A/N Last chapter of the episode Scandal in Belgravia. I hope you are enjoying the story so far. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 8-2

They drove on in silence, until they reached their destination. The airport. A huge passenger jet was waiting for him on the asphalt. Its bright colours sticking out in the darkness, illuminated and accentuated by the bright lights.

As Sherlock approached the entrance to the jet, a surprising, well, not so surprising, figure was waiting for him.

"Well, you're looking all better," Sherlock said with a mocking voice, regarding the American agent he'd tossed out of the window a few months back with cold disdain. "How are you feeling?" he asked in a way that suggested he really couldn't care less.

"Like putting a bullet in your brain, sir," the agent drawled.

Sherlock scoffed at him, slightly amused and satisfied, then turned around to climb the steps.

"They'd pin a medal on me if I did, sir," the agent continued.

Sherlock turned around to briefly look at the agent. What an odd thing to say…

He then finally entered the jet and slowly made his way forward between the rows of seats. Each and every one of them was occupied and… something was off. It seemed like… He had to make sure. Sherlock turned on a light and saw with his own eyes the cold truth. The seats were occupied but not by the living. They were all dead.

"The Coventry conundrum," a familiar voice called out behind him. Sherlock whirled around to face his brother. "What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead."

Sherlock looked around him and came to a conclusion. "Plane blows up mid-air, mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties but nobody dies.

"Neat, don't you think?"

Sherlock curled his lips in a tight smile.

"You've been stumbling around the fringes of this one for ages. Or were you too bored to notice the pattern?" Mycroft said sounding a tad bit insulting.

Sherlock's eyes went wide with sudden realisation. All those months ago… Seemed like a lifetime… Kyrie's eyes were then still tinged with a soft violet hue. The way she'd mildly scolded him after he had told those two little girls what happened with dead people. Two little girls who had not been allowed to see their deceased grandparent. And the guy with the ashes… his aunt's ashes that weren't really his aunt's ashes. Not even human ashes.

"We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back. Though I believe one of our parents didn't make the flight." Ah, that one unsolved case… the body in the trunk.

"But that's the deceased for you," Mycroft drawled. "Late, in every sense of the word."

"How is the plane going to fly?" Sherlock asked, before answering his own question. "Oh, of course, unmanned aircraft. Hardly new." He couldn't resist the jab.

"It doesn't fly. It will never fly," Mycroft told, "This entire project has been cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb."

Sherlock furrowed his brows listening to Mycroft's explanation. Where was his brother going with this?

"We can't fool them now. We've lost everything." Mycroft paused, adding weight to the silence. "One fragment of one email and months and years of planning... finished," he said with a shrug of his shoulder.

Sherlock scoffed in understanding. "Your MOD man," he said.

"That's all it takes," Mycroft agreed, "One lonely, naive man… desperate to show off. And a woman clever enough to make him feel special."

Sherlock arched a brow in mock sympathy. "Hmm, you should screen your defence people more carefully," he suggested.

"I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock!" Mycroft suddenly burst out, "I'm talking about you!" he said in disgust, slamming down the tip of his umbrella against the floor to punctuate his words.

Sherlock furrowed his brows, genuinely confused about what his brother was getting at.

"The damsel in distress," Mycroft scorned, "In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook," his voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption. Then give him a puzzle and watch him dance," he concluded, twirling his umbrella at Sherlock.

"Don't be absurd!" Sherlock said in disgust.

"Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute? Or were you really eager to impress?"

"I think it was less than five seconds," a sultry voice said behind him. Sherlock whirled around and saw Irene Adler standing behind him.

"I drove you into her path," Mycroft said, his voice full of regret. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I thought I saw the beginnings of an attachment to Kyrie. A fondness at least. I really believed that she would be able to keep you grounded. I guess I overestimated that bond between you. And I am sorry for that. I won't make that mistake again."

"That simpering half-wit?" Irene chuckled. "You really believed that slip of a girl could have ANY effect on your little brother? Look at him, only a real woman can stand beside him and not burn." She approached Sherlock, her lips curled into a seductive smile. "Mr Holmes, I think we need to talk."

"So do I," Sherlock agreed, "There are a number of aspects I'm still not clear on."

"Not you, Junior," Irene said as she brusquely pushed passed him. "You're done now." Her voice lost its sultry quality and gained a hard edge.

Sherlock turned around in mild shock when Irene walked up to his brother. And he realised she had abused The Game. She had tempted him to taint The Game with sentiment. Though his emotions had warred with one another, torn between longing and guilt, at least they had been honest and not a ploy. She had merely toyed with him. His nostrils flared with self-loathing.

"There's more, loads more," she teased, "On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world."

Sherlock briefly saw a look of horror flash in his brother's eyes and he was powerless to do anything.

"You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me. Unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."

Mycroft, unable to look either her or his little brother in the eye, suggested they take the conversation elsewhere.

The drive back to Mycroft's office of business had been excruciatingly uncomfortable. Once there, Irene and Mycroft sat down at the table, each at a side. Irene started her gloating, Mycroft was still grasping at straws. Sherlock just sat in a semi comfortable chair, staring into the dancing flames of the fire in the hearth.

"We have people who can get into this," Mycroft said, jabbing at the phone, trying to resume his air of authority.

"I tested that theory for you," Irene said, her tone as well mocking as amused. "I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months."

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes in embarrassment.

"Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you x-rayed my phone," she goaded him.

"There are four additional units wired inside the casing," he explained. His voice sounded quite lethargic, even to his own ears. "I suspect containing acid or a small explosive. Any attempt to open it will burn the hard drive."

"Explosive," she admitted, "It's more me." She was absolutely enjoying, revelling in every second of this while Sherlock hated every one of them.

"Some data is always recoverable," Mycroft remarked.

"Take that risk," she dared him.

"You have a pass code to open this," he said trying a different angle. "I deeply regret to say, we have people who can extract it from you."

"Sherlock?" Irene breathed out, her sigh edged with a little bit of annoyance.

"There will be two pass codes. One to open the phone, one to burn the drive," Sherlock explained unwillingly. "Even under duress, you can't know which one she's given and there would be no point in a second attempt."

"He's good, isn't he? I should have him on a leash. In fact, I might," she practically crooned.

Sherlock felt a muscle twitch near his jaw. Despite his outwardly bored attitude, he felt thoroughly humiliated.

"We destroy this, then," Mycroft decided. "No one has the information."

"Fine, good idea," Irene readily agreed, "Unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you burn."

"Are there?" Mycroft asked.

"Telling you would be playing fair," she replied, her voice taking on a childish tone. "I'm not playing any more," she then said, indicating that The Game was over. She had won. She reached inside her purse and pulled out an envelope.

"A list of my requests," she said and she slid the envelope over to Mycroft. When he wanted to take it, she pulled it back for a moment. "And some ideas about my protection once they're granted."

Then she finally allowed Mycroft to take the damned envelope. "I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of a nation, but then I'd be lying."

Mycroft's eyebrows threatened to leave his head, he raised them that high, reading her little list of demands.

"I imagine you'd like to sleep on it," suggested.

"Thank you, yes," he said. To Sherlock it was obvious he tried desperately to not sound utterly defeated. Which, essentially, he was.

"Too bad," she suddenly said in a way that suggested Mycroft had some immediate decisions to make. Mycroft actually looked taken aback and Sherlock scoffed. She was quite the dominatrix. Ugh, he was so tired. He brain felt addled, still somewhat in shock after realising he'd been beaten at The Game.

"Off you pop and talk to people," Irene said with glee.

Mycroft slumped back in his chair with a resigned sight. "You've been very... thorough," even Mycroft couldn't help but sound impressed. "I wish our lot were half as good as you."

"I can't take all the credit, I had a bit of help," Irene said. Then she suddenly turned her head in Sherlock's direction. "Jim Moriarty sends his love."

Sherlock raised his head and tensed at the word. Not Moriarty's name… the word love.

"Yes, he's been in touch," he vaguely heard his brother say, the gears of his mind suddenly shaking off the lethargy and spinning in overdrive. "Seems desperate for my attention. Which I'm sure can be arranged."

Love… Emotions… Affection… He thought back to Kyrie. Her eyes soft and laughing, light blue and violet, beaming up at him with happiness. Sentiment…

He thought back to the moment their lips met, when her lips succumbed to the pressure of his own and parted for him, when he delved his tongue inside her mouth, exploring her, tasting her, his mind expanding a thousand times over. To the moment they broke apart and she had looked up at him, eyes wide open in wonderment, vibrant and alive with that violet hue. Her lips quivering, her pupils dilated.

"I had all this stuff and never knew what to do with it," Irene gloated in the background. "Thank God for the consultant criminal." She walked over to the table, closer to where Mycroft was sitting, and sensually settled herself against the table.

Irene's pupils, like Kyrie's, had been enlarged. Irene, like Kyrie, had been aroused. He knew that for a fact, didn't he? Because he had checked her pulse. Because Irene had been the clue that had made him realise Kyrie used to at least have some kind of feelings for him.

And now, Kyrie was the clue that made him realise Irene was intensely attracted to him. Irene was clever and she knew, in a way, that he'd been attracted to her as well. To her mind, but attracted none the less. And she had used that knowledge, drawn from it. She had tainted The Game with emotions, with sentiment. With her heart…

"Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. Do you know what he calls you? The Ice Man..." her voice dropped to a whisper, "And the Virgin," she said redirecting her gaze to Sherlock.

"Didn't even ask for anything, he just likes to cause trouble, now that's my kind of man," Irene just couldn't keep herself from gloating.

Sherlock didn't respond, he closed his eyes, his mind still reeling with the possible implications of his conclusions. Cause he had reached a few.

"And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees," Mycroft said with a scathing voice.

Sherlock let out a small gasp as he finally understood the meaning, the significance, of one of his conclusions.

For a moment he was back in the living room. Kyrie was stumbling towards him, her face ashen and a look of complete horror on her face. A brief flash of red. He looked up and noticed Gerulf had perfectly manoeuvred him into a direct line of sight of the window. It would only take one perfect shot, executed from the open window of the opposite building. And then he understood why Kyrie had practically flung herself into his arms, to shield his heart with her own. And when she had looked up at him, her eyes had no longer been blue, but a soft blazing violet.

He suddenly knew with a cold realisation that he had lost something. Something he never even knew he'd had. Something, he realised, he very much wanted back. Violet.

In particular the violet that had left her eyes, which used to make them warm and vibrant and loving. He now understood that her eyes were a visible meter of the level of her affection. It shouldn't matter to him, but much like John's opinion, it did. The thought that somehow in her eyes he was now … less, he just couldn't abide it.

"Nicely played," Mycroft applauded her.

"No," Sherlock countered. "Sorry?" Irene said in obvious confusion.

"I said no," he stated more clearly, his voice gaining in strength now he knew he had her beaten. "Very, very close, but no," he veered from his seat. "You got carried away," he accused, "The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

"There's no such thing as too much," she disagreed.

"Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine. Craving the distraction of The Game, I sympathise entirely, but sentiment?" he said appalled. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. Sentiment has absolutely no place in The Game."

Mycroft furrowed his brows, keenly looking on at the scene that was enfolding in front of him.

"Sentiment?" she asked, "What are you talking about?"

"You," he averred.

"Dear God, look at the poor man," she said on a sigh and a chuckle. "You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

Irene cruelly flung his own insecurities back in his face. Because deep down inside of him, that's exactly how he feared people only saw him. Though he was not emotionally the most adept, even he needed a bit of human affection like everyone else, a sense of belonging, of being accepted. It was the reason why John's friendship did matter to him. Because John accepted him for who he was and not just the person he presented to the world. So did Kyrie, she used to at least.

"No," Sherlock said while he stepped forward and, almost tenderly, slid his fingers over her wrist. He leaned in close, very close, his lips nearly touching her ear. "Because I took your pulse," he whispered. He pulled back and saw in her eyes that she remembered the exact moment he'd also wrapped his hand around her wrist, though for entirely different reasons than she'd expected that moment.

"Elevated," he whispered, driving home the point he was doing the exact same thing that moment. "Your pupils dilated…" he reached behind her and took her phone from the table and suddenly distanced himself from her.

"I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive." Proof of that was his own distress now he realised what the absence of the violet in Kyrie's eyes meant for him.

"When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait..." he said, walking away from her but she followed right behind him. "How true of you. The combination to your safe, your measurements… but this," he said while tossing up the phone and catching it again. He activated the phone, the LOCKED screen glaring at him. "This is far more intimate…" he said, punching in the first key.

"This is your heart and you should never let it rule your head, not in The Game. You could have chosen any number and walked out of here with everything you've worked for…" he punched in the second key.

"But you just couldn't resist it, could you?" he said with a bitter smile. "I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage," he punched in the third key. "Thank you for the final proof."

Irene clutched her hand around his, before he could punch in the fourth and final key. "Everything I said, it's not real," she tried to make him understand, her eyes tearing up. "I was just playing The Game."

"I know," he whispered while he punched in the fourth key. "And this… This is just losing."

He held up the phone for Irene to see, tears started rolling down her face as she was confronted by her weakness. The screen showed the message I AM SHER LOCKED.

"There you are, brother," Sherlock said softly, pressing the OK button to enter the code SHER, giving Mycroft immediate access to every little secret Irene had stored on that device. "I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight."

"I'm certain they will," Mycroft conceded.

"If you're feeling kind, lock her up. Let her go and I doubt she'll survive long without her protection," he said in disdain and started to walk to the door.

"Are you expecting me to beg?" Irene asked in shock, her eyes swimming with tears.

"Yes," Sherlock said, without even looking at her.

Irene then swallowed her pride. "Please," she begged in defeat. "You're right."

At those words Sherlock finally turned his head to look at her.

"I won't even last six months," she admitted on a sob.

"I'm sorry about dinner," he spat, "And you can keep the necklace. You made sure she'd never consider wearing it anyway." With those words he stalked out of his brother's office. Feeling that, even though he had bested Irene in the end, he had lost horribly anyway.