A/N: This is an odd and short piece but it's been sitting on my harddrive since 2012 so I decided to finish it off and post in case it appeals to anyone out there. Rated mature for the themes but is mostly implied things.
It's the second time he finds Irene in his bedroom. This time they meet she's not wearing his coat but her choice of clothes is revealing. She leans back on the mattress in a prim but colourful cardigan and skirt combination that is not her usual provocative attire, nor lack of attire intended to have the same effect. Over the top of those very average looking clothes is a plain white labcoat.
"She likes being ordered about you know. I think she's reminded of you. Oh wait, you didn't know that did you? That's my pleasure alone. You should hardly be surprised Sherlock, the way you treated her."
"Why are you telling me this Irene?"
"As you know, I tend to prefer the company of women and yet I find you...enthralling. Molly and I share that in common, share you in common. Well...not actually, it's such a shame you probably wouldn't entertain the notion. Regardless, it's a rather unique situation, her knowing so much of you and me so skilled at encouraging her sweet, innocent mouth to talk. Oh, she has quite the imagination."
"I don't need to hear this. Keep your love life to yourself. You're boring me."
"Don't need to, don't want to. I saw that flash of surprise, and what else, almost anger, that we have this mutual acquaintance. You're protective of her. Is it her unassuming demeanor, does it bring out the big brother in you or is it a little deeper, darker, than that - do you want her all to yourself? Your demure pathologist at your beck and call. Because I have to say you took her for granted, you could have had so much more from her."
"This conversation is over."
"It's only over when you stop listening," Irene says with a smirk, getting up and apparently making her exit earlier than he expected. Yet she stops at the door, waiting for something.
His phone vibrates and a split second later a semi-familiar groan eminates from his pocket.
"Recognise that?" she asks simply.
He furrows his brow, listening more intently as the notification noise comes again.
"It's not the same. The pitch and length have changed."
"That's absolutely right, Sherlock. A little remember me by, from me, from Molly."
For once he can't think of anything to say in return. Irene leaves without further ado, having got the result she wanted.
He plays it, the sound recorded for him.
He's not meant to feel this way. A surge of emotion at the gutteral breathy moan. It is not brought about by his hands, his flesh against hers, it is all Irene in physicality.
Irene sends him scripts, line by line to his phone. Words it is implied she has said, imploring Molly of what she is doing on his behalf. There are no replies from Molly in these exchanges Irene writes for him; his mind fills in the blanks. There are only responses like that which he plays over and over again.
Irene plays with her using him, and she plays with him using Molly, and he wonders who out of any of them is getting what they want. Every time he presses play his brain stutters over a thought of something he didn't know he needed.