Chapter 35

'I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I am saying'
Oscar Wilde

John Watson had observed his fellow household members for most of the week. Sherlock had busied himself with the diamond case and as usual John had accompanied him. Whether it was to keep the consultant detective out of trouble or the thrill of it for himself he was still unsure of. Maybe it was both. Every case was the same but now the case was over. Sherlock was off pursuing a 'five at best' leaving Harriet with the message he would be home in time for dinner. John had to put up with Harriet's grumbling upon his return home whilst Sherlock remained out, "the cheek of that man, I'm not a maid or a cook and I'm certainly not doing what he demands," John had been tempted to ask what was for dinner but the irate woman stopped him in his tracks with her comment, "I'll tell your where Sherlock can shove his dinner request." It was in the ex-army doctors best interest to remain quiet whilst he wrote up the latest case on his blog and in his opinion it was in Sherlock's best interest to listen to the advice he was about to send via text.

You are taking Harriet out to dinner at 7- John

The blog occupied John for most of the afternoon. Harriet flitted about the flat around him. She was restless. When John suggested they go out for a bit of fresh air she gave him an excuse about their being housework to do. He didn't press the matter but to him the flat looked spotless, well, with the exception of the kitchen table cluttered in all things Sherlock.

Harriet hadn't left the flat in well over a week she had barricaded herself within the walls with a small armoury of excuses. Mrs Hudson had expressed her concern to John the previous day and urged him to talk to Sherlock about it but it was Sherlock. Sentiment and concern for a person's emotional state seemed beyond the capability of his brilliance. However, where Harriet was involved the consultant detective had surprised everyone not that Sherlock made it public knowledge. His relationship with Harriet was on a strictly need to know basis.

Eventually a reply arrived from Sherlock. He had been off at a warehouse on the outskirts of London that was seeing its stock disappear overnight and up until his involvement the police had been unsuccessful in apprehending the crook.

If I wanted dating advice I would ask someone in a relationship- SH

John wasn't surprised by the text. It was completely untrue. He was the only person Sherlock came to for advice and even then it was a rare occasion. With this in mind John sent a message to Mike Stamford with the proposal of a catch-up over a few drinks to escape the inevitable silence he would receive from the consultant detective upon the solving of the case. With plans made for his evening he finally sent a reply to Sherlock.

Now that their dinner was sorted John had one more mission for the afternoon but he needed to approach it carefully, "Harriet?" The young woman was turning the pages of an old leather bound book from Sherlock's collection. The writing on the spine had faded with time. She looked up from her book. "Sherlock just text, wants me to tell you that he's taking you out to dinner." He meant no offense to Harriet but he could fool her unlike Sherlock. She needn't know that John had arranged the whole dinner.

Harriet snapped the book shut losing her page in the process. "I suppose it's no use asking why he text you and not me directly, will we ever understand him?" really what she was saying was Sherlock was as reluctant as she was to go out for dinner. John had orchestrated this move on the consultant detective's part.

John wheeled out Mrs Hudson's favourite answer, "he's Sherlock. Shall I tell him yes then?"

Getting out of the flat sounded like a fantastic idea to Harriet but she couldn't go. Baker Street was safe. "I was going to cook," it was a feeble excuse.

John sighed to himself. For Sherlock to find himself a woman that woman would have to be equally challenging at times and in Harriet's defence she was usually only difficult with Sherlock but not this time. "Let him take you out for dinner. It's not often the great Sherlock Holmes takes a lady out to dinner," John was going for humour.

Harriet needed an excuse. Going out just wasn't going to happen. She was buying for time until her mind could fathom a plausible excuse, "He said he'd be home for dinner, why change his mind?" John shrugged also trying to come up with an excuse. Over the last few weeks he had become increasingly concerned for the young teachers welfare. She needed to leave the house once in a while. "I'm sure he'd be fine with staying home. What plans have you got for tonight?" she asked as a way of diverting the conversation.

"Harriet, what is this really about?" John cut straight to the chase. She was silent. This weakness of hers was pathetic. How could a person not to want go outside? "Moriarty," John cut through her thoughts. Had Sherlock been around he would have noted the panic that possessed Harriet at the mention of the name. The pursed lips, fidgeting and increased heart rate all pointed towards fear. John had spent enough time with Sherlock to become more observant, "To leave the flat would risk a run in with Moriarty. He's taken so much from you that the only thing you have left is us and Baker Street. You feel safe here." If the situation was not so serious John would have found amusement in the fact that someone felt safe in the home of Sherlock Holmes. The home where he shot holes in the walls, where he shot the doorbell on multiple occasions, where body parts filled the fridge and on more than one occasion he bought back a shady character or two.

Up until his point John had never made Harriet feel exposed but he had just hit the nail on the head. She was stupid to think she could get away with hiding away inside Baker Street. The only reason she got away with it so far had been Sherlock's cases. It kept him occupied so she could hide away.

"If he really wanted to Moriarty could get to us inside Baker Street. Before we met you Moriarty strapped a bomb to my chest. Sherlock found me in time," John hoped that sharing this information might help her but Harriet wasn't like him. She didn't crave danger like he did.

Finally Harriet found her words, "I trust Sherlock, I trust you and Mrs Hudson but people on the street. I can't trust them."

"So you're just going to hide away in here?" John hadn't meant to sound so harsh surprising both himself and Harriet.

"Not forever," she said feebly.

"Then go put something nice on and go out for dinner with Sherlock," John tried again. She hadn't asked for any of this. He stopped her before she left the room, still dissatisfied that she was comfortable with going out, "Sherlock cares about you and its Sherlock, for him that's something very important. Talk to him about this. Moriarty said he would burn Sherlock through you and so far he's doing a pretty good job of it but don't give him the satisfaction. Hiding away and avoiding the matter isn't helping things."

She left the living room with no choice but to go to dinner. Sherlock would no doubt drag her out in what she was wearing something he'd threatened to do before. Harriet peered into her small section of Sherlock's wardrobe. That had been an argument upon her arrival at Baker Street for good. Sherlock had his clothes organised, it was an obsession. The sock index was more than enough proof. He didn't want Harriet, having seen the state of her wardrobe and the suitcase when she was house sitting, cluttering it and making a mess. Harriet had won that argument and now a small selection of clothes sat neatly to one side of the wardrobe and in as graceful a fashion Sherlock Holmes could muster he had allowed her the use of a draw.

Since the fire Harriet had very few clothes and most of those she bought for scruffing around the house in with very little need to look smart for teaching or going out. They were clothes she felt comfortable in. Drawing attention to herself wasn't in anyway appealing. Sherlock had passed a comment on her terrible taste in patterned pyjamas on numerous occasions, usually regarding the loss of the owl pyjamas he'd become fond of apparently the zebra ones didn't meet his high standards.

A bath. That was what Harriet needed. She could decide what she would say in her talk with Sherlock as she soaked in the warm water. What could she say to a high functioning sociopath to make him understand?

It wasn't advice. Table booked at Hourglass. 7pm. –John

Sherlock scowled at his phone. John should really sort out his own love life before attempting to interfere in his and besides he'd told Harriet he'd be home for dinner. That implied she would do what women had done for years and cook a meal that hopefully extended beyond the culinary masterpiece of beans on toast that was forced on hum. With his 'five at best' solved, it really wasn't a mind boggling issue, Sherlock made a passing trip to St. Bart's to sweet talk Molly into letting him have a severed foot.

After the fourth attempt the consultant detective gave up on getting a taxi back to Baker Street, no one wanted to transport someone with a severed foot in a box. Disgruntled by the various drivers attitude towards him and his foot Sherlock was reduced to getting the underground. At least he didn't have to worry about anyone sitting near him with the foot. He walked the short distance from the tube station to Baker Street and slammed the door behind him after ringing the doorbell for Mrs Hudson to open the door. Locating keys was out of the question.

Sherlock couldn't smell any cooking going on. Had John informed her of the inconsiderate plans he'd made? Sherlock groaned to himself. The foot would have to wait.

Harriet was sat in front of the television. She smiled at Sherlock when he walked through the door, "John passed on your message about going to dinner." There was brightness to her voice that had been lacking as of late.

"Did he now?" Sherlock glared at his so called friend. He'd played dirty.

Aware of what was more than likely to come John played innocent and with a slight quirk of the lips added his pennies worth, "Let me know what the food is like. I've heard it's excellent."

"I'm sure you have," Sherlock muttered darkly. His words were muffled by the sound of the box dropping onto the table. If he had no choice but to go to dinner the foot would have to go in the freezer.

"Oh you've bought a foot home," Harriet had long since accepted Sherlock's eccentricities, "how nice. I'm sure there's space next to the peas in the bottom draw."

Sherlock appreciated her sarcasm, "The draw with John's ice cream has the most room."

She smiled wide, "you're right, god forbid the peas should be crushed."

"That would be criminal," Sherlock added. John adjusted his screen on his laptop and ignored the pair.

Now that Sherlock was home Harriet went to change into the clothes laid out on the bed; a pale green silk top, knee length black skirt with tights and a pair of dark grey brogues on her feet. Her hair was tucked into a tidy bun. She even made the effort to fish out her eye liner. She had to look good it gave her the mind set to prove she was perfectly okay and that Moriarty couldn't have the satisfaction.

"You've scrubbed up well," John commented when he caught sight of Harriet.

Sherlock couldn't agree more but went for a less enthusiastic appreciation, "stunning would be a better description." Harriet smiled at his comment. It boosted her confidence for going out although that may have had more to do with the large glass of wine she'd taken into the bath with her. "Shall we," Sherlock hadn't taken his coat of; he retrieved Harriet's grey woollen coat and held it out for her. He saw John nod his head in approval.

"I spoke to John before you got home," Sherlock suspected John's interference with Harriet's emotional state and hummed in acknowledgement allowing her to continue. He was staring directly at her. Her eye contact wavered under his intense gaze. What she had prepared to say had gone completely from her mind. Sherlock watched her open her mouth and close it again with a frown. He was tempted to tell her exactly what she was going to say but had learnt enough to realise that if he did he would end up eating dinner alone. "This is ridiculous," Harriet muttered to herself.

"I quite agree," Sherlock answered her muttering.

Harriet smiled, "of course you do." Silence fell whilst Harriet attempted to collect her thoughts. "Here's the thing," she finally began meeting Sherlock's eyes for the first time since the conversation began. "John think's I'm letting Moriarty get to me, he said I was avoiding leaving the house."

Sherlock topped up Harriet's wine glass with the bottle on the table, "try again." Harriet sat back not expecting his request. Naturally Sherlock saw straight through her attempt at denying she was struggling.

"I," Harriet resigned herself to her fate with emphasis on the I, "am letting Moriarty have the upper hand in this childish game. Letting him win." She had to word her next sentence carefully, "I've lost Dan and he meant the world to me. God knows when I'll see mum again. If he gets to me he gets to you and he has got to me. I don't know what to do anymore? I can't lose you as well."

"I am already aware of the facts and that John told you to talk to me," there it was, classic Sherlock, avoiding any form of emotional conversation. "He's been interfering a lot today." He decided that concentrating on the facts was his best course of action. Facts were proven and reliable. I can't lose you as well, it was sentiment but it was also proven. She couldn't lose him. He began to wonder what he would do if he lost Harriet. He would still have John and Mrs Hudson but they weren't Harriet.

"Did he speak to you already? He told me to talk to you," Harriet felt betrayed that John would talk about her to Sherlock. She didn't see the distant look on the consultant's detective's face.

"No he didn't say anything. I made a deduction," there was that triumphant look on his face usually associated with knowing something that no one else did. That kind of response was safe. It left no room for sentiment to creep in.

"And you didn't say anything?" Harriet pressed trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice. If he deduced her to her face it would have saved embarrassment on her part. Harriet was already mortified that she was being so pathetic.

"It was not important, what is important is that it has taken you this long to discuss the matter with me," he confessed. The people sat around them watched them bicker. The pair was both oblivious to the looks they were receiving. Sherlock had stayed calm throughout their conversation.

"Not important! Oh right yes, how silly of me," Harriet missed the second part of his statement and instead focussed in on the first. Sherlock Holmes had just demonstrated he could be a supporting partner and she was oblivious. "Criminals are more important."

Sherlock looked affronted at her remarks but dropped the matter having spotted the waiter with their food. They ate in silence. After her first mouthful Harriet slammed her cutlery down, "This arguing is pointless. You asked me to dinner so let's just have dinner in peace."

"I didn't ask you," Sherlock kept the rest of his reply to himself. Harriet really didn't need to be told that going out to dinner in a classy restaurant was something he didn't want to do. It didn't take a genius with a brain the size of a planet to figure that out.

"Excuse me?"

"John arranged it all," He stated matter of factly.

"Oh," Harriet was disappointed. She lost her appetite but tried her hardest to eat as much as she could. Sherlock cleared his plate before she'd decided she'd eaten enough. Deep down Harriet realised that she was stupid for expecting Sherlock do something as sweet as take her out for dinner. It was what normal couples did and they weren't a normal couple. They were a high function sociopath with a made up job title and an unemployed teacher caught up in a game with a criminal who also happened to have a made up job title. Was there any love in their relationship? Harriet was head over heels for the consultant detective and despite her initial reluctance to get involved in another relationship after breaking up with her fiancé she was in love with the insufferable man but she wasn't sure about him. Could he even feel love? Were high functioning sociopath's capable of that? He was attached to her that much was certain but the question she found herself asking was could she live with that. Did she want more from him? More importantly was she going to get more?

Sherlock took note of her lack of appetite that was his fault. Guilt washed over him. "Dessert?" he asked now trying to fix the guilty feeling.

Harriet hesitated, "I just want to go home."

"Miss Thornton, Harriet. Please order desert," at hearing her first name Harriet began to consider it. He only ever called her Harriet when he was being sincere.

"I'm not hungry anymore," her half full plate had been enough proof of that.

"When you sat down the first thing you looked at was the desert menu. Third down. White chocolate and raspberry cheesecake," Harriet didn't get a choice when Sherlock ordered dessert and coffees from the waiter. Dinner had been a challenging affair something Harriet didn't want to prolong so she didn't argue against Sherlock's control and accepted desert.

"I should have asked you if you wanted to go for dinner," it wasn't an apology but a realisation.

"Sherlock, it's okay. I'm not expecting you-"

"What if I wanted to ask?" he interrupted her.

"You don't have to ask me out to dinner to show you care so shall we just forget the meal and enjoy the rest of our evening?" Harriet proposed aware that she may have been equally unreasonable in their dinnertime discussion but at the same time wanting to find out if Sherlock cared for her in the same way she did for him or had she now become another constant in his life like John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade?

"Can we walk back?" Harriet asked despite the cold. She huddled further into her coat and fixed her scarf to keep the bare skin of her neck hidden. Sherlock regarded her for a moment. Flushed cheeks. Red nose. She was cold. He stepped towards the edge of the pavement and raised his arm to hail a taxi. Harriet caught it mid-air. "I'd like to walk, please." With a resigned sigh Sherlock linked his arm with hers. He wanted to know why she wanted to walk. After weeks hidden away in Baker Street and his inability to get closer to Moriarty he couldn't come up with a logical reason.

As they walked Sherlock thought about what Harriet had said over dinner. Her frustrations and fears were the result of Moriarty. If only he was closer to catching him out then she wouldn't worry. He didn't like to see her worried. "I haven't stopped Moriarty yet," Sherlock cut through the silence that had consumed their walk.

Harriet turned her head to look up at Sherlock. He avoided eye contact and concentrated on staring ahead. "That's okay." She had to believe that it was. It got her up in the morning and helped her sleep at night.

There was genuine surprise from the consultant detective, "It is?"

"Yes. Oh it would be great if the bastard was stopped but right now I'm pissed about something else," Harriet kept her words dangerously low and her face straight. Her 'Miss Thornton means business face' the one she used in the classroom. The temptation to glance at Sherlock's response to her mini-rant was too great but she persevered and focussed her attention straight ahead.

"Dinner," it wasn't a question but a statement. Sherlock thought she was over their small disagreement at dinner but apparently not. It was a not he made for future reference; women can't let something go.

"Bingo," Harriet was too frustrated to care about her snarky attitude.

"Do you really think that I hadn't worked it out? That there were no way you could have illustrated this whole meal without some form of interference from John. He would have had to have made sure you weren't taking me off on one of your cases afterwards. Yet the stupid romantic part of me chose to believe that maybe you were doing something romantic and sweet. As much as you are married to your work I'm a girl and sometimes us girls like soppy romantic nonsense like dinners and walks in the park. Bringing home flowers and chocolates not severed feet."

Where did Harriet get these ideas? The magazines that were filled with useless dribble? No. Somewhere else. The books. Sherlock made a note to throw out any kind of romantic novel on his shelves. There weren't many but with Harriet living there more and more had begun to creep in. "You read too many books," Sherlock spoke up. Sherlock thought about her outburst for a moment. Flowers, he'd bought her some of those. Walks in the park those sounded incredibly dull unless a case took him there. This got Sherlock wondering, "Would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Want to join me on a case?" Sherlock hated repeating himself.

Harriet had been involved in one too many investigations since meeting Sherlock to know that the best thing she could do would turn down his offer an offer she knew didn't get offered to just anyone. Only John held that privilege and now she had joined the ranks. "God no but I might think about going shopping. Get some new shoes," Harriet was never going to get over her irrational fear of leaving the house if she remained in doors. Going shoe shopping would be a big step for her. Harriet wondered if Mrs Hudson might like to join her. "It'll do me good to get some fresh air," Sherlock wasn't convinced by her words but his conscience, that sounded suspiciously like John, told him not to shatter her returning confidence.

"Errrgh. Boring," Sherlock commented.

"Careful, I might take you along," it was an empty threat on Harriet's part.

As they continued to walk down the street and turned onto the next Sherlock could feel Harriet relax more. It had taken an entire evening out for her to feel comfortable outside Baker Street. His arm linked with hers and the heat of his body was a comfort to her mind. Harriet's mind wondered back to the dinner conversation, really, in the grand scheme of things their dinner had gone well. He hadn't abandoned her for a case, hadn't deduced the waiter at least not out loud and hadn't said anything too harsh. She was picking faults and he wasn't the only person in the world with them.

Did she want more from him? The question hadn't disappeared all evening. She stole a glance at the stoic man the insufferable pain in the arse with his high cheek bones and curled mop of hair. 'I don't need a girlfriend,' he'd said and she'd equally answered him, 'I don't need a boyfriend.' Yet here they were.

Again she glanced at him. "Penny for your thoughts," he caught her eye. She turned her head in embarrassment that he'd caught her ogling him.

"Just thinking," she mumbled.

"About?"

"You're telling me that you don't know. I thought you could read minds," she teased.

The corner of Sherlock's lip lifted, "I don't read minds, I observe."

Sherlock opened the door and ushered Harriet inside. As he closed the door and locked it behind him Harriet removed her scarf and with numb fingers tried to tackle the buttons on her coat. Sherlock took pity on her although why he should when she had refused a warm taxi home. The cold was her own fault. He pulled her hands to her sides and unfastened the buttons. "Thank you," she reached up and thanked him with a kiss on the cheek not as a romantic gesture but a ridiculous notion of proving that she had control over the situation. At the last second he turned his head and instead caught her lips with his own. Her gasp was the only audible sound in the silent hall. The cheek of that man! Forgetting the disastrous dinner she smiled and bought her hands up to his face keeping him there so she could kiss him again. It was a game. Their evening had been far from romantic. This was Sherlock proving he had the upper hand and Harriet trying to convince herself that none of it mattered.

"The purple shirt is my favourite," she murmured against his lips, "you don't wear it very often." Her hands slipped to the top button on his shirt.

"Miss Thornton, Harriet," there it was that tone low tone of voice that sent her week at the knees but she wasn't going to give in to him, "not here." Harriet recollected herself. They were in the hall. The Hall! Mrs Hudson could catch them or John.

She removed her hands from their position on Sherlock's shirt and picked her scarf up from the floor.

"You lose," she muttered as she passed the consultant detective and onto the bottom step of the stairs giving her the height advantage.

In the blink of an eye Sherlock had stepped closer smashing his lips to hers for the briefest of moments before taking off upstairs, "I think not."

"Smug git," Harriet mumbled under her breath finally accepting defeat.

Sherlock froze at the top of the stairs. He sniffed and closed his eyes in frustration. He would recognise the smell anywhere. Perfume. The woman's perfume. Inside Sherlock was kicking himself. This was exactly why sentiment, feelings and caring, all of them, didn't matter. He'd missed it. Irene Adler could have been Moriarty and he wouldn't have known. With no use putting off the inevitable Sherlock opened the door.

Harriet noticed Sherlock's strange behaviour but it was Sherlock, there was nothing to do but to run with it. "Wearing clothes I see," he observed immediately. What was he on about? Of course she was wearing clothes he'd refrained from taken them off her in the entrance hall. She followed him into the flat, stopping in her tracks at the sight of a woman sat in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock's comment about clothes was forgotten.

"No funny hat I see," the woman countered.

"Milan not to your liking?" Sherlock asked.

The woman smiled, "expensive fashion houses and Italian men. What's not to like?"

Harriet watched on not knowing what to make of this latest development. John was going out with Stamford and not a date. She hadn't seen John so this woman wasn't his date and besides Sherlock knew her. Sherlock knew another woman. It didn't sound right. She wasn't jealous more surprised at the thought of it.

The woman sat in Sherlock's chair was a sight to behold. Her hair was pinned up neatly, a bright red lipstick had been applied to her lips and the dress she wore was maroon in colour. Harriet's eyes fell on the knee high black boots with the stiletto heel on the woman feet.

"You like?" she stuck out her leg to reveal the whole of boot when she saw Harriet looking at her, "Marina Nantoli, Italian leather. A gift."

Sherlock couldn't care less for the shoes, "You know the designer." He already knew her answer.

"I know what she likes," Irene said coyly.

It was at this point that Harriet interrupted what she had now decided was definitely flirting and not a catch up with a friend, "I don't understand." She ignored the woman occupying Sherlock's chair and instead addressed her question at Sherlock.

"Miss Thornton meet Irene Adler," Sherlock would rather not introduce the pair.

Irene smiled thinly, "Pleasure to meet you."

Harriet still didn't understand, was she supposed to know who Irene Adler was? "Are you a friend of Sherlock's?" she felt the need to ask.

"He saved my life."

"He's good at that," Harriet answered back. Who was she kidding of course she was jealous. Sherlock turned away towards the window and found himself in a situation he'd never been in before. Moments ago his inner red blooded male was about to have a very satisfying end to an evening and now Irene Adler was presenting a problem. Why was she here? She obviously wanted something. It had Sherlock's attention already.

"He's good at a lot of things. Brainy is the new sexy," the last part of Irene's sentence was aimed at the enigmatic consultant detective and not the woman occupying his home.

"Did you want something?" Harriet asked. If her mother was here she'd clip her around the ear for being rude to a guest. One thing was certain Harriet wasn't offering tea. There was something about the woman that irked her.

"Oh, she's threatened," Irene looked smug.

Harriet crossed her arms, "I'm not threatened."

Irene laughed to herself, "how sweet. I would love to have my wicked way with you." Her voice took on a dangerous tone.

Still not totally understanding what was going on Harriet had enough of a grasp to take offense, "and what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means-" Irene smiled wickedly.

Sherlock finally interrupted the women, "Miss Adler is a dominatrix." Harriet blinked at him. Had she heard that correctly?

"Right," what was she supposed to say to that?

"Oh he's going to be disappointed. The Holmes brothers, the ice man and the virgin except you're not. No," Irene eyed Harriet up like prey, "he'll need a new nickname for you."

"He?" Harriet inquired.

"Moriarty."

"Sherlock," Harriet began to panic. This woman knew Moriarty, was she there on his behalf? More importantly why hadn't Sherlock kicked her out?

The consultant detective stepped towards Harriet but was stopped in his tracks by Irene getting up from his chair. Annoyed he shut his eyes and opened them. They burnt into Irene with an intense fury. "Step aside Miss Adler; I don't care for your games."

Irene looked between Harriet and Sherlock, "no. I can see that."

Harriet was trembling as Sherlock guided her down into John's chair. "We were having a nice night. Moriarty. Oh, Sherlock I thought it would be okay to go out."

"Moriarty isn't here. Miss Adler is stirring," Sherlock reassured whilst giving a dirty look to the woman, "call John. Ask him to come home."

"What do you want?" Sherlock demanded of Irene as Harriet took her phone from her bag.

Irene revealed the reason behind her visit, "I have information."

Harriet called John but over the loud music in the background he couldn't hear her so she hung up and sent a text. She was eager to return to the conversation in the room. Harriet decided that Irene Adler could not be trusted. She tuned in to Sherlock's response, "What? You couldn't send an email or text?"

Until now Harriet hadn't noticed the bag Irene had with her. It matched her shoes. She reached inside and pulled out a wad of a4 sheets folded in half. She opened them out and laid them onto the table. Curiosity got the better of Harriet; she had to keep up with Sherlock and Irene. They were drawings, "designs," she spoke aloud. Each drawing was of an outfit that had been painstakingly drawn and coloured in. Sherlock cast a brief glance and walked away. Harriet sifted through them, "where did you get these?" A design for a patterned bag had caught her attention.

"The same place I got the boots," Irene drew Harriet's attention to the boots again.

Harriet was in awe at the designs, "this one is a bit," she didn't finish her sentence but looked at Irene. It was a revealing dress of black lace.

Sherlock had enough of the women fawning over clothes, he was growing impatient. "Those designs are the phone," he stated.

For a moment Irene was stunned that he'd hit the nail on the head straight away but then she remembered who she was dealing with, "my lifeline. I was recognised by Nantoli. She's spent a lot of time in London. Two political scandals and an affair with a prominent novelist. I was recognised. That's why I have the drawings. If Nantoli keeps quiet I won't sell them on. I need to disappear again. I need these drawings to keep me safe."

"You don't need me to disappear," Sherlock wanted her gone from his flat.

"With your brother running the country?"

"My brother thinks you're dead," Sherlock had seen to that himself.

"But for how long?" Irene asked.

Sherlock was bored. Irene was toying with him there was more to the drawings, "I won't tell him if that is what you are worried about."

"There's something else," Harriet stated. Sherlock looked at Harriet sharply, how had she figured that out?

"Oh, I can see why you keep her around," Irene circled Sherlock earning a threatening glare from Harriet.

"I'm not stupid," Harriet interjected. Irene smiled. It was a smile that was beginning to get on Harriet's nerves. Sherlock sat down in his chair rubbing his thumb against the side of his index finger in thought but the truth of the matter was the need to put distance between himself and Irene. Something else. He mulled it over. "Another designer," Harriet piped up having looked at the stunning designs again. The lace dress, requiring very little lace fabric, would cost up to four thousand pounds alone. There must be thousands of pounds worth of designs sitting on the table.

Sherlock was on his feet, pacing, "Another designer," he marched towards Harriet, kissed her swiftly on the lips and returned to his pacing, He felt a mixture of pride that it was his significant other (not girlfriend) that had figured it out with a hint of annoyance that he'd not been able to show off his brilliance. Of course, it all made sense now, "Nantoli. Designs. Expensive. Oh this is good. You were threatened. Someone found out about your arrangement with Nantoli. Another designer. You've returned to London. Safety. Except it isn't. Whoever is after you followed you here. If those designs fall into anyone's hands but Nantoli it would cost thousands and a reputation. Oh, this is brilliant!" Sherlock clapped his hands together. He needed to search his hard drive mind for his next move.

With the consultant detectives attention otherwise grabbed Harriet was left with Irene for company. "So you were in Milan?" Harriet tried to be polite and as they waited for Sherlock to return to their world and John to join them.

John could hear voices as he returned to Baker Street. Having Harriet contact him made him worry. He left Stamford at the bar and returned home. He hadn't been prepared to come face to face with Irene Adler. "Ah Doctor Watson. I enjoyed your blog about the diamond in the rough."

This chapter has given me so much trouble, every time I sat down to tweak it (Sherlock and Harriet having dinner) I'd write more. I'm still not entirely happy with it but I have a closing ceremony party to go to and can't face looking at it any longer. Anyways, enjoy Irene's appearance. Thanks to everyone for reading, alerting and reviewing!