Welcome to chapter three! A lovely reviewer has figured out that, yes, the story I'm LOOSELY basing this off of is the Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton, the master blackmailer. This chapter's got a little fluff for you all before we get to the hard stuff. Hope you enjoy!

From: Adam Jefferson; Lindwood Estates

Subject: Re: last chance

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From: Management; Seed Records

Subject: Re:Re: Confidential

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From: Francis Peters; Eddie's Draperies

Subject: Re: you know how this ends

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"My treasures," goads Camilla as Sherlock scrolls through the inbox of her mobile phone with fervor. Blackmail notes, Sherlock notices, all of them. "I was always a wealthy child, Mr. Holmes. My father was also born into money. He bought the opera company on a whim and renamed it after himself—it's become a bit of a passion of his. But when it started going downhill, well, he wasn't going to spend any of our money on it, was he?"

"So you blackmail your benefactors," Sherlock finishes, reading emails rapid-fire. "You start a relationship with them by offering them an advertising deal in your playbills and continue to raise the price until they refuse." Sherlock flicks the screen to another email, his long finger splayed dramatically across the face of the phone. "When they've exhausted their worth as benefactors you threaten to kill one of their higher-ups if they don't let you bleed them dry. When they refuse that, you off the people and bleed them dry anyway—have I hit the mark?"

Sherlock is looking up now, his piercing blue eyes on Camilla, drinking in observations like wine. She offers him a little smile, placing a fingertip girlishly on her cheek.

"Bullseye."

"But of course that was just a formality," says Sherlock, speaking very fast in a low voice. "Have to keep John and Miss Adler in the loop—I figured as much from the files Irene gave me. Terribly sloppy work, really, for a serial blackmailer. You haven't even attempted to make the murders look like accidents."

Camilla's smile only grows wider at Sherlock's mockery. "Ah, you see, Mr. Holmes, that's the different between you and I. I might not have your intelligence, but I do have the two things that matter. Money," she says in a sing-song voice, plucking the phone from Sherlock's hand. "And resources." She nods at the window, through which two hulking figures are visible, standing on either side of Camilla's car. "With knowledge of the right people, I can have the best security, hire the best assassins…"

"And you've paid off the police, I'm sure."

"That too, Mr. Holmes. You see? I'm untouchable. And the reason I'm telling you all this…" Camilla allows her voice to trail off before continuing, in a hissing whisper, "is because there's nothing you can do."

Sherlock's face remains unreadable. John and Irene exchange troubled expressions.

"Always been a big fan of crime dramas, Mr. Holmes," Camilla chimes, smiling her wicked smile. "But then I got around to thinking, wouldn't it be more interesting if the criminal got away? Shouldn't it be acknowledged that sometimes, intelligence just can't match up to opportunity? And then, Mr. Holmes, then I found you. The perfect subject to prove my point. And now," Camilla stands up slowly. "You're going to sit by and watch as daddy's opera company grows and grows, and you won't be able to stop it."

"And if I interfere?" Sherlock says to her back as she crosses the room towards the door.

"If you've read the emails," she responds from the doorway. "Then surely you know what I'm capable of. Good day, Mr. Holmes. I doubt we'll meet again."

With that, Camilla Avril Milton slips out the doorway and into the front hall. A few seconds bring the click of the front door and the revving of a car engine. When the car pulls out of the driveway, Sherlock drops theatrically into an armchair, two fingers pressing into his temple as if trying to gain information via massage.

"What…" says John after a long pause. "What on earth was that about?"

"A game," Sherlock replies in his keep up voice. "But not like Moriarty's games, not a mind game, she doesn't like them. In fact, she resents them. No, this is a game of knowledge versus resources. She's trying to prove that you can accomplish anything through money."

"And what are you going to do about it, Sherlock?" Irene cuts in, something not quite a smile playing at her lips.

Sherlock smirks. "Prove her wrong, of course."

"How do you plan to do that?"

The detective frowns at John. "I'll just have to be clever about it. Pity that sort of thing doesn't come naturally to me."

John winces at the sarcasm. "Look, I wasn't insulting your intellect, I just mean…didn't she threaten you? Won't she shoot you down if you try to interfere with her blackmailing?

"Not me, no," says Sherlock. "There's no fun in gloating to someone's corpse. She clearly wants me alive. More likely she'll target…" Sherlock's gaze lingers on the pair of them. John turns to Irene, who stares intently at the floor. He starts feeling an uncomfortable weight in the pit of his stomach, like he's swallowed a barbell.

"Well, so what?" John supplies, louder than he intended. "She blackmails people and kills them when they don't comply. There's no mystery here, Sherlock. What's to stop you from just heading back to London and getting on with your life?"

"Oh, come on! This is basic John Locke," Sherlock says hurriedly, standing up and starting to pace. "There is no true power unless others acknowledge it. It wasn't enough for her to remain unnoticed in America; she had to alert me of her presence. Who's to say she wouldn't try something in London? It's the failure of the power-mad. Always need to be worshipped."

This strikes John as eerily familiar, until he realizes that Sherlock had said something similar in their first few days of acquaintance. The failure of genius is that it requires an audience. So that's it, John thinks, Sherlock can connect with this woman in the way that they both need to be recognized. Fat chance the case would be ignored, then. John would just have to get used to America, at least for the time being. He hopes he doesn't have to drive; he'd probably end up killing himself in a head-on collision driving on the wrong side of the road.

"You must be tired, Dr. Watson," says Irene, slinking over to him in her short white dress. John is suddenly aware that he has been awake for far too many hours.

"God yes," he replies in agreement. "Mind if I slept for a nip?"

"I'll show you to your room," she winks. "You should come too, Sherlock, dear."

The dark haired man grunts but follows. Irene leads them up the winding staircase, and John is so tired that he is almost dizzy when he gets to the top.

"First room on the right," Irene says.

"Mine or Sherlock's?" replies John. Irene gives an inquisitive look.

"Just the one spare bedroom, sorry," she says mischievously. "I'm sure it'll be no trouble for you boys, though."

John sighs, opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it promptly. He'd grown used to the 'couple' comments from those who didn't know them, and the jokes from those who did. He supposes Sherlock wouldn't really be doing much sleeping anyway.

"Had to do a right bit of cleaning before your arrival," calls Irene from the hall as John rolls his suitcase into the room. "This is where the girls sleep. Well, I say sleep…of course I sent them out until you two leave. They were more than a little upset to go, but I promised them a wonderful evening when they return."

John pushes away whatever horrific images Irene's words bring to mind. He has barely enough time to register an alarmingly white plush bedspread, Sherlock seated precariously at the foot of the bed, balancing a laptop on his knees, before he sinks into the mattress and falls asleep at once.

Contrary to popular belief, John Watson is definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent not gay.

So naturally, it's a complete fluke when, upon waking later that evening to Sherlock's (soft white peaceful) sleeping face, John's heart starts beating wildly out of control.

He shuts his eyes tight and opens them again, assuming it all just a dream—when had Sherlock ever slept anyway?—but when he reopens them, Sherlock is still there, thin pink lips parted slightly, pale face relaxed in slumber. John thinks it a trick of the light, perhaps, and he moves his hand to his face to rub his eyelids vigorously.

Or at least, he would, if something wasn't preventing him from doing so.

When John tries to lift his arm, he feels something warm and thin and strong. Sherlock's arm, John realizes, is draped across John's own, reaching around to the small of his back and holding a fistful of John's travel jacket. (He'd fallen asleep with his clothes on.) Sherlock's other arm has somehow snaked its way under John's shoulders, and John is suddenly aware of a spray of long, white fingers at his neck. John's own leg, he recognizes with horror, is sandwiched between Sherlock's spindly ones, and John can feel the faint press of toes along his left thigh.

John glances again at Sherlock's sleeping face, noticing how different he looks without the gears turning behind pale blue eyes. He feels a sudden wave of affection and a strange urge to push a dark curl off of Sherlock's forehead and he really needs to get out of that bed now, now…

When he makes the tiniest of movements, however, Sherlock stirs. John immediately shuts his eyes, not wanting to be caught eying his flat-mate's peaceful countenance, but Sherlock does not wake. Instead, he tightens his grip on John, pulling him forward to where his chin rests on John's head.

John's face is now directly pressed against Sherlock's chest. John can hear his steady heartbeat and smell the scent of expensive cologne and something else that's distinctly Sherlock. He can feel the contours of Sherlock's chest as it rises and falls, and John experiences a sudden and encompassing warmth that settles just below his stomach.

Shit.

Back in the army, which, when he thought about it, wasn't so very long ago, John had had to try very hard to get himself off. The gory realities of war didn't really do much for his sex life, or anybody's for that matter, and sometimes, lying in his worn cot in a rare bout of silence, he'd needed to think about other things than his best mates lying dead in ditches, holes torn through their bodies with bullets. Or, even worse, lying alive, hoping the pain would kill them before infection did. These thoughts were sometimes too much for John, and sexual release was, on some occasions, his only friend. The wasteland they were fighting in wasn't exactly fodder these sorts of things, and so John had to find solace in the dirty magazines of other soldiers, or, if none were available, in his own mind.

John had known, of course, that after it was done, after he lay spent in his wretched cot under the dirty tent roof, the combat would still continue. But he had never imagined, if he survived the war, that there would be a time when he would be fighting arousal and not welcoming it.

John knows movement is not an option. As much as he would like to throw Sherlock off of him and sprint to the restroom, Sherlock would probably just pull him closer. Worse, he would wake up to find John's half-hard member pressing into his thigh. Either way, it seems John is royally screwed.

Sleep comes to him as he's thinking of other ways to get out of the situation. When he wakes up, there are no signs that the detective was ever there, with the exception of the Sherlock-sized dent in the mattress. His erection has, thankfully, subsided, and he puts the recent ordeal out of his mind. After a shower and some fresh clothes, his mind feels revitalized. John is ready to get on with the case.

But when he goes downstairs, Sherlock is nowhere to be found. Instead, John finds Irene Adler waiting for him in the front hall, wearing a devilishly low hanging dress and lethal stilettos.

"He's gone," she says uninterestedly. "Said he had to do some shopping. Pity, I was going to ask him to dinner. I still have the reservation. Hungry?"

"Not at all," replies John.

"Excellent," Irene says, grinning. "Off we go then."

Contrary to popular belief, Irene Adler is, in fact, very definitely not straight.

She'd always preferred women to men, ever since she was a little girl. She liked the mannerisms of girls more; their vocabulary, their gestures. She liked their bodies more; softer and less angular than men's. She liked long, shiny hair and delicate hands and round, succulent breasts. Their soft lips and contemplative eyes.

Irene has always considered herself attractive. Since primary school she's been able to have whomever she wanted. No woman could resist her domineering attitude, her snarky, charming cat-calls, her smart fashion sense. Men, too, fell at her feet, whether she wanted them or not. But then again, who was she to refuse free obedience?

Back in London she'd worked out a network of, shall we say, helpers. A few sexual favors tossed around and she could have anything she required. Even now, here, in America, she'd managed to develop a sort of harem of darling young woman who tended to her, all in the hope of feeling Irene's slender fingers on their young, shapely bodies…

Yes, Irene took whatever she wanted. Until Sherlock Holmes, that is.

Sherlock had broken every rule. Sherlock was male, Sherlock was the opposite of delicate. Sherlock could see right through her. And Sherlock wouldn't fall for her charms.

After watching the detective for a while, Irene had come to the conclusion that Sherlock had put up some sort of impenetrable armor around himself. This allowed her to feel better about her own failure to seduce him; an 'it's not me, it's you' sort of situation. Sherlock simply wouldn't allow anyone in and that was that.

However, after their ordeal, after actually speaking and interacting with the man, it became clear that her previous conclusion was inaccurate. Sherlock had let someone in. And that someone is currently seated across from her, a blue tablecloth and lit candle separating them.

Irene isn't one for jealousy. She never has been. So John's importance to Sherlock doesn't bother Irene, at least not in the way one might expect. She's merely…fascinated with their bond. The two men are so different, yet they complement each other in the most basic ways. Where Sherlock is chaos, John is calm. They had needed each other, probably since before they had met. And Irene isn't about to pull apart their relationship just to smite Sherlock for refusing her.

The trouble is, though, she isn't about to let it go any further, either.

Irene takes a dainty sip of wine, swirling the blood-red liquid around, her crimson fingernails shining in the candlelight. John, as it turns out, had actually been very hungry and had ordered an enormous plate of antipasto. Irene hasn't heard him speak since his order, so she's slightly taken aback when he sets down his fork, fixing his gray-green eyes on Irene.

"Why?" he asks exasperatedly, knitting his fingers together. It is less of a question and more of an accusation.

"Why what, doctor?" says Irene, not at all joking.

"Why did you drag us—Sherlock—into this?"

Irene sets down her glass pointedly, looking at John with a serious expression.

"Look, doctor, I know it seems like I'm awfully adept at keeping calm over things like these, but I really didn't have a clue as to Camilla's intentions. I used to have security, John. I could afford to distrust people. But now, my relationships are all I have. Sherlock saved me once; I thought I could depend on him to do it again."

Irene is secretly pleased at the tiniest flash of envy that flashes across John's face. "Yes, but-" he exclaims, too loud. When half the restaurant turns to look at him, he flushes slightly, lowers his voice and continues. "You hurt him, once. I don't know if you understand how difficult that is to-"

"I do."

John's eyebrow twitches. "Yeah, well, how am I to know you won't do it again?"

Irene sniffs stridently. "I can't hurt him anymore, you know. The moment he outsmarted me, he lost interest in me. I don't hold any power over him, not like-"

She stops abruptly, noticing John's inquisitive look.

"Not like you," she finishes quietly, taking a long drink of wine.

"Like me," says John, and it isn't phrased like one, but Irene knows it's a question from the look in his eyes. She leans forward slightly and says in a low voice:

"You haven't…you honestly didn't notice?"

"Notice what, exactly?"

Irene makes an odd expression, her eyebrows moving slightly, as if trying to spell out are you kidding me in Morse code. "Your importance to him."

"Of course I'm important to him," John says, beaming. "I'm his best friend."

"His only friend," Irene corrects. "Although you're not pleased with that, are you? Being just friends?"

John's ears turn red almost at once, and his face takes on a defensive demeanor. "Bloody hell, why does everyone-"

"Because it's obvious!" Irene says exasperatedly. "At least from your end. Good god, do you know how you look at him?" She brings a crimson talon to her equally red lips, pink tongue darting out and tracing the tip mischievously. "John, dear, my breasts have been practically hanging out of my dress this entire night and you've managed to avoid looking at them even a single time."

"Not anything I haven't seen before," says John without thinking, immediately flushing a deeper hue.

Irene can't help but laugh at this. "Very clever, doctor. But do be serious; you're clearly thinking about someone else."

"Yeah, alright," John concedes. "But who says it's Sherlock?"

Sighing, Irene drains her glass, a dribble of wine spilling from the corner of her lips and leaving a blood stain on her white napkin. "We can play this game all night, if you like. But I've got a little offer for you, John, and if you're going to deny your feelings for the man, you won't mind accepting."

John eyes her suspiciously, picking up his fork and toying with his long-forgotten food. "An offer from you is never good."

She nearly rolls her eyes. "What I'm proposing, John, is a peace treaty between us. I won't make any moves on Sherlock if you agree to the same."

John is momentarily thankful that he didn't have any liquid in his mouth, because he probably would have spit it over the tablecloth.

"What?"

"You heard me," Irene says, quite serious. "An embargo. Attempts to gain Sherlock's affection are forbidden. If you're truly not interested in Sherlock, you'll agree, yeah?"

The doctor stares uneasily at his chilled food. His arms shift uselessly at his sides. Had Irene been spying on them and their sleepy embrace earlier that day? Had she been so jealous at Sherlock's unintended affection that she is now trying to impose some sort of pact to ensure it wouldn't happen again?

Did John want it to happen again?

Yes, he thinks, but then no, and again, louder, no! He didn't think about Sherlock that way, honestly. His body's actions had been purely physical, a result of the backlog he'd developed from army service and Sherlock ruining his dates. He had no reason to want to feel Sherlock's warmth, hear his sleepy, sighing breath, tousle his too-dark hair, contrasting so brilliantly with his white skin…

"Fine," says John quietly, more to stop himself from remembering that afternoon than anything else. "Alright, it's a deal."

"You're a dear, John," Irene smiles from behind her empty wine glass, twirling it in between her fingers. "I do hope you don't regret your decision."

When John and Irene walk through the front door to the condo, the first think they both notice is the calamity of boxes and bags thrown about the floor. Sherlock had probably deemed the carriers useless, removing their products one by one as he headed to his room. Following the trail of boxes up the winding staircase, they notice each is from a particularly prominent fashion brand.

Sherlock has been shopping for clothes.

The thought strikes John as funny, and he's about to laugh when Sherlock's baritone booms across the hall through the closed door of his and John's room.

"Oh, good, you're back. Irene, I forgot to pick up lipstick. I'll need to borrow yours."

Irene scurries off to her bathroom to fetch the tube. John's first instinct is, of course, that Sherlock is going to wear it himself, but when he thinks about it more closely, he figures it's got to be for some kind of experiment. Perhaps he's trying to persuade Camilla Avril Milton with expensive gifts, or something of the sort.

"Bit of shopping, eh?" John says through the door.

"I've been to the Milton estate," replies Sherlock.

"Yeah?"

"I've made the fortunate discovery that Miss Milton is employing a gardener."

It takes John a few minutes to connect the dots. "Sherlock, you're not…you're going to seduce the gardener with gifts? To get in to the house? Women don't take kindly to things like that."

"Excellent deduction, John!" Sherlock begins, and John glowers, knowing that Sherlock is about to follow it up with but you've missed everything of importance or the suchlike. "Only half correct, though, I'm afraid."

Irene returns with the lipstick tube in just enough time to catch the door to Sherlock's room opening. Out steps a positively gorgeous woman, very tall even in flats, wearing a long black evening dress, the quarter sleeves revealing thin, milky white wrists. John doesn't understand until he gets a long, hard look at her face, and only then does he realize that Sherlock Holmes is standing before him in drag.

He's wearing a wig, having forsaken his natural hair texture and gone with long, straight hair. Fake breasts protrude gently from his chest. He's even wearing makeup, albeit light, as his face is quite attractive enough as it is.

"I never said the gardener was a woman," Sherlock says, pale eyes somehow paler under the black fringe of hair. He clears his throat, and in a remarkably realistic feminine voice, says, "Athena. Charmed, I'm sure."

John is suddenly aware that his mouth is agape. Looking over at Irene, he sees she is in a similar state of shock. "H-how…" John stutters. "Why-"

"Fortunately, the gardener is quite tall. Probably never met a woman who's reached his chin before. Irene, I'm going to borrow your computer; there's some more research I need to do tonight."

Without waiting for a response, Sherlock struts away, long white legs walking in wide strides. The thin fabric of his dress clings temptingly to his arse as he descends the stairs. When they're both sure he's out of earshot, Irene lets out a pained whimper, staring at John with desperate eyes.

"Now he's not playing fair!" she cries, twisting her hair through her fingers. "He's the only man I've ever been attracted to, and seeing him like that…"

John stares aimlessly down the hallway. He'd had to admit, Sherlock made a damn sexy woman, and his fashion sense for men's clothes definitely carried over to women's clothing. His chest aches with something he's forced to recognize as a mix of conflicting emotions. Amusement, curiosity, jealousy, and last and strongest, desire. Needy, clawing, painfully potent desire.

"Irene," says John, turning to face her slowly. "Can I change what I said earlier?"

"What?" she replies.

John's mouth twitches uncomfortably into a shy smile. "I don't accept the embargo. I can't. I mean, I don't want to-"

He stops as Irene's mouth splits into a wide grin. Remarkably, she starts to laugh. John joins in, and the two of them roar with laughter at the hilarity of it all; of Sherlock in a dress, of Sherlock looking damn bloody amazing in a dress, and, most amusing of all, how it took that image to ascertain John of his feelings for the man.

"I hope you realize," says Irene breathily, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye, "this means war."

Thanks for reading! I really wanted to develop a 'rivals in love but friends from understanding' relationship between John and Irene, because Sherlock is an exception for both of them. Also, fun fact; Sherlock's female persona's name, Athena, comes from the bust of "Athene" present in CAM's study when Holmes and Watson break in. See you in the next chapter!