A Scandal in Belgravia: Part Three

Shortly afterwards, Scarlett and John were sitting in the living room. John reading, Scarlett curled in her chair, worried as Sherlock came up the stairs. He stopped in the doorway living room, looking at them both.

"Hello." Scarlett greeted him. John did much the same.

Sherlock just stood there, his eyes roaming all around the living room, "You okay?" John asked.

Sherlock continued to scan the room for a long moment, then turned and walked back to the kitchen door, heading for his bedroom. All he said was, "Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time." Before his bedroom door slammed shut.

"Sherlock…" Scarlett sighed, looking a John, both of them at a loss.

The remainder of December ran into January and Sherlock, Scarlett concluded, was not himself.

That particular morning at Two-Two-One-B Sherlock was standing at the window in the living room, playing a sad lament on his violin. John walked into the room and sighed at the sight of him. Mrs Hudson walked across to the table and picked up the breakfast plates – Sherlock had touched none of his. John hummed resignedly as he took his jacket from the back of the chair and put it on. Sherlock stopped playing and picked up a pencil to make a notation on his music.

"Lovely tune, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson commented, "Haven't heard that one before."

"You composing?" John asked, although the answer was fairly obvious she would forgive John for his awful question if it meant they could have a decent conversation.

"Helps me to think." Sherlock replied shortly as he turned back to the window, lifted the violin and began to play the same tune again.

"What are you thinking about?" John coaxed.

Sherlock suddenly spun around and put the violin down. He pointed at John's laptop before rapidly saying, "The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five." Scarlett watched, happy to see him engaging.

"Yeah, it's faulty." John replied, "Can't seem to fix it."

Sherlock took out Irene's camera phone, "Faulty – or you've been hacked and it's a message." He pulled up the security lock with, 'I AM - LOCKED' screen.

"Hmm?" John queried.

She assumed that Sherlock typed: One-Eight-Nine-Five into the phone. The phone beeped warningly and the enthusiasm in Sherlock's eyes died.

"Just faulty." Sherlock replied as he turned away and picked up his violin again.

"Right." John answered, looking to Scarlett who felt herself floundering as Sherlock restarted his sad tune. "Right." The doctor repeated, "Well, I'm going out for a bit."

Sherlock didn't respond as John turned and walked to the kitchen where Mrs Hudson was tidying up. Scarlett joined them, feeling as though she shouldn't disturb Sherlock.

"Listen," John said to them both when she joined them in the kitchen. "Has he ever had any kind of…" He sighed, "...girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?"

"I don't know." Mrs Hudson replied.

"Not since I've known him." Scarlett answered. It was true, not once since she'd been with him had she known Sherlock to even go on a date. The concept was completely foreign to her.

John sighed in frustration, "How can we not know?"

"He's Sherlock." Their landlady offered in ways of reasoning, "How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?"

John smiled sadly to them both as he said bye, "Right. See ya." He trotted off down the stairs. Mrs Hudson looked at Sherlock playing his violin at the window, and then left the room.

A little while later Sherlock turned to the living room and made to exit the flat, "I'm stepping out for a bit, stay here." He said to her.

"Will do." She replied easily.

Break Line – POV Change – Break Line

He was following John. The doctor had decided to get into one of Mycroft's cars. Anything concerning Mycroft would be pointless he knew. It would be best to keep an eye on the situation, however. He got a cab and had the car followed at a safe distance.

He wondered vaguely if he should let Scarlett know where he was going. He decided against it. She had been keeping a close on him lately, ever since Christmas…

He was starting to concern her, he knew. Her concern was trivial and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. She needn't be worried, it was childish. He had thought that he had taught her to place all her feelings under the radar. To ignore them.

She was Empathic, though. As easy as he made it sound – to blot out emotion – he stopped to consider the fact that it wasn't just her own emotions she was feeling. She felt everyone else's too, as long as they were strong enough.

Could she pick up on what he was feeling over recent events? How could she when he didn't even know how to rationalise to himself how he was feeling? Maybe he should, at the very least, try to have a lengthy conversation with her once more. Perhaps that would ease her troubled mind.

He pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind as the cab arrived at an abandoned factory on a building site, somewhere in London. Scarlett would have to wait, getting John away from Mycroft was the task at hand now.

In the hollowed out factory it was easy to pinpoint the sound of voices. John, talking to his brother loudly. Only, when he climbed onto a platform on the level above the pair and hid amongst the steel pipes and other material he realised it was not Mycroft whom had summoned John.

"We're not a couple." John protested, as he often did.

"Yes you are." The reply was something he never thought he'd hear. "There...'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'"

How had she done it? More importantly, how had he not figured it out? He, Sherlock Holmes had been fooled by a dominatrix. He stood quiet still knowing that the message would come through soon. They would know he was here.

He ignored John as he ranted about his sexual preference. It was all so irrelevant. She must have known – like she knew many useful men – the DNA record keeper. He'd faked the results, she'd gotten a hold of a look-a-like, bashed it up, made sure the measurements matched.

Her personalised text alert noise rang out from his phone, letting know he was within ear shot of them. He left the pair quickly, eager to exit the building, heading for the cab that he had told to wait for his return.

She had tricked him, he couldn't get over it. Such a simple minded solution, he'd skipped right over the possibility of a look-a-like. No one in a state of grieving would check to see if the body definitely was that of the deceased.

Grieving.

The word stuck with him as he got out of the cab, mindlessly paid the driver and continued on his way down the street, back to the flat. Was that the problem he had been experiencing? Was he in fact grieving over the idea of her death? Why? Why would his mind betray and trick into such an uncharacteristic act?

He was no closer to finding the answers to his questions as he reached the front door of Two-Two-One-B. His mind was still sluggish, lost and confused. That was until he saw the door had been jemmied open, splintering the door frames wood.

His mind sharpened, the fog lifted and his brain started to work double time as he slowly entered the building. Next door he could hear Mrs Hudson serving the lunchtime rush. Meaning that the people in the flat had gone straight upstairs to his flat.

Scarlett.

He felt something shift in him as he picked up a can of cleaning spray from Mrs Hudson's supply which she had left in the hall outside of the flat door. His sharp mind focused on one important thing. The damage these people had potentially inflicted on his Niece.

Break Line – POV Change – Break Line

She heard one of the stairs creak as she was held on her chair in the middle of the flat by Nielson and his two men from Irene's house: Matthews and Wills.

She smirked sat there, not worried at all. She'd admit, she was more than a bit surprised when the trio had broken into her bedroom as she returned Miles into his tank. That was as far as the surprise went though. After that the scenario had played out in the standard way. Well…as standard as anything could be when a Holmes was involved.

They had made a grab for her and she, in quick thinking, had taken her wheelie desk chair and chucked it in the middle of their path. She had proceeded to jump over the chair, through the gap in the men the obstruction had created, successfully bolting into the hallway beyond her bedroom door.

After curses the men had followed, guns at the ready. Wills had rammed into her, crushing her between his heavy set body and the banister in the hall way. She had been winded and the force of the impact had caused one of the banisters thin supporting wooden beams to crack, loosening it from the structure.

Wills had pulled away from her and she had grabbed the beam, using the full force of a twisting kick she delivered to the man's stomach to pull the beam from the banister entirely. She was sure Mrs Hudson would understand. With Wills momentarily doubled over she had whacked Matthews full in the face with the wooden object, like a baseball player whacking the ball clean across the field. She had been pleased at the consequential sound of his nose bone potentially breaking, blood spurted down his face.

Neilson had been the only one not distracted by pain as she had made her way down the remainder of the hall – backwards – so she could continue downstairs to the main flat.

"This was all very sudden, Mr Neilson. Very improper of you to drop by uninvited. Can I ask what you are doing here, sir?"

"Why, Miss Holmes," he had replied as he followed her whilst she had walked backwards down the stairs, Wills and Matthews had returned to his side, "we believe you have something we want."

"Oh?" She had played clueless. They were of course referring to Irene's phone which, until about ten minutes prior, had been in the pocket of Sherlock's second best dressing gown in the flat. "And what might that be, gentlemen?"

She had moved the phone however and it was concealed very tightly and securely between her leg and the ultra-tight skinny jeans she was wearing. The bulge it produced was conveniently hidden by the calf-length boots she had opted to wear today.

"Oh, I think you know the answer to that, Miss Holmes." Neilson had replied, with nowhere to run but down and no room for her to lash out with her beam the American had made a successful grab for her.

Neilson had grunted as she had thrashed in his grip, Matthews had ripped the beam from her clutches and thrown in down the stairs behind her. Neilson had twisted on the stairs as Scarlett had continued to struggle so she was between the three men. Matthews had made sure to keep his pistol with its giant silencer on it, trained on her as Wills had gripped her legs tightly. Neilson had clutched at her torso, dragging her down the stairs to the apartment.

She still had refused to cease fighting, she had taken her fingers and, clutching Neilson's bold head had dug her nails right into his exposed scalp, dragging them deeply and slowly across his skin. He had screamed and dropped her by this point they had been by the flat's door. As Neilson had staggered back yelling she had kicked upwards, crunching Wills' already bruising nose. He too screamed as Matthews shot at her whilst she had ran into the apartment. One on the bullets had grazed the top of her shoulder, ripping the top she was wearing before joining its fellows in embedding itself into the lower part of the wall in front of her. It had been Matthews who had finally managed to elbow her in the face, disorientating her enough to bind her hands behind her back with duct tape – Original – and place her hostage on the chair in which she found herself currently located. Neilson had honoured her with a few more rounds of fists to the face for which, as her face pulsed and ached, she was a tab angry about receiving.

She was pleased with the amount of damage she managed to inflict on her assailants as Neilson held his pistol just as angrily to her head, though. Hopefully, (if Sherlock allowed them to return to America) they would all always remember the young English lady whom had successfully dealt them lasting pain.

Scarlett heard Sherlock climb up the last remaining few stairs to reach the flat. She felt the split in her bloody lip widen as she smiled and wished the men, "Good luck."

The door to the flat opened a few seconds later to reveal her uncle, "Sherlock." She greeted with casual steadiness as he surveyed the scene laid out before him.

"I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes." Neilson got straight to the point.

"Then you should just ask for it." Sherlock replied logically as he stepped toward her offering her his right hand.

She shook her head, shrugging her shoulders to show that her hands were tied – quite literally. "Sorry, Sherlock…" She told him, in mock apology.

"I've asked this one. And yet despite her presence at Miss Adler's house she claimed she doesn't know anything." The American filled Sherlock in.

Sherlock's gaze raised a little and he spotted that her top had been torn in several places throughout the struggle and because of the bullets, which she thought would be best to tell him about later. "But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr. Holmes?" Neilson asked.

Sherlock looked a little higher and saw the bust lip she could feel throbbing on her face. She could also feel the skin around her eye tightening and knew it would most likely turn black. He took her chin in his hand and tilted her face back slightly, inspecting the damage more closely.

Sherlock's eyes left her for a moment as he looked over her head to the other three. Wills with his evident bloody nose, Matthews hunched over still winded with bruised ribs and Neilson with his bleeding scratch marks. His eyes flicked across to Neilson's right hand holding the pistol. He was wearing a silver ring on the third finger of his right hand. Sherlock stared at Neilson for a second and Scarlett caught a look on his face, dark and foreboding.

After a couple of more seconds surveying Neilson, Sherlock pulled away from her. "First, get rid of your boys." Sherlock told them as he stepped right back.

"Why?" Neilson asked, as though there was an issue.

"I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room." Sherlock commented idly.

Neilson hesitated for a moment, then spoke to his colleagues. "You two, go to the car."

"Then get into the car and drive away." Sherlock looked back at Neilson. "Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn't work." He clicked the 'k' of 'work' loudly.

Wills and Matthews left the room and headed down the stairs but not before she spoke to them. "Nice to see you again. We should do it again sometime." She gave them a big false smile, Wills in particular looked hacked off as they both proceeded to stalk out of the room.

"Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me." Sherlock said after he smirked at Scarlett's words to the two men.

"So you can point a gun at me?" Neilson asked with scepticism.

Sherlock stepped back and spread his arms to either side, "I'm unarmed."

"Mind if I check?" The American replied with fake politeness.

"Oh," Sherlock nodded, "I insist."

Neilson came around from behind Scarlett and walked over to Sherlock. He began to pat Sherlock's breast pocket and flicked his coat open. Sherlock, for his part, stood there meekly with his arms spread. Neilson then proceeded around behind him still patting to check for any hidden weapons he may have been hiding up his back.

She watched, slightly amused as Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically at her. He covertly started to bend his right arm towards himself. Fast as lightening he whipped out a sanitizer spray can from within the depths of his coat, twisted around and sprayed the contents directly into Neilson's eyes.

Neilson – understandably – screamed as Sherlock reared back and savagely head butted the American man in the face. Neilson fell back over the coffee table, unconscious, as Sherlock flipped the can into the air triumphantly.

"Moron." He concluded as he slammed the can onto the table. He then hurried over to her dropping to his knees in front of her. They both struggled for a moment, trying to get her hands unbound from behind her back.

When she was finally free Scarlett rubbed her wrists to restart her circulation. "Thanks, Sherlock."

She met his eyes as he pulled her chin up, he ran his gloved fingers over a couple of the cuts on her face, "You're all right now, you're all right."

She was quite shocked at his action, was he trying to reassure her or himself? "Of course I am." She replied with a nod and a comforting smile.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder towards Neilson's prone body. She noticed his expression still promised murder.

Together they hauled Neilson onto the chair that he had kept Scarlett in, bounding both his hands and ankles. She kept an eye on the man as Sherlock rushed down the stairs with a note he had just written, only to return minutes later.

"Mrs Hudson is alright. She wasn't even aware you'd been attacked. I told her not to worry, although of course she will. People always do." Sherlock spoke to her as he re-entered the flat.

"Good, I'll go and see her in a bit." Scarlett nodded, keeping a steady eye on Neilson as he began to stir. "I'll pay to have the banister upstairs fixed." She said, suddenly remembering that she had in fact intentionally damaged the property as she settled more comfortably on the settee.

Sherlock walked forward, retrieved Neilson's fallen gun and then sat in the chair next to the settee, pointing the device at a moaning Neilson. "Yes, I saw the beam. You broke it clean away from the banister."

"They were attacking me. I had to do something, I wasn't about to let them beat me up."

"So you started whacking them with a banister beam?" Still pointing the gun at Neilson he looked at her sideways as he got out his phone, presumably to call the police.

Scarlett shrugged casually, "As well as other things…"

They both heard rushing up the stairs and, moments later, they were joined by John bursting into the room.

"What's going on?" He asked, not yet clocking Neilson. He turned, following their line of sight to behold a bloody and bruised Neilson, sagged in the chair near the fireplace. "Jeez. What the hell is happening?"

"Scarlett's been attacked by an American. I'm restoring balance to the universe." Was all Sherlock had to say.

John immediately hurried over to sit down next to her, taking in the visible damage. "Oh, Scarlett, my God. Are you all right?" He glared at Neilson as he put his arm around her shoulders, "Jesus, what have they done to you?"

"Nothing I didn't do in return, John. I'm fine." She reassured John as he kept his arms around her.

He pulled her closer, "You can't be alright after that." John insisted, she was about to say something again when Sherlock got to his feet, still holding the phone to his ear, aiming Neilson's own gun at him.

"Downstairs." Sherlock spoke to John, "Take her downstairs and look after her."

John got up and held out his hand which she kindly declined, "Come on." He said gently, "I'll have a look at that." He was referring to her facial injuries.

"I'm seriously okay." She said once again but she relented and went to leave the room, throwing Neilson one more dirty look before doing so.

She wasn't stupid, she knew Sherlock wanted to deal with Neilson himself and he didn't want her to see. Further proof, to her at least, that he wasn't as much of a sociopath as he liked to make out.

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" She heard the doctor ask before she started her descent down the stairs. She didn't catch Sherlock's answer.

John shepherded her into Mrs Hudson's kitchen to see to her cuts as the lady herself came into the room. "Oh, Scarlett dear. What's happened to you?"

If John hadn't have been dabbing her cuts in peroxide at that moment she was sure the kindly landlady would have squeezed her to within an inch of her life.

"Nothing to worry about Mrs H." She said with confidence as John kept dabbing away "Although…during the fight I broke the banister in the corridor leading from my bedroom." She told the older lady sheepishly.

"Oh, dear, that's hardly a concern. I'm just glad you're alright." She added as Scarlett cringed, "Though it looks like that stings."

Scarlett opened her mouth to answer when there was an almighty crash from outside the kitchen window. They all peered out and saw Neilson spread-eagled out on the stony floor, resting rather uncomfortably on a couple of green bins.

"Did Sherlock just…?" John trailed off.

"Throw Neilson out of the flat window? Yeah." Scarlett finished his question.

"Ooh, and right on my bins, too."

There was an agonised groan from outside which they all ignored.

An ambulance arrived sometime later and picked up Neilson. Lestrade had come to ask Scarlett questions and she gladly recounted her tale. She managed to give full descriptions of Wills and Matthews as well as give precise recall in the damage she had been able to inflict on each man.

"Can I take a look at the damage upstairs?" She nodded and let the Inspector leave the kitchen to go and take a look.

He returned just as Mrs Hudson placed a cup of tea in front of her, "Blimey, you really did defend yourself with a banister beam."

"I really don't know why that's surprising." She said with a shrug. Lestrade looked at her in astonishment as he blew out air from his cheeks before bidding them all good night. He left the kitchen to join Sherlock, who had stayed outside.

They heard the ambulance siren start up as it pulled away from the flat. Sherlock returned through the back door a moment later, wiping his feet on the doormat.

John chose that moment to address Sherlock about her welfare – a subject she had been dodging with the doctor since they had entered the kitchen. "I was thinking, it'd be best if she stayed in our flat tonight."

"Not happening." Scarlett protested as she drank her tea, it burned as it slid down her throat, just the way she liked it.

"Of course – " Sherlock stared to say. She turned in her seat to stare at him, shooting daggers as he removed a mince pie from the fridge.

"No."

"–but she's fine." Sherlock finished as he gave her a look that clearly said 'Don't be stupid.'

"No, she's not. She's been attacked." The doctor insisted.

"So have three American's." She countered with a shrug and John looked at her in disbelieving. He went to open his mouth again and she shot him down instantly, knowing what he was going to suggest. "I'm not leaving Baker Street, John. Besides where would I go? To Mycroft? No thanks."

Sherlock kicked Mrs Hudson's fridge shut with his foot, applying more force than necessary. She smirked at an amused Mrs Hudson, obviously Sherlock was pulling a sour face at the very idea of her departure.

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock told John and she could hear the distaste in his voice.

"Sherlock, she was attacked by American's and all because of some stupid camera phone." He sighed before he finally asked in realisation, "Where is it anyway."

"In the safest place I know." Sherlock answered.

Scarlett bent down, wiggling her foot from her boot so she could get the phone from between her jeans and leg. Having retrieved the device she sat back up and passed it to her uncle.

"You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown. Good thing I took it with me when I left the room." She laughed slightly. "They went on a rampage looking for it."

Sherlock tossed it into the air before he put it into his coat pocket, "Thank you." He looked at the Doctor, "Shame on you, John Watson."

"Shame on me?!" John cried in surprise.

"Scarlett leave Baker Street?" He asked and she was shocked when she felt his arm go around her shoulders, pulling her to him protectively. "England would fall." He finished sternly.

She laughed at his antics and briefly held his hand to her shoulder. He chuckled slightly as she replied, "Oh yeah, absolute chaos." She caught Mrs Hudson and John smiling at them both.

She re-entered the living room of their flat a few hours later after tidying her room after the scuffle. She had obviously walked into a conversation between Sherlock and John, she remained quiet as she crossed the room and took her normal chair.

"So, she's alive then. How are we feeling about that?"

She?

…Irene Adler.

Scarlett pondered this for a moment and concluded she was right. There was only one woman John could be referring too. She wondered just what had gone on when Sherlock had evidently left the flat to follow John. There was no denying that that was what he had done. She shook her head slightly at how protective – or was it possessive? – The sociopath could be of those closest to him.

In the distance, Big Ben began to toll the hour. Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath, "Happy New Year, to you both."

"Do you think you'll be seeing her again?" John asked, not returning the phrase.

Sherlock turned but not meeting John's eyes, he picked up his bow and flipped it in the air before starting to play "Auld Lang Syne", looking at John pointedly. John got the message and sat down in his chair as Sherlock turned back to the window and continued to play.

-Break Line – Break Line – Break Line-

Months passed, they carried on like normal, solving cases that sprung up. Scarlett found herself taking on more and more cases independently, although the clients – at her request – were always kept in the dark about the fact that she was the one handling the issue. This was owed to the fact that she didn't feel confident enough that they would trust her one-hundred percent, as they would Sherlock.

Sherlock kept himself busy, although she noticed even though he had returned back to his normal state he still obsessed over Irene. He took her phone out of the safety box from the bank on the Strand as often as he could. She knew he was trying his hardest to crack the passcode to gain entry.

He had come back in a considerably bitter mood one day after a session at Bart's, revealing to her that he had attempted to gain access once more. He had failed and had just two attempts remaining at unlocking the device. He also informed her, as she finally ceased her violin playing, that an X-ray of the phone he had taken had found several small bombs or acid packs stuck to the battery, meaning forced entry to the device would destroy the hard drive.

Not for the first time Scarlett found herself admiring Irene's thoroughness.

That morning she and Sherlock were returning from a trip to Scotland Yard. Scarlett, for her part had asked Lestrade for more cold case files. She had no clients that week and she was getting irritated from the lack of mental stimulation.

Sherlock was in a pensive state, she felt the irritation and tension rolling off of him in waves. From the outside she could see no difference but she knew this was just the way he was. He wouldn't talk to her about, she wouldn't ask. As much as it pained her it was sometimes better that way. Confirmation of Sherlock's mood had manifested when, on the way back to the flat, they had stopped off at the bank on the Strand, to once again take Irene's phone from its safety box.

The cab pulled over and they both exited outside, greeting their Baker Street home. Sherlock paid as she went and opened the front door, calling to Mrs Hudson as she continued up the stairs to the flat. The door was locked so she knew John was out, she vaguely remembered him mentioning grocery's that morning. She wasn't too sure though, she had been focusing on a new experiment involving Miles and attempting to increase his velocity, namely by placing him on a motorised to car she had bought.

Okay, so she hadn't been experimenting. Messing around. She had been so bored, though…

She walked straight into the living room, dropping the box of case files she had been carrying on the table in the middle of the room. She flopped down onto her usual seat, watching Sherlock as he came to join her in the living room. As he crossed the threshold however he stopped abruptly outside the kitchen door. He sniffed deeply. Taking a couple more deep breaths, he turned and looked into the kitchen. Then – ignoring her as she said his name - Sherlock walked across to the window and checked it.

"It's open…" he said to her as she joined him, curious to see why he was acting oddly.

But then, what was normal behaviour when it came to Sherlock?

"It shouldn't be, you saw me shut it before we left." She replied.

He turned and sniffed again, pushing her gently out of the way before he started to walk slowly towards his bedroom. Downstairs the door slammed, signalling the return of John. She followed Sherlock across the room without a word. They reached his room, he pushed the door open just as John entered into the kitchen with bags of shopping. Together Sherlock and Scarlett stepped into the room, staring at the person nestled under Sherlock's bed sheets.

"Sherlock..." John began to talk but Sherlock cut across him.

"We have a client."

"What, in your bedroom?!" John said, looking at them both stood in view of the doorway. He walked along the passage, into the bedroom, his jaw dropped as he saw the bed, "Ohhh."

Irene – fully clothed – was asleep in her Uncle's bed.

They all sat in the living room a little while later. Scarlett had been the one to wake Irene, seeing as the boys were unable to function enough to walk forward and tap her. Whilst they had all been out Irene, unnoticed by anybody, had gotten into their flat, showered, dressed using amongst other things, one of Sherlock's dressing gowns and proceeded to fall asleep in his bed.

Huh… Impressive…

"So who's after you?" Sherlock questioned, interrupting her train of thought.

Irene replied casually with a slight shrug, "People who want to kill me."

"Who's that?" Sherlock pressed.

"Killers." She said, obviously not wanting to be helpful.

"It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific," said John.

"So," Scarlett said, picking up the slack in communication, "you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them."

Irene looked at her nodding, her damp loose curls swinging slightly, "It worked for a while."

"Except you let John know that you were alive, and therefore me," Sherlock summarised.

"Oh, I knew you'd keep my secret," replied Irene with a pout.

"You couldn't," Sherlock countered.

With a smirk Irene leant forward in her seat, "But you did, didn't you?" She leant back again, returning to her agenda, "Where's my camera phone?"

"It's not here. We're not stupid," John smirked, arms crossed.

"Then what have you done with it?" Irene asked, looking briefly between the three of them before saying, "If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you."

"If they've been watching us, they'll know that Sherlock took a safety deposit box out at a bank on the Strand a few months ago." Scarlett answered.

Irene focused on her, "Well, I need it."

Scarlett nodded as John said, "Well, we can't just go and get it, can we?" He looked around to Sherlock, inspired, "Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart's; then one of your homeless network could bring it here, leave it in the café, and one of the boys downstairs could bring it up the back."

Scarlett smiled proudly up at him as Sherlock considered the proposal, "Very good, John. Excellent plan, with intelligent precautions."

"Thank you." John replied, clearly pleased with himself. He picked up his phone, "So, why don't... Oh, for..." Sherlock pulled out what John and Irene thought was the real camera phone.

Scarlett smirked as Irene stood expectantly whilst Sherlock looked at the phone closely, "So what do you keep on here – in general, I mean?" he queried.

"Pictures, information, anything I might find useful," Irene answered, acting casual.

"What, for blackmail?" John asked.

Scarlett shook her head repeating something she had heard Irene say back in her house, "'Not for blackmail, just for insurance…'"

Irene nodded at her, raising an eyebrow, "I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."

"So how do you acquire this information?" Sherlock questioned her, still observing the phone in his hands, but now more in a taunting gesture than anything else.

"I told you – I misbehave," Irene replied suggestively.

"But you've acquired something that's more danger than protection," Sherlock told her, "Do you know what it is?"

"Yes, but I don't understand it."

"I assumed. Show me."

Irene held out her hand for the phone. Sherlock held it up out of her reach saying to her, "The passcode."

Irene continued to hold her hand out, eventually Sherlock sat forward and handed her the device. Activating it and holding it so they couldn't see the screen or the keypad, she typed in four characters. Scarlett smirked again as the phone beeped warningly at The Woman.

With an air of confusion Irene said, "It's not working."

Sherlock stood up and took the phone from her, "No, because it's a duplicate that I had made, into which you've just entered the numbers: one-zero-five-eight."

Scarlett, taking her cue, took out Irene's real phone from behind the cushion on her seat. She pushed the unlock button and quickly typed in the four digit number with a few brushes of her thumbs. Scarlett's feeling of smugness slipped and her smirk was replaced with a look of disbelieving as the phone beeped warningly at her.

"I told you that camera phone was my life," Irene said as Scarlett stared at the dominatrix, slightly awestruck. "I know when it's in my hand."

"You're very good, Miss Adler." She commented as Irene smiled and took her phone from her.

"You're not so bad," she said to her as Scarlett caught Sherlock staring at Irene's back, clearly at a loss.

Irene straightened up, turned and locked eyes intensely with Sherlock in what Scarlett could only deem as eye-sex.

"Hamish," John said, picking up on the thick atmosphere.

It worked and Sherlock and Irene broke eye contact as they all looked at him, "John Hamish Watson – just if you were looking for baby names."

Sherlock frowned in confusion as Irene spoke, "There was a man – an MOD official. I knew what he liked."

She walked a short distance away from them so they couldn't see her screen or keypad, she typed in her real passcode and called up a photo.

"One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it," she handed the phone to Sherlock, "He was a bit tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen – can you read it?"

Sherlock sat down on the other side of the table to John and narrowed his eyes at the photograph, "Yes."

"A code, obviously. 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."

What Scarlett observed next was insane owing to the time frame it was achieved in.

Sherlock leant forward, concentrating on the screen as Irene asked, "What can you do, Mr. Holmes?" She leant over his shoulder, "Go on. Impress a girl."

There was less than a six second gap in which Irene went to kiss Sherlock, John placed his cup he was drinking out of back on its coaster and Scarlett went to stand up.

"There's a margin for error," he began quickly," 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."

He looked at John's blank face in front of him, then glanced round at Scarlett who hasn't even fully straightened up yet, Irene for her part was smirking.

"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 was now stood up, throwing the phone at Scarlett she caught it to double check. She scanned the small screen reading the string of code in the photographed email:

4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K

"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."

Sherlock was of course right, she just wished he hadn't solved it so quickly. There was no doubt he was falling for Irene, as much as she admired The Woman there was something wrong with the current situation, she just couldn't place it. She faked her death, came back, was asking for his help, fair enough he had her phone but it felt all too…damsel in distress…she wasn't like that…

She sighed, started to twist the phone in her hand, "You're right, of course…"

"Sherlock," Irene said, standing close, looking up at him, "I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice."

The two of them stare at each other for a long moment before Sherlock speaks again.

Eyes still locked on Irene Sherlock asked, "John, please can you check those flight schedules; see if I'm right?"

"Uh-huh." John stuttered, "I'm on it, yeah." He clearing his throat, started to type on his laptop. Sherlock and Irene continued to stare at each other.

"I've never begged for mercy in my life."

"Twice."

John, still looking at the screen, said, "Uh, yeah, you're right. Uh, flight double oh seven."

Scarlett turned on John, "What did you say?"

"Sherlock's right."

"No, no, no, after that. What did you say after that?"

"Double oh seven. Flight double oh seven."

"Double oh seven, double oh seven, double oh seven, double oh seven..."

Scarlett chanted it over and over, beginning to pace.

"…something...something connected to double oh seven...What?"

Her eyes snapped open as she began to remember and she turned, looking at the living room door, envisioning Mycroft standing there, talking on his phone.

"'Bond Air is go. That's decided, check with the Coventry lot.'"

The Coventry conundrum – The World War II story…

A couple of hours later Scarlett, at Mycroft's request, was on her way to meet him. Very rarely did she opt to meet with Mycroft without Sherlock but on the phone the man had sounded uncharacteristically defeated.

Sherlock was busying himself with the company of Irene so he didn't notice her slip away, she doubted she would be missed regardless. The cab pulled up outside the building and she promptly exited. Once inside she was guided to his office, she was left to knock on his office door and enter on her own.

She saw Mycroft sat at his desk, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and head in his hands. The very picture of defeat. It was an emotional state that didn't suit her uncle, not one bit.

Sherlock sat in his armchair gently plucking the strings of his violin. In his mind he could still hear Mycroft's phone call. Scarlett had been right.

"'Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot.'"

Sherlock finally roused a little and looked up, "Coventry."

Irene, still wearing his dressing gown, hair still down, was curled up in John's chair watching him closely, "I've never been. Is it nice?"

"Where's John? Scarlett?"

"They both went out separately a couple of hours ago."

"I was just talking to her..."

Irene smiled at him, "She said you do that. What's Coventry got to do with anything?"

"Mycroft...?"

He exhaled deeply, looking up at her slowly, "Have a seat."

She complied, as much as he could annoy her Scarlett did respect Mycroft, she knew when to mess with him and when to listen.

"Sherlock…he's made a grave error in judgement. A few house ago I received a message. Tell me, Scarlett: how long did it take him to decipher that email Adler gave him?"

She closed her eyes in realisation, she had known there was something odd about The Woman's return, if only she knew just how bad it was.

Leaning forward in John's chair Irene asked him, "Have you ever had anyone?"

He frowned at her, "Sorry?"

"And when I say 'had', I'm being indelicate."

"I don't understand…"

"Well, I'll be delicate then."

He observed her get up from the chair, walking over she kneeled in front of him, putting her left hand on top of his right hand and curling her fingers around it.

"Less than ten seconds, why?"

This seemed to deflate him – if possible – even more, he rubbed his eyes, leaning back in his chair before finally making eye contact with her, "You know the story of the Coventry conundrum?"

She nodded, "Allies during the second World War 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."

"We were dealing with the same situation with a terrorist cell – we broke their code, they planned to bomb a flight tonight. Steps were put in place – a flight of the dead. They know now, though. The email Sherlock decrypted for Alder was sent to the terrorist cells – they know we broke the code. It was all pointless."

"Let's have dinner," an orange glow cast her shadow on the back wall, softening her features.

"Why?"

"Might be hungry."

"I'm not."

"Good."

Hesitantly, Sherlock sat forward a little, slowly turning his right hand over he curled his own fingers around her wrist, "Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?"

Slowly Irene began to lean forward, her gaze fixed on his lips, "Oh, Mr. Holmes..."

Sherlock stroked his fingers gently across the underside of her wrist, taking her pulse.

"...if it was the end of the world, if this was the very last night, would you have dinner with me?"

His name was called from the bottom of the stairs, "Sherlock!"

She pulled away from him, "Too late."

"That's not the end of the world; that's Mrs Hudson."

Irene stood up, walking away from him as Mrs Hudson came in with Plummer – the civil servant whom had collected him to take him to the Palace.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, "Have you come to take me away again?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock looked away, uninterested, "Well, I decline."

Plummer took an envelope from his jacket, offered it to him, "No, Mr. Holmes, I don't think you do."

Sherlock snatched it from him and opened it. Inside was a Business Class boarding pass for Flyaway Airways in his name for flight number 007 to Baltimore, scheduled to leave at 18.30pm.

"She isn't in direct contact with terrorists, how did the information get to them?"

"She's working with Moriarty, Scarlett."

She drew in a sharp breath, angry that Sherlock had played right into Adler and Moriarty's hands, "Now what?"

He grimaced, "We confront her…with Sherlock present…"

Hi Guys *Waves Manically*

How have you been? For those of you that wished me well I'd like to say that I'm back on form, yay! Anyway! One more 'Scandal in Belgravia' to go! Woohoo!

Thank you to all of you that have favourited, followed and or commented, it means a lot! I hope you like this one, I had fun writing it, especially the end. I have to write an essay for the 5th of December so I'm taking a break from fanfic writing until it's done, BUT... then I'm off for a month for Christmas, so I hope to update regularly!

I only own Scarlett!

See you soon,

HH :)