Finished early so posting early. Bit of a change guys, to those who read the last chapter. In the first chapter, I mentioned there was only two months before Mary and John's wedding but after further delving into the fic, I realized this is much too short a time for the investigation to conclude so I changed up the dialogue to say "There's only a few more months before the wedding". I apologize for the confusion and I do hope you will continue to enjoy this fic. Thank you so much!

"Really, Irene. Couldn't you have worn a better set of clothes?"

"Would you rather I have worn that sheet?" Irene muttered under her breath and leaned heavily against the limousine's window, her blue eyes darting across buildings.

Anthea released a frustrated sigh from across her. "We are going to be meeting the head of Parliament in his private abode. The least you could've done is worn the dress suit I gave you. Or let your hair down instead of tying it in a haphazard bun."

"And end up looking like you? No thank you." Irene made a show of turning up the collars of her dark grey trench coat. Beneath the coat was a grey t-shirt with the words 'BRAINY IS THE NEW SEXY', a pair of well-worn jeans, and sneakers which had clearly seen better days.

This wasn't her usual get up of course. She just really liked seeing Anthea squirm, especially since she had once worn these when the elder Ms. Adler found her in a drug den once.

Those were the days. She didn't miss it. Not the smells, the broken windows, the stained mattresses and the other junkies in those abandoned buildings. But she did miss the highs. Good thing she now had her job as a consulting detective to depend on. This—solving crimes, exercising her intellect—was her new drug. Not to mention how lucrative some cases could be especially with generous clients, but money was only secondary. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through her veins...now that was priceless.

"Let's just be thankful she's wearing her coat," Mary spoke up from Irene's side then leaned in closer to her. "Will you at least consider closing the coat around yourself once we get there?"

"I'm not going there to impress anyone with my appearance, Mary. Now, you, on the other hand..." Irene gave Mary a once over, taking in the sight of her best friend's flattering purple dress. "I suppose that dress does become you. A little too formal, but you'll need every advantage possible."

Mary blinked, then turned to Anthea. "That wasn't a compliment, was it?"

Anthea gave Mary a tight smile. "Have you ever heard my sister give anyone a compliment?"

The car fell quiet, and Irene slowly released a breath. Finally. She had been wanting everyone in the limo to shut up ever since they got in, but no, Mary and Anthea had to talk up a storm about the last case, which involved a chef who killed his victims by serving them salad with some chopped up hemlock, a highly poisonous, parsley-looking plant. But that's over and done, and now, there was a new case to solve.

Irene closed her eyes and eased into her inner sanctum—her mind palace. There, she could look into memories and data she had stored through the years: an almost infinite knowledge base of facts that she used to solve cases. Now, she was using recently garnered information from the papers and the telly to figure out what exactly it was that Prime Minister Mycroft Holmes wanted of her. Oh, she supposed she could simply ask Anthea, but where was the fun in that?

"You're trying to figure out why the prime minister has called for you, aren't you?" Anthea cut in to her thoughts. "Too proud to ask me, little sister?"

Irene glared at her. Why couldn't this woman just leave her alone?

"You'll find out soon enough anyway." Anthea smiled just as the limo came to a stop in front of a large property with wrought-iron gates, a sprawling mansion against a backdrop of trees in the distance. "We're here."

All three women alighted from the vehicle. Mary was clearly in awe of the general splendour of the place while Irene remained stoic. This was just another piece of land, owned by just another client though she had to admit, she was intrigued. More than once, Anthea had called upon her to assist with a few missions for MI6, but she had never been called upon by one of the highest in the land, let alone meet with them face to face.

With Anthea's men in tow, they walked through the stone path leading to the mansion, past trimmed hedges and a large fountain before being shown through the door by the butler.

"Thank you, Harry," Anthea nodded to the butler. "Where's Mycroft?"

"In his study, Madam," the tall butler answered with a slight bow. "He's been expecting you."

"Mycroft, huh?" Irene mused as they followed her sister through the hallways of the grand house. "So you're on a first name basis with the prime minister?"

Anthea continued walking. "I do believe he has a timetable so it's best we hurry."

"And you certainly know you're way around this place."

"Shut up, Irene," Anthea growled but didn't look. Ah, so she hit a spot, Irene thought. Best preserve that information for posterity.

One more turn, and they reached a double door which Irene assumed led to the study. Anthea knocked.

"Come in," came a tired but noble-sounding voice from inside. After ordering the two men with her to stand guard outside, Anthea opened the doors, revealing a large study full of bookshelves, intricate rugs, fancy curtains and framed paintings. At the centre of it all was the prime minister, seated behind his well-organized mahogany desk.

"Anthea." Prime Minister Mycroft Holmes rose to his full height of six and a half feet and walked towards his top most intelligence officer with an outstretched hand. Even at this morning hour, Irene noticed he was already dressed and ready to work—thinning brown hair brushed in waves, white shirt beneath a crisp dark suit, shoes that were polished to mirrors, and a silver necktie that was interestingly enough, a bit wrinkled, as though it had been fumbled with over and over. A habit perhaps?

"Mycroft." Anthea shook the prime minister's hand. Irene snorted deliberately, earning her a glare from her sister. "Before anything else, please do allow me to apologize for the state of my little sister."

"Curbing the misbehaviour of younger siblings tends to be a full time occupation for the elder ones, I understand," Mycroft acknowledged in a strangely nostalgic tone.

The prime minister turned towards her. "Ms. Adler, the younger. You have to allow me to tell you how honoured I am to finally meet you. I have heard much about you from Anthea, and have read about all of your exploits."

Irene shook Mycroft's hand, and though she tried to appear impassive, she couldn't deny she felt a sense of pride from his words.

"And this must be Ms. Mary Morstan." He turned to Mary and shook her hand as well. "The decorated soldier, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I am a tremendous fan of your blog. Particularly the one about the aluminium crutch."

"Oh, well, thank you, Prime Minister," Mary answered rather coyly, much to Irene's annoyance.

"There would have been another case to read if she hadn't been too distracted to blog about it," Irene grumbled. This time, both Mary and Anthea threw her a glare.

"Shall we all take a seat?" Mycroft cut in, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk while he walked around and returned to his own seat.

"There's been a murder, Ms. Adler. A rather heinous one at that," the prime minister began, his long fingers fumbling with his necktie. Ah, so it was a nervous habit, Irene thought. "The victim was a daughter from one of the House of Lords by the name of Lydia Smallwood."

"Lady Smallwood's daughter?" Mary declared, then turned to Irene. "She was in almost every charity ball in the country and had been at the forefront of her mother's political campaigns. She also did a lot of charity work in Africa. She died about a week ago." Mary turned back to the prime minister. "The papers said her death was due to natural causes."

"Far from it, I'm afraid." Mycroft leaned back in his office chair. "Her parents spun those tales to keep people from prying. Ms. Smallwood's death was...of a more violent nature."

He gestured to Anthea, who promptly produced an envelope and handed it to Irene, who was sitting across her.

"She was found by her parents in their family lodge in Dublin," Anthea informed. "She had been dead around twelve hours by then."

Irene took out the contents and stared at it. From beside her, she could hear Mary's soft gasp as their eyes took in the image of a petite Lydia Smallwood, her naked and bruised body bound in intricate knots of rope, her wrists and ankles tied together behind her back. Wound tightly around her neck was a red silk necktie.

Irene flipped through the crime scene photos, her eyes unblinking as she memorized each angle that detailed the brutality of what had been done to the young woman. But when she looked at the coroner's report, she paused.

"Cause of death, asphyxiation?" She looked up and caught the prime minister's gaze. "From what had been done to her, I would have expected some kind of internal damage."

"It was all very controlled, her beating," Anthea chimed in, then smiled. "But I don't expect you to understand that."

Irene's brows met in confusion. "Understand what?"

"Bondage, dear sister," Anthea explained. "That is the reason why her parents kept the real cause of death a secret. They knew of their daughter's predilections and even had her institutionalized at one point but Ms. Smallwood would not be prevailed upon. Can you imagine the scandal if it was revealed that their saintly daughter died as a result of some auto erotica fixation?"

"Could the death have been accidental then?" Mary questioned.

"Not according to the private detectives hired by the Smallwoods." Anthea pointed at the folder that was still on Irene's lap. "She suffered a considerable amount of tracheal damage, indicating intent to kill. The necktie was the murder weapon."

"Clearly. Even Donovan can work that out." Irene twisted her lips in annoyance and gave a slight shake of the head. "And I suppose you want me to find her killer. What I don't understand is why the British Prime Minister would hire his own private detective to help solve a case for someone from the House of Lords."

Irene watched as Mycroft and Anthea shared a look. The study was quiet for a moment, save for the crinkles of fabric produced from the way the prime minister fumbled nervously with his necktie.

Mycroft nodded quietly to Anthea, who produced another envelope from her handbag. How she managed to fit in those envelopes in that small bag of hers was beyond Irene's comprehension.

Anthea took out a photograph from the envelope and handed it to Irene. "What do you know about this man?"

Irene took the glossy photo from her sister and gazed at the image of a pale-skinned man with high cheekbones, a well-structured nose, full lips and intense blue eyes, his slick dark hair combed back neatly, practically plastered to his head. He was smoking in the photo, the cigarette protruding from between long, tapered fingers.

"Nothing, whatsoever," Irene replied, still looking the photo. "Am I supposed to know him?"

"I suppose not." Anthea leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs. "He goes by the name of Sigerson."

"Sigerson?" Mary repeated. "Just Sigerson?"

Anthea tilted her head slightly. "You could call it his...stage name."

"So he's an actor," Mary pursued.

"No. He is what you would call...a Master. A male dominatrix if you will."

Irene blinked, her fingers tightening at the corners of the photograph. "Dominatrix..."

"Don't be alarmed, little sister." Anthea gave Irene a tight smile. "It has to do with sex."

Irene snapped her head up. "Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?" Anthea chuckled in a way that made Irene want to hurl the photograph back in her smug face. "Masters like Sigerson provide shall we say, recreational scolding and punishment to those who take pleasure in that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it. They have a smaller market compared to their female counterparts—the dominatrices—and in their small community, Sigerson has made quite a name for himself. We can even go so far as to say he's the most sought after Master, with a clientele that includes London's elite."

"He is an attractive man," Mary observed. "Is he a suspect?"

"He's the primary suspect, yes," Anthea confirmed, and once again, pointed at the files on Irene's lap. "The knots used on Ms. Smallwood as well as the red necktie are all Sigerson's signature. He applies the technique to all of his clients. And Ms. Smallwood, we are to understand, happens to be a patron of his."

"Has he been brought in for questioning?" Mary continued.

"No," the prime minister answered, fingers still on his tie. "In fact, I would dearly prefer that he wasn't brought in by the police at all, hence my reason for coming to you for help, Ms. Adler. I need you to clear Sigerson's name."

"Wait..." Mary held up a hand. "I thought we were sent here to solve Ms. Smallwood's murder. Not prove the innocence of an alleged killer."

Irene remained quiet. Observant. The way the prime minister's fingers trembled as he fidgeted with his tie. The way his jaws tightened and his shoulders hoisted. The shape of his ear. His hair colour. His long, tapered fingers.

"He's your brother," Irene finally spoke. The prime minister froze, and the room fell silent. "Sigerson is your younger brother."

It took another moment before Mycroft spoke again. "We have kept a lot of people...successfully in the dark about this little fact, Ms. Adler."

"That the Prime Minister's younger brother happens to be in the sex trade? Or that he could possibly be a murderer?" Irene deadpanned. She could see Anthea holding back the urge to lash out at her, but she ignored it and leaned closer to the desk. "What's his real name?"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. But he goes by his second name, Sherlock." Mycroft slumped down in his chair. He seemed to have aged before Irene's eyes as he ran a palm across his forehead. "It has been a long time since I last spoke that name."

Mary took a few sheets of paper the envelope on Irene's lap and began studying it. "Well...there's uhm...that's quite a lot of evidence against him, Prime Minister. Phone records...a calling card left at the scene...eye witness accounts of a man matching his description..."

"My brother is innocent," Mycroft Holmes insisted with such conviction, Irene was almost inclined to believe him were it not for the facts stated in the documents. "Sherlock Holmes may be in a...less than savoury line of work but I know my brother. He is a lot of things but a murderer is not one of them."

"Did you want us to clear his name on your own accord?" Irene asked, taking the files back from Mary. "Or did he come to ask you for help?"

"No, no." Mycroft shook his head. "He's much too proud for that."

Anthea smirked. "Sound like anyone you know, baby sister?"

Irene ignored her. "So all this is due greatly in part to brotherly concern, is that right, Prime Minister?"

"I worry about my brother. Constantly," Mycroft affirmed. "And I cannot begin to detail how much this would break our parents' hearts if all these were to come to light. But aside from that, the Smallwoods were actually the ones to approach me. They've been friends with the family for years, you see, and it would be beneficial for both parties if my brother were not in any way involved. Otherwise...well...at the end of the day, they still do need justice for their daughter.

"Now, Ms. Adler, tell me." He leaned on his desk, his hands clasped together tightly. "Will you take on the case?"

"Are you joking?" Irene grinned. "A socialite strangled and bound by ropes and a possible murderer whose innocence I will have to prove? Why, Prime Minister, you are spoiling me very much indeed." She shot up to her feet and pushed the files in Mary's hands. "Carry these, Mary. We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Mycroft made a face and rose to his feet. "So you're not going to take the case?"

"Of course I am." Irene stopped and threw a confused look at the prime minister. "I thought I made that abundantly clear."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Anthea reached out to give him a light pat on the shoulder. Irene made another mental note. "She's taking the case."

"Well...uhm...alright." Mycroft turned from one sister to another before his shoulders, which had been tense since they entered the study, finally relaxed. "If there's anything you need at all, Ms. Adler—"

"I'll need your brother's address," Irene interrupted, then with a smile, added, "And a new set of clothes."

Hope you enjoyed that one. Expect that I'll be throwing references and dialogue from various episodes as well as shades from the movie. As always guys, thanks for reading. Am still working on the third chapter so that's going to be a while. Meantime, feel free to sound off your comments. :D