Author's Note: Apologies for the long gap between updates on this one...Lots on my mind, but that's not an excuse! Enjoy anyway...Will try to make the next update a bit quicker! :D

Holmes lay flat on his back on the floor of his study; knees beneath his chin and legs contorted so that his feet were tightly pushing on either side of the wedding ring. He strained with all his might, pushing upwards and outwards with his feet in a last desperate effort to dislodge the band from below his knuckle. He hissed in pain as the skin of his finger was ripped yet again from the pressure. And still, the ring would not budge.

Cursing under his breath about "Irene Adler" this and "Irene Adler" that, Holmes got up off the floor and wrapped a cold compress of ice around his bleeding finger. He flopped down into an armchair, exhausted and infuriated. It seemed that Irene was going to have her way once again.

Inspiration coming to him (mingled with a strong desire to beat Irene at her own game), Holmes reached for a small oil lamp that sat beside his armchair and flagrantly smashed the glass against the close by wall. Inflammable oil began to drip slowly from the broken burner, and Holmes held his finger underneath the flow, coating his hand in the wet, sticky substance.

He attacked the ring once again, using the oil as a lubricant to help him slip his finger out of the gold band. But the oil had made the ring slippery, and Holmes lost his grip; his hand snapping backwards and glancing painfully off his nose.

Face smeared with paraffin oil and blood from his grazed finger, Holmes sat back in his chair and wiped the remnants of oil and glass into the cushions of the chair. The ring would have to stay where it was for now...

On an impulse, Holmes rummaged underneath a stack of dust-clad Dickens novels and pulled out a file. The name 'IRENE ADLER' was printed in bold lettering on the cover. It was the thickest folder in Holmes' collection.

Holmes thumbed through the pages, recollecting his notes and thoughts on the mysterious Irene Adler that he had complied over the years he had known her. When the lady herself had enquired, Holmes had claimed he was forming a dossier for such a time when he would be asked by Scotland Yard to arrest her. In truth, Holmes had spent months collecting articles, certificates, photographs and letters for his anthology; partly to satisfy a strange infatuation he seemed to have developed for Irene Adler, and partly so he could ensure she came to no harm in the months (and sometimes years) that she was out of his sight.

Holmes set down the folder after a few minutes, his eye caught by the sunlight glinting off a glass-fronted picture frame that sat on the table by his elbow. The picture held a photograph that was, of course, of Irene. Holmes had requested it as a souvenir of sorts after he had first met her several years ago.

"You know, there are much nicer pictures I could give you if you want one..?"

Holmes leapt to his feet and spun 'round, arms raised in a defensive stance. He did not relax his position even when he locked eyes on his unannounced guest: Irene was standing directly behind his armchair, hair tied back with a ribbon to keep it away from her face and wearing a coolly unconcerned expression.

Holmes looked behind her towards the open window of his study.

"Normal people tend to use the door."

"I'm not a normal person."

Holmes studied his visitor, piecing together the facts and trying to work out why she had come here. Irene had dropped her usual apparel and was dressed instead in a pair of unfeasibly tight black trousers, a plain white blouse and a pair of loosely tied brown boots.

Trying to avert his eyes from the taut fabric stretched across her thighs, Holmes looked up at Irene and said: "If you have come here to harass me about your case, I assure you that no further decision has been made."

"I came to drop off your ticket," Irene said as if she hadn't heard him. She waved a thin piece of decorated card in Holmes' face, but he caught her wrist in midair and plucked it from between her forefinger and thumb.

"Patience, detective," she drawled with a wicked smile. "If you'd given me a minute to gloat, I'd have put it on the table for you!"

"A piece of paper of this slight thickness and weight often includes a sharp edge or corner that could easily cause injury and bleeding," Holmes said without looking up, holding the ticket a few centimetres away from his face and examining the edge. "A dangerous thing when placed in the wrong hands..."

"I'd like to know why you think mine are the wrong hands."

"Am I supposed to see them as the right ones?" As Holmes realised he was still clutching Irene's wrist and relaxed his grip with a view to releasing it, he noticed for the first time that she was wearing an exquisite diamond ring on her left hand. "A new ring?" he asked.

Irene held it to the light, a smug smile creeping across her beautiful face. "Every married woman needs an engagement ring," she said. "And since you weren't about to go out and get me one yourself..." Holmes was suddenly dazzled by the midday sun shining through the window and catching the diamond in its rays. A blinding spectrum of light was thrown out; dancing across the floors of the dingy room and illuminating it in glorious Technicolor.

"It catches the light well," Irene said as Holmes blinked and shielded his eyes.

"It's dangerous," Holmes observed when he had recovered his sight. "Much like its owner..."

"In more ways than one!" Irene was still admiring her ring. The diamond really was one of the biggest Holmes had ever seen; bigger even than the engagement ring he had bought for Watson to give to Mary.

"Larger than life, certainly," Holmes said derisively. "Flamboyant, ostentatious..."

"You forgot 'beautiful'," Irene said.

"Naturally."

A curl of her cocoa-coloured hair had fallen from the chignon on top of her head, and Holmes impulsively moved to her side and tucked it back into the arrangement. She looked up at him in silence and Holmes froze as soon as his own eyes met the deep blue pools of hers. His hand remained at the side of her face until he recovered himself and removed it.

Clearing his throat loudly, Holmes stepped away from Irene and returned to his armchair. But though the distance calmed the tension between them, there was no denying that sixty-thousand volts of electricity were shooting around the room. It was unclear to Irene whether Holmes didn't feel it, or whether he was just choosing to ignore it. She sensed a strong hint of denial about the man; he jumped a mile and a half whenever she was near. But whatever the case, the apprehension was incredible.

"So, what are you thinking of packing?" Irene asked. She began to pace the room, sneaking looks into every cupboard and under every surface. Holmes matched her pace; closing doors she had left wide open, at the same time trying to hide the dossier he still held in his hands.

"I wasn't aware I had agreed to accompany you." Holmes firmly turned the lock on a steel safe before Irene could get inside it.

"The Maharaja will provide us with some traditional items once we reach the province," Irene said, as if she had not heard him. "But you'll need some other clothes...evening clothes, shoes, etcetera." She finally found what she had been looking for; a battered suitcase underneath one of the tables that lined the walls of the study. "Where do you keep your clothes?" It took her a few seconds of analysis to realise that Holmes owned neither a chest of drawers nor a wardrobe in which to hang his garments. Items of clothing were scattered freely around the room: A white shirt over the back of the armchair; a pair of black shoes at opposite ends of the room; trousers hung on the standing lamp and a bowler hat (of all places) inside a tank of festering water.

"Were there fish in here once?" she asked as she removed the hat from the tank and shook some of the moisture from its brim. The hat went into the suitcase, followed swiftly by the pair of trousers she picked off the lamp.

"Gladstone fished them all out," Holmes explained, lighting his pipe in a futile attempt to appear nonchalant.

"Gladstone?"

"Watson's bulldog. Nervous thing; permanent limp...I think it's paralysed down one side..."

"How did that happen?"

"Coach and horses accident as a pup," Holmes said quickly. "Now if you could return my clothes to where you found them, I would be most grateful!"

Irene ignored him and continued to search for clothes, flinging them into the suitcase with careless abandon. Holmes stole over towards the case and began to remove the items as quickly as Irene placed them inside. She glared at him and packed ever faster. Neither said a word; their fearsome rivalry requiring full measures of concentration. Irene's frustration was showing- As fast as she could pack the items, Holmes removed them again immediately.

When Holmes succeeded in hurling his bowler hat, with expert aim, back into the empty fish tank, Irene made a swipe for his wrists. Holmes couldn't move out of the way fast enough and he found himself locked in a brutal arm hold against which he could offer no resistance.

Irene's eyes were blazing with hot irritation, and she looked up at Holmes expecting to see the feeling mirrored. Holmes' eyes were confusing; at first glance, they appeared black and impenetrable. But the longer she looked, the more the guise of reserve seemed to slip. And when Irene tightened her gaze, they seemed to change colour completely from coal-black to a softer shade of deep brown. She couldn't put a finger on exactly what she saw, but whatever it was, it caused her to break out in a sudden hot-sweat.

Holmes was suffering from a similar struggle. He had tuned his senses so accurately that he could instantly recognise a change. He didn't often lose control, but the scent that radiated from Irene's skin and hair was veering close to unbearable. Just having her so close to him was scrambling Holmes' senses in a way he was definitely not used to. Her fingers wrapped tightly around his wrists felt to Holmes like red-hot brands of iron that burnt and scalded his skin. And yet at the same time, the idea of her letting go of him and breaking their connection seemed as a travesty.

Hardly in control of her senses, Irene moved her head upwards by the merest of inches, simply to test Holmes' response. The detective's reaction was instantaneous: his head jerked downwards towards Irene's. Irene smiled triumphantly, watching as a look of self-annoyance sparked in Holmes' eyes.

Irene moved again ever-so slightly. Again, Holmes moved as if to mirror her. The gap between their faces had closed to the best part of two inches and each could feel the other's warm breath on their skin.

As she felt the detective's breath labour slightly in its rhythm, Irene parted her lips and leaned in even closer. Holmes responded, drawing her in and touching his nose very slightly against hers. Both had their eyes closed, and both hearts were hammering in their ears. Their lips were millimetres apart, when a knock sounded on the door of Holmes' study. They drew back from each other just in time as the door was flung open.

"Holmes, Mrs Hudson called me. An intruder was spotted climbing the front of the house and..." Watson trailed off as he saw Irene. "Miss Adler," he managed. "I...What a pleasant surprise..."

"Your ticket's on the table." If Irene was at all flustered, it didn't show. She slinked towards the door, slipping effortlessly back into her usual semblance of obviously displayed seduction. "Victoria station, August 21st." She looked back over her shoulder at Holmes and flashed a smouldering smile. "I'll be waiting, Sherlock..." She reached the door. "Good to see you again, Doctor." With those words to Watson, she was gone and the two men were left alone.

Watson recovered the power of speech first. "Holmes, what was she doing here?"

"Miss Adler came to request my help on a personal case." Holmes was packing tobacco into his pipe. "You know, Watson, you would benefit from being less suspicious. It amuses me no end that you assume Miss Adler's presence was for anything other than professional reasons."

"The woman came in through the window," Watson said, removing his hat and placing both hands on his hips. "Mrs Hudson is up in arms because she had a call from Mr Broadwell across the street, saying he had seen a burglar trying to enter the premises through an upstairs window. Tell me, Holmes, is there anything more likely to arouse suspicion than entering a house through the upstairs window instead of the door?"

"You should know that putting your hands on your hips makes you look increasingly like your good wife."

"Holmes!"

"Miss Adler finds herself in a difficult situation," Holmes amended. "The British Guard of the Kashmir province in India wants her charged for the theft of the Queen's Sapphire."

Watson laughed harshly, shaking his head in apparent disbelief. "That woman is quite unbelievable."

"She didn't take it," Holmes said. "It is a false accusation with very little evidence to back it."

"She's innocent?"

"Apparently." Holmes blew out a mouthful of smoke and chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pipe. "If we can find the real thief then Irene's name will be cleared."

Watson's hands returned to his hips. "Holmes, you're not seriously considering accepting this case?"

"Miss Adler didn't leave me much choice..."

"But this is absurd!" Watson was incredulous. "The second she steps back into the province, the British Guard will have her arrested and you along with her!"

"The province's Maharaja can protect her," Holmes explained, "On the condition that she is married when she returns to India."

"So another innocent man will be pulled unwittingly into this sham as well." Watson raised his eyebrows. "Where does she intend to find a..." His voice trailed off as he noticed the gold band on the detective's finger. "...Holmes," he said slowly. "Holmes, please tell me that you did not agree to marry Irene Adler..."

"I did not agree to marry Irene Adler."

"Have you then married someone else in the time since I last saw you?"

"No."

"Then why on Earth are you wearing a wedding ring?"

"I am to pose as Miss Adler's husband for the duration of the case," Holmes elucidated. "It doesn't require me to marry her; just to act as her spouse to provide protection."

"But if the case doesn't begin for a week, why are you wearing the ring now?"

Holmes didn't make eye-contact. "...The ring is too tight to remove."

Watson tried in vain to conceal a smile.

"And are we to expect a visit from our good friend Professor Moriaty?"

"Not this time," Holmes answered. "Irene is in genuine need of help, no foul-play involved."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I can tell."

"Would you please stop being so aloof with me!" Watson feared this was another statement that would cause Holmes to liken him to Mary, but he continued nonetheless. "Holmes, when will you realise that the woman is both capable and willing to manipulate your feelings for her to her own ends?"

"There are no 'feelings'," Holmes said stubbornly. "And not even Irene is that good a liar."

"Why now?" Watson asked. "Why this case?"

"Five-hundred shillings, Watson..."

"Oh Holmes..." Watson shook his head, a wry smile on his face. "Don't try and pretend to me that you are doing this for the money."

Holmes had no response for this, and he merely puffed on his pipe, staring out of the window.

"So," Watson said, "When are we leaving?"

"I shall be meeting Miss Adler at the station on the 21st."

"And I shall be accompanying you."

"Not necessary."

"Oh I beg to differ." Watson patted his old friend on the shoulder. "I may be a married man, but I still have time for friends, Holmes. It's like I always say, two heads are better than one."

"You have a wife and two children, a medical practice, other tasks to attend to," Holmes argued. "It would be inconsiderate of me to pull you away from such responsibilities."

"As much as I will miss Mary and the girls, the idea is somewhat preferable to that of allowing you and Irene Adler to gallivant around India without proper supervision!"

Watson put his hat back onto his head and headed for the door. "Oh and, Holmes...?"

Holmes looked up.

"Would you join Mary and myself for dinner tonight at the Grande tonight? Our usual table, meet us there at a quarter past seven...?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Good." Watson opened the door. He glared at Holmes. "And remember...Be nice to Mary!"

"Of course."

Watson closed the door on his way out, and Holmes was alone with his thoughts. He wondered how easy it would be to 'be nice' to Mary; especially as there was a very real doubt in his mind that Mary would be 'nice' to him.

Holmes sat down in his armchair and crossed one leg over the other. He picked up Irene's dossier which he had set down on the table upon Watson's entrance. Brushing a strand of flyaway hair across his forehead, Holmes turned over the front page and began to read what he had written previously. He tried to focus on his reading, rather than think about what Irene was going to say when she found out Watson would be accompanying them to India the following week...