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.

And there it was. A crack in the glass, the kink in the armour. A short failure of a plastered smile says a lot about you.

"Sentiment?" Irene trilled lightly, her honeyed tone dancing over consonants like a vocal ballerina. She appeared to look confused, but Sherlock knew. But she still chose to...play dumb. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock fixed her with a penetrating stare. "You," he intoned, quirking an eyebrow.

He could see her beginning to break - no, shatter. Her heart was full already, but she had to go and add Sherlock to it and now it was going to overflow through her eyes.

And suddenly Sherlock wasn't so sure he wanted this. He wasn't sure he wanted to beat her at this game, the game they both loved.

His brain acknowledged Mycroft standing silently, off to the side. Sherlock had never really needed his brother's help or advice, but now Sherlock was in uncertain territory. Sentiment to Sherlock was gasoline, one dip and you're set aflame.

The burns never fade.

Mycroft's voice resonated through his cranium. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," he would say.

And for once in his life, Sherlock decided that his brother knew best.

~

It was going much too smoothly. Mycroft hated losing, but here he was, bowing in the face of the devious dominatrix that was The Woman.

But nothing struck Mycroft as he rose to part ways with Irene Adler, until his little brother began his...charade.

The frown line on Mycroft's forehead only continued to deepen as his brother started to unravel the very fabric of what Miss Adler was made of.

Sherlock was being light before he really started to ruthlessly tear Irene apart. Mycroft was accustomed to seeing Sherlock like this, mechanical and fully operational in all vital aspects.

But he knew he had done something terrible when Sherlock quoted him from when they were children. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side," was what Mycroft had said in apparent consolation to Sherlock's first and only heartbreak thus far. From then on, Mycroft watched Sherlock become more machine than man, through Redbeard, and Helena, and now...someone who genuinely had an interest in his brother. For the first time in years.

And Sherlock was destroying her, because that was what he had been told was right.

"Oh, dear God," said Irene, her voice quivering and raspy with emotion. "Look at the poor man. You didn't really think I was interested in you? Why, because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

Mycroft wanted her to shut up, for her own sake.

He wanted to leave the room at that point, like escaping from there translated to a respite from the guilt of creating what Sherlock had become, what he had turned his own little brother into. An emotionally blind, razor-sharp killing machine.

And it was Mycroft's punishment to watch Sherlock set aflame the gasoline that had been spilled so long ago.

~

"No," Sherlock stepped closer, creating a temporary cocoon of intimacy. He slid his hand up her delicate fingers, clasping his own slender ones around her wrist. He almost prayed he was wrong.

But.

He didn't believe in God, and he was Sherlock Holmes. He was never wrong.

Her pulse raced madly and Sherlock tried, really tried, to ignore the stab of advanced regret that shot through him. He brought his face nose-to-nose with Irene's, seeking some unknown respite in the eyes of the woman whose pupils were now blown wide.

Sherlock pressed his own body against Irene's, feeling her heart speed up considerably.

He tried to tell himself he didn't enjoy making someone else feel so intensely. He tried not to hate himself for what he was about to do, because what he was doing was right.

Pressing his cheekbone against hers, he tried to convey his true feelings of regret through his hushed voice. "Because I took your pulse," he whispered, feeling her pulse flutter madly beneath his fingertips, her breath huff erratically against his own ear. "Elevated. Your pupils, dilated."

With a sharp inhale, Sherlock reached around, grasping the camera phone in his fingers. Whirling around, he prepared himself for the finale.

"I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive," the detective faced Irene, who had followed him to the middle of the room. "When we first met-" You were the most intriguing thing I'd encountered in decades. "-you told me that disguise is always a self portrait. How true of you, the combination to your safe, your measurements, but this-" Sherlock flipped the phone in his hand, "-this is far more intimate. This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head."

He entered one letter.

"You could've chosen any random number and walked out today with everything you've worked for."

Another letter.

"But you just couldn't resist it, could you?" He gave her a melancholy smirk, like they shared a sadistic joke.

"I've always assumed that love," his ice-cold irises found her broken ones and stayed there, "Is a dangerous disadvantage."

Another letter.

"Thank you for the final proof."

A desperate hand clasped his own. "Everything I said," Irene choked out, twisting Sherlock's heart, "was not real." She swallowed bitterly. "I was just playing the game."

I'm sorry.

"I know," Sherlock whispered, almost consolingly. "And this is just losing."

Is it just losing?

The final letter beeped into the camera phone.

~

Mycroft had never regretted imparting any of his knowledge to his younger brother. Until now. He watched, helplessly, as his clueless little brother crushed every wall that woman had ever put up. Sherlock thought he was doing the right thing.

The older Holmes tried to ignore the billiard ball that sank to the darkest pits of his abdomen as Sherlock handed him the unlocked camera phone.

~

The air fizzled with the smell of ashes where Irene's heart used to be as Sherlock left the room.

Mycroft had spilt the gasoline, but Sherlock was the one who let it burn.

~

"Sorry about dinner."

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

oOps sorry no original stories here

that was mehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

but issokay I love their relationship

epilogue to this maybe

nothing else bye

~A.M.