Author's Notes: The chapter in which everybody comes to the wrong conclusion. Also, I may be posting on my tumblr (link on authors page) a thing I wrote like ages ago on Scandal in Belgravia. It breaks down the episode into fragments and showcases how the episode is not about Sherlock and Irene, but about his and John's relationship instead. If this sort of thing interests you, let me know as I am still on the fence about posting it. You can P.M. me, or tell me on my tumblr, if you wish.

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 7: Interlude

John was decidedly not hiding. He was staying out of the way, in a secluded corner of the study as servants ran amok the rest of Mycroft's abode, panicking about some important person coming to visit. So he may have dragged a chair to the corner, and he may be pretending to read and maybe the door was locked, but that didn't mean anything.

The noise of the staff yelling and cleaning had given him a headache and the cleaning agents had made him sneeze. The study was quieter and forgotten about, especially in his little corner. Even Molly, who was generally amiable, had shooed him away as soon as he had entered the house from his jaunt with Sherlock, which he was not mulling over. No, he was merely staying out of the way while the staff had a collective panic attack.

There were many other things to worry about, the still image in his head of the drevin woman's head colliding with a bullet being one of them. Another being who in their right mind would have the gall to bomb any part of Incleston's empire. Not only is the country one of the most powerful and intimidating, but they were also at peace with most other formidable enemies, the land war to the South non-withstanding. Even those countries did not have the time, energy, or audacity to try anything so stupid. So, who did?

Of course, coming upon that inevitably led him back to Sherlock, seeing how the man had little to say on the matter. It wasn't until after the event that John began to notice the silence on Sherlock's part during their visit to the blast site. He knew Sherlock, and the man should've been raising all sorts of questions and deductions over the matter, yet he had said almost nothing of the sort. Instead, he had been rather interested in-

John growled to himself. No, he shouldn't be indulging in that. Shouldn't have allowed it to even happen. How he had given Sherlock such a wrong idea was beyond him, but this was not how he had wanted their relationship to go. He cared for Sherlock; that was true. That didn't extend beyond friendship, or what a slave could care for their old master. He didn't want anything beyond that.

There may have been a time when, in the loneliness, he may have imagined what an older Sherlock may have looked like. Those imaginings may have taken a turn out of hand a handful of times, but John was never one to analyze them beyond delusions cause from the extreme environments he had been in at the time. Some of his partners may have been taller, or paler, or had dark curly hair, but, again, that was nothing more than coincidence or preference.

The stillness of the house finally roused him from his thoughts, a suspicious hush before the storm. It lasted for five minutes that ticked by sluggishly as he sat attentive in his corner before-

"Not what they need right now! Your agency-" A woman's voice, bursting with anger and passion.

"I was not informed of any conspiracy. There is a distinct possibility that-" Mycroft, level and calm.

"-Three of my people arrested! One dead! No one came to me for anything-"

"-Were just doing what was best at the time."

John hadn't realized he had begun to move until he was already standing in the doorway to the lounge, where Mycroft and the woman were just settling down into their seats. The woman, who had her back to John, waved a dismissive hand at Mycroft's words, opening her mouth and taking out what seemed to be an opaque plastic retainer. She set in a glass of water on the end table by her chair, sighing as she rubbed her jaw.

"Much better, don't you think?" Even from his angle by the door, John could see the glint of white sharp little teeth and the fading glow of an orange mark. He must've made a sound, because both her and Mycroft looked his way.

Goosebumps rode up his arms and the hair stood on end for good reason. A feral sirentz. Mycroft had a feral sitting an arm's length away, unguarded or chained, and no one to help him if she chose to attack. Rugged fangs and claws, and they arguing over politics as she wasn't able to rip him apart any given second. The scene couldn't actually register in his head as John stood slightly dazed by the sight.

"John, this is Irene Adler, my representative for the Underground." She beckoned him closer and held out her hand, which he strode forward and took with some apprehension. She wasn't a threatening person on the surface, being thin and of average height, but it was the way she held herself even while sitting, tall and powerful with an unblinking gaze that gave off an aura to counteract her less than dominating appearance.

"So, you're the one hanging around with Mycroft's little brother? How quaint. I suppose he needs someone to keep him from wandering into any unsavory territory." She eyed him with mild interest, something he wished wouldn't be happening. Mycroft was extremely relaxed to have such a creature sitting in his home. He wasn't even looking at her, attention drawn to John, which, to be frank, was a very bold thing to do.

"You went to the blast site. What can you tell us about it?" Mycroft questioned. John had to take a minute to overcome the oddity of it all before he could even answer, not letting Irene leave his peripheral vision.

"We got there just as they cuffed the conspirators. One struggled, and was shot for her effort. That was about it before we were asked to leave." Mycroft took this in, nodding and making a mental note, and Irene all but hissed, turning back to the politician.

"They have no real evidence, yet they killed someone on the spot. This was not case of arresting suspicious parties, but of rounding up the easiest targets." That was John's thoughts as well, having been there himself.

"They did say they found a remote detonator on one of the criminals." He supplied, though neither Irene nor Mycroft found this in the least bit helpful.

"I'm not saying the agent's behavior was proper, but given what they had to work with-" Mycroft tried, though was interrupted swiftly.

"Someone slipped something the size of bread roll into her purse, and she pulls it out wondering what it is. I want this fixed, Mycroft, and her family to be compensated properly."

"I cannot just make favors appear out of nowhere. If the jury finds them guilty, then I cannot counteract that." Irene didn't take this well, and John had to wonder if she knew one of the people under suspicion.

"No? I'm curious what Sherlock might think of this, or what his head might look like on my best platter." Irene had hardly spat out her words before John was out of his chair, the scrape of its legs on the hardwood floor echoing in the room. "Sit down, dog, or I'll have you fixed as well." She didn't even bother to glare at him as she said it, still waiting on Mycroft's answer.

"John." Mycroft reprimanded when he continued to glare at Irene. The name hit him like a whip, an old learned response putting him back in his chair. "Sherlock is a moot point. We have agreed on this on several occasions. If he is to come under any harm by your doing, then our deal if off and you're on your own."

"He could solve my case. Seven missing persons and now a terrorist attack leaving one of my people dead and three more primed for the rope."

"I will get him involved when I find it to be necessary. I merely ask for your trust and patience."

"There's never been any trust between us." She smiled snidely, her fingers shifting restlessly upon the arm of her chair. Claws scraped upon the wood as she continued. "The day we go for each other's throats is a day I dream of nightly." Mycroft had no response, and John held himself back from making a comment of his own. He was outmatched here.

Irene let herself not minutes later, claiming she had no more need to waste time with the 'bull' and his 'sheepdog'.

"Why do you have her around?" He had waited until the front door had sounded, and the house had breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Irene Adler is the foremost intelligence and power of the Underground. She's made a habit of making herself indispensable to everyone. I had been looking into allying myself with her for a while, but there were too many pieces in her favor before she became feral. Now, however-"

"You help her hide in plain sight, and in return, she's the envoy between you and the Underground." John finished for him, grimacing.

"Precisely." John went to the lounge window, watching as the figure of Irene disappeared into a cab. He'd would have to keep an eye out for her.

Affection had never been a strong suite for Sherlock, or even an area which he had much experience. He avoided it if possible in all circumstances, having never needed a reason to seek it out. He enjoyed his solitary life as it left him with very few people to get in the way of his deductions and various habits that might seem more unseemly or unhealthy. It was enjoyable, quiet.

Yet he kissed John, not out of his own predetermined choice. It had been spur of the moment, after a few hours with John at his side. He had meant to berate the man some more, possibly put him down, see how far he could push John till he snapped again. The John's earlier reaction had been surprising. Even Lestrade, who was more his equal than an ex-slave, would back down from his taunts, yet John rose to them spectacularly, telling him more about the drevin than John ever could.

Sherlock had never done this, had not even planned to do so. He replayed it over and over in his mind as he rode to his building. The walk to the crime scene had been tense and quick, as both parties had a direct interest in it. John had surprised Sherlock actually, his own worries over the bombing being relevant.

"Who would strike Alckos?"

"I would've have thought you of all people would have some sort of guess."

"Yeah, but why hit the market with the capitol building being a few blocks away?" Sherlock had struck the idea down, naming off at least three reasons it could have been a mistake, and was subsequently disappointed when John quieted to think it over. Even still, he had experienced a surprising amount of pride at John's observations. The foreign emotions did not stop there however as they had made it to the scene.

There had been protectiveness when the crowd around the crime scene had targeted John for their resounding anger, anger over Peterson's obvious jab at John's status, worry when John had backed down from said insult like a scolded dog. Sherlock shouldn't have been experiencing any of these. John was nothing to him, and yet he was reacting to him as though they'd been companions for years. These were learned responses he was experiencing, but in all logic, Sherlock shouldn't be dealing with any of it.

It was as if he was divided, the logical, reasoning side adamant that John was just a stranger and his itching subconscious pressing that he was more. Out of the cab and directly in front of his building, the cold thought hit him. He wasn't falling in love with John? Not after so little time knowing him, no, he couldn't be. Love was for the losing side, and Sherlock had come to the conclusion he was incapable of such a thing a very long time ago.

But what if? It plagued him on the walk up the creaking staircase. It brought him no warmth but worry.

The door to his flat was ever so slightly ajar, a little nick on the wood near the handle and the still lingering smell of perfume mixed with a hint of lake water. It was distraction enough and he entered casually as he could, heart thumping rampantly as he crossed the threshold into the dark room. A flick of the switch had the light bulb blinking into life, Irene Alder stretched out languidly on his sofa, a dark gleeful expression on her face.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes." She greeted, not bothering to stand from where she was holding his furniture hostage. Sherlock stilled, contemplating how this next few minutes might go. She was seated at angle, with her back tucked into the corner of the sofa, legs crossed yet taking up a considerable amount of room. She was relaxed, yes, but there was a manic twinkle in her eyes that spoke of mischief and superiority. Nothing about her seemed ill-tempered or hungry, but Sherlock would keep something silver in reach at all times.

Sherlock still had a scar from the last visit that had gone sour, though that had been mostly his fault.

"Why don't you be good boy, and make us some tea. Dealing with your brother always leaves me with a foul taste in my mouth." She tossed him her empty prescription bottle, which he caught with ease. There was a sour note there that was well-deserved on Mycroft's behalf, but even that didn't deter from what was making her so happy. Sherlock would be hearing something from her soon and hopefully he could worm it out of her to keep this brief.

To some extent, Sherlock enjoyed their visits, for Irene was something to be admired, albeit from afar. She had the Underground and half of the rest of the city under her thumb though shear tenacity and cunning. If you wanted something to happen in Alckos, anything that went outside of the Council, you went to Adler. A smuggling in. An escape. A political movement. She had the connections to make it happen, and make it happen fast.

This was why Mycroft needed her, why Sherlock needed her. For his brother, she could be a courier of information to the drevin whom he could not communicate with. For Sherlock, she could provide the needed whispers and rumors of his talents in order to get his clients. When she became feral, or 'enlightened', as she described it, Mycroft was more than willing to help now that he had some leverage against her. Irene, being desperate enough to want to stay in the city, had agreed to the terms set forth by his brother.

"It will take me a minute to measure out your next dosage." Sherlock told her, already reaching for the bottles and herbs needed. Everything was unlabeled, the containers exactly alike, as per Mycroft's request and his own pride. He knew these ingredients all too well, not needing a cataloging system to aide him. They both agreed keeping the formula a secret as to dissuade the curious (Irene) from figuring out how to make it. Each subscription lasted only a month and it kept their relationship even and consensual.

"I've got all night." She watched him work from her perch, eyes ever calculating to catch a single mistake. The suppressant Sherlock had crafted was simple and yet effective. It could hide a tame in plain sight, or keep a feral from being detected. For Irene, it kept from other drevin sniffing her out and dulled the craving for human. Everything was ground together in a soupy like mass, and had to be ingested daily. The taste was said to be hard to swallow, but worth the nausea.

"You're friend John came as a surprise to me." Irene finally said after a long period of silence, teasingly. Mycroft must've invited her into his home, drawing John out of where ever he would mostly likely be having a miniscule mental breakdown over Sherlock's forward behavior. He'd have to find out about that later.

"He's not my friend." Sherlock was quick to dismiss. John was an experiment, a case, at best, despite what his emotions may be trying to push. "He's confused. I'm merely indulging him at the moment."

"Oh? Interesting. How long have you known him?"

"Not long."

"Oh, now Sherlock, you're usually a much better liar." He turned to her, brow furrowed.

"What makes you think I'm lying?" Irene searched his face, a split second of realization dawning on her, though it disappeared after only a moment.

"Nothing. My mistake." She answered, and Sherlock turned back to his work. Whatever conclusion she had come to had little interest to him at the moment, as her constant watch over his movements was beginning to make him panic. Not purposefully, the instinct was merely to strong to ignore. His heart rate began to elevate and his respiration did too once his body realized that there was feral drevin not seconds out of reach. Even the silver knife in his pocket, which he had slipped in there as casually as possible did not calm the call to bolt.

Fifteen minutes passed, and the prescription was ready, dispensed into the glass bottle. Relief trickled into his body as he twisted the cap close, turning to give it to Irene.

"Why aren't you investigating the disappearances? I thought that would be right up your alley." The swiftness and timing of the question threw him for a loop.

"People go missing all the time. Not exactly surprising when their drevin." He answered, with only a moment's need to regather his thoughts.

"Seven in two months? With no word to their families? It isn't at least a little suspicious?" Irene stood, a daunting figure despite the height Sherlock had on her.

"Could be anything and therefore nothing. Here." He held out the re-filled bottle. "This is what you came for, so, if you would be so kind." He indicated the door with quick jerk of his head. Irene contemplated the bottle for a moment before swiping it from his grasp, slipping it into her coat pocket.

"When you do look into the disappearances, and I'm certain you will, you know where to find me."

"Unfortunately, I think I can make do without the help. I enjoy keeping the teeth out of my neck." Irene gave a coy smile, brushing the back of her knuckles down his chest. The movement wasn't sensual as it was a threat, the tips of her talons just peeking out from her fingertips.

"Come now, I would make a special case for you." The pocket knife Sherlock had slipped into his trousers was pressed to his throat with a blinding speed. The choked noise coming from his mouth only made her grin curl into something more feral. She leaned in closer, voice lowering. "I'd keep you hanging on the edge until you were begging for it to end, Mr. Holmes."

"Have a good night, Miss Adler." Sherlock managed, and Irene stepped away. She left, finally, exiting the room but not before embedding the blade in the door frame, a little pouch attached to it. Sherlock left it there, know what was in the parcel. Their dealings were not a one-way street, and his payment would be stashed away soon enough. Instead, he closed the door before collapsing in his chair, rubbing at his throat.

Irene was worried, the frantic way she pushed the missing persons on him made that obvious, and she too smelled a rat in the day's bombings. His interest was already piqued but he would have to wait for the police to get involved, and fail, before he could make his move. It wouldn't help him to solve a nameless case. All Sherlock would need was to be patient, and with John, he had something to distract him till that time came. He would be fine, and hopefully he could keep the needle out of his arm.

Thankfully, a little over a week later, the prisoners disappeared in broad daylight.