Author's Note: One quick plea...PLEASE don't kill me! :P Thanks to all the people who have reviewed so far! :) Enjoy!


Holmes and Watson moved at the same instant, following Irene and diving into the fray. The thug with the cudgel took aim for Watson, but he dodged out of the way and drew the blade from inside his cane. Holmes dived low; driving a fist into his man's abdomen, but earning himself a heavy blow above his left eye.

Irene's metal piping caught the first man on the back of the head, rattling his skull with a blow that took all her strength to pull off. Unfortunately, the thug recovered rather too quickly and before Irene could raise the pipe for a second onslaught, he had stopped the pipe with an arm of steel and twisted it out of her hands.

Irene gasped in pain as her wrist jarred; twisted far around for her to hang on. She reached for the bladed hair pin that nestled in the bun on top of her head, but now the man had hold of her arm and she found herself pushed to the floor and unable to move; the man's entire weight crushing the air from her lungs.

Looking up from the onslaught of blows he was raining down upon his own man, Holmes saw Irene was in distress. He ducked the lazy jab thrown by his opponent and twisted the arm of Irene's captor behind his back. Using the momentary distraction, he plunged his elbow forwards into the man's neck. An instant build-up of blood rushed to the man's head and he collapsed to his knees, unconscious before he hit the floor.

"T...Thanks..." Irene breathed, massaging her wrist.

"Bite off a little more than you could chew, dearest?" Holmes' smile was a mixture of sarcasm and complacency as he helped Irene to her feet.

Brushing off the jolt that came with their touching, Holmes looked around for the other two assailants. During his and Irene's distraction, one of the two men had broken off his own metal weapon from the piping and now Watson was fighting both of them at the same time- his sleek blade blocking, jabbing and swiping as he tried to defend himself and attack simultaneously.

"He's got style," Irene murmured admiringly.

"Afghan War," Holmes replied, watching Watson carefully as he spoke. There seemed no need to intervene- the doctor appeared to be managing quite well by himself. "He served for several years until a knee injury rendered him useless for combat." Holmes pointed. "As you can see- tall, strong and very fast. A prime example of a military man, but notice the slight angle his right knee takes when compared to the other." He indicated the handsome cane Watson held in his right hand. "The walking stick conceals a blade but also serves a more practical purpose. Note the limp as he moves."

"Does it hurt him?" Irene asked.

"Only occasionally," Holmes replied. "But it has done nothing to decrease his speed..."

"Fast men aren't always the best," Irene said, and Holmes noticed the wicked gleam shine in her eyes once again. "I prefer a man who takes it slow... Men who finish too quickly are hardly worth bothering about again..."

Before Holmes could even begin to think of a suitable reply (and he was fairly confident that one did not exist), they were interrupted by a high-pitched scream and a fluid torrent of expletives in German. Watson's first man (the one with the cudgel) had dropped his weapon and was clutching at his leg from where he appeared to be bleeding quite profusely. There was blood on Watson's blade, and although he had not seen the attack, it was easy for Holmes to deduce that Watson had cut the leg to pose a distraction.

Watson spun around and aimed a hefty kick into the face of the first man. Another quick flick of the blade, and the second man was screaming; bleeding from the wrist that held his weapon. Watson clasped the hair on the back of the man's head and smashed his skull into the nearby brick wall. With both men unconscious and bleeding around him, Watson sheathed his blade and breathed out deeply; aiming a very disapproving look at Holmes.

"Feel free to step in anytime!"

"You were doing a fine job by yourself, old chap." Holmes patted Watson on the back and examined the three cataleptic assailants. "Though I do wish you hadn't knocked them both unconscious... I feel some questioning would be in order..."

Watson followed his friend's gaze and was surprised to see him staring not at the three men, but at Irene. She stared defiantly back at him; almost as if they shared a secret that Watson could not even begin to understand himself. Not for the first time, he felt awkward- like a spare part the other two had no real need of. As they made their way back through the streets of Vienna towards the train station, Watson found himself wondering whether coming along had been a good idea after all...


"The cut above your eye has split open...again!" Watson was violently mixing a bowl of disinfectant and dabbing it none-too-gently onto Holmes' face. There was a medical consultant onboard the train for passenger emergencies, but Holmes had made it clear he would see no other doctor but Watson. This suited the latter perfectly as it gave them an opportunity to talk.

"Do you remember what I said that time we spent the night in Scotland Yard's detention compound awaiting bail?" Watson asked.

"I remember you saying quite a number of things..."

"About my psychological health?" Watson sloshed disinfectant into Holmes' eye, ignoring his grunts of protest. "Perhaps it's escaped your notice, Holmes, but I think that my situation has worsened over the last two years."

"In what way?"

"I have left my home, my practice, my patients and my family to trek across Europe and Asia with you on a journey that has led me –after only three days- into a fight in an Austrian back alley and an unplanned rendezvous with a collection of German prostitutes!"

"Working women."

"What?"

"They are women, paid for a profession," Holmes said maddeningly. "The services for which they are paid make no odds; Watson, I'm surprised at you!"

"Do you want me to throw myself from this train, Holmes?" Watson asked in exasperation. "Is that what you want? Because, so help me God, I'll do it!"

Holmes said no more, and Watson continued his lament, beginning to stitch the gash on his companion's face.

"As much as it pains me, it has to be said that this is insane, Holmes!" As Watson grew more and more agitated, his movements became increasingly sloppy as he sewed. Holmes feared for his eyesight, but didn't dare interrupt. Where Watson was concerned, it was better to let him finish his tirade before trying to intervene...

"For heaven's sake, Holmes, it's enough of a mystery to my why you are here; let alone why I'm here!" Watson set down his needle and thread, engaging his full attention in his argument. "You bluster along with no thought of the consequences, seemingly oblivious to the fact that you're being played like a stack of cards!"

"Played?" Holmes raised the eyebrow that was not thick with surgical thread. "Watson, I must admit, your confession comes as something of a surprise..."

Watson pointed to the wall that formed the partition between the two rooms occupied by their group. "She is playing you. You think you know her, don't you, but I'll bet you haven't even scratched the surface. How long is it going to take you to realise that every word out of that woman's mouth is a lie?"

"Irene has...issues with trust."

"That she doesn't trust anyone or it's impossible for anyone to trust her?"

"Both." Holmes picked up a handheld mirror and admired the neat job Watson had done on his cut. "You're right of course, Watson. It would be naive for me to assume that Irene has been openly honest with me this time. In fact, I have already considered it as an option. All that remains is to discover what that motive is."

"And you think that getting emotionally attached to the woman is the right way to go about it?"

"I never said anything about emotions," Holmes said sternly. "Or attachment. My aim is simply to discover-"

"Whether there is a larger game afoot," Watson finished. "You know you've used that excuse three times now in as many years, and each time in reference to Irene Adler. What you don't seem to understand or even realise is that where Irene Adler is concerned, there's always a larger game afoot! She isn't honest with anybody, Holmes, so what makes you think she's being honest with you now?"

"We must do something about your suspicious nature, Watson," Holmes said, getting up from his chair and making his way towards the door. "As I've said before, it's most unbecoming."

"You're walking into a trap," Watson said, but there was a light-hearted tone to his warning.

"And I know that you will always be here to pull me back out again!" Holmes had left the door wide open.

"Shut the door!"

"You shut the door!"

Watson smiled wryly to himself as he rose to close the door himself. He reasoned that if he couldn't stop Holmes from making his own mistakes, being able to say "I told you so" by the end of the case would be extremely satisfactory!


Five days had passed since the train had departed Vienna, and they were now cruising happily through the mountains of eastern Turkey. Holmes spent hours on end locked in his and Irene's cabin; deeply engaged in the complexities of life if you asked Holmes himself, and most likely inhaling large amounts of dangerous narcotic drugs if you asked Watson.

On one of the rare occasions that Watson managed to convince his friend to leave the confines of his room and come to dinner, Holmes returned to his quarters to find Irene waiting for him.

"Wine?" she asked, holding up two glasses and indicating an expensive bottle of vintage red on the coffee table. Holmes wrinkled his nose as a wave of fresh scents hit him- Irene's perfume was there of course, but mixed with the tang of swelling brown olives (there was a bowlful on the table with the wine) and an artificial scent he had trouble placing at first...industrial-strength wood polish. Irene had had the room cleaned.

"What is it you're after now?" Holmes asked, taking the glass Irene offered him with a suspicious sniff to its contents.

"What is it I'm after?"

"The room is pristine and you have ordered in olives and wine," Holmes explained, "In essence, you rarely make an effort unless you require my services for a task you feel I will decline."

"If you weren't such hard work to convince, I wouldn't need bribery," Irene said, smiling as she lifted one of the olives and popped it into her mouth. She wasn't overly keen on the things, but she knew they were Holmes' favourites and that he wouldn't touch them until he saw her eat one first.

Holmes took an olive but left the wine where it was. "I don't believe you answered my question, Miss Adler..."

"What question, Mr Holmes?"

She was playing games with him, Holmes knew. Though she appeared casual, it was the tiniest details that gave her away: the upward inclination of her head as she spoke to him; the way she kept playing with a strand of hair that hung down the side of her face; the deliberate positioning of her dress so that the neckline sat several centimetres lower than when she had dressed this morning. Unfortunately for Irene, though, Holmes was an expert on small details, and this only made it easier for him to work around them.

"What is it you want from me?"

"You already know what I want," Irene said as she sipped her wine. "Isn't that why we're here now?"

"Indeed, but I find that actions speak louder than words." Holmes was watching her carefully, and Irene was unsure of just what she saw in those eyes. He was striding up and down the room, speaking with a voice Irene recognised as the one he exhibited just after a momentous discovery or when he was leading up to a point. It was the tone he had used when explaining he had known all along the real identity of D.B Cambell. He had used the same one several times in the past; the most recallable of which had been when explaining Lord Blackwood's designs on Parliament nearly two years previously. When Holmes ended his striding, he came to stand directly in front of Irene; a risky move, he knew, considering that their history of standing close to one another usually ended in violence and pain.

"You surprise me with food and wine," Holmes began. He lifted a layer of her curly hair from behind one ear. "You have dressed differently in preparation for this evening; adorning your hair with a posy bought for sixpence from the Romanian gypsy woman in room Fourteen C, and unless I am sadly mistaken, that cushion on the chair you have so far failed to sit down upon is concealing a bottle of the finest Parisian champagne available to purchase on this train."

Holmes looked up and stared directly into Irene's eyes; the russet meeting the azure at a distance of only a few inches.

"As for your intentions, it's fairly safe to say you had an ulterior motive with this evening's preparations..."

"Which is..?" Irene could feel herself growing uncomfortable. It was true that this evening had begun as another one of her promiscuous ploys, but she was unsure of when the game had become real. And now, as Holmes stood just inches away -so close that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin- she was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up her reserve. Because Irene had envisaged an alternative ending to this evening. She had planned it down to the finest detail; even taking into account Holmes' responses to her actions. Now, she cursed herself for forgetting that Holmes was the one person who could never be counted on to be predictable. Worse, she was sure now that Holmes had guessed her intentions...and it was probably mere moments before he made his opinions clear.

"I have...so far established that you were after...something more from me..." Irene was sure she could hear Holmes struggling to get the words out, and knew that their closeness affected him in the same way it affected her. "The only question is, is it something new you're after..." He paused. "Or something you made clear you have wanted before, but have... so far...been unable to attain..?"

Irene had no means of answering. She breathed in deeply, desperately trying to prevent a dark blush from creeping to her cheeks. Breathing in was a huge mistake- all she could smell was Holmes. His aftershave, stale tobacco and a hint of olive now dominated her senses and she could no longer look into his eyes.

"As I'm sure you already know," Holmes began, his voice only just above a whisper, "I am more than capable of resisting..."

"Are you really?" Her last hope was to pass this off as a joke. This was no game anymore... How had she let this get out of hand?

"And I assure you..." Holmes leaned in close so he could whisper in Irene's ear, utilising every last ounce of his self-control to hold his breath and deliver his last few words. "...I can hold out just as long as you can."

"Hold out for what exactly?"

"Against what," Holmes corrected, taking a step back and feeling himself relax slightly. "And you know exactly what I mean, Irene." For the first time, he took up the glass of wine and sipped at it without hesitation. "So let me make it clear..." Something inside Holmes was crying out for him not to say the words that were about to escape his lips, but he crushed the uprising of emotions before they could peak. He was well-practiced in the quashing of such sentiments, and this time was no different to the others. Was it?

"No matter what your intentions were for this evening," Holmes continued, "Nothing will come from it. In fact, it would be better if you were to-"

Holmes could not move out of the way fast enough. His wine glass dropped to the floor, forgotten, as Irene sprung from her stupor and captured his lips in a fierce and fiery kiss. Irene could not lay a finger on the moment she had lost control totally, but now her hands were stroking his cheeks, feeling the rugged lines and prickles of stubble that formed the face of the man she was kissing.

Rather than bite down on her own lip to stop the moan that always threatened, Irene bit down on Holmes' bottom lip. Why had she begun the kiss after all he had said? Had she suspected that his words were just an act and that he would soon give in if the right tactics were applied? Was this all a childish struggle for power over the other? But as Irene felt Holmes' hands rising slowly up her back, she knew that there could have been no other way. She wanted him; she needed him, more than she had needed anything or anyone in all her life. And unless she was very much mistaken, Holmes needed her too.

His hands were everywhere now; moving from the small of her back down to cup both of her buttocks, and then back up again to her caress her neck and cheeks. She almost cried out in delight as he moved his lips to her neck and suckled on the skin; leaving a red mark above the collarbone and sending waves of pleasure coursing through Irene's body.

She got her hands inside his waistcoat, but her concentration was shot to pieces by Holmes trailing his kisses down her chest and dangerously close to the dip of her cleavage as his hands frisked her hips and thighs in a way that truly made her want to buckle at the knees and scream.

"Ohhh...Sherlock...Good...Sherlock..."

"Mmhmm?"

"Good..."

"Night."

Irene did a double-take and confusion took over just for one second.

"What?" She felt her heart skip a beat out of disappointment as Holmes lifted his hands away and stepped back, pulling his lips away from hers.

"Good. Night."

"What?" Irene could feel the dread building in her chest. Was this really happening?

"Goodnight." Holmes had the smallest hint of a smug smile on her face as he opened the door of the cabin and stepped outside. "Goodnight, Irene."

And then he was gone and Irene was left alone, feeling flushed and foolish beyond compare. A rush of emotions flooded her head- anger, humiliation and sorrow all at once. But as they slowly drained away and the absence of Holmes allowed her to think clearly once again, her anger was replaced by a determination more potent than anything she had ever felt. He had made a fool out of her, but she did not back down easily.

If it was a game Sherlock Holmes wanted, a game was what Sherlock Holmes would get. And Irene was resolute that whatever form the game would take, she would be a more than willing participant!