Ever since The Sign of Three when a wild Irene Adler appeared in Sherlock's mind palace, I've been wondering what would have happened if she'd appeared in his head when he wasn't busy trying to solve a murder and stuff. And then this happened. There's a ton of unrequited Johnlock in this since I just couldn't help myself, so it's a bit more angsty than I originally intended. But hey, I ship Sherlock with basically everyone, but Johnlock is the otp and one way or another it's always going to win in my fics. That's just the way my brain works.

So yeah, reviews and stuff would be quite nice.

And I don't own anything. Apparently my marriage to Benedict Cumberbatch doesn't count as legally binding since it only happened in my imagination.

Out Of My Head

Sherlock lay in bed, somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Ever since his return, he had been sleeping a lot more than he used to. It was tedious and annoying, succumbing to exhaustion so easily. But on this particular night his body and his mind seemed to be at war with each other, one wanting to rest and the other refusing to shut up. He wished that he could just stop thinking about John.

"Oh, bless."

The familiar voice startled him. God, his mind palace was in tatters these days. The room he kept her in was usually under lock and key, but nowadays she popped up whenever she felt like it. This was getting out of hand.

"Get out of my head. I'm not in the mood."

The imaginary Irene Adler giggled as she lounged on the bed beside him, completely naked as she always was in his head.

"You always say that, darling," she said. "And I always find a way to get you in the mood."

"I wasn't even thinking about you," Sherlock said bitterly.

"No, you weren't," she said, trailing a finger across his chest. "You were thinking about your dear Dr. Watson, off on his honeymoon with his new wife. I'm just here to cheer you up, Mr. Holmes... to remind you that there's at least one person in the world who loves you back."

Sherlock turned away from her, squeezing his eyes shut. "Go away, shut up, get out of my head!"

She laughed smugly, suddenly straddling his lap with her riding crop in hand. "But I just got here, sweetheart. We haven't even had any fun yet."

She stroked his cheek with the tip of her riding crop, Sherlock's eyes fluttering closed. He didn't want to enjoy it, but his imagination just wouldn't let up. He was already feeling stirrings of arousal as he looked up at the perfect recreation of the one woman who mattered.

"Stop thinking about John," she said. "He's happily married now, possible baby on the way. He doesn't need you anymore. But you'll always have me, Mr. Holmes. I'll always be here when you need a nice... distraction."

Sherlock shut his eyes, giving up on arguing with her. She was impossible to argue with when he felt this way, so... vulnerable. She took his hand and led him through the corridors of his mind palace, the sound of her high heels echoing against the slightly dilapidated walls – his mind palace really was in a state these days.

He followed her into the room where he usually kept her, a perfect recreation of the room he had first met her in, the room where she had sat naked his lap and seen right through his disguise, the room where he couldn't deduce a single thing about her. Not at all like John. He could always deduce John. And John had looked so uncomfortable, downright jealous...

Thwack. The riding crop to the face nearly made him fall over, the welt on the side of his face stinging.

"No thinking about John," Irene said sternly, hitting him with her riding crop on the other side of his face with another resounding thwack. "That's why I'm here, Sherlock. That's why I'm here and he's not. Because you shouldn't be thinking about him. Because it's pointless thinking about him and you know it. Now sit."

Sherlock immediately did as he was told, falling backwards onto the sofa. She stroked his sore cheek with the tip of her riding crop, smiling deviously.

"What am I going to do with you, dear?" she purred. "What can I do to make you stop thinking?"

It wasn't a question that she was expecting him to answer. He stayed still and silent as she stepped closer to him, straddling his lap once again. His fingers twitched at his sides.

"You're allowed to touch me, Sherlock," she said. "You have my permission."

His hands immediately rested on her thighs, slipping up to her hips and her waist, tentatively caressing the bare flesh. She felt so real, so solid under his fingertips. Damn his vivid imagination.

"I don't want to have to punish you again, dear," she said, lightly stroking his sore cheek. "I'm here to give you a treat. That is, of course, unless you want me to punish you..."

It happened in the blink of an eye. Sherlock found himself no longer sitting on the sofa, but instead on his back, lying on a bed with his arms above his head. There were tight restraints on his wrists keeping him in place, and his clothes were all neatly folded in a pile on a chair.

"Ohh, you do want to be punished," she purred, standing at the side of the bed with a smirk on her face. "Naughty boy, you just want a good thrashing, don't you?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but he didn't need to. This was the distraction he needed. It would take this extreme to get the thought of John out of his head – John, off on his honeymoon, married and happy, no room for Sherlock in his life anymore, not with a baby on the way too...

Thwack. The riding crop came down hard on Sherlock's stomach, leaving a deep red welt on his pale skin, Sherlock cried out in pain as the riding crop was brought down twice more on the same tender place.

"None of that," Irene said, whipping him again and again. "No thinking about John. You're wasting your time thinking about him. He doesn't love you, not like that. He loves Mary. That's why he married her... and not you."

She whipped him over and over again, harder each time, until Sherlock felt tears stinging his eyes. Eventually he just couldn't take it anymore.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry! I won't think about him anymore! You're right, it's pointless! He doesn't love me! I won't think about him anymore, I swear!"

"Good boy," Irene cooed, sitting on his lap. He could feel the heat and wetness between her legs on his stomach. "You're such a good boy for me, Sherlock. You learnt your lesson so quickly, you clever thing. Good boys deserve a treat."

She leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth, as her hand slipped down his torso and gripped his leaking erection. She slowly sank down onto him, impaling herself on his cock. She rocked against him, bouncing up and down faster and faster as she braced herself against his sore chest, throwing her head back in pleasure. Sherlock couldn't think anymore if he tried, he couldn't think of anything at all but his desperate need to come. It had been such a long time since he'd let his fantasy Irene take things this far. He usually managed to shut her back up behind that locked door. But now there was nothing stopping her from taking him, from filling his mind with this kind of ecstasy he hadn't even felt in real life before, the ultimate distraction, more intoxicating than the 7% solution he used to fill his veins with...

It didn't last as long as he wanted, but it didn't matter. His orgasm hit him like a tidal wave. He could hear Irene crying out his name, gasping and moaning in pleasure, as if from a great distance. The next time he opened his eyes he was lying in his own bed, a hand inside his pyjama bottoms and sticky mess covering his fingers. The thrill of his release was fading fast, clouded by self-loathing. John hadn't even been gone for that long... and look what had become of him.

I think that the end of this fic could be like a sort of explanation as to why Sherlock is back on the drugs at the beginning of His Last Vow. Sort of. I guess. I don't know.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed, Humble Readers.

xxx