So here is the aftermath of the last porn chapter. Thanks again for the reviews; they seriously brighten up my day. I wanted to explore the whole Irene Adler side of things. I know Sherlock seems a bit of a prick in this chapter, but I suppose, he is a prick most of the time to Molly, so it's not OOC. A bit angsty and dramatic, but we all like a bit of drama. Anyway, thanks fot reading guys, :) I have the next chapter half written so there many be a gap between this one and the next while I decide where I go. As ever, ideas are welcome :) Just comment and let me know.
Happy Valentine's day, too guys.
I R E N E
Molly awoke to Sherlock buttoning his shirt, shaking his cuffs around as he ruffled a hand through his hair. He looked awkwardly at her as she woke up, unable to attain eye contact for longer than a millisecond. Molly felt about on the floor for her underwear, and, slipping them on under the cover, she sat up, blouse still unbuttoned with her bra on show.
"You going?" She asked, quietly, sounding a little wounded. Sherlock sniffed and spun around.
"Yes. John's been texting. Apparently he stayed at Lucy's last night."
"Is Lucy his girlfriend?"
"No idea." Sherlock inspected the dried tea stain on his trousers, catching Molly's eye as they both blushed an incredible shade of red as they remembered how the tea had spilt in the first place. Molly moved to her feet, collecting the sodden photo of Irene Adler in her hands.
"I'll probably see you at the hospital, then?"
"Perhaps." Sherlock said simply. He pulled his coat around his body, "I can let myself out. You might want to button up, there's an awful draught in here." He motioned towards her uncovered chest and brushed past her, letting the front door close with a slam. Molly fell back to the sofa and examined the stain on the cushions, closing her eyes. She didn't feel dirty, neither did she regret it. She always knew Sherlock wasn't the cuddle and make you breakfast kind of man. She should have been angry at him for leaving without so much as five words, but she couldn't muster the anger. It was too perfect. He'd given her that hope that she didn't need to be a feisty dominatrix to get Sherlock Holmes, like everybody seemed to assume. You could just be Molly Hooper.
She went to fetch the mug from the table, then realised that beside it there was a familiar looking mobile phone that wasn't hers. Sod it, she thought, he'll have to wait for it.
Sherlock met John at a shop where they bought a few pieces Mrs Hudson had refused to get for them. Landlady, not housekeeper. Sherlock refused to carry the bag.
"Was the flat lonely last night then?" John asked, carrier bags cutting into his wrist as he fished for his key.
"Incredibly." He lied, walking into the flat. He lifted his nose to the air. He could smell his aftershave. It wasn't John; he was wearing his own. Sniffing again, he inspected the window. Open. He followed the scent, down the corridor, to the door of his bedroom. Softly pushing the door open, his eyes happened upon Irene Adler, curled up in his favourite shirt on his bed sheets.
"We have a client." He looked back towards John who was walking up the corridor with a bottle of wine in his hand. John sniffed.
"What, in your bedroom?" he stopped beside Sherlock, "Oh."
"You've been here all night?" John asked, "All night long?"
"Yes." Irene looked between the two men, a mischievous smile spreading across her lips, "Where were you two, then?"
"At a friend's." John snapped, unimpressed by her obvious attempt to make their friendship look suspicious. He looked curiously over at Sherlock, "Where were you?"
"At a friend's." Sherlock coughed uncomfortably, "Helped yourself to my wardrobe, I see, Miss Adler."
"Very good; you can tell you're a detective." She smiled sarcastically and leant back confidently in his chair, tucking her legs up. The shirt hung off her curves, brushing just below her thigh.
"Wait you don't have friends…" John said from the corner. Sherlock and Irene broke their tense gaze and looked over at Doctor Watson who was standing, looking very much bewildered by the whole situation.
"Shouldn't you be getting ready for your lunch date with Lucky?"
"Lucy." John corrected. Before John could even ask how Sherlock might've known, Sherlock answered his unvoiced question.
"You wrote it in the calendar." Sherlock said nonchalantly, looking back at Irene, "See you later, John. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"Doesn't leave much." John muttered, grabbing that god awful green coat from the back of the armchair. The doctor marched out the front door, obviously not content with not knowing Sherlock's whereabouts the previous night. Sherlock and Irene's gaze snapped back to one another as they heard the front door slam shut.
"And then there were two." Irene remarked, running a finger across the smooth skin on her leg, "So where were you last night?"
"Why are you here?" Sherlock ignored her question, rounding on her before settling in the sofa opposite.
"I need a place to stay."
"Nice of you to ask first." Sherlock nodded towards the window, "Must have been a graceful entrance."
"You'd like to know." Irene smiled and leant forward. The shirt was open just enough for Sherlock to see her cleavage. He looked back up at her face. As with the ringtone, the idea of her wasn't erotic in the slightest. She was trying too hard.
"Not particularly." He answered truthfully, "But I suppose you'll be a refreshing change from John's company."
"Missing your boyfriend already?" She smiled a wicked grin and leant forward, the shirt starting to slip down her shoulder. "Are you not going to offer me a drink, dear?"
Sherlock ignored her first question and stood up, his eyes tearing away from this woman as he walked towards the kitchen. He also tried to ignore the 'dear' at the end. He wondered if it was acceptable to call a woman lecherous.
"Tea?" he enquired, reaching for the kettle.
"Wine, would be nice." She shot him a smile. Slowly she stalked across the living room with all the grace of a cat until she was standing behind him. He could feel her behind him, her breasts against his back. His eyes followed her hand as she brushed it down his arm.
"Unless you want dinner?"
"It's half past two." He pointed out, stiffly.
"Time is not an issue." She stood behind him for a moment and then, after realising he wasn't going to surrender that easily, she left his side and took her glass of wine.
For hours that sat almost in silence, Sherlock playing with the strings of his violin. They said precious few words to one another the whole day. She attempted to use her charms on him, though he seemed to have some invisible force field up, repelling them like armour. She was textbook style; very little clothing, hair and make up dark and sultry. His shirt, supposedly chosen because purple is a notoriously sexual colour, the buttons around her chest strategically opened so he could see right down. Not that he looked. His mind wandered back to the previous night, where he'd been so engaged in Molly Hooper's chest. This woman, he could see, was trying so hard to make him want her, yet he didn't.
"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene asked from across the room. Sherlock stopped picking at the strings of the violin and clammed up. Molly Hooper. He cast his eyes across at her. "I'm sorry?"
"And when I say had," She leant forward, "I'm being indelicate."
All he could think about was Molly Hooper, down by his stomach. Molly Hooper; on top of him, crying out as her body gave into him.
"I…don't understand." He barely got the words out. Irene was on her knees in front of him in a fraction of a second, her eyes subconsciously dragging down his body like a lion mapping out an attack.
"I'll be delicate then." She touched his wrist, "Let's have dinner."
Sherlock moved his hand to her wrist. Her heartbeat; fast, her pupils growing, just like Molly's had. Only now he didn't want to lay the woman down on the sofa and make her scream. He wanted her leave him alone. She moved closer and he feared she might try and kiss him, or worse still, move her free hand to his lap. He swallowed.
"I'm not hungry."
"Good." She answered far too quickly, her teeth showing through her smile. She was almost feline in the way she moved, not unlike him, he noticed. Her hand crept over his thigh, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. She read this as a sign to go further, hand creeping higher until it stopped halfway up his thigh, her thumb brushing the inside of his leg.
"Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" He asked slowly, trying to distract his attention from her hand moving higher up his leg.
"Oh Mr Holmes," Her face moved closer, until her lips were just short of his, "If it was the end of the world, the very last night." She paused, wondering, in this moment, if she could break Sherlock Holmes. The Virgin. "Would you have dinner with me?"
He swallowed. He could almost feel her lips on his, when suddenly they heard a bang downstairs.
"Too late." Irene whispered, looking slightly disappointed. Her thumb stroked a point high on the inside of his thigh.
"That's not the end of the world, it's Mrs Hudson."
Wrong. The door to the flat opened and Molly, eyes sparkling, bounded in, brushing snow off her jacket.
"Hope you don't mind me popping in, it's just you left your-" She stopped dead, eyes casting on the two figures entwined on the sofa. Her hand dangerously high on his leg, her mouth as though it'd just left his. His hand was wrapped around her wrist, just like it'd been with hers the night before. Molly cast her eyes over the woman, blurry with the threat of tears. It was her. The woman. Dressed in one of Sherlock's shirts and little else, her hair hanging loosely by her shoulders. The woman quickly stood up and stalked towards Molly, eyes raking down Molly's dowdy coat and limp hair.
"My you are a pretty little thing, aren't you?" She said menacingly, lips splitting into a dangerous smile "I could eat you for breakfast." The two women stood face to face, Molly's sad frame hanging dejectedly while Irene posed sexily in Sherlock's shirt. It was as if she knew she was hurting the doctor, yet she continued; each bat of her long eyelashes a fist to the stomach. Sherlock stood and straightened his jacket.
"Molly Hooper, meet Irene Adler."
Molly looked at him, as though she couldn't quite believe what was coming out his mouth. His phone still in her hand, Molly felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Air, she thought, need air. Quickly she turned on her heel and sprinted down the steps, out into the street.
Irene Adler turned swiftly to face Sherlock, a content grin leaking over her face. Her lips formed into a natural pout as she inspected Sherlock's pale face, his eyes looking towards the door.
"Oh dear." Miss Adler smirked, moving closer to the detective so her body was brushing his, "Was it something I said?"
Sherlock Holmes looked down at her, unable to hide the disgust in his face. He roughly pushed her aside, whipping his coat off the back of a chair before following Molly Hooper down the stairs.
I only have one thing to say; SORRY MOLLY FOR THIS CHAPTER. I love you, Molly.
