"You're thinking again," Irene said, lightly twisting Sherlock's few light chest hairs with her long red nails. Her body was still pressed against him, as it had been for most of the night. He'd drift off to sleep, wake and find her in a different position, still twisting his chest hair as if she wasn't tired at all. Her body was at that moment settled tight against his left side.
"I am not yet sure how to classify this," he said, glancing over at her before closing his eyes. When he wasn't on a case he could sleep long hours just because he'd be too bored to do anything else. His body was tired like those off times, but his brain was on like he had a case. The fitful sleep was unhelpful, but Irene didn't seem like she was going to let him get up any time soon.
"What's to classify?" she asked, her eyes flicking up to him, though he couldn't see it.
"Sex," he said. "It's a form of physical contact, rougher than a hug, though it's certainly at least as exciting as a fight, with the release of adrenaline it can feel much the same after it's over," he said.
"Oh, you have got to stop thinking," Irene said, crawling on top of him. Sherlock's stomach clenched and trembled again at the feel of her overly soft skin of her breast brushed over his chest, and the way her hair tickled his thighs as she settled in on top of him.
"You held back earlier," Sherlock said.
"What, did you expect your first time to hurt?" Irene asked, smirking with amusement.
"With you? Yes," he said bluntly.
"That's because I wasn't playing, love. I was just testing. I needed to see if Jim's theory was right, which it was," she added, smirking when he scowled. Men were men no matter what the circumstances. "Besides, a touch of vanilla can be fun once in a while. Too much chocolate and you get bored."
Sherlock's brows arched in as he thought over her words. He either wasn't thinking well that evening (a frightening prospect) or she was talking about things he didn't understand, which was most likely. She noticed his expression and sighed heavily, shifted against him to get more comfortable.
"Let me be indelicate," she said, knowing this was an area that he had probably never bothered filing up his storage space with besides his first Playboy and some cursory cultural knowledge. "Normal sex can be fun sometimes, if take with moderation," she added.
"Oh," Sherlock said, suddenly getting it, before classifying the alternate meaning of the words 'chocolate' and 'vanilla' into his mental dictionary for later use. He was sure they'd come up again with Irene and there are no point being caught unaware again.
"Would you like to try another go?" Irene asked, starting to place soft kisses on his neck again. She certainly did like his neck. She seemed to lavish so much attention there, never leaving marks there (he had plenty of bruises from her lips and teeth on his stomach, which was making the way she laid on him in that moment a bit painful). She would spend time, her lips pressed to the skin and her tongue running over the skin on her neck as if she were tasting a rare delicacy.
"Are you asking me, or telling me?" Sherlock asked, curious now. He'd done research into the idea of dominatrix before he'd come, but it was different with Irene Adler, especially when Sherlock Holmes was involved. He wasn't sure what to expect. He didn't know yet if she'd treat him like her normal clients, or if she'd treat him differently.
"I'm asking," Irene said. "Would you like to try?" she asked. She bent her legs at the knees until her calf muscles were pressed to her thighs and her toes arched toward him before she started swinging her legs. She was happy. "Well?"
"I'm thinking," Sherlock said.
"Don't think, just answer. Do you want to try again?"
"I'm not actually sure," Sherlock said. He was feeling tired, bone tired from the past few days. He was curious too, and he was not about to allow himself to seem weak or as if he couldn't keep up with her. He was going to need to impress her to get what he wanted.
"You're tired," Irene said, her fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair. She pulled herself up by his hair so she could kiss him. Sherlock was less uncomfortable with kisses, though her reason for kissing him didn't quiet seem to compute in his mind. Was it just sentiment? Or was she planning on trying to conduct intercourse again? Or was she hoping he'd rise to the challenge? A smiled pressed to her lips. With her hair down she didn't look threatening at all, though he knew very well what she could do. "Sleep Sherlock, just sleep. There's still time before morning."
With that she closed her eyes and settled herself down on his chest as if she'd found the perfect place to sleep. Sherlock watched her for a long moment before he realized she was actually asleep. When he figured that out he carefully turned to his side, tipping her back onto the bed before settling back onto his back. There was no way he could sleep with a person laying on his lungs. He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to claim him.
The next time Sherlock awoke it was well into morning, though it was still dark in Irene's bedroom because of her thick dark curtains. He could still see daylight peaking around the edges of the curtains, but not enough to be obtrusive. Irene was once again pressed against his side, her fingers twisting in his chest hair. "Good morning, mon petit Holmes," Irene said, smiling up at him like a love struck schoolgirl.
"Morning," Sherlock said.
"Come now, you can do better than that," Irene said, her smile twisting just a bit into a smirk. She waited before her hand traveled down to one of the more painful bruises she'd left on him and starting to pinch.
"Good morning," Sherlock said, not quiet awake enough to deal with the woman and her games.
"Good," Irene said, sitting up and crawling over him to get out of bed. She grabbed her phone, sending a text. "Phone's a much more civilized than bell cords, wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, sitting up and shifting his legs over the side of the bed, though he hesitated to climb out of the warm blankets.
"Not a morning person?" Irene asked.
"Not when I'm bored, no," Sherlock said and Irene laughed. She walked close to him and gripped his cheeks into a thoroughly ridiculous face before placing a kiss on his incredibly high left cheekbone.
"We'll fix that love, I promise," she said and walked off to the bathroom. Within a moment Sherlock heard water running. He was just starting to consider curling back up in the blankets when Irene came out and grabbed his hands. "Up, up," she said, dragging him out of bed and pushing him to the shower.
"Am I going first?" Sherlock asked.
Irene laughed. "No, we're going together," she said, nudging him into her thoroughly modern shower with the extensive number of shower heads from both the walls and ceiling. She reached over to the touch screen, regulating the shower to flowing simply from the ceiling, as well as the appropriate temperature, before starting music.
"Shostakovich?" Sherlock asked as he was tugged into the shower. It was big enough to fit six people, but Irene pressed herself right against him like there was no room at all.
"It felt like a good morning for Russians," Irene said, grabbing a sponge and started to add soap and lather Sherlock's body.
"Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk?" Sherlock asked.
"It felt like a good morning for Russians," Irene said. "Stand still," she added, affection in her voice.
"Why are we doing this? You're not trying to conserve water," Sherlock said, sneering a bit.
"Honestly, you are very dense sometimes. It's something couples do," Irene said. "People who love each other, or just people in relationships," she added.
"Are we in love now?" Sherlock asked. "A couple?"
"You feel something for me, mon petit Holmes, whether or not you want to say it," Irene said. "And you already know how I feel about you. As neither of us will be engaging in sex outside of with each other and plan to live together, yes most people would say we are now a couple."
"Are we?" Sherlock asked.
"Not in the traditional sense, but then we will never be traditional people," Irene said, moving around to wash his back. "Oh, always so tense," she cooed, starting to work on massaging his shoulders. After a moment she moved around front again, pressing a button on her shower control so hot water blasted him squarely in the back.
"What happened to being a dominatrix?" Sherlock asked, quirking a brow. He simply stood still and let her wash him, not needing to protest.
"I will always misbehave, Sherlock Holmes. Just because I want you doesn't mean that I'm not going to train you to be a very good and loyal pet, which you will be so long as I have my camera phone to barter with."
"You think I'm going to stay if I'm not going to win?" Sherlock asked.
"I know you are. You can't stand to be bored, and as long as you're with me, you're always playing. I'm you're ultimate puzzle, not Moriarty," she said. "Because I make your heart go thrum-thrum-thrum, and he can't," she smirked.
"You're very sure of yourself," Sherlock noted.
"Kneel down a bit so I can get your hair," she said, waiting for him to comply before speaking again. She lathered a bit of shampoo into her hands and started to work it into his hair. "I am sure of myself, but not unjustly. You know that or you wouldn't be here, and you just can't stand a puzzle to go unsolved. Jim told me about your little stunt with the Cabbie, even after I read it on your doctor's blog. Jim couldn't stand not to see everything, and you're addicted to the challenge," she said.
"It's much more fun to play a game with a competent opponent," Sherlock said.
"You charmer," Irene tittered. "I love your hair this was. Yes, we will be keeping this," she said, starting to wash the lather out of his hair.
"Why do you have my shampoo?" Sherlock asked, noticing she had the brand of high end shampoo and conditioner he preferred, a brand that wasn't even sold in France.
"I had a hunch when Jim stopped calling me. Besides, what better way for you to get to me than to fake your own death for the entire world to see?" She asked.
"Did you often speak to Moriarty?"
"You think you're the only one who gets bored. I was a way to pass his time between his little ventures."
"Did you-"
"What? Did I have sex with him? No, I'm afraid he wasn't interested in what I could provide," she said. "He wasn't one to get his hands dirty. You aren't either, to a point, but you do love running around and getting all hot and sweaty. Sex wouldn't be too far a leap for you," she said. "Why? Scared of having to share?"
"Just curious."
"Well, you can be just curious all you want, Sherlock Holmes. Just remember I'm still the one in control," she said. "Stand up," she ordered, now that she was done cleaning him. "It's your turn to reciprocate," she said.
"Dull," Sherlock said, taking the sponge and lathering soap as well. He applied the sponge to her body, but he, almost in exact opposite to her, cleaned with short scrubby strokes as opposed to the long, loving one's she'd provided for his body.
"No, no," Irene said, with an exasperated sigh. "You have so much to learn, but then I have so much time to teach you in," she said, grabbing his hands. "Like this," she said, guiding his hands for the right amount of pressure, length of stroke and attentiveness toward her body. It quickly became a new type of play, almost like their activities the previous night. His brows knit together in concentration, focusing on a task that he had yet to master. Her hands guided his journey as his long fingers touched her through the sponge. It took much longer than it took her to wash him.
"You think you can wash my back without my guidance?" she asked.
Sherlock snorted and moved around to her back, starting to wash the same way he'd done with the rest of her. It was easy, now that he knew what he was doing. When he finished he stood back for a moment, just observing her body.
"What? Do you need me to kneel down too?" Irene asked, laughter in her tone.
"No," Sherlock said, starting on her hair. He could have been ruthless and pretend like he didn't know what she wanted, but he had more than a good enough idea from how she'd guided his hands. He also wasn't eager for another pinch. It still took longer to wash her hair hand it took to was his, simply due to the amount of it.
"Wrap your arms around me," Irene ordered why he still stood behind her. Sherlock did as he was ordered, having to bend down and practically wrap himself around her to do it. For just a moment he could imagine that this was what it would be like if he was in a normal relationship: wrapping himself around a woman he cared for. He could understand it for just a moment: that appeal, that want. And then the moment passed and Irene turned off the water.
She got out first, tamping her feet on the fuzzy bathroom rug and getting equally fuzzy towels. They left each other to their own drying. Irene left, supposedly to get ready and allowed Sherlock a chance at the mirror and hair gel (the brand he preferred). He came out, found no Irene, but a pair of pants, trousers and a shirt on the bed. He proceeded to get dressed, done except for buttoning the shirt when Irene returned.
She was in that short, slinky, silky blue dressing gown again, and she'd braided her long dark hair which down hung over one shoulder. Sherlock glanced up and her before starting to work on his buttons. "Oh no, mon petit Holmes," she said, walking around the bed and batting his hands away from his buttons. She proceeded to unbutton the two he's just buttoned. "No, I want you like this," she said, holding his hands out so she could look him up and down.
"Is that what you're wearing for the day?" Sherlock asked, raising a brow.
"No, it's what I'm wearing for breakfast," she said, taking his hand and tugging him out. "Come," she said, though it hardly would have mattered as she was dragging him out like a limo rag doll anyway.
There was a table set for the two of them in the living room, and only a love seat for them to sit on. Irene sank into her seat, settling against Sherlock as soon as he'd sat down. She moved her hands about the breakfast table, tending to her own needs and allowing him to do the same. The only indication she made of him (besides being pressed against him) was to pour him a cup of coffee, but she allowed him to doctor his drink himself.
He found, much to his surprise that it was easy to have a quiet morning breakfast with Irene Adler. She rested against his right side, her legs curled up in her seat, munching on jam and toast while she read the news over his shoulders. He absentmindedly ate whatever he'd put on his plate from the wide spread, while scrolling through the news on a propped up tablet. He vaguely thought that this breakfast wasn't unlike the one's he'd at Baker Street, with each person going about their own business in proximity to each other.
Though these thoughts conjured up the image of John lying against him like Irene Adler was now. It was so absurd that it was almost funny. John, if he simply tripped into Sherlock (the only way John would ever lay against him like that) would just sigh with exasperation and get up. If there were witnesses to the scene and not the incident that caused it (the tripping) John would say he wasn't Sherlock's boyfriend and go on with his morning. John was very predictable, after all.
"Oh look, you're still making the news," Irene said, pointing over his shoulder to an article, bringing it up on her tablet to read over his shoulder. Sherlock glanced at it. Apparently John was still trying to clear his name, this time with an interview.
"I told him not to do this," Sherlock grumbled.
"He loves you," Irene said simply, slipping her fingers up into his hair again, as if she simply couldn't stop her hands from being draw there. "I think you should keep your little moustache by the way," she added.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, only half minded about her words as he looked over the article. He looked at it for a moment later before switching to something else.
"I was reading that," Irene said.
"You can read it later," Sherlock said, deciding he'd rather read about anything other than John grieving like he was. He knew that John had cared about him, loved him even in a way no other person ever had. At the same time, Sherlock had never been able to imagine just how terrible John's grief was. It made him want to run back to London, or to call John and tell him the truth. Yet neither was possible. Any contact he could make with John would lead to Mycroft finding him. Mycroft would bring him right home if he found out. Even if Sherlock could get to John around Mycroft, John wouldn't be able to act well enough to fool Mycroft and it would all be blown anyway.
"You're right," Irene said.
"You're giving in easily today," Sherlock noted, a bit wary.
"That's because I know what we're doing today, and you don't," Irene said.
"What are we doing?" Sherlock asked.
"Shopping," Irene said.
"Oh joy," Sherlock muttered. His clothes from Yves Saint Laurent consisted of two suits and a pair of leather pants. He'd known she would drag him back out again, but he didn't think it would be any more pleasant than the previous day. "When?"
"Once you finish eating all of your plate," Irene said. "You're still too skinny," she told him poking his side.
"Fine," Sherlock said, going back to eating his toast.
Sherlock wasn't a fan of being wrong. It hadn't been quiet so bad at Gucci because he wasn't unused to the clothes and had no problem picking what he wanted. Even Versace had been okay, though Sherlock knew Irene was picking shirts similar to what Moriarty had worn while on trial. Sherlock wasn't a fan of being wrong, and he'd thought that shopping couldn't be much worse than the previous day, even if it dragged on for a long time. He was surprised that it was worse.
He looked at himself in the mirror as the attendant straightened his suit jacket for its fitting. Sherlock glanced down, and the Westwood logo shined up at him from the happily gleaming gold buttons. It was hateful.
"You look positively delicious," Irene said. She'd stuck with English today, knowing not to push him too far. He'd already made one man cry today, and because he was being particularly uncooperative she needed as many attendants as she could get.
"I'm not going to wear this," he informed her.
"Like the other ten suits I'm buying for you?" she asked with a smirk. He'd said he wasn't wearing every single suit she'd had them fit him into from this store. This was not the eleventh, including a dark purple shirt and a plain black suit. It reminded him of what he'd normally wear, which just made it all the more hateful.
"I'm not wearing this," he said again.
"Yes you will," Irene said. "If I saw you will," she added.
"Why could I possible need a near dozen Westwood suits?" Sherlock hissed.
"Because they're not all for the outside world to see," Irene said, coming to stand behind him as the attendants rushed away to get something (Sherlock didn't care enough to observe what). She straightened his jacket and rested her hands on his sides, looking at them both in the mirror. Then she eased her hands down to rest on his posterior and he actually snarled.
"I suggest you remove your hands," he warned.
"Or you'll hurt me? No no, this isn't how this works," she said.
"You can't stop me," he pointed out.
"No, but I'm never going to give you anything if you strike back," she informed him.
"You've already told me that you have no plans on giving me your camera phone."
"And I don't," she said. "But that doesn't mean that I won't give you a bit of information here and again to give to your brother for if you ever want to quit and slink back home."
"I'm not going to run away," Sherlock said, but he was suddenly interested. He wasn't just playing for the phone now, she'd feed him a bit of information now and then, something to buffer Mycroft for when he inevitably did find out. "What kind of information?"
"Things your brother's not going to get for a long, long time," Irene said.
"You really have enough information to play him for the rest of both your lives?" Sherlock asked.
"I can use some information to get some other information if I need, though the biggest pay out has happened already, now it's just to be sure that I continue to be protected," she purred.
"You are very clever," Sherlock said.
"I'll take that as you mean it," Irene said, stepping up on the box and leaning on her toes so she could kiss his cheek.
"I don't need any suits from here," Sherlock said.
"Trust me, you will," Irene said before looking at the man who was desperately wanting them to pay and get out. She sent him along to get the bill. "This is enough for today," she said. "Come, escort me home," she ordered. He got down, giving her a nasty look, but still offered his arm in escort. "Good boy," she said.
When they returned from shopping there was a quiet little dinner set for them. They ate, Irene engaging him in talks of a few cases that had popped up in the news. Most of them were dreadfully dull, but one recent one was making Sherlock's fingers itch to go back to London… not that anyone would work with him at the moment when everyone thought he was dead. That was a problem with faking his death, one that was weighed out by being assured he wouldn't be forced to wear that ridiculous hat.
The meal went by easily, but the second it was over, Irene was tugging him upstairs by his tie. She didn't take him to her room, but to a room down the hall: her playroom. The room itself was tasteful, larger devices that couldn't be put away were covered to keep off dust. Still, there was a properly made bed that was assured to not be near as soft or plush as the one Irene kept in her actual bedroom.
"When I call you to here," Irene said, twirling around bit before she settled herself on a leather bench. "You will come dressed in one of five of those suits I picked today. I'll tell you which ones tomorrow, because you're already dressed today."
"Who says I will come?" Sherlock asked.
"You're quite the contrary cat aren't you? Asking the same question over and over with different words?" Irene asked, thoroughly amused. "We already know why you came here. We already know you're going to try and make me let my guard down, and we also already know that you're terrible at this. There isn't a submissive bone in your body. I'm fine with that, I love a good challenge," she said.
"So do I," Sherlock said and Irene smirked.
"Come here doll, we're going to try something simple," she said, guiding him over to the bench.
"What am I doing?" he asked.
"Just bend over, grab on," she said, bending him down some, rubbing her hands up and down his back until he did as he was told and relaxed his shoulders. "Good boy, just hold on," she said, walking away. Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she went. "No peaking," she added just about the time Sherlock was starting to turn and see what she was doing. Grumbling, he turned his head away.
"What's taking so long?" He asked when he heard nothing for a while.
"You need to learn to be more patient," Irene said. "Ah, found it," she said. She clicked back over to him. "You've been very bad today, you know," she said when she was right behind him. Before he could react, her favorite riding crop came whistling down across his shoulders.
"Ah," escaped his lips before he clamped his mouth shut.
"Here's how the game goes, you say "Please Mrs. Adler, stop," and I stop… No, that's too hard for you, all you have to say is "Please," you say it twice and I'll stop," she said before she brought the riding crop whistling down on his shoulders.
Sherlock jerked away from the blow, gripping onto the bench. Again she brought the riding crop down across his back. The suit jacket and shirt provided some buffer, but not much. Irene was going slowly. She would whip him once and wait for a minute until even his shoulder untensed and then it would come down again, in a different place, just a bit harder. Then she would wait again, wait until his body wasn't expecting it and then he'd feel the hard slap across his back.
Sherlock remembered the first time he'd met John Watson he'd spent the afternoon whipping a dead body with a riding crop. He also vaguely remembered Irene Adler smacking him with her riding crop before, and the sting he'd felt even past the drugged haze. This was different. It was a patient kind of punishment, giving him time to think before he was hurt again, to imagine the hit as he continued to feel the stinging pain. She could do this all evening. It wasn't tiring for her at all. It was just for him, hunched over in and uncomfortable manner, his back would have been aching even without the whipping, though the whipping made his back feel like it was on fire.
"Enough," Sherlock hissed. Another strike came down across his back.
"You know how to make this stop," Irene said, bringing a second strike across his shoulders at the place where she'd started, just to prove a point. She was doing this not to break his skin, but also not to provide a pleasant sting. His back just hurt; there was no play in this, not for him. It was a only a game of how long he could stand it.
You came to be her sub, now just do it. You'll have to beg sometime, he told himself. Still, he let two more lashes come across his back before he truly resolved to do it and three more past that to make a sound. It took one more lash before the words came out of his mouth.
"Please," he said. Another blow whistled down across his left shoulder, crossing a couple of wounds she'd laid down already.
"Please?" she asked, pausing.
"Please," he said again, closing his eyes. There, two, that should be enough. His shoulders hunched, relaxing though he was too sore to simply stand straight up. He gasped, unprepared when the new blow came. "I said please!" he snapped. Another blow came down, this time across his buttocks, which had been previously neglected. He jumped.
"Yes, but you didn't say it right," Irene said, striking another blow across his posterior, not giving him near enough time to think before again striking him.
"How, how, tell me how?" Sherlock snapped, stunned that he didn't understand the rules. She gave two more successive strikes across his buttocks.
"Say "please, please", beg me for it, Sherlock Holmes." The riding crop came down again. "Beg," she ordered and started a series of blows all over his back, buttocks, and even upper legs.
Sherlock was so stunned by the assault that it took him a moment to get his head together enough to form words. "Please, please!" he shouted, not aware he'd been so loud until she stopped, then he hunched even more over the bench, desperate to stay up.
"Hmm… too bad, I thought you'd go for longer," Irene said, guiding the end of the riding crop from his left knee all the ways up his leg, buttocks and back, all of which quivered involuntarily under the touch. She slipped the tip up over his shoulder and under his chin, turning him to look at her. He was panting. "You asked me if I was going easy on you, didn't I? Come now, speaking in words."
"Yes," he gasped out.
"Good," she said, taking his face in her hands, pressing her riding crop's handle into his left cheek in the process. She leaned down and kissed both of his eyelids. "Good boy. Now," she said, setting her prop down on the bench and hauling Sherlock Holmes up. "Come to bed," she said.
He let her lead his out, trying to straighten out as he walked to her nearby bedroom. She shut the door and tugged him over to the bed, pushing him down to sit on the bed. There was a larger intake of breath through his nose.
"Tired?" she asked, sounding sympathetic.
"Yes, sleep will be welcome," Sherlock said, starting to unbutton his jacket.
"You poor dear," Irene said, helping him get out of his jacket and unbutton his shirt buttons. "You know…" she said, trailing off.
"What?"
"I think one day I will have you on a leash," she said, pushing the detective down by his shoulders onto the bed. He gasped again, especially when she slid her knee up between his thighs. "You thought I was just going to let you go to bed? Oh, poor thing," she cooed, starting to place her soft, tasting kisses on his neck.
"What?" Sherlock asked, not quiet able to put the words together.
"I'm not going easy on you tonight," she said, pushing him down into the mattress, enough to make him hurt even though the bed was incredibly soft. His back burned, but she still planned to ride him. She still had to teach him, after all.
A/N: Just a few notes, just in case.
Yes, this is Sherlock/Irene. Why I had a hard time calling it that just has to do with the way my mind works, and it's a bit stupid. The main relationship in this has always been Sherlock and Irene.
Second, while sex happens in this story, it will take place off screen. That's how I roll. I don't even enjoy reading smut. Mostly I find it boring (My Sherlock is showing). It's not my thing, and while this story can't not have its sexual elements, what I like and find important is the characters themselves. I'm starting to think that my love for writing Irene comes from my wish to punish my inner!Sherlock for being so hard to write.
Third: I love feedback, love it. I also am insane with research. If you notice anything wrong with what I've written (factually) then please tell me and I'll see what I can do about it. I won't get mad if you tell me. Mostly, I'll be glad you're listening. No, the chocolate bit isn't really how it goes, Irene just extended the metaphor and Sherlock latched onto it.
Forth: I hesitate to classify Sherlock and Irene's relationship. It's not really loving and it's different from a BDSM relationship (with or without love). I wouldn't even call it healthy. Irene just controls him, but she's also besotted with him. While some elements of Sub/Dom do show up in this story, I'm not trying to accurately depict a BDSM relationship or a cliché. I'm trying to depict Irene and Sherlock's really messed up relationship.
Thanks you lot. I love you all for reading my story.
Maybe next time I write a Sherlock story it'll involve a lot more John Watson (why John? Why aren't you in any of my Sherlock stories? You're so easy to write!)
Bye byes~!