Author's Note: Again, apologies for the lateness of this chapter and the unbelieveably long time it's been since the last update. Know that backlog of GCSE revision is no excuse,
but there you are! Hope this is up to scratch...I've had to use a bit of author's licence when describing the railroad in the first paragraph seeing as I don't actually think such a railroad exists, but was hoping you'd let it slide! =D Enjoy, and please feel free to review as any feedback is very much appreciated!

Deep in the forests of Eastern Europe ran a railway of great size and grandeur. It was the largest ever built and ran all the way from the north coast of France; through Europe and on into Asia. The journey would take nearly two and a half weeks from the moment the train left the station in Calais, France. Even then, it would not take Holmes, Watson and Irene all the way to their destination in the Kashmir province but rather to a small station on the Indian border from where they would continue in a more 'traditional' fashion; the details of which Irene had so far refused to reveal.

The train was comfortable with private sleeping quarters for the highest-paying customers. Irene had ordered the very best; booking two luxury compartments with enough living space for herself and her two companions.

"It's very nicely furnished," Watson commented as –armed with bags, trunks and cases- they made their way down the train corridor towards their accommodation.

"You expect anything less, Doctor?" Irene held just one bag: her own purse hung delicately over one arm. Watson and Holmes had two bags each and a French porter followed behind, pushing a trolley laden with cases.

Holmes had not said a word since their arrival in France. Watson was used to his friend's strange moods, and did not bother to involve him in conversation; safe in the knowledge that it would pass given time.

"Eleven A and Eleven B," Watson quoted, reading the brass numbers fastened to the outside of each door they passed along the corridor. He turned to the porter who was flanking them. "I believe these are our rooms..?"

The man stared at him blankly, and Watson wondered for a moment if he had said something dim-witted. "Are these our rooms?" he rearticulated. Still, the man looked at him as one would look at an imbecile on the street.

Watson was beginning to think he was being made a fool of, and he was about to ask again when Holmes leaned over and whispered in the ear of his friend.

"Watson, it might help your cause if you were to use the boy's mother-tongue..." Holmes sounded undeniably amused, and Watson felt himself flush pink in the cheeks. He could see nothing in particular that would indicate they were in a foreign country. In fact, the differences between here and home were so slight that Watson had momentarily forgotten that they were in France and that the locals (including the unfortunate porter) would only be able to speak French.

With an irritating smile, Holmes took over and began a fluid conversation of French with the concierge. After a few moments and to Watson's great surprise, Irene joined in also. It was most unnerving for Watson; watching his two companions talking whilst having no understanding of what they were saying. Most aggravating of all was when all three turned to look at him, and burst into a brief peal of laughter. Watson waited as patiently as he could manage, tapping his cane against the floor and glancing every-so often at his pocket watch. Finally, Holmes turned away from the porter and stared, wide-eyed and innocent, back at Watson.

"He says these are our rooms."

The porter stepped past Holmes (for the corridor was easily wide enough for two men to pass) and opened the door of room Eleven A with a small key which he then handed to Watson. He spoke a few words in French, which Holmes translated into English for Watson's benefit.

"He says this is the room for the gentleman."

The door to room Eleven B was unlocked and the key handed this time to Irene. Another few words were spoken in French.

"He says..." Holmes trailed off. He fixed the porter with a hard stare and asked him (in French) to repeat the phrase. The porter did so, and Holmes' expression of confusion changed to one of indignation at what he was hearing. He turned blazing eyes upon Irene who was smiling at him, her head tipped to one side.

"What did he say, Holmes?" Watson asked, keen to know what had been said. Holmes did not answer, his gaze never dropping from Irene's.

"He said," Irene spoke up helpfully, "That this is the room for the happy couple!"

As Watson fought desperately with the urge to laugh at his friend's expense, the French porter smiled graciously at Irene and spoke briefly, indicating her hand. Watson noticed the enormous diamond on her finger, and realised the porter was complimenting her ring. Irene laughed and spoke back. Whatever she was saying, it appeared to be having a rather nasty effect on Holmes; whose expression gave him the appearance of one who had the source of a foul smell just beneath his nose.

Irene slinked down the corridor and slipped her arm through Holmes'. The detective's whole body was rigid, and he neither fought the advance nor embraced it. It seemed (to Watson's great delight) that Holmes had finally run out of both options and words.

"I was just explaining that you imported my ring especially from Paris," Irene said smoothly, batting her thick brown eyelashes at Holmes. "Didn't you, sweetie? You said it reminded you of me..."

Holmes still appeared to be in shock. His stiff nod and forced smile towards the porter was enough to send Watson over the edge. For the first time in what felt like an age, Watson began to laugh heartily. The concierge startled slightly and turned questioning eyes upon Holmes.

"Watson here is my brother-in-law," Holmes said. It took Watson a second to realise he was speaking in English and not in French. "We keep him around to carry the bags. He thinks himself to be something of a comedian, but there is a very fine line between the amusing and the idiotic..."

"Hey!"

"Hay is something that horses eat, Watson," Holmes said superciliously.

"Shall we go in?" Irene interrupted. She handed the porter a few coins as a tip and stepped back to allow him to wheel the trolley of baggage through the door of room Eleven B. It was clear that the majority of the trunks, cases and bags were Irene's, whilst Holmes and Watson had a trunk and three cases between them.

"Excellent idea, Irene," Watson said with a smile. "I was just thinking the same myself...Great minds think alike!" He tugged one of the bags from Holmes' grip and stepped smartly through the door of room Eleven A. "You know, it must run in the family. Who knew a brother and a sister could be so alike? Good day, brother-in-law... I hope your journey is an amusing one..."

Watson slammed the door firmly in Holmes' face. The concierge disappeared back onto the train platform in search of new passengers to aid, and Holmes was left alone once again with Irene.

'The Woman' was already inside their room, rummaging through a large trunk which she had placed on top of the double bed that was the defining feature of the room. The motion of the train meant that all the furniture had to be secured to the ground, but the room was equipped with everything you would need for a two-week voyage. There was even a small door that led to a flushing toilet and a sink with a running water supply.

Holmes did not say anything, but lifted his own (much smaller) case onto one of the two bolstered armchairs and began to remove his items of clothing.

"There's plenty of room in the closet if you need it, dear..."

Holmes stood stock still for a number of seconds before he carried on unpacking his clothes onto the chair as if Irene had never spoken.

"I said there's room in the closet for your clothes..."

"You want me to go to the closet..."

"Only to put away your clothes."

"No, that isn't the reason." Holmes hung a black cravat over the back of the armchair, emptied the remainder of his packed possessions onto the seat cushions and pushing the suitcase underneath the chair. He straightened up and blinked at Irene. "There are closets only in the inner-walls of the train owing to the fact that the outside walls," he stepped to the wall and rapped with his knuckles, "Are not thick enough to accommodate a closet. That leaves approximately twenty square feet of closet space all together along the inside wall; a space not nearly big enough for you to fit the contents of those trunks, let alone leave some space over for my garments." Holmes raised and lowered an eyebrow, letting Irene know once and for all that the game was still in play. "I would expect you hid an item or 'surprise' on the topmost shelf of the closet that you would like me to find when I open the closet door."

"So now you know, aren't you going to find it?" Irene's expression was deadpan.

Holmes smiled triumphantly. "Only for you, Miss Adler," he said. "Only for you..." He went to the right-hand closet and swung the door open. There was a clothes rail and several shelves, but as far as Holmes could see, nothing out of the ordinary. He checked the second cupboard door, again finding nothing but empty shelves. The third and final closet was as vacant as the first two, and Holmes was torn between confusion and a strange sense of foreboding; a sense that multiplied in strength when he saw the hint of a wicked smile gathering on Irene's lips.

Holmes guessed what had happened as soon as the smile appeared, and he cursed himself for not realising sooner. From inside one of her cases, Irene drew a wrapped box which she placed carefully on Holmes' armchair.

"I believe it's your birthday, detective?" She gave him a dazzling smile. "I was pretty sure you'd work out the closet thing and go take a look...Which is why I hid your present out here!"

"You've been having words with Doctor Watson..." Holmes was not usually one for gifts, but a gift from Irene Adler was another thing altogether. He found himself almost excited with anticipation as to what was inside the box.

"Watson said it was your birthday so I picked something up in the French market after we got to Calais."

"You're welcome!" Holmes snapped his head around when he heard Watson's voice resounding through the walls from his adjacent room. Apparently the walls here were relatively thin...

Holmes nodded, taking up the package and examining it closely. Where Irene was concerned, you could never be too careful...

"Aren't you going to open it?" Irene was removing pearl-buttoned shoes from the trunk and storing them on the shelves, watching Holmes closely at the same time.

Holmes considered. The package seemed harmless enough. If it had been Watson presenting the gift, He would have had no trouble in rejecting it. But surely it was rude to turn down a gift from a lady...

He slipped the black ribbon off the box and lifted the lid, instinctively preparing himself for compressed gas or minor explosives to be unleashed the second the lid was lifted. But no unpleasant surprises awaited him beneath the lid of the box. Instead, he found a layer of white tissue-paper and beneath that, a fine silver-plated brandy flask. He turned it over and over in his hands, holding it to the light so he could see his initials engraved on the side.

"Just a little something." Holmes had not noticed Irene was standing so close to him, but as he turned around, he felt her arm brush his for the briefest of seconds. He was prepared by now for the sudden jolt of electricity that shot through him when Irene made contact, but no more used to handling the experience.

"Thank you." Holmes found his voice and nodded to her. He could think of no more an obliging response, but somehow he felt as though the message had been received. He tucked the flask inside his jacket, and then settled into an armchair to allow Irene to unpack the remainder of her possessions. Holmes would have ordinarily offered to assist, but had a feeling that the gesture would not be appreciated. Instead he stayed quiet, staring aimlessly out of the window and wondering for the thousandth time what it was that had led to his being here in the first place...

For the first time since their arrival, Holmes realised what it was that was bothering him about this room. He cleared his throat loudly and looked at Irene, taking care to avoid looking into the honey-traps that were her eyes.

"Might I ask, Miss Adler, where I am going to sleep?"

Irene looked at him as if he'd asked the world's most ridiculous question. She glanced over at the double bed. "...In the bed...?"

"I see only one bed."

"...Yeah."

"In that case, where will you be sleeping?"

Irene did not answer. She giggled silently, breathing out a flurry of air as if forging shyness. Then she turned her deep blue eyes towards the bed.

"Share a bed?" Holmes' voice was calm but laced with shocked incredulity. "You want me to share a bed...with you?"

"We are married now, Sherlock..." Irene twiddled the gold band on her finger. Holmes' own ring seemed almost to throb in recollection, but he ignored the feelings.

"No, you see, Irene, that is just it: We are not married, not really. This is a sham of a marriage that has neither been confirmed by the church or by the consent of both parties. In fact, I find it incredible that you can even call it a marriage!"

"So you'd rather it come out that you shared a bed with an unmarried woman?" Irene was taking stabs in the dark as to what would best rub Holmes up the wrong way. "The press would love that one...That you'd begun your sordid ascent into hell with a night spent with a woman who was not your wife..." She flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder. "Believe me, it's easier for everyone if they thing we're married."

"Father Gordon has informed me on several occasions that my place at the right-hand side of the Devil has already been reserved in advance," Holmes said loftily. "And the press shall print no such stories because we shall not be sharing a bed."

"So you'll be sleeping in the armchair or next door with Doctor Watson?"

"He'll be in the armchair!" Watson's voice came through the wall once again.

There was a long pause as Holmes stood with his eyes closed, before taking a deep breath and staring stonily at Irene.

"I'll be in the armchair."

Night fell, and when Holmes returned from a glass of scotch next door with Watson, Irene was already dressed for bed. Holmes averted his eyes as he saw her sitting by a tall mirror, brushing her long hair. She saw his reflection in the glass and smiled.

"Evening, husband of mine..."

"Miss Adler." Holmes retreated to his armchair, trying to ignore the fact that her white nightdress left far too little to the imagination. The cabin was silent aside from the constant noise of the wheels skimming the train tracks and a peculiar scraping sound as Irene drew the brush through and through her thick chestnut curls.

Holmes felt himself drifting into an uneasy slumber, rocked by the repetitive noises and the steady motion of the train. Scotch always made him sleepy, and he was just dropping off when the train hit a stretch of uneven track and everything in the cabin bounced. Holmes' eyes snapped open as he heard a small shriek of surprise. He jumped to his feet instinctively to help when he saw that Irene had toppled from her chair onto the floor.

"No, don't worry, I'm fine!" She struggled to her feet, but lost her balance and fell again. She went down hard this time, hitting the back of her head hard on the corner of the table.

"Where does it hurt?" Irene's vision had been dazzled by her fall, but she could easily make out the concerned expression on Holmes' face as he stood over her.

"Just my head..." Irene smiled uneasily and allowed Holmes to pull her to her feet. She screwed up her eyes and rubbed absent-mindedly at the back of her skull.

"Shall I fetch Watson?"

"No, I'm OK." She sat back down on the chair from which she had fallen, and then frowned. "Did you see me drop my hairbrush?"

Holmes stooped and picked up the brush from the floor. He twisted it in his hands, wondering where the sudden thoughts that were rushing through his mind were coming from and whether or not it would be wise to act on them.

Almost as if she had read his mind, Irene tipped her head to one side, still rubbing at the sore patch at the back. "Sherlock, would you mind?"

Holmes looked down at the brush in his hand and raised his eyebrows.

"I need to finish brushing it, but I'm scared I'll hurt my head," Irene explained. "Please...I know you'll be gentle..."

Never before in his life had Holmes heard such an ill-conceived excuse for forced bodily contact. There was no sign of Irene's famous seductive smile on her lips, but the glint in her eye remained the same. Exactly what she was after, Holmes was unsure. But he had a feeling it had very little to do with the brushing of her hair!

Holmes was in the middle of constructing his polite rejection of her request when he found himself suddenly reaching out for her with the brush and pressing it into her silken locks. Irene herself shivered slightly as the scent of tobacco smoke and scotch washed over her. Holmes closed his eyes briefly as his hands moved to work through her hair with his fingers after the brush had been through. The touch of her hair was irresistible, and he found himself wondering if the touch of her skin would have the same effect. And with every stroke of her hair and every breath that left her lungs, Holmes cursed the fact that he had acted on impulse. In truth, he wondered how long he would be able to hold out before something happened between them- something he would ultimately come to regret. Surely no man's self-control was great enough that he could resist her forever..? But for the sake of his sanity, Holmes was determined to try. There could be no other way.

When Irene was satisfied, Holmes set down the brush and withdrew to his armchair. Neither said a word; not even when Irene dimmed the lamps and climbed into the bed. Holmes had his eyes closed and all was silent once again.

"Night, Sherlock..."

Holmes opened one eye, not without a touch of amusement. "Goodnight."

Silence again. It lasted for several minutes.

"Night..."

"Goodnight."

When Holmes listened carefully, he could hear Doctor Watson preparing for bed in the adjacent room. There was the sound of water running down the sink, and...

"Night..."

Holmes opened both eyes this time. "Goodnight, Irene."

Watson was whistling now: one of Holmes' favourite violin pieces in a different octave. Holmes moved his fingers in time with the notes, accompanying Watson on an imaginary violin with eyes closed and a small smile on his face. They were just nearing the second verse when...

"Night."

Holmes sprang bolt upright, almost as if he had been electrocuted. As the detective rose to his feet and strode purposefully towards the bed where she laid, Irene thought for a minute she'd gone too far- although it was too dark to see the exact expression on Holmes' face, she doubted it would be one of joy. In fact, when he reached the edge of the bed and leaned over her, she felt an underlying feeling of fear; fear of the man whom she suddenly found herself alone with. Holmes knew it had been a harmless joke...didn't he? She had thought she had the grips of the English sense of humour, but perhaps she had been mistaken.

She was about to offer an apology when Holmes moved, quick as lightning, and pinned her shoulders to the bed with his hands. Instinct told Irene to struggle, but rather than the capricious Holmes snarling or even striking her as she had for a moment feared, it was his lips that pressed down on her forehead in an almost affectionate kiss.

"Goodnight, Irene." Holmes returned to his armchair, leaving Irene with a tingling patch on her forehead and a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach.

For a long time after Holmes' last words to her, Irene lay in bed wide awake, just staring at the ceiling. With every day that passed, the handsome detective seemed to occupy a larger portion of her brain. And her mind was befuddled further by the fact that man in question was sleeping just a few metres away. Ever since their last meeting over two years ago, Sherlock Holmes had danced in and out of her daydreams like a passing cloud across the sky. She had considered lying about her predicament in order to make him more compliant, but Holmes was the one man who she could keep nothing from. He knew her too well. More than that, Irene honestly did not have the strength to lie anymore. Especially not to a man who haunted her nights now as well as her days. Did he think of her as she did so often of him? How much more could she take? So many questions and only one obvious way to answer them... Irene lay awake until she heard Holmes snoring softly from his armchair. Only then did she allow herself the release of sleep, knowing that it made her appear vulnerable and for some reason not wanting Holmes to see her that way.

She could still feel his lips on her forehead as she drifted off.