Hello, dear readers. I hope you will give this story a go, despite it being a stretch from my usual. I will go back to Klaine again, but I felt I needed a change for a while as I was feeling quite uninspired. This is my first multichapter fic in a fandom other than Glee, so I hope some of my regular readers will read it and some new ones will join me too. I hope you enjoy it, please let me know what you think.

I don't own any of the characters – not in this chapter, at least.

Although John Watson woke from nightmares of dark shapes and gunshots at four in the morning due to a searing pain in his shoulder, it was the pungently clean smell of hydrochloric acid that prevented him from slipping back under the dark blanket of sleep and letting it sweep him away.

He rubbed at his bleary eyes and blinked slowly at the darkness of his room, his eyes falling upon the strip of light emerging from the crack of his door. Sighing, he swung his legs out of bed – thankfully, a part of him that was no longer in so much pain – and stumbled groggily to the door, pulling on his robe and entering the kitchen to find Sherlock's long form sprawled across a chair, his head resting on his arms on the table and one hand curled loosely around a test tube, spidery fingers dangerously close to touching the clear liquid inside. John sighed, and gently pulled the solution out of his hand, placing it carefully in a test tube rack. He straightened again and observed the alarming array of bottles and beakers, pipettes strewn across the table and a Bunsen burner lying haphazardly but thankfully unplugged in the fruit bowl that Mrs Hudson had insisted they take at least one piece out of every day.

John supposed he should get used to Sherlock's apparent inability to fall asleep in an actual bed unless drugged or injured, something that happened far more than John was comfortable with, but he nevertheless found himself hauling the man up under the arms and dragging him like a corpse to his room. He was very tall, but John liked to think he was very strong, and he got him into bed without too much strain. In fact, the lifting seemed to have done some good to his shoulder, and perhaps now he could get some sort of rest before the inevitable new adventure that would come their way.

Strangely, the next day brought no new mysteries. John's blog was still generating plenty of interest, but nobody seemed to have any cases that needed immediate solving; at least, none of interest to Sherlock, as he so very bluntly told those who dared approach him. John was starting to feel like his sympathetic smiles to those who were insulted could only go so far.

Sherlock was growing quickly restless; it seemed his late night chemical work was doing little to satisfy his need for a challenge. When John suggesting simply trying to relax for a little while, he was quickly silenced by a glare so withering it would have had many an army man a little shaken.

His suggestion of a quick lunch trip to Angelo's, however, was a received a little better, and they made their way to the small restaurant and were greeted enthusiastically the moment they entered. Angelo was always pleased to see Sherlock, and John suspected the man's easy acceptance of him was mainly due to the fact that he was under the impression, as many people seemed to be, that the two were a couple, despite being the two most contrasting men he could imagine. Although, John had to admit, it was nice getting so much food on the house and a rather nice candle for their table.

The meal was spent with John explaining to Sherlock why people read his blog, something he could never seem to fathom, and why on Earth people were more interested in the gaps in Sherlock's knowledge and his harassment of the man who dressed up as Santa in a shopping centre than the analysis of different types of perfumes.

John never managed to convince him, of course, but he had to admit it was fairly amusing trying.

The moment they approached the door to 221b Baker Street, it seemed, Sherlock knew that something was not quite right. John watched as he examined the keyhole, and ran his fingers down the crack between the door and the frame, a frown forming on his pale forehead.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock said nothing, taking out his key and unlocking the door with astonishing swiftness, sprinting up the stairs and leaving John to slam the door and hurry after him. The fact that he could hear nothing approaching the apartment was slightly worrying, but what he saw when he entered completely surpassed anything he had anticipated.

In the middle of the room stood Irene Adler.

Her hair was shorter, and dyed a dirty blonde, but it was unmistakeably the same woman. Her red coat matched her lipstick, and the high, slender heel of a long boot tapped the ground insistently. She shifted her weight onto her back leg and surveyed Sherlock carefully, who stood, frozen, in front of her, his face blank and unyielding.

"Hello, Mr Holmes." She said lightly, although John thought he could hear a trembling undertone beneath the flirty exterior. His worried gaze flicked to Sherlock, whose eyes seemed to have hardened.

"Ms Adler." Sherlock said coldly. "Why are you here?"

"You're dead!" John blurted. He realised that she clearly wasn't, given the fact that she was standing right in front of him, but it just felt like something that needed to be pointed out.

Irene turned her gaze to John, smiling playfully. "Do I look dead?"

"That's what I'm struggling with." John mumbled. Sherlock, however, seemed largely unruffled, merely staring at Irene, as if still waiting for an answer.

"Your dear Mr Holmes here was my knight in shining armour." Irene said, walking slowly towards Sherlock to place a hand on his arm. He flinched. "I'm surprised he didn't tell you, actually, about our little meeting in Karachi. I was sentenced to die, but my hero here came to save the day."

"I bet he did." John said slowly, turning to face Sherlock, who now looked a little more like he was struggling to keep his face blank. "When were you going to tell me this?"

"It was irrelevant." Sherlock said quietly. "You wanted me to think I could never see her again."

John felt a little dizzy at this new revelation, but decided to keep from asking any more questions that may complicate things further. The intense way Sherlock and Irene were staring at each other was making him a little uncomfortable, as it always did. He cleared his throat loudly.

Irene took her hand off Sherlock's arm, but still kept her gaze fixed on him as she sauntered around the apartment, inspecting every other surface as she spoke.

"I've been living in America. New Jersey, more specifically, but I like to stay travelling. I've actually made quite a living for myself as an opera singer, actually – well, maybe a more modernized opera singer. They like to see a little leg when they hear me sing, you see." She smiled as she ran a finger along the mantelpiece. "I've actually made quite a name for myself – not my name, of course. I'm Carmen Fox now."

Sherlock still had the same dark, hard look on his face. "You made a name for yourself in – what? A few months?"

Irene smiled. "I know what my audience likes."

John coughed.

She stopped pacing, seemingly satisfied with the place, and lowered herself gracefully into an armchair, crossing her legs.

"Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, but John cut him off, not wanting to suffer through anymore of their patent, if slightly awkward flirtations.

"Yes, please."

Irene smiled. "I have good news."

John and Sherlock exchanged looks.

"I have achieved what could be seen as the impossible." Irene said slyly. "I've made a little mini Sherlock."

John, at this point, thought his eyes would bug out of his head. Sherlock, too, looked alarmed, something that John was not used to seeing, nor would he ever want to be.

"What?" Sherlock asked faintly. "Are you saying –"

"Unless you're suggesting a have cloned your genetic material with that of a dwarf, I believe you know what I'm saying."

"Of course I know what you're saying. I just didn't want you to be saying it." Sherlock said, now seemingly annoyed.

"Excuse me?" John said loudly. "Can somebody please tell me what is going on?"

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, looking pained.

"We shared… a night in Kensington. I'm quite offended that you didn't tell Dr Watson about our little affair, actually." Irene purred, moving to approach Sherlock, but he held an arm out to stop her.

"I don't remember that night." He spat. "You got me drunk."

John looked between the two of them, baffled. Spending as much time as he did with Sherlock had educated him in the art of deduction somewhat, and from the things the two were saying, he could ordinarily have worked out what was happening. But what everything was pointing in the direction to was simply so unlikely, so… not Sherlock, that he could not bring himself to think about it.

Irene turned to John. "He really does have a very low alcohol tolerance." She said fondly. "He's so very easy when he's intoxicated."

"My God, did you rape me?" Sherlock asked, outraged but not particularly angry.

"Don't be silly." Irene brushed him off. "I'm just… very persuasive. I seem to remember convincing you what a fascinating experiment I would be." This time she really did come closer, brushing the back of her hand across his cheek. "It was so hard not to correct… him, when he called you the virgin."

Now Sherlock really did look angry. "I don't remember it! You robbed me of part of my brain!"

"That's what you're angry about?" John asked him disbelievingly. He turned to Irene. Maybe if he kept talking he wouldn't have to think about this. "Why didn't you… get an abortion, or something?"

"I wanted to avoid medical procedures, in case somebody recognised me." She said matter-of-factly.

John raised an eyebrow. "Are you really that memorable?"

"Ask him." She smirked, nodding at Sherlock. John rolled his eyes.

"Do you know many American medics?"

"I know what they like." She replied smoothly. Sherlock flinched again.

He didn't look at her, but merely stared over her shoulder at some point on the wall. "Is that all?"

She smiled. "No, that's not all. I'm sure you know why else I'm here."

"Of course I know." Sherlock repeated. "But for once, I wanted to be wrong. "

Irene shrugged. "It would interfere with my new career. I'm me, I can't have that in my life."

John, again, felt like he was missing something.

"I'll give you a month to prepare." She said. Then she walked closer to Sherlock, and raised herself to her toes and kissed his cheek. "Good luck, daddy."

Then she sauntered over to the open window, lifting a leg outside, and slipped out, the smack of her shoes outside echoing in the silence as she ran off to who knows where.

John, finally having absorbed the information, took a deep breath, ordering himself to remain calm. He turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back. It was silent for a few seconds.

"You could always… adoption?" John suggested feebly, though he suspected he knew Sherlock's reply.

"No." Sherlock said quietly but decidedly. "This baby has superior genetic material. A regular family wouldn't know what to do with it."

John didn't really know what came over him, but suddenly, he began to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Helpless, ongoing laughter that he couldn't seem to stop.

There was a moment when Sherlock just stared at him, but then he joined him in his laughter, albeit in the light of the strangest, and most challenging, situation either of them had ever seen.