(Set: After events of s2.e1. and Before s2.e3.)

Sherlock gently shut the door on the Baker residence. The turkey noodles he suggested to John yesterday worked a treat, the typtophan sending him into a long, peaceful sleep.
The Tube was relatively quiet, statistically people skip Mondays more than any other day. He amused himself by calculating the mundane details around him: the raindrop which would win the race, the trains which would come in late, nothing was lost on him. Unfortunately, that meant he got bored alot. The dopaminergic pathways in his brain were equally as active as those in any addict, waiting on that next hit of danger and intrigue. He anxiously knitted his fingers in unusual patterns.

He wasn't nervous. He was just apprehensive.

The disguise worked, no one noticed him. Or rather, hooded gentlemen were such a common sight, people were used to pretending they didn't exist. Ah, children, what an adorable sense of entitlement, the only real respect is for oneself, as adults soon learn. Because everyone leaves, eventually. All you have, the only person who knows your story, is yourself.
He blinked, train journeys always inspired a touch of melancholia. And he wouldn't think about John. It wasn't a betrayal, only an omission.

He lied in wait round the back. A barkeep came out for a cigarette. Sherlock, whipping off the hooded garment and throwing it in the opposite as a distraction whooshed past the young guy and in the open door. By the time the man had spun around, there was only a door, which Sherlock locked behind him.

"So..." came the smokey drawl of the female, the only occupant of the entire private club.

"So." Sherlock nodded respectfully and placed a hand on the chair he stood defensively behind.

"You snuck out for me. Like a teenage boy. Hoping to get lucky?"

"Hardly. I'd rather talk."

"Let's hope you're good at oral... communication. Maybe we could cuddle after."

"I have a flatmate, if I want a cuddle I'll use him. Don't you want to speak to me?"

"I'd rather speak to your body. You summoned me here, and like a genie, I am here."

"Magical. My mind is all I need stimulated. Your sexist expectations of mens' demands are disappointing. Good suggestion, by the way. The last place anyone would suspect. A secreted bar behind a sex club, for someone like me."

"Like you? No, I don't believe that. Sex is a subject, you need a good teacher."

"Spoken like a true whore."

The Woman laughed richly. "Only you could get away with that. Offer's alwasy open. I'm ready and willing for your experimentation, Mr Holmes."

"Hardly an exclusive offer."

"It could be." she replied quietly, thoughtfully.

"Shall we get to the business at hand?"

"If you insist," she threw back her head as she rolled her eyes in an evocative display of her neck. Purposeful. Everything with her. Always deliberate.

"Tell me what I want to know."

"How about I tell you what I want you to know?"

"Insufficient. You have my attention, don't waste it."

"Oh," she pouted mischievously. "I know. Do you like my dress? Whodunnit?"

"The woman in the red dress," he glanced at her book on the table, fleur du mal, "in the library. Very good."

"I thought you'd like librarians. Intelligent men usually do."

"Distractions. And you could never pass for a librarian. Pelvic mobility too high, sclera capillaries unbroken, upper spinal weakness missing, stride thrice too long and the nails of a lady of leisure."

"For you, I'd never be a lady."

"Such a shame," she blanched a little.

"This should be a limerick," she chimed, "the virgin and the whore."

"A parable of the dangers of wild women? Unoriginal."

"I was thinking a story of redemption."

"Really? Then tell me something, confess a secret, to make you worthy of redeeming."

"Moriarty is currently being held captive by your brother."

Sherlock was taken aback, even Irene noticed the genuine surprise, denoted by an increase in pedal distance. "Go on."

"That is all I know, I swear. But any excuse to see you. How is the one with the rope in the stairwell going? Did he swing by the rafters from choice or from compulsion?"

"It was suicide. To the police. And so it shall remain. He's actually living out the rest of his years in New Zealand with a boyfriend-"

"Boyfriend?"

"Yes, boyfriend, whom he hid from his now widowed wife."

"That's kind of you, to let it rest. A quaver of an unsolved case."

"I know the answer, that's all I care about. A puzzle finitum. The rest is just paperwork. I've answered your questions, respond in kind."

"I don't know anything else."

"Who took him in? When? How long for? On what basis? Where is he being held? Why, why why?"

"The details are undisclosed. I only know because I got sent a text-"

Sherlock snatched the familiar phone. It read: Off to play with the Iceman at her Majesty's convenience, he's cute when he's hot and bothered, becomes a little Red Queen. Require a little time for my solo project, don't reply.

"Why send you this?"

"He wanted your number. I didn't tell him. Wanted your brother's too. Gave him it. Keep it in the family. At least his taste is consistent."

"He's planning something. yes, I know you know. Let me think, Woman."

"To ask for both of your numbers, it must involve both of you. If your brother is the easier target, it must be about you."

"How do I know you're not still working for him?"

"With, dearest. I was working with him, don't be sexist." she chided. "He wants me dead, after the password incident. I fail to reciprocate. You do the right thing, which in this case, coincides with my plans. For self-preservation."

"He didn't suspect?"

"No, not at all. It seems he was willing to believe a woman could succumb that easily to a man. As if I'd set it to something silly... god, really..."

"I appreciate it. Resetting it, I mean."

"Oh, don't mention it. Literally. Never again. Once you owned up to losing in front of that delightful fireplace, that was the victory I wanted. I have money, lots of it. Offshore."

"Intelligent people always do."

"Thank you."

"I'm surprised Mycroft fell for it though."

"He wanted to believe you have feelings, romantic attachments. And I was the perfect symbol of the tempting, devilish, wicked woman. Which is ridiculous, considering we hardly knew each other at that point. Now, however... look at you, a man doesn't save a woman when she got caught liberating enslaved courtesans for nothing."

"I agreed with your motives. I needed some new air. London smells better everytime I return."

"Especially the rain."

"Especially... now why is Moriarty after me this time?"

"Seems big, none of my contacts could come up with anything."

"Last time we met, he said he owed me a fall."

"A little obvious, don't you think? I can't imagine him lying in wait in a dark alley with a banana skin."

"I imagine the intellectual kind."

"He can't reduce you to a human level."

"Brain damage? Drugs?"

"No. Perception of your intelligence?"

"Yes. Likelier. He'd need to pull strings. Then again, he is liasing with my dear brother."

"He didn't tell you?"

"No. Nothing."

"Warn him."

"I will. Mycroft is equally as intelligent as me, he just blends in better, put his abilities to a different use: keeping secrets, rather than exposing them."

"Say that again. The exposing part."

"It seems Moriarty wants to expose me for something. But I've done nothing wrong."

"He'll frame you for something."

"I'd best be prepared when he does."

"Come on the run with me, it'll be fun. I'll make sure of it."

"No I must get back to my lifesize teddy bear, he should be waking up anytime soon."

She pouted. They shook hands and parted as equals.

Sherlock sat at the computer (John's) in 221B, minimised a few questionable tabs (one on a Jennifer Lawrence - ex girlfriend?, one on the proper jam to use in a scone and one on gifts "for the man who has everything") and began to research interrogation tactics for Mycroft. He texted Mycroft to arrange a meeting. He must warn him and despite their differences Mycroft did not take kindly to being personally manipulated, and protected family above all else. They'd fix this together, so Moriarty didn't see the recovery from his inevitable fall. A magic trick has three acts...

John wandered in yawning and asked why Sherlock was dressed. Sherlock pointed to the newspaper he'd bought and kept reading. John nodded, yawned again and sat down. Some headline about a hospital. "Bloody NHS again, spend-spend-spend. Why do you want to read that?"

"Cartoons."

Mycroft knocked at the door.

(Aware this is not my usual style of humour, too subtle, but those two are naturally restrained around one another. Just wanted to write this missing scene as I imagined it in my head. Feel free to ignore this one.)