This got insanely longer than I had ever planned. About thirty pages longer. And while busy with endless things, I still managed to finish this monster, with plenty of inspiration from the beautiful Sherlock/Irene images on tumblr.

Thanks to those who reviewed. There weren't many of you, but I love all four of you brilliant, wonderful people. Hugs!

It's long, but I think it's good. Of course, it's always nice to get a review letting you know that. Enjoy!

It was an unusually chilly June day the next time Sherlock and Irene saw each other.

Sherlock was arriving home- he had been meeting with members of his homeless network- when he smelled something in the air. The flat smelled like a shower- warm water and curiously enough, his particular brands of soap and shampoo.

Apprehensive, he approached his bedroom- his shower was through there.

The window is open. Who is it, that I know, who is an expert at getting in and out of houses using the windows? Is she back?

In the background, he could hear John arrive with the shopping. Softly, he pushed open the door to his bedroom.

There, curled up in his blankets and wearing an old green shirt, was Irene Adler. Her hair was damp, and she looked terribly tired, even though she was sleeping. Her skin was paler than he had ever seen it, and she looked thinner. Sherlock was floored by the rush of sentiment that ran through him at the sight of Irene in his bed. She looked as if she belonged there. He didn't mind that his pillow was wet with her hair, or that she had washed using his soap. The thought of her in the shower brought back fond memories.

John noticed where he was standing, just looking into his room. "Sherlock?"

"We have a client," he said in a low voice, trying not to wake her.

The soldier's forehead furrowed in confusion. "What, in your bedroom?" He approached, carrying a bottle of wine to peer into Sherlock's bedroom. "Oooh."

Sherlock pulled the door closed. "Let her sleep," he ordered, walking away. "We should make some tea." Despite his words, he sat in his chair, staring off deep in thought. John sighed and started the kettle.

Apparently, the sounds of John putting away the shopping woke Irene. She emerged from Sherlock's room a short time later, blinking owlishly. Sherlock stood immediately, striding into the kitchen and getting out the better teacups. He made hers the way she liked it, handing it to her. She sat down in his chair, eyes not leaving his.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she said huskily, sipping from the cup.

He inclined his head. "No thanks are necessary, Ms. Adler."

"I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it's in my hand," Irene informed Sherlock, crossing her arms. Sorry, dear. Not going to work on me.

He stared intensely at her. "Oh, you're rather good." I couldn't help but try.

"You're not so bad," she countered. I know. I would have done the same… but I would have succeeded.

Their eyes met, and it was like she couldn't pull away. His face as so austere, so drawn, so closed, but his eyes told her he remembered every kiss, every embrace.

I missed you.

I missed you too.

I'm sorry.

Why?

Things are going to get bad. Really soon. It'll be my fault.

I don't care.

I care about you.

I care about you too.

Thank you.

For?

Memorizing me.

Anything for you.

It was strange- all the other times she had stared into those blue-green eyes, she had either been a room away or close up. Either they were maintaining eye contact during dinner, or in the throes of passion. He had never been so close, and yet so far away.

"Hamish." John's voice blurted, breaking the moment. The lovers turned to look at him, and then away from each other, slightly embarrassed. "John Hamish Watson," the doctor clarified. "Just- if you were looking for baby names."

Sherlock frowned, and Irene hid her smile. "There was a man- and MOD official. I knew what he liked." She walked a short distance, away, tapping SHER quickly into her phone. She scrolled through her images until she found the one she wanted.

"One of the things he liked was showing off," she continued. "He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it." She hesitated before handing the phone to Sherlock.

Once I do this, I'm committed. It's the beginning of the end. The game is drawing to a close, but Sherlock doesn't have a clue he's playing.

Is it wrong for me to feel so excited? I'm half full of dread, but half full of anticipation and excitement. I'm this close to pulling it all off…

She let out a shaky breath and handed the phone to the genius, purposefully making sure their hands did not brush. "He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen- can you read it?"

Sherlock paid her no attention, sliding into his seat and focusing on the image. "Yes," he murmured, distracted.

"It's a code, obviously," Irene said, coming closer to him. "I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it- though he was mostly upside down as I recall. Couldn't figure it out." She took a breath, and leaned over his shoulder. "What can you do, Mr. Holmes?" She made a split second decision to kiss his cheek. She wanted her lips on him one last time before everything- died. "Go on. Impress a girl."

"There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment; I've only been on the case for eight seconds."

Irene hadn't even fully straightened yet, from bending down to brush his slightly rough face with her lips.

"Oh, come on. It's not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look: there's no letter 'I' because it can be mistaken for a '1'; no letters past 'K' – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter 'K' or rows past fifty-five, which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number – zero zero seven – that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you, lately, that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport." He said it all in one breath, standing in the middle. He looked down at Irene, who was staring in shock.

Sherlock gave a brief sneer. You doubted me? "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing. John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."

His eyes pulled hers again, but now she was thinking of other things. His hands on her. Her hands on him. Their mouths, together. Their mouths doing interesting things, not together. "I would have you right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy twice."

I want you.

I should deduce more in front of you.

Yes, you should.

Would it get me ravished?

Yes.

He didn't look away from her, and said something to John.

We've never had sex on a table.

Now that I've said it, we'll have to try.

I want you on the table.

I said I would have you on this desk.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life," Sherlock said, in a near whisper. Not even when you tied me to the bed and tortured me with your mouth.

Irene gave him an enigmatic smirk. "Twice." My dear, you haven't even seen a third of what I'm capable of.

What I'm capable of.

I want to be rid of the devil I sold my soul to. Now it's time for me make the final payment. I'll be free and Sherlock- he'll be upset, but alive.

And I will be free and rich- although that doesn't matter so much. The game will be concluded. The game- it is our fatal flaw. We sacrifice all for the game.

She texted Jim Moriarty the information, and felt a small part of her heart break while her pulse raced with excitement.

It was terrible, the waiting game. She had her black dress in Sherlock's closet, and she just needed to wait until he was picked up to change and get ready. She missed Kate at a time like this- not only was she a professional makeup artist, she was also quite good at calming Irene down.

Sherlock was sitting staring into space and plucking his violin. Every few minutes or so, he would blurt something out. Irene had never seen him work a case before- it was fascinating.

The firelight brought out Sherlock's gorgeous cheekbones. His face, his body- his entire being called to her on a primal level. She both wanted to burst into tears, and rage at him. She did neither. The biggest game of her life was only a few hours away. She needed to be able to make Mycroft Holmes dance, and keep Sherlock Holmes effectively in the dark.

And find a way to apologize. Perhaps- they had always been so good at reading each other. It was worth a shot. But she thought Sherlock would understand- they were so alike. He understood the vital drive, the almost imperative need to fight off the boredom. The temptation of such a complex game, with such high stakes. He wouldn't be able to resist it.

"Coventry," he said, voice like velvet.

Irene started when she realized he was expecting a reply. "I've never been. Is it nice?"

Sherlock frowned at her and looked around. "Where's John?" Are we alone?

"He went out a couple of hours ago," Irene told him, watching his face carefully. Yes. But our time is limited.

"I was just talking to him," Sherlock muttered, confused and knowing exactly what had happened at the same time. Sorry for blanking on you.

She couldn't help but smile at the expression on his face. "He said you do that. What's Coventry got to do with anything?" All is forgiven. Explain?

Sherlock explained. "It's a story, probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know that they'd broken the code, so they let it happen anyway." I'm not sure exactly what is going on, Irene. But- I have a theory.

He knows. He's figured it out. How do I tell him that it was me?

"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene asked, almost desperately. Had. Owned. Possessed. Loved. Have you ever loved anyone, Sherlock?

"Sorry?" He frowned at her blankly, mind still on the Coventry conundrum.

She begged him to understand. "And when I say 'had,' I'm being indelicate." Please, Sherlock.

"I don't understand," he said slowly, frown deepening. He wanted to, she could see it.

Irene sighed, and stood. "Well, I'll be delicate then." She walked around to where he was sitting and kneeled in front of him, turning her face up to his. She put her left hand over his right, curling her fingers around his. "Let's have dinner."Remember us. Remember all the good times. The communal eating, the forging of a bond. Remember our strange courtship, Sherlock.

Something sparked in him. "Why?" he asked. Why? I'd remember it anyway. Why now?

"Might be hungry," Irene replied. Because it might have meant something to me, but nothing to you. Do you want something else? Something more? Do we need to reaffirm our connection?

"I'm not," Sherlock said, confusion gone. No. Don't doubt me, Irene.

"Good," Irene said, relief not evident in her tone. We are good then. Remember that I care for you, Sherlock.

"Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" Sherlock breathed, staring down at her. Why is this important, Irene? What is happening?

She leaned forward, thinking about kissing him. "Oh, Mr. Holmes," she said softly, shuddering as Sherlock's fingers stroked the underside of her wrist. "If it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?" It all ends today. Tonight. The last night before everything is different. But will it be? Can you still care about me after? Would you be able to look through the game and see me?

He was about to reply, when Mrs. Hudson called him. "Sherlock!" His eyes slid away from hers, and she pulled way with a fluidity that belayed her anger and sorrow.

"Too late," she whispered ruefully.

They were here to take Sherlock away- it was time for the final play of the game.

Irene Alder, The Woman, didn't need a steadying breath as she climbed the staircase to the aircraft. The designer dress and the wonderfully done makeup were a kind of battle armor in themselves- dressed like this, she had no problems remembering why she was here, what the final goal was. She took great pleasure in blowing a kiss to Nelson, the American who had attacked her in her house. "Feeling better?" she asked, sickly sweet.

He scowled at her. "No," he growled. "Are you going up, lady?"

Irene raised a regal eyebrow. "Yes, I am. Mr. Holmes is expecting me."

She entered just in time to hear Mycroft ask Sherlock how long it took him to decode the message for her. She emerged from the shadows, a curve of a smile on her face. "I think it was less than five seconds."

Sherlock spun around, eyes meeting hers and widening with the realization. This was a game. I was tricked. It was- you.

I'm sorry. But- it was the game.

"I drove you into her path," Mycroft said wearily. "I'm sorry. I- didn't know."

It was harder than she thought to slide her eyes away from Sherlock. She couldn't do it- even as she addressed Mycoft.

"Mr. Homes, I think we need to talk." She walked toward the two of them, dreading the moment where Sherlock realized she wasn't talking to him.

"So do I," Sherlock said, entire expression denoting a complete lack of understanding, a slow boiling anger. "There are a number of aspect's I'm still not quite clear on-"

She was approaching him, and she brushed past him, letting her hand drag across his leg in a silent apology. "No you, Junior. You're done now." She strode down the narrow corridor between the seats of the airplane. She took out her phone and with a flourish, waved it in front of Mycroft.

"There's more… loads more," she told him, voice rich with promise. This was the bait- the drawing in. "On this phone I've got secrets, pictures, and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I could cause and exactly one way to stop me…" she let her voice trail. This was the fear, and the hope. She was telling Mycroft that there was a chance to stop her. "Unless you want to tell you masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother." The final fear.

He would have to comply with her demands now- she could read a man like Mycroft like a book and play him accordingly. He needed the information she had on her phone- and he wanted to protect his country. He wanted to stop her for that reason. But the deal-maker was his little brother- Mycroft Holmes was many things, but he had a sense of duty toward Sherlock. He wouldn't break that duty. She knew that- and had made sure that he would be the one to bring her and Sherlock together. It was his fault. He was the one who had to make it right. He knew this, and she knew this, and he could no longer meet her eyes.

So close. She was so close.

They were in Mycroft's enormous building, where she and Mycroft were seated at an immense dining table. All around were pieces of wealth and luxury, features that both made Irene feel powerful, and insignificant. But now was not the time for doubts- this would be the best game of her life, if she played it right.

Mycroft was running various scenarios aloud, all of which she shot down.

"We have people who can get into this," he remarked, gesturing toward the camera phone lying on the table between them. His voice was flat, calm.

"I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes have it for six months." Irene glanced over at where Sherlock sat, staring into the fire, slightly angled to listen to them. "Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you X-rayed my camera phone." That little timid thing- Molly Hooper- had been delightfully informative.

"There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive." Sherlock's voice was the same as his brother's- quiet, inflectionless. Irene felt a small squirming of guilt in her gut when she thought about how she had hurt him.

"Explosive," she drawled, looking back at Mycroft, who had looked down wearily at the new information. "It's more me."

"Some data is always recoverable," he amended, raising his head.

"Take that risk," Irene told him, knowing he could not.

Mycroft hesitated, then spoke. "You have a passcode to open this. I deeply regret to say we have people who can… extract it from you."

Although those words sent a shiver of fear down Irene's spine, she merely called, "Sherlock?" in a lilting voice.

"There will be two passcodes, one to open the phone and one to burn the drive. Even under duress you can't know which one she's given you and there would be no point in a second attempt." Sherlock rattled off the information in a breath.

It honored Irene that Sherlock would apply to her what he would do. It was a symbol of his regard for her. He was literally thinking, what would I do? and telling Mycroft what he had surmised.

"He's good, isn't he?" Irene said rhetorically. Thank you, Sherlock. You're right- you always are. "I should have him on a leash- in fact, I might." Are you mine? Do you still belong to me? She stared at him, but he was turned away from her and he probably couldn't see.

"We destroy this then. No one has the information," Mycroft suggested, just as she had suspected he would. Mycroft liked to sweep thing under the rug.

She shrugged, giving him a wide-eyed, innocent blink. "Fine. Good idea. Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you're about to burn."

"Are there?" Mycroft made the foolish mistake of letting hope leak through his voice.

Irene smirked. "Telling you would be playing fair. I'm not playing anymore." That was a lie- she was playing the game. She had made the winning move, had allowed Mycroft to examine every out possible and admit himself checkmated. Now it was time for her to reap her rewards. She reached into her purse and withdrew an envelope with a list her demands, sliding it across the table to Mycroft.

"A list of my requests, and some ideas about my protection once they're granted," she informed him, pushing back the growing heady rush of success that was beginning to dawn on her. "I'd day it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation- but then I'd be lying." Mycroft had opened the envelope, and was either overwhelmed by her demands or allowing himself to show shock and surprise in an attempt to sway her. She guessed it was the later, and decided to play him.

"I imagine you'd like to sleep on it," she suggested.

"Thank you, yes," Mycroft said, a bit relieved, regaining some power. If he had time, he could work something out.

"Too bad," she said quickly. From Sherlock's armchair, she heard a soft snort of amusement that made her want to smile. "Off you pop and talk to people."

It was almost cruel, she reflected, the way she enjoyed dangling hope in front of this powerful, intelligent man and yanking it away with vicious delight. The way Mycroft deflated back into his chair made her feel powerful. Reckless.

"You've been very… thorough," Mycroft said, a sneer evident in his tone. "I wish our lot were half as good as you."

She inclined to head, acknowledging the compliment. She was a lady, and she did have graces. "I can't take all the credit…" she said, readying herself for the revelation. "Had a bit of help."

Irene glanced over at Sherlock. "Jim Moriarty sends his love." This is why I did this, Sherlock. His head raised perceptibly- he was thinking now.

"Yes, he's been in touch. Seems desperate for my attention…" Mycroft's face darkened. "Which I'm sure can be arraigned." If Moriarty had been any other man, Irene might have feared for his life. As it was, she didn't particularly care if Moriarty survived, nor was she certain that even a man with the power of Mycroft Holmes could stop him.

To shake the sudden uneasiness that was causing an antsy feeling in the palms of her hands and her legs, Irene stood and walked around the table to Mycroft, sitting on the edge as she spoke. "I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it. Thank God for the consultant criminal." No I hate him he gives me the creeps. "Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys." I'll admit that I did play you, Sherlock. "D'you know what he calls you?" Irene met and kept Mycroft's eyes. "The Iceman," she said, voice lowering. Abruptly, she turned her head to look at Sherlock. "And the Virgin." See. I didn't tell him about us.

She closed her eyes briefly, refusing to give in to the memories of strong hands and muscled backs. "Didn't even ask for anything. I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man." He had another agenda- he wouldn't normally do something like this for free.

"And here you are," Mycroft said bitterly. "The dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees." He stood, and gave a jerky half-bow. "Nicely played." There was a weariness to the lines of his body, as he turned away in defeat.

The rush of victory crashed over Irene, almost comparable to the heady sensations Sherlock could cause in her with one look, or a single fingertip. The juxtaposition soured the win- in an overwhelming instant, she reflected on what she had to lose, here, where she was supposed to be bulletproof.

"No."

The rough, fatal word sliced through her, bringing with it a surge of fear.

"Sorry?" she asked, even as Mycroft's face lightened with hope. In that moment she cursed Sherlock, damned him, raged against him. In the next, she found herself in awe. There was something coming, something brilliant, something that would take her beautifully crafted plan and shatter it into worthless shards at her feet. She could feel in thrumming through her body- she was over, done for, and yet, it hadn't happened yet.

In his armchair, seated but still the focus of the room, Sherlock turned his head toward them, face twisted in a sort of sneer. "I said no. Very, very close, but no."

I'm done for, Irene thought.

Sherlock rose swiftly and fluidly, stalking toward her. "You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much." You didn't plan for me, Irene. I'm more than you could have known. And you made a mistake.

"No such thing as too much," she replied, on reflex. Dear gods, Sherlock, don't do this to me.

He came even closer to her, eyes impassive from his height. "Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game, I sympathize entirely. But sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side." I know why you did this. And I know why you lost.

His face was different, fierce. She had never been on the other side of his deductions, never seen that face with teeth bared dangerously. It aroused her, but didn't calm the quiver of fear under her ribs.

"Sentiment? What are you talking about?" she asked, fighting to keep her calm. No. Sherlock, no.

"You." His face was as intense as she had ever seen it, even in the bedroom. He was deducing her, taking her, studying her, stripping her of her armor and skinning her alive until he could see into her flawed and exposed soul.

It enraged her- she wanted to protect the last vestiges of dignity that she retained. Full of hopeless (no it wasn't love it couldn't be impossible not with him not with her) fury she bared her own teeth, keeping her face calm while she did the same to him.

High intellect- bullied heavily in school. Lack of interpersonal relationships. Mocked- and hates being mocked so he intimidates everyone until they are too terrified to make fun of him. The quickest way to humiliate Sherlock Holmes is to not only make fun of him, but to prove him wrong.

"Oh dear God," she trilled, a mocking tease in her voice. "Look at the poor man. You didn't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?" Each word was like a barb, to her. But strangely, inversely, Sherlock wasn't responding.

He was resisting her last and only defense.

"No," he told her, voice horribly soft. He moved closer, until their bodies were almost touching. In the cold room, she could feel the heat of him as her body reacted to his intimate position. Her mind remembered the way he smelled, the sense of vulnerability that tickled at the back of her mind when she registered his height and the wry power of his slender body. Against her will, her breath caught and her nipples hardened. It grew worse when his long fingers captured her wrist in a gentle grasp, twining around her body to bring his mouth to her ear.

"Because I took your pulse," he whispered, breath hot on the shell of her ear.

Kneeling between his thighs and holding his hand, asking him if he had ever loved anyone.

The delicious confusion on his face as he tried to register her question.

The feel of her pulse thudding though her body, at her neck, at her temples, at her wrists.

Two firm fingertips on the underside of her wrist.

She remembered. She made a small keening sound, inaudible to anyone but Sherlock. He tightened his grip on her wrist, and now she could feel in real-time the pounding of her blood in her veins against the firm pressure of his fingertips.

"Elevated," he said, and she through sense memory she could feel the rumbling in his chest as he spoke.

Her naked back against his front as they cuddled and he lectured her on his latest experiment

Her head resting on the sparsely haired expanse of chest, listening to the thud of his heart and the vibrations of his voice.

"Your pupils, dilated," he finished, staring down at her (undoubtedly dilated) eyes. He released her with no warning, leaving a sudden coolness on her ear and wrist.

He leaned past her to pluck her phone from the table, speaking rapidly as he walked away. "I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive." She felt compelled to follow him, misery and panic building and pushing at her ribs.

Sherlock faced her again, face merciless. "When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you- the combination to your safe, your measurements. But this-" he tossed her phone in the air and caught it deftly. "This is far more intimate."

With a few clicks of the buttons, he had brought up the locked page. "This is your heart…" he said, eyes not leaving hers and he punched in keys.

She hoped, desperately, he had guessed wrong, that this elaborate show and agonistic worry that he had put her through was all for nothing.

He punched in the first number. "And you should never let it rule your head." I know.

Oh god, he knows.

"You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for," he continued, inputting the second number. You chose to make this game fair. You shouldn't have done that, Irene.

"But you just couldn't resist it, could you?" Her panic was showing- her respirations per minute rose, and her fists clenched. "I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage." He put in the third number. "Thank you for the final proof."

She couldn't help herself- despite all her wishes to not appear weak, she grabbed his hand, and looked up at him, begging with her eyes.

She was done for- she wasn't foolish enough to believe that Sherlock would lose for love. He hated losing. And she deserved it. It was the game, after all. But she had a chance to beg for mercy.

"Everything I said- it's not real." I love you and you know it you bastard. This was the game. "I was just playing the game." This was the game, not us. Her voice was quiet, heartbreakingly soft.

He responded in kind. "I know," he whispered. I know. I know. He pulled out of her grasp and typed in the final number. "And this is just losing." He turned the phone toward her, letting her see what he had written.

It was a lost fight, holding back the tears. She let them out, showing him her weakness.

I AM

LOCKED

The play on words had seemed so clever at the time, an admission of sentiment without actually having to admit it. On cold nights in America she had wondered what would happen if Sherlock guessed, if he would realize the depths of her feelings. She had fantasized about arriving home one day and find him waiting for her, telling her that he had unlocked her phone and that she meant the same to him.

Sherlock gave the phone to Mycroft, still meeting her eyes.

I'm not sorry for unlocking it.

You've killed me.

I'm sorry for causing you pain.

You signed my death warrant.

I don't want you dead.

I don't believe you.

"There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight." Sherlock swallowed roughly.

"I'm certain they will," Mycroft replied, a rather slimy grin on his face.

I don't want you hurt.

Too bad. That phone was my protection and you just gave it to someone else.

"If you're feeling kind, lock her up. Otherwise, let her go. I doubt she'll survive long without her protection." Sherlock said, turning and leaving.

There you are. Admit that you just killed me, lover of mine.

Irene stared after him. "Are you expecting me to beg?" she asked, angrily.

Sherlock met her eyes again. "Yes."

It went against every instinct.

"Please," she said finally, cords in her neck standing out from clenching her jaw. "You're right." He looked at her. "I won't even last six months."

I'll have you right here on this desk until you beg for mercy twice.

There you are, Sherlock- I've begged you for mercy twice.

Do you feel anything for me?

His eyes, those eternal conundrums of ice blue and pale green softened with- something. "Sorry about dinner."

Dinner.

He- he feels something too.

Sherlock left Mycroft's office with the feeling that his world had been completely flipped on its side by Irene Adler.

The betrayal had been hollow, the realization that she had done this.

The humiliation had been gutting, the rise of horror at the idea that he could be fooled so easily.

And finally, the earth shattering pain that had the mere idea of what he had shared with Irene being nothing but a job to her.

"I don't trade in sex, Sherlock," Irene said, voice serious for once instead of playful. She was propped up on one elbow, mirroring his position. There was a sheet draped over where her and Sherlock's legs were tangled together in a shapeless mass.

"You're a dominatrix." He didn't bother keeping the confusion out of his voice. "Pardon me for not knowing exactly what it is that you do."

She dragged her fingers through her hair. "I deal in humiliation. Pain, ridicule, emotional release. These people, these powerful men and women, fall into three main types, although they do overlap a bit. There are those who are placed in positions of stress daily. They make decisions that get people killed, topple governments, and sabotage revolutions. There is so much pressure on them, at all time. They are in the public eye, they need to be perfect and in control and right all the time."

"So you take the responsibility for a while," Sherlock surmised, the light of learning in his eyes.

Irene nodded, gifting him with a smile. "Exactly. While they're with me, I'm in charge. I decide what they wear, what they do. They have to obey me unconditionally. They tell me what they did, what they are ashamed of, what they struggled with. They ask for my approval of their decisions. They need someone to tell them they did well. And I tease them and manipulate them to a point that when they do find release, it is the kind that makes them black out. Their orgasms are so strong that they are boneless, they don't have to think. They are free of whatever was plaguing them, and are free to continue their work unhindered."

"And you get plenty of state secrets in the process," added Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," Irene admitted, laughing. "I do. But my point is that I don't have sex with them. I use my hands and my toys on them. I hardly have to touch them to bring them to the point of almost losing themselves in lust. I am their superior, not their equal. Sex is something for equals, a thing of beauty, a type of emotion that must be equally present on both sides to be fulfilling."

Sherlock reached out and caressed her face, almost shyly. "What we have."

"Yes," Irene said.

"What about the others?" he asked. "The other groups?"

She hesitated, then forged on. "Those are the masochists, the ones who get off on pain. I whip them, I hit them, I humiliate them. I make them look into their souls and see what they hate about themselves, and I use pain to purify them. It's their penance. For the man who hates himself for abandoning his morals to politics, I become the physical manifestation of his hate. I torture him for it, until he has atoned for his perceived sins. They don't need sex to add to their guilt- I simply provide pain."

Sherlock was silent, absorbing the information. "And the last group?" he asked finally.

"The kinky ones," she said. "The men who like dressing like women, the rich poppets who are figuring out if they like girls or not. Usually, they'll also fall into one of the other two categories, but sometimes they really just want someone to tie them up and speak dirty. The girl whose pictures you were trying to find was one of those."

"So the sex is something different for you?" Sherlock asked. His tone was casual, but face and body language told her a different story.

Quickly making her mind up, Irene leaned in and kissed him. When she pulled away, she stayed close. "Sherlock, I'm gay. Normally, I mean. I prefer women to men, and always have. Except for you. Yes the sex is different, because up until now, I've only ever had sex with women."

When he arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock ignored John and secluded himself in his room.

He folded his long legs into a tailor's seat, keeping his back straight as he delved into his mind palace.

It was organized like a true palace- there were three floors above ground, and one below. The ground floor was where he was usually- basic knowledge in the center. John occupied the North Wing. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson shared the South Wing. Whatever case he was working on, the East Wing. His work, his experiments and all the relevant scientific knowledge the West Wing.

Below that floor were his secrets, the bad things. He didn't like going there.

On the second floor was all his studies, all his obscure facts, held in an enormous library. The entire floor was the library, lined with shelves of books and neatly divided into categories. It had taken him the better part of two weeks to build it, and he was always adding books.

The third floor was memories. His memories, all the things that were important to him. They were represented in various ways- high school was in one room, but individual memories were paintings or statues.

Irene Adler had half of that floor.

He had made a study of her, building her a suite of rooms in the glorious style of her house in Belgravia. In the sitting room, there was a large painting of her standing before him nude. In a case were a pair of marquise cut diamond earrings, and a pair of black and red heels.

Going through that room was a hall of portraits, each with a specific memory attached to it. He spent an hour there, adding new ones.

Irene lying asleep in his bed, hair wet from his shower.

Irene in only his blue dressing gown.

Irene, the way she looked as she kneeled before him, holding his hand, her face surrounded by firelight.

Irene, in full makeup and black dress, inside the airplane.

Irene, eyes full of tears as he showed her his phone.

Past that was another room full of display cases. Her riding crop was there. The dress she had worn the night of their first dinner. His coat. A camera phone. He added another, unlocked one.

In a fourth room was dinner. Plates of food, restaurant receipts, chocolate mousse. He added tea, the kind he had given her in the flat.

And in the fifth room, was sex. Each touch, each kiss, each separate encounter and the conversations that followed, in a painting.

The look of wonder on Irene's face the first time he had entered her.

Her body above him, head tilted back.

How she looked under him.

Every time they had loved one another, inside one room.

He poured through every memory he had of Irene Adler, the mysterious woman who had done the impossible and made him feel.

Was it real?

Did she love me?

Was she faking it?

The raised pulse and dilated pupils- some other cause?

How long has she been working for Moriarty?

The next morning, John knocked on the door and walked in, saw Sherlock in his thinking mode, and walked out. Mrs. Hudson insisted on leaving plates of food and cups of tea that went cold and untouched.

On the second day, Sherlock unfolded his painful limbs and pulled himself under the bedcovers to sleep. He rose when John did, went into the kitchen, drank tea, and pretended everything was normal.

It wasn't.

He had a world-class dominatrix to find and protect.

Irene spoke only basic Urdu, but she understood much more. The men who had caught her were talking quickly, but she still managed to get the gist of the conversation.

They knew who she was, who she had worked for, who she had threatened. More importantly, perhaps, her line of work.

The punishment for prostitution was death.

When she was politely shown to her cell (they didn't believe in being rude to prisoners, which she was thankful for), Irene know that in three days she would be dead. And in two parts- head and body.

As the sun rose on the third day, the polite man who had informed her in heavily accented English that she was to be beheaded asked if she had any requests.

"A bath, if you could," she said. "Some clean clothes. And- my phone. For a last message."

The man coughed lightly. "The water and the clothing can be arraigned. The phone, tonight. We can't risk you calling for help. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," Irene said, inclining her head. "Thank you."

The water was lukewarm, but it felt wonderful to wash away the grime and the sweat of fear. The clothes were 'proper' garments for a women, black and heavy. But they were clean, if worn, and she put them on gratefully. She was left alone to "make her peace with her God."

So… my great game has come to an end.

Who is my God? Who do I make peace with? I don't believe in Allah, or in Yahweh, or in God. I don't believe in reincarnation, or any sort of life after. This is it. At least I made my mark on the world.

Sherlock Holmes will remember me forever. He memorized me, he promised he wouldn't delete me. I'll live on, young and beautiful in his mind palace until he dies. A memorial in memory. If it was to be anyone's, I would choose Sherlock Holmes.

He's my god. In the end, I couldn't hate him, not with how much I love him and how thoroughly I understand him. We were playing the game, and I lost. No room for spoiled feelings. I'm sure he feels the same.

Funny, that. I'm his. He's mine. He told me once that I was "The Woman" when we weren't together. Sherlock has very specific relationships with everyone. I'm the Woman, John's the Best Friend, Mycroft is the Family, Mrs. Hudson is the Caretaker, Lestrade is the Colleague. It all works perfectly in his head.

So. I should make my peace with Sherlock Holmes. Once last message before I die.

I'll just tell him goodbye. He'll understand when the news of my death reaches him

When it was dark, they led her to cleared area. A heavy man with beefy hands forced her to her knees, although she would have done it herself (with far more grace) it he had just let her be. He, apparently, was the most angry at the victim.

With a shaky hand, she typed out her last message, ignoring the man who was telling to her give him the phone. She was uneasily aware of the man behind her a bit to her side, holding a short sword. Her executioner.

Goodbye, Mr. Holmes

She pressed send, then gave up her phone. The man with the sword came to stand behind her, bringing the silver blade up and down slowly in measured practice swing.

Oh, god. I'm going to die.

She couldn't quite fight the tears, so she closed her eyes. As cowardly as it seemed, she no longer cared about facing the end of her life with all her dignity intact. She didn't have to see her own death coming.

And then she heard her sighing moan echoing though the chamber.

Sherlock.

Her eyes snapped open, and she turned her head to look at her executioner.

Blue-gray eyes. Sherlock. My lovely, lovely Sherlock.

"When I say run, run," he whispered. She nodded, and turned around, presenting him with the back of her neck again.

She could hear the whistle of air as he brought the blade up, and then his movements as he turned on the man next to him.

Irene waited until that man fell, quickly unstrapping his gun and hoisting it up to her own shoulder. With two careful shots, she took out the man who was aiming at Sherlock with a rifle and another man who was heading toward her. Sherlock cut down another man with his sword.

She ran to the camera man, pointing the gun at him. "Give me the camera," she ordered. It was a teenager, with hardly enough fuzz on his face to be called a beard. "Now!"

The boy thrust it at her, and ran.

"Get in the car!" Sherlock yelled at her, chopping at another man. "The keys are in the ignition."

She ran to the vehicle, starting it quickly and setting the gun on her lap. "Come on!" she shouted back. "Let's go!"

With one more brutal downswing, he ran for the car. She covered him with a spray of shots, hitting a few of those who were chasing Sherlock. However, his long legs did the job and he was soon in the car and then were backing away, speeding down a dark road.

"Are they following us?" Irene asked, heart pounding terribly, terribly fast.

Sherlock shook his head, curls flying everywhere. "No. I disabled their other vehicles. It would take them hours to get more resources. We're safe."

The night air in the outskirts of Karachi was warm, and carried the scents of the city. Irene tilted her head back against the seat, and let out a shaky laugh. "Safe. Thank you, Sherlock."

She looked over at him, and they shared a rare smile. "It was my pleasure. Irene."

"Where are we going?" she asked, looking away as they came to a crossroad. "Into the city or away?"

"I have a room near the center of the city," Sherlock told her. "With clothes and a proper shower. I brought some clothes for you, too." He rubbed at his shoulder. "We need to abandon this car. I have another one a short while away."

True to his word, there was a nondescript and dusty car parked by the side of the road. "Not stolen- a miracle," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He slid into the driver's seat, and Irene shakily went to the passenger's side.

They were silent for the entirety of the ride to the hotel. The crowded city streets were packed, and if she hadn't been gripping the folds of the robe she was wearing tightly her hands would have been shaking.

For his part, Sherlock was silent, except for the slightly muffled tapping sound of his fingers drumming on his leg. He was still flushed, and breathing hard from the exertion. Irene's mind flashed to images of him, a red flush in his cheeks and breathing hard as he worked over her. It was a hazard of her profession- thinking about the bedroom all the time. She laughed to herself, then realized it was aloud.

Sherlock looked at her strangely. "We are here," he stated briskly. "Ground floor." He parked awkwardly- she remembered that Sherlock disliked driving. He had admitted to her one night that he would only drive when he absolutely had to.

She was interrupted from her musings when Sherlock opened her door, looking down at her. "Are you coming?"

"Yes," she said, letting out a slow breath. "I'm just a little- just a little shaky."

He didn't make any comments, just offered an arm to help her down from the seat. He allowed her to cling to him as they entered the hotel through a side door, and began walking down a long corridor to their room.

The hotel room was the twin of hotel rooms everywhere- it was done in tones of gold and brown, a painting of a vase and fruit hanging over a queen sized bed with starched white sheets. There was a bathroom tucked into a corner, and a large window hung with heavy dark gold drapes. It was pleasant, impersonal, and safe. She let go of Sherlock and sat on the bed. .

"I need to take a shower," she said, glancing at the bathroom door. "Did you bring any soap?"

He looked a bit disappointed, but nodded, crossing the room in swift strides to pull a black toiletry bag from his suitcase. "Here."

"Thank you," she said, brushing his hand with hers when she accepted the bag. He nodded briskly.

The bathroom was tiny, but had a proper tub and shower. She stripped, removing the black clothes and folding them neatly. The bag Sherlock had given her contained the soap he used, and pleasantly, the normal brand of shampoo and conditioner that she had used before.

Originally, her plan had been to use his soap, but he had made such a nice gesture that she felt no compunctions about using her old shampoo. The cool water that wet her hair and poured over her neck and shoulders was a relief after the heat of the city; still, she was grateful when it warmed.

She showered quickly, turning off the water and wringing out her hair before stepping out. On the back of the door, hanging from a hook, was Sherlock's blue dressing gown. Irene hadn't heard him come in- the rusty old pipes of the hotel had been too loud.

When she emerged from the bathroom in a small cloud of steam, Sherlock stared at her with his normal inscrutable gaze. He was seated at the small desk in the corner of the room, hair damp and in a fresh pair of slacks and a tight purple button-down shirt. Irene glanced at the door she had ignored earlier in her perusal of the room- apparently it led to another room, with another shower.

A rough sound was Sherlock coughing. "I will go out and get food," Sherlock said jerkily. "I-"

"No," Irene said quietly, standing and walking toward him. She put a hand on his chest, admiring the purple shirt with some part of her mind. "I'm not hungry. Are you?"

Sherlock stared down at her. "No," he said, voice dipping lower.

She smiled up at him sadly. "Why would you want to have dinner if you aren't hungry?"

His hand rose to cover hers where it rested on his chest. She could feel his heart beating quickly, the fast thumps reminding her of the beat of a hummingbird's wings. "Is it the end of the world?"

Irene's face grew solemn. "The very last night?"

"I would have dinner with you," Sherlock whispered, long fingers stroking the back of her hand.

They were standing in the middle of the room, staring into each other eyes, understanding them fully.

I forgive you.

I'm sorry.

Me too.

It was fun, wasn't it?

The outcome wasn't.

True.

We lost time.

What do you suggest?

You know what they say about making up lost time…

Slowly Sherlock brought his other arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him and trapping their other hands between them. He brought his head down, kissing her gently, eyes open.

Irene responded in kind, moving her lips and tongue in languorous, sensual movements. Her other hand went to his shoulders, as she tilted her head to deepen their kiss.

It was achingly sweet, the kiss of separated lovers relearning habit that had been relegated to memory. He tasted so familiar to her, so much like Sherlock that it almost brought the banished tears back.

When he pulled away slowly, sucking lightly at her lower lip before resting his head on her forehead, Irene sighed.

"I missed you," she admitted, a trace of sheepishness finding its way into her voice.

"And I, you," he responded. "Irene." Her name was obviously savored, by the way his voice caressed it and he smiled slightly.

Irene laughed softly. "Who would ever think you would miss me? The great Sherlock Holmes…"

"Who fell for a woman," Sherlock whispered. "It's confounding, the relationship between how much you put me through and how much I care for you. Any normal person would hate you by now."

"You aren't normal," said Irene seriously. "Any normal person wouldn't understand this."

Sherlock's hand stroked her back. "You aren't exactly normal yourself," he said, a wry smile quirking up the corner of his lips.

"And that's why you-" she had been about to say 'love,' but paused. She looked at him questioningly. Love me?

He understood. "Yes," he said simply.

Irene closed her eyes as her emotions overwhelmed her. That's probably as close to a declaration of love that I'm ever going to get from this man. And it's okay- we said it ourselves, we aren't normal. That was Sherlock Holmes telling me loves me. I know it, he knows it, and it doesn't matter that we'll probably never say the words aloud.

Instead of saying anything else, she stretched up and kissed him, moving her hand from his chest so that she could fully mold herself to his body.

After she pulled away, she ran her fingers through his damp curls and stepped back. "We should talk."

"We can talk after," Sherlock said seductively, although Irene was sure the allure was completely unintentional and just the product of her overactive imagination.

She allowed herself to be pulled back into his embrace. "After what?" she asked, quirking an eyebrow. Do you have the guts to say it, laddiebuck?

Sherlock lowered his head to kiss at the place her jawbone met her neck. "After we misbehave," he whispered in her ear.

"You are not getting out of talking about this later, my dear," she told him as firmly as she could, under the influence of his hands and lips. "Understood?"

He chuckled. "Yes, Ms. Adler."

"You should've brought my riding crop," Irene gasped, digging her nails into his biceps even though she was overjoyed he was joking with her.

Sherlock kissed her mouth again, the fingers of one hand tracing a pattern on the back of her neck. He pulled away gently, waiting until he had her full attention to speak. "If you want to, we can discuss things now. I wouldn't want you to think I'm using sex to distract you."

"Are you?" she asked carefully.

Sherlock flushed a bit. "No. I had actually planned to talk before, but-" he stopped and cleared his throat. "I- um, I-"

Innocently quizzical, Irene looked up at him, keeping her smirk at bay. "Yes?"

He flushed more. "I was… taken aback by how eager I was to- how much I wanted- um, the level-"

"How much you wanted to… misbehave?" she asked, struggling not to laugh and hurt his feelings. "You can say it, Sherlock." She said it like a challenge, and he responded.

Sherlock's eyes- his disquieting eyes of many colors- flashed and he made a low noise Irene couldn't identify. "I had planned to talk, but I hadn't accounted for how much I might- how much I might want you. First."

She wound her arms around his neck to pull herself up and kiss him. "I'm flattered," she whispered. "Truly, Sherlock. To make a man of your self-control break his plan because he desires me… that is the kind of power I revel in."

"Is it power?" he murmured lips grazing her neck. "Should I be worried?"

Irene laughed, low and throaty. "You have the same power over me," she admitted. "I call a truce."

"So be it," Sherlock agreed.

He knew, even as he finally sunk onto the bed with Irene Adler in arms, that their night in Karachi would become a defining moment in his life. He had known it when he met John- when John shot a man for him. That night had solidified his bond with the soldier.

For Irene Adler, the night that he admitted to himself that he might go beyond merely caring for her was the night she became his- the night he finally had someone. He embraced the knowledge that she would forever remain a part of him fully, with no reservations. Yes, there was unfinished business but he was summarily convinced that the business would be resolved by the next night. The questions unanswered gave the night a kind of sharp relief- the warning that it might be the last, depending on words that would come with sunlight. Sherlock cared and yet didn't care at the same time- even if it was his last night with Irene Adler, she had changed him. Was changing him.

It was like their first night together, where he had been completely entranced by her body and her reactions. Now he had to relearn her body- she had lost weight on her run, and had obtained a few new and interesting scars.

She seemed lovelier than she had before. There was a chemical reaction with serotonin and oxytocin that was probably to blame, but when he was occupied with her skin and breasts he could hardly be expected to remember it.

It was the first night he demanded anything of her.

"Tell me." Say it aloud. Tell me what I already know.

"You're mine." You belong to me, Sherlock Holmes. You have me.

"And?" What else? I know but please…

"I'm yours." I love you.

"Mine." You are mine, Irene. I love you.

"Only as much as you're mine." I love you too.

They would probably never say it outright, but that was fine with them. John wouldn't have understood it.

John wouldn't understand none of it, and Sherlock wouldn't expect him to. Mycroft, perhaps, could conceive such a thing. Sherlock doubted he would, unless given enough information to piece it together. Moriarty would understand- and it suddenly became more important to keep themselves hidden.

But on that night, that last long night in Karachi, it wouldn't matter. No one mattered- not Moriarty, not Mycroft, not John. Perhaps not even Sherlock and Irene. All that mattered was the sense of perfection, the illusion of wonder and connection and the physical affirmation.

When Sherlock and Irene fell into an exhausted sleep, they were wound about each other tightly, in spirit as well as body.

Distance and time would not separate them. Nor would games or alliances.

Their relationship was different, strange, and indecipherable to anyone but themselves. Beyond the ken of mortals. It transcended the merely physical, to become indelible, like the men in myths of old who gave up bodies for immortality among the stars. Unlike the ephemeral bonds of those who could flit between mates like bees from flower to flower, Sherlock and Irene were it.

She was The Woman, and that was the end.

I hoped you liked my (not so) little story. If you did, please leave a review. If you have constructive criticism, also, please leave a review.

If you have something you want to ask a question about and receive a response, I'm on tumblr. Find me on my author's page. :) Also there is my other Sherlock/Irene story.

Thank you for reading, and to those who review or favorite, thank you also.