Standard disclaimers apply: Any rights belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. Only my original characters belong to me.

Dear readers,

thank you very much for the reviews, it is very helpful to know that you like what I am writing!

R. K. Sprague, blindkitten, Anna – Lee Ashton: Thanks, I hope I can keep up to your expectations.

Sweets and Charades: About Godfrey Norton, at first I wanted to exclude the story behind it, but after your review and thinking about it, I think I'll rewrite the first chapters. Irene and Sherlock will know each other, I adopted this chapter already. Anyway, I'll continue the fic firstly and then I'll rewrite chapter one and two.

The other characters are taken from:

John Clay: The red-headed league

Larson: The man with the twisted lip

Lysander Stark: The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb

Chapter 3 – One white bishop

In a split of a second I was on my feet and calling Jonathan "Come down, it has started." Indeed, that was the game Jim was playing: Chess, it was so like him.

Before Jonathan came down from his bedroom, I had passed the message to the true recipient and had started to rummage in his bookshelf. When he finally arrived in a checkered dressing gown, I had found what I had been looking for.

Yawning, he ruffled his unkempt hair. Never in his whole, long life, he had been a morning person and today was one of his worse mornings. "What happened, Irene?"

I waved the maps of London in front of his eyes. "Are there any more?"

"No. Would you please care to fill me in?" At that time of day, patience was not one of his virtues.

Despite the desolate state he was in, he caught the mobile I had thrown at him in a swift move and checked the message. While he was digesting the news, I spread the maps on his floor. He had three and they were from different centuries in different scales. It was useless. On every map, F6 was a completely different area. "F6 are the coordinates where a murder took place? Who is the black pawn?"

For what reason did he want to know it? I stared at him. "Does it matter?"

His thoughtful look let me hesitate. The black pawn was dead, but it was within my power to track down the white bishop. The place where the body was found was F6. Or was F6 the place where the murder had been committed and the corpse had been removed elsewhere? My insider knowledge of Jim's organisation was not up to date, but it might do. I answered my own question "Yes, it does. You're right."

There were several possibilities to find the identities and we both turned to his computer room. One room in his house was replete with the latest models, inside was barely enough place to stand, but somehow Jonathan had managed to cramp a chair between all the wires, cables and monitors. I stood close behind him, observing him with some envy. His light hands controlled the machines, like others played the piano, he was in his element. It took him only seconds and we had the police servers on the monitors.

Without ceremony he handed me a keyboard. Since he knew that I wasn't a genius with hacking, his trust was flattering and made me nervous. "You take the stations West and North, I'll check East and South."

One by one, we checked the reports, but I didn't find anything out of the ordinary. "Maybe it is not in yet."

"Very likely. Jim would have sent it immediately after the murder took place. There!" he cried out and point to one of the countless screens.

Looking over his shoulder I could read 'Drug-related death, homeless female person, Thames bank.'

Reading the whole report wasn't necessary and I didn't have to ask what made him so sure that this was the right person, a black pawn. The victim was a homeless and Sherlock was known to use their network. Furthermore, the body had been found near Larson's den of vice, a collecting point for all kinds of drugs and it belonged to Jim. "Don't you think it is a tad too close to Larson's?"

"No." His determination was decided. "Everyone who is in the know, can purchase anything from Larson."As he knew very well, I had first-hand experiences with Larson and his range. "This place is a logic consequence. I'd be on alert if she had been found at another place."

A devilish smile crept on my face and I couldn't wipe it away while I tipped my message on Sherlock's mobile.

'Let me entertain you. 2 am. IA.'

It didn't require a genius to figure the place, but it would occupy his mind for a few minutes and he would be reminded of me.

With a wagging finger, Jonathan grinned at me. "Finally you're getting your senses back, Irene."

"Oh, yes, I am. Someone has to do something." I would only be truly free if Jim was in prison, there was noting for free in this life.

All of a sudden, Jonathan turned deadly serious. "Be mindful, you're playing a dangerous double-edged game."

"I do have serious hope that Jim only notices it, when it is too late." After all, Jim was only human. In addition, I had agreed to take part in his game and there were only two ways out of it: being dead or winning the game.

"There is too much passion in this, Irene. Passion is poison for any analytical mind. Emotion clouds the mind, irrational conclusions will be drawn." If one thing was sure, then that Jonathan was worried this time.

"And what if Jim calculated my betrayal?" I pointed out. "That this is a plan to get rid off me in one of his sophisticated ways? That I am in the game to affect Holmes? He would kill two birds with one stone."

Jonathan fished something out of his drawer and held it out to me. "Take it. You might need it."

With reluctance, I inspected the automatic in his hand. "I am not very fond of carrying guns around. Once you carry one, you tend to use it. This is not a very elegant way to solve matters."

"But an efficient one. See it as your life-insurance." insisted he.

"I have already one." I tried to lighten his dark mood.

"And this is the reason why Jim will want to kill you." He seriously argued, he had misinterpreted me. "Jim doesn't share. Not even an old lover."

Was it that obvious that Sherlock attracted me? "You're right. But if this is a game, there is a chance to win if we act wisely."

"I do hope that you are right this time, Irene." Jonathan's warm hand rested on my shoulder.

I took his hand and squeezed it. Not once he had reproached me for getting involved with Jim, though I knew how much resentments he had had regarding Jim. To some extent he had been right and I could feel his resentments against Sherlock. Godfrey had been the ideal candidate in his eyes, but I wasn't born for a sheltered, safe life. I wanted to feel life, to feel excitement running through my veins. And not to live in a townhouse, together with a husband and two children, a 9 to 5 job... I felt a shiver running down my spine.

We left the theme alone and the day was spent with cycling, cooking a meal with Jonathan – in the end we called the Chinese delivery service since we both were complete incompetent cooks.

When it was time to leave, Jonathan ceremoniously handed me the keys to his motorbike. He didn't own one of these choppers old men used to cruise through the landscape to feel cool and free, he owned a fast naked bike. A true bike.

And as anything that belonged to Jonathan, the bike was modified being way faster than it should be. Since I had some time left, I took the freedom and made a spin into the countryside. The kick of adrenaline cost me one filling of the fuel tank, but it was worth it.

It was around eleven PM when I arrived at Larson's and after securing Jonathan's bike, I went down the small flight of stairs, stinking of the remains of the previous leaving visitors. Larson's den was not a place you dress up for, an old trouser and a worn t-shirt was the perfect outfit, forget about make-up and brushing your hair. Outward appearance didn't matter here, and as long as you could pay for the next fix, the content of your wallet didn't count. It was your attitude that counted.

Upon opening the door, I was greeted by the typical tell-tale sweet smell, sticky atmosphere and the trademark music. It was one of the places the music wasn't too loud, guests were expected to talk with each other. Still, it was loud enough to dance. It was grubby, the clientele was dubious, the music-style was a mix of independent and garage-rock, you could purchase anything that was x-rated and restricted. Altogether: I loved this place. In one evening you could study the lowest instincts of mankind and interpersonal relations without hindrance from social rules. This was the basis of mankind. This was reality. This was honest and straightforward.

You would find recreational drugs here, but most of the consumers were oldfashioned. Opium was back as I noticed, cocaine was dated, hash and heroine was consumed, crack was a 'no go' at Larson's, it had always been. Speed was offered, but not regularly demanded. Too many around me had dilated pupils, a hint that the good old LSD and hallucinogenic mushrooms were on vogue tonight, obviously Larson had had a new supply.

At the bar I ordered my obligatory beer. In a place like this, it came along with a free joint to fuel my appetite. Great. Smoking had never been one of my addictions, but one had to do in Rome as the Romans do. I was strong enough to withstand the temptation the next time and I lit it, inhaling deeply. Well, tomorrow I'd need some paracetamol to be functioning again.

When looking carefully around, I spotted Larson - the sharp dealer he was - together with Stark, an exceptional gifted chemist, and former classmate I knew from the University in Heidelberg. During our studies, Stark had realised that it was more satisfactory for him to brew dyestuffs, than to research a theme nobody except estimated thirty people in the world were interested in. The dye on his false money and his paper was perfect, this had been the faster way to fame and glory. Since the last time I had seen him, he hadn't changed much. He was still the bony, tall man, who wouldn't need to disguise on Halloween to scare anybody away. Both of them paid me no attention, I had looked utterly different when they had seen me the last time.

"Hey, how much?" A low, deep voice addressed me from the side and I glanced at the owner of the voice. A lanky, midsize junkie with a pale face, unhealthy features and fatty blond hair was standing beside me.

"Fuck off." My joint and beer was for more healthy than his evaporations and I concentrated back on them.

This was the moment the entrance opened again and everyone stared at it, I choked on my drink. Dr. Watson and his girlfriend stood rather puzzled in the entrance, too neatly dressed to pass unnoticed. Some nasty comments about upper class snobs made the round, but since they entered, the state of shock lasted only a sniff and everyone turned back to his former business.

For an establishment like this one, these were upper class-customers indeed; they were rare, but they came. It was the high quality that Larson sold. Not that cheap, adulterated stuff the dealers trafficked around the trendy-pubs to the revellers who considered it to be cool to take drugs. The vast majority of Larson's customers wouldn't be cheated this easily. The Watson party was none of my concern and with relief I looked at the smoked joint to toss it.

The next song on the play list was one of my favourites and I wriggled though the canned crowd to reach a place on the dance floor. Once the music moved my body, I was in another world and I mingled with the dancers, starting to flirt with the next so-called attractive man on the floor. He instantly flirted back, but he wasn't my type. One of these arrogant, brawny, show-off man who thought that he gets every woman because he does excessive training and drives a fast car. Brawny, but not much more to it. My good-looks was just what he was after, and well, I had a knack for adrenaline-addicted psychos, he was not my type. I blew him a kiss and moved on.

Then one lanky man in shabby cloths caught my attention, he wasn't moving to the music, he was leaning against a pillar. His silhouette, his movements, his dark hair combed back, made him appear cryptic and dangerous. The dominant cheekbones, the full, luscious lips that would suit a woman so well. This was the kind of guy that attracted me physically, and I had a suspicion who it was. The chemistry between our bodies couldn't be denied.

I danced my way across the floor until I stood in front of him to look into his eyes, eyes with an undefined grey colour and a keenness that had no rival. He didn't evade my look and I took it as an invitation. Indeed, behind the disguise was Sherlock Holmes, by his reaction I could see that the recognition had been mutual.

The mobile thwarted my plans: it vibrated, there was a message for him and it wasn't in the most convenient place in the moment. There was only one solution: I moved closer, lying an arm around his neck to pull his head to my lever. He didn't resist and so I could whisper into his ear: "You got a message."

Putting the mobile into his pocket had been no problem, while I had gotten my own one back. While he checked the mobile, I vanished into thin air to look for a cigarette automate, I was in need for one. It was at the usual place, between the toilets. The choice wasn't easy, I checked the vendor, my favourite brand wasn't there. Right, I was in England and not in Switzerland.

"Need some coins?"All of a sudden a hand slammed right and left of my head against the machine and I jumped around,facing him. Sherlock Holmes. He stared down at me, deploying all his personality and I stood his gaze.

It was a game two could play and I slowly licked my lips. "I have enough change."

"What are you planning?"

"Dies diem docet." I quoted Publilius Syrus.

"Why did you agree to play?"

"I think it is obvious, Sherlock. I love games."

"You have many addictions, Irene."

Just in this moment, Lysander Stark turned around the corner and there was only one place to hide. I grabbed his lapel and pulled him down. Gods, he smelled so tempting, natural, he didn't use any after-shave or deodorant with perfume. Irene, that is not the right moment to start an affair, I kicked myself in the butt and whispered. "One is right behind you. Lysander Stark, also known as Mr. Phoney. He had his hands in every case of forged money in England for at least 10 years. He is one of Jim's bishops."

Stark had reached us and tipped on Sherlock's shoulder. "Move, I want some cigarettes."

My cover wasn't looking at him when answering. "You're interrupting."

That was something you wouldn't say to Lysander Stark and he pushed us aside. Sherlock pretended to protest, but I pulled his face back, I didn't need Lysander to spill the beans on Jim, there was a slight chance he might recognise me. In less than a minute, Lysander had his cigarettes and left.

I released my grip on Sherlock, but he remained as close as he had been. Was it tactic? To make me nervous? He must have realised the effect he still had on me and he used it, his hand moved to my cheek and he captured my look with his intense, keen eyes. Time seemed to stop and I resisted the need to lean into his hand, he wouldn't play his perfidious with me. I was strong, I could stand this, I could outfox Jim and I would set the pace with Sherlock. For sure he knew of my struggle to be the one control.

"I need some more information to trust you, Irene. In the past you haven't proved to be very trustworthy."

As if I was an almighty and omniscient God. "Jim's other rook is Colonel Moran."

"Anything new? You know that I deduced that so far." said he and underlined his arrogant expression.

I didn't have much more for him. "Larson is one of the bishops as well as Stark. Colonel Moran and John Clay are closest to Moriarty, they are the rooks. You may remember John Clay, you once placed him on the third position of the most intelligent people in London."

He nodded and as if it was a natural reflex, his thumb caressed my cheek. For my taste he was too good in getting me to do what he wanted. "Who are you? The black or the white Queen?"

For him, the answer was crystal clear, the question was rhetorical to get me thinking. Sherlock's or Jim's. His closeness was unbearable, I could feel the heat of his body, he was manipulating me, he was playing with me. I must have had a devil in me when I had parted from Godfrey. If I was still with him, I wouldn't be in this situation with this perverse genius, but exactly that was what drew me to him. He was dangerous, I could taste life around him.

"You deduced it." I breathed into his ear and resisted the temptation to kiss him right there. I felt his satisfied grimace before I noticed what was going on behind him and cried out "Watson's in trouble!"

'In trouble' was mildly put. A rough bar fight was going on, how could we miss it? Larson was right in the middle of the brawl as well as Watson, Watson's girlfriend was dealing blows – I had to give her credit, she was protecting him well. Sherlock and Watson exchanged glances and I pointed at Stark, who stole away. "He's getting away."

Sherlock took my arm and steered me to the exit. "No, he won't. Can you drive?"

Was he referring to the polluted air in this establishment? My head had started to ache, the opium had made me sleepy, my sight was blurry. Asides from that, I felt well enough, that was nothing out of the usual. "Yes, get yourself a helmet."

He didn't need a second invitation and grabbed one handy before we hurried out of the club into the cold night. Watson did look as if he could keep Larson in check and the back-up force with Lestrade was organised by Sherlock while I readied the bike. Stark was driving a bike as well, and paying no attention to us. Many had left the den and fled the place in expectation of the sure to come police raid. As soon as I was done, Sherlock was too.

"Hold on tight." I instructed him and obviously he didn't need the advice, he clenched his fingers into my leather-jacket and he surely did so with his other hand on the handle behind him. When we took the first turn I noticed that he wasn't used to riding on a bike, but luckily he was a fast learner and some turns later he trusted my driving skills and leaned into the turns with me.

Stark was taking a direct road out of London, and soon taking the M4 – much to my relief. It was easier to trail him with some more traffic around us. We passed the outskirts and followed him, passing smaller satellite cities.

With the time I noticed that my vision blurred and my head started to ache, I started to feel the effects of the drugs at Larsons. It couldn't be far to Stark's destination, he wouldn't choose a home too far from London, he would have to drive the distance several times a week and I got a grip on myself. Just a little longer! There, in front of us appeared the neon lights and the loud coloured advertisements of the next city – Reading. Stark left the M4 and I tracked him.

Directly behind Reading, a growl in my stomach didn't announce anything good. Opium always had been poison for my system, causing sleepiness and nausea. I had to stop between some trees in front of the town, ripped the helmet from my head, tossed it into Sherlock's hands – who didn't look any better as I noticed from the corner of my eyes - and vanished behind the next tree. For some minutes I preferred some privacy.

When I was done, I looked for my pillion rider, he was standing in the middle of the street, oblivious to the passing traffic – at was early Sunday morning, so there was nearly none – and observing the street Stark had used. I wasn't in the mood for explanations and took my helmet from him. "His hideout isn't far."

The dizziness in my head refused to subside, was that a wolf between the trees? Why was it so hard to concentrate? "What makes you so sure?"

"The next town is too far away and not small." Sherlock was slurring and he wasn't walking straight. This wasn't just the opium. "He needs a secluded place."

My knees shook and I felt the full effect of whatever it was, it wasn't hash and it wasn't opium alone. The trees extended their branches to catch us and draw us between them. Something was off: Sherlock was making a headstand on the road marking. All I wanted to do was to sleep, there was no chance I could drive in this stadium and I tossed him the keys. "I can't go on. You drive."

His vision of the world was still upside down. Was he paying Australia a visit? "No, I can't."

This was confusing, that was the simplest thing to do. "Why not?"

Finally being back from Australia, he stared at me as if this was the most normal thing on earth. "I have no driving license."

Now it was my turn to stare at him "You do have no driving license?"

He spread his arm to embrace the next tree, he was dangerously close to be swallowed by it. "That was the meaning, yes."

"But..." It was useless to discuss, there was no way he could drive this special bike back to London without any experience. With a sigh I put the keys back into my pocket and in the lights of the next passing car I got a good look into his usually keen, clear eyes. His pupils were widened, the iris only a small band, he was on hallucinogens just as I was. This would be a trip to remember if we made it to Reading and managed to get a hotel-room. "We'll have to wheel the bike then."

"Most obviously so, yes." He was humming a melody and waving his fingers in the rhythm.

Since he didn't move a finger, it was up to me to care for Jonathan's bike, but luck was on our side, we could see a hotel from our place. It wasn't too far and it didn't take long to reach the first rundown Hotel in Reading. The red and pink illuminated advertising was suspicious, but my sight was so affected that I couldn't read anymore. Only a few more minutes and I would drift into a completely different world. What had been in the joint? Had Larson recognised me? This wasn't only the effect of the smokes in the den.

It was obvious that Sherlock didn't feel any better, because he didn't object to enter. "They'll have a shower and a bed. What do we need more?" I recalled the moment Stark had pushed us out of the way. Had he unnoticed by us – given Sherlock something? He looked as horrible as I must look: pale, perspiring and tired. We had to pull ourselves together and I pushed the door open, but was overtaken by Sherlock who had put on his most concerned face as he turned to the clerk. "Please, Sir, we need a room for tonight. Is one available?"

The clerk eyed us from tip to toe and screwed up his nose. "I am sorry, Sir." The 'sir' pressed between his clenched teeth and dismissive face wasn't exactly what I called polite. "There is a conference at University, there is no room vacant."

In an intimate manner Sherlock leaned on the counter, I wasn't sure, but some notes changed hands. "Please, Sir. My wife isn't feeling well and we can't go on driving on a bike tonight. She is still suffering from morning sickness. We'll leave early in the morning."

To the young clerk I must have looked horrible, because he turned to the computer to check the occupancy. It couldn't hurt to play along and let myself drop into the armchair with a suffering expression.

"There is one, you'll have to fill in this registration form, please."

As Sherlock began to complete the form, he was going up and down with his head and starting to move strangely, the clerk started to eye him mistrustfully.

"He forgot his glasses." I cleared the situation and it was enough to dispel his concerns about Sherlock's strange movements.

Once the clerk had checked the form, he looked at us. "Credit card, please."

Sherlock turned to me and stretched out his hand. Great. It took me a while to fumble my portemonnaie out of my leather-jacket and when I opened it, I couldn't recognise what was the correct card. I handed the whole thing to Sherlock, but he seemed equally lost.

"This one, Sir." The clerk pointed out and Sherlock handed it to him while the clerk lowered his voice to a whisper. "If you need some medicine, just tell me."

Despite his stadium Sherlock seemed to function well, while I couldn't focus on one coherent train of thought. "Yes, we could use some paracetamol."

With a short nod of his head, the clerk vanished into his office and came back with the desired pills. Relieved that we could finally go to our room, I stood up and with some common effort we managed to find the correct floor and the right room. Much to our luck, the hotel had magnetic cards as keys - you didn't need to hit the keyhole.

Once inside, all I did was to lean against the wall and glide onto the floor. I barely managed to squirm myself out of my leather trousers when I noticed that Sherlock didn't plan to sleep it off. He was determined to go out and instantly I was on my feet blocking his way. "What do you think you are doing?"

"Try to find out where Stark is. He is near Reading, his laboratory is here."

Indeed, he was serious. It had to belong to one one of his drug-induced visions that he was so sure of it. "No, you're not going anyway."

I started to understand why his older brother was so overprotective. In certain aspects Sherlock was like a little child who needed to be looked after. "I am going, I know where Stark is."

With a slow movement I cocked my automatic and held it under his nose. "No, you won't. You are not in the condition."

His only response was a raised eyebrow. "You won't use this."

"What makes you so sure?" Brazenly I challenged him, not evading him.

"This." His one hand raised to my cheek to caress it, followed by his other hand, he cupped my face and kissed me. He was persuasive with his tongue, I dropped the gun and looked him in the eyes. There was the same coldness as in Jim's, my clouded mind told me, there was the same ruthlessness, he didn't care for my feelings. He played with me. No.

"No." I pushed him away, I wouldn't let him have his way with me. From my point of view, he appeared to be rather surprised. Did anyone behave as this spoiled child predicted? "You won't pass me."

His eyes fixed mine, I felt like being a prey. "You're mistaken, Irene." His deep voice, his arrogant intonation and his self-confidence fascinated me, drew me closer to him and I couldn't control my reactions. Never ducking his stare, I traced the lines of his wonderful full lips, the contour of his prominent cheekbones. With deliberate slow moves, his hands wandered down my shoulders, my arms, only to stop on my waist and wrap around me. This was not the time to fight an attraction that was stronger than we both and we gave in. Indeed, this was a night to remember.

A penetrant ring persisted in my aching head and it took me sometime to orientate me. Sitting up, I noticed that I was lying in the opened closet, a moist towel wrapped like a turban around my head. In a shock I remembered the hot night Sherlock and I had spent, and I looked down on myself. The pants were still in place, as well as my tee. Perfect, this had been an illusion and I had to be dishonest not to admit that this was regrettable. In my imagination this had been the perfect night with a permanent struggle for the upper hand.

The caller was persistent and finally I noticed that the mobile was under the damp towel. Great. "Yes." It was a habit of mine never to answer a call with my name, it had proven helpful during my life. It couldn't hurt to look for Sherlock and I stood.

"Who are you and what are you doing with my brother's mobile? Where are you?" A frosty, commanding voice answered.

A cold shower ran down my spine. Everyone, but not him. Buy time. "May I ask firstly who YOU are?" Sherlock wasn't under the bed or crouched in a corner, but his shirt was hanging from the ceiling light and his trousers were lying on the floor, as well as his pants and socks.

"Since you are answering my brother's mobile, I suppose you know me."

What he left unsaid was, that no-one who dealt with his brother so intimately couldn't be a dumb moron. "I am Klara Fürwanger, I was at your reception. Your brother and I confused our mobiles, we'll meet later to exchange them. May I give you my number so that you can call your brother? Is it a case of emergency?" I found him. He was lying in the filled bathtub, supposedly naked, but wrapped in a blanket.

There was an unpromising silence at the other end before Mycroft – rather neutral – commanded. "Hand the mobile to my brother, Irene."

Before I answered, I had a short hard thinking about life in general and death in particular, about collaborators and foes. "He is still asleep."

"Wake him up. Now."

Since I knew that Mycroft would hear anything, I turned on the water. Ice-cold. "Sherlock, mobile."

Mobile was the magic word and in an instant, Sherlock sat straight in the bathtub and grabbed the mobile. The blanket fell aside and I could see what had been hidden under his shirt: three nicotine patches. He had had these on? In addition to the drugs at Larson's? He must feel like a Zombie.

All I heard from the mobile was a rather rigorous voice, surely a roasting from his lovely brother and Sherlock grimaced over the loud voice, said "Fuck off." and ended the call before he dropped back into the water. I had a full view on his lean, trained body and I couldn't deny that I liked what I saw.

In this very moment his mobile rang once more, a message. He opened it and I looked over his to read it. 'out of detention cell. larson arrested. JW'

Never loosing any time, Sherlock contacted Jim. 'black tower beats white bishop. SH'