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Once back home, John decides to refresh his mind about the scandals the dominatrix has been involved in. He's supposed to be the source Sherlock goes to for whatever he doesn't care enough to spare brain space for, and a dominatrix will be offended if she realizes they entirely ignore her past exploits.
Also, it helpfully keeps him distracted from whatever his friend is doing in his bedroom. Beelining to one's bedroom just before going to meet a sex worker is putting strange ideas in the doctor's head, and the rustling of…clothes? Is Sherlock getting naked again? does not help John any to keep his mind out of the gutter.
In the end, he can't help but glance at what is happening and – that's good. He's an idiot. The sleuth is simply trying to figure out which outfit he should use to face the woman. Honestly, John thinks there's nothing wrong with the Belstaff-and-scarf usual look, but if the world's only consulting detective thinks he would be better served by another appearance who is the doctor to object? He gets to see Sherlock parade in a number of attires to make a professional actor envious, and secretly takes a number of pictures with his phone which he will later put in a folder named the Fall collection (they are in September after all). He doesn't give his input, of course. He's not required to, and anyway Sherlock is too quick to change before John can get a word in. (And now try not to think about what good uses his friend's lightning-quick undressing could be put to without the annoying redressing himself bit…)
Exactly because his mind is wandering – again – he turns sharply back to the old article about Miss Adler (it wouldn't do if Sherlock noticed it) and so misses what his friend actually picks.
"Aren't you coming along, John?" the sleuth asks impatiently, and when his blogger turns he's already in his Belstaff, the blue scarf wrapped against his throat.
The doctor dutifully follows, unsure if he's disappointed that all the wardrobe fuss was for nothing or very, very pleased that the world's only consulting detective image is the same as always. It's…comforting, almost. John is very fond of that coat, he'll admit, if only to himself. In the cab, he asks for instructions. His friend must have a plan, and if he's not to botch it inadvertently, his blogger has to be aware of it.
As far as plans go, though, the detective seems to be rather optimistic. Ring her doorbell? And then want? Just going to ask, "Please miss, wouldn't you mind handing over whatever compromising images you have?" are they? And the dominatrix will do so for his friend's beautiful eyes, will she? Not that John wouldn't do the same in her position, if asked, but he's…confused. Yeah, confused by the goddamn homonymy. If his soulmate's name had been something normal, like William, he would have built a tolerance to having friends bearing his intended's name.
He decides to take a gentle tease at all the fuss his friend did earlier, to take his mind off soulmate-pondering (God knows how Sherlock I'm-a-high-functioning-sociopath would react if he knew how jumbled John's feelings are). After all, the runway show ended up being for the doctor's private enjoyment, with no detail changed from his consulting detective persona.
"For the details, I need your help," the sleuth declares, ordering the cab to stop a little way from their destination. And then, with a perfectly straight face, asks to be punched. You'll forgive John if he suspects his hearing just failed him. (They're going to a dominatrix, for God's sake. If Sherlock wants to be hit, why not make use of her professional talents?)
The sleuth seems very determined on having his way, though, and annoyed by John's reluctance. Well, sorry if he doesn't feel like attacking a friend in cold blood. If his flatmate had asked after his last experiment showed up in the tub, John would have been glad to oblige. The doctor tries to defuse the surreal situation with a quip about exactly how frustrating his flatmate manages to be.
Sherlock doesn't laugh, though. He glares at him – and honestly, that's entirely unwarranted. Then, apparently understanding his friend's moral quandary, decides to help him get rid of any scruples. By attacking first. Completely unprovoked. The man is a bloody nutter. A nutter who doesn't pull his punches, either.
Well, since he's asking for it in every way someone can, the doctor decides to throw away Hippocrates for the moment. Do no harm…unless they're practically begging for it. The first punch (with his right hand – he's pulling his punches, though not by much, and so he uses his not-dominant hand) lands exactly where the detective has asked. And Sherlock is happy with it – thanks him politely, even.
But Sherlock has been driving him round the bend and back for ages, and clearly needs one lesson taught. Which is: don't fuck with people trained to kill you. Especially after causing them to become the living embodiment of the word frustration – in more ways than one – for a long time.
The second punch catches the detective off guard – which shouldn't have if he'd been paying the least attention to John's still murderous expression – sending him crashing on the ground. The bloody idiot has behaved so long as if John was an annoyance, a puppet, a…he doesn't even know what, every few days it'd be a new mood, but never one that actually made sense or considered John as an equal. Well, John's going to show him that he's right, they're not equals. Because John can take him down with just one hand – and not his dominant, either.
They continue struggling, until Sherlock concedes defeat – and the doctor takes his chances to remind him aloud too that he might be a healer, but he's an army doctor, damnit, perfectly able to kill – and it's in the sleuth's best interest not to make the temptation to get rid of him overwhelming.
Wheezing, Sherlock explains the rest of the plan once John finally lets him go. It's rather easy. He can do his part, certainly. And God, but he loves seeing his friend act. He looks properly terrified, poor lamb. John has to remember not to laugh at the performance. Maybe some of the impromptu lesson helped him get into the proper mindset to play helpless victim?
And what a victim…it seems that underneath his signature coat, a tiny bit of costume has stuck. John just attacked viciously a poor vicar, if the dog collar is to be believed (and why they would call it a 'dog' collar? Someone had a rather odd idea of priests). He doesn't laugh. He's not supposed to laugh. His current role is 'random passer-by with medical knowledge and a Good Samaritan complex the size of the London Eye', according to Sherlock. It's close enough to his true nature that he should have no trouble playing it. Of course, he has to pretend not to know Sherlock (and hope miss Adler is not a reader, especially not a reader since the time John's blog sported both his own and his flatmate's photos), but that's not too hard. God knows that sometimes he thinks he doesn't know the consulting detective at all, with how puzzling his behaviour is.
They are admitted, after his friend whimpers enough. To John's displeasure, they have to part immediately. The woman who opened the door (not The Woman, given the photos they've seen) waves Sherlock somewhere while she ushers the doctor in the kitchen for the first aid kit. In any other situation, the blogger would try to flirt with the woman – she looks amazing, after all.
But given where they are, there's every chance that she would accept…and then charge him three months of his salary. So, ignoring her mischievous smile – rather more of a smirk, to be honest – he busies himself with checking the first aid kit, to ensure nothing is lacking or expired.
"So you saw that happen," the…maid? colleague? of the Woman purrs, while he's examining an antiseptic cream. "Did you intervene, too?"
"No, I…I saw that, and when I yelled they ran away," he stammers, before deciding all this is unneeded anyway and asking simply for a bowl of a water and a clean napkin, which the woman provides, still smirking. John takes them and wanders in search of his patient. Oh fuck. Is it obvious how very involved he's been? Is the sleuth's plan already compromised? Never mind that. Pretend everything is going swimmingly.
He's just behind the threshold of the door when he hears someone (the Woman, probably) offering to cut herself slapping his friend's cheekbones. That might be possible, actually, but John would really rather not have any hurting he didn't do himself. Never mind that it's her trade. He interrupts them without knocking. It seems his intervention might be urgent.
More urgent – or more inopportune – than even he thought, because the bloody whore is naked (but for an ornate gold bracelet covering her name) and straddling Sherlock and what the fuck is happening here? Are they halfway through having sex already?
Given that the sleuth has lost only the dog collar until now, and the wild, anxious look that the consulting detective lays on him, the doctor suspects that his friend has not asked for any of this. Mycroft might have a point about his little brother being uncomfortable with sex, if the 'God please help – bring some little measure of normalcy into this' that the sleuth is telegraphing with his eyes is anything to go by.
Wanting to take Irene by the scruff of her neck and bodily remove her from Sherlock, but aware that this would give definitely the wrong impression (the role he's playing is not jealous boyfriend), he settles for staying still and glaring, until the Woman gracefully allows him to sit down.
When she points out that she's clearly aware of the poor vicar's true nature, not to mention his coming and goings, the blogger feels the need to point out that he was involved, too…in the investigation, of course. They are partners – a team. Something, at any rate. Miss Adler would do well not to forget it. John just implies it, but someone used to read people should not miss it unless she does so willingly.
Irene keeps teasing the sleuth, and getting it wrong to booth.
Damaged? Maybe just a tiny bit, but as it is evident, disguise or not, John is there to make him better – or die trying. (It's unfair enough how hurt his friend has been. He's not going to let anyone else hurt him further. But having just punched him, he can't really say as much.)
Delusional? Clearly not. If anything, the consulting detective is too sharp-eyed for his own good. He doesn't make up hallucinations. (Not anymore at least. The previous drug use nothwistanding. Does this mean Irene has researched him? And stumbled on outdated info?)
And above all – himself as the higher power? Oh, come on. If anyone fits as Sherlock's higher power, it's his brother, the Queen. However angry the detective might be at him, power is the one attribute he will immediately recognise to his brother. Lots of power. Certainly more than him, from a certain point of view.
Annoyed with her, his friend unbuttons two fastenings on his shirt. Getting rid of the disguise, given how poorly she understands it, probably. John just hopes he won't undress, because otherwise he'd start to feel really too much of a third wheel – or, alternatively, overdressed. (Of course a third wheel, come on, she's gorgeous, even if he's clutching at straws to find flaws on her.)
As if 'deducing' him, however wrongly, isn't enough, the woman starts deducing John too – hopefully without knowing it. And God, maybe the blogger is just that transparent (he hopes not – the world's bloody only consulting detective seems to have been blind to it till now at least) but she reads his love (his confusion, it's just confusion, damnit!) in the restraint he used to punch him. And her getting such ideas into Sherlock's pretty brain is NOT ON. How dares she?
The doctor, lashing out without really lashing out (see? He can employ restraint even with people he very much does *not* love), points out her nakedness ('You whore' is just implied, but certainly thought…someone deduce that out loud please, so he won't have to say it) and prompts her to cover herself. Some way. Any way, really.
She's her hateful, mocking self. Yeah, John is feeling exposed – his deepest, more carefully guarded secrets out in the air – and he's never been more disappointed in himself for being unable to deduce himself, because God knows Irene needs to be taken down a peg or two…or maybe a whole ladder.
Sherlock makes a jibe at his expense (as if he needs to be put down more) but obeys him, throwing his coat at her. And while John likes her covered, he's seized by the urge to rip it off her. She's contaminating it, and they'll have to dry clean it. She's leaving her skin cells all over it. Gross.
He makes a point to look no further than her eyes. Not because he's not interested in gorgeous naked women. Because often eyes will telegraph an attack, and he trusts her only as far as he can throw her. Now, if only she gave him an excuse to do so…he's not one to beat women usually, he swears. But Irene rubs him in all the wrong ways. She's dangerous. Very dangerous. Used to play with people, to exploit their weaknesses. They can't allow to show any.
And if the situation is not wacky enough, Sherlock implies he uses (might use, there was an if there, don't get distracted, you're on a case Captain, but God does the idea throw him for a loop) John's computer to look up porn. Soulmateless married-to-his-job Sherlock Holmes looks up porn just like any other guy with a healthy sex drive. And John has never even thought to check his chronology after his borrowing… confiscating… whatever flatmate appropriated his pc. Sure enough, Sherlock would have wiped it clean, but what if he got distracted? That's a thought for another time. Anyway, it seem the man (possibly) is not asexual, so unless Donovan was right and he considers looking up crime scene photos as checking porn (even less probable than him having a Fetlife profile), John has been missing something here.
Something, someone could point out, that is not his business anyway. But don't friends share their love life, to a point? The sleuth has certainly been aware of all his girlfriends. Hell, he's been the reason for most of his relationships' failure. Now though John needs to forget his honestly inordinate interest in the world's only consulting detective sex life and get back to business. He has a plan to see through, and disappointing his sleuth will not lead to sharing confidences.
For his part, Sherlock wants this to be quick – in and out with the photos (and maybe quietly reserve a Johnless session to talk about pain and pleasure) – but the Woman is not what he expects. To begin with, she's impossible to deduce. Thank God John is an open book as usual, or the sleuth would ask him to bring him to A&E for suspect cerebrovascular accident.
But no, she's teasing and lording her superiority (which in some specific fields the detective supposes he can't deny) over both of them and yet…flirting? Why would she? He has not paid her. He has not given her anything she wants. More so, he doesn't have anything she might be interested in. So why is she flirting?
She cannot possibly like him. After all, his own destined soulmate rejects him as defective. Others have always realised how…lacking ('freak') he is practically at first glance. But not Irene. Why not Irene? He can't read her, and that's terrifying and leaves him lost. Adrift.
She makes a show of being interested in this morning's case. Why? Is she involved? He doesn't think so. The victim wasn't wealthy enough to be able to afford her services. It is the second time in his life someone not professionally involved in solving cases has ever expressed an interest in Sherlock's work (the first being John, of course), and it is baffling.
She called him (his brain, which is even better from his point of view) sexy. And he can't say if she's honest, or why would she lie? Distracting him, but distracting from what? What's to happen?. Anyway, he owes John a deduction for this morning case, so he might as well give a show now, since the woman is (apparently) keen to know.
Now, if only he could remember the case in question and not be overwhelmed by the absurd chance of someone liking him, pursuing him (he's not paid her – then again, she must certainly have some hidden goal) by their own will.
He doesn't want her, even now. He just want to know how she can want *him* when he's her enemy. When she (as he suspects, rather terrified) can read through him. He's not the pretty-faced bastard who drops by every now and again and you use as fantasy fuel. He's pretty sure that such is his role in Molly's life, and as long as it gets him body parts and general prompt cooperation, he doesn't care – as long as it all stays in her head. He's the arrogant stranger who walks in pretending to strip you of your secrets (thank God that he has a way to find her much coveted phone without having to deduce his hideout) and ends up babbling like an idiot after a compliment.
Well, can you blame him? He's now grown used to John's praise, it warms his heart but it does not stop it anymore. If anything, now there's the suspension of breath before he's earned it, the 'have I been brilliant enough?' Somehow, he always does. (Brilliant. Amazing. Fantastic. Still not good enough as a soulmate, though. Obviously not. What had he ever thought?)
But other people…not-John people have only ever (unless paid not to, like Victor) spit their distaste at him. Stupid baby (Mycroft). Freak (so many 'freak'). Psycho. He's heard them all, and more. Until Irene inverted the trend, with her purred sexy and her coaxing, the "Don't tease! I want to know," attitude even faced with his rather confused exposition. Why has she not given him up like a bad job after his first hesitation?
He forces himself to remember he's not here for this. Not for the hiker's case. He just needs her phone, and then he can go home and sort through his confusion in peace, or reserve a session…No, not a session obviously, but plan a further conversation where he can ask her what he needs. Maybe promise her that Mycroft will be willing to hire her in MI-something if she passes a game of Deduction. And the plan – not really news – hinges on John. His help. The doctor is always willing to lend a hand, even if sometimes (like not so long ago) he needs to be coaxed a bit. He appears to be chasing him away – to be able to show off/flirt in peace, maybe – but in truth he's warning that it's time to stop dilly-dallying. He does not need a chaperone. He needs the plan to go through.
Irene notices it, of course – she's good at reading people. She calls him out on being busy looking for the photos – but that shows she underestimates him (it's always a good thing to have an adversary doing so). Sherlock won't lose his time personally looking, trying to deduce possible hideouts or rooting among the sofa's cushion like a dummy. She will tell him where they are, but he needs to keep her distracted – needs her not to watch her instinctive reaction.
His best bet (always his best bet) is to talk about the hiker's case. She was interested, so he will spin a tale for her. True, he's not John, but this tale is not about chases and adrenaline anyway. It's about figuring things out – allowing her inside his mind palace and let her poke around, marvelling at how it works. He suspects it is dangerous, to give her that much freedom inside his mind, to fall into his mind palace in her presence (though he makes sure to keep talking aloud). But he's always thrived on dangers, and – whether she honestly likes him (is it even possible?) or just wants more info on her opponent – the consulting detective doesn't think she would physically attack him now. Sooner or later, John is going to be back, she knows that – and he would not like finding his friend hurt. If Irene is such a good judge of character, she certainly knows the former captain is not easy to take down.
He teases her like she did with him, even humiliates her back. If that's at all possible. He's not sure that she cares enough for that to work. When a sex worker welcomes you stark naked, she's certainly not going to get her feelings wounded when you point out what she is. She's full of herself enough to resent being called boring, though.
But she is. Even John would make a better guess – miss the truth by a mile, probably. But not state the obvious. His soulmate knows him enough not to irk him that way. (And he would certainly point out something that would point him in the right direction if he needed to. Honestly, this case is so simple – you'd think someone with a few working brain cells would solve it on their own in five minutes.)
It seems that it does not take much to lead Irene on the right thought path. Thankfully? Or regrettably? He's not entirely sure.
She should know enough about 'distracting' people before stealing their secrets to figure out that something must have happened in that empty field. But apparently the obvious consequences of everyday events are lost on her. She ostensibly misses (how can she?) that a sudden, loud noise could be perfect to distract both the victim and the witness. At. The. Key. Moment Exactly like…oh, how about now?
Perfectly timed, John. (Not that he says it – gushing about the qualities of his reluctant soulmate would certainly not be appreciated.) Instead, he makes a stupid quip – but she ruined herself with her own inability to master instinctive reactions. Shouldn't someone like her be more in control of herself? Really. Shameful, miss Adler.
He doesn't say that either, and starts working on the safe. Of course she would keep her mobile phone in a safe. There's a treasure worth of information stored there – compromising photos, list of clients, and who knows what else (maybe notes about kinks?). Not that he would personally be interested in any of that, to each their own kink, he doesn't even know who is the current monarch, imagine how much he cares about their family's proclivities.
But he has to show off to Mycroft and his bloody hussar, he promised them things would be solved by night and they will be. He just has to figure out the combination of the safe, take the phone and flounce out, John on his wake extolling him as usual. (He has to prove himself worth enough to keep the praise going at least, or all too soon the doctor will refuse to share a flat with his disappointing soulmate too.)
Now, if only the fire alarm was a little less piercing…the wailing is ripping across his thoughts, making opening the strongbox rather more complicated than it should be. He yells at his accomplice to make the racket stop – it's done its part, thank you – and while it takes a while for John to comply, he finally does. Now that he can hear his own thoughts, everything should progress smoothly toward the successful conclusion of this stupid case.
Combination, combination…one number is obvious (thank God for physiology) but the other five? He'll be in trouble if Irene was clever enough to pick a truly random number, but barely anyone does. Random things are hard to remember. It must have some kind of significance for her, but he'll be in trouble if she chose, say, her uni serial number. Not that he cannot find it out with a bit of hacking, but these things take time, and right now he really wants to get away. Any pain/pleasure discussion will be scheduled when their relationship – and, much more important, their balance of power – has been clearly determined…with him in the lead.
Until she sends his brain for a loop, saying she told him the combination. No she didn't…did she? Some sort of code? What does she mean? Number of word in sentences, number of syllables…that's too convoluted to keep track of while speaking, isn't it? She must be lying. Above all, why on Earth would she expose her secrets like that? To see if he's really brainy enough? Is it all a test by someone – Mycroft perhaps? If it is, he'll kill his brother. Maybe that's what she wants – make him doubt everything; distract him. To gain time for…what?
Whatever she expected, Sherlock doesn't think it's that. Not many people count on their home being invaded by angry, trigger-eager strangers. (And John's apologising. Why is he apologising? There are too many people for one person to be expected to deal with – if his soulmate had fought them he'd be dead. Nobody wants John dead – emphatically not Sherlock. Doesn't John know?)
These CIA idiots think they can just come in and order people about. Well, know what, if they wanted to hire him they should have gone the proper way. They want him to open the safe? He wanted to do so, thank you very much, but they interrupted before he could figure things out. How is he supposed to deduce with the chaos in the room? Can't they just ask Irene? She's right here.
Oh, they don't trust her. Well, that means they have half a brain cell among all of them. On another note, he's going to murder the dominatrix. And take down John's blog as soon as he arrives home. They're both responsible for the plight he finds himself in now. Irene with her 'told you' quips when she didn't. She did not, so why is she lying? Did she notice that someone was overhearing and wanted to put him in a tight spot? It can't be. He did not realise, after all. And John…John's bloody blog which, apparently, even the CIA reads. The consulting detective's reputation? Despite his having a website, barely anyone knew him but Lestrade before his soulmate started spouting drivel about their 'adventures'. John has built his reputation, and look where it brought them.
He's mostly annoyed, but it takes only a sentence to send him into a reeling panic instead. Shoot doctor Watson? Why would the bloody CIA threaten that? They don't know John is his soulmate, can't know…but this all comes to mind way later, with the related puzzlement. At the moment, the only thought in his brain is one giant "No no no no no no no!" John can't die. Not here. Not on a failed case, and certainly not because Sherlock failed to deduce. (That's the only good point about him!)
Think. Think think think. Irene lied. What if she didn't lie? Is the agent right insinuating the code is something they've all missed? Code words, number of sentences, number of syllables or words…this all gets analysed and discounted at the speed of light. So no, Irene didn't tell him. But if she gave him the meaningful data, how? Something she did? Something?
It turns out that with the right incentive, Sherlock can deduce the dominatrix's way of reasoning, and her arrogance. At least he hopes he has. He calls a stop just in time. Nobody is allowed to murder his John. (Later on, he will remember Moriarty's game and wonder if it is helpful to work on a countdown – sadly, brainpower boosting is not worth the stakes these kind of games always imply.)
Thank God that Irene does not stint security measures. The sleuth knew she wouldn't. Not with her work, and the games she plays. A yelled warning and all hell breaks loose. Thank God that they have set up a number of codes – John insisting on it, actually, the consulting detective too used to always work alone to see the need for effective communication during a fight. He's never been happier that he's humoured John, though, better not take any chance that he might be the security device's victim.
For all that these people are CIA agents, and presumably trained, the three of them (Irene included, of course – if she weren't able to hold her own she'd be dead a long time ago) put them out of commission quickly.
It's no wonder that his brother freelances with the American. He's probably helping them to devise further drills that will bring their agents somehow up to par, both in the fighting and brain cells department. They certainly sorely need it.
Not that he wishes for more of a challenge – he's perfectly content with an easy win – but these people have threatened to kill John and the fact that only one of them is dead is mildly disappointing. Bit not good, probably, but sleeping inside Sherlock there's a glint of something feral, ready to tear apart anyone who dares to endanger the few people he holds dear.
His efforts to curb in the blood thirst are cut in by Irene's voice, declaring herself 'flattered' that he figured the combination out. It's not like he could not, is it? He has not 'figured out' her measures. She's flaunted them in front of him in such a way that he should have been blind not to see. Not that he hasn't been fleetingly tempted to gouge his eyes out at her blatant display of attempted seduction (he's always been gay and naked women just are not…appealing), but ruining his main work tools over her was not worth it.
What makes him wonder is John's sharp enquiry. He sounds almost…jealous, but that can't be, because he's made very obvious that he does not want Sherlock and that they are an 'open' partnership. Unless what applies to John does not apply to him, and he's not allowed to 'play the field' (not that he has any desire to, but still). That's unfair, isn't it?
Which is why, when his partner remarks that they need the police, he summons them in the most irritating way possible for him. John is the voice of reason, no matter how much he enjoys the danger he considers playing with guns more than a bit not good – it's clearly been trained into him by the military. Which is why, despite having Scotland Yard and Lestrade's personal number on his mobile phone, Sherlock creates enough of a scene to cause a panic in the neighbourhood. Someone is going certainly to call the police – and it won't be him.
When John – predictably – protests, the sleuth belittles his objection. They'll have a nice fight once home, so the detective will be able to work out his irritation over his soulmate's unreasonable behaviour. To stop the fight from – possibly – starting immediately, the detective sends his blogger away to further investigate the break in. John complies with any detecting-related tasks, always has.
Now it would be his occasion to talk to Irene. Mission out of the way, he could arrange that chat over pain, pleasure, hurting and being hurt he suspects she could help him deal with. But he can't help one tiny gloating – she did her best to unsettle him, and still she lost.
If she were a good girl, she'd accept the defeat with a smile. But that never really happens, does it? Nobody is sporting about cases…well, maybe with one exception, but that person is one he'd rather not see anymore. Instead, her first try is deception – but that doesn't work. He might have trouble reading her, but he does know how blackmail works. It's fairly simple, and if she didn't follow the rules of the game Mycroft wouldn't have felt she needed dealing with in the first place.
Then she switch tactics. Exaggerating, really. She'd die before letting him take the phone? Oh please! That's so…melodramatic. the sleuth doesn't doubt that whatever files she collected are a powerful protection, but they can't be the only one she has, surely? She's a smart girl (as much he's forced to recognise). Smart people never hold only a card. She's lost this one, and if she could just accept it the consulting detective could switch to more pressing subjects (for him).
Before he can find the words to breach the subject, though (how do you ask a consultation out of someone who hates you now? but he can't fail Mycroft's mission...), Irene calls for reinforcements, apparently deciding that he's above het capability of fighting alone. "Kate!" she yells urgently.
Instead of someone coming, they hear John's bellowed assurance, "She's fine…well, she'll be."
At that, Irene, apparently forgetting her personal plight despite the reassurance, runs toward the voice. Such an attitude is surprising. Soulmates, maybe? It would make the dominatrix an ever more relevant source of information. The detective follows her, hoping to discern this particular puzzle.
Sadly, Kate wears a leather band to cover her name, so there's no knowing it. When John explains that the girl is just passed out, and should suffer no ill effects, Irene's lips curl in an amused smirk. "My poor baby. Thank God that she's used to that," she purrs, dislodging the doctor from his place at the patient's side, inviting him to check the back door.
Sherlock nods his assent, and John shrugs and leaves. The sleuth observes the Woman keenly – he shall have to try and deduce the status of her relationship, and with Irene's impenetrability, that's going to be hard work. She's gently caressing her lover, murmuring endearments. She doesn't take away any of their name coverings, of course. She doesn't need to. Irene just keeps threading her fingers through her passed out lover's hair (and wouldn't that be so nice to have)…
Until she rummages under the nearby bed, and comes forward not with a rug, a pillow, or anything that might have slipped from the bed and be useful to make her partner more comfortable... but with a syringe. An unexpected, lightning quick pounce – being unable to read the Woman might end up being Sherlock's death – and he's stabbed before he can defend himself. This is…not good.
Irene orders him to drop the phone – as if he would. From how he's feeling, he might pass out soon, so that's going to be a moot point, unless he can keep hold of it until John comes back. He should call for help, shouldn't he? But he doesn't want to show to his soulmate how much of an idiot and a failure he can be.
The Woman huffs, and decides to pry her mobile phone from his by now uncoordinated hand herself (and use a riding crop he hasn't noticed her taking just because, he guesses). But she doesn't stop there. Once she's pried the phone off him, she pockets it – in his coat, which she's still wearing – and remains at his side, once again prying…but his name covering this time.
He tries to shake her off, but the drug has made him uncoordinated and weak, and there's no way he can fight her off, even if she didn't have a weapon. "No, no, no," the sleuth mumbles, tongue tied, half wanting to scream but finding he has no voice enough. The mounting panic can not clear out whatever she's shot him with, sadly.
"Oh, come on pet. Just a peek. I deserve it after all the trouble you've caused," she snaps sternly.
Despite his pitiful attempts to claw at her, or tug himself away, she sees…and a slow smirk paints itself on her mischievous face. "You two are not together yet," she declares, clearly having deduced it from their earlier interactions. If the professional dominatrix couldn't perceive whether people were romantically and/or sexually involved, she'd abysmal at her job.
"How odd. Well, you can keep your cover, pet," she concedes softly. Not from her, but – from the general public (and his soulmate, who clearly doesn't want to be reminded of their unfortunate destined pairing by his own name's sight). While closing back the metal bracelet that is his shield, she catches a bit of skin in the clasp, making him whimper softly because yes, he's had worse, of course, but it smarts like hell and his defences are down. Judging from her smug expression, it's not an accident.
At this point, the detective is groaning hoarsely, "John, John, John," because he really, really doesn't want to discover how much worse it can turn (very much so, but he has not the brain power to imagine it).
"We don't want him around yet," the Woman objects in a purr. "How to keep him away…oh right. I got my phone, but I've accidentally confiscated yours. You can have it back…in a minute," she muses, grinning.
The dominatrix messes with his mobile phone (during a case, when he might need to call because of an emergency at any time, he does not keep it password-locked) – and utters the loudest, obscenest moan the consulting detective has ever heard.
Will John think they're getting busy here? Give them space to have wild, kinky sex? No, please, no… "John," Sherlock beseechs, once again, but his voice is too shaky to carry to the next room.
"Hush, pet. Sleep tight," the Woman commands.
He's not going to. He's not…John…