This is a parallel story to THE FALL AND RISE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES and contains major spoilers within. If you haven't read it yet, I ask that you do so now.

I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Please review!

After much thought, I came to the conclusion that I could positively identify only six middlemen in Moriarty's network. I called Mycroft to give him the names.

"Hello, brother, have you grown so weary of your new flatmate already that you're seeking out my company?" Mycroft answered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Irene and I are getting along just fine, thank you," I said, glancing to the kitchen table where The Woman sat, reading a book with a mug of tea at her elbow, long since gone cold.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, then?"

"I have six names for you, middlemen in Moriarty's web. I need for them to be arrested as quickly and quietly as possible."

"Anything else?" Mycroft asked after I had given him the names.

"Yes," I said, a stone growing in the pit of my stomach. There was no way that Mycroft would say yes to this request; he would see it as far too reckless. "I want to be there when they're arrested."

"No," Mycroft stated quickly in a tone that booked no argument.

"I'll go disguised."

"The answer, Sherlock, is no. It is one thing to have you doing groundwork, it is another to put you directly in harm's way."

"Fine," I said impetuously. "May I at least be part of the interrogation process? That should be perfectly safe."

"That is… doable. I will let you know when you're needed."

"What, you don't want my help tracking these men down? They may be too slippery for your barely-competent men to find."

"I have full confidence in my people to find six people in London, brother. If you wish to stay under my protection you should learn to trust them, as well. Goodbye, Sherlock." Mycroft rang off.

I glared at the phone in my hand for a long moment, considering throwing it as hard as I could at the wall. I eventually decided against it. I would surely have to ask Mycroft to replace the damn thing and I didn't want for him to know how much he frustrated me.

Instead, I very carefully set my phone on the coffee table, stood, and began to walk to my bedroom.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Irene asked quietly from the kitchen, not looking up from her book.

"No."

Irene and I had worked out some general rules to keep us from killing one another. I didn't leave experiments out. She didn't bring strangers to the apartment. I cleaned. She cooked. We took turns doing the shopping. If one of us was reading the other wasn't to disturb them. We were working it out as we went, but so far things had gone smoothly.

"Sherlock, it isn't possible for me to have robbed the bank, you must have lost count of how much money I have."

"No, you should have £800 less than you do."

"You're the banker. You think I could really steal from under your nose?"

"Yes, in fact, I do."

Irene and I were on the floor of the sitting room, a Monopoly board spread on the coffee table between us. We were drinking some concoction she called a "Blue Hawaii" that was an odd shade of turquoise. From the way I was feeling, I suspected that it was far more alcoholic than I had initially thought.

"You're drunk, Sherlock. How many of those have you had?"

I looked at my nearly empty glass for a moment, trying to remember. "Five, I think," I said uncertainly.

"No wonder you can't keep count. You're 150 pounds soaking wet, I'm surprised you haven't passed out," she said, snickering.

"I never 'pass out,'" I said haughtily, draining my glass as I tried to ignore her laughter. "I think I need some water."

"Brink me some, too."

I carefully rose to my feet, took one step toward the kitchen and nearly fell flat on my face as the room spun around me. I stopped for a moment to let the world settle, and then walked the kitchen on unsteady feet. While I was reaching into the cupboard to pull out two glasses I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.

I fumbled for a moment before pulling out my phone. Mycroft. I sighed before answering the damn thing and putting it to my ear.

"Hello, brother." I said very carefully, not wanting to slur my words.

"Sherlock, my men have made the arrests. Gates and Donner were found dead, the other four were brought in without incident."

"What's the C.O.D. on Donner and Gates?" I asked. I had definitely slurred there, hopefully Mycroft wouldn't notice.

"Gunshot wound to the back of the head on both of them." Mycroft stated promptly. "Brother," he continued, a note of concern creeping into his voice, "are you alright? You sound a little off."

I sighed and rubbed at my eyes. I should have known better than to think that I could hide my state from Mycroft. "I'm fine. Irene and I have been playing Monopoly and drinking for the last few hours. The drinks were stronger than they tasted." I glanced into the living room and felt my lips quirk into a smile. "She cheats."

Mycroft laughed, his relief palatable. "Do you want to investigate the scenes?" He said, sobering. "The ground at both locations is concrete and was swept thoroughly, there are no footprints of any kind."

"No, just have your men collect samples, then. When should the other four be ready for questioning?"

"Give them a couple of days to stew in solitary. I'll bring you in when the first starts to crack."

I rang off and tucked my phone back into my pocket. "I think," I reflected aloud, "that is the first conversation I've had with Mycroft since I jumped off Bart's which didn't turn into a shouting match."

Three days later I was at the kitchen table examining fingers that had been frozen for three weeks to determine the rate of decomposition when my phone buzzed on the table, making the slide vibrate beneath the microscope lens. I answered it, irritated.

"Yes?"

"A car will be coming by to pick you up in 25 minutes. Ms. Richter is ready for questioning." Mycroft said.

"Very good," I said and hung up. I gathered up my experiment and put it away in the refrigerator.

"I'm coming with you," Irene stated as I reached for my coat, obviously expecting me to fight her on the point.

"Of course."

Interrogation rooms aren't like they show in the movies. I have never been in and interrogation room that is large and dark with only a single light hanging over a steel table set with two chairs. No, in my experience interrogation rooms are far more ordinary and unsettling than that.

I looked around me as I waited for my brothers' men to bring Ms. Richter to me. The room was small, only eight feet by six feet, and uncomfortably warm. The walls were covered with off-white egg-carton soundproofing. The wall behind me was mostly taken up with a double sided mirror behind which was an observation room where I knew Irene and Mycroft waited and watched. There was a door just off-center enough to be irritating in the wall to my right. There were cameras in opposing corners of the room to catch every motion within. I sat at a simple pine table in a cheap plastic hair. There was a seemingly identical chair across the table from me, but the left rear leg was a quarter inch longer than the other three. The entire room was designed to seem ordinary but put the interrogate on edge. On the table were a microphone and a slim folder bearing Richter's name.

Richter was led, blindfolded and cuffed, into the room by one of Mycroft's men. He guided her to the other chair and helped her to sit. She was 32, white, had artificially red hair, was born in Texas and had immigrated in her teens and she had lived in London since. She had been happily married for six, no six and a half years to an older man, no children. He didn't know what she did for a living.

"Now, Adeline," said Mycroft's man, "I'm going to remove your cuffs. Please don't remove the blindfold until you hear the door close behind me." She nodded. He uncuffed her, nodded at me, and walked out of the room. The door closed with a loud thud. Richter rubbed her wrists for a moment before pushing the blindfold onto the top of her head.

Richter gasped and froze, staring at me. "Bu- but you're dead," she whispered, her eyes wide.

"Reports of my death have been grossly exaggerated." I said slowly, making my voice as deep as possible. Richter swallowed, her eyes dilating with fear. "Of course," I continued, "I've had to make sure that those reports were exaggerated. Your boss saw to that.

"I don't… What do you want with me?" She asked, her voice wavering.

"Not much. Just tell me exactly what you do for Moriarty."

She set her shoulders, a look of defiance in her eyes. "Didn't the news say that you hired some actor to pretend to be Moriarty and then killed him when the truth came out?"

"Adeline," I said softly, leaning forward and meeting her gaze with a soft expression on my face, "you have no idea what you're dealing with here. You've been arrested by the secret service. If you don't start talking, and soon, you will never see your husband again." I leaned back, crossed my legs and smiled. "George filed a missing persons report, you know. If you don't tell me everything, and I mean everything, he's going to search for you for years. He'll never know what happened to you. Most people never get over loosing a loved one that way. You wouldn't want him to go through that, would you?"

Two hours later I walked out of the interrogation room. Irene and Mycroft met me in the hall.

"Well, then," Mycroft started, "do you think she was telling the truth?"

"I'd still be in there if I didn't believe her. It's not like we should expect middlemen to know who the new leader is."

"True," he replied. We both turned to Irene, who was staring at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

"What?" I asked.

Irene shook herself. "Sorry. It's just, I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen it." I looked at her, trying to deduce what she was getting at. "You'd make one hell of a Dom, is all."

Mycroft looked absolutely horrified at the idea. I just laughed. "Not going to happen," I said after I pulled myself together. "Married to my work and all that." I turned to Mycroft. "I'm going to step out for a fag. Get Fitzgerald ready."

A little over an hour later I stepped out of the interrogation room, frustrated. Irene and Mycroft walked out of the observation room.

"Are you entirely certain you have the right man?" Mycroft asked. I saw the question coming, but still flinched at it.

"Of course I'm certain." I hissed. I started to pace up and down the hall. "Do you really think I would let you arrest an innocent bystander? I'm telling you, that man is no mechanic." I waved an arm toward the interrogation room and continued pacing up and down the hall. "I just need to figure out how to break him."

"May I try?" Irene asked.

"You?" Mycroft scoffed.

"Yes, me. I've made a career of carefully not breaking people. I'm sure I can get him to crack."

I stopped in place, my back to them. "That could work," I said, spinning to face them.

"What?" Mycroft asked, askance.

"Oh, stop being such a misogynist. It. Could. Work."

Mycroft shook his head and very carefully didn't stomp back into the observation room.

"I've been playing nice," Irene explained. "I guess he's forgotten what I'm capable of."

"Unlike me, he hasn't experienced it first-hand." We nodded at each other, both smiling, though I suspect for different reasons.

Mycroft didn't look at me or speak when I stepped into the observation room. I was fine with that. I closed the door quietly behind me and turned to look into the interrogation room.

Irene opened the door and stepped in, hips swaying. She had undone the top two buttons of her blouse and tucked it to be snugger around her waist. Her hair was artfully disheveled. She walked around to the far side of the table, looked at the double sided mirror significantly, and very deliberately turned off the microphone so Fitzgerald could see.

"That damn woman," Mycroft growled, moving to the door.

I snaked out an arm and grabbed his elbow. "Wait."

Irene sat on the edge of the table with her back to us, clearly invading Fitzgerald's personal space. She leaned in to whisper in his ear. They stayed like that for about five minutes before he gulped and nodded. She walked around the table, sat in her chair, and turned the mike back on.

"So, Mr. Fitzgerald, why don't you tell us what we want to know."

"I was brought in when I was 17 by a man called Samuel. They wanted me to pick locks for housebreaking…"

Iren and I got back to the apartment very late; late enough that it could probably be considered early. I'd had to let her take over on the other two interrogations. With the final man I tried for over three hours before giving up and sending her in. It took her less than fifteen minutes to get him to talk. It stung, but I couldn't help but admire her skill.

"Oh, that was fun," she said as she hung up her coat.

"How do you do it?" I asked, jealousy seeping into my tone.

"I'm a Domme, Sherlock. It's not just a job for me. There's one hell of a lot more to D/s relationships than ropes and riding crops." She placed a hand on the back of my neck and pressed against me. "I could show you, if you like."

"I think not." I said sternly, trying to sound as though I weren't half panicked. I tried to pull away without actually touching her to no avail.

Irene threw her head back and laughed sharply, then pressed a brief kiss on my cheek. "That's a shame, it would have been fun." She finally let me go and started down the hall. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

I raised a hand to my hand to my cheek, my mind at a full stop. Didn't most men feel something other than disgust and fear when a beautiful woman offered to take him to bed?

I've been hit on before, by men and by women, but it's never scared me before. I've found it distasteful and uninteresting, but never something to fear.

I walked to my room, closed the door behind me, stripped, and flopped down on the bed. I wish John were here. I need someone to talk to. Except… No, I couldn't talk to John about sex. That would be too awkward, especially since I still haven't been able to file that conversation from Angelo's.

I shook my head and rolled onto my back. It doesn't matter, anyway. There's no way that I'll be able to talk to him about anything for the next couple of months, at least. I felt a stabbing pain in my chest and tears welling at the edge of my eyes. How can I go months without talking to my John? Without hearing him laugh? Without hearing him tell me I'm amazing? I choked back a sob as the tears began to fall. How can I go months without my idiot, genius, wonderful, hilarious, inspirational, soldier and doctor? How can I go without my friend?

I cried myself to sleep that night and woke the next morning with no answers. When I walked into the sitting room Irene was sitting on the couch. She looked as though she had gotten little or no sleep.

"Come here," she said, patting the cushion beside her. "We need to talk about something."

I looked at her for a long moment before walking over and sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch.

"I heard you last night. I know you tried to keep quiet, but the walls here are thin. I'm sorry about yesterday. I beat you at your own game and then pressed myself on you when you were already upset, though you were doing your best not to show it. I knew that you didn't want me, but I did it anyway because I was horny. I had no idea it would hit you so hard, but that doesn't mean it isn't my fault that you were upset by it. I never meant to make you cry. I'm sorry. I won't make a pass at you again.

While she spoke, I slowly turned in my seat to face her. I realized that she was the closest thing I had to a friend. She was, possibly, the only person I could trust.

"Irene, that isn't what I was… I mean, yes, I was bothered about it. To be honest, I've been expecting you to make a serious pass at me since you moved in, though. Apology more than accepted."

"Good, good." Relief flashed across her face but was quickly replaced with concern. "What were you crying about, then?"

"It really hit me last night. I miss John terribly. He's the only person who I've ever cared about more than myself. Knowing how long it's going to be until I can be with him again…" I felt hot tears start to prick at my eyes again.

"Can I ask you something extremely personal?"

"I can't promise I'll answer, but ask away."

"Are you in love with him?"

The question hit me like a kick to the chest. "I honestly don't know. I don't think so. I'm asexual and a sociopath, there's supposedly no way I can fall in love with anyone. I just… It feels like, without him by my side, I have a hole at the very heart of me which only grows larger as I spend more time away from him."

I hated the irrational metaphor, but it was the only way to say how I felt that was even half true.