John received a text message from Irene Adler two days after his visit.

Let's have dinner

Irene

It was such a simple message. John stared at it for a moment, remembering just how many texts Irene had sent Sherlock with the name line: "I'm not hungry, let's have dinner". He took ten minutes to respond because he wasn't sure if she was flirting with him (which made him feel betrayed for Sherlock, who he felt was probably in love with her, no matter what he said to the contrary) or if she was referring to the old texts she'd sent to Sherlock to make John feel uncomfortable, or if she was honestly just asking him to dinner.

Why?

John

There, direct and to the point. All he could hope was that she thought he'd simply taken time to see her message, and not that it took him time to type and retype a message about seven times before it was actually perfect.

We need to discuss Sherlock. Let's have dinner.

Irene

John let out a sigh of relief, maybe she was flirting or trying to annoy him, but she was doing it because of Sherlock. He almost didn't doubt that she loved him too, though she had a very twisted way or showing it. She was possibly Sherlock's exact opposite, as well as Moriarty's. She was smart, but didn't ignore her body like they seemed to. She reveled in her body. Part of John felt it was very healthy for someone to introduce Sherlock to his own body, but John really didn't think it should be Irene Adler.

When and where?

John


John shifts a bit in the red leather chair that he's been seated in. He feels too dressed down in the establishment, though there were certainly other patrons who were dressed up less than him. He just felt wrong. He felt like the sore thumb, the odd man out. It didn't help that Irene was wearing a green dress that hugged her body its very best advantageous, making her look both unattainably sexy and yet very professional. It was very suit-like dress.

He, on the other hand, had just dragged out his nice pants, brushed his teeth and worn his standard jacket out. He would never have clothes that fancy in appearance. "So," John said, glancing at the waiter, who'd walked off after Irene ordered both of their meals for the entire evening, from appetizer dessert.

"So?" Irene asked, shifting just a bit in her chair so she could lean back and relax a bit more.

"So," John said again.

"I can tell you have a lot on your mind, Dr. Watson. Why don't we just get it over with and jump into things," Irene said.

"Why did you invite me to dinner?" John asked.

"We need to talk about Sherlock," Irene said.

"About him or about how you treat him?" John asked, stopping his speech when the waiter returned with the wine Irene had ordered (white to go with the fish he could kind of guess she'd ordered for them.)

"A bit of both," Irene said once the waiter left.

"Then let's talk," John said in a surly fashion.

"Yes, let's," Irene said. She took a sip of her wine and then went very quiet. She seemed very content, just sitting there, sipping her wine like they had nothing to talk about.

"Well?" John asked.

"Well what, Dr. Watson?" Irene asked, not looking up from her wine.

"Are we going to talk about Sherlock, or not?"

"Oh, I'm just waiting for you to pick the topic since you seem to be bursting with want to speak," Irene said.

John looked like he temporarily was considering jumping across the table and strangling her. His fingers were twitching anyway. He took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. "I assumed you had a specific topic you wanted to cover. We should go ahead and get that out of the way."

"Yes, but I'm not the one who's about to jump across the table and strangle someone," Irene said, smirking when John jumped. "Yes, you are just that obvious," she added.

"Why did you pick this place?" John asked.

"Is that really your first question?"

"You play games; you only do things for a reason, especially when it involves Sherlock, so there has to be a reason."

Irene smirked, taking a sip of her wine. "I was right about you," she said.

"Right about what?" John asked.

"I picked this place because it was where I took Sherlock the first night he came to Paris," she said.

"So, what you're recreating your first date?"

"No, trust my judgment a little Dr. Watson. What I picked for him is not the same thing as what I picked for you."

"Why?"

"I made my way in the world by being able to read people. I earned good money by being able to figure out what people wanted and needed and then getting it to them," she said. "I can read anyone's tastes because if I couldn't then I never would have been able to do what I did."

John sat in his seat for a moment as the waiter from the appetizers. "You are brilliant," he said, really seeing it for the first time. No wonder Sherlock had such trouble with her. She could read people just as well as him, but she actually understood the sentiment bit. "You've got Sherlock running in circles don't you?"

"At the moment I've got him tied to the bed waiting for me to come home," she said, smirking when John grimaced. "So, let's hurry this up a bit."

"You're hurting him," John said.

"That's what I do," she said. "Besides, he likes it," she said.

"No, he doesn't," John said automatically without thinking.

"Give me some credit Dr. Watson. Your friend, he doesn't eat or sleep when he's on a case… you think that would reduce his ability, but it doesn't. He's best when he's suffering. Pain, discomfort, it clears his mind right up. He can divorce himself better when he's stimulated to have to ignore his body or pass out. He runs on pain, doesn't he?"

John seemed hesitant to answer. "You are good," he said, but it was grudging.

"Sherlock Holmes is, as I have told him, a dominant masochist. Whenever he gets over his fear of his own body he will be happiest to tell his love exactly how to hurt him."

"Isn't that your job, to hurt people?"

"I'm afraid I'm more dominant than submissive. I don't really like being ordered around."

"You wouldn't mind it if Sherlock did it," John said. "There are a lot of things you wouldn't mind if he did it. You love him," he said. "You're willing to compromise a lot for him."

"Yes, I do love him," she said.

"And he loves you as well," John said.

Irene seemed honestly taken aback. "You can tell?"

"I'm not 100%, but you're special to him, different than how he sees Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or me. He only ever has one of each category."

"Meaning?"

"I'm his best friend. Mrs. Hudson is his chosen mother. Lestrade is work friend/trusted colleague. These are normal things for people to have, important in their own way, and Sherlock resents any person who fits into his life that he doesn't get to pick, like Mycroft, who he's just stuck with."

"He didn't pick me," Irene pointed out. "I picked him."

"Neither of you picked each other, but you keep choosing each other. He'd rather be with you, completely destroying himself in the process than be at home in his normal routine. You'd rather be with him, risking absolutely everything you've worked your entire life to gain just so you can have five more minutes to be with him. You didn't want to leave him… so you tied him down so you could be sure he'd be there when you got home."

"I was right about you Dr. Watson… and Sherlock agreed with me," she said, sipping her wine until she drained the glass.

"What were you right about?" John asked, feeling confused and annoyed that the last time he's asked, she'd ignored him.

"You are one of us."

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"You are one of us, myself, Sherlock, even Jim," she said, making John frown. "You're not the smart and manipulative kind, but you're not just a normal person. You're attracted to all of this. You're brilliant at seeming normal, because you know how to survive. You will survive anything, and you're the reason Sherlock has been able to live these past two years. You're his reason to be human, you know," she said.

"I don't understand."

"You can see people just as good as I or Sherlock can. You just see their hearts. It's not flashy, in fact it's very normal, but it's important. You are attracted to the danger, the thrill, but you're attracted to people too, which is why you can hide just how much of a freak you really are. You're one of us, and the fact that Jim never saw it proves just how good you are," Irene said.

"I'm still not sure I understand."

"You don't have to. All you have to know is that I trust you with Sherlock, which is why I have a proposal for you."

"What you came to talk about," John said.

"Two days a week," Irene said. "I will let him out two days a week to flit off and be with you for adventure or whatever you do."

"Three days," John said.

"Two and a half," Irene said.

"Fine," John said. Two and a half days he could work on getting Sherlock out was better than none. "Why?"

"Sherlock loves you," she said, chuckling when John grimaced. "As his mate," she added before he could declare his straightness again. "You make him happy… and I trust you," she said.

"You trust me?"

"To take care of him, to protect him, to make him happy, and to bring him home," she said.

"Do you trust him?"

"No, not at all."

John stared at her for a minute. "You can't…" he stopped, looked down, composed his thoughts took a breath and started over. "You can't have a healthy relationship and not trust your partner," he said.

"Sherlock doesn't trust me either."

"Why should he? You aren't in a relationship. You're his new Moriarty. You're playing a game of chess, except this time instead of it being about crime and being smarter than each other, it's about deceiving each other, while you're both stupidly in love and sex is involved."

"In other words, even more screwed up," Irene said.

"Exactly… you know if you could just let him win a little."

"He'd hate me for it. You think I beat him because I like it? I do, but he hates to think I'm going easy on him. He'd hate me if I tried to give him a safe word or I set boundaries with him. He'd think I was babying him. If he wins he has to do it on his own."

"If he wins, you lose everything," John said.

Irene smiled, but it wasn't her normally self-assured smile. It was sad, lonely, and John was suddenly reminded of Molly Hooper and the sad smiles she had for Sherlock when his back was turned… wanting and yet unable to have what she wanted. "It's a risk I'm willing to take," she said.

John took a sip of the wine, needing to steady himself. He wished it was whiskey, but set that wish aside. "This all ends with him winning."

"I know," Irene said.

"He'll figure it out and take everything," John said.

"I know. I've taken precautions," she said. "I won't lose everything."

"Just most of it," John said.

"I'll survive," she said. "I always do."

"What do you hope to gain then?"

"I bit of time," she said. She smiled a bit. They both went quiet as the waiter took their barely touched appetizers and brought their actual dinner. "I have to thank you Dr. Watson."

"What for?" John asked.

"It's nice to know that Sherlock Holmes loves me," she said.

"You're going to destroy him," John said. "The way you're playing this game… it's mutually assured destruction. He's going to win, but he'll be broken for it, you realize that right?"

"Then he can't forget me, can he?" she asked with a smirk.

"You're really a terrible person."

"Well, I'm no dear old Jim, but I do my best," she said with a laugh. John grimaced.

"You're okay with breaking Sherlock Holmes."

"I'll have left my mark on something touchable. There's no greater thrill," she said, starting to eat.

John stared at her for a long while before starting to eat as well. He guessed that she wouldn't leave until they'd both eaten their fill. Even if he had to choke on it, he needed to finish his meal. The main course seemed to drag on and on, and John was glad when it was over. Their glasses and been refilled for the third time, and the waiter returned quickly with little bowls of ice cream.

"What's this?"

"Lavender ice cream," Irene said, taking a bit of her own. "Take a bite," she ordered.

He hesitated, feeling like a petulant child. He didn't think he could get away with not eating it, but he was going to do it on his own time table. He'd wait… or he thought about it until he remember that Sherlock was tied up and stuck waiting for this dinner to be over. He started to eat, feeling like he would choke on it.

Irene smirked. "Good boy."

"Don't," John said. "Don't talk to me like you talk to him. If you've at least got to be as bloody well screwed up as you are, you should do it with only him."

"Monogamy," Irene said. "I never believed in it," she said.

"Until," John said, waiting for the punch line. He started to eat quickly.

"Slow down Dr. Watson, you'll get and ice cream headache," Irene said, eating slowly. John did slow down, knowing she wouldn't leave until she'd finished her own. She had a lot more self control than he did. He could tell she wanted to go home as well, but she was playing her game and was going to win this round. He let her win, slowing down, matching her eating speed.

"Until?" He asked.

"I don't want anyone else but him," She said simply.

"I'm not sure he's ever wanted anyone else before either," John said.

Irene smiled, a very real and very beautiful smile that made John's heart skip. "Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"Just finished your ice cream," John grumbled. Irene's warm laughter filled the restaurant.


Sherlock Holmes was supremely unhappy when Irene Adler finally returned. She'd tied him very securely to her mattress, with enough slack that he could shift around and not have his newly aching muscles (he'd spoken English to a man at a social function Irene had taken him to) seize up under him. That didn't mean that he hadn't been in constant pain since she left him, dressed up incredibly and specifically sexy to see John Watson.

She'd been trying to make him jealous. Sherlock was shocked when he'd realized that it had. It made him angry that she dressed up to seduce his friend. It made him angry that she got to see John and he didn't. It made him angry that she'd tied him down and left him there, though that was just part for the course. What really made him angry was that she just walked past him when she came in, ignoring him completely. She walked into her closet to change, not even casting him a glance.

His breath caught in his throat when she came out. She was wearing white lace; sheer enough that he could see the color and outline of her skin, but not actually see anything. Logically he understood why it was so tantalizing (made to show just enough to excite the imagination, but not actually show anything, which would make a person want to see what was under the little piece.) that didn't mean that it didn't have the desired effect. It covered her breast down to mid thigh, but he really wished he could push it up past her hip.

Irene smiled at him and his train of thought (wondering what type of game she'd pick this time) came to a halt. He saw that smile sometimes, last time when they'd watched movies together and started debating about the cultural significance of the pooka. It wasn't predatory, or game, or anything other than just a smile. He illogically wished he could bottle it.

"Tonight will be a little different," Irene said, crawling on top of him. She straddled his hips, making him groan from the pain this caused him.

"What did you talk about with John?"

"You mostly," Irene said, running her fingertips. She kept smiling and he couldn't look away from it.

"What did he say?" he asked.

"Nothing you need to know about," she said, but she just smiled more.

"Tell me," Sherlock said, feeling that stab of jealousy again.

"We agreed to share," she said. "You'll have two and a half days a week to spend with him from now on."

"What? Really?" Sherlock asked, not having expected her to let him go.

"He's important to you," she said simply. "And I do love you," she said, leaning down and kissing him.

"How is tonight different?" he asked.

"You're going to tell me what you want me to do you," she said, rubbing her hands back and forth in circles over his chest. There was pressure where she was almost massaging him, but not quiet. Right now she was just touching him.

"What I want," Sherlock repeated, starting to think. She meant it to. She'd do whatever he wanted. The words she'd said before slipped across his mind. Dominant masochist. So what did he want? He couldn't think with those damn little circles.

"Yes, love, what you want," she breathed, starting to kiss from his navel up to his neck, making his stomach tremble. He couldn't think. It was terrifying. "Well, what do you want?" She asked.

"Bite me," he said, gasped really. He was a bit surprised to hear it come out of his mouth. But he wanted it. He actually did want that.

"Of course," she purred from where she'd been kissing his neck. Suddenly she took a hard bite on his neck, making him groan. She sunk her teeth in more and he groaned harder. She pulled back, her nose pressed to his, looking into his eyes. "Is that what you want?"

"More," he gasped.

"What?"

"More!" he snapped.

"Yes, princess," she said with a warm laugh. He moved, capturing his lips. She got caught up in his kiss that she liked so much. "Ow," she said, pulling away, touching her bottom lip that he'd bit hard enough to make it bleed

"Don't do it again," he ordered.

"I'm not calling you master," she said and bent down, placing a kiss on bite on his neck, starting to kiss down the sensitive skin until she got to the juncture of neck and shoulder, the spot right behind the collar bone where his back started. She bit, hard, harder than his neck, making him gasp in pain. She didn't stop until she tasted his blood. Then she sat up, licking her lips, tasting his blood and hers. They tasted the same, but knowing the two were mingling just fit so wonderfully in her mind.

"You should," he said, panting a bit from pain. His back was still healing, still bruised, with new bruises added from the terrible beating he'd gotten the previous night. She was laying her full weight on his body, which just made it all worse. But the bites, sharp and painful dragged his mind away from his back. He forgot about his back when she bit him. He could think about her lips and the way they fit against his skin and the way her games worked. He could think. "Again," he ordered.

"You're such a bossy little thing," she said, biting hard onto his shoulder until she tasted blood again. She kept biting until she got a gasp out of him.

"Again!" he snapped. For just a moment he'd had clarity of thought, his mind reeling as he covered the floor plan of her home, trying to figure out where she could have hidden the camera phone.

She reached behind him and pinched his abused back while she bit his bicep, taking his gasp to a pained moan. "Don't order me."

"Oui, madame Adler," he said, but he looked grumpy. At least he'd said it.

"Good boy," she said, feeling her stomach twist. John Watson had been right. She didn't want to talk to other people like she spoke to Sherlock. She moved down, partially overlaying one bite with another. She bit him again, after she'd moved a bit, though the bite still overlay over the previous two. "You want more? Say please."

"Please," he said, his deep voice annoyed, but it still thrummed through her chest. She started to bite up and down his left arm. She made sure the bites over lapped, that she drew blood and that he got from his fingertips to his shoulder, front, side, back, and underside. She doubted he'd be using that arm much the next day. The sounds he made were so wonderfully pleasant too: pained by desperate for more.

"Say please," she said, starting to kiss his lips again. "Ow," she gasped when he bit his again, just like she wanted him to.

"Please," he snarled.

"Good boy," she purred, by passing his collarbone for later to attack his chest. Again, over lapping bites, though this time she paid particular attention to his nipples, which provided her some wonderfully wanton sounds to listen to. They would hurt even worse than his arm in the morning. She'd practically chewed them up. She probably should have felt bad, but he'd screamed so wonderfully.

"Please," he gasped, tugging at his bonds when she stopped to sit up on his hips.

"Didn't even have to ask this time," she said, moving down to the deliciously sensitive skin on his navel. A warm feeling was setting into her stomach. She had been right about him, about what he liked. He wanted this. He'd growl at her in the morning about the pain, but that didn't mean that he didn't want it. She continued to bite down his body, ignoring his groin in favor of his sensitive thighs, calves and feet.

"Stop! Stop!" he gasped when she tickled the bottom of his feet.

"Oh… I didn't know you were ticklish here," she said, tickling his arch which produced a desperate and pained laugh. He suddenly was going crazy trying to break out of his bounds, cutting up his feet and ankles in the process. She stopped tickling, not because she couldn't keep hold anymore (which she could) but because she'd want to visit his tickling spot later when it could actually be a game. She bit his arch instead, making him gasp. "Better?"

"B-better," he said, panting down and out of breath.

"Let's see what else I can do for you this evening," she purred, starting to move her biting back up his body.


A/N:

Man, I'm exhaustepated!

Anyway, I hope this week I'll have more chapters out. Last week was just… weird is all I can say. I'm trying to get this done as quickly as possible so that I won't lose interest and can actually finish. Sherlock remains hard to write, and I've hit the point where I'm not planning chapters out anymore. I'm not sure how time will pass. So far not a huge amount of time had passed, and I thought this would go on for 3 years in story… so yeah… I think this will be over 100k words, which I'm looking at al a long way off.

Really, your reviews are what get me through. I get a pretty constant 2 reviews per chapter, but I'd love to double that to four a chapter from now on… I can dream anyway.

As for my reviewers, I love you all. Special love goes to Clow-san, who is my most consistent reviewer, you make me very happy. A bit of love goes to Anon-Airen L for writing the longest reviews and for making me not feel crazy.

Things I'd love to hear from any of you about:

Advertising this more. I'd love for more people to read, so if you can suggest ways to do so, I'd appreciate it.

Fic recs! No, I honestly troll all of you guys favorites and written stories looking for things to read. I'm actually not really interested in Irene-centric fics. I don't want it to affect how I write her, but I am interested in Molly-related stories. I generally have a rule of 'if it's good, I'll read it'. Just suggest things, I honestly consider reading the fandom as part of my job as a fanfic writer.

Respond if I PM you. I will PM you if you review. I love to talk, just honestly, I love to talk. If you want to comment on my story me, ask me a question, give suggestions, tell me anything at all… I just like to talk to people. I don't bite, I swear. Also, if you are anon, I respect your privacy to not post a signed review on my story, but if you would like to contact me, I have a special email just for this account. I basically never check it, but I will start if I think I'll get letters. It's my screen name here (with not space or capitalization) robinasnyder at hotmail.

I think I should give up and just continue to have long notes at the end. I end up with a chapter that's about 5k words with or without this anyway.

I'm actually amused by the fact that this story makes people so uncomfortable! It's kind of hilarious to me because this a bit discomfortable for me to write, but I've read some seriously uncomfortable fics, even in this fandom. This doesn't seem like that for me. Irene and Sherlock are intense, it's their nature… I can't help that. My favorite part of a story is when the characters have been broken or are breaking… when they're at their lowest. That's when there are the most possibilities and the most interestingness. I'm going to guess this is uncomfortable because it's both psychological and physical.

No matter what it looks like, this will never ever be Johnlock, never. I even hesitate to call this Irene/Sherlock just because it feels more like the Irene version of Moriarty and Sherlock's relationship… to me anyway. Also, there will never be sex, not oral, anal, vaginal, masturbation or anything like that. Characters may indulge in all sorts of things off screen, but shared nakedness is not sex. The only reason I'd ever write a sex scene is in the event it added to the story in a substantive way that had to be shown, or that added a lot of character development. As I don't even generally feel interest in reading sex scenes (repetitive AND dull) and am general of the opinion that descriptions of sex are practically never necessary in a story, it's incredibly unlikely that I'll ever write them. Sorry.

Also, I'm aware now from seeing Scandal for the 5th time last night that Irene disabled the ability to take information off the phone, any type of connection port. So… technically she'd have to hand it all over anyway… but I can't go back and change it now anyway. Oh well, I think this way seems smarter anyway.