Note: Wow, thanks so much for the response and reviews so far! You don't know how excited I am to be writing this story and sharing it with you guys and talking about it. It's already lightening my week enormously.

For those who didn't see, I wrote a little vignette about Irene's reaction to Sherlock's near-death experience. I felt the need to clarify how they got to this point in their relationship after "What He Likes". It didn't fit in this story, so I've posted it as the epilogue of that one. I know a lot of you have already read it, but in case anyone missed it, it might really help explain how Sherlock and Irene got to where they are now.

Since someone asked: this story is not all from Sherlock's POV. It will switch POVs between Sherlock, John, Irene, and Mary.

This is a fairly plot-heavy chapter. There's some stuff to set up in the story. Those of you eager for some Sherlock/Irene and all the promised character exploration... soon ;)


In spite of twice travelling to Italy, John had never been to Florence before. It had taken all of about an hour there for him to consider this a grave mistake. This was nothing like the bustling, loud, surprisingly modern urban setting of Rome. Nor was it the claustrophobic, tourist-infested, nearly drowning little town of Venice. Instead it seemed indeed as Sherlock had described it - a tribute to the Renaissance all wrapped up in one city. In the old city centre, where their hotel was located, there were hardly any cars due to an extremely restricted permitting system. Instead, people strolled down narrow streets at a leisurely pace, taking in the quiet city. John was very glad Sherlock had invited Mary along. He could hardly wait to explore with her.

But just at the moment, there was work to do. They'd stopped by the Hotel Savoy just long enough to drop off their bags and leave Mary alone to work in the beautiful two-bedroom suite they were sharing with Sherlock. (John surmised that the church must really be concerned about this 'kidnapping' to shell out that kind of money. But then, famous Renaissance thinker stolen from his grave... fair enough, that probably rated pretty high). Sherlock and John had set out on the short walk to Santa Croce.

As they emerged into the long piazza in front of the sun-bathed, gleaming white marble-front church, John shook his head in amazement. "Beautiful," he marvelled. When Sherlock said nothing, John glanced over at his friend. Incredibly, the detective was looking down at his phone. "Boy social networking's really done a number on people's ability to appreciate what's in front of them. Update your Twitter later."

Sherlock immediately slid his phone back in his pocket. "I don't have a Twitter," Sherlock retorted, his nose scrunching up in disgust. "A blog where one can detail scientific experiments is something else entirely."

"I know, that was a joke," John said with a grin. "Lighten up. You've been tense and jittery all morning. Hardly the way to go into a case, don't you think?"

Sherlock looked mildly surprised at the observation, and for a moment even slightly worried. Then the look was gone and the detective leaned his head back to take in the church as they walked up its front steps. "It's a Franciscan Basilica, hence much more simple architectural features than, say, Brunelleschi's work on the Duomo, which was completed about the same time. Its façade is a 19th century addition but retains the austerity of the Franciscan order. Notice anything unusual about it?"

John scanned up the full height of the building, his eyes coming to rest at the apex. His brow furrowed. "Is that the Star of David?"

Sherlock smiled a bit, always pleased when John correctly observed something. "The architect of the façade was Jewish and felt paying homage to Christianity's roots was appropriate. Unfortunately as a Jew he couldn't be buried with the others inside. He's somewhere under the porch."

"At least there's less chance of him being kidnapped there," John replied brightly.

"Evidently," Sherlock said in the same good-humoured tone. He led the way inside, to a long hall that was in fact rather plain in spite of the Gothic arches along the sides. A few sightseers quietly walked along the perimeter of the nave, but the basilica was largely empty this early in the morning.

"I could see monks living here. Is that who we're meeting?" John asked.

"It no longer functions as a Franciscan friary. We're meeting a representative from the Archdioceses," Sherlock said. Then he nodded in the direction of a tall, slender 50-something year old priest will still-dark hair who was making his way towards them. "Sei Padro Giordano?" Sherlock asked.

"Sì, benvenuto signori Holmes e Watson. Si parla italiano?" the priest inquired with a gentle, slow voice as he held out a hand first to Sherlock, then to John. It was much different than the sort of boisterous interaction John had previously had with many young Italians in Rome.

"Only a little," Sherlock responded, and John could hear the insistent, clipped 'work' tone already in Sherlock's voice. Not leaving space for a response from the priest, Sherlock immediately headed directly to their left, towards scaffolding and a drape covering what must be Galileo's tomb.

"Signore," Father Giordano called hesitantly as Sherlock unceremoniously pulled the drape off the scaffolding. "Would you not like to discuss the ransom note first?" the priest eyed the now-exposed tomb anxiously, glancing around to ensure that no one else was nearby. Sherlock's eyes remained on the tomb, scanning it, the ground around it, deciphering who knew what.

John was far too used to this sort of rudeness to flinch at it, and instead turned his attention to the beautiful tomb, which was really more aptly called a monument. It consisted of a black and gold marble tomb, flanked on either side by female statues representing geometry and astronomy. A skyward-gazing bust of Galileo himself sat at the top. The whole thing was on a marble pedestal about a metre off the ground. Which Sherlock now hoisted himself up onto for a closer look. Father Giordano looked to be painfully holding his breath as he watched this display in horror.

"I've read the ransom note over," Sherlock replied as he ran his fingers along the edges of the marble slab resting on top of the sarcophagus itself. "Five million Euro by the end of the week or they destroy the body."

"We simply cannot afford that amount," Father Giordano explained earnestly.

"Obviously. Otherwise you wouldn't have called me," Sherlock replied flatly, crouching down to eyeball the edge of the sarcophagus lid more closely. As he did, he asked casually, "Did the police have an idea as to how the body was transported out of here?"

Father Giordano shifted. "They did not know. It would have to be protected in a container. So we hope. Then put in a car."

"Which narrows the field of suspects considerably," Sherlock mused, eyes still on his work.

"Does it?" John asked, not sure what he meant.

"We're in Florence's Zona Traffico Limitato - ZTL. Vehicular access is extremely limited. You need a permit and every car entering or exiting the zone is photographed. Hardly a good way to remain inconspicuous," Sherlock pointed out, and John had to agree.

"So you think if we got a look at those records, we'd be able to get a list of suspects to start with?" John asked.

"That would hardly be efficient," Sherlock replied. "Especially as I highly doubt they'd be in one of those cars."

John folded his arms across his chest, trying to think through that one. He could see that Father Giordano was attempting to follow along as well. This was, John knew, precisely the sort of attention Sherlock desired from his vague, drawn-out explanations. John humored him, "Okay. But the body would have been in a large box or crate. How else did they get it out of here?"

"The way most bodies get transported about town: by ambulance, I suspect," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. He glanced over at John and the priest, both of whom were mulling that over. "Think about it. Ambulances don't need permits to be in the ZTL. They're photographed entering and exiting, but they do that all day and night long so it's not suspicious. There's ample space in the back for the body and equipment. It's certainly how I'd do it if I had even half my brain, which presumably two grown men put together could manage if they really tried."

John rolled his eyes at that, but Sherlock had already turned back to the tomb and didn't notice. Still, arrogance aside, as usual Sherlock's theory made sense. "So we tell the police to look for ambulances coming and going in the old city the night of the break-in."

"We have them give usthe footage and welook through it," Sherlock corrected.

"Right," John said, not entirely sure that was going to happen. Instead of pressing his friend on the point, though, he focused on what Sherlock was looking so closely at on the tomb. Even from here, John could see a rough cut in the marble all the way around the edge where the lid attached. "So was that thing sealed, or...?" he asked, either of Sherlock or Father Giordano.

"Yes, and the marble had not been moved since placed there in 1737 when Galileo was moved to this tomb," Father Giordano explained, wringing his hands slowly in anxiety as he watched Sherlock climb around on the priceless artwork. "The priest who opens the basilica in the mornings found the lid on the ground and the tomb empty."

John bit back an empty tomb joke that was on the tip of his tongue. That probably wouldn't have gone over very well. Sherlock finally looked away from the sarcophagus, narrowing his eyes in thought as he glanced down at Father Giordano. "They broke in through a steel-chained door," he stated.

"Sì, yes," the priest stammered. "How did you know that? We had not mentioned-"

"These cuts," Sherlock pointed to the jagged, vicious cuts in the marble, "were made by a carbide-tipped circular saw blade. The sort of thing meant for cutting steel, but far too strong for something as soft as marble. Made a mess of things. Whomever did this certainly didn't know much about sculpture. Then you see here and here," Sherlock pointed to a little chipped area on either end of the top of the sarcophagus.

John stepped forward to look closely at each of the three-centimetre, two-pronged jagged chips in the marble. "Crowbars?" he ventured.

"Two of them, since you'd need more than one person to lift a lid that heavy and set it on the ground, rather than tossing it down and breaking it." Sherlock pulled out some tweezers and a few small evidence bags. He began collecting tiny flecks of something from both the crowbar indentations and along the jagged cut around the edge of the lid.

Meanwhile, several onlookers had started whispering and looking over in their direction. John noted that Father Giordano's hand-wringing was getting more pronounced. The priest walked over to the onlookers and said something in Italian, then returned, glancing up at Sherlock even more anxiously now. "Signore, if you wouldn't mind coming down from there...?"

Sherlock hummed absently, a noise John was all too familiar with, and one that meant he would comply in his own time frame. Sherlock carefully eyeballed the flecks he'd collected into his evidence bags. Finally, he slipped them into his pocket before hopping off the pedestal and onto the floor with a thud! that echoed in the large marble building. Father Giordano winced, but John was far too accustomed to Sherlock to be at all surprised at his crawling all over then leaping off of priceless tombs at his leisure.

Instead, he was more interested in whatever evidence Sherlock had collected. This was always the part of crime-solving where John had to rely entirely on Sherlock's encyclopedic knowledge of various materials. Though he felt he'd gotten quite good at evaluating motives, people who were lying, and even the methodology of some crimes, John knew he'd never be able to get anywhere close to Sherlock in the area of trivial knowledge. Not only was Sherlock a genius, he'd spent the better part of his 37 years experimenting with and studying a staggering array of chemicals, materials, insects, poisons, body parts, and anything else that would fit in his flat. Who could match that, really. "What's that in the bags, then?" John asked.

"All the evidence we'll need to find the perpetrators," Sherlock replied with a self-satisfied smile.

"Yes?" Father Giordano asked, surprised and a bit confused.

"Well, between this and locating the ambulance, yes. These are paint and plastic flecks. Which not only can be matched to the particular circular saw and crowbars used, but also indicate that the tools were new. Otherwise they wouldn't have deposited nearly this amount of paint. So they've most likely been purchased recently. The crowbars are painted with a yellow coating. The saw has a blue plastic guard. And with a bit of work, we might be able to track them to whomever sold them, and then to the perpetrators."

John shook his head. "Fantastic," he uttered with a smile to himself. Sherlock's eyes darted over to his friend, taking in the praise with his characteristic subtle self-satisfaction. Sherlock had always appreciated John's compliments, but since he'd returned from the dead and then nearly died again of a cocaine-related cardiac arrest, there'd been a bit more warmth to the appreciation. In fact, in general the two friends had grown closer, owing in part to Sherlock's frank confession of John's importance to him and his belief that he couldn't stay clean without his friend working alongside him. It was that, more than any real benefit John provided to the investigations, that made John's part in their partnership vital, he'd come to realise. John wasn't about to complain about the job.

Sherlock, as usual, was wasting no time. He was already making his way for the front door, John falling naturally in step just behind him.

Father Giordano trailed after them, calling, "Is that everything?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied definitively, without turning around.

"The police asked many questions, interviewed witnesses..." the priest trailed off.

"The police cast a wide net because they don't know what they were looking for," Sherlock paused at the front door, glancing back over his shoulder at the priest. "So it's a good thing you called me. Addio," Sherlock said with a chipper smile as he pushed his way out the front door.

As they entered the piazza, John grinned inwardly at the extra bounce in Sherlock's long strides. The detective fastened one button of his suit jacket, glancing around nonchalantly. John let out a chortle. "What?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Is that your cool gesture for climates where you don't have your coat-collar, then?" John asked.

Sherlock's hand dropped from his button, and he turned his head to face forward. "I don't know what you mean," he said, indignantly. John smiled to himself, but kept quiet as they headed in the direction of the police station.


"What do you mean he won't see me?" Sherlock asked, dumbfounded.

The police station clerk, a woman of about 22, looked mildly frightened in the face of his intensity. Which Sherlock probably thinks is useful, John thought with an inward sigh. He'd seen his friend deploy this tactic many times. The more fearful this clerk was, the quicker she'd get them past the red tape that Sherlock so detested. "You don't have an appointment, and I don't know who you are," she replied, her English spotty but sufficient enough to clearly know what he was saying.

"You did hear the part where I've been hired by the Vaticanto look into this matter? I should think you know who theyare," Sherlock spat. John could see his friend's face reddening in anger, and immediately placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder to pull him back from the counter just slightly. The doctor kept quiet, but gave his friend a reproachful look.

Then, from a door behind the counter, a long-suffering sigh could be heard. "Ah marone!" a gruff voice exclaimed. A second later, a 40-something detective with oily black hair and a face like a basset hound emerged, walking up to the desk. "What do you want?"

"Detective Rinaldi," John jumped in, ignoring Sherlock's look of annoyance. John had got in the habit of sometimes taking it upon himself to 'break the ice' when Sherlock was being too candid with someone they needed cooperation from. That, at least, was a part of investigations he was useful for. The doctor continued politely, "Sorry to bother you, but this is Sherlock Holmes and I'm John Watson. I don't know if the church told you, but we were hired to look into the Galileo case at Santa Croce."

"Private detectives," Rinaldi replied with a look of utter exasperation. "And?"

"I presume you've been checking the ZTL entrance and exit footage for cars that were in sectors A or B on the night of the crime," Sherlock said in a slightly condescending tone.

"We know our jobs, yes," Detective Rinaldi countered.

"What you really ought to have been looking for are ambulances," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "It's unlikely the perpetrators would use their own car, if they even have a ZTL permit. An ambulance is the most logical mode of transport, which of course implies that at least one of them is a paramed-"

"Yes, thank you. A good idea," Rinaldi said with a wave, beginning to turn around.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked sharply. John gritted his teeth, bracing for the worst, and tightening his grip on his friend's arm lest Sherlock decide to pounce. Rinaldi had stopped and turned back around to gape at the outlandish Englishman. "I need to see that footage. I may very well be able to track the perpetrators to their hideout."

Now Rinaldi stepped forward, toe to toe with Sherlock, and not the least bit intimidated by the slightly taller man. The Italian simply stared back with hard black eyes contrasting against his droopy face. "You are not a member of this police force. I do not know how they do things in England, but we do not let private detectives run our cases."

John could feel Sherlock's muscles tensing beneath his hand, clearly ready to respond to such indignity. Warning bells went off in the doctor's mind, and he put his other hand on Sherlock's chest, pushing him back slightly in the direction of the door. Surprised, Sherlock turned his ire away from Rinaldi and onto his friend, just as John had hoped he would. "What are you doing? Get your hands off me, we need to see that footage!" he growled as John walked him backwards out the front door of the station and into the street.

Once outside, John let go of Sherlock, but maintained his position between his friend and the door. He held up his hands in a gesture of truce. "I know you're pissed off, but if you go back in there, you're only going to make things worse. This isn't Scotland Yard. You don't have Lestrade and you aren't an investigator for the government here. As irritating as it is, they're not going to give you the footage, at least not right now. But if you piss them off they might not help you down the road at all."

"Imbeciles," Sherlock muttered, though he seemed to have calmed down a bit. "I'll get that footage eventually."

"Maybe," John agreed. "What about those paint chips? If you can really trace those back to the saw and crowbars and whoever bought them, that would be brilliant. Who needs the police, right?" He was doing his very best to portray this in a positive light that even Sherlock could appreciate.

That got a sigh and a nod of concession from Sherlock. John was relieved. It seemed that even Sherlock's notoriously moody nature was smoothed over by the warm Italian sun and the peaceful surroundings of Florence. Seriously, howhad John not come here on holiday before?

After a few moments, Sherlock pulled his phone out and began walking down the street. John followed.

"Again with the phone obsession," John teased.

This time Sherlock didn't rise to the bait, simply saying, "I need to find a lab where I can examine the paint and plastic. I have a contact at the university." He paused a moment, then added off-handedly, "This might be a good opportunity for you to spend some time with Mary. Take in the sights."

"Trying to get rid of me?" John joked.

It may have been his imagination, but he could have sworn Sherlock hesitated momentarily before replying, "No. But you hate watching me look through microscopes. And it will most likely take me much of the day to come to a conclusion. I just thought you'd rather spend that time with your fiancée. It is why she came with us, after all."

Once again, John was surprised and touched by Sherlock's consideration. It was the sort of thing he'd never have expected from his friend prior to the whole faked suicide ordeal. "I would, thank you." He paused. "Was this outpouring of kindness brought on by anything in particular? Because I'd love to find the source, bottle it, and use it later," John teased.

Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Everyone deserves a holiday now and again," he said, and actually turned his face slightly up to the sun. John decided that, yes, Florence was definitely having a positive effect on Sherlock Holmes.


«John and Mary heading out for afternoon. Meet at St. Regis Hotel, noon.» read the text Sherlock had sent Irene as he and John left the police station. He knew the lab work he needed to do wouldn't take him more than a few hours, but there was no way for John to know that. It seemed the perfect opportunity to see Irene, and somehow seeing her first and doing the work second felt like the natural order of things, in spite how odd that ought to have been to Sherlock.

Irene's reply came quickly. «Straight to the hotel? My, my, we are presumptuous, aren't we?»

Sherlock knew she was just trying to rile him, but that didn't stop it from working. She'd always had the peculiar and singular ability to unsettle him with just a few chosen words or a glance. His sexual attraction to her, though he'd long ago accepted it as fact, still unnerved him. In spite of a year's worth of interaction while he was in hiding, they'd only consummated the relationship (if one could call it that) just before he'd left to return to London. And in spite of six months of largely playful messaging, the onus of what mostof his time with her had been spent doing weighed heavily on Sherlock's mind.

How could he simply forget that what 'spending time with her' over that year had mostly meant was that he'd been paying her to mind him as he injected himself with increasing quantities of cocaine? Of course, he knew now that she'd been in agony the whole time. That she had no idea he was desperately hoping for her to care enough to stop him. They'd reconciled all of that. But that did nothing to erase what had transpired, particularly the deeply hidden insecurities and fears he'd inadvertently laid bare to her in his drug-addled, emotionally vulnerable state. When Sherlock thought of how much Irene knew of his sentiments - towards her, the drugs, his whole situation in life - he felt uncomfortably exposed. When in possession of all his faculties, Sherlock would never have revealed even a fraction of what he inadvertently had to Irene.

Of course, that experience may have led to him in turn willingly revealing a fractional amount of his emotions to John. But the doctor had no idea that this gesture of friendship had only been made possible by Sherlock's then-recent soul-eviscerating experiences with Irene. John didn't even know the Woman was alive. And of course it must remain that way.

But what, in the sober light of day, would Sherlock and Irene have to say to one another? How precisely would he feel facing a woman to whom he had been so exposed in every possible manner? It was one thing to text with her flirtatiously, or even to scrape the surface of how his rehab had been proceeding. But the medium had restricted them. They'd spoken once on the phone, six months ago. It had somehow gone on for hours. But the rest of their communication had been snippets of text. It was difficult to determine sentiment from texts. And this was one area in which, infuriatingly, Sherlock had absolutely no data or previous anecdotal evidence from which to speculate.

It was with all of these warring thoughts and, to his annoyance, sentimentsrunning through his mind that Sherlock fell into silence on their walk back to the hotel. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was 11:30. Only half an hour. His heart rate ticked up slightly, and he pushed aside the nagging question of whether that was out of desire or fear. He simply breathed deeply, grateful that John was too taken in by the sights around them to pay any attention to his friend's state.

By the time they reached the door of their suite, Sherlock had managed to get his heart rate back down and was slowly but surely working on calming his mind as well. As John opened the door and led the way inside, Sherlock felt grateful to be back in a place where he could collect himself before heading out.

The grand living room and kitchen of the suite were both larger and much more finely decorated than what they had at 221B. It was all whites and warm cream colours, fine silk cloth and marble tiles. It was costing the church a fair amount to keep them here, what with this one-bedroom suite and the attached deluxe room that Sherlock had taken. But, really, if he was going to sell the notion of this being a holiday for John and Mary, why not make it a nice one?

"Good mor- ah, nearly noon?" Mary said brightly, setting her papers down and getting up from the couch she had been lounging on to give John a kiss. "How was the crime scene? I take it no signs of a struggle from the kidnapping victim," she said with a crooked grin.

John smiled back. "Not quite. But Sherlock's already gathered some clues to help identify the tools the 'kidnappers' used to break into the church and the tomb. Apparently something he can trace."

"Once I've spent some time in a lab," Sherlock affirmed.

"How's your work been? Get a lot done?" John asked Mary, clearly hoping for the answer he wanted.

"A fair bit, yes," Mary replied. "I went down to a café next door to proofread a while and for some coffee. Somehow I lost my room key and spent a little while proving who I was to the man at the front desk so I could get a new one."

John grinned. "Are you as impressed by this city as I am?"

"It seems lovely, though I haven't really seen much outside the hotel."

"Well," John began slowly. "Sherlock suggested that you and I take the afternoon to go sightseeing while he's working up an analysis of the paint flecks he gathered."

Mary glanced over at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. "Did he? Well, you're just full of surprises, aren't you."

Sherlock remained, he thought, admirably calm, even as a prurient part of his brain dwelt on the things he hoped to be doing this afternoon that would certainlysurprise them if they knew about them. "Merely trying to make the most efficient use of time. If you and John go out this afternoon, they'll be less on your list of things to do standing in the way of our case later on when I've identified the suspects."

"Ah, see, a practical purpose. That makes more sense. You had me wondering a bit," John said. To Mary, he asked, "What do you say? Ready for a break?"

Sherlock for his part was already making his way towards the door to his bedroom, not wanting to wait for John and Mary's little social ritual to pass before getting himself ready for his own outing. He only hoped they would get on with it and leave so that he could have a bit of privacy to collect himself and perhaps change his shirt before he went out. Sherlock opened the door to his room.

And froze.

His carefully moderated heart rate doubled in what felt like a second. His eyes widened, his back stiffened, and something deep inside him twisted as he stood frozen, staring at the sight of Irene Adler in a fashionable black dress lying propped up on her side in his bed, a devious smile on her lips.