Private flights could get you to and from places faster than a normal plane, if only because there wasn't any bothersome waiting to do. You got your one (or two) people on board and took off, home in London in such a short amount of time it's almost like the whole disastrous affair hadn't taken place, if he hadn't had to wait that over long hour just to have Sherlock walk out on him.

It had been a risk. He always took risks. He tried not to take risks with his brother, tried not to let Sherlock take risks he couldn't handle (suicidal/homicidal cabbies didn't happen to be something Sherlock couldn't handle). Sherlock didn't know that Mycroft had always been censoring his cases. He hadn't always succeeded, of course, but he always tried. Sometimes things slipped through his fingers though. The worst thing Mycroft had ever done was to ask his little brother to take the job getting a few simple pictures from Irene Adler.

He was taking another now. Anthea made to get out but he reached out, touching her shoulder. The woman who barely ever looked up from her phone, jumped when he touched her. He rarely touched anyone. "No," he said simply and got out. He did not need nor want to explain. If John Watson wanted to beat him into a bloody pulp, he was justified… more than justified from what Mycroft had witnessed in Paris. He stood and walked out, umbrella in hand as he walked up to John Watson's new flat.

It wasn't hard to get in past Watson's new (different/indifferent) land lady. He simply walked up a few flights of stairs, knocked on the door and entered. When he did open the door the first thing he noticed (besides the painfully small and dingy flat) was that John Watson has a gun trained on his heart.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot you where you stand?" John said, looking ready for murder. He was. Always the soldier. Mycroft had always seen what Sherlock either ignored or chose not to see: that John Watson was both stronger and more malleable than Sherlock Holmes. John Watson was more likely to kill a man, and less likely to be bothered by it. Sherlock would never survive a war. He was a precisely honed instrument, not made for more than specialized work.

"My brother is still alive, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, coming in and shutting the door. Ah, there, hesitation. It had been over a month, heading into two now since Sherlock Holmes jumped off the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. John Watson was still grieving. He wanted to kill Mycroft for the terrible joke, and yet he hesitated. He hesitated because he hadn't yet reached 'acceptance' in the stages of grief, and he hesitated because he knew that Sherlock Holmes had never been the kind who would take his own life.

"I should kill you just for that," John said, continuing to aim his gun at Mycroft Holmes as he found a seat on John's bed. At the same time he continued not to shoot. His flat was painfully small: two rooms exactly living room/bedroom and kitchen/bathroom. John could literally have a toaster drop into his bathtub and electrocute him and it would honestly be an accident.

"Yes, you might should," Mycroft said. "I have made a grave mistake, I have made many," he said. "But my brother is alive… and worse off than if he were dead," he said.

"What, did Moriarty whisk him away?" John asked.

"No, Irene Adler," Mycroft said.

John lowered his gun. "This can't be possible… I saw, I saw Sherlock die, I saw his blood… there was too much, humans don't survive losing that much blood, and a head injury besides. No, it's not possible," he said.

"You have seen my brother do many extraordinary things. I am sure," Mycroft said, reaching into his case and pulling out the file. He pulled out one picture and handed it to Dr. Watson, who'd already set his gun on the dresser. "You would agree, though, that this is Sherlock Holmes, right?"

"The hair's wrong," John said, too flabbergasted to take in more than that at that particular moment.

"Yes, a bit of bleach will do that," Mycroft said.

"Yes," John said, looking back at the picture. "This is really him, when was it taken?" He asked.

"About two weeks ago," Mycroft said.

"Two weeks? Two bloody weeks? He's been alive that long and hasn't bothered to tell anyone? I'm going to kill him. I'm going to hug him and then I'm gonna put a bullet in his brain, the bloody idiot," John snarled. "Why in the hell is he wearing Moriarty's suit anyway?" he asked.

"Ms. Adler spent an exorbitant amount of money buying my brother Westwood suits," Mycroft explained.

"Why? Why would she do that?"

"I imagine to prove her control over my brother."

"Control?"

"You do remember that Ms. Adler is a dominatrix?"

"Well, yes, I mean, hard to forget, but why? I mean, Sherlock wouldn't…"

"Sherlock, it seems, has taken up with Ms. Adler as her new submissive."

John snorted. "Like that would ever work," he said.

"Why not?" Mycroft asked, interested in what John had been able to pick up on about Sherlock Holmes.

"He's too much… well, he's too… He's Sherlock. There's more pride in his little finger than there is in all of London, you notwithstanding," John said.

"I thank you for that," Mycroft said, pressing John to continue.

John looked back at the picture. "No, she would beat him black and blue before he ever was willing to submit to her."

"As I saw, this is probably exactly what has been happening," Mycroft said.

"What did you see?"

"Not much, not much for a normal person. Quiet a lot for me."

"Want to tell me what you saw?" John asked, starting to get irritable.

"Sherlock was in pain," Mycroft said. "I'm sure that she has been, as you say, beating him black and blue."

"Then why didn't you bring him home?" John demanded.

"Because I can't. I can't touch her John, not even me. She was very good about how she set up her protection. Sherlock went there of his own power… and he can leave of his own power."

"But he's not going to," John said, starting to see it.

"No, he won't."

"Because she beat him," John said.

"Because she beat him," Mycroft said gravely.

"But I don't understand. He was fine after… I mean he moped around a bit at first, but he wasn't really any different than he normally was," John said.

"Dr. Watson, at any point after he lost to Irene Adler did he do anything… really odd, act really not normal?" Mycroft asked.

"Well, yes. I bought Cluedo to play with him because It seemed like the only board game I could get him to play but…"

"But," Mycroft urged.

"But he got really weird about it, started to insist that the only way the murder made sense is if it was a suicide, if the victim did it."

"Were you winning up until that point?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, actually," John said.

Mycroft sighed. "This is what I was afraid of… Dr. Watson, my brother doesn't play games, not ones he can't win. If he plays a game he has a possibility of losing it's always the ones that will get him killed. If he can't win then he changes the rules, learns a new way of thinking so he can solve the puzzle. You bought a mystery board game because he thought it would be something that could momentarily engage him. When he lost he used his mind to change everything the clues said. He changed it so that he could win. He couldn't change the game, so he changed the way he thought."

"That's insane," John said.

"Yes, yes it is," Mycroft said. "Now… take what he did with that board game, and then make it real… because this is exactly what is happening now with Irene Adler, but this time it's very real," he said.

"So he's changing his thoughts so he can win, against Irene Adler?"

"I believe he believes that he's trying to act as he submissive until she lets her guard down and he can get her camera phone and the password," Mycroft said. "He's playing the same game he did before, and Ms. Adler is smart enough to see this. She's never going to let her guard down, and she'll be amused along as he's trying to beat her," Mycroft said.

"So, she's winning as long as Sherlock is there."

"And Sherlock is losing every second he remains with her… for a man who can't stand to lose a board game, how do you think this will affect my brother?" Mycroft asked.

"It'll kill him, or worse," John said.

"Yes, which is exactly what I'm afraid of," Mycroft said.

"Can you get him home?" John asked.

"I can't, but maybe you can," Mycroft said.

"How?" John asked.

"By going to Paris and trying to convince Sherlock to cut his loses and leave."

"One problem, Sherlock doesn't do that," John said.

"He wouldn't have before, but there is a chance… just a chance, but is has to be you," Mycroft said.

"What chance? Why me?"

"You're the only friend he's ever had. If he'll ever listen to anyone, it'll be you," Mycroft said. "As for the chance… Ms. Adler has been feeding him information, enough, she assures me, to get him home and reinstated as alive without much fuss from the people I work for. She will lose some money and some protection if he leaves with what he has now. If you can convince him that all he needs to do is create a chink in the armor and that I… that the British government can exploit," he said.

"Why couldn't you do this?"

"Because I am also Ms. Adler's adversary, and she will never allow me private words with my brother… and he also isn't speaking to me. I'm afraid that if he ever trusted me before that it's gone now."

"What did you do?"

"I became more selective about what cases I would allow my brother could get to," Mycroft said.

"You… that's what he was muttering about for half a year, about censorship and the evils of it? You, you were censoring Sherlock?" John asked in true disbelief.

"I've always done it a little, but I was afraid that he would react as he has reacted… just sooner. I was afraid if something else stumped him that he would break… and in doing so I almost assured that he would. Dr. Watson… I'm not certain that you can get him back, and I'm not certain if he will be the same man you knew even if you can get him back, but I also know that you are the only one who can possibly convince him to leave," Mycroft said.

"Would it… Mycroft, if Sherlock was able to win-"

"He won't."

"But if he is… wouldn't it be better to let him keep going until he won?"

"He won't be able to, Dr. Watson. But if he did… he'll have lost ten million times and won once. Do you think he'll be the same man after that?"

"No," John said after a bit of hesitation. "What do I need to do?"

"You need to pack whatever you need and get on a plane to Paris. A flat as already been purchased in your name. You can buy anything you need there," he said.

"Paris," John said. "Flat? But-"

"I am aware that you're not currently working, and I will be sure to have your things sent to your flat in Paris, but you need to go as soon as you can."

"M-Mycroft, this is a little fast," John said. "So what, I just drive up to their flat and knock on the door and ask to see Sherlock? I don't even speak French!"

"They do speak English in Paris as well, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said for one moment of amusement before it all melted away into a terrible sadness. "No, I'm afraid what you do is send Ms. Adler a text, I'll give you her number. You text her and tell her you're coming at nine tomorrow morning and then you show up and just wait until you see my brother," he said.

"And that's it? Then what's the rush to get me out?" John asked.

"I was foolish to simply show up there this morning. It will be better if they have a warning of you, but it's better for you to be in the city in case you're invited to supper."

"Do you think she's actually going to invite me to supper?"

"No, but I don't want to lose the chance because you're taking time picking socks," Mycroft said with a bit of temper in his voice.

John sighed and stood up, starting to move around his flat. "So, what I need my computer, phone, gun and a change of clothes for tomorrow?" He asked, starting to pack everything anyway.

"That will be enough," Mycroft said. "Actually the French thing might be a problem," he said.

"You just said they spoke English in Paris," John said. He felt more than a little embarrassed that he hadn't considered that.

"They do, but Sherlock, being Ms. Adler's submissive has certain rules he must follow," Mycroft said.

"And what? He can't speak English anymore?" John asked.

"Yes, actually."

"Bloody brilliant," John grumped. "They got French to English dictionaries at Heathrow?"

"You surely learned French before?"

"In school, I barely passed, surely you've got my school records. The only languages I can understand outside of English are Dari and Pashto, and that's only because it was either that or miss a few very important things in Afghanistan," John said.

"Dari and Pashto?" Mycroft asked, somehow insulted those were the only languages John Watson was familiar with.

"I know a few phrases in Urdu, not enough to ask for the loo mind you," John said with a shrug.

"I'll be sure there's a dictionary on the plane," Mycroft said.

"Great, this is going to be even harder talking to Sherlock if I can't even understand him. Is she going to even let me see him alone?" John asked.

"I don't know," Mycroft said. "She wouldn't allow me to speak to Sherlock alone, but then he was the one who ended the meeting, not her," he said.

"Bloody Brilliant, another thing to worry about," John said.

"You don't need to worry about money or accommodations. Just consider yourself employed by the Holmes family for the time being."

"How is Sherlock going to react to me working for you?"

"Not well… you can tell him you're working for Mummy if you prefer," Mycroft said.

John winced. "No, thank you," he said, thinking Sherlock would hate that even worse. "How long do I stay there?"

"As long as you can, as long as it takes. You can return at any point, if you feel it's hopeless, but it's better if you stay around. Even if you can't make him come home, it might be easier for him to have you nearby."

"I'm going to kill him when I see him, you realize that?"

"You promised to kill me the next time you saw me as well, Dr. Watson. If you're really worried about killing him, though, I suggest leaving your gun at home," he said.

John zipped his bag closed and looked at Mycroft. "This is all your fault."

"I know," Mycroft said.

"I'm not going to forgive you for this."

"You shouldn't."

"He won't either."

"I'm counting on that, John… just bring Sherlock home."

"I'll do what I can. Let's go," he said.

Mycroft stood from the bed and they both walked out and down to the car. They were silent in the car. Irene Adler's address and phone number appeared on John's phone, as did his flight information and everything he'd need to know to get to his new flat in Paris. The car drove John straight to Heathrow. He got out and didn't say goodbye.

John was seething as he made it to the gate. He didn't get checked at security. He got waved threw to a private jet that seemed to land almost as soon as it took off. The rapid change of altitude made John's head hurt. He blew his nose as he got off the plane, feeling his ears pop painfully. He toss the tissue in a bin as he passed by and left the airport (no bothering with customs or any of that mess, thankfully).

It was easy to find a cab. He was relieved to find one where the cabbie spoke English, which again made John feel stupid. He'd done fine in Afghanistan, but then he could actually speak and understand the languages he needed for that country. Paris wasn't near so far away but it made him edgy like he was actually going into a warzone.

But he was, wasn't he? He was on search a rescue. Mycroft had down the searching part, now John just had to be able to talk the unbelievably galling Sherlock Holmes into cutting his loses (impossible) and returning home mostly empty handed. This was made more impossible by the fact that Sherlock Bloody Holmes had faked his own death in order to escape everyone he knew and find Irene Adler to engage her in a new game. To make it even worse, Sherlock might not even be able to communicate with John.

John was thinking about if Sherlock would be allowed to type or text in English or if that too would have to be in French. Just thinking about that was making his head spin already. By the time John would be able to figure out what Sherlock had said, Sherlock would probably be bored and have moved on already. Brilliant, absolutely Fucking. Bloody. Brilliant.

John pulled out his phone from his pocket and carefully typed in Irene Adler's phone number to the contact box, saving it before he moved to send her a text. He hesitated, unsure of how best to phrase it. He must have retyped the message half a dozen times. Finally his cab pulled up to his flat and he actually had to hit send.

I'm coming tomorrow at nine to see Sherlock,

John Watson.

Simple, to the point, it would do. John paid the cabbie, grabbed his bag and slogged up to his flat in the far too impressively flat in the far too impressively nice and expensive building. (Really Mycroft? Really?) He set his bag down on the bed and unpacked. He was glad he remembered pyjamas for the evening. It was still afternoon, though, so he set about trying to figure out where he could get food from until he noticed that the refrigerator and cabinets were fully stocked.

"Mycroft apparently makes up for his guilt with lavish gifts," John said to no one, shutting the cabinets he'd opened. Now all he had to do was decide what he hated more: cooking or wandering around Paris.


"Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallups," Cary Grant said from the large flat screen telly Irene Adler normally had discretely hidden away in a set of cabinets in her bedroom.

Irene laughed at the line, even though she'd heard it a hundred times before. Sherlock chuckled. They were both propped up at the foot of her bed, laying on their stomachs, eating popcorn, drinking beer (all Irene's idea) and discussing the merits of arsenic poisoning versus… well, whatever Jonathan Bruster's methods were (Sherlock's idea). Sherlock was much more excited about the prospect of their arsenic murders because they were so much more subtle and because no one would guess.

Irene wasn't surprised that Sherlock Holmes had never seen Arsenic and Old Lace, nor was she surprised that he seemed to be enjoying it. A comedy about murder? How could you go wrong? Besides, Cary Grant running around the screen made Irene very, very happy.

That happiness was disrupted when her phone started making noise. She sighed and paused the movie, grabbing her phone. She'd been about to be annoyed until she saw who it was. "Your brother does good work, Sherlock."

"Does he?" Sherlock asked, reaching out for the phone. Irene handed it over.

I'm coming tomorrow at nine to see Sherlock.

John Watson

Sherlock paled when he saw the words. Other than that he made no sign that he cared. He simply handed the phone back to her and she set it back on the pillow it had been lying on before. "I won't be seeing him," he said.

"Yes you will," Irene said.

"No, I won't," Sherlock said, his voice a little louder.

"Mon petit Holmes, you've spent far too much time today ordering me around," Irene said, rubbing her hand over his aching buttocks before smacking his left cheek, hard. She'd stripped him of his clothes earlier, rubbing allow on him. She was still dressed, though in pyjamas that made her look younger than her actual age. It reflected her mood: still possessive, still wanting to punish, but also wanting for a bit of innocent fun.

"And what, will you bring me down this time with the collar and the leather pants, make me answer in French except when you have me barking, maybe have me sniff John's crotch?" Sherlock asked irritably.

"No, but I should, that sounds like a wonderful idea," she said, glancing out of the corner of her eye to see Sherlock looking suddenly very off. She could make him do anything. He was doing a great job acting as her Sub. He would do it. Short of telling Sherlock to try and shag his friend, he'd do anything to make her happy so he'd have a chance to get what he'd want. But it would cost him, being humiliated in front of John would cost him dearly.

She wanted it to cost him something, but she didn't want to actually break him… although the idea did have its merits. She liked breaking people down into what she wanted them to be. The problem was that while she liked the idea of a perfectly Submissive Sherlock Holmes, she only liked the idea of him as a trophy. She also wanted her feisty, fighting Sherlock to still be around.

"What am I going to do then?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not sure yet," Irene said. "But if you be a good boy I might let you speak English… does John even know French?"

"He knows Bari, Pashto and a bit of random Urdu," Sherlock said.

"Really? How do you know?"

"John talks in his sleepy sometimes," Sherlock said. "And he started saying complete nonsense in Urdu when he stubs his toe in the middle of the night on the way to the loo," he added.

"You're such a creepy stalker," Irene said affectionately, stroking Sherlock's spine just right so he would shiver.

"Enough of this, put the movie back on," Sherlock said. He didn't want to see John. He really didn't want to see John, but he also didn't want to think about it anymore. He also wanted to see how this mess of a movie was going to end. He just wished for once that he could not think about anything or any of who or what he'd have to deal with in the morning.


John received a text message from Irene Adler at about nine in the evening, shortly after he'd gotten out of the shower. He imagined (unbidden) that she had Sherlock tied to something at that moment, sweating was he waited for whatever pain was coming to happen (or to stop. John wasn't sure which image he found to be worst).

We'll see you at nine. Should Sherlock greet you on a leash? Or in Leather pants?

Irene

#

John glared at the screen for a full minute before he started to type rapidly.

#

Don't you dare humiliate him in front of me just so you can get off later.

John

#

I don't do it to get off. I do it to teach him. He's been very bad today. Want to hear what he's done?

Irene

#

Sod off

John

#

You're very nice this evening. Don't worry, he's already been beaten for his transgressions.

Irene

#

John snarled at that. He hated the idea of a man like Sherlock Holmes actually being beaten, whether at a game or with a whip. He thought of Sherlock at Cluedo and then he thought of what Mycroft said. Would Sherlock really break under this.?

#

So, what should it be? I'm thinking of sending him out naked. I'm sure you don't mind. ;)

Irene

#

John was seething when he wrote his response.

#

I have no problem killing you for hurting him. Mycroft and the whole British Government can sod off for all I care. If you hurt him tomorrow, I'll hurt you.

John

#

You're so cute when you're protecting him… like he's your dog or something. Don't worry, I'm not going to put him in the dog fighting ring.

Irene

#

What are you going to do?

John

#

Hmm… I'm not sure yet. It does need to be good. I did the leash with Mycroft today. Don't want to be repetitive. That would be boring.

Irene

#

Yes, positively horrible *sarcasm*

John

#

You know how Sherlock gets bored. I promised him I wouldn't let him get bored, and he doesn't, not with me. He probably does with you.

Irene

#

It doesn't matter if he gets bored or not.

John

#

Do you really mumble in nonsense Urdu when you stub your toe at night on your way to the toilet?

Irene

#

Tell Sherlock to shut up

John

#

Can't, he's sleeping, though I can wake him up to tell him you want to speak with him.

Irene

#

John hesitated before he responded. He wanted to hear from Sherlock. God, he really wanted to get one of Sherlock's snarky texts but…

#

Let him sleep.

John

#

He doesn't want to see you.

Irene

#

I bet he doesn't, but he's just going to have to deal with that.

John

#

Ah, I think I know what I'll do with him tomorrow

Irene

#

Feel like sharing?

John

#

What? And Ruin the surprise? You're not fun.

Irene

#

John stared at the message for a while. When had Irene Adler begun to sound so much like James Moriarty?

#

Do you know where Moriarty is?

John

#

Sherlock's grave, I imagine. I think Sherlock liked the irony.

Irene

#

John did not appreciate that. He'd cried over Moriarty's dead body? That's it, Sherlock was definitely going to die tomorrow.

#

Tell Sherlock he will die tomorrow at 9:01 in the morning.

John

#

Lol, I'm sure he'll be looking forward to it.

Irene

#

I better go now. I don't want to wake the baby, after all.

Irene

#

He sleeps so beautifully when he's exhausted after I've worked on him for a few hours.

Irene

#

He's a ginger now, you know.

Irene

#

Is this your version of going? Because you're still here.

John

#

Spoil sport.

Irene

#

Pretty dreams, Dr. Watson.

Irene

John put his phone down and put his head in his hands. Just what was she going to do to Sherlock tomorrow? He honestly didn't even want to know. Sherlock didn't want to see him? Fine, the coward. John was still going anyway. Irene Adler actually like Sherlock with his fake red hair? Was she Insane? Probably, but that was beside the point. How was John even going to act tomorrow?

He thought about this for a moment before giving up. He plugged his phone on the charger, shut off the light, rolled over and went instantly to sleep with all the perseverance of a man who'd been able to sleep with RPGs blowing up over his head.


A/N:

Sorry about all the #. Stupid deleted the spacing that made it readable before. It was either # or a million divider lines. *grumbles*

I've been informed that I'm apparently very good at writing BDSM relationships which is… odd? I don't know how else to explain it as my only two sources are the Fifty Shades of Grey series (which I'm not really sure should be reference for anything) and Wikipedia. I'm also aware that Irene and Sherlock will always have an unhealthy relationship, whether it involves BDSM or not. Whatever I do or do not think about the lifestyle, I think that Irene will always push too far and punish Sherlock more than a she would a normal person because he has too much pride to back down. I also think that fan fiction forgets that while being whipped a hundred times sounds good for effect it's incredibly brutal, makes your back bleed, leave terrible scars, and isn't something that people just brush off. Fan fiction desensitizes people to things, drama is built up for dramas sake and it's easy to think that people can walk away from things they can't.

That being said, I'm glad people think the characters are in characters, and for the reviews I'll give you a little peek into my process:

Me: it's 1am… time to write 5k words.

*as I begin to write characters*

Sherlock… why are you doing this now, seriously, why?

Irene… thank you for the course correction.

Mycroft… we will have words later.

John… why are you easier to write than any of my own characters? Can I have you for my own?

Moriarty… shine on you crazy diamond… and please, please continue to stay fictional.

I apologize about the errors and typos. I do go back and edit… weeks later, normally I just write and post. Most of the posting lags are due to Sherlock and Irene deciding that they need to have length conversations in French.

Thank Zoffoli for being awesome and so greatly helpful with everything.

Will Sherlock and Irene end up together? I have no idea. I have plot ideas, but so far Sherlock and Irene have just blown all my ideas to hell. No idea what they're going to do next.

Other things… whenever I finish this or the Paws Project I have a third story in mind. I don't know how longs it's going to be. It's based on a GIF set I saw on tumblr. Sadly, it's got Sherlock as lead… again… and I cannot over state enough how much I hate writing him. It sucks, it really does. Yet he gets the lead in all of my stories. Hey, scumbag brain, why not John huh? Why not John?

Also, a few notes:

Please, e-mail or pm me if you don't want to sign in to review. I love responding to my reviews. I respond to each and every one if I can. So far some of the people I really want to respond to are Anons… I will talk to you if I can, seriously!

Irene doesn't really have a Shostakovich kink, I'm afraid it's a bit of pepper jack cheese (thank you, Pottersues for that phrase) on my part. I'm spamming Shostakovich for my Russia trip this summer. But knowing Sherlock and Irene, they'd probably know him anyway. Kinda same thing for Irene's interest in old movies. I just feel like she's a black and white flick kind of girl. If John can watch trash telly, then Irene can watch James Cagney and Jimmy Stewart. Mostly, my little inner!Irene has attached herself to it.

Currently on a Molly/Moriarty kick, any good ones you know of? I'm super half tempted to try a Molly/Moran piece, just for the hell of it.

Anyone know the flying time from Paris to London? Too short to bother? London to Amsterdam was like not even 30 minutes. It was ridiculously short.

I promise to try and not make my author's notes so long again, I swear.

This one chapter written to Shostakovich, Christmas music and the Glee soundtrack, because listening to things that make sense is insane.

Also, no I don't know why John seems to hate the French. I think they're just on the receiving end of his misdirected anger.