Author's Note: I am so sorry for the wait! But I promise it's worth it! This chapter's longer, a character returns, and there's even some progress in character development. At least I think so. Let me know what you think!

Warnings: Drug use and violence/references to violence.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and placed his hands on either side of his head as another scream pierced the hallway.

At the sound of the doorknob forcing its way open Sherlock spun around, rounding on Abrams as soon as she entered the room. He grabbed her arm and slammed her against the wall; they were only inches apart as he exclaimed:

"I did not sign up for this!"

"Then you must have not been listening." Abrams spat.

Rather than sounding intimidated, she actually sounded annoyed, prompting him to shove her harder against the wall.

"I can walk away," he warned.

"And go where?" She challenged. "Do what? Your hunt for Moran has led you nowhere. You can't even trust your own brother. Would you really just quit and let this all be for nothing?"

He slammed his fist into the wall next to her but stopped when she noticed her finch. The uncharacteristic reaction was enough to make him pause and study her, and he froze when he at last noticed the dark blue-black bruise around her eye. With his hand he gently reached up; she inched away from him, desperately looking away.

"Who did this?" He demanded quietly, his breath shaky.

"It's nothing," Abrams said. He allowed her to push him away, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach. "I used to work with one of the men who are here. Our relationship did not end well. I can't say he was too happy to see me."

"They let him do this?"

"It's nothing," she said. Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment as she let her hair fall into her face to hide the bruise. "I've had much worse."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Your knowledge of Moran is, without a doubt, helpful," he admitted, "what if you and I-"

"Teamed up?" She snorted. "There are two kinds of people in my world, Mr. Holmes- those who are selfishly evil and those who are misguided."

"And I suppose the man who hit you is simply misguided."

She glared at him, and he took this as a warning to let her explain.

"It is not your job to worry about me. It is not my job to be bothered by petty men who cannot let bygones be bygones. I'm beginning to think you don't have the stomach for this."

Anger overwhelmed him; he took a deep breath, telling himself it wasn't worth it to feel insulted. He headed towards the small kitchen as he replied:

"Back in London I was scolded for not having enough heart. Here I'm scolded for having too much of one."

"Just when I think I understand you, Mr. Holmes," she replied, "I can never quite figure out whose side you're on."

"That's because nobody's on my side."

He took out a few pieces of ice and wrapped them in a towel. Abrams didn't struggle when he approached her and gently placed the ice on the wound. She accepted the aid with a small, grateful, smile. He stood beside her, allowing a moment's worth of silence to pass between them as he considered what to say next.

"What happened between you and the man who hit you?"

"Noe?" She asked. He supposed that was the man's name. She smirked. "His girlfriend was an international art thief. I may have led to her arrest and imprisonment. Fifteen years."

Sherlock whistled.

"It was unintentional," she admitted, "but it wasn't anything she didn't deserve."

"What about you?" He asked. "Have you ever been caught?"

"Once," she said. A proud smile spread across her bruised face. "But I managed to escape."

"How?"

Abrams laughed.

"That's a question you do not want to know the answer to."

A moment of silence passed between them. He was more confused than ever about how he should feel about her. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew that she was the only person he could remotely trust- and might be for a long time.

"Did you hear that?" She asked suddenly.

"What?"

He turned towards her as she sat the ice down on the counter and rushed towards the door.

"Exactly."

Sherlock raced to keep up with her as he followed her through the hallway and down the steps- all the way down to the basement level, where they were keeping their guest.

"It's too quiet," Abrams added.

She threw open the basement door without warning, stunning the two men who were cleaning the floors. Wiping up blood, Sherlock realized. And they didn't look too happy to be doing so.

"Did you kill him?" Abrams demanded, in German.

"No!"

The younger of the two men stood up as he shouted at her; Sherlock noted right away how intimidated he was. Neither of these men was the one who hit her.

"Because that wasn't part of the plan," Abrams continued, stepping closer to the young man.

The man who was still on the ground eyed Sherlock, and he knew he was more concerned with figuring out who the newcomer was than Abrams' temper. Sherlock remained silent, taking in every detail- he knew right away the man was sixty years old, of Russian decent, raised in an orphanage, and did agriculture work before going down the path of criminal.

"We got what we want," the older man said as he got to his feet.

He never took his eyes off Sherlock.

"The other men went to free him," the older man explained.

Abrams turned to him.

"Kristoph," she said, nodding to the older man, "and George."

The younger man- George- still looked too stunned to answer.

"This is Lukas," she said. Sherlock nodded, but when the other men didn't offer to shake hands he did not argue.

"You brought us the ambassador's brother," Kristoph stated. Once again, Sherlock nodded. "Good work. We got exactly what we needed. We didn't even need to torture him."

A sickening feeling crawled up his throat at the thought that they would have even considered torturing that man.

"Here," the older man said, tossing the dirty rag he had been using to clean the floor towards him, "you two can finish up."

He nodded towards the younger man, who proceeded to follow him out of the basement. Sherlock waited until he was certain they were out of earshot before saying:

"Nice guy."

Abrams gazed after the two men, as though expecting them to suddenly appear again. When she finally shook herself out of the daze she looked around, paranoid.

"You should refrain from using English," she said, "they might get suspicious."

"None of them speak English?"

"Is that so surprising?" She replied.

"In a group full of international criminals? Yes."

"Some of them do speak English," she admitted, "But Lukas Hartmann's English- not so good."

She smirked, as though hiding a secret behind how she knew that.

At that moment a sound went off, and Abrams pulled out her mobile to check a message.

"We're wanted in the lobby." She looked up at him. "Ready to meet the crew?"

Sherlock swallowed, and his head began to pound, sending waves of panic through him. He wasn't ready for this.

"Are you sure I look like him?" Sherlock asked.

He had applied theatrical makeup earlier to hide his own scars and create a face that looked more like Lukas Hartmann. Abrams offered him a sympathetic smile as she ran a hand through his new, red, hair.

"Spitting image," she replied, "you'll do fine."

Sherlock nodded, appreciating the encouragement but still failing to believe he was up to this. Though he had accomplished a lot since leaving London, somehow the time had also shattered his confidence. He would only ever admit that to himself, but most of the time he did recognize that he was far too in over his head. He knew it was only by miracle that he survived each day.

When they entered the lobby there were four men waiting for them. Two of them sat in folding chairs as they smoked; immediately the suffocating smell of weed filled his lungs. He fought the urge to cough as he suddenly yearned for fresh air. Abrams threw him a warning glare. Instead of panicking, he drew in a deep breath, choosing his powers of deduction as means to escape the agonizing nerves that threatened to take over.

The two men were the same as the ones who just spoke to him and Abrams- and they didn't look any happier to seem them now as they had then. The third man wore army camouflage trousers and a sweatshirt that was rolled up to his elbows. It didn't take much searching to figure out why, as Sherlock's eyes immediately fell to the track marks on the man's arms. Sherlock turned to Abrams. He wanted to demand why she would ever bring him into this kind of environment, knowing his own struggle with drugs. When she saw his concern she simply nodded, and he had a feeling there would be an apology later.

His eyes turned then to the man in the center of the circle. He was rather large, and from his posture and unamused appearance he looked more like he was security guarding the entrance to a building than someone in charge of a group of criminals. But Sherlock knew he was the ring-leader simply from the way everyone's eyes immediately darted to him…and even Sherlock could sense the intimidation each person in the room was feeling.

"You must be Lukas Hartmann," the man acknowledged. Sherlock only nodded. "I admire your work in Paris last summer…I couldn't have pulled off a heist like that in my wildest dreams."

Suddenly the man smirked and turned to Abrams.

"He doesn't have a damn clue what it is I'm saying, does he?"

Abrams smiled and shook her head, and it was only then Sherlock remembered that he wasn't supposed to know any English.

"Lunatic," the man replied- in German- as he shook his head. "Smoke?"

He nodded towards an array of drugs that remained on the table. Sherlock shook his head, perhaps a little too desperately. The man raised an eyebrow, as though this struck him as odd, but did not say anything else about it.

"Good work, with the Russian," he said. "Consider yourself official. It's time for some introductions- I'm Noe, the young one is George, the older one- his brother- Kristoph. This one is Hermann. You've met Abrams, and the last member of our merry crew should be here any moment. She has been working undercover with Moran, gathering information. There is whispering going on- something major Moran is planning. That is why we needed the Russian. We thought Russia might have something to do with his plan."

The click of high heels on the hardwood floor echoed as a new figure approached them. Their heads turned towards the sound, and a smile broke out across Hermann's face.

"You were wrong," a female's voice shot, "again. Do you not value my life, Hermann?"

Sherlock could feel his heart race at the sound of the voice. Even through her fake German accent, Sherlock knew who was speaking to them.

"Do you have no appreciation for the danger I put myself in for you?" The woman continued.

A gunshot suddenly pierced the tension in the room, and Hermann leapt up, his eyes wide as he stared at the bullet hole that grazed the t-shirt hanging from his shoulders.

"Do you know what I have to do to get your information?"

The angry echoes of the shoes grew closer, and Sherlock tensed, unsure how he would react even though he knew what was coming.

At last the figure stepped into the dim light of the hotel lobby. Her hands rested at the hip of her ballroom gown. Sherlock's heart was beating so rapidly in his chest that he was certain Abrams could hear it beside him. The woman's eyes swept around the room, but it was Sherlock they landed on- not Hermann. He swallowed, realizing that she could instantly recognize him, despite his disguise.

And at that moment- knowing she was involved- he was really unsure what it was he had gotten himself into.

He hoped with all his might that she would play along, and his fear eased slightly when a kind smile crossed her face.

"Forgive me," the woman said, holding out her hand, "I wasn't told someone new would be joining us. I'm Irene Adler. And you are?"

He muscles tensed as he fought the shakiness in his arms. Sherlock reached up, accepting the handshake.

Instead of answering he remained silent, completely stunned by the fact that he was shaking hands with Irene Adler.

"He doesn't speak English," Noe smirked.

Irene offered him an understanding smile- though her eyes glimmered with excitement. He knew she was bursting with amusement at his appearance.

"Did you find out anything knew?" Noe asked, in German.

"April 19, 2014," she replied.

The group stared at her.

"Whatever he's planning, that's when it will happen," she said. She accepted a cigarette from Hermann. A moment of silence passed as she breathed in a deep breath of smoke and closed her eyes. "He's planning a major bank heist in Munich. He wants inside a safety deposit box. There's something there he believes crucial to his plot. We must go there before him and ensure nothing is inside that box."

"Won't that get his attention?" Abrams pointed out.

"What's more important?" Irene shot. "Getting Moran's attention or possibly saving millions of lives? He should have our attention. He should know there's a threat. He won't be stopped by hiding in the shadows."

At that moment Sherlock's eyes locked with hers, and he realized that moment that maybe he had always seriously misjudged Irene. He thought back to seeing her in her mother's hospital room, to seeing how tense she had been around Moran.

"That's a plan, then," Noe said.

"It's not that easy," Irene said, "I must go back to England first, he's expecting me. The heist is set for next month- wait for my word."

"And until then?" Noe replied. He was obviously not too thrilled at the idea of doing nothing for a month- and neither was Sherlock.

Irene shrugged.

"Keep kidnapping innocent relatives of innocent ambassadors. Since that is working out so well."

With that she put out the cigarette, and her eyes flew up again to meet his. She was angry with him, he realized, and he wasn't too keen to know why as she demanded:

"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Hartmann?"

Sherlock nodded and turned, heading for the staircase. They said nothing as they climbed the stairs and he led her into his room. The moment he shut the door he felt himself being thrown at the wall.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing here?" She exclaimed, in her normal accent.

"I could ask you the same."

He wasn't surprised when she slapped him.

"Pretending to be Lukas Hartmann?" She shot. "Are you really that stupid?"

"And what about you?" He demanded. "Whose side are you really on?"

This time she punched him. He stumbled, and when he regained composure her fist met his face once more.

"Okay!" He exclaimed. "Irene-"

She grabbed him by the shoulders, pinning him against the wall.

"Explain."

"I'm trying," he sighed. "I was brought into this by Anabeth Abrams. It wasn't really by choice, but I did need to find a way to get closer to Moran."

"Surely you realize by now these people don't simply want to kill Moran."

"Obviously not," Sherlock said, "or else you would have long ago."

"We're trying to stop everything Moran is planning to do."

"Forgive me if I'm not too quick to trust you," Sherlock shot.

"Forgive me if I'm not too confident about your place in this group."

They glared at each other, and Sherlock took the moment of silence as opportunity to observer. She had just as many new scars on her face as he did. Her hair was much lighter shade of brown- almost blonde. Despite the pound of makeup she wore, there were visible bags underneath Irene's eyes.

"Where have you been?" He asked her, a little less forcefully.

"A party," Irene sighed. "It was there that I found out the date of Moran's endgame."

"How?"

Her eyes narrowed and glistened with dark anticipation.

"He asked me to join him."

Sherlock stiffened. Part of him wanted to lash out and lecture her, as though she were a younger sister making a terrible decision.

"I thought you were done with working with him," Sherlock replied.

"I will still be undercover," Irene assured.

"Under cover or playing both sides?"

He took an unconscious step back, certain the comment would earn him a slap in the face. Irene looked like she wanted nothing more than to do just that but somehow, she restrained herself.

"I swear to you, Sherlock Holmes, that I have nothing to do with Sebastian Moran," Irene replied coldly. "I may have in the past, but never because that is where my morals truly lay."

"Misguided," Sherlock muttered underneath his breath, remembering what Abrams said to him earlier.

"What?" She asked, studying him.

"Nothing," he lied.

He drew in a deep breath, unsure of what else to say. Was it really his place to accuse of her being a traitor? He often forgot how little he really knew of Irene Adler. He still knew so little of her past…

And yet, as she took a step closer to him, his breath caught in his throat. He swallowed, growing nervous as he realized she could see right through him. She smirked and raised her hand and rested it on his arm.

"You know so much less than what you think," she whispered.

"And so I've heard," he replied quietly.

"Your own brother sent you to kill me."

"I know."

Their eyes met.

"Telling your brother I stopped working for Moran got him off my back for a while, but not for long. After that I joined this team. Everyone here knows who I am. They know how valuable I am to them. Moran thinks the exact same thing."

"And how long before he finds out?" Sherlock challenged. "How long before rumors spread?"

Irene smirked.

"If I didn't know any better, Mr. Holmes, I'd say you were worried about me."

His cheeks reddened slightly, but he quickly saved himself by replying:

"I'm simply wondering how you could have lost your way."

Her eyes narrowed, unamused.

"I have never lost my way," she shot, "do not convince yourself you understand me."

At that moment an alert sounded from her mobile, and she took the phone out to read a text. Upon finishing the message, she walked carefully over to the bed, collapsing gracefully on the edge.

"It's Moran, thanking me for always being on his side."

She spoke so quietly she might as well have told him someone died. He sat down next to her, his eyes glued to the floor as he desperately avoided the urge to stare at her.

"What kind of relationship do you have with Moran?" He asked.

She let out a sarcastic laugh.

"He's been thinking of me as his new right hand man," she admitted, "that's what he's aiming for, at least."

Her eyes trailed towards him at that moment, and he couldn't help but to follow her lead. He gazed at her, realizing at that moment how shallow his breath was and- most embarrassing- how rapidly his heart was beating.

"Do you know why Sebastian Moran is texting me in the middle of the night, thanking me?" She asked. He remained silent. "He's desperate. He's losing his friends. He has no one left to trust. Slowly, but surely, you're winning, Mr. Holmes. You've broken down his defenses, and now he's struggling to catch up. He needs to plan something big to be back on top. He feels threatened, though he would never admit it. I never would have joined any such crew without having reason to believe they would succeed. I truly think we can bring Moran down…but you should not be here."

She reached up and brushed a hand through his hair, mimicking the same gesture Abrams did earlier. Yet this time he froze. A wave of heat rushed through him, and he struggled with remembering to breathe.

"How did you get involved with all of this, Sherlock Holmes?" She states softly. "The unfortunate brother of one of the most dangerous government officials. You were caught in the crossfire-"

Her fingers trailed down his arm, where he knew the faded scars of track marks were still visible. When he finally found the strength to speak, he asked:

"What do you do for Moran?"

She studied his arm as she replied.

"I'm very good at getting what I want. I have contacts even your brother would dream of having. Success isn't very hard to come by when you're aligned with Sebastian Moran. Like you, I was young and stupid when I first met him. I was tempted by his offers. But I must have become wiser, somehow, as I grew older. I began to see him for what he was and lately- lately I look in the mirror and I have no idea how I became this…monster."

He shook his head. It sickened him to see her feel so sorry for herself. He wasn't sure where this vulnerability- in either of them- came from, but he knew the Irene Adler he originally met would have never said such a thing.

"You're not-"

"When I told Mycroft I quit I wanted nothing more than for that to be true," she admitted. "But it's not that easy. I can't just run away."

He studied her, and for the first time she tore her eyes away. She must have remembered then his powers of deduction, and it was then he suddenly realized what he was missing.

"What made you change?" He demanded. "Why the sudden interest in changing sides?"

Once again Irene raised a hand, and he allowed her palm to fall to the side of his face.

"You look so much like your brother," she whispered. Her other hand fell to his hand that was resting in his lap. Her fingers were cold to the touch as they connected with his.

Before he could comprehend what was happening her lips fell onto his. His breath became caught in his throat and all thoughts froze in his mind. Her hand gracefully cradled his jaw, as though reassuring him everything was alright. And before he could decide just how he felt about whatever this was, she pulled away.

Her eyes fell to the floor, and he simply stared at her.

"You just told me I looked like my brother and then kissed me."

She just laughed, and her eyes flashed towards him, twinkling in amusement. His stomach twisted into knots of confusion and fear. He felt like running away and pretending nothing ever happened, but yet the moment was already replaying in his mind so frantically he yearned to relive it.

"Yes, I did."

Now the confusion tugged at him even more.

"Do you…have feelings for Mycroft then?" He asked.

He had never felt so pathetic.

"Oh god!" She exclaimed. "Now I might be ill."

She stood, shaking her head desperately, and gathered her handbag.

"It's late," she said, "I should go, I have to leave-"

His hand fell onto her wrist. In that moment he could calculate exactly how fast her pulse was beating, and because of this he knew just exactly how much she did not want to leave.

"You don't have to leave," he whispered.

Every ounce of him fought against those words, demanding to know what it was he thought he was doing.

"I have a flight England in the morning," she said quietly, "it will be a long time before you see me again. You will have to go through with the bank heist. If you are truly committed to this-"

"I am."

"You shouldn't be."

"Why not?" He demanded.

"Because I couldn't bear the thought of something happening to you when it's my hand that's on the trigger."

When their eyes connected again he noticed another tear trailing gracefully down her cheek. He took a step closer to her.

"I think you've been struggling with this for so long that you've forgotten the part of you that's good," he said. "You're not stuck. You want redemption as much as I want revenge…and I think that's the perfect combination."

A sad smile tugged at the edge of her lips.

"I'm probably boring you," she sighed. "Look at me…I'm a mess. Can't go back to England like this."

"You look beautiful."

He shut his mouth as quickly as he opened it, embarrassed to realize someone else heard him utter those words. Her hand fell to his, giving his palm a squeeze.

"I still don't know how you managed to get yourself caught up in all of this, Sherlock Holmes," she announced, "but I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have on my side."

"Say hi to Mycroft for me, if you see him," he said. Then he considered his choice of words. "Actually- don't."

He smirked, which earned him a smile.

"Forgive me," she insisted, "I usually try to not be this melodramatic."

His hands fell into his pockets as he gazed at her, unsure of what to do. Kiss her again? Or simply act like nothing special happened? His heart was racing, yearning for more…but he knew how hopelessly unprepared he was for this.

"It's good to see you, Irene."

She nodded.

"Until we meet again, then," she said. "Look after yourself."

"And you."

With that she offered him one last smile before the door shut behind her. It didn't take but a second's worth of hearing her heels echo down the hall before he regretted not asking her to stay. He raised a finger to his lips, still able to feel the taste of the kiss. He was stuck halfway between bursting with excitement and burning with embarrassment.

Too many emotions, he decided.

Instead he threw himself onto the bed, where he stared at the ceiling until he eventually fell asleep.