A/N: This chapter was written by both hobbitsdoitbetter and myself.
Chapter Song: Heat of the Moment
Mary has to hand it to The Moustache Man, he acquits himself well as he steps inside Irene's flat.
For he doesn't leer. Doesn't try to cop a feel. Doesn't even make some stupid bloody comment about being asked to join in.
He merely smiles apologetically at her and Irene, lets his eyes drop to somewhere suitably far away and suitably not-naked as he waits for his hostess to retire inside and put some clothes on.
He'll be a long bloody time waiting, Mary thinks wryly.
Irene, being Irene, grins wickedly and sprawls across her chaise lounge, still nude except for the strap-on. Eyes dancing with mischief.
Mary's mouth quirks in amusement- "Darling," she tells her, "the poor boy doesn't know where to look."
Irene's grin widens. "Oh no," she purrs, "I think he knows exactly where to look." She takes in Mary's expression and pouts. "Not so sure about you, though."
Mischievousness, as it often does, seizes Mary and she reaches down. Kisses Irene good and bloody proper, just to remind her who she's dealing with.
After all, Irene wearing the strap-on is something of a special occasion.
The other woman leans into it, kissing her back harder until they're both breathless and starry-eyed. Whatever else they may do, and whoever else they may do it with, both Maryand Irene know that kissing one another is one of life's special pleasures. When they pull apart, Watson is still looking fixedly at a point on the carpet, pointedly ignoring the exchange.
The tips of his ears have turned pink.
"Sorry about this, ladies," he says. His eyes flicker to Mary. "And about earlier- Didn't realize you had someone waiting at home."
"She doesn't." Adler's tone brooks no disagreement. Mary rolls her eyes. "But I must say," Irene continues, running one bare, flirtatious foot along the carpet and into Watson's line of vision, "you are being remarkably polite about all this."
His eyes flick up, meeting hers. "Sister," he says evenly. "She just broke up with her girlfriend back in Nottingham." His lips twist. "Dad disowned her when they moved in together."
"Ah." Something a great deal less lascivious and a good deal friendlier moves through Irene's expression and Mary smiles. Kisses her wrist. "That explains it. But tell me," she adds, "why are you here?"
Now, Watson looks uncomfortable. Curious, Mary thinks. "You disappeared," he says to her, turning his attention from Irene. "After the thing in the club, you disappeared." He shrugs, looks even more uncomfortable. "I wanted to make sure you were alright."
Mary snorts. "Wanted to interrogate me, more like."
A sliver of a smile crosses his lips. "Maybe." He catches Irene's eye and smiles. "Fine: you caught me." A shrug. "Are you really surprised?"
Mary crosses her arms, looks at him. She's normally good at sizing people up, but she's having trouble getting a read on this one. She looks at Irene and her expression indicates she feels the same way. Of course, there's no need for her to answer any of the Moustache Man's questions, but given what Irene was discussing with her before he came in, it occurs to her that it might be a good idea to bring him into the loop a bit.
If nothing else, she suspects that his first loyalty is to Agent Hooper rather than Agent Winters, and that could prove very useful indeed.
So she nods to Irene, who pouts but stands. Goes and fetches a robe, somewhat mournfully unbuckling the strap-on as she goes.
"You and I should talk," Mary tells him. "There's been a… development I didn't foresee."
And with that Irene re-enters, a bottle of whiskey and three glasses in her hands, and she and Mary start explaining just what Jim Moriarty has been trying to talk Irene into, the cad.
Meanwhile,
In the Diogenes Club
The smile fades from Molly's lips as the full impact of what they've just done comes crashing down over her. She reaches tentative fingers to brush at the bite-mark- so much more than a simple love-bite - she's left at the base of Sherlock's throat. He's not bleeding, thank God, but she can see the indents of her teeth, the purple bruising already rising, and wonders that he isn't cursing her for doing such obvious damage.
What she's just done to him...with him...she's never done anything like that before. To anyone. Ever.
What is it about this man that brings out her inner slag?
But it's not that thought that crowds her mind with sudden panic; nor is it even the fact that they've just had unprotected sex. In a public bar. On a public bar.
No, it's her reactions to him that scare her. The concern she feels about having hurt him with her bite. How comfortable she's becoming with him. How they make one another smile and laugh.
How much...fun they're having together.
Oh God, is she actually starting to care about him? To like him?
She starts to slide off his body, shuddering at the feel of a sudden warm dribble between her legs. "Shit."
"Relax."
She glares at his smirk. "Don't…" she starts to say, but he interrupts her, sitting up and reaching one of those big hands of his around the back of her neck.
She shivers involuntarily as he rubs soothing fingers over her skin. "You're on the Pill, never had unprotected sex with a partner before - nor have I, hello, the bad boy knows how to be good sometimes! - and neither of us is currently using. And no," he adds before she can make the snarky comment self-defence demands she make, "I neither had nor was a 'prison wife'. So no worries there, either."
Molly elects to ignore the modifier he's used when mentioning drugs; she's never done more than smoke the occasional joint in her teen years (and not even that since deciding on a career in law enforcement), and she doesn't want to know what kind of things Sherlock's been into in his highly checkered past (she adamantly ignores the faint scarring on the insides of his arms that tell their own story, one she tells herself she doesn't want to hear.)
But she does breathe a silent sigh of relief that he mistook the reason for her sudden urge to flee; if he thought for one second she was falling for him, he would ruthlessly use that to his every advantage.
And in the end, turn as cold to her as he'd been to Janine when she'd protested that Moriarty and Eurus loved one another.
This isn't a man who believes in love, and the sooner she remembers that the better off she'll be.
So she turns brisk. Professional. Removes his hand from her neck and herself from atop his body. Advises him to put some antiseptic ointment on his neck. Grabs a handful of black paper napkins and wipes herself off. Tosses the soiled napkins into the bin- but can't stop herself from handing him a couple of clean ones.
He takes them, mutters a sarcastic 'ta' and slides off the bar to clean himself up as she hunts for her scattered clothes. There's a dent between his eyebrows that speaks of puzzlement, but she ignores it- ignores him - as she redresses herself.
Slipping into her heels, straightening her skirt and raking her fingers through her hair- she hasn't found her handbag yet, can't even run a comb through the tangles- she finally allows herself to meet his gaze.
He's lounging against the bar, still utterly, gloriously naked and about as self-conscious as naturist at Praia do Homem Nu*. He pours himself a shot of Talisker, quirks an eyebrow and pours one for her when she nods.
The puzzled expression is gone, replaced by one of cool indifference that cuts her to the quick even though it's exactly what she wanted to see. She ignores her own reaction, gulps down the whisky and finds herself utterly lost for what to say next.
Sherlock, however, has no such problem. "You're second guessing yourself," he says after tossing back his own shot. "Worried you're getting too involved with the asset." His lips curl in a sardonic expression as he gestures to himself. "Don't worry, princess. It's just sex. Once this is over and Jimmy boy's behind bars, you'll never have to see me again."
She tells herself she does not hear a note of hurt behind his cold words.
"Get dressed," she says curtly, slamming her shot glass down onto the smooth mahogany of the bar. Trying not to let her mind's eye replay their most recent bout of lovem- of sex -as she turns to hunt for her handbag.
"Where are we going? Back to yours?"
He's grinning, she can tell even without looking at him. Damn him.
"You can have the spare bedroom," she says, answering without answering. Hearing his dark chuckle as she scans the floor and tabletops for her missing- ah, there it is. Dangling by its strap from a barstool. "Hope you're comfortable sleeping with your wrist cuffed, since I don't trust you not to run off without me."
She turns, sucks in a startled breath; he's right there, so close that she has to crane her neck to meet his gaze. "Or you could just sleep with me, princess. Make sure I don't get up to any mischief." He leans closer, turns his head and whispers against her ear, "Or make sure I do. Third time's the charm, they say."
She closes her eyes, tries to ignore her fast-beating, treacherous heart and ignore the part of her that's jumping up and down and screaming yes please. It's grossly unfair of him to remind her that they've had sex twice in the same day, but then, what does she expect from a man like him? He's a criminal, dangerous, unscrupulous- and he'll toss her aside just as soon as he's earned his freedom by capturing James Moriarty.
"Fine" she says, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "You can sleep in my bedroom." Before he can do more than smirk in triumph, she adds, "The other bed doesn't have any convenient place to snap the cuffs to and it's smaller." She smiles sweetly. "I think we both agree you need the space."
oOo
She's angry with him- or possibly (more likely) with herself. No huge deductive leap needed to figure that much out.
After all, she's just had sex with a criminal genius for the second time in one day. No wonder she's pissed at herself.
And yet…
There's something else. Something he's missing (he always misses something, goddamm it). Is it the way she marked him? He knows he saw something like regret and concern in her eyes after she uncuffed him and got a good look at the raw- primal, possessive-bite-mark she left on his throat.
He wonders how she'd feel if he did the same to her, quickly dismissing the thought. It's too personal, too much like he wants more from her than just sex.
Sherlock Holmes has never wanted more than just sex from any woman. Even this one. And nothing's going to change that. Not big brown eyes or a pixieish nose or cinnamon hair falling like a waterfall over her shoulders (or her ability to give as good as she gets and willingness to stand up to him, or her coolness under fire or her…)
He bites off a curse, makes sure to send a leering smirk her way when Molly gives him an inquiring look. She tries to make it seem more impatient than anything else, but this he can see right through. When it changes to one of disgust he turns away. Starts the process of redressing himself.
But the puzzle of Molly Hooper is still nagging at the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. To put it in a box and lock it away. Or better still, to erase it, delete it.
Once Euri's free from prison, he resolves. Pretending it's the first time he's had this internal conversation with himself. Pretending that he can keep Hooper from clawing- biting, gnawing- her way under his skin.
Pretending that she hasn't already done so.
And he still can't fucking understand why.
*Praia do Homem Nu - Nudist beach in Portugal. The name translates to "The Naked Man".
Later,
In an undisclosed location beneath Whitehall…
The package is small. Nondescript. It fits into the palm of Eurus' hand.
Though she both sniffs and tastes it, she can find no trace of anything on it other than her prison. The envelope bears no stamp, no mailing address, just a bald inscription saying OPEN ME.
Interesting, she thinks.
There are so few interesting things in her life these days.
So she purses her lips, thinking. Pondering whether she should open the envelope or not. It could, after all, be a trick; though Agent Winters says she trusts the Holmes siblings to find Jim Moriarty, Eurus doesn't really believe her. Anthea has been chasing her too long to simply give up now… and yet, if nothing else, the lack of evidence on the object shows that whoever slipped it into her food tray is reasonably clever. Clever, and also aware of how clever she is. That doesn't really narrow down the list of suspects, she muses- Though so long as it's not her blackguard of a husband then she doesn't mind. That would almost be as bad as if it were Winters.
Maybe it's Sherlock, she thinks, and her heart skips a beat.
If there's anyone she would dearly love to hear from, it's her beloved baby brother.
When she opens the envelope though, she sees black and white photos inside, taken from one of the Diogenes' cameras by the looks things.
They show her brother, her Will, fucking that little M15 bitch Hooper in the middle of Eurus' bloody club.
They're a mass of movement and need and lust in the photos, both of them, and Eurus is horrified by the fondness with which Sherlock is gazing at his little slag. The open joy of it.
She feels a ball of cold, wretched, brilliant rage unfurl in her chest at the realization.
So this, she thinks, is what he's doing now I'm out of the way.
A note drops out of the envelope, written in the same hand as on the front. THOUGHT YOU SHOULD KNOW, it says, and nothing more.
Eurus probably wouldn't notice, even if it did.
For her heart is breaking, splintering, shattering into a million pieces. Her Will, her Sherlock, he's using her absence to drag himself back to that little MI5 whore and that is a thing that will not be borne. For the first time since Mycroft died, Eurus feels the rage of having her hold on her brother thwarted, and just as she had that time, she refuses to accept it. Refuses to take his disloyalty lying down.
Slowly, slowly, she drops to the floor. Curls in on herself.
"I have to go to my Mind Palace," she murmurs.
For the next twenty four hours she will neither speak, move or eat and by the time she does, she will know exactly what she's going to do…
End note: Thank you to everyone for all your wonderful reviews. Hope you keep enjoying the story!
