A/N: Two in one night because it's just that sort of a night.

A new chapter: In which Irene is naughty, and John is made increasingly uncomfortable as the story goes on. Contains what may be the dirtiest couple of paragraphs I've ever written. I'm sure you'll delight in them.

Irene wrinkled her nose in disdain at the site of 221B Baker Street. The last time she'd been there, the flat had been decked out in Christmas decorations and had possessed a certain welcoming, warm tone to it. Now it rather looked as though a bomb had gone off.

"My god," she exclaimed, taken aback, "have you been setting off explosives or something?" Her tone lacked her usual grace and tact, but she was so appalled at the state of her surroundings that restraint failed her entirely.

"Sorry..." John murmured, and began making a feeble effort to clean up.

"No, I'm sorry," Irene remembered her manners, "That was rude of me." She overcame her initial disgust and made a quick evaluation of the room. Something unpleasant had happened there the previous night. Adding Sherlock's appearance and what little she'd overheard while following them, she had narrowed it down to a small list of possibilities, all involving some kind of mental breakdown.

"Well, you're here," Sherlock said expectantly. "Nice, quiet environment where nobody will be listening in, seeing as everyone of note believes the former inhabitants are either dead or residing elsewhere. Now I believe there was something you wanted to tell us?"

Irene actually thought about simply cooperating for a moment, but decided to stall once again for the sheer fun of playing head games with the boys. "I'm not going to tell you anything more until you've cleaned yourself up a bit. Frankly, Mr. Holmes, you smell of sick, sweat, and I don't even know what else, and you look as though you've contracted some sort of rotting disease."

John chuckled, then realized it was inappropriate and pretended as though he hadn't. "She's probably right, Sherlock" he said seriously, "Best you clean up a bit. After all, you've had..." he glanced at Irene, and seemed to reconsider whatever he was saying, "a rough night. I think there's a box upstairs with some of your old clothes. They're a bit dusty, but they're probably better than what you've got.

Sherlock scowled like a small child being told to eat his vegetables, but after the two of them stared him down, he sighed and gave up. "Well, if it's so terribly important that I look presentable", he said with sarcasm heavier than a lead weight, "I suppose I'll go freshen up." He stalked off melodramatically. "Make sure she doesn't try anything, John," he called as he left the room.

"I'm shocked you would think such a thing of me!" Irene called after him in a mock-hurt voice.

Irene then experienced the rather novel sensation of an awkward pause, as John pursed his lips and avoided her gaze. The uncomfortable silence was a rare and mysterious creature to her, and she took a moment to appreciate it. She took off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair; beneath it she wore a button-down blouse and a pair of dress pants, and deciding she looked too boyish, pulled the pin from her hair and allowed her long dark locks to fall over her shoulders. She felt more powerful when she looked more feminine. Then she sat in an armchair across from John, and after staring at him long enough to make him uncomfortable, broke the silence.

"Well, since we're just waiting here for Sherlock, how about we talk about him behind his back?" she suggested calmly to John.

"What?" John replied, bewildered.

"Oh, come on," Irene replied, putting on her best impersonation of a gossiping school girl, "I know how you feel about him. I saw you holding hands and everything."

"Excuse me, but how old are you?" John asked, with that short fake laugh preceding the angry comeback, a combination she had seen him use several times before.

"You're right, that was immature. I'm sorry," she replied, backing off and holding her hands up defensively. That didn't mean she was any less curious, of course. The relationship between these two men had fascinated her since the day she met them.

"There is something different between you two, though, isn't there?" she asked, more serious this time. "And don't tell me I'm wrong," she added, foreseeing his denial, "because I can tell."

"You were only following us for a short while..." John began to protest, flustered.

"And for me, that's enough."

Irene had the ability to read people, to understand them, just like Sherlock, only she was far more specialized in her use of that talent. She was capable of making just as many deductions about any given aspect of someone's life, but she always focused on sex first and foremost. After all, it was how she made her way in the world, and so it was the most practical application of her talent. Women were a bit more challenging than men, which was of course why she generally tended to prefer them, but really, she could tell "what someone liked" from very little information. She had near-perfect "gaydar," as much as she disliked the term, and she could spot a pervert a mile away.

And so when she'd come across Sherlock Holmes, of course she'd been fascinated, because she couldn't tell what he liked. Through everything that had happened, she left in the end never really knowing for sure how he felt about her or what had been going on in his head. She'd fallen for the mystery of him completely, and while she now considered herself to be over her infatuation with him, his hidden desires were still an intriguing subject to her.

And then there had been John. John was not the enigma that Sherlock was, had not so utterly escaped her understanding, but he had still puzzled her. Such a strong, passionate display of concern for Sherlock, and an obvious jealousy of his relationship with her, and yet he so persistently denied anything romantic or sexual about his feelings for the other man. He was a piece of work, to be certain.

John coughed slightly. "Look, what's between…Me and Sherlock right now, it's…it's complicated, all right?" He hung his head and suddenly looked very downtrodden, and Irene felt a strange jolt of sympathy for him.

"It doesn't seem very complicated to me," she replied. He glanced up at her in surprise and she went on. "Oh, come on, it's obvious you've been in love with him for ages. I told you I could see it years ago, remember?" His ears turned red, and she knew he was flashing back to that confrontation at the power station where he had so adamantly, lovingly defended Sherlock and then rather pathetically insisted on his heterosexuality. "I know a man in denial when I see one John." When he didn't make any argument, she continued to analyze aloud the change in their relationship. "You've always loved him, but it's different now, isn't it?" Her eyes narrowed. "After all this time without him, suddenly you got him back, and he was really there, in the flesh…" She smiled deviously "It got…physical."

"Are you jealous?" John replied, looking up at her calmly.

Irene blinked in delightful shock. She'd been expecting further discomfort and denial. Instead, John gazed back at her with one eyebrow calmly raised and just a hint of a mischievous smirk as he confirmed her theory in a carefully indirect reply.

"John Watson, I'm surprised at you!" she said with a smile, feeling almost proud of him. "And no, of course I'm not jealous," she added as an afterthought.

"Really?" John replied, maintaining his slightly suggestive expression. "I was led to believe you fancied Sherlock yourself."

Irene was slightly embarrassed now, both because he had caught her so off guard and because he knew she had feelings for Sherlock. She took her revenge cautiously. "Well, yes," she admitted, careful not to show that he'd flummoxed her. "But that's alright…" she stood up and walked over to his chair, then leaned over him. She slid one knee between his, arched her back so he was eye-level with her chest, then stroked his very puzzled face with one hand, turning it upwards to look her in the eyes. "After all, you're a handsome man," she said, lowering her face so that her lips were almost touching his. He seemed to be frozen in place. "I wouldn't mind sharing him with you."

All the blood had drained from John's face, and as she could feel where it relocated to, she knew she had won this little game. And while her remark was meant simply to tease the poor man, she found herself giving the notion some actual consideration as she backed off and returned to her chair.

John made a few fumbling attempts at beginning a sentence, and was thankfully saved by Sherlock rejoining them, in the process of buttoning up a slightly musty suit jacket.

"Am I acceptable?" he said, spreading his arms with overwhelmingly spiteful sarcasm.

"You'll do for now," Irene replied, looking him over thoughtfully, "though you really should do something about the hair as soon as you can, it looks dreadful."

"Yes, well, you'll have to forgive me if a trip to the salon isn't precisely at the top of my list of priorities for the moment," Sherlock replied nastily. He slumped lazily against a wall and she couldn't help but notice how very thin he had gotten. "Now, can we at last get to the point? Why are you in London, now of all times?"

Irene sighed. She'd put this off long enough, she supposed, it was time to start cooperating. "As a matter of fact, it actually has to do with you."

"I thought so," he replied with a thoughtful smile. "Someone is trying to bring us together."

"Yes, from what you said before I gather that's the case. I was hired, if you must know."

"To do what?" John asked. She needed only to cast him a meaningful glance for him to realize what a remarkably stupid question that was. "Right," he said quietly, looking ashamed.

Irene cleared her throat delicately and went on. "I was approached by a woman who wanted to hire me for a session with some very specific requests." She rarely disclosed much information about her clients, but this was an unusual situation. "If I have to be honest, I found it a bit…alarming. For one thing, she knew my real name. I haven't used the name "Irene Adler" professionally since the last time I saw you."

"I'm sorry," John interjected, "But I don't understand, how does that have to do with Sherlock?" he looked terribly confused.

"Well," Irene began, and to her own horror suddenly felt her face turning red. My god, she thought, I'm actually embarrassed to say it to his face. "The, ah, the specific requests that I mentioned were, uh…" I'm stuttering. I've never stuttered in my life. This is ridiculous. "She wanted me too…dressuplikesherlockholmes." She said it as fast as she could and then inhaled deeply, trying to regain her composure. "The coat, the scarf, the deerstalker hat…"

"Why would anyone…" John began, sputtering helplessly. To her surprise, Sherlock reacted visibly as well, grimacing obviously, though he clearly understood better than John.

"Obviously it wasn't a real fetish or desire, John," Irene said, rolling her eyes, though she could understand where the doctor's disgust was coming from. "It was her way of telling me what this was really about. It's not a real client at all. This was somebody saying 'we know about you, we know about him, and if you don't do what we want you'll be in trouble.' That's all."

"Still, it's sick." John replied.

"Nobody's arguing with you, John." Sherlock replied, his voice still laced with disgust.

"Anyway, I knew it was probably a trap, but I couldn't think what else to do, so here I am. What now?" Irene asked, trying to progress through this uncomfortable moment.

"Well," Sherlock stood up straight and suddenly went into thinking mode. "We know some person or persons have for whatever reasoned summoned both of us out of hiding in a threatening and cryptic manner. It is therefore a logical assumption that we have both been approached by the same party, and they most likely expect us to meet and collaborate."

"Are these probably the same people who sent Lestrade that strange text message?" John piped up.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed, and pointed at John enthusiastically. "Very good. Now, it is quite obvious that we are all being manipulated. However, we have little in the way of information or resources to investigate further. How would you suggest we proceed, Miss Adler?" he asked pointedly.

"Well, I've never broken a commitment to a client before," she replied mischievously. The best plan, of course, was to play right into their hands until they had something. "I'd hate to spoil my record. Why don't you boys come along? The more the merrier, right John?" She cast him a truly evil smile, to which he responded with a look of horror.

Sherlock just looked confused.