The day John and Mrs. Hudson went to visit Sherlock's grave, The Woman, Irene Adler was there too.
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Upon hearing the news of his death, she didn't want to believe it at first. She thought it was just one of the clever detective's tricks. To verify, she went back to London. "I'd just be careful", she thought to herself the day she bought her ticket. Going back to London risked her safety but to hell with her safety. She had to see Sherlock with her own eyes, dead or alive.
She went to the famous flat, and broke in just like she did before, careful not to make any sound. She looked for signs that the detective was still alive, but what she saw just shattered her heart. Yes, she had a heart, and it belonged to one man.
She saw John, in the dining room, drinking all by himself, hands curled into fists, and tears streaming down feom his eyes. Pain and grief was painted on his face.
Suddenly, Irene couldn't breathe. She had to get out of the flat. She felt like the flat was suffocating her by reminding her that all that's left are memories of him, and nothing more.
She went out and walked through the streets of London, with tears falling from her eyes. She allowed her walls to break down and become vulnerable.
That day John and Mrs. Hudson went to visit Sherlock's grave, Irene followed them, making sure that she was out of their line of sight.
The cemetery looked peaceful and quiet, and she hated it. She hated the thought that this is where Sherlock is now, and this is where he'll stay. 'If he was here, he'd hate it', she thought.
She scanned the surrounding and she saw something familiar, something awfully familiar. Seeing that, made her cry and smile with relief. It was a tall man with dark curls and high cheekbones, wearing a familiar coat. Yes, the coat was very familiar to her, since she was able to wear it once.
She was right all along, Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective, is alive.
Shall I speak to you of the sharp snap of her bones, the blades and ridges of her, the cruel curve of her spine, the leonine contractions that give birth to her movements. Or perhaps the softness, the simmering heat, the iridescent strength that lies hidden within these things.
The Tales of the Posh Boy and the Dominatrix: Part 6
Summary: Sherlock contemplates his relationship with The Woman
Spoilers for TFP
Thanks again to @fanfic-phoenix for proofreading!
Other parts
[AO3] [FFN]
“I imagine it isn’t a very long list.”
At the time, Sherlock had barely registered what Mycroft’s question; far too busy hearing all the pieces click into place as he realised who the coffin was for.
In all honesty, he expected Mycroft to be right - he wouldn’t think the list to be very long, and six years ago it wasn’t. Six years ago, he’d barely put his parents on the list. Six years ago, even those who tried to care for him wouldn’t make the list. Six years ago, he barely remembered what love was.
Now, he let himself contemplate his brother’s words. Over the course of six years, ever since John came into his life and he moved under Mrs Hudson’s roof, he’d learned to care and even how to love others, meanwhile realising just how deeply he could love. Now, he could happily list his overbearing parents along with Lestrade, whom he no longer viewed as merely a means to his next high. He could list Mrs Hudson who brought him tea every day - not because she was his housekeeper, but because she cared. He could list the Watson’s: the man who taught him the care, the woman that trusted him, and his darling goddaughter. He once could’ve listed Victor Trevor, the friend that made him who he was today. He could list Molly, whose friendship he valued deeply and had carefully worked to restore. He could even list his siblings, who both cared in their own, unique way.
Then there was John’s suggestion.
John believed him to be in love with the Woman, or at least have some romantic attachment towards her that would ‘complete him as a human being’. Despite learning how to love, he didn’t know if he was capable of romance, and the overwhelming amount of intimacy and openness that it required. She too seemed hardly eager to jump into declarations of love, though she definitely understood it better than him. Did he care for Irene Adler? Absolutely, there was no arguing the incredibly dangerous rescue mission he took for her. And yes, he felt they’d reached a level of open and vulnerable intimacy during their time in Karachi, and that time in Paris...and New York, Rio de Janeiro, Montenegro, Sorrento, Finland, Turkey, Prague, Amsterdam, New Jersey and, most recently, High Wycombe. But to be in love? No, most definitely not. That wasn’t for either of them.
When he considered it, he knew that his relationship with Irene was the closest he was capable to a ‘romantic relationship’. He regarded her as an admirable intellectual sparring partner, a talented work associate, and most definitely a thrilling sexual partner.
Partners, he liked that.
The Woman and he would never be in love, or have a typical romantic relationship, but he held some kind of love for her, and they shared an intimacy he never had, and never would again share with anyone else. Their guards were at their lowest and their highest around each other, depending on the situation. They communicated in many ways unique to them: words and body. John might tell him this is what a romantic relationship entailed, but again: that wasn’t for either of them.
He brought this up with her in High Wycombe, after discussing the Black Pearl, having dinner, having dinner and debating the stupidity of her relocation to the UK...not necessarily in that order.
She gave a lazy chuckle when he questioned if she thought they’d ever have that kind of relationship, replying, “Oh dear God, no. Not a chance, darling. Far too ordinary for us, don’t you agree?”
“Obviously,” he freed his arm from underneath her and rolled onto his back, letting out a deep sigh as he did.
She shifted so she could see him, read his expression and seek his inner thoughts - of which she has proven to be particularly good at finding.
“Then why do you ask? You didn’t seriously worry that I thought that, did you? If so, Mr Holmes, you flatter yourself far too much,” she grinned.
“Don’t worry, Miss Adler, I assure you I wasn’t.” He didn’t meet her gaze, focusing on the ceiling. “It was just something...when we were at Sherrinford.”
“Ah,” she realised. She knew that his first encounter with his sister was a particularly emotional topic for him. “What was it?”
“You remember the coffin for Molly Hooper?” He heard her hum in recognition. “Well, when Mycroft asked who it was, he stated it wasn’t a very long list, and the John recommended you.”
She rolled over onto his chest, forcing him to face her. “Hmm,” she ‘thoughtfully’ traced her fingers around his chest. “And is it? Who loves you, Mr Holmes?”
“More than I thought.” He began to retaliate by steadily drawing circles up from her lower waist to her shoulder blade, revelling in the goosebumps that formed underneath his touch. “It’s a shame that when playing the Game, loved ones tend to be weaknesses.”
“Indeed,” she breathed, inching her face closer to his. Her delicate fingers strolled carefully across his collarbone, inching their way up his neck as he choked, feeling constricted in the lack of oxygen between him and Irene.
He knew she understood the dangers of loved ones all too well, a solid reason to keep herself distanced from...well, everyone. “And did you want to know,” she whispered, as their noses grew a hair width apart, “if you should add me to the list?”
He stopped his fingers in the middle of her back, dragging them down to meet her ribcage. He tapped a nonsensical rhythm teasingly light against them, resisting the urge to grin at her heightened breathing rate and quicker pulse. He leaned forwards off the bed, lips brushing momentarily against her ear before challenging, “You tell me, Miss Adler.”
He leant back and saw that her pupils had doubled in size, and this time he couldn’t hold back the smirk.
She pressed a kiss to his chest, “I love working with you.” She slid her hand down his chest, landing where her lips had just been, “Tracking down the dangerous and kicking some arse.”
She kissed his shoulder, “I love playing our game; the rush, the anticipation of waiting for you to find me. Seeing if you’ll come.”
She kissed his jaw, her voice dropping drastically, “I love the song you wrote about me.”
She kissed his forehead and he tightened his grip on her, “I love that big, sexy brain of yours.”
She kissed his cheek before muttering in his ear, and he could feel her smirk, “And I love the sex.”
Before he could move again, she had pushed herself back, allowing him to see her face properly. She spoke again, her voice back to its normal volume, a taunting smirk on her lips, “And I guess your company isn’t so bad.”
Not allowing her to make another move, he pulled her down, crashing her lips to his. After a Lord he didn’t believe in knows how many minutes they broke apart in a sigh of relief, and it registered to him that, though her words were genuine, their bodies had been playing a familiar game - one he’d just lost.
She beamed in victory, cheeks flushed with something else entirely. “I suppose,” she pondered, “I do love you, Mr Holmes - just as you love me. But not at all in the way Doctor Watson assumes.” She kissed him briefly on the lips, before finally confirming his theory, “That’s just not for us.”
Hello just a little note before you dive into this fic, first of all, it came out a LOT longer than I expected. So if you read the whole thing I will be eternally grateful. <3 Secondly, this is pure fluff because I just really needed to see Sherlock getting taken care of after TLD. I hope it’s not OOC. Any feedback is appreciated.
Much love. <3
(Also if you have any Adlock requests please send them to me because I am dying to write more.)
Happy Birthday, sexy.
An innocent enough text, he supposed.
Despite that, it burned a hole in Sherlock’s pocket.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Especially after what John had told him. Yes, he’d texted Irene before, but never with the intentions of actually seeing her. It was only a distraction. Something to keep his mind off of whatever was taking place in the present.
Cake with John, Molly, and Rosie was nice. Mostly because he got to hold Rosie the entire time. (He wouldn’t tell anyone that though.) He fed Rosie a tiny bite of cake despite John’s wishes and the baby laughed with delight. It put a smile on everyone’s face. But soon the night was over and Molly was escorting Sherlock back to his flat. While he understood why everyone was concerned about him, the constant presence of someone else in the flat was going to get on his nerves rather quickly. Especially as he continued to withdraw from the drugs he’d been taking.
Sherlock only knew one thing for certain: he’d never been more exhausted in his life. This case had been physically draining in the extreme and he was going to need more time than usual to recoup.
When he and Molly arrived at his flat, he immediately hung his coat and made his way towards his bedroom. “Where are you going?” Molly asked, standing in the living room.
“To bed. To sleep.” Sherlock said with a wave of his hand.
“Right. Well I’ll be out here ‘till Mrs. Hudson comes up…”
Sherlock merely waved his hand again, acknowledging that he’d heard her. He made it to his room and closed the door behind him. He fell onto his bed with a sigh.
It was then that he pulled out the phone… He bit his lip nervously, fingers hovering hesitantly over the screen…
Before you ask about dinner, I’m not hungry. –SH
Sherlock sent the message and quickly put his phone face down on his night stand. He ran his hands over his face, contemplating what he had just done. He jumped as his phone gave off the alert he was too familiar with. He wasn’t expecting a reply that quickly.
Good. We can skip to the fun part.
I’m sure you’ve been watching the news. I’m currently ‘grounded’ to my flat. No fun tonight. –SH
Oh, Sherlock, you underestimate your own abilities.
Sherlock stared up at his ceiling, phone on his chest. He took a few deep breaths, considering his options. He glanced to the door, then at the time. He took another deep breath and then sent his reply.
And if, I wanted to have a bit of fun, as you put it, where would I find you? –SH
I just so happen to be in London tonight.
You didn’t ‘just so happen,’ you planned it. –SH
Alright, maybe I did. Does that change anything?
Oh god what was Sherlock doing. What was he doing?!
Come find me, Mr. Holmes. [Location Attached]
Oh no. This was bad. This was very bad. He sat up on his bed, looked at the address…. Oh she was bad.
He hesitated for only a single moment before he quietly went to his door and turned the lock…
Sherlock’s escape from Baker Street went exactly according to plan. It wasn’t long before he found himself at the address Irene had sent him. He found himself running a hand through his hair as he stood in front of the door. He cleared his throat and then knocked lightly.
In a matter of moments, the door opened. Irene stood on the other side, her gentle curls falling past her shoulders. Sherlock couldn’t help but marvel for a moment at how she hadn’t changed in the slightest since the last time he saw her. “I didn’t think you’d come.” She said, actually sounding surprised.
Sherlock couldn’t help but raise a single brow. “The May Fair Hotel?” he asked. “Dangerously close to the word Mayfly, don’t you think?”
Irene smirked. “Well you know I did enjoy that case. You shouldn’t be surprised that I still read John’s blog.” She stepped aside and Sherlock stepped in.
“The implications are what I take issue with.”
“You mean the implications that I’m going to make you truly live for a day?” Irene teased. She closed the door behind him and her arms came up to his shoulders, running down his arms. “You’re not wearing your coat.”
“Well I couldn’t exactly grab my coat without letting on that I would be sneaking out.” He replied, looking over his shoulder at her. Irene walked around to face him. Sherlock felt for a moment as though she were a predator, circling her prey. He could practically feel her gaze on him and wondered what was running through her mind.
“Well the news reporters weren’t exaggerating, were they? You really did relapse?”
Sherlock blinked rapidly for a moment. It wasn’t what he was expecting. “Well… yes.”
“Well then… I know just what to do with you…” She said. She grabbed his hand and led him to her bed. “Sit.”
Sherlock did as he was told. He felt his heart lurch into his throat. All of this was very new. Of course he’d imagined situations like this in his Mind Palace with Irene. What would happen if he ever actually did accept her invitation to ‘dinner.’ But imagining it and actually doing it were two different things. Irene disappeared from the room and Sherlock was left sitting on the bed. He clasped his hands together nervously in front of him and worried at his lip.
When Irene came back in the room minutes later Sherlock started to speak, “Irene, I just want you to know that I’ve never-”
Irene placed a single finger over Sherlock’s lips in order to quiet him. “Shh.” She said, before her hand moved to stroke down the side of his face. “Sherlock Holmes, I am going to have you… And I really do mean have… But not tonight.”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion and he went to speak again, but was quieted once more.
“I told you I know just what to do with you. What you need. Are you going to trust me?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Good. Come on, then.” She offered him her hand and Sherlock took it. Irene led him from the main room and into the bathroom.
Sherlock’s brow furrowed in confusion yet again. “A bath?”
“Have you seen yourself lately, Sherlock?” She gently grabbed his chin and turned it towards the mirror. “You’ve lost two stone, at least. And your poor eye…” she tutted and turned his chin again so that they were looking directly at each other. “I want you, more than anything, Sherlock. But I want you healthy. I want you at your best. So tonight, you’re going to get a bath and a shave and possibly even a hair cut and then… we’re simply going to enjoy each other’s company… our intellect…” She raised a brow. “Sound fair?”
Sherlock’s shoulders released some of their tension and he nodded. Yes. She was right. That was exactly what he needed right now.
“See? I told you I know what people like.” She teased. She leaned up to press a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s breath hitched slightly as he felt a warmth in his chest that he wasn’t sure he’d felt before. But as quickly as her lips pressed against his, they were gone.
Irene’s eyes drifted to Sherlock’s chest and she began to unbutton his shirt. It wasn’t long before Sherlock was completely exposed in front of her. It reminded him of when they first met each other. “Not sure where to look?” Sherlock asked quietly, a smirk playing at his lips.
“Get in that bath before I make you get in the bath.” Irene threatened lightly.
Sherlock did as he was told once more. He was too tired to argue and he was sure Irene knew that. Once he was in the bath he let Irene do as she wished. First she took a cloth and carefully made sure his skin was clean of any grime. Then she put lotion on her hands and worked at his shoulders, musing aloud at how tense he was. Sherlock tried to relax, but the more he thought about it the more tense he got. It was frustrating. He wanted to be able to relax… for Irene. He wanted to be able to please her. (He was still working out why that was.)
“Love, listen to me.” Irene started, her hands rubbing at his neck now. “I can see you thinking. I want you to stop thinking for a moment. Just focus on my hands, how they move across your skin, how your muscles relax under them.”
“But they’re not relaxing.” Sherlock grumbled.
“But they will. I promise.” Irene replied quickly. “Just don’t think about it.”
Sherlock Holmes? Not think about it?
“Close your eyes. Focus on your breathing.” Irene instructed further.
Sherlock gave a small nod and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly through his mouth. After his return from the dead, he’d suffered nightmares from the torture he’d endured during his time away. He’d had to teach himself deep breathing techniques in order to cope. Once he’d started going on cases with John again, the nightmares had become much less frequent. But now that he thought about it, he wondered why Irene didn’t say anything about the scars on his back. He was sure she had-
“You’re still thinking.” Irene said softly.
Right. No thinking. Deep breath in… and out. He felt Irene’s hands leave his neck. Soon she was pouring water over his head to soak his curls. Then she began to massage his scalp as she worked shampoo into his hair. A soft sigh escaped Sherlock’s lips without him even realizing. Irene smirked to herself.
Everything became warm and fuzzy after that for Sherlock. He didn’t realize until Irene spoke next that he was practically dozing off in the tub. “Let’s get you out and dry.” She said quietly, carding her fingers through Sherlock’s hair once more. “Mm.” Sherlock merely hummed in response. Once he was dry Irene helped him into a clean set of clothes. “How did you…?” he started to ask.
“You’re not the only one that can predict people’s behavior.” Irene teased. She moved a chair that was in the corner over and put it directly behind him. “Now sit and we’ll get rid of that stubble. I prefer you clean shaven. Gives me a better view of those lovely cheekbones.”
Sherlock smiled slightly and sat. He subconsciously scratched at his cheeks. He really had let himself go these past weeks… How long had it been since Mary’s death? He counted backwards. One month and two weeks? That was if he had today’s date correct.
Irene titled Sherlock’s head back and after applying shaving cream began to carefully rid his cheeks of the scruffy facial hair he’d managed to grow. Sherlock could see her eyes taking in the bruises on his face. He could see her particularly looking at his eye again. He knew it looked horrible.
“Hyphema.” He said quietly.
“What?” Irene asked, her eyes now watching her hands, making sure she didn’t slip. But she was a professional. Sherlock could tell this wasn’t the first time she’d done this with someone.
“You were looking at my eye. The word for the bleeding in my eye is called hyphema.” He explained. “It’ll go away eventually, don’t worry.”
Irene stopped her work for a moment and gently caressed Sherlock’s face. Her thumb ran underneath his injured eye. She looked every bit concerned. “Who did this to you, Sherlock?”
Sherlock swallowed and looked away. His voice was barely a whisper. “John.”
Irene’s hand came away quickly and she nearly gasped. “He wouldn’t…”
“I…” Sherlock started and then stopped. John had said he hadn’t killed Mary, but he still felt responsible. Sherlock felt his eyes begin to burn and so he closed them. “His wife died. She was shot protecting me.” He took a deep breath in through his nose, though it held a slight shake.
“Oh, love…” Irene whispered, her fingers running through his hair once more. “Is that what all this drugs thing was about?”
“Sort of.” Sherlock answered.
Irene sighed and finished shaving Sherlock’s chin. She took a wet cloth and made sure his skin was clean and smooth. “There.” She said with a smile. “Much better.”
“Now what do we do?” Sherlock asked.
“Like I said, enjoy each other’s company.” Irene answered. She took Sherlock’s hand and led him back out to the bedroom. She went to the bedside table where there was a bottle of wine and two glasses. She filled them both halfway, handing one to Sherlock. She tapped her glass lightly against his. “Happy Birthday, Sherlock.” She said with a smile.
Sherlock nodded, lifting his glass slightly in response. “Thank you.” He said quietly, taking a small sip of the rich, red wine.
“Can I guess your age?” Irene asked before sitting on the edge of the bed.
Sherlock’s brow furrowed together. “You mean you don’t know?”
Irene smiled and shook her head. “No. I only figured out your actual birth day… not the year specifically.”
Sherlock sat on the bed beside her. “Well go on then.”
Irene was quiet for a moment, carefully thinking about her answer. “Thirty-two.”
Sherlock chuckled. “I’m flattered.” He kept his gaze on the wall, taking another sip from his glass.
Irene’s brow furrowed together. “Thirty-four?”
“Warmer.”
Irene’s gaze looked Sherlock up and down. She wore a look of surprise. “Sherlock Holmes, you cannot be forty years old.”
“Close enough.”
“Thirty-nine?”
Sherlock raised his glass to signal she’d finally found the correct answer. He finished his glass with one last swallow, placing the glass back on the table beside the bed. “Promise you won’t tell?” he joked lightly.
“Does John know?” Irene asked curiously.
“No… Well he didn’t. I… forgot to put my phone on silent today and he heard your text alert.”
Irene laughed. “You still have it set to the one I made you? All those years ago?”
Sherlock felt his cheeks grow warm and blamed it on the little wine he’d just had. “I suppose I never got around to changing it.”
Irene smiled at him fondly and didn’t comment on it further. Moving carefully, so as not to spill the wine in her hand, she moved so that she was leaning back against the pillows at the top of the bed. “Come on,” she urged, patting the bed beside her. “Come lie with me.”
Sherlock swallowed and his mouth opened and closed. “I-I don’t-”
Irene rolled her eyes and reached out to grab his hand. “Come on.” She pulled him until he was lying down beside her, his head on her shoulder. She held her wine with one hand while the other played with Sherlock’s curls. They sat in silence for a moment as Sherlock adjusted to this new position. “You’ve really never done this before with anyone, have you?” Irene asked quietly.
Sherlock hesitated before carefully wrapping one of his arms across Irene’s abdomen, settling into the position more. “Not this way… not really.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, eager to learn more about her favorite Holmes.
Sherlock hesitated yet again. “Back in uni… I would trade sexual favors for drugs. I could read people. Knew what they were looking for. And they paid me well.” He cleared his throat. “But that was a long time ago. I was desperate. Didn’t know how to cope with my need for a high. I’ve learned different ways to manage that now.”
“But you’ve never, been in a relationship with someone? Willingly?” She asked.
Sherlock shook his head slightly. “Not outside of case work.”
Irene began to expertly massage Sherlock’s scalp, like she’d done before in the bath. Sherlock couldn’t help but hum in content, allowing his eyes to close. “I should have known you’d be a sucker for a scalp massage.” She teased.
“It feels nice.” He answered honestly.
Irene smiled to herself and continued to gently run her fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Occasionally they moved down to massage his neck and jaw. “So you were close with her? John’s wife, Mary?”
“Mmhm.” Sherlock answered in a low voice. “She was my friend. She liked me.”
“But not how you like me?”
Sherlock snorted. “No, not that way.”
“So you do like me? In a different sort of way?” Sherlock could practically hear the smile in her voice.
“Yes of course I do.” Sherlock could feel himself relaxing more and more into Irene’s side. He was glad he had already closed his eyes because they felt impossible to open at the moment. His environment was becoming warm and fuzzy again, just like it had in the bath…
“Sherlock?”
“Hm?”
“Does John know you’re here?”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly. “Well of course not, I snuck out.”
“Right.”
Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose and then sighed. “Speaking of, I should probably go.”
“But you’re not going to.”
“But ‘m not going to.”
The room was quiet as they simply enjoyed each other’s presence. Irene, lost in her thoughts for a moment, turned her head down slightly to try and get a glimpse of Sherlock’s face. She could feel his body relaxing, his breaths getting longer and deeper. “Sherlock? You still with me?”
“Mm?” he hummed.
“I have to ask…about the scars…” She put down her now empty glass of wine and tilted Sherlock’s chin up so that she could look in his eyes. Sherlock opened his eyes, but Irene could easily see just how exhausted he was. His good eye was glassy, his bad one practically tearing up. The underneath of his bad eye was bruised, but she could see the dark imprint a lack of sleep had left under his good one. “They’re deep…thick…”
“I got them during my time away.” Sherlock whispered, blinking heavily. “I had to go deep cover…and it ended rather badly.”
“You know for a while I thought you were dead… Actually dead.” Irene said. Sherlock yawned widely while Irene spoke, his eyes forcing themselves shut as he nestled back in against Irene’s shoulder. “But one day, I heard about a man in France being found dead. Someone I knew that was connected to Jim Moriarty. And I just knew you were alive. Then of course, when you came back to London and the media found out, there was no denying it then. You were all over the news… Sherlock?”
Sherlock made no reply. His lips were parted slightly as he was lost to the world, deep in sleep already. Irene couldn’t help but chuckle under her breath. God knew he needed it, but never would Irene have imagined this was how her night was going to go. She waited a moment more and then slipped her hand into Sherlock’s trouser pocket, finding his mobile. The man didn’t move a muscle, complete dead weight against her side.
She frowned as she realized his phone was password protected. Of course it would be. She mulled over it for a moment and put in the first thing that came to mind. She tried not to laugh when it was correct. ‘221B.’ And Sherlock had said her password was predictable.
She found the number for Dr. John H. Watson. She typed a message, sent it, and then deleted it. After a moment’s thought, she pulled up Sherlock’s camera and snapped a quick photo. She put the phone back in Sherlock’s pocket, knowing he’d be none the wiser. Not until much later when he discovered the photo. She pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. “Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.” She whispered.
The next day John arrived at Baker Street at 6PM, just like he’d said he would.
Sherlock was sitting cross legged in his chair when John arrived, fingers pressed together under his chin. His eyes were closed. He looked as though he’d been in deep thought for a while.
“You look better.” John commented, trying not to smirk.
Sherlock’s eyes opened, taking in John’s presence in the flat. “When did you get here?”
“Just now.” John answered. He bit down on his lower lip, seriously trying to repress a smile.
Sherlock’s brow furrowed together as he took in John’s expression. “What?” he demanded.
“Nothing, nothing it’s uh just… you shaved.”
Sherlock blinked a few times. “Definitely, yes. I did in fact shave...” he stumbled. “I’ve never been one for facial hair, you know that, John.”
John cleared his throat as he entered the kitchen. He put the kettle on, preparing to make them both some tea before he made Sherlock something to eat as well. “So, um, what time did you get back? After your little night out?”
Sherlock’s face paled and John let out the laugh that he’d been holding in. Sherlock’s hands then went to cover his face. “She didn’t.”
“Oh, she did.”
wow if you’re still here first of all I want to tell you I love you <3 Second of all, this was just really fulfilling my wish to see soft!Sherlock with Irene and Irene taking care of our poor detective. :’) It’s also part of my ‘let Sherlock get some sleep 2k17′ campaign. Hope you enjoyed!!
Sherlock grumbled and went out of the room. He wasn’t able to endure the worthless chitchat his parents were having with their visitors. He needed something that could make his time worthwhile or something that would help calm his mind, and right now, all he could think about is the cigarette in his pocket.
It’s Mycroft’s birthday and their mother insisted in having a party to at least add excitement in her eldest son’s life. Sherlock never liked parties. He hates it. Mingling with people isn’t his thing. He never understood why people would enjoy getting formally dressed just to sit, talk and eat for hours. His mother even forced him to have a haircut!
When his mother first mentioned about the haircut, he got angry and wasn’t able to control his mouth and blurted, “Why the hell do you have to control everything? Just leave my hair be, it’s none of your bloody concern!”, which of course gained him nothing but hours of scolding from his mother.
The only reason why he agreed to attend is because he wanted to see how Mycroft would act towards his visitors. If Sherlock hates mingling, Mycroft condemns it.
Sherlock watched him all throughout the formal dinner and Mycroft’s reaction when someone tried to converse with him was priceless.
But right now, the formal dinner’s over and the party is starting. People from the richest families are starting to arrive.
Sherlock just wants to find a quiet place away from the mundane noise around him. He wants to leave but his mother would be furious and he’d rather be jailed than infuriate his mother.
He went to the living room, expecting it to be empty but to his disappointment, a lot of people were there. It seems that the visitors have infiltrated the whole place.
He sighed and decided to go out to the portico instead.
He arrived at the portico and saw a lot of visitors that were starting to enter the huge party tent that his mother prepared for the occassion.
“Mundane people obsessed with mundane things, how hateful.” Sherlock muttered to himself.
He fished the cigarette and lighter out of his pocket and started to smoke.
Nicotine always helped him clear his mind and calm his non-stop brain processing. His mother would get mad if she’d catch him, but he’d just have to avoid her.
But before he could even exhale the smoke, he caught a whiff of a very familiar scent. He’d never forget that scent. It was a scent that could evoke a lot of memories he tried to bury in his mind. No matter how many times he tried to delete the memories, they just resurface whenever he hears a sound, sees something or smells something that he could relate to her, The Woman.
He turned and saw her, The Woman, standing among their visitors and was smiling at him.
Sherlock exhaled the smoke and savored its burnt taste in his mouth before throwing the cigarette on the ground.
He didn’t need the cigarette anymore since he found something a lot more interesting.
The Tales of the Posh Boy and the Dominatrix: Part 5
Summary: Sherlock decides to take John’s advice
Spoilers for TFP
Thanks again to @fanfic-phoenix for proofreading!
Other parts
[AO3] [FFN]
It was the first thing he checked when they arrived in the wreck of 221B.
Horribly sentimental of him - he could’ve at least gone to his bedroom to check on his dressing gowns first - though he was beginning to realise that maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing.
Except with her. It was always a bad idea with her.
The desk wasn’t standing, but at least it seemed the contents had been somewhat shielded by the wood. His earha- deerstalker was completely ruined, but he could always get a new one. He’d probably get one for Christmas knowing his friends, or as a congratulations on a case. He was Sherlock Holmes, he wore the damned hat. There were other bits and pieces in there that were also ruined: the rose, the card, little mementoes from his time officially deceased. Underneath all that he found it; he found the first present The Woman gave him.
Her phone.
Somehow, despite the devastating explosion, the bloody phone survived: worse for wear around the edges, but mostly undamaged. It made it through the roughest the world could throw at it and came out on top; just like her.
Bloody Woman.
*
It was a regular morning in Baker Street: tea was being made, crap telly was being played, Mrs Hudson was cleaning, the lab equipment was out, little Watson was being difficult, big Watson was being difficult, and Sherlock was waiting irritably for a case.
He was always a little bit more on edge the day after seeing Eurus, so naturally everyone was cautious around him, even Rosie seemed to sense something was wrong with Uncle Sherly (and he would viciously destroy anyone else who ever called him that). He was playing with the tot whilst John was downstairs getting something or other from Mrs Hudson - he wasn’t really listening.
As he looked at Rosie’s innocent, cheerful face, the need for a case (or a cigarette) was significantly lowered. If only he could occupy himself with the child all day, but alas he’d have to pass her back onto her father soon enough.
“Hey, Sherlock!” John called.
“Speak of the devil,” he muttered to himself, eliciting another giggle from Rosie. “Yes, John?”
“You expecting mail?” he asked, strolling through the door of 221B with an envelope in hand.
Sherlock stood, exchanging Rosie for the letter, addressed simply to ‘Sherlock Holmes’.
Sherlock laughed, recognising the handwriting instantly: today wouldn’t be so dull after all.
He tore into the paper, not noticing the spherical bump until the dark, minuscule object was by his feet. Picking it up, he held it to the light, recognising it from a case Mycroft tried to recruit him on nearly a year ago.
The Borgias Black Pearl.
(‘Mycroft’s trying to get me to find the Black Pearl of the Borgias. What do you know?’
‘Sorry, dear. Not much, I’m afraid. I’ll see what I can do’)
He’d first texted her about it when he thought it was what was hidden inside one of the Margaret Thatcher busts. He’d seen her three times since then - once in Prague after Mary died, once in Amsterdam on John’s advice, and once in New Jersey because he had a lot on his mind and fancied a break (he absolutely did not spend days trying to work out where she was) - not once did either of them bring up the pearl. Now here it was, on the doorstep of 221B, inside a letter which read:
You’re welcome.
I’ll give you two more clues: it’s been suggested before and you’ll probably think I’m idiotic
W
Adding his new knowledge to what he already knew about her current whereabouts, Sherlock didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh. So he decided upon both. Amused exasperation: his relationship with The Woman in a nutshell.
“I’m off out, John. Don’t wait up,” he informed, grabbing his coat, scarf and something out of his desk drawer.
John turned his gaze away from Rosie to Sherlock. “Got a case?” he inquired relief slipping into his tone.
“Just solved one, actually.” He cooed down at Rosie in goodbye, before heading towards the door.
“Wait,” John stopped him, “where are you going? Y’know, just in case you’re not back by the morning.”
“Oh, I should imagine I won’t be,” he smirked. “I’m off to High Wycombe.”
A/N: This should've been up days ago, but real life got in the way and there wasn't much time. This is the last one I have written for now, but I could always come back to it if inspiration hits.
The Tales of the Posh Boy and the Dominatrix: Part 3
Summary: Sherlock decides to take John’s advice.
Spoilers for TFP
(So this isn’t heavily adlock but I have Holmes siblings feelings)
Thanks again to @fanfic-phoenix for proofreading!
Other parts
[AO3] [FFN]
“Play you,” she instructed.
“Me?”
“You.”
The first notes are in his head before the bow touches the strings, before he can even think what would be ‘playing him’. He didn't know what possessed him to play The Woman's tune, yet the second the first note sang off the strings and his body went on autopilot, he knew he that this was ‘him’ - the deepest parts of him. It represented the core of his emotions; physically, romantically, and of course…
“Oh! Have you had sex?”
The concentrated scrunch of his brows unfolded, and he felt his pulse elevated. How the hell had she known from those so few notes? When he wrote this he and Irene hadn't even-
Oh.
Did his blindingly obviously sentiments date to all the way back then?
No wonder John insisted he had feelings for The Woman.
“Why do you ask?” he kept his tone steady, not letting himself reveal anything: Mycroft was watching after all.
“The music. I've had sex,” she announced. Sherlock felt himself get a tad uncomfortable, and finally felt himself understand the dislike for discussing one’s family members sex life.
“How?” Well he had to know, didn't he? Bleach was always available to his brain later.
She appeared thoughtful, wandering inside her memory. “One of the nurses got careless. I liked it. Messy, though, people are so breakable.”
He choked down the small amount of bile that rose in his throat and focused on the melody, continuing his questions, “I take it he didn't consent.”
“He?” she asked, seeming surprised, offended, even a little bit scolding.
Sherlock fought the urge to point out that he didn't exactly have a way of knowing, considering he'd forgotten her. What could possibly have been so tragic that he erased his own sister completely? He tried again, “She?”
She shrugged, “Afraid I didn't notice in the heat of the moment and afterwards,” she paused, and Sherlock could see his hand begin to waver as dread filled him. “Well, you couldn't really tell.”
He kept his stare on her. Never had he had to put so much effort in keeping his face emotionless, and still he felt like he was failing spectacularly, and Eurus could see the fear and disgust all too plainly. It felt almost sick, playing the song he wrote in honour of Irene whilst she described revolting acts he assumed were only minor to her. Irene may be a manipulative sex worker but he recalled one meeting where they watched crappy old films and he somehow received a lecture on the importance of consent - especially in her field of work.
“Is that vibrato or is your hand shaking?”
And with that he ceased playing, removing his thoughts away from Irene Adler to his psychotic sister.
*
It was ironic, how warm stepping inside the building was when you considered the people in there were enough to make even the bravest warrior’s blood turn cold. But nevertheless, no matter the season, the air was glacial every step it took to get from the helicopter to the prison, and Sherlock’s fingers were numb as they gripped his violin case. He was almost used to the feeling, he visits had become regular enough.
He was led to Eurus’ cell with ease now, the non-enslaved guards recognising him instantly. Besides, it wasn't like this place got a lot of visitors.
Once in Eurus’ room, he shed his coat and retrieved the violin. “Hello Eurus,” he greeted. Wordlessly, she took one glance at him before rushing to her violin, getting ready to play. He smiled affectionately at her childlike actions: she still hadn't spoken, and apparently these visits were the only real response anyone ever got from her.
Resting the violin under his chin, he spoke to her before raising his bow. “We're going to do something a little different today, sis,” he told her, grinning as he addressed her. Over the past few months he'd grown attached and near-protective of his little sister, and he'd started to look forward to instead of dread their time together. He no longer worried about saying the wrong thing or triggering her in any type of way - not until today.
“I know last time Mummy and Daddy and Mycroft were all here, and they thought you were wonderful, by the way,” he added, knowing that her eyes would light up at the mention of her parents and siblings thinking she had done something good. “But this time we're going to play something a little different, is that ok?”
When he got no clear negative response, he carried on, “When I first came here, you told me to ‘play me’ and I,” he chuckled to himself, “I admit subconsciously the song probably was ‘me’ but I wrote it about someone else- for someone else, really.” He finally raised his bow. “So Eurus, I'm going to teach you a song, in honour of a truly spectacular woman: The Woman.”
