Author's Note: Any tricks involving belladonna are the idea of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, not my sorry self! :P A word of warning- this is the chapter which made me consider upping to an 'M' rating. I'd very much like your opinions of whether you think 'T' is still appropriate... Enjoy!

Dear Mary

My days of patient waiting have paid off- Holmes has sprung from his pit and formulated a plan. I hope you will forgive me for being secretive, but the consequences could be dire should this letter fall into the wrong hands... I have just realised my previous statement gives the impression that I am some sort of a hero and that this excursion is the beginning of some grand adventure. It could not be more misleading. After five days in India with my companions, it has become crystal clear that Holmes is running the show while Irene and I serve merely as his minions.

I will regale you with my adventures -if one can possibly apply such a word to our current situation- when we return to England and I return to you. I know that communicating with you directly is impossible at present, but should an emergency arise, there is a telegraph in the office of the British Guard. I would urge you to reserve this dispensation for real emergencies only, for I highly doubt the already intolerable Captain Alcott would be thrilled at the thought of passing along trivial messages!

You have my heart- please keep it safe,

John

Ever since Irene had awoken to find herself in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, there had been undeniable amounts of tension between the pair; far surpassing even their normal levels. It occurred to Irene -as she watched Holmes idly flick the strings of his violin- that their conversation a few nights previously had done their relationship (if one could use such a word) more harm than it had done good. Irene enjoyed being in control, but with her confession she had handed that power to Holmes on a silver platter. She was angry and frustrated with herself for allowing her reserve to slip when she knew it would do no good. The last two years had given her time to heal. After he had left her on the bridge she had travelled far and wide, anxious to distance herself from the very memory of Sherlock Holmes. And when fate's path had brought her back onto the same page as the man she had strived to forget, she had thrown herself headlong into the fray with the self-assurance that though she would be once more in his life, she would never find herself in his arms. The illusion had been shattered when she awoke on that fateful morning. Irene needed to prove to herself that she was still somehow the one in the position of power. She needed to triumph spectacularly over Sherlock Holmes...and she knew exactly how she was going to do it.

She laid her plans carefully, making use of her superb intellect to devise not only her own base strategy but to cross-reference it with Holmes' reactions as well. If Holmes was not to be the victim of this exchange, Irene had no doubt he would be impressed by her work!

On the evening of their fifth day in India, Irene, Holmes and Watson were invited to eat their dinner as usual with the Lords and Ladies of the Royal Palace. The meal was sublime: vegetables stewed in a delicious spiced sauce with white rice, with platters of exotic fruits to follow. Irene could feel her stomach rumbling in a most unladylike manner beneath her corset, but with a supreme effort of self-control, she took only a few small mouthfuls before she set down her cutlery with a sigh. Busily tucking into his own meal, Watson looked up in surprise.

"Are you feeling alright, Irene?"

"I've felt better..." Irene pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her forehead as if wiping away beads of sweat. "Think I was out in the sun for too long today..."

Watson slid his chair around the table and examined her closely. Holmes watched with a sense of suspicion as the doctor brushed aside Irene's brown curls in a professional manner and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead.

"You have a slight fever," Watson said finally, putting hands on either side of her neck and applying gently pressure, "But your glands aren't swollen in the slightest, so I would be tempted to rule out an infection..." He lifted a hand again to her hairline and felt a sweaty sheen across her forehead. Her already pale skin had turned an alarming shade of alabaster, and her eyes were almost entirely glazed over.

"Do you feel nauseous?" Watson asked her.

"A little." She nodded.

"How long were you out in the sun for today?"

Irene considered. "Almost all day," she said. "I got quite badly burnt..." She twisted in her chair and Watson frowned in concern when he saw that the back of Irene's neck and her shoulders were scarlet.

"You're suffering from dehydration," Watson told her, sliding his chair back and picking up his fork again. "I would recommend an early night, 'Mrs Holmes', and plenty of fluids." He took a mouthful of food and made to get up from the table. "Here, I'll take you back to your room and try to make you more comfortable..."

But Irene shook her head firmly. "Don't worry," she said with a weary smile. "I'll be fine, I just need to rest."

"At least let me help you with the sunburn..."

"What do you suggest?"

"A little milk rubbed onto the burnt areas of skin should help to reduce the pain and the redness."

Irene nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Doctor. Excuse me..." She made her way away from the table and out of the double doors. Only when she was gone did Watson turn fix his most scathing glare upon Holmes who had sat in total silence for the whole of the exchange.

"Would it cause you terrible pain if you were to even feign concern for your 'wife's' health?"

"Not if there was cause for genuine concern..."

"Dehydration can have serious side-effects, Holmes." Watson took another mouthful of his vegetables and rice. "It may take her several days to recover completely."

"Several seconds would be a more accurate estimate," Holmes said dryly. "Or none at all, for that matter. Believe me, Watson, Irene is not suffering with dehydration or with any ailment of the sort."

"She had a fever," Watson argued. "You saw how bright her eyes were, Holmes, she couldn't have possibly reproduced that sort of effect."

"It is quite possible, I assure you..."

"And the sunburn?"

Holmes considered. "Perhaps it would be prudent to ask Irene herself how she managed that one..."

"I'll tell you exactly how she 'managed it'," Watson said, shaking his head. "She stayed out in the sun too long without a proper intake of fluids and her skin blistered, hence the dehydration and what is quite likely to be a mild case of heatstroke." He selected a slice of yellow juicy fruit from the platter and grinned across the table at Holmes. "Your face is looking a bit red too, you know... You should put some of that milk on yourself once you finish helping Irene with her shoulders."

Holmes blinked.

"And why would I do that?"

"She will need some assistance," Watson said, "She couldn't possibly apply milk to her own shoulders properly without help...unless of course she has two extra arms growing out of her spinal column!"

Holmes said nothing, and Watson's left eyebrow shot up his forehead in mock surprise. "I am guessing she does only have the two arms?"

"You guess correctly."

"Well you would know better than me what Irene Adler keeps beneath her corset..." Watson hid a smile behind his napkin as he watched the colour of the detective's eyes change from brown to a steely shade of black. A lesser man would have backed off at the look in Holmes' eye, but Watson knew him better. He was not offended; merely considering his response.

"I would be interested to know what evidence you have based your deductions on, Watson...?"

This produced exactly the reaction Holmes had anticipated- Watson was instantly apprehensive and tried to backtrack.

"Well...There is no evidence as such..."

"What, then, would give you the impression that Irene and myself are anything more than detective and client; or in this rather special case, husband and wife?"

Watson's eyes were lowered to the surface of the table, and so he missed the amused gleam in Holmes' eye.

"I am the one who has been witness to your exertions with that woman over the past eight or so years," Watson said. "I'm sure you can forgive me for assuming that you two shared some sort of a history..."

"You would do well to base your conclusions on solid factual evidence rather than mere assumption, Watson." Holmes used a finger to mop up the last of the sauce on his plate, ignoring Watson's disgusted eye roll as he did so. "You would be shocked to discover how easily postulation can cost you a case..."

"Isn't it you who always says that human instinct is sometimes better than deduction alone?" Watson pointed out.

"Only when your instincts are good enough, my dear Watson!" Holmes stretched and yawned, leaning back in his chair as if bored rigid by the whole situation. Watson waited almost a full minute before speaking again.

"So you don't have a history with Miss Adler?"

"Mrs Holmes has been my client for a number of years."

"I notice you're not denying it."

"Then you should also notice I have not admitted it either." Holmes lit up his pipe and blew a plume of smoke -deliberately as it would seem- across the table and into Watson's face. As the latter coughed and spluttered, Holmes spoke again. "It interests me to see you are liberal enough to discuss matters such as these, Watson."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Holmes lowered his voice to ensure they were not overheard. It was a wasted precaution as not one of the Lords or Ladies were so much as glancing in their direction, but Holmes had made a promise to Irene and he was anxious not to blow their cover.

"I would have thought that the idea of Miss Adler and myself sharing a bed outside of wedlock would have seemed scandalous and immoral to a well-respected gentleman such as yourself..."

Watson shook his head slowly, the beginnings of an amused smile creeping to his lips.

"What you choose to do in your own time, old boy," Watson told him, "Is absolutely no concern of mine." There was a definite twinkle in his grey eye as he looked across the table at his friend. "Actually, I find watching Irene make you look like an idiot incredibly entertaining!"

Holmes sat back in his chair, not obviously amused but with a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth. There was a pause while Watson chewed his fruit and Holmes puffed away merrily on his pipe.

"Am I to assume then that before your marriage, you and Mary...?"

Watson pointed a warning finger in Holmes' direction. "That is none of your business."

Holmes shrugged. "I thought we were sharing stories?"

"It's still none of your business."

"Should I take that as a 'yes'?"

"You should take it as an indication this conversation is over," Watson said, laying down his napkin. "And also take it as an opportunity to go upstairs and help your 'wife' attend to her sunburn."

Holmes opened his mouth to try and argue, but Watson got there first.

"Go. Now, Holmes. Doctor's orders."

Holmes widened his eyes in mock amazement. "Oh. Thank heaven you said that, Watson, now I'm convinced!" But he got up from the table obediently and skulked towards the door.

"I'm sure she is being honest, Holmes," Watson said fairly, calling to the retreating figure of Holmes as he reached the door and grasped the handle. "Not even Irene is that good..."

"Oh, she is that good," Holmes called back. "But I am better..."

When Irene reached the room, she drew across the shutters and manoeuvred the bed linen to give the impression the bed had been recently slept in.

For her plan, Irene had relied heavily on Watson's diagnosis. The symptoms were easy to reproduce if the proper attention was paid to detail. Belladonna -when administrated in large amounts- can be highly toxic, but a small dose dabbed onto the eyeballs gives the user a glassy-eyed expression. Irene had found the ingredient in Watson's portmanteau and had helped herself to what she would need, rubbing the substance into her eyes just before supper that evening. She had later whitened her face with an ivory powder and applied scarlet rouge to her cheekbones.

Reaching behind her, Irene pulled on the strings of her corset and let her dress slide to the floor. Beneath her pink satin gown, she wore two thermal vests; a pair of woollen long johns and her thickest winter corset. It was unpleasant and highly uncomfortable to wear so many layers in the Indian heat, but the result was a heightened body temperature and a sheet of sweat across her forehead.

Knowing that time was not on her side, she pulled off the long johns and buried them at the bottom of her clothing trunk. She winced slightly as the vest rubbed against her sunburnt back, but that could not be helped. Irene knew a great deal about psychology, and she knew that if one symptom of illness was genuine, it was only too easy to forge the others; at least until a full medical exam was carried out. It was a technique which had been known to fool even the most erudite of medical minds, and it appeared Watson was one of them. Irene had relied on Watson a great deal for the opening stages of her plan. Although he did not realise it, he had played his part perfectly.

Taking care to first remove her underwear, Irene pulled a white nightdress over her head and let her hair loose of its topknot; allowing the tendrils of chestnut hair to cascade down her back.

In the early hours of that afternoon while Holmes and Watson were otherwise engaged, Irene had gone down to the palace gardens. By the north wall, there was a spiny green plant which leaves would secrete a sweet-smelling gel. It was with an armful of these leaves that Irene had returned to her room, and she had spent the afternoon stripping the gel from inside the shoots; allowing the sun streaming in through the open window to redden her back and shoulders. She had hidden the gel inside the pantry, for it was cooler in there and nobody would ask questions should they discover it. The plant she had found was aloe vera, and its gel was known locally for its medicinal properties. In this case, Irene hoped it would sooth her burnt skin. Milk -as Watson had suggested- would have worked just as well, but Irene required a thicker and more luxuriant substance for what she had planned. Milk was too thin, but the aloe vera gel would work very nicely.

Once she had fetched the gel from the pantry, Irene turned her back on the door and slipped her nightdress down at the neck. She held it at the front with one hand so her breasts were covered, but her shoulders and back were exposed all the way down to the gradual curve which dipped down to her buttocks. This was the position she intended for Holmes to discover her in when he arrived; and Irene was almost certain that it would be Holmes, not Watson, who came. She did not have to wait long. Just as she slipped her hand into the bowl of gel in preparation, she heard Holmes' footsteps approaching from the far end of the corridor. With a smile, she immersed her fingers in the gel totally, and sat motionless.

Irene could see Holmes' reflection in the mirror as he entered the room. She had to bite her lip so as not to laugh and give the game away when she saw his eyes widen in shock at the sight of her barely-clothed figure on the bed. Irene knew this expression well, for he had worn it similarly when she had casually dropped her towel to dress herself when they had met at the Grande two years ago. He was not appalled or outraged in the slightest as a more superior gentleman may have been. Holmes was a true Bohemian and any shock he may have felt was a combination of marvel at her beauty, and concern for himself should his emotions betray him. Irene smiled. She knew the effect she had on Sherlock Holmes, and loved nothing better than using it to her advantage.

"Oh Sherlock, is that you?" She turned on the bed, allowing her nightdress to slip yet further and expose a greater amount of her cleavage that could possibly be called decent. "Thank goodness you're here, I could use some help..."

Holmes took in the closed shutters and the bed sheets in disarray.

"I see you've been resting." He nodded towards the bed. "Well, it's probably for the best. I'll let Doctor Watson know you are following his recommendations." Holmes was clearly uncomfortable, and was about to exit the room again when Irene called out to him.

"Sherlock..."

Holmes paused in the doorway. He did not answer, but Irene could tell he was listening.

"Sherlock, please could you help me?" she asked plaintively. "My back is so badly burnt, and I can't reach to rub in the gel..."

Holmes cursed Watson as he stood by the door, watching Irene Adler on her knees on the bed. He had known she was planning something, even if Watson had been fooled. This was clearly another one of Irene's little 'games'. What was it she intended for him to rub into her back? Holmes doubted very much it would be milk! But the worst of it was that Holmes could not refuse outright and return to his dinner without letting Irene know she had a hold over him. He could not allow that to happen. After a moment of fast deduction, Holmes had concluded that there was only one way he could get through this with his pride still intact- by beating Irene at her own game.

And so Holmes approached the bed and without a word sank his right hand into the gel, using his left to brush Irene's hair away from her shoulders and leave him room to work. Her skin was scalding hot; the sunburn at least had not been replicated. Taking care not to hurt her, Holmes coated his hands in aloe vera gel and began to work it gently into the redness of Irene's back. She sighed as the gel cooled and soothed her burns, and Holmes wondered for a moment why he had been so worried his self-control would not hold out. As erotic as this experience could be perceived, Holmes was finding it surprisingly easy to stand the sensation of his hands on the skin of Irene Adler.

Sadly, the same could not be said for Irene Adler herself.

From the moment his hands touched her shoulders and she felt his warm breath on the back of her neck, Irene knew with a bitter sense of defeat that this had been a very bad idea. The feeling of his hands -wet with the aloe vera- massaging her skin felt so incredible that she had to clench her teeth to prevent herself from moaning in pleasure. Holmes felt her body tense, and lifted his hands away.

"Is everything alright?"

Irene (who had groaned inwardly when Holmes had removed his hands and broken the connection) managed a smile which she hoped was one of illness and exhaustion. Not that it mattered. She was fairly sure Holmes would have seen through her ruse by now...

"I'm fine. Please, don't stop. It's helping."

Holmes smirked as he dipped his hands back into the gel. "As you wish, darling..." This time, he began to rub lower down; working his hands up her back and feeling each vertebra individually. Irene nearly screamed as he worked his thumbs into her spine, and the sensation sent an intense explosion of heat straight down to below her waist. Not one moment of this was going according to her plans, she thought with a stab of resentment. She had been counting on Holmes losing control, driven mad by the feel of her skin beneath his hands. It should have been Sherlock Holmes who was near to writhing in pleasure on the bed while Irene worked gel into his bare skin and peppered his skin with carefree touches... The realisation hit home with such vehemence that Irene wondered how she could have missed it before. It should be me touching Sherlock. She groaned inside with frustration. How could she not have seen it? Because deep down, I wanted him to touch me...? She shook off all feelings of doubt. It was time to change tactics, before she lost the game. But before she could turn, she felt herself twitch. And then her body was struck down by a wave of erotic pleasure so powerful, that for a minute she wondered if she was hallucinating. In the midst of her distraction, Holmes had added his lips to the fray; kissing her back and shoulders as his hands curled around and began to feel her stomach.

It was all Irene could do to keep from crying out as Holmes silently tilted her back in his arms, allowing the nightdress to fall back and conceal her breasts as he kissed her collarbone. His tongue flicked out and licked all the way along, before he circled the most delicate spot and finally bit down hard.

Every muscle in Irene's body went into spasm as she spun around and grabbed Holmes' wrists. Her nightdress slipped back down -this time revealing a flushed nipple- but Irene barely noticed.

"Are you quite alright, my dear?" The grin of triumph upon Holmes' countenance was obvious even in the dimmed lighting of the bedroom. In truth, it took more than a little effort on Holmes' part to keep it there. He had enjoyed pleasuring Irene more than he would admit, and procuring such a violent reaction from her body certainly was an incredible achievement. He had not imagined that his touching her would have affected her so. For the first time, it was as if he were looking into a mirror and seeing his own feelings reflected in her eyes. They burned now with a fire Holmes could not even being to describe; the blue irises alight with anger, frustration, and another that he found himself unable to name. Was it Lust? No. It was desire, pure and simple. And as Holmes watched Irene, he saw that the desire did not even begin to fade. He looked down at her hands clasping his wrists. By the time he had brought his gaze back up to meet hers, she had darted forwards and claimed his lips with hers; finally letting out the desperate moan she had been suppressing for so long. The sound reverberating from The Woman's chest was all the encouragement Holmes required.

He allowed her to wrap her fists in handfuls of his hair and drag him backwards onto the bed. Her hands wandered everywhere as she bit down hard upon his lip; teasing him as he responded. Pulling Holmes on top of her, Irene deepened the kiss so her tongue ran along the underside of his teeth. She cupped his buttocks with her hands, feeling her exhilaration heightening as she heard him moan softly into her mouth.

Holmes was out of control- not seeing; not caring; only feeling. Her hands found his excitement as it swelled from beneath his trousers, and he twisted suddenly so he was pressed to the bed and Irene sat astride him. He sat up and pulled his lips away from hers; allowing them instead to wander down her cheek to her neck, and from her neck to her chest, before finally taking her right nipple into his hungry mouth and running his tongue over the surface.

She groaned again and threw her head backwards before leaning back again and taking Holmes' lips once again. Using both hands, she ripped apart his shirt; ignoring the buttons as they ripped loose and scattered across the bed.

Blind with yearning, Holmes realised where they were heading and reached down to whisk away Irene's nightdress. Irene nodded, telling him she was ready. But before he could move an inch, there was a loud banging on the door of the bedroom. Both Holmes and Irene froze as they heard the voice of Doctor Watson calling out from behind the door.

"Irene? Is everything OK?"

Irene did not answer. She looked at Holmes with anxiety in her eye, lest Watson should discover them partly naked and aroused.

"Irene?"

"In a minute, he's going to come in," Holmes pointed out.

Irene found her voice. "Doctor? I'm fine. Just resting."

"Alright then." Watson had turned on his heel- Irene could hear the scraping of his shoe on the floorboards outside. "Goodnight, Irene."

"Night, Doctor." As soon as Watson was gone, Irene breathed a sigh of relief. She smiled seductively up at Holmes, clearly willing to pick up where they had left off. But the detective was still motionless; staring straight ahead with eyes which did not blink. There was a sinking in Irene's heart when she realised that those eyes -which had been a deep brown not a minute earlier- had turned to impenetrable black.

For Holmes, Watson's interruption had allowed him a moment's pause to think. What was he doing, preparing to give himself over to Irene Adler? The sudden clarity had been shocking. This was what happened when he allowed his head to be ruled by his heart- he made bad decisions. Foolish decisions. With emotions still running free through his body, Holmes felt exposed and vulnerable. It was not a pleasant experience, and it occurred to him that this was the way normal human beings must feel all the time. It was a welcome relief when his highly-tuned mind began to harden once again. Within moments, the covetousness he had felt for Irene was now nothing more than a distant memory. Sleeping with Irene would do nothing to help the case. It would make working together an impossibility. It would make him nothing more than a mortal, ruled by emotion. It would make Irene just another woman he had known...

"You should sleep off your heatstroke." Holmes slid himself out from underneath Irene and drew his buttonless shirt back around him. He averted his eyes from Irene as she sat up, quite naked from the waist-upwards, on the bed. "I'll sleep in with the Doctor tonight...Give you some privacy."

Without waiting to see the hurt and confusion on her face, Holmes opened the door and left the room, leaving Irene alone on the bed.