Pardon Me Too

Chapter 1.

"What's this?" asked John. He held a piece of paper aloft. The top of the paper was embossed with the words "Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth". It was a letter which Sherlock had found folded into the Royal Prerogative of Mercy order which the Queen had granted him earlier in the day.

The effect of the order granted was two-fold. Firstly, it pardoned Sherlock for the death of Charles Augustus Magnussen, a newspaper magnate whom he'd dispatched with a single gunshot the previous Christmas Day. Magnussen had been a threat to John and Mary's lives, which had been enough justification for Sherlock to act. But he'd also been a blackmailing thorn in the side of the governments of numerous countries, so few mourned his loss. Least of all the Queen, who was unofficially pleased at Magnussen's elimination from the world scene.

But her real motivation for the pardon was a more practical one. To maintain it, Sherlock would have to work with the British Security Services-under the supervision of Mycroft. The nation would benefit more than ever from Sherlock's efforts and Mycroft would work hard to keep him in line. In addition, Mycroft (who was known to go rogue occasionally himself) would owe Elizabeth an enormous debt of gratitude. The inevitable fireworks between the brothers notwithstanding, it was a win-win for Her Majesty.

"George Smith," Sherlock answered, taking the letter from John.

"The barber on Gower Street?"

"No," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A bit more important man than the one whose been giving you those awful military flat tops lately."

John's hand went reflexively to his head. "What's wrong with my hair?" he asked.

"Too short. Makes you look…" Sherlock waved his hand, too disinterested to select an adjective. "No, this George Smith has a very contentious history with the Royal Family."

"Worse than telling the Queen to shove off when she tries to save your life?" John asked wryly.

Sherlock glared. "I didn't," he muttered.

"Actually, you did," John answered. "Without equivocation, I might add. A big flat 'no'. To the Queen".

"She was sending me to prison. That's what working with Mycroft will be like—I'd prefer a gulag."

"She was keeping you from one. Having to work with your brother is not the same as languishing in solitary confinement at Pentonville, Sherlock. Or at least it's not as bad."

"Agree to disagree," Sherlock muttered.

"Anyway, who is George Smith?" asked John.

"The more pertinent question is what was George Smith." Sherlock said, steepling his hands beneath his chin.

"Ok," sighed John. It seemed that Sherlock was in a pedantic mood. "What was he?"

"A threat. A somewhat ridiculous one by today's standards, but a threat at the time nonetheless."

"Sherlock," said John wearily. "Just tell me." Sherlock sighed. He hated when John wouldn't indulge his sense of drama.

"Fine. In 2003, George Smith was working at the Palace. He claimed that he was raped by a member of Prince Charles' staff, Michael Fawcett. It was an enormous scandal, even I heard about it. You would have been off faffing about in Afghanistan then, or otherwise putting your neck on the line for Her Majesty."

"I was fighting a war, Sherlock," John responded through gritted teeth.

"Whatever," he responded. "The Royal Family was fighting one of their own at home. The rape charges were bad enough, but what particularly drove the point close to home was that Fawcett and the Prince were said to be good friends—exceedingly good friends. They were seen together socially to an unusual degree, Fawcett often traveled with the Prince, They even did business together. According to Smith, they did something more as well—he's said to have caught them in bed together while delivering the Prince's morning repast." Sherlock relayed. "Well, the Family couldn't have that. Bad enough that the Prince's marriage to Diana was circling the drain before her death. Having him dragged out of the closet as well—whether the allegation was true or not-was just too rich a pot of scandal for the Windsors."

"That can't be true. I would have heard of it at some point," John protested. "And besides, who would really care if the story was true or not? This isn't the dark ages."

"The most powerful family in the Kingdom cared a great deal," Sherlock said. "The Prince was still married at the time of the alleged events. If the Family frowned on his dalliances with Camilla, having them extend into a same sex relationship would cause a royal implosion. They very much wanted the story to go away. Poor George Smith knocked on a lot of doors to get his side of the story heard, but his credibility was repeatedly attacked." Sherlock's lips tightened. "That tactic may sound familiar from when it was employed so well by Moriarty against me."

John shuddered. Watching Moriarty (aided by Sherlock's enemies within Scotland Yard) decimate Sherlock's reputation while bringing him under suspicion for committing the crimes he'd devoted his life to solving had been like being trapped in a nightmare. One which ended with Sherlock's apparently fatal fall from St. Bartholemew's Hospital. The conviction that he'd been driven to his death by jackals of the press feeding on his life still resonated with John, even though reports of his death had been proven to be premature.

"Smith was all but crucified. An influential talking head on the radio declared him to be 'the most unreliable source for any story on anything anywhere in the United Kingdom.'" No mincing words there. Publication of the story has been censored in the UK, although the Scots ran with it, as did the Republic of Ireland. If I understand the situation correctly—and I do—Smith lost his job, his marriage and his children, but never backed away from his account of the facts." Sherlock smiled grimly. "Our Government can be quite beneficent with its attention when it decides to tear a person's life apart."

"The Family didn't dirty its hands directly in the affair, of course. As in all things, it called in an expert in disemboweling someone by exploiting his sexual history."

"A tabloid reporter?" John asked. He'd never forgiven the rag which led a one woman charge in the form of Kitty Reilly against Sherlock before his "suicide".

"No, I said an expert. Someone who could be counted on to get results and keep their machinations out of the public eye. Someone who has lived and breathed secrecy, keeping those of others quiet as if they were the nuclear codes. Someone highly skilled in sexual espionage."

"A spy?" John asked.

"Maybe, this person's job description has evolved in interesting directions over the past few years." Sherlock said wryly.

"You know this person, then?"

"Yes. So do you," Sherlock noted.

He stood and went to a small cabinet beside a front window of 221B. Pulling open a drawer, he withdrew an object. As he walked back toward John, the latter's eyes widened with recognition.

"That's the phone, the Woman's phone." John sputtered. "That's Irene Adler's phone. Are you saying that she was involved in burying the lead on the Prince Charles story?"

"No," said Sherlock with a slight smile. "I'm saying that she's leading the charge on bringing the story back to light."

John stared at him for several long moments. Then, in a tone which suggested that he was a few breaths from an explosion, he said "Irene Adler is dead. Mycroft said she was dead. You said she was dead. The Government's own damn file on her said she is dead."

"The Government's own damn file on me said the same, yet here I am."

"Doesn't anyone stay dead around you?" John snorted in exasperation.

"Magnussen will," Sherlock answered quietly. The balloon of John's indignation at being left out of the loop on Irene deflated. He sank back into his chair.

"So, walk me through it."

"The Woman was driven from England and hasn't been able to return without risk of my brother doing something stupid." Sherlock said.

"Mycroft doesn't know she's alive?" asked John incredulously. Sherlock nodded. "How in the hell did she pull that off?"

"She had help," smirked Sherlock. John just stared in response, slightly open-mouthed. "But apparently her willingness to live the ex-pat life has run out and…what?"

John was slicing his hand across his throat. "Stop a moment. Just stop," he commanded.

Sherlock sighed. He knew what had captured John's attention and believed it to be irrelevant to, well, anything.

"The point is that she's found a wedge into Mycroft's defenses, a path to extort her way home. It's elegant, really-".

"No," repeated John. "I don't care. Or at least I don't care just now. Let's return to the 'help' she received."

Sherlock ignored him. "She's gone over his head in the only way possible, to the person with power greater than his own. If the Queen presses her cause…oh, fine. Just ask," he snapped.

John leaned forward, hands on his knees. He sat quietly for a moment, then dropped his gaze to Sherlock's hand. Changing tactics, he cut straight to the question which most concerned him, rather than focusing on the what, when and why of Irene Adler's survival.

"You kept it, her phone," he said, nodding to the mobile phone Sherlock was still holding. "Why?"

"It wasn't worth the effort of discarding." Sherlock's voice was firm, but his gaze shifted away.

"You deleted the solar system from your memory, Sherlock. Tossing an old phone into the bin would have been a piece of cake. Why did you keep it?" John asked insistently.

"Why does it matter? I have a bull's skull too, but you don't question me about that," Sherlock said. John sighed.

"Fine, moving on. She had help. Your help, yes?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. He nodded but kept his lips pressed together. Everything about his attitude screamed "off limits." John simply sat with an air of infinite patience. Finally, Sherlock bit out an explanation.

"She is a person of rare intelligence. Had I not intervened, she would have been killed. That would have been a waste, and I despise waste." John sat expectantly, eyebrows raised. Sherlock huffed. "That is all," he said sharply. When John still didn't speak, Sherlock stood and began to pace and fill the silence.

"Your persistence in attaching sentimental significance to my behavior is tiresome, John. As I've told you, I have no such notions. My interest in women is no different than my interest in men—minimal and entirely pragmatic. All of my passion is reserved for my work. People are merely to be endured, used, ignored and, very rarely, enjoyed." Sherlock said this last with a quick look to confirm that John understood his place in the pecking order.

John nodded solemnly, then asked with an excess of sincerity, "OK. Mycroft told me she'd died at the hands of insurgents in Afghanistan. What category do "people you risk your neck to rescue from terrorists" fall into? Endured, used, ignored or-" John grinned. "Enjoyed?"

"Oh, stop it," muttered Sherlock.

"Alone together in the desert, adrenaline rushing through your veins after saving a damsel in distress…yes, sounds potentially very enjoyable. Very enjoyable, indeed," John mused, grin widening.

Sherlock glared. "She's gay, John," he retorted.

"She also called you her 'exception'," John shot back. Looking at the outrage crossing Sherlock's face, he couldn't decide which was more fun—this turn in the conversation or Sherlock's earlier disastrous meeting with the Queen. Something about seeing Sherlock firmly on his back foot was delicious. Dangerous as poking an angry bear, but too rare an opportunity to let pass by without milking it.

"As I was saying," growled Sherlock. "What matters is that Ms. Adler is no longer playing in what the Americans call the minor leagues. She's gone straight to the top of the British hierarchy, at the risk of being not only refused, but hunted. Not to mention the potential fallout of putting my brother's considerable nose out of joint. That means that she had powerful motivation to act. But what is it? And why pursue it now?"

"She misses you?" mused John with a smirk.

Sherlock responded by flinging the Woman's mobile back into his desk and slamming the drawer with enough force to bounce it back open. He stalked to the door of the flat and made to leave.

"Fine, fine, I'll quit," John said placatingly. "Just tell me this—do you think her involvement has anything at all to do with Moriarty's image popping up all over London?"

Sherlock stopped, clearly debating whether to continue his strop or return to the topic at hand. He decided on the latter.

"I don't know. It doesn't seem possible, but once you've discarded the improbable-"

"Whatever remains must be the truth, however impossible," John interrupted. "I know. So what do you do now? Besides turn up at Mycroft's office to work your shift on Monday morning."

Sherlock ignored the last, although his shoulders stiffened slightly. He returned to his desk and retrieved the Woman's phone. After examining it for a moment, he pressed in numbers and raised the phone to his ear. "I have a phone call to make," he said, lips twisting. "To an old friend."

"Bit risky, her interacting with you. Your past gallantry aside, what makes you think she'll come out of hiding to talk?" asked John.

"I can offer some powerful motivation too," Sherlock responded.

"Which is?" got in John just before he heard the sounds of the phone ringing the number Sherlock had dialed.

"Dinner," said Sherlock grimly.