A/N: Thanks to Broomclosetkink for glancing over this chapter for me and for everyone who's taken the time to review, PM, etc. I know this story isn't exactly easy, and it won't have an easy solution, but there will be forgivness and reconciliation. Eventually. :)

Cairo, Two Months Ago

"Darling, this has been a great deal of fun, but I do wish you'd tell me what's really going on."

Sherlock had been leaning on the railing of their hotel room's balcony, had heard Irene come up behind him and felt the hand she laid on his shoulder as if it were a brand. Marking him. Tainting him. None of that showed in his face as he turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised in an expression of mild inquiry, showing nothing of the sudden tension her words had raised.

He studied her as he waited for her to elaborate on her question (not unexpected, he'd known she was clever enough to figure out that something was not right with his story but had been willing to swallow it as long it gave her what she wanted ). She'd gone dark blonde, with hair extensions to bring the thick mane of hair down to the middle of her back, complementing the deep blue contacts she now wore, and the subtle use of makeup that made her eyes appear enormous on her face.

Attractive, he supposed, but he far preferred Molly's natural beauty. And yes, she was beautiful, he'd come to appreciate just how beautiful she was, inside and out, after she'd literally saved his life by "killing" him.

It was her face he pictured when he had sex with the woman standing beside him now, her body he envisioned beneath his when they were in bed together.

He hoped that wasn't what brought on this sudden fit of perceptiveness on Irene's part, that he hadn't let something slip, let her see that it wasn't her he was visualizing when they were together. Eddie's life depended on him keeping this woman happy, satisfied – and completely in the dark as to his true reasons for being here. "What do you think is going on?" he asked, quirking his lips up in a small smile. The one that usually made her pulse race.

Apparently she was in no mood for such distractions today. Her gaze remained serious as she said: "I saw you, the night Edmund was born." She nodded at his startled expression. "Oh, yes, I was one of the many, many nurses who popped in and out of the operating theater that night. I didn't see the actual birth, mind you, not my thing, really, but I did see you when you were holding your son for the first time. The look on your face…" Her voice trailed off and her eyes went distant as she relived the memory. "And the look you gave Molly…" she shook her head. "I'll never forget it. That's not a look you give a woman whose life you're going to utterly destroy nine months later. So tell me."

He shrugged, tilted his head to one side and offered her a lazy smile. "I was bored. Once the novelty wore off, once I realized how much time a woman and child in my home were taking up, how difficult it was to concentrate on the work, the damned day-to-day tedium of keeping up appearances…" He shrugged again. "Yes, the night my son was born was a…rather emotional…time for me, but even intense emotional reactions can be fleeting rather than life-altering. My mistake was believing those feelings to be the latter rather than the former."

She continued to study him, head tilted to the side, finger tapping her jaw as she considered his words. Believe the lie, he silently willed her even as his fingers reached out to toy with the tie to her dressing gown. "It still doesn't explain why that sent you running to my side," she finally said, but he saw the slight quirking of the corners of her lips, the softening of her sharp gaze, and knew he'd succeeded in putting her off the scent for at least a little while longer.

One month down, two to go. And then he would be free of her, free of this lie he was living.

As for being free of Moran's malign influence…that remained to be seen. He'd put certain plans into motion; all he had to do now – all he could do now – was wait and see how long it would take for them to come to fruition.

Irene's hands slid along his collar, and he pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her lips, taking his time, allowing none of his self-hatred to show as he teased her lips with his tongue, patiently waiting for her mouth to open beneath his, as he knew it would.

When the kiss ended, she opened her eyes and gazed up at him, a half-smile forming on her lips. "Oh well, whatever it is, I suppose you'll tell me when you're ready," she sighed, then ran her fingers down his chest, scratching lightly through the thin material of his shirt. "Who am I to look a gift…Holmes…in the mouth?"

Then her lips claimed his in a harder, more demanding kiss than the one he'd given her, and he closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch himself yet again making a mockery of his relationship with Molly.

Although he returned the kiss with as much false fervency as he could muster, his mind was racing. Irene not only suspected something, she suspected something specific. Her choice of words just now had been deliberate, no accident. She never spoke in clichés unless she meant something entirely different from the obvious.

The only question was, how much did she know?

He'd already determined that she wasn't in on it, at least, not completely; she'd been truly surprised to see him waiting for her that first night, leaning against the front desk of her hotel with a bouquet of flowers in his hand and an ironic smile on his lips. He still hadn't ruled out the possibility that she was working for or with Moran; she kept herself quite busy with mysterious errands and clandestine meetings she kept him well away from during the days and sometimes long into the night – but she always returned to the hotel, to the bed they'd shared for the last month, even if dawn was just beginning to break.

His cover story of boredom and impatience with Molly and domesticity, combined with a case he was just as vague about describing as she was when talking about her own activities, had been enough to keep her unquestioning until now.

At least, she'd been unquestioning out loud. Who knew how long she'd doubted him? Probably for the same amount of time he'd doubted her own excuses for lingering in Cairo – mostly repairing business connections she'd been forced to sever upon her "death" – which meant, since day one.

However, even with that very broad hint she'd just dropped, he couldn't take the risk of confiding in her. Not until he'd had time to process this new development.

Time alone. Tonight, after…

After he'd once again appeased her considerable sexual appetites. Thank God she'd left her dominatrix persona behind, at least when it came to him. That made it much easier for him to pretend, to concentrate on keeping her happy, as he'd been commanded by Moran.

Which he had to continue to do. For another. Bloody. Two. Months.

Which left him few options at the moment, not with her tongue down his throat, with her hands busy undoing the buttons to his shirt and gliding across his chest with practiced ease.

If his mind wasn't one hundred percent on her needs, at this very moment, the game could be up – and Edmund would pay the price for his father's lack of concentration.

So he put aside all questions of motive and who knew what and when did they know it, and instead allowed himself to be pulled back inside the luxurious bedroom of their hotel suite, his hands as busy roving over Irene's body as hers were over his.

When she was asleep, he would slip away for a smoke, a glass of wine, and the time he so desperately needed to put his vaunted intellect back to work.

oOo

He left her a note, of course. He'd gotten into the habit, made it part of this new persona he was wearing like an ill-fitting suit. Normally he'd have just texted her, but the hotel stationery was right there, so why not use it?

At our usual café. Meet me there for drinks if you've no other appointments this evening, or call if you'd rather go elsewhere. S

As he gazed unseeingly out at the parade of passers-by, camels and overladen donkeys and bicycles clogging the narrow, cobbled streets of the Khan el-Khalili, he puffed on one cigarette after another, chain smoking in a way he hadn't done since his two agonizingly long years at uni.

The glass of white wine he'd ordered sat untouched on the table beside his overflowing ashtray, and his fingers were tapping an impatient rhythm on the scarred wooden surface.

Before he started the time-consuming process of mentally analyzing every fact he knew about this far-too-personal "case" he found himself enmeshed in, he shot off a quick text to his brother.

The response he received was prompt, informative – and utterly maddening.

The flat has been arranged for. Molly has experienced a nervous breakdown and is recovering in St. Elsbeth's. John and Mary have temporary custody of Edmund, whose health remains exemplary. No other news to impart.

A nervous breakdown. He'd driven Molly to that, taken someone who'd gone from a stuttering, self-conscious mess whenever she was in his presence to a strong, confident woman and lover and mother – and turned her back into a quivering mess, worse off than if she'd never met him. One unable to cope with what he'd done to her, who'd been unable to care for herself, much less their son…he felt sick, a wave of self-loathing rolling over him strong enough to buckle his knees if he hadn't already been sitting.

It was all on him. He clenched the mobile so tightly it would have shattered had it been made of more fragile materials. The edges dug into the palms of his hand hard enough to leave marks, and he had to deliberately ease his grip in order to keep those marks from turning into cuts that would give his seething rage and guilt away to Irene as clearly as if the words "LIAR" were branded on his forehead.

He forced himself to reread the message. The comment about Edmund's health…of course, he should have known his brother would understand that something more was going on than Sherlock simply reverting to type and once again letting down the people who most depended on him. He'd expected Mycroft to figure things out eventually, was grudgingly impressed at how swiftly his brother had discovered the truth.

Still, it wouldn't do to raise any red flags for whoever was monitoring his calls. He fired off a response that had nothing to do with how he really felt and everything to do with maintaining his cover at any cost.

I didn't ask for tedious details, just confirmation that the flat and maintenance packet have been arranged, he texted in reply, showing no outward signs of the stabbing pain in his gut at the coldness of his response. Use the post restante address I gave you to forward the paperwork so this can be done and over with. Will be in Cairo another two months yet. He paused, finger on the "Send" button, then added one last bit: You were right, domesticity didn't suit me at all; I'm surprised you haven't taken the opportunity to tell me 'I told you so.'

Mycroft had, indeed, told him that – and then promptly taken it back once he realized how suitable Molly was for his brother, and how fatherhood had taken a great deal of the edge of his temperament. "I told you so" was his confirmation to Mycroft that he'd correctly interpreted the situation, that Edmund was the target.

He'd waited until now to contact his brother for multiple reasons, even though Moran had put no restrictions on his activities other than not giving Molly any shred of hope and keeping Irene Adler happy. That did not, however, mean he hadn't found a way to intercept Sherlock's phone messages, or that he didn't have someone watching him.

In fact, it appeared Moran had an entire network of loiterers and ostensible workmen or passers-by keeping an eye on Sherlock whenever he was out in public. Which was only to be expected.

Texting his brother could be considered out of the ordinary, but considering that Mycroft had been put in charge of getting Molly and Edmund settled, he felt safe enough sending his coolly-worded message: Have the arrangements been made to move Molly and Edmund into a separate residence yet? I'd really rather not return home and find that things are still unsettled.

All a desperate code of his own for tell me Molly and Edmund are all right.

Well, Edmund was healthy, at least. He would hold onto that knowledge. And Molly would recover, he knew she would, knew her better than any other person he'd ever known. Better than Mycroft, better than John…

He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as a fresh spasm of pain clenched his gut and squeezed his heart. He hadn't allowed himself to think of John, of the increasingly angry voice messages his best friend – former best friend at this point in time – had sent him since Sherlock had told him Molly would need him.

Sherlock, you bastard, tell me this is some kind of sick experiment to find out if Molly loves you enough to stay even after you order her to leave, because if it is…I will personally beat the shit out of you when you get home. Or hold you down while Molly does. Call me back and tell me what's going on, don't leave us believing you did something this cold-hearted just because you're scared or having second thoughts.

John's voice had been hurt, crackling with anger and thick with what Sherlock knew were unshed tears by the end of that first message. Sherlock had deleted it from his phone without responding. He responded to none of them, not one of the others that followed, until suddenly they'd stopped coming. And he'd been left to contemplate the collateral damage that Moran's blackmail had created. As he'd no doubt anticipated it would – and as Sherlock had managed to trick himself into believing could be minimized. But if he gave John hope, encouragement, anything at all, the consequences would be dire. And so he remained silent.

Sherlock, I know you're getting these messages, your mobile is practically glued to your hand when you're on a case and Lestrade says he's heard from you so I know you're still alive, at least. Call me back. NOW. I don't care how bloody important the case is, this is more important. I need you to explain things to me…if this is Reichenbach all over again, I need to know. I can help you, make things easier for Molly even if you have to keep her out of the loop…

His voice had held no hope that this was the case; after all, who had two madmen with guns pointed at loved one's heads, herding you into desperate acts meant to protect said loved ones while at the same time wounding them deeply?

Having a nemesis, an arch-enemy, had never seemed so bleak and destructive as it did now.

Sherlock, you'd better bloody well stay away from us – ALL of us, and you damn well know who I mean – when you get back. Molly's…not doing well. The sound of a ragged, indrawn breath; Sherlock could picture John rubbing his hand over his face during the lengthy pause that followed. Undoubtedly that had been the message he'd left after Molly had been taken to St. Elsbeth's. It's all your fault, every last bloody bit of it. All on you, and since you're not returning any of my calls, I guess that means it's real, that you meant all those horrible things you wrote in that fucking letter you left for Molly to find – nice job on that, by the way, very thoughtful of you.

Another one of those ragged breaths, another chance for Sherlock's heart to tighten painfully, for the guilt to try and overwhelm him.

Anyway, if it wasn't true, you'd have found a way to let me know by now. Because I know you don't want us all to hate you – or maybe you do? Whatever. I'm done. Don't bother looking me up when you get home, if you ever do come home. Mrs. Hudson may be willing to forgive you, but as for the rest of us…no.

We're finished.

Finished. Even if he was able to dig himself out of this mess – surely Moran couldn't go on poisoning and curing his son indefinitely, surely he had something more in mind than simply keeping Sherlock in Irene's embrace for three months, although he'd only said that further instructions would await him upon his return to London - even then, the damage might truly be irreperable this time. It would be truly ironic if he came out of this with his son's life and no one willing to speak to him except Irene...

Irene. He needed to focus on her. Simply helping Moran find a body double and fake his death (really, the three of them ought to form a club, the Not Actually Dead Club, with secret handshakes and annual meetings and dues) wasn't explanation enough for why the bastard felt she deserved some kind of reward. No, there was more to it than that. There had to be.

He sat, and he smoked, and his mind raced at top speed, reviewing data, formulating theories – and ultimately coming to some very interesting conclusions.

Moran wasn't just torturing Sherlock or rewarding Irene. He was reconstructing Moriarty's criminal empire. With Sherlock safely out of London – out of England – he could begin to re-spin the web Moriarty's suicide and Sherlock's two years of patient unraveling had all but destroyed.

Or so he'd believed. He'd allowed himself to be distracted by not only sentiment (although he refused to give it up now that he'd allowed it into his life) but by a false sense of security, by believing the lie of Moran's death when it had been nothing but a shadow-play meant to put him off the scent.

And it had worked. He'd allowed it to. And here he was, trapped in Cairo with a woman he neither fully despised nor felt anything stronger for than, perhaps, admiration – a woman who had her own agenda.

Or was it Moran's agenda? Irene didn't need to know that Sherlock had been handed to her on a silver platter in order to be in league with Moran. One fact did not preclude the other.

He needed more data, more facts. He needed to discover what Irene's real purpose for being in Cairo was.

Once he knew that, he could make his plans. Until then, he would have to rely on Mycroft to find a way to keep Edmund safe, possibly whisk him out of harm's way in his brother's absence and possibly end this entire impossible situation that much sooner.

For once in his life, Sherlock felt no resentment toward his brother, no anger or impatience or self-loathing for being forced to seek out his help.

If Mycroft could save Edmund, Sherlock would spend every bloody Sunday for the rest of his life at his elder brother's oversized country home; would take on any case he cared to offer – would even, loathe though he'd always been to do so, take a government position as Mycroft had been pressuring him to do ever since he'd cleaned up his act and stopped taking drugs, back in his uni days.

Whatever it took. He'd already sacrificed so much; forgiving Mycroft for past misdeeds – thanking him – would be a small price to pay.