AN: I apologize for the delay and any mistakes that I didn't catch. RL has been hectic. Also, I am completely overwhelmed by the enthusiastic response to this story. Thank you all so much.

Jim quickly handed control over to Moran, instructing him in what threats to make in various situations and the list of circumstances under which Jim was to be contacted. It was a huge amount of responsibility, more than Jim would ever give him under normal circumstances, but Jim trusted Sebastian with his criminal network much more than he trusted Adler with his John. He trusted Holmes with John more than Adler.

He gave his driver stern directions and found himself outside of 221B in a matter of minutes. Jim unlocked the door with they key he made after picking Holmes' pocket a few weeks ago. Jim froze when he saw the tableau in the sitting room.

Holmes had an arm around John's shoulder, his hand running carefully, gently through John's hair. John was asleep, his head resting against Holmes' chest. Jim was sorely tempted to remove Holmes from the couch in as painful a manner as possible, but Jim didn't want to disturb John, he looked so peaceful, and frankly it was probably better that John was not conscious for this conversation.

"Can I help you, Moriarty? I'm a little busy at the moment, so if this is a social visit it will have to wait," Holmes said, not looking away from John.

Jim reigned in his temper. Killing the best friend of the man he was trying to court would not go over well, no matter how many plausible and reasonable justifications he came up with to explain it.

"We may have a small emergency that needs delicate handling. Immediate delicate handling."

"'We'?"

"Yes, we. It affects both of us."

"What could possible fall under that category?"

"The Woman."

Sherlock's spine stiffened and he looked at Jim for the first time since the criminal consultant since he had entered the flat. His ice-blue eyes were cold. "What did you do, Moriarty?"

"I called her for a consultation on an issue in her area of expertise. She gave me the answer I was expecting." And there was the 2x4 again. Why did people describe being in love as pleasant? So far, it had only been painful. "Apparently, after our discussion, she decided to pay a visit to London. Specifically, she decided she needed to pay a visit to a certain doctor."

Holmes recited a string of impressive and rather inventive French epithets. "I can ask Mycroft to take preventative measures. Knowing Adler, it won't stop her for long, but it might delay her long enough to buy us some time." A deep sigh. "I'm going to owe him a favor. I loatheowing Mycroft favors."

"I'll sabotage a government project in a way that requires a man on the ground. He should call you to deal with it," Jim offered while Sherlock texted one handed, careful not to jostle John.

"When did this conversation occur?" Sherlock asked, staring at his screen waiting for a reply.

Jim looked at his watch and swore (Romanian was his romance language of choice). "Half an hour. Odds are she's already on her way here."

"Surely she couldn't have..."

"It's Irene. Of course she could have. And she did."

A beep from Sherlock's phone. "So she did. However, Mycroft's men appear to have been relatively competent for once. Adler has been detained, and they should be able to hold her for twenty-four hours."

The two decided that all future planning could be done electronically, as Sherlock was tired of looking at Jim, and Jim was uncomfortable with how long he'd left Moran alone. It seemed quite the reasonable plan at the time – they knew they had at least twelve hours before they had to work something out.

Sherlock and Jim, as was typical when they dealt with Irene, were wrong.

The call woke Jim from one of his infrequent nights of sleep. He glanced at the clock, bleary eyed. 8 AM. Everyone knew not to wake Jim before 10 on days he managed to sleep. It made him grumpy. No onewas happy if Jim was grumpy.

He contemplated ignoring it, putting a hit out on the caller, and then going back to sleep, but then the ring-tone sunk in. "The Boy is Mine"

Holmes was calling. There was only one reason Sherlock would ever willingly call Jim, and the reason was named John Watson.

"You need to come to Baker Street. Now," Sherlock ordered sharply before disconnecting.

Jim didn't waste any time on getting dressed, and was on the doorstep of 221 Baker Street in his flannel pajamas fifteen minutes later. He let himself in an once again froze when he saw what, or rather, who, was on the couch.

"You!" he hissed.

"Me," Irene said cheerfully, ankle propped up on a series of cushions. "I did tell you I'd be here in the morning"

Sherlock was sitting on his chair in the corner by the fireplace, tuning his violin whist muttering the incompetence of his brother and his brother's minions.

"Morning Jim," John said, emerging from the kitchen with a package of frozen vegetables (peas) wrapped in a dishtowel. "Sorry about the delay, Ms. Adler, but I had to navigate around some frozen items I wasn't expecting."

By the glare he gave Sherlock, Jim would have bet almost anything that the frozen items were body parts. Judging by John's subconscious fiddling, Jim would say that they had been ears.

"Miss, actually. And please call me Irene," she said, flashing him her most charming smile.

Sherlock visibly bristled, and Jim knew he's expression probably wasn't much better. The detective spoke first, however.

"Irene, if you don't leave now, I'll be forced to take drastic action."

"Please," Irene rolled her eyes. "The last time you and I went head to head, you ended up handcuffed naked to a headboard. Did you know that the maid sent me a thank you note?"

Sherlock sputtered indignantly, his tuning becoming slightly more violent. John raised his eyebrows, blushing slightly as he placed the improvised cold compress on Irene's ankle.

"And don't you even start, Jimmy. The score was 5 to 1 last time I checked and I still have that photo of you from university."

Jim shut his mouth. It was 5 to 2, in actuality, but he wasn't willing to correct her while she still had that picture. He'd sent one of his people in disguise to hire Sherlock to get it back a few years ago. It had not ended well.

"You know Jim, too?" John asked, turning to look at the man in question, taking in his attire for the first time. "Ah, Jim?"

"Yes, John?"

"What's left of my clothes are in Sherlock's room. I don't have much after that experiment, but you're welcome to help to help yourself to what's there. You'll probably need a belt and the shirts will be a bit baggy, but at least they'll fit. Mostly."

Jim considered protesting for the sake of his pride, but he thought it through.
Wearing clothes that smelled like John. Covering his body in items that had touched John's bare skin. Having a chance to induct (the proper term, thank you) what each stain meant, piece together John's life from the clues within the fabrics. In short, yes.

"You need more clothes," was all Jim offered after walking out of Sherlock's room. It was all he could manage without risk of beaming, what with his being surrounded by smells and tactile sensations that were so clearly John.

"I don't really have the cash to being doing that for at the moment," John said, looking rather embarrassed about it. He was also staring fixedly at Jim, seemingly mesmerized by the sight of the man in his own clothes. The dilation of his pupils, change in breathing, and increased blood flow indicated his was aroused by the image.

Irene, watching John and Jim and Sherlock, broke into a wide smile. "Oh, I'm seeing it. I totally see it." She ignored the glares from both consultants. "Johnny, please allow me to take you shopping to thank you for helping me today. Sherlock's treat, of course, what with him being the one responsible for the destruction of your wardrobe. Although," she said, peering around the couch for a better look, "judging by what you have on and what Jimmy's wearing, he might have done the world a favor."

"About that Irene, what exactly is Johnny being thanked for?" Jim asked. "And what happened to your ankle?"

"It was awful. I was walking down the street when some muggers attacked me, and I tripped and fell during the process. Johnny here not only got my purse back, but he carried me up to his flat to doctor my ankle. Imagine my surprise when it turned out he happened to be the flat mate of my dear friend Sherlock."

"Arch-nemesis," Sherlock muttered. "Not friend. And if you were surprised, I'm a poodle."

"Well, with that hair…"Irene began smiling.

"Sherlock," said John attempting not to roll his eyes, "you can't have three archenemies. It's in the definition of the word. You only get one. You'll have to pick."

"Regardless, Irene, you can't take Johnny shopping with your injury," Jim added smugly. Jim had wanted to be the one to do that, damn it.

Irene hopped up off the couch. "Oh, look at that. All better! Come on now, Johnny. I promise you're in good hands. If you want examples of my former work, look at your boys over there." Noting John's look, she elaborated. "You don't think they dressed themselves like that when I met them? Heavens no! They had to be taught."

"Oh, bloody hell," said John, eyes widening. "I have to deal with three of you now, don't I?"

Irene giggled, dragging the reluctant, protesting doctor out the door behind her.

To the saleswoman in the store, the woman with the dark hair and mocha skin and the blonde man with the charming smile and impressively blue eyes were clearly a couple. The familiar touches, the laughter, the exasperated looks and sharp questions.

The saleswoman was an idiot of course, almost everyone was, but Jim could see how she could have made the mistake. He might have made it himself had he not been so close to the situation. The thought made his blood boil. Sherlock he could understand. Sherlock he could accept. But notthe woman. Neverthe woman.

"Jim," Sherlock whispered sharply beside him.

Jim glanced at Sherlock, who looked pointedly down at the phone in Jim's hand. The consulting criminal followed his gaze and was mildly surprised to discover he had cracked the display.

"If we were to, hypothetically of course, murder someone for touching our John, would we want to leave the body as a message, or ensure it wasn't discovered?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth as Irene's hands ghosted over John's hips and arse.

"In my professional opinion, the hypothetical body should be placed somewhere the types we would be concerned about frequent, but was outside the public eye."

"So, The Three Garridebs, for example, might serve as an ideal location? Hypothetically," (AN 3 Garridebs=seedy criminal bar place in this verse) Sherlock offered as Irene took the tape measure from the tailor and measured him herself. "Of course, while we do have to be concerned with the more mundane criminals, there are the larger syndicates to consider. In my experience, those require far more subtlety to be suitably intimidating."

"I find, with the right touch, incendiary devices can be very subtle."

"John wouldn't approve," Sherlock said, eyeing Jim cautiously. "I assume that's the only reason I'm still alive, given the conversation that brought Irene here. I know that I personally have calculated at least eighty-three ways to kill you and dispose of the body with no one the wiser."

"Do share. I'm only at seventy-five," Jim said, smiling his Cheshire smile. "I'd have no qualms over the destruction of anyone who was a threat to John. None whatsoever. But I know where you stand; you wouldn't hurt him, not intentionally. And once you had, all bets would be off. I have no such reassurances regarding Irene. Besides, you're distracting and entertaining, whereas Irene is just..."

"Annoying? Meddlesome? Interfering? Intrusive?" Sherlock offered.

"Yes," Jim said, smiling at Sherlock somewhat sincerely for the first time since the whole issue with John had begun.

Jim's phone pinged, and he and Sherlock were forced to duck behind a nearby jewelry counter to avoid detection. Stalking was, they had both learned from experience, not good, at least according to John's unwritten rules. They both glanced at the text message, nearly identical scowls crossing their faces as they read.

If you two are planning on murdering me to make a point, will you at least dump my body somewhere a little more classy? I mean honestly, The Three Garriebs? And when you torture me to death, if you would be so kind as to let my face be, it would be greatly appreciated ;)