a number of little details about you that you wouldn't like to come out…hmm?"

Mycroft coughed and seemed to shift uneasily, his eyes flickering back over at Sherlock, who smirked back at him, "She provides…shall we say…recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it," he quickly got back on topic, popping his briefcase open again and handing several more glossy pictures to Sherlock, "These are all from her website".

Sherlock took them and began leafing through the pictures, most containing Irene Adler in numerous outfits, most bearing a great amounts of skin, and featured in different poses, "And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs," he guessed as a couple of the pictures caught John's eye.

"You're very quick, Mr Holmes," Harry commented, seeming impressed.

"Hardly a difficult deduction," he replied, rolling his eyes, "Photographs of whom?"

Harry glanced at Mycroft, "A person of significance to my employer," he finally answered, "We'd prefer not to say any more at this time".

Amelia raised her eyebrows again as Sherlock tossed the pictures down on the coffee table, glaring across at them, "You don't 'prefer' to tell us a lot, do you?" she frowned at them.

"You can't tell us anything?" John asked them.

"I can tell you that it's a young person," Mycroft sighed as John lifted his cup to his mouth, "A young female person," he finished, causing John's eyes to widen and Sherlock to smirk, and a smile slowly work its way across Amelia's face.

"How many photographs?" Sherlock questioned.

"A considerable number, apparently".

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?"

"Yes, they do".

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios?"

"And imaginative range, we are assured".

Amelia glanced at John, smiling slightly as she saw him staring wide eyed still at Mycroft, his tea cup half risen to his mouth, "John, you might want to sit your cup back down," she quietly said to him.

"Can you help us, Mr Holmes?" Harry asked him as John quickly did as she advised, sitting the teacup and saucer back down on the table.

"How?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Will you take the case?" he clarified.

"What case?" he frowned, "Pay her, now and in full," he shifted in his seat, glancing down at the pictures, "As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'know when you are beaten".

Mycroft bit his bottom lip as his little brother reached for his coat that he had hanging over the back of the sofa, "She doesn't want anything," he told them as Sherlock looked back at him, "She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort money or favour".

Finally, Sherlock seemed to become interested, "Oh, a power play," he nodded, "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain," he titled his head, "Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather run, isn't it?" he smirked.

"Sherlock…" John began.

"Hmm," he hummed, ignoring John as he grabbed his coat, "Where is she?"

"Uh, in London currently," Mycroft answered, seeming surprised by his sudden interest, "She's staying…" and Amelia noticed with a small frown that his eyes seemed to drift over to her.

"Text me the details," Sherlock cut him off, standing with his coat, and beginning to walk away as they all quickly stood, "I'll be in touch by the end of the day".

"Do you really think you'll have news by then?" Harry asked him, sounding both surprised and hopeful.

Sherlock paused and turned back to him, "No, I think I'll have the photographs".

Amelia raised her eyebrows at him, "One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think you are," Harry commented, earning a sharp look from Sherlock.

Sherlock looked him up and down, quickly deducing him before he glanced over at his brother, "I'll need some equipment, of course…" he told him.

"Anything you require," Mycroft nodded, "I'll have it sent to…"

"Can I have a box of matches?" he cut in, looking at Harry,

The other man blinked, looking back at him, "I'm sorry?"

"Or your cigarette lighter," Sherlock shrugged, holding out his hand, "Either will do".

"I don't smoke".

"No, I know you don't, but your employer does".

John and Amelia exchanged a look, watching the interaction as Harry reached inside his pocket and handed a lighter to him, "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes," he gave Sherlock a look.

"I'm not the Commonwealth," Sherlock replied, pocketing the lighter, and turning away.

"And that's as modest as he gets," John remarked to Harry, nodding to him and Mycroft, "Pleasure to meet you," and followed after Sherlock.

"Nice to see you again, Mycroft," Amelia flashed both men a bright smile, giving Harry a little wave as she walked after John and Sherlock, "And lovely to meet you".

"Laters!" Sherlock called, mimicking Harry's accent, and not pronouncing the T.

John cast Mycroft and Harry an apologetic look as they rounded the corner, disappearing down the hall.

…

"Okay, the smoking," John began, watching the city pass them by outside the taxi's window as they sat in the back of the cab, "How did you know?"

Sherlock smiled, shaking his head as Amelia slowly started smiling herself, catching on, "The evidence was right under your nose, John," he remarked, "As ever, you see but do not observe".

"Observe what?" he frowned.

"The ashtray," he replied simply, reaching inside his pocket and pulling out a glassy ashtray. John and Amelia cracked up laughing, both looking highly amused as he tossed the ashtray in the air before catching it, slipping it into his coat again, and joined them in laughing.

I hope you liked it, tell me what you thought, please review :)