Author's Note: Missing scenes between Episode 3.2 ("The Sign of Three") and 3.3 ("His Last Vow"). My everlasting love and appreciation for my perennial beta runneth over (that would be Lionne) and I must give major daps to my britpicker: sleeping_lions. If you see that girl in the street, treat her to some fish and chips for me (or whatever else she wants).
Disclaimer: Sherlock is a British crime drama developed by Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, and is produced by them along with Beryl Vertue, Rebecca Eaton, Bethan Jones, and Sue Vertue. The programme is based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It is a BBC production, and airs on BBC1. All characters, plots and creative elements derived from the source material belong exclusively to their respective owners. I, the author of this fan fiction, do not, in any way, profit monetarily from this story.
In hindsight, Sherlock may have made some miscalculations about how much time going out with someone actually consumed. The hours he was devoting to the evening phone calls alone seemed excessive.
"In the end," Janine said, her voice booming from where his phone sat on the armrest and sounding out through the entire sitting room, "I was glad he went to prison. It was his own doing and he had no one to blame but himself." Sherlock only gave her his partial attention, typing as softly as he could, as he searched for a place to buy military-grade, animal-tissue preservative online. It was, predictably, a hard commodity to come by. "So that's it," she said. "That's my favourite episode of EastEnders. Really, I doubt they'll ever make a better one."
Certainly not a worse one, Sherlock thought. "That must have been quite entertaining," he said instead, feigning amusement. Meanwhile, the human foot in his refrigerator was screaming his name.
"So, now your turn," she said.
He paused from typing. "I'm sorry—my turn?"
"Yep. What's your favourite episode?"
"Of EastEnders?"
"Yeah. Surely you've got one."
Surely he absolutely did not. "Um..."
"Sherlock," she said, incredulity in her voice, "please tell me you've seen it before."
"Yes, of course I have," he said. "Do you think I'm a complete snob?"
"Sometimes."
"Well, I'm not." Indeed, following the murder of chat show icon Connie Prince, Sherlock had watched more trash telly—as John so eloquently put it—than seemed decent. Needless to say, however, Sherlock had long ago deleted all of it. Still, he would have to come up with some reference—no matter how oblique—if he were to seem "normal." He considered his options; surely a show of its ilk had conducted a nuptial or two. He'd start there. "I would say," he began, "my favourite episode would be the one when—I forget the characters' name—got married."
"YES!" she said with enthusiasm. "I love that one too! Wait, which one? Archie and Peggy? Denise and Lucas? Bradley and Stacey? There have been a few weddings."
"The most recent one."
"Bradley and Stacey, then." She sighed contently. "I liked them. The road to love never did run smooth, but they stuck it out, didn't they?"
"They did," he said with a sigh. "It was a lovely affair."
"Lovely—except for the fact that her brother almost derailed the ceremony with a revelation of the fact that she'd slept with her father-in-law-to-be."
"Well," he said, "as a detective, I do have a penchant for the scandalous."
"Don't give me that, Sherlock Holmes," she said. "There's more to it than that."
"Is there?"
There was a silence and he could almost hear her nodding; her voice took on an alarmingly gushy tone, and he stared at his phone with mild unease. "Deep down, Sherl…you're a romantic."
Collecting himself, he smiled coyly, hoping it would translate to his voice. "You've found me out."
She laughed. "I have, haven't I?"
"You bring that out in me, I suppose."
"In that case," she said, "when are you coming over?"
Huh? "Coming over where?"
"To my flat, silly. I'd love to have you over for tea."
"Ah, yes, well," he stammered. "That's sounds lovely."
"Great."
"Great."
"Tomorrow, then? Eight-thirty?"
"Eight-thirty," he repeated with some hesitation.
That was the time he was due to see Georgie, one of the more talented drug purveyors of his network. If they would meet, he would have to move back dinner. "How about six?"
"Six?"
"Indeed."
"So early?"
"Why not?"
"Well, fine. Suit yourself. Let's say half six. It'll give me sufficient time to get home from work and finish off the meal."
"You'll be cooking?"
"Of course, Sherl."
"Half six it is," he said with a wince. "I'll meet you there."
"Won't you need my address?"
A thought crossed his mind before he answered—this could be fun. "Don't tell me; let me work it out."
"Yeah?"
He leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh. "What did you wear to work today?"
"Um," she said, hesitating a moment. "A red suit with a white chiffon blouse. I wore nude pantyhose, black pumps, and pearl earrings."
Sherlock pause a long while, muttering calculations to himself. After a sufficient time had passed, he cleared his throat. "You live at 6 Ainsworth Court, Patterson Street, Wembley."
To his disappointment, there was no response.
"Janine?"
"But how...?"
"Quite simple," he replied. "The ensemble you chose indicates the lighting of your bedroom at the time of your selecting the outfit. Since you've told me you do this in the morning, I approximated the position of the sun, and given that your room has an east-facing window, that knowledge allowed me to deduce the approximate location of your flat at the current sunrise time."
"That's really, really uncanny," she said breathless, and a bit terrified.
"Also," he said, laughter swelling in his voice. "I did the wedding invitations."
"SHERLOCK!" she screamed, then began to laugh. "You bastard. That scared me."
"Then I consider it an evening well spent."
Sherlock jogged up the steps to the first-floor row of flats, scanned for number 6, then knocked on the door. Almost as soon his knuckles were leaving the wood, the door swung open.
"You're late," Janine said, miffed.
Sherlock consulted his watch. It was 6:48. "Indeed I am."
"And out of breath."
"Also true. My apologies."
She glared back, arms crossed. Sherlock deduced that she was unhappy.
"In my defence," he explained, "there was an accident on the way." Technically true, although a lorry hitting a squirrel didn't greatly impact the duration of his trip. More significantly, Molly had rung and told him of an abandoned body that had recently arrived to the morgue. Among the corpse's effects was a dissected liver that had somehow managed to go unaccounted for in the official report. Finds of that sort could hardly be put off for tea, and Sherlock left immediately to collect it. Three taxi rides and quite a bit of running were to blame for his currently harried condition...and lateness. "May I come in?"
She sighed. "Of course you can." She opened the door, and he entered, shutting it behind him. Smiling at last, she leaned in for a kiss, one he strove to return. "Let me take your coat," she said, helping him with it. She then went off down a short corridor to the right, which, he assumed, led to her bedroom.
Meanwhile, he took a seat on the sofa. Her flat was as lovely as he'd imagined. Clean, but welcoming. Contemporary, but adult. Tastefully decorated in neutral greys, whites, and beiges with flourishes of autumn-coloured accents. A suitable tea set adorned the sitting room table and two large windows sat in the far wall to his right, no doubt bathing the room in cheerful light on sunny days. A portrait of an elderly couple, whom he assumed were her parents, hung behind him on the wall. Perhaps, he thought, he should hang a photograph of his parents on his wall.
Then again, perhaps not.
She soon returned, briskly walking past him on her way to the kitchen. "Please, have a seat at the table. There are only a few minutes yet on the rice. In the meantime, would you like tea," she said gesturing to the kettle and cups, "or wine?"
"Wine would be delightful," he said and rose, walking over to the dining table situated between himself and the kitchen. The kitchen was an open one, so he could still see her as worked. "What've you got?"
"Chardonnay—Nottage Hill," she said. Sherlock said nothing. "You don't like it?"
"Perfectly fine," he said, and sincerely so. When it came to inebriants, he'd never been picky.
She shrugged. "Tesco's website said it went well with chicken curry. Who knows?"
"I certainly don't," he said, and felt his phone vibrate. It was a text from Georgie.
"We might have to meet earlier. Got a rozzer on my arse."
"So," Janine said, well into recounting a personal murder mystery, "when he finally walks in, the place is completely dark except for a sliver of light seeping from under a door down the hall. Slowly, he approaches—weapon drawn, mind—and throws the door open. What should he find but both women, crouching over a table and clutching wooden sticks dipped in the hot wax."
Over time, Sherlock had discovered one aspect to Janine that was fairly remarkable: she had a way of telling rather mundane stories in a manner that was somehow engaging. If only John could learn that art, their blog would be filled with less drivelling tripe.
"So, detective," she said after a while, "what do you think: was it the daughter or the mother?"
Sherlock sat back in his chair, his arms crossed. "While the volume of texts falls in the arena of a younger demographic, the hem on the dress clearly indicates it was someone of an earlier generation. I'd say the mother."
She shook her head. "You're wrong."
"Am I?"
"It wasn't either one. It was the masseuse."
"Ugh," he grunted in frustration, looking away. "The bruises should have been my first clue."
"In the end," she said, tossing her serviette onto an empty plate, "they were put out of business and I had to go to a new spa entirely."
"My condolences."
"None needed," she said, reaching over and topping up his glass of wine. "The new spa is where I met Mary. No Mary, no friendship. No friendship, no wedding. No wedding...no us."
It was a curious statement—Sherlock wasn't aware Mary frequented the spa. He nodded, and then took a sip.
"Funny," she said. "You've probably drunk double what I have and yet, even though I feel a buzz starting, you look as sharp as you did when you walked through the door."
"It's been said I can hold my liquor," he said sitting up.
"Has it?" she said with a chuckle, finding this funny for some reason.
"Hm," he said. When he realized who he was talking to, he got an idea. "In fact, I've had a history of substance abuse."
She instantly stopped laughing. "What?"
"Cocaine, mostly," he said, and followed the statement with a wide, toothless grin.
She sat up straighter, her mouth falling open a little. "Are you kidding me, Sherl?"
"Nope." And please do spread that around at work, preferably to your boss.
She looked at the wine glass hovering around his lips, then back at him and his rather cavalier attitude. "Should you be partaking?"
"Absolutely," he said, taking another sip before lowering his glass to the table and idly running his finger around the rim. "Drinking and smoking keep be sober. That and solving crime."
Every answer produced more questions. "Are you still usi—"
"Addicted? Not at all." He finally looked up at her face and only then noticed her fear; she looked afraid. It had never dawned on him that the idea of having a junkie boyfriend might be upsetting. He would have to somehow turn this around to elicit her sympathy. Starting again, his voice grew softer and he shifted his eyes away bashfully. "It started during a very dark time in my life. I've rarely got anyone to talk about it with."
"You can talk about it with me," she said, her face tender and empathetic. "You're safe here."
He nodded. "Well then, it began after uni. I was having trouble finding employment." Read: He'd told Mycroft that he and his repeated offer of a government job could both piss off. "The boredom and hopelessness got the better of me. I was lonely, unfulfilled and feeling useless," he continued. "Before I knew it..." He stopped there, looking away solemnly.
"Oh, Sherl," she said, placing a hand on his where it was on the table. "How did you... break free from it?"
He looked up, meeting her eyes with sadness. "My brother."
"Mike?"
Sherlock nodded. "For all of our disagreements, he knew me well enough to know something was wrong. He so kindly intervened."
The truth? One morning, Mycroft called Sherlock from outside of the boarding house where Sherlock was living at the time (having wrangled his address from Lestrade) and offered to pay Sherlock's boarding fee. When Sherlock told him to piss off, Mycroft—and three armed guards—stormed the building (triggering a heart attack in at least one of Sherlock's fellow boarders), and kicked in Sherlock's door. His bartitsuwas no match for their guns, and they forcibly escorted him into a car where his parents were waiting—his mother in a hysterical fit and his father in an agitated stupor. Upon arriving at the rehab centre, a nurse met him at the car and injected him with a sedative (certainly illegal). When he came to, he was strapped to a hospital bed in restraints.
Sherlock didn't speak to Mycroft again for a year.
"It's not something I'm proud of," he continued, and looked up at Janine timidly. "You probably hate me now."
"Sherl, no!" she said, rising and racing over to his side. She squatted next to him, rubbing his hand and looking up at him with sympathetic eyes. "Listen to me. Don't you dare say that. We all have a past. I'm just proud that you were able to overcome your demons and move on. Now look at you—you're a big-shot detective, aren't you?"
"I am, aren't I?" he said, smug in spite of himself.
"You are," she said with a proud smile. She leaned up kissing him. "Your secret is safe with me."
"Thank you," he said. "Although, I would understand if you were forced to disclose it to your employer."
She looked up, confused. "Why would I have to disclose that to my employer?"
"You never know what stipulations are in employment contracts these days—perhaps a significant-other drugs clause or something."
"I think it'll be fine," she said rising, and reached for his plate.
"Wait," he said, stopping her hand. "Before that, I've got a surprise."
Sherlock had done this on a whim, having been overtaken with an uncharacteristic desire to please. However, with the moment having arrived, he hesitated for a second, stopped by a fleeting sensation of intimidation. Quickly overcoming it, though, he plunged two fingers in then ran them around the moist walls, greedily circling the warm crevices. Across from him, Janine threw her head back in pleasure.
"Sherlock," she moaned, licking her lips.
"You liked that?" he asked.
Silently, and with drooping eyes, she nodded her head. He withdrew his fingers and then stuck them between his lips. He dragged them from his mouth slowly, finishing with a slurp.
"I do too," he said. In fact, watching her enjoyment seemed to heighten the experience for him as well, something he'd not anticipated. Having lost all inhibition, he lowered his head and stuck out his tongue, lapping up the last warms drops into his mouth. She let out a throaty chuckle.
"I honestly never thought I'd see you do that," she said.
He smiled. "Frankly, neither did I."
"How did you learn—"
"From an older woman, of course," he said. "My landlady in fact. They are the best teachers."
"Aren't they?"
He was suddenly feeling light-headed. Maybe it was all the wine...and sugar.
"Next time, you'll have to let me return the favour," she said, raising an eyebrow.
"Nonsense," Sherlock said. "I rather like making crème brûlée. They are one of the few puddings which employ the use of a blowtorch." Having disgraced himself, he placed his now-spotless ramekin on the table.
"Well, I'll be happy to eat them again," she said, scraping the last morsels from her own dish and licking the spoon clean with shameless abandon. She rose, reaching for a dirty glass, before hesitating. "May I wash up now?" she said.
"If you wish," Sherlock said, digging into his jacket pocket and glancing at the time. It was already 7:39. Where had the time gone? Georgie had said he would text Sherlock shortly before 8:00, indicating the exact spot where they should meet, and the park was seven minutes away by taxi. With his dealer under suspected police surveillance, the window for the exchange was razor thin. Sherlock could be called away at any moment, committing the high crime of "eating and running" and potentially drawing Janine's ire. He had to somehow pre-emptively redeem himself. "On second thought," he said, rising abruptly, rounding the table and stepping into the kitchen, "allow me." He began to collect the mound of dishes she was precariously balancing in her hands.
"Are you sure?" she asked, watching with surprise as he unloaded her arms.
"I promise you I've never been surer of anything in my life."
"Wow," she said, smiling, as he arranged the dishes in the sink, "you dance, you solve crime, you clean up. A girl could get used to this."
"Just one more reason why our relationship should not end," he said, hoping to drive that particular point home—and rather clumsily. It had an unexpected effect.
She placed one hand on the counter, and the other on her hip. "Why would our relationship end?" she asked.
"It wouldn't," he said, as he rolled up his sleeves, "hence my previous statement."
"But what would even make that statement necessary? Unless maybe you thought—"
"I thought nothing," he said as he turned on the water, "nothing but longevity and continuity." He squirted soap into the sink then, trying to end the matter, changed the subject. "Help me dry," he said, tossing her a towel that was dangling from the oven handle.
"Alright," she said, catching it with a laugh, and walked over next to him, beginning to dry the dishes as he rinsed them. It was odd; they usually conversed sitting or—sigh—lying down, and when they did stand, she was typically wearing high-heels. Now, with her feet flat to the floor, he realised he'd forgotten their contrast in height. As it turned out, she was thinking the same thing.
"You're so tall," she said, more to the point.
"Apparently not as tall as I seem in the papers," he mumbled.
"You're plenty tall for me," she said, poking him in the side.
"Am I?"
A glance at the microwave revealed it was already 7:44. He had approximately 28 seconds per dish if he were to complete this task by the projected deadline which, he could only hope, would be 7:53. Why had she used do many pots? He scrubbed faster and harder in the scorching water when, to his dismay, she placed the towel she had been drying the dishes with on the counter.
"Done drying then?" he said as a gentle reminder.
"Hmm," she said and bit her bottom lip, an ambiguous response. She stood behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist; he could feel her chin pressing into his back. Great.
"Cleanliness is next to godliness," he admonished cheerily.
She rose on her tiptoe and leaned into his ear. "What's next to naughtiness?" she purred.
He managed to squeeze out a chuckle, but quickly sought to remind her of the task at hand. "Perhaps filth." Then, on second thought, he realized the statement might exacerbate the situation.
"Filth?" she said in a low voice, and then reached over, turning off the water. She took the sponge from his hand and tossed it into the soapy water. She grabbed his wet, soapy hands and spun him around until they were facing each other. Then she pressed up against him, looking up into his eyes. "Then let's get filthy."
"Right," he said, a bit unnerved. "Filthy."
She smiled and leaned up for a long, extended, sensuous kiss. As the embrace went on and on, Sherlock opened an eye and glanced at the time on the microwave: 7:50. He would have to go any minute. Panic began to set in when it dawned on him:
He would have to go—any minute.
Suddenly, what he had been viewing as a problem became a glorious opportunity. He had a plausible and available excuse to leave any minute. He could dazzle her for the duration of the next few, fleeting moments only to be whisked away—consequence free.
"Nice and filthy," he said with renewed vigour, and swept her up in his arms. She squealed with shock and delight, and wrapped her legs around his thin body.
"Sherlock," she said, bringing her nose to his and peering into his eyes. "What's come over you?"
"Who knows? The wine, the sugar...you." That sounded rather nice, didn't it?
"Well, I'd love to come over you," she said, stretching out her arm and pointing. "The bedroom is that way."
"Ah, right," he said and headed for the hallway where she'd previously disappeared. As they moved forward, she buried her head in his neck, kissing and sucking it with the enthusiasm of a newly awakened vampire. Entering the hall, Sherlock slowed, spotting three doors: one had a metal strip underneath, indicating that the floor beyond the door was tiled; that was the bathroom. One door was exceptionally small and the doorknob had no lock, so it likely led to a cupboard. The third, by deduction, must be the bedroom. He rushed for it and turned the knob, entering a room that was softly-lit with dim lamps and the odd candle; Sherlock surmised that she'd anticipated them ending up here. He spotted his coat and gloves on the boldly-striped bedding. Bounding forward, he snatched them up, hurling them against the wall in a single motion, and then threw Janine onto the bed where she landed on her back, bouncing against the plush mattress several times. If her shrill and delighted cries were any indication, she liked it—a lot. Leaning back against her elbows, she regarded him with a snarl and a sultry glare.
"I like to play rough," she said in her best growl.
"I do have a type," he muttered. Sherlock scanned the room for a clock: there was one on the table by her bed: 7:53. Excellent.
Getting frisky, she sat up and crawled to the foot of the bed where Sherlock stood. She hooked a finger in his trousers' belt loop, but he snatched her wrist away and bent down, levelling his face with hers. "I'm in control," he said. Of course, he had to be; he had a deadline. Janine however, found his sudden dominance exciting; her eyes widened and her breath quickened. She swallowed hard, climbing backwards towards the headboard.
"Yes, sir," she panted.
He kicked off his shoes then, on all fours, he climbed onto the bed. Slowly prowling like a big game cat, he stopped when he had crossed the length of her body. He looked down into her eyes—the ones that cowered in sensuous enchantment under him—without moving a muscle.
"What now?" she asked. Without speaking, he quickly lowered his head, descending to her face until he stopped with razor precision, a mere breath from her lips. She closed the gap, passionately sucking his face as if her life depended on her consuming the moisture of his lips. Then, she reached up, fumbling with the first button on his shirt when he grabbed both her hands and pinned her to the bed.
"Patience, woman," he scowled.
"Where are you handcuffs now?" she snarled.
"None needed," he said, his voice having dropped to a low rumble, and she bit her bottom lip with restrained desire. He glanced at the clock: 7:58. With her arms spread, he gently pecked her on her forehead, then in the bend of her nose, on one cheek, then on the other—each kiss chaste and maddeningly reserved. She closed her eyes, savouring the lingering tease, as his lips lightly graced her neck, her collarbone, her...he stopped as he approached her décolletage.
"Scared, big man?" she asked.
"Hardly," he said. Annoyed, yes. Another glance: 8:00. Where was Georgie? Sherlock stalled for time. With quaking hands that nearly betrayed the assertion, he brought his fingers to the top button of her blouse, slowly unbuttoning each one. As each fasten came open, he could see the rise and fall of her chest, the swell of anticipation. When he'd reach the bottom, he threw the fabric open, revealing a bra that was far too fancy for a day at the office. The undergarment had clearly been chosen for his viewing pleasure. He dragged a languishing finger down the length of her neck, cleavage and stomach, terminating just short of her waist.
And then...nothing. It was after eight and there still no call from Georgie. Worse, Sherlock had exhausted his limited repertoire of non-sexual activities. Left with little choice, and suspended above a woman in the throes of arousal, he desperately searched through the most far-flung bowels of his Mind Palace, scraping for something that could extend this moment and painlessly put off a consummation—that wasn't going to happen—just until Georgie rang and freed him from this charade.
"Sherlock?" Janine called, but he didn't hear her, didn't even see her. Images flashed and panned in front of his eyes—from the clichéd nudie magazines tucked under Mycroft's bed, pictures from his dorm mate's screensaver at uni, clips from John's "hidden" computer folders—all of them involving activities, proclivities, and orientations unfitting for the occasion. Just as he began to despair, it came to him...
The Whip Hand.
Once again, The Woman stood above the rest.
"Have you been naughty?" he asked.
Janine furrowed her brow, sincerely confused by the sudden development.
"Bend over," he commanded calmly.
"What?!"
"You heard me," he said. "I won't repeat myself."
It's then that Janine got it; her face drooped in mock distress. "Am I in trouble?" she whined, pouting.
"We'll see," he said and reached for his belt, furiously unfastening the buckle before snatching it from his trousers loops with a wicked flourish. He folded the belt in half. "Again I ask you: have you been naughty?"
Janine shook her head, nibbling on her bottom lip. "No."
"Oh, but I believe you have," he said, slapping the weathered leather against the palm of his hand. He could think of a handful of infractions off the top of his head—all of which involved violations of his privacy.
"I might have been a little," she said. Then, in another act of disobedience, she took it upon herself to take off her skirt and tights, wriggling out of them and pushing them down the length of her legs. She was wearing a thong. She lifted one leg and the discarded articles of clothing dangled from her ankle in way that recalled vixens of cinema. She flicked them off and onto the floor, then drew her knees up before slowing moving onto all fours. With feline grace, she crawled over to where he was then hovered her lips near his ear.
"Spank me," she whispered.
When she pulled away, Sherlock half expected her to prop that round, plump, thong-clad bum in the air, but instead she brought her face just beyond his—her back arched, her hair askew—and they were eye to eye. The leather strap was pulled tight between his sinewy fingers, her ample cleavage was poised just under his chin, and their mutually hot breath floated between them. His eyes met hers with a steady determination, and he didn't know if it was her brogue accent, the kinky illogic of the situation, or the way some of the tendrils of her dark brown hair tumbled over her right brow—but Sherlock found himself frozen, entranced, immobile—stuck.
"Sherl," she said so, so lightly that Sherlock thought the word might have bypassed his ears entirely and drifted, unbidden, directly into his mind. "Take me now."
As Sherlock contemplated his current fate and the seconds ahead, his phone vibrated—and not a moment too soon.
Peeling his eyes away from hers with great effort, he fumbled into this jacket pocket, removing the device. He checked the screen and saw what he expected to.
"I must take this," he said, his voice surprisingly weak.
"Sherlock," she gasped, aghast with frustration.
He alighted from the bed and took several unsteady steps away. Even his knees seemed compromised. He brought the phone to his ear. "Better late than never."
"Come right now," Georgie said. "I'll give you ten minutes and then I'm gone."
"I'm on my way," Sherlock said. When he turned back around, he noted the disappointment in Janine's eyes, and wondered how he'd somehow become the person who'd put it there.
END NOTE: Thanks for your eyeballs and giving this story a few minutes out of your day. Reviews are welcomed and cherished.