By day three of the journey, it was becoming clear that Holmes was neither a willing passenger nor a happy one. Watson watched his friend carefully as the days unfolded. Their years living together had taught the doctor a lot about his Holmes' habits; both as a detective and a man. And he knew that when Holmes got bored, it was a worthy precaution to leave him to his own devices until it passed. Unfortunately for Watson, though, this was not all together possible on a train bound for India. And by the middle of the third, day, he was beginning to regret volunteering himself to come along.

As the sun was setting over the mountains of eastern Austria, Watson was sat at the writing desk in his cabin with a pen in his hand; the ink from which was splattering every time the train jogged on the track. As Watson glanced up from his paper with a sigh, his eye was caught by Holmes who was stood beside the bed. Holmes had his head through the open window, his dark curly hair ruffling in the intense wind thrown up by the motion of the train.

Watson watched his friend for a few seconds, before reaching for his walking stick which sat beside the chair. He leaned over and poked Holmes in the lower back with the cane. Holmes withdrew his head. When he turned around, it was to be met by Watson's gaze of part condemnation, part amusement.

"Holmes, I assume you realise how dangerous it is to put your head outside the window of a moving train..?"

"Yes."

"And...You clearly don't care...?"

"No."

"Right." Watson laid down his cane and returned to his writing. Holmes strode away from the window, kicking his heels, and came to a stop behind Watson so he could look over his shoulder. Watson looked up from the table again. "Do you have any idea how much it irritates me when you do that?"

"What are you writing?"

"A letter to Mary." Watson nibbled absent-mindedly on the end of his pen as he searched for the right words to put on the paper.

"Do you suffer from writer's block?"

"No, but there isn't a huge amount to write to her about." Watson smiled wryly. "Though I'm sure it would amuse her to learn that Irene and yourself are sharing a room!"

"I can assure you, she would not find it nearly as amusing as Irene seems to be." Holmes pulled a chair next to Watson, sat for the best part of five seconds, and then rose to his feet again and began to pace. He did not attempt further conversation, so Watson turned to and began again on his letter. When it was done, he sealed the envelope and began to print his home address on the front.

Holmes said no more, but began to stuff tobacco into the barrel of his pipe. Just as he pressed a match into the top and took an initial puff, Watson leaned over and snatched the pipe from between Holmes' lips, clamping a thumb over the top to halt the smouldering, and then tipping the tobacco and ashes out of the train window. "If you insist upon smoking that thing, would you do so in your own room and not in mine..?"

Holmes lowered his gaze from Watson's as he took back his pipe. "Irene is in my room," he said.

"And she objects to you smoking?" Watson smiled to himself, finding it amusing that Holmes referred to the cabin as 'his' room rather than 'our' room when speaking of his sleeping arrangements with Irene.

"No."

"You don't wish to smoke in front of her?"

"No."

"Then why not do it next door?" Watson asked, exasperated.

Holmes looked up from stuffing the barrel of his pipe with fresh tobacco, despite Watson's complaints. "Spending nights in the same room as Irene Adler is quiet enough without spending every waking moment of the day with her also."

Watson's eyes gleamed as he spied a perfect opportunity for wordplay. "Holmes, do you and Irene not get along?"

"We get along fine."

"Then why the reluctance to spend time together?"

"Why should we?" Watson noticed Holmes was absent-mindedly twisting the gold wedding band around and around his finger as he spoke. "Miss Adler is a client of mine, and as you well know, Watson, I do not converse unnecessarily with clients."

Watson pulled his chair out again, sitting in it backwards so his legs were on either side of the seat and the back was supporting his chest as he leaned forwards to look at Holmes. "I never understood your standoffish behaviour towards clients," he said. "But in the case of Irene Adler, I can wholly appreciate why you would wish to avoid idle conversation. The tension must be unbearable for you."

"Tension?" Holmes reached into his pocket for a book of matches to light his pipe.

"Do not even think about lighting that," Watson said sternly. "So help me, Holmes, I will throw the whole pipe out of the train window!"

Holmes returned the matches to his pocket, the expression on his face so close to a childlike scowl that Watson almost laughed.

"Tension." Watson repeated himself once the matches were safely back in Holmes' pocket. "It would be a waste of your breath to deny it, Holmes."

"I don't know what you mean."

"No, I don't expect you do." Watson rolled his eyes. "For such an esteemed mind, Holmes, you are remarkably impervious at times."

Holmes did not comment further. He had always hated to admit he was wrong, but what made matters worse was that Watson knew the truth.

Before either man could say more, though, the door swung open without a knock and Irene stood in their midst.

"Evening, boys." She was dressed to the nines in a deep fuchsia dress with a slight slit up the leg and cleavage quite visible above the cut of the neckline. Looking her up and down, Watson found himself feeling quite sorry for Holmes. He may have been socially inept, but he was still a man. And Irene was, without a doubt, unbelievably beautiful.

"Good evening, Irene." Watson smiled pleasantly once it became clear that Holmes was not going to speak. "What do we owe this pleasure?"

"We're stopping at the next station in around thirty minutes," Irene said. "I thought we could go out and get some dinner. Plus, I know you've got a letter to post, doctor..."

"Fabulous." Watson nodded. "I'll change at once."

"We'll meet in twenty minutes," Irene said. She flicked her hair over her shoulder, batting her eyelids in Holmes' direction as she left the room; an action that did not go unnoticed by Watson.

Watson went to the closet and pulled out a dinner jacket and a clean shirt. He glanced over at Holmes. The detective was stood by the window, staring out at the passing Austrian countryside but not taking in its detail. He cleared his throat, and Holmes turned 'round.

"Are you not planning on changing?"

"There seems hardly any point seeing as how I shant be coming to dinner either."

"Don't be absurd, Holmes," Watson said brusquely. "There won't be dinner served onboard the train tonight...Surely you don't mean to miss supper..?"

"That was my intention..."

"Look here, Holmes, I understand you are intimidated by Irene, but..."

"I am not intimidated by that woman."

"Then prove it," Watson said stubbornly. "Go to your room, change, and then meet Irene and myself for dinner in twenty minutes time!"

As slowly as he could manage without riling Watson further, Holmes slunk off to the adjoining room and pushed the door open. Holmes was hardly prepared for what awaited him behind the door, for when he stepped across the threshold, it was to be met by Irene stood in the centre of the room. Irene...wearing only a white corset, stockings and white lace pantyhose.

"Miss Adler!" The pupils of Holmes' eyes dilated and he averted his gaze away from the woman before him; increasingly aware of a thin line of perspiration that was gathering beneath the collar of his shirt. "I apologise, I should have knocked."

"On the door of your own room?" Irene smiled, sorting methodically through the drawers and rails of her closet in search of a dress or pair of shoes. "Don't sweat it, Sherlock, I'm nearly done. I just needed a dress..."

"I would have thought that what you had on before would have been sufficient." Holmes edged his way around Irene, trying not to look, but at the same time realising how truly difficult it was. He heard her shuffle across the room and step behind a changing partition. Only then did Holmes look up from the floor and begin to search through his own clothes for a suitable outfit.

"Wear the black tails," Irene called. "Black tails, white shirt and that cravat I like."

Holmes looked up. He had suspected but not realised that Irene was watching him. He did not answer, but turned his attention instead to the black tailcoat Irene had mentioned. He already wore a white shirt and so simply exchanged the casual jacket he wore for the one he held in his hand.

"Sherlock, could you lace me up..?"

Holmes swallowed. "I'm sorry?"

"Could you lace me up?" Irene emerged from behind the partition. It took Holmes a moment to realise that the back of her dress hung down, unlaced and that her back and shoulders were completely exposed.

"I suppose so." Knowing full well that karma would have a repercussion waiting for him, Holmes stepped closer to Irene and reached out for her back; trying his hardest to ignore the soft feel of her skin beneath his hands.

Holmes knew how to lace a dress; or rather, he knew how to unlace one. An encounter years before with a French chambermaid meant he was well-versed in that particular skill, and Holmes reasoned that if he was able to unlace a dress, one would simply have to work in reverse.

Pulling on the strings with one hand and using the other to push Irene's lower back away from him to tighten them, Holmes began to lace her dress.

Irene herself was suffering from a similar struggle. She had always enjoyed playing games with men, but this was different. She was not just enjoying the reaction she got from Holmes with her trickery; her amusement had progressed to the stage where she was actually thirsting for Holmes; for the smell of his skin or the warmth of his body. At that precise moment, the detective's hands brushed over a particularly sensitive patch of skin on Irene's shoulder, and she shuddered not out of disgust, but out of pleasure. His hands were a marvel, she thought. The skin on them was rough and worked, but gentle and soft at the same time. The feel of them ghosting her skin was almost enough to send her wild. Almost. If Irene Adler possessed one trait of character, it was steadfast self-control. Holmes could not know the effect he had on her. That would spoil the fun!

"Thanks." Irene smiled warmly at Holmes when her dress was laced, taking care to brush against him as she swept towards the closet once again in search of shoes. Holmes watched her go and breathed out in relaxation as the gap which separated them increased to an extent that he could think rationally once again.

"You are quite welcome." Even though he knew he shouldn't, Holmes stood still, just watching Irene as she slipped a pair of heeled shoes onto her tiny, dainty feet and stood up off the bed.

"Are we all ready?" She took a clutch bag from the nightstand and slinked her way towards the door.

"I think so."

Irene paused in the doorway and looked Holmes up and down. She frowned suddenly and stepped towards him, reaching out for his neck and throat.

Instinctively, Holmes stopped her wrist with an open palm and forced it down and out of its offensive position. Irene sighed and smiled.

"I only wanted to straighten the cravat. The knot's come a bit loose..." Using her free hand and before Holmes could stop her, Irene reached for his neck and untied the cravat. Suddenly being so close to him again, Irene could feel her heart pounding in her chest. And what made matters worse was that she was sure Holmes could hear it. He avoided her eye throughout the proceedings, and this made matters easier. Whether he was too embarrassed to meet her gaze or whether he did not quite trust his own restraint, Irene did not know, but either way, it was becoming clear now that she was spiralling out of control. She had to get a hold on herself before something catastrophic took place, and she did this by tugging the knot of Holmes' cravat tightly and tucking it away back inside his shirt.

"All done," she managed, though she had feared the powers of speech had left her. "That wasn't really so dreadful, was it?"

"Indeed it wasn't." Holmes felt Irene take his arm and lead him towards the door. He raised an eyebrow. "Might I ask though, why it is necessary for you to hold my arm?"

"We're a married couple, Sherlock," Irene reminded him with her merry laugh. "Let's start acting like one!"

Holmes tried not to think about the attributes that Irene may or may not have been referring to when she had said they must act like a married couple. But as Irene led both he and Watson from the train and off into the streets of Vienna, Holmes could not help but wonder what kind of game Irene was playing and who would emerge as the eventual victor. There were several directions in which their dalliances could lead them...and not one of them appealed to Holmes in the slightest.

"How about in here?" Irene indicated an understated log-cabin restaurant situated on the east side of the plaza in central Vienna. The city centre was just a ten minute walk from the little station the train had drawn into, but it was like two different worlds side by side. The night air brought with it a definite chill, but it was the height of summer and the weather was still pleasant enough to be outside without an overcoat. People streamed from all sides; tourists, locals and salesmen alike, gathering in the plaza to meet friends or swap stories. Many of the restaurants lining the square were bustling with people, but the one Irene now led them to appeared deserted. The windows were blacked out so it was impossible to see what went on behind the doors.

"Helga's," Watson read aloud from the sign above the restaurant door. "I suppose it looks a good a spot as any for a bite to eat..."

"It's famous in the city," Irene told him. "I've heard it's very good." She gave Holmes a smile which was only for the purpose of irritation. "What do you think, darling?"

Watson smirked yet again at the pained look on Holmes' face as he returned her smile and nodded his approval. Holmes playacting as Irene's husband was turning out to be more entertaining than even Watson could have hoped for.

Holmes noticed the smug smile on Watson's face and turned his back to hold the door open for Irene.

"Thank you." Irene stepped through the door with Holmes close behind her. As Watson stepped up to enter the restaurant, Holmes let go of the door and swung it back with some vehemence. The wood surface narrowly missed smashing Watson full in the face as he dodged around it and into the main lobby of the restaurant.

Watson was not quite sure what he had been expecting when he had seen the restaurant from a distance. But he was certain his expectations had been nothing like the reality. The sheen of cigarette smoke behind the restaurant door was thicker than the smog over London following the Revolution. Watson breathed in and began to cough violently as the unaffected Holmes and Irene watched him amusedly.

Working with Holmes had taught Watson that it was always wise to survey one's surroundings before settling in. There was a scantily-clad Austrian girl behind the bar and several equally promiscuous waitresses bringing trays of drinks to tables occupied by groups of grubby middle-aged men clutching pints of beer and measures of spirits. As he watched a waitress pass a table of punters, Watson was not sure he liked the look the men were giving her- leering, like she was some sort of possession. In fact, he could have sworn he saw one man lean over and slap the backside of a passing girl in a black dress, but before he could turn and look properly, the girl had vanished and the man was back to his drinking.

A girl dressed in blue led Holmes, Irene and Watson to a table near the back of the restaurant and ushered them into their seats. Watson was still examining his surroundings; noticing with an amused smile that Holmes was doing exactly the same thing. Only Irene sat, relaxed and unmoving in her chair.

"Could we get some drinks please?" Watson said rather loudly. A white-faced barmaid produced three pints of bitter from behind the bar and set them down, none to gently, on the surface of the table. "Thank you, ma'am." Watson nodded respectfully to the woman, and was halfway to being shocked when, instead of smiling or walking away, the barmaid winked at him quite brazenly.

Irene was smirking as she got to her feet. "Excuse me, boys, I'll only be a second..." She walked away from the table and sat down instead beside a group of the Austrian men.

"Shouldn't we go over there with her?" Watson was concerned. "They look awfully uncivilised..."

"I'm sure they are only talking."

"Does Irene speak German?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

Holmes was clearly uninterested, and Watson took the time to examine the men Irene was with more closely. There were about five or six of them; all tall, sturdy and tattooed with long hair and scars up and down their arms from various fights and brawls in bars across the city. As Watson watched, the one closest to Irene stretched out a hand and slid it slowly down the back of her dress, continuing onto the folds of her skirt before she slapped it away with a merry laugh. Watson's mouth dropped open as the thug produced a handful of coins and attempted to press them into Irene's hand while trying to caress her cheek with the other.

"Holmes." Watson nudged his companion. "Holmes...This isn't a restaurant is it?"

"What do you mean by that, Watson?"

"This is not a restaurant." Watson pointed to the men trying to slip Irene money. "Holmes, this is a brothel."

"A brothel?"

"A brothel," Watson repeated. "A lodging whereby young girls sell themselves to men for..."

"I am aware of the dictionary definition of 'brothel'." Holmes -who had his elbows on the table and his chin balanced on his folded hands- was deep in thought. "That is to assume its meaning hasn't changed since the summer of 18-"

"Holmes, I beg of you not to finish that sentence!" Watson took a long gulp of his beer and looked again to where Irene was still deep in muffled conversation with a large bearded Austrian. "Anyway, isn't that your 'wife' over there with those men? I think maybe you should intervene..."

"If I was really her husband, I would."

"I'd love to see you try!" Holmes sat up straight. He hadn't even heard Irene sneak up behind him, but he certainly felt her lay a hand on his shoulder. The effect was that of ten-thousand volts of electricity through his veins!

"Interesting conversation?" Watson raised an eyebrow.

"The Austrians are great," Irene said spiritedly as she caught the eye of the barmaid and mouthed the word 'food'. "Don't understand a word they say, but they're still great people!"

"And I take it you didn't accept their offer of money for your 'services'?" Watson asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he finished his beer.

"Not that it's any of your business if I did..." Irene smiled slightly. "But no. There's plenty of girls here. They can take their pick!"

"So I see..." Watson reached for Holmes' untouched beer, but the detective snatched it out of his grasp. "So...what exactly did 'tall, dark and hairy' over there want to speak with you about?"

The barmaid appeared with the plates of food before Irene could speak, but Watson had a feeling that she wouldn't have given him a direct answer anyhow. Dinner was a strong-smelling German sausage on a bed of sauerkraut. It looked as if it had seen better days, but Watson was starving and tucked in quite happily. A shadow loomed over him as he cut his food, and when he looked up, the barmaid was stood there watching him eat.

"May I help you, ma'am?"

The woman said a few words in German; words that Watson could not understand but that Irene seemed to find highly amusing. Before Watson could enquire, however, the barmaid had lifted a leg cocked at the knee and placed her foot in-between Watson's thighs on the chair. Watson's eyes widened considerably as he took in the shapely calves and lewd fishnet stockings.

"Holmes," Watson said calmly as the barmaid wound Watson's tie around her hand possessively and tugged him closer to her. "If I make it out of this alive, you are a dead man."

Holmes laughed out loud, sitting back in his chair to watch the show. "We are only responsible for our own actions, Watson..."

"Well, that was an enjoyable evening." The three were making their way back to the train through the streets of Vienna; taking a short cut Irene had suggested. Watson –as was his custom by now- walked a few paces ahead of Holmes and Irene. "I particularly enjoyed the part when that barmaid spat in my beer for telling her I was married!"

"It was my beer," Holmes said. "And in your defence, Watson, she was a rather attractive barmaid..."

"I'm glad you had such a great evening, doctor." Irene couldn't help but smile. The look on Watson's face when the barmaid removed her stockings had been priceless.

"It's about to get better..." Watson had stopped still in the middle of the road. The other two drew level with him and looked along his line of sight. Standing at the end of the alleyway was the bearded Austrian who had petted Irene in the 'restaurant'. Watson looked closer and felt his heart sink. Not only was the man accompanied by two henchmen, he was carrying a sturdy-looking cudgel in his left hand.

"Does anybody have a revolver?" Watson whispered.

"No," Holmes answered, "I left it on the-"

"-Table in your room?" Watson rolled his eyes. "You surprise me..."

The thugs were coming closer now, closing down Holmes, Irene and Watson at a faster pace than they could back away.

"What do we do now?" Watson asked.

Holmes never took his eye off the assailants. "Well by my count, there are three of them and two of us..." He glanced at Watson. Clearly, he was discounting Irene deliberately. "Watson, which way do you swing?"

"Holmes, this is hardly the time for-"

"Left or right, Watson. Which do you want? Left or right?"

"Oh..."

"Let me make this simpler." The thugs were now less than fifteen metres away. "Do you want the cudgel or the two without?"

"I'll take the cudgel," Watson said, eying his blade concealed inside the cane he held in his hand. "And what of Irene?"

An enormous snapping noise broke out just behind them. Holmes and Watson whipped 'round so as to discover the source, but Irene was already in front of them. She had broken a section of rusting pipe from the line running up the side of a nearby building and was swinging it around her head as a weapon.

Holmes raised an eyebrow at Watson as they stepped forward to meet their fate. "Does that answer your question, Watson?"