It had occurred to Irene Adler- on several occasions- that perhaps flats would be a wiser choice than heels. Yet time and time again, her delicate feet have been contorted to fit into the six-inch contraptions with few second thoughts from the Woman herself. On this particular evening, however, the harsh twang of regret sprang up from her flat belly as she ran down the hallway of the finest five star hotel in Moscow for her life.

"Sebastian… Sebastian…" she panted, grabbing the big man just above his elbow and yanking him into a nearby alcove and out of the enemy's line of vision.

"What, Renee?" he growled, checking over his shoulder for Russians and swapping out the magazine of his Smith & Wesson simultaneously.

"My shoes-" she hissed as she kicked the damn things off her feet and took them in her hands. "Can't run."

Sebastian paused what he was doing to grant Irene the gift of a look that ought to have made her feel like a frightened idiot. "Ye gottae be fuckin' kiddin' me, Renee," his thunderous voice rumbled in his broad chest as he spoke, causing Irene to swallow down a rising lump in her throat. "I told ye no' tae wear them, didn't ah?"

"I couldn't exactly wear fucking flats to a goddamned ball, now could I?" Lightning blue eyes drew circles in the air at his incompetence. "Besides," she looked around until a nearby laundry cart caught her attention "I can just do this." After whispering a quick apology to the glorious creations in her hands, she slammed them down onto the edge of the cart until the heels came off, effectively turning them into flats.

As she placed the "new" shoes on her feet, she looked up at Sebastian, having to crane her neck even more to meet his eyes without the added inches to her height. "Now then," Irene reached down to the top of the hip-high slit of her slinky ball gown and pulled a hand knife with a black blade out of a holster on her thigh and tossed it lightly in the air, catching the handle easily in her fist so that the metal stuck out by her pinkie, rather than by her thumb. "Shall we crack on?"

In one swift motion, she spun into the hallway and simultaneously sunk the blade of the knife deep into the chest of a Russian thug and snatched Sebastian's pistol from his hand. Before the other two boys knew what was going on, Irene had moved her hand from the knife to meet the other one holding the gun and two 9mms found themselves buried in the corpses of two very dead bodyguards.

The sniper behind her scoffed as he stepped over one of the Russians to pluck his weapon from the woman's hands. "Show off," he muttered under his breath.

"You were impressed," Irene chirped as she bent down to retrieve her knife, wipe off the blade on her victim's shirt, and return it to its holster.

Sebastian opened his mouth to reply but whatever words were waiting on his tongue were halted by angry shouts in Russian from the other end of the hallway. "Seems teh show's over anyway," he settled for instead.

Without a moment of hesitation the woman and the sniper took off once again until they reached the stairs that would bring them to the garage where their ride- in the form of a black, unmarked SUV- was waiting for them to take the pair to the airport.

There had been two black duffels in the car- one for Irene and one for Sebastian- that held a change of clothes and a fake passport. Though Irene had been grateful to be in jeans and a blouse instead of the suffocating ball gown, it didn't stop her from barking at Sebastian every time he turned his head in her direction as she was changing.

"It's no onything I ain't seen before, Renee," he would remind her with a deep chuckle.

"Fuck off, Sebastian," she would sneer in response, which, to her utter annoyance, would only garner another laugh from him.

Still, Irene always found it nice to be back in London after a long job away from home. Granted, she wasn't home yet. As per Jim's orders, she and the ex-colonel were obligated to stop by the spider's office to debrief before they could relax in their own flats.

The headquarters of Moriarty's entire operation were located in a tower in the very heart of London on the top floor. Irene always found it to be fitting that a man who played God would make his home in the heavens- or, at the very least, as close as he could get to them.

Few of his employees had the clearance to make it up the elevator to the top floor. Most of the guns that worked for him would only ever see the bottom half of the building. Irene's access had never been that limited. She had, after all, been one of Jim's first real employees; two eighteen year olds- one looking to buy, one looking to sell. Their relationship had been inevitable.

Jim had people that did him favours, of course- he paid some with drugs but most of them were too afraid of him to not do as he asked- but no real employees- not until Irene, that is. Back then, she wasn't as scared of him as she grew to be, so she was brave enough to offer him up a business proposition: she would bring in new clients and deliver the "products" to their clients and he would pay her with drugs and money and, yes, sex. Neither of them was gay back then, either.

However, as his business grew, so did his bank and soon he had the monetary ability to pay all of his employees. It wasn't long before he ran one of the largest privately owned drug cartel and black ops groups that had ever existed. He was, by his own definition, the most powerful man in the world.

Now, working for Jim is a lot like being in a real-life game of chess, only instead of taking pieces and placing them off to the side, you kill and get killed.

At the bottom, you have your pawns: hired guns used to protect the perimeter and to run errands (simple killings, drive by's, etc.). They're usually ex-military, dishonourably discharged, ex-prison. You get it.

Above them are the rooks, the security. They're like the bouncers of the office. Usually, they are, in fact, ex-bouncers, often recruited from clubs that had been shut down by Jim because the owner had double-crossed him and been subsequently killed.

Next are the knights: Jim's personal bodyguards. They're big, beautiful, trigger happy, and know how to manoeuvre their way out of tricky situations or- if that's not possible- sacrifice themselves. Honestly, they're better than the Queen's secret service.

Then, there are the bishops: the assassins, and the spies. Bishops are the elite soldiers. They are the ones who dress up and travel and pretend to be someone they're not so they can kill in secret or gather important data. The two employees most used as bishops? Sebastian and Irene.

There could only be one queen, of course; one person Jim trusted enough to be able to do the work of a pawn, a rook, a knight, and a bishop all in one. There was almost no one skilled enough to provide Jim with that kind of protection- no one… except Irene. She was the queen; she was the Woman; and she knew it.

But what she didn't know was that everything was about to change. In fact, the wheels were set in motion the second her Louboutin'd foot touched the hardwood floor of Jim's office that day after Moscow.

"Darlings," the spider purred, holding out his arms so that Irene could step into them and they could exchange kisses in the air next to each other's cheekbones.

"Brother," Irene greeted him with a warm coldness that had become familiar between the two. The years had evolved their relationship from power and sex to power and blood. No longer the foolish teenagers they once were, Irene and Jim's bond had turned familial and they'd become more like siblings and less like lovers.

"Sister," he was examining her head to toe. "Made it out in one piece. Glad to see your face didn't take a hit this time."

Irene heard Sebastian scoff from behind her. During their last mission in Monaco, she'd had to seduce a wealthy aristocrat so that Jim could get his hands on the man's security codes. Sebastian had been sent along to play bodyguard, but not even the skilled sniper could have blocked Irene from the backhand she received from one of the target's men, leaving her with a purple bruise and a small cut across her sharp cheekbone. Jim hadn't been too pleased when they'd returned, considering he had to wait a week for his best honeypot to repair herself.

"I am as well," she assured him. "Though Mikhail Vetrov's bank account did." A pleased smile stretched her face as Jim reached out to gently brush his thumb across her cheek.

"Good girl," he spoke to Irene but his eyes flickered up to Sebastian's giant form briefly before he locked them on the woman in front of him. "Ready for your next assignment?"

The Woman nodded. The Sniper grunted.

"Oh, this one will be a treat." He pressed a button and a picture of a man- not much older than Irene- with a mop of ebony curls and a sculpted face appeared on the plasma screen hanging above his mock-fireplace.

The Spider smiled.

"Let the game begin."