AUTHOR'S NOTE: Welcome to chapter two! Thanks for the alerts and reviews and faves and such. This chapter is a lot of contemplation and introduction, but bear with it. It's important for the story.

By the time John stumbles, still half-asleep, into the kitchen at four in the morning, Sherlock is already there. More than that, he's finishing up two portions of what looks like French toast. Were it anyone else, John would be delighted; however, the man sliding the perfectly browned toast onto a plate is most definitely Sherlock Holmes, and for this reason, John is horrified.

"You've made breakfast," he says, as if saying it aloud will make it more believable, and Sherlock shoots him his obvious look from across the kitchen table. "I mean, you can-"

"Of course I can cook," Sherlock interrupts, placing the pan in the sink. "Inconvenient as it may be, raw eggs are not suited for human consumption. Here."

Sherlock slides John's plate over to him, along with his plane ticket for later that morning. John sits across from him, eyeing the breakfast cautiously before breaking off a small piece with his fork and taking a bite. With astonishment, he realizes that nothing is wrong with the food; actually, it's quite good. Delicious, even. He takes another bite, and Sherlock smirks a little in acknowledgement.

"This is…good. The French toast, I mean. Well done," John offers a small smile, while Sherlock's face falls slightly.

"Please, John," he says in a you're an idiot kind of way. "French toast is so…pedestrian. C'est pain perdu."

"That's just French toast in French," John says defensively. Sherlock scoffs.

"I suppose you would think that. No, John, pain perdu translates to 'lost bread'. It's a method of restoring flavor to bread that's gone stale."

John is torn between sticking his tongue out and laughing at Sherlock's behavior. As a compromise, he does nothing, instead finishing his toast and giving Sherlock an affectionate pat on the head. "Thanks for breakfast," he says, purposefully avoiding Sherlock's questioning stare.

As John heads up to his room to grab his suitcase, he wonders if, between the genius mentality and childish personality that make up his flat-mate, it isn't he himself who's lost.

Irene Adler's sudden appearance doesn't worry John.

At least, not as much as he thought it would. He should have seen it coming, really. Sherlock had gone into such a sultry phase when he'd thought, so long ago, that she was dead for the first time. The second time, though, he'd just buried himself in his studies. It was a type of mourning for Sherlock, John supposed, similar to a child whose sandbox playmate has been called home.

No, even with Irene's reentry into their lives, John is more troubled over the man sitting next to him on the long flight to America. Sherlock is sitting with his knees to his chest, his seatbelt stretched as wide as it will go and pooling around his ankles. He assumed the position from takeoff (The stewardess wasn't happy, but Sherlock shut her up by deducing her marital habits over the last decade.) and has managed to stay completely still for several hours. The man on the opposite side of Sherlock, a burly, middle-aged Southerner from the States, has asked several times if Sherlock is alright; Sherlock will not speak so John has to answer for him, yes, he's fine, just thinking.

Sherlock had spoken only twice after breakfast. The first word was 'blackmail' and was muttered during the cab ride to the airport. The second phrase, 'C-A-M' had been whispered just as they were boarding the plane, so faintly that John was sure he wasn't supposed to hear it.

Now, two bags of crisps and a terrible rom-com into their flight, John hasn't attempted anything resembling conversation, his mouth so dry that his lips crack and bleed when he orders a drink. He takes to staring out the window at the endless abyss of night-darkened clouds, trying to ignore the reflection of his own lined face peering back at him, eyes shadowed and sleep-tired, lips pressed firmly together. In the blue-gray space between each cumulus John sees the questions that plague his mind written out like ink on paper; questions like why are we going to bloody America and what could Irene Adler possibly need from us and, hanging over his head like a dense fog, how does Sherlock feel now that she's back?

After what seems like hours of careful contemplation, John is about to pull the window cover and attempt sleep when he sees, from the corner of his eye, Sherlock is stirring. The detective releases a thin stream of air from his pursed lips and moves a hand out from under his chin.

"Sherlock?" John says quietly. Sherlock does not acknowledge John's speech; instead, he reaches into his carry-on without opening his eyes, effortlessly plucking from it the file he'd been pouring over the night before. In one movement, drawn-out and flowing, Sherlock drops the file into John's lap and returns his arm to its original position.

John is certain Sherlock had memorized the contents of the folder the other night, so its inclusion in Sherlock's bag surprises John. Had Sherlock actually done him a kindness by deciding to clue him in before being thrust rapidly into a case? Was he giving John time to acclimatize? The unprecedented generosity confuses John, but he shakes it off and delves into the file.

There are very few documents within, John notes. The first is a poster of Irene Adler herself, newly blonde hair stacked in a loose up-do and wearing vibrant stage makeup. The quotes around her picture advertise her latest musical performance in excited block letters. The perfect career for someone who's supposed to be in hiding, John thinks.

The next item is a binder-clipped collection of newspaper articles. Browsing through them, John notices most of them seem to be about an otherwise successful American company mysteriously going bankrupt. There are also a few involving unexplained disappearances of corporate executives, and, after a quick check, John confirms that the missing people were all high-ranking officials in the companies that went broke. Judging by the dates, he finds, they all seemed to disappear just before their businesses failed. The connection is so apparent that, as Sherlock would say, even John could figure it out.

The final item is a heavily-perfumed letter, pink stationary and folded into quarters. Written on the inside in crawling script is the message: One million by September the 16th. You know the consequences. C. A. M.

John stares at the note for several more moments before folding it up and placing it back into the file. Blackmail, he realizes with a jolt, Irene Adler is being blackmailed. Surely, as a singer, she can't be making that much? Does this C. A. M. person have anything to do with those bankrupt companies? Sherlock probably has it all figured out and neatly tucked away in some far-stretching corner of his brain, but he won't tell John, not until he wants to, so John doesn't ask.

When their plane finally reaches the gate at the Newark airport, the autumn sun is battling the slicing chill of East Coast winds. It is devastatingly early in America, or so John feels; about seven in the morning. Having been robbed of most of his sleep by the distressing events of the past half-day, John wants nothing more than to dive into a soft hotel bed and doze off instantly.

What John wants, however, never seems to factor in to the picture, and he finds himself traipsing across the airport like a zombie, eyes half closed, throat caught in a perpetual yawn. There are not that many other people in the airport on this day and hour, which John supposes makes Sherlock's tall, lanky features and novel face stand out all the more. People watch Sherlock move out of the corner of their eyes; some of the more bold ones openly gape. One lot of teenage girls begins to giggle madly as he walks by, and John can feel their gaze on Sherlock's back for a long time afterward.

Just before they reach the baggage claim, John's stomach growls indecently, almost lustily, and Sherlock vaguely motions to a rather shady looking 24-hour tapas bar, suggesting they stop for a bite.

"About all these bloody airports are good for," Sherlock says in a raspy baritone reminiscent of the early hour. "Something homely about consistency, even if that just means the food is consistently terrible."

Sherlock's guttural chuckle is low and intimate, meant for only John to hear, and John laughs in response before remembering that this is the first time Sherlock has spoken in nearly seven hours. John bites into a fish taco and finds the fish oil-saturated and mostly breading, but as he registers the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, John thinks it is the most delicious meal he has ever eaten in his life.

"So, mind explaining what we're doing in New Jersey?" John asks, walking with Sherlock to the transport area to catch a cab (or taxi, John should say. Why do they make them that vibrant, caution-tape yellow?).

Sherlock tuts. "You couldn't get it from the file? Don't answer, I know you couldn't, but surely you've at least mapped some pieces out."

"Er, yeah," replies John, mentally preparing himself for the moment with all his theories are shot down. Sherlock's inquisitive look tells him to continue, and John thinks, well, here it goes again. "This…C.A.M. person is blackmailing Irene, and is somehow involved in the undoing of several important people and companies-"

"Safe answers, John, you've got to-"

"But," says John, and Sherlock breaks abruptly and encourages John to proceed:

"But?"

"But it doesn't add up," John finishes weakly. "Why would someone want to blackmail Irene? She used to have a lot of power, but from what I understand, she's just a theatre personality now, so why-"

Sherlock stops dead in his tracks, and John nearly walks into his back. "I think we're going to find that out very soon," says the detective. John peers around him and sees through a pair of glass doors an overt red sports car, spotless and gleaming in the cold sunlight. Standing by the bumper is a rather attractive woman in a wrap-up trench coat and driver's hat, bearing a sign reading "HOLMES AND PET" in enormous black letters.

"I hate that woman," John spits disdainfully as they walk towards the car.

The duration of the ride is spent in odious silence, broken only by the sound of Sherlock's leather gloves as he flexes his fingers. As the car pulls off the main road, following spindly side paths to a long stretch of condominiums, John checks his phone. It is roughly nine in the morning.

A few blocks down, they finally turn into a driveway. Irene has chosen a house much like her previous one in London; nothing too flashy, which is completely ironic for such a standout woman, but completely effective if one wishes to avoid attention. The walls are whitewashed, the two stories underneath a modest bay window, covered with a checkered white and black roof. The only article reminiscent of Irene's true nature is the front door; cherry red, just like her car.

As the car slows to a halt, said door swings open. Irene Adler comes slinking into the chilly air, dressed to kill in a blindingly-white collared dress. As she descends the stairs, dangerously high heels click-clacking with each step, Sherlock decides to exit the car. John quickly follows suit, taking his (and Sherlock's) suitcase from the trunk and turning around in just enough time to see the driver handing Irene the keys to her car. Irene sends her away with a blown kiss and a firm clap on the bottom.

"Welcome to my humble abode, boys," says Irene, jauntily approaching them and pressing the lock button on her car keys. "I would have picked you up myself, but…" She shows them the back of her hand, revealing bright crimson fingernails. "Couldn't drive with them still wet, now, could I?"

The house looks considerably larger from the inside, John thinks to himself, but he doesn't have much time to notice anything but the modern white tile flooring and winding staircase tucked away in the corner before he is ushered away from the front room. Irene leads them to a small side chamber, furnished rather modernly with the exception of a rather Victorian looking sofa and a painting which is very likely to be, John supposes, an actual Renoir. She offers them the couch; neither accepts. Irene fixes the pair with her most charming smile.

"Some-"

"No," Sherlock cuts across. "No tea, Miss Adler. I'd rather we get to the point, starting with what this Camilla Avril Milton has done to make you so afraid."

Irene bites her red lip slightly, showing the barest flash of teeth. "Oh, please continue."

"Don't encourage-" John begins, but Sherlock shoots him a glance that clearly says why can't you let me have my fun and John shuts his mouth. "Fine."

"Excellent." Sherlock clears his throat in preparation for his explanation. "The letter you gave me in your file clearly indicated blackmail; signed 'C. A. M.' Nobody signs a blackmail note with their middle initial, not unless they're incredibly dramatic, but as you happen to be in drama, that's a possibility. Who's in drama and in close range to you? A quick web search of your alias 'Maria Caldwell' yielded the cast list from your latest performance; understudy to Maria Caldwell, a certain Camilla Avril Milton or 'C. A. M.' Now, who is this woman and what would she want with you? Another web search revealed her as the heiress of the Milton Opera Company, the very corporation you perform under. Maybe she's angry that you've taken the leading role; but why would she want money from you then? Besides, you're a stage actress, and a new one at that, there's no way you would have amassed a million dollars by now."

Irene looks amused and says, slightly defensively, "How do you know I don't have the money?"

"I've already said that," replies Sherlock with a smirk. "You're afraid. You're wearing more makeup than normal under your eyes to hide the shadows from lack of sleep. Your chauffeur locked your car but you made sure to do it yourself too, not once but twice. You also locked your front door as we came in, and you've been glancing at the window behind us every few minutes. When we first met, I couldn't read you at all, but now that I know you, I see everything. Something's got you quaking in your heels."

The last few words are slowly enunciated, emphasized almost mockingly, but when John turns to look at Irene he sees only made admiration for the detective.

"My god," she says, breathily. "Keep that up and you can have me anywhere, anytime."

"Flattered," says Sherlock placidly, "but I'd rather you explain your side of the story."

Irene's face falls, just a little. "You take all the fun out of it, dear Sherlock. Very well." She drapes herself theatrically over the side of an armchair. "After I started gaining a bit of recognition, I signed to the Milton Opera Company. I auditioned for the lead part in a musical and got it. Camilla was assigned to be my understudy. She's a pretty girl; gorgeous actually, and very charming, but always very forgetful. She left her phone at the studio once, and asked to borrow mine to call a cab. My phone is the only thing I have left from the old days…of course I changed the number, but I saved some of the information, including the screen background which just happened to be-"

"A picture of me," Sherlock finishes. Irene looks away, slightly disgruntled. "I'm disappointed in you, Miss Adler. Sentiment only hinders you."

"It also saves you, sometimes," Irene shoots back, directing a miniscule wink to John, who tightens his shoulders uncomfortably. Sherlock misses the gesture entirely. "Anyway, turns out she reads your blog, Dr. Watson. She recognized Sherlock right away. Unfortunately, you also posted about me; admittedly you were misinformed when you said I was in a protection program in America, but, inconveniently enough, it turned out to be close to the truth. I don't think she knows who I am, really, but she understands that I'm not in a position to be revealed as 'Irene Adler'. After that, she became an entirely different person, and then one day, suddenly, a pink envelope appears in my car with a blackmail notice."

"So you think she's trying to get money from you to quiet her so she won't reveal your true identity," says John, speaking for the first time in what seems like hours.

"Not just that," Irene responds, tugging a curl of hair gently. "I started noticing a pattern involving her father's company too. Each one of the companies in the articles I gave you had an advertising deal through the Milton Opera Company playbills."

"So," says John. "Any company that strikes a deal with the Milton Opera Company-"

"Dies," finishes Sherlock in his bearish growl. He sounds annoyed, but John knows he's just trying to contain his excitement in front of Irene. He does so love a new case. "But that doesn't explain everything now, does it? This Milton woman is an actress too, and even if her father's rich, she must understand that most starlets, especially new ones, don't have that kind of money. So why would she request-"

Sherlock stops dead. His eyes take on a glazed look. John knows this routine; Sherlock's just had a breakthrough, and the likeliness of him explaining himself at this point is almost zero.

"Ah," he hisses, and it sounds almost sexual (a fact that Irene does not fail to notice.) "This one's crafty."

Quick as a snake, he turns to Irene, who sucks in a sharp piece of air before pursing her lips firmly. "Found something?" she says.

"Theories," the detective replies. "But I'll have them confirmed soon when we go meet…" His voice trails off as the squeak of car breaks is heard from outside. "Well, seems we'll find out sooner than I thought."

Camilla Avril Milton, as it turns out, is just as pretty as Irene said. She has a soft, round face and pin-straight hair, strawberry blonde and falling to just above her breasts. She has the kind of appearance that John goes for right away, and as Irene leads her (scowling) into the sitting room, John very nearly forgets that the woman in front of him is a blackmailer and considers, after the whole affair is over, asking her out for coffee.

Camilla sits in the very middle of the sofa, leaving only one empty armchair. Irene takes it, leaving Sherlock standing at her shoulder. Most people would be intimidated, but Camilla reacts to Sherlock with more of a fixed fascination, her eyes never leaving him for a second.

"Mr. Holmes," says Camilla, daintily and with almost no trace of that downtrodden New Jersey accent that so many adopt in the States. "An absolute pleasure."

"Skip the pleasantries," says Sherlock briskly. "You've already intimidated a woman for the sake of getting me here, now are we going to talk business or aren't we?"

Camilla's eyes flash, but her mouth turns into a small, amused grin. "Oh, you are good. Is this the part where you do that…explainy thing?"

"Child's play," Sherlock goads. "You only chose to blackmail Irene, or 'Maria' as you knew her before, when you found out she was connected to me. John didn't blog about anything but her name and a vague description of her relationship to me so it's highly unlikely that you're aware of the repercussions of revealing her identity, nor would her recapture accomplish anything for you. No, more likely you knew she was connected to me in some way and knew she would go to me for help if blackmailed. You also asked for an unreasonable sum of money, so large that you knew she wouldn't pull through—makes it quite obvious that you only trying to scare her and never had any intention of doing her harm—so, guise it was. Now, usually when people contact me they're either incompetent and need my deductive skills or they're making a threat. So," Sherlock pulls himself to his full height, staring down at Camilla intensely. "Which one are you?"

The woman claps her hands slowly, looking back up at the detective with childlike curiosity. "Very good, Mr. Holmes, but you see, that's the beauty of my little scheme. I didn't bring you here to threaten you."

John chances a quick glance at Sherlock's face; it is ambiguous, utterly unreadable.

"No, Mr. Holmes," Camilla says in a wicked voice. "I brought you here to gloat."

AUTHOR'S NOTE II: Thanks for reading! If Irene seems a little helpless here, it's because I want to establish her character after losing everything. I just thought, this woman used to have everything she could want; money, power, lovers by the handful etc...now she's just another person trying to get by. She can't make a name for herself again because she's supposed to be dead, so she's got to be more cautious. That's why I'm personifying her like I am. But don't worry; I won't waste her conniving nature in the rest of the story.