The Mad Tea Party

It was just past dusk, and Baker Street still echoed with the sound of laughing couples, playing children, and sulking detectives. All of the people that populated its asphalt during the day had gone inside to make dinner, to watch telly, to do whatever their normal, dull lives demanded of them. Street lamps cast a soft glow that reflected off windows, puddles, and the sleek black car that held Miss Irene Adler. She tapped at her phone, glancing again at the clock. Of course Jim was late. Jim was always late, except the rare times he chose to make an impression by being on time. Deciding that he could knock on her door when he managed to amble up, she kept scrolling through pictures of possible clients. Oh yes. She looks promising. Irene had dressed for the occasion, wearing a dark green dress with military detailing, purchased from an up and coming design student. There was a riding crop sitting next to her in the car. All of the details were carefully coordinated to help remind Sherlock of his dear Army Doctor. It was going to be a fun night indeed.

Jim had hoped she'd go in and break the proverbial ice up in 221B, but there sat her trademark transportation, still idling at the curb. Jim smirked, as he fiddled with the tags he'd borrowed from Sebastian, who walked begrudgingly behind him. He could hear the man's irritation like music, quick staccato breaths, quietly snapping fingers, the burning of his third cigarette in five minutes. He was glad to have Seb with him, the sniper's presence calming his nerves. He always had nerves seeing Sherlock, like little jitters in his shoulder-blades and finger-tips, the best type of nervousness. Anticipation. He quicken his pace slightly, hearing Sebastian copy the change in gate, and rapped at the back window three times, waiting for The Woman to join their little party.

Irene slipped her mobile into whatever hidden pocket her dress contained, and got out of the car, standing gracefully despite her four inch heels. In her hands were the entertainments for the night: the riding crop, and a sleek black lacquer box with an ornate silver clasp. It was about the size of a wine bottle, and the contents were a carefully guarded secret. For the moment, anyway. She closed the door and gave Jim a quick peck on the lips without smudging her red lipstick. "Darling. And Sebastian, my dear." She walked over to the sniper, placing a hand on his arm and quickly kissing both his cheeks. "So good to see you, Seb. Doing well, I hope? Are we all ready?"

Jim eyed the box but chose not to ask, Irene was more than likely keeping the contents a surprise. As she greeted them a few possibilities ran through his mind, taking into account the size and decorative nature of the container, but he quieted them. A surprise was interesting, guessing would ruin the fun. Best leave that to Sherlock. Seb nodded curtly to Irene, their eyes meeting quickly. "I'm quite ready," Jim announced, straightening his suit with flattened hands, "Seb?" He raised an eyebrow at the man who had just lighted his fourth cigarette. "You two go ahead, I better finish this'n before I meet your detective." Seb's eyes widened then lowered, staring at what would seem to be a rather interesting crack in the pavement.

"Oh, Sebastian, I hardly think Sherlock minds if you smoke in his flat. The man used to be quite the cigarette fiend himself." She took Sebastian by the arm, hauling him towards the steps to 221B with a surprising amount of strength for a slight woman, especially one on heels. From the flat upstairs came the sound of a violin screeching, one of the hateful, arrhythmic disasters Sherlock favored when he was either in a high sulk, or trying to drive Mycroft out of the flat. The lack of a familiar town car made it most likely the former. In fact, the detective was throwing himself about the flat, storming from one room to the other in time with the "music", wearing one of his customary too-tight gray shirts and black trousers, hair a wild mess.

"Knock, knock." Jim called, watching Sherlock bounce around the flat, his hair wildly puffing from his head as if he'd been trying to yank it out. In fact, that was probably the cause. He stepped to Sebastian's side (the man was fidgeting with his cigarette, the ash coating his shoes) and leaned against the door frame. Sherlock came to a sudden halt, turning slowly to greet the trio at his doorstep. "Who's... there..." He said slowly, not really asking the obvious, so much as trying to distract their silent smirks with the common phrase.

Sebastian snorted, breaking the uneasy silence with the undignified sound. He pushed past Sherlock, scoping out the inside of the flat, tramping about the living room and making a quick surveillance and enemy sweep. "All clear," he called back to Irene and Jim, and then sat on one edge of the couch, knowing better than to try to take John or Sherlock's chair. Irene gave the bemused detective the same cheek-kissing routine she had given to Sebastian, patting him in the middle of the chest before following the sniper in.

Jim stood still at the door frame, leaning there, the grin still stuck on his face. "What's got you in such a tuss there, Mr. Holmes?" He raised a challenging eyebrow and slowly sauntered towards the detective's chair. To his credit, it was the most comfortable spot in the whole of the room. Sherlock, however, swiftly intercepted him, standing in front of the seat and glaring down into Moriarty's dark eyes. "I'm busy with my work." He looked from Jim to Irene, then to, Sherlock could only assume, Moriarty's top man. Ah, S. Moran. he deduced, catching the dog tags hanging from Jim's neck with a quick downward glance.

"My dear, you simply must relax," Irene called from the kitchen, where she had busied herself by putting the kettle on and pulling four mismatched teacups out from the cupboard. "That violin is going to snap if you stress it anymore." Sebastian merely waved to Sherlock, the cigarette still dangling from his fingers, intending it as a tease to the (arguably) non-smoking detective. "Boss and The Woman thought we might pop in," he said, in his low baritone, made rougher by his absolutely absurd smoking habit.

"Well, then I would kindly suggest you pop out." Sherlock was still staring down Jim, their eyes locked in an -admittedly amiable- silent conversation. Both, of course, thought they were winning. Jim's smile grew wider, his teeth just barely showing as he waited for Sherlock to look away, to lose. Sherlock was simply gathering information, his mind only slightly hindered by the ever-present he's gone nagging at the back of his brain. The tags belonged to Jim's man, who was obviously a very loyal, very take charge type of man, surprising to see his type at the second rung in a business. But, ah, there it was, S. Moran was more than just Moriarty's go-to he was also... Emotionally attached? It didn't seem right but the facts were all there, the way they stood at the doorway, Jim's careful distance from him, the clear protectiveness in Moran's eyes... It was all there. Jim could hear the cogs clicking in Sherlock's head, the realizations playing across his face. Have at it, boy-o, let's see what you've got. He thought his eyebrow raising yet higher. It was only Seb's loud cough that broke their eye contact, both men turning to the sudden noise. "Seems we'll be stayin', then." Seb said, his eyes landing on Sherlock with a slight challenge before turning back to his cigarette, ashing it over the rug.

"Oh, for God's sake, I'm busy," Sherlock snapped, in a last ditch effort to get them out of his flat. He didn't want them to go, of course, not truly, despite the way he was brandishing his violin bow at them seemed to suggest. But there was a proper way of going about this, a push and pull kind of ritual that needed to be played out first. There was also a low pulse in his head to match the he's gone, something that struck him upon seeing Moriarty and his very loyal soldier. Something that, if he cared to examine it, would seem like jealousy. "Busy doing nothing?" Irene asked, walking back into the room with a tray full of tea cups, and the black lacquer box. She set both down on the coffee table, waiting expectantly. She took her own teacup, and left the rest to deduce which was which, as she had made each cup of tea to the very exacting standards of the people in the room. She folded herself neatly into John's chair, legs draped elegantly over the arm of it. "Go on. No sense in postponing the party."

Jim reached for his cup, the handle specially turned for him, and took Seb's as well, handing it over before sitting down next to him on the couch. Sherlock sighed, his interest piqued by the box Irene had set by the tea, he refrained from touching it. He'd seen the riding crop tucked next to her and even a simple mind could deduce what displeasures would befall him were he to try anything she didn't like. He took the last cup, though he'd known which was his before she'd even taken her own, and sat opposite The Woman. He wasn't sure who he was more pleased to see, though this Moran character was becoming less and less welcome, mouthy little gun-weilder as he was. Jim traced the pattern on the mug he'd been given, quite befittingly so, the lion and the snake. Seemed an odd bit for china, but nevertheless he grinned at the symbolism, giving Irene a quick nod after catching her eye. "You call this a party?" Sherlock asked, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, a rhythm he knew all too well.

"It will be," Irene replied, and then raised an eyebrow at his fingers. She started a slow reach for the riding crop, just to give him a warning before she got even close to hitting him. That stopped the tapping right quick, and she settled again, a warm smile curling over the top of her cup. "After all, darling. We heard you had a /nasty/ breakup..." Another snort from Sebastian, and the click of a lighter as he took a drag on another cigarette. "And so we came bearing both diversions and presents. Well. I brought the presents. The boys are hardly thoughtful enough to manage that."

I brought a friend!" Jim said, nodding his head at Sebastian. Seb just rolled his eyes and grimaced. Sherlock looked quickly between the three, his mind working quickly to catch every nuance. "Why do I get the distinct inkling that a generous portion of this 'party' had something to do with my... Misfortunes?" He asked, barely pausing before answering his own question. "Hmm, because as it were you," He gestured at Jim, "had your lovely little squinter in here listening in and planting recreational drugs, and you" He turned his eyes to Irene, "were obviously involved as well, though to a much smaller degree."

"I was a bit busy that weekend." Irene examined her always-perfect nails as if searching for a chip she knew would not be there. "Nothing personal, dear, or I would have taken a much more active hand in showing you the error your ways? Which are, before you ask, being hopelessly blind to the fact that your dear boyfriend is an M15 plant. As well as a vanilla sex life. " Well, that caused quite an upset. Sherlock stood at once, nearly dropping his violin and his teacup in one graceless bounce from the chair, while Sebastian, utterly immune to the antics of the madmen and women around him by now, gave a short bark of a laugh and drained his teacup. It was one of John's, an Army mug. Very obvious, but a sweet touch. He raised it to Irene, and then settled back against the couch, looking for all the world like he was preparing to take a restful nap.

Instead of directing his anger towards Irene, who obviously deserved it, he turned his eyes towards Moran. "And just what the HELL is your angle, Moran, I'm DYING to know. Your boyfriend claps and you come to some mad tea party?" He stayed where he was, not quite confident that he could outwit the man in a fight and also well aware that he was out-numbered. "Now, now, kittens. Calm yourselves." Jim turned to Seb and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock's face was rather... Exquisite. And Jim was not in the mood to see it ruined. Sherlock laughed and shook his head, "Do you take him out for walks, too? I'm ever so curious."

Sebastian looked up at Sherlock, and the smile that spread across his face was pleasant, calm, and very friendly. It was when the ex-Colonel got this look that Moriarty's minions knew to run as fast as they could in the other direction. Moran was clearly spoiling for a fight, having been cooped up all day on a rooftop, and if Sherlock was going to be a prat, well, Moran was going to break his face open and deal with the consequences after. "At least," he said, as if commenting on the weather, "when my boyfriend sends me out for something, I come back." It was as if they could hear all the air rush out of the room. Irene slowly, not wanting to alert anyone, reached down to touch her shoe, ready to get the thin blade hidden in the heel if need be, along with the riding crop. The evening might get interesting, but it was going to get ugly first, if something wasn't done to stop it.

"Sebby," Jim cooed, his eyes still on Sherlock, who seemed to be wavering more than slightly in their direction, "Not nice, the poor man's just had a rather harsh break up and there you go all rubbing it in. Tactless, Sebastian, simply tactless." Jim stood, smoothing his lapel and walking over to Sherlock. He placed a hand on the taller man's shoulder and tilted his head, "Be good little detective boy, the ground you're walking has mines." He applied pressure to Sherlock's shoulder, effectively lessening his balance and forcing him to return to a seated position. Everyone sat silently, Seb and Irene still at the ready for trouble, how delightful, and Sherlock's breath hinting at more than just anger... Was that... No... Jim clapped his hands together, his place in the center of the room making the sound almost echo. "Now then, let's have some games, shall we?"

"I do hope it's pin the tail on the donkey," Sebastian muttered, but got up and walked into the kitchen to brew himself another cup of tea, knowing better than to push his luck with the genius trio. Not until they had settled more into the evening. Sebastian wasn't an idiot, despite what most people saw when they looked at him. He had gone to Uni, gotten top marks, was a published bloody author, for Chrissakes, and though he knew he was far outclassed by the intellect in the room, he was smart enough to know how to play his own part in their games. With Sebastian gone and no gunshots following his exit, Irene began to relax, casually sprawling herself out in the chair again as if nothing had ever been wrong. "What are we playing, Jim?"

"I'd just very much like to know what your surprise is!" Jim wiggled his fingers at the box which made Sherlock nearly grin despite his still smoldering anger. He'd felt a strange affinity towards Sebastian, something in the way he threatened with a smile had... interested Sherlock. He was smart, well, smarter than most. He glanced at Moriarty again, trying to determine the level of the attachment there. Quite the bond.