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

Chapter 16: Love is blindness

John felt something slap the side of his cheek as a woman's voice called out his name, urging him to awaken from the deep bottom. He tried to pry open his heavy eyelids and finally managed to crack one eye open. Irene's impatient face stared down at him.

"…Am I dead?" he managed to croak out and slowly sat up on the forest floor. He inspected himself from a medical point of view and was relieved to find no mortal wound anywhere on his body. The bullet had thankfully grazed the outside of his right arm, due to his good reflexes of ducking out of the bullet's path. His sleeve was bloody and the wound stung like hell, but it wasn't worse than that. John raised his gaze and saw the body of the young pakistanian in the middle of the meadow. Hazaar lay on his back with a blank expression on his bloodied face amid the snow-covered leaves. He had definitely not been as fortunate.

"So much for a good assassin…" John muttered in shocked confusion.

"It was fortunate he aimed his gun at you, I'd rather say," the fair lady commented in a brusque tone of voice that didn't become her.

"Oh, yes, fortunate," the man retorted in his most sarcastic voice and turned to the injury on his arm. He tended to it carefully and hissed as he applied pressure on the sore spot. How he would explain this to his wife, he had yet to figure out.

From the corner of his eye, the doctor saw the woman lean heavily against a tree nearby. She lowered her hand and the gun fell from her grasp to rest on the forest floor by her feet, buried into the snow. She seemed almost beside herself.

Irene Adler was many things, a lot of which could be traced to less than legal attributes, but a killer she was not. She had probably seen and done more things in her line of work than John could ever imagine, but even this seemed outside her usual norm of misbehaving. Though he understood her reaction well, the man was still unsure what to do. He had never seen the woman lower any of her carefully constructed walls, and yet now she stood before him - inhaling shaky breaths as if she was slowly tipping over the edge of a great abyss.

"… It failed," she whispered at length and the man frowned.

"Sorry?"

She turned around and looked over at the injured man as if remembering he was still with her. "It failed. All I wanted was to stop Moriarty before he… Before he…"

John sadly smiled up at her and slowly stood on shaky legs. As he rose, he brushed the snow from his clothes. "I know this wasn't part of the plan. But it happens to everyone, we trust in ourselves and others in ways we shouldn't because we just hope we're right. Everyone makes mistakes. Granted, not-"

"Not everyone's mistakes involve killing a man!" Irene snapped in reply before the man could finish.

The man was somewhat taken aback. He had never seen the woman wear her heart on her sleeve in such blatant fury either. He still couldn't hold it against her, he'd been there himself during his early days in Afghanistan... He knew the toll these matters could have on the human mind, not to mention the heart.

"Irene…" the doctor spoke slowly in a gentle voice.

As if realizing her shock was visible in the cracks of her flawless facade, the woman raised her head and held it proudly. John saw her create a new, impenetrable wall between them. "I've done worse."

As if fully recovered from her shock and actions, she nonchalantly picked the gun up from the ground and wiped it clean from prints. She then tucked it into her pocket to dispose of elsewhere in the park. With a final glance at the dead man, Irene turned back to her company.

"I don't know about you, but I think I've had all the fresh air I need for one day. I have a plane to catch. If I'm not on it, Sherlock will miss me terribly."

A few hours later, after the cover of darkness had settled completely over the town of London, Irene stepped out of the Hackney carriage and gazed up at the familiar black door to 221 B Baker Street. Though she had had more than enough time to collect herself, the woman still hadn't managed to suppress the shock entirely. It still bubbled just beneath the surface and she was afraid Sherlock would see it.

The meeting with Hazaar had been a failure and she couldn't confess any of this to the man that awaited her on the other side of the door. She had deleted all her tracks so far and was confident he would never find out unless she or John messed up. Irene drew one last steadying breath as she stood on the top step. Her trembling hand unlocked the door and she stepped inside.

"I said: 'Pass the laptop'," Sherlock spoke from the living room where he was sitting in his armchair, intently gazing into the fire before him.

The woman stopped at the top of the stairs and paused before stepping into the man's peripheral view. "When?"

"Two hours ago," the man explained with a shrug of his eyebrows.

"I was out…" Irene sighed. Perhaps her fears had been misplaced. If he had been so preoccupied with the thoughts which circled in his mind palace, there was a good chance he wouldn't notice anything off about her. Either way, the woman walked over to the desk, grabbed the laptop and carried it over to the detective.

"Thank you," he said as he took it from her hand, opened it up and began typing away.

The woman walked over to the window and gazed out at the beautiful night. On the inside, her chest ached with a shriek that desperately wanted to escape, but had to be forever trapped. She gazed down at her hands and though there was no visible blood on them, they still felt soaked in the heavy liquid.

"That's odd," Sherlock's comment interrupted her thoughts.

Irene inhaled and glanced down at him with an aloof look on her face. "What is?"

The man was gazing intently at her. "You. Your pupils are slightly dilated, your breathing is erratic. What's happened?"

"Maybe it's just seeing your cheekbones that's getting me all warm inside…" she breathed, walked over and climbed into his lap even as he discarded the laptop on the floor beside the armchair. She wrapped her arms around his neck as the man sighed in reluctance.

"Be serious, Irene…"

"I don't do serious," she scolded him. "But I will do you…"

It was plain in the detective's eyes that he wasn't about to let her reaction slide, instead he spent a good minute attempting to read her features. "…This is about Moriarty, isn't it? I suppose it's a natural human response to be had. The man nearly did kill you, after all. To be a little scared of what is to come is simply… human."

The woman felt relief wash over her when he presented her with an alternate version to hide behind. "The man blew up Big Ben, Sherlock. He won't stop at anything to win this time. I know there's no one more brilliant and wise than you. You've seen through Moriarty in the past, but is it enough? He's becoming more desperate to defeat you, and thereby more dangerous. I wish I could help..."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, but before he could say anything, Irene put a hand over his mouth firmly. She figured she might try and make amends for her error by at least giving him some useful information she had acquired during her associations with Moriarty.

"I'm sure you know this, but he believes the devil is in the details. Because of his changeable nature he never concocts a plan without back-up and therefor rarely loses. Plan B is king. Of course, he thinks highly of himself, much like his sexy adversary. He sees himself as undefeatable in the face of an opponent... even you. You've proved him wrong in the past, of course. Still, as I said, he'll step up his game now."

The man smiled into her hand as she kept informing him of everything she could think of that might contribute to the end of the criminal mastermind.

Mycroft waited impatiently in the cool, abandoned parking house. His brother was late, which was somewhat unusual for the other man. Still, more often than not these days, the younger Holmes brother did everything he could to tick his elder brother off. A few minutes later, the familiar shape of Sherlock walked over to his brother with a sour expression on his face and his collar turned up for mystical value.

"What was so urgent that we had to meet on a Sunday?" Sherlock asked as he stopped a few feet before his brother.

Since he was already growing annoyed at his brother's ignorance, Mycroft decided to get on with it without further ado. He handed over the manila envelope in his hand and simply said, "Here. I wanted to show you these. They were taken on Thursday."

The detective frowned down at the envelope as he opened it and pulled out its contents. Inside lay several photographs, obviously taken stealthily. Photographs of Irene. And John. Sherlock squinted as he gazed at the third figure visible in the shots. Hazaar. It didn't take more than two seconds for the clever man to put the whole picture together as he beheld the photographs in his hands, but he kept his face impassive as to not give his brother any ideas.

"Well, the angle is slightly off," Sherlock commented dryly as he flipped through the images.

"I'll tell my agent that next time he stalks Ms Adler going into suspicious meetings he ought to think about the angles of his shots," Mycroft retorted just as sarcastically.

"What's this, Mycroft?" the detective waved the photos in the air with a firm grip to make his point.

"I think you know, brother."

"What makes you believe you can stalk the people around me?"

"It's to protect you. Why can't you see that?"

"I don't need your protection, Mycroft!" Sherlock growled in a loud, angry voice. "You're not mum!"

"Imagine her reaction to all this, Sherlock," the elder man began and disappointment shone in his eyes. "What would mother say to you having found yourself a dominatrix girlfriend who goes on meetings with well-known assassins and gets your only friend shot… Do you still think she's trustworthy?"

"I've never thought she was trustworthy," the other argued back. "No more than I've ever thought you and I are on the same side."

"Despite everything? ...Perhaps you'll change your mind about that before the end," Mycroft remarked wistfully. "It would be best for all if you did."

"Best for all? Or best for you?"

"She's a loaded gun you can't control, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a warning to his dark voice. "These pictures show that better than any other proof I could have found for you. You keep her around for your own pleasures, without seeing the dangers you put yourself in. For God's sake, Sherlock... Ms Adler has killed a man this week and gotten John injured in the process. How can you still not believe she's working for the other side?"

The detective shrugged his eyebrows and sighed as if his elder brother was beginning to bore him. "Are you done lecturing me yet, brother?"

The other man gazed down at his brother for a long moment before sighing in defeat. "I'm just trying to look out for your heart, Sherlock. Since you do such a fine job of putting it at risk constantly."

"At least I have a heart," the younger Holmes brother remarked haughtily, turned on his heel and simply walked away.

That same Sunday afternoon, John and Mary arrived home and the man's first visit back was at Baker Street. After Irene had left Ireland, the rest of the weekend had passed with great ease and he had enjoyed the weekend with Mary immensely. She had noticed his injury, of course, but he'd managed to convince her he had fallen on a cliff and cut it open. He hated lying to the people closest to him, but he had sworn to the woman never to tell anyone, and for once he thought she knew best.

Their run-in with the assassin had kept replaying in his mind through the weekend and after having dropped his wife off at their apartment, John had focused all his energy on what he had to do next.

He walked up the stairs to the flat and gazed into the living room. Irene sat snuggled up in one of the armchairs by the lit fireplace. Her face was towards him, as if she had been expecting his return, and a pillow rested in her lap.

"Sherlock's out," she explained shortly. "How's your arm?"

"I've had worse. As long as he doesn't punch me, he won't ever have to find out," the blond man said and mentally tried to prepare himself for what he had come to do.

Slowly, he joined her in the living room and sank into the armchair opposite her. For a moment, the two merely looked at the other expectantly. At the end, it was John's blunt question that broke the ice; "Do you love him?"

Irene's eyebrows rose to meet her hairline. "Excuse me?"

"I said; do you love him?"

"I heard…" she replied tensely. "John Hamish Watson, I don't believe that's any of your concern."

The blond man let out a tired breath and closed his eyes tight as if this discussion would cause him more pain than gain. He had known she would stubbornly refuse to partake in it, but John wasn't about to give up. "Just … please. Answer my question."

"Why?"

"I sort of need to know," he managed as an explanation. He wasn't sure how to explain his anxious emotions. There was so much in the air these days; the fear of change, Irene's presence and her relationship with Sherlock. Not to say anything about Moriarty's ultimate game. John felt he had to clear out the one thing he could before being able to accept the others.

"Why?" the woman questioned his motives with a sparkle in her eyes. "Do you feel some obscure sensation that your own chance of living happily ever after with our favorite detective is slipping through your fingers?"

"Stop, Irene… Don't try and make this into a joke," he begged the woman and leaned his elbows against his thighs. "… If you don't want to answer that question, how about this one: Why are you still here?"

"I-"

John ploughed on before she had a chance to reply. "There's no reason for you to stay. You have connections, if it's protection you want, you don't really need Sherlock… But you just can't leave him, can you? You need him. You care about him, you must. You're both just hiding behind the cover of it being strictly sexual."

"No. I…"

"Sherlock's my best friend… Well, I'm basically his only friend. At least I was 'til you came along. The thing is, Sherlock's special. As you know, of course. He needs someone to take care of him. No, that's not the words I'm looking for. He needs…"

"…someone who cares for him," Irene finished for him and her eyes were downcast.

"Yes. Exactly. If he doesn't have someone close, I fear he'll become something that's not… human anymore. That doesn't feel or care or lives anything akin to a life."

The woman shook her head and met the doctor's gaze once more. "He'll always have his detective stories, John. He'll never be completely alone as long as he has those."

"Alone? No," John shook his head in agreement. "Alive? Not that either. He has us now. I think we've made Sherlock Holmes as human as Sherlock Holmes can be. I don't think going back to his detective stories would be the same as before if he had to do it alone now. He's not the same man he was back when he was lonely."

"…What do you want from me?" the question was raw, anxious and seemed to exude from Irene's heart. In the woman's eyes shone a confused fear not even she seemed able to analyze.

"Just to know your intentions. If you intend to stay. You left him once and he behaved very peculiar. I told you then that he seemed heartbroken, but I don't know how to interpret it. My point is, I don't think you can leave again without it having worse effects on him."

The words of their meeting four years back echoed in their memories now, as they faced each other now. He's writing sad music! He doesn't eat, barely talks… only to correct the television. I'd say he was heartbroken, but he's Sherlock…

"You mean to tell me he loves me?" Irene asked innocently, though there was an unmistakable gleam to her pale eyes.

"Maybe," the man shrugged in all honesty. "I don't know. What I do know is that he does care for you now. But I don't think Sherlock knows to what extent he cares."

"No," the fair woman shook her head and suddenly there was defeat in her eyes. John realized that he had at last cracked one of her defensive walls as she sighed and explained her viewpoint, "I intrigue him. As long as I am a puzzle to solve for him, he will remain intrigued and want to keep me by his side. If I stay, John, I fear he will one day figure me out. I can't let him do that."

"Why?"

Irene shrugged and hugged the pillow tighter. "As soon as he does, he'll grow tired of me. I'll no longer be of interest to him. He'll toss me out like a broken toy."

John frowned at her notion. "I hardly see Sherlock losing interest in you so easily."

"I do. You and I both know where his heart truly lies; in his mysteries. When he grows tired, he moves on. I'd rather break his heart than have him break mine."

"So you do love him?"

"John…" the woman's eyes drifted away from the man in the armchair before her.

The man couldn't give up now, not when he was so close to a confession. "It's a simple enough question. Do you love him?"

"I can't-" Irene began, her eyes still gazing past his shoulder.

John interrupted once more, "Correction; You couldn't. I get it, when you were a dominatrix, it wasn't practical to fall in love. But you're not in that business anymore. In fact, Sherlock's grooming you to be a consultant detective with him. He wants you to be a permanent part of his future. That has to mean something!"

The woman tossed her pillow aside in a way that suggested a hasty finish and stood from her seat in one fluid motion. "This was a lovely conversation, John. Let's talk more some other time."

The doctor frowned a second before realization struck him. "…He's behind me, isn't he?"

From somewhere behind him, the dark, dulcet voice of Sherlock Holmes answered, "He's been here quite a long time actually."

The other man grimaced and glanced up at the woman ahead of him. "Did you know?"

Irene's impassive face spoke volumes in response. "I wish I had known sooner."

Without another word, the woman walked out of the room and past the detective, who stood at the top of the stairs still clad in his long cloak. The curly-haired man glanced back as she descended the stairs, put on her robe and stepped outside without explanation.

Silence fell over the living room once more and John tried to search for the right words to confront his friend.

It was Sherlock who broke the tense silence first however. From his tone of voice, the man wasn't entirely pleased with his friend's interference, "I appreciate your attempt to protect me, John, but it's unnecessary, I assure. I've already explained it to you. The new dimension to my complex relationship with Irene is… a way to focus my mind, if you will. So you see, there's really no need for protection. From you or anybody else."

The blond man sighed. He was getting rather tired of both Sherlock and Irene's attempts of closing their eyes from the obvious truth. He stood from his chair and turned to face his friend. "Yes, there is, Sherlock. You just won't admit it. And I hate to say it, - no, honestly, I really hate to admit this – but Irene might be the only one who actually can protect you."

The tall man frowned down at his friend in confusion. "Protect me from what?"

"I thought you heard what I told her. From yourself. I'm probably the last person who understand what you two share, but maybe you should define it."

Sherlock kept on denying, "There's nothing to define."

"I think there is," John disagreed just as stubbornheartedly. "And I think if you don't, she'll be gone sooner than you realize. Do you want her to leave? Be honest."

The question was one the detective had clearly not expected and for a second, it seemed the other man wouldn't answer at all. At length he confessed a low, "… No."

The doctor felt relief wash over him to at last have a revelation, though small it was. "Then stop denying the truth and deal with it. Whatever it may be."

Sherlock's gaze searched his friend's for the answer to his next question. It was obvious the genius himself had no reply to it. "…What would you call it, John?"

The man shrugged. "I don't know. Love?"

"I bet you think love is a mystery to me, John, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very disruptive… Love? How could I love her?" the man frowned indignantly.

"I bet without much difficulty."

Sherlock shook his head and stepped over to the window. "No… no. That's where you're very wrong indeed. It would be difficult for me."

"Why? I'm not telling you it's going to be easy. I'm telling you it's going to be worth it."

Sherlock did not weaken in his stance. His shoulders squared as he explained himself, "It's a weakness, John."

The other rolled his eyes behind his friend's back. "…'A weakn'-Don't be silly. Sometimes you have a very flawed logic for being such a logical person."

"Love is a dangerous disadvantage, it makes even the strongest man weak of mind."

"…Give me a minute to try and put this in a way that you will understand," John said and thought hard for a second before the perfect example struck him. "Ah, yes! Remember when we first met and you looked at my phone given to me by my sister."

Sherlock grimaced and glared back at his friend. "Is this about me missing the small detail that Harry was in fact a Harriet? I don't like to relive past mistakes."

"It's about the phone! You said that if Clara had been the one who had left my sister, Harry wouldn't have given it away."

"Mm, yes. That's what people do. Keep sentimental trifles and all that…" the detective nodded a second before his eyes widened in realization. "I see. You think since I kept Irene's stripped phone almost four years ago, it was a display of sentiment towards her? It wasn't."

"Then what was it? What reason could you possibly have to keep a useless phone if not for sentimental value?"

The other man frowned once more. "What – do you record everything I say? You're over-analyzing this. I thought you were another sort of doctor-"

"Sherlock!" John hissed in irritation and pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to recollect his thoughts and patience. "You say love is a weakness, I say love gives life a purpose. Tell me, you love me, don't you? As a friend."

"Oh. If you could call it love… I guess."

"For God's sake, you faked your own death to keep me, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade alive!" the other man argued. "Had it been people you hadn't cared for, you wouldn't have, Sherlock. By your own logic, your actions would make you weak."

"Well, it's true in theory. I suppose."

"Would you give any of us up then? To become your definition of strong? Or does our friendship make it worth the risk?"

The tall man seemed reluctant to admit the truth. "...No. I wouldn't give you up. But that was different, I-"

John shook his head fiercely. "No. I won't let you talk your way out of that one. You would have died to save the people you care for, and don't pretend it was simply because you'd already planned how to fake it with your brother and Molly's help! You still gave up your life for us. You'd do it again in a heartbeat. And why? Because it's easy dying for someone if you care for them."

"I-"

"You've saved my life numerous times and I yours. Would you call that- what did you say- a dangerous disadvantage?"

"Well. When you put it like that…"

The blond man could see his friend's arguments weaken, too, and knew he had gotten through to him at least in some peripheral way. "No, Sherlock. Whichever way you put it. Love will always make it worth the risk, even if you sometimes lose. It's only a disadvantage, if you let it be."

"Stop trying to deduce and for God's sake stop lecture me, John. It's not your forte," the detective muttered in defeat. "Besides there's nothing I don't understand already."

"Except love," John said simply and the detective remained silent. "Courage is resistance to love, master of love – not absence of love."

The tall man tilted his head sideways with a confused frown upon his handsome face. "Mark Twain. And I do believe you mean 'fear'. Not 'love'."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "I think to you, they're the same."

Later during the evening, as Irene and Sherlock readied themselves for bed, a tense silence took up most of the space in the bedroom. While the woman brushed her hair before the mirror, the man slowly changed into his pj's. Though they were in the same chamber, both knew in mind they might as well have been on opposite ends of the world.

Through the mirror, the woman kept sneaking glances at the man and his dark curls, attempting to figure out his thoughts and what John could have said to him after she'd left. At length, the woman put the brush down on the table and decided to keep to the path the two had opted to walk down.

"He means well," she began and concentrated hard to keep all signs of emotion from her dulcet tones. "Still, John has quite the imagination, hasn't he? I would venture a guess that his wish for us to talk is... founded in his own fears of change."

Without turning from the closet, Sherlock nodded. "You mean because he's decided to devote more time on his marriage and less on crime solving. He and Mary are having their child - obviously a daughter - soon."

The detective sighed as he walked over and sank onto the covers on his side of the bed. Somehow, talking about his relationship with his friend was easier than discussing their own. At least he had John all figured out, the same could not be said about the mysterious woman sitting before him in her peignoir. "I knew it on his wedding day. It was impossible to misread the signs. ... It really is the end of an era, isn't it?"

"Always the dramatic flare. It's not. He won't be gone," the woman assured and turned to face the man. "All things change, it's only a matter of time. Besides, you'll have me around. One way or the other."

"You can't replace John," Sherlock commented bluntly.

Irene smirked devilishly at the man. "I know. I'm not trying to. I don't want to fill another man's shoes, I have my own stilettos."

The man threw her a halfhearted, crooked grin. "That you do."

The woman knew she was heading for dangerous waters, but still couldn't resist prodding the detective a little bit more. "He did ask interesting questions, however. Though I think he was off about our relationship, it did get me thinking. When Mycroft was here after the explosion at Big Ben, you described me as your adversary…"

The man frowned over at her. His clear eyes seemed to question how she had not been able to understand him back then. "Just because I said it, doesn't mean I meant it."

Irene contemplated his statement and then retorted, "Even a lie – much as a disguise- reflects the truth."

The dark-haired man exhaled deeply and from the look in his eyes he was about to put an end to their discussion before it got awkward. When he spoke, however, his question surprised her, "Do you have a word that defines us then?"

Irene smiled as she rose and moved to straddle the detective. He put both arms around her waist as she wrapped her own arms around his shoulders. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "I think not everything needs to be defined or labeled. Some things can just be what they are. Don't you agree?"

Sherlock's reply was to press his lips against hers with an insatiable hunger.

Moriarty felt the sweet scent of victory linger on the air as his victim's eyes turned wide with fear. The fair woman's breathing came more and more panic as her heart sped up. The slim, ivory skinned woman tried to back away, but there was no way to run. She was cornered and they both knew it. He had caught her in his little web and now she would never see the light of day again.

Her rich, copper hair shone beneath the pale lamps and her blue eyes never left his face as he slowly stepped closer.

"Hullo… Kate," Moriarty greeted slowly, unable to let the opportunity to play with his prey one last time slip through his fingers.

She swallowed and braced herself. With more bravery than she seemed to possess, she managed, "Who… who are you? W-what do you want with me?"

"We're gonna have some fun, you and I… Then you're going to die," the criminal assured as he moved in for the kill. "But don't worry, dear. It's all necessary pain, you see. This is the my first move in the game that will end Sherlock Holmes..."

Let the games begin.