Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. If I did, there would not have been only three episodes in the first series.

2-28-11 A/N: As my wonderful reviewer suggested, I have now divided A Scandel In London into 4 parts for easier reading. Enjoy!

All was quiet in the dark office. A security guard walked past the office, shinning the torch's light into the office through the glass walls. Satisfied, the guard then moved on. Moments later, one of the tiles moved to the side in the office ceiling, creating a dark opening.

A length thin rope was tossed down. A pair of legs appeared through the hole first, followed by the rest of the body. The slim figure slowly climbed down. Landing silently, the intruder crept across the office to the painting on the wall. Looking up at it, the figure shook her head and moved to the desk.

Cautiously, the woman opened a drawer and randomly selected a file. She slipped it into her bag. When she removed her hand from the bag, she held a chess piece, a white queen, which she placed on the desk. A door opened and closed nearby. Quickly, the intruder moved to the opening in the ceiling. Grabbing onto the rope, she pulled herself up. The rope was drawn back up and the tile was replaced. Only seconds later, a different guard walked past. He shone his light in and then moved on.

"We are out of everything," John Watson declared from the kitchen of the flat. He glanced out into the living area where Sherlock Holmes was staring up at the ceiling intently. Shaking his head, John took one more glance at the kitchen and then headed for the door. "All right. I'll go to the grocery and get some food, then."

"At least wait until Mrs. Hudson goes back down," Sherlock told him without looking over. "You know she hates to see you rushing about, and it's rude to leave without saying hello."

There was a light knock on the door before John could say anything. "Knock, knock," Mrs. Hudson said, opening the door and poking her head in. "Sherlock, a letter's just come for you."

Nodding in an absent way, Sherlock held his hand out. Looking between him and Mrs. Hudson, John walked to their kindly land lady and took the envelope. "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he said. He walked across the room and slapped it down onto his flat mate's hand.

Without comment, Sherlock began to open it. John got his coat from the closet and put it on. "How is that lovely young woman you brought over?" Mrs. Hudson asked the former soldier. "I haven't seen her around here since then. Will you be having her for dinner soon?"

"Only when we can manage to keep the cupboards stocked," John told her.

Sherlock rolled off the couch onto his feet. "See what you make of that," he said, shoving the paper into John's hand before disappearing into his bedroom.

Puzzled, John held the paper up and read the hand written words:

"Meet me at Centre Park at 6 o'clock tonight at the park bench in the middle of the paths. I wish to consult you on an extremely important matter. I have read of your success at solving unusual crimes and have heard of your discretion. I look forward to the assistance you will be able to give me."

Frowning, John looked back up as Sherlock returned, dressed to go out. "So, you're just going to go meet this stranger?"

"We are, yes," Sherlock responded, getting his coat and scarf.

"We?"

Surprised, Sherlock looked over at him. "You were going out anyway," he pointed out, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "This should be very interesting."

"As long as we get some groceries before we come back," John responded.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, slipping past Mrs. Hudson out the door.

On the opposite side of Baker Street, a motorbike was parked against the curb. The visor of her helmet down, the woman leaning against the bike watched Sherlock and John exit 221B and hail a cab. Waiting until the cab had turned the corner, the woman took off the helmet and crossed the street.

She considered the buzzer, but pulled a small package of tools from her pocket. Standing in way that anyone who saw her would think she was simply struggling with a key, the black haired woman picked the lock open. She slipped silently into the building, closing the door behind her.

The intruder crept up the stairs without making a sound. She pushed the door of the flat open and shook her head. Unwinding her scarf, she explored the flat until she finally ended up next to the couch. Pushing aside some papers, she took a seat and made herself comfortable.

Her gray eyes landed on the note on the table. Frowning, she picked it up and read it. Scowling, she searched through the papers for a blank sheet. Finding an ink pen, she quickly scrawled a note of her own. She put both notes on top of the laptop and set the computer on the table.

Glancing at her watch, she stood up and headed for the door. She paused and a grin appeared. Turning back, she picked something up and left the flat. As she stepped off the stairs, she placed a white queen on the balustrade. Smirking, she went out the door, being careful to close it behind her.

It was slowly growing dark and the street lamps were coming on. As Sherlock and john approached the middle of the park, they saw a well dressed man standing next to the bench they were headed for, his face hidden by shadows. The man came forward on seeing them. "Sherlock Holmes?" he asked hopefully.

"I am, and this is my colleague Dr. John Watson," Sherlock said, shaking the man's hand. John nodded in greeting. Sherlock's eyes swept over the man quickly. "You have a dilemma?"

"Yes," the man said, his tone relieved. "You will keep this between us? The scandal that would occur if word of this matter got out...it would have far reaching consequences."

"I am the soul of discretion," Sherlock assured him.

Taking a seat, the man kept his back to the lights. "A certain... photo has been taken from me," he admitted. "I must have it returned to me before a scandal spreads. I can tell you the woman who has it, but all attempts my people have made to retrieve the photo have failed."

"I assume it as a photo of you and a woman," Sherlock asked. The man nodded. "Mr. Johnson, if I am to be of any assistance to you, you will have to tell me everything."

Aghast, Everett Johnson stared up at the consulting detective. "How did you know?"

"The wording of your note was a man's," Sherlock explained succinctly. "But the handwriting was a woman's. Therefore, I concluded you had a secretary write the note. That being the case, you are a man of some importance. This meeting place had to be close to your work, which narrows the field considerably, especially as you travel often. Therefore, you are Mister Everett Johnson manger of Travel International."

"Yes, my secretary knows of the matter," Johnson said. "My office is just down the street. Still, how-?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You have a tan line on your wrist, so you've been in the sun, but not on vacation," he interrupted. He looked at John. "Really, why can no one ever see that fact?" He turned back to Johnson. "Now, shall you tell me how you came to misplace this photo?"

"I didn't misplace it!" Johnson said vehemently. "That woman stole it from me!"

"What woman?" John asked. "The one in the photo with you?"

Johnson shook his head. "We've had some thefts in our company buildings in several of our foreign offices," he explained. "My superiors hired a professional to test our security system. I kept the photo in my office in Cairo and that was what was taken when that woman broke into our office three nights ago."

"And this woman has attempted to blackmail you?" John asked as Sherlock steepled his fingers.

"No," Johnson said earnestly. "But she may not realize what she has yet. I've heard what she's tried in the past. Please, Mister Holmes. I will be ruined if she gives that photo to the reporters. I will pay anything."

"The photo will be returned to you," Sherlock said, turning away. He walked towards the street. Offering the man a shrug, John hurried after his friend. "People can be so idiotic at times. Why keep a photo of him and his mistress?"

"You didn't even ask who took the photo," John pointed out.

"I don't need to ask," Sherlock said, getting into their waiting cab. "The photo will be waiting at his office when he gets back. Now, are you hungry?"

Taken aback, John nodded, and then realized Sherlock wasn't looking at him. "Yes, but what does that have to do with you promising to return the photo?" he asked.

"Nothing, but there's no food at the flat," Sherlock informed him. "I didn't make any such promise. I said it would be returned. That is the end of the matter. I'm in the mood for Chinese." He leaned forward and gave the cabby directions. The way he sat back, John got the feeling he wouldn't get an answers out of the man now.

The night was cloudy and chilly in and there was a damp fog coming in. "You know, if you'd actually gone out and got some groceries like I asked you, we wouldn't have had to go out for dinner," John said as he and his flat mate approached their home.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, beating John to the door. He paused, his hand on the doorknob. He turned the knob and pushed the door in. "What have we here?"

"What are you talking about?" John asked, trying to look over his friend's shoulder, and failing. He rubbed his hands against the cold. "Can we go inside and solve a crime where it's warm?"
A deep frown forming on his forehead, Sherlock pushed the door open and stepped inside. "Mrs. Hudson!" he called out. He went to the balustrade and snatched up the small chess piece. "Mrs. Hudson!"

"What's wrong?" John asked, shutting the door.

At the same time, Mrs. Hudson came hurrying from the back. "Whatever is the matter, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Has anyone come while we were gone?" Sherlock asked, his fingers closing tightly around the queen. "Did you leave at all?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Not since the mail came," she told him. "And I've been in the back all this time. Why?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, turning away from her. He started up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.

Puzzled, John hurried after him. By the time he'd reached the second floor, his friend was already tearing into the chaos that made up their shared flat. "What are you looking for?" John asked. He got no answer, so he tried again. "Sherlock, will you tell me what are you doing?"

"Something is missing," Sherlock answered absently.

Astonished, John let out a brief laugh. "How can you know something is missing in this mess?"

"She always takes something," Sherlock answered, sounding oddly aggravated. He tossed papers off the shelves. "It's something important, or she wouldn't have bothered with it."

Frowning, John left the doorway and looked around the flat. "Sherlock, I'm fairly certain any thief that broke in here would see this mess and leave it alone," he commented. He continued to watch his friend with interest. "So you're saying a woman broke into our flat and took something of importance."

"Yes, John!" Sherlock snapped, not looking up. "Have you not been listening?"

Shrugging, John went to the coffee table. Almost immediately, he spotted the two notes. Giving Johnson's note a quick glance, john frowned at the second, not making any sense of it. "Sherlock," John called out. "Were you trying to write new song or it something else?"

Turning around, Sherlock spotted the note and rushed across the room. He swiped it out of John's hands and sat on the couch. He spent a few moments studying the paper. There was a musical staff and notes drawn on the paper. "She thinks she's being clever," he muttered.

"What?" John asked. "I thought you said this woman took something."

"She has, and she left note," Sherlock explained vaguely. He looked up sharply. "My violin! That woman has taken my violin!"

Surprised, John glanced around and didn't see the instrument. "Why would she take your violin?" he asked, giving up on discovering who the woman was.

"To get my attention," Sherlock said, his tone derisive. He stared at the note and crumbled it in his hand. "Let's go, John. We have a violin to recover."

"Where are we going?"

"To a concert."

Yawning, Everett Johnson poured himself a drink and rose from his chair. He walked to the window and glanced down at the foggy streets. He shook his head and looked down at the photo in his hand. There was a slight creak behind him. Whirling, he dropped his glass and took a startled step back. "Oh, it's you," he said, sounding relief. "What are you doing here?"

A small, dark figure remained silent, standing a few feet away from him. Johnson knelt down to clean up the shattered glass. "The matter is over with now," he said, irritation in his tone.

Still getting no response, the man looked up. There was a flash. Gasping, Johnson clutched at his chest and then fell lifelessly to the floor. Blood began to pool around him as the figure walked to the desk. Placing a small, white chess piece on the desk, the murderer left the office.

The concert was on the verge of beginning by the time John and Sherlock reached the concert hall. Out in front they were informed that the doors were locked and there were no tickets available anyway. "Miss Adler is expecting us," Sherlock informed him. "She won't like it if we're not in there."

A look of fear crossed the man's face. "Of course, sir," he said, coming out from behind his counter. "Come right this way."

"Why did that man look afraid?" John asked in a low voice as they were escorted through the concert hall. "This Miss Adler is the woman who stole your violin?"

"Yes, now be quiet," Sherlock told him as the usher hastily led them up the stairs.

Their seats were in a small box where there were four seats. One of the seats was already occupied by a woman. Sherlock took the seat next to her and John the one behind his friend. The usher hurried away.

"Irene," Sherlock said.

Without removing her gaze from the stage, the woman put a finger up to her lips. "Hush," she said softly.

To John's surprise, Sherlock fell quiet, closing his eyes as the music began. John found himself yawning and dozing, though his companion was the epitome of concentration. Finally, the orchestra began a violin concerto by Mozart, and a slim woman rose from among the musicians.

As if by cue, Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up straight. The woman, dressed in a long black dress, took up position in the center of the stage and brought the bow up to the violin. Focusing on the woman, all that John could make out was that she was extremely talented as she played.

Even as the last note was being played, the audience burst into applause. The woman made her bow gracefully as encores rang out. Impressed, John joined in as people got to their feet. The conductor carried a bouquet of roses to the violinist. "She's very good," John commented as the whole orchestra bowed.

"She's adequate," Sherlock said. "She's having an affair with the conductor, so it's no surprise that she got the solo."

"How can you possibly know that?" John demanded as the audience began to leave.

"Half the violin section looks jealous," the woman beside Sherlock spoke up first. "As she played, her eyes were on the conductor, and he brought out an enormous bouquet of flowers. He has a ring on his finger; she does not. Conclusion: they are having an affair."

The lights came on giving john a chance to get a good look at the young woman. She was dressed in a formal, dark blue dress. Her hair was black and up in a French twist. Her eyes were a gray similar to Sherlock's and held the same intense intelligence. She seemed small, though there was no conclusive way for John to tell for sure.

"Irene," Sherlock said, turning in his seat to face her. His tone was impatient. "My violin, please."

"And you found yourself a flat mate," the woman continued, back at John. She held out her hand. Though her tone was friendly, John got the feeling she was studying him critically. "John Watson, right? My name's Irene Adler. I'm so glad someone's come along who can put up with Sherlock! Most people just can't stand him."

Surprised, John shook her hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"Irene," Sherlock said, his tone cold. "My violin, if you please."

"Of course, I've been keeping up with the website and your flat mate's blog," Irene continued conversationally. Her voice held a strange accent that John couldn't place. "You are doing well as the world's only consulting detective, aren't you? As you invented it, I wouldn't expect anything but excellence."

"Irene."

Irene Adler frowned at him. "Oh, very well," she said. She reached under her seat and lifted up a violin case. She held it out to him. "Your violin, Sherlock. I return it to you exactly as I took it."

Taking it, Sherlock placed the case on his lap and opened it. He removed his violin. He spent several moments examining the instrument carefully. Irene watched him with an amused smile on her face. "There's a scratch on the back," Sherlock finally said.

"That was there when I took it, and you know that as well as I do," Irene replied, defensively. "You hardly treat it with the care a fine instrument needs."

"Why are you back in London?" he asked, putting the violin back. He straightened and regarded her intently.

"I had a job tonight," Irene responded, her tone evasive. She picked her hand bag up and slung it on her shoulder. "Why? Aren't you happy to see me? As far as I know, I haven't been forbidden from London, yet. Is there any other reason why I shouldn't be here?"

"I can think of a few."

Narrowing her eyes, Irene raised her chin. "Is that resentment in your voice?" she asked, her tone taunting. "If you don't want something taken from you, don't leave it laying around that mess you call a flat! It was by far the easiest place I've broken into."

"Broken into?" John repeated, frowning. "You're a thief?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered even as Irene said, "No!"

John glanced between them. "I test the security systems of big corporations," Irene explained. "I break in and take something to prove it. I return the item in the morning along with recommendations for improvements." She gave a slight shrug. "It manages to keep the boredom at bay."

"Miss Adler."

Recognizing the bored voice, John turned to find Mycroft Holmes' assistant standing in the box's doorway. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, glancing at Irene. The assistant held out her hand. "Mr. Holmes would like his phone returned," the woman requested firmly.

"Ah, so that's why I haven't been bothered by Mycroft these past few hours," Sherlock commented, sounding extremely amused. "You have been busy, Irene."

Tight lipped, Irene pulled a cell phone out of her black bag and held it out. "The empty seat in the box," Sherlock went on as the assistant took the phone and walked away. "You really wanted to make sure we knew you were here, didn't you? I'm sure Mycroft knew it the second you stepped into London."

"Did it even occur to you that I simply wanted to see the two of you while I was in town?" Irene snapped, shrugging her coat on. She stared at Sherlock with a strange mixture of haughtiness and disappointment. "But the Holmes' don't care for such sentimentality, do they? Did you assure Everett Johnson that his picture would be returned?"

Startled, John blinked. Sherlock simply nodded. Irene rose and walked to the door. "You could have just dropped by," John called out. "That's what most people do when they want to see someone."

Pausing, Irene glanced back at him. "How boring it must be for most people," she said, making her tone light and mocking. "Good evening, Dr. Watson."

"The look on Mycroft's face when he realized Irene had taken his phone must been amusing," Sherlock commented, starting for the door.

"I'm a little bit confused," John admitted, following his friend out. The concert hall was now practically empty. Sherlock glanced at him patiently. "She's the one who stole the picture from Everett Johnson, isn't she? You and your brother both know her personally? How?"

"Irene has involved herself in several incidents," Sherlock answered vaguely. "She's trouble, John. Nothing but trouble."

A/N: Leave a review! Part 2 should be up soon.