Chapter 3: Nothing Else Will Do
For the better part of an hour, neither man felt the need to speak. John nursed a beer and stared distractedly at a rugby match on the telly, and did not think about Afghanistan, while James downed three glasses of bourbon and summoned a fourth, not thinking about anything or anyone from his past at all.
They seemed both a contradictory and a complimentary pair, both deliberately ignoring their training by sitting at the bar, backs to the door, defying the conventional wisdom of keeping one's back to the wall. Their haircuts seemed to follow the same general line of thinking; John's clearly indicating retired status as James' indicated active duty. Their clothing had nothing in common, with John in jeans and James in his ostentatious suit, which was probably concealing the equivalent of a black label somewhere in addition to a firearm.
The biggest difference was the sense of living in real life that radiated from John; his existence was a bit worn-in. Some of his life had been poured out and shared with others, and he'd allowed some of the lives of other people to be poured and mixed into his own, leaving evidence that he'd experienced joy, contentment and comfort in addition to suffering.
James on the other hand showed none of that wear and tear; rugged and scarred as he might be, he was still fresh out of the box. Razor-sharp. And alone.
John stole a sideways glance at the man seated beside him and was just beginning to wonder if there was anything they ought to be talking about. Meanwhile, James had been glancing sideways at John almost the entire time, wondering if the good doctor was ever going to say anything to him.
"The Holmes boys," Bond muttered at last, as the ice settled in his drink.
"Hn," John grunted in noncommittal response.
The side of Bond's mouth twitched up. "Too bad for them there are still other ways of doing business."
John blinked a few times and decided there was no shame in admitting he didn't quite follow. "How do you mean?"
"Irene Adler," Bond mused. "Those genius little children can tap at their screens all day, and might not be any closer to finding our man. But Irene knows where he is. Or at least how to reach him."
John nodded carefully, finally putting together all the bits and pieces that had already been cast out in front of him. "So… Mycroft sent you over here because he thinks Sherlock can get 'The Woman' to lead you to Moriarty. So you can kill him?"
"Yes. Problem is, Sherlock doesn't have a clue about what Irene wants from him."
John wrinkled up his forehead and swigged his beer, unable to argue with that. Bond stood up and settled the tab.
"I still believe in going direct," James said in that quiet voice of his, putting at least three different connotations into the phrase, each more enticing than the last. "Come on, John."
Irene's new home or place of business was just as posh as the previous one, John noted as he was shown into the sitting room by Irene's demure assistant.
John took a seat in one of the plush Victorian wingbacks. James was already making himself at home, finding the stash of alcohol and helping himself to the gin. John had watched his sister in her drinking habits for long enough to know a problem when he saw one; he also knew when not to bring it up.
"Doctor Watson," Irene said, appearing in the doorway and saying the name as if it were a breath of fresh air. "Nice to see you again."
"Nice to see you wearing clothes," John replied before he could stop himself; he had just been in the middle of remembering the first time he'd encountered the dominatrix in her residence when she'd stepped in.
Irene smiled at him hungrily. "And how is our dear detective?" she asked.
"More importantly, how would you like him to be?" Bond asked huskily, holding his glass within millimeters of his lips.
"Oh this is good," Irene said, and John could've sworn he saw her pupils contract as if on command, zeroing on some target. "Such intrigue. Are you gentlemen here to make some sort of offer, perhaps?"
"Tell us how to find this 'Moriarty' character and in return, I'll make sure you get whatever you want," Bond promised.
Irene pouted, and looked at John in envy. "What I want… I can't have, can I, John?"
The way she exhaled at the word 'have' made John feel like he might start sweating. "You mean Sherlock?" he asked, keeping his voice utterly level, betraying none of his apprehension.
"Don't be too sure," Bond muttered. "I've been authorized to truss him up like a Christmas goose and leave him on your doorstep if you'd like."
"Hm! So you've met him…otherwise you wouldn't have sounded so eager just now," Irene said, eyes sparkling with unvoiced laughter. "He does seem in need of a good trussing up, doesn't he?"
"That's one way to put it," Bond murmured, saluting Irene with his glass before taking a sip.
"Just to be clear," John interrupted, leaning forward, "You all aren't actually plotting to kidnap him or anything…are you?" he looked back and forth between their faces. They were both staring at him now, with identical, unblinking expressions, and John suddenly realized he was facing two lions who would happily eat him alive.
"No, no," Irene said, tearing her eyes away from John at last. She sighed. "Kidnapping would be amusing but also so tedious and so very temporary. I need something more…enduring. A memento, I think. To remember him by."
"Memento, oh," John said, visibly relieved. "Well, that doesn't sound too difficult. What are you thinking, some, eh, photograph? Lock of his hair? Need me to nick some shirt that he slept in or something?"
"Oh my, those are lovely ideas," Irene complimented him. "Shirt that he slept in—that is delicious. I knew you were a romantic one, Watson." Without any warning, Irene swung down and seated herself in John's lap, wrapping her arms loosely over his shoulders. She sighed, and drew all John's attention to her cherry-red lips. "We live in a frightfully technological age," she lamented in a sultry purr. "Photographs just aren't enough anymore. I need something more interactive and dynamic. I want a video."
"Video, sure," said John. "No problem. Let's uh, call up Mycroft; he's got cameras everywhere, probably right here in this room."
"Chandelier," Bond deadpanned, pointing at it without looking up.
"Right," John said, and then frowned, his mind very actively recalling the profession of the woman currently perched, quite hot and heavy, on his thigh. "Wait. What do you want a video of, exactly?"
Irene wrinkled up her nose, and then leaned in towards John's face, lending the impression that she might be about to sink a pair of fangs into his throat—but instead she just rubbed her nose against his, as if cuddling a favorite little pet. "Something filthy," she confided. "Something explicit." She hummed a hungry little laugh, and stroked John's cheek with two fingers, which she then placed against his lower lip. "Nothing else will do."
John grimaced, disgusted, and shook his face away from her fingers. "All right, get off, get off me," he protested, trying to stand up to escape her caress. Irene smoothly stepped aside, allowing him up, and stalked over to the other man in the room.
Bond was casually leaning one hand on the liquor cabinet, stock still, posing there as if waiting for someone to snap his picture for a magazine. The corners of his mouth flickered upwards as Irene circled around behind him.
"Don't worry John," Irene said lightly. "You won't have to get your hands dirty. You can be the cameraman. You could even be the director, if you like. Keep things… professional." She reached for Bond's shoulders from behind, smoothed her hands over them and dug her fingers into his traps in a brutal massage that felt like heaven, if the responsive flutter of Bond's eyelids meant anything. "Some higher power has placed this beautiful machine at my disposal," Irene was saying as Bond flexed subtly into the pressure of her hands. "It'd be a sin not to use him."
At first John had condemned the whole idea and refused to participate. Only after Bond explained that he was prepared to get John out of the way and proceed with the plan anyway did John reluctantly get on board. Irene had decided to capture her desired memento via a live video chat through a laptop, which she would of course record. She swore she'd never share or sell the footage; it would be strictly 'for her eyes only,' which was a demarcation that James seemed to appreciate.
Kate, the assistant, had distracted John in the hall while Irene mentioned something privately to James concerning her particular wishes. John had tried his best to eavesdrop but had missed most of it. Only one word had stuck out: indoctrination. Whatever that was supposed to mean, it scared the hell out of John, and as he and Bond returned to Baker Street his mind was jumpy with possible ways to sabotage the whole mess. He could break the laptop Irene had entrusted to him, for example. It was an expensive one, and he'd probably have to replace it, but still.
One side of his mind was screaming at him that this, whatever it actually was, was bad. Very, very bad. This was dangerous and wrong and crossing the line. Yet another side of his mind tried to reason that this video business probably wasn't that big a deal. How bad could it be, anyway? Irene had a thing for Sherlock. So what? Did she want to watch Bond smack him around for her? She'd already drugged Sherlock and given him a sound thrashing once, and while it was technically an assault Sherlock had survived that and might've actually enjoyed it; John wasn't sure. Of course John knew Irene liked to take clothes off people; perhaps this memento video would be some kind of a strip tease; more ridiculous than offensive really. If asked, Sherlock might just scoff and take all his clothes off for the hell of it. The worst part of that would be John having to be in the room, playing 'cameraman' by holding the computer.
No, John realized, he was missing something. There was something he couldn't think of, some other part to this. Bond. Strange as it was, Irene could have easily sent John scampering off to record videos of Sherlock all day—why did Bond have to be involved? There could be no innocent reason for that, John realized with a queasy feeling. John liked James Bond, intrinsically. Dangerous and cold as he was, John liked him. He'd been perfectly comfortable sitting in silence next to Bond in the pub earlier. There was some kind of connection there. But he didn't want the man anywhere near Sherlock.
Back at the flat, Sherly and Sherri were sitting cross-legged on the floor, each typing frenetically, tag-teaming code into a darknet forum; one of those sites that raised the hair on the back of your neck. Neither of them looked up as John and James walked through the door. They'd assembled a small array of five or six computers, including John's personal one, he was slightly miffed to observe.
"So!" John announced to the two oblivious, mostly-identical dark-haired heads. "Got any leads?"
No reply. John looked to James, who actually rolled his eyes.
"No," Sherrinford finally answered in an abrupt voice, a few seconds after the question had expired. He glanced up at them a moment later, as if suddenly catching up from a time lag. "Oh, you're back."
"Any luck here?" Bond asked him, now that he had the boy's attention.
Sherrinford shook his head.
"Then pack it up, and get out," Bond ordered him.
The youngest Holmes brother took a minute to process that, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. "Do I have to remind you that the chain of command—ah," he stopped talking as Bond crossed the room in two steps, lifted the computer out of his lap, and pulled him to his feet by the collar.
"Out," Bond said in a bored voice, all but tossing young Q down the stairs by the scruff of his neck. "You can go tell M that Irene Adler's agreed to help us."
"In return for what?" Sherrinford asked from the stairs, attempting to fix his mussed collar with one hand while protectively cradling his computer with the other.
"You don't need to know," Bond informed him, closing the door in his face. He turned back around, running his eyes over the room before fixing them on Sherlock, who was still deliberately ignoring everything going on around him.
"John, get Adler on the screen," Bond said in a get-down-to-business voice, and John opened the laptop and did as told. Bond repositioned himself directly in front of Sherlock, and waited for the detective to look up and acknowledge his presence.
Irene's face appeared in the little chat box, smiling eagerly. "Ready?" Irene asked John, and then flashed her eyes around at the scenery of the room behind John's head. "Such a quaint little flat," she said wistfully. "I rather love it."
John met that with a tense grimace. "Yeah, thanks," he managed, unable to suppress the sarcasm.
"Turn me around, I want to see Sherlock," Irene purred, sounding so very naughty. John obeyed. It was James who angled his head to look at the woman on the screen once it was facing him. Sherlock still appeared to be totally absorbed in his work, stubbornly refusing to look up.
"Good enough?" Bond asked.
"Guess we'll find out," Irene replied coyly. "Hmm! Excuse me, Sherlock? Hello, my darling. Over here."
With an exasperated sigh, and making the same face that a teenager might make upon being told to leave off his video games to do his homework, Sherlock closed the screen of his own computer and looked over at Irene.
Considering what a dramatic huff he appeared to be in, Sherlock then asked: "What's going on?" in an impressively calm and monotone voice.
"My dear friend Mr. Bond is going to make a little video for me," Irene explained. "And I'm afraid you're going to be the subject."
Sherlock considered that for a minute, seemed to grasp the likely meaning of it all, and narrowed his eyes at John. "And John is cooperating only under threat of removal from the equation, obviously," he muttered, and then locked eyes with Irene. "Tell me, will Mr. Bond be tying my hands to anything in particular for this little video?"
"Depends on how much you struggle," said Irene, voice dripping with false sympathy.
Sherlock smiled for a split-second, then his expression turned to stone. "Struggle," he echoed. "Why would I struggle? I wouldn't dream of struggling. While I am far from helpless and quite capable of defending myself in this situation it would hardly be prudent; Miss Adler I am disappointed in you. Mr. Bond is clearly my superior in terms of physical strength and has already decided how to incapacitate John if he should try to come to my aid; therefore struggling would be absolutely pointless and would only prolong and likely intensify whatever pain you wish to inflict on me."
Not waiting for anyone's reaction to that rapid-fire bit of reasoning, Sherlock rose to his feet, too close to Bond, lending emphasis to the fact that Sherlock was a bit taller than him. "If I promise to play along, may I keep my hands free? I ask only because I am in the middle of something important and would prefer to continue typing while this… animal…does whatever you've sent him here to do."
Bond tipped his head, conceding the point. He then grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's jacket, jerking him forwards so he could attack Sherlock's mouth with his own, biting into his lips.
"What the fuck—" John complained loudly across the room. Sherlock froze, then closed his eyes. Once Bond let him go, he opened them slowly, and immediately glanced over at Irene.
"Right," Sherlock said tersely, tucking his laptop under his arm. "Wouldn't we be more comfortable in the bedroom?"
A/N: I'm evil, I know. To be continued, and soon.