A/N: Here's the first of the trigger warnings I promised. TW: mentions of drug use

Sherlock lay there for another hour and a half as Irene walked around the room, dressing herself in an elaborate costume that she had in one of her suitcases, glaring at her like a petulant child. He was still remarkably undressed, wearing only his boxers and, for some reason, a tie that he had no recollection of having in his possession prior to waking that morning. Irene, on the other hand, was wearing a prosthetic belly, thigh-high stockings, a black lace bra, and was pulling on a pair of underwear that looked far too flimsy to be of any use.

"Are you going to back down from this silly little game of yours?" she asked him as she strutted back to the bed and pulled on a loose-fitting blouse.

He gave a noncommittal shrug (as best as he could, lying down and having his hands tied above his head) and closed his eyes. Irene rolled her eyes and reached over him, hitting him in the cheek with her fake belly. "Lord have mercy on the poor thing that procreates with you."

Sherlock opened one eye. "What makes you assume I would ever procreate?" he inquired.

She glanced down at him. "I always supposed you would find someone and create a family in your own way."

He laughed. "I'm afraid that you are sorely mistaken in that supposition."

She unwrapped his right hand, bringing it down to his side before reaching over him to untie his left hand. The belly was dangerously close to completely covering his face now, but he made no indication that this was a problem. Knowing her, she probably would torment him with the prosthetic until she tired of it (likely never), so he held his tongue. Besides, he was relieved that his arms were finally free. He had been concerned about blood-flow to his fingers.

"Are you going to explain why you have me in this way?" Sherlock sighed.

Irene pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. "I would, but I think I would probably be a few steps behind you, Mr. Holmes."

"We are married. Why, pray tell, are we married?"

"How else was I going to get your attention?" she asked him as she flounced off to the bathroom.

Sherlock sat up, threw his legs over the side of the bed, planted his feet on the ground, and cradled his weary wrists in his lap. "You've been tracking Moriarty, haven't you?"

"I think it's quite the opposite," Irene explained as she stuck her head out of the bathroom.

"He's been tracking you. How?"

"I don't know. But he has been leaving clues. I figured you would probably find him here too. He's been leading you to this point."

"What makes you think that?"

"I know Jim. I know what he likes, and he likes you. And since I like you too, I figured Jim and I would meet up again in our pursuit of finding you. Because I know that you like solving puzzles, I knew that you would have followed this series of puzzles and we would all meet up here."

"You've put me in a very dangerous place, Irene," Sherlock informed her.

"Not really."

"How do you figure?"

"I told you, I have information that you need. You need that information to keep me safe. It works both ways. You don't even need to do anything except use the information. I just need your name and a marriage license and I'm safe. You have connections that I need."

"And you think that I'm going to help you?"

"You were quite keen last night."

"Drugs alter the mind."

"I would expect you to know that. I would expect you to be the master of that."

He eyed her warily. "And what might you be insinuating?"

"I know about the drug use, Sherlock," she stated plainly before she stepped into a pair of loose-fitting pants.

"I haven't used since I met John."

"If that's what you've been telling yourself."

He stood up and marched over to her. "I don't use anymore!" he hissed.

Irene grabbed his hand roughly, distracting him from her next move. She stepped down on his foot gingerly, and he let out a yelp of pain. "Don't think I don't know that trick," she growled. "I found the marks last night. Nothing too fresh; two weeks at least. But you've used those spots enough in the past to cause trouble with the nerves. Any sort of injury to the foot, no matter how minor, causes a considerable amount of pain. Don't lie to me, Sherlock. I know enough about you to know when you are."

Sherlock glared at her and ripped his hand away from her. "You have what you want. I'm unwillingly upholding my part in this. Where's your part?" he spat.

Irene nodded her head towards a stack of files bound together with rubber bands and paperclips. She turned and walked away from him as he gravitated towards the documents. He sat down and started pulling everything apart, not noticing when Irene left the room. By the time she returned, nearly seven hours later, he had the papers laid out all over the room. He had bothered to dress himself, pulling on his dark jeans and the light-colored t-shirt he had been wearing the previous day, but was still barefoot and his hair in disarray.

"Have you found anything of interest?" she asked him as she closed the front door behind her.

"Have you ever been to Santa Fe?" Sherlock asked, surprisingly responsive.

"Santa Fe?" Irene echoed as she stepped over a few piles of paperwork in the walkway. "No, why?"

"The last few crimes have been in major cities along the West Coast. He's been moving around the Pacific Rim. I wouldn't be surprised if the chain of crimes went all the way back to Polynesia, based on the pattern he's been following. Now, instead of going into Mexico, where I'm sure he'll end up, I think he's going to Santa Fe. If he isn't, we can follow him out of the States through Cuidad Juarez. It's all about strategic locations."

"We?"

"You think I'd leave you to your own accord with Moriarty around? How do I know you're not working with him?"

"He's trying to kill me," Irene explained.

"Is he one of your many friends?"

She nodded. "So, Santa Fe?"

"Yes."

"When do we leave?"

"Well, we should probably make plans to stay there for some time. A few months or so. We will need short-term lodging."

"Have you looked into this?"

He tossed her a notepad with a series of addresses on it. "I have calls in to each of these places. Best case, we will be able to leave the day after tomorrow."

Irene nodded in understanding and then stepped into the bathroom to freshen up. "We have reservations at 7:30," she called from the bathroom.

"Reservations for what?"

"Dinner…" she stated flatly. "Honestly…"

"Oh. I don't eat while I'm working."

"Well, you are going to eat."

"I see you're slipping into the controlling-wife role," Sherlock grumbled.

"I'm quite adaptable," she answered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gathered up the papers and put them back into their stacks before he bound them with paperclips and rubber bands, as he had found them. A glance at the clock showed that it was 6:50, meaning that they had forty minutes before they had to be at their reservation. "Is it a nice place?" he asked her.

Irene answered by gesturing to a stack of nicely wrapped boxes on the bed. Sherlock walked over and opened the boxes and found that she had gone out and purchased an outfit for him. He had to laugh when he found that she had dressed him, head-to-toe in black. "Do I need to provide my own frock?" he asked her.

"If you insist. Might raise some eyebrows."

She stepped out of the bathroom dressed in an outfit that Sherlock wouldn't expect a woman, pregnant or acting as though she were, to wear. "Stilettos whilst pregnant?" Sherlock questioned.

Irene smiled slyly as she worked to put her necklace on. "I always imagined that pregnancy wouldn't impede on my style."

Since Sherlock didn't necessary disagree with that justification, he dressed quickly and followed Irene out of the room. He realized, as they walked down the hallway to the elevator, that he honestly had no idea where he was. He could have looked at the notepad that he had jotted the addresses down on, but he had been so absorbed in the work that he hadn't noticed. "Where are we?"

She turned to look at him with an amused look. "You really are that oblivious, aren't you?"

He glowered at her. "Where are we?" he sighed.

"Caesars."

This received no reply. Instead, they made their way to the restaurant for their reservation without a word and had dinner in the same way.