ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

Gasoline

There had to be a catch. Somewhere, some misalignment, some tear in the tight intricate fabric that wove itself into in a million ways to make this woman. The Woman, if she preferred to be dramatic. Which she did. And Sherlock sympathised entirely.

"I had all this stuff, never knew what to do with it," said Irene Adler. Playing cards of nonchalance? Genuine assistance? No, obvious. Too obvious.

"Thank God for the consultant criminal," she went on from behind Sherlock. He sat submerged in intense concentration, trying to see the lie. There had to be one. The camera phone and its passcode was a slightly large puzzle, yes, all that was very mysterious. But the true mystery was not the phone, but its owner. Sherlock hadn't been able to put her puzzle piece into any of the empty spaces yet, and it was driving him up the wall. Literally. There was now a dartboard with Sherlock's face on it hanging in the flat; Sherlock used it when his brain stopped working. He would shoot at the Sherlock head and yell, "Think, moron, think!"

In summary, to say that Irene Adler was on Sherlock Holmes' mind more often than not was a drastic understatement.

But Sherlock had to concentrate, this was the make-or-break. He had to convince his powerful mind and more or less present heart that he couldn't care less. He couldn't care, period.

Because if there was one god damned useful piece of information that Mycroft had imparted to him, it was that caring was not an advantage.

"Gave me a lot of advice on how to play the Holmes boys. D'you know what he calls you?" Irene half-sat on the table top, leaning ever so tantalisingly in the face of the British government. "The Ice Man," she whispered to Mycroft, almost like she knew a secret they didn't know she knew. Sherlock heard Irene's voice carry a little further, wafting towards him. "And the Virgin."

Her voice twisted maliciously, like she wanted to change that.

Was that wistfulness lacing her voice? Regret? Teasing? What was her play, what made her intelligent enough to rival Sherlock Holmes?

"Didn't even ask for anything, I think he just likes to cause trouble. Now, that's my kind of man." Sherlock's eyes popped open in light of his revelations. One, Irene was obviously trying to light a spark of jealousy somewhere in Sherlock's admittedly small heart.

Two, she was lying. She told John she was gay.

"And here you are," said the idiot older brother. "A dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Mycroft actually bow his head in acknowledgement, almost respectfully, in Irene's Adler's direction. "Nicely played."

And Mycroft said he was the smart one. "No."

The crimson semblance of a victorious grin faltered slightly on Irene Adler's pale face. "Sorry?"

Here we go. "I said no. Very, very close, but no," said Sherlock, standing and making his way towards her. He was ready for it. "You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

Again, that telltale ruby smirk that had reeled Sherlock in flashed once, the Woman's eyes sparkling with the intensity of a star. "No such thing as too much."

Addict, then. Like him. "Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game, I sympathise entirely, but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

And you're on the losing side, he thought.

I don't want you to be. The thought was softer, smaller, but it was there.