V. THE WOMAN

SHERLOCK

AUTUMN

John was NOT jealous. He was concerned. He didn't trust The Woman, and only looked out for Sherlock's best interest.

Just as Sherlock was whenever John dated some stupid woman.

Except Irene Adler was far from stupid, of course.

What should have been a simple retrieval had turned out to be far more interesting. She beat him. Literally, and in any sense. He had to recognise; that was impressive. She was definitely good at the game.

He wasn't sure though what the game was for now. Those texts, all the time? And that supposed to make him uncomfortable (judging from anyone else's reaction to it) alert tone she had put on his phone? She was playing, obvious.

She wasn't fooling him; he knew none of it was heartfelt. She was obviously and definitely into women. Men were only pay checks, insurances or play toys in her secrets-seeking power games. And as he definitely didn't belong to the first two categories, then she was toying with him. Not exactly though, because she must have realised that Sherlock wasn't a toy either. So. She was after something, which required/involved him. It was all a game — to which there was obviously a catch he didn't know about. So, willing or not, it was a game Sherlock would have to play — at least as long as he didn't know what she was playing at.

But to be honest, Sherlock didn't mind playing, for now.

First, she was intriguing. A new puzzle, and one truly worthy of his time and attention. She was determined, daring, clever, and her league was uncharted territory, full of innuendos he could deduce the general meaning of, but not always the details — not that he would want to anyway, but Sherlock just never liked being remembered that there were things he was ignorant of. And what was the matter with words starting with the letter D anyway? A date was 'where two people who like each other go out and have fun' but supposedly couldn't apply to him and John going out; and now dinner had another meaning too… So, luckily (because flirting — that was the term, right? — was definitely not his area; it was a coded language to which he didn't have the code, and even though it was plain English, it felt like a foreign language), she was the one playing; that he felt comfortable enough to answer or not didn't matter.

Then, the effects the whole affair had on John were interesting, too. He was evidently annoyed by the frequent texts. And most probably counting them. It was juvenile, but there was comfort in discovering now that the situation was reversed that John too had issues about eventually having to share him.

All right. Maybe John was a tiny bit jealous too… just as Sherlock could now recognise that he was, whenever John dated some stupid woman.

CHRISTMAS

"Fifty seven of those texts — the ones I've heard."

So. John WAS counting. Sherlock couldn't deny that the definitive knowledge of such a fact was nice.

And then, suddenly, the nice feeling was gone.

She had sent him her phone.

It made only sense if…

Sherlock went to his room to contact his brother.

"I think you're going to find Irene Adler tonight. I mean you're going to find her dead."

Sherlock didn't like such an ending to their game. He felt sort of cheated; he had not foreseen this.

/ / /

Damn. She was GLORIOUS at the game. She had fooled him, AGAIN. It should unnerve him. Oddly though, it didn't.

Whoever had taken care of the bashing-up had forgotten the ears. The shape of one's ears is very characteristic, and he had had a good view of Miss Adler's when they had met. His new theory was definitely confirmed by the moles being in the wrong places — just like shoes, moles weren't swapping places of their own volition, right.

He went along with her plan though. If she needed to be 'dead' for a while, why would he ruin her cover? Using the body of an already dead woman with appropriate height, constitution and skin and hair colour wasn't murder after all.

And he had now her phone to occupy himself with until she reappeared…

He accepted Mycroft's cigarette; it would be telltale to his brother if he refused. And he successfully got the conversation on another track when his brother went on interrogating-mode. Which was another proof — grand words about the dangers of caring aside, and no matter how much of a brat Sherlock could behave towards him on a regularly basis — that his brother did care for him, if he dropped (even temporarily) eventual National Security related matters for his sake…

He repaid his brother by wishing him a Merry Christmas, knowing his brother wouldn't miss the effort necessary behind that hated word, and went straight home, but not too quickly, guessing Mrs Hudson and John must be scanning through his room and not wanting to make them feel more uncomfortable than necessary by actually witnessing it… His brother cared. Mrs Hudson cared. John cared. His past wasn't spotless. Sherlock understood, and could live with that particular showing of their concern (it was more heart-warming than irritating, to tell the truth) — he couldn't help though but always let John know that they weren't truly fooling him, just for good measure.

Jeanette was gone on his return; he had finally driven her away too, it seemed.

John had chosen him, once more. And Sherlock felt guilty for the warmth that knowledge gave him; even more now that he had to let John in the dark about Irene Adler being alive. But not enough not to go on with it.

Mourning wasn't that hard to fake, apparently. Being quiet and withdrawn wasn't difficult after all while thinking only over possible pass codes for the phone. And playing the violin over day for a change had been a good idea too. He was even fooling John.

John, who was puzzling him anew… He had been jealous, right? Shouldn't he feel relieved somehow? (Sherlock knew that was mostly how he felt whenever John split up.) Yet John seemed genuinely affected by The Woman's 'death' — maybe because he felt guilty (Sherlock knew that any satisfying feeling provoked by someone's death was a bit not good, and even more, in John's book); but, to be honest, probably mostly because it (supposedly) affected Sherlock. So, again, John was putting Sherlock's well-being before his own. It was befuddling — in a stupid, foolish, irrelevant yet somehow admirable way. Sherlock wondered if he would one day be able to do the same in return…

DECEMBER 31TH

He knew something was off the moment he saw the car — Mycroft's services alike enough, but definitely NOT. He activated the tracker's application on his phone and followed its course while putting his coat on, then literally ran down to catch a cab.

John wasn't aware of this — and should definitely better never been told. But, right after 'The Blind Banker' case, Sherlock had placed one tracking device into each and every shoe John possessed.

(Inside John's skin would have without a doubt been the safest, but it would have been tricky to place it and just impossible to keep it forever out of John noticing — one might have to have a scan now and then, especially when one ran after criminals on a regular basis — and so the shoes had been the next best option: you can forget your phone, decide not to take your coat, but you won't go out without your shoes on, right?)

It wasn't to spy on John. It was for John's safety. Sherlock wasn't paranoid: he had enough enemies he knew about and probably just as mush he didn't know about, and he wouldn't risk being in the dark if John ever got kidnapped again in his place — or worse, as he had learned soon after, for being John.

(So all right, occasionally, since The Pool, it was also helpful for Sherlock's sanity — to know where John was when he needed some air and stayed away too long for Sherlock's liking, or to check that John had well arrived wherever he had told he was going to — to make sure that John apparently hadn't been abducted without him noticing.)

But it was happening again, right now, and it sadly more than justified indeed the definite need for having put tracers in John's shoes…

AN: Some might think I'm squinting quite hard here… But I simply refuse to believe that Sherlock actually believed that the dead body was Irene's, because he had plenty time to see it in its complete glory, and with his remarkable memory and perfect sense for details… well, I can't buy it. And so…

AN2: I'm starting too on a separate story, which is in fact what will happen here later on, but even though it's weeks that I've planned to write again about my calendar version of what go through both their heads during S2 and my ideas of what John went through and all while Sherlock was away, the only thing that comes out for the moment is silly fluffy stuff which start after Sherlock's return (grrrrrrrr, it's really frustrating when your mind doesn't obey you, huh…) Maybe I'm just not in the mood for angst and all for now… and I know that if it doesn't come out yet on its own, then it's better not to force it out, so I've decided to just go with the flow for the time being… So if you don't mind about jumping forward in time with me, you'll find the future there: IT'S ALL FINE AGAIN — WITH ONE MINOR ADAPTATION…

Apologies again for the delay about my vision of S2, but at some point it will all fit back, scout's honour (even though I've never been one but you understand what I mean…)