For a moment there is a silence that can only be described as awkward. John looks between Sherlock and Irene and thought he doesn't say anything his expression tells volumes. He's less than pleased that Irene is alive, never mind that she's actually in the room with Sherlock. He takes his jacket off and hangs it up and Sherlock can tell by the sharp, tense way that he's moving that John is angry. No, not angry, disappointed and somehow that's worse. It causes something cold and hard to form in Sherlock's belly and he doesn't like it.

"We have a new case," he says without quite meaning to.

"What about the old one?" John shoots back, turning around and folding his arms. Normally his first move after coming in from the cold, regardless of what he's been doing, is to make tea. But manners will dictate that he has to offer a cup to at least Irene, if not both of them, and he doesn't want to. So he stands there, rocking back on the balls of his feet, and denies everyone.

Sherlock wants a cup of tea. It's only by sheer strength of will that he keeps a pout from forming. "Lestrade can keep us apprised of the situation. Judging by the evidence so far he'll solve the case when he goes to speak to the family." It's the sort of case that Sherlock would have dismissed as boring and apparently John knows it because he sighs and lets his arms fall free.

"Alright, go ahead." He jerks his head at Irene stiffly.

"There's another woman," Irene says bluntly and John's eyebrow shoots up. She smiles grimly. "Long before we met Godfrey was seeing someone that his family didn't know about. They wouldn't have approved of her for various reasons. He broke it off years ago but we recently announced our wedding and now she's claiming that she's had an illegitimate child by him. He's not sure whether her goal is to get money or to become Lady Norton or possibly both. Regardless of whether or not it's true, if she goes public with this it will cause a great deal of problems. I need you to find proof that she's lying."

It's sort of ironic, really, and he can tell that John is thinking the same thing. Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his chin without thinking, and then scowls and drops his hands to his lap when he sees Irene's lips twitch at the picture he's presenting. "Why don't you have a paternity test?" he says. "That seems like the logical way to solve the problem of whether or not the child is his."

"Rumours can do a lot of damage, as you well know," she answers quietly, her eyes flicking between them, and that's all it takes for John to walk into the kitchen and start slamming things around.

"John," Sherlock says, following him. He feels unbearably small, watching John, and it's not a good feeling.

"I can't believe you sometimes," John says without turning around. "Or, wait, yes I can. I suppose if you can fake your own death it's no surprise that you would also be willing to lie about someone else's death."

"Actually you were the one who lied to me," Sherlock points out, wincing slightly. Normally they have an unspoken agreement to not mention that time and he wishes Irene hadn't referred to it. He knows that John is truly upset if he's mentioning it as well, which in turn will only make him more upset.

"That was different. I was trying to spare your feelings, Sherlock."

"Not so different," Sherlock mumbles. At the time he'd told John that he had a case which needed his attention when he left to save Irene's life. It hadn't been an outright lie. He'd thought for longer and harder than he wanted to admit about bringing John with him, but sentimentality complicated things so much. John didn't like Irene Adler then and he doesn't like her now.

John stops at that and stares at him for a long moment. His face undergoes an interesting transformation, softness seeping in around the eyes and tugging his lips up into a fondly exasperated smile that seems to be reserved just for Sherlock. "You're a git," he says, not without affection. "If you really want to take on her case then I'll help you but I'm not sure how you're going to do it like that."

"I'll need more details about the case," he admits, more relieved than he wants to let on. If John had truly pressed the issue Sherlock might have considered not taking on the case after all. He's not sure he wants to think about what that might mean. He does want to ask something like 'are you sure you don't mind?' but the words lodge in his throat and won't come out. Instead, almost like a peace offering, he says, "I'll text Lestrade and let him know that he can bring any new evidence to us."

John actually grins. "Alright, then, let's go hear more about this new case of yours. I'll be in as soon as the tea is finished."

Not surprisingly, Irene is watching him closely when Sherlock comes back into the room. He ignores her scrutiny, walking back over to his chair and climbing up into it as opposed to taking a seat beside her on the couch. The chair dwarfs him, making him seem smaller than he actually is and he hates it, but he knows that John will appreciate the additional distance between them. She can divine whatever she likes as long as she doesn't mention or refer to it in any way, especially not while he looks young enough to be John's child.

"Tell me more," he says to her. "I need every detail you can give me about this woman."

Irene looks at him for a second longer. There's a mischievous look in her eyes, a glint of the old Irene. "She works as a receptionist for the local dentistry," she says. "She's young, quite a bit younger than Godfrey, late twenties. Her daughter is about six years old and attends the elementary school. The child does look like Godfrey, a little. They've both got dark hair. But that hardly means anything." She lifts a shoulder and leans forward, intent. "Have you admitted it yet, Sherlock?"

"Leave it," Sherlock growls, knowing John is about to walk in at any moment. He can't deal with this now, he can't. "Not now, Irene." And at this rate, maybe not ever.


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