Hello you lovely lot! I banged this out after FINNALY finishing the Great Game last night and it threw me for a loop in the most fantastic of ways. TGG, not my fic ;) Just a bit of a disclaimer, I took liberties with the character of Irene and have made her my own. This has nothing to do with the books or the Robert Downey Jr. movie. Not to spoil anything, but don't crucify me for strange familial ties. All other comments, of course, are utterly fair game and this will be continued into a deliciously twisted misadventure if requested. I crave your feedback. Enjoy!

Sherlock knew something was amiss the instant he entered his flat. His sharply honed senses immediately picked out the four small personal objects that had been moved slightly or dusted off, noticed the minute upturning of the rug's right corner, caught the lingering scent of rosewater in the air. His steely gaze immediately snapped to the second drawer of the buffet in the hall, found it opened, and noticed the distinct lack of his gun.

So within three and the-quarters seconds of being home, the great detective had already deduced there was an intruder in his house, tried to get the best of them, and resigned himself to a cool,

"Hullo."

A delighted voice came from the next room.

"Oh, you are good."

The four words spoke volumes to Sherlock as he carefully entered the main room. The intruder was female, in her early thirties, educated, and hailed from a eastern region of America.

"Picked the locks, did we?" He asked nonchalantly.

"Of course. Not too much trouble, really. Ghastly old things, generic make. They yielded within half a minute. You should look into that."

"I enjoy the odd surprise now and again," Sherlock muttered, turning to face the woman who sat in his armchair. She was spinning his pistol around a nimble finger, smiling lightly at him. Strangely, she wore the tailored suit of a man, dark navy, light pin striping…It was familiar. Hazy traces of adrenaline and chlorine danced through his subconscious, and suddenly the memory hit him hard in the gut. The pool.

Moritarty.

"Nice suit," The detective commented sarcastically.

"You like it? I think's far more my color than his, honestly." The woman smiled infuriatingly, knowing full and well who they were talking about. She wound a finger around one of her brown curls. "It's a clue by the way, the suit. But I'm sure you've already thought of that."

"Indeed I have. I don't see an earpiece; did Moriarty have you memorize your lines instead?"

She unbuttoned her jacket, showing off a shapely figure in menswear but little else. "Sorry; no bomb. That old trick's become tedious for him, especially after your anticlimactic escape from an untimely demise last month. Such a shame the bomb squad showed up when they did, but it was smart thinking of your partner to monitor your website and inform the police that there may be an incident at a certain University pool later that night." She sighed, adjusting her cufflinks. "I'm an associate of Jim's, not a hostage. The game's different this time."

Sherlock inclined his head slightly, intrigued despite himself.

"And I'm supposed to figure it out, is that it?"

"Of course. My employer is oh so bored, and he wants to play with his favorite mate."

"Who are you?" He demanded.

"Oh pish, you already know who I am and in relation to whom. At least you should. You're just as pretty as Jimmy told me you'd be so I hope you're as clever."

Sherlock regarded her silently, taking a moment to cross analyze that facts presented and make sure the conclusion he had come to was just that, fact.

"And I here I thought Moriarty wasn't one to share control of his criminal empire, even with family."

A frown touched the corners of the woman's mouth. "He isn't. To him I am merely another pawn, despite our familial bond." She grinned at him, eager to see his deductive prowess at work. "Which is….?"
"Sister."

"Clever, you. But only half."

"By blood, then."

"Same father different mother!" She crowed in sing-song, clapping her manicured hands together. "Oh, you are everything Jimmy made you out to be! My brother never lies." She stopped for a moment to consider this statement. "Well, he does…"

"I understand your meaning," Sherlock said curtly. "I want your name."

She uncrossed her legs, rising and crossing the room to him. She looked up at his cold, distant features with an unsettling amount of intimacy and warmth.

"Only if you tell me how you knew. I wasn't supposed to divert from the script, but this is just too good. Tell me what gave me away, then I'll give you my name and one more clue from Jim."

The ghost of a smile touched the corners of his mouth for a fraction of a second. No matter what amount of diress he was under, he always enjoyed the look he got after one of his long-winded explanations.

"Your brother's eyes are a deep black, almost blue in the right lighting. This is uncommon in a Caucasian, especially an Irishman, so I deduce that there is ethnic blood somewhere along the family line. Therefore it is hereditary, and despite the fact that you look nothing like him otherwise, you share this trait with Moriarty. Your accent is American, but with a slightly Irish cadence. What is more telling is that you and Moriarty share some extremely distinctive speech patterns and colloquialisms, probably picked up from either family or each other. Therefore, you came into plenty of contact with your brother during your development in youth, but was raised away from him in…Brooklyn?"

"New Jersey. So very close, my dear."

"Your name."

She winked at him in a very Jim Moriarty way. "Call me Irene."

He filed this useful bit of information away for further contemplation before continuing.

"You said your brother had another clue for me."

She smiled in a positively feline way. "More of a gift really. And he's so terribly upset that he isn't here to give it to you himself."

Sherlock immediately deduced what was coming and tried to dodge it, but before he could move, Irene had clamped her hand around the back of his neck and crushed her mouth against his. Only a few seconds passed before he was able to dislodge her from his person, but it was long enough for him to taste the sedative hidden in her lipgloss and feel it sweep quickly though his faculties. He stumbled slightly, catching himself on the doorway, then went down swearing. He noticed as he hit the ground that there was a slight flicker of unamusement on Irene's face, perhaps even regret

She walked over to his almost-unconscious form, crouching down beside him.

"Eight hours," Irene whispered.

And then, she was simply gone.

Please remember to review J