Disclaimer: I do not own a single thing. Short one and probably not so good but I've been fighting with writer block. I apologise. Weekly updating is really hard for me.

Episode 6: A scandal in Brooklyn

John appreciated very much his flatmate's lack of modesty. Well, not that he's ever seen her naked (not yet, he liked to hope) but flimsy nightgown and dropping dressing gowns and – his absolute favourite – after-showers sheets (because they apparently dry her better than common towels) were a common occurrence in the flat. Over which John carefully never remarked should Sherlock choose to change her habits.

One morning the detective had just left the bathroom after one such shower, in her usual attire, and just asked him out of the blue if he thought it was time to cut her curls – as if John's opinion mattered. He'd fervently denied the need, because he loved her luscious, dark curls, and believed firmly there could never be too much of them.

A second later – unannounced by Mrs Hudson, but he doesn't blame the old woman for that – they received an unexpected visit. Men in black that reminded John very much of the homonymous movie, making it hard for him not to giggle and query if the aliens are overthrowing New York.

Sherlock, claiming she wasn't dry yet and that she wasn0t going to wet perfectly good clothes, came as she was despite everyone's protestations. She regally agreed to John packing the clothes she'd left on the bed to bring with them., apparently not caring that he'd see – and touch – her underwear. With all the errands he ran, John supposed he'd just been promoted to official butler.

They were brought to the bloody White House by flight, and the former thief started to wonder what the president wanted from them. He should have known that it was the shadow one, also known as Sherlock's older brother, who summoned them. Mycroft was very unamused by his kin's attire. Probably because he was not alone. To be honest, John was unamused by the stranger staring at Sherlock too.

"I was led to believe this case would be handled with all due confidentiality," the man following the elder Holmes (certainly some sort of politician too) hissed.

"And I assure you it is. Sherlock and I are a team. I would relate everything to her and have her help me on the case anyway," John assured smoothly. Which was apparently her cue to start deducing that random politician to prove her worth in the Work, leaving him – as always – deeply uncomfortable and clearly wondering if he shouldn't have them dealt with by secret services instead. Luckily Mycroft reassured him with a look.

Having helped them, the Holmes brother decided it was time to try to bully his little sister into getting properly dressed, but it was only after John covertly nudged her (they had to at least pretend to be professional) that she huffed and relented.

That was better. At least their client wouldn't stare as much. Or – representative of their client, apparently. John smirked hearing of a former actress turned sex worker who seemed to be very popular among a number of people – which included ONU higher ups, the odd CIA agent and even at least one relative of the President (the official one – not Mycroft Holmes).

The woman had many tasteful abodes around the States, but their sources said she'd stay in New York for the next two weeks. There were some ONU reunions planned after which undoubtedly some people would need to…destress.

John and Sherlock were required to ensure that Irene – that was her name – would not be able to blackmail anyone anymore, nor sell secrets.

"People tend to be so inconveniently…chatty during aftercare," Mycroft sighed.

"Consider it done," John guaranteed, smiling. And maybe he'd get to have sex during this assignment. He might have to send Mycroft a thank you gift afterwards (taking care to hide it from Sherlock though).

If the day hadn't been odd enough, while they were getting back home Sherlock covertly showed him an ashtray. A crystal ashtray. One John was pretty sure he'd noticed on the sitting room they'd been welcomed in. "You sly thing you!" he remarked, starting to giggle.

"You were looking at it covetously," Sherlock pointed out, hiding it back. "I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't," John said, grimacing. "That's bad for your health, you know."

"Then why did you want it?" Sherlock countered, looking curious.

"Souvenir. I'm not likely to be admitted there again," the former thief confessed, shrugging.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. You're now Mycroft's most trusted detective, and politicians have a habit to create messes for the Holmes siblings to pick up. Though I usually let my brother handle these by himself. He's lazy enough as he is, I don't want to encourage him," the sleuth replied, smirking. They shared another laugh.

Once back home (and given the ashtray a place of honour in the sitting room) it was time to plan what they'd do about the case. "I was thinking I might book a session with her," the doctor proposed.

The sleuth snorted. "Look, I don't care what your kinks are, but what do you think you will be able to do once you're tied upside down and she's brandishing a cat'o'nine tails? Do you think she'll handle over the material she has if you beg prettily enough?"

John blushed, half in embarrassment and half in anger. "Nothing like that. I was thinking…I'd sniff around. Sort of."

"We don't have the time for that. This had to be sorted…yesterday. No, we'll have to make use of a bit of sneakiness," Sherlock proclaimed.

Which is why John found himself in his cream jumper (because that made him look harmless, according to the sleuth) next to…a nun, and directed to Brooklyn.

Sherlock made them stop in an alley next to the Woman's abode. "Now kiss me. No, better yet – bite my lips."

John's strangled, "What?" was perfectly reasonable. Not that he had anything against kissing her, but the timing wasn't right. Also, he wasn't a biter usually.

"You heard me. oh, and if you could also hold my wrists tight enough to bruise – it happens quite easily, you won't have to hurt me much – I'd be grateful," the detective insisted.

"Now who's the one who's got a kink?" he replied, still hesitating. He'd always been a gentle lover.

Sherlock's glare might have withered a small plant. "Don't be an idiot and bloody do what I tell you, or it won't work!" she hissed.

Cogs started to turn inside John's head. "Do you really think someone would molest a nun? Also, don't they usually go around by two?"

"Are you nitpicking my plan now? I thought you'd jump at the chance," the detective seethed, almost ready to bash her head against a wall and call it a day. And – well, yes, she'd thought flirty John would not object to it. She'd hoped that. Maybe she had read him wrong after all?

"To hurt you? Not really, no matter how frustrating you can be. Can't I just kiss you silly?" he countered.

"Follow. The. Plan," she ordered sternly.

Looking put out, he finally did (promising himself he'd get to do things properly next time he was allowed to kiss her, plan or no plan). And a moment later they were admitted in Irene's lair, the poor, shocked, molested nun and the kindly doctor.

Irene welcomed them stark naked. She looked the both of them over with a long, inquisitive look, before finally sentencing, with a feline smile, "Someone really likes roleplaying. But it's fine, I like that too. Also, it seems I got some incorrect information. I'll have to punish that silly boy."

She got up and stalked over to Sherlock. "Nun, miss detective? Don't you want to lose at least the wimple? I'm honestly wondering why you've brought him along at all. Is he supposed to be your red herring? As if it would work on me."

"I think you have things in reverse," the detective said softly, hoping to deflect her attention.

Irene pursed blood red lips. "Oh please. As if I wouldn't know how to read a couple's dynamic. He's your…what? Pet? Boy? Lay brother?" She laughed.

"I was dressed like this to send that sharp mind off track – it's so easy, with males, almost annoyingly so,.. but I'm much, much more thrilled that I have to contend with you. Not to mention, my dear, that you're downright gorgeous. Why, for a night with you, I might even let you lead…oh, but you wouldn't enjoy that very much, would you? No, you need to relax. Don't worry, I'd take good care of you, I know how to…" the Woman purred. "Say, why don't you come to my room and we can compare wardrobes? You're into roleplay, and I have so many nice costumes…I bet we'd find something that'd fit you."

John coughed. Sherlock was starting to look like a deer in headlights…and not replying. Usually no one could get a word edgewise when she was on a case. That meant that someone had to do something, after all.

Irene glared at him. And Sherlock finally opened her mouth. "John, you can…go. Make a tea or something."

Oh, right. He'd almost forgotten the second part of the plan. But his protective (read: jealous) instinct had flared up and he hesitated leaving his friend alone with that… that… vixen. He obediently marched out of the door.

"I have to confess I have a bit of size kink," the Woman said, as soon as they were alone, "for the biggest sex organ in the human body." At the sleuth's puzzled look, she elaborated, "the brain, love. What do you say? Want to seduce me? You'd have it easy."

Before Sherlock could decide on a reply to give her (just say no, for the love of God, you aren't one to fall for random flattery…and beside, you have John for that! she thought, uneasy) a lot of things started happening at the same time.

The fire alarm started blaring (that'd be John…good boy…), which prompted a worried Irene to unconsciously reveal the hideout of her phone…and before the detective could think of a way to nick it, they were interrupted. By an uncomfortable-looking John and at least three people with guns (but Sherlock would surmise that there were more around) that, while they talked a perfect English, were clearly North Korean. And they wanted the same Mycroft had wanted. Irene had really not been picky about the clients she entertained, had she?

Now, Sherlock wouldn't have cared about Irene's trigger-happy guests, if they hadn't threatened John. They were not on Irene's side, and they shouldn't be bothered by her enemies. Thank God that she'd worked out a code system with his colleague (such things were simply necessary) and that John had his military training to fall back on (and that Irene was far from helpless herself – but with her field of choice it'd be surprising if she was).

Once they had gotten rid of the unwanted guests, the mission could be accomplished. Or so the detective had thought. But apparently Irene was full of surprises and didn't take well to being outsmarted.

It was Sherlock's luck (no, no luck, of course, her…wisdom) that had made her pick a companion with medical knowledge and a caring attitude. Not that she'd been seriously hurt, and she honestly was worried about what she could have mumbled once stoned (hopefully that hadn't released the cuddle monster she'd once been), but at least John hadn't teased her afterwards.

Probably because Irene had taken over that duty with an obduracy worthy of a better cause. She ignored all attempts to…was that even flirting? Or just embarrassing her? Driving home the point that she'd failed (for now at least – she had ever intention to win this game).

Strangely, the harassment seemed to bother John as much as it unnerved her. Why, maybe even more. It couldn't be all hurt professional pride, could it? Why did he care? (Stop now, Sherlock. You know you can't deduce properly when there are desires and…feelings involved, she told herself firmly).

What she really didn't expect was the odd question after the umpteenth text from Irene (if she weren't hoping she'd get a clue through one sooner or later she'd have changed her number). "Sherlock…are you gay?"

John was honestly wondering why he hadn't asked before. He'd spent all this time pining after this wonderful woman, and romancing her as subtly as he could (fine, not very subtly sometimes, but she seemed to always become prickly if he was too blatant) and he hadn't ever wondered about that after that not exactly very informative not-date at Angelo's. After all, how was it possible that one as gorgeous as her did not have a boyfriend to play Watson already? She should only have nodded to anyone to get him on board with any of her plans.

And because Sherlock can't give straight answers to stupid questions, she replied, "What does it matter?"

"Well, I just wanted to know if I was going to be a best man anytime soon," John replied, shrugging. It doesn't really matter what the detective is, probably. Irene exuded enough raw sexuality to turn anyone at least bicurious. (Fine, fine, sexuality didn't work like that but – if you'd met Irene you'd get what he meant.)

"Don't be an idiot, John. More than usual, that is," she groaned. As if she didn't have a hard time enough trying to figure out how to get her hands on the bloody phone. Of course, she didn't expect to receive it as a gift out of the blue. Much less to not be able to enter it, no matter what she tried. Probably living with John and his pitifully simple passwords had rusted her skills.

The news of the Woman's death, instead, weren't a surprise at all. She wouldn't have given it up otherwise when all the material she needed for her protection was in there. Oh well, that at least got her a cigarette out of Mycroft. (Hopefully John wouldn't realise she'd indulged, he was so hatefully doctor about these trifles.) She couldn't help but be frustrated, though. She couldn't say to have won until she could safely unlock that blasted cellphone and offer it to her brother.

Besides, she'd never wanted Irene dead. She couldn't gloat at her now that the Woman was dead, could she? The sleuth might be a bit shallow, but she had wanted to put that infuriating creature back in her place. (And prove to John that she was the best, maybe, but these were the kind of things they didn't talk about – not openly).

It was frustration that led her to her violin. Pure frustration, and the need to think. She would crack that code. Nobody really chose a random number, no matter how convenient that would be. She only needed to penetrate the dead Woman's mind. Irene was smart. She didn't need to scale down her brain when asking herself what she'd do in her place.

John felt…divided about Irene's passing. Of course, it was a great thing that that awful woman wasn't around to torment them anymore, but Sherlock was…sad? Possibly heartbroken? She'd certainly let the teasing go on without a protest before. Might have enjoyed it, who knew. She certainly looked…receptive, as much as he hated that word. (And he wasn't jealous – he was…concerned. Oh Gosh, now he sounded like Mycroft.) Anyway, while he was very glad for Irene's passing, he was certainly unhappy about its effect on the flat's mood. But what was he supposed to do to cheer her up? Bring her a new set of toes from the morgue, maybe?

He'd set up to do exactly that, when he was…invited. He expected Mycroft. God knew the stile was his. And instead, it was Irene bloody Adler. Very much alive. And wanting to use him. As if. (Really, the nerve of that woman!)

"Look, there's no need to disturb your lover. I just need what-you-know back, so if you could be so kind as to get it," the dominatrix had asked, smirking.

And even if he didn't like to admit it, in the interest of fairness (and of Sherlock, who might be crushing on her, for all John knew) he pointed out, "By the way, we're not lovers." He didn't even consider the proposal worthy of a denial – wasn't it obvious?

"Yet," Irene purred. "If you're going to think things so loudly, you might as well come clean and say it aloud."

She heard people's thoughts too? Sherlock and she really deserved each other, didn't they?

"Anyway, if you want it you're going to come home. Or rather, you're going to come home nevertheless. You need to apologise," John ordered sharply.

"Don't you want me out of your territory?" she countered, challenging.

"I want Sherlock to know the kind of woman you are, in case she doesn't get it yet. And in any case, you don't have a choice. I'm certainly not going to bring it to you," he replied sternly.

"Oh fine. It'll be a pleasure to meet her," Irene agreed, and ignored John's glare all the way to his home.

Sherlock was in her armchair, apparently pondering over something (probably the password) and she didn't react when John came back. The supposedly dead dominatrix coming to kneel by her chair, crossing her hands at the wrists behind the small of her back, and murmuring, head down and eyes hooded, "I'm sorry I let you think I was dead, love. It was for both our protection," startled her though. Especially since she raised her head afterwards and asked cheekily to her flatmate, "So? Good enough, Sir?"

The detective might have let out a cough-snort-odd sound at the exchange. John elected not to reply, but simply glowered at Irene, marching into the kitchen for tea. Tea solved everything.

Still, coming back to find Irene perched on the armrest of the armchair and murmuring in her ear something that sounds suspiciously like, "Impress me, come on, you brilliant creature," while then proceeding to have what amounts to eyesex, angered John. First and foremost, brilliant is his adjective. Irene can make the effort to pick her own praise. Which meant she couldn't use amazing, extraordinary, fantastic either. Actually, there were scarce adjectives she had at her disposition.

Needing to interrupt this (wasn't Sherlock supposed to be livid about being duped? He would be), he blurted out, "John Hamish Watson."

"Hamish?" the detective echoed, zeroing eagle-like sharp eyes on him (which was good).

"In case you'd need baby names soon – that's the whole of it," the former thief quipped.

"Be a good girl, Sherlock – show me how much of a genius you are." Irene prompted, touching her arm.

That made John turn away in disgust – or he'd have noticed that the sleuth (who was a genius, of course she was, and decoded the little puzzle Irene had put under her nose in under seven seconds) was still looking at him. It was only ever at her partner that the detective wanted to show off his genius, if only to gain that automatic admiration she'd gotten used to. (That John was silent this time, in some sort of snit, was – to Sherlock's not so humble opinion – deeply unfair. She was the only one allowed to pout.)

"Now, my phone. Come on, you've had your fun with it. You can't get in. Why do you need it?" Irene prompted, extending her hand.

"To keep you from blackmailing people with it, for example," the sleuth bit back.

"I don't blackmail! It's protection!" the dominatrix huffed.

"Wait! Maybe I can get in," John blurted.

"Oh really?" Irene hissed turning angrily to him.

"Yes, boss, why don't you explain it for me?" Sherlock queried, sounding bitter.

"I'll give you only a hint. I'm certain you'll figure it out. She sent the phone to you. It's you she's been teasing all this time," John pointed out, smirking.

"Did you want me to bother with the dummy?" Irene growled, spiteful but with an edge of panic.

That was all the confirmation Sherlock needed to solve the password code.

"I opened it. And my brother will be happy to receive it, I don't doubt," she declared, smugly. "If only you hadn't wanted to play so much, you'd have won. And of course, if you hadn't underestimated John."

"I'm going to die if you deny me my protection," the dominatrix pleaded, slipping to her knees again.

"Don't worry. I'm sure Mycroft will find you an use. He uses everyone. Of course, you can't set your conditions anymore. I'll text him to come collect you," Sherlock replied, shrugging.

When the Woman was led away from their rooms – quite limp in the hands of Mycroft's minions, who received also the phone (Sherlock hoped for their safety that Irene wouldn't manage to pickpocket them) - John asked amiably, "So, was Sher the code?"

"How did you figure out?" the detective shot back, looking puzzled.

"As George Downes would say, it's amazing the clarity that comes with psychotic jealousy. Or, well, not exactly psychotic, but…I should really have picked another quote, shouldn't I?" the former thief groaned. Honesty had never served him well, but this had just…slipped out.

"I'll pretend I've not heard that," the sleuth said. No matter how flattering it had been. "Also, Hamish? Which movie character is that?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" John teased, smiling. "Who knows, maybe I just told you my true name. Or maybe it is the name of a police detective in a series I used to watch. Or maybe it's a mystery I want you to solve. Or maybe it's all three."

"John!" she replied, half-protest and half-warning.

"What would be your life without some mysteries, Sherlock?" he quipped.

"Fine. Keep your secrets," she conceded. She'd solve it sooner or later anyway.