The car was one of Mycroft's, Sherlock had known that as soon as he saw the hubcaps. Now, as they pulled away from Baker St- the agent and Sherlock in the backseat, another man at the wheel- Sherlock started talking rapid-fire.

"There's going to be a bomb on a passenger jet. The British and American governments know about it but rather than expose the source of that information they're going to let it happen. The plane will blow up. Coventry all over again. The wheel turns. Nothing is ever new."

Nobody replied.

Sherlock scowled at the agent, trying to coax a reaction from him. No luck- the man was acting like he wasn't even there. Huffing in annoyance, Sherlock resolved himself to a silent ride, retreating into his thoughts instead.

He had always been good at separating his heart from his head, and most of the time that was a good thing; it meant he could focus on a case without being influenced by his feelings, which only ever served to distract him from his work.

But now there was no puzzle to solve, no clues to chase. Now it was just a waiting game. And it was in moments like this, when his mind was silent, that his feelings started to creep back in.

Despite his best efforts, his mind echoed with memories of his argument with Max. You're attracted to her, she had said, looking at him sadly. He scoffed at the ridiculous accusation; in no way was he attracted to Irene. He was in a relationship with Max, for goodness's sake. She was one of his best friends, the one who knew him better than anybody besides John and Mycroft- she was the one he watched Star Trek with, the one he laid next to on the couch, the one whose simple smile was enough to make his day. That had to count for something.

Yet he hadn't been able to deny her allegation, and that bothered him more than he would like to admit. He thought back on the months since he had met Irene: her texts that he always read but never replied to, his grief at her death, his recent attempts to crack her camera phone... how she was the only one to ever outsmart him. Her presence in itself was a constant mystery. She was... intriguing.

His thoughts went around in circles for the entire ride, and by the time they pulled up in front of a 747 Jumbo Jet on the tarmac at Heathrow Airport, he was no better off than the beginning.

Still irritated, he left the car without a word and walked up to the steps leading to the entry door. Someone was standing at the bottom: Neilson, the American agent who he had tossed out the window.

Sherlock smirked, glad to have somewhere to vent his frustrations. "Well, you're lookin' all better," he remarked in a deliberately exaggerated American accent. "How ya feelin'?"

Neilson glared. "Like putting a bullet in your brain... sir," he answered.

Sherlock sniggered and started up the steps to the plane.

"They'd pin a medal on me if I did," Neilson said. Sherlock paused. "... sir."

Sherlock almost turned back towards him, but decided against it. He continued onto the plane.

There was a curtain obscuring the passenger seating. He pushed it to the side and walked into the dark aisle, only lit by slivers of light from the windows. There was a person in every seat, but none of them showed any sign of movement. Frowning, he walked up to the nearest passengers for a better look.

They were dead.

Sherlock leaned closer in curiosity. They had yet to start decomposing, but they had clearly been dead for a while. He turned to the passengers on the other side of the aisle; the bodies there were also deceased.

He straightened and cast a glance around the cabin again. Every single passenger was dead.

"The Coventry conundrum."

Sherlock turned to see none other than his brother pushing back the curtain at the other end of the section- dramatic as ever. "What do you think of my solution?" Mycroft asked, half-concealed in shadow. "The flight of the dead."

Ah. Sherlock nodded. "The plane blows up in midair. Mission accomplished for the terrorists," he said. "Hundreds of casualties, nobody dies."

Mycroft's face was expressionless. "Neat, don't you think?" he commented. "You've been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages. Or were you too bored to notice the pattern?"

Sherlock cast his mind back over the past year. Two little girls. They wouldn't let us see Granddad when he was dead. An odd man holding an urn. She's not my real aunt. I know human ash!

"We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn't make the flight," Mycroft remarked. Sherlock remembered the dead man in the boot of the car with a passport stamped in Berlin, the case he hadn't been able to solve. "But that's the deceased for you: late, in every sense of the word."

Sherlock frowned. "How's the plane going to fly?" he asked. He shook his head, realizing the answer. "Of course. Unmanned aircraft. Hardly new."

Mycroft glared at him. "It doesn't fly," he snapped. "It will never fly. The entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can't fool them now. We've lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning... finished."

Sherlock scoffed. "Your MOD man," he said.

"That's all it takes," Mycroft told him. "One bored, naive man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special."

Sherlock nodded. "You should screen your defense people more carefully," he remarked.

Mycroft slammed the tip of his umbrella on the floor. "I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock, I'm talking about you!" he shouted.

Sherlock blinked.

Mycroft smiled dryly. "The damsel in distress," he mused. "In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption." He shook his head. "The only one in her way was Max, but the two of you took care of that quite well on your own, didn't you? Such a nasty argument- if I weren't so disappointed in you right now, I'd be quite upset about that. But regardless. All she had to do was to give you a puzzle, Sherlock, and then sit back and watch you dance."

Sherlock scowled at him. "Don't be absurd," he snapped. But Max's words echoed through his mind again: You're so enamored with her that you can't even see what's so blatantly obvious!

Mycroft scoffed. "Absurd?" he repeated. "You're just lucky that Max and John had the wits to send word to me before matters got even more out of hand."

Sherlock blinked. "Max and John?" he asked.

Mycroft nodded sagely. "Max pieced it together- well, not all of it, clearly, but enough to realize that she was out of her league," he explained. "John managed to contact me without you realizing, explained everything. Quite impressive, on both of their parts. I sent to bring you here before you did anything even more foolhardy- if that's even possible at this point. "

But Sherlock was still in shock. "Max and John?" he demanded again, unable to believe that his friends had gone behind his back and he hadn't even realized.

Mycroft looked at him sternly. "They saw what you couldn't, Sherlock- that she was using you," he said. "How quickly did you decipher that email for her? Was it the full minute, or were you really eager to impress?"

"I think it was less than five seconds," a familiar voice said.

Sherlock whirled around to see none other than Irene herself at the end of the cabin. She was no longer wearing Max's spare clothes; she had changed into a stunning sleeveless black dress, her makeup immaculate and her hair perfectly styled. This was Irene Adler at her finest, dressed to kill.

"I drove you into her path," Mycroft said ruefully. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

But Sherlock didn't even acknowledge him; his eyes were locked on Irene as she strode towards the two men. "Mr. Holmes," she declared. "I think we need to talk."

Sherlock frowned. "So do I. There are a number of aspects I'm still not quite clear on-"

"Not you, Junior, you're done now," Irene interrupted, barely even looking at him as she brushed past. Sherlock watched in shock as she approached his brother.

Mycroft's gaze was steady. "What did you do to Max?" he asked.

Irene smirked. "Tied her to a chair in the flat," she answered.

"What?!" Sherlock demanded.

They both ignored him. "You really thought she could keep me there?" Irene asked in amusement.

Mycroft's expression remained neutral. "She's more capable than you think," he said.

She shrugged. "I thought she was quite a disappointment, actually," she remarked. She turned on her camera phone, holding it up to show Mycroft. "Now. There's more, loads more. On this phone I've got secrets, pictures, and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me- unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own brother."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, his face carefully controlled... but then he lowered his eyes in defeat, no longer able to hold her gaze.

000

John returned to the flat to find Sherlock and Irene gone, and Max tied to a chair that had fallen over on the ground.

"Max?!" he exclaimed. "Jesus!" He hurried to her side, grabbing a scissor lying on the coffee table. He cut her gag quickly, then started on her arms. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Max scowled. "I'm fine," she grumbled. "Irene tied me up and I fell over trying to get my phone. What took you so long?"

John gave her a look as he finished freeing her. "I'm sorry, you try explaining something to Mycroft!" he exclaimed. "It was like a bloody interrogation! I couldn't say ten words without him interrupting and asking a question!"

She stood up and stretched, finally out of the chair. "Well, maybe you're just bad at explaining things," she said. She glanced down at where John was still sitting on the floor. "So what do we do now?"

He grimaced. "We wait," he said. "And we hope Mycroft can fix this."

Max sighed, then plopped down next to him. Neither of them spoke, too wrapped up in their thoughts to make conversation.

"Is this our fuzzy blanket?" John asked suddenly.

Max grimaced. "Yeah," she admitted.

John gaped at the cloth in his hands. "No," he said.

She nodded. "Yeah," she replied.

"But that was my favorite blanket!"

"I know, mine too."

"... this sucks."

"It really does."

"Ice cream?"

"Please."

000

Meanwhile, Irene and the Holmes brothers had arrived in Myroft's dining room. Mycroft was seated at the table with Irene opposite him. Sherlock had opted for an armchair near the fireplace, a few yards from the pair; he was half turned towards them, staring into the flames and lost in thought.

Please stop now, Max had said back at the flat. Don't get any more involved in this. Sherlock took a shuddering breath. She was right, she had always been right; but by the time he realized it, he was already in too deep, and now there was no way to take it back.

He should have listened to her.

"We have people who can get into this," Mycroft remarked, gesturing to the camera phone on the table in front of him. His voice was perfectly calm, not even a waver that betrayed the gravity of the situation.

Irene smirked. "I tested that theory for you; I let Sherlock Holmes try it for months," she told him. Sherlock closed his eyes, shame crashing over him like waves against the rocks- he had been such a fool. "Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you X-rayed my camera phone."

"There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect containing acid or a small amount of explosive," he answered hollowly. "Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive."

Irene nodded. "Explosive," she confirmed. She gave Mycroft a coy smile. "It's more me."

Mycroft frowned. "Some data is always recoverable," he pointed out.

But Irene just raised an eyebrow. "Take that risk?" she challenged.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "You have a passcode to open this," he stated. "I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you."

Irene didn't seem intimidated. "Sherlock?" she said.

"There will be two passcodes," Sherlock told them. "One to open the phone, one to burn the drive. Even under duress you can't know which one she's given you and there will be no point in a second attempt."

Irene smiled. "He's good, isn't he?" she remarked. "I should have him on a leash- in fact, I might." She glanced over at Sherlock, but he refused to meet her gaze.

How had he fallen for her tricks so easily? In hindsight, it was all so painfully clear- the game, the lies, the deception. This was something he would've expected John to succumb to, not Sherlock himself. How had it happened? How had he been so blind?

"We destroy this, then," Mycroft declared. "No one has the information."

She nodded. "Fine," she agreed. "Good idea... unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you're about to burn."

Mycroft's expression hardened. "Are there?" he demanded.

Irene smirked. "Telling you would be playing fair," she said. "I'm not playing anymore." She took an envelope from her purse, pushing it across the table towards him. "A list of my requests, and some ideas about my protection once they're granted. I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation... but then I'd be lying."

Mycroft opened the envelope and started reading the paper. His eyebrows raised in amazement at her list of demands. "I imagine you'd like to sleep on it," Irene remarked.

He nodded, still reading. "Thank you, yes," he agreed.

"Too bad," Irene said.

Mycroft looked up sharply. Irene just smiled at him. "Off you pop and talk to people," she said. He held her gaze for a moment, then sighed and sunk back in his chair.

Sherlock closed his eyes, as if he could block it all out. Heart and head, the two things he had always prided himself in keeping separate. Yet he hadn't kept them separate, had he? And because of it Irene had the power to bring the entire British government to its knees.

"You've been very... thorough," Mycroft told Irene grudgingly. "I wish our lot were half as good as you."

Irene shrugged. "I can't take all the credit," she admitted. "Had a bit of help." She glanced across to Sherlock. "Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."

Sherlock stiffened.

The last time he had seen Moriarty was months ago, but he could still remember it as if it were yesterday- John standing by the poolside with a bomb strapped to his chest, red sniper lasers pointed at Max and Sherlock. He had been more panicked that day than he had ever been before, facing not just his death, but that of his friends as well.

Sentiment, that was what it was. It was a concept that he would have laughed at only a few years ago; but now, after meeting John, and through him Max, he finally understood. He understood what a powerful force it was- illogical, yes, but powerful. Sentiment. What an odd little thing.

Something clicked, then. It was just inkling of an inkling of an idea, but... maybe he had a way to fix all of this.

"Yes, he's been in touch," Mycroft commented. "Seems desperate for my attention..." His voice dropped dangerously. "... which I'm sure can be arranged."

Irene stood and walked towards Mycroft, sitting on the edge of the table closer to him. "I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it," she remarked. "Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice about how to play the Holmes boys. D'you know what he calls you?" She leaned closer to Mycroft, speaking softly. "The Ice Man..." Her gaze turned to Sherlock. "... and the Virgin."

But Sherlock was barely paying attention to them; his eyes were closed and his mind racing, replaying every conversation he had with Irene, everything he had learned about her. There was something, something so close... He just needed to put his finger on it.

Sentiment.

"Didn't even ask for anything," Irene commented. "I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now that's my kind of man."

Mycroft stood. "And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees," he said. He nodded to her in grudging respect. "Nicely played."

Irene smiled, confident in victory.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"No."

They both turned to look at Sherlock, still seated in the armchair. "Sorry?" Irene asked.

Sherlock glanced towards them. "I said no," he said. "Very very close, but no." He stood gracefully and strode towards her. "You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

Irene gave him a small smile. "No such thing as too much," she replied.

He shook his head as he approached. "Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game- I sympathize entirely," he told her. "But sentiment?" He scoffed bitterly, thinking back on his undeniable connection with Irene and also the strength his feelings for Max- his own shortcomings, he saw now. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

She raised an eyebrow. "Sentiment?" she repeated. "What are you talking about?"

"You," he said.

Irene was silent for a moment, but then she smiled calmly. "Oh dear God," she laughed. "Look at the poor man. You don't actually think I was interested in you? Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

He stepped closer, their bodies almost touching. "No," he murmured. He reached out and slowly wrapped his fingers around her wrist, leaning forward so that he was whispering in her ear. "Because I took your pulse." Irene tensed, and Sherlock's grip tightened slightly on her wrist. "Elevated. Your pupils dilated."

Then he stepped back and released her wrist, reaching past her to pick up the camera phone. "John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me- he's completely baffled by my relationship with Max- but the chemistry is incredibly simple... and very destructive," he said. He walked a few paces away; Irene trailed after him warily, her smile gone now. He turned to face her again. "When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe, your measurements. But this..." He tossed the phone into the air and caught it deftly. "This is far more intimate. This is your heart..."

He punched in the first character without looking away from her, thinking grimly on the events of the day.

"... and you should never let it rule your head."

There was a hint of panic in her eyes now even as she struggled to stay calm. Sherlock showed no sign of mercy. "You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for..." He punched in the second character. "... but you couldn't resist it, could you?"

Max's face swam in his mind's eye, a reminder of the person he had become since he had met her and John- a creature ruled by sentiment and emotion, the very thing he had tried so very hard to remove from his life, the very thing Irene was too... and it would be her downfall. "I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage." Third character. "...Thank you for the final proof."

He was about to hit the fourth character, but before he could, Irene grasped his hand. "Everything I said- it's not real," she said. Her voice trembled. "I was just playing the game."

"I know," he replied.

Gently, he pulled his hand from hers... and hit the final letter.

"And this is just losing."

Slowly, deliberately, he turned the phone towards her and showed her the screen. She looked down at it, her eyes filled with tears as she read the sequence.

I AM S H E R LOCKED.

Sherlock handed the phone to Mycroft, the menu neatly unlocked and displayed on the screen. After all the chaos and mystery of the last few months, it was over now, all their answers held in this tiny little phone. "There you are, brother," he said. "I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight."

He had won, but there no thrill of victory like he usually felt. If anything, he felt emptier than before; he had exposed Irene, but in doing so he had been forced to confront himself too, his own mistakes and flaws that he had been blind to all along.

Heart and head. If he had learned anything from tonight, it was that he had to keep them separate... and he wasn't sure if he could do that while he was in a relationship with Max.

Mycroft nodded. "I'm certain they will," he agreed.

And with that, Sherlock turned and stared towards the door. "If you're feeling kind, lock her up- otherwise let her go," he said. "I doubt she'll survive long without her protection."

Irene's gaze followed him. "Are you expecting me to beg?" she asked.

Sherlock stopped walking, his profile to her. "Yes," he answered coldly.

The room was silent.

"... Please," Irene said, her voice trembling. "You're right."

He turned towards her slowly, his face impassive.

"I won't even last six months," she pleaded.

He stared at her for a moment... then turned and left the room.

The door swung closed behind him.

000

Max and John were sitting on the couch and eating ice cream when Sherlock walked into the flat.

Nobody spoke for one long moment; Sherlock had paused just inside the doorway, Max and John watching him carefully. "I suppose Mycroft called," Sherlock said. "Told you what happened." They nodded wordlessly. "Right. Fine. Good." Neither of them replied. "... you're eating my ice cream."

"Yup," Max agreed.

"But it's mine!"

"Do you blame us, after tonight?" John retorted.

Sherlock hesitated, taking in their grim expressions. "... no," he said after a moment. "No, I don't."

They lapsed into silence again. Sherlock didn't move from the doorway.

And then suddenly the tension in the room cleared. None of them had said or done anything, but they all sensed it: a silent truce. Sherlock finally took off his coat and entered the flat properly, mysteriously slipping into the kitchen. There was the sound of silverware rattling and the freezer door opening and closing, and then in a few minutes he emerged with his own bowl of ice cream.

He sat down between the two of them, not speaking a word. The room was entirely silent besides the clink of spoons against bowls.

There was plenty that they needed to discuss, nobody was denying that. But sometimes the best remedy was simply to eat a bowl of ice cream on the couch with friends, and let the silence permeate the night. Everything else, as important as it was, could wait until later.