Fair Warning: women sexing other women. BDSM. Riding crops. Rope Bondage. Fingering and oral sex. There is also some plot here, completely by accident. Have fun!
Sherlock Holmes didn't do flustered. No. She was calm. Collected. Perfectly in control at all times. So much that when people reached for adjectives to describe her they didn't go for striking, or beautiful, as much as they went for frigid or intimidating.
But she didn't really mind that.
No. She kept her curly dark hair short. Only painted the faintest hint of black pigment around her eyes. She'd been told on countless occasions that she had a lovely bone structure, but she did little to accentuate it. She wore her perfectly tailored suits, and ran about London, and could kill a man with her bare hands. She wasn't afraid of anybody.
But then along came Irene Adler. The day they met, Irene walked into her own parlor completely naked, and for the first time in years Sherlock didn't know what to do. She stared at the perfect curves of Irene's body. At her creamy, unblemished skin, and cherry red lips, and her perfectly done up hair... and for once... she didn't know anything. It was like Sherlock's mind had momentarily short-circuited.
Of course, she didn't have much time to linger. She had, after all, a job to do.
But Irene saw. Sherlock knew it, in the curve of her smile.
From then on, it wasn't so much flirting as playing chess. As playing a very dangerous game. Because they were both lethal, in their own ways. Sherlock's power lay in her coldness. Irene dealt mostly in unbearable heat. She was like a bright burning candle. Sherlock felt inexplicably, and inescapably drawn to her. Like a pitiful little moth. Circling around a beacon of warmth and illumination.
But she couldn't let herself have it. Not right then.
"I'll make you beg... twice."
Irene's voice often skittered across Sherlock's mind late at night. As she lay alone in bed. She wondered. Because nobody had ever made Sherlock beg. Not really. She took what she wanted, and if something didn't interest her, she avoided it.
She'd always thought drugs were a preferable vice. They didn't create such messes. Romantic entanglements were time consuming, and mostly gag-inducing.
But still...
Sometimes Sherlock would imagine Irene's riding crop, whistling through the air. Crossing her flesh, painting delicate lines of agony. Because it was exciting to feel powerless. It was exciting to lose control.
And as she imagined rope around her wrists, and bruises on her hipbones, Sherlock might slide a hand down between her legs. Where the skin was slick, and warm. She ached, in an abstract manner at first. But it quickly became a reality.
She'd tease herself, slowly. Just barely slipping a finger down, to the bottom of the slit, where it was sticky and wet. Then slowly, oh so slowly, she'd drag her finger upwards and start with the circling motions around her clit. She kept her touch feather light. So that it made her breathe faster. Because no doubt, if Irene were in control, she would make Sherlock wait. Make her suffer. Keep her right on the edge until she couldn't stand it anymore.
Sherlock's other hand would often wander down of it's own accord. She'd slide a finger into herself. Into the tight, dripping heat. She'd bite down on her lip to stifle the small moan.
Because John might not be asleep upstairs. And it was better for everyone involved if he didn't consider Sherlock a sexual being. Mostly she wasn't. Mostly it didn't interest her.
But the thought of Irene's wicked hands, and clever lips, and biting mind...
She would touch herself for almost an hour, sometimes. Thinking about it. Rolling in the waves of pleasure. Relishing the flush of her skin. The way it became more and more difficult to breathe properly. Her hands would get incredibly sticky.
And when she came, shuddering, gasping, it didn't really lessen the want. No. It seemed to increase it.
Goodbye, Ms. Holmes.
Sherlock looked at the text more often that she would admit. It was the only concrete shred of evidence she had of the day she'd saved Irene's life. The rest was all memory. The bloodshed. Their great escape from the terrorist cell. In a far away country, in a dark alley, hiding from men with guns, they'd kissed.
Only briefly. The adrenaline of it all had been too much.
Irene had pressed Sherlock up against the concrete wall and taken it. Their lips met. Not soft, or gentle, or any of the things a first kiss usually is. No. It was wild. Hungry. Irene slid her tongue inside Sherlock's mouth almost pornographically. It made Sherlock feel a bit weak at the knees. The arousal lurched through her body.
"Oh..." Irene had smiled. "The things I would do to you."
But of course, they didn't have time then. No. They had to meet up with Sherlock's contact. Get Irene safely out of the country. Part of Sherlock wanted to follow her. But that would have put both of them in more danger.
So instead, she made her way back to London. Still smiling about the kiss.
It took a lot of careful planning, to go anywhere without Mycroft noticing. And if Sherlock did anything out of the ordinary, he popped up asking questions almost immediately. For the most part, though she would never dream of articulating it, his constant watchfulness was useful.
But in this particular instance, it was annoying.
When Sherlock booked her trip to Dublin, Mycroft came round, asking why. Sherlock had an excuse. A case. Even if it was a relatively simple one.
"I'm going on vacation," Sherlock snapped as she threw dress shirts into a suitcase. "Stop pestering me."
"And you're not bringing Mr. Watson?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He was rather good at looming in doorways. If Sherlock weren't used to it, she might have been intimidated.
"No. We're not married or something. I don't have to bring him everywhere I go."
"Do be careful. You know, Moriarty has a large network in Dublin."
"I know. But they won't touch me. That's not how he operates."
Mycroft tried to persuade Sherlock to at least check in with one of his various friends in the city. She declined. Resolutely.
The plane landed at about 18:00. Sherlock took a cab to her hotel, dropped off her things, showered, and promptly went back out. They hadn't talked much about it. Because phone calls and texts left records that were easy to trace. And if the world found out Irene Adler was alive, it would be no end of trouble for both of them.
Sherlock walked down the unfamiliar streets. It was early May. The air had some hints of spring to it, but was still rather chilly. She pulled her greatcoat closer around her and moved a bit faster. By the time she got to the specified address, the tip of her nose was numb.
She rang the doorbell, just once, and waited.
The small snick of a lock being turned whispered through the silence. Sherlock opened the door and stepped into a dark hallway. She closed and locked the door behind her.
The lights flicked on.
The hall was narrow, with a staircase leading up to the second floor. The walls were painted a warm burgundy. Tasteful landscape paintings hung every few meters.
Irene stood about halfway up the stairs. She had on a sheer black dressing gown, and nothing else. Sherlock's heart stuttered in her chest. She felt like she'd been thrown out to sea. The land underneath her had become unreliable. There was nothing to grasp onto for support.
"Well?" Irene licked her dark ruby lips. "Are you coming?"
She turned and walked up the stairs without waiting for an answer. Sherlock followed after taking a few moments to collect herself.
There were several rooms that lead off from the upstairs landing, but only one door stood open. A warm light spilled out of it. Sherlock approached, warily. Because even though she'd saved Irene's life, even though they weren't exactly enemies, Irene Adler was not the sort of woman you trust implicitly. Not under any circumstances.
Irene stood in front of a mirror, looking at Sherlock in the reflection. Neither of them spoke. The silence stretched out for an indeterminate amount of time. Sherlock's eyes flicked around the room. It was rather simply decorated. A large canopied bed stood in the corner. There was a wardrobe pressed along the far wall, as well as a pair of doors by the mirror that presumably lead to a walk-in closet.
The stillness broke. Irene's delicate hands moved. She swiftly untied her robe, and let it slide off her shoulders.
She almost looked made of porcelain. Like a perfect, painted china doll. Sherlock had thought perhaps Irene would have retained some modicum of vulnerability after her near brush with death. But it wasn't so. Even just standing there, with her hip slightly cocked, staring at Sherlock in a polished piece of glass... she exuded control. Power. Confidence.
She turned on her heel, and placed a hand on her hip. She eyed Sherlock speculatively. Pretending she didn't know what came next.
"You know, I'm rather surprised you actually showed up," Irene said in a gentle voice. Like silk. Like warm honey dripping off a spoon. "Didn't your brother dearest tell you how dangerous it is for a girl like you to travel to the epicenter of Mr. Moriarty's network?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied flatly. "I'm not so easily frightened."
"How do you know he and I aren't still working together?" Irene cocked her head.
"I don't."
"And you'd risk that?"
"Apparently so." Sherlock felt the corners of her mouth twitch upwards.
"My, my, my..." Irene tisked as she took long, swinging strides forward. She had on a pair of black high heels. They clicked imposingly across the hardwood floor. She all but crowded up against Sherlock. They weren't quite touching. But it was closer than Sherlock had willingly been to another person in a very long time. "Well first things first," Irene cooed, "let's get you out of all those pesky clothes."
Her hands skimmed underneath Sherlock's coat, sliding it back off her shoulders. It fell to the floor. Pooling around their feet. Sherlock felt strangely disarmed. Naked, even though she still had a suit on. Perhaps it was in Irene's gaze. In the way her wide, blue eyes drank in every inch of Sherlock's body. Hungry. Predatory.
Next she did away with Sherlock's blazer. Then she began on the shirt buttons. One by one. Meticulous. Barely brushing against Sherlock's skin. She smiled, as she undid the cuffs of the shirt and pulled it off, leaving Sherlock in a simple, black lace bra.
"Aw, did you dress up for me?" Irene raised her eyebrows.
"Hardly," Sherlock replied, with most of the usual bite.
"Mmm... We're going to have to work on your manners. That's no way to talk to your Mistress."
The words slid through Sherlock's brain like warm butter. Like fine wine. Her skin already felt over heated. All the blood had rushed to the surface, causing her to flush. She almost groaned at the slight contact, when Irene loosed the button of Sherlock's trousers.
Irene pulled down the zip and Sherlock's trousers fell to the floor. Sherlock toed off her shoes, and stepped out of the pile of clothes. Closer to Irene. Sherlock had put on black lace pants to match her bra. Irene's fingers skimmed the elastic waistband of them. It sent pangs of anticipation through Sherlock's body. The fabric already felt sticky against her.
"You're lovely," Irene whispered. She leaned in close. Tantalizingly so. With the heels on, they were almost the same height. "Now tell me, Sherlock, what is it you came here for?"
The gears in Sherlock's mind spun. If she said the wrong thing, she didn't want to contemplate what might happen. She didn't have any pretty words, pretty lies, or intelligent answers. Her brain seemed to have gone halfway offline already.
So she responded simply, "you."
"Ah." Irene traced her fingers up Sherlock's spine. Coming to the clasp of her bra. She unhooked it easily. Sherlock shrugged out of it and it fell to the floor. Irene's hands slid forward, to cup Sherlock's small breasts, just for a moment. "So you're here to put yourself at my mercy, is it, Ms. Holmes? Do you want me to take control? Get you out of that big, complicated brain so you can simply feel?"
"Yes," Sherlock breathed before she could think about it.
"I won't be gentle."
"I wouldn't expect you to be."
"I told you'd I'd make you beg for mercy."
"I remember."
Irene reached up and tangled her fingers in Sherlock's curls. She tugged lightly. Just enough for Sherlock to feel it. Then their lips pressed together. Their entire bodies pressed together. The feeling was exquisite. All that naked skin. Pure sensation. Irene's ribcage rising and falling with each breath.
It went much slower than the last time they'd seen each other. Perhaps because there weren't any terrorists chasing after them. Perhaps because Irene could feel how much Sherlock wanted, and they'd already started the game.
Their tongues slid against each other languidly. Irene's hands roamed freely, eventually slipping down to cup Sherlock's arse. She squeezed. Then began to tease at the waistband of Sherlock's pants again.
She slid a hand between them. Traced the edge of the lace. Down to where the heat had pooled between Sherlock's legs. Down to where she already ached.
Irene slipped just one finger under the fabric. Easy as you please. She slowly brushed against the slick skin. Against the gathered wetness. Then, just like Sherlock would usually do, she traced her finger upwards. She circled around Sherlock's clit. Once. Twice. Sherlock gasped into her mouth, and Irene smiled.
"You're going to be so much fun," she murmured against Sherlock's mouth.
And then her finger was gone. Irene stepped back. Seemingly composed, and serine. Some of her lipstick had smeared off, presumably onto Sherlock's mouth. The thought of it sent Sherlock even deeper into the pit of her own arousal.
"Now then..." Irene strode back across the room towards the large wardrobe. She opened the doors with a flourish.
Sherlock's mouth went dry.
Contained therein, was nearly every conceivable instrument of punishment. Whips. Paddles. Floggers. Handcuffs. Ropes. Gags. Collars...
"I want you to pick," Irene smiled innocently. "You've been a very naughty girl, Ms. Holmes. So incredibly rude. You know you deserve it. So choose your punishment."
Sherlock walked towards the wardrobe. Her eyes roamed across the various options. Some of they toys looked a bit frightening. She wasn't particularly interested in paddles. She pondered the rattan cane, leaning against the back of the wardrobe, because it looked well made. Elegant, almost.
But then her eyes settled on the slim, wicked looking riding crop hanging from a hook on one of the doors. It was reminiscent of the crop that Sherlock usually stored underneath her bed.
The one Irene had hit her with so many months ago.
Sherlock nodded to at it. Irene followed her gaze and smiled. "A bit sentimental, are we?"
"Never," Sherlock deadpanned.
Irene took the crop off the hook and wrapped her fingers around the handle. She flicked it through the air, as if testing how it moved. Then she smacked the crop against Sherlock's hip. Not very hard. But it still made Sherlock jump slightly.
Irene dragged the leather tongue of the crop upwards. Tracing the minimal curve of the other girl's torso.
"Turn around," Irene said crisply. "Hands against the wall. Legs spread."
Sherlock raised her eyebrows, but didn't move. Irene closed in. She tangled her fingers in Sherlock's hair and pulled. Hard. Then she began walking. Sherlock had no choice but to follow. It hurt. Her scalp burned.
"Such an insolent girl," Irene sighed. "You're just gagging for a good whipping."
She pushed Sherlock up against the wall. Nearly hard enough to knock the wind out of her. Sherlock went limp. Allowed Irene to arrange her. To pull her hips back, so that her arse stuck out. To nudge her legs apart with the pointed toe of her shoe.
Sherlock stayed, with her palms pressed to the pale golden wallpaper. Breathing heavily. Waiting. Irene didn't move. The silence drew out agonizingly.
And then Irene's fingers slipped inside the waistband of Sherlock's pants, and she pulled them down. Not all the way. Just enough to expose the pale curve of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock exhaled quickly. Tense.
Then the crop swung down, straight across Sherlock's arse cheeks. It managed to catch her off guard, even though she'd known what was coming. The pain was immediate, and exquisite. Almost teasing. Not like accidentally cutting your finger, or burning yourself on hot glass. It hurt, stung, but Sherlock wanted more of it.
"Keep count now," Irene murmured. "That was one…"
The crop smacked down again. A bit higher than before. Sherlock shivered. "Two," she said in a strained voice.
The next blow went lower. It made something lurch in Sherlock's stomach. The heat spread across her skin. She had a throbbing sort of awareness around every place that Irene had hit her. She couldn't think about anything else. Besides the burning points of contact and the deep-seated ache of lust.
"Three."
"How many do you think you deserve?" Irene asked, as she traced the tip of the crop over Sherlock's sensitized skin.
"As many as you'll give me, Mistress," Sherlock gulped.
Three more blows came in rapid succession. They stung more than the first three. Sherlock squirmed minutely, against the minimal friction of her pants. She wanted to press her legs together. She wanted to reach down and touch herself.
Her fingers curled against the wall. "Four… five… six," she breathed.
She felt Irene step up behind her. Irene's arm curled around Sherlock's body. Her hand dragged across the skin of Sherlock's abdomen. Then downwards. Sherlock bit back a moan as Irene's fingers brushed across her clit.
"Oh," Irene traced a few slow, teasing circles, "someone's a bit excited. Hmm?" She slid her hand further down. Cupping Sherlock. Pressing against her. "You're so wet for me, aren't you?"
"Yes, Ms. Adler," Sherlock choked.
Irene slid Sherlock's pants to one side, exposing her. Slowly, relentlessly, she pressed one finger into the slick heat of Sherlock's body.
"Ah," Sherlock's hips bucked involuntarily. Irene indulged her for a moment. Sliding that one finger in and out, barely teasing at something wonderful. Almost stroking across that ache so very deep inside. The drag of the motion caused small sparks of pleasure to ricochet through Sherlock's body.
But then, Irene pulled back. Sherlock groaned. She couldn't think about anything but how badly she wanted Irene's fingers back inside her.
The riding crop smacked down again. Sherlock jerked.
"Seven," she gasped.
Irene stroked the tongue of the crop up Sherlock's spine. Then two more blows. The lines of pain burned across Sherlock's already inflamed skin.
"Eight… nine…"
"Let's go for a nice round number," Irene laughed.
The last swing of the crop felt like the hardest one. But perhaps it only hurt the most because of all the blows that had come previously. Sherlock let out a small sob. Caught somewhere between desire and frustration.
"Turn around," Irene cooed.
Sherlock straightened up and turned to face her. Irene crowded her back against the wall. The crop clattered to the floor. She pulled Sherlock's lacy underwear the rest of the way down. She cupped Sherlock's arse and squeezed. It cause a fresh burst of pain, hot and tantalizing.
And then, and then Irene slid gracefully down to her knees. She pushed Sherlock's thighs apart. She looked up, smiled, and maintained a searing eye contact as she flicked out her tongue and traced it between the folds of Sherlock's pussy.
Oh god.
She flattened her tongue and licked slowly. Teasing upwards. She kept a gentle pressure, barely sliding across Sherlock's clit.
Sherlock couldn't contain the small, broken noises that came out of her mouth. Irene slid two fingers inside Sherlock, as she continued to lap against her. The tension began to build at a frightening pace. Each breath came out a gasp. Sherlock was absolutely dripping. She could hear the vague, slick sounds every time Irene pushed her fingers inwards.
Her thighs trembled. She wasn't sure she'd be able to stay upright for very much longer. The room felt like a furnace. Every motion of Irene's tongue drove her closer to that unbearable edge. The pleasure rolled through her whole body. She'd never been so desperate to come. But Irene kept here there. Too much. Not quite enough.
"Oh fuck," Sherlock whined.
Irene pulled her head back. She licked her lips. She kept her fingers inside Sherlock but she stopped moving them.
"Sherlock," She tisked. "I never thought I'd hear such a filthy word come out of your mouth. I should make you wash your tongue with soap."
"I'm sorry, Mistress," Sherlock barely managed to grit out. She ached horribly. She'd been so close.
"I highly doubt that…" Irene flexed her fingers, making Sherlock shiver. "But that's all right. I think I've got a better idea."
She withdrew her fingers slowly and stood up. She wrapped her hand around Sherlock's wrist and tugged her towards the bed. Irene sat on the edge of the mattress and spread her legs. Sherlock stood. Staring for a moment.
Irene looked delicious. Wet, and dusky pink. She had a small patch of closely cropped pubic hair, but was otherwise shaved smooth.
"Get on the floor, slut," she said, in that light, easy tone, that somehow managed to be more imposing than a shout.
Sherlock kneeled, then sat back on her heels. She placed her hands on Irene's thighs and leaned forward. Irene rested a hand on Sherlock's head, pressing downwards gently. An invitation as well as a non-verbal command.
Sherlock kissed Irene's clit delicately. Feather light. Irene inhaled sharply. Sherlock flicked out her tongue and began to lap against Irene, with gentle little flicking motions. Her skin was so soft. Slick. Sherlock couldn't help dipping her tongue down to where Irene was the wettest, before trailing back up.
"There's a good girl," Irene sighed. "Such a pretty little tart."
Sherlock slid one of her hands down. She dipped her finger into Irene's entrance shallowly, before withdrawing. And oh… Irene felt fantastic. Velvety. So incredibly wet and hot. Sherlock slid her finger back in, a bit deeper.
Irene shivered. She placed a firmer pressure on the back of Sherlock's head.
Sherlock slowed down. Dragged her tongue upwards in long, sweeps. She slid in another finger.
Time drew out with no meaning. The only real things in the world were explosions of sensation. The feel of Irene's slippery skin. The ever present throb between Sherlock's legs. The burn of every line Irene had drawn with the crop.
Part of Sherlock felt she wouldn't be able to stand it all for very much longer. Part of her thought she might be happy like this forever. Kneeling on the floor, lapping at Irene's clit, and fucking her with two fingers.
Irene moaned. Softly at first. But the noise built on a steep crescendo. Sherlock's hand was all but drenched. Her jaw started to hurt. Her fingers felt a bit stiff from the repetitive motion.
But then she felt it.
Irene tensed. She gasped. Her internal muscles contracted around Sherlock's fingers in a series of blissful spasms. Sherlock continued to lick softly until Irene pushed her away. Sherlock withdrew her fingers. She looked up at Irene as she slid them into her mouth and licked them clean.
Irene smiled. "You are filthy," she laughed breathlessly.
Then she seemed to recover rather quickly. She stood up. The wonderful, needy, whining creature that Sherlock had just fucked through orgasm was gone. Irene came back, forceful, terrifying and sinfully sexy.
"Get on the bed," she snarled.
Sherlock obeyed wordlessly. She sprawled across the mattress. Irene stepped over to the wardrobe and took out two lengths of black silk rope. She returned to the bed and tied one end of a rope to a bedpost—in a series of complicated looking knots. She grasped Sherlock's arm and pulled it upwards harshly. Sherlock held her breath. Irene secured the rope around Sherlock's wrist with the same finesse and speed that she'd tied it around the bedpost.
As she walked around the bed to tie down the other length of rope, Sherlock tested the bond. She tugged gently. There was no give. There was a small space between her wrist and the post. She could move her arm a few centimeters in either direction. But that was all.
Then Irene tied her other wrist. The real claustrophobia set in. Sherlock struggled a bit. Just to feel how trapped she was. Her heart raced.
Yes.
This is what she'd imagined. What she'd wanted. The feeling of utter helplessness washed over her. First panic. But then something else edged in over it. A bizarre sort of calm.
Irene kneeled at the edge of the mattress and raked her eyes over Sherlock's body. Then she crawled forward. Settled between Sherlock's spread thighs.
She ran her hands up the sides of Sherlock's ribcage, up towards her breasts. She grasped them. Squeezed gently. Then she flicked her thumb over Sherlock's nipple. It sent a sharp pang of arousal shooting downwards. Sherlock's mouth fell open.
"I own you," Irene said simply. She continued to toy with Sherlock's breasts, tracing her fingers over her nipples, the pleasure of quickly edging towards the first hints of discomfort and rawness. "It doesn't matter what happened before, or what happens later. I'll always know that I had you like this. Shaking, desperate, and begging to come—like a pathetic little whore."
Irene dragged her fingernails down Sherlock's torso, leaving little red scratches. Sherlock shuddered. She felt wonderfully dirty. Subjugated. It was glorious.
Sherlock closed her eyes. She felt the twinges of pain as Irene pressed her thumbs into Sherlock's hipbones. Squeezed down hard. Pressed her nails in until they just barely broke the skin. Sherlock jerked. He wrists burned as she tugged uselessly against the rope.
"Is there something you need, Sherlock darling?" Irene cooed.
"Please, Ms. Adler," Sherlock whispered, "touch me."
"I'm touching you right now, dear girl," Irene smiled wryly.
"Please put your fingers inside me… I need it…"
"Oh," Irene said in mock surprise.
She slid two fingers into Sherlock's dripping pussy. She began to work them in and out slowly. And it was wonderful. But nowhere near enough.
Sherlock squirmed. Panted. But Irene kept up with her unhurried, relentless motion. Sherlock moaned and whined, and bucked back against Irene's thrusts.
"What do you want? Use your words," Irene asked with not small amount of condescension.
"I need to come." Sherlock mumbled.
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that."
"Please may I come, Ms. Adler?"
"Well since you asked so nicely…"
Irene laid down on her stomach. Her tongue flicked out against Sherlock's clit and Sherlock groaned. The anticipation gathered at her core. Tremendous. Like hot coals shaking deep inside her.
The tension escalated. Irene's tongue and fingers moved insistently. It was too much to bear. But Sherlock dimly heard herself begging for it.
Yes. Please. Oh god.
Sherlock felt like she was in freefall. She couldn't move her arms. Irene had pinned down her hips. She'd lost control completely.
She surrendered to it. Crashed over the edge of orgasm. Cried out as her muscles contracted. As her brain flooded with a massive dump of reward chemicals. Oxitocin. Dopamine. The pleasure rolled through her. It flattened her. She went completely limp.
Irene pulled back. Then she crawled up the bed. Lay on top of Sherlock and kissed her gently.
"There we are," she brushed Sherlock's hair back off her forehead. "Rest now."
"You're not going to untie me?" Sherlock asked, still trying to remember how to breathe normally.
"Oh my, no."
Sherlock stayed in Dublin for nearly a week. She didn't leave Irene's house once. There was no need to go back to the hotel for a change of clothes, because she stayed naked the entire time. She managed to solve the art theft she'd been called in to work on over her mobile phone.
She didn't really want to leave, even though she knew it wouldn't be reasonable to simply move into Irene's house and have sex with her constantly. She would get bored. She needed the work or else she started to feel pointless and empty.
Still, Sherlock lingered on the day she had to go back to London. So much that she almost missed her flight.
"We'll see each other again," Irene smiled as they stood in the front hallway. She'd put on a red silk dressing gown. Her hair flowed down over her shoulders, long and graceful.
"You sound quite certain of that," Sherlock raised her eyebrows.
"You won't be able to stay away. Now go on. We can't have that awful brother of yours coming to look for you."
Irene kissed Sherlock soundly before sending her out the door.
Sherlock spent the entire flight contemplating the strange ache in her chest. Longing. Loss. Some bizarre mixture of the two.
Things became quite hectic after that.
Moriarty paid Sherlock a visit when she'd been back for a week or two. Told her to get ready. That the games were about to start.
It all happened so fast. Too fast. Everything spiraled out of control. Sherlock wasn't exactly scared. Not for herself. But for John. For everybody close to her.
She spent some cold, grey mornings staring out the window—doing nothing but worrying over whether or not Moriarty knew Irene was still alive. She hoped not.
In the end, after the fall, after Sherlock's life had shattered into irreparable pieces, she managed to sneak out of the country.
Sebastian Moran had gone so deep into hiding it would be months before he resurfaced. She couldn't contact anybody from her old life, because it would only put them in danger.
So she stopped in Ireland, and then continued on her way to Germany. With a different name. With white blonde hair, brown contact lenses and heavy make up.
Nobody noticed when two dead girls quietly moved into a little house on the outskirts of Berlin.