It was the little things, Sherlock reflected later, that got to him the most. The way Irene had stared at him so hungrily while she flirted and coaxed him into translating the code, as though she thought that he would give in and have sex with her right there on the desk with John not two feet away. The look on Mycroft's face when he walked onto the airplane, that unique combination of guilt and anger that only a Holmes could really do justice to, and how voice trembled ever so slightly when he finally spoke, clipped and icy as he outlined all the ways that Sherlock had been fooled.

How John's anger burned through their bond, outraged at the realization that Irene had been playing them both from their very beginning.

"I thought," Mycroft was saying, his quiet voice echoing through the cabin, "that having a bond mate might be good for you, Sherlock. I know that you don't have much experience in these matters. I'd hoped that it would help you learn to avoid these sorts of situations." He held up his ever present umbrella, stabbing it through the air. "This was - you should have known. How did you not realize? Or were you truly that anxious to impress someone other than John?"

Bastard, John said, sounding furious. He'd been out when Sherlock was picked up, and he had not been too pleased that Sherlock had gone without waiting for him. It was probably for the best: judging by the annoyance roiling down the bond, he probably would've punched Mycroft if he had been there. Don't let him talk to you like that, Sherlock. It's his bloody fault for bringing Irene Adler around in the first place.

Sherlock lifted his head, ignoring John's suggestion that he punch Mycroft instead, and said, "Perhaps if you'd given me all of the relevant information in the first place, this wouldn't have happened." It was one of the reasons why he hated working for Mycroft. It wasn't just because his brother annoyed him so much, though granted that was part of it. It was because Mycroft always had to play these games. He always had to hold information back, and not just because he was paranoid about it getting into the wrong hands - though that was part of it. He just enjoyed being in the driver's seat a little too much. This wasn't the first time that Mycroft's reluctance to share pertinent information had got them into trouble, though granted this was the biggest issue that had ever arisen.

Mycroft's expression flickered, and for a moment Sherlock thought his brother was going to come up with a truly scathing comment. He even braced himself in preparation. But all Mycroft said was, "You're right."

"But just think," Irene said, and Sherlock stiffened for an entirely different reason as she entered the cabin behind him. Neilson was standing right behind her, glaring daggers at Sherlock. It was obvious he still wanted to put that bullet between Sherlock's eyes. Irene smirked and continued, "If you hadn't, Mr Holmes, this whole thing would have been so much more boring than it really was. At least this way I had the chance to play with your delicious little brother."

"So it was a lie, then," said Sherlock. "The fact that Moriarty had your bonded."

Irene hesitated for a split second. She was all dressed up now, hair coiffed and make-up perfect, wearing a pair of high heels and a slinky black dress and a fur coat, but it did little to hide that flash of insecurity. "No," she said, "no, that wasn't a lie. It was the truth. But I also told you that Kate and I had a plan in place. I just led you to believe that the plan was only for the police." She shrugged one shoulder and smiled at him, baring her teeth just a little. "I believe we need to speak, Mr Holmes. In private, if you don't mind." And she wiggled the phone at him.

Though Mycroft probably would have preferred to drive them both straight off the nearest bridge, he took them to his personal residence. Sherlock had not been inside very often, and he usually liked to keep it that way. He noted that there was a distinct lack of Lestrade as he settled into a chair, with Mycroft and Irene at a table just behind him, and he knew the inspector had to be working late. For a moment, he allowed himself to indulge in the fervent wish that he could be with Lestrade no matter how boring of a case he was working. Anywhere would have been better than where he was.

Sherlock, John said softly.

I hate this, Sherlock returned, hands tightening around the arms of the chair as he listened to Mycroft and Irene discuss her demands. Mycroft was not pleased, and rightfully so. This was the sort of thing that could easily destroy careers. He didn't have many superiors, but none of them would trust him after how this little debacle had turned out. It would take years for him to work his way back up, and - depending on what, exactly, Irene wanted - he might never be able to do so.

I know you do. But there's nothing you can do, is there? John was on the underground, which he only took when he was alone because Sherlock couldn't handle it. He was staring off into space as he spoke. You've been trying to break into her phone for the past month and you haven't had any luck. Even when you tried to trick her into giving you the combination, it still didn't work.

That was all true, unfortunately, and Sherlock still wasn't sure what the code for the phone would be even though it had been burning in the back of his mind for a while. He knew that the code was probably something personal; it was the sort of assumption he felt safe making considering what the code for her safe had been. But he was also aware of the fact that he knew precious little about Irene Adler. There was something he was missing, something key, but it was dangling just out of reach and it was driving him mad -

"You've been very thorough," Mycroft said at last. He sounded defeated. It made Sherlock's skin prickle uncomfortably.

Irene chuckled with satisfaction. "Indeed. But I can't take all the credit. I had a little help. There are consultants for everything these days, you know."

Sherlock stopped. Literally. He didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't respond to John's alarmed inquiries. He was staring intently at nothing in particular at his mind sorted and shaped and understood -

"Now off you go," she went on, "you'd best see to it before I get impatient."

"No," Sherlock said quietly, firmly, and the room went deliciously silent. He stood up and turned around. "No, I think not."


Please review!