Author's Note:

Warning: May contain spoilers for A Game of Shadows. Thought I should put this here just in case! The Author's Note below in particular contains spoilers. If you don't want them, read no further!

Hey guys! I've been thinking about a sequel for Dangerous Liaisons for a while, and god knows the new film out this month provided plenty of fuel for inspiration; the only issue being that thanks to the massive and unwelcome curveball thrown by Guy Ritchie and co when they killed off Irene (WAAAAAAAHHH!), a massive dent has been put through the version of canon and the timelines DL was based around. It's a major FML in terms of continuity, but I'm just making this clear now: as faithful as I want to be to the films, Irene is very much alive at the time this story takes place :)

Just a few things: this story will be Holmes/Irene and Watson/Mary, and will feature the OCs of the Watson children we first met in DL. This will be an M rating from the outset -for violence and sexual situations- and will generally be darker and dirtier than its predecessor. Lastly, if you haven't read DL, you might want to skim over the Holmes/Irene areas because what's to follow will make a lot more sense if you do!

I hope you enjoy this starting chapter (it's on the small side, but intended as a taster only). I really appreciate any feedback, so please do review if you get the time!

Darkness had fallen over London as its citizens slept, but in a secluded corner of Cavendish Place, Doctor and Mrs Watson were very much awake. Christmas was fast approaching, and the young couple were putting the finishing touches to the handsome fir tree which stood in their drawing room. Adorned with nuts, berries and small wooden figurines, Mary had insisted the festive decor was 'all the rage' in Europe. Her husband, Doctor John Watson, was unconvinced. Trees, he was adamant, should remain outdoors where the good Lord had put them. Besides, it had taken two hours to get the blessed thing in here and the needles were already falling off.

That said, the presence of a tree inside their house had provided hours of amusement for the Watsons' three young daughters; even Esme who at nine months old was far too young to appreciate the meaning of Christmas. In fact, Watson had his suspicions that his two eldest girls -twins Tilly and Rose- were far more taken by the brightly-wrapped presents and tasty seasonal treats to spare a thought for the birth of the Lord and Saviour, but then they were only children, and Watson was too doting a father to throw a damper on their spirits.

"Esme's first Christmas..." Mary's blonde hair was shimmering in the light of the dying hearth fire as she turned an affectionate smile upon her husband of three years, who sat beside the tree with a bowl of walnuts in his lap. She frowned suddenly. "Those are for the tree, John!"

Watson, who had been in the act of slipping a walnut into his mouth when he'd thought his wife was looking the other way, dropped the offending nut back into the bowl with a mischievous grin.

"The tree doesn't need them all, Mrs Watson."

Mary could never stay angry with her husband for long. The truth was they were too besotted with each other for their rows and niggles to last longer than a few hours at most. She had perched herself on the very end of the chaise lounge upon which the three Watson daughters lay, all three of them asleep and snoring gently.

"They're so much quieter when they're sleeping," Watson murmured, straightening up with a wince. His old war injury, sustained in the Afghan conflict some time ago, had taken a hefty setback just over a year previously, when engaging in a swordfight with a deranged Indian princess had left him quite crippled. He had, however, fared better than the princess: six weeks on a crutch was, Watson considered, infinitely preferable to a bullet through the forehead!

Following her husband's gaze to their three sleeping daughters, Mary smiled softly. "Long may it last." She inclined her head to kiss each of the girls in turn. "Shall we go to bed, Doctor?"

Since Jemima the nursery maid had long-since departed, a double act of balancing three sleeping daughters between them on the long trip to the upstairs landing was required. But at last the task was done and 'Mrs Watson' was able to take her husband up the second flight of stairs to their own bed.

Once inside the room, Watson flopped down onto the mattress with a long and aberrant sigh.

"What a day it's been..."

"How do you mean?" Mary's voice came from behind him on the bed. Watson sighed again -contentedly this time- and sank back into her embrace as she began to rub his shoulders. "You're so tense, darling..."

"Surgery this morning," Watson began, "all the Christmas shenanigans..." He paused, giving over to the pleasant sensations of massage for just a second to gather his thoughts. "...and Holmes of course."

"Ah yes." Watson didn't need to look at her to tell that Mary was no longer smiling. "Holmes..."

Sensing he had put his wife on the back foot, Watson twisted onto his knees so he was facing her across the bed. He gathered Mary into his arms and kissed her deeply, loving as he always did the gentle thrum of her honeyed lips beneath his own.

"Let's forget all about Holmes," Watson murmured as he drew back. He dragged a thumb over her bottom lip before turning his attentions to the exposed skin of her neck, right where he knew she loved to be kissed the most. "It's only you and me now."

Mary let out a small noise - half sigh, half breathless, pleasured moan. "You only kiss me there when you want something..."

Watson had laced his fingers through the ties of her corset and was slowly unravelling them as they kissed. Against her neck, Mary could feel him smiling. "But I do want something, Mary..."

A triple knock on the front door below startled Watson so that he almost toppled right off the bed. Instead he jumped, jolting Mary's corset strings tightly enough that she cried out in pain.

"Damn." Watson rubbed the small of her back. "I'm sorry." For a few seconds he listened carefully. Had he imagined the knock? It hadn't been their door...a late night visitor for their neighbours perhaps? But then the knock came again, louder and more insistent this time, and Watson swung his legs from the bed.

"John?" Mary was attempting -frantically and without much success- to re-lace her own corset. "John, who on Earth can be calling at this hour?" She threw her gaze upon the clock on the mantle, shaking her head.

Watson did not answer. He had one person and one person only in mind, and a grim glance shared with Mary told him they were both thinking the same thing. With Mary close behind him, Watson stalked from the bedroom and down the stairs with murder in his every step.

It was raining outside - Watson could hear it rapping on the windows as he reached the front door and wrenched it open. He groaned - louder and with more vehemence than he ever had in his life before.

"What do you want?"

"A moment of your time," said Sherlock Holmes "is all I will ask for."

"You are asking for a lot more than that," Watson growled. "A fist in the face, for example. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"The time for work is universal," Holmes said quite haughtily. "Especially when there is so much at stake. Is this new?" The drenched detective (for he was quite sodden by the rain and Watson really would not have been surprised if he had walked all the way from Baker Street) paused his speech to tug at the lapels of Watson's half-unbuttoned white shirt, but the doctor slapped his hand away.

"John." Mary had come to stand beside her husband and was eyeing Holmes with her usual expression of extreme dislike and suspicion. "John, he's dripping on our rug..."

For what seemed like the first time, Watson took a good long look at his best friend and realised what a terrible state he was in: aside from the water cascading from his hair and clothes, Holmes was unshaven and dishevelled beyond even his usual questionable standards. Most notably of all though, Holmes was almost totally naked from the waist up - his shirt was absent and his chest covered by a waistcoat several sizes too small for him. Watson placed a hand on Mary's arm to mollify her. He was going to speak, but Holmes got there first. He had broken into his most superficially charming smile.

"Mary, my dear - is a more forthcoming welcome too much to ask? Anyone would think you weren't pleased to see me..."

"Alright Holmes," Watson said finally, when the detective had been wrestled into a warm bath to calm his chills and dressed just as unwillingly in a spare set of Watson's clothes. "What was it this time?"

"I find myself before a crossroad," Holmes began in his usual, arrogant patter. "One which could radically alter the course of my investigation should I choose the wrong path. However..." With these words he fixed Watson with an unblinking gaze. "When one has lanterns with which to best light the way, the choice is a far easier one to make. I have always said how valuable a second opinion - particularly yours, old boy- is to me..."

Watson could smell the opium on Holmes with every word he spoke. This was not the first time it had occurred in his attuned medical mind that the continued use of such drugs would eventually render his friend completely incoherent, however it was the first time in a while he feared such a thing had actually happened.

"Holmes," Watson said carefully. "What in the name of God are you talking about?"

"Not for the first time and by no means the last," Holmes said with his infectious half-smile, "I find myself at a loss without you. Will you come?"

Watson waited a moment or so before he returned Holmes' smile.

"If only for the satisfaction of hearing you say you can't manage without me..." He swallowed the last of his brandy and got, grudgingly, to his feet. "Where do we start?"

"Where do we continue, my dear Watson," Holmes expostulated. "The game, I think you'll find, is already in session!"

To be continued...sooner rather than later I think - Christmas holidays = plenty of time to write, and I've already started the second chapter! :)