Warnings: Coercion across all of it. Restraint, sexual scenes.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.

A/N: One last chance to get it right. Go, Adriane!

In contrast to Friday, dinner with Phil on Saturday is a very civilised affair. He is a good cook and the food is great, but the conversation is strained. I feel he is tiptoeing around me, staying on the polite side to avoid having to ask difficult questions. After an hour of this I force the issue when we move to the sofa.

"Phil, is there anything you want to ask me?"

He fumbles his words, but eventually gets to the point.

"You said there was a lot more to the stuff you told me last week. Can you tell me about it?"

I knew we were going to get to this at some point, so I have thought about the answer. I pour us both another drink, and then start to explain about the abuse, some of the stupid choices I have made in the past. I can tell he is desperately trying to understand, but he's struggling. When I finish, he says, "I just don't get why you keep getting into these situations again and again. It's almost as if you go looking for these guys."

If I can make him understand that that is exactly what I do then I will have achieved something,I think.

"That's the problem," I say, "I do. I can't help it."

He is quiet for a long time. Then he says, "And how does Sherlock fit into all this?"

"He's… different," I say, after some thought. "He just uses me as a test subject. He has no personal interest. If I get hurt there is a reason for it. And he always tells me what he's doing." Well, most of the time, anyway,I add to myself.

Phil is just looking at me incredulously, even though I have told him some of this before.

"So what," he says, "You just let him do anything to you? That's bloody dangerous if you ask me. How do you know he's not going to kill you just to see how it's done?"

"No, not anything," I say, "We have a deal. No permanent damage. And he has… a doctor friend. Who makes sure I'm OK."

Phil just says, "Jesus."

He pours himself another drink. This is going well,I think.

We sit quietly for quite some time. He finishes his drink before he asks, "And is there space for anyone else in your life?"

I'm surprised he is being so direct, but it may be the shock and the alcohol speaking. "I don't know, Phil," I say truthfully. "They'd have to be amazingly tolerant."

He is looking at his glass. "Have you slept with him?"

He's on a roll now. I am starting to feel pretty uncomfortable. I decide to go with the truth, though, or at least as much as I feel I can tell.

"Yes."

Now he's looking at me. "I thought you said he took no interest," he says.

"He didn't," I say, "I did. I think he was humouring me. He said it was interesting." I don't tell him about yesterday, though.

I'm waiting for him to get angry or upset, but he doesn't. He looks at me for a very long time before leaning over and drawing me into a hug.

"Adriane, your life is a mess," he finally says.

I just say, "Hm." At this moment I can only agree with him.

-oooOOOooo-

The week passes without incident. Work is pretty busy so I don't have too much time to stop and think. Phil makes a point of saying hello whenever we run into each other. On Wednesday I make my mind up and ask him over for dinner on Saturday. He seems really pleased. I wonder how he can still take an interest after everything I have told him.

There is one thing I do get round to, and that is to prepare for Friday. I am worried that Sherlock thinks I am getting complacent even though I haven't won a single game, so I prepare a plan and get ready. I make a point of wearing the same kind of clothes the whole week and use my rucksack instead of a hand bag, and I pack it on Thursday evening with the things I think I might need. I feel a little silly putting a couple of old party wigs in there, but I reckon it is better to be safe than sorry.

I am in the tearoom with Phil when the first text comes in at 4:30, just as I am beginning to wonder if he is going to call me out or not.

"Hide and seek. Two hours. All of London. No restrictions on my part. You have one hour to hide properly. Loser buys dinner at the Criterion. SH."

Oh well, I think, never mind. There really is no way I could afford to go there again, so I'm going to have to decline. I text back.

"Sorry Sherlock, I really cannot afford to go there. I'm going to have to say no. A."

After exactly one minute, I receive another text.

"One. Wrong answer. SH."

I text him back immediately.

"I don't really have much choice in the matter. A."

After another minute, a text comes up on Phil's phone. He looks confused.

"What is it?" I ask. He shows me. It says, "Two. SH."

I am still looking at it and wondering what to say to him when another message arrives on my phone.

"Three. Would you like me to tell Phil about last Friday? Or would you prefer to wait for a better opportunity to tell him yourself? SH."

Phil is still trying to make sense of the rogue text. "Adriane, do you know what's going on?" he says. "Who was that text from?"

"It's nothing," I say, "Just ignore it." I can tell I don't sound very convincing, but I'm also in the middle of writing an angry text back to Sherlock.

"That is blackmail. Stop it. A."

It takes a minute for the next text to come in. This time, there's an attachment.

"Four. Wrong. It's a bit of coercion. Blackmail would be for me to threaten to show him this. SH."

I only have to glance at the picture to know that it is not suitable for work. And that it's of me. I text back frantically, aware that I am blushing furiously.

"You never said you were taking photographs. Don't you dare show that to Phil. A."

Phil is looking worried. "Adriane, are you OK? This is Sherlock, isn't it?" he asks.

I nod, and say, "He's playing a mind game. He probably just thinks it's funny. But he shouldn't be getting you dragged into this."

Another text arrives on my phone. "Five. You never said I couldn't. And I haven't threatened to show it to him yet. Now hide. SH."

I take a deep breath. He has me in an impossible situation. There really is no telling whether these are empty threats or not, and I don't know him well enough to judge. From what I have seen he is pretty ruthless and doesn't hold much regard for social convention, so the chances are that he is entirely serious. I decide not to chance it.

I say to Phil, "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to go. I'll see you for dinner tomorrow."

He doesn't look too happy. "He's messing with your head, Adriane. How can you let him do that?"

"Unfortunately he's an expert," I say. "Don't worry Phil, it really is just a game. I am going to have a word with him afterwards."

With that, I head off. I'm a lot more worried that I let show to Phil, and I am racking my brains for a way out of this. Suddenly, a thought hits me. John.

As I get my phone out, another text comes in. "Six. Have you made your mind up yet? SH."

I text him back. "Yes. I am playing. But I am angry. A."

Then, I send one to John. "Please can you give me a ring when you have a minute? Sherlock's games are threatening to bankrupt me. A."

Sherlock's next text arrives before John phones. "Seven. Good. SH."

I'm wondering if he means good that I'm playing, or good that I'm angry, or both. No time to worry about it, I have things to do. I run into the ladies', and get changed into the clothes I have brought. I am in a state of semi-undress when the phone rings. It's John, and he sounds worried.

"Adri, what's going on?"

I briefly explain what has been happening over the last three weeks, and where we are at now. He isn't impressed.

"Jesus, Adri, you should have told me before. I warned you he's bloody dangerous when he's bored. Have you actually agreed to tonight?"

I say yes, I didn't really have any choice.

"Great. Just great. Couldn't you just say no?" John is sounding annoyed.

"John, he was threatening to blackmail me." I say.

"Wha… Hold on a moment. How can anyone threaten to blackmail? Surely you either blackmail or don't."

"No," I say, "trust me, he just made it clear what he wasn't doing. He didn't say he would. But I wasn't going to take the chance. "

John sighs. "I told you before, you've bitten off far more than you can chew. How did he get anything he could blackmail you with in the first place?"

I don't really want to answer that. It suddenly hits me that Sherlock might have been planning this for much longer than I thought.

"Ehm," I say. This is awkward. "He talked me into doing something personal. And then took a photograph without me noticing."

John goes quiet for a bit as he translates this, then says, "Oh. Oh. Jesus, Adri. That was a bit daft."

"Yeah," I say, "I know."

He seems to think about it for a while, then says, "I don't want to phone him to tell him to call it off. If he decides to be belligerent and ignore me it could work out much worse for you. But there is something we could try. I'm not promising anything."

While we are talking, four more texts arrive. I check them when John has hung up. They are simple counts, without comment. I text Sherlock back.

"I want that photograph destroyed. A."

His next text comes in when I have nearly finished changing.

"Twelve. Only that one? SH."

I swear quietly to myself, then text back. "How many are there? A."

I have to wait a long minute for the answer. This is costing me time, but it's important.

"Thirteen. Enough. SH."

I am running out of patience now. I text him back.

"I WANT EVERY SINGLE PICTURE THAT YOU HAVE OF ME ENGAGED IN A SEXUAL ACTIVITY DESTROYED. A."

I hope that's clear enough, without any loopholes. Time passes too slowly. After an age, I get a reply.

"Fourteen. There is a magic word. SH."

By now I am fuming. I can just picture him sending these, being all calm and very smug about it. However, I swallow my pride and text back.

"Please, Sherlock. I am extremely uncomfortable about this. A."

I put my old clothes back in the rucksack while waiting for his next text. When my phone beeps I scramble for it.

"Fifteen. Let's see if you can win. SH."

It was never going to be that simple, I think. It makes me even angrier that he has been stringing me along for near enough five minutes. I text him back, "I am switching my phone off. A."

I keep it on for another minute though, just to see what he has to say. The response comes in on the dot,

"Sixteen. Why? I am not currently tracing you. SH."

I promise myself one more text and then I'm switching it off. I reply, "No doubt there is some way to trace the history of where someone has been afterwards. A."

I stay in the toilets and wait for the response just in case I'm right. While I am waiting I try and calm down a bit, because I am still angry and upset and it won't help me at all to win the game. If I am going to get anywhere, I need to be calm. After exactly one minute, another text comes in.

"Seventeen. Oh good. You're actually thinking for once. SH."

That makes me feel a little better. I take a deep breath and switch off the phone. Now I just hope that John will manage to do what he said he would. I have to go on the assumption that he will. I feel a bit blind without my phone.

Nearly forty-five minutes to get where I'm going should be plenty. I make my way to a side door that the staff sometimes use for their cigarette breaks. The alarm on it has been broken for ages, awaiting repair after too many rounds of budget cuts. I let myself out after making sure that I am not being observed.

It's another beautiful spring evening, and there are still quite a few people on the pavement. I join the crowd, walking leisurely to the tube station, trying not to act conspicuously and just hoping that the wig and the hoody and the change of clothing are doing enough to disguise me. I get a ticket, take a random circle line train and stay on until Liverpool Street Station. There I make my way to the shopping precinct.

I make sure I spend a little bit of time in an area where there are quite a few CCTV cameras, trying not to look as if I am intending to be seen. Then I walk out onto the street through the main entrance, and a moment later back in through one of the side entrances, quickly making my way to the toilets. There I get changed again. The curly wig looks pretty ridiculous, but with some hair clips I manage to make it look at least slightly realistic. I just hope the cameras won't show up the creases on the smart clothes that have been stuffed in the bottom of my rucksack all day. I change my contacts to glasses and look in the mirror.

The fact I don't really recognise myself but am just looking at yet another secretary gives me some confidence. Finally I change my shoes and head out to the central line trains, taking the next train to Oxford Circus. I stay on the underground circuit this time and walk across to the Bakerloo line. I sit down for a while at the platform, letting a couple of northbound trains go past.

The clock on the signs tells me that there are only fifteen minutes of the countdown left. Time for the final move, I think. I jump on the next train bound for Baker Street.

Once I arrive at the station I begin to feel nervous. If Sherlock is looking out of the window, or is having the flat watched, then John's plan will almost certainly fail. Its success hinges on him never expecting me to go here in the first place. As I walk up the side of the road I keep close to the buildings to keep out of view of the windows. I duck under Speedy's canopy as soon as I get somewhere near it. Maybe not the most elegant of entries, but now at least I am certain that I am out of sight.

I walk into the café and go straight up to the owner.

"Adriane," I say to him. He nods, and lets me go through to the back. As soon as I get there, I take off the silly wig. Now it is just a question of climbing the fence between the two tiny courtyard gardens, and thankfully they have put out a stepladder to make it easier. Getting up is simple enough, but getting down proves to be more tricky. Maybe I shouldn't have worn a skirt, I think, as I feel the tights rip when I tumble over the fence. I manage to not land too loudly, and when I have got up and brushed myself down I tap quietly on the back door of Mrs Hudson's apartment.

She lets me in very quietly, although she does giggle a bit at the state of me. I take off the tights altogether and put them in the bin. Then I sit down with my back to the wall of the kitchen, hiding to the side of the kitchen door. Even if Sherlock came into the hallway he shouldn't be able to see me.

I breathe a massive sigh of relief when I realise that everything so far has gone to plan. I've got the jitters a bit after all that, and Mrs Hudson makes me a cup of tea, whispering, "Are you all right? You look dreadful!"

I nod and say, quietly, "I'm fine. I just got the shakes a bit. That was all a bit silly."

"Well, get a few biscuits inside you, that should perk you up," she whispers, putting a tin in front of me. I help myself.

The clock on the wall shows that the countdown has finished about five minutes ago. I should know soon enough if John's plan has worked. I am expecting Sherlock to come down the stairs any moment, but time moves on and still everything is quiet in the flat above. Mrs Hudson is busying herself around her apartment, occasionally putting her head around the door to see if I'm still OK. She is keeping me well supplied with tea.

The next time she pops in, I ask her, very quietly, "Is Sherlock actually here? Did he go out?"

"No, I'm sure he is here," she whispers, "he's been in all day."

I'm surprised when the clock moves to 6:30. One hour, I've not got this far yet. Maybe I'm in with a chance this time. I'm wondering what Sherlock is doing, how he is trying to trace me. I am hoping that my two changes of outfit will have made finding me on any CCTV footage hard, and may also have confused the homeless network. I am quietly hopeful.

By the end of the second hour, I have looked at every little detail in the kitchen at least a hundred times. I swear I could draw the place from memory, and will probably end up dreaming about it. I am getting more and more nervous as I watch the hands of the clock slowly move towards half past seven. The last five minutes last nearly as long as the preceding two hours. I give it another five minutes to be on the safe side, then switch my phone back on. Nearly immediately a text arrives.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are. SH."

Even Mrs Hudson is looking a little worried as I make my way out of the kitchen. I have no idea how Sherlock is going to react. The stairs seem longer than I remember. I hesitate in front of the door. It's only a game, I remind myself, then knock. It takes a moment before he responds.

"Come in."

I take a deep breath before opening the door and enter the room. Sherlock is sitting in a chair, watching me come in. He doesn't say anything, but gives me a cursory glance over. He doesn't take his eyes off me as he shouts down.

"Mrs Hudson!"

It's a very dithery Mrs Hudson who makes her way into the room after a minute or so. Sherlock moves his gaze away from me and onto her only when she is fully inside the room. I breathe a little easier for a moment.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Sherlock," she says, "John said it would be all right. It was only a game, after all."
Sherlock's composure only falters for a fraction of a second, but to me he looks briefly hurt. His gaze abruptly returns to me, as he dismisses Mrs Hudson with a wave of his hand. She turns round with a nervous "Oh!" and leaves the room, shutting the door behind her.

He is still silent when he gets up and walks over to me, his eyes never leaving me. When he is just a couple of inches too close to me, he stops and says, "John."

It's a question, not a statement. I nod. He's unnerving me, and I can't look him in the eye. He walks slowly around me, saying, "So... John phones Mrs Hudson and Speedy's, and all you have to do is to change your look a couple of times while making your way here, and stay hidden in the tube network. The guys at Speedy's help you over the fence, and then Mrs Hudson kindly keeps you supplied with tea for two hours. A cushy little deal."

I don't know why he is making me feel like a criminal over a game of hide and seek. I'm just grateful I will never be on the receiving end of this in a proper case and I almost feel sorry for the criminals. I'm wondering if he's going to let me off now, but he hasn't finished yet. He continues his slow circle, still fixing me with his gaze, and carries on.

"It was easy enough to follow you down from the college to Liverpool Street Station. I know of the side entrance, I was expecting you to take it. And you made plenty of effort to be spotted on the CCTV at Liverpool Street so I knew you were going to get changed again, otherwise there would have been no point in doing that. It was all very obvious until you got to John's part of the plan. If I am correct your original idea would have been to carry on going south and west, and get off at one of the small stations, all of which I had covered. Am I right?"

I nod. The implication is clear. If it had just been me, I would not have won.

He stops right in front of me, again that little bit too close, and I have to resist an urge to take a step back. I'm not sure where to look. I can't even tell if he is angry or not. He is quiet until it makes me more than a little uncomfortable. Then he says, "You cheated." I can't interpret his tone of voice at all.

My natural instinct is telling me to crumble into a grovelling apology, but I resist. No, not this time, I think. After all, he had a whole network of people at his beck and call. Once again I have to remind myself that this is only a game, even though Sherlock treats it with the same level of intensity as he does with anything else in his life. I take a deep breath and look up at him now.

"I simply made use of the tools at my disposal. You didn't leave me much choice, Sherlock."

He doesn't say anything, but just stands there, watching me, waiting for me to back down. I hold his gaze, defiant, determined that this time I am right, that I deserved to win, and that he is not going to intimidate me into apologising.

Suddenly, a very slow smile spreads across his face as he says, "Good."

He takes his phone out of his pocket, and navigates the menus. After a moment he shows it to me. "Folder is empty," it just says on the screen. It takes me a moment to say, "Thank you."

I'm trying not to show quite how shaky I feel as he moves away and says, "If you had been honest with Phil there would have been no leverage in those."

I shake my head. It amazes me how simplistic his view of human relationships is sometimes.

"Sherlock," I say, "If I had told Phil what happened he would have run a mile. He's struggling as it is."

He simply shrugs, and says, "You ordinary people complicate your lives so much with this stuff. It's all, 'can I tell this, should I tell that?' You leave yourself open to so much abuse."

I have to smile at the comedy voice. Ordinary, I think, thanks. I guess he has a point, although it doesn't really take account of the depth of human emotion. But then, I think, he wouldn't.

Sherlock has walked off now, obviously finished with the discussion, and is looking out of the window. "Dinner, then," he says. "You need to get changed. Again."

I'm not sure how he expects me to keep looking pristine during these games. It's easy for him after all, the last two times he hasn't even left the flat. But I have something else on my mind.

"Sherlock," I say.

There must be something in my tone of voice, because he is instantly on the alert, his eyes focused on me.

"Ehm," I carry on. "I don't really want another posh dinner."

He's looking very guarded when he asks, "Then what do you want?"

I briefly close my eyes. With what I am about to ask, there is every chance I will be shot down in flames in an instant. However, I'm sure I'm never going to be in this position again.

I look at him, and say, "A kiss. As if you mean it."

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, just looking at me as if I am some interesting specimen. I have a sudden urge to turn and run, feeling like I have exposed myself too much this time. He is frowning slightly when he says, "You would have me lie to you."

That hurts, and I think he can see it. I look away when I say, "If that's what it takes."

I have no idea what he is going to do next. I don't really expect him to do this, and I'm waiting for the cutting put-down. Instead, he says, "Come here."

I look at him, really unsure now. He's just standing by the window, waiting. His face is impossible to read. I walk over nervously and stand in front of him.

"Closer. Look at me"

I edge a step closer and look up at him. He's watching me steadily, not showing anything. I am regretting ever opening my mouth. Just as I think he is going to say something awful he takes my face in his hands, leans over and kisses me.

In an instant everything dissolves down to the here and now, and nothing else matters. He is gentle and unhurried and so very convincing. I try to remind myself that none of this is real, that it is all still a game to him but I can't hold onto the thought. A flood of mixed emotions overwhelms me: relief, arousal, anger, admiration, sadness, joy, awe, regret. I wrap my arms around him to get closer, to make the most of this. All I want is to stay here forever. By the time he finishes and pulls away I am out of breath and feeling slightly unsteady.

He looks at me, frowning. Then he touches my face where the tears have run. He sounds hesitant when he asks, "Why would you ask for something if it was going to upset you this much?"

I shake my head, "No, that was… amazing," I say. "The tears are for things that cannot be."

Sherlock is quiet for a while, then he says, "Five minutes, Adriane."

I know what he means, but I shake my head.

"No. It wouldn't help me. I'm OK," I say.

He considers me a little while longer. In the end, he just says, "Hm." Then he walks back to his chair and picks up a book.

I take the hint, although it seems he is genuinely indifferent to my presence.

"I'd better to go home," I say.

He doesn't look up when he answers, "Yes."

Seeing as how he appears to be in no hurry for me to go, I visit the bathroom first to sort my face out and recover some calm. It is with a sense of closure that I re-enter the sitting room. I am beginning to wonder how much longer he is willing to tolerate me in his life, at which point he is going to dismiss me altogether as an emotional inconvenience. I have the odd feeling that this might well be the last time I visit Baker Street.

"Sherlock," I say.

He looks up from his book. I take the opportunity to study his face a moment, not knowing when I will get the chance again. Then I say, "Thank you."

He looks at me curiously for a second, then nods briefly and returns to his book. I let myself out and make my way down the stairs. Before I leave altogether I say thank you to Mrs Hudson, who is in her kitchen, still looking a little worried. Then I make my way outside. It is with a very definitive click that the door of 221B Baker Street closes behind me.

I am not taking a lot of notice of anything on my walk home, far too preoccupied with the events of the evening. It takes me a moment to register the expensive-looking car that is slowly driving along with me and has now come to a stop a little way ahead. A man in a suit gets out and blocks my path, holding the passenger door of the car open. Quietly, he says, "Get into the car, please."

A/N: I have made the gross assumption in this fic that there are courtyard gardens at the back of the Baker Street properties. Looking on Google Maps, it doesn't look like that is the case. However, Mrs Hudson keeps her bins in the garden, so maybe in their reality there are. In any case, Adri would never have stood a chance of winning if she had had to knock on the front door. So there you go, Sherlock always wins, I just fudged it...