I know it's been a while, I do apologise. I've been working on this chapter for nearly six weeks- quite ridiculous when you consider the first one was done in three days, but there you go. I can't promise when chapter three will be up, but I do have a few ideas, and it may or may not include how Irene actually found her patient in the first place.

Seeing as I missed this on the previous chapter, a little disclaimer. Ahum. If you think I am the creator and/or owner of 'Sherlock'/'Sherlock Holmes', then you are sadly very mistaken. Or clinically certifiable. That honour belongs to both Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and this more recent reincarnation to an incredibly brilliant team of TV film makers sharing their genius on the BBC. They are of course, headed by the brilliantly imaginative writers Mark Gatiss and Stephen Moffat, and brought to life by the intrinsically skilful actors Benedict Cumberbatch, Martin Freeman, and others including Lara Pulver as Irene Adler. I do not hold a claim to that skill or genius. Nor do I profit from it by posting these works. I only dream there.

Enjoy the chapter!

"Would you destroy the greatest mind you have ever known, just for a little bit of pain? The greatest intellect? Pain is temporary, Doctor Watson; that is why my clients always return to me. It doesn't last; bodies heal. So will he, given time. I may be callous, but even Sherlock knows I'm not that unfeeling.

"Now, are you going to help him or not?"

John felt the rigid, hard back of his seat pressing up against him. For a moment, his mind seemed to go blank, a lone solitary word filtering into his consciousness like a claxon, wiping everything else into oblivion.

Sherlock

'Even Sherlock knows…'

But he didn't. Sherlock had been dead for two and a half years, he didn't know anything. John suddenly remembered just who exactly was sitting in front of him. The Woman. The only woman to have ever played Sherlock at his own game. The one who had fooled him completely for nearly nine months of their lives; to have taken on that clockwork spinning mind of his- and have kept pace.

'Even Sherlock knows…'

Sherlock knew how skilful of a manipulator she was. He knew, in the end, just how she had played him. Had even marvelled at the majesty of her game.

And he's not here anymore.

'Sherlock knows…'

No. Sherlock didn't know anything. Sherlock was dead.

Irene was wrong. Her use of the present tense deeply unsettled John- and maybe it was because of that that the next word came tumbling from his mouth.

"No."

Irene drew back, dumbfounded.

"'No'? You… won't help?"

"No." John said, raising his eyebrows. He crossed his arms in front of him.

Irene blinked.

"But you're a doctor. You help people!"

"I don't need to help you."

John's voice was casually regulated. He kept his eyes locked on the other woman, his jaw squaring as he prepared his reply.

"You think you can turn up here, after four years being dead and simply play the 'Sherlock Card' and expect that I'm just gonna do what you tell me? No. Look around, Irene, Sherlock isn't here. He's gone, and you have absolutely no ties to me. I'm just a humble family doctor now."

Irene put on her most alluring smirk.

"And if I tell you who it is?"

"I'd still be just as uninterested." John said, arms crossed.

There was silence again. Stalemate.

"Come off it, Irene, we both know who you really are. You wouldn't tell me his name no matter what you say. Because that's what you do. The whole package; why people come to you. You're the soul of disgression."

Irene didn't have a comeback for that.

John leaned forwards in his seat, his voice growing dark.

"This is your world, Irene. The flogging, torture… You say that this was not your doing, but this is your world. Not mine. I don't know- and, to be perfectly honest, I don't care how this man got involved in all of it, but you sort it out yourself. I'm not interested."

Irene looked back at him, frozen.

"You won't-"

"No."

She sat rigidly for a few moments, before jerkily rising to her feet, her tablet clutched tightly to her chest.

After another moment's hesitation, she turned and finally walked out the door. Her mobile was already to her ear by the time it closed after her.

John sighed, glancing round at the empty room before turning his attention to the waiting chocolate bar on his desk. With another drawn out breath he brushed the things he had unpacked back into his bag, and with the Snickers bar in hand left the room.

Sally was waiting just outside, her coat and gloves already on as she hovered by the main door waiting to lock up. Irene was already gone. Unofficially, it was her job to make sure that he did actually leave in an evening. Whilst he wasn't one to spend an all-nighter in the office, this area of the neighbourhood was right next to a rather dodgier one- but that's what you get just outside central London. You never know what sort of nutters could come walking through your door. Not to mention all the murders the doctor had been involved in (in a consulting role) a few years back.

"Sorry, John, that was rather a little longer than the two minutes she had promised."

And also the fact that John's wife- the other practice receptionist, would Sally's hide if he didn't return home in good time at least four days a week.

He waved her off with a shrug.

"Doesn't matter. I'm a doctor; if someone needs help…"

Sally nodded.

"Uh-huh. So you sorted her out then? Made an appointment for the husband?"

John looked away.

"No, it's nothing that I can help with."

"Oh," Sally said, uncertainly. "Okay then."

Without another word, John made an awkward farewell gesture to her, inclining his head and jutting his chin with a frown before walking off past her out the door.

And then stopped directly outside, staring at the most ridiculous sight on the street in front of him.

"Oh, for goodness sake," he murmured.

To any other person, it wouldn't have looked anything out of the ordinary. But John had spent three years with Sherlock; he might not have had his level of intellect, but it had certainly sharpened his wits. And had made his occasional acquaintances rather more interesting.

Directly in front of him, not two metres from the surgery entrance, waited a sleek black Jaguar. A pretty young lady stood directly in front of it, vaguely familiar, and the silhouette of another just discernable through the darkened windows.

And, on the opposite side of the road, waited a second black executive car, equally familiar with an equally recognisable young woman standing before it. Though she, however, wasglaring daggers at the back of the other's head.

Upon John's appearance the closer woman raised her eyebrows with a welcoming smirk. He studied her face carefully. Yep, definitely familiar. The other bent her head over her blackberry.

John sighed, looking between the two, trying to remember to which master each belonged to. And, more importantly, just who he wanted to visit least.

Purely because she was closer to him- and actually giving him the slightest bit of eye contact, John approached the nearer of the two ladies. She opened the car door for him. The other continued texting.

John however stayed put, crossing his arms at the invitation. They would have to try harder than that to convince him to get in. Hell, Mycroft had once even sent a chopper. It'd been three years; surely he could offer more than a pretty girl and a Jag to entice him.

Just as he was still debating whether to slide in, Sally emerged from behind, the scrape of keys bighting against the locks as she secured the surgery doors.

She turned, about to walk off, but faltered in surprise to see John about to enter an unknown car with an unknown, attractive woman. A scowl soon set in on her face, but she quickly realised he wasn't paying her any notice. He was far more preoccupied by the presence of the other women, his displeasure obvious at their attention.

The young lady directly in front shifted her weight and cocked an eyebrow.

Sally stood silently, debating on whether to remind John of the fact that he was already married but something told her this wasn't what it appeared. If gossip with the girls had enlightened her of anything, it was that John's past was very complex. Ridiculously so. What with going to Afghanistan, and then working with that phoney detective, (the innocence of whom was still a matter of great debate no matter what the latest inquest had announced); running around London chasing phantom criminals- and then his suicide. Mary had said they were close, no matter the truth of things. John still believed in the innocence of his old friend. But what had happened- everything that had happened, it had changed him.

John's past was very complex. And yet, it appeared the way he dealt with things was rather… not so much. He seemed content to just stand there, arms crossed, daring the younger women in a game of glares until finally, the doctor let out a quiet groan.

"How long have they been there?" he mumbled to Sally.

"What?"

He nodded towards the women.

"Urm… I don't know. A while, maybe."

John squared his jaw, his eyes narrowing. Sally didn't catch what he said under his breath, but it wasn't simple pleasantries.

"John, would you please tell me what's going on? Who are they?"

John didn't reply. He mumbled a little more, his head bowed, before announcing;

"Mycroft can be very persuasive."

He turned to look at Sally finally.

"He runs the government," he deadpanned. "Apparently, they sent a car."

Her eyes widened.

"Was that who—"

"No…" John replied shortly, rocking on his feet, his eyes pointedly scouring the pavement before flicking upwards again. "Irene- the woman who was here earlier, she… generally works for herself, mostly. When she isn't trying to bring down the government." He trailed off.

"Mycroft, through… He was Sherlock's brother. He likes checking up on me. Unannounced. At random, inconvenient times."

"Sorry- what?"

John frowned. "You know, I think Sherlock must have rubbed off on my somewhat. I feel inclined to go with her solely to avoid another audience with Mycroft."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "My, Sherlock would have been proud."

Sally still looked baffled.

John cleared his throat; the receptionist still trying to piece things together.

"Er- If you could just let Mary know that I'm not going to be home for a while… God knows how long this'll take. Tell her it's nothing to worry about… just a face from my past rearing their ugly head." He paused, giving an exaggerated sigh. "It appears the doctor's going to be making a house call," he announced with marked distain.

Sally, however, seemed to have regained her senses at this.

"I'm sorry- what? Why can't you phone her yourself? You really expect me to make excuses to your wife after you've gone off with another woman?"

"Well, If I do it, I'll just get an earful. Considering I'm already getting a headache just from these two both showing up out of the blue, I'd rather not give myself a full blown migraine trying to explain it all to Mary. Because you know her- she always wins. And these guys still haven't learnt how to take 'no' for an answer."

And with that, John finally slid into the back seat of the Jag, leaving Sally standing alone and confused on the pavement.

He glanced across to where Irene was already comfortably sitting beside him and chuckled humourlessly under his breath.

"You know, sooner or later you're gonna have to learn what the word 'no' means."

Irene smiled.

"What makes you think that it's even in my vocabulary? My clients use safe-words, and I never say 'no'."

John tilted his head, giving her a look.

"No, I don't believe that. I just think you're too obstinate to take notice."

Irene turned away, smiling as the car pulled off.

"So, are you telling me you're still uninterested, because I'm getting mixed messages."

"Now, hold on. I've not committed to anything yet."

Irene just blinked at him, eyes casually swivelling round the luxury car they were riding in. Her face glistened with self-satisfied mirth.

John cleared his throat, glancing out the window as they passed the other car.

"Well, if it gets me away from Mycroft trying to check up on me. He's following me, you know. Again. Sending his car to summon me. I suppose that has something to do with you?"

Irene actually seemed to draw back, her bravado faltering.

"I had hoped to do this without gaining his attention."

"He is infuriating, isn't he?"

Irene chuckled.

"So, where are we headed? Or is that clandestine information?"

"No," Irene smiled, turning to look straight ahead. "My house."

John raised his head up, and brought it down to his chest in a sharp dramatic motion. Right...

"No, we're not..." He declared lightly.

"No?" Irene blinked, incredulous.

"No, we're going to Bart's first. If I'm to tend to this patient, then I'm going to need proper supplies. And God knows some decent narcotics."

The Woman smiled, and the driver abruptly changed course towards St Bartholomew's Hospital.