Maxine

I'd never actually been to Buckingham Palace. It was strange, considering I lived in or around London for most of my life. The opportunity simply never arose. The large, ornate room that Sherlock and I sat in amazed me.

The carpet was a rose-pink that was just a soft enough shade that it didn't hurt to look at. The sofa we were on faced a table where another sofa sat on its other side. The furniture was mostly white with gold trimmings. Plush pillows were on each of the sofas and I held one of the red ones in my lap. Beneath the table was what resembled an over-sized doily; it added to the exaggerated elegance in the room.

"D'you think we could see them?" I murmured.

Sherlock frowned over at me. "See what?"

"The dogs, of course," I whispered. "She has an army of corgis—an army."

"You like dogs?" Sherlock chuckled.

"Of course I like dogs, who doesn't like dogs?" I replied. "They're always happy to see you, love you unconditionally, and are clumsy in the best ways."

"Clumsy in the best ways?" Sherlock echoed, smiling at me.

"Yeah," I said. "You can't tell me that it doesn't warm your heart a little to see a puppy trying his best to pick up a ball, but he keeps pushing it with his paw and it rolls off? Yet he keeps trying to get it with all that enthusiasm. We could learn a lot from dogs."

Sherlock shook his head, laughing softly.

"What?" I demanded.

"You're technically a trained assassin who loves danger and can't get enough of chasing killers, yet here you are gushing on about puppies," Sherlock said.

Footsteps echoed toward us and we both looked down the hall to see John standing in the doorway to the room. He held out his hands in a bewildered gesture, eyes darting between us. Sherlock shrugged and glanced away, like this was just an average day. I beckoned my brother over with a grin. John sighed and came to sit on Sherlock's other side, closest to the door.

For a moment, John stared ahead blankly and I could see his expression slowly changing into one chewing back a giggle. He leaned back and peered at Sherlock's sheet. After a glance at the detective's backside and the looking at the clothes that were sitting on the table, he folded his hands together between his knees.

"Are you wearing any pants?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Okay," John said.

The three of us sat quietly for a moment. Sherlock then turned to look at John just as my brother was turning to look at him. Their eyes met and they promptly burst out into laughter. Caught up in their hysterics, I too began to giggle. I put my head in the red pillow for a moment, trying to calm myself. At least John was over the anger at Sherlock for his strange attire and saw the true humor in it.

"At Buckingham Palace, fine," John said, still partially laughing. "Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray."

Sherlock chuckled again, leaning back in the sofa.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" John asked. "Seriously, what?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, still smiling. "Max is hoping to see the corgis."

"Oh, she would." John leaned forward to look across to me. "An ashtray is a lot easier to nick than a whole dog."

"I mean, they're small...ish," I said slowly. "Maybe we could say I'm pregnant and whisk one away in my..." I looked down at my over-sized shirt. "Well, hopefully it's claws are trimmed."

John laughed. Looking around the room again, he said, "Here to see the Queen?"

At that moment, Mycroft walked into the room. Spotting him, Sherlock nodded in his direction.

"Oh, apparently yes," he said.

The three of us cracked up again.

Mycroft looked us over in exasperation as we continued to giggle. "Just once, can you three behave like grown-ups?" he asked.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it, Maddie draws pictures about it, and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope," John said.

Sherlock looked up as Mycroft walked fully into the room. All the humor slid away from the detective's face when he stared upon his brother.

"I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"What, the hiker and the backfire?" Mycroft perked a lazy brow. "I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?"

"Transparent," Sherlock agreed.

John and I exchanged a startled look.

"Time to move on, then," Mycroft said.

He bent down and picked up the clothes and shoes from the table. Turning to offer them to his little brother, Mycroft's expression grew stern. Sherlock stared back at him uninterestedly.

"We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation," Mycroft said. "Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."

"What for?" Sherlock asked with a shrug.

"Your client," Mycroft said.

"And my client is?" Sherlock stood up, still clinging the sheet around his body.

"Illustrious..."

We turned to see a man walking into the room. He was tall, pale, and had a bit of blond hair left on his head. He wore a black suit not unlike Mycroft's and his posture was practiced and proper.

"...in the extreme," he said. "And remaining—I have to inform you—completely anonymous."

John stood up respectfully as the man approached up. My brother glanced at me and gestured for me to do the same. I frowned and shrugged in a gesture that said: Why should I?

"He's an equerry," John whispered intently.

"How can you tell?" I asked softly.

"Will you just get up?" John hissed the words through his teeth and gestured with his hand again.

I sighed and put the red pillow aside to get on my feet. I gave the equerry a tight-lipped smile and a stiff nod.

The equerry grinned a little in amusement before turning to Mycroft.

"Mycroft!" he greeted enthusiastically.

"Harry," Mycroft said, shaking his hand and smiling. "May I just apologize for the state of my little brother?"

"Full-time occupation, I imagine," Harry replied.

Sherlock scowled. Oddly, in that moment, I felt an urge to reach out to him; to touch his shoulder in reassurance. So many people could do nothing but focus on all of the detective's negatives when he had done so much for so many people. He'd told John not to call him a hero, but regardless of that statement, Sherlock played that role more times than I could count.

"And this must be Doctor John Watson," Harry said, moving over to my brother, "formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Hello, yes." John shook his hand, looking only slightly surprised by the equerry's knowledge.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog," Harry told him.

Now John was startled. "Your employer?"

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch." Harry smiled before turning his attention to me. "And Miss Maxine Watson. Truly, a most talented artist. I've taken a liking to your series, MANA."

"You have?" I blinked. This man hardly looked the type to enjoy manga.

"I was merely curious at first, but it had a surprising pull," Harry said. "Arthus—or Canine—is my favorite." He winked. "I'm fond of dogs myself and the idea of a biting sword is rather intriguing."

I looked him over for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, that makes sense."

He extended a hand and I went to shake it, but instead he gripped my fingers and kissed my knuckles gently. I gave him an awkward nod as I took my hand back and subtly wiped it on my pants when he looked away. Was it just how everyone in Mycroft's circle of powerful and rich associates greeted women? It was bizarre and felt outdated.

Approaching Sherlock, Harry cleared his throat was a strangely smug air and looked him over. "And Mr. Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."

Harry was about an inch or two taller than Sherlock. The detective looked him over before glancing in my direction. His eyes flicked down toward my hand and his expression went a bit sour.

"I take the precaution of a good coat and two short friends," Sherlock replied, his voice tight.

I heard a soft breath of amusement from Mycroft and turned to see that he was looking at his brother's actions with delight. Sherlock met his eyes and abruptly walked over to him, forcing John and me to back up.

"Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients," the detective snapped. "I'm used to a mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." He looked round to the equerry. "Good morning."

Sherlock began to walk out of the room, but Mycroft stepped onto the trailing edge of his sheet. The detective kept moving forward while pulling the sheet off his body, but stopped and gripped it around his waist before he was entirely naked. He tugged at it, looking furious.

"This is a matter of national importance," Mycroft said. "Grow up."

Sherlock didn't bother looking back at him. "Get off my sheet!" he snarled through gritted teeth.

"Or what?" Mycroft replied coolly.

"Or I'll just walk away," Sherlock said.

"I'll let you." Mycroft's expression was resolute.

"Boys, please." John was casting anxious looks at me. "Not here."

Scared that Sherlock might actually end up walking off due to his stubbornness, I went around John to stand in front of the detective. He met my eyes and his expression faltered somewhat as he glanced down at his nearly-nude appearance.

I'd never actually seen Sherlock without a shirt on, and I was surprised by how much tone there was in his slim form. Of course, he had to keep physically fit for all the work he did. His offer to spar floated to the forefront of my mind and my heart began to thud faster. I bit my lip at the sensation, wondering what might be wrong with me.

"Aren't you the least bit curious?" I asked him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and let out a long exhale. His eyes darted to the side, but he didn't turn fully to look back at Mycroft. He was almost incandescent with rage.

"Who. Is. My. Client?" he demanded.

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction," Mycroft replied tightly. "You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God's sake..." He broke off and glanced at the equerry briefly as he got his anger under control before looking back at his brother. "...put your clothes on!"

Sherlock closed his eyes furiously, then pulled in a sharp breath.

"As flattering as the sheet is, I think John might have an aneurysm if you walk out and I see everything you have to offer," I said softly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he stared at me for a moment before an amused grin hinted at his lips. He sighed and backed up, gathering the sheet around himself as he went and grabbed his clothes.

"There's a small room over here, Mr. Holmes," Harry said, gesturing for the detective to follow him.

As Sherlock and Harry left, John and I sat down on the couch again. Mycroft sat across from us, shaking his head.

"Honestly," he muttered. "Is he like this at home?"

"Well, he's usually clothed," John said.

Mycroft gave a small chuckle, then looked at us. "Some interesting articles have been cropping up about you three," he said.

"Interesting?" John echoed.

Mycroft grinned. I abruptly remembered the one saying that Sherlock and I might be romantically involved and wished I had my scarf to fiddle with.

"Oh, yes, a lot of people are curious as to how the three of you live your day-to-day lives when not solving cases," Mycroft said. "John, I understand that you've dated in the past?"

"Er, yes," John replied. "Sarah. We still see each other on and off."

"What about you, Maxine?" Mycroft looked at me. "Anyone caught your eye?"

"I've really no time to date," I said as smoothly as I could.

"Oh, but love has mysterious ways of working," Mycroft said. "People are quite flexible when they're smitten."

"I, er, don't really have anything like that..." I said nervously.

"So you're single, then?" Mycroft said.

"No, she's not."

I blinked and turned to see Sherlock returning. He was clothed now and Harry was just behind him with a tray laden with a tea set.

"She's married to her work, just like me," Sherlock said firmly as he came to sit on my other side.

Mycroft smiled at his little brother, but there was something devious in his eyes. Sherlock held his gaze evenly with a stern expression. The detective seemed to be saying, "You'll regret it if you keep on this subject."

Harry set the tea down on the table and went over to sit on the same couch as Mycroft. Electing to stop prying into my love life, Mycroft leaned forward and picked up the kettle. Following the old-fashioned superstition that only one person in the household—usually the mother—should pour tea, he looked at the equerry and said, "I'll be mother."

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock said pointedly.

Mycroft glowered at him, his previous mischievous demeanor evaporating as he put the kettle back down after pouring five cups of tea.

Clearing my throat awkwardly, I leaned forward and took a cup. I was feeling a bit self-conscious now that I was the most ridiculous one dressed. When Sherlock had been in nothing but a sheet, me being in pajamas seemed all well and good in comparison. Now I just looked silly.

"My employer has a problem," Harry said to Sherlock.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature," Mycroft explained, "and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?"

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr. Holmes?" Harry queried.

"Not, to date, anyone with a Navy," Sherlock replied.

"You don't trust your own Secret Service?" John said, frowning.

"Naturally not," Mycroft said. "They all spy on people for money."

John seemed to be doing his best not to grin in amusement.

"I do think we have a timetable," Harry said.

"Yes, of course. Um..." Mycroft opened his briefcase and took out a glossy photograph. He handed it to Sherlock, and John and I peered over his shoulders to look at it.

It was a photo of a rather beautiful woman with dark hair carefully pulled back in an elegant bun. Her dark eyes were framed with artfully-done makeup, and her lips were painted a deep red. Her skin looked flawless—a canvas of ivory dotted with rosy cheeks. She was either in her late twenties or early thirties.

"What do you know about this woman?" Mycroft asked.

"Nothing whatsoever," Sherlock answered, looking at the photo thoughtfully.

"Then you should be paying more attention," Mycroft said. "She's been at the center of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."

"Wow." I blinked at the photo. "She gets around, doesn't she?"

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia," Sherlock told his brother. "Who is she?"

"Irene Adler," Mycroft said, "professionally known as The Woman."

"Professionally?" John echoed.

"There are many names for what she does. She prefers 'dominatrix.'" Mycroft explained.

"Dominatrix," Sherlock repeated thoughtfully.

"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft said. "It's to do with sex."

Sherlock continued examining the picture. "Sex doesn't alarm me."

Mycroft gained a snide smile. "How would you know?"

I felt Sherlock stiffen beside me as he lifted his head to stare at Mycroft. I sipped my tea for something to do. I personally had never even kissed anyone, let alone divulged in sexual encounters. I understood it, and knew about several different types of fetishes—especially from my time in Japan. Simply put: someone like myself didn't actively seek partners. I was too awkward and too attached to solitude. Something like sex—at least for me—needed to be saved for something special. Someone special.

In that moment, I glanced warily at Sherlock. I didn't like how closely he had looked at this photo and the beautiful, experienced woman in it. Surely, he was just analyzing it for clues, but some part of me was uncomfortable with it.

"She provides—shall we say—recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it," Mycroft explained. He pulled more photographs from his briefcase and handed them over to Sherlock. "These are all from her website."

Sherlock leafed through the new pictures and my sense of discomfort increased. They were professional-looking publicity shots for Irene's "services" and showed her in glamorous and sexy outfits, all of which were made of black leather and usually involved her holding a riding crop. Her bust was... perky. I glanced down at my own front and swallowed nervously. In my too-big shirt, I appeared completely flat.

"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs," Sherlock said.

"You're very quick, Mr. Holmes," Harry complimented.

"Hardly a difficult deduction," Sherlock replied. "Photographs of whom?"

"A person of significance to my employer," Harry said. "We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

Sherlock set the equerry in an angry glare as he put the photographs on the table.

"You can't tell us anything?" John said.

"I can tell you it's a young person," Mycroft replied. "A young female person."

John's eyes widened while Sherlock smirked. I looked down at the photos again and frowned thoughtfully. I supposed that when it came to gaining money for sexual services, it wouldn't make much sense to cut the potential number of customers in half.

"How many photographs?" Sherlock asked.

"A considerable number, apparently," Mycroft said.

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?" Sherlock held his brother's gaze.

"Yes, they do," Mycroft answered.

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios." Sherlock now looked down at the photos on the table again.

"An imaginative range, we are assured," Mycroft said.

I glanced toward John to see what he thought of all this and saw that my brother was staring blankly at Mycroft with his tea cup still half raised.

"John, you might want to put that cup back in your saucer now," Sherlock suggested, not even looking round at him.

John quickly obeyed him, looking embarrassed.

"Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?" Harry asked.

"How?" Sherlock looked up at him.

"Will you take the case?" Harry clarified.

"What case?" Sherlock said. "Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'Know when you are beaten.'" He turned to get his overcoat from where it was draped over the back of the sofa.

"She doesn't want anything," Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned back toward him, brows raised.

"She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor," Mycroft explained.

"Oh, a power play," Sherlock said, his interest now peaked. "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

My previous anxiety from when Sherlock was examining Irene's photos returned tenfold. I pursed my lips, trying to understand why the thought of Sherlock being intrigued by this other woman bothered me so much.

"Sherlock..." John sighed.

"Hmm." Sherlock turned around for his coat again. "Where is she?"

"Uh, in London currently," Mycroft said. "She's staying—"

"Text me the details," Sherlock interjected, getting up with his coat in his arm. "I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

The rest of us got up as well as Sherlock headed toward the door.

"Do you really think you'll have news by then?" Harry queried.

Sherlock looked back at him. "No, I think I'll have the photographs." He seemed a bit indignant, as if irritated that the equerry should doubt him. He looked the man over once before glancing at Mycroft. "I'll need some equipment, of course."

"Anything you require," Mycroft assured. "I'll have it sent to—"

"Can I have a box of matches?" Sherlock said, interrupting him and looking at the equerry again.

"I'm sorry?" Harry said, clearly confused.

"Or your cigarette lighter," Sherlock said. "Either will do." He held out a hand.

"I don't smoke," Harry said.

"No, I know you don't, but your employer does," Sherlock replied.

The equerry reached into his pocket and took out a lighter. Looking a bit baffled and impressed, he handed it to the detective.

"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes," Harry said.

"I'm not the Commonwealth," Sherlock assured him. He pocketed the lighter and turned away.

"And that's as modest as he gets," John said. "Pleasure to meet you."

"Thanks for the tea," I added with a small grin.

The two of us caught up with Sherlock. I found myself eager to get this case over with. I was wary of this Irene... of her toying with the royal family. There had to be a bigger motive.

In an Estuary English accent and without sounding the 'r' in the word, Sherlock called, "Laters!" before we left the room.

The three of us exited the Palace and to get a cab to head back to the flat. I felt a bit awkward stepping onto a main road with tourists coming and going to hail the taxi. Sherlock glanced over at me and bit his lip.

"What?" I whispered. "How bad is it? Do I look as much of a fool as I feel?"

"I never pegged you for someone who cared about what attire she was wearing," Sherlock replied.

"At home, of course not," I muttered. "But out in public, there are certain expectations. The spotlight is the last place I want to be."

"She never was one for school programs," John said.

"Ugh." I shuddered at the memories. "It's horrid. Singing in front of people might as well be considered a punishment for crime."

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. He reached up and undid his scarf before pulling off his overcoat. Tossing John the scarf, he then held the coat out for me.

"Oh, Sherlock, you don't have to..." I began awkwardly.

"It won't do much to hide the owls," he said, glancing down at my pants, "but a lady should be at least a bit proper, especially when coming out of Buckingham Palace."

"You were gonna walk out naked," John reminded him.

"It was a bluff," Sherlock said. He shook the coat. "Come on, put it on, we're making even more of a spectacle."

I sighed and slid my arms into the sleeves. The coat was huge on me, the hems reaching past my knees; it reminded me just how much taller than me Sherlock was. The cuffs dangled past my hands and I had to push up the sleeves a bit to access my fingers. I reached down and did up the coat. It was still warm and smelled of the detective: chemicals, tea, parchment, and something that resembled lavender. I wondered if that was remnants of body wash from his bath.

John chuckled, passing Sherlock his scarf. "Should have let her wear mine," he said. "She looks like a child."

"Mine does more to cover the pants," Sherlock argued. "Besides, the absurd largeness to it distracts from the pajamas and messy hair."

"It's messy?" My hands went up to my ginger locks.

"No more than usual," John assured me. "C'mon, there's a cab coming."

We piled into the taxi as usual, myself in the middle with Sherlock to my left and John to my right. I felt oddly cozy in Sherlock's jacket when the cab started heading toward Baker Street. It was a reassuring sensation; I felt safe.

John leaned forward to look at Sherlock. "Okay, the smoking. How did you know?" he asked, talking about the equerry.

Sherlock gave a brief smile and shook his head. "The evidence was right under your nose, John," he said. "As ever, you see but do not observe."

"Observe what?" John said.

"The ashtray," Sherlock said.

He reached into the coat pocket, startling me a little when his hand brushed my leg. From it, he pulled a gleaming ashtray and tossed it into the air to catch it before returning it to the pocket. John let out a delighted laugh, causing Sherlock and I to join in.

It took me a moment to notice that Sherlock left his hand in the coat pocket a bit longer than necessary. I could feel it pressed against the side of my thigh. Then, he retracted his arm and leaned back in his seat. He was still smiling and chuckling a bit, but there was something that resembled conflict in his eyes. I snuggled in his coat, my heart beginning to thud insistently again.

I was beginning to think I was in trouble.

Irene

Gently, I tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear as I examined my phone. I sat at the edge of my bed; its silken sheets still smelled faintly of laundry detergent. My thumb pressed the button to slide through each picture that had been sent to me: Sherlock Holmes in a sheet being escorted into a black car outside his flat, Maxine Watson being carried in her pajamas after him, John Watson being picked up in a helicopter.

The three of them had been taken to Buckingham Palace, which was to be expected. A delighted smile tucked the corners of my mouth. I went to the next photographs. These were just sent and showed the trio in a cab, most likely on their way back to Baker Street. I narrowed my eyes when I noticed the Watson girl in the middle was wearing Holmes' coat. I didn't take the detective for a gentleman... This could prove to be more interesting than I thought.

"Kate!" I called, my smile growing wider.

Kate promptly entered the room. She was slender and beautiful with a fair complexion and medium-length ginger hair. She wore a black pencil skirt with dark tights beneath and a white blouse with a loose black tie.

"We're going to have a visitor," I told her. "I'll need a bit of time to get ready."

I got to my feet and strode over to my dressing table as Kate bent down to pick up a discarded stocking from the floor.

"A long time?" she asked.

"Ages!" I replied, examining my reflection in the mirror.

I carefully took out my earrings and looked over my makeup, trying to decide on a color and theme. From what I'd been told and what I'd observed, Sherlock Holmes was not a man for physical relations.

But, so far, no-one had said no to me.

Maxine

When we got back to the flat, I gave Sherlock his coat back and thanked him again. Then I went up to my room to get dressed. I picked out a simple T-shirt that had a blue winged cat on it and some jeans. Heading back down the steps, I heard the sound of clattering clothes hangers near the back of the kitchen. Looking back, I saw Sherlock was in his room and had left his door wide open.

"What are you doing?" John asked him. He came to my side and shook his head at our flatmate's actions.

"Going into battle, John." Sherlock continued to sift through his closet. "I need the right armor."

He walked back toward us, wearing a large yellow hi-vis jacket.

"No," he said, ripping it off.

"Coming up with a fake persona?" I asked, walking over to the door.

"Something like that." Sherlock was back in his closet.

"You do remember that you're famous now," I said.

"No-one's gotten a proper picture yet," Sherlock argued. "I had the hat."

"Oh, yes, the hat, that will be just as good as Clark Kent's glasses," I sighed.

"Superman, right?" Sherlock came back into view, holding up a blue collared shirt to himself. "From what I know, the glasses do work."

"Against all reason," I pointed out.

"We don't know if Adler pays attention to the media," Sherlock said as he tossed the shirt aside and went back toward his closet.

I sighed and shook my head, exchanging an exasperated look with my brother.

"Sherlock," John called. "I really think something normal would be fine."

Sherlock grunted in irritation. "Hardly. You remember what she does for a living, don't you?"

"Are you trying to seduce her?" John laughed.

An uncomfortable twinge went up my spine. "That seems like a bad idea," I said before I could stop myself.

"I'm not trying to seduce her," Sherlock replied indignantly, which filled me with relief. "I'm trying to seem... vulnerable. Innocent."

"Oh, he's being bait," I said, the uncomfortable sensation creeping back in.

"Oh just keep the black shirt," John said. "You don't want to show up half-naked and be too obvious."

"I suppose so," Sherlock said with a long exhale. "But I need something. Some sort of defensive or offensive piece..."

I ran a hand over my face. "This has to be the weirdest one yet."

"Weirdest what?" John asked.

"Case," I said. "Obviously."

"I dunno, I can think of weirder," John replied with a thoughtful frown. "That belly button one—"

"Oh, not the belly buttons again," Sherlock groaned.

He began to straighten his shirt and glanced over toward me as he did so. His eyes ran over me and they widened with sudden excitement. He stepped toward me and gripped my shoulders.

"You'll need to change," he said.

"What? Me? Why?" I pointed to myself, bewildered.

"It's too casual—if I'm going to be the business man that walks a few blocks from his flat to the bus stop to get to work, I'd hardly be in the company of..." Sherlock trailed off as he looked me over again. "Well, an accomplished but eccentric artist."

"Good save," John said.

Sherlock shrugged and released his hold on me.

"Is it a crime to be comfortable?" I said, folding my arms. When both boys just looked at me expectantly, I groaned and headed for the stairs. "Fine, fine. I'll find something that I'd wear in Japan..."

As I got redressed, I found myself wrestling with the building anxiety in my gut. Why was it that I was so adverse to this case? I wanted nothing more than to go back to Mycroft and demand he take it back and never mention it to Sherlock again. The promiscuous photos of Irene Adler flashed in my mind and I bit my lip.

What is wrong with me? Why should I care if Sherlock worked this case? So what if there was a sexy woman with a far larger bust and curvier form—

I froze in the middle of pulling on a long-sleeve blouse. My head was still in the torso part of it and my breath heated the fabric that pressed against my nose and lips.

I was jealous. I was actually upset about Sherlock looking at this woman with so much intrigue.

Finally regaining my senses a bit, I pulled the shirt all the way on and collapsed onto my bed. I stared at my knees, my jaw slack. I might not have interacted with a lot of people throughout my life, I hadn't ever been in any sort of intimate relationship or even fantasized about then. However, I had written and read enough fiction to understand the typical human mind and the emotions within.

Simply put: if I was feeling jealous about Sherlock being near this woman who used sex as a weapon, I most likely...

Shit.

I looked around for my scarf and saw it draped across the back of my work chair. Instantly, I got to my feet and went to collect it. Once it was in my hands, I let my fingers run across the soft fabric. This simple piece of cloth had always comforted me. It had been with me when I was lost in the streets of Tokyo. It had been there when I got brave enough to enter Miyako's dojo. It was always there when I was feeling lost or needed a dose of bravery.

And I was certainly lost right then. Lost and confused in my own head and at a complete loss of what to do with this new information.

There was an abrupt knock on the door that made me jump.

"Are you ready yet?" Sherlock called.

"N-no! Just... hang on!" I stammered.

I tossed the scarf on the bed and went over to my wardrobe for some nicer pants. I found a pair of tan slacks and quickly changed my jeans out for them. I grabbed a pair of black flats for my feet, then snatched my scarf again.

When I opened my door, I saw Sherlock standing there with his coat and scarf on. He looked me over with a startled blink.

"Problem?" I asked, looking down at myself warily.

"No," Sherlock replied quickly. "It's just... I've never seen you in formal attire. Well, I suppose this is sort of... fancy casual?"

I laughed as I pulled my scarf around my neck.

"Mm, you should leave that," Sherlock said, pointing at the scarf. "It's too old and worn to go with the rest of the outfit. Doesn't look natural."

I gripped the yellow fabric protectively. "I dunno about that."

Sherlock perked a brow at me. "Are you that attached to it?"

"You know I am," I sighed. "I'll leave it if I have to."

"Just for today," Sherlock assured with a small grin.

I rolled my eyes at him, getting the feeling he was teasing me about being sentimental. He used the same scarf all the time; he had no room to talk.

I left my scarf draped over the back of Sherlock's chair as a reminder that he was the one who made me leave it behind. John walked out into the living room after me as Sherlock freshening up.

"Are you all right?" John asked.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I said, reaching into my trouser's pocket for my phone.

"Because you're checking your settings on you mobile again," John said as I clicked through my phone's menu.

Letting out a sharp breath, I lowered my phone and looked at my brother. "It's nothing."

"Clearly, it's something," John countered.

I shoved my mobile back in my pocket and shrugged. "I just... this woman—this Irene Adler—she makes me... uncomfortable."

John blinked. "Well, I mean, she is a rather... intense-looking woman," he admitted and cleared his throat awkwardly.

"You find her attractive," I stated rather than asked.

"What? No. I mean, I'm seeing Sarah still." John adverted my gaze and waved me off. "No. No-no-no."

I looked at him pointedly and he groaned.

"Fine, yes, but that's not my fault." He pointed at me. "I can hardly control who I find... pleasing to look at. You can relate to that, at least. You couldn't wait to draw Sherlock when we first met him."

A twinge hit my gut and I started taking my phone out again. "His features are difficult to get properly in a drawing," I muttered. "Just like certain scars and other unique attributes."

John grabbed my wrist before I could bring the phone up to my face. We met each other's eyes and his expression was both quizzical and intense.

"Maddie," he started to say slowly.

"All set?"

Sherlock strode through the kitchen toward us. He wore the exact same thing that Plummer's associate had picked out for him earlier. He reached over and snagged his coat and scarf that were hanging near the door that led out to the landing. When he looked at us, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"What? What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing." John released my wrist and I pocketed my mobile again.

"Shall we?" I said before pushing past both boys and heading down the stairs before either of them could see the red in my cheeks.