Due to the absolute ridiculous leaps in reviews (37 reviews since I last posted THIRTY-SEVEN!) here is a chapter two days in advance. You guys deserve it for the overwhelming demonstration of love. Enjoy!

True Friendship

Spontaneously combusting from sheer fury was an apt description for Ruby's rage as she continued to pace the spacious length of her sister's old room. It was only on rare occasions when Ruby decided to invade its serene sanctuary. However, its soothing effects weren't taking hold, she'd been in here for hours after Sherlock had thrown her from his chambers and her anger hadn't died in the slightest. This was represented by her current train of thought:

Sherlock Holmes, what a bastard.

He'd claimed that she of all people; was unreliable, had even accused her of betrayal! How dare he; that obnoxiously arrogant moron. Look at what she'd done for him over the course of their friendship, the ridiculous requests she'd granted him, foregoing food and sleep in order to help him with a case. And this was her thanks? Well good luck to the smarmy git, he could try to catch the Mastercard, see how far he got on his own!

She flung herself into a nearby armchair, her blood thundering in her ears as she gazed at the ornamented ceiling. The room was rather bare for a bedroom but Diane had never pursued an interest in interior design as her attention remained exclusively focused on her violin and tobacco. Her instrument was locked away in its case at the other end of the room and lay beside an abandoned music stand, Tchaikovsky's violin concerto perched precariously upon the delicate metal frame. The room was cleaned regularly to combat the presence of dust and moths but there was an overwhelming sense of abandonment saturating the air. The lack of grime only served to highlight the chamber's missing resident, everything was too clean, and the air hadn't been inhaled by the person who was supposed to sleep in the large bed nestled in the corner of the room. Also, the minor fact of Diane being spectacularly messy made every excursion into the room an eerie experience; it had always been a source of amusement for Ruby to see the extent of her sister's untidiness. The absence of it was… disquieting.

She was on her feet again, taking personal offence at the uncluttered nature of the room. It was a blemish on Diane's memory, an outrage to label her as someone who would keep her bedroom meticulously tidy. She had been quite a visual person and claimed to know the exact location of anything she needed hiding in the mess which would adorn the floor. Seeing the full expanse of carpet go uninterrupted was beyond infuriating. Something had to be done.

But what?

Without thinking, Ruby kicked out at the armchair she'd flung herself into and smiled savagely as it crumpled beneath the pressure of gravity and hit the carpet with a muffled BOOM!

Well, that was a start, what next?

The creaseless silken sheets of the bed were begging for some kind of rebellion and Ruby was delighted to bring them the excitement they deserved. She tore at the bed covers until they pooled in a defeated mass on the floor. Next were the drapes so neatly pinned at each post of the bed. Fingers tore at the heavy ties, releasing the flowing material in a crimson wave not unlike that of Superman's cape. The curtains were succeeded by the plump pillows begging for slaughter and Ruby realised she'd hit the jackpot as she lifted the nearest one. It was a good old-fashioned pillow, stuffed to the brim with feather and down. Grasping the pillow, she hurled it against the corner of an old radiator, the material ripping deliciously on the sharp corner. Moments later, a burst of feathers exploded out of their prison, savouring their liberation as Ruby spun wildly, spreading the feathers over the pristine carpet. When the pillowcase fell limp in her hand, it was without hesitation she reached for the next one.

The pillows were soon spent, the tables were all over turned; ink bottles were smashed against the walls and the contents of the wardrobe was spread tastefully on the bed, windowsill, tipped furniture and floor. Broken hangers poked half-heartedly out of the mess and Ruby sat on the edge of the bed to observe her handiwork. Why yes, this did seem like a much truer portrait of Diane's wild character, not to mention she could feel herself returning to her usual, controlled self.

Ruby crumpled onto the bed, shoving some rosin and a fluffy slipper onto the floor as she regained her breath. While contemplating the ceiling of the four-poster, Ruby was reminded of some of the more unpleasant times involving Diane's trying behaviour. Despite accepting her sister unlike her parents, Ruby remembered disgraceful times when she'd experienced uncontrollable fits of anger at Diane's complete lack of humanity. It would force her to scream into pillows and sob like an idiot. Those were extreme outbreaks of emotion and had only happened once or twice in an entire year. Desiring her own company and dismissing her were all parts of Diane's usual routine as she didn't know what damage she was inflicting.

Ruby's heart calmed as she pondered whether Diane had felt regret after her psychological break through. If so, had it contributed to her urge to commit suicide?

It didn't take long for Ruby's heart rate to return to normal, and before she knew where her thoughts were taking her, she arrived at an unexpected conclusion. She realised the anger which had coursed violently though her veins and fuelled vicious fantasies of smashing every precious object in the house (which amounted to a mind-boggling sum of money) was only partially to do with Sherlock's earlier behaviour. The exact trigger of her fury was in fact, her own selfish motivations. She hadn't given a fleeting thought to how it would affect Sherlock's reputation if he backed off and as a result, the Mastercard slunk in and successfully stole from right beneath his nose. She hadn't thought about what Mycroft Holmes would do in such a scenario; no doubt he would derive sadistic pleasure from his little brother's embarrassment. The internet would soon hear of the scandal, meaning Sherlock's prowess would be stunted and the public wouldn't trust him with possible cases.

'Fuck.' She said to no-one in particular.

Abandoning the odd comfort of Diane's bed, Ruby began pacing the room once again (a very trying exercise as there were many obstacles in her way,) her gait very much subdued as she tried to ignore the feeling crawling around in the pit of her stomach.

'Fuck off.' She told her stomach sternly before continuing her pacing. Thirty-two paces, met with the door, turn, another thirty-two paces, left, right, left, right, dodge the upturned music stand, don't trip over the desk…

Halting before an interesting collage of smeared ink and feathers stamped to a pinstriped cushion, an ideal solution presented itself.

The party was well underway; Ruby could hear the grumble of hundreds of voices trudging to the ballroom. Luckily for her, she'd decided to miss the soiree as she had far more important matters to attend to and hurried back to her room. She felt her gut sink at the sight of Carson's pacing figure outside of her bedroom, his movements unusually agitated. He was probably furious with her absence at the ball downstairs.

'Carson?' She called cautiously.

'My lady!' His face relaxed for a moment before a barely concealed rage pulled at his facial muscles.

'What's the matter Carson?' Ruby drew level with the old butler, not liking how deep his frown ran.

'It's your guest.' He spat the last word vehemently.

'My guest?' Ruby blinked for a few moments. 'Oh, you mean Sherlock? What about him?'

'Outrageous behaviour, if this is the disposition of the modern gentleman well I can only hope the apocalypse is swift in its judgement.'

'Carson!' Ruby scolded, it was so unlike him to be so disapproving. 'What did he do?'

'I found him passed out in the fur closet, mumbling like a buffoon after the attendant called my attention to the disturbance! Said he and a lady friend entered the coat closet and only she exited after a few minutes. And it doesn't take a detective to work out what was the cause of his passing out.'

'Sherlock's… a woman… passed out…' A cold sweat moistened the skin of Ruby's back.

'Oh yes, the shame of being drunk at such a dignified gathering –'

'Carson, where is he?' Ruby snapped before the butler could continue his admonishments.

'Well obviously he couldn't remain there, I had two spritely fellows return the ruffian to his room, by a route where none of the guests would observe him; I assure you.'

Ruby knew something was very wrong with this picture but seeing as she was the only one bar Mycroft who was familiar with Sherlock's odd personality, she was one of the very few who could see it.

'My lady, where are you going?' Carson's words chased Ruby as she sprinted down the corridor, knowing a drop of alcohol hadn't passed Sherlock's lips that evening. So what had? Poison? She quickly shut off that trail of thought with excellently wrought images of Sherlock foaming at the mouth and continued running down the carpeted passages. She took the stairs four at a time, ignored startled guests who she flew past, their mouths dropping as the girl with flaming red hair tore up the corridor in the most casual clothes money could buy. She'd been so careful to avoid anyone seeing her red hair (she really couldn't stick wearing the wig unless she absolutely had to) but now she couldn't give a fiddlers fornication for such precautions.

Slowing only to cut corners, she arrived at Sherlock's bedroom, gasping for breath and ignoring the puzzled look of an elderly lady locking her room two doors down. What she wasn't expecting was the door to be locked. She rattled the handle but to no avail, the door was older than she and would not cave because she wished it. It appeared Carson had been thorough in banishing the consulting-detective to solidarity for the rest of the night. Trying to find Carson would be virtually impossible; he could be in the kitchens, at the ball, prowling the upper corridors or in the wine cellar. So what could she do?!

'OH! Pick the lock; pick the lock, something to pick the lock…' She muttered to herself, the elderly lady now retreating into her room, thinking it best to leave the girl talking to herself to get on with whatever madness was plaguing her. Ruby cast around for something to help her in her quest but received nothing but potted plants, highly polished mirrors and dull pieces of expensive artwork by artists long forgotten. Her hands raked against her scalp as she tried to search for a way into the room which didn't involve a battering ram. Moments before resorting to throwing an ancient antique table with an equally archaic candelabra perched atop it; the solution came to her fingertips. Quite literally.

Ruby slid the small hairclip out of her hair, staring at it in amazement before hurrying forwards and unceremoniously jamming it into the keyhole. She calmed her shaking hands and twitched the hair clip delicately, a delicious clicking sound allowing the door to swing innocently open. Flicking on the lights stressed the very still body lying beneath the sheets. Ruby slammed the door behind her and sprinted forwards, halting at the side of the bed. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she regarded the detective who was thankfully, breathing. A hand shot out to check his pulse and she was pleased to find it beating strongly despite the comatose state of the detective.

'Sherlock?' She asked quietly, her hand sliding from his neck to his shoulder where she gave it a firm shake. Nothing. 'Sherlock!' She said while raising her voice. Still nothing. 'SHERLOCK HOLMES, WAKE UP YOU INSUFFERABLE MORON!' She roared while jerking both of his shoulders. Sherlock flumped back onto the pillows, his mouth falling open and dispelling an especially deep breath. 'Well, you're definitely drugged, you never let anyone call you moron and get away with it.' Ruby muttered while straightening up.

Pacing backwards and forwards, Ruby began questioning what might have happened. Sherlock walks into a coat closet (why, exactly?) with a woman. The woman walks out and Sherlock's in a coma. Conclusion… she gave him something. But what?!

Carson had changed Sherlock out of his evening suit and into his pyjamas (the suit was even hanging in front of the wardrobe, such was Carson's professionalism) and she began to check him over for any signs of… whatever drugged him. Oral drugs? She didn't see how a woman could overpower Sherlock and force him to swallow pills. He was far too clever for that… So perhaps something to do with a needle? She gently rolled the sleeves of his pyjamas up and examined the skin nearest the inside of his elbow. No sign of any puncture wounds there. His neck was clear (though there was a distinct whiff of female perfume near his Adam's apple). Ignoring the voice yelling CREEP in her head, she pushed up the pyjama top and looked for any sort of mark which would explain Sherlock's current state. She did her best to skim over the skin in a clinical manner, though it was hard to ignore the lean torso which she'd been pressed up against yesterday. After taking slightly longer than necessary, she concluded there were no marks on his midriff and hastily pulled down his top. She sighed while rubbing her forehead, wondering if there was something she was missing.

There was.

Ruby gasped as she stared at Sherlock's face, completely bewildered by what she'd missed. His lips were definitely a shade darker than what she remembered. With tentative fingers, she reached forward and rubbed her thumb across his lower lip, ignoring his warm breath teasing the back of her hand. She lifted her thumb and sure enough, a light red smudge decorated her pale skin. Either Sherlock had decided his disguise needed some spectacular lips or this woman he was with in the coat closet had kissed him. So a kiss took place along with Sherlock passing out. Perhaps the lipstick contained some sort of…

No, don't be stupid! Think! Think like he would if the situation was reversed. What is so odd about this picture? Sherlock doesn't go to coat closets to snog women into a melted puddle when he's in the middle of a case. As a matter of fact, he doesn't follow any woman anywhere… Aha! So he knew this woman! Of course he did, why else would he follow her? So he knew the woman… he went into the coat closet with her to confront her… alright. But the kiss… the comatose Sherlock. What linked them? Something must connect them in order to complete this bizarre picture…

Who initiated the kiss? That was obvious, the mysterious woman did and there was no room for bias as Sherlock simply did not entertain such notions. So why? Why would she kiss him? Does she love him this mysterious woman? Was this perhaps a declaration of her feelings–

No. It was too much of a coincidence. She wanted to take him out this evening, keep him distracted from the case he was so focused on. Was it the Mastercard herself then who led Sherlock into the coat closet? Though the logic was sound behind this analysis, a slight nagging sensation told Ruby that this was not the work of the Mastercard, but of someone else entirely. So if not Sabrina Milton… then who? Who would help the Mastercard to succeed and know Sherlock Holmes?

She knew she was asking the right question, but unfortunately, she had no idea how to answer it.

Alright, but what else could she ascertain from this situation? She still needed to figure out how Sherlock was drugged, not why this woman was kissing him…

And then, in a dream-like haze, the epiphany struck. Of course! The kiss was to distract Sherlock while this woman drugged him! He would have been so distracted, that it would have been easy! You kiss a man to drug him... where do you plan to insert the drug? Obviously a chemical poured onto a cloth and fitted over the victim's mouth wouldn't work in this situation. Ruby paused in her pacing and sighed. So… lips are locked… what are the hands doing? They could swing a needle into his back..? No, too risky, it has to be instant, near. A jabbing motion to the….

Oh.

No wonder she hadn't seen the puncture mark, she hadn't rolled his sleeve high enough. She flew to his side, scrabbled with his left sleeve (more than likely the assailant would be right-handed) and pulled the material up to his shoulder. Sure enough, a tiny dot of red almost smack bang in the middle of Sherlock's bicep could be identified. Ruby staggered backwards, in slight awe of her sharp deduction. She was smart, but it was rare for her to be this smart and this fast. Perhaps she was channelling Sherlock's psyche which was bored out of its tree while being trapped under the influence of drugs.

'So who the bloody hell would you know who would kiss you then drug you?' She asked him with a frown. It was a question she needed an answer to. Luckily for Ruby, there remained at least one other conscious person who could answer it for her. And she had his number.

The phone rang for a few seconds before a tired but familiar voice picked up the other line.

'Hello?'

'John hi. It's Ruby.'

'Oh Ruby? Hullo. Was I supposed to be expecting a call –'

'No you weren't, listen John, I really need your help.'

'Everything alright?'

'Eh… not exactly.' Ruby said while throwing a quick glance at Sherlock to make sure he was still breathing. 'Listen. Something happened to Sherlock –'

'Sherlock? Sherlock's with you?'

'Of course he is, didn't he tell you?'

'….No.'

'Oh, well he didn't tell me either until he got here. Anyway that's beside the point –'

'So he's at your parent's anniversary weekend thing?'

'Yes, I didn't invite him; he just sort of managed to get himself on the guest list. Anyway, I have a question which I need you to answer for me.'

'I hope a million quid isn't riding on my answer.'

'Something a little more precious than that I'm afraid.' Ruby said, unable to resist the urge to wipe a stray curl from Sherlock's eyes. 'This is going to sound strange, but do you know of any woman in Sherlock's history who would kiss him and then drug him?'

John's line was completely silent for a solid ten seconds.

'…John?'

'What do you mean, kiss him then drug him?' He asked quietly.

'Well, he has lipstick smudged over his lips and he's out cold due to a needle injection to his left bicep –'

'What colour's the lipstick?'

'Uh, I'd have to say crimson?'

More silence greeted her words but for some reason, Ruby thought the information might have angered John.

'I don't mean to rush you John, but time really is of the essence. A huge shit storm's coming my way and the answer to this question will help me fight it.'

'I can think of one woman who might conduct such a destructive experiment, but she's dead.'

'Dead?!'

'Well, it wouldn't be the first time she's fooled us.'

'Fooled… you? What do you mean John?'

'Her name was Irene Adler and I have it on excellent authority that she's dead.'

Irene Adler. Where did she know that name from…? She then re-called the conversation with Leo Shannon in that bar with the tasty tequila. The conversation felt as if it took place a lifetime ago.

'Irene Adler? Who's that?'

'Use the correct tense Detective Red, who was Irene Adler?'

'She's dead?'

'Dead as a gravestone. And between you and me, everyone, including dear Locke, is better off as a result. I've never met such a dangerous snake of a woman clothed in such a desirable form…I do however know this: of all the women Locke has ever encountered, Irene Alder was the only one who successfully challenged his indifference to the fairer sex.'

'On whose authority? Sherlock's?'

'Mycroft's, actually. Though this does sound like the type of thing she'd do…' John heaved a heavy sigh before noisily clearing his throat. 'I'm visiting family at the moment but I could easily get a train –'

'He's fine, John, he'll wake up and be screaming at everyone about how they're all morons. It'll all be over by the time you get here anyway, so don't waste the train fare.'

'Alright then…Would it help in any possible way if I described her to you?'

'Actually yes, it would.' John went into a detailed description which Ruby hurriedly jotted down before bidding John a hurried good night along with a heart-felt thank you. She pocketed her mobile phone and ran her eyes over the list one last time. She headed for the door but the sound of another door swinging open in the bedroom stopped her. Slowly turning round, Ruby was faced with a woman matching every single trait John had just described and appeared to have been hiding in the bathroom this entre time. Irene Adler sported bright red lips and perfectly coiffured hair while she was dressed in an astonishingly provocative outfit. A translucent black lingerie dress clung to her naked torso, finishing just at her upper thigh and leaving very little to the imagination. Legs sheathed in fishnet stockings ended in spectacularly high heels and a riding crop lay powerfully in her right hand. Heavily made-up eyes bore down on Ruby in an almost predatory fashion and with a quick swish of her riding crop, the woman addressed her:

'Hello there. I think it's about time we had a proper chat, don't you?'

Ooh, show-down with Irene Adler in the next chapter! Something I've been planning for a long time and will introduce a slightly unusual interpretation of the dominatrix whom I simultaneously ADORE and LOATHE. Thank you so much for the ridiculous support and a special mention must be made to rycbar15 who alone in the past 48 hours has given me 24 reviews as she read the story from scratch. I have no words for all of those wonderful words, but thank you. And to the rest of my loyal reviewers and readers here's to you. You give me the belief to keep on writing! Any ideas as to what I might have a-cookin' in the next chapter? Please feel free to speculate!