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

11. Irene's favors

John gazed from the one to the other across the lunch table a few days after the events at Big Ben. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was something different with the interaction between Sherlock and Irene this particular morning. He had spent a lot of time in his own flat recently and wondered if he had missed something crucial while being away. Now, John's eyes tried to make sense of the picture before him.

The woman sat, wearing one of Sherlock's oversized pj's and robe, leaned back in her seat with her legs resting atop of the detective's lap in order to take pressure off her stomach and the slowly healing injury. As far as the doctor knew, this was the first time she joined them for lunch at the table since her encounter with Moriarty. The slow healing process kept her otherwise mostly confined to bed rest. John wasn't too glad of the slow healing, but didn't know how to comment when the woman herself seemed most willing to ignore it. With the blond man, at least, she acted as if the events at Big Ben had neither happened nor bothered her and never seemed keen on discussing any of the recent occurrences.

Sherlock, in turn, seemed at complete ease with her legs across his lap. The man was dressed sharply for the day in his favorite purple shirt and black slacks. His interest was directed solely at the morning paper which he'd just gotten around to reading.

In fact, both seemed as if the position wasn't the least bit out of the ordinary, yet the visiting man knew that neither (at the very least not Sherlock) could be terribly used to sharing lunches so intimately. Then a thought struck John with great force and he dropped his spoon in shock. As it clattered against the tabletop both Sherlock and Irene frowned over at him.

The doctor couldn't hide his disgusted grimace. "Oh God. You two slept together, didn't you?"

The brunette smirked devilishly and put her bowl of soup down on the table. "Every night."

"Urgh. I can't eat at the same table as you two. Oh no… You didn't do it on the table, did you? What will Mrs Hudson say, Sherlock?"

The dark-haired shook his head in dull acknowledgment and returned his gaze to the paper in his hands. "She's playing with you, John. She's mocking your choice of words. We have in fact, as she said, slept together. Nothing more."

John wasn't sure. His eyes wandered once more to the woman's legs in Sherlock's lap. "Are you sure you've done nothing?"

"Quite," the other man re-assured and glanced up to meet his friend's questioning, pale eyes.

"Are you serious?"

"When am I not?"

"You mean to tell me you've slept all these nights in the same bed as that woman - our very own dominatrix, one might add - and still you haven't… you know."

"That's precisely what he means," Irene cooed and seemed to take great amusement on John's expense as the man flushed bright red.

"Oh, come on! How stupid do you think I am?" As Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, the other man swiftly continued, "Rhetorical. Don't answer that."

The detective raised an eyebrow pointedly. "Only a stupid person asks rhetorical questions about how stupid he is."

"Oh, shut up, Sherlock. Stop changing the topic," the blond man glared at his friend and picked up his spoon to finish off his meal but waited impatiently for any form of explanation.

The taller man looked somewhat offended by his words. "I'm not. I answered you. I have nothing more to say. I thought that was usually the way to end a topic and move on to a new one. Pass the milk, will you, John?"

John did so most gruffly and the three of them spent the rest of the lunch in silence. The doctor decided he'd keep a closer eye on the other two from here on out. He might not be as clever as Sherlock, but he wasn't stupid. He knew what he saw with his own eyes. Whatever was happening with them, he would find a way to uncover.

As the morning passed slowly in the Holmes-Adler household, Sherlock and John received several clients hoping to get help from the ingenious detective Sherlock Holmes. Since the events at Big Ben, the detective actually hadn't worked any case, but despite this drought he found himself none the less picky in his choice of clients.

Merely to enjoy the entertainment of Sherlock's crude comments to potential clients, the woman had opted to rest on the sofa in the living room instead of in the bedroom. Since Mycroft now knew of her return to London, there was no further need to keep hidden anyway.

"Though you are clearly very old, broken down to the limping remains of retirement and painfully close to the brink of dementia, I do not see the need for you to act so stupid," the Holmes boy commented to the latest client and fell into his armchair with a defeated sigh.

The elderly gentleman rose with great difficulty, helped by John, and seemed quite deflated that the great Sherlock Holmes would not help him recover his escaped dog. As the not-so-potential client climbed down the stairs, muttering about the man's poor temper and lack of people skills, John observed Irene's shoulders shake with silent laughter from her relaxed position in the sofa and book resting in her arms.

As the elder man shut the front door, the doctor turned back to the woman. "You're not exactly helping, you know."

The brunette merely shook her head but the amusement was still evident on her face. "I wasn't trying to."

The blond man sighed at both Sherlock and Irene's behavior and sunk into his own seat. "Seems there are no other clients at the door…"

The detective let out a deep breath that seemed to escape from the pits of his frustrated soul. "I'm bored, John… My concussion's fully healed. You've finally cleared me for duty. Though… I could have worked earlier, a small concussion wouldn't have stopped me from deducing the truth."

John grimaced. "Look at it this way, you got more time to focus entirely on your experiments. And you've passed all possible withdrawal symptoms now, too. I think it was better you were off the streets a couple of days, gave the world a chance to breath after your drugged state."

Sherlock shook his head where it rested on the back of his seat. "You still can't let that go? That was last week. … Though I wish Lestrade could come by with a case. He knows I'm not insane, after all."

As if on cue, the door bell rang and John went down to open. He wasn't entirely surprised to see the detective inspector in question right outside. The look in Lestrade's blue eyes told the other man one thing only, there was a new case which needed Sherlock. With warmth and happiness (John had to admit he wanted to work a case, too), he invited Greg into Baker Street.

"And you're sure he's… all sane now?" Lestrade whispered to the man as they ascended the stairs.

John shrugged. "Depends how you define sane. He's himself."

As he reached the top of the stairs, the police man greeted Sherlock and then noticed the young woman who rested in the sofa. Recognition flashed in his eyes and he walked over to say greet her.

"Hello there. You're still here?" Greg said kindly and Irene smiled up at him with warm eyes. This time the only drug in her system were the pain killers John provided her with.

"Good morning," she nodded in return from where she lay and snuggled closer into the borrowed robe. "Sorry I'm not getting up to greet you properly. My doctor thinks I shouldn't do any swift movements but rest, rest, rest to heal."

"It's for your own good, Irene," John said with a pointed look, knowing very well how full of mischief the woman could be. He was certain that if Sherlock, too, hadn't been basically confined to Baker Street these past few days, she would certainly have escaped to misbehave and only wound up overexerting her wound.

"Oh," Lestrade said and a flash of his inner detective briefly appeared in his eyes as he took in the wider picture. "You injured then? Last time I was here you were drugged …It's not Sherlock's doing this time, too, is it?"

From the other end of the room, the detective slowly articulated a response, "No."

The wheels turned in the grey-haired man's head as he caught on swifter than Sherlock had expected. Then again, he had always thought Lestrade was the only cop of relevance and with a brain that existed in the whole police force of England. "Then you must be the mysterious woman Sherlock mentioned. You were at the clock tower? You might have something to add to the investigation. Do you know where Moriarty fled? Anything you remember could be useful."

"I assure you, Greg, none of what I remember will be of use to the investigation," Irene said cryptically and raised her book up as if the conversation bored her enough to return to the book. "It was just the some old hymns, games and death threats."

"She's not going to talk. I've already tried," Sherlock assured and there was obvious grumpiness to his dark, dulcet tones. "Tell me of the case instead. And I do hope it's a good one. I might shoot the wall if it isn't."

Lestrade frowned and turned to face the consultant detective. "What? Ehm, okay then… I do think you'll like this. Ten people, with no obvious connections, have disappeared, leaving nothing but a star map at the location they disappeared from. All ten maps are the same, but that's the only connection we've found between hem."

"You need to sell it better than that, Lestrade…" the dark-haired man scolded though John saw the recognizable sparkle ignite in his eyes.

"This morning, one of the ten people washed ashore close to London bridge. The man was drowned, of course. But nothing about him explained his previous disappearance, though there was a slight contusion at the back of his neck."

Sherlock contemplated it a second before shooting up from his seat. "Good enough. John, go get ready."

"I need to talk to you."

Just as Sherlock, Lestrade and John moved towards the stairs, Irene's simple command stopped all three men.

The detective glanced in her general direction as he put his scarf on. "Sorry. It will have to wait. I have to go with Lestrade-"

"Good," the woman interrupted and smiled teasingly. "Means you won't interrupt. It's John I want to talk to."

The two best friends exchanged a confused look. Sherlock immediately turned his suspicious eyes in her direction while his mind tried to understand, "Why?"

"Me? Why?" the short man asked at the same time.

The brunette smirked from the sofa and slowly sat up. "You'll see."

"I… need John to come with me," Sherlock argued, clearly not comfortable with the new situation.

"He can come around later," Irene cooed and there was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she noted the plain discomfort of the man. Though he would never admit it, and perhaps he wasn't even aware of it, he wanted to be the center of attention at all times. The fact that The woman now wanted something from John wasn't something Sherlock approved of. "Greg looks anxious, Sherlock, you two should hurry to the crime scene. Don't forget - every minute counts and all that."

The dark-haired man opened his mouth to remark upon her words, but John put a hand on his coat sleeve. "It's fine, Sherlock. I'll take a cab and follow you shortly. You go ahead."

Sherlock was clearly anything but amused, but nodded wordlessly nonetheless. The doctor could see the inner struggle and confusion to his friend's eyes, despite his attempts to cover it by an air of indifference. Without further ado, Sherlock and Lestrade said their goodbyes and left the flat leaving the other two alone.

Slowly, John headed into the living room and towards the woman on the couch. He, too, was rather confused by her request to speak to him alone. What could she possibly want with him? He knew that even though she was hurt, the woman was still a dangerous, cunning lioness. And though he had grown to trust her after her efforts to clear Sherlock from being declared insane, that trust was in no way unconditional.

Tensely he stopped a few feet away from the sofa. He cleared his throat and looked down at her tired form. "So… eh, what did you want to talk to me about?"

The dark-haired beauty didn't beat about the bush. "Mary."

John did a double-take and frowned. "Come again? My wife? …Why?"

"You're married. About to be a father in about two months time, according to Sherlock. He also told me about her past, which you found out about not six months ago. I gather from the time you've been spending here at Baker Street; sleeping over in your old and working cases... that things aren't always fine. I've seen marriages crack for less, but I could see instantly that you two loved each other. Clearly, she understands why you like to live a dangerous life with the crime wolving. Still... She's pregnant, and I've heard it's not easy dealing with that on your own..."

The man wasn't quite sure how to reply to that. When he thought about it, he knew she had a point. He did spend a lot of time with Sherlock, especially since their case with Charles Augustus Magnussen and what it had exposed about his wife. Sure, he trusted her and loved her above everything else... but she'd still shot his best friend. It had ended up saving his life, but it was still something he struggled with from time to time. Burying himself in work helped John deal with the pain.

Still... She was pregnant with his child. He doted on them both as often as he could, but he didn't spend any less time with Sherlock because of it. Before he'd married her, he'd even promised his best friend that nothing would have to change... He hadn't known it was a lie back then.

Whether or not the brilliant man knew it, Sherlock was still very protective of habits he loved. The clever detective thought the rest of the world had paused during his absence, and that life would be the same after his return. John hadn't ever really thought how much he'd actually adjusted back to their old life, despite marriages and impending parenthood.

"I see it in your eyes," Irene pushed on when the blond man was left mute. "You lit up when you speak of her and your little one. You don't want to lose them. You've accepted the truth. But take it from someone who has seen the best and worst of people… if you don't show your wife the appreciation she deserves, she'll leave you faster than you can say 'gay couple'."

"Sherlock and I aren't-"

"I know," the woman stopped him with a strong voice. Somehow, it made John falter. "You should stop acting like you are. It's fair advice. I know you don't want things to change, but they already have. I think Sherlock knows more about it than he cares to admit, too. Nonetheless, you need to prioritize your wife more in order to work through the ordeal. Let me ask you this, when was the last time you were properly alone together, without the risk of Sherlock interfering a private moment?"

Though he thought she spoke wisely, the man still wasn't sure he liked the situation. One of the most amoral people he knew, and a former dominatrix at that, was giving him a lecture on love. There were just no rights in that mix. "You're giving me relationship advice?"

"No. I'm giving you both a free weekend at a B&B in Belfast. If you'll let me give it to you?"

That John had not expected. "What? Why?"

"I know people there, what they like. I can arrange it so that you lovebirds get time for yourselves. Sherlock-free," Irene's eyes twinkled in that special way only her bright eyes could.

"I still don't get why you'd want to help me," the doctor admitted.

The woman sighed as if the man was missing out on a vital piece of information. She raised the hem of her shirt and bared the bandaid below. "You and your beautiful wife saved my life. Let me repay you by this small favor. And don't worry about Sherlock, John. I'll be here to take care of him, so he won't be terribly depressed you're gone."

Suddenly it all made sense to the man's mind. "Ah! Now I get it. You want a weekend alone with him…!"

Irene's smile didn't waiver and he wondered if he'd actually read her intentions correctly, after all. Her eyes merely waited patiently for his reply. "Well? Will you accept my gift?"

The man contemplated his options. Though he wasn't entirely comfortable receiving advice from Irene, it didn't make her any less right. And his most darling wife certainly did deserve to be pampered. "You know what, sod it. Sure. You're right. Mary and I could use a weekend break together. …Are you sure you don't want anything in return from me?"

The woman shrugged innocently. "Not for the moment, no."

'Quack-quack'.

They both froze and lost their current train of thought as the unexpected noise sounded loudly in the living room. Both gazed at the other with wide, confused eyes.

"… Was that you?" John asked at great length.

Irene reached into the robe pocket and took out her most precious item. "My phone, apparently."

"Ah," the other man said with a short nod. Then it all made sense. Or at least as much sense as one of Sherlock's petty revenges almost four years late could make. "Someone changed the text alert noise? You should never leave your phone unattended."

"No. Apparently not even when you're in mortal danger."

"Especially not then."

The woman gazed down at the new text on her phone. 'Done yet? – SH.'

Molly was working late. Not that it was a surprise, after all. There were fewer days she went home on time than the other way around. The fact that the sun had set below the horizon outside her precious morgue and that her clock was telling her it was far too late, the woman didn't feel like leaving. She rather liked this place. The dead never said things that hurt. In truth, she had practically hidden down here, with her work, after Sherlock's latest antics.

At least she now knew John, Sherlock and that Adler woman were involved somehow with the destruction of Big Ben, as was Moriarty. That she had once dated that insane man was something she couldn't wrap her head around. He must certainly have been a good actor, or just plain mad, to once have tricked her into believing he was anything less than evil.

As Molly inspected the latest body that had been rolled into her morgue (a classic suicide by hanging), the young woman was suddenly interrupted by a knock on the door.

As it opened, the scientist turned to see who her late guest was. She felt her heart sink as she recognized the well-clad guest as Irene other woman looked disarmingly beautiful. Dressed in a tight dress, cloak and flat shoes with hair curled, she made Molly look like a washed out rag where she wore a flowery top and chinos under her lab coat.

"Hello, Ms Hooper. Am I interrupting?" the guest asked with a smile as she entered the cold, metallic room. The woman didn't even flinch as she looked down at the dead man on the slab before the scientist.

"Oh, eh… No. I was just-" Molly waved her hand at the corpse before her to explain. "It's fine."

"I'm glad," Irene smirked and moved closer until she stood right on the other side of the metallic table.

The other woman felt her cheeks flush at the sudden attention and her eyes danced about the room in great discomfort. "W-why are you here? Sherlock's not here. That is, if you were looking for him."

"I wasn't. I've found what I was looking for."

Molly blinked. "M-me?"

"Yes, Molly – might I call you Molly? You don't have to look so terribly frightened, you know. You look like someone who just woke up in a morgue. I've only come to offer you a favor of sorts. And now that I see you properly in your... natural habitat, I think I know exactly what I might do for you."

"…Favor? You want to offer me a favor?" To Molly, that was beyond comprehension. The woman hadn't even made up her mind whether or not to like the other woman. She knew Adler had helped clear the accusations of insanity against the detective, which of course was a good thing in Molly's book. Still… there was something about the beautiful woman that screamed 'Danger!'. Not to mention the fact that the two women didn't know each other at all. "Why?"

"I'm told I have you to thank for my life. Of course, you didn't know I was injured when you rode to my rescue, but that is irrelevant. If it hadn't been for you, John and Mary I would have died. And when someone does something nice for me, I return the favor."

The scientist shook her head. "No need. Really. I didn't do it for you-"

"Oh, I know," Irene interrupted. "You're like an open book, aren't you? You portray this frail woman to the world, when I can see you're anything but. Are you afraid, Ms Hooper?"

"You don't know me, Ms Adler. I-I… I really don't see how this concerns you."

The other woman stood her ground. "I can see your entire life in your eyes, Molly. This morgue is your entire life. You're almost like him already," she waved a hand at the corpse between them. "Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not-"

Irene arched one fine eyebrow. "So I'm right?"

"What? No, no," Molly shook her head and tried to clear the thoughts that swirled uncontrollably in her head. "I mean… I don't think so."

"I've met so many women like you in my past. I've helped women like you when I worked as a dominatrix," at this admission, the other woman's eyes widened. Neither John nor Sherlock had ever shared that little detail with her! The woman smirked as she continued, "There's that frightened expression again. Relax, dear. I'm not here to change your... career path."

"Thank god…" the scientist sighed in relief and finally released the breath she'd been holding.

"But I do want you to see what I see right now. I need to get to know you, in order to help you."

"I-I'm not asking for help. It's quite presumptuous of you."

"Nonetheless," Irene started and paused as she searched for the right words. "I do mean it. I want to help you move on. It's not very difficult, seeing how much you care for Sherlock Holmes."

"I've already moved on, Ms Adler," Molly frowned in irritation. "I was engaged to another, Tom, for quite a long while. We had a dog and everything. We broke up not too long ago. I assure you, I've moved on."

"May I venture a guess?" the brunette asked as she leaned her palms against the slab between them. "Was this man a Sherlock-copy?"

"I... have a type."

"Alright," Irene smiled in amusement and conceded, "You're not infatuated with our detective anymore. But you never married this man either. You haven't moved on, have you? I want to help you grow stronger and more confident."

Molly's frown intensified as she cautiously spoke, "I can improve myself, thank you very much."

"Yes. Good. That's the first lesson, after all," Irene clarified and her eyes sparkled with kindness for a second. "I can tell you want to find that one love. It's true, you don't need a man to be strong in yourself. But you need to move on from Sherlock to find whatever happiness you deserve. Well, I wouldn't say you deserve more, but simple something and someone else. Someone better suited for you."

The peculiarity of the situation was still not lost on the scientist. "Sherlock's a wonderful man. I admit, he's got his quirks, but he's still good. So is his... type."

The brunette inclined her head in agreement. "He's also unobtainable. I'd bet my last penny that's why you haven't been able to fully move on. Being hung up on someone you know can't have is torture. But it protects the heart from being hurt by someone whom you actually can have."

Molly really didn't like the direction this conversation was taking. In a last attempt to escape, she covered up the stiff before her and pulled off the latex gloves. The scientist shook her head and turned her back to Irene to dispose the gloves in the trash. "That's… that's silly. Why would I do that?"

Irene slowly walked around the table until she stood face to face with the other woman and entered her personal sphere. "My educated guess is that you're afraid of reciprocated love. I've met thousands of people with that fear in my career. I've learned to recognize the signs. Look, people like you are always overshadowed by people like me, Molly. But that doesn't mean you're worth any less. And that's where I want to help."

"… How?"

"As I said: we work on you, first of all," Irene said and eyed Molly from top to bottom. The other woman felt her cheeks flush warm but she didn't turn her gaze away this time. "You can choose the pace, my dear. You have so much potential, and your strengths are all already inside of you. Let's have fun with, and I can show you a world you've missed out on. And, if you like... we'll find you someone suitable. Now, what might Molly Hooper prefer, when searching for new types? Someone a few years older, perhaps? An eligible divorcé perhaps?"

Gobsmacked, the other woman asked the question that burned strongest on her mind, "Why would you do this for me?"

"I told you-"

Molly shook her head firmly. She was smart enough not to buy into that crap about the principle of quid pro quo. "No, I mean, really? The truth?"

"Because you're one of Sherlock's most important friends. And I want his friends to be mine, too," Irene explained as if it was no big deal.

"Why?" the other woman pushed on.

"So that if Sherlock Holmes decides to turn on me again, maybe the rest of you won't," the smile on the woman's face wasn't one Molly could even begin to decipher. "Now, Ms Hooper… Will you accept my favor?"

Irene stepped into the cold evening with a breath of ease that seemed to lift her spirits. Both John and Molly had accepted her favors and the night still seemed young. The woman glanced back at St Bart's Hospital and let her thoughts drift back to the young scientist. She figured Ms Hooper wasn't so bad, after all. All she needed was a little confidence to understand it herself.

As she stood on the top of the steps, the woman reached into her coat pocket and took out her phone to compose a short text. A smirk spread across her face.

'I do hope you're waiting up for me. – IA.'

Irene pocketed the phone and headed down the steps and casually strolled down the sidewalk. She was tired after her little field trip and the wound on her side throbbed with each step she took. It was good exercise, of course, but her body was still unused to such exertion since being injured and confined to bed rest.

From the corner of her eyes, the slim woman noticed a black car approach the sidewalk beside her where it came to a slow halt. The vehicle had black, tinted windows and thus didn't made it impossible to see the person in the backseat. In surprise, Irene stopped, too. It was obvious the car was there for her, after all.

The back door opened then and allowed the woman to see the mysterious person.

"Need a ride, Ms Adler?"

The brunette raised a questioning eyebrow and hesitated a beat. She glanced about once, but the coast was clear. She sighed, walked over to the car and jumped into the backseat without further delay.

As she closed the door, the black car slowly drove off into thes low traffic of the London evening.

To be continued.