John awoke, for once, of his own accord. It was a rare luxury; when you lived with Sherlock Holmes, the man's apparent inability to stick to a normal circadian cycle was contagious. In the last week, John had been out on cases past 3 am on two separate occasions, and hadn't stayed in bed later than 6 am on any other day (on the one day he hadn't had an 8 am start at the clinic, he had been awoken by Mrs Hudson's screams when she walked in to find the kitchen table covered with trays of different coloured eyeballs). So, John enjoyed this moment of unhurried peace, stretching under the sheets.

Sherlock had already arisen, of course - he rarely stayed in bed later than 7 in the mornings, and John's watch told him it was already 9:46. He rose and donned his dressing gown, and as his mind slowly awoke, his senses came into focus. He could hear voices floating in from the living room. By the sound of it, Mycroft had dropped by for a visit. This was rarely good news, as the elder Holmes brother never stopped by 221b if unnecessary. John knew he had been in Paris for the last week, discussing national security or European relations or whatever he did in his "minor position in the British government". He wondered idly if something had happened in France that now required Sherlock's attention. John moved closer to the bedroom door to listen. He felt he couldn't be bothered dealing with Mycroft today, especially if he was in a strop about something or other. Sure enough, the tone of each brother's voice told him he was happy staying right here until Mycroft made his exit. Sherlock's voice was beyond smug, and while the bedroom door effectively muffled the words, he could tell that the detective's wit was flowing long. Mycroft wasn't furious, but definitely annoyed - nothing too dramatic or desperate then, there was probably just a case or something he was trying to get Sherlock to take. John sat back down on the bed, waiting out the conversation. Eventually, Sherlock's violin heralded Mycroft's exit; a childish but nonetheless amusing tradition that John couldn't help but chuckle at. The brothers were always on at each other - sibling rivalry at its finest - but John knew there was some level of affection (however deeply it may be buried) between them.

Knowing it was safe to venture out, he opened the bedroom door and made his way to the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, coffee in hand and still dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown.

"Mycroft drop by for a brotherly chat, then?" John set about making himself tea, and toast for two - he knew that Sherlock wouldn't have eaten, no matter how long he'd been up. He liked it when John made breakfast for him.

"Mm. He ran into an old friend of ours in Paris."

John quirked an eyebrow. "A mutual old friend of the Holmes brothers? There are a lot of things wrong with that sentence."

Sherlock smirked. "True. Irene Adler."

John froze. Hold on. Last time he had heard anything about Adler, she had been decapitated in the Middle East. Mycroft himself had told John that, and asked him to keep the fact from Sherlock. He had asked John to tell Sherlock she was safe under witness protection in America. He turned to Sherlock, puzzlement creasing his face. The git was still smirking, enjoying (as ever) being one (or several) steps ahead of John.

"Irene Adler. The Woman. She's alive?"

"Yes."

"Did you know she was alive? I mean - not in America-" There was no point in pretending that he thought Adler was in America under witness protection. His own reaction to the news that she was alive had already given him away. "Mycroft said she was dead."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I knew."

"How did you know?"

"Because I saved her."

"You - you saved her." Of course he bloody did. Only Sherlock Holmes could fool Mycroft.

"Yes, that's what I just said."

"And Mycroft didn't know?"

Sherlock looked even more smug (was that possible?) and sipped his coffee before answering. "Mycroft didn't know."

"And he saw her in Paris."

"Yes, quite by chance. Passed her on the street."

"Did he talk to her?"

"No," Sherlock put on his best imitation of Mycroft, which was scarily uncanny, "Brother dearest didn't think it prudent. She was dressed as immaculately as ever and clearly still with the assistance of a maid, I'm assured."

"So she's still... misbehaving, then?" John passed Sherlock his toast, and settled in his own armchair to eat. Sherlock shrugged, his mouth full.

"Oh come on, Sherlock, you must know, you know every other bloody thing. Has she been texting you?" He knew it was stupid, but he was bothered by the idea that Sherlock may still be in contact with her.

"No, seriously, I don't know. You and Mycroft said 'witness protection' in attempt to deceive me, but that is exactly what she planned to do after I rescued her. I dropped her off in Switzerland and that's the last time I saw or heard from her. The fact that I haven't heard from her and Mycroft's sighting confirm that she's been successful in gaining protection, although Paris is certainly not the first place I myself would go to hide."

John snorted. "Well, Paris definitely suits her to a T." He couldn't keep the slightly bitter note out of his voice. He ought to know better than to be jealous now, but the mention of Adler resurfaced memories from when he thought Sherlock was in love with her. "Why did you save her?"

Sherlock watched John closely for a few seconds before replying. "It would have been a waste, John. I know you may struggle to believe it, but I do appreciate certain qualities in other people. Just as I appreciate your compassion and nerves, Mrs Hudson's patience, Molly's loyalty, I appreciate Ms Adler's intelligence and daring. When I initially thought she had actually died, I was bothered by the loss of such a bold mind."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, you loved playing that power game with her."

"Of course. I love playing games. She was a particularly formidable opponent."

"No, but that was more than just playing games."

"Oh please John, don't be so parochial. Not all fascination has to be romantic. May I remind you that she made it abundantly clear that she would have dinner with me at the drop of a hat, but I don't seem to remember letting her shag me into oblivion."

John blushed. Sherlock only ever spoke so crassly to make a point, so he decided to let it go. "Yeah, alright, point taken."

"You're still jealous?"

John inhaled, held his breath for a second, and decided to let it go. He exhaled in a huff.

"No. Nope, you're right." The detective quirked a supercilious eyebrow, demanding a proper answer. John rose and took Sherlock's empty plate, and leaned down to kiss him. Sherlock was surprisingly fond of kissing. He immediately felt the long-fingered hands come up to hold his face tenderly as Sherlock's lips explored his own with reverence. John pulled away after only a few moments, but he had made the point. "Never mind shagging, that is why I'm not jealous. Although, she's also not the reason that Mrs Hudson now knocks before entering." He smirked, recalling with mild mortification the recent encounter with the landlady. While she had reacted with exceptionally good humour, Mrs Hudson still couldn't sit down at the kitchen table after walking in to see the use to which John and Sherlock put it.

Sherlock made a gratified sort of noise and returned to his coffee as John did the dishes.