Author's Note: Since chapter 10 was published a few weeks back, I've had a load of personal messages from you guys requesting a sex scene at some point. Not that it's coming any time soon, but I like to make you guys happy, and this is just a warning that you may see and increase in rating at some stage from a T to an M. If you're gunna write smut, you may as well do it properly! =P Enjoy chapter 11!

Holmes did not return to his room straight away, but instead went to the smoking room so he could light his pipe without having Watson breathing down his neck. A normal person would be feeling guilty and embarrassed having deeply offended so many people, but it was often said that Holmes had lost touch with his conscience. In fact, Watson's opinion was that Holmes did not even possess one. At the present moment in time, Holmes was not even concerned for Irene and how she might be dealing with the fallout of his actions. He knew Irene well, and was confident she had handled worse than a few angered aristocrats.

And so he stood alone and smoked his pipe, mulling over his own thoughts and watching as the barren land outside whizzed past; blurry and out of focus. Sometimes, Holmes' mind was a scary place. It even scared him sometimes; mainly because it was too terrifying for anyone else to try to get inside and provide any relief. That was partly the reason why Holmes relished his encounters with Irene; encouraged them, even. Irene was the one woman to ever make an impression on Holmes, and the only one who had begun to break down the barriers he had built up around himself. When Irene got inside -if only for a second- it was the sweetest release Holmes could imagine. And that was why Holmes missed her so. Every time they touched, the release was there, and it thrilled him. But as time went on, the small touches were no longer enough. He wanted to feel more; to make the relief last. He reasoned that it was like a fine wine or a particular drug- once one has built up a tolerance to it, a larger intake would be needed next time for it to feel the same. For this reason, Irene was like a drug to him- the dose was twice as deadly, but the relief was three times as good.

After an hour (and nearly a full box of tobacco) had passed, Holmes roused himself from his thoughts and made his way slowly back to the rooms. He called in on Watson first of all; partly dreading the disapproving response he expected to receive had tales of the NSSPS meeting got back to him.

Watson looked briefly over the top of his newspaper, but otherwise made no form of greeting. Holmes flopped down into the opposite armchair and waited for the onslaught to begin. Sure enough, it began twenty seconds later. With a snort that he could no longer repress, Watson let his newspaper slide to the floor and broke down into convulsions of laughter. It was far from the reaction Holmes had expected, but still not one he was utterly thrilled with.

"I take it," Holmes said, loud enough that he could be heard over Watson's laughter, "That Irene has beaten me here and relayed her tales?"

"No, she's not in yet," Watson said, still laughing. "But news travels fast, and let's face it, you upset quite a few people today!"

"Irene isn't back yet?" Holmes asked, pacing to the window rather than take the armchair offered by Watson.

"You've always had a great sense of priority," Watson said scathingly. "It's one of the many things I admire in you. And no, Irene is not back." The doctor smiled mockingly as he took up his paper again, crossing one leg over the other as was his way. "I'd say that at best, she's trying to clear up the mess you left behind; or at worse, she's jumped ship with a trunk-load of diamonds!"

"Or she's outside the door, listening to our conversation..." Holmes swung the door back on its hinges to reveal Irene; hands on hips and an utterly unamused expression on her face.

"How did you know I was there?" she asked, taking the empty armchair after realising Holmes was not about to sit down himself.

"Most likely he heard your breathing as you stood outside the door," Watson said without looking up from his paper. "That or he 'felt' your presence as you came up the corridor."

"Do you see anyone wounded, doctor?" Holmes asked.

"...No."

"Then your input is far from necessary, wouldn't you agree?" Holmes smiled unkindly and looked Irene up and down. "As a matter of fact, it was your shoes that gave you away this time."

"My shoes?" Irene asked, more for amusement than out of curiosity or surprise.

"Italian leather," Holmes said, stooping at Irene's feet and lifting her leg so her cocked knee straightened and allowed him access to the soles of her shoes. "Handmade by the famous Sicilian cobbler- Marcos Antonio Pierrechi; so unique because of the particular density of wood used to form the soles." He tapped the shoe's underside with a bunched fist before getting to his feet; wincing slightly with the pain which came in his knee whenever he bent it. "I think you'll agree the pitch of the footstep is quite distinctive; especially on polished wooden flooring."

"How was the meeting?" Watson asked Irene. He was quite used to his friend's deductions, and they no longer amazed him as they once did.

Irene shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it." She managed a wry smile. "I think a pot of tea would be nice...I'll go to the kitchen."

When the tea arrived, Irene poured three cups and sweetened two with sugar. Watson took the one without, wondering how she had guessed he would take none. He blew over its surface to cool it, and held it in his lap while they talked.

"Look at us three," Irene said, smiling. "Sitting here together...it's like old times."

"Yes," Holmes said. "Just like old times."

Watson noticed Holmes was looking hard at Irene as he spoke. The woman looked back defiantly, her fine blue eyes resolute and unblinking. Watson wondered to himself what Holmes knew that he wasn't letting on. This was far from the first look of its kind he had given to Irene since their departure from London...

"When do we cross over into Afghanistan?" Watson asked to break the awkward silence that had descended rather than out of actual curiosity.

"The middle of tomorrow night," Irene replied. She seemed to be making some epic of stirring her tea. She had been at it for more than a minute now.

"Can't say I look forward to it," Watson said with a slight grimace. "Afghanistan doesn't hold many happy memories for me..." He was referring, of course, to the war in which he had served more than eight years previously.

Irene's attention had strayed away from her tea, and her gaze was now locked on a silver-framed photograph which stood on the side table. It showed Watson with his arm around a pretty young woman. Although they had never met, Irene knew immediately that it was his wife, Mary. Watson's free arm was cradling a tiny baby in a white lace baptism gown; tufts of blonde hair framing a beautiful face with bright eyes that were the exact same shape as Watson's. The baby's double was nestled in the arms of her mother, wearing an identical gown. Both children held rattles in their tiny fists.

"That's me, Mary and the girls," Watson said, noticing Irene's interest.

"They're beautiful," Irene said admiringly. "Which is which?"

"The one I'm holding is Tallulah," Watson said with a proud smile. "We call her Tilly. And her sister -in Mary's arms- is Rose."

"You're holding Rose."

Both Watson and Irene looked up at Holmes in confusion.

"What?"

"The baby you're holding in the photograph is Rose, not Tilly," Holmes said, not even looking in their direction. Watson took the photograph from Irene and stared at it intently.

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"Holmes, they're identical twins; how can you possibly tell?" Watson returned the frame to Irene, his mind made up. "Anyway, I distinctly remember Mary handing me Tilly to hold for the photograph."

"Your mistake is to rely on your...sometimes questionable memory rather than address the facts that are shown before you," Holmes said. He was still looking out of the window at the passing landscape, and Watson found himself growing irritated at his friend's apathetic attitude. "Your daughters will celebrate their first birthday in two weeks and by the date on the back of the photograph, I would estimate their age at the time to be six months."

Irene was studying the photo carefully.

"There's no date on it," she said.

"Lift it to the light," Holmes said.

She did as she was told, and saw immediately the date scribbled on the back. The light shining through illuminated the writing in reverse, and it took her a few seconds to mirror the inscription in her mind.

"March 30th," Irene said.

"Precisely."

"What does the date matter?" Watson asked incredulously. "They've looked the same as each other from the day they were born, for heaven's sakes!"

Holmes was quick off the mark. "If they look exactly the same, how do you claim to know which is which?"

Watson's only response was to hold out his hands and huff.

"Contrary to your belief, Watson, your two daughters are far from identical; in fact there are several key differences between the two young ladies." For the first time, Holmes turned 'round from the window and faced them. "You will notice that the baby in your arms holds her rattle in her left hand, while her sister holds hers in her right."

"So..?"

"A child will begin to express from an early age the hand they are most coordinated with using," Holmes said matter-of-factly. "Having spent the past eleven months observing the girls in various stages of their development, it's become clear to me that one prefers the use of her right hand, and the other, her left." Holmes smiled maddeningly in Watson's direction; as he always did when he knew his deductions to be irrefutable. "One of your daughters, Watson, is left handed; and it is Rose who possesses that characteristic."

"Anything else?" Watson asked through gritted teeth; interested despite himself to know where his friend would take his argument next.

"Since you ask..." Holmes leaned over the back of Irene's armchair, and she inclined the photograph so he could see it properly. Within seconds, he had found what he was looking for. "Look closely at the photograph," Holmes said, taking it from Irene and holding it so close to Watson's face that the latter's nose was almost touching the glass, "And cast your mind back to that fine Spring afternoon when you brought the girls to Baker Street without your wife for supervision." Holmes tapped the photograph where a tiny dark smudge was visible above the eye of the baby Mary held. "If I recall, Tilly attempted to pull herself up to a standing position, using the drawing room hatstand as leverage..."

Watson flushed slightly at the memory. He had heard his daughter's screams from the hallway and had rushed to the drawing room with Holmes close behind him. The hatstand had toppled over, striking the baby across the forehead as it fell. No lasting damage had been done, but within minutes, an ugly bruise had erupted above Tilly's eye. Mary had been nervous enough about leaving the girls for the day as it was, and Watson had felt horribly guilty for weeks afterwards.

"As you can see, the bruise she sustained on that day is still fresh on her skin," Holmes said smugly. "Which would lead me, and I'm sure you yourself, to the conclusion that the baby you hold is Rose and not Tilly."

Watson looked even more closely at the photo. The bruise was there, but he would never have noticed it.

"How did you see that?" he asked.

"Because I knew it was there," Holmes said, setting the frame back on the table.

"I think you're a lucky guy," Irene said kindly, smiling at Watson. "Two lovely daughters, and another on the way..."

"It might be a boy," Watson said, returning her smile.

"Maybe..." Irene was looking again at the photo. "Where did you get the photograph taken?"

"Mary's brother earns his living from professional photography," Watson said. "He has an exhibition just off Leicester Square."

"And the frame?"

"An heirloom." Watson was blowing on his tea again. "It's been in Mary's family for centuries." He caught the warning glare in Holmes' eye. "Not that it's of any value," he said quickly.

After one final blow, Watson decided his tea was of a suitable temperature to drink. He raised the cup to his lips and took a mouthful; noticing but not really thinking about the fact that neither Holmes nor Irene had touched their own cups. There was good reason for this, as Watson discovered seconds later. The tea tasted foul and he spat it out, retching and spluttering. He hadn't swallowed a drop, but already his head was spinning and dark circles were appearing before his eyes.

"What was in that?" he demanded, trying simultaneously to steady himself and hold back the urge to vomit.

Holmes shook his head with the quiet air of a professional, looking towards the teapot Irene had brought.

"Wait for her to drink first, Watson," he advised. "You always wait for her to drink first!"

Although the spiked tea had been little more than a harmless prank, Watson was noticeably short with Irene in the days that followed. That said, he was short with everyone; memories of the Afghan war plaguing his usually rational mind. He would snap at Holmes when he came calling, and the detective learnt quickly to leave him to his own devices.

"I feel kind of bad," Irene said to Holmes one night as she lay in her bed and he in his armchair. "All this over a pot of tea..."

"There's more than poisoned tea on his mind," Holmes told her; eyes closed and knees up under his chin in the chair. "Separation from his wife and family...Weariness of train travel... We passed by Kabul yesterday, and I know for a fact that he lost a good friend in the war just miles from the station where we stopped to refuel."

Irene smiled. "What's it like to trade places?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Being in Watson's shoes for once," she said. "Isn't it normally you who locks yourself away from the world for weeks and refuses to talk to anyone? I'm just saying it must be a change for you to be the stable one."

"Naturally." Holmes still had his eyes closed, but he smiled into the dark of the room. "I must say, after a few days in his position, I can only pity him. It certainly is a refreshing change."

Holmes and Irene remembered how thin the walls were when they heard Watson shout back to Holmes' statement.

"I wish I could say the same thing!"

Whether it was overhearing Irene comparing him to Holmes or the fact that they had left the Afghan warzone behind them, Watson was in much better spirits when he awoke the next morning; and by the time they reached the Pakistani border, he was practically back to normal. As he remarked to Irene- "I must have been almost unbearable if you were describing Sherlock Holmes as the more stable of us two!"

With the train's final station just twelve hours away, there began a frenzy of packing suitcases and checking of legal documents. In a moment of extreme generosity (and the knowledge that it would never get done otherwise), Irene packed Holmes' case for him. Holmes, of course, unpacked it and repacked it himself just to be difficult, but Irene pretended she hadn't noticed. They were learning to live with one another, and their cohabitation was of definite amusement to Watson.

"Look at you both," he said to Holmes as they left the tiny Pakistani train station together; Irene hanging back to register their baggage. "That wedding ring's cut off the oxygen flow to your brain...you two are acting like you're actually married!"

"To marry is to sell one's soul to Satan," Holmes said, deadly serious. "The last two weeks have seen me descend through the very deepest levels of hell...therefore, am I not married?" But there was a twinkle in his eye as he spoke, and Watson laughed.

"There was me thinking marriage was a commitment to God and to each other!"

"If you are inclined to believe that way..." Holmes smiled as Irene came up beside him. He had not seen her since earlier that morning, and she had since changed into a trouser-suit she reserved for such occasions where action was expected. He had not seen her dress in such a way since their last meeting on Tower Bridge over two years ago, and thought immediately that it suited her in a way not all women could hope to carry off. Indeed, she looked even more beautiful than ever, and Holmes even surprised himself to notice just how easily his smile came now whenever he saw her.

"We're getting transport," Irene told the two men. "It's just a couple of minutes' walk." She slipped her hand through the crook of Holmes' arm, and Watson thought suddenly how well they suited one another. She was a beautiful woman, and looked all the more radiant when matched by Holmes' own (though not so obvious) good looks. If he had not known any better, Watson would easily have mistaken them for husband and wife...

The station was situated right on the edge of the Pakistani-Indian border and was surrounded on three sides by dense jungle. After the few minutes' walk Irene had described, they reached a clearing. In the clearing, there was a shack, and next to the shack was a barefoot Indian man in a white robe. He waved them over, creating a path through the trees for them to follow.

As they followed after the man, Watson became aware of a loud trumpeting sound coming from the jungle ahead. One glance at Holmes told him that the detective was thinking the same thing. Irene stayed quiet, and it wasn't until their guide pushed apart a final layer of vines and giant leaves that they realised this had been her plan all along.

In the clearing ahead of them stood four enormous Indian elephants; bathing themselves in a pool of water. They sucked water up in their trunks and squirted it back all over each other; ears flapping merrily and tails constantly waving to keep the mosquitoes away.

"Transport, boys?" Irene smiled wickedly as she watched the white robed man approach the elephants and prepare them for departure.

"Elephants are beautiful creatures," Watson said admiringly, recovering the power of speech first. "Not easy to ride, mind you..."

"You've ridden before, doctor?" Irene asked curiously.

"Once. During the war." Watson's eyes glazed over slightly as he cast his mind back. "We were transporting medical supplies to Bombay and elephants were our best bet; they can carry more than horses, you see..."

"Well they're going to carry us and all our luggage from here to the Maharaja's palace," Irene said, glancing at her watch. "The guy will be along soon with the bags, so all we need to do is saddle up!"

"Right." As per usual, Watson took it all in his stride and walked alongside Irene as she crossed the clearing towards the elephants. They had gone nearly five metres when Watson realised Holmes was not with them. He looked back over his shoulder, and saw that the detective was standing stock-still; watching the elephants with a look of suspicion, concern and blind panic.

"Holmes," Watson called back, "The elephants aren't going to come to you!"

Still, Holmes did not move. When the realisation finally hit Watson, he couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"Holmes, don't tell me you're scared of elephants..."

"Surely it's wise," Holmes said, moving at long last and coming level with Watson and Irene, "To be wary of a creature that could kill you in so many different ways..."

"Enlighten me."

"Well...You could be trampled to death," Holmes said triumphantly. "Torn to pieces by its tusks; bones broken by the force of its jaw; have your skin and flesh lacerated by..."

"...You could be decapitated," Watson interrupted with the utmost level of sarcasm. "Suffocated by one of its ears flapping over your nose and mouth... Oh, and watch your revolver, Holmes- you wouldn't want the elephant taking it and putting a bullet through your spine."

"I'm glad you find this so amusing." Holmes' face was slowly draining of colour as they got closer to the elephants, and Irene noticed his grip on her arm had tightened considerably. "Perhaps this would be a good time to mention tiny, enclosed spaces..."

"Alright, alright," Watson said grudgingly, trying not to think about the time when -aged six- he had been trapped in his mother's linen cupboard for eight hours; and event which had resulted in almost permanent claustrophobia.

"Everybody has a weak spot," Holmes proclaimed. He saw that Irene was laughing. "Isn't that right, darling?"

Irene straightened her face and dropped her gaze from Holmes'. She took her arm from his and walked ahead, topknot of hair flouncing angrily as she walked. Watson could have sworn he saw a pang of sadness or hurt in Irene's eyes, but it was gone almost before it could register. He dismissed it, thinking she must be worried about returning to India; but in his heart, he knew it was more than that. Irene had something (or someone) on her mind; and it didn't take a genius to work out who that person was...