Power corrupts. Knowledge is power. Study hard. Be evil.

-Eleanor Roosevelt

John would not allow himself to cry. Not over this, not over Sherlock who obviously had no regard for him or his thoughts or feelings. And even though he could feel his eyes burning and his throat growing tight he refused to let the tears come. His head felt light and he had to press his hand against a few of the doors as he stormed down the hotel to prevent himself from falling. He wanted to stop, to take a few deep breaths and work out what he was going to do, but at the moment his proximity to Sherlock was burning him as bright as the sun and he needed to get as far away as he could.

It was physically painful to be in the same building as him, the same town, the same fucking country! He needed to get on a plane or a boat or some system of transportation that would take him to some place where nothing and nobody reminded him Sherlock Holmes.

He was halfway out of the hotel when he heard her call, "John."

Oh no, he couldn't deal with this, not now, not ever, "Leave me alone." He shouted without looking back, hating the way his voice was trembling.

"John, I am wearing heels, and although your legs are short they are longer than mine and I need you to slow down." Her voice was getting closer and John sped up, not wanting to look at her, not wanting her to catch him so that he wouldn't be forced to recite the horrific interaction that had just taken place between him and Sherlock. She would ask and then he would have to replay the entire conversation in high definition and then he would cry, like a child, and he would hate himself for it.

He practically kicked the swing door open and the second the cold morning air hit his face he breathed in a sigh of relief. His cheeks were burning red with a combination of anger and embarrassment and the cold dampness of the chilly breeze cooled him slightly as he charged down the street. He didn't know where he was going, God, he could barely see he was so angry, but it was imperative for him to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, another step further away from the man who had ruined his life.

"John_"

"I said leave me the fuck alone Irene, I don't want to talk to you about Sherlock, he can go fuck himself for all I care." And he meant it in that moment, he really meant it. He wanted Sherlock to suffer for being such an arrogant little_

A hand closed around his shoulder and he quickly jerked around, causing Irene to recoil violently, "Go back." He hissed as he pointed in the vague direction of the hotel.

She looked flushed, her cheeks were stained pink and her hair was coming loose from her bun. She wasn't wearing a coat and John could see that the cold morning air had caused goose bumps to rise over her skin. The sun was just rising and the golden light broke through the clouds, casting bright lines on her face and forcing her to shield her eyes to see him.

She squinted against the sun and said, "You need to calm down."

"Don't you_"

"I said calm down." She said with an authoritative twang to her tone that reminded John of his army years. "Sherlock is upstairs, face smashed into a pillow, groaning like a woman in labour. I had to wrestle two vials of morphine from his hand before sprinting across a carpeted hallway – and down six flights of stairs – to find you. Sprinting, in heels, try it sometime and tell me how easy it is."

She sighed heavily and wiped the back of her hand against her brow and retied her hair so that it hung in a tighter bun at the nape of her neck. John could see the aforementioned vials of morphine clutched in her hand as she continued to wipe her forehead, the glass glinted in the golden morning sunlight and John shuddered.

If this fight had instantly driven Sherlock back to drugs then what would their indefinite separation cause? That is, if Sherlock's attempted reconciliation with strong opiates had anything to do with John, he was a former junky after all and when did they ever need an excuse to shoot up?

Regardless, he was going to have to call Mycroft and at least get Irene to monitor Sherlock until he had worked out how to stop his baby brother from going on a cocaine binge again.

"What happened?" Irene asked, snapping John out of his thoughts, "When I left you and Sherlock looked like you were about to fuck each other senseless. I expected to find you both in a very compromised position – perhaps even doing something that you should only ever attempt with the proper amount of lubrication_"

"Irene." John groaned as he rubbed his face fiercely with his hands as if hoping he could rub the blood out of his face by doing so.

"But then when I returned Sherlock looked practically shell shocked and you... well you looked like you do now."

"And how do I look?" John asked harshly.

Irene cocked her head to the side and examined him with a level of sympathy that he hadn't thought her capable of, "Heartbroken." She said after a moment and John clenched his teeth tightly until his jaw began to ache.

"I am not heartbroken. Sherlock Holmes doesn't have the ability to break my heart, I won't let him."

"No one chooses to be heartbroken_"

"Irene_"

"Metaphorically speaking when you give someone your heart it is theirs to do with what they please and if what pleases them is to break it into little tiny pieces and throw it on the fire then_"

"What do you want me to say?" John hissed with such venom that Irene actually flinched, "Do you want me to admit that I told him that I loved him and he told me that I was mistaken, deluded and only confessing all those false feelings because I was in a state of fucking shock!?"

And here they came, the tears were finally coming and he could no longer hold them back,

"I told him that I loved him, not in a "you're my best-friend and I love you" sort of way but in a "every time I see you I feel like my heart is going to explode and it's driving me insane" sort of way and that is the sort of declaration that you can't take back! I literally got down on my knees and told him how I felt and he..." John couldn't say it again, couldn't recite Sherlock's spiteful words so instead he accused, "You said that he felt the same way."

Irene squinted at him, her lips pursed, barely holding back anger, "He does_"
"Well then he's got a real funny way of showing it considering I'm out here, shouting at you in a car park – about four seconds away from breaking down and sobbing like a three year old – and he's in our hotel room trying to shoot up whatever opiate you left in the bag. In what universe does this situation – or his response – make you think that he could possibly love me?"

Traitorous tears finally slipped over the corner of his eyes and burnt his cheeks, the droplets turning ice cold in the winter air. He felt ridiculous for doing this but too much emotion was swelling up in his chest and the only way to lessen the pressure in his head was to let it come out of his eyes.

"And now we can't even go back to being friends because I can't go back to the purgatory that is living in a house with him and pretending to only be his mate when every time he so much as yawns all I want to do it fuck him over the back of my chair."

Voicing that particular long denied fantasy of his momentarily derailed John's train of thought but he quickly continued, "So I have to move out." he said as he paced the length of three vacant parking spots, his fingers pulling his hair so viciously it was a surprise that the strands weren't being torn out by the roots, "I have to go back home, pack up my things and work out how to start living a life that doesn't revolve around Sherlock Holmes."

He ended his little rant by shoving his face in his hands and groaning deeply. How had the world gone from fine to fucked up in less than an hour?

Everything was quiet for a long while and at last John looked up to see if Irene was still standing with him. She was, although she looked less than pleased to be there, "John," she said calmly, "Don't you think you're being a little over dramatic?"

John blinked through a layer of tears, incredulity tainting his other emotions, "No I fucking don't."

"Well you are, stop crying and let me tell you how to fix this."

"Haven't you been listening? There is nothing to fix, it's all gone, it's over, our friendship, partnership, co-dependent thing that we had is finished."

Irene actually rolled her eyes at him, "Oh for the love of God John, you're not thinking clearly."

"It's not the first time I've been told that today." John muttered as he kicked savagely at a curb stone.

"John, my dear, please, take off your arse-hat and put on your thinking cap." Irene said as she approached him slowly, "Why do you think that Sherlock reacted in the way that he did?"

"Because he's a_"

"That was said in an angry voice John, anger is not synonymous with clear thinking."

"No, but it feels good."

Irene stared at him impassively, obviously not in the mood for him to deviate from her instructions.

"I don't know what you want me to say! It's because he's Sherlock and he doesn't do relationships, he's married to his work, uninterested in sex or intimacy or everything else that encompasses declarations of love." John huffed as he sat down on the pavement and buried his head in his hands again.

"John," Irene said as if she was talking to a child, "there is a time and a place to reveal the fact that you want buy His and His towels with your best friend and it's not right after you've both been through a traumatic experience. Nor is it when said best friend isn't exactly compos mentis due to the fact that he is high on morphine because the pain of two gunshot wounds would otherwise send him into a delirium of agony."

"I only gave him 5mg; he used to take more than that with his tea."

"The time," she continued, ignoring what he had just said "should have been after you killed Moriarty, got back to Baker Street, were both well rested and not intoxicated with heavy narcotics. You could have gone out to dinner, done as normal people do, and then gone back to the flat and fallen into bed – or smashed each other into various flat surfaces, which ever sounds more appealing."

John blushed crimson. How could he have been so stupid, so rash and impulsive? He blamed the fact that, prior to his confession, he had been kneeling between Sherlock's spread thighs for a least ten minutes and such close proximity to Sherlock's potentially hard cock had obviously caused John to experience a moment of insanity.

"Fuck." He said quietly.

"Indeed." Irene agreed as she let out a deep breath and came to sit right next to him on the cold pavement. She pressed her arm against his and even through the thin fabric of his coat he could feel that she was freezing. He slid his coat off his arms and handed it to her – which she took with a combined level of gratitude and shock.

"Oh my boys," she said, half to herself, as she buried herself into John's coat, soaking up his residual warmth, "Why do you both have to make everything so difficult? This could have been so easy." She sighed, "But in one regard it's a good thing – don't look at me like that John – I don't mean that I relish the thought of having to piece this God awful mess back together, but the way it all has transpired is befitting of your relationship as a whole."

"What? Impulsive, irrational, unhealthy and with the potential for mutual ruination?"

Irene smiled, "John, you are too emotionally charged and Sherlock is too emotionally stunted for you both to have an unimpulsive, rational and healthy relationship. You spend all your time dramatising everything while Sherlock is trying to rationalise the irrational... goodness me it's doomed from the start."

"So you don't think that we should be together?"

"God no!" Irene exclaimed "Of course you should be together, you're perfect for one another."

John blinked in confusion, "I don't understand. You agreed that it would end in mutual ruination."

"That's exactly why you should be together. Do you have any idea how lucky you are to have a love which has the potential to destroy you and ruin the rest of your life?" Irene asked, almost enviously. "Life is so boring when you constantly err on the side of caution, if you wanted to live a safe life then you should have become an accountant rather than a doctor, should have joined an amateur dramatics club rather than the army and should have married a nice, normal woman – probably with some sort of biblical name – rather than falling in love with an emotionally crippled, former drug addict who has a tendency to attract the attention of serial killers and get you strapped to various explosive devices."

Her words were going in but they weren't staying and even though she was inspiring some level of hope in him that this wreck of a relationship could be salvaged, he wouldn't let her sway him too far away from what he knew to be true: Sherlock Holmes didn't want him.

John stared across the rain washed car park, shivering slightly in the bitter cold. The light was growing stronger and soon all the shadows would be chased away by the sun.

"Haven't you considered the possibility that Sherlock is terrified of you?"

John's gaze snapped back to Irene, "Terrified of me? Why on earth would I frighten him?"

Irene stared back, her eyes looking very clear and very blue in the morning light, "Because you alone have the ability to ruin him. That's what love is John, it either makes you far more than you could ever hope to be or it debases and destroys you. Life is a power play of epic proportions and we spend it trying to be just a little better than all those beneath us, trying to obtain more power than we had yesterday. And yet, love cuts us down and puts us on equal footing, stripping us of power and placing it in the hands of our beloved."

And John watched as Irene's eyes glinted with something devilishly wicked, "A man like Sherlock Holmes lives in fear of being powerless, of losing control of himself and control of the world around him. He's not going to give in willingly and admit that he loves you so you have to... force him."

John stared at her and even though he was confused by what she was saying he could feel his heart beating hard in his chest.

"I don't understand, what are you_?"

"You said that you literally got down on your knees and confessed your feelings for him, you placed all the power in his hands and there's no way that he's going to restore the equilibrium in your favour by admitting that he loves you too. That's why you're feeling so helpless now, because you feel like you don't have any power but you do John, you alone can make Sherlock bend to your will. All you need to do is didactically show him – least I should sound too crude – that he's been a bad boy and he needs to be punished."

John's mouth had gone very dry and he could actually hear the blood pounding through his ears, "Irene I... for the sake of clarity..." he took in a deep breath before he said, "What exactly are you telling me to do?"

Irene's responding smile was dazzlingly salacious, "I want you to go upstairs and prove to Sherlock Holmes that you're not going to be frightened away, that you're the one who has complete power over him and thus the outcome of your relationship."

John swallowed, rubbing his clammy hands against the knees of his jeans, "And how do you propose that I do that?"

Irene's eyes had turned very dark and John wondered if this was the way that she looked whenever she was about to do something truly depraved and evil to one of her clients,

"You simply seduce Sherlock until he begs you to fuck him and not stop until he has begged for mercy... at least twice."

John stared at her, opened mouthed as he tried to process everything that she had just said. It was true that he had certainly fantasised – quite frankly – an unhealthy amount of times about Sherlock on his knees, hands tied tightly behind his back, John holding a handful of his black hair as he slowly, and yet thoroughly, fucked Sherlock's irritating, smart-arse mouth. Or the fantasies which involved John pressing Sherlock against the arm of the sofa or the back of the chair or the edge of the desk and holding him down as he thrust into him from behind, listening to Sherlock's moans muffled by the cushions or the hard wood of the table_

"Jesus Irene," John said, breathing heavily through his sudden rush of arousal, "I can't..." he tried to stand up and then realised that he couldn't without revealing his current... state.

"You can't what?" She asked, sounding rather amused.

"I can't... do the things you are suggesting that I do to..." he trailed off, waving his hand in the general direction of the hotel.

"Why not?" She asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Well for starters, fantasying about something and actually doing it are two completely different things_"

"So you admit that you've fantasised about dominating Sherlock?"

John's face couldn't have burnt a brighter shade of red. Irene smiled, "I take that rather stunning blush of yours as confirmation."

"Irene, this is... this is madness. I can't do this, I wouldn't know how_"

"Of course you would, I'm going to show you?"

"Pardon?"

Irene shook her head, "Not literally John because, as I think we've discussed before, although you're very handsome you're not really my type. No, I simply mean that I am going to briefly teach you the basics to the art of domination. The full course takes years – and besides I don't have my ball gags or riding crop with me."

John knew that she was joking but the thought still made him feel faint.

"John, listen to me. Sherlock is up there right now probably sleeping – the poor lamb has, after all, had a very long day. This means that we have about... twelve hours or so to calm you down, get you some tea and teach you how to reduce Sherlock to an incoherent mess of sexual frustration and want."

"All in a day's work then." John muttered.

Irene's lips curled up, "Well it is in mine John. That's what a dominatrix does, I... how did Mycroft put it? Provide recreational spanking for those who enjoy that sort of thing. The only difference now is that I'm teaching you how to do the spanking_"

"I will not... spank Sherlock Holmes." John said, shuddering at the thought.

"That's your prerogative _"

"Irene_"

"You have two choices John. You can either sit here and sulk like a child, trying fruitlessly to work out how to fix the problem that you have caused. Or you can let me help you and find yourself in Sherlock's bed tonight – and every night after that for the foreseeable future. What is it going to be?"

John looked from Irene to the hotel, his mind and body divided. Part of him reasoned that there could be no harm in her suggestion. If the relationship, as it stood, was already ruined then this – whatever it was – couldn't make it any worse. Could it?

John hung his head and sighed deeply before he buried his head in his hands and blocked out the world around him.

He was going straight to hell for what he was about to do.