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Surprisingly, they only had minor injuries, which John was quite relieved about. After getting attacked, drugged, strapped with a bomb and then in the middle of an explosion, all John wanted to do was go home.

After Sherlock and John confessed their love in the hospital, they were released a few days later. John had to explain to the Police Board (and Lestrade) what happened. Because John caught the Golem, he was let off with a warning. It seems the explosion killed Moriarty and 2 people up in the viewing room with snipers.

Right now, John typed up their adventures on his blog, and Sherlock was spying over his shoulder, correcting small details, when the doorbell rang.

John hurried to open it and allow the delivery person up the stairs and lead them into the kitchen. The man dropped off a small fridge.

“John, why did you get a fridge? We already have one,” Sherlock points out from the kitchen door, watching John set up the new fridge next to the table, which was currently covered in Sherlock’s experiments.

“This fridge”, John points to the small new fridge, "Is your experiment. And this fridge,” John points to the main fridge, “Is for food and drinks. Deal?”

Sherlock’s lips slowly pull into a smile, “You’re still letting me do my experiments? You’re not mad at me for bringing home a head?”

John smiles and walks to Sherlock, taking his hand. “If I want you, I get your experiments too. Some of them are very interesting. Others… well, not so much” John laughs, eyeing the eye cut in half on the table. “I just ask that you keep it away from things that we have to eat”

“Thank you”, Sherlock mutters. John places his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and pulls him in for a long kiss. Sherlock responds to the kiss, placing his hands on John’s waist and pulling him closer still.

(Also for those for are confused. Sherlock is thankful, not for John getting him a fridge, but for understanding him and letting him be his own person, not trying to change him.
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The next morning, John wakes up slowly, warm and comfortable. Opening his eyes, he finds Sherlock shirtless, tangled in the sheets and leaning his head on John’s chest like a pillow. Smiling down at him for a few minutes, just watching him breathe.

It takes a few minutes, but John watches as Sherlock slowly wakes up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Sherlock’s explosion of colour in his eyes meets John’s multi-coloured eyes.

“Morning”, Sherlock murmurs.

“Good morning”, John smiles. “Last night was fun”

“So you don’t regret it?”

John looks confused, “Of course not. I love you, Sherlock. I will never regret what we just did. Why.. do you?”

“No! No.. It’s just… Nevermind. Let’s eat” Sherlock goes to get out of bed, but John gently stops him and pulls him in for a kiss.

“I don’t regret us, Sherlock. I will take you, for you, any day. You are enough for me,” John whispers, leaning his forehead on Sherlock’s.

“And you are enough for me”, Sherlock whispers back.
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John is sitting at the dining table in the living room, updating his blog on his laptop. Sherlock, wearing a red dressing gown over his shirt and pants, is standing at the other side of the table, drinking from a mug while leafing through a newspaper.

“What are you typing?” Sherlock asks.

“My Blog,” John answers, slowly typing.

“About?”

“Our cases”, John shrugs.

“Why?” Sherlock asks.

“Before I met you, my therapist told me to write about what happens to me. Back then, nothing happened to me; I was a broke, ex-Colonel army doctor. Now I’m the Chief of Police, and partners with the World’s only consulting detective. I wanna write about the cases we do, because I’m finally doing something fun”

Just then, the doorbell rings. “Right then.” He walks towards the door. “Let’s see what you’ll write about next?” Sherlock smirks and John grins, setting up the customer's chair.
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Over a period of a few weeks, people are coming to 221B to consult with Sherlock and John. Each customer sits on a dining chair facing the fireplace as Sherlock and John sit in their chairs.

“My wife seems to be spending a very long time at the office.” One man starts.

“Boring.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Sherlock”, John sighs.
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“I think my husband might be having an affair.” Another woman begins.

“Yes.” Sherlock quickly says.
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A man holding a funeral urn slowly says, “She’s not my real aunt. She’s been replaced – I know she has. I know human ash.”

“Leave.” Sherlock orders, pointing to the door.
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A regal businessman sits with two aids standing behind him, “We are prepared to offer any sum of money you care to mention for the recovery of these files.”

“Boring,” Sherlock states.
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Three young men, one sitting and the other two standing, “We have this website. It explains the true meaning of comic books, ’cause people miss a lot of the themes.” Sherlock starts already walking away, disinterested. “But then all the comic books started coming true.”

Sherlock walks back, “Oh. Interesting.”

“Tell us more”, John smiles.

Later, John is sitting in his armchair and updating his blog again. He has titled the entry ‘The Geek Interpreter.’ Sherlock leans over his shoulder.

“‘Geek Interpreter.’ What’s that?”

“It’s the title,” John explains.

“What does it need a title for?” Sherlock pouts.

John just smiles.
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Later, they’re at the morgue at St Bart’s. Sherlock is using his magnifier to look at a woman’s body lying on the table. John is standing at the other side of the table, and Detective Inspector Lestrade is nearby.

“Do people actually read your blog?” Sherlock mumbles.

“Where d’you think our clients come from?” John rhetorically asks.

“I have a website.”

“In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody’s reading your website.” Sherlock straightens up and glares at him, then pouts as John continues to look at the body. “Right then: dyed blonde hair; no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are. Don’t look like a rash.” John hums in thought, looking at the tiny red marks on the woman’s body, but Sherlock has already turned and walked out of the room.
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Later, back at the flat, John is updating his blog again. Sherlock walks past, eating a piece of toast. He stops and looks at the title for this entry.

“Oh, for God’s sakes!” Sherlock exclaims, slightly muffling through the toast.

“What?”

“’ The Speckled Blonde’?!”

“Can you think of a better title?” John asks, Sherlock huffs and walks away. “Didn’t think so”
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Two little girls are sitting together on one of the dining chairs while Sherlock paces in front of the fireplace.

“They wouldn’t let us see Granddad when he was dead. Is that ’cause he’d gone to heaven?” One of the little girls asks.

Before Sherlock could say anything, John interrupts. “Yes, that’s why you can’t see him. Granddad is in Heaven, watching over you two,” John smiles warmly. “And I’m sure your family and grandmother miss him a lot, so next time you see her, give her a big hug, okay?”

The two girls nod.
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Lestrade is leading Sherlock and John across an empty lot.

“There was a plane crash in Düsseldorf yesterday. Everyone is dead.”

“Suspected terrorist bomb. We do watch the news.” Sherlock states.

“You said, ‘Boring,’ and turned over.” John points out.

Lestrade leads them to a car which has its boot is open. There’s a body inside the boot. While Lestrade continues to speak, Sherlock looks all around the rear of the car and the body.

“Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat, he’s got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, and even one of those special biscuits. Here’s his passport stamped at Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday, but instead he’s in a car boot in Southwark.”

“Have they identified the bodies on the plane?” John asks.

“Not yet, still going through it”, Lestrade answers.

“Any ideas?” Lestrade asks Sherlock.

“Eight, so far.” He straightens up and looks at the body again, then frowns, “Okay, four ideas.”
He turns to Lestrade and looks down at the passport and the ticket stub. Straightening up again, he gazes up into the sky. “Maybe two ideas.”

“Can you get confirmation that he was definitely on the plane? Or maybe he was seated, got the things and then got out before the plane took off?” John suggests.

“They don’t start handing out the biscuits until halfway through”, Sherlock mutters.

“If it were terrorism, he could have survived, but they killed him so no one would know”

“Why bother tracking down one person when they just killed a hundred people?” Lestrade asks.

“Could he have been the target?” John asks.

“There’s nothing important about him to be a target”, Sherlock mutters.
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Back at the flat, Sherlock is wearing heavy protective gloves and safety glasses and carrying a blowtorch in one hand. Comes to the living room table to look at John’s latest blog entry, which is titled “Sherlock and John- Baffled.”

“No, no, no, don’t mention the unsolved ones.”

“People want to know you’re human”

“Why?”

“’Cause they’re interested,” John explains.

“No, they’re not. Why are they?”

John smiles at his laptop. “Look at that.” He points to the hit counter on the front page of his blog. Its count is currently 1895. “One thousand, eight hundred and ninety-five. I reset that counter last night. This blog has had nearly two thousand hits in the last eight hours. While your two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash is interesting, this allows people to understand how utterly brilliant you are, and think, ‘Maybe the great Sherlock Holmes can solve my problem?’”

Sherlock pouts and sulkily says, “Two hundred and forty-three.” Firing up the blowtorch, he puts his safety glasses back on and heads back towards the kitchen.
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At the theatre, Sherlock and John are walking across the stage of a theatre while police officers mill around nearby.

“So, what’s this one? ‘Belly Button Murders’?” Sherlock sarcastically asks.

“Would you approve of my blog if I said yes?” John smirks. They walk backstage and meet up with Lestrade as they head for the exit.

“There’s a lot of press outside, guys,” Lestrade warns.

“Well, they won’t be interested in us.” Sherlock waves off.

“Yeah, that was before you were an internet phenomenon. A couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you two.”

Sherlock glares at John, exasperated, “For God’s sake!” John quirks a smile as they walk on, then Sherlock spots some costumes on a rack just inside a nearby dressing room. He walks in and grabs a couple of items off the rack. “John.” He tosses a cabbie hat at him.

John looks at the hat, and then at Sherlock’s. “God, you’re hopeless. You don’t want to be photographed, yes?” John asks, waiting for Sherlock’s nod. “Great. Lestrade, find us two body doubles and a side door,” John orders, and Lestrade rushes off with a nod. “Here’s how you avoid the press”

A few minutes later, Lestrade comes back with two police officers, about the same height as Sherlock and John. They swap coats and hats, waiting for the two police officers to walk into the press while John and Sherlock sneak out the side door.

“Nicely done, Dr Watson”, Sherlock smirks.

“I’m not a doctor anymore, Sherlock,” John states.
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Later, various newspapers with no pictures, together with headlines such as “The web detectives”, “Sherlock Net ‘Tec”, “Sherlock & John: Blogger Detectives” and “Sherlock Holmes: net phenomenon”. Sherlock is happy that he can still be a private detective without everyone knowing his face, Scotland Yard is happy for the press, and John is happy that people are reading his blog.
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Later on, a man, whose name is Phil, is sitting on a dining chair facing the fireplace, staring rather blankly in front of himself. John is sitting on the sofa behind him, and Sherlock is pacing in front of the fireplace.

“Tell us from the start. Don’t be boring.” Sherlock states sternly.

Flashback to fourteen hours earlier. Somewhere out in the countryside, Phil’s car has broken down in a quiet country lane. He tries to start the engine, but it refuses to start. Phil gets out again to stare uselessly down under the open bonnet and tweak a few connections hopefully. He looks into the field at the side of the road. The field stretches down to a river some distance away, and a man wearing a red jacket is standing at the edge of a stream which leads down to the river. He has his back to the road. Phil peers at him for a moment, but he’s too far away. Phil gets back into the car again and tries once more to start the engine. It whines ferociously and then loudly backfires. Phil sighs, then looks across towards the river and realises that the man is now lying on the ground. He gets out of the car and stares.

“Hey! Are you okay?” Phil calls out. The man doesn’t respond or react. Phil started walking towards him ‘Excuse me! Are you all right?” The man has fallen onto his back. There is a lot of blood underneath the back of his head.
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A few hours later, a crime scene has been set up at the riverside. A young police officer brings a mobile phone over to Detective Inspector Carter.

“Sir. Phone call for you.”

He takes the phone and answers it, “Carter.”

Lestrade is at the other end of the line, sitting in his car. “Have you heard of Sherlock Holmes?’

“Who?” Carter asks.

“Well, you’re about to meet him now. This is your case. It’s entirely up to you. This is just friendly advice, but give Sherlock five minutes on your crime scene and listen to everything that he has to say. And as far as possible, try not to punch him.” While Lestrade has been speaking, a car has driven up and stopped near the crime scene. Carter looks at the phone in bewilderment as Lestrade ends the call. The young police officer has been leaning into the car, speaking to the person in the back seat. He turns to Carter as he approaches.

“Sir, this gentleman says he needs to speak to you.”

“Yes, I know.” He walks closer to the car. “Sherlock Holmes.”

John gets out of the car and shakes Carter’s hand. “Police Chief John Watson.”

“Sir. I didn’t expect you to arrive at my crime scene. What do I owe the pleasure?” Carter asks.

“Are you set up for Wi-Fi?” John smiles.

Back in 221B. Sherlock wanders out from the hallway behind the kitchen and strolls into the kitchen wearing only a sheet wrapped around him.

“You realise this is a tiny bit humiliating?”

Still yawning as he picks up a mug of tea from the side table. “It’s okay, I’m fine. You’re the Police Chief, you can come and go wherever you’d like.” He walks over to an open laptop on the desk and sits down in the desk chair. “Now, show me to the stream.”

“I didn’t really mean for you,” John grumbles.

“Look, this is a six.” The doorbell rings, but he ignores it. “There’s no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now, go back. Show me the grass.”

John is at the crime scene and has walked down to the stream while Skypeing with Sherlock. He points the camera on his own laptop towards the grass at the stream’s edge and squats down. “When did we agree that?”

“We agreed it yesterday. Stop!” He leans closer to the screen and looks at the mud on the ground. “Closer.” John sighs but follows, walking closer to where Sherlock wants.

“I wasn’t even at home yesterday. I was at work.”

“Well, it’s hardly my fault you weren’t listening,” Sherlock mutters. The doorbell rings more insistently. Sherlock briefly looks around in the direction of the stairs. “SHUT UP!”

“D’you just carry on talking when I’m away?” John asks. “I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted”

“I don’t know. How often are you away? Now, show me the car that backfired.”

Sighing, John stands up and turns the laptop and its camera towards the road to show Phil’s car. “It’s there.”

“That’s the one that made the noise, yes?” Sherlock confirms.

John swings the camera back around to look into it “Yeah. And if you’re thinking gunshot, there wasn’t one. He wasn’t shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument, which then magically disappeared along with the killer… that no one saw. That’s gotta be an eight at least.” John walks closer to the river. “The weapon could have gotten washed away, but that will make it harder to prove. Get a few men to check downstream,” John directs the last bit to DI Carter.

“You’ve got two more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver,” Carter says to Sherlock through the computer.

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively, “Oh, forget him. He’s an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?”

Carter catches up to John and leans over to look into the camera. “I think he’s a suspect!”

Sherlock leans forward angrily. “Pass me over.” He says to John.

“All right, but there’s a Mute button, and I will use it.” John offers the laptop to Carter. “Just take it, take it.”

Carter takes the laptop as Sherlock starts talking quickly, “Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?”

“He’s trying to be clever. It’s overconfidence.” Carter argues.

“Did you see him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy – and you think he’s an audacious criminal mastermind?!” He turns around to the sofa where Phil has been sitting all this time. “Don’t worry – this is just stupid.”

Phil anxiously asks, “What did you say? Heart what?”

Ignoring him, Sherlock turns back to the camera. “Follow John’s advice. Go to the stream.”

“What’s in the stream?” Carter asks.

“Go and see.” Sherlock finishes, annoyed. As Carter hands the laptop back to John, Mrs Hudson comes up the stairs and into the living room, followed by two men wearing suits.

“Sherlock! You weren’t answering your doorbell!” Mrs Hudson says.

One of the men looks at his colleague while pointing with his thumb in the direction of the hallway.

“His room’s through the back. Get him some clothes.”

“Who the hell are you?” Sherlock asks, annoyed.

“Sorry, Mr Holmes. You’re coming with us.” He reaches forward to close down the lid of the laptop.

John calls out in alarm. “Sherlock, what’s going on? What’s happening?” As his screen goes black, he pokes at the keyboard frantically. “I’ve lost him. I don’t know what…”

The young police officer hurries over to him with a phone pressed to his ear. “Chief Watson?”

“Yeah,” John answers distractedly.

“It’s for you.”

“Okay, thanks.” Still looking at the screen, he holds out his hand for the phone.

“Uh, no, sir. The helicopter.” They both turn and look at the helicopter, which is just coming in to land at the edge of the river.
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Back at 221B, the colleague has collected a pile of clothes and a pair of shoes and puts them down onto the table in front of Sherlock, who raises his eyebrows and shrugs disinterestedly.

“Please, Mr Holmes. Where you’re going, you’ll want to be dressed.”

Sherlock turns his head, gazes at the man and begins to deduce. Suit costing around $700. Unarmed. Manicured nails. Office Worker. Right-handed. 3 small dogs. Sherlock smiles smugly and looks up.
“Oh, I know exactly where I’m going.”

Some time later, sitting beside the pilot, John frowns and looks down as the helicopter flies over London. As it approaches Buckingham Palace, John looks confused.
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Not long afterwards, John was shown into an enormous hall with massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. He looks around for a moment, then follows his escort, who gestures for him to a nearby room before walking away. John stops in the doorway. On a small round table in the middle of the room is a pile of clothes and shoes that had been put down in front of Sherlock. There is a sofa on either side of the table, and sitting on the left one is Sherlock, still wrapped in his sheet. He calmly looks across to John. John holds out his hands in a “What the hell?!” gesture. Sherlock shrugs disinterestedly. John walks slowly into the room, then sits down on the sofa beside his boyfriend.

“Are you wearing any pants?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He sighs quietly. A moment later, Sherlock turns and looks at him just as John also turns to look. Their eyes meet, and they promptly burst out laughing. “At Buckingham Palace, fine. Oh, I’m seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray.” They chuckle again. “What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock smiles.

“Here to see the Queen?” John jokes.

At that moment, Mycroft walks in from the next room. “Oh, apparently yes.” John cracks up again, and Sherlock promptly joins in. The two of them continue to giggle as Mycroft looks at them in exasperation.

“Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?” Mycroft asks.

“We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn’t hold out too much hope.”

Sherlock looks up at his brother as he walks into the room, all humour gone from his face. “I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft.”

“What, the hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?”

“Transparent.” Sherlock agrees.

“Yes, yes. We all know what happened. Can we get back to why we are in Buckingham Palace?” John asks.

Mycroft looks surprised but sighs, “Time to move on, then.” He bends down and picks up the clothes and shoes from the table, turning to offer them to Sherlock. His brother gazes at them uninterested. Mycroft sighs again. “We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.”

Sherlock shrugs, “What for?”

“Your client.” Mycroft answers.

Sherlock stands up, clutching his sheet, “And my client is?”

A man then enters the room, “Illustrious in the extreme.” John also stands up. “And remaining – I have to inform you – entirely anonymous.” He looks across to Mycroft. “Mycroft!”

“Harry.” Smiling, he walks over and shakes the equerry’s hand. “May I just apologise for the state of my little brother?”

“Full-time occupation, I imagine,” Harry states. Sherlock scowls. “And this must be Police Chief Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Hello, yes.” John greets, shaking his hand.

“My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog. Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch.”

“Thank you!” He looks around at Sherlock, smirking smugly.

Harry walks closer to Sherlock, “And Mr Holmes the younger.”

Sherlock turns to his brother, “Mycroft, I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends are too much work.” He looks around at the older man. “Good morning.”
He starts to walk out of the room, but Mycroft steps onto the trailing edge of the sheet behind him. Sherlock carries on forward while the sheet pulls off his body. He stops and grabs at it before he’s completely naked and tries to tug it back around himself, looking furious.

“This is a matter of national importance. Grow up.” Mycroft scolds.

“Get off my sheet!” Sherlock hisses through his teeth.

“Or what?” Mycroft asks.

“Or I’ll just walk away.” Sherlock offers.

“I’ll let you.”

John interrupts, “As much as I would love to see that, not here”

“Who. Is. My. Client?” Sherlock grinds out in anger.

“Take a look at where you’re standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for God’s sake…!” He breaks off and glances at the other man briefly, trying to get his anger under control before he turns back to his brother, “Put your clothes on!”

Sherlock closes his eyes furiously, then pulls in a sharp breath.
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Some time later, Sherlock has dressed and is sitting on the sofa beside John. Mycroft and the Equerry sit on the opposite sofa. Mycroft is pouring tea from a teapot.

The equerry looks at Sherlock. “My employer has a problem.”

Mycroft continues, “A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen.”

“Why? You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?” Sherlock asks.

“People do come to you for help, don’t they, Mr Holmes?”

“Not, to date, anyone with a Navy.” Sherlock snaps.

“This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust,” Mycroft states.

John pipes in. “You don’t trust your own Secret Service?”

“Naturally not. They all spy on people for money.” Mycroft answers, and John bites back a smile. Mycroft then opens his briefcase, takes out a photograph and hands it to Sherlock, who looks at the picture of a woman. “What do you know about this woman?”

Sherlock and John look at the photo “Nothing whatsoever.” Sherlock answers.

John, however, “Isn’t she the woman who ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both parties separately?” Sherlock gives him a look, “She was on the telly a while ago”

“Very good, John.” John glares at him, “She’s also been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year”

“You know I don’t concern myself with trivia. Who is she?” Sherlock questions.

“Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman.” Mycroft answers.

“Professionally?” John asks.

“There are many names for what she does. She prefers ‘dominatrix.’”

Sherlock whispers in thought, “Dominatrix.”

“Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex.” Mycroft states.

“Sex doesn’t alarm me.” Sherlock quickly says.

Mycroft smiles snidely, “How would you know?”

Sherlock glares, “More than you”, and John chokes in his tea but hides it with a cough.

“She provides – shall we say – recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it.” He takes more photographs from his briefcase and hands them to Sherlock. “These are all from her website.”

Sherlock takes the photographs and leafs through them. They are professional-looking publicity shots showing Irene to be glamorous and sexy. “And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs.”

Equerry comments, “You’re very quick, Mr Holmes.”

“Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?”

“A person of significance to my employer. We’d prefer not to say any more at this time.” Glaring angrily at him, Sherlock puts the photographs down on the table.

“You can’t tell us anything?” John asks, annoyed.

“I can tell you it’s a young person.” Mycroft starts, “A young female person.”

“How many photographs?” John asks.

“A considerable number, apparently.”

“Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?” Sherlock questions.

“Yes, they do.”

“And I assume in several compromising scenarios.”

“An imaginative range, we are assured.”

“Can you help us, Mr Holmes?” The Equerry asks.

John answers instead with a question, “So she has pictures. What is she asking for?”

“She doesn’t want anything.” Mycroft informs them, “She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favour.”

Sherlock finally appeared interested. “Oh, a power play. A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn’t it?” He stands and grabs his coat.

“Where is she?”

“In London currently. She’s staying…” Mycroft starts.

Not waiting for him to finish, Sherlock picks up his coat, stands and starts to walk away. “Text me the details. I’ll be in touch by the end of the day.” The other three men get to their feet.

“Do you really think you’ll have news by then?” The Equerry asks.

Sherlock turns to him, “No, I think I’ll have the photographs.”

“One can only hope you’re as good as you seem to think.” Sherlock looks at him sharply, beginning to deduce.

Dog Lover
Public School
Horse Rider
Early Riser
Left Side Of Bed
Non-Smoker
Father Half Welsh
Keen Reader
Tea Drinker

Sherlock turns to his brother, “I’ll need some equipment, of course.”

“Anything you require. I’ll have it sent to…”

Sherlock interrupts again, looking to the Equerry again as he speaks, “Can I have a box of matches?”

“I’m sorry?” The man asks, confused.

“Or your cigarette lighter. Either will do.”

“I don’t smoke.”

Sherlock smirks, “No, I know you don’t, but your employer does.” After a pause during which John smiles at his boyfriend's skill, the equerry reaches into his pocket and takes out a lighter, which he hands to Sherlock.

“We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes.”

“I’m not the Commonwealth.” Taking the lighter and putting it into his trouser pocket, he turns away.

“And that’s as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you.” He follows after Sherlock as he strolls out of the room.
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Shortly afterwards, the boys are in a taxi.

“It was the ashtray, wasn’t it?” John asks.

Sherlock smiles proudly, “My clever John” He pulls out a glass ashtray. John laughs with delight as Sherlock tosses the ashtray into the air, catches it and tucks it back into his coat, chuckling. John looks out the window and spies the car next to them, photographing them.

At 221B, John is sitting on Sherlock’s bed, watching in amusement as Sherlock tosses around clothes and tries them on and takes them off. Even a hi-vis jacket at one point. “Okay, okay, let me” With a laugh, John stands up and picks out the right outfit for Sherlock. It’s the same outfit he had on before.
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Back in the taxi, Sherlock and John discuss their next move.

“No, Sherlock, I’m not going to hit you to get us in the house,” John argues.

“But John, it’s the fastest way!”

“I have a better idea, just follow my lead”, John rolls his eyes.

They get out of the taxi 2 streets away and walk the rest before ringing the intercom.

Kate, Irene’s assistant, answers the buzzer, looking at the camera footage from the front door.

“Hello?”

It’s John, looking incredibly dashing with a few buttons undone, “Hi, I was wondering if you could help me. A friend of mine told me this was the place to have some fun.”

Kate grins, “This is the right place. Come on in,” Grinning, Kate buzzes him in. John walks in, followed by Sherlock.

“I expect that she’s expecting us?”

“She's indeed. Follow me” The boys follow Kate and begin whispering to each other.

“How did you know she would let us in?” Sherlock asks.

“I read up on her a bit when you were getting changed. She seemed like the type of person to plan for anything. I suspect that she sent the message to the Palace on the chance that it would bring us here. Plus, I saw some people photographing us in the taxi before. I recognised them from the telly. They work for Irene,” John whispers back.

Kate leads them to an elegant sitting room. Sherlock takes off his coat and sits on a sofa, with John sitting next to him. “My clever John”, Sherlock whispers with a smirk.

Hearing footsteps approaching, they each sit up, ready for the battle ahead.

“Hello. I don’t think Kate caught your name.” A woman’s sultry voice comes from the doorway.

“I’m so sorry. I’m …” Sherlock starts, but when he turns his head, he is utterly speechless. Wondering what got Sherlock so quiet, John turns and looks on with shock. Except for high-heeled shoes, Irene Adler is stark naked.

She walks into the room and stands directly in front of them. She smiles down at Sherlock.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“Miss Adler, I presume.”

Irene trails her hand across his cheek, “Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?”

Narrowing his eyes, John clears his throat, “I wouldn’t if I were you”, He says in a low, calm voice.

Glancing at John, like she just realised he was in the room, she steps back from Sherlock, who fidgets uncomfortably on the sofa as she walks away, looking at John in hidden confusion that only John can read.

“Oh, if you’d like some tea, I can call the maid.” Irene offers, still casually standing there, naked.

“I had some at the Palace.” Sherlock declines.

“I know,” Irene smirks. She sits down in a nearby armchair and crosses her legs, folding her arms gracefully to obscure the view of her chest.

“Clearly,” Sherlock states, remembering John telling him about the pictures in the cab.

They stare silently at each other for several seconds, weighing each other up as Sherlock tries to deduce her. Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on Irene while he attempts to make as many deductions about her as he can. But gets nothing. Turning to John in bewilderment, silently conveying that he can’t read her.

John frowns, slowly turning his head and looking at Irene, confidently sitting on her chair.

“D’you know the big problem with a disguise, Mr Holmes?” Irene starts. He quirks an eyebrow at her. “However hard you try, it’s always a self-portrait.”

“You think I’m a vicar with a bleeding face?” Sherlock asks, almost offended.

“No, I think you’re damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it’s yourself.”

John snorts, and Irene snaps her head at him.

“Something funny, Mr Watson?” Irene asks.

John studies her for a few moments. She is not beautiful in the fragile way society might prefer, but arresting, like the first sharp note of a song. There is precision in her posture, the kind born not of etiquette but of strategy. The eyes, though, are calculating. Curious. He can already tell she has dismissed him as useless, not worth her time. Only Sherlock’s shadow.

Despite the lack of clothing, her heels are too expensive for London’s grit, perfume faintly out of step with the season, a smile rehearsed and repurposed. She watches the room with the detachment of a seasoned tactician. Not arrogance but something colder. She knows precisely what story her presence tells and how to revise it, should the narrative slip.

She is not a mystery to be solved. She is a mystery that rewrites itself the moment pen meets paper.

“You know, Miss Adler,” John begins, “I’ve met many who pretend to be clever, but only a few who truly are. Fewer still whose cleverness doesn't collapse under the weight of their ego.” She raises an eyebrow, bemused, as if weighing whether to let him continue. “You can read a room like a surgeon with a scalpel. You know how to make yourself seen just enough and then vanish the moment anyone believes they understand you. You play the part they expect,” He adds softly, “until it’s no longer useful. But I wonder if anyone sees you when you’re not performing. That, I think, must be the loneliest kind of brilliance.”

She doesn’t respond immediately. Just studies him with a gaze that feels impossibly old. And then, with her signature grace, she offers, “It seems I might have underestimated you, Mr Watson”

“It's Doctor Chief Watson”, Sherlock mutters.

“Now, could you put something on, please? Er, anything at all.” John requests.

Trying to shake off how easily John read her, replies, “Why? Are you feeling exposed?”

“More like I’m a jealous boyfriend and I don’t like a naked woman with her breasts shoved under my boyfriend’s nose”, John grounds out. “Maybe your assistant can get you something?”

Sherlock stands up and picks up his coat, shakes it out and holds it out towards Irene. Ignoring him for the moment, she stands up and walks closer to John, who glares at her, staring down her cold, emotionless eyes.

She turns to Sherlock, who is still holding out the coat while steadfastly keeping his gaze averted. Taking the coat from him, “I’m not sure about you.”

“Might be called being in a committed relationship”, John mutters angrily.

Sherlock shoots a smile at John before walking over to the fireplace opposite the sofa and turning back to Irene with a blank expression.

Irene now has Sherlock’s coat wrapped around her, covering her naked body. “Well, never mind. We’ve got better things to talk about. Now tell me, I need to know.” She walks over to the sofa and sits down next to John. “How was it done?”

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“The hiker with the bashed-in head. How was he killed?” Irene repeats.

John and Sherlock share a confused look, “That’s not why I’m here.” Sherlock states.

“No, no, no, you’re here for the photographs, but that’s never gonna happen, and since we’re here just chatting anyway…” She trails off.

“That story’s not been on the news yet. How do you know about it?” John asks.

“I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he likes.” Irene smirks.

“Right, and which policeman is this?” John asks casually.

“Smitty. He was one of the ones that you searched the river,” Irene answers with an evil smirk.

“Good, so I know who to fire when I get back.” John nods, writing the name down. “He shouldn’t have told you that, and you just cost him his job.”

Irene’s eyes flash with annoyance, and John smirks.

“The position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That’s all you need to know.” Sherlock speaks up.

“Okay, tell me: how was he murdered?” Irene leans forward, excited.

“He wasn’t,” Sherlock answers.

“You don’t think it was murder?” Irene confirms.

Sherlock smirks, “I know it wasn’t.”

“How?” Irene asks.

“The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel, and that the photographs I’m looking for are in this room,” Sherlock answers quickly.

Irene looks faintly shocked but also impressed. “Okay, but how?”

“So they are in this room. Thank you. John, man the door. Let no one in.” The two exchange a significant look, then John gets up before leaving the room and closing the door behind him. In the hallway, he looks around, then picks up a magazine from a nearby table and rolls it up. He also spots a vase of flowers on the table next to him. Back in the sitting room, Irene sits up straighter, looking suspiciously at the closed door.

“Two men alone in the countryside several yards apart, and one car.” Sherlock begins.

“Oh. I – I thought you were looking for the photos now.” Irene says, looking slightly confused.

“No, no. Looking takes ages. I’m just going to find them, but you’re moderately clever and we’ve got a moment, so let’s pass the time. Two men, a car, and nobody else. The driver’s trying to fix his engine. Getting nowhere. And the hiker’s taking a moment, looking at the sky.”

“Watching the birds?” Irene asks.

“Doubtful.” He smirks. “Any moment now, something’s gonna happen. What?”

“The hiker’s going to die,” Irene answers.

“No, that’s the result. What’s going to happen?”

Irene looks confused, “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, well, try to.”

“Why?”

“Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and think.” He then adds sarcastically, “It’s the new sexy.”

Irene rolls her eyes, “The car’s going to backfire.”

“There’s going to be a loud noise.” Sherlock nods.

“So, what?” Irene huffs.

“Oh, noises are important. Noises can tell you everything. For instance…” He pauses dramatically, and a moment later, a smoke alarm starts to beep insistently from the hall. Out in the hall, John had set light to the end of the rolled-up magazine, blown it mostly out again and allowed the smoke to drift upwards. Once the fire alarm turns on, John rushes to put the flaming magazine in the flower vase- now empty of flowers, but still has water that puts out the fire. In the sitting room, Irene turns and looks at the large mirror over the fireplace. Sherlock turns his head and follows her gaze.

“Thank you. On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.” He walks over to the fireplace and begins running his fingers underneath the mantelpiece. Finding a switch under there, he presses it and the mirror slides upwards, revealing a small wall safe behind it. Sherlock turns and looks at Irene as she stands up. “Really hope you don’t have a baby in here.” He then calls out to John, “All right, John, you can turn it off now.”

“Give me a minute,” John calls back, wandering now how he is going to turn off the alarm, but then looks around as three men run down the stairs. The first one raises a pistol with a silencer and fires it at the smoke alarm, shattering it. The beeping stops. One of the other men hurries towards John, aiming his pistol at him, and John instantly raises his hands, looking at the first man as he walks over and stops in front of him.

“Thank you,” John says, glad the alarm has stopped its annoying beeping.

In the sitting room, Sherlock is looking closely at the number pad on the front of the safe. “Hmm. Should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposits are always on the first key used – that’s quite clearly the three – but after that, the sequence is almost impossible to read. I’d say from the make that it’s a six-digit code. Can’t be your birthday – no disrespect, but clearly you were born in the eighties; the eighties barely used, so…”

“I’d tell you the code right now, but you know what? I already have.” Sherlock frowns at her; she smirks. “Think.”

The door bursts open, and the leader of the group, Neilson, comes in and aims his pistol at Sherlock.
“Hands behind your head.” He turns to Irene, “On the floor. Keep it still.”

A second man goes over to Irene and walks her nearer to John, who is being pushed in by a third man.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” John mutters. As Sherlock raises his hands, Neilson looks around at Irene.”Ms Adler, on the floor.”

His colleague shoves her to her knees beside John, who has also been pushed to his knees, though John has his back straight, with his hands behind his head, uncaring for the gun pointed at his head.

“Don’t you want me on the floor too?” Sherlock questions.

“No, sir, I want you to open the safe.” The first man answers.

“American. Interesting. Why would you care?” Sherlock asks, recognising their accents. He glances across at Irene as she puts her hands behind her head.

“Sir, the safe, now, please.”

“I don’t know the code,” Sherlock states.

“We’ve been listening. She said she told you.” The man stays, pointing his gun at Irene.

“Well, if you’d been listening, you’d know she didn’t.” Sherlock grinds out.

“I’m assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I’m assuming you didn’t, Mr Holmes.”

John speaks up in annoyance, “For God’s sake. She’s the one who knows the code. Ask her.”

“Yes, sir. She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I’ve learned not to trust this woman.” The first man hisses.

“Mr Holmes doesn’t…” Irene tries, but gets stopped by a gun being shoved in her face.

“Shut up. One more word out of you – just one – and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship.

Sherlock glares at him. “Mr Archer. At the count of three, shoot Mr Watson.”

“What?” John asks, shocked.

“I don’t have the code,” Sherlock says again.

As Archer presses the muzzle of his pistol into the back of his neck and cocks the gun, John tries to smile at Sherlock’s scared expression.

“One.”

“I don’t know the code,” Sherlock says quickly, eyes staring down at John in fear.

“Two.”

“She didn’t tell me.” He almost shouts, “I don’t know it!”

“I’m prepared to believe you any second now.” The man replies. Sherlock looks across to Irene, who lowers her gaze pointedly downwards.

“Three.” John closes his eyes.

“No, stop!” Sherlock yelps.

The first man holds up his free hand to stop Archer. John breaths slowly. Sherlock’s gaze becomes distant while his mind works frantically, then he slowly turns towards the safe and lowers his hands. As Neilson watches him closely, he slowly reaches out a finger towards the keypad and punches the ‘3’ and then the ‘2’. Hesitating for a moment, he then punches ‘2’ and ‘4’. Pausing again, he hits ‘3’ and ‘4’. The safe beeps and noisily unlocks. Irene smiles in satisfaction as Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes briefly. John sighs in relief.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes. Open it, please.” The man orders.

Twisting the button that will open the door, Sherlock looks across to Irene again, who lowers her gaze to the floor and makes a tiny jerk with her head. He turns back to the safe.

“Vatican cameos.” Instantly, John throws himself to the floor. At the same moment, Sherlock pulls open the door of the safe while ducking down below the fireplace. Inside the safe, a tripwire attached to the door tugs on the trigger of a pistol. The gun fires, and Archer, who happened to be standing directly in front of it, is shot in the chest.

While on the floor, John kicks the first man’s legs from under him, while Irene spins around on her knees and savagely elbows her guard in the groin. Seeing John knock the first one down, Sherlock is quick to grab the fallen gun and smash the butt across his face, and the man is knocked out in John’s arms, who is then quick to check on Archer.

As Irene’s guard crumples under her blow, she grapples for his pistol and is on her feet and aiming it down at him while he’s still falling. Sherlock turns to her.

“D’you mind?”

“Not at all.” She replies.

As her guard tries to get up, she slams the gun across his face and knocks him unconscious. While she’s distracted, Sherlock reaches into the safe and takes something out of it. Nearby, John has checked Archer over and now stands up. “He’s dead.”

Irene speaks to Sherlock, continuing to aim her pistol down at her guard. “Thank you. You were very observant. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” Sherlock states.

“Why would she be flattered?” John asks, but no one answers.

“There’ll be more of them. They’ll be keeping an eye on the building.” Still holding Neilson’s pistol but having removed the silencer, he hurries out of the room. John tucks Archer’s gun into the back of his jeans and follows him. Irene goes over to the safe and stares into it wide-eyed. Sherlock briefly steps out of the doorway with John behind him.

“We should call the police,” John states.

“Yes.” Sherlock agrees and then, pointing the pistol into the air, he fires it five times. Nearby, tyres screech. “On their way.” He turns and hurries back into the house.

“For God’s sake!” John huffs.

“Oh shut up. It’s quick.” He goes back into the sitting room. Irene turns around from the safe to face him. “Check the rest of the house. See how they got in.” John nods and heads off, and Sherlock takes the item, which he just stole from the safe, out of his pocket and flips it nonchalantly into the air before catching it again. “Well, that’s the knighthood in the bag.”

“Ah. And that’s mine.” She holds out her hand.

Ignoring her, Sherlock switches on the security lock on the phone he’s holding. It requires four letters or numbers to activate it, and it has “I AM” above the four spaces and “LOCKED” below them. “All the photographs are on here, I presume.”

“I have copies, of course.” Irene tries.

“No, you don’t. You’ll have permanently disabled any kind of uplink or connection. Unless the contents of this phone are provably unique, you wouldn’t be able to sell them.”

Irene lowers her hand once she realises Sherlock won’t give her back the photos. “Who said I’m selling?”

Sherlock looks at the dead and unconscious bodies lying on the floor “Well, why would they be interested? Whatever’s on the phone, it’s clearly not just photographs.”

“That camera phone is my life, Mr Holmes. I’d die before I let you take it.” She walks closer and holds her hand out again. “It’s my protection.”

John calls from the other room, “Sherlock!”

Sherlock puts the phone back in his pocket and looks at Irene, “It was.” He turns and leaves the room. She chases after him. Upstairs in the bedroom, John is kneeling over the silent figure of Kate lying on the floor. Putting his ear to her mouth to check her breathing, he straightens up and takes her pulse. Standing up, he goes into the en suite bathroom and looks at the open window in there. Sherlock, followed by Irene, comes into the bedroom as John comes out of the bathroom.

“They came in this way. Knocked her unconscious, and came down the stairs,” John informs. Sherlock goes into the bathroom to look out of the window. Irene walks anxiously towards Kate. “It’s all right. She’s just out cold.”

“Well, God knows she’s used to that. There’s a back door. Better check it, Doctor Chief Watson.”
Sherlock has come out of the bathroom and nods to him.

“Sure.” He leaves the room. Irene goes over to the dressing table, opens a drawer and covertly takes a syringe out of it.

Sherlock is looking at the camera phone and doesn’t notice. “You’re very calm.” She looks around at him blankly. “Well, your booby trap did just kill a man.”

“He would have killed me. It was self-defence in advance.” Walking across to Sherlock, she strokes her hand down his left arm. As he looks down at her hand, she steps around behind him and is suddenly grabbed from behind before she can stab him with the syringe.

“Don’t even think about it”, John whispers in her ear, pulling her to her knees.

Seeing the syringe, Sherlock asks, “What’s in this?”

“You would have been fine. I’ve used it on loads of my friends.”

“Your friends might be able to handle it, but drugging someone without their consent is not right. I could have you arrested for that”

“Please,” Irene scoffs, “Like I don’t have judges on speed dial”

“Maybe”, John shrugs, “But it's Friday afternoon, no one will see you till Monday”

“John”, John’s eyes snap to Sherlock’s, “Let her go. I’m okay, and we have what we came for”

Irene looks at Sherlock, shocked for a moment, but goes back to her calm demeanour. “Good luck figuring out the password”

John glares at her, “Don’t worry, we won’t need luck” With that, John lets Irene go, and he and Sherlock leave the room, not sparing a glance at the slightly shaken domentrix. She was looking forward to meeting Sherlock Holmes; she, however, was not expecting John Watson.
__________________________________________________________________________

A few hours later, John finds Sherlock eyeing the camera phone.

“So how did you figure out what happened to the guy in the country? The case with the car backfiring and blunt force trauma, ma, but no murder weapon or suspect?” John asks, sitting down in his seat with a cup of tea.

“Yes”, Sherlock simply mutters, not looking up from the phone.

“You want to share with the class?” John tries.

“I’m sure you could figure it out if you tried”, Sherlock smirks.

“We both know I’m better at reading people. I have no idea what happened”

Sherlock sighs, putting the camera phone down and giving John his full attention.

“So the car’s about to backfire, and the hiker, he’s staring at the sky. Now, he wasn’t watching birds. He was watching another kind of flying thing. The car backfires, and the hiker turns to look, which was his big mistake. By the time the driver looks up, the hiker’s already dead. What he doesn’t see is what killed him because it’s already being washed downstream. An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel with a boomerang.” Sherlock finishes.

“You got that from one look?” John asks, shocked. “You really are brilliant,, He grins. “Irene was right, Smart is definitely the new sexy.” He smirks, kissing Sherlock before informing Detective Inspector Carter that it was an accident, telling him what Sherlock deduced.
______________________________________________________________________

A few more hours later, Sherlock is falling asleep while staring at the camera phone. After the third time snapping awake, John decides to put Sherlock to bed by force.

“What are you ...? What ...?” Sherlock mutters, confused as John picks him up and carries him (bridal style) towards the bedroom.

He hauls Sherlock down the hall and drops him face-down onto the bed. He covers him over with the sheet. “You’ll be fine in the morning. Just sleep.”

Sherlock, more tired than he realised, mutters, “Of course I’ll be fine. I am fine. I’m absolutely fine.”

John chuckles lightly, “Yes, you’re great. Now I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“I’ll always need you”, Shelrock mumbles.

John smiles brightly at the now sleeping Sherlock. “And I, you”

He walks out of the room, shutting the door behind him. About an hour later, Sherlock’s coat appears, hanging on the back of the door. Inside, a handwritten note:

Till the next time, Mr. Holmes.
__________________________________________________________________________

The next morning, Sherlock and John are sitting at the table in the living room. John is eating breakfast while Sherlock is reading a newspaper. Mycroft stands nearby.

“The photographs are perfectly safe.” Sherlock starts, not looking up from his paper.

“In the hands of a fugitive sex worker,” Mycroft says, annoyed.

“She’s not interested in blackmail. She wants ... protection for some reason. I take it you’ve stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?” Sherlock questions, John rolls his eyes.

“How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied.” Mycroft sates.

“She’d applaud your choice of words,” Sherlock says, and John smirks in his tea. “You see how this works: that camera phone is her ‘Get out of jail free’ card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft.”

John adds, smiling sarcastically, “Though not the way she treats royalty.” Mycroft returns the smile humourlessly.

“Did you know there were other people after him, too, Mycroft, before you sent John and me in there? CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, Mycroft,” John mutters, annoyed.

Mrs Hudson brings in a plate of breakfast from the kitchen and puts it down in front of Sherlock.
“It’s a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson.” Mycroft snaps.

Immediately, both Sherlock and John shout at him furiously:
“MYCROFT!” Sherlock shouts.
“OI!” John glares.

Mycroft looks at the three angry faces glaring at him, then cringes and looks contritely at Mrs Hudson. “Apologies.”

“Thank you.” Mrs Hudson offers.

“Though do, in fact, shut up,” Sherlock adds. Mrs Hudson huffs and moves to the kitchen. Sherlock then turns to Mycroft, “There’s nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see.

“I can put maximum surveillance on her.” Mycroft gets back on track.

“Why bother? You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her user name is ‘TheWhipHand.’” Sherlock quips.

“Yes. Most amusing.” Mycroft’s phone rings and he takes it from his pocket. “Excuse me.” He walks out into the hall.

Sherlock watches him leave, frowning suspiciously. “I found my coat on the back of my door when I woke up this morning”

John’s head snaps to him. “The coat she took?”

Sherlock nods, “She left a note. I imagine she would have liked to use my phone by luckily for me, you had it,” Sherlock smirks.

“What does the note say?” John asks, leaning forward, eyes flashing. Sherlock slides the note across the table.

Till the next time, Mr. Holmes.

“She took her camera phone, didn’t she?” John asks, Sherlock nods.

Before they could say more, Mycroft came back into the room, still talking on his phone.
“Bond Air is go, that’s decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later.” He hangs up. Sherlock looks at him. John quickly hides the note with his tea cup.

“What else does she have?” Sherlock asks. Mycroft looks at him questioningly. “Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn’t be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There’s more.
Much more.” Mycroft is emotionless. “Something big’s coming, isn’t it?”

“Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on, you will stay out of this.”

Sherlock glares at him, “Oh, will I?”

“Yes, Sherlock, you will,” Mycroft states. Sherlock shrugs and turns back to his newspaper. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend.”

Sherlock stands and walks over to his violin. “Do give her my love.” He begins to play the National Anthem, “God Save The Queen.” Mycroft rolls his eyes, turns and leaves the room, Sherlock following along behind him while John grins. As Mycroft hurries down the stairs, Sherlock turns back and walks over to the window, still playing.
______________________________________________________________________

Time passes, and now it’s Christmas. Fairy lights are strung up around the window frame of the flat, and it’s snowing outside. Inside, the living room is covered with Christmas decorations and cards, and Sherlock is walking around playing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” on his violin. Mrs Hudson is sitting in his chair with a glass in her hand, watching him happily. Lestrade is standing at the entrance to the kitchen holding a wine glass, and John is wearing an ugly Christmas jumper, watching his boyfriend play the violin flawlessly as Sherlock finishes the tune with a fancy flourish., Lestrade whistles in appreciation.

“Lovely! Sherlock, that was lovely!” Mrs Hudson cheers.

“Marvellous!” John grins. Sherlock does a little bow and places his violin down. Just then, he feels something being placed on his head. Quickly snapping up, Sherlock looks at the grinning guests around him and turns to the mirror above the fireplace. John had placed fake Christmas reindeer antlers on his head.

Molly Hooper walks in, smiling shyly and carrying two bags which appear to be full of presents, giggling at Sherlock’s Antlers. “Hello, everyone. Nice antlers, Sherlock” John walks over to greet her, smiling. “Er, it said on the door just to come up.”

“Yes, glad you could come, Molly” John smiles, handing her a cup of nutmeg. Everyone greets her cheerfully.

“Having a Christmas drinkies, then?” Molly asks, taking the glass.

Sherlock sits down at the dining table, not taking off the antlers. “No stopping them, apparently.” But he still smiles at John’s slightly tipsy grin.

“It’s the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it’s almost worth it!” Mrs Hudson giggles. Sherlock starts typing on John’s laptop. “John?”

“Mmm?” John goes over to see what Sherlock is looking at.t, John leans over Sherlock’s shoulder to look at the screen.

“The counter on your blog still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five,” Sherlock mutters. Sherlock points to the sidebar bar, which has a photo of John and Sherlock, standing in front of 221B. “And you’ve got a photograph of me!” He exclaims. He continues looking at the laptop as John walks away.

Lestrade hands Molly a glass of red wine. “Thank you. I wasn’t expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas.”

“That’s the first thing in the morning, me and the wife. We’re back together. It’s all sorted.” He grins at her.

Sherlock, not looking up from his computer, starts to say, “No…” But gets cut off when John slaps his hand over Sherlock’s mouth.

“Greg, can I talk with you for a sec?” John rushes out, ignoring Sherlock’s glare.

“Sure, John”, Lestrade mutters, slightly confused. John and Lestrade move to the kitchen while Molly turns to Mrs Hudson.

“Mrs Hudson, I hear you’re visiting your sister?” Molly questions.

“Yes, dear.” Hrs Hudson smiles, “And you?”

“Seeing my family,” Molly answers. John and Lestrade then enter the room.m, Lestrade has an annoyed look on his face. “John. I hear you’re off to your sister’s, is that right?”

“I was”, John says, “But Sherlock was complaining too much” He jokes. Truth is, despite saying Harry was off the booze, John could tell that wasn’t the case.

Everyone laughs while Sherlock pouts.
_________________________________________________________________

A few hours later, everyone has left. John is cleaning up while Sherlock is drinking tea, watching him. “You know… You could help,” John grumbles, placing wrapping paper in a garage bin. He then stumbles across a small box wrapped in blood-red paper and tied with black-rope like string on the mantelpiece. “Sherlock, what’s this?” John asks, picking it up.

Sherlock frowns in confusion and walks over, taking it from John and examining it. He opens the box. Inside is Irene’s camera phone. He takes it out of the box and looks at it closely, then takes out his own phone and calls his brother.

“Oh dear Lord. We’re not going to have Christmas phone calls now, are we? Have they passed a new law?” Mycroft answers.

“I think you’re going to find Irene Adlertonightht., Sherlock states.

John stands at the doorway, listening to the conversation.

“We already know where she is. As you were kind enough to point out, it hardly matters.” Mycroft says.

Sherlock corrects, “No, I mean you’re going to find her dead.” Hanging up the phone, he stands up and walks towards the bedroom door.

“You okay?” John asks.

“Yes.” He answers. Sherlock pushes the door closed, shutting John out. John sighs sadly and goes up the stairs to his old room that he hadn’t used in months. Thanks to Mrs Hudson, there were fresh sheets.

Despite not liking it, John understood Sherlock needed to be by himself for a while to process. John resigns himself to sleeping on the double bed, already missing Sherlock’s queen bed, silk sheets and Sherlock’s warm presents.
_________________________________________________________________________

At St Bart’s, Sherlock and Mycroft walk along a corridor to the morgue and go through the door. Molly is waiting inside. A body is lying on the table covered with a sheet.

“The only one that fitted the description. Had her brought here, your home from home.” Mycroft starts.

“You didn’t need to come in, Molly,” Sherlock mutters. Unknown to him, John was also standing outside the Morgue, wanting to be here for Sherlock, even though Sherlock had left without telling John where he was going that morning.

“That’s okay. Everyone else was busy with ... Christmas.” She finishes awkwardly and gestures to the body. “The face is a bit, sort of, bashed up, so it might be a bit difficult.” She pulls down the sheet to reveal the face.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock orders Molly, “Show me the rest of her.”

Grimacing, Molly walks along the side of the table, pulling back the sheet as she goes. Sherlock looks along the length of the body once, then turns and starts to walk away.

“That’s her,” Sherlock answers.

“Thank you, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft says. Molly nods, wanting to ask questions but smartly remains quiet. Mycroft smiles politely at her, then turns and follows his brother. He finds him standing in the corridor outside, looking out of the window. Walking up behind him, he holds a cigarette over his shoulder. “Just the one.”

“Why?” Sherlock questions.

“Merry Christmas.” Unknown to them, John snuck into the Morgue and asked Molly to show him the body.

Sherlock takes the cigarette, and Mycroft digs into his coat pocket to find a lighter. “Smoking indoors – isn’t there one of those ... one of those law things?” Mycroft lights the cigarette for him.

“We’re in a morgue. There’s only so much damage you can do.” Sherlock inhales deeply and then blows the smoke out again. “How did you know she was dead?” Mycroft asks.

“She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up.” Sherlock takes another drag on his cigarette.

“Where is this item now?” Mycroft asks, already knowing they were talking about her camera phone with the photos. Sherlock looks around at the sound of sobbing. A family of three is standing on the other side of the doors at the end of the corridor, cuddled together and clearly grieving the death of someone close to them. Sherlock and his brother turn to look at the family.

“Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Eventually, people leave. Even your Watson will. Someday”

Sherlock blows out another lungful of smoke, then looks down at the cigarette in disgust. “This is low tar.” He walks away down the corridor. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

“And a Happy New Year,” Mycroft calls out.

“You’re wrong, you know”, John’s voice says behind him. Mycroft turns around to face him. “You say caring is not an advantage, but you’re wrong. Caring is a powerful advantage because it deepens emotional intelligence, fosters empathy, and enhances collaboration, making people more attuned to others’ needs and perspectives. In leadership, genuine concern builds trust, loyalty, and psychological safety. Far from being a weakness, caring offers strategic insight, enabling long-term thinking and stronger alliances. At its core, caring transforms everyday action into meaningful connection, enriching both personal fulfilment and the impact we have on others.” John steps forward, “And I will never leave Sherlock. I love him”

“Even if it’s out of your control?” Mycroft asks.

An angry calm washes over John, “I am a Colonel in the British Army. Part of the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC), a specialised branch for medical personnel, and was associated with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Served in Afghanistan, where I saved hundreds of lives. I was also a soldier, so I took hundreds of lives as well. I am currently the Police Chief of Scotland Yard.”

Mycroft sighs, annoyed, “Yes, I know your credentials, what of it?”

“If something happens to me, taking me away from Sherlock. You bet on your life that I will fight to come back home to Sherlock. I love him with all my heart”

“And if he doesn’t love you the same?” Mycoft drops.

John slightly flinches, but glares back, “Even if he doesn’t… I love Sherlock enough to wish him only happiness” Mycroft only hums and leaves.
_____________________________________________________________________

Shortly afterwards, John is sitting in his chair reading a book. Sherlock comes up the stairs and stops in the doorway of the living room. John looks around at him.

“Oh, ,.” John says, acting casual. Sherlock stands there, his eyes roaming all around the living room. “You okay?” Sherlock continues to scan the room for a long moment, then turns and walks back to the kitchen door, heading for his bedroom. Not saying a word, his bedroom door slams shut. John puts down his book and sighs heavily. Is it possible that Irene meant more to him than John thought? They only met once…
____________________________________________________________________

From Christmas to New Year's Eve, Sherlock was a lot quieter, slightly withdrawn.

The day of New Year's Eve, Sherlock is standing at the window with his back to the living room and playing a sad lament on his violin. John walks into the room and sighs at the sight of him. Mrs Hudson walks across to the table and picks up the plates, looking at John pointedly to make him realise that Sherlock hasn’t touched his breakfast. John hums resignedly as he takes his jacket from the back of a chair and puts it on. Sherlock stops playing and picks up a pencil to make a notation on a piece of sheet music.

“Lovely tune, Sherlock. Haven’t heard that one before.” Mrs Hudson hums.

“You composing?” John asks, trying to keep the green monster down.

“Helps me to think.” Sherlock turns back to the window, lifts the violin and begins to play the same tune again.

“What are you thinking about?” John asks.

Sherlock suddenly spins around and puts down the violin. He points at John’s laptop. “The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five.”

John frowns in confusion. “Yeah, it’s faulty. Can’t seem to fix it.”

Sherlock takes out Irene’s camera phone “Faulty – or you’ve been hacked, and it’s a message.” He pulls up the security lock with its ‘I AM ---- LOCKED’ screen. Sherlock types “1895” into the phone. The phone beeps warningly, and a message comes up reading: “WRONG PASSCODE. 3 ATTEMPTS REMAINING”. The enthusiasm in his eyes dies again. “Just faulty,” He mutters sadly. He turns away and picks up his violin again.

“Right.” Sherlock begins to play the sad tune once more. “Right. Well, I’m headed to work.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond. John trots off down the stairs. Mrs Hudson looks at Sherlock playing his violin at the window, and then leaves the room.

Downstairs, John goes out of the front door and pulls it closed. As he turns to go to the left, a woman is standing just to the right of the flat. She calls out to him. “John?”

“Yeah.” He stops and turns around to her as she looks at him flirtatiously. John looks at her blankly. “Can I help you, Miss?” The woman smirks and points behind her. John follows her pointing and sighs in exasperation when a black car pulls up and stops beside them. “You know, Mycroft could just phone me if he didn’t have this bloody stupid power complex. I swear, if this is because I hurt his feelings, I’m gonna punch him”, John mutters. They get into the car, and it pulls away, taking them to an empty building. Pulling up inside the building, John and the woman get out, and she leads him through the abandoned structure.

“Couldn’t we just go to a café? I’m probably less likely to deck him in public,” John sighs. “All this to avoid Sherlock, you know, Sherlock doesn’t follow me everywhere.” Still walking, the woman types on her phone, then stops and gestures ahead of herself.

“Through there.” John gives her an annoyed look, then walks on. The woman turns and heads back the way she came, lifting her phone to her ear. “He’s on his way. You were right – he thinks it’s Mycroft.”

John reaches a large room and starts talking even though he can’t yet see anybody. “I swear, Mycroft, if this is because I pissed you off yesterday, I’m going to punch you. Why don’t you just ask like a normal human being?” He walks further into the room, and finally, a figure begins to step out of the shadows at the other end. “Have to admit, though, the way he’s acting. I’m getting jealous. I didn’t even know he liked him, and now he’s composing violin music for him.” He trails off as Irene Adler walks into view.

“Hello, Doctor Watson.” She stops some distance away from him, and he simply stares at her for several seconds before he finally finds some words.

“First off. I’m not a doctor anymore. Second off, you'd better tell him you're alive.”

Irene shakes her head. “He’d come after me.”

“I’ll come after you if you don’t. I don’t like you, but even I can see, Sherlock was upset at your passing”

“Mmm, I believe you.”

“How did you fool the DNA tests?” John asks.

“DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.”

“And I bet you know the record-keeper.”

Irene corrects, “I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear.”

“Then how come I can see you, and I don’t even want to?” John huffs.

“Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe-keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help.”

“No.”

“It’s for his own safety.”

“I can protect him”, John glares.

“You can’t. Not from them”

John breathes heavily, trying to fight back his anger, “Fine. I’ll tell him you're alive, and I still won’t help you.” He turns and starts to walk away.

“What do I say?” Irene calls out.

John furiously turns back to her. “I don’t know! He’s supposed to be my boyfriend! He hasn’t talked to me since they found you dead! He clearly likes you more than me! Here, take my phone, text him, call him. I don’t care!” John shouts. All his emotions that he’s held down are finally exploding.

Irene swallows, trying to hide her shock she is at John’s outburst. “Are you jealous?”

“Jee, I wonder what gave you that idea”, John huffs. Irene takes out her own phone and messages Sherlock. ‘I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner.’ When she tells John what she texts, he sighs angrily.

“What are you so angry about? It’s not like he’ll cheat on you with me,” Irene smirks.

“I love Sherlock. And I know he loves me. I trust him fully. What I don’t trust is you. Don’t play around with his emotions. Or you might find yourself dead. For real this time,” With that, John leaves.

In the corridor outside the room, unseen by either of them, Sherlock switches off his phone and rapidly walks away. He owes John an explanation.
____________________________________________________________________

Some time later, Sherlock is walking down Baker Street towards his flat, his gaze distant, thoughts running around his head. As he arrives at the front door of 221B and turns to put his key in the door, his expression sharpens when he realises that the door has been jimmied open. Slowly pushing the door open, he goes inside and carefully steps through into the hall.

Immediately, he sees that the door to Mrs Hudson’s apartment is ajar, and partway down the hall is a plastic bucket. He takes a glance at the various items inside the bucket and sees that they’re Mrs Hudson’s cleaning materials.

Sherlock steps closer to the stairs and sees a couple of scuff marks on the wall just above the risers. He instantly realises that one of the marks was made by someone awkwardly walking backwards up the stairs and having to feel their way with their feet, while the second was made by someone following the first person while facing forwards but being thrown off-balance by something. Looking more closely at the wall, he sees a small indentation in the wallpaper. Putting a finger against the dent, his gaze becomes more intense as he deduces that it was formed by someone dragging their hand along the wall, clawing at it in a desperate attempt to stop themselves being hauled backwards up the stairs.

Sherlock knows that the person being dragged was Mrs Hudson. Slowly, he looks upwards while he visualises her struggling as she was half-pulled and half-carried upstairs by a couple of men, a third man preceding them. In his mind, he hears her protests of, “Stop it!” at her assailants before she raised her head and cried out an anguished “Sherlock!”

Sherlock stares up the stairs, his expression changes from deductive to outright murderous. He slowly pushes open the door to the living room of 221B. In front of the fireplace, Mrs Hudson is sitting on a dining chair facing the couch, and behind her stands Neilson (one of the people who led the raid on Irene’s house). He is holding a pistol with a silencer attached and is aiming the gun at the back of Mrs Hudson’s head. One of his men is standing looking out of the window, but turns when the door opens; the other stands near the sliding door into the kitchen. As Sherlock slowly strolls into the room with his hands clasped behind his back, Mrs Hudson – already crying quietly – begins to sob a little louder.

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!” Hrs Hudson cries out, frightened.

“Don’t snivel, Mrs Hudson. It’ll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet.” Sherlock harshly says.
He looks at the man pointing a gun at Mrs Hudson’s head. “What a tender world that would be.”

Mrs Hudson sobs quietly as she gazes up at him “Oh, please, sorry, Sherlock.”

“I believe you have something that we want, Mr Holme,” Neilson says.

“Then why don’t you ask for it?” Sherlock walks closer and holds out his right hand towards Mrs Hudson. Her hand tugs towards it, whimpering, and he gently turns back the sleeve of her right hand and looks at the bruises on her wrist.

“I’ve been asking this one. She doesn’t seem to know anything.” Sherlock’s gaze rises a little, and he sees that the right shoulder of Mrs Hudson’s cardigan has been ripped at the seam, exposing her skin underneath. “But you know what I’m asking for, don’t you, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock looks a little higher and sees a cut on her right cheek. His eyes flick across to Neilson’s right hand holding the pistol. He has a silver ring on his third finger, and there is blood on it. Sherlock raises his head and looks directly at Neilson, picking out target points on his body.

He raises his eyes to Neilson’s again.

“I believe I do., Sherlock mutters, his voice an angry calm. Mrs Hudson whimpers as he releases her hands and straightens up, putting his hands behind his back again. “First, get rid of your boys.”

“Why?” Neilson asks.

“I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room.”

Neilson hesitates for a moment, then glances at his colleagues. “You two, go to the car.”

“Then get into the car and drive away. Don’t try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn’t work.” The two men leave the room and head down the stairs. “Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me.”

“So you can point a gun at me?” Nelison hisses.

Sherlock steps back and spreads his arms to either side “I’m unarmed.”

“Mind if I check?”

Sherlock smirks. “Oh, I insist.”

Neilson comes around from behind Mrs Hudson. She whimpers nervously. “Don’t do anything.” Neilson walks over to Sherlock and pats his breast pocket and flicks the coat open while Sherlock stands meekly with his arms still spread. Walking around behind him, Neilson starts patting for any hidden weapons at his back. Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically at Mrs Hudson, and starts to bend his right arm towards himself. Suddenly, he whips out a sanitiser spray can, twists around and sprays the contents directly into Neilson’s eyes. As Neilson screams, Sherlock headbutts him.

Neilson falls back onto the coffee table, unconscious, and Sherlock triumphantly flips the can into the air. “Moron.” He slams the sanitiser spray on the table and hurries over to Mrs Hudson. He drops to his knees in front of her.

Mrs Hudson tearfully says, “Oh, thank you.”

Sherlock gently strokes her face, “You’re all right now, you’re all right.”

“Yes.” Mrs Hudson says in relief. Sherlock looks over his shoulder towards Neilson’s prone body, his expression still promising murder.

A few short minutes later, John is dropped off by Irene’s driver. The car drives away, and he walks to the door, then stops when he sees a handwritten note attached underneath the knocker. Reading the note, John takes out his gun and pushes the door open and goes inside. Written on the note is:

CRIME IN PROGRESS
PLEASE DISTURB

He goes upstairs and hurries into the living room. “What’s going on?”

He stops at the sight of Neilson, bound and gagged with duct tape and sitting on the chair near the fireplace. His nose is broken, and blood has run down his face and is dripping from his chin. Mrs Hudson is sitting on the sofa, and Sherlock is in a chair nearby, holding Neilson’s pistol aimed at him with one hand, and his phone to his ear with the other.

“Jeez. What the hell is happening?” He sees Mrs Hudson’s state and rushes over to her, “Mrs Hudson, are you okay?”

“Mrs Hudson’s been attacked by an American. I’m restoring balance to the universe.” Sherlock answers.

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, my God. Are you all right?” John glares at the tied-up man as he puts his arm around her shoulders “Jesus, what have they done to you?”

Mrs Hudson breaks down in tears again, “Oh, I’m just being so silly.”

John pulls her close, like he could protect her from what she has endured. “No, no.”

Sherlock gets to his feet, still holding the phone to his ear while aiming the gun at Neilson. “John… Downstairs. Take her downstairs and look after her.”

John stands up and helps her to her feet. “All right, it’s all right. I’ll have a look at that.” John then turns to Sherlock. “Sherlock” Sherlock’s head snaps to John. “Make him pay for hurting Mrs Hudson” John has a murderous expression on his face before helping Mrs Hudson downstairs.

Mrs Hudson continues to tearfully say, “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Sherlock speaks into his phone, his gaze locked on the tied-up man. “Lestrade. We’ve had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance.” Finally taking his eyes off Neilson, he walks across to the dining table and lays the pistol down on it.” Oh, no-no-no-no-no, we’re fine. No, it’s the, uh, it’s the burglar. He’s got himself rather badly injured.” Neilson looks nervous while Sherlock listens to Lestrade’s question. “Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull... suspected punctured lung.” He looks over his shoulder at Neilson. “He fell out of a window.” Still looking into Neilson’s eyes, he hangs up.

Downstairs in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, she and John are standing by the sink while he gently applies some antiseptic to the cut on her cheek with a piece of cotton wool. She flinches.

“Ooh, it stings.” John apologises as he continues cleaning the cut. A moment later, a shape plummets down past the window and lands with a crash. John and Mrs Hudson look at the window. “Ooh. That was right on my bins.”
___________________________________________________________________

It’s fully dark outside, dnd an ambulance is only now pulling away from 221. Sherlock is standing outside on the street with Lestrade, who decided that his least irritating officer was himself.

“And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?” Lestrade asks.

“It’s all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector. I lost count.” Sherlock deadpans. Not bothering to comment, Lestrade walks away.

Sherlock comes in through the kitchen door of 221A and carefully wipes his feet on the doormat. Mrs Hudson and John are sitting at her small kitchen table. Mrs Hudson still looks very shaken.

“Mrs Hudson, you are one tough bird”, John declares.

“Of course, she’s fine,” Sherlock states proudly.

“Now, I say a cup of tea and rest. Doctor’s orders.” John grins. “All over some bloody stupid camera phone. Where is it, anyway?”

“Safest place I know,” Sherlock smirks. He looks down at Mrs Hudson, who reaches down inside her top and pulls the phone out of her bra before handing it to Sherlock.

“You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot.” She laughs briefly. “I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was crying.”

Sherlock tosses it into the air before putting it in his coat pocket. “Thank you.”

He puts a protective arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer to him. “Without Mrs Hudson? England would fall.” She laughs and strokes his hand. He chuckles gently. John smiles at them both.
_______________________________________________________________________

Later, the boys are back upstairs. John fixes himself a drink in the kitchen and then comes into the living room where Sherlock is taking off his coat.

“Where is it now?” John asks.

“Where no one will look.” Sherlock non-answers.

Walking across to the window, he picks up his violin and turns his back to the room. “Whatever’s on that phone is more than just pictures.”

“Yes, it is.” He tinkers with his violin and checks its tuning. John watches him for a moment. “So, she’s alive then. How are we feeling about that?” In the distance, Big Ben chimes. It’s midnight. Sherlock pulls in a sharp breath. “Happy New Year, John.”

“You were there, weren’t you? At the warehouse.” John says, and Sherlock puts his violin down.

“Yes, I was”

“What did you hear?”

“Everything,” Sherlock answers. John looks down and nods. “I owe you an apology, John. This week, I have been distant…”

“Sherlock-” John starts, but Sherlock stops him.

“No. You didn’t deserve that. I saw her body and I knew it wasn’t her. I thought if she saw me upset about her death, she would reach out, and it would be easier to discover the password and her plans. I had it all planned out. To make my plan work, I had to trick you as well…. I’m sorry”

John sighs, “This hasn’t been the best week for us. I certainly didn’t like you shutting me out. So, I exchange for this week, you owe me”

“Owe you what, exactly?” Sherlock hums.

“Let me have a try at the password. I guess what it might be, and if you don’t get it in the next 2 times, I want to have a try”

“John-” Sherlock goes to disagree, but then sees the look on John’s face. A mix of hurt, anger and hurt. “Very well”

“Then you’re forgiven. Just next time, include me in your plans”

“I will, John. You have my word,” John sits down in his chair, while Sherlock turns back to the window and plays his violin.
_______________________________________________________________

In the Molly lab at St Barts, the next day. Sherlock is looking at an X-ray on a computer screen, which is showing the interior parts of a phone. Molly is nearby. He leans closer to the screen and sees four small, round, dark areas scattered around the phone. He looks exasperated.

“Is that a phone?” Molly asks.

Sherlock corrects. “It’s a camera phone.”

“Why are you X-raying it? Whose phone is it?”

“A woman’s.” Sherlock shortly answers.

“A woman’s? Sherlock Holmes, you better not be cheating on John!”

Sherlock sighs in annoyance and looks up, “Why does everyone assume I would cheat on John? He is a much better shot at getting a date with someone. Besides, John Watson is the best thing that’s happened to me; I would never willingly give that up. If anything, I expect him to leave me”

“Don’t say that. You should have heard what he said to your brother last week. Very moving,” Molly comments.

Sherlock snaps his attention to her, “Why? What did John say?”

“I’ll pull the video footage. You should see that John isn’t going anywhere,” Molly smiles brightly.

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock mutters and turns back to the camera phone. Molly tries not to look shocked at the fact that Sherlock said thank you.

Molly used to have a crush on Sherlock, but once she realised that he was dating John (and therefore not interested in women she was quick to move on and can now be happy for them both.

A few minutes later, Molly comes back with the video footage. “We all do silly things for those we love. But what John did was very brave”

“Yes.” He lifts his head as if suddenly inspired, and he looks around to Molly. “They do, don’t they? Very silly.” She looks confused as he gets to his feet and takes the phone out of the X-ray machine, and holds it up. “She sent this to my address, and she loves to play games.”

“She does?” Molly asks, but it's mostly background noise as Sherlock pulls up the “I AM ---- LOCKED” screen and types “221B” into the phone. The phone beeps warningly, and a message comes up reading: “WRONG PASSCODE. 2 ATTEMPTS REMAINING”. He looks exasperated and sits down again.
_______________________________________________________________

St Bart’s video footage. Sherlock sets it up on the TV while John is at work.

Sherlock sees himself standing in the corridor outside, looking out of the window. Walking up behind him, he holds a cigarette over his shoulder. “Just the one.”

“Why?” Sherlock questions.

“Merry Christmas.” In the footage, Sherlock can see John as he slips into the Morgue.

Sherlock takes the cigarette, and Mycroft digs into his coat pocket to find a lighter. “Smoking indoors – isn’t there one of those ... one of those law things?” Mycroft lights the cigarette for him.

“We’re in a morgue. There’s only so much damage you can do.” Sherlock inhales deeply and then blows the smoke out again. “How did you know she was dead?” Mycroft asks.

“She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up.” Sherlock takes another drag on his cigarette.

“Where is this item now?” Mycroft asks. Sherlock looks around at the sound of sobbing. A family of three is standing down the hall. Sherlock and his brother turn to look at the family.

“Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Eventually, people leave. Even your Watson will. Someday”

Sherlock blows out another lungful of smoke, then looks down at the cigarette in disgust. “This is low tar.” He walks away down the corridor. “Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

“And a Happy New Year., Mycroft calls out. Sherlock is about to turn off the footage when he hears John’s voice.

“You’re wrong, you know”, John’s voice says from the TV. Mycroft turns around to face him. “You say caring is not an advantage, but you’re wrong. Caring is a powerful advantage because it deepens emotional intelligence, fosters empathy, and enhances collaboration, making people more attuned to others’ needs and perspectives. In leadership, genuine concern builds trust, loyalty, and psychological safety. Far from being a weakness, caring offers strategic insight, enabling long-term thinking and stronger alliances. At its core, caring transforms everyday action into meaningful connection, enriching both personal fulfilment and the impact we have on others.” John steps forward, “And I will never leave Sherlock. I love him”

“Even if it’s out of your control?” Mycroft asks.

“I am a Colonel in the British Army. Part of the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC), a specialised branch for medical personnel, and was associated with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Served in Afghanistan, where I saved hundreds of lives. I was also a soldier, so I took hundreds of lives as well. I am currently the Police Chief of Scotland Yard.”

Mycroft sighs, annoyed, “Yes, I know your ccredentialswhat of it?”

“If something happens to me, taking me away from Sherlock. You bet on your life that I will fight to come back home to Sherlock. I love him with all my heart”

“And if he doesn’t love you the same?” Mycoft drops.

John slightly flinches, but glares back, “Even if he doesn’t… I love Sherlock enough to wish him only happiness” Mycroft only hums and leaves.

Sherlock turns off the TV. Sitting there in silence. Amazed that John said that. Sherlock couldn’t stop the smile forming on his lips.
___________________________________________________________________

A few months later.

Sherlock reaches the top of the stairs and then stops abruptly outside the kitchen door. He sniffs deeply. Taking a couple more deep breaths, he turns and looks into the kitchen, then walks across to the window and checks it, realising that it is open. Turning and sniffing again, he starts to walk slowly towards his bedroom just as the downstairs door slams and feet start trotting up the stairs.

Reaching his room, he pushes the door open as John comes into the kitchen with bags of shopping. Sherlock walks into the bedroom and turns to stand and look down at the bed. John notices him.

“Hey, Sherlock…” John starts.

“We have a client,” Sherlock states.

“What, in your bedroom?” he walks to their bedroom, then his jaw drops when he sees the bed.

“Ohhh.” Irene – fully clothed – is asleep in their bed.
__________________________________________________________________

Some time later, Irene is wearing one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns and is sitting in his chair in the living room. The boys are sitting at the dining table, looking at her.

“So who’s after you?” Sherlock asks.

“People who want to kill me.” Irene deadpans.

“Who’s that?” John asks.

Irene raises an eyebrow. “Killers.”

John sighs, “It would help if you were a tiny bit more specific.”
“So you faked your own death to get ahead of them,” Sherlock states.

“It worked for a while.” She smirks.

“Except you let John know that you were alive, and therefore me.”

“I knew you’d keep my secret.” She says like she’s stating a fact.

“You couldn’t.” Sherlock frowns.

“But you did, didn’t you? Where’s my camera phone?”

“It’s not here. We’re not stupid.” John answers, taking a drink of his tea. The camera phone is burning a hole in his pocket.

“Then what have you done with it? If they’ve guessed you’ve got it, they’ll be watching you.” Irene states.

“If they’ve been watching me, they’ll know that I took a safety deposit box at a bank on the Strand a few months ago,” Sherlock answers.

“I need it.” She insists.

“Well, we can’t just go and get it, can we? Plus, iit'sbeen months, why do you need it now?”

Irene glares at him, but ignores him in favour of Sherlock as he takes the camera phone out of his jacket pocket and holds it up. Sherlock looks at the phone closely as Irene stands up. “So what do you keep on here – in general, I mean?”

“Pictures, information, anything I might find useful,” Irene answers.

“What, for blackmail? Sorry, sorry. For ‘protection, ’ John smirks.

Irene ignores him, “I make my way in the world; I misbehave. I like to know people will be on my side exactly when I need them to be.”

“So how do you acquire this information?” Sherlock asks.

“I told you – I misbehave.”

“But you’ve acquired something more dangerous than protection. Do you know what it is?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand it.” She admits.

“I assumed. Show me.” Irene holds out her hand for the phone. Sherlock holds it up out of her reach. “The passcode.”

She continues to hold her hand out, and eventually Sherlock sits forward and hands her the phone. Activating it and holding it so he can’t see the screen or the keypad, she types in four characters. The phone beeps warningly.

“It’s not working.” She frowns in confusion.

Sherlock stands up and takes the phone from her “No, because it’s a duplicate that I had made, into which you’ve just entered the numbers one oh five eight.”

John hands Sherlock the real camera phone. “I assumed you’d choose something more specific than that, but, um, thanks anyway.” He pulls up the “I AM ---- LOCKED” screen and types “1058” into the phone. He looks at her smugly, but then the phone beeps warningly and a message comes up reading: “WRONG PASSCODE. 1 ATTEMPT REMAINING”. He stares in disbelief.

“I told you that camera phone was my life. I know when it’s in my hand.” Irene smirks.

“Oh, you’re rather good,” Sherlock smirks at her.

Irene smirks back. “You’re not so bad.”

She holds out her hand again and takes the phone from him. John frowns at the pair of them while they have intense eye contact for the next few seconds.

“Alright, knock it off”, John barks. They both turn to look at him.

“There was a man,– an MOD official. I knew what he liked. One of the things he liked was showing off.” Irene starts, only for Sherlock to pluck the phone right out of her hands.

“Before you do that. John, I’m sorry, I’m being terribly rude. I promised you a go at the passcode. Since I only have one guess remaining, better make it count” Sherlock smirks and hands it to John.

John smiles and takes the phone. “So, your MOD man’s a show off? I bet you like it when they show off.” He looks up to see that he has their full attention. Irene is staring daggers at him while Sherlock is in slight awe and amusement. "You got carried away. You were enjoying yourself too much."

“You’ve had your fun, now hand it over”, Irene orders.

John ignores her. “You know, it was the lockscreen that defeated you. I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED. I started thinking. If my whole life were on this camera phone, I would make the pass code personal. Maybe someone I loved?”

“You don’t know whayou'reur talking about”, Irene scoffs.

“You told us that disguises are always a self-portrait. This is far more intimate. This is your life. Your Heart. It accrued to me when you told me you were alive, and in essence, Sherlock. You hated seeing him upset about your death. You wanted to put him out of his misery. Because you like him,” John smirks. “You even gave yourself away, the first time we met. Basically falling all over him.” He speaks as he types, “I AM SHERLOCKED”

The phone gave a cheery chime as the code was accepted. The camera phone opens, and John hands it to Sherlock.

“Thank yo,u John. I’ll call Mycroft. Let him know you figured out the pass code and that we have the photos.” Sherlock turns away and takes out his own phone.

Irene goes to grab him, but John is quick to grab her arm and stop her. Thrusting her arm back against her back, pulling upwards until she crumbles to her knees. Keeping her away from Sherlock until Mycroft’s men arrive.
___________________________________________________________
What does it mean?” John asks. Mycroft’s men have already taken the camera phone and Irene away, but Sherlock was lucky to get a quick view on the phone before it got taken away.

After they left, he wrote this down:

007 Confirmed allocation
C12C45F13E13G60A60B61F34G34J60D12H33K34K

Sherlock speaks rapidly,y “There’s a margin for error, but I’m pretty sureaea Seven Forty-Seven leaving Heathrow tomorrow at six thirty in the evening for Baltimore. Apparently, it’s going to save the world. Not sure how that can be true.” He looks at John’s shocked face in front of him. “It’s not code. These are seat allocations on a passenger jet. Look…” He shows the random numbers and letters to John. “There’s no letter ‘I’ because it can be mistaken for a ‘1’; no letters past ‘K’ – the width of the plane is the limit. The numbers always appear randomly and not in sequence, but the letters have little runs of sequence all over the place – families and couples sitting together. Only a Jumbo is wide enough to need the letter ‘K’ or rows past fifty-five, which is why there’s always an upstairs. There’s a row thirteen, which eliminates the more superstitious airlines. Then there’s the style of the flight number – zero zero seven – that eliminates a few more; and assuming a British point of origin, which would be logical considering the source of the information and assuming from the increased pressure on you lately that the crisis is imminent, the only flight that matches all the criteria and departs within the week is the six thirty to Baltimore tomorrow evening from Heathrow Airport.”

“Please don’t feel obliged to tell me that was remarkable. You’ve expressed the same thought in every possible variant available to the English language.” Sherlock finishes.

“Fine, I won’t say anything”,, John states and pulls Sherlock in for a long kiss.

Once he pulls away, they are both a bit breathless. “John, please can you check those flight schedules; see if I’m right?”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re right or not. That was hot as he,l” John pulls Sherloin in for another kiss.
__________________________________________________________________

It's the next day, and Sherlock sits in his armchair, texting his brother. He made sure it was after takeoff

‘There’s going to be a bomb on a passenger jet. The British and American governments know about it, but rather than expose the source of that information, they’re going to let it happen. The plane will blow up. Coventry all over again. The wheel turns. Nothing is ever new. SH’

‘The Coventry conundrum. The flight of the dead. What do you think of my solution?’

‘The plane blows up mid-air. Mission accomplished for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties, but nobody dies. SH’

‘Neat, don’t you think? You’ve been stumbling round the fringes of this one for ages – or were you too bored to notice the pattern?’

Sherlock flashes back in his mind to the two little girls sitting in his living room. Their dead grandfather. Another: the man holding the urn, convinced, wasn't;t his aunt’s ashes.

‘We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn’t make the flight.’

Sherlock flashes back to the car with the body in the boot and the passport stamped in Berlin airport.

‘But that’s the deceased for you – late, in every sense of the word.’

Sherlock could basically see Mycroft’s smile at his poor joke.

‘Unmanned aircraft, I assume SH’

‘Correct. It’s due to crash soon’ Is all Mycroft answers before Sherlock puts his phone away when John hands him some tea.

“You were right. Mycroft was behind it. He planted a decoy plane filled with dead people to trick the terrorists.”

“You were right, oo,” John points out.

“True,, He smirks. “And thanks to you, a woman like Irene Adler doesn’t have her hands on that sort of information. You were smart enough to crack the code, even when I wasn’t”

John sits comfortably in his chair, facing Sherlock. “As I said before. I’m better at reading people. Emotions can get the better of us sometimes.”

“I saw what you said to Mycroft on Christmas…” Sherlock mutters.

John stops and stares, “How?”

“Molly got me the video footage”

John shakes his head. “Right. Thoughts?”

“Lots”

“Wanna elaborate?”

“I was playing her, she was playing me. And all this time, you knew it. You knew the password for months. Why only do it now?” Sherlock questions.

John smirks up at him. “I knew she would come for it sooner or later. I wanted to see her face when Plain Old John Watson cracked her code, even when the Brilliant Sherlock Holmes couldn’t.”

“We make a good team, Dr Watson”, Sherlock smirks.

John sighs. “Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you? I let my licence run out. I’m no longer a doctor”

Sherlock takes out a large envelope from his coat. “Actually, you are. I had Mycroft restate you. Police Chief Dr John Watson”

“Sherlock…” John breathes out. “When? Why?”

“Being a doctor is who you are, John. You shouldn’t let that part of you go. Your caring nature, your doctor skills, and your ability to read people and emotions. It’s why we are such a good team”

John smiles happily. “That we are. Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson”
___________________________________________________________________

About a week later, the plane was successfully crashed: no one was injured or dead, of course (can’t kill something already dead), and John is hurrying home in the rain when he spots Mycroft outside Speedy’s café. He has a clear plastic wallet tucked under one arm, and his briefcase is at his feet. John hurries towards him, hunched over and soaking wet because he forgot his umbrella. He sees Mycroft standing there and stops in surprise, then walks over to him.

“Evening”, John greets.

“Follow me,” Mycroft closes his umbrella, picks up his briefcase and turns and walks into Speedy’s. John rolls his eyes, but follows him. They sit opposite each other at one of the tables. John looks at the plastic wallet, which Mycroft has put on the table in front of him. There is a sticker on the wallet saying “RESTRICTED ACCESS – CONFIDENTIAL”. The camera phone is inside the wallet on top of various documents.

“This is the file on Irene Adler?”

“I assure you, she won’t be dominating anyone anytime soon. We have her locked away, for her protection as well as others. I am about to go and inform my brother – or, if you prefer, you are”

John sighs, “I really don’t like this woman.”

“Is that loathing I hear from the kind doctor?” Mycroft smirks. John clenches his jaw in irritation
“My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?”

“He likes the mystery, but that’s his brain. I like to think that in his heart. He enjoys helping people, putting people behind bars.” John states.

“Think what you will, initially, he wanted to be a pirate.” He smiles briefly at John.
_________________________________________________________________

Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table, looking into his microscope. Footsteps can be heard coming up the stairs, and he speaks before John even comes into view.
“Clearly you’ve got news.” John stops in the doorway. Sherlock doesn’t lift his head. “If it’s about the Leeds triple murder, it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring.”

He takes a couple of steps into the kitchen. “No, it’s about Irene Adler.”

Sherlock looks up, his face unreadable. “Oh? Something happened? Has she come back?”

“No… I just bumped into Mycroft downstairs. He had to take a call.” John says instead.

Sherlock stands up, walking around the table towards John. “Is she back in London?

“No. She’s locked away in a high secure facility. For her protection as well as others.. but, er, well, you know.” John finishes awkwardly.

“I know what?” Sherlock asks.

“Well, you won’t be able to see her again.”

“Why would I want to see her again?” Sherlock scoffs, “When everything is righthere” He smirks, staring straight into John’s eyes.

“Didn’t say you did,” John mutters, leaning closer to kiss his boyfriend.