Archive of Our Own

Powerful and confident, beautiful and intriguing… Irene Adler was everything John was not.

She knelt over Sherlock’s lap: all pale skin and lithe muscle. Her hair was twisted up in an elegant style, its colour matching the fur that covered her ears and the long whip of her tail. The only scrap of clothing on her was the clerical collar trapped between her teeth.

Clenching his jaw, John shifted his weight, embarrassed on her behalf. Not that she seemed bothered. One ear gave an irritable twitch as she stared at him.

‘I don’t think John knows where to look.’

Sherlock’s deep voice filled the air, and John gazed at the man perched on the sofa, statue-still. Those pale eyes lay fixed on a random point on the wall. On anyone else, it would seem polite: an effort to give Irene the privacy her discarded clothes could not. Yet Sherlock didn’t normally take that kind of thing into consideration.

Perhaps Irene’s appearance had unsettled him more than he let on.

‘Oh,’ she murmured, her lips curving in a smile. ‘I think he knows exactly where to look.’

Irene lowered her lashes and raised one dark eyebrow. It would have been better if it looked like flirtation, but the expression on her face was too sharp for that – too knowing. The Siamese tail flicked in amusement as she straightened and turned towards a nearby chair. Each movement was graceful, born of more than natural Felisian poise. She was calm and controlled, which was more than he could say for himself.

John frowned, realising she had been watching him as he stared at Sherlock. She’d seen God knew what on his face and drawn her own conclusions. It made him feel sluggish and stupid, as if he had barged into the room halfway through a story and was struggling to pick up the threads.

‘Could you put something on?’ he asked, finding his voice. ‘Anything?’ He offered the square of white cotton in his grasp. ‘A napkin, even?’

‘Why?’ Irene’s eyes shone: laughing at his expense. ‘Are you feeling exposed?’ She crossed one leg over her knee, her foot arched and her painted toes pointed like those of a dancer.

It was a game to her: an undeniably attractive woman who used her looks as another mechanism of power. Her nakedness was her vulnerability and her armour all at once, but John was not her target.

She’d gone for Sherlock, penetrating the arena of sex and intimacy simply by existing. Despite the closeness of their friendship and those quiet, heated almost-moments at Baker Street, it was never something they had discussed. Irene’s actions – her every breath shifting her bare breasts and the ceaseless, sensual intelligence of her gaze – made the subject impossible to ignore.

The rustle of wool filled the silence as Sherlock rose to his feet, the Belstaff hanging from his fingers. Irene accepted his offer like a queen donning her mantle: another victory in a battle of wits that John was too off-balance to grasp.

Sherlock moved past her, every step measured as his gaze roved the room. His tail held steady, twitching no more than necessary to counterpoint his stride, and his ears were neutral in a way that even John knew was too contrived to be real indifference. For all that Sherlock tried to control the tells of his Felisian characteristics, John had spent too much time with him to be deceived.

He’d seen Sherlock in almost every mood imaginable, from the mania of a case well-solved to the listless boredom that sometimes plagued him, but this was new. On the surface, it looked like normal disinterest, but there was something fragile about it, as if he had been thrown off balance.

A narrow streak of blood and a swelling bruise marred his cheek. It was tempting to wipe away the gore – John still had the bowl of water in his hands – but his gut had him setting it aside. Ridiculous as it was, he didn’t want to draw Irene’s attention to anything she might consider a weakness. She may be blatantly unarmed, but John got the feeling she was the most dangerous person in the room.

‘How was it done? The hiker with the bashed in head; how was he killed?’

John met Sherlock’s brief glance, and the intrigue in those eyes made his heart sink. Irene didn’t have to take her clothes off to get Sherlock’s attention. She just had to hand him a puzzle. A few simple words – a statement of facts she shouldn’t have known – and Sherlock could not look away.

‘That’s not why we’re here.’

‘No,’ she laughed. ‘You’re here for the photographs, but since that’s never going to happen and we’re just chatting anyway…’

‘That story’s not been on the news yet. How do you know?’ John hoped to catch her out in a lie, but her sultry smile spoke volumes. This – whatever was playing out right in front of him – wasn’t just about sex. It was about information: who had it and who wanted it. It was the kind of game Sherlock loved and one she was more than willing to play.

‘I know a policeman. Well, I know what he likes.’

‘Oh. You like policemen, do you?’

‘I like detective stories.’ Her pale eyes slid to Sherlock. ‘And detectives. Brainy is the new sexy.’

Articulate to a fault, the stammer of sound that escaped Sherlock’s lips made John stare. It was one thing to watch Irene’s flirtation, but quite another to see cracks open up around the edges of Sherlock’s composure.

The tip of his tail flickered, and he visibly collected himself, closing his eyes before he began to speak. ‘The position of the car and the fact the fatal blow was delivered to the back of the head. That’s all you need to know.’

‘Okay, tell me: how was he murdered?’

‘He wasn’t.’

John smirked, expecting Irene to splutter and scoff, defensive when challenged, but Sherlock’s answer had the opposite effect. She leaned forward in her chair, every line of her posture intent. She tilted her chin, as if trying to view the situation from a different angle. ‘You don’t think he was murdered?’

‘I know he wasn’t.’

‘How?’

Sherlock shrugged, preening over knowing something Irene did not. ‘The same way I know that the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I’m looking for are in this room.’

‘Okay, but how?’

‘So they are here? Excellent. John, man the door. Let no one in.’

Just like that, the situation was back under their control, and John sighed in relief as he moved to do as Sherlock asked. This was more like it; they had a plan, and they were following it through. Perhaps Irene had unsettled Sherlock, forcing him to improvise, but in the end, it changed nothing.

Sherlock was about the Work. They’d get the photos, earn the eternal gratitude of the ruler of the realm, and head back to Baker Street. No more “The Woman.”

Simple.

Flames crackled in the grate, burning as much to keep the darkness at bay as for actual warmth. John sat in his chair, trying to resist the urge to get up and check on Sherlock for the third time in ten minutes. His whole body hummed with anxiety and adrenaline, a rush that had started with the arrival of the CIA at Irene’s stylish city home and had only intensified since.

God knew what drug she’d used, but John could still picture the scene he’d found: Sherlock on the floor, his eyes already glazed as he struggled against the substance in his bloodstream. Irene, clad in the Belstaff, leaning over him with the tip of a riding crop pressed to his cheek as she murmured… something. Promises, threats – maybe they were both the same to her.

Whatever she’d said, it made no difference. The plan had gone tits up in a spectacular fashion. They had no pictures, no proof and no Irene, either. She’d fled with the kind of dramatic exit Sherlock would have adored, if he’d been sober enough to see it.

That left John trying to sort out Irene’s mess. Returning home had seemed like the only option. Sherlock was in no fit state to do anything but sleep it off, and John needed the sanctuary of the flat – known territory – while he tried to get his head around all that had happened.

Closing his eyes, he scrubbed his hands over his face, pushing down against the thick morass of emotion that knotted in his chest. It had started the moment he’d walked in to find Irene naked in Sherlock’s lap and seemed to have lodged there against his will: a churning, lank heaviness that made it hard to swallow.

In a good light, maybe he could pretend it was concern. He knew so little about Sherlock’s past, romantic or otherwise, and Irene was the kind of woman who took secrets and used them to her benefit.

That was his fear. That Sherlock would open himself up to her in some way and pay the price – that she wouldn’t handle him with care. She would treat him like a toy to be broken and discarded, as if the man himself were nothing. He was worried about Sherlock; that was all.

The lie rang hollow inside his head, mocking him. His fingers rattled a restless beat on the arm of his chair, and he took a deep breath as he forced himself to acknowledge the truth. Plain concern was only part of what he was feeling. The rest of it was darker and more animal. His gut brimmed with dread and the jagged bile of jealousy burned in his throat, intensifying every time he thought of Irene and Sherlock’s response to her.

His fascination had not been an act after all; John saw that now. She – overtly sexual and undeniably intelligent – intrigued him in a way that turned John’s stomach sour. It was rare to find yourself the centre of Sherlock’s undivided attention. John had experienced it once or twice – that look of utter concentration – but now Irene was the recipient.

They looked good together: dark hair and pale eyes, their tails and ears the final puzzle pieces that made them a matching pair, at least at first glance. Except that wasn’t the angle of this scenario. Irene was looking for the right tool for the job in front of her. She wasn’t seeking romance, was she?

Then there was Sherlock.

‘Sex doesn’t alarm me.’

‘How would you know?’

At the time, John had been too overwhelmed by their location to give the words much thought. He’d written it off as another childish round in Sherlock and Mycroft’s ongoing war of attrition, but now he had his doubts. The implication was clear, and that just made the situation with Irene more alarming. She was more than any match for a man with twenty years of experience under his belt, but if Sherlock was as – as – untouched as Mycroft believed…

‘Oh, God.’

John shifted in his chair, uncrossing his legs and spreading his knees for better comfort. He wasn’t sure whether to be aroused or appalled by the idea. Not that Sherlock being virginal was an issue. His choice was his and that was that. It was fine, it was all fine, but when considered alongside Irene’s machinations, any inexperience would only be an additional advantage to her. Could Sherlock hope to play her game when he had no real practical knowledge of it?

Another thought slid into his mind, dousing the heat in his stomach like a bucket of ice water. Abruptly, he saw his and Sherlock’s interactions in a new light. He had felt the spark of attraction, the undeniable tenderness of the moments they had shared, but had they been as mutual as they seemed?

John tried to remember any hesitation or unwillingness, but how reliable a witness could he possibly be? What if he’d only seen what he wanted? What if he’d read welcome acceptance where there was none?

Except, Sherlock wasn’t the kind of person to tolerate anything he didn’t like. Basic social niceties passed him by, so why would he put up with any unwanted behaviour from John? Besides, virginity wasn’t the same as innocence. Even if Mycroft was right and Sherlock had never been intimate with anyone, that didn’t mean he didn’t understand the theoretical side of it. He would still have knowledge of it and, considering Sherlock’s scientific curiosity, he probably knew a great deal…

‘John? John!’

He leapt to his feet, his twisted thoughts scattering to the wind as he strode towards Sherlock’s room. There was a thump that sounded like someone falling out of bed, and John pushed the door open, his heart in his throat.

Sherlock sat fully clothed on the floor, the bedsheet tangled around him. His dignified appearance was shot all to hell. The long blade of one ear was inside out, his shirt was creased and his hair was a cloud of fluffy frizz and wayward curls.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

‘How did I get here?’ Sherlock peered at him, his nose wrinkled and his eyes bleary. ‘Where is she?’

John swallowed, his heart dropping like a stone as Sherlock got to his feet. His tail thrashing, he began to look behind furniture, desperately seeking someone who had left him drugged and beaten on the floor.

‘Who?’ It was a stupid question; John already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it for himself.

‘The woman. The Woman woman!’ Sherlock turned, frantic, bracing himself on the wall as he stared around.

‘She’s gone, Sherlock.’ John spread his hands, wondering how he could get that simple fact through to him. ‘She was never here.’

Sherlock pressed a hand to the side of his head, shutting one eye as if trying to bully his senses to cooperate. He ducked, maybe to look under the bed, but John saw the moment he lost his unsteady equilibrium.

He lunged forward, grabbing Sherlock under the arms with a grunt. Like this, he was a dead weight, and John dragged him across the room, dumping him face first on the mattress before gripping his ankles and swinging his feet up to join the rest of him. ‘Back to bed,’ he urged, trying to sound calm. ‘You’ll be fine in the morning.’

‘Of course I’ll be fine. I am fine.’ Sherlock mumbled, belligerent and drowsy as he drifted near the edge of sleep.

John was tempted to stay. Maybe without the issue of Irene filling the room like fog, he would have done. It wouldn’t have been the first time he had remained here, sharing the bed and the hours of darkness. He remembered Sherlock after his dunking in the Thames, shivering and wretched. He had needed John’s company as much as his warmth, and John hadn’t even questioned it.

Now, things were different. There were too many questions left unanswered. John could not stay in Sherlock’s room without an invitation. Not anymore.

‘I’ll be next door if you need me.’

He hovered on the threshold, waiting for a response. A thrill fluttered beneath his ribs, happy and hopeful, only to dim as Sherlock’s quiet confusion reached his ears.

‘Why would I need you?’

John winced, stamping down on the sudden hurt that sliced through him. That single question pretty much summed up everything. The perfect end to a fucking awful day.

He took a deep breath and looked back, taking in the sliver of colour between Sherlock’s lashes. He was still awake, watching John with such open bafflement that it made him ache.

‘No reason. No reason at all. Goodnight, Sherlock.’

Jeannette was a mistake; John knew it even as he opened his mouth to ask her on a date. He told himself it was because he wanted someone straightforward – someone who wasn’t a mystery wrapped in a long black coat. It had nothing to do with dozens of God-damn texts and the look on Sherlock’s face – a fleeting glimmer of intrigue – whenever his phone made that awful, orgasmic sound.

It was an easy lie; one he could live with, at least for a while.

So he lost himself in the well-worn path of meeting up at café’s, taking her out to dinner and pretending he didn’t care about Sherlock’s apparent obliviousness. He hadn’t been trying to make him jealous, but in the privacy of his head, John had hoped for some kind of reaction. A biting remark. Something.

He should have been careful what he wished for.

‘No thank you, Sarah,’ Sherlock murmured when she offered him a mince pie at Mrs Hudson’s Christmas party. It was a careless, throwaway comment, but it had the desired effect. Jeannette froze, horrified, and John rushed to reassure her.

‘Uh, no, no.’ He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, fumbling for an excuse. ‘He’s not good with names.’ It was half-true, at least. Sherlock only remembered the people who were relevant to him, and he had clearly decided Jeannette was just another transitory figure.

He was probably right.

‘No, I can get this,’ Sherlock promised, his face a rictus of contrite apology. His ears skimmed back and his tail drooped, but it was a complete sham. ‘Sarah was the doctor; and then there was the one with the spots; and then the one with the nose; and then ... who was after the boring teacher?’

John swore under his breath as Jeannette crossed her arms and pursed her lips. ‘Nobody.’

‘Ah, process of elimination.’ Sherlock bowed his head, ceding the point. Moments later, when Jeanette turned her back, any trace of remorse vanished in a flash.

John probably wasn’t meant to see the expression that took its place. If he hadn’t been looking closely, he would have missed it, but it seemed even when his girlfriend was present, John always had his eye on Sherlock.

A scowl framed his brow, and the grimace that twisted his lips parted to reveal a fraction of cat-like, pointed fangs. It was a flash of emotion, something that bordered so close to a snarl that a prickle of shock raced down John’s spine. The last time he’d seen Sherlock like that, he’d been shaking and filthy on the riverbank, cursing the two-bit thief who had dragged him into the Thames.

A moment later it was gone, buried beneath composed indifference.

John stared, trying to find any trace of what he had just witnessed. He could almost believe he’d imagined it; a fantasy conjured by his own desperation, but no. That had been real, and for the first time in weeks, hope flared in his chest.

Molly’s arrival interrupted his thoughts, taking with it any chance he might have had to question his flatmate. It was probably just as well. After all, what could he say? Especially with his girlfriend of the moment sat in the same room, curled in his chair and glaring daggers at his back.

He didn’t have time to dwell on the possibilities, not when Molly became Sherlock’s next target. She stood like a deer in the headlights, her expression slack as he picked apart the clues of her appearance. Either Sherlock didn’t notice her horror or didn’t care, too busy bathing in the glow of his own superiority.

A hissed rebuke hovered on the tip of John’s tongue: a desperate effort to stop Sherlock in his tracks. For God’s sake, they’d have no friends left by the time this party ended! Yet before he could utter a word, Molly spoke, silencing Sherlock far more effectively than John could have managed.

‘You always say such horrible things! Always!’ Her words cut through the room, shaking but sharp. Her shoulders heaved as she glared, pale-faced, but the tears that brimmed in her eyes didn’t fall.

John expected Sherlock to turn away, repulsed by her misery. Instead, his posture changed, his shoulders dipping and his head bowed. It was a striking contrast to how he behaved with Jeannette only a few minutes ago: genuine, not fake.

His deep voice softened, losing its hurtful edge as he stepped towards her. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. Forgive me.’

The kiss he pressed to Molly’s cheek was chaste, but that didn’t stop the cramp of jealousy that squeezed its claws in John’s guts.

A wanton, husky sound shattered the peace. It filled the room, out of place in the festive atmosphere, making Mrs Hudson tut in disapproval and John’s hands clench into fists where they rested on his thighs.

Molly flushed, stammering her denials. ‘I – Oh, that wasn’t me!’

‘No, it was me.’

‘My God, really?!’ Greg folded his arms, looking at Sherlock in amused disbelief as he pulled his mobile from his pocket.

John bowed his head, running his tongue over his teeth. Of course, Irene would interrupt, reasserting her nebulous presence within the sanctuary of Baker Street. It seemed she was never far away, these days.

‘Fifty-seven?’ It wasn’t really a question, but he clarified when Sherlock glanced his way. ‘Fifty-seven of those texts. The ones I’ve heard.’

And who knew how many others he’d missed while he’d been out at work or upstairs asleep? She was doing well, making sure Sherlock was reminded of her presence. John wished he could see it as a genuine desire for his companionship, but he doubted it was anything other than a power play.

Look how easily I catch his attention. Look how willingly he gives it.

‘Thrilling that you’ve been counting,’ Sherlock murmured, but his heart wasn’t in his absent-minded sarcasm. He stood by the fireplace, his hand hovering over an innocuous gift that John hadn’t noticed before. The red paper didn’t seem out of place, lustrous in the glow of the candles, but he knew the moment Sherlock picked it up that the small wrapped box was somehow different from the others.

‘Excuse me.’

Gooseflesh raced across John’s skin at the change in Sherlock’s tone. Gone was any trace of confidence or superiority. Now he sounded smaller, not just humbled by Molly’s scolding, but alarmed by whatever he held in his hands.

John’s resolve to stay with their guests lasted no more than a couple of minutes. Helplessly, he drifted closer to Sherlock’s bedroom, his head cocked to better catch what was being said within.

‘…find Irene Adler tonight.’ There was a pause, and John just caught the faint, tinny edge of Mycroft’s dry tones. ‘No, I mean find her dead.’

The phone beeped as Sherlock disconnected the call, and panic fluttered in John’s belly as he moved towards the threshold. There was no time to step back and pretend he hadn’t heard every word. All he could do was meet those pale grey eyes and try to read the expression on that aristocratic face.

‘You okay?’ It was a stupid question, but what else was he meant to say? His hands fluttered at his sides. He wanted to reach out – to steady Sherlock – but he doubted the gesture would be appreciated. Besides, Sherlock didn’t seem distressed. He just looked at John as if he wasn’t there, his eyes blank and distant.

‘Yes.’

The door shut before John could accuse him of lying, cutting off any effort at conversation. He knew that Sherlock’s retreat was deliberate. This was not something he wanted to discuss, but the desire to force an answer from him burned hard in John’s chest.

Only common sense held him back. He didn’t know what Irene was to Sherlock. Despite his best efforts, he’d not been able to pin it down and give it a label beyond some form of admiration. Now she was dead, and John had no right to intrude.

His fingers trailed across the door, lingering on the wood before he pulled away and stepped back into the flow of the festivities. It was easy to deflect questions about Sherlock. He blamed the work for his friend’s absence and left it at that. No one else needed to know. Not until they were sure.

He picked up a glass, staring into the generous measure of whisky at the bottom before knocking it back. It burned all the way down, warm and satisfying, but didn’t block out the bloom of emotion that spread through him.

Relief was not the correct response to news of someone’s death; John knew that. He should be feeling sympathy and sorrow, but all that was for Sherlock, not Irene. He couldn’t bring himself to grieve for her, not when a guilty, happy thought kept circling his mind.

Without her, their lives would go back to normal.

Wouldn’t they?

‘Tell him you’re alive.’

The hollow space echoed with his demand – too loud, too raw – but John didn’t give a fuck. She hadn’t seen Sherlock these past few weeks. She hadn’t heard the mournful refrain of the violin on endless repeat. She hadn’t watched Sherlock’s strange detachment intensify with every passing day.

John had, and it was tearing him apart.

There was nothing he could do. He felt stupid for believing things could ever go back to the way they’d once been. Irene had changed everything. To John, Sherlock’s behaviour looked like heartbreak. On anyone else he would be sure, but this was Sherlock for God’s sake. How could he be certain of anything anymore?

Now the cause of all that stood in front of him, clad in black cashmere and very much alive.

She shook her head, the small triangles of her ears as expressive as her face. ‘He’ll come after me.’

‘I’ll come after you if you don’t.’ He meant it, too. There was only so much of this he could take. To find out that it was all a lie – that Sherlock’s misery was so needless – it made him feel sick. God, how would Sherlock react? Would he throw himself into Irene’s arms? Would he reject her?

John couldn’t even begin to guess.

Irene watched him, her pupils large in the weak light of the industrial space in which they stood. There was no smile on her face – no teasing glimpse of fang or subtle lashing of her tail. She didn’t play up the exoticism of her Felisian traits to him. Maybe she thought he wasn’t worth the effort, or perhaps she knew he simply wasn’t interested.

‘I believe you.’ She closed her eyes, turning her head to the side as if her own words pained her. ‘Look, I needed to disappear, but I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping and now I need it back. I need your help.’

‘No.’ John folded his arms, unmoved.

‘It’s for his own safety.’ Her direct appeal fell flat, false in John’s ears. If she gave a damn about his well-being, she’d never have done any of this in the first place. It was all a ploy: just another way of getting what she wanted.

‘So’s this: tell him you’re alive.’

‘I can’t.’

John had to give it to her: she was a bloody good actor. The line of her lips thinned as tears brimmed in her eyes. None spilt from her lashes to stain that flawless face, but it was a close-run thing. Maybe in different circumstances, it might have worked, but her efforts rolled off John like water off a duck’s back.

‘Fine.’ He sucked in a breath, his shoulders heaving as he turned away. In his pockets, his fingernails dug into the flesh of his palms as he fought not to let his voice shake with fury. ‘I’ll tell him, and I still won’t help you.’

Irene’s heels scraped against the concrete as she shifted her weight, a tight, pained noise catching in her throat. It wasn’t a human sound. There was something distinctly feline about its pitch and tone.

‘What do I say?’ She raised her chin as John spun around, seething. He barely noticed her arms folded across her chest, nor the agitated lash of her tail behind her. He was too angry to care if she was frightened. All he could see was her arrogance and pride. She didn’t even have the decency to stay dead.

‘What do you normally say?’ he hissed. ‘You text him a lot.’

She dipped her fingers into her pocket, pulling free a phone and dragging her manicured thumb across the screen. ‘Oh, just the usual stuff. “Good morning”; “I like your funny hat”; “I’m sad tonight. Let’s have dinner”.’ She looked up, pinning John with her gaze. ‘“You looked sexy on Crimewatch. Let’s have dinner…”

The potential contents of those texts had driven John to distraction when he was alone with his thoughts. Now he knew.

‘You flirted with Sherlock Holmes?’ he wheezed.

‘At him. He never replies.’ She raised an immaculate brow. ‘I wonder why that might be?’

Her implication was obvious. She thought they were a couple, him and Sherlock, and that Sherlock didn’t respond to her because he was loyal to John.

He wished that were the case.

For one, dark moment he considered confirming her theory. It would be a small lie, shared between the two of them, and perhaps it would be enough to put her off for good. He could taste the words on his tongue; imagine the shape of them between his lips, but something stopped him from giving them voice.

Irene might be more than happy to get in the way of a relationship in the hopes of achieving her goals, but John was different. He couldn’t lie for his personal gain and to Sherlock’s potential detriment. He wanted to, but when it came right down it, he wasn’t that kind of person.

‘Perhaps I’m wrong.’ The soft lilt in Irene’s voice set his teeth on edge, and he looked up to see her watching him. In her own way, she was as astute as Sherlock. In this particular arena of love and emotion, power and jealousy, maybe she had the advantage.

John didn’t need to say anything to make her think twice about her assumptions; his face gave it all away, but he still forced the words out.

‘We’re not a couple.’

‘But you wish you were.’ Irene smiled: a secretive glimmer of mirth that only grew when John said nothing to contradict her. Her fingers tapped across her phone before she held it out for his inspection. It was too far away for him to see, and he had no intention of closing the distance. If she thought anything of his stubbornness then she didn’t mention it as she read aloud from the screen.

‘There. “I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.”’ She struck the send button as she straightened her shoulders, her expression bright and glassy. ‘Let’s see what he makes of that.’

John shook his head, wishing he had the answer. ‘Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes?’

‘You do.’

Before he could reply, an orgasmic sigh drifted through the air. Distorted by echoes, the sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, and John’s heart went into freefall.

How long had Sherlock been there? How much had he heard?

Polished nails clawed his jacket as Irene grabbed his arm, strong enough to halt him mid-stride. Her ears skimmed flat against her skull, almost hidden among the twists of her hair, and John glimpsed her tail, the sleek fur fluffed up in alarm. Even with her superior Felisian senses, she hadn’t known Sherlock hid in the shadows.

Her pale eyes scanned the gloom before settling on John’s face. ‘I don’t think so, do you?’

For a moment, he could only stare, trying to get his head around this woman who seemed to live forever on the edge of mystery. The cloth of his coat rasped as he pulled himself free, not bothering with a goodbye as he strode across the flaking concrete.

Deep shadow and bright shafts of sunlight gave the dilapidated corridors a surreal appearance, but there was no sign of a pale figure clad in dark wool. It was like chasing a ghost, and by the time he stepped outside, John’s heart was thudding in his chest.

Thoughts whirled through his mind, colliding in a chaotic mess of questions and fears. He had no idea how much Sherlock had heard. Was it just fragments, or had he been privy to every word and each telling silence? Would he even speak of it to John, or were more days of distraction and dismissal all that lay ahead?

He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to scatter his concerns as he hailed a cab. There would be time for asking questions and finding answers later. Right now, all that mattered was getting back home.

He wouldn’t leave Sherlock to face the consequences of Irene’s selfishness alone.

Darkness pressed against the windows of Baker Street, punctuated by the streetlights below. Raindrops smeared the glass, and John stared at them as he listened to Sherlock take off his coat.

It’d been a long day, starting with Irene’s miraculous return and ending with the CIA man’s broken bones. Not that he deserved anything less for threatening Mrs Hudson. Sherlock had been merciless. John couldn’t fault him for that – not when the same anger coated his skin, calculating and impenetrable.

He’d made sure Mrs Hudson was all right, cleaning her scrapes and listening as her shaking voice found its steadiness. She’d done well, keeping her wits about her, but it was still more of a strain than anyone her age should have to bear. He’d checked downstairs, securing every window and door as he urged her to call on him and Sherlock if she needed anything – even if it was just someone to talk to.

She wouldn’t of course, but she appreciated the sentiment.

The sounds of Sherlock moving around the flat – the clink of a glass and the slosh of liquid – barely penetrated the disconnected mess of John’s thoughts. He only turned away from the window when the weight of Sherlock’s presence strafed at his back, and he blinked at the offered brandy in surprise.

‘Thanks.’

He moved to take a sip, but the sight of those long fingers made him hesitate. Without the leather gloves to sheathe them, he could see scabbing grazes from thrown punches, and a closer inspection of Sherlock’s brow revealed a bruise, no doubt from where he’d smashed his forehead into the intruder’s face.

‘I should have a look at those.’

Sherlock glanced down, clenching his knuckles and watching the thin ooze of blood before he shook his head. ‘They’re fine.’

‘I think I’ll be the judge of that. Being a doctor and all.’ He set the drink down, moving towards the cupboard under the kitchen sink that hid the first aid kit. None of Sherlock’s wounds required more than a quick bit of antiseptic, but at least it gave John something to do – an excuse to ignore the close air that lay thick with everything unsaid.

He wanted to ask Sherlock about Irene: what she was to him, what he was to her, but he couldn’t get the words out. They sat like lumps of granite in his throat, making it hard to breathe. He hated feeling this way, not just useless but unnecessary. Irene had started it that the day back in Belgravia, when she showed Sherlock in every way that she was a hundred times better than John could ever be – more clever, more appealing…

More dangerous.

This, at least, she couldn’t do: mop up the blood and treat his hurts. Or maybe she could. After all, wasn’t that part of her scene? Still, he couldn’t picture it. Oh, he could see her making someone bleed well enough, but cleaning up after herself? It didn’t seem quite her style. She liked to leave her mark.

He rummaged through the first-aid kit for wipes, trying not to let his roiling emotions transmit themselves into shaking hands and unsteady breaths. If Sherlock noticed his distress, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he stood as John daubed the scrapes on his knuckles, the only sign of movement the swell of his chest and the sway of his tail. His ears flickered back as John moved onto the lump on his forehead – a brief twitch of discomfort – but Sherlock’s mind was elsewhere.

With Irene.

John made a show of checking his pupils, but they both knew it was an act. This wasn’t about Sherlock’s welfare. Not anymore. He wanted to meet his eyes, to see the friend who stood in front of him rather than the woman who drifted in and out of their lives, causing destruction wherever she went.

He searched Sherlock’s gaze, hunting for any trace of the fondness that had begun to grow between them before Irene’s arrival. It had been there, impossible to deny and full of promise. More than anything, John cursed himself for not acting upon it when he had the chance. In his arrogance, he had told himself they had time – that nothing would come between them and rip it all apart.

Not a trace of emotion marked his features. Sherlock was difficult to read at the best of times, but there was always something, even if it was just disdain. The notion that he might be keeping John at arm’s length was more than he could bear.

‘So, she’s alive then.’ The words escaped him, sharper than he meant but there all the same. There was no swallowing them back now. Besides, maybe for once he would get a straight answer. He drew in a breath, never taking his eyes off Sherlock’s face as he tried to glean anything from his expression. ‘How are we feeling about that?’

In the distance, out over London’s sprawling landscape, the chimes of Big Ben began to toll. Fireworks exploded along the Thames, their sparks painting the clouds as Sherlock eased himself away.

‘Happy New Year, John.’

His heart clenched, telegraphing its pain down to the knot in his stomach. Of course, of bloody course that was how it would be. Why would Sherlock tell him anything? He was only his friend, his flat-mate, his – his almost-maybe-more-but-not.

Maybe he’d deceived himself on that score. Yet even as he considered that option, John shook it aside. He hadn’t got it wrong. Since the start, that first night when he’d left his old life and his limp behind chasing Sherlock through the streets, something had been growing between them. Like picking at a scab, he couldn’t just let this go.

‘Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?’

The haunting refrain of Auld Lang Syne resonated from the strings, slower and more melancholy than it had any right to be. The ethereal song of the violin filled John’s ears, and he dropped his empty hand as he turned away. Perhaps he could fool himself that Sherlock had given him his answer – that the hints of remorse in his music were a fond farewell to Irene, but he could not bring himself to believe it. Sooner or later, she would be back.

Where did that leave him?

She kept her distance, right up to the point they found her asleep in Sherlock’s bed.

John had started to hope he was wrong – that maybe they had seen the last of her. Sherlock’s chilly demeanour ebbed once more, the ice around him melting by the smallest of increments as their teetering equilibrium stabilised anew.

Then, on a day like any other, there she was, back to turn it all to shit.

John sighed, his breath clouding in front of him as he stomped through Regent’s Park. He couldn’t take it anymore. She padded through their home dressed in nothing but one of Sherlock’s robes, her elegant ears poking out from a nest of damp curls. That face, normally painted to perfection, lay bare, but it was a calculated reveal. She needed them, so she made herself look as vulnerable as possible.

He could almost believe it – her helplessness – except for the smile that cut like a sabre across her lips.

Sherlock saw it, didn’t he? He had to. Of everyone in the world to be taken in by a woman’s charms, John had always thought Sherlock would be the last. Yet he had helped her readily enough, jumping back into their game as if it were all he craved: solving puzzles for her praise.

‘I’d have you over this desk until you begged for mercy. Twice.’

John stopped, his body swaying as his stomach rolled. He’d almost thrown his mug at her when she had said that. His knuckles had tightened on the handle until his arm ached. Had Sherlock seen? Had he noticed, or was he too wrapped up in Irene?

That brought up another unwelcome mental image, and John swallowed hard. Jealousy racked him, and he hated himself for it. God, he didn’t have a leg to stand on. Sherlock had never made any promises – had never so much as kissed him. Anything between them remained unsaid, a potential relationship and nothing more.

Maybe if Irene were just another client, her job a facet of who she was, then her behaviour would not have fussed John in the slightest. It was the fact that she set her sights on Sherlock, that she plucked out personal relationships as his vulnerability and played on it like he played on his bloody violin! Her body was her weapon and she used it without shame, not caring if Sherlock didn’t understand the rules.

Except maybe he did. That was where John kept falling down. If he knew for certain that Sherlock was inexperienced, he would feel more comfortable in his role as would-be protector. His ridiculous need to shield Sherlock from Irene’s wiles would have a touch more merit, but the bloody man stayed tight-lipped. He acted as if sex wasn’t relevant, while for Irene, it was everything.

She picked her battle on an uneven field, holding threatening advantage, and John wasn’t convinced that Sherlock knew enough to guard his heart against her.

He sneered to himself, shaking his head at his own lies. Yeah, he could pretend that’s what this was all about – that he was worried about a good mate ending up neck deep in his first heartbreak, but that wasn’t the half of it. Perhaps if it was someone else, like Molly, his reaction would be less visceral, but the jealousy would still be there: an oil slick tainting every moment.

Perhaps he should have stayed: an awkward chaperone to whatever the hell was going on, but when it came down to it, he didn’t have it in him to bear witness to the game Sherlock and Irene played. Had she kissed him yet? Had she led him to bed, all poise and wicked smiles?

Had Sherlock followed?

John jerked his head to the side, tearing his mind from its imaginings. So what if Sherlock had slid between the sheets with her? It was none of John’s business. Sherlock had made that clear from the start. He had kept all manner of conversation about Irene resolutely closed, refusing to engage despite John’s desperate efforts to understand. Maybe once there had been the promise of something between them, but it was time to admit the truth.

He’d missed his chance.

The glow of a nearby pub caught his attention, and he changed course, picking up his pace so he could slip into the warm haven. Other drinkers laughed and chatted among themselves, and John surveyed the crowd, noticing more than one pretty face. Maybe that was what he needed: someone new. Someone to help take his mind off all the doubts that had plagued him from the moment they left Buckingham Palace all those months ago.

Let Irene have Sherlock; John was done.

That night was like the turn of a wheel: the tipping of some unknown balance John didn’t understand. When he returned the next morning, bleary but about as content as he could manage, it was to an empty flat. Mrs Hudson was hoovering, singing along to the heavy bass of the radio, but above stairs, all was quiet.

He wandered in and surveyed the familiar space, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. A breathless glance into Sherlock’s room showed a pristine bed. No lover’s nest waited to taunt him, although he supposed that didn’t mean anything. His mug still stood where he’d parked it on the table, almost dropping it in his haste to get out.

Everything was as he had left it, except that someone had moved his chair. Normally, it sat opposite Sherlock’s on the far side of the fire, but not any more. The crushed cushions offered their testament, and he didn’t need Sherlock-level intelligence to work out who had curled up in its depths. It seemed Irene had not hesitated to fill his shoes.

His false bravado wavered, and he huffed out a breath as he closed his eyes and pinched his nose, trying to ward off a headache that he could only partly blame on a bit too much beer. He kept telling himself that it didn’t matter – that he and Sherlock were just friends anyway – but the bloody, messy heart of him wasn’t having it. That uncertain hurt bloomed all over again, and there was nothing John could do about it.

Last night had been a wonderful distraction, but he had made sure his partner had known it was a once-only thing. At least he’d had the sense for that. Starting a new relationship when he felt like this – wretched and lost and heart sore – was a disaster waiting to happen. If nothing else, Irene’s presence had concentrated all of John’s nebulous want into something he could taste. It brought every moment of “almost” with Sherlock into pinpoint focus, all the while leaving him helpless to act.

Even during her prolonged absences, he hadn’t found the courage to do anything about the way he felt. How could he, when the spectre of her seemed to hover in every corner? A handful of months ago, he had been confident of where he stood with Sherlock. He had known their potential and convinced himself that starting a relationship was just a matter time, but this whole mess had thrown all that into disarray.

Between him and Irene, there was no competition.

The scrape of someone’s foot on the floor made him turn, and he blinked to see Sherlock standing in the doorway, his head cocked and his sharp eyes intent. Even now, it was a thrill to be the centre of Sherlock’s attention, and John pasted a strained smile on his face, desperate to hide the morose fog of his thoughts.

‘Good night?’ he asked, loathing the tightness in his voice almost as much as the pointed edge to the question. It was none of his business that a five o’clock shadow clouded Sherlock’s jaw, or that he seemed a bit more dishevelled than usual. He just wished he could convince himself that he didn’t care.

‘Not as good as yours.’ Sherlock shrugged out of his Belstaff and hung it up; his movements graceful as he made sure the damp wool wouldn’t crease. His ears pricked forward, but one pivoted John’s way as he shifted his weight, unsure what to say.

It would have been better if Sherlock had spoken with a hint of emotion. At least then, John would know that the wretched man felt something – anything – about whatever was going on between the two of them. Yet Sherlock could have been talking about the weather. Perhaps, to him, John’s sex life was about as interesting.

‘Yeah, well. You didn’t seem to need me.’

It wasn’t an accusation, but even to John’s ears it bloody well sounded like one. His head had decided the best thing to do was to forget all about anything more than friendship with Sherlock Holmes. His heart, however, had other ideas.

‘John…’

That wasn’t a denial. Instead, Sherlock said his name as if he were being the most tiresome person in the world, and John’s stomach ached to hear it. All he could manage was a tight-lipped smile as he shook his head, cutting off whatever Sherlock was about to say. ‘No, no it’s fine. I’m guessing you sorted it all out with her – her phone and everything.’

Sherlock’s tail lay motionless behind him, held in that familiar, sinuous curve that indicated he was doing his best to control his body language. It hurt to see. Once, he’d have let his tail lash or curl or bristle in John’s presence; he would have moved his ears, letting his expressive form have free range. Now, all that was gone. They may as well be strangers again.

That gaze narrowed, and for one moment John thought Sherlock was going to ask something – to speak up and force all this mess out in the open where neither of them could ignore it.

Except he didn’t, choosing instead to turn his back and strip off his suit jacket. The rich cotton of his shirt strained over the angles of his shoulder blades, and John caught himself trying to see through the pale cloth for any marks Irene may have left in her wake. It was morbid curiosity – some aching, awful desperation to know one way or the other – but he couldn’t make anything out beneath the weave.

It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t. Maybe Sherlock had slept with Irene and maybe he hadn’t; it wasn’t like John had any prior claim. He’d been too confident in letting things take their course. When he looked back on it now, he could see his own arrogance. He’d thought he was the only one who could get Sherlock to open up – the only one Sherlock might even consider…

God, he was an idiot.

‘It’s unlikely we’ll ever see Ms Adler again,’ Sherlock murmured, the neck of his violin already in his grasp. He lifted it to his shoulder and brought up his bow, his back a strong column and his elbow a striking angle silhouetted against London’s morning light.

‘Right.’ John ducked his head, his teeth pressing down on his tongue as he forced himself silent. This – if he wasn’t careful this was going to tear them apart. Not Irene Adler, but John’s turbulent concern-cum-jealousy. He had to stop it, all of it. The constant wondering, the questions that bordered on accusations, everything.

He had never been Sherlock’s lover, but he damn well was his friend. It was time he started acting like it.

Sherlock wanted to be alone. Even if the violin’s beautiful song – no longer tragic, but still touched by sadness – didn’t make that clear, every line of his body broadcast the message.

The Woman was gone, or so he said. John only wished he could believe it.

‘So… what should we tell Sherlock?’

Mycroft’s question dogged John’s footsteps as he picked his way up the stairs to 221B, the dossier on Irene Adler’s case clutched under one arm.

It had been better, this past month. Each day that went by proved Sherlock right. Irene had not turned up on their doorstep or tucked up in Sherlock’s bed. There had been no orgasmic sighs from his phone. Life went on and, bit by bit, things returned to normal.

Well, almost.

John would be lying if he said everything was perfect. They’d lost something, he and Sherlock: some of that closeness they’d begun to enjoy. Like a swelling balloon, Sherlock’s sphere of personal space had bubbled outwards anew, leaving John unwilling to reach for him: in friendship or otherwise. Their fingers no longer brushed when reaching for cups of coffee or grabbing for the takeaway boxes. Even when sharing a taxi, they sat at opposite ends of the seat rather than drifting inwards as they had once done.

Sherlock didn’t purr anymore. John hadn’t heard that noise since the night they’d rescued the baby Felisian from the bastards who had murdered her parents, and he missed it more than he’d ever thought possible. It had been an undeniable sign of Sherlock’s contentment, one that, more often than not, John had called forth. Now, they still had their friendship, but it felt brittle at its edges, as if one wrong move could snap it in two.

And now this.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, looking down at Mycroft’s bundle of neat little lies. Maybe it was a test – of him or Sherlock – he didn’t know. Perhaps Mycroft was just trying to protect his brother from…. what? Grief? Heartache? Relief? Any kind of emotion whatsoever? Either way, John couldn’t help but feel that Irene had intruded all over again. Not in body perhaps, but her spirit was still hanging about the place with a coy smile and a knowing look.

In some ways, it felt like she’d never bloody left.

‘Clearly you’ve got news,’ Sherlock said, his voice carrying through from the kitchen. ‘If it’s about the Leeds triple murder, it was the gardener. No one noticed the earring.’

John dragged himself forward, his mind whirling with possibilities as he shuffled into the flat. What was he going to do? Should he take Mycroft’s suggestion and spin some kind of lie that Sherlock would probably see through in a heartbeat, or tell the truth and deal with the fallout? Would it be like Christmas all over again? Days of silence, stiff and cold but for the violin’s endless dirge? Would Sherlock retreat into himself, or carry on as if nothing had happened, all chilly indifference?

He leaned on the threshold of the door, taking in the sight before him. Sherlock sat at the microscope, the purple shirt he wore a rich splash of colour in the harsh glow from the fluorescent lights. Twin circles from the eyepiece painted his face, narrowing those pupils to sharp, predatory slits. His tail twitched behind him in idle thought, and one corner of his mouth twisted in a half-smirk of triumph. It reminded John all over again how different Sherlock was, his outward appearance doing its best to reflect the unique man within.

Those pale eyes ticked upwards, meeting John’s gaze. The folder of papers seemed to burn in John’s grasp, and he shifted it in his palm. ‘Actually, no. It’s, er, it’s about Irene Adler.’

Sherlock blinked. ‘Oh? Is she back in London?’

Benign curiosity laced his voice, and John shifted, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He considered spinning Mycroft’s little story – the words were on the tip of his tongue – but common sense prevailed. If nothing else, Mycroft had given the job to the wrong man. Sherlock knew when he was lying, and frankly, the strain on their friendship was bad enough without adding this to the mix.

‘No, I’m – Sherlock, I’m sorry, but she’s dead.’ He stared at the floor, unwilling to look up and see what reaction the news had wrought.

‘Again? She seems to be making a habit of it.’

John’s head jerked up, and he found himself facing the same puzzle that had haunted him for far too long. Once, he could have sworn Sherlock loved Irene Adler, and then, after she had gone for the last time, he believed Sherlock hated her. Yet all that was just guesses on his part. Sherlock gave nothing away. There were no frank discussions or confided secrets. Even now, in the face of John’s statement, the only hint of anything in his voice was a bland flippancy, as if it didn’t matter to him one way or the other.

‘Mycroft wanted me to say she was in a witness protection program in the States,’ he confessed, ‘but she was killed in Karachi.’ It felt like poking a wound, but if Sherlock was hurting, he showed no sign of it. ‘Terrorists, apparently.’

‘Hmmmm.’ Sherlock looked back into the microscope, his ears alert as he focussed on his work. ‘Thank you, John.’

‘That’s it?’ He shrugged, knowing Sherlock would hear the rustle of his clothes if nothing else. His free hand waved fitfully at his side. ‘That’s all you have to say?’

‘What were you expecting?’

John pressed his fingers to his eyes, trying to control the horrible sensation that was boiling in his chest. It wasn’t that he was upset about Irene. No, if anything, it was Sherlock who was setting him off by being so bloody opaque! They’d stood side-by-side, once. Now, they might as well be on different continents, occupying the same flat and living the same life but somehow separate.

‘I dunno,’ he sighed. ‘I thought it might be like last time – whatever that was.’ He shrugged again, surprised to look up and find Sherlock watching him. Not a blank, emotionless stare, but something far more searching. Maybe if John were less exhausted, wrung out and drained by it all, he’d have found some excuse to get away. Instead, he just stood there, rubbing one thumb back and forth over the sleek plastic that shielded Irene’s file.

He didn’t hear Sherlock move – didn’t even notice he’d so much as twitched – until warm fingers covered his own, easing the folder from his grasp and setting it down on the desk. The contact, brief but unexpected, made him flinch in surprise, and he had to stop himself from reaching out when Sherlock withdrew.

He didn’t go far, choosing to lean back against the table, his arms folded and his lithe body at ease. His lazy posture was at striking odds with his hungry expression. He looked at John as if he held the secrets to the universe beneath his skin. He wasn’t sure if the attention was thrilling or terrifying.

‘What?’ he rasped.

‘I never loved The Woman.’

John almost choked on his own indrawn breath: a quick hiss of air sucked in through clenched teeth. The words echoed in his ears, too good to be true. ‘What?’ He blinked, trying to speak around the storm of conflicting feelings that roiled under his ribs: anger and gratitude, joy and confusion. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

‘Would you have believed me?’

The automatic response died on his lips, washed away beneath the tide of his memories. He kept thinking of Sherlock’s relish upon meeting Irene. He had come alive, lit up from within. Then he had risen to every challenge she issued, exhibiting his intelligence without a second thought.

‘You were always trying to impress her,’ he said weakly, shaking his head. He hadn’t imagined all that, he was sure of it. ‘Showing off.’

‘What makes you think it was for her? She wasn’t the only one in the room.’ Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching John hesitate.

No doubt, the tortuous progress of his own deductions wrote itself all over his face. He thought back on it, trying to remember who else was present, but there was just Sherlock, Irene, and him playing unwilling witness to it all…

Oh.

Was he saying what John thought he was saying? That he wasn’t showing off for Irene’s benefit, but for John’s approval and praise? Memory was a tricky thing, but now he looked back he realised that, every time he solved a puzzle, Sherlock didn’t turn to Irene.

He looked at John.

‘My question for you is this: why did it matter whether I loved her or not?’

An edge of intensity rimed Sherlock’s words. John tensed; he had walked right into that one. From that first day, he’d been backing himself into this corner. Every time he reacted to Irene and Sherlock, it had been too much. Too demanding, too intense, too invested. He’d done a terrible job of hiding his feelings, and now Sherlock was calling him on it.

He looked away, his gaze skittering about the room in search of a distraction. There was plenty to see, but what caught his eye was the calendar hanging on the wall. It showed nothing remarkable, some picture of a London view and the month laid out neatly. They never bothered to write anything on it; their lives were too spontaneous for that. However, it reminded John of a couple of days when Sherlock had been away from the flat.

It wasn’t for long. He’d returned before John had done more than wonder idly about his absence, but now the strange discrepancy grated at him, stirring suspicions into wakefulness. Sherlock had once said there was no such thing as coincidence, and John grimaced, turning back as he issued a challenge of his own.

‘“It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me.”’ He wet his lips, noticing the way Sherlock’s ears cocked forward, more expressive than they’d been for ages. ‘That’s what Mycroft said when he was telling me about Irene. Was it a clue, or does he really not know?’

‘There are plenty of things Mycroft doesn’t know.’

‘How about where you were last week? Is he aware of that, or did he somehow miss the fact you’d buggered off to Karachi?’ He watched Sherlock like a hawk, knowing, deep in the pit of his belly, that he was right.

Sherlock wasn’t upset about Irene because she was still alive and well.

A ghost of a smile flickered across Sherlock’s lips. He looked proud: genuinely impressed by John’s wild guess. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s aware, but probably not. The Woman may yet have her uses.’

‘Like what?’ John demanded, wrapping his coat around himself and folding his arms, hugging his sides in case he flew apart. He should have known it was all a trick. Sherlock was right; he and Irene really were equals, revelling in being so much more clever than everyone else. ‘You know what? Never mind. I bet it gave you a good laugh when I came in here to tell you, yeah? Just another person you fooled.’

‘John –’

He went to turn away, but Sherlock moved before he could take a step, pouncing forward and catching at John’s sleeve. A moment later, they stood face-to-face, and John’s heart shivered at the intensity of the man before him.

‘It was never about fooling you,’ Sherlock growled, his eyes flashing. A scowl framed his brow and his ears flattened back against his head. His tail was a bottlebrush behind him, fluffed up in annoyance, and those sharp fangs were on full display. His nostrils flared as if he were scenting his prey, and John gulped, unable to fight the spike of desire at seeing Sherlock so unveiled.

‘You never answered my question: why did it matter if I loved her? Why does the very idea of her being alive make you like this?’

John winced. Sherlock made him sound – God, like some kind of jealous, controlling prick – like he couldn’t even bear the notion of Irene. Worse, it wasn’t as if he could deny it. He liked to think he was better than that, more gracious and mature, but when it came to Sherlock, it seemed all bets were off.

‘If you don’t start talking, I’ll have to make my own deductions.’

He tightened his jaw, bracing himself for whatever harsh truths spilled forth from Sherlock’s lips. Maybe it would go better for both of them if he just confessed the whole ruddy mess, but he couldn’t find the courage to utter a word. He felt raw already, his heart chafed bloody by the very thought of how Sherlock might react once he knew the truth.

Sherlock’s ears shifted, no longer pinned against his skull as if he were preparing for a fight, but wilted and downcast. His gaze darted across John’s face before he glanced to one side as if he were dithering over some decision.

John had never known Sherlock to hesitate in his deductions before, not even for his sake. Yet before he could question it further, something changed in Sherlock’s expression. Doubt galvanised into certainty, and John’s breath halted in his chest as Sherlock’s mouth brushed over his own.

The world came crashing to a halt in an awkward moment of tense lips and the threat of too-sharp teeth. It was so sudden, so completely unexpected that John was too shocked to respond. He just stood there, stunned, his hands lax at his sides as Sherlock kissed him.

A tiny sound of distress pulsed in Sherlock’s throat. It sparked through John like a live wire, stirring his disbelieving brain back to life and dumping him into a shocking maelstrom of impetuous desire.

He felt like a starved man, deprived of the only touch that really mattered for far too long. The small comforts that had sustained him at the start of their friendship had once been enough, but as John returned the kiss, he knew there was no going back. This was where he had to be; his hands on Sherlock’s hips, holding him close as the rest of the world faded from concern.

His tension fled, replaced by the creep of warmth like sunshine on the first day of summer. The taut, quivering plane Sherlock’s waist grew more yielding beneath his palm, the nervous anxiety draining away and taking their clumsiness with it.

Plump lips softened against the thin line of John’s mouth, warm and tempting as Sherlock’s fingers caught like claws in the fabric of John’s coat. There was no challenge in Sherlock’s actions, not any more. Instead, there was the scent of him filling John’s nose, making him dizzy with every sip of air he managed to steal.

The shy flicker of Sherlock’s tongue had John parting his lips, succumbing to curious surrender. In those moments that John had allowed himself to imagine kissing Sherlock, he hadn’t pictured such honesty. Part of him always suspected Sherlock would treat intimacy like a case to solve, but there was none of that. He lost himself in sensuous enjoyment, and John was only too happy to follow.

His hands shifted, cresting the peak of Sherlock’s hips and stroking up his back. Soft cotton whispered its secrets under his palms, and the tropical heat of the skin beneath branded John’s fingertips.

It was tempting to sneak through the gaps in Sherlock’s armour and lay his claim, but at the same time, John did not want to rush this. He had waited too long, and now he intended to savour every stroke of Sherlock’s tongue, every clumsy clutch of his fingers and every breathless, giddy moment.

A protest rasped in his throat as Sherlock’s lips left his, but he didn’t go far. Resting his brow on John’s forehead, he met his eyes, narrowing the horizons of the world to just the two of them.

‘Is that why?’ he asked, his voice a low purr of sound that curled in John’s ear. It resonated through him, sending sparks along every nerve. His mouth went dry, and he tried not to tremble at the feral edge to Sherlock’s words. ‘You were jealous? You wanted me and thought I wanted her?’

Taking a shaky breath, he nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

‘But why?’ Sherlock asked again, as if the simple question plagued him. Perhaps it did. All this time John had been tearing himself apart over his inability to read how Sherlock felt about Irene. Now he realised that Sherlock had been in the same position, looking at John and struggling to comprehend how everything had changed.

Part of him was desperate not to talk about it. It would be so easy to leave it all unsaid and lose himself in the fantasy of Sherlock’s touch. He ached to reclaim that mouth, to forget about Irene and London and the world beyond 221B, but that wouldn’t work. Not if they wanted whatever was starting here today to last. The confusion and hurt would fester until it was their undoing.

Dead or not, Irene Adler would haunt them both.

He sighed, gripping the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and choosing to look down at the shadowed vee of his open collar rather than meet his gaze. ‘You were captivated, right from the start.’ He shrugged, pursing his lips and wrinkling his nose. ‘You can’t deny that.’

‘You assumed it was her body that caught my attention,’ Sherlock murmured, tilting his head so that John looked up at him again, enthralled anew by eyes turned storm-grey and intense. ‘An easy mistake to make, considering her state of undress. I didn’t understand why you were so…’

‘Pissed off?’ John grimaced, taking a step back to ease the overwhelming thrall of Sherlock’s presence. He shoved his hands into his pockets, more to stop himself reaching out again than to hide the way they clenched into fists at the mention of Irene. ‘You didn’t guess?’

‘I never guess,’ Sherlock pointed out, honest as always. ‘I wondered. I thought something might be changing between us. Becoming… more. Then Irene arrived and you…’ Sherlock shook his head, his hands on his hips. ‘Then there was Jeanette, and I assumed I’d been mistaken.’

A moue of disgust curled Sherlock’s lips at the notion of being wrong, but John could see it for what it was: a mask over his doubt. Even now, despite the kiss they had shared – that hot flash of passion – he could not grasp the reasons for John’s behaviour.

The edge of the kitchen table struck a hard line across John’s palms as he leant back against it. He wasn’t blameless in all of this. He’d done a poor job of hiding his jealousy, and Sherlock, in his own, roundabout way, had tried to make it better. If what he said was true, if all his dazzling deductions had been to impress John, then he had been trying to show him that things hadn’t changed. Yet John had been too wrapped up in the threat of Irene to notice.

‘You mourned her.’ He hesitated, daring Sherlock to deny it. ‘When you thought she was dead the first time. You can’t tell me any different. I was there. I saw you.’

‘I know.’ Sherlock’s ears angled forward, attentive, as his tail curved into a lazy question mark behind him. More than anything, that was what put John’s mind at ease. For too long Sherlock had been controlling his Felisian body language. Now, he made no effort to hide the little tells to his emotions: focus, curiosity, and a thirst to understand John’s way of thinking.

‘It looked like heartbreak.’

‘It wasn’t. Not in the way you think.’ Sherlock cuffed a hand through his hair before he turned, prowling back and forth. He never ventured far. John could reach out and touch him if he wanted, but his restless energy held a wild, desperate edge that John did not wish to test.

‘She is like me.’ The admission was the last thing John expected, and he blinked, not missing the strain that pulled Sherlock’s voice taut. ‘She sees the truth in people – even if they try to hide it. She understands. I’ve never met anyone else like that. Like me and not ashamed of it.’

John drew in a breath, trying to understand how Sherlock’s view of Irene could be so different from his own. Superficially – physically – he could see they matched: Felisian, pale skinned, bright-eyed and elegant, but that was where the similarities ended. Sherlock used his intellect to help people. Perhaps he did it for entertainment, rather than more compassionate reasons, but the end result was more for better than worse.

Irene manipulated those under her control, entangling them in a game of seduction and trading their secrets for her own benefit. She used what she learnt for personal gain: power and money.

‘You see the truth in people; she gets them to surrender it to her. She builds up trust and desire and God knows what else, and then she sells what she finds.’ John held up his hand when he saw that Sherlock was about to argue. He knew there was more to it than his biting assessment, but he wasn’t about to delve into the depths of Irene’s character. For the first time in ages, and with the memory of Sherlock’s kiss on his lips, she didn’t matter. It was Sherlock he was trying to understand, and despite his arguments, John could see what he was getting at.

‘Mycroft’s like you,’ he pointed out. ‘You’re not about to tell me he’s ashamed of himself?’

‘Not of his human side, no.’ Sherlock folded his arms, holding himself stiff.

John cursed. How could he have forgotten that Mycroft had surgery as a young man to remove his Felisian characteristics? He might not try to hide his perceptive intelligence or his cold disdain, but he had done his best to distance himself from a part of his heritage that Sherlock embraced.

‘Irene accepted all of it. She did not conceal any facet of herself. I found it – reassuring – to know there was someone out there who could understand. That is what I mourned when I thought it was gone.’

There were few times in their friendship that John had seen Sherlock so exposed. Normally, he hid his uncertainty behind scathing words and twisted sneers. Now, he faced John without guile, trying to explain himself even if it meant revealing his frailty. The admission made Sherlock sound young, like a man still finding his place in the world, rather than a self-assured detective indifferent to the opinions of others.

Not that he had changed. John would bet anything Sherlock wouldn’t give a damn about what most people thought of him. He would let them believe whatever they pleased, judging their opinion as irrelevant at best. It warmed John’s heart to think that he was the exception to that rule. For him, Sherlock made the effort to be understood, even if that meant putting sentiment on display.

‘Thank you.’ John held out his hand, smiling when Sherlock took it without hesitation. His long fingers skimmed the lines of John’s palm before closing their grip. ‘For telling me all this.’

‘Perhaps I should have done it sooner, but you never asked. Not until later, and then…’ Sherlock lifted one shoulder, but John didn’t need to hear more. He had been in the same place himself, unwilling to expose the mess of his emotions to someone who appeared to have withdrawn so completely.

‘I get it, Sherlock. I didn’t exactly make for a willing audience, did I? Even if you had told me, I don’t know I’d have believed you.’

‘And now?’ Sherlock raised his chin, pale but defiant. The gleam in his eyes could not quite hide the shadow of fear, and John realised he was waiting for the axe of rejection to fall.

After all this, Sherlock was still worried John would refuse him.

‘I believe you.’

He tried not to smile as Sherlock’s shoulders sagged in relief, but it was a losing battle. How could he keep a straight face when all the chaos of his feelings was slipping away to reveal the tender affection beneath?

Irene Adler had caused them plenty of problems, and John was glad to see the back of her. Yet even though he was quite happy to never set eyes on her again, he realised that her presence in their lives had forced this change.

Without her, they might never have got to this point. He and Sherlock might have constantly hovered on the brink of more but never taken that final step. All that doubt and heartache, second-guessing themselves and each other had been a brutal kind of agony, but now, at last, it was over.

Strong arms wrapped around John’s waist, and a bubble of joy bloomed in his chest. He stretched up, stroking his fingers through sinuous curls so he could pull Sherlock down into another kiss.

The gleaming promise of their future had arrived. All they had to do was reach out and take it.

And so they did.