Disclamer: still owning nothing
Well, there is one good consequence from the Woman's return. Sherlock has stopped mourning, so John can claim his prize. God knows that the man needs to be fed a bit. When the sleuth, the first morning of the year, appears – fully dressed already, which is unusual for him – and announces that he's going to Bart's, because he needs to use their equipment, John raises an eyebrow. "Breakfast first," he announces sternly.
"But the case…" the sleuth objects, pouting, and it makes his blogger smile. This is just the regular consulting detective, who will protest against food on principle when his brain is occupied with something.
"You lost fair and square," his blogger reminds him in a no-nonsense tone. "Food and drink was our terms, and your delay has expired." That stops the sleuth in his tracks – it's odd how sometimes the normally unruly man will comply when John simply states things – but it doesn't get him seated to the table. The doctor could make a lengthy argument about why – especially after the week he had – food intake is paramount for his friend now. Instead, he only murmurs, "Please."
At that, Sherlock sits down. "As you said, I did lose," he acknowledges, the pout less prominent but not vanishing entirely. "Make it quick at least."
John can't help it. He chuckles. Someone overhearing them would think they're discussing the consulting detective's impending execution, not breakfast. "You're in luck. Tea is already done. And I will be indulgent – no matter how much I'd like to, no full British fry-up today. Do you prefer honey or jam on your toast?" he asks.
"I thought that the point was for me to eat whatever you put in front of me," the sleuth quips, with a lopsided grin.
"Honey, then," John states, "Two slices, though.". He's taking into account his friend's usual tastes. True, with his luck today will be the day the other craves jam, but judging from the light in iridescent eyes, he's deduced correctly. Points to him. "And if you can't make it home for lunch, because whatever analysis you're running is still ongoing, text me. I'll bring you something to snack on," he demands, smiling, before the sleuth uses this loophole.
"I have a feeling I'll have taken six pounds by the end of this week," Sherlock remarks between bites, but without any heat.
"And you'd still be lean. But don't worry, I'm not planning to turn you into foie gras. I'm a doctor. Trust me," he replies. As if he could ever do anything to knowingly damage the man who has saved his life.
"Always, John," the detective agrees earnestly. The odd intensity of the moment is immediately broken, when he adds, scrunching his nose, "Your French pronunciation is atrocious, though."
For a moment they laugh together, like teenagers. Then Sherlock gets up. "There. Eaten it all. And I really should get to Bart's. You don't want me to accidentally trigger something inside the mobile phone by trying to hack into it. Irene is nothing if not careful, look at her safe."
"Definitely. If any explosions have to happen here, I'd rather them be entirely your own doing," the blond declares, eyes still glinting in mirth.
"Not no explosions at all?" the consulting detective wonders, raising an eyebrow.
"If I did require that, I'd have moved out ages ago. Within reasonable limits, a few blasts are nothing I'm not used to. Just don't go out of your way to supply them to me, please," the former captain amends quickly, all too aware of how his flatmate might take his words.
"Duly noted, John," Sherlock replies, nodding solemnly. "See you later."
"Bye then," the doctor responds, and he has to bite his tongue before tackling, "love," to the end. That would be more than a bit not good. God only knows how the man would react. It's only after the sleuth has disappeared, that John scolds himself for having forgotten to think things through.
The consulting detective is going to Bart's. Which means Molly is going to be there. True, he could pretend – after all, it's partly true (how much so? He would give so much to know the answer) – that it is only about a case.
But Molly is smart and sensitive, and completely smitten with his friend. She might deduce how rapt he is about the phone's owner. She's going to be hurt. And she doesn't deserve that. John is tempted to text the sleuth in order to warn him to behave, but that would most probably be counterproductive. At least, the consulting detective never intentionally hurt her.
It appears that he worried over nothing, luckily, because Sherlock doesn't text asking why Molly's upset, when he's done nothing wrong. (That happened a couple of times.) Instead, he comes home in time for lunch, looking frustrated but not truly upset.
"What did you find?" John queries, while dishing out the pasta.
"Explosives, or acids, maybe…if I get the password wrong next time, we'll be lucky if the phone is the only thing destroyed," his friend huffs.
"Then you'll just get it right," his blogger says, faith in Sherlock as natural as breathing.
"I can't. Not enough data, John. I figure out your computer's passwords because you do not even try, and because I know everything about you. Or, well, most of it. I know next to nothing about her – but her measurements – and she is keen on her protection. Her password will not be 1234," the detective grouses, among bites.
"Hey, I never was quite that dumb!" the doctor protests, raising an eyebrow.
"I didn't say that it was your password. But a shocking amount of people think that is an adequate protection. The same that, when required longer passwords, write 'password', I'd assume," the sleuth rants, scrunching his nose adorably.
"So what do we do? How do you acquire data?" John asks. It is for the case. Sherlock will do anything, sadly. Whether he does love Irene or not (he is the first to know that falling in love does not necessarily require a soulbond), they'll see much more of her. They, because he refuses to send the man alone to deal with the dominatrix. He's got drugged at his first attempt, for crying out loud! Someone needs to have his back.
"We don't," the consulting detective declares, with a little sigh of pleasure that derails entirely his blogger's train of thought. "The phone is in our hands, and there can be no other copies, or she would not have the upper hand. We don't need to open it. We just need to hold onto it. Sure, Mycroft will be aggravated at not getting the info inside it, but if nobody else can have them either he won't protest overly much. No, now it is her move. She needs to come to get it, if she means to use its contents. Hopefully, in the process she'll betray herself."
"Oh well. We're waiting, then. I am certainly not in a hurry to see her again. I've seen her once too much already, actually," the blogger states, before realising where he's accidentally led the conversation, by letting his annoyance bubble out. So he hurries to change subject. "Plans for the afternoon?"
"Not anything definite. Molly didn't have anything for me to play with, and Irene's case has to go on the back burner, so…" Sherlock shrugs.
"You're bored?" the doctor ends for him, dreading the answer, though a bored flatmate would be a definite improvement over a (perhaps – jury was still out, and could possibly remain there forever) heartbroken one.
"I'm… open to suggestions," the sleuth retorts instead, with a smile.
This is not a come-on, John, get your mind out of the gutter. He's half tempted to shake his head to physically remove the sudden flush of emotion. The man has refused him ages ago. No matter what insights Irene offered, and how many doubts are running rampant through him, nothing is going to suddenly change. The consulting detective does not do coy – unless he's duping someone for a case. If he'd suddenly changed his opinion about them, he would be blunt.
So, instead of the answer the blogger would offer anyone else that told him that with such a soft expression, he says, "What about a game? Not Cluedo, though."
The sleuth grins at him, and proposes, "Operation?"
"Oh come on. I have an unfair advantage there. If you insist, though… how much of a handicap do you want?" the doctor quips back.
"Don't brag too much – it's not actual medicine, and if I can botch Cluedo, you might have a surprise now. Besides, I like being on an equal footing with you," Sherlock warns him, moving to get the game (for some reason, their games collection is on the higher shelf).
His friend forgets that, beyond the surgical training, John had a lot of actual experience with the game. Still, he doesn't win by a landslide, which is so much better. They have a happy, relaxed afternoon. God, but with everything that has happened lately, he's missed this kind of leisure.
They truly put Irene on the back burner, and rather than angsting over her, they enjoy themselves. It's almost as if they'd gone back in time. John experiments about what dishes make his flatmate sigh, in his allotted week, and uses the knowledge when it is most needed.
They take on different cases – which they usually don't when one is already ongoing – and solve them on record time. John attempts, with varying success, to build his own mind flat. He discovers that lack of tension is paramount, and even if he'd swear that he's not an anxious individual, it seems he's too used to being utterly aware of his own surroundings to truly retire inside his own head. One way to circumvent this is meditate in the bath. Long, warm baths are the one luxury he will indulge in, and that he missed most during his time in the army. Sherlock is absurdly proud of his advancement in that, even if it is very far from his own palace.
John forgets Irene entirely. Her, her case, and her insinuations. If, indeed, his friend's soulmate is alive, he's happy for the sleuth. There's a chance he might find the person who makes him happiest in the world. Being shot down and lied to so quickly is evidence enough that he is not this Sherlock's soulmate anyway. Or that he is, and he truly is one of the unlucky few in an one-sided soulmate relationship. What is he supposed to do when his flat (soul?) mate finds his? It does not bear thinking about.
Honestly, the only thing John can do – the only thing he could do anyway – is to enjoy the happiness being near the consulting detective brings him, and to try to reciprocate it by being as useful as he can. And stop dating, because that only ever seems to get in the way of the Work, and it never ends happily at any rate. No woman deserves to be made feel permanently second to the man the doctor can't have. It took him a shameful long time to recognise all his girlfriends were right all along, but even he can understand things…eventually.
Surprisingly, Sherlock appears to get less sulky after that. Probably because he has less time to get bored, since his blogger is more often home, ready to distract him, rather than out on the prowl. Certainly, it is just that. They play more games – indulge in more bets, too, because John has discovered a secret delight in that. It doesn't matter that he loses most of the time. With the sleuth's utmost disregard for money in general, and the doctor's not-so-tight anymore but not-stellar budget, they always bet information against chores anyway. What both really like.
For once, Sherlock has lost (he couldn't determine what the last post on Anderson's blog would be about, but – as he points out – only because his wife suddenly cottoned on to his repeated trysts), so he has to come along for the shopping. He doesn't get them banned (the doctor was rather afraid it might happen, but he still insisted on his prize), but he's still not 'helpful' in a standard way. John is stuck with all the bags, but the whispered deductions that make him laugh all along more than make up for that.
Back home, Sherlock runs ahead, like an eager puppy, and John sighs but follows at a more sedate pace. He doesn't expect what he's welcomed by, though. Finding a client waiting for them is not an entirely exceptional event, but said client helping himself to either of their bedrooms certainly is. Seeing the goddamned Woman sleeping angelically in Sherlock's bed, John can't control the clenching of his stomach. It was too good to hope she'd stay out of their lives. The one good thing is that she's not naked, this time. (Why isn't she? Honestly, as happy about it as he is, the doctor in him frowns at her slathering all the germs from her clothes in his friend's bed.)
"What do we do?" he whispers, back in the sitting room.
"We let her sleep it off, for a start," the detective replies, whispering himself, "unless you want to be the one wake her up."
Does he not dare ruin such a sweet sleep or has he developed a distaste for her after what she's done to him? The blogger would give so much to know. Instead, he only shrugs, agreeing without words.
They just ignore her for a couple of hours more – after all, they've forgotten she existed for months –John surfing the web, looking at cats video because he needs a way to unwind, while Sherlock runs away for an unspecified 'errand', with an instruction not to let her leave.
The former army surgeon almost hopes that she will wake up and decide to depart, as improbable as it is after she helped herself to the sleuth's bed. Be the one forced to do something she doesn't want – he has no doubt that he can subdue her – might teach her not to peek at people's soulnames, drug them or otherwise behave like a brat at best.
Instead she sleeps like an angel until the consulting detective is back, and then – almost if sensing that – the Woman comes out from the bedroom… only to ask for a cup of tea, yawning and still somehow sexy, and after that, inform them that she's going to shower. Inform. Not ask. Not that John would deny it to her, but didn't anyone teach her manners?
She finally emerges, only apparently (he's sure) carelessly provocative, having 'borrowed' Sherlock's dressing gown – once again – without asking, (not that John's would fit her). She's dillydallied and imposed on them enough, it seems, and mentions the case that led her here.
How she expects even the world's only consulting detective to solve it with the lack of details she provides, though, it's a mystery. Killers want to kill her? Hell, by the most literal of definitions, the blogger would fit in the category too. He wouldn't, not really; not if his flatmate loves her, or even only wants her. But she played with his emotions, and John might forgive and forget what he goes through, but he won't ever forget when people abuse his dear ones.
Then again, she doesn't want her case 'solved', does she? She just wants the detective to obey her. As if. John doesn't know, of course, but he suspects that his flatmate might not even have obeyed his own mother. He's forced Irene's hand until she's come personally to get her own phone back, finally acknowledging that she can't manipulate John – or anyone else, it wouldn't surprise him if she'd tried her wiles on Molly, too – to swipe her mobile phone for her.
Now, certainly, the sleuth will not agree with her request. She can ask. She can beg. She's been demoted from 'fascinating woman' to 'piece of the puzzle'. At least, the doctor dearly hopes he has. Being tricked in such a way should be enough proof that she doesn't deserve an ounce of his admiration, shouldn't it?
The detective does remind her of her hoax, but he doesn't sound hurt, or outraged. Like he really doesn't feel anything for her anymore (good, John thinks viciously to himself). He mostly appears…puzzled. Why would the dominatrix choose to get back for something that endangered her life, when she could have left it and the threat behind and started a new leaf? What's so precious about it? (Nothing, the blogger suspects – she just likes to play with people a bit too much.)
Thank God Sherlock does not give into her demands. He doesn't have it, he claims; it's in a bank. And then, suddenly, the doctor thinks about 'lack of data' and realises that she's been hanging around only to get her possession. His friend needs more time to deduce her entirely – after all, the woman is not simpleminded – but he won't get it if she storms away now, in a huff at being denied. How satisfying it would be to give it back to her… open, and maybe wiped clean for good measure. Which is why John starts babbling about a most complicated strategy through which they could get the damned phone. Things that will require time. Time that the consulting detective can use to figure her out.
Sherlock compliments his plan, and the blogger squashes down the bubbling feeling of pride and happiness. He can't allow himself to get distracted when Irene is around – she's dangerous. Oh well. Seconds later, and *his own* mood is in no danger to absorb him. He should have known. It's not the first time it happens, and not even only to John.
The sleuth will politely reply to any offer of input – even solicit it sometimes, probably in an effort to teach people proper deduction technique. But he never accepts another's plan. It's not that he's arrogant. It's – mostly – that they don't see a quarter of what he observes and accounts for.
This time, though, the 'different course of action' is worrying John. Because Sherlock smiles, and*gives her the bloody phone*! (Which was still in his dressing gown, seriously!) Mycroft might have something to object to that, wouldn't he?
And honestly, why comply with her requests? It's not even a question of national safety anymore – not for John. It's a question of annoying the woman as much as possible to punish her for her misdeeds against his flatmate. But no, apparently they're not doing that. Has the sleuth fallen in love with her? Is the phone a little token, just to show he aims to please? God, the blogger is fighting the urge to gag at the thought. He'd been convinced that there was nothing between them – not with the consulting detective ignoring her for so long. But the doctor always misses everything of importance, doesn't he?
John might not be a genius, but all these thoughts and – fine, mostly feelings – flash in his head, knotted like a ball of too-spiky yarn, in the few seconds between his friend handing her phone (well, a phone) over and her punching a code in. He should never have doubted Sherlock.
It's a fake! A duplicate of her mobile phone, not the actual one. Not an offer of loyal submission, because of – love? – but yet another trick of the world's only consulting detective and self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath. Not that the doctor agrees with that diagnosis – it makes little sense in modern terms anyway – but Sherlock's smug grin when he punches the pin code into the actual phone makes something clench in John's stomach and want to kiss it right off his lips.
Not that the detective would appreciate it. Irene might, though. Or at least understand the message John's brain is clamouring to send. "Back off. You said he isn't yours – and you played with him and hurt him, so you lost all rights to his affections, if you ever held them. Mine, you bitch. My flatmate at least, and my friend, which – soulmate (possibly alive, but John does not trust her) and family notwithstanding, is more than anyone else can claim about Sherlock Holmes. That has to count for something.
But of course she'd see through such a trick. She's smart, as much as John would like it to be the opposite. Smart and dangerous, which seems to be exactly the world's only consulting detective's type. John fleetingly wishes that his friend's penchant was for something much more pedestrian – like, say, big boobs, or arses, or whatever. At least, John wouldn't have to worry for his life (Sherlock's life, of course, not his own – he's never minded that) every time his friend gets that bewitched look in his eyes.
The 'happy couple' has moved from sharing compliments to sheer eyesex. He shouldn't mind that. Sherlock has every right – soulmate or not – to find someone to love. But why someone who would tie him up, photograph him, use him, AND possibly drug him? Bloody Christ.
So, it is not jealousy, truly. It is…concern that urges him to break he atmosphere. He needs to remind Sherlock that she's bad news – and that sometimes, he misses things. Worse than that, sometimes he cannot read the truth, even when he's invested in finding it. Much less if he lets fascination get in the way.
So John blurts out his middle name. His hated, ridiculous middle name. He tacks a stupid, ridiculous, bitter excuse to it, but it works. They both look at him, and hopefully Sherlock's brain will reboot, and be reminded both of his occasional failure to deduce and of how miserable she's made him about the time of their bet.
Sherlock's head swivels towards his flatmate. What is the meaning of this? Seriously, does John think that distracting him while he's busy trying to trick someone as smart as him, and that he cannot bloody deduce? As if his work isn't hard again.
Sharing his middle name with Irene…why? Is she worth of knowing it? Why would she? Baby names… that is a joke, isn't it? It must be. Or does his soulmate want him to have babies with the dominatrix? Has he forgotten that women are very much *not* his department? Does John want kids, and he's decided that Irene's genes are nice? Heirs? Is that why Sherlock has been deemed an inadequate mate? If it was so, should he want his own genes to be the ones passed down?
No, no… concentrate on Irene. He's working. Supposed to solve this case. Open the damn phone. Find another way. Oh God, she's just opened it – true, she took pains not to be visible, but if the consulting detective hadn't been distracted, he could have observed some detail that would give him the solution right now.
If he does fail this time, it'll be all fault of John's lousy timing. No, he can't pin blame on John with Mycroft. It is his own brain which can't sort priorities. Weak. Pitiful. Besides, Mycroft's solution to his problem would be to remove the disturbing factor. His soulmate might not accept him fully, but not even sharing the flat anymore is not something he wants to contemplate. If he does, he needs his brain back online and working now, though. Come on! He can't allow to dawdle on his blogger's thoughts and feelings. He's on a case!
Turns out, he's on more than one. The reason Irene came to him is to have him deduce things for her. Sure, things she has no business knowing in the first place. If people under the influence of pleasant hormones in the brain didn't become entirely useless, they would have kept their mouth shut. But he supposes a huge part of the power exchange dynamic is wanting to please your Dom (fine, he might have done some tiny bit of research – for the case, obviously) and the combination of both instincts is deleterious for state secrets.
She should have known that no code analyser could work efficiently when the majority of their blood flow was redirected away from the brain. Still, it is disappointing to know that she, too, sees no utility in him past whatever use she has for his brain. Not that he wants her to desire him. God, no! He can't give her anything on that side, after all…and not (just) because he's been saving himself for John. But being no more than a breathing Turing machine, insert data, wait for output of result (and the wait better not be long!), all the time…well, unless the data inserted are particularly stimulating, it becomes frustrating soon.
Of course, she tries to dangle a reward in front of him – motivation, as it were. The fact that she cannot ask him what he wants (not used to listening to people's wishes, is she?), and instead just follows her usual patterns, is disappointing. She's standing too close, unnecessarily so, and honestly, there's no need to breath instructions into his ear. He can hear just fine, thank you very much, and if she just let him see the phone and retired to the other side of the room, he would be more comfortable. And kissing? True, it's his cheek, but when did he explicitly allowed her to kiss?
Before he can turn and viciously chide her, she's asking to be impressed. That's an idea! Not her, of course, who cares about her. But John likes his deductions feats. Maybe he can earn some praise. He has to be extra bright, of course. Thankfully, the mysterious 'code' is rather straightforward. Honestly, he needs to tell Mycroft to up his requirements if his cryptographers need their whole brains to figure that out. He suspects that, even with blood flow to the brain severely restricted, he'd take a minute tops to discover the meaning of this.
As it is, barely a handful of seconds later he's spewing out the supposed state secrets. Of course, he's ignoring her outright. It's not for Irene that he's doing this. It never has and will never be for her sake that he performs. Genius might ache for an audience, but since the first, soft-spoken 'amazing' that the world's only consulting detective's intended audience has a full name. It might be because they're soulmates. It might be a weird sort of imprinting, though the sleuth doesn't like to think of himself as a baby duck.
But if he is now – he suspects – much like a dog having performed a trick and wagging his tail madly, in wait for the promised treat, it's not just anyone's approval that he wants. Come on. He just solved this in under ten seconds. Surely that deserves some kind of acknowledgment? He shows the alphanumeric string to John, walking him through the solution and proving he's not cheating. It should be obvious, truly. Still, his soulmate keeps silent. It's galling!
Maybe he needs a bit of prodding. John can be rather oblivious. Perhaps he thinks Sherlock is looking forward to Irene grading his performance, despite the fact that the detective has disregarded the woman intruding obnoxiously on his peripheral vision. Fine, they can play that way, if his soulmate want to.
Which is why – using the deep tone of voice the web agrees is the most seductive one, because he needs John to pay attention to him (the thing the man has made him look up, honestly!) – he airily tells her not to bother congratulating his deduction. Because John already expressed that in every single variant of the English language.
Come on, for someone who considers himself a writer, it's practically a challenge! John is in front of a bloody computer. It should take him no more than thirty seconds to realise he has not yet used 'stunning' in relation to me. It might be intentional, because of the secondary meaning of aesthetical beauty. But annoying Irene by showing that there's something she can't have – in this case, my interest in whether she is impressed or not by his deductions – should be prompt enough for the doctor to (hopefully) use the word.
Nothing still! Seriously, the consulting detective knows that his 'trick', as Sebastian would say, his deduction shows, could grow stale rather quickly. But surely this one enactment deserves some sort of recognition. "Under ten seconds, John!" teen Sherlock whines – thankfully still trapped inside the mind palace, it would never do for his words to slip through his lips – "What does one need to do to get a bravo?"
It seems the woman, too, is growing frustrated with the lack of response from her intended target. Well, she can join the club. While Sherlock is being subtle – well, as subtle as he can while hopefully garnering some attention – she's horribly crass. And cliché. He's not a client, it would do her well to remember that.
Beg? She thinks she can get him to beg? He's not begged John yet – and not for lack of wanting, just because it would be useless (would it?). Irene has nothing he wants. Of course, there's the phone's pin, but that is something Mycroft needs – and his brother can be the one to do the begging, if it ever comes to that. Being a politician, he's probably used to that anyway.
He rebukes her curtly (he's not alarmed by her…not even subtext anymore at this point, just annoyed) and does his best to keep John, instead, involved in the case. After all, cases are what the both of them delight in. And sure enough, once he manages to ignore the distraction caused by the arrogant dominatrix, his blogger is there to help him out. True, John seems rather puzzled by the proceedings – as if he expects Sherlock to pay more attention to the woman than to the little enigma that landed on their lap – but he's cooperative.
And he solves this case for Sherlock. Well, not overtly, of course, but when things fall into place in the mind palace it is only because John exists. And because he insists on silly things like sharing his love of all things 'classic'. Pop culture classic do not deserve the adjective classic, the sleuth would argue, but it's easier to just make him happy – ultimately, it makes the detective happy too, by reflex, no matter how ridiculous and plot-holes filled these things are. Without blogger-enforced movie nights, he would have never made the connection between flight 007 and Mycroft's muttered Bond Air.
It does take him hours to do that, and he fully expects to be teased for that. If John paid attention to Mycroft (which he's rather happy his soulmate doesn't, too many people hang off his brother's every word already), his blogger would have taken no more than five second to figure that out.
And how low has he stooped, that he looks forward to John laughing and reminding him that pop culture is not entirely useless, after all? If he can't earn praise, no matter what he does, he'll take the mocking – for some reason, John is never vicious as he's grown to anticipate from people. To believe it is his due.
To his defence, the phone call he's overheard from his brother was in a temporary file, this close to deletion. Honestly, it already would have been if Mycroft weren't his client in this particular occasion. 007 movies, instead, are in the John wing, with all the apparently silly things his soulmate likes and that he will never, ever be able to delete – not even should he develop brain damage, he suspects. As far from each other as possible, truly.
Figuring out the next step – Coventry – is much quicker. The Coventry episode – whether it really happened or not – is one of Mycroft's favourite bit of trivia, proving as he believes his 'caring is not an advantage' motto. If someone had cared for Coventry's people enough to consider saving them a priority, the war might have ended differently. Sherlock could see his point, but usually he stopped paying attention to the story after the fun decoding bits.
He can't be certain John would know that, though, so perhaps it is a good idea to stop working it out inside his mind palace and talk aloud. What he finds out it's a shock to the system – a brutal cold shower. John is…not…here?
The sleuth can't help but feel deeply betrayed. It's a thing for his flatmate to pop to the shops, or go to work, or whatever, when Sherlock is deep in his mind palace, dead to the world, and they are alone. But they're not now. Irene Adler is right there.
Irene Adler, whose record has drugging him against his will, hitting him with a bloody riding crop, and admitting aloud multiple times, in John's presence, that she wants to own him – mould him into her meek plaything. His soulmate can't possibly have forgotten all that.
The consulting detective had felt safe enough to slip inside his mind palace because his blogger was right there – him and his gun. Sherlock had believed that John would never allow the dominatrix to hurt him. If the woman tried anything untoward, she'd be as dead as the serial killer cabbie.
But apparently his unconditional trust – the very same trust he blames on their soulmate status messing with his mind – was misplaced. Not only John does not think anything of leaving him alone and helpless with her. He's been 'helpful' enough to point it out to her that the detective would be oblivious to what was going on around him. Vulnerable, in case she wanted to take any initiative. Did he wink at her when he left? Sherlock's stomach rolls at the mental image.
Truly, it is amazing that he woke up in the same situation he slipped into his mind palace. She could have tied him to his bed. She could have drugged him again and have someone in her power carry him away to God knows where. And it would have been with John's approval. Why hasn't she? Probably because catching him in this situation did not even rate as a one in her book.
Sherlock can't help but wonder, afraid. He might be as far from perfect as he could possibly be, but does he really deserve all that? Apparently, the answer is yes. He should learn to accept that.
Suddenly, explaining to Irene the whole Coventry affair feels like a weak ray of hope. The only hypothesis he can hold onto not to lose every last shred of faith in his soulmate. (Why does that prospect hurt so much? It's not fair.) Knowing something bad is going to happen, but letting it happen anyway.
Is this John playing the game? Does he expect her to betray her secrets, possibly, in a post-coital situation? According to the dominatrix, people seem to have the worst time in keeping secrets in such a scenery. It is common knowledge that Sherlock has little boundaries – especially when it allows him to solve a case. Maybe his blogger has figured out that the sleuth will take one for the team, no matter how uninterested in women he is. Hell, John probably thinks he should like it and be grateful for the occasion.
From an objective standpoint – as far as classically proportioned features go, shine of her hair, and other significant traits – the sleuth can even admit that the woman is beautiful, and if one is into that, he has no doubt that she deserves her high wages. But the consulting detective is not interested, and can't possibly be.
John seems to have missed the point – Sherlock will indeed do almost anything for a case. But he'll sham his way through it. Present a façade. Making himself truly vulnerable is not and has never been anticipated.
Apparently Irene too thinks the both of them entertaining themselves in his flatmate's absence is par for the course. Maybe it's not even a question of owning him. He really shouldn't flatter himself, she has her own soulmate after all. At best, he's a passing fancy to her. An itch to scratch. Maybe, she's just happy that he solved that little puzzle for her, and sex is the way she's used to reward people. (Seriously, he'd expect a bit more creativity from her).
It's the only reasoning that can explain her invasive questions about his sexual history (or lack of it – what did she do, chat with Mycroft?). She probably doesn't think anything of it. A new doctor will ask for your anamnesis. A high-profile escort with a new client – especially one that's used to leading the game like Irene, rather than doing what she'd done when she'd done – will ask for sexual history, kinks and preferences. She aims for repeat customers. Overwhelmed or – God forbid – traumatised ones won't come back.
Thankfully the sleuth is able to keep his wits and analyse the situation coolly – honestly, this is becoming more awkward and uncomfortable by the second. Usually, faced with unwanted advances, he would deduce the hell out of the idiot until they ran away in tears. This is impossible now, not only because the woman is frustratingly inscrutable, but because even if he could, he doubts that Irene would be ashamed of anything she's done. She looks like a woman rather at peace with her own choices.
So he's forced to do something he honestly despises. He never minds much playing a role for a case, but he does detest playing dumb. Still, it's exactly what he does. The dominatrix is being the most clear she can possibly be without being entirely crass and/or drawing him a graph. His answer to her questions is, "I don't understand," all the same. True, he could go for, "None of your damn business, lady," which would have the perk of being sincere. But he's still unsure of what the plan is – what is truly expected of him (what if he misunderstood everything?) and if he can avoid disappointing everyone as always. Chasing her away now might be counterproductive.
At least she has enough common sense to adjust her approach when people do not react favourably. Sadly, her change is making him even more deeply uncomfortable. When has he given her permission to get in his space? True, she's kneeling – a position she's certainly not used to be in – but she's touching him.
Sherlock is hard-pressed not to violently extricate himself from her touch. She might look meek now, but he knows that he should expect hurt and betrayal. Irene's body language might telegraph all sorts of contained, docile lust. But he will not believe a sleeping tiger is a harmless kitten. Not even if it appears to be offering you her belly. Be stupid enough to try petting her, and she'll eviscerate you.
Besides, at first he was unable to deduce her. Whatever he believes he can perceive from her could very well be an act meant to lead him astray. Thinking that she can suddenly become transparent just because she put on some clothes would be more naivety – really, more idiocy – than even Anderson would abide. He does go through the moves, though – acquiring data automatically even if he will not trust his own interpretation of them without more evidence. If he has to endure her touch, might as well get something out of it.
She accompanies the physical crowding with more veiled offers, keeping to the food metaphor she's so inexplicably partial to. The detective indulges her choice – one small thanks for not taking advantage of his vulnerability – but still makes it clear as possible that he is not interested. Not in any sort of physical contact.
To his shock, her only comment is, "Good." If his disinterest encounters her approval, why in the name of everything that's logic does she insists with her advances? He's solved her puzzle. She already has her bloody soulmate. At best, she wants him the same way she craves a snack, if her metaphors have any reason. Surely it's not worth to exert so much stubbornness on him? What are her motives. He'd give something to discover that.
The only thing he can do is try to puzzle out her behaviour by the data he has. And they are confusing. She's evoking an end of the world scenario as a possible occasion for them to 'have dinner'. But it's not the end of the world. Even if he were inclined to acquiesce to people's last wishes, nothing now requires it… or does it? Is she implying something?
She has her soulmate, he has his (well, not has, but has found, anyway). Are her words a veiled threat? A warning? Your world is about to crash and burn, and I might be the only one you can turn to, so you better make me happy? Or is she considering them equals? Both our soulmates are in the crosshairs because of us and could soon be dead, so the best option is for us to team up to protect them… Or maybe ditch them, so that whoever is after us won't bother with them, and well, if we're already together, might as well have fun.
Which one is the right interpretation? Or maybe none of these is? And why for Pete's sake does the dominatrix think that being sexually explicit is the best course, but being open in her plans is a sin? Does she suspect Mycroft to have his little brother's home bugged? Or does she know that he is under some other type of surveillance? Moriarty's message *was* in the house just across the street… Should he reassure her? Worry? Ask for an explanation? (Not that she would unless under duress, he suspects.)
He's always been good at manipulating people. Extracting information, if he needs to. But Irene befuddles him, and right now his brain is pulling itself apart, unable to concoct a plan of action. The fact that he's low-key worrying over John – even after what could be called his soulmate's betrayal (the one he tries to make excuses for) – is further rendering him unable of work. Oh God. Mycroft was right all this time. Soulmates will only ruin your life.
Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson intervenes before he can do something supremely stupid. Like ask what she means, and so admit that he really has no idea what she's playing at. Irene already holds enough cards in her dainty hands. She needs not to be aware of how much superior to his her position is in this moment. True, she probably knows anyway, but she can't be sure. That would mean underestimating her opponent, and people who do that die for real, instead of staging it.
The dominatrix is obviously disappointed, but the sleuth's brain is feverishly wondering if this is indeed chance. If John instructed their landlady after a set time, so that Sherlock would have enough time to seduce the secrets out of her (in his opinion) but not so long that, if she took her chance and tried to hurt him, she could do serious damage. After all, he doesn't know when his flat(soul)mate left. It could have been five minutes before he left his mind palace. Three, even.
He's deluding himself, isn't he? Mycroft would be disgusted. If anyone has arranged for this to happen, it's probably not his soulmate. And certainly not because of care. Who would care for him, anyway? He's… himself. People can't stand him. Certainly they don't go out of their way to protect him unless they have a public image to maintain that would be damaged if it was known they stood aside while he was hurt, or his incapacitation would inconvenience them in some other way.
So why would he fabricate theories where John is looking out for him, when the only evidence he has – heaps of it, the newest data only reinforcing what he knows since months ago – is unanimously pointing at the opposite? It has always been a cornerstone of his method not to theorise without all the data, exactly because manipulating facts to adapt them to preconceived hypotheses is how one is led astray and comes to false conclusions. And he's now throwing away so many pieces of evidence to believe a theory founded on only half a clue? At the very least he should see what Mrs. Hudson wants. But the truth is, rather than bounding down himself and check, he'd rather wait for her to come up to complain to him – and with her hip, too! – only because he's not in a hurry to be forced to discard that daydream. God, he's pathetic.