John was standing on Irene Adler's doorstep and precisely 8:59 am. He reached out and rung the bell, waiting for someone to answer. A very tall and very lovely red head answered the door. John smiled his best smile, taking a moment to curse Sherlock's very socks for what was about to happen.
"B-bonjour," he said, with what he considered the worst accent ever. "Je m'appel Doctor John Watson, um," he looked down at his dictionary. He'd used the internet and whatever garbled French he remembered from school to try and piece together things to say, but he clearly couldn't remember much of it. It hadn't helped that he literally couldn't understand his last cabbie's English and the man wouldn't stop laughing at his French. "Je suis… je suis," he looked back at the dictionary "Ah! Je suis ici voyeur Sherlock Holmes," he said.
The woman stared at him impassively until John felt himself start to sweat. He started flipping through his dictionary wondering just how badly he'd screwed up this woman's language. "Ah, ah… Tu comprend? Je voudrais voyer Sherlock Holmes." He flipped through dictionary again, wracking his brain. "Sherlock Holmes est ici? Sherlock Holmes est… dans le chez?" He asked.
Finally the woman's façade broke and she started to laugh. John blushed and began to wait for her to finish laughing, knowing any more attempts at French would make it worse. Yet she just kept laughing and laughing. "Okay, okay, I get it, is he here?"
The red haired woman smirked at him. "Sherlock Holmes is here. The lady and her pet are still abed, but they should be down shortly. I have been directed to show you to the dining room and to take your coat. Dr. Watson, your French is rather bad, I'm sure that Ms. Adler will be very amused. You are most assuredly Mr. Holmes companion," she said, and stepped aside to let him in.
John blushed, wondering why he hadn't just bothered with English in the first place. "Oh, thank you," he said.
The woman sighed and shook her head. She simply motioned for him to follow and then walked away. It took John a second too long to get it, but he stepped inside, shut the door and followed her. The red haired woman took him to a small dining room where a table was set for only two. The woman pulled out his chair, waiting for him to sit before he pushed in his chair. John couldn't help but blush, feeling very wrong for having been on the receiving end of such chivalry. "Thank you," he said. "Oops, I mean," he started to go his dictionary just out of habit now, but the woman placed her hand on the top of his, stopping him.
"There's no need. I understand. Ms. Adler will be down in a minute," she said softly and walked off.
"Dammit Sherlock," John said, wishing that he'd met that woman in a pub in London and that Sherlock Holmes was safe at home in his flat, shooting the wall. He couldn't remember the last time he felt so patently embarrassed… well he could, but the only recent times came because Sherlock left him in a situation that no normal person could handle.
He sat silently, waiting until he just felt downright uncomfortable having sat so long with no signs of life. He stood to go find someone when he finally heard anyone. "You don't need to stand when a lady enters the room, though I suppose you're one of those who prescribe to old chivalric laws," Irene Adler said. John couldn't see her, she was still behind him at the door, but he hated her.
"It was an-" He cut himself off when Irene and Sherlock came around the corner. Irene Adler was dressed up to the nines, as always in a green dress that hugged her body (again as always) and reminded him why he'd been attracted to her in the first place. What set him on edge was Sherlock. John wasn't a complete idiot on clothes. He didn't have a lot, but all of it was of good quality, and Sherlock would sometimes expound on clothes if it related to a case. He also knew from having the memory of bombs strapped to his chest at a pool exactly what type of suits Moriarty liked to wear and how they looked.
It looked… odd on Sherlock, especially because it also was like the black suit he normally wore, and that purple shirt. What threw it all off balances was the black leather leash and collar the world's only consulting detective now wore and how tightly Irene Adler had the end clenched around her hand. John glared at her, up and down glared. He didn't care how angry he was at Sherlock at that moment. He just wanted to make the woman hurt for making Sherlock Holmes seem any less than he was.
"I told you I didn't want to ruin the surprise," she said, reaching up to take Sherlock's cheeks in her hands and drag him down into a kiss. "And just look how well trained I have him so far," she said. The red haired woman re-entered and helped Irene to her seat just as she'd helped John. John was suddenly struck that the table was only set for two.
"What-"
"Won't you please have a seat Dr. Watson?" Irene said, smiling in that sultry and malicious way that she probably had copywritten.
"No, I don't think I will," he said, looking over at Sherlock who had his eyes down cast. Just what the hell had the woman done to him?
"You should sit down Dr. Watson. Breakfast can't begin until you sit down," she said. She smiled at him, but he just kept standing still, glaring at her. "Maybe I should say this instead: your friend can't sit until you do, and his legs should still be very sore and stiff from the day before," she said. She smirked when she saw John's eyes flick to Sherlock's legs, noticing the quiver there.
"Fine," John said sitting down in a bit of a huff. He really hated this woman. Even he could see she was good though. She would use everything and everyone against Sherlock, and use Sherlock against everyone she could. Just one more of her many power plays.
John's gaze slipped to Sherlock who seemed hesitant to move. John wondered what was going on until the consulting detective slowly lowered himself onto his hands and knees. John stared, not quiet comprehending until the red haired woman came around, beginning to serve breakfast off a cart. She placed the warm foods on the table before going to the last plate on the serving cart. She pulled off the fancy silver lid and picked something off the cart, something John would register just a bit too late as a dog food tray. She set it on the ground in front of Sherlock.
John didn't know how long he started in horror at this, long enough to realize it was just cereal and water in the bowl, and long enough that Irene Adler clearly got bored of him watching Sherlock. "Dr. Watson," She said, and John dragged his eyes away from his friend on the floor where he was simply looking down at his food.
"What! What?" John snapped annoyed until he heard a quiet crunching. He felt something sick twist in his stomach.
"How was your flight?" Irene asked. She was protecting Sherlock, protecting him from having to eat out of a dog bowl while his only friend looked on. That sat hard in John's stomach, but he knew that Sherlock wouldn't like him seeing that. He kept his eyes focused on Irene instead.
"Bloody awful. Never knew such small plane could wreck your ears like that," John said, starting on his eggs.
"That's too bad. How long do you plan to stay?"
"No idea."
"Surely you must?"
"Nope, none, a few weeks, a month, a year, it all depends," John said.
"On what?" Irene asked, smiling.
"Guess," John said.
Irene just smiled. They lapsed into silence, only the sound of crunching dry cereal and silverware against expensive china. John could barely make himself swallow, but he didn't look at Sherlock, not for anything until the crunching stopped.
"You finished your food, well, aren't you a good boy," Irene said with the patronizing tone a person used for their dog. She scratched Sherlock's still red hair and smiled. "Isn't he wonderful, Dr. Watson? Such a well trained pet?" she asked.
John swallowed, looking just as unsure as how to answer as he felt. He felt sick seeing his friend, a ridiculously proud man, being treated as less than human. How was he supposed to even answer that? Was it better to play along or to just keep his mouth shut? Or to draw his gun and shoot her right between the eyes where she sat?
"Meow," came the low, thrumming voice of Sherlock Holmes in the most bored tone he could manage. "Meow, meow, meow," he said.
For just a moment they are sat there in complete silence. Then John and Sherlock cracked at the same time, both descending into a fit of giggles. The whole thing was so ridiculous: a man who pretended to be dead was not on the floor pretending to be a dog… a dog that apparently wanted to be a cat. It didn't make John's anger go away, but it completely dissolved the wrongness of the picture. Sherlock wasn't broken. He was still himself, just playing a came.
"Very amusing, boys," Irene said. John couldn't stop laughing. He had to wiped tears from his eyes to see Irene Adler, who looked annoyed out even she was smiling a little. It was all so silly that even she couldn't be angry about it. It didn't help that Sherlock wouldn't stop giggling either. That just spurred John on more.
John stood and walked over to Sherlock, kneeling down. He grabbed the taller man's face in his hands, making him look at him. Sherlock went silent and John marshaled his face. "You're such a bad dog," he said in the baby voice an owner would use for their animals. "And I'm going to kill you later for scaring the hell out of me. Yes I am, yes I am," he said. He couldn't keep it up anymore. He cracked again and so did Sherlock. They ended up both seating on the floor laughing hysterically at the whole thing.
"Well, since it seems you two don't need me anymore," Irene said, standing up, acting haughty and annoyed when she clearly wasn't.
"Madame Adler," Sherlock said, stopping his laughter. There was something like pain on his face, and John wasn't sure what it meant.
"Don't worry, Amelia assures me the doctor speaks terrible French. You have a half hour to catch up," she said and walked off, shutting the dining room doors, leaving the two of them alone.
They just sat there, staring at each other for a while. Finally John decided to break the silence. "I can't believe you did that," he said.
"What?" Sherlock asked.
"Meow, meow, meow?" John asked in his best Sherlock Holmes impression. It just made them laugh all over again.
"Yes, I thought you'd enjoy that," Sherlock admitted, standing up and taking Irene's vacated seat. John scrambled up, retaking his chair. It was just as odd seeing Sherlock eating on the floor as it was seeing him eat Irene's leftovers, the leash still dangling from his neck, looking like he didn't have care in the world.
"Well, it certainly broke the tension," John said, though he could feel it creeping back. "I am going to kill you for not being dead you know," he said calmly.
"I am aware," Sherlock said, not looking at him.
"You want to explain before I kill you."
"Not really," Sherlock said. "I don't feel the need to confess my sins before my final hour," he said with a smirk.
"Sherlock," John said, and his old flatmate looked up at him. He noted the tone. This wasn;t something to joke about.
Sherlock took Irene's coffee cup, taking a sip and sitting back. "Moriarty had gunmen trained on you, and on Mrs. Hudson, and on Lestrade. Three gunmen, three bullets. If I didn't jump then you would all die," he said.
"Oh god," John said, stunned by his friend's devotion. "So you needed to be dead… but snipers for hire don't stick around much after the money's dead," he said, knowing hired guns as well as Sherlock did.
"I had to get around Mycroft," Sherlock said simply.
"So, you decided to not tell anyone that you weren't dead because while it would make them all less heartbroken it would also keep your big brother off your trail," John said. "Is that about right?"
"It sounds worse when you say it like that," Sherlock said.
"There's no way for it to sound good," John said.
"It clearly didn't work for long. Mycroft showed up yesterday, and now here you are," Sherlock said. "How much is Mycroft paying you to get me back?"
"He's paying me to stay in the city for as long as I feel like. I'm here to bring you back, you unbelievable prat," John said, glowering at his old flatmate.
"I'm not going back."
"Well, it's not like you'd just pick up and come because I came to call. Your main characteristic besides being a complete bastard is stubbornness," he said, seething a bit.
"John… I'm… sorry, I suppose, that I couldn't tell you," Sherlock said. "I wasn't sure you could act well enough."
"Who did you tell?"
"What?"
"You couldn't have done this on your own, so who did you tell?"
Sherlock hesitated for just a moment. "Molly Hooper," he said.
"Yes, because she's a great actress," John grouched.
"Mycroft doesn't know her. Neither he nor Moriarty ever counted her. She also had bodies handy and was a nearby doctor," he said.
"I'm a doctor," John pointed out.
"Not one at St. Bart's," Sherlock responded. "No one else knew until I got here."
"Let's talk about something else," John said, suddenly really wanting to just lunge across the table and throttle Sherlock.
"Okay," Sherlock said, going back to Irene's coffee.
"This isn't over though, Sherlock. I'm still bloody furious at you and we're going to have words again later."
"I know," Sherlock said. "I am sorry," he said and John was sure that probably meant it. That didn't make it better.
"Let's talk about something else."
"Okay."
"Sherlock… how are you doing?"
"Fine," Sherlock answered automatically without thought.
"You're a great actor, but sometimes you're a terrible liar."
Sherlock actually looked offended. "That's patently untrue."
"Really?" John asked.
"Really," Sherlock said, pausing to speak before he took a big sip of the rapidly luking coffee.
"Sherlock, you keep shifting uncomfortably and your legs were shaking when you stood and even when you were kneeling."
"Oh, that," Sherlock said, setting down the coffee cup and starting on the toast. "Just a bit bruised, par for the course with this investigation, I'm afraid."
"Par for the course?"
"Yes."
"On this investigation?"
"Yes."
"You see that woman abusing you as part of an investigation."
"I'm simply doing what must be done in order to finish the game."
"What must be done?"
"You certainly are repeating yourself a lot today," Sherlock said, going for the coffee cup again.
"That's it," John said, jumping up. Sherlock realized the ex-soldiers intentions just a bit too slow to escape as John grabbed his jacket, forcing it off, making Sherlock gasp in pain. Even if he hadn't caught on so slowly he probably wouldn't have been able to escape with the way his hamstrings were so taut and bruised from Irene's crop.
"Sherlock, just how much has she hurt you?"
"For her, I imagine only a moderate amount."
"Don't you dare stand up," John said, pulling Sherlock's chair out from the table and moving around front to undo Sherlock's buttons.
"I'm fine."
"No you're not. You forget sometimes that I'm a doctor, don't you?" John demanded as he continued to rapidly unbutton the very posh dark purple shirt.
"John, don't," Sherlock said, grabbing his friend's hands. John stopped what he was doing for a moment, looking up into the other man's eyes.
"As your doctor, I need to see," he said simply. Sherlock sighed heavily and let him go, allowing John to finish buttoning his shirt. He couldn't stop him, but he sure as well wasn't going to help. "Just be good," he said, wincing as Sherlock snorted. "Okay, sorry, Jesus," John muttered making Sherlock smirk more.
He finished with the last button and started to pull Sherlock's shirt off. Sherlock gasped again and John suddenly began to be very carefully in pulling down the shirt. He came around back, wincing at what he saw, but focusing more on the first. The second it was off both the consulting detective's wrists, John let it drop to the floor and got a real eyeful of the damage.
There were some minor lacerations, but those came more from continued beating over healing and sensitive skin. The marks that there were have clearly been cleaned and tended to and where knitting together nicely. It was unlikely that Sherlock would scar from these wounds. Yet his back still looked like a battlefield. There were a myriad of bruises, all crisscrossing, straight and narrow with a occasional rounded bruise, though those were lighter. The bruises overlapped. Some were clearly days old, now black, grey or yellow instead of purple and blue. Others were fresh or made worse from continually beating the same area. From the smell, aloe had been applied to the skin to help with the healing process, not that it would really help that much.
From the bruise pattern and the extensive nature of the injury, John could see that extended down bellow Sherlock's belt line and probably across is buttocks and legs. "My God! Sherlock!"
"There's nothing you can do. They'll heal on their own if left alone," Sherlock said, knowing just how ugly they must have looked from his studies of bruising on bodies and what he'd glimpsed in the mirror.
"Or it'll just get worse is she continues to hurt her. When's the last time she's whipped you?"
"Yesterday morning, right before we saw Mycoft."
"Your brother suspected that she'd just hurt you," John said.
"He'd probably know," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
John just stared at him for a moment, completely open mouthed before shutting his mouth to keep from looking like a fish out of water. He rubbed his forehead, trying to get his thoughts together to explain his objections. "What's she's doing… it's not normal."
"I assure you that a BDSM lifestyle is practiced by-"
"Not like that," John said.
"Then like what, pray tell?"
"Safe, sane and consensual? Ever heard of it?"
"Yes?" Sherlock said, not getting John's point.
"There are important things like safe words or contracts are there?"
"Oh, please, those are hardly necessary," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.
"Yes, because you're too stubborn to ever say no to anything so long as you think it'll get you what you want, and she's not going to stop so long as she's enjoying herself," John said. Both slipped into silence, Sherlock looking in John's eyes, trying to understand the nature of his displeasure.
"Do you think she's going to cripple me, or kill me?" Sherlock asked.
"No, I'm sure she's professional enough to keep from doing both, besides…"
"Besides, it's no fun if I'm out of the game," Sherlock filled in. "Then why are you upset."
"I'm upset because…" John stopped, calmed his voice and took a breath. "I'm not upset about your body, or your mind. I'm upset about your heart, which you have whether you think about it or not. I was wrong, you're not a machine," John said.
"You're upset about that? You said something in anger, I didn't take it personally," Sherlock said.
"Sherlock," John said, laying his hand awkwardly on Sherlock's chest to keep from touching some of the injured area. "Focus, that's not the point."
"Are we getting to the point."
"Yes, do you ever shut up?"
"I don't know, is that the point?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.
John chuckled despite himself. "You're completely insufferable. Sherlock, the point is that I'm afraid that she's hurting you, not your intellect or your body, but you, your heart, your core, your soul, whatever you deign to call it. I'm afraid that whenever you get what you want you'll have sacrificed to be able to come home," John said.
"I'm not going to war, John," Sherlock said.
"Yes, for you, you are," John said. "Although I honestly don't know how you'd do in a war either, but anyway," he said, getting himself distracted. "What I mean is this: you don't do well when you lose. You get grouchy, you start… being weird. You were weird after Moriarty got off, that but you were weird before too. I mean, how is it even possible to think the victim did killed himself in Cluedo?"
"I was right, John," Sherlock said.
"No. No you weren't. It's against the rules, and don't say the rules are wrong. It's very straight forward how the game works Sherlock, but I won and you flipped out and made up a scenario outside of the world so you could win."
"Hmm…" Sherlock said, suddenly looking fascinated.
"Am I getting through to you?" John asked, not hardly believing it.
"No, you're spouting nonsense, but it's good to know just how Mycroft got to you," Sherlock said.
"Dammit Sherlock! I'm serious! You started acting really sulky after Irene beat you!" John snapped, getting loud and angry so Sherlock wouldn't dare to interrupt him. "You were pissed because she bested you and you saw that immediately, and you were pissed that she stuck you with that thing and ran off with the phone, and you were pissed that she used you, that she read you like a book, that she made you lose. And then when she won everything you got really pissed and angry. You started needing cigarettes more, and we were all on constant alert because you were acting like you wanted your drugs again," he said.
"You didn't know me back then," Sherlock said softly.
"What?" John said, having missed it.
"I said, you didn't know me back then, so how do you know how I was acting?"
"Because your brother told me, and so did Lestrade. He told me, by the way, that he'd seen you before, when you were at your worst, and other times when you looked like you were about to relapse."
"I'm in complete control, John."
"No, you're not. She is. It's like you're on drugs all over again. You're incapacitating yourself."
"I never did anything that would affect my ability to think."
"Yes, thinking, bloody brilliant!" John snapped. "You realize that your life isn't all about thinking, and your body isn't just transport, you bloody idiot."
"No, John, that's exactly what my life is."
"No, Sherlock, you just wish it was. Sex stops you from being able to think, so does extreme pain. When she's with you, I mean actually with you, can you think at all, does your mind let you think about things besides what's going on in that moment? Does it even let you think on the biological or cellular level?"
Sherlock went dead silent for a moment. "I just haven't worked out how yet."
"There's no working it out!" John snapped, starting to pace. He scrubbed his hands over his face. "There's not working it out. This is like you being on drugs, except worse. She, she controls you, everything you do. If you don't give her what she wants then she hurts you, hurts you bad enough that you think, and then there's sex where you also can't think. You may have always been able to think when you were on drugs. Can you honestly tell me that you are always able to think now?"
"No," Sherlock said through his teeth, getting angry but not able to just stand up and walk out.
John took a deep breath. He needed to keep some kind of control of himself, to try and not get the both of them yelling at each other, or Sherlock hurting himself worse. "I'm out one job, and Mycroft's paying for me to stay. I bloody well hate Paris, but I'm going to stick around for a while."
"What for? If you hate it so much, why stay?"
"Because you're my friend, and so far you've proven that I'll always pick and come help you when you need me."
"I don't need you," Sherlock said, but he knew it was a lie. So did John.
"Told you, you can be a real God awful liar," John said. "I don't think it's healthy for you to be here. I'm going to stick around here and try to convince you that you should pack up and come home as soon as possible, cut your losses."
"I don't work that way," Sherlock said.
"I know, it's my job to find a way that you can work that way," John responded. "So far, I've submitted one argument. I know that's not going to be enough for you, so I'll keep coming back until I've convinced you."
"You can't make me change my mind," Sherlock said.
"And you can't make me stop trying," John said. He reached out a bit awkwardly seeming to consider tousling Sherlock's flaming ginger locks, though changed his mind because he knew he'd never get away with that and instead touched Sherlock's shoulder, careful not to hurt him anymore.
"You know, if you boys wanted to play doctor…" Irene said, trailing off as she came into the room. John's hand came off Sherlock so fast. Irene laughed. "Your thirty minutes are up, Dr. Watson."
"That's fine," John said, straightening up. "I'll be back later."
"When?" Irene asked.
"Not sure, we'll need to sort out visitation rights," John said, making Sherlock grimace at the wording. He was not a child being lobbed between two parents.
"Just how long do you intend to be staying in Paris?"
"I don't know… for as long as Mycroft will keep putting me up, I expect," John said before looking back at Sherlock. "I'll see you later in the week," he told Sherlock who just nodded. He turned back to Irene, walking toward both her and the exit. He paused momentarily at the door, standing beside her. He just looked at her, trying to deduce any weakness in her. He wasn't Sherlock Holmes, though, and he couldn't see anything… he wasn't sure even the Holmes brothers could see through her anymore.
"Something wrong Doctor?" Irene asked, clear as day. Sherlock's eyes were on them both, trying to figure out what was passing between them.
John turned his head away so Sherlock wouldn't be able to see his lips, and spoke very softly. "I have no problem with killing you if I think this is too much for him," John said simply. "Thank you for breakfast," he said louder. He walked out, headed back to his flat.
"What did he say?" Sherlock asked once John had gone.
"Just a little secret between friends," Irene said, shutting the door and walking over to him. "Those do look nasty, I can see why he'd be so angry," she said to Sherlock.
She stood behind him and started to massage his shoulders, the butt of her palms digging into his muscles to work out the stress, though he gasped in pain as she completely ignored his bruising in favor of an incredible massage. "Tell me where it hurts."
Sherlock shut his mouth and didn't make a sound.
A/N: I'm thinking of putting more in depth notes on my tumblr, but I'm not sure.
I've decided to change the story summary, because I'm not sure the other one was working well. Does anyone have any suggestions, below is what I had before and what I have now:
Before: "I Am Sherlocked" was just wishful thinking. Irene gets everything she wants, and once Sherlock has his fall he goes after her to get everything he lost back.
After: "I Am Sherlocked" was just wishful thinking. Irene wins. Mycroft pays everything, but Sherlock's the one who's really paying. He'll follow Irene to the ends of the earth in order to get the camera phone, but that's just the way she wants it.
I'm trying to figure out how to get more readers (honestly) and how to make this story sound good. I don't really want to write "Irene/Sherlock" or have to warn about BDSM, because that gives too many preconceptions. I can honestly say that I'm not sure how this will work out yet, I've got about six endings in my head. All of them are pretty different so I'll end it however it seems to need to end with these characters.
No, I don't know how long this will be, either. I didn't think it would be this long. This chapter will make this my longest story to date, and I'm not sure how it will end or yet how we'll get to an ending. I have a general ending-like idea and that's about it. This is how I write everything, including papers and stories for class.
Someone was asking for hints for my next projects. I still have 2 more Paws (Sherlock Holmes 7 Paws Stories) stories left: Mrs. Hudson and Moriarty. I'm going to start a new project once I finish this one (because if I start it before I finish this I'll get distracted). That one is going to be if Moriarty actually was Richard Brooke. I'm just curious to try to write that.
… sometimes I wish there was such things as capital numbers…
The dog food tray scene was so hard to write I just can't even explain how bad my innards balked at Sherlock having to do that! I actually took that scene in part from a thing I did with some of my original characters. Let's just say my OC took it stony silence and snarled when anyone touched him. I rather prefer Sherlock's solution.
Man, sorry this took so long. I would have had it done yesterday, but I ended up so tired I couldn't keep my eyes open. I worked on it in an airport chapel today, but I didn't quite get finished. These past few days have involved doctor's visits (nothing's wrong), business meetings, classes, and seeing the Avengers today. I'm so dead now!
Thanks to Zoffoli again, though this time I did the French (and didn't really translate it, because it actually is pieced together from what I remembered from school, and the internet. Surprisingly I did better conjugating French verbs, which I'm about three years off of, than Russian verbs which I'm actively studying. *sigh*)
