A/N::: Sorry for such the long delay on this one, guys. I've been pretty sick and it's kept me from writing. This chapter is a bit short, but don't worry, I have more already written and will update it next week. Enjoy!

Sherlock

The same sleek black car that took us to the Palace was waiting for us just outside on Baker Street. Maxine accompanied me once again and we left Irene in the flat to await John's return. Part of me wasn't entirely comfortable with leaving her alone in our living space, but there wasn't much of a choice at the moment.

The ticket alone answered several questions for me. As we drove, I looked up and watched Plummer in the rear view mirror.

"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."

Of course that wasn't true. I was experiencing plenty of new with my relationship with Maxine. I was constantly aware of the distance between us. I wanted to close it, to hold her hand, to kiss her hair, to kiss her... other places. We had a few passionate kissing sessions but it never went beyond that, not yet, at least. And Irene's words just before Plummer showed up...

"If Maxine were naked right here, right now, would you have her?"

Damn that woman. Even when she wasn't trying to get my attention on her, she knew just what to say to get me flustered. I hadn't even seen Maxine in a bathing suit, let alone nude. However, the mere thought of it...

"Hope she stays out of my room," Maxine said abruptly.

I looked over at her, perking a brow.

"Adler," Maxine clarified. "We just left her alone in our flat. What if she steals something? Or messes with my things? What if she draws crude images on my story panels?"

"I don't think she's going to do anything like that," I assured her, putting my hand on her knee.

She glanced down at it and smiled lightly before putting her hand over mine. "I suppose she has bigger fish. Always bigger fish..."

The drive took some time before we finally arrived at Heathrow Airport. Glancing out the window, I spied several hangers before we finally stopped outside a large jumbo jet parked on the tarmac. 747 was stamped across its side. The steps leading up to the entry door were lowered.

Maxine and I exited the car and started walking toward the plane. As we approached, the dim lighting revealed a figure standing at the bottom of the steps leading inside the large vehicle. Maxine stiffened and stopped walking abruptly and it only took me a heartbeat to understand why.

The man by the stairs was Neilson, the American agent that attacked her and Mrs. Hudson. It had been a couple of months since their encounter, so no sign of the injuries I left on him remained. However, when he spotted me, he stiffened up briefly, which told me that he had not forgotten the pain I'd inflicted.

Wanting to calm Maxine (and silently being thankful that she didn't bring her dagger) I gripped her hand and walked forward.

"Well, you're lookin' all better," I said to the agent in the fakest American accent I could muster. "How ya feelin'?"

Maxine gave a small breath of amusement and I cast her a smirk. If I made nothing of the man, that's all he would be—nothing.

"Like putting a bullet in your brain... sir," Neilson replied tightly.

Maxine's grip on my hand tightened, but I merely sniggered and made to walk up the stairs.

"They'd pin a medal on me if I did..." Neilson said.

I paused, turning my head to look at him.

"...sir," the agent added insincerely.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Maxine snarled, her temper clearly lost.

"Don't bother, Max," I said, tugging her up the stairs. "He knows what happens when he's outclassed."

"Are you two really an item?" Neilson laughed humorlessly. "No wonder you got so angry... Pretty thing, especially when she cries."

I froze on the steps, this time my grip tightening on Maxine's. Just as I began to turn, a familiar voice came from inside the plane.

"That's quite enough, Neilson." Mycroft appeared in the entry way, leaning on that favored umbrella of his. "Sherlock, if you'd care to join me..."

"Your friend talks big for someone who needed two more men to take down a girl, Mycroft," Maxine said, leading the way up the rest of the steps.

Mycroft backed up and allowed the two of us inside. He eyed our joined hands just as we released one another and his beady eyes locked onto mine. John hadn't published the fact that the two of us were involved yet. He promised he wouldn't until we were ready. Mycroft was one of the reasons I wanted to wait. It was nice to be involved with Maxine without my older brother telling me it was a mistake.

Ignoring Mycroft's icy stare, I turned my attention to the plane. It was dimly lit and all the seats around me were full of people. However, the people weren't moving at all. No sign of shoulders sagging from a sigh or chests lifting for breath. I leaned closer to one of the seats and noticed the pigment of the man's skin was gray. Abruptly I realize: they are all dead.

There was no sign of decomposition, but these bodies had been dead for some time. Kept cold, I guessed. I looked around at more of the passengers to see they were in the same condition. Maxine was staring at a couple of passengers with her brow furrowed, but then a look of dawning went across her face.

"The Coventry conundrum," Mycroft said, speaking softly as if afraid to wake the deceased. "What do you think of my solution? The flight of the dead."

"The plane blows up mid-air," I mused. "Mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies."

"Neat, don't you think?" Mycroft said.

"Self-flying plane," Maxine murmured. "Crafty."

"You've been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages—or were you too bored to notice the pattern?" Mycroft asked me.

I met Maxine's eyes. She shook her head slightly.

"Those little girls, remember?" she breathed. "Months ago—before Christmas—they said they weren't allowed to see their granddad when died." Maxine gripped one of the seats and leaned down to inspect an old man's face. "And that loon that said it wasn't his aunt in the urn..."

"We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn't make the flight," Mycroft continued.

I recalled the man's body in the boot of a car with the passport stamped in Berlin airport. By Maxine's dawning expression, she remembered too.

"But that's the deceased for you—late, in every sense of the word," Mycroft said.

"So Maxine's right then, it's an unmanned aircraft," I murmured. "That's how it flies?"

"It doesn't fly," Mycroft said, his tone growing tighter and more irate with every syllable. "It will never fly. This 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."

"Your MOD man," I said.

"That's all it takes: one lonely naive man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special," Mycroft murmured.

"Hmm," I perked an eyebrow at him. "You should screen your defense people more carefully."

"Sherlock..." Maxine said, looking up at me with her expression growing more and more dismayed.

"What?" I said, looking between her and Mycroft.

"I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock; I'm talking about you!" Mycroft bellowed furiously and slammed the tip of his umbrella on the floor.

I blinked a few times. What could he mean? How could I have possibly caused this? Maxine put a hand over her mouth, horrified about something, but I didn't understand what.

"The damsel in distress," Mycroft said, smiling ironically. "In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love when yours is unrequited, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle..." his voice dropped to a whisper and he twirled the end of his umbrella, "...and watch him dance."

"Don't be absurd," I retorted.

"Absurd? How quickly did you decipher that email for her?" Mycroft demanded. "Was it the full minute, or were you really eager to impress?"

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

I whirled around to see Irene Adler dressed beautifully, fully made up and with her hair perfectly coiffured. It was The Woman at her immaculate best.

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

"Yes." Maxine stepped forward, putting herself between Mycroft and myself. "You should be sorry. You throw us into this mess without telling us the whole story. You toss your little brother up against this woman without explaining to us everything she was capable of. That agent out there was sent to get the phone from us, and you knew about that too, didn't you? How he hurt our land lady? Had his men knock me around until I lost consciousness? This is absurd, Mycroft, even for you!"

Mycroft blinked rapidly at Maxine's stinging words. This, coming from the woman who hated verbal conflict, who would rather fight her way out of her problems with a dagger than tell someone off.

"You've no one to blame but yourself on this one," Maxine snarled. "And if that asshole, Neilson, isn't gone by the time we leave this crypt of a plane, I'm going to ensure he joins them."

I could hardly believe the fierceness that Maxine was showing. Something had snapped in her, it seemed.

"This girl knows how to make me blush," Irene sighed.

Maxine shot her a furious glare, but before she could rip into Irene, the dominatrix spoke first.

"Mr. Holmes, I think we need to talk," she said.

"So do I," I agreed. "There are a number of aspects I'm still not quite clear on."

"Not you, Junior," Irene walked right past him toward Mycroft. "You're done now."

Maxine looked like she wanted to pounce on Irene when she went by her, especially after she winked. I stepped forward and pulled Maxine back before she did something all of us here would regret.

"There's more... loads more," Irene told Mycroft as she lifted her mobile. "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 little brother."

Mycroft could no longer hold her gaze and turned his head away, lowering his eyes.

Maxine

Mycroft's office was mostly the same since the last time I'd visited it. Large, dark, and sleek. A fireplace roared not terribly far from the desk. There were a pair of armchairs beside it and Sherlock occupied one of them, clenching and unclenching his right hand. Mycroft stood near his desk with Irene. The phone sat on the surface, astoundingly small with the amount of weight it held.

I wanted to comfort Sherlock. We were all fooled by Irene. Even John. How were we to know what was going on when a huge amount of info was withheld from us when we first got the case? However, Sherlock still didn't want Mycroft to know we were dating, so I settled for the other armchair.

"We have people who can get into this," Mycroft told Irene, though there was no aggression or threat in his voice.

"I tested that theory for you. I let Sherlock Holmes try it for six months," Irene replied.

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, grimacing.

"Sherlock, dear, tell him what you found when you X'rayed my camera phone," Irene said.

"There are four additional units wired inside the casing, I suspect contain acid or a small amount of explosive," Sherlock said, his tone void of emotion. "Any attempt to open the casing will burn the hard drive."

"Explosive," Irene clarified. "It's more me."

"Some data is always recoverable," Mycroft said.

"Take the risk?" Irene smiled at him.

"You have a passcode to open this," Mycroft went on. "I deeply regret to say we have people who can extract it from you."

"Sherlock?" Irene prompted calmly.

"There will be two passcodes: 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."

"He's good, isn't he?" Irene purred. "I should have him on a leash—in fact, I might."

I clenched my fists, deeply wishing that my dagger was on me. Irene winked at me, seeing my irritation.

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

"Fine." Irene returned her attention to him. "Good idea... unless there are lives of British citizens depending on the information you're about to burn."

"Are there?" Mycroft demanded.

"Telling you would be playing fair. I'm not playing anymore," Irene said coolly. She reached into her handbag on the table before her and took out an envelope. Coyly, she pushed it across the desk at Mycroft. "A list of my requests; and some ideas about my protection once they're granted."

Mycroft took the envelope and began to open it.

"I'd say it wouldn't blow much of a hole in the wealth of the nation—but then I'd be lying." Irene murmured.

Mycroft stared at the paper with his eyebrows raised.

"I imagine you'd like to sleep on it," Irene suggested.

"Thank you, yes," Mycroft sighed.

"Too bad." Irene smiled again. "Off you pop and talk to people."

Mycroft sinked back into his chair, sighing. "You've been very... thorough. I wish our lot were half as good as you."

"I can't take all the credit. Had a bit of help." Irene looked over at Sherlock. "Oh, Jim Moriarty sends his love."

Sherlock and I looked at each other in mild alarm.

"Yes, he's been in touch," Mycroft muttered. "Seems desperate for my attention..." His voice grew a touch more ominous as he added, "Which I'm sure can be arranged."

Sherlock's gaze began to sharpen. Something was ticking in that brain of his, something important. I sat up and leaned forward in my seat eagerly. We'd had this connection since we first met. He shot a meaningful glance toward Irene. I nodded, showing I was following along. His pressed his hands in the prayer gesture he was so fond of, and rubbed his palms together gently.

I understood the message. Irene was having fun with this. Excited about it. The dominatrix pleased as her adversaries became submissive. But there was more to it. I recalled how she acted in our flat—seeming to toy with us.

"I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it," Irene was prattling on to Mycroft. "Thank God for the consultant criminal. Gave me a lot of advice on how to play the Holmes boys. D'you know what he calls you? The Ice Man..." she glanced back at Sherlock. "...and the Virgin."

That was it. I looked at Sherlock and gestured between us. He frowned for a moment and I rolled my eyes before making a heart shape with my hands, and then breaking it in half and shooting Irene a meaningful look. Luckily, her attention was back on Mycroft.

Sherlock's eyes began to flicker back and forth. There was something there, something deep in that palace of a mind he had, and he was unraveling it bit by bit. There had to be a mistake somewhere—something that was obvious.

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

My eyes widened. Sherlock's expression sharpened once again and we locked our gaze.

We had her.

"And here you are, the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees," Mycroft sighed. "Nicely played."

"No," Sherlock said.

Mycroft and Irene both turned to him as he looked over his shoulder at them.

"Sorry?" Irene looked insulted.

"I said no," Sherlock repeated, getting to his feet. "Very close, but no."

I hopped up and followed after him, eyes locked on Irene. "You were too close to this, Adler."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Irene demanded.

"You got carried away," Sherlock explained. "The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

"No such thing as too much," Irene argued, though her confident facade seemed to be cracking.

Sherlock walked right up to her and leered down into her eyes. "Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game—I sympathize entirely—but sentiment?" He glanced back at me, then returned his glare to her. "Sentiment is something I'm quite familiar with now."

"Sentiment? What are you talking about?" Irene said, shaking her head slightly.

"You," Sherlock said.

Irene stared at him a heartbeat long then a smile returned to her. "Oh dear God. 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?"

Sherlock stepped even closer, their bodies nearly touching.

"No," he said softly.

He reached out and slowly wrapped the fingers of his right hand around her left wrist, then leaned forward to bring his mouth close to her right ear.

"Because I took your pulse," he whispered. "Elevated; pupils dilated."

He stepped away, releasing her and letting out a small breath. Sherlock glanced warily at his brother, who was watching the display with deep curiosity.

I stepped forward now, eyeing Irene.

"You constantly texted Sherlock, perhaps it was part of the game, a tease, a ploy... but you're actually upset that you don't have him—that you never will," I said. "Saying Moriarty is your type of man... come now, how obvious can you be?"

Irene scoffed and shook her head. "This is absurd."

"I used to think that love was just chemistry—something simple but destructive," Sherlock said. "But how you act around—how your body acts—is exactly how mine is around Max."

Mycroft's eyes widened and he looked between Sherlock and me. "I beg your pardon?"

"Later," Sherlock snapped without looking at him. He kept his glare on Irene. "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 snagged the phone from the table and tossed it into the air before catching it. "This is far more intimate."

He pulled up the screen that read "I AM - LOCKED."

"This is your heart," Sherlock murmured, "...and you should have never let it rule your head."

Irene stared at him, clearly trying to stay calm, but the panic was beginning to set in behind her eyes.

"You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for," Sherlock said, smiling. "But you just couldn't resist, could you?"

He typed in the third character on the phone, still keeping eye contact with Irene.

"I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage," he said. "But without Max, I might have missed this one."

Sherlock lifted his thumb for the last character. Irene lunged forward and seized his wrist, staring up at him desperately.

"Everything I said: it's not real," she whispered. "I was just playing the game."

"I know," Sherlock replied, gently pulling his hand free. "And this is just losing."

He turned the screen to show her the passcode he'd placed.

I AM

SHER

LOCKED

Irene gazed at the screen in despair for a few seconds, then Sherlock lifted the phone away and held it out toward Mycroft just as the phone unlocked and presented its menu.

"There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight," Sherlock said without looking away from Irene.

"I'm certain they will," Mycroft said, taking the phone and a small smile quirking the edge of his mouth. It seemed this development completely distracted him from how Sherlock practically said he loved me.

Loved me.

The concept was too much for me to handle at the moment. Instead, I focused on Irene. She was staring at Sherlock with horror and dread. He eyed her for a moment before going to my side and gesturing toward the door with a flick of his head.

"If you're feeling kind, lock her up; otherwise let her go," the detective said as we headed for the office door side by side. "I doubt she'll survive long without her protection."

"Are you expecting me to beg?" Irene said in a low voice.

"Yes," Sherlock replied calmly, only glancing back at her once.

The two of us paused near the door when she said, "Please."

I looked back at her, seeing her anguished expression. She realized she had no choice but to at least try to beg.

"You're right," Irene pressed.

Sherlock now turned back to look at her as well.

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

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, reached over to take my hand in his, and headed out the door.

"Sorry about dinner," he said over his shoulder, and closed the door behind us.

Every now and then, I thought about Irene Adler. She had been instrumental in bringing Sherlock and I together, after all. And despite how she was truly a villain and did most things in her life for her own personal gain, I found myself hoping that she somehow survived after her protection was proven useless to her.

So it was almost a relief when Mycroft told us she went into a witness protection program in the United States where she would live and thrive. Though Sherlock seemed to eager to accept the news. And when Sherlock was so quick to agree, I grew suspicious.

"She's safe because of you, isn't she?" I asked him one night.

John was out on a date and we had the flat to ourselves. He sat in his favored chair, reading the paper while I sketched aimlessly on a doodle pad.

"Sorry?" Sherlock glanced up at me in confusion.

"Irene Adler," I said, smiling lightly. "You helped her."

Sherlock shrugged and looked back down at his paper. "Well, my brother had to believe she was dead to truly get her out of harm's way."

"Dead? He told us she was in America," I argued.

Sherlock shrugged again. "God only knows why he lied."

"Perhaps he didn't want to upset us," I suggested.

"Why would that be upsetting?" Sherlock put the paper down to frown at me.

Now I shrugged. "She made an impression."

"A bad one."

"She brought us together."

"It would have happened with or without her."

I smiled lightly. "You think so?"

He smiled back. "Of course. It's not like my feelings for you only developed with her influence."

"Well, regardless, thanks for helping her." I shook my head slightly. "I can't help but feel like I owe her something."

"Consider the debt paid," Sherlock said. He folded his paper and put it on the coffee table before standing. "Chinese?"

"Yes, please," I replied.

He came over to gently kiss my forehead before heading for the door.