Sequel to "Invisible." Now that Sherlock knows about John's gift of appearing invisible, things get a little complicated-and Irene Adler isn't helping.

Notes: As always, I own nothing but my own plot. The characters and universe belong to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. I just like to play here. Not beta'd or britpicked-all mistakes are entirely my own.

##

Well, this made for an interesting change of pace, John thought. It certainly was a far cry from his last helicopter ride. Cleaner. Less gunfire. No excruciating shoulder wound. Better view. He didn't know why he was here, but the chance to see London from the air was amazing. He couldn't deny that landing at Buckingham Palace wasn't high on the jaw-dropping scale, either.

So when he rounded the corner to see Sherlock—wrapped only in a sheet—sitting on a sofa, he was barely surprised. A man could only absorb so many sudden, startling surprises in one afternoon.

Not that life with Sherlock wasn't one, long, continuous surprise. Serial killers, consulting criminals, heads in the fridge, violin at all hours. It was never, ever boring.

Even his gift was less boring than it used to be. Before he met Sherlock, he had (consciously, at least) used it sparingly and mostly just to be left alone. In the months since the confrontation with Moriarty, however, he had continually tested and stretched the limits of what he thought was possible.

That was all due to Sherlock, of course. John enjoyed a puzzle and a good scientific inquiry as much as the next man, but that was nothing compared to Sherlock Holmes with a good mystery between his teeth. He wanted to know everything. He was utterly fascinated that John could essentially become invisible to the people around him. When had John started being able to 'disappear?' How many people could he hide? Could his mental misdirect that made people ignore him be directed only at specific people? Could he hide things as well as himself? (This last was something John had never thought about but had been eager to look into—it could be very handy for a man with an illegal handgun.)

So, no, things were definitely not boring. Occasionally exhausting or terrifying, but never boring.

Sitting in Buckingham Palace, though, he couldn't help but wonder how Mycroft felt about this. Sherlock's brother already knew about John's gift, of course. He had even tried to recruit him just after the Pool incident months ago (if you could call drugging him with truth serum and then hunting him for 24 hours "recruiting"). John had helped him on a couple jobs, but it always caused friction with Sherlock, so he tried not to. The fact that he'd been flown in for this meeting (in Buckingham Palace!) rather implied that this was going to be a case he couldn't refuse.

And so he sat and listened to Sherlock bicker with his brother in front of, well, whoever the important gent in the expensive suit was. He sipped his tea—possibly the best cuppa he'd ever had in his life—and marveled at the Holmes brothers. He knew they didn't get along, and had witnessed more than enough of their squabbles, but that Sherlock was sitting here, that he had come to Buckingham Palace wrapped in nothing more than a sheet, just to spite his brother?

It just went to prove that he would never, not in a million years, understand Sherlock Holmes.

Which, he had to admit, just added to the savor. Life was never boring.

#

Nor was it boring, hours later, when he walked in on Sherlock and a very naked Irene Adler. (What was it with people being naked today?) He hadn't even needed his gift to be totally invisible as the two of them traded barbs. Sherlock's timing was off, though, as if he weren't focused on the job properly, which John had never seen before.

He quietly went into the hall to set off the smoke detector just as Sherlock asked, and couldn't help jumping when it was shot by the man coming down the stairs. Nobody respected gun laws any more, he thought, as he leaned back, doing his best not to be seen as he followed the men into Irene Adler's sitting room.

He wasn't going to be able to take out three of them, he thought, not without it being obvious, and Irene Adler looked like the observant type. So far, Sherlock was the only person who seemed always to see him, but John had to put solid effort into avoiding Mycroft's attention, and watching Irene's sharp eyes, suspected she might be the same. And so he ducked behind a chair as the American threatened Sherlock and Irene.

What was he going to do? Three men with guns, men who looked all too happy to use them. (Well, they were Americans.) If he needed to, he could hide Sherlock—and Irene, he supposed—long enough to confuse the shooters, but that would give too much away. He'd been working on focusing his gift just on certain people, so he could theoretically hide Sherlock from the Americans while not giving anything away to Irene. Maybe. But it was a risk because when the Americas started waving their guns around, shouting "Where'd he go?" it would rather give the game away.

He met Sherlock's eyes, hoping he had a plan, but he just looked dumbfounded. The gun-happy Americans insisted Irene must have told him the code, but John had been standing right outside the door and hadn't heard anything. He had no idea where they'd gotten this idea.

"We'll shoot Dr. Watson when he comes back in the room if you don't open the safe now," the leader threatened.

"And how do you know I haven't sent him to get help?" asked Sherlock, hands hovering behind his head. John saw Irene's eyes flicker in his direction, which meant she could see him, damn it.

"Then you'd better hurry, or I'll shoot Ms. Adler while I'm waiting. Believe me, It would be a pleasure."

Sherlock shared a stricken look with Irene and turned to the safe and—John never knew how he pulled these things out of thin air—entered the correct code. "Vatican cameos," he announced as he pulled open the door.

Several things happened at once.

A shot came flying out of the safe and hit the man standing behind Irene as she ducked her head. John surged forward to tackle the man watching the door as Sherlock spun away from the safe, taking down the idiotic American. John saw his hand dart into the safe as he took in the chaos in the room. John made sure his captive was secure and looked over at Irene.

"He's dead," she told him. "How did you do that?"

"It's called a tackle. I'm sure you've seen one before."

Her eyes were intent. "No, I meant coming into the room without them seeing you."

John tried to look confused. "I snuck in and stayed behind the furniture. I did learn something about being stealthy in the army, you know. It was nothing special. I want to know how Sherlock knew the code."

He was relieved when Sherlock told him to go see how the intruders had gotten in. He was right about Irene Adler being annoyingly observant, and didn't want to give her a chance for any more questions. Or to do anything else that would arouse her suspicions. The last thing he needed was a potential blackmailer turning her attention on him.

Luckily for him, he was here with Sherlock—the one-man attention magnet. Though that wasn't always a good thing, when Irene drugged Sherlock to try to get the phone back from him. He had slipped it to John, knowing he was more likely to keep it hidden, but that didn't keep Irene from attacking him with her riding crop. Or from sneaking into Baker Street later that evening, to search and (how thoughtful) return Sherlock's coat.

Considering Sherlock's dazed condition, John had kept the phone with him and never heard her in Sherlock's room. He had no idea she'd even been there until the next day when Sherlock's phone rang with an interesting new text alert tone.

#

Sherlock never explained how he avoiding giving the phone to Mycroft, but his brother must have been satisfied, because a nice deposit showed up in John's checking account a week later. He almost wished he could work for Mycroft more often, it had such a nice effect on his bank balance. He almost felt charitable toward Irene Adler.

Until Christmas, at least, when she died. Not that he blamed her for dying, of course, nor had he wished her dead, but he hated the affect her passing had on Sherlock. He had never seen his friend looking so lost. Not by a normal person's standard, perhaps, but there was no question Sherlock Holmes was pulling into himself while he tried to deal with unfamiliar feelings.

John didn't know what to make of it. He knew better than anyone that Sherlock had a perfectly functioning heart, even if he hid it under layers of cold disinterest. No matter how deeply buried, though, heartache was heartache. Irene Adler had been the closest thing to an equal Sherlock Holmes had had. (Well, an equal who wasn't a psychopathic murderer or a close relative.) She might have been very gray in the morality zone, but there had been an attraction there, however little acknowledged.

The experiments with John's gift came to a halt. Sherlock ate even less than usual, and only expressed himself through invective at the telly or with his violin. John understood that a self-proclaimed sociopath would be thrown for a loop by an onslaught of unrequited love (or whatever this was), but found himself sighing over his tea and toast, hoping it would pass soon.

He was so wrapped up in trying to help Sherlock through his first heartbreak (or whatever), that John was taken by surprise when the sleek black car delivered him, not to Mycroft, but to a very-much-not-dead Irene Adler. It was all he could do not to explode at her the moment he saw her.

"Tell him you're not dead," he said, keeping his voice level.

"I can't. He'll come after me."

"I'll come after you if you don't." He could feel his rage building. How dare she? He would be the first one to say Sherlock was inscrutable and irritating, but he didn't deserve to be messed with like this, especially by a blackmailing dominatrix.

"I believe you," she said, taking a step closer. "And you'd probably come closer than most, wouldn't you, Dr. Watson?"

"Because I'm that stubborn? Yes, I would," he told her bluntly.

"No," she said, "I mean because of that … knack you have. I haven't been able to stop thinking about how you saved my life that day, sneaking up on three trained CIA agents like that. That's not an easy thing to do."

John stood his ground, his rage turning cold. "Military training, I told you. They were focused on you and Sherlock. They weren't paying attention to me for that one, crucial moment and we all got lucky." He just watched her for a moment, back straight as he tried to throttle down the anger. "You, though, were explaining why you haven't told him that you're not dead."

She shrugged it off. "I need your help, Dr. Watson."

"No." He couldn't believe she could even ask.

"Look, I made a mistake, and you're the only one who can get my phone back. I need it."

He almost laughed. "You're kidding. You expect me to help you get your blackmail leverage back? Why would I do anything to help you? You don't even have the decency to tell Sherlock Holmes you're not dead!" He wasn't sure when he had started shouting, but he heard his voice ringing around the empty room, almost as loud as the ringing in his ears.

"Because I know people who would be fascinated at your … stealth capabilities, Dr. Watson."

"You're threatening me?" he couldn't believe his ears. After Jim Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes, it was almost laughable. "You hurt my best friend and won't even let him know you're breathing, and then you ask my help by threatening me?"

"That is the idea, yes."

"I'll give you this, Ms. Adler, you're not timid. Is there anything you're afraid of?"

"There's a reason I need my phone back, Dr. Watson," she told him with a small smile.

There were a million responses he could think to make. He didn't actually want to think about who she might sell his name to—the idea of being trapped in a government lab gave him nightmares. But ultimately, his thoughts came back to Sherlock. The way he was eating even less than usual. The sad music coming from his violin. The trace of a lost little boy in his eyes as he tried to deal with an onslaught of unfamiliar emotions. So all he said was, "No."

"Are you jealous?"

"We're not a couple."

"Yes, you are." Her voice was certain, amused.

And there it was again. "Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but for the record, I am not gay."

"Well, I am," she told him, then just shook her head. "Look at us." Her hands made a helpless gesture as she pulled her phone from her pocket.

John just waited, swallowing down questions and insults. He honestly didn't know what to say to her. He wasn't worried about himself—she might be making threats, but they weren't anything he needed to worry about just now. All he needed to do was go straight home and tell Sherlock the woman was alive and then just deal with the fall-out, whatever it might be. But … what was he supposed to do right now?

He wasn't a fool. Irene Adler might be ruthless and calculating, but he believed that was real attraction he saw in her eyes. Not sexual, perhaps. (She was gay?) But she felt the same draw Sherlock did—the appeal of another mind equal to her own. John had spent enough time with people less intelligent to himself to know what a relief it could be to finally talk to somebody who he could actually relate to. For a person in the rarefied intellectual heights like Sherlock and (grudgingly) Irene, that mind-to-mind appeal had to be at least as strong as any sexual attraction—for Mr-Not-My-Area-Sherlock, especially.

John had a brief moment to wonder if he and Irene's assistant Kate would have anything in common, any shared experiences in trying to watch after their respective geniuses. He wondered if Jim Moriarty had anything resembling an assistant. He had a brief flash of the three of them sitting in a pub, commiserating over pints, and then blinked, pulled back to the present. Irene held up her phone and read out loud, "I'm not dead. Let's have dinner," and pressed Send.

Right, then. He supposed that was supposed to be a concession on her part, to make him more likely to help her—something he still very much did not want to do. He watched her, trying to decide his next move, his next sentence, when they both heard it.

The gasping moan of her text message arriving on Sherlock's phone.

He couldn't help it. He stepped forward, ready to go running after Sherlock—Sherlock who was somehow here, witnessing this meeting. How much had he heard?

Irene stared at him, raising her hand to stop him. "I don't think so, do you?"

John blinked, feeling suddenly lost. He might know more about emotions than Sherlock did, but at this moment, he felt completely out of his depth. All he was sure of was that he needed to make sure Sherlock was all right. "I've got to go," he said, eyes still focused in the direction the text had rung.

"Give him a minute," Irene told him. "He's had a shock and he's not the type to want witnesses."

John swallowed, unable to deny that, but not happy with it, either. "Nevertheless, I have to go."

"And my phone?"

"That rather depends on Sherlock, doesn't it?"

She raised an ironic eyebrow. "Do you let him make all your decisions for you, Dr. Watson?"

"No," he told her calmly, "But this is one where he's got the final say. And now if you'll excuse me, I've got a friend who needs me."

He turned and walked back the way he came, hoping he could find his way back to the car. Hoping the car would still be there. Almost hoping to find Sherlock waiting for him. But no.

#

John rode back to Baker Street in silence, unable to think of anything other than that Irene Adler was alive and Sherlock had found out in the worst possible way. John could only hope his friend would realize the meeting had not been his idea. He had no idea how he would deal with a Sherlock Holmes who felt betrayed by his best (his only) friend.

When he saw the note waiting on the door (Crime in progress. Please disturb,), he cursed Irene Adler again for keeping him away. What the hell was happening? He tore up the stairs, frantic, and stopped dead in the doorway. Sherlock was holding a gun on the bound CIA agent who had been after Irene's phone while a distraught Mrs. Hudson sat on the couch, arms wrapped around herself.

John hurried to her as Sherlock explained and caught a dark gleam in his eye as he mentioned restoring balance to the universe. He could almost feel sorry for the American for having made the grievous error of attacking Mrs. Hudson on probably the worst possible day. Violence was a very effective release for emotional turmoil, and Sherlock was having a very bad day.

Of course, the man had attacked Mrs. Hudson. He deserved whatever was coming, thought John as he led her down the stairs.

Thankfully, she was more frightened than hurt, but she let him clean the cut on her cheek and make her some tea, for a change. He sat with her while Sherlock talked to the police and before long the flashing lights were gone and it was just the three of them in her kitchen as Sherlock stole a mince pie from her refrigerator and gave her a hug.

John just smiled at the two of them. It might not have worked out well for the American, but Sherlock was obviously feeling much better.

Still, John needed to know what Sherlock had heard of the conversation between him and Irene Adler. He needed to know if his friend felt betrayed. He really needed to know if Sherlock had heard the threats. He might not care for John the way he did for Mrs. Hudson, but John knew that Sherlock did not take threats against him lightly.

Except, he wouldn't speak about it. He just played his violin and ignored John's efforts to air the topic.

John could only sigh and hope for all their sakes that Sherlock hadn't heard Irene threatening him. He didn't know what he was going to do about it. She couldn't have any proof of his gift, could she? Did she have cameras recording in her house that day? Most people wouldn't, but then, most people didn't blackmail for a living. Or threaten to blackmail. Isn't that what she said? That she needed her phone for protection, but didn't actually do anything with the information unless provoked?

Did refusing to be pressured into stealing it back count as provocation?

Would she actually sell his name, his gift, to someone out of spite?

He admitted to himself that he didn't like the woman. (He tried very hard not to capitalize the title in his own head, thank you very much.) He even admitted that he was biased because she had treated Sherlock so badly, even after he saved her life when those CIA agents had attacked. But he didn't know of anything actually violent about her (barring riding crops and recreational drugs). He didn't think she would really give him away without having a much better reason. Or proof, which he was reasonably sure she didn't have.

He and Sherlock never did discuss that conversation, though. Except for Sherlock's mood lifting, it might never have happened.

And then they came home one day to find Irene Adler asleep in Sherlock's bed.

#