After getting out of the taxi, Sherlock had led Max and John down a narrow street. Eventually- when they were far enough away from the main street that nobody could see them- he stopped and turned to face them.
"Are we here?" John asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "Two streets away, but this'll do," he replied.
Max and John shared a look. "Uh... I don't like the sound of that," Max said. "This'll do for what?"
As if this was perfectly normal, Sherlock turned to John and gestured to his own left cheek. "Punch me in the face," he instructed.
John looked at him like he was insane. "Punch you?" he repeated incredulously.
Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he agreed. "Punch me, in the face. Didn't you hear me?"
John huffed. "I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext," he retorted.
Max looked at him oddly. "I'm sensing a lot of aggression here," she commented. "Do you need to talk about-"
"Oh, for God's sakes," Sherlock interrupted.
Without warning, he punched John in the face.
John reeled backwards from the blow, grunting in pain. "Uh, Sherlock, I don't think that was the best idea-" Max started.
But then John straightened up, glaring angrily at Sherlock. Before either Max or Sherlock could do anything, he punched Sherlock in the face. Sherlock crumpled to the ground, not having expected the force of John's punch.
"Ow!" John exclaimed, shaking out his hand.
Max blinked, looking from John to Sherlock and back to John again. "Uh, was that really necessary?" she asked.
Sherlock pulled himself off of the floor, holding his fingers to the cut on his left cheek, right where he had wanted it. "Thank you," he told John. "That was... that was-"
John launched himself at Sherlock again, punching him in the stomach and sending him crashing to the ground. "Oh my God, John, stop it!" Max exclaimed. She rushed in to hold John back- or, to attempt to- but by that point John had ended up on Sherlock's back, half-strangling him.
"Okay!" Sherlock choked out. "I think we're done now, John!"
But John just glared at him. "You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a solider," he growled. "I killed people."
Sherlock looked at him oddly. "You were a doctor!" he protested.
"I had bad days!" John retorted.
Max managed to get her arms around John, and she attempted to yank him off of Sherlock; but John didn't let go, and the three of them ended up in a heap on the ground, a pile of arms and legs.
That seemed to knock some sense into John, because he stopped trying to fight Sherlock. Instead the three of them just laid there; Sherlock and John were too drained to move, and Max was stuck under both of them.
"Really, guys, couple's therapy is an option," she remarked sarcastically.
000
A few minutes later they were standing in front of the address Mycroft had given them. Sherlock was on the doorstep, sporting his cut- and a few additional bruises- while Max and John stood behind him.
"Hello?" a voice asked over the intercom, mere moments after Sherlock had buzzed it.
Sherlock sniffled, looking into the camera with wide eyes. "Oh!" he exclaimed, sounding anxious. "Sorry to disturb you. Um, I've just been attacked, um, and... um... I think they... they took my wallet and, um, my phone. Umm, please could you help me?"
The lady on the other side of the intercom was silent for a moment, probably considering her options. "I can phone the police if you want," she offered.
Sherlock nodded quickly. "Thank you, thank you!" he exclaimed. "Could you, please? And... oh, would you... would you mind if I just waited here, until they come? Thank you, thank you so much."
He took out a handkerchief and started dabbing at his cheek pathetically. The intercom buzzed again, and the door opened. Sherlock stepped in, followed by Max and John. "Thank you," Sherlock sniffed, still in character. If they were in any other situation, Max would have laughed.
The lady who had let them in- apparently a maid- looked at Max and John curiously, probably wondering what they were doing here. "We- we saw it all happen," John explained. "It's okay, I'm a doctor." He glanced at Max. "And, uh... she-"
"-is a friend of his," Max finished, gesturing to John. "We were going out for a bite to eat."
That seemed satisfactory for the lady, who nodded to both of them. "Now, have you got a first aid kit?" John asked.
The lady nodded. "In the kitchen," she answered. She gestured for Sherlock to go to the sitting room. "Please."
Sherlock blinked, as if startled that she was addressing him. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "Thank you!" He turned and headed towards the room.
Max, John, and the lady headed into the kitchen, with Max bringing up the rear. Before she walked through the kitchen door, she turned around, glancing back at Sherlock; he was waiting by the doorframe of the sitting room, watching her and John walk into the kitchen. Their eyes met, and Max gave him a small smile. Sherlock nodded to her, breaking character just for a moment as his eyes shone with concern. Then he turned and headed into the sitting room. Max hesitated for a moment, then continued on her way to the kitchen.
000
Sherlock had wasted no time in making himself at home in the sitting room; he had taken off his coat and sat down on a sofa, looking around the room casually. Hearing the sound of footsteps approaching, he sat up slightly and lifted his handkerchief to his cheek again, getting into character.
"Hello," a voice said behind him. "Sorry to hear that you've been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name."
Even though Sherlock had never heard her speak before, he knew who this was: the lady of the house. Irene Adler.
Speaking in the same posh voice as before, Sherlock turned around to face her. "I'm so sorry, I'm-" he started.
But then- for the first time in his life- his voice failed him.
The woman in front of him was most definitely Irene Adler; he recognized her from the pictures. But also, with the exception of high-heeled shoes... she was completely naked.
Irene smiled at him casually. "Oh, it's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" she asked. She walked into the room gracefully, paying no mind to the fact that she had no clothes, and stood directly in front of him, straddling his legs and half kneeling on the sofa. Without breaking eye contact, she reached forward and pulled his dog collar from his shirt. "There now. We're both defrocked... Mr. Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock nodded to her, dropping any pretense. "Miss Adler, I presume," he replied.
She gazed down at his face contemplatively. "Look at those cheekbones," she commented. "I could cut myself slapping that face." She smiled at him coyly. "Would you like me to try?" She lifted the dog collar to her mouth and bit down on the edge of it, raising an eyebrow: a challenge.
Of course, it was at that moment that Max and John entered the sitting room. John's eyes were down as he balanced a bowl filled with water, so he wasn't looking up as he walked into the room. But Max- who was just holding a fabric napkin- saw Sherlock and Irene immediately, and her eyes widened as she looked from Sherlock to Irene and back to Sherlock.
"Right, this should do it," John remarked, still oblivious.
Max cleared her throat. "Uh, John..." she trailed off.
Something about the tone of her voice caught his attention, and he looked up. For a moment his expression was blank as he tried to figure out what was going on, but then he blinked. "We've missed something, haven't we?" he asked.
Max nodded. "I think so," she agreed.
Completely at ease, Irene stepped back from Sherlock. "Please, sit down," she told them. "Oh, if you'd like some tea I can call the maid."
Sherlock shook his head. "I had some at the Palace," he said.
Irene smiled, sitting down in an armchair. "I know," she replied.
Sherlock scoffed. "Clearly," he replied.
John glanced questioningly at Max, who just shrugged. The two of them sat down on another couch, and John placed the bowl of water carefully on the coffee table.
Nobody seemed inclined to say anything; Sherlock and Irene just stared at each other silently, mentally assessing the other, while Max and John were sitting there awkwardly, not exactly sure what to do.
"I had tea, too," John declared suddenly. "At the Palace. If anyone's interested."
It didn't seem like anybody was.
Max frowned as she watched Sherlock, who was looking at Irene, his brows furrowed in confusion. He glanced at John briefly, deducing what he could, then turned back to Irene. Still seeming confused, he turned his gaze to Max. She tried to catch his eye to ask him what exactly was going on here, but he didn't seem interested; instead, he focused back on Irene, his eyes fixing on her this time. He frowned after a moment, and Max realized what the problem was. He couldn't deduce Irene.
Well, naturally. She was completely naked. There was nothing to deduce.
Without meaning to, Max thought back to the expression on Sherlock's face when she and John had walked into the room. He had been staring up at Irene with a mix of shock and intrigue, beyond the usual interest that he afforded to his cases. She had a feeling that now this was something more than just a normal case to him... and it had something to do with Irene, with how she seemed to be two steps ahead of them.
He was getting sidetracked. And considering who their employer was, that was a bad thing.
Without meaning to, Max scowled in annoyance. They had a task- they had a plan- and Sherlock was going completely off the rails- not to mention he had barely even looked at her and John besides to check his deduction skills. Even now, when she was desperately trying to get his attention, he was staring intently at Irene, as if Max and John didn't even exist.
"D'you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?" Irene mused. "However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait."
Sherlock scoffed. "You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?" he asked.
Max rolled her eyes. "Don't be stupid," she snapped before she could think about it, her tone coming out sharper than she intended.
Everyone looked at her oddly- Sherlock in particular, probably because the only person who had ever called him stupid was his brother- and Max blinked in surprise. "Uh, sorry," she said. "It's just... symbolism, Sherlock. Your cut means that you're damaged, and by pretending to be a vicar, that means that you believe in a higher power-"
"Which is yourself, clearly," Irene interrupted. "And you mustn't forget delusional, though that may just be my personal opinion on religion." She smiled at Max. "Perhaps I underestimated you, Max. I'm impressed." Max bristled.
Irene turned her attention back to Sherlock. "And also somebody loves you," she continued. "Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too." She glanced at John, raising an eyebrow.
John forced a laugh, clearly uncomfortable. "Could you put something on, please?" he asked. "Er, anything at all." He glanced at what he had at hand and took the napkin from Max, holding it out to Irene. "A napkin."
Irene smiled at him. "Why?" she asked. "Are you feeling exposed?"
Sherlock scoffed. "I don't think John knows where to look," he commented.
He stood and held up his coat for Irene to slip into- keeping his gaze safely adverted from her body- but she just smiled at John. "No, I think he knows exactly where," she said. She turned back to Sherlock and took the coat from him. "I'm not sure about you."
Max grimaced as Irene slipped into the coat. Focus, Sherlock, she thought angrily, glaring at him as if that would make him hear her thoughts. Let's get the photographs and get out of here.
But then another stray thought formed in her mind, one that had nothing to do with the case: Sherlock never gave me his jacket.
She shook her head to clear it. That was ridiculous. She had never walked around naked. And besides, it wasn't like she and Sherlock were dating. He was perfectly in his rights to do... whatever he was doing with Irene, but for some reason that just made Max scowl and cross her arms in annoyance.
"If I wanted to look at naked women I'd borrow John's laptop," Sherlock told Irene, scowling.
John gave him a look. "You do borrow my laptop," he pointed out.
Sherlock shook his head as he began pacing in front of the fireplace. "I confiscate it," he corrected.
Irene waved a hand dismissively. "Well, never mind," she said. "We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me- I need to know." She sat down on the sofa that Sherlock had just vacated. "How was it done?"
Sherlock frowned. "What?" he asked.
Irene looked at him as if it should have been obvious. "The hiker with the bashed-in head," she clarified. "How was he killed?"
For a moment Sherlock was quiet, but then he shook his head. "That's not why I'm here," he said.
That just caused Irene to roll her eyes. "No, no, no, you're here for the photographs but that's never gonna happen," she told him. Max scowled. "And since we're here just chatting anyway..."
John frowned at her. "That story's not been on the news yet," he reminded her. "How do you know about it?"
Irene smiled. "I know one of the policemen," she said. "Well, I know what he likes."
Max scoffed. "Was it Carter?" she asked. "I bet it was Carter. Or maybe Anderson. My money's on Anderson."
But everyone ignored her, and John stood up, sitting down next to Irene instead of Max. Max looked at him in disbelief, but he wasn't paying attention to her at the moment. "And you like policemen?" he asked.
Max scowled at him. "John," she hissed. "You have a girlfriend. Sarah, remember her?"
Irene waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, don't worry," she said. "What Sarah doesn't know won't hurt her." She turned back to John, smiling slightly. "I like detective stories- and detectives. Brainy's the new sexy."
Oh my God, Max thought. I can't believe this.
"Positionofthecar-" Sherlock started incoherently.
The three of them stared at him in confusion, and Sherlock took a deep breath to pull himself together. "Er, the position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire," he told them. "That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That's all you need to know."
Irene nodded. "Okay, tell me," she said. "How was he murdered?"
Sherlock shook his head. "He wasn't," he answered.
Irene raised an eyebrow. "You don't think it was murder?" she asked.
Sherlock smirked. "I know it wasn't," he said confidently.
She gave him a look. "How?" she wanted to know.
He shrugged. "The same way that I know that victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room," he told her.
Irene blinked. "Okay, but how?" she asked.
Sherlock smirked. "So they are in this room," he said. Max sighed in relief. Finally, back to business. "Thank you. Max, John, man the door. Let no one in."
The three of them shared a look, and John nodded and headed out of the room. Max knew that this was the plan, but she hesitated anyway. "Are you sure?" she asked.
Sherlock gave her a small smile, but he was already turning his attention to Irene. "Don't worry, Max," he said. "I'll be fine."
Even though she didn't like it, she followed John outside, closing the door behind her.