Not Really His Area.

In which the wall is murdered, there are photographs and Lana discovers Sherlock's secret.

"What the HELL are you doing?"

The noise had pulled Lana out of a stupor too light to be called sleep, but it had done so with a horribly rude and echoing bang that shook her to the core and caused her to sit up so quickly she cricked her neck. The memories of last night came back to her in an instant, and she thought wildly that the Viper assassin had come back to finish the job. Frantically, she looked around.

The flat was still in darkness, almost all light doused out by the heavy curtains over the windows, but one of the nearby lamps was on, throwing the apartment in and out of shadow. Lana could make out the shapes of furniture and piles of books all over the floor, along with, of all things, a neon happy face spray-painted on the wall. The contrast to the rest of the room was so bizarre Lana had to resist a sudden urge to laugh, especially once the flat was rocked yet again by a volley of bangs. Lana turned around in time to see Sherlock, still in a dressing gown and slippers, reach into his pocket to reload his still-smoking sig.

Sherlock looked up at the sound of her cries, and seeing Lana was well enough to swear at him, he grinned; a lopsided, half-crazed look that reeked of false pleasure and slight annoyance, with just a hint of blunt amusement.

"Morning."

Immediately following these greetings he raised the gun and tore yet another hole into the wall paper. Lana flinched, rolling off the couch onto her feet. The floor felt real enough, and the flurry of motion told her that this was as real as it got.

This was her new reality.

Still processing everything going on around her, having never been woken up by a gunshot alarm before, not to mention the fact that everything that had happened in the last eighteen hours was just as real as what was happening now, Lana was still swaying slightly when John strolled into the living room, acting as though this was completely normal. He was holding two cups of coffee and handed one to her, smiling in a reassuring way.

"Don't worry about him. He gets like this when he's annoyed."

"I'm not annoyed, John. How many times do I have to cover this? I'm merely bored!" came the angry retort. There was another loud bang, and Lana jumped, while John stared at him calmly over her shoulder.

"You know, eventually, you're going to bring that wall down. And anyway, you and I both know that it's because she's messing with your life again."

"Who's this her?" asked Lana, taking a sip of coffee. It was way to strong and had just a hint of sweetness that made her almost gag, but it was warm and electrifying and she drank it anyway. "So?" she asked, watching John carefully for an answer. She was afraid that asking Sherlock anything at this point, feeling as though the only reply she was going to get was either a swift kick to the head or else a bullet in her neck.

To her surprise, it wasn't John who answered, but Sherlock, who had flopped onto the couch and now lay curled up like a rock around his sig. He looked like a pouting five-year-old. "She's someone from my past and not your problem right now. Go find something useful to do."

"Well, excuse me. I'm not the one who's sulking like a miffed toddler." said Lana, turning and heading toward the kitchen. Cheerfully, she ignored his fresh volley of insults and blunt comments, pulling eggs out of the fridge. From the living room, she heard John taking another whack at Sherlock. There was the sound of something (it sounded like a book) hitting flesh.

"That was RUDE. I don't see why she puts up with you."

Lana froze, praying Sherlock would think on his feet. When no reply came, John seemed to take it as a sign to leave Sherlock to his sulking and came to join Lana in the kitchen.

"Sorry about him. It's not always this loud in the morning. But he's in a bad mood."

"It's fine," she replied, her head in the cabinets, searching for a bowl. John brought one down from the top shelf and held it out to her. "Thanks. How do you like your eggs?"

"Any way you make them is fine. Anything I can do to help?"

Lana gestured around the kitchen. "Well, if you can find one, I need a frying pan. And a spatula."

As John began looking, Lana commented, "So why is he in a bad mood anyway? And who's her? You know, the one you keep mentioning?"

John froze, reaching for a copper frying pan that was (for some reason) hanging in the pantry. Lana saw the exhaustion cloud his face. He sighed.

"Lana, I really don't think it's my story to tell. All I can say is that the fact that now he has you"-Lana's heart gave an unnatural squeeze- "it made me think that he might have put all this behind him. But it was foolish to hope so. I've known him for two years, and this has always been his biggest problem."

At this, John held out the frying pan, his expression grave. "I think he'll tell you when he's ready. It's not something he likes to talk about." He smiled suddenly, just a sliver of a grin on the well-lined face. "Personally, I think it's because it hurts his ego too much."

Lana took the frying pan and cracked a smile. "I figured as much. I mean, he's got an ego bigger than- "

"Then what?"

The voice stopped them dead in their tracks and made them involuntarily turn to look at the door. Leaning against the door was Sherlock, his hair a mess of curly tangles and his dressing gown tied loosely around his tall, lanky form. In his hands was the sig.

It took Lana a moment to react; Sherlock was looking at her with what looked like intent curiosity, but it seemed more as though he was curious about what would happen if he shot her than what she was going to say about his ego. It was an awkward pause; someone had walked in on the conversation at the wrong moment, and the mood was ruined.

But, Lana argued, Sherlock seemed to have a knack for doing that.

Fortunately, John broke the tension by quickly by reaching across the counter and pressing the carton of eggs into Lana's hands. "Here, let's get breakfast started. I need to get to work soon and I'm sure you'll want to-"

"Oh, don't stop your conversation just because I'm here," said Sherlock, plunking down in a chair and putting his feet on the table. "After all, I believe Miss Heart was about to compare my ego to something else. What might it be, Lana? I'm dying to find out."

Lana, who had been holding in her anger with a great deal of self-control, suddenly snapped. Shaking slightly with anger, she took the frying pan from the counter, walked over to Sherlock, and brought it down on his stomach. Sherlock, caught by surprise, convulsed slightly and coughed hard as Lana walked back over to the stove. She heard him give a few more coughs, a strangled gasp, and then utter silence which she associated with him boring his eyes into the back of her head with the iciest of glares. Grinning with satisfaction at the result she had produced, Lana set to work.

Just as the eggs were popping in the frying pan, Sherlock rose from his chair and headed out the door. Lana and John could hear him stalk up the flat stairs to the second level, and, a moment later, the sound of running water. Lana looked at John with curiosity.

"He's taking a shower?"

"It's a sign the worst is over," said John, pulling out two plates and dishing out the now-cooked eggs. "Usually when he's annoyed, he'll work himself up and take a shower to cool down."

"Well, at least he's done murdering the wall," said Lana. "What Missus Hudson will say…"

"After the first few times, I like to hope she's gotten used to the bullet holes all over. We'll just keep paying for new wall paper and everything should be fine."

John glanced at his watch and paled. "Damn! I'm late. Sorry Lana, I've got to get to the office. Sarah's going to kill me. See you tonight." John quickly swallowed the rest of the eggs and dashed out the door, calling from halfway down the stairs, "Try not to break anything; you can just let yourself out when you need to."

The door slammed.

Shaking her head in disbelief, Lana downed the rest of her eggs, took a sip of coffee and headed back into the living room. It was still bathed in darkness, the curtains shut tightly against the morning light and the lamps extinguished. As Lana moved further into the room, her foot caught against something hard, and she swore colorfully. Clutching her foot, she hopped across the room to the curtains and wrenched them open. Light flooded the flat, revealing a general melee of books, clothing, overturned boxes of various objects, and- for no apparent reason- a long, slender sword Lana vaguely recognized as a katana. Thankfully she had only overturned one of the cartons and not sliced her foot off. As she moved back into the middle of the room, Lana stooped to pick up the fallen items. She was surprised to see the entirety of the carton had been full of old photographs. Disregarding the thought that this was snooping, Lana flipped them over, one by one, examining them as she put them back in the box. Most were old; faded or ripped on the side, with great, curly captions on the back in blue ink. The apartment, 1995; Westar's lake, 1997; each had been taken and labeled with care, but none seemed to go past the year 1998. Lana kept searching, flipping through photo after photo until she found something she never thought she'd find.

The photo was at least ten years old; after all, if he was thirty-four now, Sherlock couldn't have been older than twenty-five here. Lana couldn't believe how young he looked. It was amazing; he looked much the same as he did now, but the youth and light that seemed to emanate from him was unmistakable. His entre face seemed to glow with the warmth of his eyes and his smile. That was what captured Lana, I think; the smile. It seemed to belong to another human being, so strange to see on Sherlock's face, and yet it fit so perfectly she knew it couldn't belong to anyone else. She had to admit, he had a very nice smile; when he felt like showing it. And-granted, it pained her to admit that such an annoying person such as Sherlock could be so attractive- she had to admit that he was extremely handsome in the photograph.

Which might explain the girl on his arm.

But then again, there must have been some point in his life when Sherlock wasn't a COMPLETE sociopath.

"What are you doing?"

Lana looked up. Sherlock was standing in the doorway, fully dressed and rubbing his hair with a towel. He had a look of indifference that was slowly becoming curiosity.

"I found this," said Lana, holding out the photograph. Slowly, Sherlock look it from her and examined it with a now completely blank expression. It was clear he didn't want to say anything about it, and Lana knew she had touched the nerve she was aiming for. Now she just had to strike.

"It's her, isn't it? The one who's got you so worked up." When there was no immediate reply, she pressed on. "Who is she, Sherlock? I know there's something going on and like it or not I'm involved in this case now. You can't afford to not tell me the truth. What aren't you telling me here?"

There was a very long pause, and then Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and sank, defeated onto the couch.

"Fine." He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and began. "I met Irene Adler about twelve years ago at University, and immediately she caught my attention. She was brilliant, deductive, and strong, and yet she was poised and graceful.

"I don't know how it happened, but somewhere along the way she became my… girlfriend, I suppose would be the word for it. For the longest time, she was my whole world. I don't know how, but she could draw others to her with her charm, her grace. She burned at the center of my universe. And then that light burned out."

At this, Sherlock fell silent, clutching the photograph and staring at the floor. His face was one of absolute misery. Lana said nothing; she felt as though she had taken a knife to his heart, peeling away, layer by layer, to reveal the tortured soul underneath. It hurt her to know that she was causing him this much pain, but as she opened her mouth to speak, Sherlock plowed on, glaring into the carpet with wild determination to lay the matter to rest.

"After about two years, I was considering proposing to her. She was making plans to move into my flat, a little place on the edge of the Thames. At the time, I was working on a case involving a German smuggling ring, and was, at that time searching for their chief informant here in London. Irene insisted on keeping tabs on the case, saying she wanted to help, and I obliged, thinking nothing of it…"

"No," Lana breathed.

"Sadly, yes," said Sherlock, looking up at her and staring directly into her eyes. "Not long after, I had left to search London for the ring's hideout, and after about an hour of searching I discovered the place. They were all together, speaking rapid German and arguing about when their leader was going to get there. Apparently they had been late before.

"I didn't have long to wait. Soon after, their leader came into the room. Everyone stood as they came in, wrapped in a huge coat. And then it was removed.

"I thought I was going mad. There was no way this could be true. And yet, there was Irene, right in the middle of the ring, chatting with all of them as though they were the closest of coworkers. I listened in on them for over an hour, before the meeting broke up and I was forced to return to my flat. I knew what I had to do then. As much as I loved this woman, I had to turn her over to Scotland Yard. Somehow I had let myself fall in love with a world-class criminal. And she had duped me completely.

"She came around the next night, and I felt as though I was ready to turn her in. but it was pointless. She knew what I knew, and she made me pay dearly for it.

"I didn't know what to expect from her, but the moment she walked, Irene locked the door, shoved me against the couch, and pushed a pistol against my nose. She told me she had seen me the night before, spying on her through the window. Clearly she had been planning this for months now; she explained how she had been feeding my discoveries directly to the rest of the ring, making it impossible for me to find them. I was too late; the last of the goods had been brought to London, and the smuggling ring was breaking up. This was the last Irene thought she would see of me; I honestly thought she was going to kill me. But something held her back that night. I have no idea what it was; I think it was amusement. Irene told me that she wouldn't kill me now, because she enjoyed our little games; she swore she would see more of me in the future, somewhere…"

Sherlock paused again, his eyes reflecting the story back at Lana. She could see it clearly in her mind; a younger Sherlock, getting his heart ripped to pieces by the one woman he had ever loved, and knowing she would always be back for more. Lana tried to imagine his pain, but all she could come up with was the loss of her father; this was much deeper, and she could see the scars it left in him.

"Well," said Sherlock, "Miss Adler decided while she couldn't kill me, she could still toy with me one last time. Before I knew what was happening, I was hit on the back of the head with the gun butt. When I woke up, the flat was in flames and a fireman was standing over me, yelling at me to get up."

He sighed. "That was the last I saw of her for several years. I swore to myself that I would never let myself get caught in a snare like that again and since then, girls have never really been… my area. It's never been worth it to try. There's nothing in that area that interests me that won't lead to a lot of trouble and a lot of sleeping on my stupid brother's couch.

"I kept tabs on her though, wherever it might be possible that she might have been hiding. She's a master of deception, and really, one of my only true enemies. And now, it seems, she's back to mess with my life again."

With these words, Sherlock stood and threw the photograph back into the box. He glared at Lana with a sort of defiance, daring her to question him or try to make him feel better. Lana felt sickened; she realized now why her plan to let her stay here had hurt him so badly. Cautiously, she spoke.

"So, what does she want now?"

His face relaxed. "I wish I knew, but it seems as though it has something to do with your ex-company's missing executives. They must have had some sort of dealings with her in the past, so they all had to disappear when the funding stopped coming in and they couldn't afford to pay Miss Adler back. But they were clever; they must have known they would have to escape eventually; this must have been thought out for years. And now, one by one, she must be following them and hunting them down."

"But there's no evidence that all these victims are our missing directors," Lana pointed out.

"Not until I get the test results back from the lab. I'm taking them in later. No reason for Anderson to get involved; he'll only screw up the data, like everything else he does. But if my hunch is correct, then all of these men have been killed for the same reason; but there's something missing that I just can't put my finger on."

Lana stood up and headed for the door. "Where do you think you're going?" asked Sherlock, throwing the towel across the couch.

"I'm going to investigate that house of acupuncture Miss Adler left us the address to. It's got to mean something."

"There's no way you're going there; you don't know what she's capable of!"

Lana grinned coyly. "Why the sudden concern? Worried about your girlfriend all of a sudden?" she ignored his appalled look. "Listen, I'll be fine; Adler shouldn't know anything about me. I've got my phone, my laptop, my reporter skills, and my baby," she waved the Colt under his nose. "So I'll be fine. Just go bother freaking' Anderson and get those samples tested." Lana grinned. "Don't worry; I'm not going to run. This is my fight too."

With that, she grabbed her bag and ran out. Sherlock stood alone for a moment in the darkened flat, listening to the echoes of her footsteps as they headed down the stairs, then he too grabbed his bag and left with a slam of the door.

Up next- The Basement

in which there is defeat, a move, and chemistry