Note: I know. This took far, far too long. Very sorry about that. I've been doing two jobs at work so I've had no free time. We finally hired someone to do one of them, though. So here you are. Thank you for your reviews. They've been a delight in the midst of a very stressful time!

Chapter 15

John gripped his mobile tightly, somehow more irritated now that Sherlock had finally picked up. All the nervous energy he'd been fighting against melted away, taking his professionalism with it as he shouted at Sherlock incredulously, "Sherlock, where the hell have you been?!" The sound echoed around the grand marble walls of Santa Croce, causing John to wince immediately, and drawing more than one look from the tourists visiting the famous site. John turned away from Father Giordano to face a wall as he hissed more quietly into his phone, "And don't tell me you've been at a lecture on wood grains. I checked with the university - that ended an hour ago and no one remembers seeing you there."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by Sherlock attempting nonchalance as he replied, "It's over? Must have lost track of time."

Already, he had been wary of Sherlock's strange behaviour in the last few days. Mary had insisted that it had nothing to do with drugs, but when both the church and John had tried desperately to contact Sherlock for almost an hour to no avail, he couldn't help growing more suspicious. Now as he heard the forced casual nature of Sherlock's tone, it made him even more angry. Obviously his friend was withholding things on purpose, a practice which rarely led to positive outcomes for John. "Doing what exactly?" John demanded through gritted teeth.

"Working on several- look, obviously you've got something important to tell me, or at least I hope you have since you used the emergency text alert. Stop wasting precious time and tell me what you called about."

Sherlock's tone was peevish, and that might have been what most people noticed. In fact, John was fairly certain the detective wanted him to get so annoyed he ignored what else was evident in Sherlock's speech: slurring. A bit of a halting stammer. But John couldn't fail to notice it. Not after he'd been on high alert for such warning signs for the past 6 months. His blood turned cold as he momentarily forgot what he had called Sherlock so urgently about. Surely it couldn't have been more dire than what he now heavily suspected was going on with the detective himself. I should never have let him come here. He wasn't ready to be away from home yet. It's an unstable environment, of course he went back to the drugs, John castigated himself.

Still, he had to remain as calm as possible. The fact was, they did have a rather important case to get through, and besides, letting Sherlock know John was on to him might only cause him to bolt, and that would be bad on all accounts. Instead, John took a deep breath and struggled to push down the growing sickening feeling in his stomach. He tried to remain calm and focused as he said, "You know that 9pm meeting time we gave Luca Folino and his accomplice? Well, they decided to turn in early, it seems. They dropped Galileo's body off in a box on the steps of the church about an hour ago. It was found by some now thoroughly traumatized children."

"Really?" Sherlock asked, sound sceptical. "What does it look like?"

John blinked. "The body? It's a skeleton, Sherlock. It looks like an old skeleton, left in a wooden box with a note reading, 'Just wanted him to see the stars again. No harm done.'" John glanced over to see the nervous Father Giordano standing over said wooden box, looking between it and John in apprehension. The priest had been fairly frantic when he'd finally reached John, who'd been in the middle of his massage with Mary at the time.

"Hmmm," Sherlock hummed, then there was a sound of him covering the mouthpiece with his hand, and John could have sworn he heard the muffled sound of Sherlock saying something out loud. A moment later, the detective returned, tone still too flippant, too loose, "How many fingers does he have?"

John blinked, uncertain if Sherlock's clearly altered state were getting the better of him. "What?"

"This alleged Galileo, John. Look at his fingers. Count them."

With an annoyed sigh, John headed back over to where Father Giordano stood over the very old corpse. A quick look revealed the usual number of fingers. "Ten, amazingly enough," John replied impatiently.

Sherlock chuckled in the self-satisfied manner he sometimes did. "No," he stated confidently.

John shifted his weight in annoyance, staring off at a wall in the incredulous way he would have looked at Sherlock were he there. "No?" He asked sharply. Of course Sherlock, even a chemically altered Sherlock, would not simply offer an explanation. He wanted John to ask, to admit his lack of understanding, to cow to Sherlock's superior intellect. This was something John was quite used to by now and mostly brushed off, but given his current anxieties, he had no patience with this. "And don't put me through a whole show, just tell me what you're getting at."

His tone must have been stern enough to get through whatever altered state Sherlock was in, because the detective sighed in resignation before replying, "Galileo's body should be missing two fingers and a thumb. Cut off as tokens at his burial and placed in a museum here recently. That body isn't Galileo's." Of course, John thought. Leave it to Sherlock to know almost nothing about this extremely well-known astronomer's life but to somehow know about his amputated body parts.

"All right, so they dug up some other old corpse and dropped it off. I assume to stall us?" John wagered.

"Precisely," Sherlock replied. "Tell the Father not to bother with further testing. That's likely what the so-called kidnappers are hoping for. More time to escape."

John couldn't keep the angry edge out of his tone as he hissed back, "Well then, it's a good job you haven't given them even more time to leg it out of here by not answering your bloody phone."

There was a pause on the other end, and John thought he heard the sound of Sherlock swallowing. Hopefully, John thought, in chagrin. In the current situation, the least the man could do was be a little ashamed of himself. Not one of Sherlock's strong suits, no, but deep down he had to know that he was risking his reputation on a very high-profile case for the sake of - what? Getting high in some anonymous location? The thought made John sick, and not because of the case. He found himself more overcome with deep worry for his friend than anger now.

Finally, Sherlock replied, "I… apologise." That only served to make John more suspicious. Since when did Sherlock offer apologies that quickly? Only, in John's experience, when he wanted to throw John off and distract him from a larger issue. Well he wasn't having it this time. His fingers curled into a fist, his nails digging into his palm as he tried hard not to lose control of himself. Goddammit Sherlock. Goddammit. The detective continued in a clearly forced 'sober' tone, "I can't really explain, but you have to get Detective Rinaldi to release that footage to you. It's more important now than ever. Take the priest if you have to. We have to find the ambulance they used. Time is of the essence."

"That's very convenient for you to say now," John retorted, but his tone lacked vitriol now. He was far too concerned with Sherlock's well-being, far too eager to do whatever he could to get his friend back with him so he could … what, restrain him? Call in his brother? If that's what it takes, John resolved. So rather than fight Sherlock's impudent request, John did his very best to remain calm and placating as he said, "All right. I'll get it. I imagine Rinaldi might be more easily persuaded by myself and a representative of the Archdiocese than he was by you."

"I should think so," Sherlock said in an overly chipper tone that further unnerved John.

"But I'll need you to look through the footage," John cautioned, "So you'll meet me back at the hotel, right mate?" He winced a little, hoping he didn't sound too suddenly accommodating, lest he alert Sherlock that he was on to him.

Fortunately, Sherlock had never been particularly great at deciphering the nuances of phone conversations. Without physical cues to go off of, he had some trouble discerning people's tone and ulterior motives, John had found. And whatever drugs he'd taken, he was even less perceptive now judging by his jovial response. "Of course! Just give me a minute to… I'm sure I'll be there by the time you return and we can start looking through the footage ourselves. We'll find them. It's only a minor setback. Not to worry, John."

John's stomach twisted, and he felt the burn of bile rising in his throat at the rambling, rapid-fire way Sherlock was speaking. The nails of his fist now drew small specks of blood, and John's eyes shut tightly as he fought against the horrible feeling that was now washing over him. "Right," he just managed to croak out, "Who's worried?"

Mary was sat on the couch attempting to focus on editing her thesis, trying to ignore all the other things she knew may be going on with her fiancé and her flatmate when John burst into the hotel suite, slamming the door behind him. He exuded such high levels of stress that Mary was momentarily worried he was having some sort of panic attack. Which was precisely the sort of thing she'd been concerned about when he'd left her at the masseuse to head to Santa Croce. He was going to clean up Sherlock's mess, he'd said. It wasn't unusual for the detective to disappear without warning, but John insisted he'd never seen Sherlock ignore a case like this.

Of course, Mary had a very good idea of where Sherlock was and why he wasn't bothering to answer his phone. A much better idea than she desired, really. She'd just been getting relaxed at her spa day with John, had just begun to let go of her anxiety over the disturbing things she'd learned about Sherlock when it all came crashing back down on her. And now on John as well, even if he didn't know what was really going on.

John didn't even look at her, didn't acknowledge her presence. Instead he was making a bee-line for Sherlock's bedroom, his face red with what seemed to be a combination of anger and anxiety. "John?" Mary said with concern, following him. She stood in the doorway as she watched him frantically tossing Sherlock's room - ripping suits from the closet, turning out their pockets, throwing Sherlock's suitcase on the bed and beginning to unzip every pouch. All the while, John was breathing heavily, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Mary could tell this was more of a stress reaction for John than because of physical exertion.

"John, where's Sherlock?" she asked, doing her best to remain neutral. Just what had he found out about Sherlock's extracurricular activities that had led him to toss his friend's room? Mary knew she had to play her cards close to the vest, but frankly John's crazed demeanour had taken her aback.

John's response was more a scoff than an actual answer. He remained focused on whatever it was he was looking for. And Mary was getting a sinking feeling she knew what that was. John had already hinted earlier at his concerns that Sherlock might slide back into drug use in this new, unstable environment. Mary couldn't simply stand back and watch her fiancé implode this way. She stepped close to him and put a hand on his arm, staying him as he was beginning to attempt ripping the lining out of Sherlock's suitcase. "John, tell me what's going on," she said quietly but insistently, in a tone that she reserved for the most serious of situations.

That caused John to stop a moment, to calm down marginally. He froze, breathing heavily and still looking down at the suitcase. "What's going on," he began lowly, "is that Sherlock has relapsed."

He let that hang in the air, and Mary felt her stomach twisting horribly, felt a burning anxious feeling beginning in her chest. She'd tried to steer John away from this line of thinking before, but obviously something else had happened to kick his suspicion into overdrive. But how could she correct him without betraying Sherlock's confidence? "Darling, can we sit down and talk about this. Tell me exactly what happened. You're worrying me."

Finally, John looked at her. When she saw the lost look in his eyes, Mary instinctively reached out for his hand and squeezed it. John gave her a brief grateful expression, then sank onto the edge of the bed. Mary took a seat beside him as he explained, "I finally got Sherlock to answer his mobile. He sounded..." John struggled, clearly having trouble talking about this. Swallowing, he said, "Well, he certainly didn't sound sober. He was slurring his words, seemed distracted, overly chipper. Never mind just the fact of him ignoring the case like this. I've never seen him behave this way."

Mary rubbed his shoulder with one hand and held his hand with the other. None of this was helping her to tamp down her own guilty conscience, though. Of course she knew precisely why Sherlock was behaving this way, the source of his apparent and unusual upbeat mood. The only feeble response she had was, "You know how serious a thing this is to accuse him of. Have you actually asked him about it?"

John sighed raggedly. "Do you remember what happened the last time he was using? He almost died, Mary." Of course she remembered. She recalled how devastated John had been to find out that Sherlock had been injecting cocaine nearly the entire time he'd been off dismantling Moriarty's network. But that paled in comparison to Sherlock overdosing and going into cardiac arrest right in front of John, of the doctor having to perform CPR and use emergency defibrillators to bring his best friend back from the brink of death. Mary had been there, and in spite of her years as a therapist, didn't think she'd ever seen someone in more distress than John had been. But he was edging that direction again now.

"Of course I remember," Mary replied, at a loss for what else to say. She didn't know how she could possibly convince John given the state he was in, given the understandable conclusions he'd reached about why Sherlock was being so cagey, where he'd been all day, why he'd sounded off to his friend. Mary found herself growing angry at Sherlock for having put her in this impossible situation. If he wanted her to keep his secret, he could have at least put a little effort into it himself. Did he have to behave so recklessly?

As Mary grasped pathetically for some way to resolve the scenario, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. "I've got to call Dr. Sayers. Maybe Mycroft. I don't know what it will take to get Sherlock back home, back into rehab..." He closed his eyes tightly, and the pain etched in every line of his face broke Mary's heart. "How could I let this happen again?" John asked, barely above a whisper.

That was more than Mary could take. She was not going to sit here and watch John torture himself over something that wasn't actually happening. She had to tell him at least some measure of the truth. She'd sworn to Sherlock she wouldn't reveal what she'd learned, but right now the alternative would be far worse for him (and for his friendship with John). Mary closed her eyes a moment, took a beat, then said, "It's not drugs."

She opened her eyes to see John rubbing his brow. "I wish I could believe that, but it won't do Sherlock any good for us to be in denial-"

"John," she said, this time more commandingly as she pivoted on the bed to face him. He gave her a surprised look, knowing that rare tone of voice. "I'm telling you, Sherlock's not doing drugs. That's not what's distracting him." John was staring at her intently now, with confusion but also, she detected, some small measure of hopefulness, desperate to hear her out. She couldn't tell him the whole truth. That would be betraying Sherlock's confidence too deeply, and Mary couldn't forget how distressed he had been when she'd walked in on him and his... companion. Feeling as though she were walking a tightrope, Mary drew a deep breath before she said evenly, "It's a woman."

John wasn't sure he'd ever had such a torrent of horrid emotions, thoughts, and fears halted in such an abrupt and unexpected manner. At first, he just felt like he had heard Mary wrong. But as soon as he realised there was literally no other word in the English language he could have mistaken that for, his brain nearly short-circuited on it - woman? Was Mary really suggesting that all of Sherlock's grossly irresponsible behaviour was on account of some woman?

He closed his eyes and let go of Mary's hand, rubbing his forehead in confusion before replying, "What are you talking about? What do you mean he's distracted by a woman? In what way?" Of course he knew what she was insinuating, but now he'd gone from feeling overwhelmingly distressed to unbearably confused in a short amount of time. He needed to let the facts bring him back to earth.

"In the way men are usually distracted by women," Mary said, suggestion lacing her tone.

"Why would you say that?" John asked. It occurred to him that perhaps this was just some suggestion Mary had thrown out of the blue to relieve his distress about the drugs. Except that he knew the tone she'd used, knew it was one of her very serious therapist tones of voice that were reserved for emphasizing absolute truths. But this was the most outrageous thing she could have insinuated. Much more unbelievable than the notion that Sherlock had slipped back into drug use in spite of his intense desire for sobriety. And yet John couldn't disbelieve his future wife. She had to have some reason for thinking this so adamantly...

John's head was starting to throb with the effort to make sense of what Mary was telling him. He took a calming breath before saying, "I'm not saying I don't believe you, I'm just having a very hard time understanding exactly what you're saying. How can you be sure-"

"Because I walked in on them," Mary interrupted bluntly. "Together."

John felt as if the earth's atmosphere had suddenly become unbreathable. As if this planet he'd lived on his whole life were suddenly an alien world. Without air, his head spun, his vision going wobbly. He had enough presence of mind to be glad he was already sitting down, because John was certain otherwise he'd have collapsed to the ground. When he did finally remember how to breathe, he found himself at a loss for words, his mouth hanging open.

Mary must have taken his reaction for continued doubt, because she (horrifyingly) felt the need to clarify, "They were shagging."

John found himself involuntarily leaping up from Sherlock's bed, shaking off a horribly uncomfortable chill. "Yeah, I got that. I just -" John stared at Mary as he grasped for words. All he could think to say at first was, "What, in here?" He gestured around the room, and now Mary popped up from the bed as well.

"No, not here," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Do you think I'm in the habit of walking into Sherlock's bedroom? Certainly not after the first week in Baker Street."

"Right. When I had to get him to agree the only place he could wander around with no pants on was in his room," John recalled. "But you definitely saw Sherlock and this woman...?" He met Mary's eye. If he doubted his fiancée's veracity at all, the sickened look on her face did away with that. No, this had really happened.

And then, without knowing he was going to, John burst out laughing. As he'd earlier rubbed his head in indescribable despair, he now did so with mixed parts indescribable relief and utter shock. Mary, however, was looking at him warily, as if he'd gone a bit mad. Reading her expression, John quelled his laughter and said, "I'm sorry, I'm sure it wasn't funny for you, but this is just so..."

Mary nodded and finally gave a crooked smile. "Believe me, I was just as surprised as you are."

"Oh my God, I can only imagine," John said as he headed out of Sherlock's room and back towards the living room couch. He sat down on it heavily, though now it was as if a weight were rolling off of him rather than landing squarely on his shoulders. Mary sat down beside him, seeming a little less relieved than he was about all this. Of course, she had known all along it wasn't cocaine again. He supposed she must have rather different images of Sherlock to worry about.

John froze a moment, then asked carefully, "Wait, if they weren't in Sherlock's room, where did you manage to walk in on them...?" He blanched. "It wasn't on this was it?" he asked, indicating the couch he was now very aware they were both sat on.

Mary regarded him a moment, as if uncertain she should say any more. But perhaps it was the sheer insanity of the situation and the need to talk through it with someone else, but she gave in. She grimaced a moment before she said with woeful humour, "Kitchen table."

John's eyebrows shot up."Bloody hell, we've never even done that," he muttered, and couldn't help sounding impressed. Mary slapped him on the shoulder good-naturedly.

"Obviously I'm relieved," John added. "It explains Sherlock's strange behaviour. Certainly explains why he seemed so chipper. Though the slurring..." He frowned. "I suppose he- they have probably been drinking." It felt a strange thing to say, an even stranger thing to imagine. Sherlock spending an afternoon in Florence having sex with some woman and getting plastered. Everything about it felt incredibly wrong, and yet it strangely fit the facts. John shook his head. "I'm not necessarily happy about him getting drunk, given his other vices. But it's better than the alternative. Still, I can't believe all this time I've been trying to work the case, he's been off doing that. I know it's the sort of thing one normally expects from an adult human..."

"Whatever else he is," Mary noted, "he is that. We have to trust him... to some degree." She seemed unsettled and not at all certain of what she was saying. More like she was trying to convince herself as well as John.

Well, he certainly understood her hesitation. With a bit of a smile, John said, "Frankly, I'm not entirely sure we can trust Sherlock to be an adult human, but it's better than what I thought was going on."

To his surprise, that bit of humour only made Mary more uneasy. Hesitantly, she said, "Trust is a complicated thing..."

John could sense the guilt pouring off his fiancée, and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze before saying, "I'm guessing you weren't supposed to say anything judging by how long you held out, but honestly, I don't think I could have gone on much longer thinking he was ... you know."

"I know," Mary acknowledged. With a twist of her lips, she added, "But you're right, I wasn't supposed to say anything. Sherlock made me promise not to."

"Well I'm not going to rat you out," John promised. "Honestly, you've saved him from a very unpleasant drug testing process. Not to mention having to face Mycroft about it. And you've kept me from having a heart attack in the process. So if ever gossiping could be considered a good deed, this is it. Honestly, after what I've been thinking, and now hearing this instead..." John laughed again and shook his head. "I mean, you actually walked in on Sherlock Holmes having sex with some woman on our kitchen table. You can't ask me not to be dead curious about everything. Even if we just keep this between the two of us." Honestly, after the stress he'd been experiencing, John felt he needed this.

Mary hesitated, but a good long look at John's face seemed to convince her. Though she didn't sound quite as giddy and relieved about the whole thing as he was feeling, she at least was human enough to nod and say, "You'll understand if I can't tell you very much..."

"Look, you've already put me off ever eating at that table," John said with a smile. "I don't need or want the gory details. I'm just trying to reconcile this very incongruous revelation with a man who is about as asexual as anyone I've ever met." He tried to think back to any conversations he'd had with Sherlock about this particular topic. Of course, one did stand out above all the others.

John scratched at the side of his face as he said, "Though you know, when he came back to London after... everything, he did tell me he'd lost his virginity. Well, I mean I heard him say something to Sally Donovan that prompted me to ask about it. I think he kind of wanted me to know, to be honest. Sort of a schoolboy moment of bragging."

"Because sex is something grown men never brag about," Mary replied with a roll of her eyes.

"Thing is, I wasn't quite sure I believed him. He never mentioned it again and I almost started to wonder if I'd imagined it. Obviously not." He really needed Mary to help him understand this whole thing. Not just for prurient reasons or gossip, but because this was a paradigm-shifting revelation with regards to Sherlock. Accepting that not only had his friend become sexually active, but he was evidently so infatuated with a woman that it was actually distracting from his work. The full extent of this was just now sinking in, and it occurred to John that regardless of the cause, Sherlock had still been completely ignoring his case. And that was cause for concern. What woman could have done that to him?

"Okay, I ask this out of a genuine desire to understand what's going on with Sherlock, how he got himself into this situation," John said carefully.

"All right..." Mary said, looking like she was bracing herself.

"What was this woman like?" John asked. He wanted to know what kind of woman could have turned Sherlock in such a significant way. There was some logic to his having lost his virginity while supposedly dead; anyone could become desperate enough for human contact and interaction at a certain point. John had assumed that was what happened with the woman Sherlock had told him about before. Not to mention, Sherlock hadn't been sober most of that time, so who knew how that had affected his judgement. Still, what kind of woman attracted the attention of Sherlock Holmes?

Mary seemed extremely hesitant to tell him that. "I'm really not supposed to say. I've already said much more than I ought to have."

"Just the basics?" John ventured. He wasn't certain why this was so interesting to him. There was just some niggling desire in the back of his mind to piece this together, to figure out as much of it as he could. That's what Sherlock would do, John thought by way of justifying it to himself. Perhaps it was an invasion of privacy, but then how much privacy could one expect when he did this thing in the common area of a shared hotel suite? No, John deserved to know at least a little about who this mystery woman was.

Mary looked away, opening her mouth a moment before closing it. Clearly thinking this through. Her lips were pursed tightly when she looked back at her fiancé. At first John thought she might cut the conversation off right there, but instead she said carefully, "She was beautiful. Dark hair, light eyes. Smartly dressed."

"They didn't get undressed?" John asked involuntarily, once again surprised by the sort of scene Mary had evidently walked in on. Mary gave him a look, and he replied guiltily, "Sorry, go on."

"She was Italian, she seemed..." Mary grimaced slightly before carefully saying, "commanding."

John blinked a moment, feeling suddenly sobered. While he'd certainly been a little concerned about what kind of woman could distract Sherlock to his extent, John hadn't even thought about that other Woman. Not until something clicked in the way Mary described the woman Sherlock was with now. But now he realised there might be more method to how Sherlock had chosen this particular woman. And his previous concerns about Sherlock's psychological state resurfaced to some extent. If he was going after a woman that reminded him of that one... John shuddered a little.

Then something else occurred to him. Frowning, he asked, "Did he happen to say... it wasn't the same woman as before, was it? His... first, I mean." That might indicate this whole thing was a little more planned than John had previously assumed. Which was a sobering thought. John finally felt he was coming down from the shock he'd taken at this revelation, and could now think a little more straight. He suddenly understood where Mary's uneasiness may have been coming from. Judging by her reaction alone, John's guess was right. Which finally drained all the humour from the situation. It occurred to John that Mary may have already realised this was a premeditated situation, and judging by the fact that she'd clearly spoken to Sherlock when this unfortunate event had happened, that may have been the substance of her talk with Sherlock.

Mary looked more uncomfortable now than John had ever seen her, and now he felt he understood the reasons a bit better. She must have her own concerns about Sherlock's behaviour, and possibly her own further knowledge of the details. She plead with him, "Please, John, I really can't tell you any more. As much as I wish I could. You're concerned, and you're right to be... but I promised Sherlock I wouldn't say anything. If he finds out I told you any of this, he may really never tell me anything again."

John was sympathetic to her plight. It had taken a good chunk of the six months the three of them had lived together before Sherlock had seemed comfortable with Mary's constant presence. But now what he was gathering about this woman had made him extremely uneasy. John felt the need to explain and somewhat excuse himself. "I don't want to put you in a bad way with Sherlock. Just when you described this woman she certainly seems... his type."

"He has a type?" Mary asked, clearly still uncomfortable with revealing more herself, but willing to ask questions of John at least. And he did owe her further explanation of his concerns.

John rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "I just realised this woman sounds like someone who might remind him of... well, the Woman, so he called her. The only woman I've ever seen him show interest in." His lips twisted into a grimace. "Well, more than interest, really. Obsession. And you know what kind of obsessive personality he can have..."

Mary nodded in growing understanding, "You mean the Adler woman?"

Just hearing the name send a shudder up John's spine, which was soon followed by the residual anger and tension thinking of her always brought on. "Irene Adler," John said lowly, by way of confirming Mary's question. He had never told her the full story of how that woman had manipulated and emotionally devastated Sherlock. It had felt somehow too intrusive to give those details, even to Mary. Only a few people knew of Sherlock's shameful behaviour in that scenario, of the near-disastrous results. John himself didn't know precisely how their final confrontation had gone down. Mycroft's files on the incident, which he'd leant to John, only indicated the facts of the case, with dry descriptions of her actions towards Sherlock as if they were merely tactical moves. Which, in the end, John realised they were.

Surely Sherlock had come to understand that himself? Based on the last conversation they'd had, though, John knew in his gut that this wasn't the case. He knew very well that Sherlock had retained residual feelings for Irene, even after everything that had happened. On a human level, John understood that it was impossible to simply shut off your feelings for someone. It was just that he'd never expected Sherlock to operate on that level.

John realised he'd gone a very long time without speaking, having turned his mind inward. He now noticed Mary staring at him intently, curious. He knew that she'd told him some things she was uncomfortable with sharing. Perhaps he ought to do the same. Though something in the back of his mind bristled at the possibility of betraying Sherlock, in the end, John reasoned, both he and Mary had the detective's best interest at heart. They ought to both be fully informed.

"I'm just a little concerned that he might have slipped into a bit of projection. Fantasising." As unnerving as that sounded in reference to Sherlock, John couldn't think of another explanation.

Going by the way Mary's face blanched, John knew he must be on to something. The psychologist swallowed, then said carefully, the distress evident in her voice, "I don't know much about the Adler woman. Just that she lured him in, played him, took advantage of his... inexperience." She exhaled, clearly uncomfortable. "Honestly, I never looked into it or asked you more about it because it felt too intrusive. If her whole goal was to humiliate Sherlock, it seemed that simply talking about it would give her another victory."

"Maybe, but you deserve to know the context. Especially if he's really trying to... I dunno, relive some kind of obsession with Irene..."

The thought made John feel ill. But when he looked at Mary, he saw the compassion in her eyes. And he took a moment to appreciate the kindness and consideration Mary had for their notably difficult flatmate. He had been so worried early on that they would have some kind of major dust up, that Sherlock's numerous audacious activities around the flat would eventually push he and Mary into a confrontation. But they'd made it through all that. Through the rehab, through all of John's worrying about his sometimes unstable friend, through the body parts in the fridge. And now for her to have to deal with this... well, it was something John himself didn't ever imagine having to face. Let alone having poor Mary walk in on such a thing.

At the very least, she deserved to understand why he was now growing concerned for Sherlock. After all they'd been through, Sherlock had become Mary's friend as well. And he would remain part of this strange pseudo-family indefinitely. It may be embarrassing to Sherlock, but ultimately, John reasoned, it seemed reasonable not to keep Mary in the dark.

John gave a long sigh before making his decision, reaching for Mary's laptop on the coffee table and flipping it open. "What are you doing?" she asked cautiously.

"You've seen the imitation. You ought to see the original. I don't know, maybe you can make sense of what the hell Sherlock's doing and why. Obviously I'm glad he's not on the cocaine again, but if he's using this woman as..." He didn't really want to finish that thought, but was certain by her expression that Mary understood the gravity of where he was going. Attempting to lighten his own mood, John added, "That PhD in psychology has to be good for something, eh?"

Mary did smile a little at that. Though she still seemed incredibly uneasy with this whole scenario. Not that John could blame her. She'd clearly not only walked in on Sherlock in a compromising situation; she'd actually then spoken to him about it. That was enough to do anyone's head in.

Finally, John hit the return key on the search query he'd typed in Google. In the half second before the search results appeared, he braced himself as well as he could for the horrible memories he knew he's be facing.

Then there she was - Irene Adler, the Woman, Sherlock Holmes's stunning, brilliant, cruel Achilles heel. John's stomach twisted and the residual anger in the back of his mind spiked to something teetering on momentary rage. He could not believe what that woman had done to Sherlock, both in the sense of what she was willing to do and how hard he was willing to fall for it. He swallowed hard before turning the screen so Mary could get a better look. "That's her," he said through gritted teeth.

Mary blinked. Then blinked again, longer this time, as if attempting to reboot her eyes. A deep frown of confusion creased her forehead. Eventually, she said tentatively, "Yes, that's her. But how on earth did you find a photo of her...?"

Now John's confusion matched hers. "What do you mean? She had a public website. She was a dominatrix - not exactly the type to hide."

"But how did you know where to look for her? You never even saw this woman," Mary asked.

"Irene...?" he prompted. What did she mean he'd never seen her? They seemed to be talking at cross-purposes somehow.

"No," Mary said slowly, by way of explanation, "Not Irene, that woman." She pointed to the computer screen. "The one Sherlock was... with."

Something unsettling was stirring within John's chest, niggling at the back of his brain. But he did his best to tamp that down, to dismiss it. He wasn't quite sure what Mary was getting at, but he was quite sure this uncertainty was putting him on edge. He took a breath before saying slowly, "Let me be clear: the woman you caught Sherlock with looked like this woman," he indicated the screen, "Irene Adler?"

Now Mary paled, her jaw dropping open momentarily as she looked at the photo once again, then back at John. She looked as though something had finally clicked for her. "No, John," the rock-hard therapist voice from earlier had now turned to diamond. "That's her. That's the woman Sherlock was... the woman I met."

The sound dropped out of the room, leaving John's ears ringing as time seemed to slow down. He could feel the blood rushing out of his face, could feel his limbs going cold. At the same time, his chest felt suddenly warm, almost burning, and constricted. It took him a few seconds to realize he hadn't even let out the carbon dioxide in his lungs, let alone breathed in new oxygen. When John did suck in a breath, it was shaky and did nothing to calm his racing heart or steady his wavering equilibrium. He was once again glad to be sitting down, though he still braced himself against the armrest of the couch.

Then, the haze in his brain cleared, and a flood of realizations hit him in rapid succession.

Irene Adler. Alive.

Sherlock knew.

For how long? Long enough to have seen her when he was supposedly dead.

'See' her. No, call it what it was. They were fucking. He'd let himself be seduced by that-

And to carry on here, now. In the middle of a case.

Irene Adler. The Woman. The terrorist. The woman who beat him.

No, worse. The Woman who ripped out a heart John had hardly known Sherlock had.

Doing it again.

Irene Adler, alive all this time, and Sherlock knew. That son of a bitch. That incomprehensible idiot.

It was at this moment, when John's shock had started to snowball into fury, that the door to the suite swung open, and Sherlock Holmes entered with a spring in his step, as if he hadn't been recklessly delaying their case for hours. The kind of stride normally reserved for excitement over a case lead. Only he hadn't been on the case. He hadn't been anywhere near it. He'd been shagging the somehow alive Irene Adler all afternoon instead. The thought brought a taste of bile into John's mouth, but he could tell straight away he was right. Sherlock's hair was damp, having clearly just showered. As if that could wipe off the absolute filth he'd exposed himself to.

But it was the spring, the near-swagger in his step that pushed John over the edge. Sherlock had just begun to say, "Tell me that imbecile Rinaldi turned over the-" when John, unaware of what he was doing and unable to stop himself, shot up from the couch and barrelled straight into the consulting detective. Normally alert and with good reaction times, the lackadaisical Sherlock did not have time to counter. Instead, John tackled his friend, both of them tumbling over the living room chair and onto the floor with a loud thud. Sherlock gave a sharp moan as the wind was knocked out of him.

Without pausing to consider what the hell he was doing, John rolled onto his knees straight away, grabbed Sherlock by the slightly damp collar of his shirt and hauled him up off the ground to a seated position. Still struggling to catch his breath, and by the look in his eyes completely confused (and possibly, John thought, still a bit drunk), Sherlock was unable to counter before John growled in his friend's face, "You lying bastard!"

"John-" Sherlock started in confusion, but was cut off by an abrupt, direct punch in the mouth that caught him entirely off-guard. Not to mention, his lower lip began bleeding instantly, and he looked a little dazed. Normally Sherlock could have flipped the situation, gotten the advantage on John in hand-to-hand combat. After all, the detective had spent a year and a half surviving a hunt for a network of the world's most dangerous people. He'd picked up some skills along the way. But evidently that could not prepare the inebriated, irrationally loose detective for the shock of John's uncontrollable anger.

With Sherlock's eyes locked on him in utter confusion, John knew he'd done something difficult - he'd gotten the detective's full attention. His grip tightened on Sherlock's shirt as John shouted in pure rage, "You've been with Irene fucking Adler!"

For once, it was Sherlock's turn to go white with shock.