The Woman stood over him, riding crop in her firm grip. Her perfect red lips were stretched in a smirk as she surveyed his body, observing the marks she'd left on the submissive figure stretched on the bed. He'd begged, over and over and over as she ravished him.
She'd stripped him to begin, but teased him with the sheer lace that hardly covered her. She was in command, of course; he'd known that the minute she'd made him gasp and shudder under her barrage of kisses against the wall, the minute she'd slammed him against the firm mattress and begun to work the tight shirt over his head. Miss Adler had planted kisses on his body and wrapped her legs round him as she dragged him upright. She'd traced the scars on his back with her slender fingers, brushed butterfly kisses on the track marks traipsing up his arms, bitten softly at his neck as he lay ready to accept her punishment, surrendering completely to her. She brushed his cheek and whispered seductively into his ear, leaving him breathing heavily as she disentangled herself and left to dress in something more comfortable.
She returned quickly, more beautiful and more confident than any goddess, taking the air out of her worshipper's lungs when she touched him where it would do the damage. Her white teeth sparkled slightly in the dim light as she leaned forward. He'd remember like this. The Woman who beat him.
Sherlock snaked an arm round the sleeping Irene, stroking her bare shoulder with his calloused thumb, wondering what that beautiful intelligent mind dreamt of. He wondered if it too was filled with memories, of secret rendezvous and the hasty love of two dead people, of the relief when they found each other amongst the rest and knew they were both (just) alive, of the moment they could finally stop hiding and embrace within the walls of Baker Street. And speaking of… he blushed slightly, wondering whether the poor Landlady had been subjected again to their sounds of passion. He had warned her that they needed to be quiet, both of them, and she'd apparently taken it as a challenge to ensure the opposite. He hoped the neighbours didn't complain - he had a reputation to uphold! Still, it had been mutually gratifying to record new ringtones, personally this time.
"Penny for your thoughts, Mr Holmes?" The still sleepy voice of Irene sounded in his ear. He shifted to face her.
"They're worth so little?" He said playfully, pulling an offended face.
She hummed slightly, a mischievous grin etching itself on her face. "Indeed they are, Mr Holmes, seeing as how I could extract them quite easily." She placed herself close, close enough so he could feel her breath on his cheek, "Very easily indeed, if I tried." She sucked softly on his neck and he moaned slightly, feeling the blood flow shift from towards his precious brain with alarming rapidity.
"I don't doubt it, Miss Adler." He muttered.
"Cooee!" Mrs Hudson's piercing greeting wafted into the room. "Can I come in?"
"No, please don't," Sherlock called back, a slight urgency tingeing his tone. Irene smirked as she lay her head lazily against his chest and brushing the inside of his leg lightly. His voice hitched slightly as he tried to talk.
"Come back later, Mrs Hudson." He was acutely aware that his voice was not even a semblance of composed and he glared playfully at Irene.
"You're a devil, Woman." He murmured.
Unseen behind the door, Mrs Hudson placed down the tea that didn't just happen with a new urgency and beat a hasty retreat, leaving a shocked 'Oh my' behind her.
With his freshly bruised lips, Sherlock relaxed on the bed, Irene nestling into his side.
"We should probably get up, Miss Adler. The tea Mrs Hudson brought up is no doubt getting cold."
"Do you think she'll come up again?"
"I think we might have scared her, Woman. That was a rather crude trick you played."
Irene smiled, "Are you complaining?"
Sherlock hummed and shook his head negative. They rose together, neither bothering to take the clothes discarded on the floor by the bed, instead wrapping close together in the sheet. They walked in sync to Sherlock's well-worn armchair and sat close together. Irene took her seat with a cheeky grin, wriggling slightly in his lap. He folded his arms round her slim waist and kissed her cheek before shifting her away.
"I'm checking for cases, my dear. I can't be distracted right now, unfortunately."
She pouted slightly, unwrapping herself and sashaying away, her naked body dragging his traitorous eyes from the Work. No, he had to focus. He did. The Woman could come later. With a determined flutter of the paper, he opened it to a random page, preparing to scan for the unsolved, the baffling, the genius.
"Oh…" Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly and his cheeks burning. This was unexpected. His mind blanked slightly, the only thought available the crass (but not undescriptive) bollocks.
"Miss Adler?"
She looked up, her attention caught by the hesitance in his voice. He handed her the paper, purposely not looking her in the eyes. She looked at the headline, giggling slightly.
Sherlock Holmes After Dark!
Internet sensation Sherlock Holmes has sent shockwaves throughout his group of adoring fans after being photographed in an alley near his home with his mystery beau. Fans are already trying to find the identity of the mysterious woman and find out exactly who has captured the notoriously unsentimental detective's eye.
Emblazoned across the top of the story was a grainy but nonetheless identifiable picture of the moment Miss Adler had decided they should give big brother a show. Apparently someone else had seen, and now his reputation was in tatters. Who knew how many people would read it, and if it was a National Paper everyone would know.
With a sudden flash of realisation the colour drained from his face. He groaned deeply and covered his face with his hands.
"Which paper is that, Irene?" Came his muffled voice. He sunk deeper into the chair at the answer before looking up at her, despair in his eyes. "My parents buy that paper, Woman. They are going to find out about my… romantic entanglement… through a ridiculously over exaggerated piece in the paper."
She sniggered, "Romantic entanglement?"
He glared. "My words are hardly the issue here, Adler. The issue is that my Mother is about to give herself a heart attack when she see's her youngest caught in the act by the paper!"
He pulled the sheet over his head, deciding he would rather stay hidden for the rest of his life than face the questioning of his mother. She was an excellent interrogator when she wanted to be, and his father would be just as curious. His phone vibrated on the table. Irene took it in her delicate hands, reading it aloud.
"Sherlock, me and your father are going to come visit. We'd love to meet this young lady in the paper. We'll be here by twelve, and I think we'll bring Mycie along. See you soon, Love Mummy."
"Oh no." He groaned. "Anything but that."
Irene laughed loudly. "You're a grown man, Mr Holmes, you can survive introducing me to your parents."
"No. I can't. Fetch a basin, I'm deathly ill and simply can't deal with visitors today." He pulled a face, "Moving from sick to dead. Do me a favour and call the undertaker. And my parents. Insinuate I have the plague!"
"Come on now, Sherlock." She said, walking over, "It can't be that bad. Now come get ready. We can't greet them lol this, I guarantee that."
"It can be that bad," he mumbled under his breath, "You've yet to meet my mother. And Mycroft will be here too… you might as well shoot me and have it done with."
She smiled gently taking his hand.
"Come on. Promise to behave, and I'll give you a treat."
He raised an eyebrow, contemplating it. "In advance?"
"Naturally."
He smirked and let her lead him to the shower.
They stood pressed together, the warm water dropping like bullets onto their bodies. Irene moaned slightly as she leaned against the wall for support, gripping at Sherlock's wet hair as he entered her, and (for once) she gave him control. She clawed at his back, tugged at his hair, both sweating in the steaming room. Legs weak they both explored each other, forgetting for now that they were in a rush, that they were soon to be interrupted, instead enjoying the others company, writhing with pleasure with every new move and moan they extracted. With a small gasp, Irene reminded him that they did need to be ready. He pouted, pressing a greedy kiss to her neck and grasping at her waist. She didn't resist, letting in the tongue that asked for entrance and wrapping her arms round his neck.
'What did it matter if they were a little late,' she decided, shifting slightly as wandering hands moved southward down her body. 'This was much more fun.'
Mr and Mrs Holmes had already let themselves and their eldest son into 221B when the pair emerged from their room, hair still wet and slightly tousled. Mycroft took only a second to look away, nauseous as he realised what his baby brother had been getting up to.
"Apologies, we were busy."
"Very busy it would seem, Brother mine," Mycroft said drily. Sherlock scowled, hardly avoiding that far too frequent blush, as his brother received a smack on the knee for his troubles. He sank into an armchair, making an effort to not look anyone in the eye. He felt like a teenager again, not that he'd ever done anything like this in his younger years. He glanced at his mother, wondering how long she would take to confront him. He flashed a look around, wondering where Irene would sit. If she was as smart as always she wouldn't sit by his parents (the questioning would be unceasing) and she certainly wouldn't go near his frowning, disapproving brother, who could deduce everything from the way their clothes were buttoned. With a sudden flash a self consciousness he checked his clothes. He couldn't hope to hide from Mycroft, but he'd never allude to it. If Mummy found out he'd never survive. Everything seemed in order as Irene moved from the doorway to a seat. He frowned, confused, as she ignored the seats that were free. Oh no. She wouldn't, surely.
"Room for a little one, Sherlock?"
That demon.
He remained still and allowed Irene to take her now usual seat curled up with him, absent mindedly securing her with an arm slipped round her. He looked stonily ahead, daring any one of them to mention the fact that his fingers were playing with her soft loose hair.
"Irene, those are my parents. Parents this is Irene. Wave, perhaps? Do whatever greeting you feel necessary."
They smiled warmly at each other, Irene lightly tapping his elbow in a playful admonishment.
"Now now, play nice!"
He pouted playfully before remembering the witnesses, grey haired sentimentals who were cooing openly at them. Sickening.
"Now, does anybody want to explain why I discovered my boy had a lady friend through a photo of them canoodling in the newspaper?" Demanded Mother Holmes.
Sherlock stammered and hesitated, umming and ahing as his pale face turned scarlet through mortification.
"If it makes it better," He said weakly, "We didn't mean to get caught."
Varying amounts of laughter came forth at his expense, both at the answer and the general air he displayed, showing quite clearly that he was totally out of his depth.
He frowned.
"Tea?"
Four positive replies and left Irene to fill the chair alone, missing the warmth she provided him. When he returned with the only clean cups, they were getting on well enough. He placed cups in hands, taking in the situation. Mummy, even if she was annoyed she hasn't been told, was beaming at the fact her youngest had finally shown signs of settling down, already gushing over the idea of romance and weddings and-
"Can I be expecting any grandchildren soon then, Miss Adler?"
The couple both choked on their drinks. His mother, blasted woman, carried on talking.
"I always did think Sherlock would be the first one to settle. I was talking to Susan the other day, I said 'don't you think our Sherlock would do with settling down now all this excitement is over with' and she said she reckoned so. And our Betty, well, she was talking about how Sherlock used to babysit the little ones when he was, ooooh, fifteen? It was the only time he was ever so nice to anyone, playing pirates with Lucy and Sammy, and Beryl said-"
"Mummy, please stop now," Sherlock said, finally able to talk after the initial shock.
"We've not spoken about children, Mrs Holmes," Irene choked out.
She deflated slightly, but then perked up. "Well, you're both young yet. Plenty of time for that still."
They decided not to answer, sipping their tea quietly and hoping for the awkwardness to pass. At least they liked Irene. It would have been worse if they didn't. Mummy looked ready to hug her, why, they'd be inviting them over next.
"Oh Sherlock, the pair of you must come visit soon. You can bring John and Mary. Perhaps on the weekend?"
The Detective could not think of a worse way to spend his weekend, especially when his Mummy had babies on the brain. (He didn't dislike children - Archie proved that - but he wasn't fond of discussing providing the next generation. And Irene didn't seem thrilled either.) He knew it showed on his face, and yet Irene had agreed! Why? She was as uncomfortable as anyone, why would she agree to a weekend? A whole, long weekend.
Mercifully, despite how it dragged, their unwanted guests eventually departed, leaving the poor detective to confront the dominatrix.
"Why on earth are we spending the weekend with them?" He hissed, trying to appear angry. It wasn't quite successful.
Irene only smiled, "I'd like to get to know them. If I'm going to stick around I'll have to get used to them. Go on," She waved him away like one would an insistent puppy. "Go ask John and Mary if they'll join us."
John and Mary could and would be joining them.
As the car pulled up outside the old house, Sherlock took a moment to ponder where his life had gone so horribly wrong. He had lamented to John, pleading with him to be busy that weekend, so he could cite it as a reason not to come. ("You don't understand John, I can't go, she's talking about… babies!") John had chuckled lightly and told him there was nothing to be done - the ladies wanted to go and their loyal partners must do their duty and accompany them.
"Oh, Sherlock! You came!"
The detective was enveloped in an embrace so tight he swore he could hear his bones creaking. He remained straight, arms locked at his sides.
"Indeed I did. Irene insisted."
His mother shook her head and invited them through.
"Your father's gone to fetch Mycie, Sherlock."
"He agreed to come visit?" He asked incredulously. Mycroft hated nothing more than family dinners, despite the copious numbers of cakes.
"He doesn't know."
He stared after his mother, watching her smiling form enter the kitchen. He hoped Mycroft brought cigarettes.
Dinner was a tedious affair, Mycroft glaring at them all from his seat, their parents doing the obligatory cooing over Mary's bulging stomach (though the pointed look he was flashed was completely unnecessary.) Then, naturally, the conversation turned to him and Irene.
"You never said how you met," Sherlock's father pointed out. He wasn't as excitable as his wife, but he was still glad his son was beginning to thaw. He'd hated the fact Sherlock was so cold, so emotionless. Always had.
"A case."
"Oh, so you were a client, Miss Adler?"
"Oh no, certainly not," She smiled, "I was the suspect."
Sherlock choked quietly on his drink, wondering how mother was going to take it.
"Innocent, I suppose?"
Sherlock placed his glass down and spoke for her. You didn't need to be a genius to see she was going to tell them everything. And really, they didn't need to know.
"Yes, innocent. A mix up over mobile phones."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow but a warning glare was shot his way. He sighed quietly - did Sherlock not appreciate the paperwork it would take to make Miss Adler innocent? Good Lord, the first form alone didn't bear thinking about! And yet he was bound to do it, just because his foolish little brother had gone and succumbed to sentiment. Pitiful.
Mrs Holmes was a genius. She knew something was wrong with Sherlock's story, something big. Still, she wouldn't pry (for once). Sherlock would come to her with that in his own time, she knew. For now she'd play along, pretend that Irene Adler was the innocent victim of a mix up. But really, who'd fall for that? This was her son they were talking about - he wouldn't fall for just anyone!
Sherlock ate little, even with almost the whole table trying to force him. He wasn't hungry, and his hand itched for a cigarette, even though it had been months. He scowled inwardly - he could not stand it here.
"Will you play for us, Sherlock?"
His mother's request. She always wanted him to play, always ended up with tears in her eyes, even at joyous songs. Still, he walked upstairs to retrieve the prized possession from his case (he was hardly going to leave it at home, was he?)
He played Bach, and he played Vivaldi, and he played Beethoven. He played John's favourite and his father's favourite and Mycroft's most detested. Still his mother wanted more, finding joy in the quivering bow on the strings of his violin. He played John and Mary's waltz, smiling slightly as they moved closer together. He played the unnamed compositions, the ones he played whilst thinking. He played John's lament, the song he had used to rouse the good doctor from nightmares in those early days. Song by song of his own creation tumbled into the air, until he was left with one.
The shrill mournful notes of Irene's theme floated into the air, tumbling over one another. He'd never played it for her, no one else had heard it except John, and that was accidental. This was the sound of his grief, of his broken heart, of his sentiment. This was the sound of Irene Adler, and yet it wasn't quite right. This was the song of her death, and she was so alive. It was a spur of the moment thing really, an impulsive ridiculous act, that made him carry on past the end. The sound of passion, of hiding and running, the soundtrack to their hiatus. And then it was the joyous sound of their return to the living, still secretive but less so, still passionate but softer, gentler. Then, finally, it was the sound of now, of happiness and their new beginning, who she was to him.
They all stared at him, even the normally composed Mycroft seemed struck by the emotion he had poured into his music. He flashed his eyes to the carpet as Mummy pulled out her handkerchief, moving closer so that Father placed an arm round her. John and Mary smiled knowingly at each other; they'd wanted them to be together since the beginning. And Irene, his Woman, she was struck dumb. Only then did he remember that throughout the whole song he hadn't taken his eyes off her, her face, her eyes, her hair. She knew, of course, that the song was for her.
He shook his head slightly and reached for his case, putting the violin away and taking out the notes of Irene's theme. It was better he wrote it down now rather than let it slip away. Irene moved over to his doubled over figure, placing herself near enough that her presence was felt but not intrusive. Impulsive again (no wonder Mycroft always beat him at chess) he straightened to press a soft kiss to her cheek before continuing to write, thrusting the papers into her hand when he was done.
"You should take them," he said quietly, "It's your song, after all."
She smiled slightly and took his hand, and he knew in an instant he was a lost cause.
The Woman had beat him, he'd fallen in love.
