This story is a bit different from my other stories, mainly because of the writing style. There will be a change of narrator about halfway through, but that shouldn't be too confusing. A second part is in the making and I'll be uploading it, I don't know when, but I will.

And a huge shoutout for Lika2, who gave me the initial idea to write this story.

Adrenaline was the drug Irene Adler just couldn't quit.

Whether it was the idea of dominating people or the thrill of being chased by men who wanted to blow her brains out, she just couldn't get enough of the feeling of liquid danger running through her veins.

After her "death" she had been bored. That had changed quickly when Sherlock Holmes had come into the picture once again. They had both been dead, wiped off the map, and because she was already quite experienced with playing dead, she had agreed to give him shelter for some time.

She was one of the few people who would understand Sherlock Holmes when he declared to be "bored" while shooting a wall.

Doing nothing out of the ordinary was boring.

Not running a riding crop down the welts on somebody's back was boring.

Not making people beg for mercy was boring.

Not having to run from people was boring.

Hell, not being shot at was boring.

Irene had known she had to get herself into a dangerous situation somehow. Without the chemical thrill of controlling people her life had been downright boring and unchallenging, it almost felt as though she had died after all.

And naturally it was her, Irene Adler, who had managed to track down Sebastian Moran - late Jim Moriarty's hit man. He had been the second most dangerous man in London when Moriarty was still alive, and had swiftly become the most dangerous man when Moriarty had put a bullet in his own brain at the rooftop of St Barts Hospital.

She had never really meant anything to Jim Moriarty, or at least not enough to be "taken care of" by him or any of his acquaintances. He had been smart enough to know that there would be multiple other people standing in line to kill her. He didn't have to get his hands dirty on a fallen dominatrix whose head would show up separated from her body sooner or later.

This is why she had felt the need to prove that she could have been of importance to him, if only he had looked well enough and hadn't underestimated her. Even though he was no longer a threat to any of the innocent citizens of London or any other city, she had still found it necessary get after Moran, to prove that she was right.

Irene wouldn't admit it if someone asked her, but she had done it for Sherlock, too. Getting into danger, that is, not tracking down Moran. No, she had done it because she knew Sherlock could get as bored as she could, or even worse. She just didn't want him to fall into a slumber with the danger of him resorting to drugs to ease his mind.

She knew Sherlock wasn't able to get any relief from sex or anything related. She had suggested this method multiple times, but much to her annoyance as well as amusement he had turned her down time after time. And that had lead to her getting involved in a power play once again, in order to stimulate Sherlock, to please him, to please herself, too. She saw it as the most interesting idea of playing with him and that brilliant mind of his outside the bedroom.

For her it was only logical to attract his attention by getting into danger, leading him into a dangerous game. But she had been mistaken to think that in this game she represented the white queen and Sherlock the white king. They were just pawns in a game that, if gone wrong, would always be won by the black side of the board.

And the game had gone wrong, but at least they hadn't been bored anymore.

She had left Sherlock multiple clues, and he had visibly enjoyed her attempts to stimulate his mind. Bit by bit she had started to reveal her plans, until the curtain dropped all of a sudden, hiding all the clues. Yet Sherlock had gotten his hands on enough evidence to figure out where she had gone and why.

It had been her own fault. The taste of danger had been too sweet, and once again she had been enjoying herself too much. She had gotten too close to the edge, until she had toppled over and fallen in a bottomless pit.

She had fallen into the hands of Moran himself while breaking into a warehouse on the docks. Sherlock knew she could work a gun and was still physically strong, but that wouldn't be enough to survive this time.

She had burnt herself, desperately trying to get closer to the heat of the game.

And he was going to get burnt too.

At first he had doubts about trying to save her, but then he started to remember vividly what he had felt like the last time he had been under the impression that she was dead. It was not something he'd want to go through again, knowing that she wouldn't get a third chance. Even Irene Adler only had so many lives.

He realized it had never been her intention to actually get into Moran's trap. Of course it hadn't. All she'd wanted to do was show that she could be of any importance, but Moran was probably laughing at her futile attempts to put an end to what he was doing.

Eventually, Sherlock decided that he just couldn't let her die. Again.

She was The Woman, after all.

She had left enough breadcrumbs on her path for him to find her, and they had been subtle enough for anybody else to miss, and he was still aware of the possibility that this could be a trap. He wasn't too happy about the prospect of them both dying, but if there was a chance of them getting out of this alive, he was willing to throw himself into the danger zone as well.

And so he did.

The air in the warehouse was surprisingly hot and humid, but the floor was dirty and there were traces of footprints in the dust. Sherlock followed the traces, carefully moving in between piles of cardboard boxes, trying not to make a sound. He was holding a gun in his hands, his knuckles white, his entire mind alert, his heart pounding because of the adrenaline. He stopped after every couple of steps, listening carefully, but there was nothing to be heard apart from his own breathing.

From the smell he could tell there were books in the boxes, and he thought it was strange to leave the books in a humid environment such as this. But then, this warehouse was only a cover up for a dangerous criminal organization, and he doubted criminals such as Moran actually cared about books at all. The books had to be a cover up for something different, something that was much less legal and had to stay under the radar.

He was fairly sure he knew where they were holding Irene, and knowing the people he was dealing with she'd be in a terrible state, both physically and mentally, even though they had only just taken her. She couldn't have been there for more than twenty minutes, and the criminals were probably expecting him, knowing that he had saved her life before and that the taste of danger was too sweet for him to resist as well. Irene Adler didn't have anything they wanted, apart from her life, but his own life was probably more valuable to them.

A sudden, strange sound startled him, and he pointed the gun right at a scrawny cat that was holding a dead mouse. Sherlock ignored the animal and returned to his mission of making his way to the office part of the warehouse.

There was no light on in the entire building, which made it harder for him to locate the exact spot he had to go to, but this was not the most difficult and challenging part of the "mission."

He had found his way to the small offices at the end of the warehouse, and he squinted his eyes. This was almost too easy. This couldn't be good. If something was too easy, it was always too good to be true, without exceptions.

His hosts had been expecting him, obviously, otherwise they wouldn't have let him get this far. He carelessly shot the lock of each of the doors, and he could hear voices rise from the other side of the building. It would be a matter of minutes before they got to him. As long as they got him, it would be alright. They wouldn't need her anymore, at least, that was his reasoning, which was correct most of the time.

As it'd turn out, this was one of the very rare times when Sherlock Holmes was wrong about something.

When he entered the room, he could only spot the reflection of her eyes in the darkness. Her hand and feet had been tied up and she was sitting in the corner of the room. From her shape he could tell that her hair was loose and her body bent, and she winced as the light from the entrance shone upon her figure. She was in pain, probably had a severe headache from any kind of sedative they had given her, and she was breathing ragged breaths. Sherlock figured this was mainly because of the temperature in the room, which was even higher than the main temperature in the warehouse, since the room seemed to have the worst ventilation in history. The oxygen in the room had been quite scarce until he opened the door.

"Took you long enough," Irene said, her voice raspy, but containing an almost too sarcastic tone for this situation.

"Don't get your hopes up," Sherlock said, "they know I'm here."

"Obviously. You're a fool, Sherlock Holmes. Who shoots a lock in a situation like this?"

"I do," Sherlock deadpanned, "they knew I'd be here anyway. Getting in was too easy. I think they were expecting you too."

"That's right," a grave, masculine voice behind Sherlock said.

A click in his ears made him stand still in his place, and he felt something pressing against his neck. The material was cool and sharp, and he instantly recognized it as a loaded 9 mm gun.

"Don't move," the same voice said, and after another, slightly different click the lights in the room went on. Irene winced and blinked, and Sherlock looked at her figure. She looked so tiny and fragile like this, as though she was a porcelain doll. A porcelain doll with a gash on her cheekbone and one in her eyebrow that had only just stopped bleeding. The traces of blood made her face look slightly grotesque.

Even though she was weak, he knew she was still more than willing to fight. She'd do anything to survive this, but her chances weren't very high, their chances weren't very high.

The gears in Sherlock's head had started turning, and he realized the situation they were in. This was, as John would say, a bit not good.

Ex-soldier turned hit man, has had years of combat training, not an easy person to beat, as he knows never to underestimate his adversary and knows to anticipate his enemy's every move.

Not afraid to shoot strangers.

Although Sherlock knew he probably wasn't a stranger to this man.

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said. The man who once had a gun aimed at his best friend was holding a gun against his head right there and then.

"Very good, did you figure that out all by yourself or did you have help from Miss Adler here?" The man said, a certain cynicism in his voice.

"You really do give her too much credit," Sherlock replied, narrowing his gaze, "if you really wanted her dead, why isn't she lying on the ground with a bullet through her head already? Did you want to use her as bait, because you knew I would be the only person with the ability to find her? You went through all this so you could trap me, and then kill me? For a former mastermind's right hand your plans are quite see-through. Well, you have me, you can let her go, I rightfully believe she doesn't mean anything to you."

"That does imply she does mean at least something to you. And, I have to correct you there, Mister Holmes, I believe you've misunderstood the plan," Moran replied, and Sherlock could almost see him shaking his head, "it's not quite that easy. I don't want you dead. Yet. I do, however, need to get rid of this woman, but I need somebody else to do the dirty job for me."

"You're holding a fully loaded gun to my head, surely you could've shot her yourself."

Moran snorted audibly, "you brought your own gun, which makes this a lot easier than I would've thought. The calculation is simple. The police might be able to trace back the bullet from this weapon to my gun and therefore to me, so that's why we're using your gun. Or rather, you are using your gun."

"Are you asking me-"

"Oh, I'm not asking you anything, Mister Holmes. I'm ordering you," the hit man laughed contented, "you're going to shoot Miss Adler in the head."