Author's Notes:
First off, I'd like to make it known that this is my first published work of fanfic, so don't set your expectations too high ;). I'd really appreciate reviews, positive or negative.
Irene and Sherlock's relationship as portrayed in this fanfic is strictly speculated, and based on nothing canon. Their relationship is extremely complex and not much has really been revealed by the show's creators concerning Irene Adler, so this is just my interpretation of their "relationship", whatever it may be. Please don't hate me for my speculation. However I'll try to stay as in-character as I can.
A few of the chapter titles may be song titles, describing the following chapter. It's not really a fan mix per se, but they're just songs to go along with the chapters.
WARNINGS: I also want to just state upfront that there will definitely be SEX, COURSE LANGUAGE, POSSIBLE NON-CON...basically it's M for a reason. The sex will be in later chapters, but I probably won't include a warning, as to not ruin the dynamic of the chapter.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, because if I did I wouldn't make the fandom wait so long for series 3 ;) Also, I'd be sipping tea with Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman at 221 B Baker St.
Enjoy, and let me know what you think!
Chapter 1: Sherlocked
A woman stared calmly out of her hotel window. The Woman. She had barely survived a beheading, yet she stood as grounded, firm, and steady as the ocean she now looked out upon. It had been mere hours. The waves rolled in and out, and she gazed out into the hopeless sea until the soft churning of the waves became one motion, like a hawk swooping down for the kill; constant, continuous, precisely accurate. For a fleeting moment, she stood there, surrounded by the quiet stillness, her thoughts abandoning her, with only the constant crashing of waves on the deserted shore for company. For one moment, she allowed herself to be lost in the sea.
She shifted her eyes to the cool, white, Egyptian cotton sheets on the king sized bed. The most beautiful - and fascinating bed the woman had ever seen. She had no space in her mind to occupy with such trivial matters as a mere bed, but in the stillness, even the waves became more distant, drowned out by her newfound fascination with the magnificent thing. A deep shade of chocolate brown, like silk. Carved flowers and leaves were etched into it, and the roll of the end and the great rise of the headboard directed her thoughts again to the waves crashing below her hotel window. The long, soft, matching white curtains hanging from the notched bedposts fluttered gently, occasionally catching the breeze.
Suddenly, her mind emerged amidst the dreamlike quality of her soft, frayed, and out of focus reality. The blur that had been her head but a minute ago, began to awake, her razor-sharp mind racing as it stirred in her head and she regained her consciousness.
How long had he been standing there? How long had she?
"Where are we?" She demanded, a little to abruptly, and quickly, almost like the elastic of a rubber band snapping under the pressure of long, drawn out thoughts, pulling at her brain. Her intense gaze shifted to the door of the penthouse bedroom, at the tall, lean man standing in the door frame, dressed as always in a suit, complete with a tight-fitting shirt a rich shade of purple. The unmistakable profile of one Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective.
"Delfino Blu Boutique Hotel." He calmly stated, making her demanding question seem all the more desperate. She searched his cool exterior for a hint of further information, but as she opened her mouth to ask (in a much more calm and steady manner) he simply added, "The coast of Kerkrya. In the Ionian Sea."
A blank stare.
"Greece." Adding this "minor" important detail as an afterthought.
"Of course". The woman responded, keeping her calm temperament. That was one of her best qualities: not getting frazzled, slowing down her thoughts, in order to analyze each and every motion, in synchronicity. A choreographed dance, she so beautifully mastered. Her stellar performance.
"So. How long are we to stay here? You shouldn't keep John waiting." She stated simply, before adding, "He so deeply cares for you." With just a hint of suggestiveness.
"I will return to Baker St. immediately. You will stay here until I deem it safe."
"Have you finally lost your head? Safe? I'm supposed to be dead, Mr. Holmes."
"And you haven't died before? "
Irene Adler hesitated before responding, "It's a bit different this time." Her voice remained even and level as always while she recalled what she had believed to be her final breaths.
I cried. I almost lost my head. I cried. Which was worse? What was the difference anyway?
"We'll now's not the best time to be keeping secrets. I didn't risk my own life so that you could go and get yourself killed the minute I left you."
"Well aren't you considerate?", the corner of Irene's mouth crooking into a smirk, gone as quickly as it had come. "Let's have dinner."
"It's 1:00 AM."
"Oh." Irene hasn't yet noticed it was so early in the morning, amidst the distraction of her near-death experiences the previous day. "I'm not hungry."
"Why have dinner if you're not hungry? Unless there are other things on your mind."
Irene smiled. The smile that seemed to tear Sherlock apart. It wore away at his heart, melted him. That perfect, warm, yet razor-sharp smile that tugged at him. It was so rarely seem. But he would never let it show of course.
"So", Irene began to pace across the room, slowly, towards Sherlock, "we both have questions."
"I never ask questions."
"Oh right, I forgot you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the-"
"-clever detective in the funny hat, yes, I know. You've said it before." Sherlock said shortly, with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"Actually 'sociopathic jackass' was the phrase I was going for. I never repeat myself, Mr. Holmes. Makes for dull conversation. It must've been a long trip from London, you're tired and-"
"-Stop it. Don't make small talk. I hate small talk."
A sudden wave of rage flashed across Irene's eyes. There were few things she hated more than being interrupted. Sherlock knew that. So the game had begun, had it? Of course it was only a matter of minutes in conversation together before the clever detective and the dominatrix went to battle, wringing out each others' minds.
She started, again. "Tired and confused, judging on the fact that you booked a penthouse suite with only one bed. You had enough money to invest in two beds, you're a Holmes for God's sake." Irene's voice sounded particularly sharp. She may be in debt to the Holmes' boy, but she couldn't resist taking a little jab at him. "It might also have had to do with the flight from London to Pakistan, then to Greece." She added in a much softer tone. "I haven't formally thanked you."
Sherlock gave her a long, meaningful look, as to acknowledge her thanks.
"You have my sincerest gratitude." Irene tried to sound as sincere as possible. She really meant it. She did feel heartfelt gratitude towards this strange and wonderful man, and it was a rare occasion that she would ever let such an emotion show. But she wanted him to know. He deserved to know, just this once. Did he pick up on the sincerity in her voice? The man may have been a genius but he was shit at being able to understand the emotions emanating from other people.
"What do you need?" She was more straight forward this time. Her voice was all strictly business. "Or better yet, want?"
Sherlock gave her a short glance, not quite sure what she was getting at, but waiting for her to continue.
"As you well know, Mr. Holmes, I hate being in debt. To anyone, and especially you. I'm never late in repaying what is due." She slowly, seductively walked to the edge of the extravagant bed, running her hand on a patch of moonlight, cast from the open window, as she inched closer to him. She sat down abruptly, and crossed her legs, folding her hands into her lap. All her attention was on him now, and her soft, yet intense stare began to unnerve even Sherlock.
He shivered slightly, under her gaze.
"I don't have any information to give. You saw to that, and I don't have any money on me." Her eyes quickly skirted over the bed, before she laid down on it, feeling the satin caress her cheek, her hair flowing out from beneath her. She captured the moonlight. He face a soft, pale glow. "Oh, how I hate to be utterly useless." Her blue robe began to slip past her shoulder. Her glowing neck and shoulders were fully exposed, as her skin peeked out of the thin silk robe, still inching down her body with every rise and fall of her chest. Her beauty matched that of the stars themselves.
She has even the moon wrapped around her finger, under her control, Sherlock thought silently. He stood there awkwardly, slightly uncomfortable, not sure where to look, but certain all the same.
Irene didn't dominate just people, or governments, she controlled everything. Seeing her lying there, a position one might associate with vulnerability, she emitted nothing short of raw, pure power. In that moment, it seemed she could conjure Earth to stop turning underneath there feet. The planets would collide if she blinked. Spinning the sun out of control, and into a black hole.
Sherlock observed the way her eyelashes fluttered delicately as her bright eyes opened, springing her to life. She pulled back the corner of the perfectly made bed, in a highly suggestive manner, lightly resting her hand upon the surface.
"Are you suggesting you repay me with sex?" Sherlock spoke slowly, carefully. But he wasn't alarmed, no, sex didn't alarm Sherlock Holmes. His face twisted in confusion, as though Irene's obvious advances had just occurred to him.
"If that's what you want."
For once in his life, Sherlock was at a loss for words. She was joking, wasn't she? No, no she wasn't, she was a dominatrix. Sex didn't alarm her. Sherlock may not have been ordinary, but he was a man, all the same. But he vowed not to succumb to her so easily. He would only be playing directly into her hand.
"No." He replied simply. Giving the offer no more thought.
Irene continued to stare at him, her electric eyes piercing through him.
"That's not what I want."
"Too bad." And with that, Irene rolled over, allowing herself a peaceful night's sleep, thoughts of the man still staring at her, drifting though her head.
Sherlock walked over to the open window, and stood a moment watching the waves lap up the sand before retreating back into the sea, only to inch up onto the beach again, and take more with it. All under the pull of the moon.
The tidal wave…the ultimate game of cat and mouse. He promptly shut the window, and glanced over at the now sleeping Irene. How can one get such sleep after nearly being executed only hours ago, and then offering sex to the only person who knows of her existence?
He was special to her, wasn't he? To the rest of the world, Irene Adler was dead. That had to count for something didn't it?
