Chapter 36

'The only abnormality is the incapacity to love'
Anais Nin

"You aren't dead. Why aren't you dead?" John demanded immediately. "Sherlock why isn't she dead?" He momentarily forgot the white lie he'd told Sherlock after his talk with Mycroft.

"He saved my life in Karachi," Irene stepped close to Sherlock and straightened the lapels of his jacket. Harriet frowned at the scene but remained quiet. She was going to be the bigger person- or so she kept telling herself.

"Mycroft told me you were dead," John continued, "for crying out loud. I told Sherlock you were on a witness protection programme in America. Do you know how hard it was to lie to him?"

"You didn't fool me," Sherlock interrupted.

"Only because you knew otherwise, you should have told me," John rounded on his friend. It hurt that Sherlock hadn't trusted him with this information; it wasn't like he was going to tell anyone. "Does Mycroft know you are alive?" John inquired of Irene. Harriet's head was beginning to hurt as she began to understand just how much thinking Sherlock did. The full story of Irene Adler was still a mystery to her but slowly she was piecing it all together. She wasn't surprised to hear that Mycroft was involved somehow.

As things turned out Mycroft was still unaware of Irene being alive, at least for now. Sherlock didn't deem it important news for his brother to know what was more important was the woman's statement that she had information. This song and dance over designers and their designs was not the real issue. Irene Adler had information and she was toying with them causing trouble.

"There's still something else you aren't telling us. These designers are child's play for you," Sherlock whipped round with a scrutinising glare at Irene who smiled.

"You help me and I'll tell you," with that Sherlock shrugged on his coat and scarf, collar turned up, with instructions to Irene to get a cab. Her parting gesture had been a kiss on the cheek for the consulting detective much to the annoyance of Harriet.

"What was that, Sherlock?" John was glad to hear Harriet challenging him before he fled out the door in pursuit of a distraction because if she didn't then he would.

"That was exactly what it looked like," Sherlock's tone of voice implied stupidity on the questioners part. It riled Harriet up further.

"That looked like you and that woman being a little too familiar." She was seething.

Sherlock didn't have time for conversation. Irene had presented him with a case. "Miss Alder was. I was not. Use your eyes and not your mind. See what is actually going on and not what you want to see," Sherlock reprimanded the jealous Harriet. She glared at the consultant detective. Harriet was defeated. There was very little she could do to persuade Sherlock not to take the case her only option was trust him but that didn't stop her from finding out every possible detail, "Where are you going?"

"To get Miss Adler and her designs out of the country it's for the best, don't you agree?" Sherlock disappeared out the door giving Harriet a swift kiss to placate the irate young woman. Sherlock's sole reason for helping Irene was the information. It was far too tempting for his unoccupied mind. The designs he couldn't care less for.

"Yes, yes fine. I'll just go to bed shall I?" she asked aloud for only John to hear. Aware of what was coming John couldn't help but curse his friend for abandoning him. "I don't bloody believe him," Harriet fumed, "And that woman. Who does she think she is? Errrgh." Harriet crossed her arms and glared at Sherlock's chair that the woman had occupied. She continued to rant to herself.

"Here, wine," John had been quick in pouring two large glasses of white wine for the left behind pair. He was only too aware that he'd been left behind to explain to Harriet, a job that in Sherlock's eyes wasn't worth his time.

She took a large swig from the glass, "nothing stronger?"

John smiled, "quite something isn't she?" He was referring to the woman.

"Who is she?" Harriet had yet to receive a satisfactory answer. John filled Harriet in on who Irene Adler really was right up until her supposed death. How she survived was a story for Sherlock to tell.

There was a lot for Harriet to take in with regards to the woman. What bothered her most was the way Sherlock was drawn to her. From what John said this was nothing new. She was a challenge for him. An insecure part of Harriet wondered if she was challenging enough. What happened when Moriarty disappeared? She knew she was being stupid. John, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade and even Sargent Donavan had all informed her of the consultant detective's lack of relationships. Even Sherlock himself declared that he was married to his work. Harriet was the mistress but it didn't make her any less important in his life.

"He can be such an arse at times," Harriet still couldn't get over what was really bothering her; Sherlock disappearing into the night with that woman. Harriet had faith enough to trust him but the woman, if she was in league with Moriarty then as far as Harriet was concerned she went on the list of people not to trust.

John noted Harriet's despair and felt the need to make her smile, "Just at times?"

Sherlock and Irene were sat in the back of a taxi. The former said nothing as the latter's attempts at conversation was ignored. Eventually she gave in allowing the consultant detective to think but little did she know his thoughts weren't on her pressing situation but on the situation he would be returning to. He may not be schooled in all things socially acceptable in a relationship but one thing he was fairly certain on was running off with another woman when things were getting intimate with the first was unacceptable even if that other woman posed such a delightfully entertaining distraction.

"These designs," Irene waited for acknowledgement. There was none. Regardless she continued, "These designs will remain in my possession. I won't be returning them or handing them to anyone else." Still no answer. She leaned closer so her lips almost brushed his ear and in her most sultry voice she spoke carefully, "have dinner with me." Still nothing. She gave in and sat back content with watching him for the time being.

Harriet. The woman had plagued his mind again. Flowers. He could take those back as an apology. No. That wouldn't do. He absently drummed his fingers on his knee as he analysed the situation, perhaps John would take pity and help him. Reluctantly Sherlock dragged his thoughts back to the woman that had once been so intriguing to him.

"She's in love with you," Irene went for another tactic to bring the consultant detective back to life. It was clear to her that she was no longer the most interesting woman in Sherlock's life. At the mention of the L word he'd frozen. Love was what ordinary people felt.

Sherlock was more than aware of Harriet's feelings towards him and with this in mind he chose his reply carefully not wanting to give anything away that could be used against him. "Love is a dangerous disadvantage, I've told you that before. I am not in love. It is a name for chemical reactions within our bodies."

"I think," Irene leaned closer. There was a dangerous edge to her actions that had Sherlock on his guard. "You are protesting too much," the woman smirked.

The woman was alluding to something. Oh, sentiment. Sherlock was disgusted and decided to ignore her. He was not in love with Harriet. She wasn't dull and he enjoyed her company much like he did John's except she wasn't like John. It wasn't love; Sherlock wasn't capable of feeling such a thing.

The taxi pulled up at its destination bringing Sherlock back to life. He paid the driver and marched towards a pub on the corner of the street. A crooked white building whose paintwork had seen better days. It was a well-known fact that it was regularly frequented by all sorts of unsavoury characters. Sherlock found it an idle place to find the people he needed when the homeless network wasn't suitable. As they crossed the threshold a silence fell on the pub at the sight of the pair. For once it wasn't Sherlock that had bought silence upon a room but Irene. Her suave dress sense and impeccable looks were enough to grab the attention of the rough around the edges male population of the pub. "Ah, Sherlock, what can I do for you?" the landlord behind the bar greeted loudly. The customers returned to their business although a few stole lecherous glances at Irene.

"I'm looking for Pomelo," he spoke loudly and clearly for the pub to hear even though he'd already located Pomelo in the crowd.

"Aye and what would you want with him?" a voice with a thick accent spoke from the far end of the bar. Sherlock stepped forward to shake the man's hand knowing exactly who he was. There had been many occasion where they had exchanged exotic items for money and favours on Sherlock's part. "Sherlock," the man grinned, "it's been a while."

"It has," Sherlock replied, "I'm calling in a favour."

Sherlock was about to explain when Irene interrupted, "Irene Adler." He was irritated by the interruption and couldn't see how an introduction was helping matters. He scanned his eyes around the pub. His attention grabbed by a couple of young men one in a tracksuit and the other in a hooded top and a battered pair of jeans entering the pub. They took a seat in the window. Not friends, Sherlock deduced, work together. Paid a large sum up front judging by the expensive pair of trainers on the feet of the man in the tracksuit.

"There are some drawings that need to leave the country without anyone knowing," Sherlock bought Pomelo a pint to soften him up although clearly he'd had one too many already. The two men observing them from afar weren't his priority any longer. For the next ten minutes Sherlock settled things with Pomelo with continued interruptions from the woman until she left to use the grotty bathroom at the back of the pub.

With a threat from Irene regarding the designs they were on their way. As they stepped out onto the cold dark street the two young men followed them out. It could all be a coincidence. They stopped for a quick pint on their way home and were now heading home. Then again when was anything ever a coincidence around Sherlock.

Sherlock and Irene walked out to the main road where they could get a taxi with ease. Irene expressed a worry about the man's competence in delivering the drawings to their destination. Sherlock chose not to answer her pointless worrying and instead focussed on the footsteps of the men following them down the street. They weren't conversing. Their focus was elsewhere. It was hardly a difficult deduction for the consultant detective. "We're being followed."

It annoyed Harriet that Sherlock was off gallivanting with that woman. She couldn't sleep and tossed from one side to the other until finally she flung back the covers in exasperation. With a book she settled into Sherlock's chair in one of his dressing gowns to wait for them to return or sleep to arrive. She considered texting him but didn't want to give Irene the satisfaction of knowing that she was checking up on Sherlock should the woman see the text.

Harriet was awoken by a thud. In her startled state it took a few seconds to realise where she was, asleep in Sherlock's chair. A glance at the clock told her it was the early hours of the morning. With a groan she reached for the book that was now lying on the floor and got to her feet. The ache in her neck was making the bed and giving up her wait for Sherlock more than a little tempting despite her concern for him, especially with the woman having a link to Moriarty. Their evening had finally started to go right when she showed up. Well, he had made his bed and could lie in it. Harriet wasn't going to wait around for him to come home any longer not when there was a comfortable bed.

Sherlock, with Irene's hand gripped tight in his, followed his feet as they thundered down the footpath dragging the woman with him. She wasn't quick enough. They needed to get away from the pursuers. Going back to Baker Street was out of the question especially with Harriet and John there, although John could handle himself, it left Sherlock with no choice but to lose the tail.

Irene cursed her boots. They weren't made for running. It slowed their pace. Sherlock came to an abrupt stop as two others stepped out from a doorway. Irene slammed into his back not expecting him to stop. It was no use turning back. The footsteps were already too close. A glance behind them confirmed that there was nowhere to go.

"What now?" Irene asked. Already Sherlock's mind was calculating. On his own it would be easy but there was the woman complicating matters and there were four of them. One had recently left juvenile detention judging by the young man's haircut. The man to his right was definitely the brains behind it all. Middle-aged, ex-army now a body guard for a nightclub.

"Give us the designs!" the body guard demanded. He stood with his legs apart and arms crossed over his muscled chest. To anyone but Sherlock it would be more than a little intimidating.

Irene turned to face the imposing man and looked him up and down, "I don't have them. Neither will you, your employer or Nantoli get your hands on them."

"You're lying. Hand 'em over," the youth in the tracksuit was only too eager to be involved.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the offending youth, "No…"

Irene smirked and threw her bag at one of the men knowing exactly where the designs were, "Check it." The contents of the suave leather bag were emptied onto the concrete floor. A small bottle of perfume smashed filling the air with a vanilla-like scent.

"They aren't here," the man with the bag looked across at the other two.

The body guard commanded his men "search them." His word was clearly law. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The men who'd followed them into the pub were clearly not the most observant on the planet there was nowhere for the designs to be hidden. With his arms held out Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was best to get it over with. He caught Irene's eye. She smiled smugly, lifted her foot up and stamped on the foot of the man searching her. Anticipating her move Sherlock swung his arm against the rib cage of the hoody from the pub that moved to within striking distance in an attempt to carry out the search. The hoody doubled over gripping his side muttering profanities.

Sherlock had to side step a well-aimed punch. His next dodge hadn't been quite so lucky. The hoody regained his senses and delivered a swift blow with his elbow against Sherlock's chest. The aim had been his throat. It knocked him back. His head bashed against the footpath. With a groan Sherlock shut his eyes.

As Sherlock lay flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him, he could hear the distinct sound of Irene's heels on the footpath fading into the distant out onto the main road. He struggled onto his knees and took deep breaths. It would be no use chasing after her by now she would be in a taxi. Not that it mattered when the designs were on their way to Brazil.

"The designs?" the body guard prompted.

Sherlock glared daggers at the body guard, "Gone." Lying on the floor was a disadvantage that Sherlock needed to put a stop to. The body guard sent two of his men off in pursuit of Irene who was now long gone. It put Sherlock on a fairly even playing field. He'd be able to get out of this one easily once he got to his feet.

As day broke Sherlock arrived at Baker Street his head hurt and his chest ached from the blow. The collision with the floor had left him with a small gash on his forehead close to his hair line. The blood had dried and felt sticky in his hair. It was all unimportant he was more concerned with the information Irene had failed to give him.

When Irene had gone to the bathroom in the dingy little pub she'd left the designs tucked behind a mirror for Pomelo to retrieve and deliver to Brazil. Irene, using a fake passport, was now heading for continental Europe and from there would make her way to Brazil. Normally it would have been an easy case but Irene could always complicate things. With any luck she would remain hidden with the designs for quite some time.

Sherlock shut the door quietly and didn't bother to turn on a light as he discarded his coat and collapsed into his arm chair. "Sherlock?" he snapped his eyes open at the intrusion. It was Harriet. Half asleep and wearing his favourite dressing gown. She flicked on the table lamp. Sherlock shut his eyes again. "What on earth hap-" her eyes fell on the weary consultant detective, "you're bleeding."

"I'm not," he answered back without his usual snarky comment.

Harriet raised her eyebrows at him, "Yes. You are. Let me see."

He waved her off, "I was bleeding but it's stopped. It's fine. I'm fine."

"At least let me have a look," she brushed his matted hair to the side.

"It's nothing," Sherlock pushed Harriet away and shot to his feet for the isolation of his room.

"Let me look or I'll wake John," Harriet's threat stopped him in his tracks. It was no use hiding away in his room with her sharing it with him anyway. A defeated Sherlock sat back in the chair and with folded arms and a scowl he allowed Harriet to look at the cut on his head.

Harriet touched the area around the wound. Sherlock inhaled sharply, "tell me what happened?" her voice was gentle and caring as she spoke. As Harriet retrieved warm water and a cloth to the clean the blood away Sherlock recounted the night's events. Hearing him speak did nothing to soothe the worry, not even the logical nature in which he tackled the explanation helped. It angered her that Irene had left Sherlock but there was nothing she could do about it and if Harriet was honest she was glad the woman was gone. With the blood cleaned away she could inspect the gash in full. "Sherlock," he hummed in response. He'd long since closed his eyes to keep the water out of them as it dripped from the cloth or so he told himself, it had more to do with the feel of Harriet's fingers on his skin. "This needs stitches."

"I'm not going to a hospital," he protested immediately.

Harriet sighed knowing it was going to be a struggle, "I'll go and wake John. Stay put."

"Jesus Sherlock," John greeted Sherlock in his pyjamas. Sherlock was still sat in his chair with head resting on the back of it as he stared up at the ceiling. The bloody cloth and water on the floor made the scene look a lot worse.

Harriet was still worrying as she hung back allowing John to take a look. "Can you patch him up?"

John had patched Sherlock up on more occasions than he cared to count, "couple of stitches and he'll be back to being an annoying git again."

It was three weeks later when a large white envelope turned up addressed to Harriet. There were no postal stamps on the envelope just her name and the Baker Street address. When she showed it to Sherlock out fear for its contents after the last package she received he opened it for her. He pulled out one of the designs Irene had stolen. "There's writing on the back," Harriet told Sherlock. He flipped it over and read the short paragraph of hand written text.

Alright so despite having six weeks off I've been useless at updating, sorry guys my hearts just not been in it. Another 4 or 5 chapters and the story will come to an end :( I'm not going to promise regular updates because I've got job applications to do alongside teaching but I should finish it soon.

Thanks to Gwilwillith, chaosrachel, raxicoracofallipatorious and newtofanfic for reviewing :D