John cursed Irene Adler as he looked frantically around the room. There had to be another way out of here, didn't there? She couldn't have thought of everything.

Or, maybe she could. He had a number of options, but none were the kind he liked. He could sit here and wait to be arrested. He could stroll outside and be shot. He could try sneaking out like a normal person and risk being arrested or shot.

Or he could use his gift to get safely away without risking life and limb but leaving evidence behind so that he could be blackmailed for the rest of his life.

The cameras were the real problem. He supposed they must work in the dark, but had no idea how his gift's shimmer effect would show on an night-vision camera. And what if she had a heat-sensitive one as well? But then, what if he just shot out the cameras? Of course, there might be hidden cameras (there probably were), but … in the dark, with at least fewer cameras? With him concentrating as hard as he could on NOT being filmed? (Because it's not like Mycroft ever bothered to tell him if his efforts actually worked on the shimmer effect, and somehow, neither he or Sherlock had pursued that particular detail.)

One problem, though, he thought. He'd left his gun back at the flat. But, wait … he went back to the safe and wrenched its gun from its holder and checked. Three bullets. Right. He could work with that.

First, he needed to make sure that bloody blinking red light was the only camera in the room.

#

"If you believe that threatening John is the road to my compliance, you are sadly mistaken," Sherlock said. "John is a friend, yes, but he's a soldier and used to taking risks. He can take care of himself."

Sherlock and Irene just stared at each other, neither willing to yield, until Sherlock's phone rang.

Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock answered the phone.

"You haven't given her the phone, have you?"

"No."

"Good, because her trap wasn't quite as good as she thought—or at least, I hope not. I'm on my way home."

Sherlock didn't let the relief show on his face. "The security system?"

"Yeah, booby trapped to call the police after ten minutes. That was a nice touch to force me along. Lucky for us, I think more clearly with more adrenalin, so that actually helped." Sherlock could hear a huff of a laugh as John's hurried footsteps echoed through the phone.

"How much time?"

"So far as she's concerned, I'm down to my last 3 minutes before the cops arrive. I should warn you, though—I had to call Mycroft. I couldn't be sure I'd caught all the cameras."

Sherlock stifled a grimace as he continued to stare at Irene. "Yes. Do what you have to," he said and then disconnected the phone. "A timer on the security system? A dummy, I assume, to pressure him. You wouldn't risk the police actually arriving."

Irene shook her head. "The party's never as much fun once they arrive, but the thought of them? Much more powerful. Did he say how much time he had?"

"Three minutes."

"You'd best hurry and make your decision then, Mr. Holmes. If you don't give me my phone, your friend is going to end up in prison or leave me with photographic evidence of his quite remarkable gift."

He stepped forward and leaned down to speak into her ear. "I don't take kindly to people trying to blackmail my friends." Sherlock looked past her and said, "Do I, brother?"

Mycroft's smooth voice came from the doorway. "It does seem to bring both the best and the worst out in you, brother."

Irene's eyes were wild. "You would give up on him that easily?"

"I told you, he's a soldier. He wouldn't thank me for yielding—to you or to sentiment."

"Sentiment?"

"Yes, the weakness found on the losing side. And do you know how I know?" She shook her head, suddenly showing hesitation. "Because I took your pulse."

He pulled her phone out and, without breaking eye contact, punched in four letters before handing the phone to Mycroft. "I think the data on here will more than make up for any favors John might have called in, brother."

"Indeed it will. As it was, it was a simple matter to black out all the camera feeds in the flat—those that John hadn't been able to dispatch on his own, that is. He and the package he was sent to retrieve are quite safe."

The firelight was shining in the tears in Irene's eyes now. "You can't. I won't last six months."

Sherlock just looked down at her. "Pity about dinner," was all he said before Mycroft's men came in and took her away.

#

An hour later, John was sprawled in his chair, eating Chinese food and explaining. "I finally decided that I had no way to know how many cameras she had scattered around—and knowing her, I expected a lot of them. But I did what she would have expected. I shot out the visible ones with the bullets she left me, and then made a point of opening all the doors and windows. I figured that would draw the attention of whoever was watching, so they wouldn't know which way I was coming out."

"Good diversionary tactic," Sherlock said.

John nodded. "Yes, that's what I thought. Then I went to the light switch and turned the lights back off and, well, disappeared at the same time—except instead of ducking down the hallway and risking the cameras I knew she had to have out there, I just … hid behind the door."

A small smile. "That's so very cliché, John."

John nodded. "I know, but sometimes the old tricks are the best. I'd already called Mycroft and asked him to see what he could do about the cameras. I knew they had to be broadcasting to somewhere remote—there was no way she wasn't recording everything that happened—and I didn't trust that I'd gotten all of them—and, of course, I couldn't do anything about the ones outside. So I waited until Mycroft sent me the all-clear before I snuck out, right past the people she had watching and called you."

"It was a close call," Sherlock said, staring into his takeaway box of Kung Pao Chicken.

"I know," John said. "I knew she would do something—have ever since the day we met her. She saw me, Sherlock, and she knew about my gift. Maybe not the details, but that there was something. I just hope she hasn't told anyone else."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I don't think so. She holds the secrets she collects for her own protection. She may have wanted proof of your gift in action—that would hold much more weight than a mere anecdote—but I don't believe she would pass that information on unless we drove her to it."

"By, say, having her locked away in a secret prison cell or let out to run for her life?" John asked drily. "Because, having taken the rest of her secrets and given them to Mycroft, it's not like she's got much else to fall back on."

Sherlock paused a moment. How had he missed that? Not only did The Woman know (or suspect) about John's gift, but she now had no other means of protection as well as a healthy grudge against him. He just shrugged though, and said, "Mycroft will take care of it. It's a good thing you found a way out of her trap, though, or things might have been different."

"I'm just glad to be shot of her, frankly," John said, stretching out his legs.

"Mmm," Sherlock agreed. "But still, she did make things interesting."

"Interesting?" John sounded indignant. "She flirted with you. She convinced you she was dead, Sherlock. This was no ordinary case."

"Exactly." Sherlock clipped the word with his teeth. "Interesting."

John just huffed. "Right. All that extra turmoil, the long sessions with the violin, her sitting right here in the flat flirting with you … all that was just 'interesting'."

Sherlock glanced at him. "It bothered you, didn't it? Her flirting."

John blinked and almost squirmed in his chair. "She's a dominatrix. She probably can't help herself."

"No, it's the primary tool of her trade, like observation is of mine," Sherlock said, eyes steady on his friend. "You're never invisible to me, John."

A quick, flashing glance from John and then, "I know that. Sometimes it's bloody annoying."

"Hazard of being my flatmate," Sherlock said.

"Easier to live with than fingers in the fridge," John conceded. "I'm not saying your observational skills haven't come in handy. You found her password, which had to help."

Sherlock's lips twitched at the glow of pleasure at the memory. "Yes, though it took me longer than it should have."

"S.H.E.R, right?" John asked and then grinned as Sherlock felt his face freeze. "What? I'm not blind, Sherlock. I saw the way she looked at you."

Sherlock stared down into his chicken again, stunned. It was far too easy to underestimate John, the man never failed to surprise him which just part of what made him so remarkable. He had a point, too, about what Irene's desperation might drive her to do. He should probably take steps to make sure she wouldn't act on it. After all, keeping John safe was paramount, wasn't it?

#

When Sherlock went out of town on a case months later, John didn't give it a second thought. He was too busy cleaning out the refrigerator and feeling a sense of relief at a day's peace.

#

John never connected Sherlock's absence with Mycroft's report of Irene Adler's beheading in Karachi. Why would he? It wasn't like they owed Irene any favors, was it?

The thought that his friend might be protecting him from being one of The Woman's secrets never crossed his mind.

Soon, though, Irene Adler would be the least of his worries. Because, as much as he hated the thought of being blackmailed, the thought of government laboratories frightened him more than Afghani insurgents, master criminals, and Semtex vests combined. But when Henry Knight came with a mystery about a gigantic hound near the labs at Baskerville, that was exactly where they were going.

##

Note: Yes, Baskerville is coming—the embodiment of John's most hidden, most secret fears. And believe me, his worst nightmare has nothing to do with a large dog. Originally they were all going to be in the same piece, but this was such a logical ending point and such a rough transition between the Irene Adler story and the Hound story—I split them. The next piece is coming soon, though, I promise!