Sherlock stood for a moment in front of The Langham, possibly sizing it up. It was almost like he was equating the hotel's height to the amount of apprehension in his stomach: both were immaculate and monstrous.

He was beginning to be thankful for the way in which John had fixed him up. He was wearing his purple button-up, a suit over it, and his long cloak. Not to mention that his hair smelled significantly better than it had a day ago (he hadn't realized that that was what the horrid smell was).

Entering the reception room, he looked around for Irene's petite figure sitting delicately in a chair or standing outlined near a window as it so often was. She had such a way of setting herself up; he supposed her years in business had given her the ability to "market" herself.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" a man's voice asked from behind. Sherlock turned swiftly on his heel, alarming the questioner whose eyes widened in surprise.

"Yes?"

"You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" the young man asked, his bright eyes clashing miserably with his wild, curly hair. His presence was annoying.

"Yes, of course I am. Can I help you?"

"The woman you're looking for is up in room three hundred fifteen, sir."

"Oh…" Sherlock said, not taking his eyes from the man's face. "Thank you…"

"Of course, sir," the lad replied, handing him a small envelope. Sherlock took it with a nod of his head, dismissing the young man appropriately. Opening the stiff, crisp paper, he read:

Room 315. 4:30. Reception room too public.

- IA

Sherlock was somewhat discombobulated by this note. It was not anything akin to her previous messages, which almost always seemed to combine coquetry, subtle innuendo, and perhaps a bit of humor into the mix of something utterly serious and inappropriate to laugh over.

The paper was white, the letters were printed in black, and her initials were etched onto the page without any sort of character. It felt…dry. Utterly unlike her.

What should he expect?

A telephone rang in room three hundred fifteen, and Irene Adler answered.

"Hullo?"

"Mr. Holmes is on his way, ma'am," came the voice of the youth she had commissioned earlier. She breathed uneasily.

"Thank you," she replied, after a moment of silence in which she had absorbed what had been communicated.

Placing the phone back down on the receiver, she breathed as composedly as she could, reminding herself of who she was and why she was capable. She decided to play a little on the piano whilst she waited for him to arrive. It wouldn't be long now. Three minutes at most.

Finding room three hundred fifteen, Sherlock paused for a moment outside the door. There was music coming from within, and he tried to make out the melody. It was "Auld Lang Syne," and the instrument in question was a piano. It reminded him of when he had played it on his violin…on a New Years' Eve a few years ago. He came closer to the door and leaned his forehead against it. He started humming the words under his breath.

Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,

and never thought upon;

The flames of Love extinguished,

and fully past and gone:

Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,

that loving Breast of thine;

That thou canst never once reflect

On Auld Lang Syne?

She began playing the next verse, but before she reached the end of it, he rang the bell. The music stopped. He heard shuffling within; she was probably stowing the piano bench.

The door opened after a few brief moments, and there was Irene Adler, dressed in absolutely nothing but black. Her hair was pulled back into one of those complicated updos, and her eyes were lined with black mascara unlike the shade of aqua they usually were. Her lips were deliberately painted a deep, dark red, giving her an altogether Gothic, almost bleak and Victorian, appearance.

"Afternoon, Mr. Holmes," she said, holding the door open for him to come in. Her eyes were dead, her lips were dead, and her figure's movements were robotic representations of their usual seductive swagger. Her lips were a straight line, and the lack of a smile set Sherlock in an uneasy frame of mind. The only colorful thing about her was the red polish of her manicured nails.

"Afternoon, Miss Adler," he replied, his voice equally cold.

"Please, come in. I've just put on the kettle. Make yourself comfortable."

She left him standing in the doorway and retreated into the kitchen to fix the tea. His eyebrows almost met in the middle as he found himself drowning in confusion.

Nevertheless, as she waltzed off, Sherlock ponderously wandered in awkward silence through the enormous suite and into the sitting room. There was a writing desk near the hearth, and long sofas were scattered proportionately around the space. Trying to catch a glance through the half open bedroom door, Sherlock could spy a bed of voluminous proportions.

There was the piano he had heard only a moment ago. It was in another corner of the room: a grand piano with three pedals. By it was a door which opened out onto a terrace.

It was half open, and a delicate breeze was coming through. A couple of car horns sounded below, and Sherlock could hear someone shouting: trying to sell the daily paper, it would seem. Strolling out onto the terrace, he could see for miles over the city. There was St. James Park, although it was quite a way off. Looking directly below, he found that the pedestrians looked like ants.

He returned to the sitting room, settled himself into one of the incredibly plush sofas, and waited for Irene's arrival.

She came eventually, carrying a tray adorned with two cups and a pot; Sherlock could smell the citrusy scent of Earl Grey. Setting it on the glass coffee table, she poured a cup for him. Would he take milk? Yes, just a bit. Sugar? Yes, but not much.

"There you are," she said, handing it to him.

"Thank you…" he said, his voice incredibly soft, low, and reluctantly puzzled. This was…weird. Irene Adler was acting like some kind of Abbess. He didn't realize how much he missed her annoying flirtatious manner…only when it was gone.

Shut up, he told himself.

"How much does my brother pay to put you up here?" he asked.

"Must I really answer that question?"

"You don't have to. I'm only curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Holmes."

"So I am told."

She took a sip of her tea, making sure to hold her pinky high. Sherlock was staring into his cup. There was something odd about the way she was carrying herself. He felt incredibly unnerved. He shifted in his chair.

"You play the piano?"

"A little. Whenever I can. I never took my music studies seriously, I'm afraid."

"What you were playing just now was quite good."

She ignored him, looking out the open door and putting the tea to her lips again. Sherlock lowered his gaze into his cup and did the same, so as to avoid any strange connection of the eyes.

"You have news?" Sherlock abruptly asked after a few moments of conspicuously quiet tea drinking.

"Yes," she replied, putting down her cup and cradling the saucer in her lap. She cleared her throat. "You see, I know who's killed Arthur Wellington."

Sherlock almost choked on his sip of Earl Grey.

"So soon?"

"I'm afraid so."

She couldn't resist a little smile, and her lips jerked into a minute smirk before she pulled her muscles back down to serenity. He saw it before it vanished. What was she doing?

"I shall have to ask you to tell me who it is," he ordered, resuming his cold air.

"Only if you agree to my proposal," she replied, her words formed around icy syllables. She looked at him unblinkingly, her large blue eyes blankly examining him. Her lips were equally employed. Without succumbing to the temptation to look away, Sherlock breathed deep.

"What exactly are you asking of me, Miss Adler?" he asked, putting his cup to his lips and sipping slowly. He crossed his left leg over his right one and watched her. He wondered if she was having a difficult time trying not to grin.

Whether she was or not, she didn't.

"I'm not asking you to love me, Mr. Holmes," she said, almost in a sigh. "I'm only asking if you will let me help you. Because I can."

Sherlock said nothing.

She began slowly tapping her heeled foot on the floor, and he began watching it obsessively. He did not want to say anything. He was afraid of vulnerability. He was also afraid of making the wrong judgement. If she was integrous, as she was presently suggesting by offering her allegiance, he would be destroying an excellent connection.

After a few moments of thoughtful silence, Irene spoke.

"Unless, of course, you want a dangerous criminal to continue roaming the streets of London for the sake of your pride. Whether or not that's best, I don't know, but it is your decision, Mr. Holmes."

Oh God, there is so much sarcasm in that little voice, Sherlock mused, managing the most infinitesimal of grins. A chuckle escaped his lips. He had missed this about her, and he found himself slowly, hesitantly, admitting it.

She, however, was still staring robotically into his face, every now and again letting a quizzical look fly across her features. She held her cup in its saucer and continued to tap her foot on the floor. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Fine. What do you propose?" he asked.

Setting her cup on the table beside the sofa, Irene leaned forward, crossed her legs, and began to divulge the secrets of the infamous plan that she had already formulated.

…

Irene rolled over in bed, her eyes heavy with sleep. She had drifted in and out of dreaming for the last hour, but rest had not fully swept over her. At length, she resorted to being in that middle place; not knowing whether she was awake, asleep, or simply dreaming about going to sleep.

The meeting with Sherlock had gone well that afternoon. He had agreed to her proposed plan, considered it a clever idea, and calmly left her room without objection or…apology. Much to her dismay. While the absence of penance bothered her, she was at least grateful for his cooperation. Besides, this was Sherlock: she decided it was best not to push her luck.

She felt air glide into the room; the door opened. It pulled her from that middle place instantly. Her back was to the door, and she didn't turn around. She only feigned sleeping. Her skin was tingling with excitement. Someone was coming near the bed.

Feeling a shoulder on her arm and the overwhelming presence of someone's face stooping barely above her head, she cast aside the act, saying with delicious desire, "Couldn't stay away, could you, Mr. Holmes?"

She turned toward him with her small hands reaching out to pull him in, draw out a long sweet kiss, and encircle the detective at long last inside her lair.

But that wasn't what happened at all.

Recoiling in horror, she found not the desired affections of Sherlock Holmes, but the repulsive features of Godfrey Norton, or Friedrich Schreiber. Springing backwards and hurling her feet into him, he staggered backward, but only barely. She had not forgotten his strength.

"I didn't expect you tonight," she said, pulling the sheets over her shoulders and attempting to maintain a calm, toying tone of voice.

"We said I would be seeing more of you, did we not?" he asked, rubbing his chest with his palm. "You nearly kissed me just now when you thought that I was Sherlock Holmes. How is he? Have you two been getting along? Has he gone out tonight? I thought I would find you both here; surprised to see you are clothed. That I will say."

She laughed with sultry arrogance.

"Where's Jim?" she asked, disregarding his first inquiry.

"He could not make it tonight, I am afraid. Disappointed?"

"Not nearly. It's good to see you…Friedrich."

"You are clever," he laughed. Leaving the bedside, he walked towards the window, back facing her. "Even a child could see that my true name is not 'Norton.' Norton is not a German name, nor is it my real one."

"Friedrich Schreiber would be terribly sad mourning the death of his big brother the puppet, wouldn't he?" she asked, reclining against the pillows and crossing her arms behind her head.

At the mention of his brother, the German turned with fire brimming from under the dark lashes of his eyes. He turned toward her, and she sat up as his hands came down on the bed, each one on either side of her.

"Always a pressure point, isn't there?" she teased, mocking him with her expression.

He grabbed her arm.

"Temper, temper," she cooed, trying to wrench her arm from his hand. Keeping everything below surface level, she found her nerves screaming. She was going somewhere; remembering things she did not want to. His face over her, her arms secured, her breathing becoming more and more rapid: she would not let herself remember.

"I know what you've done, you wicked boy," she hissed, staring into his stony eyes. He still had her arm in his grip, and as she spoke, he twisted his hold on it. She allowed herself the smallest of grimaces.

"What is that?" he asked.

"You killed Arthur Wellington for me," she replied, smiling as though she had been honored by his little ritual.

"Moriarty told me it was a surprise. 'For who?' I had asked. 'For a woman,' was his response. I was puzzled. Greatly, greatly puzzled. 'A woman?' What sort of woman would want a dead body as a gift? I only knew one such a woman, and she had died in Berlin…I had killed her." Irene was trying not to act surprised or frightened. She narrowed her eyes at him, trying her best at charm. He let go of her arm and began to walk around the room again.

"So I asked him, 'What woman? What kind of woman?' Moriarty did not respond for about ten seconds. I eyed him each moment that passed, and the man just stood there: smiling at me."

Pausing at the window, he looked back at her. Then he finished: "Then Moriarty opened his mouth and said 'the woman.' …And then I understood. It was for you."

They stared at one another: the woman and the devil; the cat and the mouse.

"You killed him for me, did you?"

"For you. A puzzle for you. Anything for you."

Irene was trying not to vomit. His diabolic voice was beginning to create chaos inside her mind, and she honestly began to doubt how safe she was with this man in her room.

Coming back toward the bed, he knelt down so that he was eyelevel with her. Their faces were inches apart, and the hairs on the back of Irene's neck were rigid.

In a low whisper, he said, "Now I've come to ask about the detective."

"He's not here."

"I know," he said. His tone was almost slimy, like an eel's, and Irene wanted to scream when he took her shoulders in his hands.

"That's why I'm here."

She leaned a little closer to him, teasing a kiss. His breath was horrid.

He closed his eyes and grinned expectantly, but she put a finger to his face and pushed him back a little. Gently prying his fingers from her shoulders (which he allowed), she settled back onto the pillows and eyed him flirtatiously. Keeping this façade together was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

But now it was over, wasn't it?

To Schreiber's unbelief and to his fright, Irene began to let the smile of the victor creep over her lips. Oh, why was it so hard! she wondered, chiding herself for her childishness. She could not resist the incredible, delicious urge to grin. So she did. When she started laughing, Schreiber's eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Did you get all that, Mr. Holmes?" Irene asked, addressing the air.

"Every word, it would seem," spoke the baritone voice of Sherlock Holmes. He emerged from behind a dresser drawer at the far side of her bedroom and pressed "stop" on a recording device in his hand. He laughed.

Schreiber was motionless, still hovering over Irene like a character in a paused film. He looked at Irene, then at Sherlock, his face contorting with humiliation and vexation. He began breathing hard.

"This has been really very well-played, Miss Adler," Sherlock declared, grinning.

"Indeed," she mused. "Well-played, Mr. Holmes."

"Scheiße!" Schreiber screamed, making a lunge for Irene's throat.

"No!" Sherlock ran from his corner of the room, and Irene gasped for air as Schreiber's hands closed around her neck. She scratched at his fingers, but he would not let go.

Sherlock was upon him in an instant, seizing his forearms and wrenching his hands from Irene's throat. She coughed and gulped oxygen as his hands stopped squeezing her airways shut.

Schreiber was not a weakling, however. The two men tumbled off the bed, rolling over one another on the floor. Irene shot out of the blankets and ran for the bathroom; one of her suitcases had an old pair of handcuffs in them. She hadn't used them in quite a while. Finding them under her denizens of clothing, she hesitated as the cold steel burned her fingers when she touched them.

Rushing into the kitchen, she went to the knife drawer, where she and Sherlock had hidden a shotgun earlier in the day. She drew it from its hiding place and examined it as she held it aloft in her right hand, eyeing it for a moment with sadistic delight.

Returning to the room, she found that the men were still going at one another on the floor, and Sherlock's nose was bleeding. Schreiber's right eye was swollen.

She cocked the gun and held it in front of her as she advanced forward. Sherlock saw her out of the corner of his eye. When he smiled at her, a bit of blood came out of his mouth. Schreiber was oblivious, and he and Sherlock continued to brawl.

Sherlock gasped desperately at her in the madness, "DO YOU MIND?

Smirking as if it had all been a clever game, she cocked her head, twitched an eyebrow, and replied, "No…not at all!"

Aiming, she fired the gun at Schreiber's calf, and the bullet went right through his leg and landed in a pool of blood on the floor.

He screamed in agony.

"Handcuffs?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the raucous.

"Of course," she replied, handing him the ones she had fetched from her suitcase.

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head at her ingenuity.

Schreiber was moaning in pain, and his leg was bleeding badly. Sherlock had him on his stomach and was securing his arms behind his back, just as he had done to the man's brother in Berlin a few years ago.

Mycroft Holmes was now striding through the door.

"Excellent work, brother mine."

"Yes," Sherlock replied: modest as always.

Irene coughed.

The Iceman nodded his respects at his agent, saying, "Miss Adler."

She smiled.

A couple of spooks came in after Mycroft, all of them gloved.

As they hoisted Schreiber to his knees, Sherlock came forward to tower above the man. Seizing his chin in his palm, his usually calm eyes seemed to awaken with anger as he spat words into his face. "This woman," Sherlock began, gesturing to Irene, "is under my protection. And if Moriarty thinks that he has caught me by her hand, I would like to ask him to reconsider his methods."

Mycroft stepped closer to his brother and whispered into his ear, "Sherlock…"

It was a warning, and Mycroft's breath hovered at his ear. Mycroft let his hand settle on his brother's shoulder, imploring him to step back.

Dropping the man's chin, Sherlock retreated to stand beside Irene. The spooks hauled Schreiber away, and as they did so, Sherlock slid his arm around Irene's shoulders. Her face glowing, she slid hers around his back. Mycroft was about to follow his team, but turned around before doing so.

Sherlock looked at his brother as he always did whenever he knew he was making his brother uncomfortable: Just try and make me stop.

"Having fun, are we, brother mine?" Mycroft asked.

Irene decided to answer for him. She replied (possibly out of turn): "Loads."

The elder brother rolled his eyes. Sherlock, his arm still around Irene and hers still around his, took this moment to voice his thoughts. "Mycroft, she can't stay here. We need to get her to Baker Street tonight. She'll be safe there."

"How very…convenient," Mycroft replied. His brother returned the eyeroll in response.

Irene slipped out from beneath Sherlock's arms and went out toward the terrace. He would follow her in a few moments, hopefully they could catch a moment alone.

Since when had he hoped for a moment alone?

"We need help to bring her things to Baker Street. I don't believe she's safe here. But I know that she will be safe if we take her back there."

"Had a change of heart, have we, brother mine?"

Sherlock eyed his brother with contempt, unwilling to admit the foolishness of his previous animosity. Mycroft remained smug until Sherlock said nothing in response. Not wanting to press his arrogance too much, the elder simply said:

"I will have her things brought to Baker Street immediately."

Mycroft left the room, calling someone on his mobile. Sherlock went out to the balcony in hopes of finding Irene alone. Perhaps it was best if he…formally apologized to her.

The crisp air slashed at his face as he stepped out onto the terrace. But Irene's absence shocked him even more so. She was gone…but there was a rope tied to the railing and hanging over the side.

A cab was driving away from the place where the rope ended at the road below. She had disappeared into the night. It reminded him of when she had swung out of her bathroom window on the day he had first met her in Belgravia.

Same woman, same tricks.

He laughed as he watched the cab drive away down below. He found himself whispering under his breath, "Clever girl."

Mycroft joined him on the balcony.

"Gone, is she?"

"It would seem," Sherlock replied, still looking down the street where the cab had driven. It had turned onto another street by now, but he still looked in that direction. Mycroft watched his brother's face. It made his heart…what was the word…warm? How would he know…

"You will have the opportunity to cooperate again, I'm sure," he told Sherlock. "…if you don't object to it, brother mine."

"Why would I?"

"Well, the last few days did communicate a certain…message. Cigarette?" He pulled one out of his jacket and offered it to his brother with a gloved hand. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously.

"Thank you…even if it is low tar."

And there, on the balcony, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes smoked their cigarettes as the autumn night air grew colder and the moon rose higher into the London sky.

Sherlock's phone buzzed inside his pocket, and he reached for it. A bit excited, he wondered what The Woman had sent him. But it wasn't from her at all.

Listening to Billy Joel tonight. – JM x

Mycroft looked over his shoulder and let out an "mm." Sherlock didn't respond to the text, determined to ignore the pest. He had been victorious tonight, and there was nothing Moriarty could do about it. He did wonder what Billy Joel had to do with anything.

Then his phone buzzed again about two minutes later:

This one song just gets me every time, Sherlock. Have you heard it? It goes, "she'll promise you more than the garden of Eden; then she'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding. But she brings out the best and the worst you can do; blame it all on yourself because she always was "the woman" to you." – JM x

Doubt came to sit on his shoulder. It poked its pitchfork into Sherlock's ear, begging to be let in. The man's mind felt squeezed, pulled, and squished as he eyed the words on the screen. Everything resurfaced: vulnerability, betrayal, trust, façade, mirage, domination.

Was it all a —

"Focus, brother mine."

Sherlock returned to reality. He found himself breathing faster than a moment before, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to clear his mind.

"I already have."

Deleting both messages, Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and spent the rest of the half hour standing in silence and smoking with his brother.

And Jim Moriarty laughed from where he sat holding his phone.