Hello everyone! Yes, it is I.

Sorry for the delay, I've had this chapter written since last week but (prepare yourselves) my wifi has gone and decided to die. Literally, I can only get it working for about an hour each day, if even! You guys don't know how frustrating this is. I have all the time in the world to write new chapters BUT NO EFFING WIFI TO UPLOAD THEM.

I genuinely think I'm cursed.

So, I am begging for you guys to be patient with me. I SWEAR I'm not leaving you waiting on purpose!

Okay, that's enough whining for today. On with the story.

'I don't trust him.'

'Firstly, Sebastian, I don't really care what you think. And secondly, he won't be here for long.' Moriarty shoots Sebastian Moran a final glare before joining the neatly groomed psychotherapist at the large, oak dining table. Grinning widely, he takes a long gulp of red wine before addressing the man.

'Really is such a pleasure to be dining with you, Dr Lecter. I hear you have quite the palate.' His smile deepens. 'I daresay this humble meal will pale in comparison to one of your own…creations.'

Dr Lecter inclines his head slightly, and after a short pause he begins to speak. 'No matter, no matter. I'm sure I'll soon have the chance to showcase my culinary talent.' Moriarty barks out a laugh at this. 'That's the spirit!' He suddenly leans in close, all hints of humour vanishing. 'I hope you realise how beneficial this will be for the both of us. We're a team, you and I.' He sinks back into the chair, eyes still locked with Dr Lecter's. 'And once we've recruited the third member, nothing will sta - ' He stops midsentence, interrupted by a loud knocking. Face lighting up, he practically bounds from the dining table and towards the tall double doors.

'Speak of the devil! What a coincidence, we were just discussing you… Miss Dubois.'

ONE WEEK EARLIER

John waits in the living room while I duck for cover as Sherlock hurls yet another item of clothing around his (my) bedroom.

'What are you doing?' John finally asks, looking up from his book.

'Going into battle, John. I need the right armour.' I scoff at this. 'Well, at least we're above being dramatic then.' He pushes past me to check himself out in the mirror, wearing a large yellow hi-vis jacket.

'No.' He rips it off again.

I snatch up the white priest collar lying amongst the various costumes. I don't even want to know how he got some of these.

'Here, just use this.' I wave the collar tiredly. 'At least you'll be somewhat believable.' He eyes it dubiously before grabbing it and stuffing it in his pocket. 'It'll have to do.' He checks his watch. 'Come on John, we've business to attend to.'

'Punch me in the face.'

John stares at Sherlock, dumbfounded. 'Come again?' I grin wickedly between both men. 'Punch him in the face, John.'

'Punch you in the face?' John clarifies. Sherlock rolls his eyes exasperatedly. 'Yes, punch me in the face. Didn't you hear me?'

'I always hear "punch me in the face" when you're speaking, but it's usually sub-text.' John replies sassily. I begin to clap slowly, nodding appreciatively at John. 'Damn son, your comeback game strong.'

'Oh, for God's sakes!' Sherlock cries and with one swift movement, decks John in the face. As Sherlock is shaking out his hand, John pushes me behind him and, taking a deep breath, directs a well-aimed punch at Sherlock's left cheek. Turning away as Sherlock picks himself up, he flexes his hand painfully and examines his knuckles.

'Thank you. That was – that was ...' Sherlock gasps, fingers covering the scratch on his cheekbone, but is cut off as John tackles him to the ground. Completely caught off guard, I fluster around them like a mother hen. 'O-okay boys, that's enough now!'

They continue to scuffle.

After two minutes, I give up trying to interfere and just stand there, hands on hips. 'Look if one of you guys breaks something, don't expect me to become your little nurse.' Realising how kinky that sounds, I rephrase. 'What I mean is: don't come crying to me.' At this stage, John is chocking Sherlock with his own scarf. 'Fine. Continue to fight like two ratchet ass hoes. See if I care.' I huff, folding both arms.

Finally, Sherlock pretends to lose consciousness and John gets off him, vaguely concerned. Five minutes and one damaged wrist later, we arrive at the door of a white, pristine townhouse in Belgravia. Sherlock presses the intercom and waits for a reply.

'Hello?' A woman's voice sounds from the speaker.

Sherlock stares into the camera, all teary-eyed and flustered. 'Ooh! Um, sorry to disturb you. Um, I've just been attacked, um, and, um, I think they ... they took my wallet and, um, and my phone. Umm, please could you help me?'

'Six.' I whisper to John, who looks at me quizzically. 'He said "um" six times just there.' I explain.

'I can call the police if you want?' The faceless woman replies in a bored tone.

'Oh, would you ... would you mind if I just waited here, just until they come? Thank you. Thank you so much.' Sherlock sniffles pathetically as the woman buzzes us in.

The blonde woman looks at John and I reproachfully. 'I – I saw it all happen. It's okay, I'm a doctor. And this is…my niece.' He gestures to me while I nod earnestly. 'Now, have you got a first aid kit?' The woman points ahead. 'In the kitchen.'

'Oh! Thank you!' Sherlock chirps, following her into the front room.

'Stop fidgeting.' He scolds me as we wait, sitting straight-backed on an elegant sofa. 'You'd be fidgeting if you knew what's about to happen!' I groan as we both hear the unmistakable clicking of heels against the marble floor.

'Hello. Sorry to hear that you've been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name.'

'Here we go.' I mutter under my breath and place a hand over both eyes. Before Sherlock can say anything, the high heels stop abruptly at the doorway and he turns to greet Miss Adler.

I swear to God I hear his jaw drop five inches from his face. 'I'm - uh…I'm..'

'Oh, it's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?' She continues to walk until she's standing directly in front of us. And yes, I still have my eyes covered. I gingerly extend a hand towards her. Or, at least, where I think she is.

'Audrey Dubois. Uh…it's a pleasure to meet you Miss Adler.'

She laughs softly, and I feel her take my hand in her own. 'Don't be shy darling, every girl has them.' She then gently pries my other hand off my face, forcing me to look at her.

'Some are more well-endowed then others.' I joke awkwardly, and she smiles warmly in response.

You know, this is actually not as bad as I thought it would be.

Except for the fact that Sherlock is infatuated with her already.

Jealous? Who, me?

She turns to Sherlock next, and I all but fall off the sofa as she suddenly straddles him. Naked.

Slowly pulling the white collar from his neck, she gazes down at him. 'Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?' Narrowing her eyes, she lifts the white collar to her mouth and bites sharply down on it. As Sherlock stares up in either awe or confusion, I can't really tell, John happens to walk into the room carrying a bowl of water. His eyes are lowered to the bowl, careful not to spill its contents.

'Right, this should do it.' He stops dead in the doorway as he lifts his eyes and takes in the scene in front of him. Irene looks round to him, the collar still in her teeth. John looks at us awkwardly, then down at the bowl before looking up again. 'I've missed something, haven't I?'

I casually slide off the sofa and join John, taking the bowl from his hands in case he drops it. 'You can say that again.' I whisper.

Irene finally steps back from Sherlock and sits down on a nearby armchair, strategically folding her arms and legs. 'Oh, if you'd like some tea I can call the maid.'

'I had some at the Palace.' Sherlock responds coolly.

'I know.'

They stare silently at each other for several seconds. I try to ignore the sudden urge to empty the bowl of water on top of Irene's head.

John and I sit back down on the sofa, looking around the room uncomfortably. 'I had a tea, too, at the Palace, if anyone's interested.' He tries. 'Me too.' I add. 'It was lovely and…balanced...' I trail off as John shoots me a weird look.

At the same time Sherlock is trying, and failing, to deduce Irene, looking up and down her body slowly. 'Give up, Sherlock. It's not going to work.' I finally snap at him, not meaning it to come out as snarky as it did. Irene glances at me, raising one eyebrow, but says nothing, turning to Sherlock instead.

'Do you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr. Holmes?'

He tilts his head questioningly.

'However hard you try, it's always a self-portrait.'

'You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?' He scoffs.

'No, I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself.' Oooh do you want some ice for that burn? I giggle at this despite myself, nodding to Irene. 'Finally someone said it.' Sherlock throws me an evil glare, unbuttoning the two top buttons of his shirt.

Irene points to his cut. 'Oh, and somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too.' She glances across to John and I momentarily. I raise my hands in defence, shaking my head. 'Don't look at me, I couldn't punch a comatose fly.'

John clears his throat. 'Could you put something on, please? Er, anything at all.' He looks down at what he's holding. 'A napkin?'

'Why? Are you feeling exposed?' Irene challenges him. Sherlock picks up his coat, shakes it out and holds it out to her. 'I don't think John knows where to look.'

Ignoring him for the moment, she stands up and walks closer to John. He rolls his neck uncomfortably forcing himself to maintain eye contact with her and not to let his eyes wander lower. 'No, I think he knows exactly where.'

Irene turns to Sherlock who is still holding out the coat while keeping his gaze averted. 'I'm not sure about you.' She takes the coat from him and he walks over to the fireplace, ignoring her comment.

'Well, never mind. We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me, I need to know.' A now clothed Irene sits beside me on the sofa. 'How was it done?'

'What?'

'The hiker with the bashed-in head. How was he killed?' She explains while kicking off her red-soled shoes. I stare at them longingly.

'That's not why I'm here.' Sherlock states, somewhat confused.

'No, no, no, you're here for the photographs but that's never gonna happen, and since we're here just chatting anyway...' She smiles at Sherlock as I stare pointedly at him and then at the large mirror behind him.

He doesn't get it.

You know, for someone so clever, he can be extremely dim-witted.

'The position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That's all you need to know.' He begins pacing the room.

'Okay, tell me - how was he murdered?' Irene asks.

'He wasn't.'

'You don't think it was murder?' She persists.

'I know it wasn't.'

'How?'

'The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room.' He explains confidently.

She pauses. 'Okay, but how?'

'So they are in this room? Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in.' After a moments deliberation, he nods to me as well. 'You too, Audrey.' I stick my bottom lip out and frown at him, hoping he notices my displeasure. His expression softens slightly and he gives me a tiny nod. I sigh and follow John from the room.

In the hallway John looks around, then picks up a magazine from a nearby table and begins rolling it up. Tossing him the lighter Sherlock acquired at the Palace, he waves the paper over the flame, pulling it away once it starts to smoke. I glance around the room, looking for the small white fire alarm.

'There.' I point to the left-hand side corner, by the stairway. 'There's one over there.' It is only a matter of seconds before the shrill alarm begins to sound. Satisfied with his work, John attempts the put the flame out, smacking it against the ground.

'….I said you can turn it off now, John.' We hear Sherlock shout from the living room.

'Yeah, give us a sec!' I holler over the shrieking alarm, desperately searching for a vase of water. My search is cut short though, as three burly men come rushing down the stairs, all holding pistols. The first one raises his gun and fires it up at the smoke alarm, shattering it. The two other men hurry towards John and I, aiming their pistols at us.

Shit. Why do I always forget these parts in the book?

'Thank you.' John mutters, raising both hands and motioning at me to do the same. The blonde-haired man kicks the living room door open and grabs me roughly around the middle, pushing the barrel of the gun against the side of my head. Sherlock spins around, his eyes widening in shock.

Sorry. I mouth at Sherlock.

'Miss Adler, on the floor.' The blonde man holding me instructs Irene. His colleague shoves her to her knees beside John, who is doubled over with his hands behind his head and a pistol pointed to the back of his neck.

'Don't you want me on the floor too?' Sherlock asks warily.

'No, sir, I want you to open the safe.' The blonde man points with his free hand.

'American. Interesting.' Sherlock immediately detects the accent. 'Why would you care?' He glances across at Irene as she puts her hands behind her head.

'Sir, the safe, now, please.' The man repeats.

'I don't know the code.'

The man shakes his head disbelievingly. 'We've been listening. She said she told you.'

'Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she didn't.' Sherlock insists, narrowing his eyes.

'I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr. Holmes.'

'Oh for god's sakes, if you want the code just ask Irene!' I burst out angrily. The man tightens his grip around me, and presses the gun forcefully against my temple. 'One more word from you missy, and I'll blow your pretty brains out.'

So bloody melodramatic. If I wasn't so terrified, I'd laugh.

'Mr. Holmes doesn't...' Irene begins to say, but is cut off with the same threat.

The blonde man growls, frustrated. 'Mr Archer, at the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson.'

'What?' John exclaims, panicking as Mr Archer presses the muzzle of his pistol into the back of his neck and cocks the gun.

'I don't have the code.' Sherlock repeats through gritted teeth.

'One.' The man begins counting.

'I don't know the code.' Sherlock's voice rises to a shout.

'Two.'

'She didn't tell me anything, I don't know it!' Sherlock is frantic now. He looks across to Irene who lowers her gaze pointedly downwards.

'Three.'

'No, stop!' Sherlock exclaims, just before the pistol fires. I leave out the breath I'd been holding in, shaking slightly.

The American raises his free hand to stop his sniper. Sherlock's gaze becomes distant as his mind works frantically. He slowly turns towards the safe and lowers his hands, punching in the code. The safe beeps and with a sharp click, it unlocks. Irene smiles in satisfaction as John sags to the floor in relief, shutting his eyes.

The man grins at Sherlock, and loosens his grip on me. 'Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please.'

Before opening the safe, Sherlock glances at me. Catching on immediately, I give a teensy nod. With a quick wink, he throws the safe door open, shouting, 'Vatican Cameos!'

Instantly, John, Sherlock and I all duck for cover as the pistol aimed straight out of the safe is triggered. The gun fires, hitting Mr Archer squarely on the chest. Sherlock grabs for the blonde man's pistol as Irene spins around on her knees and savagely elbows her guard in the delicates. Sherlock holds the pistol's end and smashes it across the man's face, rendering him unconscious.

'There'll be more of them. They'll be keeping an eye on the building.' Sherlock hurries out of the room as John tucks Mr Archer's gun into the back of his jeans and follows him. Irene walks over to the empty safe and stares into it, wide-eyed. I quickly run after Sherlock and John, not wanting to be alone with her.

I arrive just as Sherlock is pointing the pistol into the air, firing it five times. 'Police are on their way.' He turns and trots back into the house.

I wag a finger disapprovingly at him as he passes. 'Sherlock! What did I tell you about unnecessary shooting?' He just smirks and contines to swag into the living room. 'Go check the rest of the rest of the house.' He calls back to John and I. 'See how they got in.'

John sighs and I check my phone for the time. 'Nyugh.' I groan. 'We're gonna miss Mad Men!'

'No careful, careful! Don't whack his head off the staircase!' I instruct John as Sherlock's noggin unceremoniously whacks against the marble stairs for the umpteenth time. 'Bloody hell.' John gasps. 'For such a thin man he weighs a tonne.'

'Muscle is heavier than fat.' I explain, feeling my face heat up as John looks at me pointedly. 'Not that I was looking at his muscle…'

He waves a hand, and sinks down onto one of the stone steps. 'Well today has been most eventful.'

'Indeed.' I agree tiredly. After a moments silence, John speaks again. 'So, what did you think of her? Irene, I mean.' I turn away from him, suddenly finding the nearby oak tree fascinating. 'Oh you know…she was cool…I suppose…' I shrug my shoulders, feigning nonchalance. John nods at this and begins to smirk. 'Sherlock sure seemed to find her interesting.' I twist my head sharply, turning back to give him the evils. 'Yes well, why should I care? He's perfectly free to have interest in whomever he chooses.' I sniff haughtily and flounce towards the gateway. I hear John get up to join me, leaving Sherlock splayed across the middle and bottom steps.

Where's Lestrade to take a picture when you need him?

'He's very fond of you, you know.' John says after a while. 'In his own way.' I start to perk up after this, and turn to grin at John. 'Well I'm very fond of him too. The both of you.' I glance to my left and see a black taxi pulling up. 'Come on.' I pat John's shoulder and make my way back to Sherlock. 'Let's go get Princess Aurora.'

ONE WEEK LATER

'John, I'm going out for a walk!' I holler up at him from the end of the staircase. After hearing a muffled 'm'kay', I pull my red beret on and march out the door. Just as I'm rounding the corner of Baker Street, my phone dings a text alert.

"Get into the car.

Be a good girl and don't make a fuss.

JM "

I groan as a shiny black Audi pulls up beside me. 'Are you fucking kidding me?' The dark haired driver steps out and opens the door, gesturing inside the car. 'No need for that kind of language, Miss Dubois.' He grins dangerously. Begrudgingly, I slide into the back seat, only to be physically assaulted by a black cloth bag. A pair of rough hands forcibly yank the bag over my head, plunging my vision into darkness.

'Is this really necessary?' I sigh, totally D-O-N-E with everything. The driver only chuckles in response. I sense another person in the seat next to mine, but he (guessing by the calloused hands) remains silent.

Gosh darn it…If only Sherlock was here to witness that astute observation.

About forty long minutes later, I detect the crunching sound of gravel beneath the car's wheels. At this point, I'm guessing we're well out of the city. The car stops and a cool breeze hits my face as the door is opened. My blindfold is removed and I let out a loud 'Holy shit' on seeing the sheer size of the house, no mansion, which stands before me. Once inside, I'm lead through a vast hallway and into darkened office.

'Hat and coat off please.' The clipped English accent is accompanied by a tall Alexander Skarsgard look-alike. His hand is extended, waiting for me to comply. I attempt to still the shaking in my fingers as I undo the buttons of my pea coat, determined to appear somewhat composed. Once my coat and hat are hung inside the cloakroom, I follow Mr tall, blonde and Nordic towards a set of double doors, their length reaching the top of the high ceiling. He knocks against the wooden door three times, each bang sending my heart into palpitations.

Okay Aud, here we go.

The door is flung open, revealing an unnervingly excited Moriarty. 'Speak of the devil! What a coincidence, we were just discussing you Miss Dubois.' He shoos my escort from the room, 'That's all for now, thank you Moran', and gracefully slams the door in his face. Placing one hand on the small of my back, he leads me to the large dining table, pointing to the chair directly opposite Hannibal Lecter.

'Do sit down… Wendy Darling.'

I narrow my eyes suspiciously at this. He's not gonna make me read out Captain Hook, is he? As if hearing my thoughts, he begins to chuckle, shaking his head.

'Oh no, I don't need any more favours.' He tilts his head to one side, eyes glinting. 'Yet.' Taking his glass of wine, he lazily swirls the blood-red liquid. 'I have a proposition to make.'

I shift uncomfortably. This should be good.

'It has come to my attention that your powers are very much…overlooked, shall we say? Why, a gift likes yours should be used to the best of its ability, not left to…fizzle out.' He flutters his fingers as he says this, his mouth curling into a grin. 'I can give you the attention you need, I can train you.'

He rises from his seat, strolling around the table until he comes to a halt behind me. 'Just imagine what you could accomplish.' He places both hands on my shoulders, bending down so we are at eyelevel. 'With me.' His mouth grazes against my ear as he whispers this.

Eugh. I shudder slightly. Way to get your creep on.

Straightening up again, he gestures to Hannibal. 'With the both of us.' But Hannibal, sensing my fear, begins to tut, shaking his head. 'Now now, Mr Moriarty, can't you see the little bird is frightened?'

Little bird? Really?

I clear my throat, deciding it's probably about time to leave. 'Um – Could I think about it, please?'

If I don't decline immediately, maybe he won't feed me to Hannibal.

Moriarty remains silent, polishing off the contents of his wine glass before replying. '…Yeah alright.' He shrugs his shoulders, bored with the conversation already. 'The next time I speak with you, you'll give me your answer.'

He offers me a hand as I rise from the table, grabbing onto it tightly. 'Could be tomorrow, could be next month…' He trails off, absentmindedly swinging our interlocked hands. '…I dunno.' Coming to a halt at the double doors, he lifts my hand to his face, lips gently brushing against my knuckles. It would have been an oddly sweet moment, had it not been ruined by the very load and sudden, 'Moran! Get in here!'

He smiles to the rather pissed-off looking man and literally pushes me out the door and into his arms. 'Take her home.' And with that, he once again showcases his talent in slamming doors.

Moran, my coat and hat already draped over one arm, turns to face me with a rueful expression. 'Let's take you home, little bird.'

I sigh loudly, silently cursing whatever fucked-up genes gave me this bloody "power". In true Neville Longbottom fashion, I gaze forlornly up at Moran. 'Why's it always me?'

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