CHAPTER FOURTEEN: PHONE CALL TO MOROCCO

Sherlock let the phone ring three times. He hung up. Then he rung back and let it ring twice, hung up.

A few minutes later, his cell phone buzzed.

"My dear," he answered, ironically.

He was lying on his back in his bed. The only light was the streetlamp that shone in through the window. He was still intensely aroused from his encounter with John. God, that was bloody brilliant, if he did say so himself. But alone in his bed, remembering John's panicked face, it was cold comfort.

"My love," Irene replied, equally sarcastically. "How goes the hunt?"

"On schedule," he said. He hesitated. "I've never been so miserable in my life."

"Ah, the highs and lows of love," Irene purred.

"It's working," Sherlock said, "Just as you said."

"Of course it is. No one can withstand the Technique. So what's the trouble?"

"I hadn't expect it to… make me want him so much."

The words were a painful admission. But Irene only laughed.

"Naturally. The seducer is also seduced. Making someone desire you, especially when it's against their will, against every logical thought and prejudice they have, is sheer power. It's the greatest aphrodisiac there is."

Sherlock had to agree.

"It can't go on much longer," he said. "Or I will combust. Sherlock Holmes, a man-shaped silhouette on this bed and three pints of bone white ash. With maybe the odd foot in a slipper left behind."

Irene was silent for a moment. "You're really capable of lusting after someone like that? I wouldn't have thought so."

Because I didn't lust for you, he thought dryly, despite all your tricks.

"Well, some prefer to be the teacher and not the student," Irene said dismissively. "But listen, my love, you must be strong now. Don't give in."

"Umm." Sherlock said, ambiguously.

"Do not give in. He must come to you," Irene warned. "Of his own free will. Remember, you wanted to make him beg for it."

"I remember," Sherlock said. He hesitated. "But… why should I wait? All I'd have to do is pin him down and kiss him. He's randier than a goat. Hair-trigger, I'd say."

"That's precisely what you must not do."

"Surely you don't see it as an ethical matter?" Sherlock said mockingly.

"Heavens, no, darling! It's sportsmanship. Would you shoot a caged elephant?"

Sherlock growled, annoyed. If the elephant was John Watson and shooting him meant shagging him, the answer was yes. In fact caging John was starting to sound very appealing.

"Too bad," Irene said in a disappointed voice. "And I thought you were a worthy pupil."

"A feeble attempt at manipulation," Sherlock said in a cutting voice. "And I thought you were a worthy teacher."

Irene inhaled. Sherlock could nearly hear her gears working.

"Sherlock, anyone can seduce by overwhelming their victim with sheer physical desire, especially if their victim is a male. But sticking your tongue down his throat is not the way to win. You came to me to learn the techniques of a master, not of a Piccadilly tart."

Sherlock squeezed his lips together tightly. "You've made your point. Go on."

"You'll know you've won when the mere sight of you, the sound of your voice, a hot glance, makes him completely sexually ready. But Sherlock, you want his mental submission, not just a biological reaction. He must come to you of his own free will, crawling on his knees, ready to hand over mind, body and soul in order to have you."

"Errmmm," Sherlock hummed. It did have a certain ring.

Then he remembered John's face. Doubt suffused him with icy fingers of dread.

"But what if he doesn't? What if he decides he can't do it, and it drives him away?"

"Oh, dear heart!" Irene said blithely, "That was always a possibility. Surely you knew that."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"You can still back out. You haven't fucked him yet. It's not too late." Irene cooed.

But Sherlock knew that it was. It was far, far too late. Win or lose, this game had to be played to the end.