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

10. The duel of Irene and Mycroft

Molly sat in one of the armchairs in Sherlock's living room, both hands resting on the armrests and her shoulders slumped low. On the small table on her right a cup of steaming tea stood untouched. On the opposite side of the room, in his own armchair, the peculiar detective sat in silence and gazed out at the empty nothingness of the night. The woman could see the wheels in his head turn, but whether it was to find the proper way to explain himself, or if it was concern for the injured woman in his bedroom, Molly wasn't sure. Though she dreaded it was in fact the last.

"You know…" she said at length as the couple entered their thirtieth minute of silence. "…When you asked me to come over, I admit, I sort of thought you had something else in mind."

Sherlock's eyes flashed up to meet hers then and Molly realized it was the first time he mentally registered her presence since her arrival tonight. He had been so pre-occuppied with the medical equipment that he had forgotten about the messenger. It seemed it had taken her own acknowledgment for the man to realize his mannerisms, too. It reminded Molly of when she had caught Sherlock looking sad and bothered as soon as John's back was to him almost three years earlier in the middle of the worst Moriarty circus.

The guilt was evident in the man's face now as he lowered his gaze in search of the right words. "I'm sorry, Molly… I just had to get help quickly."

The young woman smiled joylessly and felt her heart constrict as it seemed to do often when mistreated by the man in question. "And so you called me. Your friend. Chap. Buddy. Reliable Molly. I get it, I do. It's just… sometimes it's not so easy."

She didn't have to say it out loud, they both knew of her old infatuation. It was silly really, Molly knew. They had been friends (if one could truly befriend Sherlock) for ages, and she had been harboring emotions with him for almost as long, though he had never shared her sentiment even the slightest. When he had asked her to help him fake his suicide, she had felt special for the first time. Like he actually cared for her. During the years he was gone, she had met and fallen in love with Tom, a lovely man who had eventually asked her to marry him. The engagement hadn't lasted very long after Sherlock returned, for various reasons. Not the least because Molly had realized just how similar the two men were. She hadn't been moving on, as she first had figured. She wasn't sure if the old infatuation still existed, but the detective remained a vital part of her life nonetheless, in a way that Tom never could. It had been better for both of them when the relationship had ended.

"Molly… I…" Sherlock began as he saw the look in Molly's eyes withdraw even further into herself. Somehow, he could never do the right thing when it came to Ms Molly Hooper and their friendship. She was a dear friend of his, but nothing more. The man had always been aware of her feelings, and had taken advantage of this fact several times to get what he wanted, and indeed knew he could not have faked his death without her help. The man opened his mouth to explain the night's events though without knowing how.

He was interrupted as the bedroom door opened and John walked into the living room. The red liquid smeared all over him, as well as the smell of blood was all Sherlock noticed as he stiffly gazed up at his friend.

"She's stable. For now," the doctor stated as he noticed the terror rise up in his friend like the tide. He then turned to Molly with a tired smile. "Thank you for bringing the equipment so quickly, Molly. I… If she lives she has you to thank for that."

The woman smiled. "And you and your wife, John. Don't forget that… I should go now, since I'm no longer wanted. Needed. I mean 'no longer needed'."

The young woman covered the fact that her face flushed red by her own clumsy comment, by standing hastily from the armchair and avoided the gazes of the other men. Sherlock mimicked her movement as she stood and awkwardly began, "Molly…"

She smiled bravely up at the tall man and raised her shields up high. The smile was genuine, yet weak, as she said, "It's fine. Really. …Now I really ought to go, Sherlock. It's late, after all. Keep the equipment. I'm glad it helped. I hope your girlfriend recovers fully. You know you can call me anytime if you need me."

The detective smiled down at his friend and stepped forward to say his farewell but the young scientist raised a hand and took a definite step back. Sherlock stopped and John remained silently to the side, trying not to disturb the awkward peace.

"Goodbye," was Molly's last word as she turned on her heel and walked out from Baker Street without further ado.

As the front door closed, Sherlock stood, somewhat dumb-founded, in the center of the living room while John gazed at him from the sidelines.

"You… " the blond man cleared his throat and drew attention to himself. "…alright?"

The detective recovered smoothly as he turned to his friend with an unreadable look on his face. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

John smiled up at his friend. "Do you want to see her? She's not awake, of course, but I figure you want to inspect my stitch work before Mary covers it with bandages."

"I do."

Irene awoke with a start. She was for a brief second disoriented and lost, until her eyes got used to the dark room lit by a smaller lamp on a nightstand by her head. This was Sherlock's bedroom, this was home.

The woman tried to remember how she had gotten there, but found her memory failed her in that respect. She remembered being at the bell tower and Moriarty's mad plan. The last thing she remembered in detail was the knife the mad man had plunged into her body. As if on cue, pain flashed through her abdomen and she groaned.

She lifted the covers and gazed down at her stomach, but stopped short. She was surprised to find she was suddenly wearing pajamas and the wound was dressed and stitched.

"Mary changed your clothes," spoke a dulcet voice and the woman lowered the covers and gazed up. Over by the window, stood Sherlock himself, illuminated by the street lights below. The man, too, was dressed in his pj's and wine-colored robe.

"You were there…" she said as the mist in her memories cleared slowly. "And John."

Sherlock nodded and the woman asked, "What happened? I remember… Fires. Or was that just a side-effect of the MDMA?"

"No. Moriarty blew up Big Ben. London will never be quite the same," the detective said grimly. "He escaped, of course. I'm surprised you managed to get out, too. And I mean despite the fact that I noticed the escape path of footprints from your stilettos running down the right stair case, which was hardly touched by the explosions, or the drops of blood smeared across the soot on the walls."

The brunette smiled and winked up at the handsome man. "Yes, well, despite that… I'm surprised I can still surprise you."

"Oh, I doubt you'll ever stop," Sherlock smiled back and this time it was a genuine expression. Before Irene's tired mind could deduce anything from it, the man swirled around to gaze out at the night once more. "John and Mary performed surgery on you right here after your miraculous escape. You've been out five hours since. John said the knife missed all vital organs, but you did lose some blood. Thankfully, Molly brought not only equipment but snatched blood bags, too. You look dreadful, either way."

The woman chuckled silently. "'Dread' is still better than 'dead'."

"That it is," Sherlock's low mutter was almost too low to hear and he still refused to turn back to her . "John says I… owe you a thank you."

"Oh, I had to," Irene smiled and waited until the tall man turned around with a questioning frown upon his brow. "What would the world do, after all, without Sherlock Holmes and his mind palace? ...You're welcome."

"I never said thank you. I merely pointed out that John thought I ought to say it to you."

The woman nodded in acceptance. She knew it was as close to an actual declaration of gratitude she was going to get.

The man slowly walked over to the bed and sunk back against his pillows with a strained sigh. Irene noticed the cuts and scrapes across his face then, too. She reached out a pale hand to gently follow the outlines of a shallow cut that ran from the tip of his forehead to the corner of his eyebrow.

"You look dreadful, too," she pointed out and Sherlock let out an amused breath in response.

The following two days passed more calmly at Baker Street than before the events at Big Ben, despite the paradox of the situation. While Irene was restricted to bed-rest by her doctor, Sherlock followed the news about the explosive events carefully. Mycroft had made a good job covering up the truth about what happened at the bell tower by having news leak about the old, clock which malfunctioned because of an old damage from a thunder storm which hadn't been secured properly. Eventually, a fuse had blown and a fire spread quickly at the top of the tower until it reached the machinery and a smaller explosion had followed suit.

The whole world, it seemed, had more or less swallowed the lie, and Sherlock had to agree; making up cover stories had always been one of Mycroft's strong sides.

Even where there were doubters there seemed to be no one who suspected that it had been a criminal master mind's flawed plan to take out a dominatrix that had set the bell tower aflame. Sherlock figured chaos would follow if the world knew, much as what had happened two years prior when Moriarty mysteriously had managed to break into the Bank of England, the Tower of London and the Pentaville Prison – all at the same time.

As Irene slowly recovered, she spent most of her time asleep, either because of the frailty of her physical health or because of the pain killers John provided her with. Sherlock and John, too, rapidly improved. Both were rather grateful for some peace after their near-death experience.

One day after a quiet dinner that had been shared at Baker Street with Mary and John, the detective noticed his best friend type on his laptop. The man walked over to sneak a peek as the two women were in Sherlock's bedroom, chatting while Irene rested. As he saw what his friend was writing, Sherlock slammed the laptop shut. John's fingers got caught in between and he yelped both in surprise and pain.

"Ow! Sherlock!"

The detective moved around the chair to face his friend and pulled the laptop from John's arms. "What do you think you were doing?"

"Updating my blog. Could you give my computer back? I was just making a short entry before Mary and I was leaving."

"You're not writing a blog entry about 'The mental deterioration of Mr Holmes'. I won't let you."

The blond man rubbed his sore fingers and glared up at his tall friend. "Your fans deserve to know the whole story. It's my blog, Sherlock. Why do you care? You have your own website. Give me back my laptop."

The doctor held out a hand patiently, but Sherlock merely raised his chin in defiance and stepped back. "No."

John tilted his head sideways. "No?"

"I'm confiscating it until you reach the proper conclusion not to write an inappropriate blog entry about my drug-induced state."

The other man rolled his eyes. "Stop acting like a baby and give it back!"

"No!... And I'm not acting like a baby," Sherlock said as he held the computer above his head, despite the fact that the wounded John had still to rise from his seat.

"Yes, you are! Give it here!"

"No!"

"Am I interrupting something, children?"

The men both turned to gaze towards the top of the stairs. There stood Mycroft with his arms crossed over his chest in a laid-back stance. The ice cold man didn't seem the least bit impressed to have walked in on John and Sherlock' childish behavior.

"Mycroft," the doctor greeted and put the laptop down on the desk where his friend couldn't reach it from his seat. "You should have called ahead. I could have prepared tea for you."

"Or happy pills," John muttered while his friend sniggered like a school boy. Mycroft rolled his eyes with a deep sigh.

"This isn't a social visit," the elder man clarified.

"Oh?" Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. This could be interesting. "What do you want, brother?"

Something shone in the elder man's pale eyes. The detective recognized it as a look of superiority and wit, a look his brother saved for special occasions when he held the trumphcard. Mycroft slowly entered the living room to stand nose to nose with his younger brother.

"I'm here to see someone special," the man commented slyly and Sherlock frowned. "I'm here to see Ms Irene Adler."

The detective noted how John's wide eyes glanced towards the closed bedroom door behind Mycroft's back, but Sherlock himself kept his face impassive. He had been prepared for this day to arrive sooner or later, one could hold Ms Adler a secret for only so long. Since she had recently run around town to deduce the truth of Sherlock's mental health and up to the top of Big Ben which had exploded as a consequence, the man couldn't say he was surprised his brother had followed her trail to Baker Street.

"Why would the legendary Ms Adler be here at Baker Street? I thought she was in America," Sherlock commented with no intention to admit the truth. It was unfortunate that the woman in question was injured so brutally for there was no way for her to sneak out through his bedroom window, even with the help of Mary.

"Don't play stupid, Sherlock, it never did suit you," Mycroft scolded with a brotherly look to his pale eyes.

"I assure you, brother, I couldn't play stupid even if I tried," the man replied gruffly and walked over to sit down in his armchair by the fireplace and picked up his violin that rested beside it. "The woman's not here. I didn't know she was in town, and I wouldn't care even if I had known."

Mycroft grimaced and sighed, "Why don't I believe you? If you're harboring an enemy of the kingdom, you'll be in more trouble than you know."

"Then I'm lucky I'm not," Sherlock replied shortly as he started to play an irritated tune.

"I'll find her, you know," the elder man pointed out and the detective was unsure if it was a reassurance or a threat. "With or without your help."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort in jest, when he noticed from the corner of his eyes how his bedroom door slowly opened. He wondered if he was helpless to watch as a train derailed from its tracks. He shut his mouth in silent anticipation of what was to come.

First he saw the blonde woman exit, with a doubtful look upon her face as all the men turned towards her. Mary glanced back as The woman stepped out with head held high and posture as demanding as if she didn't carry twelve stitches on her abdomen. There was no sign of agony as she walked through the kitchen and towards the eldest brother Holmes, while Mary sat down on the arm rest by her husband.

The eldest Holmes sighed as the smaller form of Irene Adler came to a brave halt before him. It seemed all brotherly concern he had portrayed was wiped clean as the woman entered the scene.

"No need to search further, Mr Holmes."

"Ms Adler," Mycroft greeted darkly and glanced at his brother before glaring down at the woman dressed in slacks and a purple, long-sleeved tee. "I heard you had returned. I thought my brother might be hiding you."

"I'm impressed," Irene mocked. "You must have been good at hide and seek as a child. Tell me, did you always find the other children after a month?"

John and Mary exchanged a look at the woman's audaciousness. One could always expect her fire to burn fierce and high, even when she was physically wounded and weakened.

"How have you been, Mycroft? Missed me?" she asked teasingly.

The man's gaze spoke volumes of the disapproval he felt regarding her behavior. "You did a good job covering up the truth about your time in Karachi and your return to London, Ms Adler. Though, of course, truth had to be out eventually. I had hoped my brother would do the right thing for once and not takes sides with a deported criminal."

Irene's smile did not reach her furious eyes as she spoke next, "Your brother did do the right thing."

"Then we see it differently, Ms Adler," Mycroft commented with a similar cold smile. "I look at the results. They reveal that your presence here blew up a national treasure and once more endangered Sherlock and John."

The woman glanced at the detective and arched a slim eyebrow before turning back. Sherlock finally surrendered his fear as he put his violin away and leaned back in his chair to enjoy the show.

"You underestimated your brother, Mr Holmes. And Moriarty, too," Irene pointed out and it was clear she would not hold back this time. "Your wrong doing nearly resulted in your brother's death once. Tell me… how is your guilty conscience?"

Mycroft puffed out his chest but refrained from stooping to her level of attack. "I see you assume without having all the facts. Quite reminds me of Sherlock," he admitted in a gruff voice.

"Why, thank you, dear," the woman cooed.

"I would never mean it as a compliment," the elder man assured. Sherlock could see the change of tactic in his brother's eyes. "Ms Adler, I'm not entirely sure when or why you returned-"

Irene didn't let him finish, "I have regardless. And I rather intend to stay."

"With my brother?"

Sherlock interrupted from his seat, "Undecided."

John nodded from his own position as Mary quipped, "The vote on that is next Tuesday."

Mycroft pretended he had not heard either of the remarks as his gaze burned down on Irene relentlessly. "For your own good, I suggest you leave London for good, Ms Adler. Or I'll deport you for a much longer time than that. You broke our agreement upon your return. I'll feel no regret if I threw you to the lions' den without making sure you're safe like I did last time."

Something akin to purest fury flashed in the woman's eyes and she took another bold step forward, now entering his mental and physical personal space. From the grimace on Mycroft's face, it was clear he wasn't too pleased with her sudden approach. Meanwhile, Sherlock scooted to the edge of his seat as he watched for warning signs of fatigue or overexertion from Irene.

"You broke our agreement first, Mr Holmes. You broke it when you let pakistanian terrorists kidnap and torture me in preparation for my last day on this earth. I would be dead, too, if your baby brother hadn't saved the day. I don't believe you'd have shed a tear if I had died then."

Mycroft seemed genuinely surprised to learn of this unexpected turn of events relating to Irene's adventures in Karachi. Sherlock's interference was obviously not something the man had been made aware of, but rather the missing piece of the puzzle he had searched for. He turned to his younger brother with a commanding look, "Is that true, Sherlock?"

The detective contemplated the question. "I believe it is. You don't cry. Ever."

Mycroft shook his head in irritation of his brother's childish antics, "Sherlock."

"Mr Holmes," Irene interrupted before the man could berate his brother further, "I don't intend to raise any hell, but tempt me and I promise you we shall dine comfortably together in the heat of the flames. You will do best not to underestimate me like you do your brother. I may not have leverage for now, but trifle things such as photographic evidence is easily fixed. Wouldn't you agree, Ice Man?"

The elder Holmes' inner struggle was evident as he contemplated her words with much difficulty. "What are you suggesting, Ms Adler?"

"Leave me to my own doings, and I'll do my best not to misbehave," the brunette explained in a low, demanding voice. "Cross me and I make no such garanties. As for me living with your brother… well, let's leave that up to me as well, no?"

It was with an air of finality and defeat Mycroft at length surrendered and thus lost the duel. " …Very well. You drive a hard bargain, Ms Adler. Just as I remember. I'll leave you to your own for now. I'll let you play house, if that's what you wish. I'll simply have to wait until my brother tires of you, or you of him. I'm sure either one won't be far."

Sherlock let out an amused breath. "I wouldn't hold my breath, Mycroft."

The detective stood from his armchair and positioned himself by Irene's right, his shoulder brushed hers and this didn't go unnoticed. The elder brother sighed in great despair once more. "So she is yours then?"

Sherlock frowned in confusion, "She's not for sale."

"Sort of sounded like you just marked your territory, Sherlock…" Mary breathed from her seat.

"Shut up, Mary."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'm disappointed in you. I believe I overestimated your heart, after all."

"What are you talking about?" the detective was lost by the other man's implication.

"The woman… The nickname. It was always an homage, wasn't it?" the elder man's knowing smile was evident. "After everything you went through… you still care for her. Why else would you save her time and time again?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Because, contrary to you, brother, I prefer to keep the people close to me alive. Including a few adversaries."

For a second, a flash of pain seemed to pass through Mycroft's eyes as he admitted defeat regarding his brother, too. "It's your disadvantage, either way. Goodbye, Sherlock, John, Mary… Ms Adler."

The short, unspoken threat was evident in his voice and eyes as he beheld the woman one final time. Should she ever misbehave, he would make sure she paid the prize for past and present wrongs. Irene nodded in acceptance of the challenge presented to her in the man's eyes.

Having said what he had come to speak, Mycroft turned and walked down the stairs. It wasn't long until the others heard the front door close.

At once, Sherlock turned to the woman and took in her appearance. Now that Mycroft was gone, he saw the ghost of her pain written in her tired eyes plainly, as she let her facade slip. She looked up at him without trying to hide anything, for the first time.

"Your stitch," the detective simply pointed out in a low, gentle voice. A small dot of blood stained the front of her tee. Obviously the strain of getting into the living room and the tense duel with Mycroft had tore a stitch or two.

"I know," was her simple answer in return and Sherlock felt his wonder of the woman grow just an inch.

John moved as if to stand from his seat, worry in his voice as he spoke, "You undid one? I could have a loo-"

The detective interrupted the doctor, "No need, John. I can take care of it. Anyway, weren't you two going out?" Sherlock turned back to Irene before the others had a chance to answer. "Let's get you back to bed."

The brunette smiled weakly as he spun her around and led her back to his room. "I was hoping you'd ask that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her comment. It seemed the dominatrix side of her simply had no off-button. He helped her into the large bed and made sure she rested comfortable atop of the covers. He opened a drawer of the nightstand and pulled out the equipment he would need to repair the stitch as Irene exposed the wound for him and leaned back against the pillows with a troubled breath.

He wiped her stomach clean of blood in silence for a minute, before saying, "He'll watch you like a hawk now, you know."

"I know," she replied stiffly. "Just like his brother does. Though for different reasons, I assume?"

After a moment's thought, the man asked, "Do you think I'm a lot like my brother?"

He didn't look up, but could practically hear Irene consider it. "Well, you are brothers… Though not as similar as I think you believe."

"How are we different?" Sherlock was curious to know as he removed the old stitch on her stomach.

"You know how," Irene inhaled sharply as he stitched her up again. "Mycroft doesn't care about people."

"Neither do I," the dark-haired man pointed out.

"Of course you do," the woman disagreed and the conviction was clear in her weary voice. "I thought you were a better liar than that, Mr Holmes. You don't always understand people and their feelings, but it's not the same thing. I haven't been here for that long, but even I see that."

The detective smiled and nodded as he pulled the fabric of her tee down to cover her stomach once more. He rose to leave the room when her hand shout out and grabbed hold of his wrist.

"Stay," Irene whispered.

Sherlock hesitated a beat. He pulled his hand free from her grasp, walked around the bed and put his hand on the door knob. Slowly, he closed the door and wordlessly sunk onto the covers to lie down next to the woman. They lay side by side in silence as the night crept closer.

To be continued.