Sherlock - The Game Is On!

A Scandal In Belgravia- Seven

Chapter Seven

I spent that night at Baker Street making sure Sherlock was contributing to the best that he could comply to be with and also helping out where I can. In fact I spent quite a bit of time here. Staying mine most nights, staying here other times. The flat most certainly lost its touch since I moved out. Things were scattered here, there and everywhere. It didn't appeal right to me that I was merely just a visitor here. It felt wrong. I felt lost.

I woke up to Sherlock, his back to the living room playing his violin. It was melancholy and lament. "Lovely tune, Sherlock. Haven't heard that one before."

"You composing?" John asked. "Helps me think." He mumbled. Turning back to the window, he lifted the instrument to his shoulder and the previous tune continued on. "What're thinking about?" Suddenly spinning around he pointed his bow to the direction of John's laptop. "The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

"Yeah it's faulty. I can't seem to fix it." Sherlock pulled out a phone boasting about how it could be a hacked message before: trying it, pocketing his phone again then turning to the window, sulking. "Just faulty." He mumbled. "Right, we'll I'm going out for a bit." John left trotting down the stairs after briefly talking to Mar-Mar.

"Sherlock?" I questioned, quietly. He placed his violin on its stand before grabbing his coat and leaving. He stopped midway down the stairs before running back up again. "Sherlock?" I questioned again, this time confused. Gazing at him deeply he made his way across the room to where I was standing. Neither of us said anything. The room was cloaked in complete silence. Snapping out his gaze he cupped one of his hands to my cheek before pulling me into a brief kiss on the forehead. My cheek. Then lastly the tip of my nose. Resting his forehead on mine, he breathed out. "You matter." He glanced at my lips, I automatically bit my bottom lip. He smiled, cheekily before running out the flat. I stood frozen in my position. Well what the fuck was that?

My phone buzzed, snapping me from trance:

Clever you, figuring out I'm not dead. IA xx

It suddenly made sense as to why Sherlock followed John. He knew she wasn't dead but he wasn't fully endowed to be certain...

Third POV

"Hello, Doctor Watson." John stared for a few seconds at a woman who revealed to be Irene Adler. "Tell him you're alive." He straight up deadpanned. "He'd come after me." She replied with a shake of her head. "I'll come after you if you don't."

"I believe you."

"You were dead on a slab. It was definitely you."  John's voice rang louder. Enraged. "DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep."

"And I bet you know the record-keeper."

"I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear."

"Then how come I can see you, and I don't even want to?" John let out, annoyed. "Look, I made a mistake. I sent something to Sherlock for safe keeping and now I need it back, so I need your help."

"No."

"It's for his own safety."

"So's this: tell him you're alive."

"I can't."

"Fine. I'll tell him, and I still won't help you." John was breathing heavy, trying to contain overflowing anger. He was about to walk away before she responded: "What do I say?" John furious, turned back to her and stated: "What do you normally say? You've texted him a lot." Irene pulled her phone out and started to scroll through previous messages. "Just the usual stuff."

"There is no 'usual' in this case." She stopped scrolling and started reading aloud: " 'Good morning'; 'I like your funny hat'; 'I'm sad tonight. Let's have dinner'." John became startled. " 'You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch.' Let's have dinner'; 'I'm not hungry, let's have dinner'." Staring at her in disbelief he spoke. "You... Flirted with Sherlock Holmes?!"

"At him. He never replies."

"No, Sherlock always replies, to everything. He's Mr Punchline. He will outlive God trying to have the last word."

"Does that make me special?" She questioned, her eyes unmoving. "No, no not really." He passively stated. "Are you jealous?"

"We're not a couple."

"Yes you are. Or is it Michelle and Sherlock?" She questioned, humorously. "Don't bring Michelle into this."

"Why?" She prodded on. "There both equivalent to lovesick fools when they think no one sees. Michelle, with those green doe eyes and Sherlock... Well he gazes from afar." Pressing send she held her phone out, facing John. "There. I'm not dead. Let's have dinner."

"For the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay." Irene stared at another message but this time, it was to Michelle. "Well, I am. 'Clever you, figuring out I'm not dead'." Once again she twisted the screen to John's direction. "What you flirted at Michelle too?" Irene let out a gracious laugh. "Oh no, why would I? I'm the woman who beat her in this game."

"There's rules you should follow when it comes to Michelle. Took me several years to notice the pattern but she isn't the type of gal to hold a white flag." John stated. An orgasmic sigh fills the air from a short distance away. John's head snaps to the direction, starting to make way to the sound Irene holds her hand out. "I don't think so, do you?"

Sometime later Sherlock begins walking down Baker Street. His gaze becomes distant and lost. Distant from Irene but yet, he's so lost in Michelle. From the dreamy look in his eyes to the unearthly crushing from his chest. It scared Sherlock to feel this way but it thrilled him more. Spurred him on more. He was so wanton for her. Again, pun unattended but he needed. No. He craves to know the in's and out's of her. Irene is just a distraction. A distraction that became a unwanted, pesky thing. Yes, she intrigued him, her level of intelligence was extraordinary but her way of wanting to be noticed was extensive and wrong. Irene isn't playing for the good. Michelle is. Michelle was a drug that he only realised himself, he needed.

He wanted.

He forever will be lusting for...

Michelle reminded him of the neighbours dog they had a few times when he was younger. His best friend was Redbeard, a beautiful Irish Red-setter. Whereas the neighbours dog Pinkpatch was a English Springer Spaniel. It sounded wrong to signify the two together but there was something about that dog which resembles Michelle.

Perhaps a distant dream....

Or memory?