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Description
Title: Bohemia, Bohemia's a Fantasy in Your Head
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John, Wilhelm Ormstein, Irene Adler.
Rating: PG to PG-13, maybe for language and mentions of sex-tapes.
Word count: Just under 5000.
Summary-type-thing: A BBC update on "A Scandal in Bohemia". This may have been done before, but if it has I never read one, so enjoy.
Warnings: Un-Beta'd, Un-Britpicked. See a mistake, point it out, and I may just give you a cyber-hug. :3
Disclaimer: The only thing I can lay claim to is the order of the words.
Notes: Actually, the notes'd be better at the end of the fic. See you there. ^^

==

It was mid-March when Sherlock and John were visited by Wilhelm Ormstein, a German-born, small-time theatre star otherwise known by his fans and playbills as the King of Bohemia. He had a proclivity towards grand one-man shows in which he would prance about the stage in extravagant nineteenth-century garb, usually singing the praises of—you guessed it—la vie Boheme. John had read a little about the man once upon a time when he'd been looking for date ideas with Sarah, so even before their laughably regal-looking visitor was able to introduce himself properly, John recognized him and nearly laughed aloud. The King's street-clothes, it appeared, did not differ too greatly from the costumes he wore for his plays, despite the fact that his manner seemed to suggest that he'd wanted this appointment to be discreet. In fact, he seemed irritated when he realized that John recognized him; although, how he expected anyone not to remember his Wilde-esque choices in hair and clothing was beyond John.

After only a few moments of this tenseness, Sherlock grew frustrated with being left out of whatever it was that was causing John and Ormstein to flush—the latter with suppressed anger, the former with suppressed laughter—and demanded to be let in on their visitor's identity. John told him, ignoring the King's glare; he rushed past the explanation of exactly why he knew who the man was, feeling no desire to bring Sarah up at the moment.

Ormstein let out a blustery huff befitting of the century he seemed to idealize, but then he seemed to decide that John was not in the room turning to fully face the chair where Sherlock sat. He put on his best 'beseeching' expression, holding out his large hands, and said, "Mr. Holmes, I've seen your website and—and I know that sometimes you publish details of your cases."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, realizing that Ormstein was ignorant of John's blog, but made no mention of it. "Only the most important and instructive ones," he clarified, sounding bored.

The King looked stung. "Well it's important to me—"

"I assumed as much." Sherlock smiled wryly. "Unfortunately that tells me very little. Why don't you sit down and give me details, your Majesty?" The title came out easily enough, but John could hear the quiet mockery in it. Shaking his head fondly, John took a seat in his own chair as Ormstein sat on the sofa, wringing his hands together. Despite his natural bravado, it was obvious that the King's nerves were severely frayed—and perhaps that was why Sherlock kept the mockery quiet.

"As your…friend apparently knows, Mr. Holmes," Wilhelm Ormstein began, sparing a glance towards John, "I am an actor—by no means famous, but I do have a precious following, one which I would like very much to hold onto."

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes and pressing his palms together as he leaned back in his chair. John could read the tell-tale lines of impatience around his friend's mouth.

"Likewise," the King continued, "I've got a fiancée that I worry I could easily lose if—if my blackmailer is successful in her schemes."

Sherlock's eyes flew open then, his shoulders locked and stiff in his eagerness and impatience to hear more. Something John would come to learn about his friend was that the man had simply no patience or sympathy for blackmailers—in fact, it could be said that Sherlock hated blackmail more than any other crime in the world. John still wasn't sure why.

"You say 'her schemes'. You know exactly who your blackmailer is? You've had direct contact with her?"

Ormstein narrowed his eyes, obviously unnerved by Sherlock's sudden enthusiasm. "Yes, I know her quite well! She is my ex—" He broke off then, throwing his eyes to the floor for a moment. John wondered if he'd been about to say 'ex-girlfriend' or 'ex-lover'. Finally the King continued, "Several years ago we were engaged to be married."

Sherlock looked bored again, and John suddenly realized that his friend had his phone out, thumb poised over the keyboard. "A name, please, Mr. Ormstein."

The King went red again. "Irene Adler," he finally confessed. "She's—"

"An opera singer from New Jersey. Dual citizen. Fascinating, " said Sherlock in his best 'this-is-so-not-fascinating' voice. The King didn't seem to catch the tone, because he just nodded along with Sherlock's words. "Now, would you please tell me what she has over you?"

The King's blush deepened further. It was a wonder any of the rest of his bulky body was receiving any blood at all. "Videos, Mr. Holmes. Really—really nasty videos." For a moment he dropped his royal persona, leaning towards Sherlock with a desperate, ashamed expression. "I was just a stupid kid back then, and I really loved her. I would've done anything if it meant she could have a good time."

"So you made a few sex tapes with her and now that you're engaged to another woman, Ms. Adler is threatening to release the tapes in what you perceive to be jealous rage," Sherlock finished, leaning back again.

"Yes, well—"The King stared at his powerful-looking hands for another few moments. "I've had a few…hackers attempt to destroy the video files from the outside, but her security is…quite strong. I—I really don't know what to do anymore. All I know is that I don't think I could stand it if my fiancée found out about my past…indiscretions."

Sherlock stared into space for a good portion of a minute, his folded hands in front of his pursed lips. Then he waved a hand in John's direction. "Give your contact information to my friend, Mr. Ormstein," he said languidly. "I'll take your case."

The King's face suddenly went slack and peaceful, and the tension in his shoulders and spine quickly fled. His back hit the back cushion of the sofa for the first time since sitting down. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, thank you." Sherlock nodded, standing suddenly and sweeping off to his room, leaving John to get any last-minute details from the King of Bohemia.

==

Sherlock didn't leave to start his investigations until the next morning, leaving while John was still asleep. He didn't come back until an hour or so after John had finished his shift at the surgery—around eight, maybe.

John almost didn't recognize Sherlock when he came in. Sherlock has his thick hair straightened and gelled backwards from his face, plastered to his scalp, and he was clad in tight, low-cut jeans and an uncharacteristically stylish v-neck, three-quarter-sleeve jumper that didn't quite reach the top hem of his jeans. A thin strip of pale skin caught John's eye from between the two hems, but not before he saw Sherlock's eyes, which were artificially brown—alien, almost. Strange.

From a purely aesthetic point of view, he looked good—but not comfortable and not like himself and not happy. In fact, his dark expression said very eloquently, 'Curses, foiled again.' John set down his half-eaten dinner and went to where his friend stood, seething, in the doorway, putting a hand lightly on Sherlock's wrist.

"Bad day at work?" he asked, smiling gently with a cocked eyebrow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ineffective day," he muttered, which was a yes. "I did meet Ms. Adler, but she's a closed-off woman, very conscious of what she says around strangers, even when she's had a few pints in her. This is going to take longer than I thought." He twisted his semi-captured hand then, catching John's wrist in a Roman handshake. "I very nearly nicked her phone just to get her address. Ormstein forgot to give it to us. One of the only helpful things I learned was that she most definitely keeps the video files on a single separate memory-stick, not her PC." He looked down at their hands as he spoke, thinking hard. He didn't elaborate.

John meanwhile was staring at Sherlock's lowered head. He reached up and pressed his fingers to the stiff hair, nearly a solid entity for all the product in it. "D'you think you're going out again tonight?" he asked quietly as Sherlock thought away.

"No, not tonight. Tomorrow morning she and I are going to coffee. And eventually I'm going to break into her flat and steal the flash-drive. But not tonight."

"Is that so?" John mumbled incredulously as he began to work his fingers through Sherlock's hard hair, breaking apart the stiff strands. The hair stuck up where John left it, and honestly it looked more than a little ridiculous. He laughed and took his other hand back so he could run both hands through his friend's hair. Sherlock was going to have a hell of a time washing all this product out, he thought.

"Well," Sherlock said with a wry smile and a tilt of his head, "technically she's going to let me into her flat and technically she's going to show me where the flash-drive is, but for all intents and purposes I'll be robbing her." He made a small, content sound as John continued his mission to muss his hair, momentarily distracted.

"And why do you figure she's going to do that?" John murmured, but he neither expected nor received an answer. Sherlock liked to keep his grand coup de grâce a secret until the eleventh hour, and John was past trying to change that.

So instead of pressing the question he just kissed the exposed skin of Sherlock's collarbone before giving Sherlock's hair up as a bad job and offering his friend dinner. Sherlock said "Yes, please," and promptly stole half of John's sandwich, grinning with his hair sticking out on all ends.

==

The 'investigation' went on for a couple weeks, Sherlock leaving every few days in his hipster costumes to ingratiate himself with Irene Adler. After the first day he came home increasingly chipper and confident in the case, ever more sure that he would be able to get into Ms. Adler's home and nick the memory stick. Not only that, but he seemed to be enjoying his days out with the woman, blackmailer or not. She was intelligent and had a quick with, and she never seemed t allow pop-culture references to control her rhetoric, which was a relief for Sherlock. She liked to talk about music and art, subjects which Sherlock had a very good handle on, which made it easy to hold long conversations with her, thereby gaining her trust.

John would have been insanely jealous if it hadn't been for the fact that Sherlock would always sprawl out on the sofa with his head in John's lap after he came home, allowing his friends to work the stiffness out of his gelled hair as they talked about their days. Sherlock seemed surprisingly able to separate himself from the case when there was nothing he could do about it from home, so while it was obvious that Sherlock admired Irene Adler's intellect, it was still plainly apparent that Sherlock had no interest in her other than foiling her plans, unlike his hipster character. So John was able to keep his bull-pup in check.

==

Eventually the morning came when Sherlock woke John before leaving, handing him a scrap of paper with an address written on it in his sharp, intent handwriting.

"That's the address of her block of flats," Sherlock explained, brushing his gelled hair back as he spoke. "Be ready for a text from me at maybe eleven or twelve, but don't reply to it."

"Oh so I do get to take part in this adventure," John mumbled with mild, sleepy sarcasm.

Sherlock laughed at the word 'adventure' and leaned over to ruffle John's hair. "Don't sleep too late," he reminded his friend. "Our royal friend's reputation and relationship depend on it."

John swatted the hand away and Sherlock left the room, chuckling fondly.

==

It was 11:24 when John got the text, which read very simply:

Wait ten minutes. Then find a secluded fire-alarm in the building and pull it. Then get the hell out. I'll meet you at Baker St.—SH

John blinked at the text for a few moments before promptly deleting it. Couldn't have illegal instructions saved in his bloody inbox, could he? He looked at his watch and nodded to himself, quietly leaving the little store he'd been browsing to walk the few blocks down to the block.

==

Once, when he and Harry had been in primary school, John had watched his sister pull a fire-alarm just for the hell of it. He'd done his damnedest to convince her not to, but they'd been arguing earlier that morning and Harry was in no mood to have her fun ruined by Johnny of all people. However, once the shrill bell was ringing and threatening all four of their eardrums, Harry grabbed John's hand, giggling madly, and they both sprinted out of the school to join the crowds filing out of the building with solemn, disciplined practice. They never got caught by the school, and for the longest time that was the fondest memory John shared with Harry.

That memory was all John could seem to think of as he hoofed it out of the block of flats, trying his best to look like a distressed tenant, not wanting another court-date on Sherlock's account.

Once he got home to Baker Street, serious jitters ran through John's body, making it nearly impossible to lock the door behind him or to pour himself a steadying cup of tea; at one point he splashed himself with the boiling water, and while he reeled in pain he wondered how long it would take Sherlock to notice the burn-marks.

Sherlock came home half an hour after John, his face bright with the pride of victory and the thrill of thievery. As soon as he found John standing before the kitchen sink, he swept forward and caught John's face in his hands, kissing him soundly. John could feel a warmed stick of blunt plastic in Sherlock's hand, pressing into his cheek. He kissed back happily enough for several lovely moments, but soon he pulled away, grabbing the hand that held the flash-drive and taking it away from his friend.

"This is it, then?" he panted. "Seems like an easy enough operation."

"Quite," Sherlock agreed, grinning and running his hands up and down John's arms. "I'll tell you about it in a bit. Call Mr. Ormstein and we can have this whole thing done with."

"You're in a good mood," John noted, reaching up to restart the process of messing up Sherlock's hair. Before his hands could get there, though, Sherlock grabbed the burned one, gave John a sharp look, and kissed it before taking back the flash-drive.

"I just enjoy my work," Sherlock replied, smiling enigmatically. He stepped back a few paces. "Call Mr. Ormstein," he repeated, cocking his head to the side, and then he left to have a much-needed shower. As his friend walked away, John caught side of a dark mark behind Sherlock's ear; at first he thought it was a bruise, but only a moment later he realized it was a dark maroon lipstick stain. John fell very suddenly from his post¬-adventure high and turned his reddening face from his friend's retreating back.

Without much excitement, he called Wilhelm Ormstein.

==

The extravagant actor did not take long to reappear in the Baker Street sitting room, whereupon he insisted on pulling Sherlock into a tight hug as soon as the younger man showed him the flash-drive. Sherlock's jaw went visibly hard until he was released, and he was quick to hand over the stick, not wanting to give the King any further reasons for touching him.

"How did you get it?" the King asked, looking wonderingly at the little plastic tube in his hands.

The smile Sherlock gave should have been reserved for villains in bad serial-killer-films. He just looked so very pleased with his proficiency as a thief that John very quickly thanked God that Sherlock usually chose to use his powers for good.

"If you believed your home to be on fire, what would be the first possession of yours that you would attempt to rescue?" he asked, leaning against the wall, languid and comfortable.

Ormstein hesitated, perhaps using the pause to gauge Sherlock's possible reaction. Then he shrugged and said slowly, "My collection of antique scripts, I guess...They're insured. So...yes. Those."

"Because they're irreplaceable," Sherlock agreed, nodding as though he'd been expecting this sort of answer. "Because they have intense personal and financial value."

Ormstein's hand closed more tightly around the memory stick. "Yes...so...?"

Sherlock's teeth were briefly exposed as he smiled. "When my friend here set off the fire-alarm in Ms. Adler's building, the first thing Ms. Adler did was run to a very specific drawer to save that little memory stick. She stuck it right in her coat pocket before collecting any other items. It was simple enough to nick the stick as I helped her to evacuate."

Sherlock really had some of the best laugh-lines, John thought, and he was showing them off quite enthusiastically right now. John might have kissed them if he and his friend hadn't been busy with company.

Somehow Ormstein didn't look reassured by Sherlock's explanation; rather he glanced once again at the hand that held the flash-drive with a nervous grimace and asked, "Do you...do you think I could maybe...check to make sure that what we think is on this... is on this?" His face was red and obviously mortified, but he went on, angrier at his own embarrassment than anything else. "Maybe records of her bills are on here, or photographs, or—" He cut himself off. "I only need a moment with one of your computers. I am sorry, but—"

Sherlock held up an impatient hand, irritated that Ormstein was skeptical of his wonderfully executed plan. "I agree, of course. I'd be loath to take money for stealing a woman's prized possession before making sure that it is the correct possession." He smiled the smile he gave when what he really wanted to tack on to the end was, 'But of course that isn't going to happen, you quaint little non-believer.' He gestured towards the only laptop in the room—not John's, by some miracle—in a 'have-at-it' sort of movement.

Sherlock moved to sit smugly in his armchair as Ormstein plugged the memory stick into the computer. He propped his legs up over the one arm of the chair, looking like a child waiting for his father's praise of good marks in school. Needless to say, when Wilhelm Ormstein gasped and stared horror-struck at the computer screen, Sherlock looked more than a little perturbed.

"What is it?" he hissed, storming to the sofa where the King sat. Without so much as a pause for politeness, Sherlock snatched the laptop away and sat of the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, placing the computer on the scratched-up wood. John took this as a sign to scramble onto the sofa behind Sherlock so he could lean in and see the screen as well.

The desktop was empty, save the one window that was open, and that window was empty save the one file that read: "to_sherlock_holmes.avi". Sherlock was rigid on the floor and did not even seem to register it when John touched his shoulder. He only bobbed his head a little when John asked if he was going to open the file. After the half-nod, Sherlock seemed to regain only the slightest bit of motor skills, only moving enough to double-click the surprising file.

The first thing to appear in the newly-opened window was a small, pointed chin and a pair of full, dark red lips close to the camera, as if Irene Adler had been fiddling with her webcam when it came on. After a few seconds she sat back in her chair and smiled demurely at the camera. John blinked a couple times. He was in a happy relationship with an amazing and beautiful man, yes, but if John was bisexual, he was bi-leaning-straight, and he couldn't help but appreciate a beautiful woman when he saw one. From what he could tell from her face and torso, Irene Adler was petite and slender, pale only because she didn't like sunbathing. She had vaguely almond-shaped eyes that went back and forth throughout the video between green and blue, and she had long, coppery ringlets of somewhat frizzy hair that she kept stacked at the back of her head and allowed to twist forward to hang over one shoulder.

But most of all she looked confident and proud, stunningly smug in a way John had thought only Sherlock could pull off.

And then she began to speak, filling the room with her snarky New Jersey accent, causing all three men to flinch in embarrassment.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! I can't believe you actually robbed me!" she scolded, and then she paused. "Or do you mind if I call you Sherlock? I know you'd like me to believe your name is Simon Frost, but...seriously, hun? Sherlock Holmes is such a badass British name. I mean, I wish your name showed up in Baby Name books just so I could know what possessed your mom and dad to call you that. Seriously."

She paused again, her dark red lips momentarily separating to reveal her perfect American teeth. "But I'm rambling. Hun, I'm sorry. I'm sure you worked really hard on your disguise, but...well, a friend showed me your website once, and...well, all I'm saying is, if you don't want the bad guys to recognize your pretty little cheekbones, you should probably wear better disguises or take your picture off of your website. Or both." She shrugged nonchalantly, and John could feel Sherlock's shoulders go even stiffer under his hand, which John hadn't thought to be possible.

Irene Adler took a long breath and let it whistle back out through her teeth. "So...I don't know if Wilhelm is there, but if he isn't, could you pause me and go get him? I have a few things I need to him to hear from my own mouth." Her pretty little eyebrows knit together for a moment, almost pleading. By then Ormstein had scooted much closer, his knee pressing against Sherlock's shoulder.

At length the woman spoke again, the smugness gone and replaced by pained sincerity. "Willy, I'm so sorry if I've caused you stress or—or pain. You know me, though. You know how selfish and—and petty I can be. And jealous and bitchy and horrible. And I'm sorry. " She closed her eyes for a few seconds, sighing. "I've deleted all the videos we made. They're all completely gone—no copies anywhere. I've been holding our relationship over your head for too long, and I've gone too far this time. It's time I...left you alone. Congratulations on your engagement, Willy." A small smile flitted over her features, and Wilhelm Ormstein gave a little sigh, sounding shocked and relieved at the same time.

"And Willy? Pay Sherlock the money you promised him. I didn't delete the files until after I realized you'd sent a private detective after me. He did his job as far as I'm concerned...Love you. Bye." And then she winked before leaning in close to the webcam again, whereupon the widow went black.

The only one of them that moved was Sherlock, who X-ed out of the window before the video could replay. After that they all sat quiet and still out of respect for the feelings of their companions.

John didn't move until a little more than half a minute had passed, leaning forward to pull the flash-drive out of the laptop. "Well then," he said quietly before clearing his throat. "Your reputation and engagement seem safe, Mr. Ormstein."

The King of Bohemia glanced from John to Sherlock to the laptop and back again. "Yes, quite. But how...how did she guess your plan to steal the memory-stick the way you did? How—"

Here Sherlock snapped, pushing the coffee table roughly away so he had room to stand. "She knew because she's bloody clever," he snarled. "You were engaged to her, for God's sake! You of all people should realize how clever she is! But why didn't I? What the hell did I miss, or let slip, or...?" His mouth clamped shut in indignation, his arms folded stiffly behind his rigid back. He glared at his feet and bit the inside of his cheek, staunchly attempting to be only angry and not embarrassed.

At length Ormstein stood, seemingly realizing how out of place he was and how badly Sherlock and John needed to be alone just then. He mumbled something like "I'll just go, then," and handed a check to John before sidling towards the door.

"Do you mind if I keep the memory stick, then?" Sherlock asked before the King could quite make it out of the flat.

Ormstein shrugged. "It's not mine. I heard what she wanted to say to me. If you think you want it, be my guest."

Sherlock flashed a brief, empty smile, and Ormstein left with a quiet goodbye and thanks.

When he was gone, John quickly went to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around the taller man's waist, not pausing to ask permission. He expected Sherlock to perhaps lash out with hurtful, embarrassed words, but that didn't happen. Instead Sherlock put his hands on the sides of John's neck and rested his forehead on the top of John's head.

"I can tell you're steeling yourself for an undeserved verbal beating," Sherlock murmured. "Your shoulders hunch inward and you duck your head close to your chest when you're bracing yourself for unpleasantness." He paused. "I regret the fact that I know that."

John shook his shoulders out and leaned in for kiss Sherlock's jaw. "I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. I've been bracing myself since I was a little boy whose friends liked to have pretend-swordfights with sticks, sans warning or code of chivalry."

Sherlock chuckled, but then sighed. "I want to be up against people with brains, John, but I hate to be outsmarted. Stupid as it is, I have my pride—"

"And that's what makes you human," John finished, growling against Sherlock's neck. "If you weren't bloody well pissed off right now, I'd be worried."

Sherlock—well, he sort of laughed, but it was sort of gaspy-sounding, also, so John wasn't sure of much other than the fact that the noise sent a warm burst of air into the shell of his ear. It wasn't unpleasant, either way.

"You say 'human' like it's a good thing," Sherlock laughingly retorted, the response without much bite.

John pulled slightly out of the embrace so he could look Sherlock in the eyes—grey-blue again, familiar and beautiful. "I like people. Call it a character flaw," he conceded, laughing. "You know, outsmarted or not, that was still a brilliant plan on your part. You just got unlucky."

Sherlock glanced away, shrugging. "We both ought to take our photographs off the Internet," he replied, smiling lightly, looking tired. Their hands brushed between them.

John stepped closer again and put a hand on the back of Sherlock's still-somewhat-damp hair, applying light pressure. Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, but John turned both their heads at the last second, twisting to kiss the skin behind Sherlock's ear. The skin was a little raw and hot from the scrubbing it had gotten in order to be rid of the lipstick stain.

Sherlock chuckled ruefully and laid his forehead gently on John's left shoulder, careful not to press down too hard. "I thought you'd noticed that," he half-whispered, sounding drained and apologetic.

John didn't address that directly, but rather replied, "You would have made a great criminal," making it sound like a sweet nothing. As he said it he could imagine those same words used as a jibe or an accusation, perhaps about the lipstick or any of the other questionable things Sherlock had done since they'd met. "Our friends at the Yard don't know how lucky they are." And that was like saying, 'I am so lucky to have you' and 'I forgive you' and 'For Christ's sake, cheer up, you're amazing' all at once. And for his trouble he received an emphatic kiss that ended up on the sofa.

==

They didn't talk about it often, but John knew that there was a folder on Sherlock's computer for memorabilia of his personal favorite cases. He kept photographs of the Chinese code they'd discovered there, as well as a log of the texts and photos he'd gotten on the pink phone from Moriarty. And now Irene Adler's video sat in that folder, simple and unassuming with its original file name. Sherlock never seemed to watch it over again, but he did delete his picture from his website and suggested that John do the same. The next week Sherlock invested in a prosthetics kit and subsequently spent several hours practicing the art of transforming his face, chattering with John as he changed his nose or chin or applied fake sideburns and the like. Eventually he even managed to wrangle John into allowing his face to be rearranged, and that was how John knew he had absolutely no reason to be jealous or suspicious. Sherlock's fingers would too often brush the sides of John's face while he molded a new nose for him, and his hands would linger too long as he held the prosthetics to make the mold set. Irene Adler may have inspired this new project, but she really had nothing to do with it; her name was almost never mentioned, and the next week Sherlock and John got a new client, and life went on.

==

Notes: I know there are no pictures of Sherlock on the Science of Deduction website. And that totally works out for me, so yay. Also, this kinda ran away from me for a little bit but I think I may have gotten it back, maybe, sorta. So...I hope no one hates this~<3

Description
Title: Bohemia, Bohemia's a Fantasy in Your Head
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John, Wilhelm Ormstein, Irene Adler.
Rating: PG to PG-13, maybe for language and mentions of sex-tapes.
Word count: Just under 5000.
Summary-type-thing: A BBC update on "A Scandal in Bohemia". This may have been done before, but if it has I never read one, so enjoy.
Warnings: Un-Beta'd, Un-Britpicked. See a mistake, point it out, and I may just give you a cyber-hug. :3
Disclaimer: The only thing I can lay claim to is the order of the words.
Notes: Actually, the notes'd be better at the end of the fic. See you there. ^^

==

It was mid-March when Sherlock and John were visited by Wilhelm Ormstein, a German-born, small-time theatre star otherwise known by his fans and playbills as the King of Bohemia. He had a proclivity towards grand one-man shows in which he would prance about the stage in extravagant nineteenth-century garb, usually singing the praises of—you guessed it—la vie Boheme. John had read a little about the man once upon a time when he'd been looking for date ideas with Sarah, so even before their laughably regal-looking visitor was able to introduce himself properly, John recognized him and nearly laughed aloud. The King's street-clothes, it appeared, did not differ too greatly from the costumes he wore for his plays, despite the fact that his manner seemed to suggest that he'd wanted this appointment to be discreet. In fact, he seemed irritated when he realized that John recognized him; although, how he expected anyone not to remember his Wilde-esque choices in hair and clothing was beyond John.

After only a few moments of this tenseness, Sherlock grew frustrated with being left out of whatever it was that was causing John and Ormstein to flush—the latter with suppressed anger, the former with suppressed laughter—and demanded to be let in on their visitor's identity. John told him, ignoring the King's glare; he rushed past the explanation of exactly why he knew who the man was, feeling no desire to bring Sarah up at the moment.

Ormstein let out a blustery huff befitting of the century he seemed to idealize, but then he seemed to decide that John was not in the room turning to fully face the chair where Sherlock sat. He put on his best 'beseeching' expression, holding out his large hands, and said, "Mr. Holmes, I've seen your website and—and I know that sometimes you publish details of your cases."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, realizing that Ormstein was ignorant of John's blog, but made no mention of it. "Only the most important and instructive ones," he clarified, sounding bored.

The King looked stung. "Well it's important to me—"

"I assumed as much." Sherlock smiled wryly. "Unfortunately that tells me very little. Why don't you sit down and give me details, your Majesty?" The title came out easily enough, but John could hear the quiet mockery in it. Shaking his head fondly, John took a seat in his own chair as Ormstein sat on the sofa, wringing his hands together. Despite his natural bravado, it was obvious that the King's nerves were severely frayed—and perhaps that was why Sherlock kept the mockery quiet.

"As your…friend apparently knows, Mr. Holmes," Wilhelm Ormstein began, sparing a glance towards John, "I am an actor—by no means famous, but I do have a precious following, one which I would like very much to hold onto."

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes and pressing his palms together as he leaned back in his chair. John could read the tell-tale lines of impatience around his friend's mouth.

"Likewise," the King continued, "I've got a fiancée that I worry I could easily lose if—if my blackmailer is successful in her schemes."

Sherlock's eyes flew open then, his shoulders locked and stiff in his eagerness and impatience to hear more. Something John would come to learn about his friend was that the man had simply no patience or sympathy for blackmailers—in fact, it could be said that Sherlock hated blackmail more than any other crime in the world. John still wasn't sure why.

"You say 'her schemes'. You know exactly who your blackmailer is? You've had direct contact with her?"

Ormstein narrowed his eyes, obviously unnerved by Sherlock's sudden enthusiasm. "Yes, I know her quite well! She is my ex—" He broke off then, throwing his eyes to the floor for a moment. John wondered if he'd been about to say 'ex-girlfriend' or 'ex-lover'. Finally the King continued, "Several years ago we were engaged to be married."

Sherlock looked bored again, and John suddenly realized that his friend had his phone out, thumb poised over the keyboard. "A name, please, Mr. Ormstein."

The King went red again. "Irene Adler," he finally confessed. "She's—"

"An opera singer from New Jersey. Dual citizen. Fascinating, " said Sherlock in his best 'this-is-so-not-fascinating' voice. The King didn't seem to catch the tone, because he just nodded along with Sherlock's words. "Now, would you please tell me what she has over you?"

The King's blush deepened further. It was a wonder any of the rest of his bulky body was receiving any blood at all. "Videos, Mr. Holmes. Really—really nasty videos." For a moment he dropped his royal persona, leaning towards Sherlock with a desperate, ashamed expression. "I was just a stupid kid back then, and I really loved her. I would've done anything if it meant she could have a good time."

"So you made a few sex tapes with her and now that you're engaged to another woman, Ms. Adler is threatening to release the tapes in what you perceive to be jealous rage," Sherlock finished, leaning back again.

"Yes, well—"The King stared at his powerful-looking hands for another few moments. "I've had a few…hackers attempt to destroy the video files from the outside, but her security is…quite strong. I—I really don't know what to do anymore. All I know is that I don't think I could stand it if my fiancée found out about my past…indiscretions."

Sherlock stared into space for a good portion of a minute, his folded hands in front of his pursed lips. Then he waved a hand in John's direction. "Give your contact information to my friend, Mr. Ormstein," he said languidly. "I'll take your case."

The King's face suddenly went slack and peaceful, and the tension in his shoulders and spine quickly fled. His back hit the back cushion of the sofa for the first time since sitting down. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, thank you." Sherlock nodded, standing suddenly and sweeping off to his room, leaving John to get any last-minute details from the King of Bohemia.

==

Sherlock didn't leave to start his investigations until the next morning, leaving while John was still asleep. He didn't come back until an hour or so after John had finished his shift at the surgery—around eight, maybe.

John almost didn't recognize Sherlock when he came in. Sherlock has his thick hair straightened and gelled backwards from his face, plastered to his scalp, and he was clad in tight, low-cut jeans and an uncharacteristically stylish v-neck, three-quarter-sleeve jumper that didn't quite reach the top hem of his jeans. A thin strip of pale skin caught John's eye from between the two hems, but not before he saw Sherlock's eyes, which were artificially brown—alien, almost. Strange.

From a purely aesthetic point of view, he looked good—but not comfortable and not like himself and not happy. In fact, his dark expression said very eloquently, 'Curses, foiled again.' John set down his half-eaten dinner and went to where his friend stood, seething, in the doorway, putting a hand lightly on Sherlock's wrist.

"Bad day at work?" he asked, smiling gently with a cocked eyebrow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ineffective day," he muttered, which was a yes. "I did meet Ms. Adler, but she's a closed-off woman, very conscious of what she says around strangers, even when she's had a few pints in her. This is going to take longer than I thought." He twisted his semi-captured hand then, catching John's wrist in a Roman handshake. "I very nearly nicked her phone just to get her address. Ormstein forgot to give it to us. One of the only helpful things I learned was that she most definitely keeps the video files on a single separate memory-stick, not her PC." He looked down at their hands as he spoke, thinking hard. He didn't elaborate.

John meanwhile was staring at Sherlock's lowered head. He reached up and pressed his fingers to the stiff hair, nearly a solid entity for all the product in it. "D'you think you're going out again tonight?" he asked quietly as Sherlock thought away.

"No, not tonight. Tomorrow morning she and I are going to coffee. And eventually I'm going to break into her flat and steal the flash-drive. But not tonight."

"Is that so?" John mumbled incredulously as he began to work his fingers through Sherlock's hard hair, breaking apart the stiff strands. The hair stuck up where John left it, and honestly it looked more than a little ridiculous. He laughed and took his other hand back so he could run both hands through his friend's hair. Sherlock was going to have a hell of a time washing all this product out, he thought.

"Well," Sherlock said with a wry smile and a tilt of his head, "technically she's going to let me into her flat and technically she's going to show me where the flash-drive is, but for all intents and purposes I'll be robbing her." He made a small, content sound as John continued his mission to muss his hair, momentarily distracted.

"And why do you figure she's going to do that?" John murmured, but he neither expected nor received an answer. Sherlock liked to keep his grand coup de grâce a secret until the eleventh hour, and John was past trying to change that.

So instead of pressing the question he just kissed the exposed skin of Sherlock's collarbone before giving Sherlock's hair up as a bad job and offering his friend dinner. Sherlock said "Yes, please," and promptly stole half of John's sandwich, grinning with his hair sticking out on all ends.

==

The 'investigation' went on for a couple weeks, Sherlock leaving every few days in his hipster costumes to ingratiate himself with Irene Adler. After the first day he came home increasingly chipper and confident in the case, ever more sure that he would be able to get into Ms. Adler's home and nick the memory stick. Not only that, but he seemed to be enjoying his days out with the woman, blackmailer or not. She was intelligent and had a quick with, and she never seemed t allow pop-culture references to control her rhetoric, which was a relief for Sherlock. She liked to talk about music and art, subjects which Sherlock had a very good handle on, which made it easy to hold long conversations with her, thereby gaining her trust.

John would have been insanely jealous if it hadn't been for the fact that Sherlock would always sprawl out on the sofa with his head in John's lap after he came home, allowing his friends to work the stiffness out of his gelled hair as they talked about their days. Sherlock seemed surprisingly able to separate himself from the case when there was nothing he could do about it from home, so while it was obvious that Sherlock admired Irene Adler's intellect, it was still plainly apparent that Sherlock had no interest in her other than foiling her plans, unlike his hipster character. So John was able to keep his bull-pup in check.

==

Eventually the morning came when Sherlock woke John before leaving, handing him a scrap of paper with an address written on it in his sharp, intent handwriting.

"That's the address of her block of flats," Sherlock explained, brushing his gelled hair back as he spoke. "Be ready for a text from me at maybe eleven or twelve, but don't reply to it."

"Oh so I do get to take part in this adventure," John mumbled with mild, sleepy sarcasm.

Sherlock laughed at the word 'adventure' and leaned over to ruffle John's hair. "Don't sleep too late," he reminded his friend. "Our royal friend's reputation and relationship depend on it."

John swatted the hand away and Sherlock left the room, chuckling fondly.

==

It was 11:24 when John got the text, which read very simply:

Wait ten minutes. Then find a secluded fire-alarm in the building and pull it. Then get the hell out. I'll meet you at Baker St.—SH

John blinked at the text for a few moments before promptly deleting it. Couldn't have illegal instructions saved in his bloody inbox, could he? He looked at his watch and nodded to himself, quietly leaving the little store he'd been browsing to walk the few blocks down to the block.

==

Once, when he and Harry had been in primary school, John had watched his sister pull a fire-alarm just for the hell of it. He'd done his damnedest to convince her not to, but they'd been arguing earlier that morning and Harry was in no mood to have her fun ruined by Johnny of all people. However, once the shrill bell was ringing and threatening all four of their eardrums, Harry grabbed John's hand, giggling madly, and they both sprinted out of the school to join the crowds filing out of the building with solemn, disciplined practice. They never got caught by the school, and for the longest time that was the fondest memory John shared with Harry.

That memory was all John could seem to think of as he hoofed it out of the block of flats, trying his best to look like a distressed tenant, not wanting another court-date on Sherlock's account.

Once he got home to Baker Street, serious jitters ran through John's body, making it nearly impossible to lock the door behind him or to pour himself a steadying cup of tea; at one point he splashed himself with the boiling water, and while he reeled in pain he wondered how long it would take Sherlock to notice the burn-marks.

Sherlock came home half an hour after John, his face bright with the pride of victory and the thrill of thievery. As soon as he found John standing before the kitchen sink, he swept forward and caught John's face in his hands, kissing him soundly. John could feel a warmed stick of blunt plastic in Sherlock's hand, pressing into his cheek. He kissed back happily enough for several lovely moments, but soon he pulled away, grabbing the hand that held the flash-drive and taking it away from his friend.

"This is it, then?" he panted. "Seems like an easy enough operation."

"Quite," Sherlock agreed, grinning and running his hands up and down John's arms. "I'll tell you about it in a bit. Call Mr. Ormstein and we can have this whole thing done with."

"You're in a good mood," John noted, reaching up to restart the process of messing up Sherlock's hair. Before his hands could get there, though, Sherlock grabbed the burned one, gave John a sharp look, and kissed it before taking back the flash-drive.

"I just enjoy my work," Sherlock replied, smiling enigmatically. He stepped back a few paces. "Call Mr. Ormstein," he repeated, cocking his head to the side, and then he left to have a much-needed shower. As his friend walked away, John caught side of a dark mark behind Sherlock's ear; at first he thought it was a bruise, but only a moment later he realized it was a dark maroon lipstick stain. John fell very suddenly from his post¬-adventure high and turned his reddening face from his friend's retreating back.

Without much excitement, he called Wilhelm Ormstein.

==

The extravagant actor did not take long to reappear in the Baker Street sitting room, whereupon he insisted on pulling Sherlock into a tight hug as soon as the younger man showed him the flash-drive. Sherlock's jaw went visibly hard until he was released, and he was quick to hand over the stick, not wanting to give the King any further reasons for touching him.

"How did you get it?" the King asked, looking wonderingly at the little plastic tube in his hands.

The smile Sherlock gave should have been reserved for villains in bad serial-killer-films. He just looked so very pleased with his proficiency as a thief that John very quickly thanked God that Sherlock usually chose to use his powers for good.

"If you believed your home to be on fire, what would be the first possession of yours that you would attempt to rescue?" he asked, leaning against the wall, languid and comfortable.

Ormstein hesitated, perhaps using the pause to gauge Sherlock's possible reaction. Then he shrugged and said slowly, "My collection of antique scripts, I guess...They're insured. So...yes. Those."

"Because they're irreplaceable," Sherlock agreed, nodding as though he'd been expecting this sort of answer. "Because they have intense personal and financial value."

Ormstein's hand closed more tightly around the memory stick. "Yes...so...?"

Sherlock's teeth were briefly exposed as he smiled. "When my friend here set off the fire-alarm in Ms. Adler's building, the first thing Ms. Adler did was run to a very specific drawer to save that little memory stick. She stuck it right in her coat pocket before collecting any other items. It was simple enough to nick the stick as I helped her to evacuate."

Sherlock really had some of the best laugh-lines, John thought, and he was showing them off quite enthusiastically right now. John might have kissed them if he and his friend hadn't been busy with company.

Somehow Ormstein didn't look reassured by Sherlock's explanation; rather he glanced once again at the hand that held the flash-drive with a nervous grimace and asked, "Do you...do you think I could maybe...check to make sure that what we think is on this... is on this?" His face was red and obviously mortified, but he went on, angrier at his own embarrassment than anything else. "Maybe records of her bills are on here, or photographs, or—" He cut himself off. "I only need a moment with one of your computers. I am sorry, but—"

Sherlock held up an impatient hand, irritated that Ormstein was skeptical of his wonderfully executed plan. "I agree, of course. I'd be loath to take money for stealing a woman's prized possession before making sure that it is the correct possession." He smiled the smile he gave when what he really wanted to tack on to the end was, 'But of course that isn't going to happen, you quaint little non-believer.' He gestured towards the only laptop in the room—not John's, by some miracle—in a 'have-at-it' sort of movement.

Sherlock moved to sit smugly in his armchair as Ormstein plugged the memory stick into the computer. He propped his legs up over the one arm of the chair, looking like a child waiting for his father's praise of good marks in school. Needless to say, when Wilhelm Ormstein gasped and stared horror-struck at the computer screen, Sherlock looked more than a little perturbed.

"What is it?" he hissed, storming to the sofa where the King sat. Without so much as a pause for politeness, Sherlock snatched the laptop away and sat of the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, placing the computer on the scratched-up wood. John took this as a sign to scramble onto the sofa behind Sherlock so he could lean in and see the screen as well.

The desktop was empty, save the one window that was open, and that window was empty save the one file that read: "to_sherlock_holmes.avi". Sherlock was rigid on the floor and did not even seem to register it when John touched his shoulder. He only bobbed his head a little when John asked if he was going to open the file. After the half-nod, Sherlock seemed to regain only the slightest bit of motor skills, only moving enough to double-click the surprising file.

The first thing to appear in the newly-opened window was a small, pointed chin and a pair of full, dark red lips close to the camera, as if Irene Adler had been fiddling with her webcam when it came on. After a few seconds she sat back in her chair and smiled demurely at the camera. John blinked a couple times. He was in a happy relationship with an amazing and beautiful man, yes, but if John was bisexual, he was bi-leaning-straight, and he couldn't help but appreciate a beautiful woman when he saw one. From what he could tell from her face and torso, Irene Adler was petite and slender, pale only because she didn't like sunbathing. She had vaguely almond-shaped eyes that went back and forth throughout the video between green and blue, and she had long, coppery ringlets of somewhat frizzy hair that she kept stacked at the back of her head and allowed to twist forward to hang over one shoulder.

But most of all she looked confident and proud, stunningly smug in a way John had thought only Sherlock could pull off.

And then she began to speak, filling the room with her snarky New Jersey accent, causing all three men to flinch in embarrassment.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! I can't believe you actually robbed me!" she scolded, and then she paused. "Or do you mind if I call you Sherlock? I know you'd like me to believe your name is Simon Frost, but...seriously, hun? Sherlock Holmes is such a badass British name. I mean, I wish your name showed up in Baby Name books just so I could know what possessed your mom and dad to call you that. Seriously."

She paused again, her dark red lips momentarily separating to reveal her perfect American teeth. "But I'm rambling. Hun, I'm sorry. I'm sure you worked really hard on your disguise, but...well, a friend showed me your website once, and...well, all I'm saying is, if you don't want the bad guys to recognize your pretty little cheekbones, you should probably wear better disguises or take your picture off of your website. Or both." She shrugged nonchalantly, and John could feel Sherlock's shoulders go even stiffer under his hand, which John hadn't thought to be possible.

Irene Adler took a long breath and let it whistle back out through her teeth. "So...I don't know if Wilhelm is there, but if he isn't, could you pause me and go get him? I have a few things I need to him to hear from my own mouth." Her pretty little eyebrows knit together for a moment, almost pleading. By then Ormstein had scooted much closer, his knee pressing against Sherlock's shoulder.

At length the woman spoke again, the smugness gone and replaced by pained sincerity. "Willy, I'm so sorry if I've caused you stress or—or pain. You know me, though. You know how selfish and—and petty I can be. And jealous and bitchy and horrible. And I'm sorry. " She closed her eyes for a few seconds, sighing. "I've deleted all the videos we made. They're all completely gone—no copies anywhere. I've been holding our relationship over your head for too long, and I've gone too far this time. It's time I...left you alone. Congratulations on your engagement, Willy." A small smile flitted over her features, and Wilhelm Ormstein gave a little sigh, sounding shocked and relieved at the same time.

"And Willy? Pay Sherlock the money you promised him. I didn't delete the files until after I realized you'd sent a private detective after me. He did his job as far as I'm concerned...Love you. Bye." And then she winked before leaning in close to the webcam again, whereupon the widow went black.

The only one of them that moved was Sherlock, who X-ed out of the window before the video could replay. After that they all sat quiet and still out of respect for the feelings of their companions.

John didn't move until a little more than half a minute had passed, leaning forward to pull the flash-drive out of the laptop. "Well then," he said quietly before clearing his throat. "Your reputation and engagement seem safe, Mr. Ormstein."

The King of Bohemia glanced from John to Sherlock to the laptop and back again. "Yes, quite. But how...how did she guess your plan to steal the memory-stick the way you did? How—"

Here Sherlock snapped, pushing the coffee table roughly away so he had room to stand. "She knew because she's bloody clever," he snarled. "You were engaged to her, for God's sake! You of all people should realize how clever she is! But why didn't I? What the hell did I miss, or let slip, or...?" His mouth clamped shut in indignation, his arms folded stiffly behind his rigid back. He glared at his feet and bit the inside of his cheek, staunchly attempting to be only angry and not embarrassed.

At length Ormstein stood, seemingly realizing how out of place he was and how badly Sherlock and John needed to be alone just then. He mumbled something like "I'll just go, then," and handed a check to John before sidling towards the door.

"Do you mind if I keep the memory stick, then?" Sherlock asked before the King could quite make it out of the flat.

Ormstein shrugged. "It's not mine. I heard what she wanted to say to me. If you think you want it, be my guest."

Sherlock flashed a brief, empty smile, and Ormstein left with a quiet goodbye and thanks.

When he was gone, John quickly went to Sherlock and wrapped his arms around the taller man's waist, not pausing to ask permission. He expected Sherlock to perhaps lash out with hurtful, embarrassed words, but that didn't happen. Instead Sherlock put his hands on the sides of John's neck and rested his forehead on the top of John's head.

"I can tell you're steeling yourself for an undeserved verbal beating," Sherlock murmured. "Your shoulders hunch inward and you duck your head close to your chest when you're bracing yourself for unpleasantness." He paused. "I regret the fact that I know that."

John shook his shoulders out and leaned in for kiss Sherlock's jaw. "I wouldn't worry about that if I were you. I've been bracing myself since I was a little boy whose friends liked to have pretend-swordfights with sticks, sans warning or code of chivalry."

Sherlock chuckled, but then sighed. "I want to be up against people with brains, John, but I hate to be outsmarted. Stupid as it is, I have my pride—"

"And that's what makes you human," John finished, growling against Sherlock's neck. "If you weren't bloody well pissed off right now, I'd be worried."

Sherlock—well, he sort of laughed, but it was sort of gaspy-sounding, also, so John wasn't sure of much other than the fact that the noise sent a warm burst of air into the shell of his ear. It wasn't unpleasant, either way.

"You say 'human' like it's a good thing," Sherlock laughingly retorted, the response without much bite.

John pulled slightly out of the embrace so he could look Sherlock in the eyes—grey-blue again, familiar and beautiful. "I like people. Call it a character flaw," he conceded, laughing. "You know, outsmarted or not, that was still a brilliant plan on your part. You just got unlucky."

Sherlock glanced away, shrugging. "We both ought to take our photographs off the Internet," he replied, smiling lightly, looking tired. Their hands brushed between them.

John stepped closer again and put a hand on the back of Sherlock's still-somewhat-damp hair, applying light pressure. Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, but John turned both their heads at the last second, twisting to kiss the skin behind Sherlock's ear. The skin was a little raw and hot from the scrubbing it had gotten in order to be rid of the lipstick stain.

Sherlock chuckled ruefully and laid his forehead gently on John's left shoulder, careful not to press down too hard. "I thought you'd noticed that," he half-whispered, sounding drained and apologetic.

John didn't address that directly, but rather replied, "You would have made a great criminal," making it sound like a sweet nothing. As he said it he could imagine those same words used as a jibe or an accusation, perhaps about the lipstick or any of the other questionable things Sherlock had done since they'd met. "Our friends at the Yard don't know how lucky they are." And that was like saying, 'I am so lucky to have you' and 'I forgive you' and 'For Christ's sake, cheer up, you're amazing' all at once. And for his trouble he received an emphatic kiss that ended up on the sofa.

==

They didn't talk about it often, but John knew that there was a folder on Sherlock's computer for memorabilia of his personal favorite cases. He kept photographs of the Chinese code they'd discovered there, as well as a log of the texts and photos he'd gotten on the pink phone from Moriarty. And now Irene Adler's video sat in that folder, simple and unassuming with its original file name. Sherlock never seemed to watch it over again, but he did delete his picture from his website and suggested that John do the same. The next week Sherlock invested in a prosthetics kit and subsequently spent several hours practicing the art of transforming his face, chattering with John as he changed his nose or chin or applied fake sideburns and the like. Eventually he even managed to wrangle John into allowing his face to be rearranged, and that was how John knew he had absolutely no reason to be jealous or suspicious. Sherlock's fingers would too often brush the sides of John's face while he molded a new nose for him, and his hands would linger too long as he held the prosthetics to make the mold set. Irene Adler may have inspired this new project, but she really had nothing to do with it; her name was almost never mentioned, and the next week Sherlock and John got a new client, and life went on.

==

Notes: I know there are no pictures of Sherlock on the Science of Deduction website. And that totally works out for me, so yay. Also, this kinda ran away from me for a little bit but I think I may have gotten it back, maybe, sorta. So...I hope no one hates this~<3