The ride back to Baker Street was not a long one; Irene was silent during our journey, her expression thoughtful as she glanced out at the streets. Watson found that watching her silently was a little like watching Holmes; both had the same enigmatic air about them, their thoughts veiled. Watson was never entirely sure what to make of Miss Irene Adler; she was not like any other woman he'd ever known – and he'd known quite a few in his time. She was not an opponent to be underestimated – nor an ally to necessarily be fully trusted either. He was still uncertain how much she sincerely did not know about the Cessarine Majeste and how much was clever dissembling upon her part; she did genuinely seem to care for Holmes in her own way though, so he thought it worth the risk to bring her to him.

They could hear raised voices shouting at each other as they dismounted from the hansom, and exchanged glances. Watson opened the door and gestured for Irene to precede him.

"Where is he?"
"I tell you, Mr Holmes, I do not know! Now put that down – Mr Holmes!"
"Take your hands off me – let me go – no-"

There was a loud crash and a cry, and then Holmes staggered out of the sitting room, eyes wild in distress as he continued to try and free himself from Mrs Hudson who was clinging on determinedly to his arm. He clung to the banister at the top of the stairs and would have fallen had she not had such a firm grip upon him. He sank to his knees and then spotted Watson and Irene, who was regarding him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. He knelt there at the edge of the topmost step, staring down at them both. He looked from Watson to Irene, confusion in his clouded grey eyes, then switched his attention back to Watson. "Was it a good concert?" he asked quietly, his voice remarkably changed and calm in comparison to the shrieking that had gone before.

Watson glanced at Irene, then took of his hat and began peeling off his gloves as he slowly mounted the stairs. "It would have been far better with you there, old chap," he said steadily, slowing as he reached the top few steps and pausing so his sombre blue eyes were on a level with Holmes' grey gaze. At such close quarters he was able to see the perspiration that dampened his forehead, and not for the first time wondered inwardly at the strength of willpower Holmes possessed to still be upright when by all rights he should still be a-bed. He was truly the most intractable and difficult patient Watson had ever had to treat, the doctor reflected ruefully.

Holmes managed one of his brief, lopsided smiles as his eyes slid sideways to Irene who stood just a step below Watson. "And to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?" he asked her.

"Ah,you'd have to ask Dr Watson here that particular question," she replied. "I'm here at his invitation."

Holmes stared back at Watson, the confusion returning to his eyes. "I don't understand," he frowned.

"You must be ill then," she quipped back. He turned and glared at her. She raised a hand placatingly. "Easy now, Sherlock. I'm here to help, not to fight."
"That makes a change," he muttered, clutching tighter at the banister, lowering his head a little. Mrs Hudson hovered just behind him with an expression of worry, her hand still on his arm. Without really looking at her, he tried to shrug her off.
"Perhaps we should continue this inside?" suggested Irene. "Unless you want us to all sit here on the stairs all night, Sherlock?"
"Come on old chap," said Watson encouragingly, holding out his hand to Holmes. He stared at it for a moment, then with a small sigh of defeat he reached out and accepted Watson's support as he lurched back up onto his feet, swaying a little whilst Watson climbed the last few steps. Holmes leaned heavily on the doctor's shoulder as they made their way back into the sitting room, Irene following with Watson's hat and gloves which she handed to Mrs Hudson. The landlady sighed, shaking her head, and turned to put them away.

Once back inside, Holmes refused to return to the settee, instead pushing himself free of Watson's support and making his unsteady way over to his favourite chair beside the fire. He sat huddled there in his tatty dressing gown, glaring at Irene balefully as Watson glanced around, his gaze taking in an overturned table and broken crockery on the floor. Sighing inwardly, he gathered up the shards of china as best as he could and resolved to make it up to Mrs Hudson later; it was obvious that Holmes had not been the most peaceful of patients in his absence.

"Why did you bring her here?" he asked Watson, not taking his eyes off her.
"You said we needed to find her," Watson replied as he righted the table then dropped the broken tea cups into a wastepaper bin. Holmes turned with a start and stared at Watson.
"I said that? When?"
"When we got you back here after you nearly drowned," replied Watson, limping over to his own seat. "You babbled something about an old man and a dog, and yelled 'we have to find her'."
"I did?" Holmes put a hand to his head. "I don't remember... And from that you somehow deduced I meant Irene and you found her? Just like that?"

"Well, more like I found him - but I'm still impressed he knew where to look for me in the first place," remarked Irene, pushing the eiderdown to one side and settling herself on the settee as she divested herself of her hat and coat. "How did you work that one out by the way, Doctor, if it wasn't Sherlock who sent you?"

"The jewel heists," replied Watson. Irene's eyes widened almost imperceptibly; Watson would have missed it if he hadn't been waiting for it. As it was, she recovered almost instantly, but Watson smiled inwardly that for once he'd been the one a step ahead of Adler. He glanced at Holmes and was rewarded with a small smile of approval; he'd caught it too.

"Go on," Holmes encouraged. "You used my file as a starting point?"

Watson nodded, basking a little in Holmes' pride in him. "I carefully checked the patterns then went through the evening papers until I found what seemed to be a likely match for Miss Adler's methods, and predicted she'd be likely to attend this evening's soirée."

"Well done, Watson, you're really coming on remarkably well," smiled Holmes - the first time Watson had seen him genuinely smile with warmth in weeks. Watson smiled in answer whilst Irene clapped slowly.
"You've taught him well, Sherlock," she conceded. "That still doesn't explain why you were looking for me - or why you decided to take a swim in the canal."

The smile vanished from Holmes' face as he slumped back against his chair. He glanced towards the fire, his gaze abstracted. His fingers danced abstractly on the arm of the chair, and then he drew his bare feet up until he was sitting cross-legged in the chair.

"Holmes?" prompted Watson quietly.

Holmes straightened in the chair and turned to face Irene, steepling his fingers. "What do you know of the Cessarine Majeste?" he asked.

She shrugged, her face blank. "Never heard of it," she replied.

"Pity..." Holmes looked away again, then glanced at Watson, passing his head wearily across his forehead. "It did not occur to you that I was referring to the boat and not a person?"

Watson's face fell.