A/N: Get ready for a long read. This chapter consists mainly of head canons and speculation, as well as a teensy bit of AU. Took me a while to work the details out, garnering clues from the episode itself. It was an enjoyable exercise in imagination and sleuthing and I hope you guys enjoy this J Oh, and this chapter isn't for general audiences. Nothing NSFW, but you'll know once you read that part.
Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Cafe was a flurry of activity as customers rushed in for lunch, lobbying for the few seats available. Outside, people bumped shoulders on the sidewalk as they stared almost mindlessly at the screens of their phones, barely paying any heed towards their surroundings.
They certainly did not notice the slim young man in the oversized gray hoodie, faded jeans and scuffed sneakers, who had been pacing back and forth by the cafe for the past half hour. To the few cafe regulars who did notice, he may appear suspicious; but then again there have been more than enough suspicious characters hanging around the nearby 221 B Baker street flat. One of the tenants there was certainly the type to associate with these flakes.
The young man stopped pacing and leaned heavily against one of the railings close to the cafe, his backpack acting as a cushion. Seeing some eyes on him, he took out his mobile with a gloved hand and pretended to be engrossed. Hopefully no one would be calling. He'd rather not take any calls at the moment.
A car came to a stop in front of the 221 B flat. The young man looked up, but not too fast so as not to arouse suspicion.
From beneath his hood, he saw three men alight from the vehicle. One of the men—a shorter one with ash blonde hair—was assisting a taller gentleman with a head of dark curls, who looked like he'd had a pint too many. The other man, also a tall figure but with salt and pepper hair, was standing before them, grinning as he held up his phone.
The young man recognized them of course: Dr. John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.
"For God's sake Lestrade, would you please stop filming and help me with Sherlock?" Dr. Watson grimaced, struggling to keep his disoriented flatmate on his feet. "He's not exactly lightweight."
"Hold on, hold on." Detective Lestrade continued, his smile growing ever wider. "He might say something more—"
Sherlock suddenly retched and threw up on Dr. Watson's shoes.
"Oh bloody—"
"Perfect!"Detective Lestrade was practically jumping in excitement. "Wait til the boys in the office see this!"
"I was going to wear these shoes for a date tonight," Dr. Watson bemoaned, shaking his brown boots.
"You're really going to push through with that?" Detective Lestrade finally pocketed his phone and went to put Sherlock's other limp arm over his shoulders. "I told you, we're not yet sure if Sherlock's been injected with Ketamine or GHB so he'll need to be constantly monitored..."
The men's voices faded away as they entered the flat. The moment the door closed, the young man in the hoodie broke into a sprint around the building until he reached a small alleyway in the back.
Quickly taking a pair of small binoculars from his backpack, he set his sights on the second floor window where he saw shadows moving about. The window was closed, but the curtains were open wide enough for him to see Detective Lestrade and Dr. Watson, probably putting Sherlock to bed.
The man in the hoodie beamed a smile as he lowered the binoculars and looked over to the nearby fire escape. Yes, he thought. This would do nicely for later.
It was close to midnight when the hooded young man returned to Baker Street, his steps determined as he walked past Speedy's, past the closed door of 221 B and around the building. He paused before reaching the corner, turning his head every which way to be sure he wasn't followed before slipping in to the alleyway.
With nimble steps, he climbed up the fire escape, careful to make as little noise as possible until he reached the second floor window which led to Sherlock Holmes room.
He peered in. The curtain was still wide open, allowing him full view of the detective, who lay on his back. He frowned. The doctor should have known better than to have Sherlock on his back, he thought.
Taking his backpack off his shoulders, he rummaged through the contents until he found a strip of plastic and carefully slipped it in the space between the window and the pane to unlock the latch. Once done, he pulled the window open and stepped inside.
Pulling back the hood and taking off the gloves to reveal red fingernails, Irene Adler freed her dark curls from the confines of her disguise. She was in desperate need of a hairbrush but that would have to wait.
She stalked over to Sherlock's bed, and with as much gentleness as she could muster, turned him over to his side. Can't have the great detective choking on his own vomit, but by the looks of things, he seemed to be doing okay.
Certain now that he wouldn't be waking up any time soon, Irene explored the room. It was small, rather drab compared to what she was used to—definitely a masculine room. No fancy curtains or wallpapers, no unnecessary fixtures. It was all...efficient, just like Sherlock's brain.
But just like his brain, the room also had its eccentricities—like the periodic table of elements by the doorway and another framed periodic table above a photo of the Russian inventor and chemist Dmitri Mendeleev (boy, Sherlock seems really in to chemistry). Above his bed was a framed Japanese certificate (martial arts perhaps?) and on one side of the wall, a sword mounted on a plaque that indicated Sherlock's first place win at Camford Sports Society in 1996 (brainy and athletic? She supposed she should've guessed, seeing how he manhandled that American earlier).
She walked around the room some more. It was almost as though she were walking through the corridors of Sherlock's mind—every turn showing her a snippet of the detective she would never have otherwise known about.
She browsed through a lit cabinet. There were chemistry implements on the shelves—test tubes, beakers and whatnot—with a couple of oddities: a small bug collection (maybe used for his cases as reference? Or just a childhood hobby carried to adulthood?) and a small bust of what appeared to be another scientist (Irene wasn't sure who).
She moved to the bookcase on the left, looking pensively at the stylish six CD multi-changer hifi unit on the wall above it. She squinted at the CD titles. Classicals. Most of which she herself was fond of. Fancy that.
Irene smiled and continued towards the dresser. Above it was a picture of Edgar Allan Poe, whose hair, much to her amusement, had an uncanny resemblance to Sherlock's. Atop the dresser was an oval mirror and a few knickknacks, but the one thing that caught her eye was a small framed photograph of what appeared to be an six or seven-year-old Sherlock Holmes, standing alongside a morbidly obese teenager.
When Irene realized the teenager was Mycroft Holmes, she was not able to suppress a laugh.
She heard Sherlock groan. She froze and turned around to see the detective stir, mumbling one thing or another before going still again.
She released a trapped breath. It was then that she caught sight of herself in the oval mirror. Without her makeup, and with her hair loose down her shoulders, she looked nothing like the dominatrix who had bested Sherlock Holmes. She looked vulnerable...like the naive, starry-eyed girl who had first arrived in London with her head full of dreams and her heart full of love.
She hurried across the room to grab her backpack and rummaged through it until she found her makeup kit. She wasn't going to be able to do her hair or paint her face properly with so little tools and so little time, but she needed to put her mask back on.
She needed to feel like Irene Adler again.
After tying her hair in a simple bun and applying light rogue and lipstick, she set out to do what she came to do.
Reaching in to her backpack again, she took out the coat Sherlock had offered her that morning, fully intending to leave after returning it when something tumbled out and thudded on the floor.
Sherlock's phone. He must've left it on his coat pocket, she thought.
"Uh...M...Ms...Ad...ler...?"
Irene spun around and saw Sherlock, still on his side, looking blearily at her, his mouth hanging open, his body limp under the covers. In his present state, he probably won't remember much of her being here, or attribute her presence to drug-fuelled hallucinations, she thought.
"Hush, now." She hung the coat on the door's coat hook before taking the phone from the floor and placing it on the bedside table. "It's okay. I'm only returning your coat."
He was still staring at her, and she felt her heart skip. Sherlock Holmes was wearing the exact same lustful expression he did when she had caressed his jaw line with the riding crop. The drug's effects it seemed had not yet worn off.
Before she could stop herself, she sat on the bed, and traced a red-painted forefinger from his wounded cheekbone and down to his jaw line before stopping at the bottom of his soft lower lip. He moaned then, almost in pleasure, almost in anguish, his lips seeming to seek more of her caress but he remained uncoordinated, only managing to tilt his head lower before burying it in the pillows again.
Irene found herself entranced. The play of expressions on the detective's face was absolutely captivating—to see him so mentally incapacitated as to surrender himself to physical stimulation. She had seen that look thousands of times on her clients, but she had never derived as much pleasure as she did in seeing the great Sherlock Holmes in such a state.
It made her feel powerful.
It made her feel...naughty.
She eyed Sherlock's phone on the bedside table and traced her tongue across her teeth. She would give him something to remember her by, she thought. She'd make sure he would never be able to forget her.
She grabbed his phone from the bedside table and opened the sound recorder.
She moaned into it, then hit replay. Hmm. Too fake.
She deleted and tried again. It sounded like she was in agony.
Third try. It sounded like somebody punched her in the gut.
Irene's red lips twisted in frustration. She had never had much trouble letting out a moan before. Or maybe she just wanted it to be perfect. She needed to make it sound real somehow.
She touched the screen to begin her fourth try when she felt Sherlock move his right arm to encircle her waist.
She swallowed, her heart ramming against her chest when he pulled her closer to him. She'd been held like this before, so she shouldn't be reacting at all right? And especially not to a man's touch. Her skin shouldn't be tingling. Her throat shouldn't be dry. She most certainly shouldn't feel this warm. Damn it, why was her hoodie suddenly so stifling?
His other arm reached out to pull her further into his embrace. Then, she felt him bury his face to the side of her hip, groaning into her flesh.
She threw her head back and moaned.
Loud.
"Sherlock?"
"Shit!" Irene quickly tore herself away from Sherlock's arms, grabbed her backpack and rolled down under the bed.
The door swung open and Dr. Watson's shoes (not the boots from earlier) came into view. She shifted further into the underside of the bed.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock didn't respond. Irene hoped he had fallen back to sleep.
"Could've sworn I heard..." Dr. Watson let out a breath. After another still moment, Irene watched the doctor's feet move out of the room, the door closing behind him. She waited another couple of minutes before slowly crawling out from under the bed.
She crouched on the floor, leaning heavily against the bed frame. That was close. Too close, she thought, but quite thrilling as well.
"And in more ways than one," she thought, throwing Sherlock's slumbering form a sidelong glance.
Her gaze dropped to the phone in her hand, a smile finding its way to her lips once more.
She hit the replay button and held the phone in her palms to muffle the sound.
The moan was perfect.
She rose to her feet and tinkered with the phone again, adding her number under the name 'The Woman' in Sherlock's contact list before setting her recorded moan as its personalized text alert noise.
After getting his number and adding it to her own phone's contact list, she slipped Sherlock's phone back into the pocket of his coat. Oh, if only she could see his face once he receives his first text message from her...
A commotion from behind her. Sherlock must be stirring again but when she turned, she was surprised to find him standing on wobbly legs, cheeks flushed and eyes on her before he fell awkwardly back on the bed, as though he had received a blow to the head.
Then, something clicked.
"Got it." Irene hurried back to the bed and pinned Sherlock down. "Shh, shh, no. Don't get up. I'll do the taking."
Still, Sherlock struggled, albeit weakly, so Irene moved her legs until she was straddling him, his head deep in the pillows, his darkened pupils on her as she ran her finger tip across his lips.
She shivered. This was a terrible, terrible idea. What in the world was she thinking? No, no, she just had to think of something else...bring them both somewhere, anywhere but this soft comfortable bed and this dimly lit room, with barely any distance between them.
She had to mentally take them both back to that field by the stream.
"So the car's about to backfire," she started with a shaky breath, her eyes closed as she imagined them both in that field, surrounded by a sea of trees, "and the hiker, he's staring at the sky. Now you said he could be watching birds, but he wasn't was he? He was watching another kind of flying thing."
She gazed at Sherlock's face. He was listening. Gone was the carnal look, now replaced by what she could only describe as pure, attentive fascination.
"The car backfires, and the hiker turns to look," she continued, imagining the hiker falling down in almost the exact same way Sherlock had fallen on his back, "which was his big mistake. By the time the driver looks up, the hiker's already dead. What he doesn't see is what killed him, because it's already being washed downstream.
"An accomplished sportsman recently returned from foreign travel with...a boomerang." She paused for a second or two as it all began to sink in—the speed of which the detective had pieced together what happened with so little evidence to go on. "You got that from one look? Definitely the new sexy."
Irene smirked and gazed at Sherlock. They were on the bed again, her legs still on either side of his hips, her hands gripping his shoulders while his eyes remained trained on hers.
"I..." She saw his eyelids flutter and felt his breathing slow, "I..."
And just like that, he was once again asleep.
Sherlock Holmes—a man whose intelligence she had long since admired—after the day's remarkable adventure, was now in peaceful slumber, his face such a picture of serenity that Irene couldn't stop the surge heat rising in her chest.
"Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she whispered and lowered her face to his.
It wasn't until after the fact that she realized what she had done.
She had kissed him. At the corner of his mouth. Oh God! Why had she done that?
Quickly and carefully, she lifted herself away from Sherlock. She needed to get away and fast. She was getting much too carried away.
Turning him to his side one more time and pulling the covers up to his neck, she grabbed her backpack and slipped out the window, taking great pains to remain as quiet as possible as she descended down the fire escape.
Once she reached the alleyway, she put on her gloves and pulled up her hoodie until she was that young man again, walking through the late night streets of London; only this time, she still had her lipstick on.
She didn't bother to wipe it off. Not when her lips still thrummed with the feel of Sherlock's skin on them.
And when she finally got to the safety of a cab, she took out her phone and typed in her first message.
Till the next time, Mr. Holmes
A/N: So a ton of things happened in this chapter. In fact, it is by far the longest one and I want to go and explain a few things.
For Irene's disguise, I wanted to pay tribute to the original Arthur Conan Doyle story, where Irene actually dressed up as a man. I think the way they showed her in the episode was more of what Sherlock envisioned of her in his drugged state as opposed to how she was actually dressed upon breaking in to his apartment. It just wouldn't make sense that she would be running around London in Sherlock's coat, barefoot and in full makeup. (Note the way she was dressed when she turned up at his apartment again and slept on his bed) Her disguise is inspired from this Lara Pulver image: /sherlock_holmes_russia?z=photo-61619074_371055286%2Fwall-61619074_561
Also, I could've written that Irene went there at night, but I just couldn't resist adding in the bit with Lestrade, so I had her essentially tail Sherlock so she'll know exactly where he lived or at least, exactly where his room was located (leave me be, I really wanted to write that puke scene LOL)
In the part where Irene explored Sherlock's room, I did my best to make it as though Irene was exploring Sherlock's mind palace. This is part of how she got to know him even better.
In regards to Sherlock's room, most of the elements there are canon, based on the Sherlockology website. I'm not sure about the bug collection though, but it looked like it.
The drug that was used on Sherlock was mostly likely Ketamine. Aside from what we saw on the episode, it has the effect of lowering inhibitions, increasing sexual appetite (though some men, despite being horny from the drug, tend to have trouble getting it up) and increasing pain tolerance. It's been used by some dominatrices on their subs. Porn stars have also been known to use ketamine to increase pain tolerance during rough sex scenes (note that in this fanfic, we have the AU backstory of Irene once having starred in pornographic films, which later led to her BDSM lifestyle). This basically explains why I wrote Sherlock in that bed scene the way that I did :)
Irene's several tries at moaning is inspired from the ASiB commentary, where it was remarked that Lara Pulver (Irene Adler) had to try several times to get the moan right because the others sounded like she was in pain or like she'd been punched.
Irene hiding under the bed explains why Sherlock, in the episode, suddenly crawled down to look if anyone is still under the bed. In my head canon, he smelled Irene's perfume from down there.
If you feel that the chronology of the scenes written here is different compared to the ASiB episode, just remember that Sherlock was drugged and could have muddled up his version of the events. I wrote it so it's more logical than canonically chronological :)
What to expect in the next chapter: pretty much still a continuation of this one, will take place about an hour or so after Irene left Sherlock's flat. My husband and I talked at length about this next scenario and while I'm excited to write it, it might take a bit longer for me to do so this time (unlike my 2-3 day update). So please bear with me in the meantime. Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos as always :) They're a driving force!