As always, I'd like to thank my star beta, RochelleRene, for being the legit best, most helpful and most supportive beta on the face of the earth. I'd also like to thank the lovely Penelope S. Cartwright for help on the title. You ladies rock.

This story is complete and will be posted in two parts and an epilogue over the course of the next couple days. I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)

House, Cuddy & Wilson belong to NBC, Fox, and David Shore. Sherlock Holmes, Watson, and Irene Adler belong to Arthur Conan Doyle. Tom Jones belongs to… oh, god, I don't know. Probably himself. No infringement intended.

The Doctor and Mister Jones

She sips her wine slowly, considering her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Her hair is dark, long, and just shy of truly curly. Her grey eyes are shadowed in the subtle lighting of the room. Her brows arch gracefully, her lips are full and red and match the dark liquid in her hand. Her gaze wanders lazily down to the necklace at her throat, a single teardrop diamond on a platinum chain. She fingers it, smiling at a memory known only to her. She takes another sip of her wine, shifting her gaze to the room behind her.

A secluded bar, an anonymous hotel, a medical conference far away from her normal life. A bright California moon spills its rays through the nearby window, and the raindrop lights twinkle from the palm trees outside. Christmas is over, but decorations still sparkle as they arch over Wilshire Boulevard.

She glances down at her watch. It's late enough that the jet lag should have taken its toll, but she is wide awake on this mid-week night. She smoothes her hands down the full inky blackness of her skirt, tucking in the thin white lining. One black heel taps restlessly against the wood of the bar as she uncrosses and recrosses her long legs.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

She looks up, her gaze locking onto the purest blue eyes she's ever seen. She smiles slowly, seductively, "It is now."

She moves her purse from the seat to her right, slinging it over the back of her barstool.

The man, she notes, is tall, easily six feet. His graying hair is full but short, and his five o'clock shadow softens the harsh planes of his face. As he sits, she imagines running her hands along his scruff, the hairs tickling the spaces between her fingers. She shivers.

"Are you cold?" he asks.

She shakes her head, her curls bouncing around her face. From the bartender, he orders a tumbler of Maker's Mark for himself, then looks to her.

"Another Shiraz is fine," she points to her nearly empty wineglass.

"A Shiraz for the lady," he tells the bartender, who sets off to fulfill their order. His hand rests on the bar, and she imagines his long pianist's fingers running softly over the planes of her back, cupping her shoulder blades. Her breath catches, and she quickly takes a sip of wine to cover it.

"Lemme guess," he begins, "Medical conference. You're a… doctor, right? No, wait. Administrator."

She glares at him for a split second before correcting him, "Dead of Medicine. How did you know?"

"You have a pager hooked to the outside of your purse. The only people who carry pagers nowadays are doctors or drug dealers. Also, there's an Endocrinology conference in this very hotel right now."

"Well, that was an easy guess," she teases, arching a well-manicured brow.

"You also have a slight ink stain on your left middle finger. Paper pusher," he finishes with a flourish.

She lifts up her left hand, noticing the small mark for the first time. She turns back to him, "I'm impressed. A little insulted, I think, but impressed. And what do you do, Mister…"

"Jones," he finishes.

"Mister Jones," she repeats, humorous disbelief painting her features.

"Tom Jones," he amends, a twinkle in his eye.

"Tom Jones? Really? And what do you do, Mister Tom Jones? No, wait," She holds up her ink stained hand, "Let me guess. Detective?"

He smiles, "How'd you know?"

"The keen eye for detail, the improbable name: A regular Sherlock Holmes," she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"Some would say I'm smarter than Holmes," the edge of Mister Jones' lip turns up.

"And where's your Watson?"

"He's upstairs, sleeping. It seems as though somebody drugged him," Mr. Jones furrows his brow in mock puzzlement.

"Who would dare do such a thing?" she inquires.

"I have no idea," he leans into her then, their knees brushing. A shiver travels up her spine at the contact.

"In fact," he continues, "I came down here to do a little… detecting… on that very subject when I came across a lovely lady alone in a bar full of strangers."

"Well don't let me distract you from your duties," she turns to polish off the last of her wine as the waiter returns with a new glass and Jones' bourbon.

"You…" he gazes over her features, his eyes gliding across her ample cleavage before coming to rest on her exposed knee, "are a welcome distraction, I assure you."

She blushes, "That's nice to know."

She leans into him slightly, smelling the soap from a recent shower, and under that, a smoky maleness that entices her even closer to him. He takes a sip of his bourbon, and she watches his Adam's apple bob as he downs the amber liquid. Her tongue sneaks out of her mouth to wet her lower lip, and Jones casts a sidelong glance at her.

"So, Doctor Dean of Medicine, what is your name?"

"Lisa Cuddy," she responds truthfully.

"Well, Doctor Dean of Medicine Lisa Cuddy, do you have any plans for tonight?" he reaches for her right hand with his left, idly stroking her fingers.

"Well, I was waiting for my boyfriend, but he's almost twenty minutes late," she sighs exaggeratedly.

"The guy obviously doesn't deserve you," Jones scoffs,. "What's this boyfriend do, anyway? Is he a doctor, too?"

"Yep," she replies, entwining her fingers with his, "one of the best. He's brilliant, in fact. And funny, charming, romantic…"

"Sounds like an asshole," Jones scoffs, and Cuddy laughs.

"Yeah, he's that, too."

Jones works his jaw for a moment, then leans closer to her, their lips inches apart, "Uh-huh. Well, if he's so perfect, why isn't he down here holding hands with you and plying you with alcohol?"

"Oh, he'll be along in a minute," her eyes shift down to his lips. He moves closer, until she can smell the sharp tang of bourbon on his breath. She closes her eyes in anticipation, waiting for him to close the gap.

"Well, I guess I'd better get out of here before your boyfriend arrives," Jones quips, pulling his fingers out of her loose grasp to take the final sip of his drink.

Cuddy opens her eyes, sighing in frustration even as her eyes twinkle in amusement. Jones moves to rise from the barstool, but stops when Cuddy places her hand on his arm.

"Wait. Stay."

He looks down at her, his lip curling up into a smile, "But Doctor Cuddy, whatever will your boyfriend say when he sees us here flirting so shamelessly?"

She arches an eyebrow, her voice husky, "We'll take our chances."

Jones sits back down and raises his empty glass towards the bartender, shaking it. The bartender returns, refilling his drink as Cuddy takes a sip of her wine.

He turns to her, "Where were we?"

She smiles, pulling her hand through her hair, her dark curls glistening in the dim light, "Why don't you tell me more about this case you're working on, Mr. Jones?"

He tugs on his lapel in pride, "Detective Jones, please."

"Sorry, Detective. How did your colleague manage to get himself drugged?"

Jones turns to her then, placing his elbow on the bar as he leans towards her, his eyes casting a suspicious glance around the room, "I think it was an inside job," he whispers.

Cuddy laughs suddenly, causing Jones to smile quizzically. "You think he drugged himself?"

"What?"

"Well, who else is on the inside? Isn't it just the two of you?"

He holds up three digits, "There's three of us."

"Ah," Cuddy nods, "Who's the third in this ragtag bunch of detectives?"

She sees his eyes sparkle as he watches her intently, "Every Holmes has his Adler."

Cuddy leans back, a playful pout on her lips, "I'm jealous."

Jones's eyebrows rise in surprise, "Really?"

"Is she pretty, your Irene Adler?"

"Breathtaking," he replies honestly.

Heat rises to Cuddy's cheeks as she gasps quietly, "S-so…" she stumbles, surprised at his honesty, "How do you think Irene managed to drug Watson?"

"I have my theories."

"Care to share them?" she rests her chin on her hand, elbow on the bar.

Jones sighs, "I gave her a bottle of pills a while back. Flunitrazepam."

Cuddy breaks eye contact then, her eyes downcast in chagrin. She clears her throat, then raises her eyes back up to him defiantly, "Flunitrazepam, huh? That's a pretty powerful sedative. Why would you give that to her?"

"It's a long story, involving me drugging her mother at her birthday party, and a show of faith."

"You drugged her mother?"

"She was being a bitch," Jones declares defensively.

"You don't just drug someone's mother, H- uh… Jones," Cuddy insists, ignoring the slipup even as she notices Jones's mouth twitch in response.

"I know that now. Believe me, I know. I gave her the pills as a way of – "

"Apologizing?"

"No," he quickly corrects.

"Atonement?"

"No," he insists, "saying Happy Birthday."

"Uh huh," Cuddy responds skeptically, "And now you think she used them to drug your partner? Why?"

"My theory? I think Watson wanted to get the hell outta dodge, but Adler had other plans."

"Oh really?" Cuddy uncrosses then re-crosses her legs, her black Louboutin pump brushing against Jones' pant leg, "What kinds of plans?" She moves imperceptibly closer to him, biting her lip.

"Well, it's our last night in Los Angeles. I think she wanted a night on the town," his eyes glide across her face, down to the teardrop diamond pendant that rests just above her cleavage. He reaches forward, running his hand along the platinum chain, causing Cuddy to shiver.

"Well, if you're here, I guess she's out of luck, huh?" she whispers, smiling as his hand traces her collarbone. "What kind of, um," she closes her eyes briefly as his fingers move up to caress her shoulder, "night do you think she had planned?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," Jones sighs, "Dinner, maybe a drink or two. Definitely sex."

Arousal curls in Cuddy's belly as she practically purrs, "That sounds wonderful." She rests a hand on his left knee as he threads his fingers gently through her hair.

"It's been pretty fun so far," Jones leans down, then, pressing his lips to hers insistently. Cuddy leans into the kiss, curling her free hand around his shoulder and pulling him closer to her. He sucks on her upper lip, and she nips gently at his lower before opening her mouth wider, inviting him inside. His tongue brushes up against hers and she moans. They kiss for a long moment before she breaks it abruptly with a hand on his chest.

"Wait, wait," she gasps, panting slightly.

"What?" Jones' expression is dazed, his eyes focused on her glistening lips.

"What if my boyfriend – and your Ms. Alder – sees us making out down here?" she drags her fingers slowly down the lapel of his sport jacket, caressing the fabric.

Jones looks around conspiratorially before clutching his cane in one hand and her hand in the other. He stands, leaning down to whisper in her ear, "Well, then I think we should go upstairs, don't you?"

She smiles up at him, "I think that's an excellent idea."

Cuddy grabs her purse from the chair as Jones pulls some bills out of his wallet, leaving them on the bar as the two of them make their way toward the hotel lobby. Cuddy hooks her arm in his, noting the slight limp in Jones's walk, "Is your leg okay?" she inquires.

"It's fine," he dismisses the limp with a wave, "Old war wound."

She nods in understanding as they head toward the elevator.

To Be Continued...