Warnings: Restraint, reference to abuse, BDSM subtext, mild language.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.
This fic is a sequel to Control and Bait. It sits in the Adriane Woodford series.
It takes me a moment to register the text message alert when it goes off. My ears are buzzing and with a raging temperature my reactions aren't what they should be. Besides, the drone of daytime TV is drowning out most of the other noise in the room.
"221B if at all convenient. SH." the message says.
I groan. This is not going to work. It couldn't have come at a worse time: I've been on the sofa for three days now and not showing many signs of improvement. He will have to wait.
"I am really sorry but I'm ill," I text back. Not sure what the response will be.
To my surprise, there isn't a response at all. I decide that that is probably better, and sink back into the duvet and pillows. Bargain Hunt is on and after three days I've got quite a liking for it. Phil sticks his head around the kitchen door.
"Are you sure you just want tea? I can make you beans on toast if you want."
I shake my head, "Doh, just tea, dank you."
It was nice of him to visit on his lunch hour. Of all the guys at the College he has been the most persistently interested in me. He's a nice bloke but not really my type – friendly, outgoing, straightforward and uncomplicated, all the things that my previous boyfriends have not been. But today I am not complaining of his attentions, especially not as he is just bringing me a steaming mug of tea.
"Dank you berry buch," I manage.
He sits down at the foot end of the sofa, and asks, "Are you feeling any better?" He's being really sweet, and so obviously wants me to be getting better that I say yes.
I hadn't heard the front door open, but suddenly Sherlock is striding into the living room. For a moment I wonder if I am hallucinating, but then I decide that my temperature isn't quite that high. He stops in the middle of the room and takes stock of the situation, looking slightly taken aback.
"You're ill," he says.
I shake my head in hazy disbelief. Phil is just staring at him, his mouth open.
"Yes, Sherlock, dat's what I said." I say. Then a fuzzy thought strikes me, "you thought I was fobbing you off." He just gives me a brief awkward look.
If I was feeling any better, I'd be enjoying seeing him on the back foot for a change. He doesn't waver long though. With a dazzling smile, he extends his hand to Phil.
"Hi, I'm Sherlock. How do you do?"
Phil stands up, unsure, and shakes his hand. "Phil," he says, and then, "Ehm, how did you get in?"
"Oh, I've got a key," Sherlock says, still smiling, waving a small silver object in front of his face.
Phil just says, "Oh." He looks at me, trying to get some explanation, but all I can say is, "you do?" I wasn't aware of it. I was going on the assumption that he'd picked the lock. It dawns on me that he had plenty of time to have a spare key cut while I was staying at Baker Street for three days some months back.
There's an uneasy silence in the room for a minute. Phil rescues the situation beautifully by offering Sherlock tea.
"Coffee please. Black, two sugars."
As soon as Phil has gone to the kitchen, Sherlock is onto me. "Boyfriend?" he asks.
"Doh," I say.
"But he could be," Sherlock continues. "He wantsto be."
I'm not going to ask how he worked that out so quickly. Even I can tell. "He's dot by type, Sherlock," I say.
"You mean to say he's nice." He sounds sarcastic now. "Adriane, 'your type' invariably ends up physically and sexually abusing you. Maybe you should consider changing types."
I am wondering if Phil can hear this conversation from the kitchen. I can't judge anything with my stuffy head, but it seems to me that Sherlock is being louder than discretion should allow.
"I dink you bight want to keep your voice down," I say.
Sherlock just smiles at me and raises an eyebrow. Now I know for sure he's doing this on purpose. "Hodestly, I don't deed you to be by batchbaker" I sniffle. It doesn't quite come out the way I intended it.
"Oh I don't know, every little helps," he says. He's enjoying this, but I am just worried about what catastrophic thing he's going to say next. "I mean, you'd have to put a stop to all the computer gaming, but it might work, as long as you like dogs. And cricket. I'd be wary of the overbearing mother though, not sure you'd want her as your mother-in-law. And if you still feel the need for pain you can come and see me. I'm sure I can think of something."
He's serious, I think, in his clinical mind that would work wonderfully.
Phil has reappeared in the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand. I have no doubt that he heard all of that. Sherlock turns to him.
"Sorry about the coffee, I'll see myself out."
As he opens the front door, he calls back, "Text me when you are better, Adriane." And with that, he's gone.
Phil doesn't say anything for a long time but just stands there, coffee still in hand. Then he looks at me and says, "Did that just happen?
I nod. He looks wary when he says, "Who was that? Your boyfriend?"
I shake my head, "doh." I really don't want to have this discussion when I am feeling this awful.
"But he's got your key," Phil carries on. This is going to be hard, I think. I decide to go with Sherlock's approach of horrific honesty and see where it takes us. He's done all the groundwork, after all.
"He bust have pick-pocketed be when I was staying over a few months ago after I complained about him picking my locks," I say.
Phil stares at me. "You are joking."
I just shake my head.
"And he's not your boyfriend."
I shake my head again.
"But he wants to be?" Phil sounds uncertain now.
"Oh God, doh," I say.
"But you want himto be?"
I think about this a moment. The reality of actually living with the man would be unthinkable; I remember having to escape after three days. I wonder how John copes. "Doh, actually," I say. I wonder if I sound as surprised as I think.
Phil is quiet again for a while. In the end, he drinks the coffee himself. I can see he is struggling not to ask many more awkward questions.
"Listen," I say, "when I'b better I will cook you dinner and I will explain. There's some stuff you deed to know about be."