Ch. 10
Sherlock woke with a start, as sunlight poured in the window and warmed his skin. He blinked several times, waiting for his groggy, sleep-addled brain to catch up. He was in his bed. Naked. Not unusual. He went to rub the sleep from his eyes, and felt something cold and metallic yank his wrist back. Handcuffs. Unusual. He looked up at the headrest of his bed to find his right hand handcuffed rather firmly to the bedframe. He stared at it for several moments, then looked around his bedroom in confusion. He scanned his surroundings, and realized with little shock that Irene had probably been gone for hours. The side of the bed she had slept on was already cold. Could he have expected any less from the devious Irene Adler? He smiled as he started sorting through memories, the events of the previous night itching at his consciousness to revisit them.
He remembered her pulling him from the couch, and leading him toward his bedroom. He remembered not making it to the bedroom. Several times. He remembered becoming more confident as the night went on. And her becoming more dominant, more demanding. They fed off each other. As his confidence grew, she became more ravenous, up until the very last memory he could recall, which explained the handcuffs and a red, stinging whip mark on his inner thigh that he was now painfully aware of. He assumed the handcuffs were another of her lovely parting gifts.
He smiled and rolled over, searching through the top drawer of his bedside table. He always had random trinkets in there, surely one of them would be sufficient to pick the lock on a pair of handcuffs.
Irene. She had taken everything from his drawer that might be used to pick a lock. Crafty, Woman. He smiled wider and shook his head. You can't outsmart Sherlock Holmes.
Wrong.
She had cuffed him to the frame, not the bedpost, so he couldn't just lift the bed and remove the cuff. And after nearly two hours of leaning every which way against the cuffs, trying to leverage his weight against the bed, even trying to reach his clothes dresser with an outstretched foot… he realized she indeed had outsmarted him. He plopped back onto his bed and stared at the cuffs, huffing out a defeated half-sigh, half-laugh. She really had thought of everything.
The simplest solutions were also the most detrimental to his pride. He couldn't call Mrs. Hudson. He could only imagine trying to explain his nudity and somewhat disheveled and… beaten look. Molly… oh god, not Molly. And John wouldn't be back from holiday for another two days.
He would have to get help from someone. There were no other options. He honestly considered starving himself for two days, and waiting for John to get back, but that would only delay his humiliation. And there was no way John would be adult about it. Hell, if positions were reversed, there was no way Sherlock would be adult about it either.
After reluctantly coming to terms with this reality, he found his phone on the bedside table. He stared at the screen in disgust for several moments, then sent a text to his only remaining option: Lestrade.
221b. Now.
Within minutes, he received a reply.
On a case, Sherlock. I'm busy.
To which he replied simply
Come alone.
He knew his candor and lack of explanation would spark Lestrade's curiosity. He wouldn't be able to resist finding out just what was so urgent that he had to drop everything and come to Sherlock's flat. You just wait.
Just as Sherlock had expected, within half an hour, Lestrade's voice could be heard as he ascended the stairs to 221 B.
"Sherlock?" he called, and Sherlock could hear his heavy detective's boots on the wooden floor of the flat. He grimaced at the humiliation he was about to endure, but steeled himself, placing one of his decorative bed pillows over his unmentionables, and called back, "In here,"
Lestrade strolled in through the bedroom door, and stopped dead in his tracks, the shock evident on his face. Before he had the chance to say anything, Sherlock issued a preemptive clarification.
"Experiment,"
A grin was starting to spread across Lestrade's face, and he crossed his arms in amusement and leaned casually against the doorframe. Sherlock huffed a sigh, and looked away, knowing he couldn't look Lestrade in the face.
After a few uncomfortable seconds, Lestrade said in an amused tone "So. Um… how'd it go?"
Dammit, Lestrade, shut up and help me!
"Irrelevant," Sherlock snapped, and wiggled his wrist dramatically, making a point of the handcuffs. Lestrade looked down at them, clearly acknowledging Sherlock's predicament but refusing to move from his spot in the doorway.
"No, I think it's entirely relevant! You pulled me away from a very important case…"
"Doubtful," Sherlock said, his usual mocking tone seeping through.
"Alright, fine. Be an infant. I don't have to help you. I think I'll just go back to that very important work I was doing!" and with that, he turned to leave.
"Lestrade!" Sherlock called, and heard the boots halt in the hallway. "Wait," he said, the words forced from his mouth like the ill-begotten admission of a guilty child.
Lestrade meandered back into the room, a wide grin on his face. He knew damn well that Sherlock had no other options, and he was milking it for all it was worth. Sherlock shook his head, and toyed with what words to use. He looked down at his own appearance, and motioned helplessly at himself. "Use your imagination," he said, and Lestrade let out an exasperated giggle.
"I am, Sherlock," he said, and pulled a pair of handcuff keys from his pocket as he approached the bed. Finally! "And it's quite disturbing," he said, picking the lock with a simple twist of the keys. Sherlock let out a relieved sigh, and sat up, rubbing his wrist.
"By the way," Lestrade said, replacing the keys to his pocket and motioning to Sherlock's neck. "You've got lipstick on your neck,"
Sherlock's hand flew to his neck, and he rubbed it vigorously, then looked down at his hand only to find there was no lipstick.
"Like candy from a baby," Lestrade said with a laugh, and turned to leave the room. Sherlock grinned, surprised at Lestrade's cunning, and pelted the pillow from his lap directly into Lestrade's back.
"That had better not been your nether pillow," Lestrade said without turning, and continued down the hall.
"You know normal people would say 'Thank you!'" he called from the stairs, and Sherlock listened as his boots descended the stairs, until he was out the door and into his car.
"Well thank god I'm not normal," Sherlock uttered to himself, and stood, finding a pair of pants in his clothes dresser for which he had never been more grateful. He shuffled toward his bathroom, stretching his aching body. He felt pleased with himself. He trusted Lestrade wouldn't say a word on the matter, except maybe to John, and John would probably believe it when pigs sprouted wings.
He smiled as he caught the lingering scent of Irene's perfume floating in the air. That would have driven him mad only days ago. But he smiled as he realized the scent only triggered some very poignant flash memories—memories that he could now secretly covet in his own mind. He felt more at peace than he had ever felt before.
He shuffled into the bathroom and flipped on the light. He straightened in shock as he beheld something strange. In the mirror, he could see his own reflection. His hair was ruffled into an untamable black mess, and his eyes were puffy from lack of sufficient sleep. He had several very distinctive fingernail marks on his chest, and that welt on his thigh was growing in size and color. But, there was something else about the mirror that was bugging him. He blinked several times, aware that his brain needed some very strong coffee before it would start to function at Sherlock level. When his eyes focused and pulled back, away from his reflection, he noticed the problem. Written in blood red lipstick on his bathroom mirror, in that flawless, feminine cursive…
Thanks for dinner.
And below that, still in lipstick, was drawn a very curvy heart.
Touché, Woman. Touché.
Author's Note: That's all, folks! Thanks to all my loyal readers and reviewers! I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it! :-) Now, onto the next! (Which, I actually wanted to run by you guys). I have been contemplating a Moriarty fan fic. Don't know how many of you are Moriarty fans (well, maybe "fan" isn't the right word. Halfway through Reichenbach I wanted to choke the life out of that little cretin), but I have what can only be deemed a schoolgirl-level crush on him. I was thinking of writing his backstory, and how he grew up to be what he is now. So it would probably be way less smut than this one (but still some, tee hee) and a lot more violence. I just think anyone who's that sick has to have come from some crazy-ass shit. Just wanted to run that little nugget of thought past you guys. Again, thanks for reading! Hope to see you back again soon!
