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

12. Two steps back

As John unlocked the door to 221B he was somewhat surprised to see the lights turned off and the flat bathing in darkness as if forgotten and abandoned. He had been expecting both Irene and Sherlock to be home at this hour. The first to heal and the second in deep contemplation over his latest case. Then again, the man knew both were rather unpredictable in their basic mannerism.

The doctor climbed the stairs, which creaked somewhat beneath his tired feet, and lazily discarded his keys on the kitchen table before him.

Gazing into the living room, John saw a shadowed figure reclining in one of the armchairs. Despite the room being covered in complete darkness, he easily recognized the silhouette as Sherlock's.

The blond man walked over and turned on the lamp. He saw his dark-haired friend squint against the intrusion of light and gaze about him in dazed confusion. It was obvious the detective had been deep in contemplation, perhaps even in the far recesses of his mind palace. Regardless, he'd been so far within himself he had failed to notice he'd been sitting in complete darkness.

John knew it would be pointless to scold Sherlock over it and simply walked over, sunk into the armchair opposite the man while he asked, "You figured anything out about the remaining nine missing people?"

The detective's confused eyes turned dull as he sighed in reply, "No. Well, nothing definite."

His friend nodded and then looked about the silent space. "Irene's not home?"

"No," Sherlock shook his head distantly. "She went out earlier to meet a friend."

"Friend?" John frowned and the other shrugged his eyebrows in silent agreement. The concept of friends didn't seem to be something the woman treasured highly, unless literally when it concerned payment for a job well done. "Who?"

"Perhaps an old client," Sherlock suggested in a short tone, but showed no sign that this information upset him.

The doctor frowned and allowed himself the opportunity to study his friend in the simple way he could. Though close they were, John knew his friend clammed up to become a man of limited words when regarding the topic of the Woman. Since Watson had never been as good at deducing from mere looks as his mate, he knew the only way to dig deeper at the curiosity that gnawed at him would be to ask straight-forward questions. Sherlock would call his tactic blunt and lacking imagination, but it remained the only way John knew how to learn what he wanted. "Does that bother you?"

Sherlock's eyes squinted just the tiniest as the detective's piercing gaze bore down on him. Apparently, the subject was a testy one, but John had expected as much. "Why would it? She may do as she please. I don't care."

"You know, Sherlock…" the blond man voice trailed off as he recalled Mycroft's visit a few days earlier and Sherlock's adamant protest of caring then, too. "I've never seen anyone who cares so little object so loudly."

"Luckily I'm the one who makes the deductions in this house," the Holmes boy pointed out in his dry voice as he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his phone. John watched in silence as his friend read something on it and then proceeded to compose what appeared to be a text.

The blond man inhaled deeply and rubbed his palms together. Maybe this was as good a time as any… The memory of his talk with Irene was still fresh in his mind and, though he hated to admit it, she had been right. Things had been returning to his old bachelor days slowly but surely, and John was certain his best mate had something to do with it, whether subconsciously or active manipulation. Sherlock Holmes was a creature of habit, and wanted his life to be exactly as it once had been. The doctor suspected his friend knew the impossibility of that, but also that he'd need to spell out to him all the reasons why he had to let go.

"Listen…" John leaned forward and pressed his elbows against his knees. Words failed the doctor and he let his voice fade into shadows as his mind searched for the right words. "We need to talk."

"I thought we were talking already," Sherlock muttered as he kept composing the text on his phone. The man paused to read what he'd composed and then proceeded to seemingly delete it and start anew.

The blond man figured it was better to do this quick. Like ripping off the band-aid. "I meant talk about me getting some space from Baker Street."

That got the man's attention at once. His wide, blue eyes flew up to meet his friend's and slowly the hand which held the phone sank back onto his lap. Though the detective said nothing, John knew this was an invitation for him to continue.

"I'm not saying immediately," he continued with caution. "But I need to focus on my marriage. We both know things have changed since you returned to life. That it can't be exactly what it used to be."

"Why not?" the detective asked and the childish innocence to his voice made him seem almost frail.

"I don't live here, for starters," the short man explained. "I have a home with Mary, and I spend too much time here, I think. She understands what we do, and you know she's helped us crack some puzzles, too. But we haven't been married that long and I seem to be spending more time here than with her."

Sherlock's gaze fell and he nodded shortly. "I see."

"I love her, Sherlock," John half-pleaded as he saw the hurt flash in his friend's eyes.

"Let's not talk of this tonight," the dark-haired man said and whatever emotion had been present seemed to have been replaced by impassiveness in one swift flash. The other man gazed at his best friend for a long minute. He liked to think he knew Sherlock better than anyone. He also liked to think that maybe the man allowed him to see his heart now and again despite wanting no one but himself to uncover the truth of what lay behind his well-worn mask of indifference. The feeling of hurt had been unmistakable, unlike most emotions that flashed in the windows to Sherlock's soul.

"Listen, I won't stop being your friend, you know," John promised as he believed to have figured out the problem at hand. "It's not a betrayal of your friendship, honest. It's just… if I want to keep Mary, I have to prioritize her. And I really don't want to lose her, Sherlock."

The man looked as if he believed his friend cared too much, but refrained from making a comment. John had a good idea his friend was merely restraining himself as to not speak ill about the situation and unintentionally hurt John's feelings.

"Of course. I don't want you to, either. All things run their course, I suppose," Sherlock said with his chin held high. The blond man knew this was still not an acceptance from his best friend and it pained him to realize it. He knew Mary and his best friend got along better than anyone had expected, and had formed quite a special bond, too, since their introduction. It had made John very happy to see how differently the detective treated his wife than all of the doctor's past girlfriends. And Mary, in turn, was very supportive of the men's close friendship. All of it wasn't enough to overcome Sherlock's 'character traits', as he preferred to call them himself. The best thing for everyone was if the peculiar man could accept the changes.

"I still want to be your partner, Sherlock. It's just… I might not be able to help with every crime. I've been thinking about getting a job at the hospital again. Maybe St Bart's. At least part-time. I'd help you most of the time, of course. God knows you're not the only one who needs the kicks."

"I understand," the consultant detective said shortly and put his phone back into his pocket as a stiff grin fled across his lips.

John knew his friend was in no mood to continue the discussion, but decided he couldn't shy away from it. Instead, he pushed forward. "Besides, you won't be all alone. Not while Irene's living here, anyway."

Sherlock's gaze wandered across the room as if they were once more treading onto land he rather wished to stay away from. "For as long as that lasts."

The blond man pondered the situation and then ventured a guess. "It's really bothering you, isn't it? That you can't read her?"

The other man remained turned away and the short reply came after a minute's pause. "…Yes."

John knew the admission was harder for his friend than perhaps most other confessions would have been, and felt grateful Sherlock wasn't trying to escape or lie anymore.

"I've always wondered… why is she so special?" the blond man raised his eyebrows in question and leaned back in his seat once more. "What is it about her that makes you want to deduce everything about her?"

"Because I can't deduce anything about her," the dark-haired man explained simply and with such honesty John figured it must have been the first time the detective admitted as much out loud.

"She's both the one woman who beat you-"

"Almost beat me," Sherlock corrected with a pointed glare.

"-and the one you can't deduce. You mean you haven't even gotten closer to understanding the mystery though she's been living with you? Can anyone be that hard to read for you?"

The Holmes man harrumphed like a small child and shifted in his seat. "Don't make me say it out loud, John. I won't."

"Maybe you just need to see her in a more natural habitat," his friend offered with a sympathetic shrug. "Since her return she's been pretty much confined here, hasn't she? Not much of a life for someone who used to live to misbehave. I've been thinking… If I won't be able to solve every crime with you, why not let Irene come with? Ever since the explosion, she's seemed so… restless."

Sherlock looked surprised to learn this news. There was clear confusion in the pale eyes, as if the clouds had begun to fade from the sky. John had to admit he was a bit shocked there was something he had deduced that had escaped the brilliance of his friend's mind.

"You hadn't noticed? Maybe you're so focused on her inner secrets that you're missing what's on the surface…? Just look for yourself. You'll see I'm right. I think she just needs something to do. Besides, she could be a good help. She's very clever and deduces things faster than I ever have."

"That she does." A small, teasing smile played at the corner of the man's full lips.

The short man sighed. "Shut up. You don't have to agree with everything I say. What I meant was… just think about it. The two of you could work as a well-oiled machine if you only allowed it to happen."

To this, Sherlock refused to reply.

Irene gazed at the figure beside her in the backseat of the car and gave herself a moment to reflect on her current situation.

"I must admit, I did not see this coming," she commented in a dry tone at last.

"I do like to always keep one step ahead of the expected, Ms Adler," Mycroft commented with a light arch to his eyebrow as he turned his head to gaze at her.

"Still begs the question – why?" the woman decided not to beat around the bush this time. There was no need either, she figured. She had already spoken her mind to him last time, after all. When they had confronted each other in Baker Street, all bets had been off. The remembrance of their last encounter four years ago had blinded them both to anything else except for their mutual loathing for the other. The agreement they had reached in the past had been breached in the most irrevocable ways and neither felt able to overlook this truth. But having played all the chords right last time, Irene didn't need to repeat her victory streak now. At the very least, she suspected Mycroft wasn't here to challenge her in that respect anyway.

"My brother says Moriarty is back," the elder Holmes man stated simply and sighed, "and after the explosions at the great bell tower I'm inclined to agree with him."

"I hardly see how this is relevant to me," the slim woman pointed out in her most innocent, bored voice and dully began to inspect her red-polished nails.

"Fine," Mycroft said. "If you want, we can pretend your affiliation with Moriarty is over."

"It is over-"

The man interrupted her swiftly, apparently not interested in playing along with her mischievous games. "Just listen for once in your life, Ms Adler. Stop debating and listen. I want to propose a deal… Well?"

"Oh, I was allowed to reply? Sorry, I was busy listening."

"Ms Adler…"

Irene wasn't so easily fooled by Mycroft's geniality in shifting focus from himself. She saw the raised walls in his pale, cold eyes and opted to see his cards then and there. "Something tells me you knew of our favorite criminal's return before the explosion."

The man merely grinned but refrained from making a comment. To the woman, that said more than words ever could. She connected the dots in no time and gazed at the suit-clad man beside her in plain disbelief.

"You are very protective of your brother," Irene said slowly as her mind closed around the theory. "Though your brother believes it's because of a need to be in control, it's because you truly care for him. Isn't it? He's all you've got. Without him, you're alone. I was wrong, you're right. I now know you helped him fake his suicide, but everything's still different since then, isn't it? He won't let you as close, but you watch from afar. To keep him safe without him knowing. It wasn't just Moriarty's presence you knew of earlier, was it? You must have known I lived with him. Begs the question: what else do you know?"

"Everything," Mycroft breathed deeply and threw her a penetrating glance. Somehow, she didn't doubt he meant that literally. She had always believed the detective was the sneaky, clever one of the Holmes boys, but realized that maybe she had in fact gotten the wrong idea about Mycroft by making such an assumption. She had allowed Sherlock's vision of his brother to mirror her own way of viewing him. That had been her first error concerning Mycroft Holmes.

The older man smiled tightly as he saw the realizations twinkle past in her pale, wide eyes. "It would seem my brother is the one underestimating me. Not the other way around."

Irene could only shrug. "You still haven't explained it though. Why have you sought me out, whom you so clearly detest? I know you're not here to ask me to leave your brother, though you want nothing else."

Mycroft smiled at her with a tired, heartless grin. "Rest assured, Ms Adler. I won't stop trying to make my brother see the sense I know he otherwise possesses. He'll soon understand you must leave once more. You see, if you stay, my brother will lose himself. Piece by piece."

The woman smirked in mocking antipathy. It seemed where she had underestimated the man, he had in turn overestimated her. "I thank you for that vote of confidence, but I assure you I have no such power over your brother."

"No? You don't think so? Could you define your relationship with my brother?" Mycroft asked pointedly and Irene didn't say a word. The man seemed to take it as a victory for he swiftly proceeded to other topics, "As for the why this time… You know the reason, Ms Adler. Don't think you can fool me into admitting anything out loud. I'm not my brother, after all. I don't carry his weaknesses."

Mycroft did right this time at least, not to presume wrong about the woman's cleverness. She did understand. Though the man loathed The woman for almost making the whole of England grovel before her, his relationship to his brother mattered more. The relationship between them was more intricate than the woman had anticipated.

Irene opened her mouth to break the tense silence and stop the whirling thoughts in her mind, when another sound interrupted their tête-à-tête most unexpectantly.

'Quack-quack'.

Mycroft frowned and looked around the backseat in plain confusion. "What was that noise?"

"Text," the brunette explained and pulled out her phone to read the message.

'Why would I be waiting up?. – SH.'

The man glanced down at the phone in her slender hand and rolled his eyes. "My brother?"

Irene did not reply, but put the phone away with a smirk on her thin, red lips. She searched to remember her last train of thought before the interruption. "You mentioned a deal… What do you want from me? To spy on your brother? Protect him where you can't?"

"Something like that," Mycroft nodded and let his cryptic words drift into the shadows of the car. "I did mean it, you know, when I said you reminded me of Sherlock. You two are very similar in mind."

"Ah…!" Irene said as another light bulb went off. The elder Holmes was starting to make sense now. "That's why you need me. You want to get inside Sherlock's mind palace. A place you haven't been able to breach because he keeps shutting the door on you."

"You, on the other hand it seems, can get in where no one else can," the man confessed and the brunette thought she heart a hint of admiration in his dark voice. "I want you to grant me access to those places down the road. As soon as Moriarty returns, whenever that may be, and Sherlock figures out what is coming, I need to know. I need to be the first to get to Moriarty, Ms Adler. I'm sure you are aware that the criminal is planning their final game."

When Irene remained silent, Mycroft continued with his monologue, "Whether my brother admits it or not… you have gotten underneath his skin, Ms Adler. I saw it four years ago, and I see it written clearly across his face now, too. He thinks he is stellar at hiding his emotions, particularly those he doesn't admit to himself… But I know my brother well. Sometimes better than he knows himself, I believe."

The woman could barely conceal the fact she believed the man greatly overestimated her ability to breach the detective's strong defenses. Though she could admit to a special connection between them, there was no possibility that she could ever learn everything that went on far behind his ocean-colored, all-seeing eyes. Ultimately, she shrugged in truthful hesitation. "I won't pretend to have a VIP access to your brother's mind. You say you know your brother, you should know he protects his mind palace from everyone."

"Anything you can find out will be useful, Ms Adler. Use your… bond, or whatever you wish to call it, and notify me when he reaches those deep abysses only Sherlock can. It's the only way I can help him. The only way I can prevent him from doing something utterly stupid."

"I wonder… This brotherly control. Is it all fear… or is it anger, too? Anger because he didn't involve you in his plans to rescue me in the terrorist cell? Is your ego hurt?" Irene asked in a mocking voice as she felt herself gain the upper hand again.

Something flashed in Mycroft's eyes and she knew the man was about to un-bury the hatchet. "Ms Adler, if you think I am asking this favor out of free will, you are mistaken. I see in your eyes a belief that you can own anyone's desires and wrap everyone around your little finger, even Sherlock Holmes. You don't see the risks of your little game. You don't see the danger you are putting him in by remaining in London. You, just as Sherlock, have great enemies. The two of you could never be together without risking the life of the other. Not to mention the safety of my brother's nature."

The brunette frowned in confusion, genuinely unsure what the elder Holmes boy was referring to. Somehow, she felt her upper-hand slipping through her fingers like sand, but still couldn't resist asking the question which burned hot in her throat. "What do you mean?"

"Sherlock has the mind of a genius, yet whenever you are around he makes the questionable deductions of a fool. In the long run, that's not something his mind can allow itself to do. He can never be in a relationship with anyone, to remain at the top he must be alone. It is the price of brilliance, after all."

Irene shrugged as if his harsh words didn't bother her. "Despite for all the danger I put him in, you still require my aid to save him from being swallowed by a meaner fish. An interesting paradox, don't you agree?"

Mycroft sighed just as the car came to a slow halt. The woman gazed out the tinted window and realized they were merely a block away from Baker Street. She understood this was as close as the man would take her without risking to alert his younger brother's of the secret meeting. Irene didn't seize to be amazed over the lengths which he went to ensure his brother's safety, and a part of her was curious to explore how much his brother was aware of it.

The woman turned her gaze to Mycroft, who sat with head partially in shadow and with features which seemed to be searching for the right words.

"Think about my proposition, Ms Adler," the man said at last. "I don't need an answer right away, I simply need you to consider that I'm doing it for Sherlock. And the reason I want your help is for his sake, too. Our differences aside, we do share our concern for him."

Irene turned her head away before he could see the affect their conversation had on her. Instead, she wordlessly opened the door and climbed out. Breathing in a deep breath, she felt strength fill her lungs along with the oxygen. With a cunning grin, she leaned in to say her farewell, "I have warned you once, Mr Holmes. You overestimate my feelings for your brother and my affect on him in return."

"Leave that deduction to me," Mycroft assured and it was obvious he thought she was playing a mischievous game with him, also.

The woman moved to shut the door when the man called her back. "And, Ms Adler... When you finally do realize that you and Sherlock can't be together… Let me know. I'll offer you a way out."

Irene made no comment to his final offer but simply smiled and slammed the car door shut.

John heard the door open downstairs and looked up from his paper to glance at the contemplating Sherlock still in the other armchair. The conversation between the old friends had been over for almost ten minutes, in which the detective had returned to his mind palace in order to attempt to solve his crime. He held both hands up before his mouth now, with the finger tips touching the opposite on the other hand. Slowly his hands rocked back and forth a couple of centimeters in this contemplating position. From the distant look in Sherlock's blue eyes, it seemed he hadn't heard the late arrival.

The doctor glanced behind and saw Irene climb the stairs, her gaze seemingly as far-off as Sherlock's. He wondered what could be troubling her mind and cleared his throat to get her attention. Her eyes rose to meet his and in wordless communication she raised her slim eyebrows in question.

"Did you… have a nice night?" John asked, for lack of a better question.

"Fine…" she nodded. "I had a lovely time with my friend. You?"

"Yeah," the man nodded and glanced quickly at Sherlock (who was still slowly rocking his hands back and forth without being mentally present in the living room). "It's been a quiet night."

John saw her gaze traveled to look at the detective. She beheld him in deep contemplation for a second and the blond man found it somewhat odd. At least he'd gotten the answer to what had been occupying her mind just now. He wondered if there was ever a time when Sherlock and Irene didn't think about the other, for surely those times had to be fewer than the reverse.

"...What's wrong?" he ventured.

Irene turned her eyes back to him and he saw her mischievous walls rise up between them, more fortified than ever before. Her eyes twinkled just like normal again. "Nothing."

With seductive hips, the woman slowly strolled over to the detective. With an unsubtle, flirtatious move she rocked her hip to the side, knocking the man's elbow from the armrest, and sat down upon it instead. Her flirting gesture seemed enough to knock the dark-haired man out of his thoughts at last and he gazed sideways up at her as if noticing her return first now.

"Ah. You're back," he commented shortly.

"I am," she cooed in return and lay one arm on the top of the chair behind his head. "And you waited up."

Sherlock snorted at her unspoken insinuation and from the other armchair John frowned in flustered confusion. This was definitely not something he was going to ask the duo about.

"Waited, no. But I am going to bed now," the detective rose from the seat and glanced down at the woman on the armrest. There seemed to be an unspoken question in the air between them and John could practically measure the electricity in the room. For some reason, the doctor believed he was the only one in the living room who could currently read the moment with any accuracy. His eyes darted around the living room anywhere but on the other two figures as to and mentally attempted to blend in with the wallpaper. Not that it was a hard task for Sherlock and Irene did seem to have forgotten his presence.

"On second thought…" Sherlock said at length. "I'll sleep on the couch tonight. When I work on a case like this, I usually get up in the middle of the night whenever. This way I won't disturb you."

The blond man the woman gazed at Irene and figured she'd pull out all her misbehaving guns and whips to make the man abandon this plan, but she smirked and stood up. "Goodnight, then. And good luck. I'll see you in the morning."

With those words she merely brushed past the men and John thought he saw a flicker of gratefulness cross her features. He heard the bedroom door close behind her as she went to bed. The doctor's jaw dropped and he turned to see the expression on Sherlock's face, only to realize the same flicker of relief passed through his eyes.

"Night, John. Give my best to Mary," the detective spoke and, though still clad in his suit, he walked over to the sofa, lay down and turned his back to his friend.

The other man sat in the stunned silence that lingered in their wake. He thought he'd been so close to figuring out the complex nature of their relationship, only to have the recent moment slap him in the face and turn all deductions on its head. He couldn't for the life of him wrap his head around what had just happened. He'd been so sure the two were growing closer… but now they both seemed relieved to blow the other off. The blond man felt as if he'd taken a cold shower and felt fatigue creep into his weary mind.

Perhaps it wasn't so foreign a thought after all. Anything even remotely close to a feeling always did have Sherlock shying away much like a vampire from garlic. From the little he knew of Irene, she didn't seem to be any better at opening up about her emotions. Maybe all they needed was time apart to think.

Oh, who was he kidding? When it came to Irene and Sherlock they needed a freaking miracle to open up about all that was bottled within.

"You're idiots. Both of you. Idiots," John muttered in irritation as he got up from his seat, headed down the stairs and homeward.

To be continued.