Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.

Chapter 5: The temptress

Just after four o'clock, Sherlock opened the door to 221 B Baker Street once more and stepped inside with a grim look upon his face.

"That… was boring," he stated in a dull voice as he pulled off his scarf and swiftly hurried up the stairs taking two steps at a time.

John, who had payed their Hackney carriage, entered a minute afterwards and shut the front door behind them. "If I didn't know you, I wouldn't believe how you solved it so quickly."

"Oh, please," the detective moaned from upstairs. "Quickly? I'm surprised it took me so long. It was so obvious the mother was guilty, after all."

The blond man shook his head as he ascended the stairs while muttering, "You keep saying that, but I still don't believe you."

"Did you not see the pleats on her skirts? She was obviously not the boy's real mother, the boy was rather the result of the father's obvious affair with his secretary, who died unexpectedly years ago and the man couldn't abandon the baby so took it in. He forced his wife to live the lie and after all these years she had grown to disdain her husband, the boy and how the whole deal forced itself upon her life, until she couldn't take it anymore."

John stood opposite his friend in the living room, a look of 'are you kidding me?' plainly written across his worn face. This, however, the dark-haired man didn't seem to notice as he walked to and fro in the center of the room.

"You read all that and that the mother hired someone to kill her son and covered it up by pretending the boy had disappeared, from the pleats on her skirt?"

"It was plain for anyone to see, all you had to do was observe," Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes at the simplicity of his friend's mind.

There were days, though they were few, that Sherlock wondered just what potential he had ever seen in John's feeble mind. Those were the very same days the consultant detective wished for a better intellectual match. As if remembering himself, the man suddenly stepped out of the living room and walked past the small kitchen.

John remained in the awkward silence that always lingered in one way or the other after Sherlock Holmes declared the doctor stupid. He soon stepped after the other man, however, in dire curiosity to learn just how the smarter man had gotten the whole picture and a confession out of the mother in less than five hours. The blond man was by now used to never following his friend's train of thought, but was still always as curious to try.

John stepped through the narrow hallway and into Sherlock's bedroom, following in his friends footsteps.

At the foot end of the bed, the dark-haired man stood with an unreadable look upon his impassive face. Whatever contentment the man had felt over the solved case seemed now wiped from his expression as if never having been present. The doctor couldn't help but frown at the sudden change and followed Sherlock's gaze to the empty bed in an attempt to understand.

The light bulb went off for the doctor. "She's not here. Oh God. You didn't throw her out the window earlier, did you?"

"Of course not. Though I was tempted."

"Where is she?"

"Not here," the detective pointed out dryly and shrugged his eyebrows mockingly.

John rolled his eyes and took a calming breath in order to let the irritation subside. With clenched teeth, he said at length, "I have observed that, Sherlock. Where is she then?"

"Out."

The short man shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he tried to understand the sudden shortness in his friend's deep voice. "… You don't know where she is, do you?"

Sherlock sighed and glared at the doctor. "You will never hear me repeat these words and if you do, please feel free to put a bullet between my eyes – Not a clue."

"That is a new one," John said and suddenly felt in a much more cheerful mood. Maybe having Irene Adler around wasn't so bad after all, since it obviously threw Sherlock off his high horse once in awhile.

"Yes," the detective agreed. "The words tasted stale on my tongue. Let it be our little secret."

The blond man shook his head in amusement and crossed his arms over his chest. "You think I'm going to be able to keep it a secret that you, the great Sherlock Holmes, who knows everything and can deduce just about anything, doesn't know this?"

"John…"

The doctor merely shook his head as the irritation in his friend's eyes grew to epic proportions. "You seriously think I'd tell Irene Adler and give her the satisfaction?"

"Thank you."

"Besides, we all have our bad days."

"I don't."

"Well..." John disagreed. "Maybe you do."

The muscles in the dark-haired man's strong jaw flexed in grim annoyance. "No. I don't."

"My silence is gonna cost you, though."

"Name your price."

John shrugged and decided to milk it. He had, after all, never quite heard his friend admit to being as dumbstruck as he did now in Irene's wake. And though the same notion seemed to irk Sherlock in a way not even Moriarty had, John would still have some fun on the smarter man's expense. "Haven't decided on one, yet. I'll let you know when I do."

The other man was still anything but amused as he glared at his friend. "You're enjoying this far too much, John. It doesn't suit you."

"Ah!" the woman's voice sounded from the small, narrow hallway and John turned his head as the misbehaving woman in question joined the two men in the bedroom. She wore her coat and grey dress from the day before and in her hand rested two bags of sizable proportions.

"Is this a ménage á trois?" Irene asked amused, though the doctor still detected an air of tiredness in her tone. She tossed the bags onto the large bed and looked from one man to the other, smirking widely once more, as she cocked her hip to one side in a demonstrative show of sensual amusement.

"Where were you?" Sherlock asked in a restrained voice.

The brunette's smirk grew as she walked over to the bed and sunk onto the covers. John didn't need his medical knowledge to read the fatigue in her body language as she moved to remove her heels. Regardless whatever remnants of the drug in her system, the ex-dominatrix wasn't about to admit to being presently in a weakened state. Having pulled off both shoes, Irene turned and gazed up at the consultant detective once more. "Out."

"See," Sherlock said and turned to his friend. There was a smile on the taller man's face that was half triumphant and half grim. John couldn't quite understand either of it. "I told you so."

The doctor glared at the detective before turning back to the woman on the bed. "I thought we agreed you should stay at the flat? Why did you go out?"

"To misbehave," Irene cooed in a seductive tone and leaned back against the pillows with a sneaky glint to her pale eyes.

"I hardly think you need to go out to do that," the blond man remarked sarcastically.

The woman waved her hand in the general direction of her bags. "I needed clothes, unless you rather preferred I walk around in Mr Holmes' clothes all the time and make you jealous?"

Sherlock spoke, "Stop misbehaving, Ms Adler, and just remain inconspicuous. Though the policemen of London are amazingly dull and irritatingly slow, we still shouldn't risk the knowledge of your return spreading to higher powers."

"Ah, do I detect concern and… sentiment, in your voice, Mr Holmes?" Irene asked and though her voice was teasing there also seemed to be a grim subtext John didn't comprehend at all.

"Not in my voice, Ms Adler. Sentiment is only detected in the voice of a losing party, as you might recall," the hostility in Sherlock's words was either badly covered up or not meant to be hidden at all. Still, John wondered if that was part of his obvious irritation or simply the man's way of flirting. After all, when it came to a flirting Sherlock Holmes, his friend had no idea what signals to look for. Or if the great man was even capable to flirt. Either way, the good doctor was sure he had missed some moment between the complicated duo, as Irene and Sherlock merely proceeded to compete in a stare down.

"Sore loser?" the detective asked at length and there was a teasing sparkle to his eyes that seemed to suggest triumph.

The woman's eyes, however, were blank and void of any such acknowledgement. "Not at all. I never hold a grudge for long. Besides, that game is long since over, Mr Holmes. This is an entirely different game."

Sherlock's triumphant look fell away at once as he frowned in poorly covered up confusion. "What new game?"

"You'll soon find out," Irene smiled and this time it was her eyes that were triumphant. "And I won't apologize for going out without your permission. But don't worry, my dears, I'll do my best to remain inconspicuous."

The detective let out a short laugh of mockery and pointedly said, "Do better."

The woman shrugged as she sunk further down on the pillow and repressed a small yawn behind her elegant palm. "I'll just be myself."

"You're not listening to us at all, are you?" John asked and felt painfully reminded of the time Sherlock had been called to testify on Moriarty's trial. John had attempted to warn his friend not to be himself then, but his words of warning had gone in one ear and out the other. Trying to make Sherlock Holmes tone himself down had been like attempting to make a brick wall as soft as a kitten's fur. Irene Adler seemed no less of a challenge.

"I'm starving," the brunette changed the subject as she yawned. "Who's up for dinner?"

They never did share dinner that evening, for the woman passed out again not long after their conversation due to the drugs still in her system and John went home to his wife.

It had simply been Mrs Hudson and Sherlock by the dinner table, which hadn't been entirely comfortable for the detective as the elderly woman insisted on asking questions about the mysterious woman who slept in Sherlock's bed and about whether or not she recognized her from earlier years. When the detective had for the fifteenth time refused to reply, Mrs Hudson had at last given up, said goodnight and left Sherlock on his own just as the light outside fled to make room for night.

As the rain drizzled in the gloomy London night outside, the dark-haired man stood by one of the windows and played a solemn tune on his violin to match the weather. Halfway through the song Sherlock realized the song had shifted into one he had himself composed four years ago about the woman who currently had taken up residence in his bedroom.

The man quickly stopped. He lowered the bow from his violin and let the night consume the living room instead, with only the cracking sound of the fireplace and the sound of the rain against the window cut through the sharp silence.

Sherlock turned his gaze from the rainy world and looked back at his skull on the mantle piece, which was still adorned by Moriarty's party hat. An ever reminder of what would surely follow sooner or later, the man was aware. Last time when his nemesis had been on the warpath, Sherlock had mentally prepared himself for a duel, this time around he felt he rather ought to prepare himself for a war.

With a final sigh, the tall man turned from the skull. He slowly put away his violin for the night, killed the fire and walked through the kitchen in the direction of his bedroom.

He opened his door and haltered upon the sight that met him. Apparently, The woman wasn't passed out as he'd had expected, but quite vibrant and awake. Currently she lay on her side across his bed, facing the door in a daring position that spoke highly of her confident and daring nature. She was clad red lingerie and a pair of stockings was held up on her slim hips by a garter belt grazed with guipure lace.

Her long, dark hair was pulled back in a half-elaborate, fashionable hairstyle and her lips were painted blood red. There were lit candles on every wooden surface in the bedroom. The scent of the burning wicks as well as the heat of the fires that warmed Sherlock's skin where he stood in the doorway, seemed a stark contrast to the bleak weather he had just gazed out at in the living room.

Neither underwear, nor lace, nor lit candles en masse was anything Sherlock had ever seen in his bedroom before, and now that he was presented with the sight, he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

"What are you doing, Ms Adler?" he asked at length and met her gaze head on, never letting his eyes trail down the rest of her well-shaped body. Sherlock braced himself for a fight, for there was no way he would allow the woman to be victorious this evening.

Irene was plainly not surprised at the man's tense posture and resilience. The realization struck Sherlock that she was clearly not expecting to win either, and it confused him to no end. Why she had then dressed up at all was something he couldn't deduce from his initial observations. In irritation, the man took his maroon robe from one of the hangers on the door and threw it onto the bedspread between them.

There was a sultry smile on her lips and a gleam to her eyes as she said in a low, raspy voice, "You can't blame a girl for trying, can you, Mr Holmes?"

"I can. When the girl in question has already lost. Put on the robe, Ms Adler," Sherlock said pointedly and put both hands in his pants pockets, as if to physically signal disinterest and put an end to the conversation.

The woman's smirk didn't budge. "I've already told you. That was a different game entirely."

"No, it wasn't," the man bluntly denied as he refused to play anymore.

Irene, however, was not about to give up the discussion as easily as he wished for. "It was. You just haven't realized it yet."

The tall man cleared his throat and sighed. He once more attempted to read her, but found he was somewhat thrown. When they had first met, she had appeared to him in nothing but her battle dress and so this armor wasn't as surprising to the detective. Still, he wasn't sure he could deduce anything he hadn't back then - which wasn't much - and remained on guard.

"You know you won't win tonight, though."

"Haven't you ever been tempted?" the woman asked then. Plainly, she didn't intend to play along with the man's tactics either. Sherlocl tilted his head to the side in silent confusion. "Don't mock me by pretending you don't understand the question, Mr Holmes."

The man smirked internally as he turned to close the door behind him. There was something in her clever manners that made it difficult for him to read her, yet she held the power to read his mind easily at times. He turned back to her and answered truthfully, "I've never been tempted."

In Irene's pale eyes, that were greatly emphasized against her dark hair dancing by the glow of the candles and her dark lips, danced a look of quiet disbelief. "Not even mentally? Just to try it… as some sort of experiment, perhaps? See what all the fuss is about?"

"No."

The woman shifted somewhat on the bed and the twinkle in her eyes ten-folded. She looked like curious child, trying to understand a mystery presented before her. Her intrigued peaked his own.

She leaned forward which amplified her cleavage from, what Sherlock assumed was, her best angle. From his own stance, the man kept his eyes locked with hers. When she spoke next, her voice was even more sultry and he figured it was a voice she must have used often in her line of work. "Are you tempted now, Mr Holmes?"

"No," he admitted matter-of-factly.

The woman paused a beat before she sat up on her knees, without breaking eye contact with the tall man. She crawled towards him and he stretched taller upon her approach. The woman stopped before him and placed her bare palms against his chest and fabric of his purple shirt. Sherlock felt the warmth of her hands through the fabric as they rested above his heart. He wondered if she was attempting to feel his heartbeat and deduce about him in secret, but he couldn't be sure.

Her pupils, in turn, were dilated and her breathing came shorter and careful, as if trying to minimize any alterations in her body language due to their proximity.

She leaned closer until their lips were just a couple of inches apart and Sherlock could feel her soft breaths against his cheek. She let her eyes roam his features, as if devouring him completely and sinfully with her teasing gaze.

"What about now, Mr Sherlock Holmes?" she whispered at length and her gaze attempted to penetrate his defenses in order to find a weak spot for her seductive tactics.

"…No," the man said and finally raised one hand from his pocket and placed it atop of Irene's hands to tug it away from him. "Go to sleep, Ms Adler."

The woman flashed him a brief smile, before she scooted back on the bed. She gazed away but without turning, when Sherlock realized something. His grip around her hand tightened and he pulled her back. The dominatrix's eyes flew up to meet his again and there was unmasked surprise in them.

"Show me your back," Sherlock half-begged, half-ordered in a low voice as he took one step closer until the leg of his pants touched the side of the bed.

Irene smirked cautiously. "Naughty boy. And here I thought you didn't want to misbehave with me. I only misbehave on my terms, Mr Holmes."

"I don't want to misbehave with you, Ms Adler," the man snarled and tried to read her eyes, noting how the table was turning in his favor and how he suddenly held the upper hand in this game. He paused a beat, before concluding, "I only want to see your scar."

This time he felt the woman's slim hand stiffen in his palm, though that was the only indication of a reaction he got as she didn't register the same rigidness in either eyes or body language. Observing closely, however, Sherlock noted her personal mask was back on and something had shifted in the air.

"Scar? What scar?" she asked in an innocent voice.

"The one on your back," the detective spoke bluntly.

"You silly man. What makes you think there is a scar on my back?" Irene questioned.

Sherlock leaned close into her personal space and his cheek barely grazed hers as he whispered in her ear, "I'll tell you why… You're a woman whose profession earns you a lot of money by the removal your clothes. You realized many years ago that when you removed your clothes, you found a way to misbehave and gain power at the same time. As you so masterly showed me the time we first met. You've stripped down to your best underwear tonight-"

"I knew you knew where to look. Thank you."

"- It's a figure of speech," the tall man frowned. "Now, I didn't think much of it at first, but you're refusing to turn your back to me. I distinctly recall that most of your promotional photographs on your website were of your undressed back, too… This suggests you consider your back one of your best weapons of choice. You might be undressed tonight, but you knew I would say no and must have figured I wouldn't notice your refusal to turn. You thought you'd get away with it. That your secret would have been safe a little while longer. But I observed. For a proud, intelligent woman like yourself, this suggests there is something on your back you don't want me to see for personal reasons."

Irene shook her head and exhaled in amusement. "You're over-analyzing and over-reacting, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock ignored her as he pushed onward relentlessly, "-You don't hunch, you never cringe when you reach for something, your movements aren't stiff in anyway. It all suggests it's not a fresh injury. Nor is it broken bones or anything recently acquired. Obviously, the scar can't be too old. Fours years, at the most, as we both know."

The woman drew a sharp breath and glared up at him impassively. Sherlock waited for his price on baited breath. At length, she nodded once. "…Very well. I'll reward your observations, but only if you can tell me what kind of scar it is."

The dark-haired man felt a smile tug at the corner of his full lips. "Obviously not from a fire, since you've drowned my room with candles tonight. I doubt it's from a sharp weapon, based on your handling knives in the kitchen earlier. I'd say blunt force trauma. Caused by someone close to you... Was that why you divorced your husband?"

She chortled sharply, as if his words had been unkind, something Sherlock did not understand. For a second, the detective held her gaze stubbornly, confident he'd reached the solution and wouldn't back off. She pulled her hand from his strong grasp and swiftly turned around on the bed so that her back faced him.

His eyes quickly fell to her exposed back and there found the evidence he had almost expected. Except it wasn't simply one scar, but several. Sherlock distantly raised his hand to trace the outline of one of the narrow lines across her shoulder blades. The woman inhaled slowly as his fingers danced across her fair skin.

"A riding crop. The irony is not lost on me," the detective muttered as his fingers followed the contours of the multiple strokes that ran diagonally across her back.

"You weren't entirely correct, however," Irene said. Her voice sounded steady but Sherlock could see past her walls for this brief window of opportunity. "You were right about me thinking I could get away with it for a while. You're quicker than I remember. But the eldest scars are from the terrorists in Karachi before you arrived. They tortured me to prepare me for the inevitable death."

The man lowered his hand and gazed at the back of her head as he waited. He had a feeling there was nothing he could say to make the situation better, and he was reminded of all the times in the past when he had hurt his friends by a simple use of words and when attempting to rectify his wrong only had ended up hurting them further. For once, he opted for the silent approach.

"My back was bruised for months after you rescued me," the woman admitted. "They had just begun to fade when my ex-husband started to hit me. What he first thought was a fresh challenge when I dominated instead of allowing myself to be dominated, he soon grew tired of. It was, of course, never love. He wanted sex, I needed money. I suppose you could say we both got what we wanted in the end. I assure you, when I left him he was certainly the most beaten up of the two of us."

Sherlock was still unsure how to respond to her confession as she turned back around to face him. Their eyes met across an abyss that didn't feel as wide anymore. Still, she had in such an open way, though complex in its simplicity it was, only managed to confuse the man even more.

Still, she had granted him access to a part of herself he was sure no one ever saw and allowed him to scratch at what lay beneath the surface. The man didn't know what to do and stood dumbstruck in the silence. Instead he hoped his eyes conveyed both his condolences, his support and something he could not put into words.

Whatever Irene read in his eyes made her raise her walls once more and he saw the unmistakable barrier rise between them once more. A satisfied smirk spread on her lips. "You're torn."

Sherlock frowned and cleared his throat, "S-Sorry?"

"Between wanting me to stay and wanting me to leave," she clarified. "You want me to stay because then you might be able to figure me out, but you want me to leave because of the chance that you might succeed."

The man's frown intensified. "Why do you say that?"

The beautiful woman smiled a joyless smile as she gracefully put on the maroon robe and tied it around her small waist. "If it makes a difference... You are the first person I've met who might be able to learn my secrets."

"That frightens you," the detective observed.

"Not as much as I frighten you," Irene whispered and leaned forward until her face wasn't even an inch from Sherlock's and her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Sherlock stiffly held his breath as her nose brushed his briefly.

"What, Mr Great Detective, would you say to just one night of misbehaving?" she whispered into his ear and her breath warmed his skin.

"I…" the man said without emotion as he put both hands on her robed waist and shoved gently until she sat back on the covers. "…need to get nicotine patches."

With those words, the man opened the door once more. As he exited, the woman called after him in amusement, "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

To be continued.