A/N: Yes, I succumbed to public pressure. I finished my Sequel to this supposedly-Two-Shot story. Except, I'm very lazy and can't think of a new title to said Sequel – so, out of consideration for the fact that what I've done instead is much more convenient to both me and to you (no need to hunt for a new title in that long list of fics), I've decided to just extend my original Two-Shot version of Post-Marital Sabotage into a FIVE-SHOT.

(Or, actually, a Four-Shot plus Epilogue.)

So, here it is – Part III: The Gargoyle Moves. It feels a little angsty at the start, but don't be fooled – it clears up. And Irene makes a cameo appearance. ;)

Now, a great big thank-you to my reviewers for Part II (you are simply amazing – I've never received 37 reviews in one day before!): SetsuUzumaki, Dr Black. MI, BrieStarWarsQueen, Mansurzinha, Jiko Hitasura, Alex Remington, Bitter Faerie, kafekafe, Yume, Kyla45, rowen raven, ShadedRogue, PeanutTree, DesperateDreamer, Mcbnotredame7, myoceanblue22, Stick-Em-Up-Punk, roxxihearts, IrishStorm, Positively, ragdolljazz, Piraticaly-Insane, Anneka Neko, lime-kitteh, Koluno1986, AliceDodgson, Allarine, wlk68, Basia Orci, SutaakiHitori, XLVIII, Black Wolther, Smoochy, Jabberhut, JigokuHana, Bright One, mabaroshi16, fight4thislove, follw, blanc-hiver, saph-kira33, theGreyPebble, Lucy'sDaydreams, StarrFirre, and evilgreenmunkii. You guys rock my socks, shoes, shirt, jeans, and every other piece of clothing I currently have on. Thanks so much!!

That said, please don't forget to review Part III!

III. The Gargoyle Moves

As a doctor, John Watson knew from a matter of instinct whether a patient of his would live or die.

It was not entirely based on diagnosis, symptoms, treatment, complications; rather, by looking at a patient's face, by gauging the amount of iron will in a patient's eyes, it was possible to have some indication of which way the dreaded coin would fall.

With Mary Morstan, Watson had known from the very beginning that she did not have it within her to recover.

In the last few months, she had been completely bedridden. Her tiny frame, pale skin stretched taut over bone, had given her a half-starved appearance, her soft eyes starting out too large from her face. When the coughing fits seized her she had been unable to stand unassisted. Torn between a duty to his other patients and a growing, clouded sense of fear for his wife, Watson had wavered between home and the clinic, unable to focus his full attention on either. Mary – quietly obstinate to the very last moment – had refused to neglect her domestic duties; and up until the night before consumption had finally taken her, she had been the undisputed mistress of the house, and all the servants had continued to report to her.

In her own understated way, Mary Morstan had entered and left Watson's life within the narrow space of two years. Her death had fallen like a heap of feathers – silent, subtle, soft, but momentous.

Like a slight breath of wind, she had seeped through him unnoticed and realigned every part of him.

No, John Watson knew he had never quite loved her; but the sorrow he'd felt when she'd passed away was resounding, was genuine, a bone-deep sadness that didn't leave him for many more years.

0-0-0

The words Sherlock Holmes had wanted to say were, I'm sorry. He'd been standing at the door, hand poised to knock, lips ready – but then Watson had opened the door and those two simple words wouldn't let themselves out.

"Come in."

Holmes obliged, silent for perhaps the first time in his life. His sharp eyes missed nothing: the crinkled state of Watson's shirt, the fact that one of his braces had been buttoned on back-to-front. The unmistakeable, cloying scent of old blood. The scuffed nature of Watson's boots. The fact he had plainly not shaved in at least three days.

"Take care of yourself, old boy," Holmes said gently as Watson dropped himself into a chair. "You won't get anywhere by working yourself like this, you know. You should – leave the clinic in Anstruther's capable hands, for a few weeks at least."

"I can't do that, Holmes."

"I'm sure your patients would understand and sympathise with you, in such extraordinary circumstances."

"Damn the patients, damn their sympathy, and damn the extraordinary circumstances!"

Holmes looked on, a little worried despite the fact that he had foreseen such behaviour, as Watson heaved himself up jerkily from the chair.

"I'm not working for their sake, Holmes, I'm working because I need to work. I'm not being unselfish. I'm being quite the opposite, in fact. Indeed, I wish – I wish the bubonic plague would return to London, so I could bury myself in work someplace other than this, and feel perfectly justified in doing so!"

"If you keep this up, Watson, Irene and I will be burying you for another reason entirely before the month is out."

Watson stared at him, then recovered and gave a humourless chuckle. "Ah, of course. I'd forgotten. How is the self-proclaimed reformist, by the way?"

"She is alive."

"Are you planning to marry her?"

Holmes busied himself with straightening his waistcoat. "I make it a point of mine, Watson, not to repeat my mistakes; even more so, old boy, not to repeat your ones."

Knowing full well that Holmes was only baiting him in a roundabout attempt to cheer him up, Watson sighed. In the past, many people had commented on how the two of them seemed always to antagonise each other – but Watson knew, as he knew Holmes also did, that such antagonism was only a surface mask to conceal the heartfelt loyalty each felt to the other. Behind the detective's arrogant smirk was an authentic concern and its palpable presence warmed Watson considerably.

"You are quite right, Holmes. You spend your entire life making so many mistakes that you never get the time to even try to repeat any of them."

The smirk dissolved into a wide smile. "I knew there was a reason why I enjoyed your presence, old boy. I've positively missed you these past few months."

"Holmes, we saw each other every week."

"You saw me, perhaps. But I never saw you."

"I suppose you are right; I haven't been myself, lately."

"No, you certainly haven't. But no matter, now." Holmes stood, picking imaginary lint off the cuffs of his shirt. "What's happened has happened, my dear fellow. You can't blame yourself forever. It's not your fault she caught consumption, Watson, and don't you forget that."

"I should have – "

"There was nothing you could have done," Holmes cut in firmly. "You gave her the best treatment possible in the circumstances. No doctor could have done better."

"We should have moved to the country last December – the weather was bad for her, I knew that, but I didn't want to leave the practice – "

"She wouldn't have let you leave it, Watson. You and I both know that."

"That speaks volumes of her goodness, and none whatsoever of mine. I was selfish not to move her."

"Watson." Holmes reached out, forced his friend to look at him. "There was nothing you could have done. Certainly, you could have moved her; certainly, you could even have contrived to do so without leaving London, by placing her in her brother's care. But you would not have been able to prevent anything, only postpone it – you know that in your heart, Watson. You are a doctor. You must know, if even I do. She would not have lasted beyond next year."

"Then I have robbed her of a year, Holmes! Is not that bad enough?"

"It is unfortunate, admittedly," Holmes conceded. "But if you are willing to work yourself to death over that, then you are a lesser man than I thought you."

Watson scoffed bitterly.

"I had been under the impression that your opinion of me couldn't get any lower. It certainly can't be any lower than the opinion I now have of myself."

"Watson, you are like the cat whose partner was hit by a buggy and now lurks around main roads in the mistaken belief that all will be atoned for if you are hit in return."

"Then what would you have me do, Holmes? I've lost my wife."

"And if you keep working like this, I may lose something much more. If not a – companion, then at least a friend."

Watson turned away, not able to meet the openly imploring look in Holmes' eye. He himself knew, from a purely impersonal perspective, that what his friend had said was undeniably true; it was not his fault that Mary Watson had succumbed to consumption. Thousands did so in London in the span of a day. And consumption was the kind of dreaded disease which showed no symptoms until it was much too late – until no doctor could prescribe anything more substantial than good rest, and good comfort, and hope for the best.

But – knowing as he did that he had not done his best by her, had not given her the love that he knew she deserved – knowing that he had married her, and then regretted that marriage ten times over, and then ten times over and over again –

– knowing all that, and more he could not bear to admit, he could not help but feel he had killed her himself.

0-0-0

Mrs Hudson gave a scandalised gasp, one hand inevitably rising to clap over her mouth.

"Good Lord, Mr Holmes!"

"It's alright, he's alright. Don't fuss, I'm sure the good doctor has no desire to be – whoa, old boy, steady now. No, that's Mrs Hudson. No, Watson, I assure you, it is not Irene, it is my landlady; you should count yourself lucky Miss Adler is not here tonight, or she would be dreadfully offended. Nothing against you, Mrs Hudson, of course. This way, now. Mind the door."

"Where have you taken him? He looks like the Devil!"

"You have managed to slander both Lucifer and Dr Watson in one sentence; an admirable achievement, Mrs Hudson," Holmes managed from somewhere under Watson's left arm. "Now, if you please, I think a hot bath is in order."

At this, Mrs Hudson looked – if it were humanly possible – even more appalled.

"I think Dr Watson is not in a state to take a bath by himself, Mr Holmes!"

"Then you shall help him."

"Me!"

"Well, if not you, then who else? You certainly do not expect me to do it."

"Mr Holmes, I am a respectable woman!"

"And I am a respectable man. It would be quite a predicament, don't you think, if I were to drag Dr Watson to the bathroom and remove his clothes? Why, he might wake up while I was doing so. What if he were to misinterpret the situation? I would be dismissed without a reference, for sure."

"How can you smirk so, Mr Holmes, when Dr Watson – well, when he looks – "

"Oh, I have no doubt he'll pull through, Mrs Hudson."

"And his wife but in the grave a month, too – Mr Holmes, you should be ashamed – "

"I know more about how he feels towards his wife's death than you do, Mrs Hudson," Holmes suddenly said, his voice hard. "There is not a man in England who feels more for her loss than he does. If you would see to the bath now, please."

Stunned by this unexpected show of loyalty, Mrs Hudson retreated, her footsteps shuffling down the corridor. Holmes stuck his head out, making sure he heard the water turn on in the bathroom before manoeuvring Watson onto a couch.

He was rewarded with a pained groan from his companion, and he frowned.

"What's the matter, my dear fellow? Does something hurt?"

"Mmm."

"What's that?"

"Mm – 'ack."

Holmes raised an eyebrow as Watson's right hand moved feebly to gesture underneath his back at the cushion which lay there.

"I don't – "

"M' back!"

"Oh – right." Holmes gave a light laugh as he turned Watson gently onto his side to remove the porcelain figurine which had been wedged under the cushion. "Uncomfortable, was it? Well, why didn't you say so?"

"Hmmph."

Watson's eyes had opened a little, squinting against the light of the lamp Holmes had placed beside the couch. Mrs Hudson had not lit the sitting room fire and the crackling shadows the lamp made on Watson's face dragged his lashes even longer than they naturally were. Holmes snagged a chair from the desk and pulled it closer to his friend.

"The time is ripe, I think, for me to return an old compliment. You look gorgeous, Watson."

"How – how much did – I – drink?"

"Enough to put half of Parliament House to shame, my good man. Here. Drink some of this water."

There was a feeble snort. "Is it – poison – nanny?"

"Not too drunk for witticism, I see." Holmes held out the glass, steadying it as Watson guided it towards his mouth. "Whatever it was you drank was obviously not strong enough. Careful, now. Don't choke."

Watson's slurred voice came around the lip of the glass. "Mmm – not so very drunk – Holmes."

"Evidently."

"You don't – believe me."

"I trust my own eyes, doctor; and right now, they are notifying me of your advanced state of intoxication. Are you up for a bath, Watson? I have had Mrs Hudson prepare one for you, although if you do not wish to take advantage of that, I would be only too glad to do so myself."

"You can – have it."

Watson pushed the empty glass away, sinking back against the couch with a sigh. Holmes watched him for a moment, eyes alert for any more subtle signs of discomfort, before standing to bolt the sitting room door. It was late – at least eleven o'clock, or twelve – and he did not want Mrs Hudson intruding again with a pot of tea or some other excuse to allow her to shoot him her disapproving looks.

"Shall I put you to bed then, Watson?"

"I – am quite comfortable here, thank-you, Holmes."

For a while Sherlock stood beside the door, his hands clasped behind him, just staring at his best friend's face. Skilled as he was at reading the tiniest and most obscure of clues, he knew that even Lestrade (were he present in full Scotland Yard incompetence) would have made no mistake in recognising how much older John Watson looked now than he had two years ago. New lines had formed; old ones had deepened themselves. And the freshness, the crisp zeal that had been one of Watson's main characteristics, had dulled itself, eroded slowly away with the inner turmoil that had lurked beneath the calm facade. Two years of patients, of guilt, of stifled and unvoiced regret – Holmes turned away, something within him smarting and pained, an underused and frequently unobserved conscience finally trying to assert itself.

He could not forget that it had been he himself who had first planted those seeds of regret in his friend.

"Holmes?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, turning back to face the couch. "Yes, Watson? Is something the matter, old boy?"

"May I – recant my yielding the bath to you? I think – I think I should like it to clear my head. I feel awfully faint. A nice hot bath would – do me good."

"I will allow you to recant on one condition."

Watson cracked open an eye, looked at him curiously. "Yes?"

"You allow me to help you take it, doctor. I have no wish to wake up tomorrow morning to find that you have drowned yourself." A halting chuckle broke out from Watson's lips, and Holmes smiled. "Not only would such a situation be exceedingly awkward, but most likely Mrs Hudson would never give me a moment's peace until I had purchased her a new bathtub."

"She certainly is very – superstitious."

"She is a profound affront to all things logical."

"But you must own, Holmes, that she is an admirable landlady."

"Ah, that reminds me." Holmes took out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. "About your arrangements, old boy – we will have to do something about them without delay. You shall, no doubt, move back to Baker Street?"

"My practice – "

"Yes, yes, the inescapable practice," Holmes interrupted, unconcerned. "It is only a far way from here if you walk, my dear fellow. A good Shrewsbury and Talbot cab would get you there in under half an hour. Factoring in traffic and so forth, and any unforeseen delays, would see you at your practice at most an hour after leaving these rooms."

"Irene – "

"Miss Adler would have no objections to your presence here, I'm sure. Now, as to your current rooms, I understand that your contract there is until September?"

"How did you – "

"How I found out is unimportant. What is important, however, is that I am sure Mrs Turner would be understanding of your need to end aforementioned contract prematurely, due to your – recent grief. She is a reasonable woman."

The sharp blue of Watson's eyes cast down. "You appear to have thought all this out – intricately, Holmes."

"We differ, Watson, in that I never let emotion fetter my better judgement in these things," Holmes countered lightly. "You need time to rest, and you need to spend it with someone who – "

He stopped, noticing that Watson had fallen sound asleep.

" – cares for you," he finished. Those had not been the words he'd intended to say; and indeed, once he'd said them, they'd sounded sentimental and slightly ridiculous to his ears and a part of him had wanted to take them all back. He'd never admitted caring for anyone before – but with John Watson asleep and no-one else there to hear, his ever-calculating, ever-observant mind had allowed him that tiny slip of the mask.

0-0-0

"No, Holmes. I will not permit you to do such a thing."

Watson's brows were gathered together ominously, his eyes snapping over the top of a copy of the Times. Sherlock Holmes, for his part, merely took his pipe out of the corner of his mouth and tapped out the spent ashes onto his empty breakfast plate. Watson watched him, distracted by this unsavoury habit of his, the scowling mouth opening automatically to berate him as such before he remembered there was a far more important issue at stake.

He forced himself to look away from the ashy mess. "No, I will not, Holmes, let you – "

"It really wouldn't be any trouble, you know," said Holmes airily, moving the pipe closer to his eyes and staring at it. "The past six months have seen London offer up quite an altar of intriguing and unusual cases. Lestrade has been most perplexed, to my profit. I have not spent most of what I have been paid, and – "

"You have hardly had any cases since I've moved back here, Holmes, and it's been two months! I am quite surprised we've managed to last this long, actually."

"In the past eight months, then. The exact amount of time is but a trivial matter."

"No, Holmes. I simply could not let you undertake such a thing. It would not be fitting."

"I fail to see the problem."

"It would rest on my conscience, Holmes."

"I have always said, my dear Watson, that you rest far too much on that dratted conscience of yours. You would do much better to clear it, once and for all. It clouds your judgement."

This last statement did not quite make sense, but Watson, his mouth a cross and determined line, was used to such ambiguity from Holmes.

He snapped his newspaper crisply shut.

"If you would only let me return to practice, as you have steadfastly refused to do for the past two months, I would be more than able to supply my half of the rent. And besides, Anstruther has notified me more than once of his inability to keep up with the sheer number of patients there. The clinic needs me, Holmes."

"I have no doubt about that."

"Then why do you continue to – "

"Mrs Hudson, this tea is cold." Satisfied with whatever he had been looking for on his pipe, Holmes put it back into his mouth, not bothering to light it. "And Watson, you haven't touched your toast."

Unable to find words enough to express his annoyance, Watson reached for the toast and bit into it viciously.

"Shall I bring up more eggs, Mr Holmes?"

"No, I have had quite enough. Oh, and Mrs Hudson – be good enough to go downstairs and tell Miss Adler she may not come in. She is at the door, and has been standing there for quite some time. No, she has not rung the bell, that is true; but she is nonetheless there, and waiting to be let in, and you shall dutifully tell her that I am not at home."

Watson's irritation ebbed a little at this new piece of information.

"Miss Adler? Irene?"

"Yes, my boy, Irene; unless she has a sister of the same maiden name, of which I confess I know nothing about."

"She has business here?"

"She has business with me, that is true. But I have no business with her today."

Watson gave his companion a sidelong, assessing glance as Holmes snatched the newspaper from him and pretended to read. After a moment, the doctor reached across the table and yanked his copy of the Times back again.

"And yet you deny you have any sort of feeling for her," he said, shaking it out.

"My, my," said Holmes, suddenly looking quite sly, "Do I detect traces of jealousy in your tone, my dear doctor?"

"Don't be conceited," Watson retorted, although his cheeks were a bit darker than they'd been a few minutes previous. He propped the newspaper up to hide this inconvenient fact, knowing that if he didn't, Holmes would most definitely point it out. "I am merely – there is nothing to laugh about, Holmes! I wish you wouldn't."

"On the contrary, Watson, there is plenty to amuse me at present."

"I assure you, I am not the least bit jealous."

"Of course no – "

"Ah, but I am, Dr Watson."

Irene Adler, resplendent in violet satin, smiled as Watson turned at her voice. She looked on with an air of amused indulgence as the latter stood to kiss her gloved hand. Her brown hair had been swept up fashionably beneath a bonnet, and with her intelligent dark eyes and provoking smile, she was nothing short of ravishing – but Holmes, for whom this visual display was predominantly intended, simply gave her a small nod and returned to his tea, at which she affected a mild offense.

"Why, Sherlock, where are your manners this morning? It is the height of rudeness not to greet a lady when she enters the room – not to mention leaving said lady standing out on the pavement, having first attempted to deceive her into thinking you are not at home."

"Mrs Hudson told you I was in, no doubt?"

"Oh, not her. She told your lie, albeit quite transparently. No – not even the formidable Mrs Hudson can deter an intelligent lady from entering, when she can see quite plainly your back from the window."

"Ah," said Holmes, looking rather annoyed.

"Will you sit, Miss Adler?"

Irene gave Watson a bright smile as he pulled out a chair for her. "Yes, I shall, thank-you. You are a true gentleman. Sherlock, on the other hand – I regret to say, doctor, that he has not improved one iota under my instruction. I can only hope that yours will be more effective."

"I have lived with him for over three years, to no effect, Miss Adler."

"Yes, he is dreadfully wilful, isn't he? What he needs is a tight rein and a curb bit, I'd say. But I'll leave that to your discretion, doctor. I will have to play Pontius Pilate, and rinse my beautiful new gloves of him."

"You are leaving London?"

Watson's initial surprise gave way to quick puzzlement as a defeated look came into Irene Adler's beautiful face. It disappeared quickly, however. Suddenly, she was smiling again.

"Yes, I am going abroad for some time – perhaps to Paris. If anything, my time in London has reaffirmed for me the need a woman has for a good dressmaker – something which England, unfortunately, does not have a ready supply of, I must say."

At this, Sherlock Holmes looked up at her sharply. "To Paris?"

"Why, the gargoyle moves," Irene said in mock astonishment, her pretty brows arching.

It was an indication of Holmes' agitation that he ignored the obvious barb.

"I had thought you would stay for a few months more, at least. The Duchess of Kent has but just sent me a letter – "

"And it talks, too," said Irene, without concern, looking at Watson confidingly. "A little lacking in articulation, and most definitely in manners, but those things take time. I suppose he shows some promise for future social tact."

"I believe the best social tact practicable with Holmes would be never to let him out of the house."

"Quite insightful," Irene laughed. "I dare say, you have the mind of a diplomat, Dr Watson. You would do exceedingly well in politics."

"He has too much of a conscience for politics," Holmes interrupted. His eyes were far from dismissive, however, and he looked as if he would jump up from his chair and start restlessly pacing any moment. "Irene, you cannot leave at such short notice. It would be most irresponsible. And after I have taken such pains to resign myself to working with you, too."

"You make it sound like a chore, Sherlock! I was certain you did not see it that way once."

Watson stared, his hand frozen halfway to his toast. "Working with her? Holmes! So you have been taking on cases in these past few months – why, that's – why didn't you tell me so, Holmes?"

"I could not, Watson. You know precisely why."

"No, I do not! As a matter of fact, I think it is quite conniving to deceive me in such a manner!"

"Ah," said Irene, still smiling, "I see I have blundered myself into the midst of a domestic disagreement. Pray excuse me."

"Irene, the Duchess of Kent – "

" – can wait."

Irene tipped her dark head, as if reconsidering.

"Or she can settle for Dr Watson. I am sure she would find him competent. Though," and she put a gloved hand onto his wrist, holding his blue eyes with her own dark ones; "I would be careful, doctor – you are a little too good-looking for Kent, so mind that Sherlock does not become jealous."

Holmes opened his mouth to provide a suitable retort but before the words had managed to form on his tongue, Irene Adler had already swept herself out of the room. Her light laugh rang on down the staircase as both men stared at the empty doorway, Watson flushed with anger at Holmes' betrayal, and Holmes with a look of infinite disappointment.

Watson turned indignantly to look at his friend.

"What is the meaning of this concealment, Holmes?"

As was customary whenever Holmes wanted to avoid a confrontation, he reached for his pipe. "I know not of what you refer to."

"You deliberately concealed from me the fact that you had taken on a case!"

"I do not believe, Watson, that it can be called concealment – such a word implies a predetermined desire to prevent a piece of information from reaching someone, and I had no such desire, nor did I act as such."

"You purposefully did not tell me about the cases, Holmes! That amounts to blatant concealment on your part!"

"And you did not ask me about them, old boy. Does that amount to negligence on yours?"

"How can I be expected to ask about them, Holmes, when you gave me no indication at all that you were still working?"

"I gave you plenty of indications. I have, for example, not been in the house on several occasions these past months, during the day. On such occasions, I frequently did not return until very late in the evening, or very early the next day; and upon my return, I frequently sustained a few injuries which you, my dear doctor, tended to."

"I thought they were boxing wounds."

"Indeed." Holmes leaned back precariously on his chair, levering it onto two legs. "But they were evidently not boxing wounds. Their placements, their severity; and the state of my clothes. Never any scent of alcohol. And yet, you know very well I always drink on the occasions when I go out and box."

"I'd thought – I'd thought you'd stopped drinking, or – "

"As I said before, old boy – negligence. That, or a lack of elementary observation. In fact, I recall that but a week ago I returned with the distinctive scent of formaldehyde about me – but, even then, you did not realise where I'd been. I am not blaming you, Watson, be assured of that; I am simply presenting my defence against your accusations, you see."

"You still could have told me," Watson mumbled stubbornly. "I don't know why you didn't."

"I would have thought it obvious, doctor."

"And I would not have thought it so."

Holmes sighed, settling his chair back onto four legs.

"You would have wished to accompany me. You would have wished to participate – as you ably did several years ago, before Miss Morstan arrived – to help solve the case, and so on. You are too curious, Watson, to pass up an opportunity to unravel something unknown to you. I have had ample first-hand experience of that. No, Watson; you would have thrown yourself into each case in much the same reckless way you keep attempting to throw yourself back into your practice, and I could not allow you to do so. You are too emotionally... delicate, at present. You would have endangered my life, as well as your own, had I allowed you to solve any cases with me."

Annoyed as he always was whenever Holmes' arguments made sense, Watson reached for his teacup and lifted it up to his lips.

"So you chose the very trustworthy Irene Adler as your partner instead."

"She can be a little slippery at times," Holmes confessed, "but she has the good sense to recognise where the true money lies. It did not take much persuasion to win her onto the side of the law."

Remembering that painful look of defeat in her face, Watson suddenly wondered to himself if Irene Adler had not had another reason for agreeing to work with Holmes. He was about to say as such, before he thought better of it. By nature, he was not one for character analysis – and the emotions of women had always puzzled him.

Best to stick to things he understood.

"I would have thought there was more money to be made on the other side," he said.

"Yes, there is," agreed Holmes amiably. "But you can't flaunt that kind of money. If anything, Miss Adler enjoys flaunting her wealth. It's in her nature – and she does it so charmingly."

"You are taken with her."

"I do own she holds some fascination for me, yes."

Watson's mouth twisted into a frown despite himself. "Hmmph."

"But don't fret, my dear Watson. The charming Miss Adler is headed for Paris – where she will use said charms to cheat some French General out of his inheritance, no doubt. She has never been able to resist temptation for long. And I am left without a partner once more; a crippling situation for me, as you are no doubt already aware."

There was a pause. Holmes didn't attempt to fill it, content to continue sucking idly on his black clay pipe. Watson watched him out of the corner of his eye, waiting for him to make the offer.

He didn't.

Watson cleared his throat. "I think I – "

"Certainly."

"You don't think I'm – "

"No."

"But you just – "

"The circumstances have altered since I last employed Miss Adler."

He couldn't help it – at the prospect of working with Holmes once again, Watson felt his spirits buoy up and a smile diffuse itself insuppressibly across his face. He laughed, slapping the folded Times across his leg. A glance at Holmes told him the detective felt the same, although the latter kept such emotion under a tighter restraint.

"Besides," Holmes added, as if feeling the need to justify himself, "you need distraction. I would much prefer such an arrangement over your return to the clinic – because at least, in these circumstances, I can keep an eye on you."

"Oh, blast the clinic," said Watson, heartily. "Anstruther can handle it for another month or two."

0-0-0

It was only that evening, as Watson was preparing for bed, that he noticed a tiny slip of paper that had been tucked surreptitiously into the left cuff of his sleeve.

He stared at it, a little puzzled. There were only six words. The writing was neat, and in a lady's hand.

Take care of him for me.

A/N: Like? Don't like? I tried (once again) to balance humour with sobriety, and I'm not sure if it worked out or not. But anyway, hoped you enjoyed Irene! And please review - the only reason why I updated this fic so quickly is because of the HUGE number of reviews received by Part II. Likewise, how soon I put up Part IV: In the Name of Science will depend on whether you guys review or not. :P :gives Irene-Adler-esque wink: