Disclaimer: Too many brilliant people own these characters to name. I'm just playing with the BBC's versions. I promise to return them when I'm done.

Rating: PG-13

Summary: "When Sherlock Holmes murdered one Irene Adler [...] it was truly brilliant."

Author's Notes: I am going to fill in the gap on Sherlock's plan, but it ended up evolving into a separate fic (I know, another WIP, just what I needed). That will come along shortly. In the meantime, have Irene giving Anderson a heart-attack. You're welcome. This has been rendered hideously AU by series 3, but what can one do?

A Most Murderous Case

When Sherlock Holmes murdered one Irene Adler, thereby saving her life, it was truly brilliant. Months of planning, an airtight alibi covering his movements and a flawless new identity for Miss Adler were just some of the intricacies that he had painstakingly orchestrated. Which was why it galled him beyond all measure that the only people who knew about it were Irene and himself.

Still, Sherlock had resigned himself (at least seventy-five percent, given a margin of error for vacillation) to the inevitable. "Irene Adler" was dead and needed to stay that way – that was the whole point – and he would have to content himself with the knowledge that everyone else had been fooled so completely.

Thus, when the opportunity presented itself to bring Irene back to life (concurrent with his own resurrection), Sherlock studiously analyzed the problem from all angles before moving forward.

The look on Mycroft's face was more than worth the inconvenience of having to wait the better part of three years to reveal his brilliance.

...

John took both resurrections about as well as could be expected, considering. Sherlock decided that in the wake of his own feigned suicide and subsequent two year disappearance, the presence of Irene Adler at his side was a relatively minor detail in the doctor's eyes.

So, when Sherlock stoically helped Irene into her coat before donning his own, he was rather surprised to be stopped by John's hand on his arm. "Sherlock, don't you think this is rubbing Mycroft's face in it a bit much?"

Sherlock blinked. As usual, tried to get John to see reason. "It's not as if we're going to show up on his doorstep. Besides, Mycroft can never be knocked down too many pegs."

Sherlock pulled his arm free and John backed up a step, hands up in a placating (and clearly sarcastic) manner. "Right. Of course. Don't know why I bothered."

...

Which is how Sherlock Holmes found himself striding into New Scotland Yard with Irene Adler matching him stride for stride, despite her ridiculous heels. If Sherlock found himself slowing the speed of said strides ever so slightly to compensate for said heels, it was entirely irrelevant.

Thankfully, as with most things, Irene more than kept up, shooting him an amused eyebrow to clearly indicate that she had noticed his slight change in pace. He was getting much better at reading her. She was wrong, but still. Sherlock lengthened his stride determinedly.

No matter - there was a case to be investigated. Finally. He'd managed a whole 47.29 hours since the last one. Sherlock could only let himself be concerned with the everyday trivialities of things that weren't the crime scene for so long.

His death and resurrection had only minimally impacted his customary arrival at the scene. Sally greeted him with a, "Hmmph," barely biting back the instinctive Freak due to the overlaying guilt she felt over his 'suicide'. Instead, she spun on her heel and called for Lestrade.

It was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to tell her that she needn't have bothered. He was hardly concerned with social pleasantries and, whether she spoke aloud or not, he could hear her derogatory comments just the same. She was utterly boring with guilt lambasting her malice.

Anderson, on the other hand, was bothered by neither the common morals nor basic intellect of others, and thus was not troubled by things like guilt. It had been clear in the manner of his casual (and inevitably messy) affair with Sally and it was clear in the way he sneered at Sherlock, "Don't contaminate the crime scene!"

Sherlock was just opening his mouth to inquire just whom, exactly, Anderson thought his wife spent so many weekends visiting out of town, when Anderson's eyes began to bug out of his pallid, wide face.

It was a most disconcerting picture. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, followed Anderson's line of sight, found no murders being actively committed (boring), and returned to the puzzle of Anderson's seemingly rapidly accelerated impending heart attack.

In the meantime, Anderson's innate suspicion had finally overpowered his shock. "Who is that?"

Ah. Of course. Irene had caught up with them, a wry smile on her face. Sherlock felt his own lips quirking up into a lopsided smirk. She did look lovely. Clearly, her brisk pace (cause) had slightly elevated her resting pulse and respiration, leaving both her cheeks slightly flushed and her bosom heaving (effect). Given her penchant for attention, he calculated that 21% of the effect was manufactured. His eyes darted between the neckline of her dress and her eyes to confirm. Of course, that had probably been her intent in the first place – to make him look.

Fascinating. And all quite irrelevant to the case at hand. Perhaps John had been right about bringing Irene along (not to imply that John's argument about Mycroft was correct, but perhaps the conclusion that Irene should stay at home was valid, despite the faulty logic underpinning it).

Pulling himself away from the 35 seconds of observation (he always lingered far too long when assessing Irene), Sherlock addressed Anderson (noting that Sally, Lestrade and several irrelevant members of Scotland Yard had turned toward them as well). "Irene Adler. She's with me." He stepped under the crime scene tape and held it for Irene. "Now, where's the body?"

Irene ducked under his arm, far closer than was necessary, and remained infuriatingly silent. Of course, she was more than happy to mock him completely nonverbally. And the worst part was that she was winning.

Nobody else moved. Sherlock let his arm drop and resisted the urge to just brush past the so-called inspectors and go find the body himself. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets to further impress how irrelevant this whole exchange was. Finally, Anderson decided to lower the bar of silence by opening his mouth, "What do you mean, she's with you?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean?" Sherlock bit back, annoyed. Really, did it matter?

Irene took the opportunity to loop her arm through Sherlock's and lean against him. Into the instantly shocked silence, Irene offered, "I'm here to help him get a feel for the case."

Of course, she managed to make the whole thing sound somehow untoward. Sherlock scowled but didn't reclaim his arm. "I don't need your help."

"Then you'll just have to impress me with your detective skills, won't you?"

It was highly doubtful that they were still discussing the case at hand. They matched stares for a moment, until Irene slipped her hand down his arm and into his pocket. Sherlock's eyes darted down at the movement. Irene's grin was triumphant. Sherlock pointedly ignored her hand (more conspicuous to attempt to remove it – would just encourage her) and turned back toward the assembled officers and Anderson. "Miss Adler is filling in for Doctor Watson. Now. The. Body."

There was silence for another long moment and Sherlock wondered if this was another of those pesky details that had changed since his return. It was hardly unusual for him to sweep into the crime scene and make strange demands with little explanation. He was there to help them clean up their mess, after all - he actually quite enjoyed seeing just how far he could push the detectives before they kicked up a fuss. Admittedly, John usually kept him from anything too not good, but could Irene really be that much of a shock? Stupid. Of course she could. But she was hardly doing anything at the moment, besides mocking him. It was frustrating. And still didn't explain why he was expending his considerable brainpower trying to get the entirety of Scotland Yard to stop staring and lead them to the body.

Finally, Lestrade seemed to shake himself out of a stupor, nodding quickly and gesturing vaguely toward Sherlock and Irene with one hand, while the other rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. "Right. This way, Sherlock. Miss Adler. I'm afraid it'll be a bit of a mess."

Irene flashed one of her blinding (and infuriatingly undecipherable) smiles. "Not to worry, Detective Inspector, I've never been afraid to get a little messy."

Obvious. Sherlock snorted at the typical tactic. And the more typical reaction, if Lestrade's flustered attempt to look anywhere but at Irene was any indication. Sherlock shifted his hand to grip Irene's in his pocket, laced their fingers together (for expediency's sake only) and started off after Lestrade. He pointedly ignored the brief tightening of Irene's fingers around his, her quick but genuine smile, and the fact that apparently every member of Scotland Yard on the scene was following along in their wake like lemmings.

...

Sherlock lingered unduly over the body, checking and re-checking in case there was something he had missed. Some subtle clue that wouldn't lead to Irene smirking insufferably at him when he stood up. However, when he darted his eyes toward The Woman in question, he found her leaning against the doorway with a positively gleeful smirk. He glanced between her and the few remaining members of Scotland Yard that he hadn't been able to convince to leave, no matter how he scowled at them. Rather fortuitously, their eyes were on the body and not Irene. Sherlock sent her a quelling look anyway - it was not good to look so gleeful at a crime scene. He knew this from painful experience. The psychological questionnaires were somewhat amusing but generally a complete waste of time.

Irene merely raised her eyebrows at him, chastising him for stalling. With a snort, Sherlock swept back to his feet. The motion startled the other occupants of the room, who returned their attention to where it had been focused for almost the entirety of their visit - on one Irene Adler. Annoyed, Sherlock snapped, "A lover's quarrel. You don't have to rub it in."

Irene's smirk reappeared instantly, her eyes lighting up mischievously. "I'm not. But I could." Untoward. Again. Sherlock refrained from uttering an oath. How she managed to make everything an innuendo, he would never understand. His mind had more important things to be occupied with than triple-checking his every word for double-entendres.

Ignoring her, he turned toward Lestrade. "You can release her husband from custody - he didn't kill her."

"Her boyfriend did."

Sherlock spun on his heel to glower at Irene. He had been working up to that. What was the point of even putting up with such small-minded peons unless he could show off a bit? Okay, more than a bit. Not that he begrudged Irene a bit of showing off herself - it was just... he wasn't used to sharing the spotlight.

Lestrade cleared his throat. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see Lestrade glancing suspiciously between Irene and him. "I suppose there's evidence to prove that, then, yeah?"

Sherlock feigned disinterest. "The boyfriend? Obvious by the state of her nails and her choice of perfume." And by the utter brutality of the crime - but that was even more tediously obvious than her nails.

Lestrade opened his mouth, looking crossly at Sherlock - at least he had his attention now. "How do you know that's who killed her?"

Irene gave him a briefly chastising eyebrow before breaking eye contact and turning to Lestrade. She was polite to a fault, but Sherlock could see the condescension bleeding through her mask. The dominatrix did not enjoy performing on cue. "Spouses, they end up bitter. And bitterness is a paralytic," her eyes pierced Sherlock, but he refused to acknowledge the statement as an echo of his own, "her husband would never go to such an effort to murder her. No, this was a crime of passion - of jealousy. If the husband had been jealous of the boyfriend, he would've waited, caught them in the act. The boyfriend, now he has everything to lose. He has to convince her. That's why he brought her all the way out here." Irene examined her nails casually, better to hide her smirk with her downturned face, "Besides, her husband is a heavy-set man, no? The boyfriend is much smaller. He had to grapple with her for dominance - that's the bruising pattern. Too small, too many, and too light to be the husband. I imagine you'll find fibers under her nails. The boyfriend's the one who bought her the perfume - expensive taste. The husband could never afford a cashmere jumper."

Against his better judgment, Sherlock found himself grinning. Pleased. After all, Sherlock could hardly deny her the amusement of mocking the police force to their faces.

He caught Sally staring at him askance, and Sherlock quickly reorganized his face into its usual cold façade. He was not about to be accused of being too gleeful at a murder scene again, especially not when the reason was that Irene was besting his explanation.

Still, none of this explained why he had been sent for. Oh, he'd come because of the utter mess of the crime scene - really, her arms were about the only distinguishable anatomical features through all the blood. And he'd been intolerably bored. It had been this or chess, and Irene was equally infuriating across a game board as in every other aspect of his life. He refused to acknowledge that his irritation was directly proportional to the number of times she bested him. She cheated, after all. When he'd pointed that out, she had merely laughed and chastised him for not catching her red-handed.

"Oh," Sherlock noted Lestrade's guilty, uncomfortably relieved shrug and recalled John's comment before they'd left. "Her husband's a lower-ranking official in our illustrious government, then? Is that why I've been called in for a simple homicide?"

Irene arched her eyebrows at him - challenging. He scowled - he came because he was bored, yes, but they didn't need to be reminded of that. He couldn't solve every petty crime for them.

Lestrade's eyes slid away from Sherlock's. He nodded toward the body. "There was no indication of an affair."

Irene shrugged knowingly, her eyes and words still meant for Sherlock more than Lestrade. "There wouldn't be. She'll have a second phone - high profile affairs always do."

Sherlock cut across her. "The boyfriend will have it. Pull the mobile tower logs for this location and match them to her home."

He turned on his heel and brushed harshly through the excessive group of people blocking his exit. Sherlock didn't spare the body a second glance - there was no need - there were no more clues to be had. It had all been depressingly mundane after all. No chance to show off - to the Yard or to Irene, and he scowled when he realized that he was more put out about the latter.

The crowd of policemen parted for him grudgingly, mumbling amongst themselves under their breaths. The mumbling only increased in volume when Irene spun from her place at the wall and joined him. He could hear her smirking at the crowd that was once again following them. He pointedly ignored everyone. This whole outing had been a gross miscalculation - he was anxious to get back to Baker Street.

As they walked out, Irene leaned close to whisper in his ear. She had to tilt dangerously into him to reach, her body pressed into his side - a pleasing shape, even through their coats. "Wait until they figure out who her lover was." She was unnecessarily close, her words deliberately vague. Meant to titillate.

Sherlock steadied her with one hand on the small of her back because he really didn't fancy her toppling over and dragging him with her out of spite or show. Only a little to prove that her proximity didn't unnerve him. Which was her point - Irene delighted in pushing physical boundaries to get a reaction.

He preferred to keep his personal space to himself. Irene was the only exception - except perhaps for John, though John seemed to prefer personal space so that was hardly an issue. Sherlock did not enjoy close confines or physical contact with others on general principle. John - to a certain extent Lestrade, and especially Mycroft - respected that. Irene, on the other hand, made a point of ignoring it. She sat, stood, whispered - all far too close. She touched him, deliberately and frequently, her hand on his arm, her hips bumping his. She did it to prove a point, to challenge him, and because she could. He let her because she was as unique in his life in this respect as all others and because he refused to let her win her little game.

Although, whether her goal now was to unnerve him or - ah, clearly - it was her new audience she was showing off for.

He inclined his head toward her. They were less than five centimeters apart but both refused to be the first to withdraw. He chuckled, amused. "We mustn't misbehave at a crime scene."

Irene's eyes held that purely wicked glint that always drew him closer. "Mustn't we?"

He could see Lestrade, Sally and Anderson gaping at them in his peripheral vision. Sherlock snapped his attention away from Irene, where it focused with disturbing ease, and stepped away, his hand resting at her lower back. He put on his best bored face and turned toward them. "Well, this was - enlightening - but I do believe we'll be off. If you have any cases of substance, Lestrade, do let me know."

Irene turned with him, still pressed into his side and always a step ahead - anticipating his every move. "Mmm, not the best of circumstances, but it was a pleasure to meet the detectives I hear so much about." Her gaze swept over the assembled Yard members, unearthing whatever secrets and desires they thought they'd kept hidden from her. Sherlock scowled to hide his amusement at the thought.

As her gaze passed over Sally's, the detective's eyes widened and then narrowed. "Hang on, I remember you from the tabloids. Didn't you break up that journalist - what's his name? - Cooper! - I read he split with his wife and turned out you'd been sleeping with both of them all along. Helluva messy divorce." Sally paused, staring agog between Sherlock and Irene. "So what, you're his girlfriend or something now? Seriously? We're supposed to believe that?"

Irene stiffened slightly, her already perfect posture becoming forced. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Sally but was almost immediately diverted by the terrible spark of recognition in Anderson's eyes that said he was going to open his mouth again and fail to form a thought. Anderson looked gleeful. "His girlfriend? I heard she was some sort of high-end prostitute."

If Irene hadn't still had her hand pressed to Sherlock's chest - distracting - Anderson would have hit the ground before he finished the word. And he would not have been getting up again any time that night.

Sherlock was well aware they thought him incapable of any relationship. And the word or profession they accused The Woman of hardly concerned him. Irene had not, in fact, been a prostitute. The fact that she had been a technical sex worker as a dominatrix did not bother him. No, what bothered him was Anderson's inflection - the way he seemed to be simultaneously trying to degrade and possess The Woman - as if she could ever be either.

Irene's hand tightened once, warning him that she would handle it. Sherlock stepped back, seething, to watch.

Irene leaned in close to Anderson, eyes flashing and voice hard. "I believe the word your feeble little brain is casting about for is dominatrix." Irene smiled, sharp - all teeth - the smile that said she would devour someone without smudging her lipstick. "I've had men like you before. Not worth the two minutes it takes to leave you blubbering on your knees, begging for mercy."

Anderson gaped and Sally snorted behind her hand at his expense. The sound seemed to snap Lestrade out of his stunned revere. "Anderson, Donovan - that's over the line, both of you!" He turned toward Irene, still clearly confused but struggling to regain control over the situation. "Sorry about that lot, Miss Adler. We're not used to having a lady of your caliber at the Yard." He shot a pointed, scolding look to Sally and she snapped her mouth shut.

Irene smiled slightly, a smirk hidden under her polite mask. "I'm sure Doctor Watson will be disappointed to hear your review of him."

Lestrade barked out a laugh. He brushed past Sherlock and clapped him on the back. "Good on you, mate. I like her."

Sherlock bit back the smirk that twitched at the corner of his mouth. It was hardly as if he cared whether or not he had anyone's approval. "I'll be sure to make a note. Give Mycroft our best, when he comes poking around to see what needs to be covered up."

Lestrade rolled his eyes in a disturbingly knowing way that make Sherlock itch to pickpocket him again. Irene merely smiled to Lestrade and tucked her arm through Sherlock's again, tugging at him with a strong grip. "Ah, definitely time for dinner." He could feel her finger stroking the inside arm of his coat. Dinner, indeed. But she continued without pause, her words still laced with only thinly veiled suggestion. "Let the rest of you get back to work before the Detective Inspector has to crack the whip," she winked at Lestrade, "I would be happy to provide lessons."

Sherlock opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again. Anderson and Sally were gaping at them again, openly, though they pointedly avoided one another's gazes and were physically drifting to opposite sides of the pavement. Lestrade was darting glances up from his shoes, where his attention was suddenly riveted, as he nervously scrubbed one hand through the hair at the back of his neck. Almost certainly fighting a nicotine craving. The whole of Scotland Yard had been rendered speechless, yet again.

Well - Irene always did appreciate a proper exit. Sherlock offered the yard a sarcastic jaunty wave, and allowed Irene to steer him away from the crime scene. He was already lamenting the lack of interesting cases, though at least the paralyzing boredom remained momentarily at bay. The evening certainly had been entertaining - everything involving Irene was.

If his strides matched Irene's, neither commented, though her smug smile spoke volumes.

-The End