Max really... really... wished she had stayed in bed today.

She took a deep breath, clutching the bath towel in her hand so tightly her knuckles were white. At the moment she was standing at the end of the hallway, lingering in front of the bathroom. Behind the closed door she could hear the water running; Irene Adler was in there, calmly taking a shower at 221B. As if that was something that happened on a regular basis.

... which, of course, it did not.

"C'mon, girl," Max muttered to herself. "You got this. It's nothing. Just knock. Just knock!"

If it was up to her, she would be anywhere but here. She hadn't liked Irene even when she first met her- actually, she was rather scared of her- and that was before the dominatrix had tried to make a move on her boyfriend. Still, Irene needed a towel, and it was better Max gave it to her than Sherlock or John; after all, Max knew how John was around naked women, and as for Sherlock, well... she didn't want Sherlock anywhere near anybody who had the American government after them.

Scowling in resignation, Max knocked.

"Come in," Irene said. Max hesitated, then stepped inside.

The shower curtain was pulled closed, but it was translucent... so, needless to say, it didn't do much. Despite her best efforts, Max could see Irene's curved figure, sculpted like the Greek goddesses of the paintings that Max had studied in college- Botticelli, Rubens, Caravaggio. It was no wonder that Irene made a living through sex... well, and blackmail.

"Ahh, Max!" Irene greeted, nonplussed. "Hello."

Max gritted her teeth. "Here's a towel," she said. She tossed it onto the sink counter... just out of arm's reach from the shower.

If Irene noticed- Max had no doubt that she did- the dominatrix didn't react, just kept casually working shampoo suds through her hair. "I've been meaning to talk to you," Irene commented.

"Oh, really?" Max asked.

Irene glanced over her shoulder at her, smirking slightly. "I hear you have Sherlock Holmes in your bed," she said. Max flushed red before she could get her emotions under control and hated herself immediately for it. "Well, figuratively, of course- he's not quite ready for that, is he?" Irene laughed to herself and turned back to shampooing her hair. "Don't worry, I'm not after your man. He just has something I need."

Max crossed her arms, trying to regain her composure. "Let me guess, your camera phone," she stated.

Irene just hmmed noncommittally.

"Why?" Max demanded. "What's the point of all of this- faking your death, getting Sherlock- getting us- involved in all this?"

Irene chuckled, seeming genuinely amused. "Oh, Max, you were already involved in this before anything I did," she told her. "You've all been involved in this for longer than you've known. But as for why... I suppose you'll find out tonight, won't you?"

Max eyed her carefully, trying to piece together the hidden meaning behind her words... but none of it made sense, and it didn't seem like Irene was going to tell her anything more. "Y'know what?" Max said angrily. "I don't need to stand here and talk to you while you're shampooing your hair and dropping mystic hints. Come out when you're ready to talk to us."

She turned and headed for the door, but she paused before she left. "Don't use up all the hot water, or... or we'll turn you over to the government," she threatened. With that, she slammed the door behind her.

But she could still hear Irene's amused laughter as she stormed down the hallway.

000

Some time later, Irene had finally finished her shower- too long, in Max's opinion. At the moment she was lounging comfortably in Sherlock's armchair as Max, John, and the consulting detective himself were seated at the dining table. She was dressed in a painfully familiar v-neck black top and skinny jeans- Max's spare set of clothes that she kept at 221B for emergencies. Max swore to burn them when- if- she ever got them back.

"So who's after you?" Sherlock finally asked, breaking the silence.

"People who want to kill me," Irene answered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Who's that?" he pressed.

"Killers," she answered flippantly.

Max scoffed.

John sighed wearily. "It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific," he told her, forcing patience.

But Irene showed no sign of giving a further answer. Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes bright with the mystery- it was the most animated he had been since he pushed Agent Neilson out the window. "So you faked your own death in order to get ahead of them," he stated.

Irene nodded. "It worked for a while," she agreed.

"Except you let John know that you were alive, and therefore me," Sherlock continued. Max cleared her throat pointedly. "And Max."

Irene met his eyes without flinching. "I knew you'd keep my secret," she told him.

Sherlock scoffed. "You couldn't," he replied.

She raised an eyebrow. "But you did, didn't you?" she pointed out. "Where's my camera phone?"

John rolled his eyes. "It's not here," he said. "We're not stupid."

Irene's eyes narrowed. "Then what have you done with it?" she demanded. "If they've guessed you've got it, they'll be watching you."

Max glared at her. "Why are you asking us questions?" she challenged. She turned to Sherlock and John. "Why are we letting her ask us questions? This is our flat, she's asking for our help. She's up to something, she practically said so in the shower, and we're just letting her-"

Sherlock held up a hand to silence her. "Enough, Max," he interrupted.

"She has a point," John muttered.

Sherlock glared at him. "I said enough," he repeated. He returned his attention to Irene. "If they've been watching me, they'll know that I took a safety deposit at a bank on the Strand a few months ago."

Irene crossed her arms. "I need it," she stated.

John frowned. "Well, we can't just go and get it, can we?" he said. He snapped his fingers as inspiration hit. "Molly Hooper. She could collect it, take it to Bart's-"

"No way," Max interrupted. "No, we're not getting Molly involved in this. If there's... killers... out there, we are not putting her in harm's way. We should-" She stopped talking with a groan as Sherlock pulled something out of his pocket. "Oh, c'mon. You said you hid it!"

It was the camera phone.

Sherlock shrugged. "I did," he answered simply. Irene stood slowly, her eyes on the phone. "So what do you keep in here- in general, I mean?"

"Pictures, information, anything I might find useful," Irene answered.

John scoffed. "What, for blackmail?" he challenged.

Irene shot him a look. "For protection," she said. "I make my way in the world- I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be."

"Being nice does it for me," Max muttered. "You should try it."

Everyone ignored her. "So how do you acquire this information?" Sherlock asked Irene.

Irene smiled. "I told you- I misbehave," she answered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "But you've acquired something that's more danger than protection," he stated. "Do you know what it is?"

Irene grimaced. "Yes," she admitted. "But I don't understand it."

"I assumed," Sherlock replied. "Show me." Irene held out her hand for the phone, but Sherlock drew it back. "The passcode."

Irene simply continued to hold her hand out. After a moment, Sherlock leaned forward and gave it to her.

"Oh, c'mon-" Max started.

Irene tilted the screen away from them so that they couldn't see her code, then typed in four characters... but instead of unlocking, the phone beeped warningly. She looked up at them in surprise. "It's not working," she stated.

Sherlock smirked as he stood up and took the phone from her. "No, because it's a duplicate that I had made..." he answered. Max sighed in relief. "... into which you've just entered the numbers one-oh-five-eight."

He walked over to his armchair... and pulled out the real camera phone from under the cushion. Max blinked in surprise. "I can't believe you've been sitting on the most wanted piece of technology in Britain for months, you bloody genius," she said.

Sherlock smirked at her. "Best hiding spot there is," he answered simply. He turned to Irene. "I assumed you'd choose something more specific than that, but thanks anyway."

He pulled up the I AM LOCKED screen and typed in the new code. He glanced up at Irene smugly...

... before a message popped up on the screen.

WRONG PASSCODE. 1 ATTEMPT REMAINING.

"I told you that camera phone was my life," Irene remarked. "I know when it's in my hand."

Sherlock gaped at her, seemingly unable to comprehend that he had just been beaten... again. "Oh, you're rather good," he managed to get out.

She smirked at him. "You're not so bad," she replied in kind. She reached out her hand and plucked the real phone from his grasp. Sherlock didn't even react, still frozen in shock.

John cleared his throat, bringing them back to reality.

Irene walked a short distance away and typed her passcode into the phone, carefully hiding the screen. "There was a man," Irene told them. "An MOD official. I knew-"

"Let me guess, you knew what he liked," Max said dryly.

Irene grinned. "You're learning- I like that," she praised. She showed Sherlock a photo on the phone. "One of the things he liked was showing off. He told me this email was going to save the world. He didn't know it, but I photographed it." She smirked. "He was a bit... tied up at the time. It's a bit small on that screen- can you read it?"

Sherlock sat back down at the table next to Max and squinted at the photograph. She leaned over his shoulder and glanced at it.

007 Confirmed allocation

4C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K

"A code, obviously," Irene mused. "I had one of the best cryptographers in the country take a look at it." She paused thoughtfully. "Though he was mostly upside down, as I recall. Couldn't figure it out." She arched an eyebrow gracefully. "What can you do, Mr. Holmes?" She leaned over his shoulder, whispering words seductively in his ear that neither Max nor John could hear. "Go on. Impress a girl."

But Sherlock's brain had been racing far before Irene started leaning in. The numbers and letters in the code raced through his mind faster than light, taking various shapes and patterns as he puzzled through it. He was barely aware of John drinking tea opposite him, Max picking at a large crack on the tabletop, Irene's tantalizingly close presence leaning closer. All that was on his mind was the thrill of the hunt, the puzzle... the game.

Irene kissed his cheek.

Max was suddenly very still, frozen in place with her fingers still resting on the crack in the table.

Sherlock started speaking rapidly.

"There's a margin for error but I'm pretty sure there's a 747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6:30 in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently it's going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true but give me a moment, I've only been on the case for eight seconds," he said in a rush.

Everyone stared at him in shock, even Irene, who hadn't even fully straightened up yet. "Oh, come on," he said. "It's not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look." He angled the phone towards Max and John. "There's no letter I because it can be mistaken for a 1; no letters past K, the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place- families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need to letter K or rows past fifty-five, which is why there's always an upstairs. There's a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there's the style of the flight number- 007- that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the original source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the 6:30 to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport."

The room was dead silent.

Sherlock smirked at Irene. "Please don't feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable or amazing," he said dryly. "John's expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language."

"I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice," Irene declared, her eyes shining ferociously.

Sherlock stared at her with an unreadable expression. The air was charged with silent tension.

And then Max slammed her mug down on the table. Loudly.

Everyone turned to her in surprise, Sherlock and Irene suddenly snapped out of their reverie. "Group meeting. Hallway. Now," Max stated. She pointed at Irene. "Stay here and don't try anything." Without waiting for anybody to reply, she grabbed Sherlock and dragged him out of the room. John trailed after them, glancing suspiciously back at Irene as he did, but she just waved and smiled, the perfect picture of innocence.

As if.

The three of them clustered together out in the hallway, safely out of earshot of Irene. Max instantly rounded on Sherlock. "Are you kidding me?" she demanded.

Sherlock looked at her in exasperation, clearly irritated at being dragged away from the case. "I never kid, Max, as you should know by now," he said. "What are you talking about?"

Max gestured angrily back into the room. "You're just going to give Irene what she wants?!" she demanded. "We don't even know what's so important about that email!"

He crossed his arms. "Well, I was about to start figuring that out, until you dragged me out here," he retorted. "Now, if you don't mind-"

She stepped in front of him, blocking his path back into the room. "Yes, I do mind!" she exclaimed. "Something about that info has two governments after her, if not more, so why exactly do you think it's a good idea to decode it in the living room? You don't even realize how stupid you're being-"

"I'm not stupid!" Sherlock roared, his eyes flashing in barely controlled anger.

A weighted silence fell on the hallway as Sherlock and Max glared at each other, neither of them willing to back down. John looked from Sherlock to Max and back again, barely able to believe that his two closest friends had just raised their voices at each other for the first time. "Uhh... should we take a minute?" he suggested.

Max took a deep breath. "No," she said. She closed her eyes to calm herself before she said something that she regretted. Something came to mind then, a memory that should never have been forgotten but had been in the heat of the moment: four months ago during the blackout, her and Sherlock sitting on the couch eating ice cream, him saying how he had grown up thinking he was stupid compared to his brother. He had brushed it off in front of her, but apparently it had hurt more than he had let on.

She sighed and met his eyes. "I'm sorry," she told him. "I shouldn't have called you stupid." He hesitated for a moment, then nodded stiffly.

For a moment nobody spoke, but then Max shook her head. "I still don't trust her," she said.

John glanced back into the living room. "She hasn't moved," he reported.

Max grimaced. "I know," she admitted. "But she's up to something. I don't like it."

"Then maybe you should leave," Sherlock said coldly.

The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop a few degrees. Max and John looked at him in shock. "Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "What-"

"Thank you, John, but I can fight my own battles," Max interrupted. She turned to Sherlock. "You've always wanted me to stay before."

Sherlock's expression hardened. "Yes, but that was while you were helping the investigation, not distracting from it," he said coldly.

Max scoffed. "Oh, so if I disagree with you, it's a distraction?" she demanded. "Maybe you're wrong, did you consider that? But you can't accept that, can you? You... you're so enamored with her that you can't even see what's so blatantly obvious! You're-" She paused as she was forced to confront the harsh truth, the very thing she had been trying to deny. "You're attracted to her."

The anger faded from Sherlock's face, replaced with shock, then disbelief. "What?" he demanded.

John looked at them in concern. "I, uh, I'm gonna give you two some space," he said, quietly heading back into the living room. Neither Max nor Sherlock acknowleged him.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "If anything, you're the one who's not seeing clearly," he accused. "You've been jealous of her since she showed up."

Max gaped at him. "I have not!" she protested. "I-" But she couldn't finish the sentence. The truth was, she had been jealous of Irene since she first saw her sitting naked in that room with Sherlock. To say anything else would be a lie, and the one person she didn't want to lie to was Sherlock. "Alright. Yes, I'm jealous of her. She's gorgeous and smart and... and everything I'm not, and she understands you in a way I never will." She took a deep breath. "So let's say we're both biased. But guess who's not the one giving out priceless information to a woman with shady intentions." She paused. "Tell me you're not attracted to her and I'll believe you."

He scoffed. "You're being ridiculous," he said.

She sighed. "Please, just... yes or no," she pleaded.

"You're my girlfriend."

"That has nothing to do with it."

"What are you trying to prove?"

"Please, Sherlock, answer the question."

He was silent, but the expression on his face said everything he couldn't put into words- because he didn't want to lie to her, either.

Max bit her lip. "Okay," she said. Neither of them spoke. "Just... if you've ever respected me, ever taken me seriously... please, please stop now. Don't get any more involved in this."

Sherlock looked at her sadly. "You know I can't do that," he told her.

She met his gaze for a moment, then sighed in disappointment. "Well, it was worth a shot, even if I didn't think it would work," she admitted. He was right in front of her, she knew that, but suddenly it felt like they were on opposite ends of a large chasm. "Should I... do you want me to leave?"

"No," he answered, not even having to think about it. The quickness of his response surprised both of them. "No." He cleared his throat. "Let's head back inside?"

Max nodded. "After you," she said. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then walked back into the living room.

She lingered a moment after him, taking a deep breath to calm herself. She glanced up at the ceiling- there was a crack there that she hadn't noticed before. It bothered her more than it should have. Sighing, she followed him inside.

For Sherlock, the moment he crossed the threshold, any sign of their argument gone from his mind; he was focused on the case now, his emotions no longer a factor. "John, please can you check those flight schedules, see if I was right?" he requested.

John nodded. "I'm on it, yeah," he answered. He looked from Max to Sherlock warily, trying to gauge their mood. The expression on Max's face seemed to give him his answer, as well as the fact that Max sat down next to him instead of Sherlock. He grimaced as he turned to his laptop.

Max glanced at Irene as they waited. There was a broad smile on her face, like she had already won.

Maybe she had.

"You're right," John announced. "Flight 007."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion. "What did you say?" he asked.

"You're right," John repeated.

Sherlock scowled. "No, no, no, after that," he said. "What did you say after that?"

John looked at him curiously. "007," he replied. "Flight double-oh-seven."

Max had been wallowing in self-pity, barely paying attention to the conversation, but she looked up suddenly at the name of the flight, her eyes wide in horror. 007... It clicked suddenly, everything clicked, and unless she was wrong, things were about to go very, very bad.

For once it seemed like Sherlock hadn't pieced together the puzzle yet. The consulting detective stood up with a frown, pushing Irene out of the way as he did. "007, 007, double-oh-seven..." he muttered to himself. "Something connected to 007... what?"

Unnoticed by Sherlock and John, Irene slipped her other phone behind her back, typing blind into it so that none of the others could see. The motion was so subtle that nobody would have noticed it unless they were watching carefully... but Max was indeed watching carefully.

747 TOMORROW 6:30PM HEATHROW, she typed.

She was up to something.

000

It was a beautiful evening in Westminister; the city was quiet with the sun just set, the crisp air holding the promise of all that was to come in the night. None other than Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal extraordinaire, was wandering the streets, very near the Houses of Parliament.

He looked down at his phone as it beeped a text alert- he had been expecting a message from his contact soon, and sure enough, she hadn't failed to deliver. 747 TOMORROW 6:30PM HEATHROW.

A slow smile spread across his face.

000

Six months ago, the day after they had met Irene Adler, Mycroft had come to 221B. He had taken a phone call out in the hallway, and when he came back in, he was still wrapping up his conversation.

Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot.

Max hadn't meant to hear it- none of them had- but she had just watched the newest James Bond movie a few weeks before. Something about it had stuck with her, even six months later.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had no reference to Skyfall to call upon, but he had an IQ off the charts. Now, only a few minutes after Max had made the connection, he remembered his brother's words, just as she had... and he tried to make sense of the mystery that he should have picked up long ago.

000

Meanwhile, Moriarty was typing out a message on his phone, his grin widening with every letter. Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me.

And he pressed send.

He looked up at the London skyline, the buildings barely visible against the dark of night- still, he could make out the outline of Big Ben, the very seat of the British government, standing tall over the others. It was quite a majestic building, truly.

Jim Moriarty took a deep breath... and blew a long and loud raspberry at it.

000

Mycroft had just finished his dinner when his phone beeped- an uncommon occurrence, yes, but not unheard of. He reached out and checked his phone... and froze.

Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me.

He stared at the screen in shock, knowing what the text was referring to but completely at a loss as to how they had gotten the information they clearly had. Months and years of planning, countless hours staying up past the crack of dawn... all ruined with eight small words.

Mycroft took a shuddering breath. Slowly, he closed his eyes and sank his head into his hands in despair.

The dam had well and truly cracked, and the only thing he could do was watch as the water crashed down on all of them.