A few days later Irene Adler knocked on Sherlock's door.

He was the only one of her boys who also lived at the brothel – just like Irene did. It was her house, after all. She had worked hard for it as a dominatrix and now that she had the money and the house she let others do the work for her. She was a strict employer, but she also wasn't unkind to her employees or "boys" how she liked to call them. She offered them a shoulder to cry on, she paid the fees for their medical exams, and she gave them shelter, if necessary. This house had come with three small single room flats, each with an en-suite bathroom and a kitchenette.

Over the years different boys had occupied the rooms but none of them had needed them any longer than a few weeks at the most.

The only exception was Sherlock. He had lived here since Irene took him in and he had no intention to ever leave.

In fact he actually never left the house, except when it was absolutely necessary. Most of the times her other boys did his shopping or run his errands for him. He could be very charming and convincing, if he chose to be so.

Irene knocked again. Finally she heard movement on the other side of the door.

A key was turned and the door was opened a small crack.

A bleary eye under tousled black locks looked back at her.

"Hello Sherlock," she greeted him with a friendly smile, yet with an impatient undertone.

"Business call or friendly visit?" he asked impassive.

She tilted her head to the side and clicked her tongue.

"Friendly visit."

He sighed exasperated, but took a few steps back to let her in.

"Then by all means… do come in and have a seat." He walked to his bed and slumped down on it with a dramatic flair and an epic sulk on his face.

Irene noticed that he was only wearing pyjama trousers, a dressing gown, and a t-shirt. So he was in his Byronic mood again. Splendid! As if the last time hadn't been bad enough. The flat complimented his mood, for it was a real mess. Overflowing ashtrays, open books on every available surface, clothes on the floor and hanging from the cupboard doors, two laptops on the bed, a dead plant on the window ledge, and stacks of newspapers and magazines on the floor.

"Charming," Irene commented dryly.

"I'm a bachelor. I'm allowed to be a bit untidy."

"Bit untidy? The understatement of the century," Irene snapped. "This had once been a nice, cosy flat and now you turned it into a pigpen. And what is that supposed to mean?" She asked, pointing to the ashtray.

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm trying to quit."

"Trying to quit?" she echoed. "By only smoking the half of each cigarette?"

His face changed.

"What do you want?" he demanded angrily.

Irene sat gingerly on one of the chairs, which was surprisingly empty, and crossed her legs.

"I want to know when you're done sulking and will come back to work."

Sherlock snorted.

"So it's a business call after all."

"A friendly business call", she corrected with pointed politeness.

He glared at her.

"I don't sulk," he said with a sniff.

Irene breathed deliberately through her nose.

"Fine then! When are you done with grieving or mourning or what ever you want to call the mood you're in and come back to work?"

Sherlock's lips curled up in an unpleasant smile.

"I'm sick."

Irene bristled.

"You already told me that lie four days ago. And I'm still not buying it. Are you moping because Doc Watson hasn't visited you again? Perhaps he's busy and hadn't yet found the time to bugger your greedy little arse again. Sooner or later he will be back!"

"No, he won't," Sherlock replied in a hollow voice and looked away.

"What?" Irene blinked. "Surely he…"

"He won't come back!" Sherlock shouted, but still his eyes were set firmly on the floor.

Irene eyed him disparagingly.

"How can you be so sure?"

"He told me so," Sherlock swallowed audibly. "I just don't understand…" he carried on in a hushed voice. "He had been so kind to me… although he said that he's not a kind man – his actions proofed him otherwise. But there was no need for him to be so kind to me... most customers aren't anyway…"

"Seems like you finally have learned to keep your smart mouth shut when guests are around," Irene couldn't hold back that remark.

"No… I can assure you - I behaved as always. I was my usual charming self," he said with an unhappy grin.

Irene's eyebrows shot up.

"And still he came back a second time? You must have done something right nevertheless. Think about it!" Irene exclaimed when she noticed the sceptical look on Sherlock's face. "He could have fucked you the first night and be done with it. But he chose to see you for a second time. He already came back – he must be really smitten with you. He will come back again. It's only a matter of time."

To her surprise Sherlock reacted quite furious at her words.

"No it's not! He left. He will never come back and I," his voice broke, but he continued in spite of it. "I… have to get used to it. I don't need the false comfort you're offering me. It's just… in one minute… he gave me so much pleasure and in the next… he took it all away… and I just… I just… miss," he interrupted himself and breathed deeply. "And on top of it all I'm horny all the time. All the time since he left, I crave his touch and just thinking of him and what he did to me… arouses me. And it drives me up the wall and I can't do anything against it!"

"You know that mankind invented something called masturbation?" Irene asked unimpressed.

"Yes, I know!" He told her with an icy, exasperated glare. "I've done it twice."

"Twice," Irene drawled.

"Each day," he snapped. "It doesn't help!"

"Dear me!" Irene exclaimed dryly. "What have I done to deserve this? A horny rent-boy. What should I do with you? Ah… wait… I just remembered… I'm running a brothel and you work for me! Get your greedy arse downstairs and earn me some money!"

"No," he stated calmly.

"Good Lord, give me patience!" Irene cried. "Why not?"

"As I told you before – I'm sick."

"Lovesick perhaps," Irene replied angrily and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Love…" Sherlock snorted. "Love requires a heart. And we both know that I don't have one."

"Speak for yourself, Darling."

"Stop calling me that!"

Her face went softer.

"You have a heart. But because it's so small you can easily hide it and it takes a very patient man to find it… and it's so damaged that you will need a good doctor to heal it."

"A good doctor?" he asked. "You will never get tired of this little pun, won't you?"

She grinned.

"Not really. I find it amusing. Don't you?" She looked at his knitted brows and reconsidered. "How long do you plan on being sick?" she asked.

"How should I know?" he replied in a grim voice.

"But you will come back?" she pressed.

"Eventually," he confessed.

She rolled her eyes.

"Thank you, your highness," she replied in a sarcastic manner. "I guess once you're working again… it will be only hands and mouth as before?" she asked tentatively.

He gave her a curt nod.

"I would prefer it this way."

"Fine. But don't forget to tell me, if you have a change of heart. I know many men who would die to get a piece of your fine arse."

Suddenly Sherlock seem fidgety.

"By the way… I need you to do me a favour."

Irene hesitated.

"I don't think I want to," she declared brusque.

"However..." Sherlock said with a careless shrug. "I need you to get my blood tested. Tomorrow I will give you a sample of my blood and you..."

"Sherlock!" Irene interrupted him with a shrill cry. "What have you done?!"

Sherlock looked at her sheepishly.

"I just want to know if I'm still… healthy."

"You swallowed again!" Irene cried accusingly. "You damn fool! Safe and sane! Is that too complicated for your funny brain? How many times have I told you…"

"57 and still counting" Sherlock interrupted her unimpressed.

"Good Lord! Give me strength! 57 times and you're still not listening! WHY!? For the love of God! WHY?!"

Sherlock's mouth was an angry, thin line.

"I'm bored!" he shouted. "And I happen to LOVE the taste of semen. I love the feeling of a hard, fat cock dripping deep down in my throat… suffocating me and drowning me. And although I'm oh-so submissive on my knees I am the one with the power! I am the one who makes them ejaculate! I love to swallow and I love to drown in their come… and to forget about myself completely…" Although he had started out shouting on the top of his lungs, his last words were a mere whisper, and he looked away again.

"I always feared you will trade one addiction for another," Irene said softly. "Finally you stopped with the cocaine… just to fall for the next vice."

Silence fell upon the room.

"It's not like that," Sherlock murmured.

"Be that as it may," Irene said with a small sigh and stood up. "Fine. Give me the blood sample and I see what I can do for you."

"Thanks," he whispered in a low voice.

"I really don't know why I'm putting up with you," Irene told him with fond exasperation in her voice.

Finally he looked up to her.

"Sometimes I find myself wondering about your motives, too," he told her with a lopsided smile.

Irene returned the smile.

"You underestimate your appeal. You're a walking seduction. Even I'm tempted sometimes. And we both know that I prefer girls. But for you? For you I would make an exception."

"Please," he made a face. "We've been through this already. Girlfriends are not really my area."

"Poor baby," Irene cooed. "I don't want to be your girlfriend," she explained with a saucy wink.

Sherlock's frown deepened.

"I should have been clearer – vulvas are not my area."

Irene's smile turned to a grin.

"I have a strap-on in my bedroom and I know how to use it. Still not interested if I will be able to scratch your itch?"

Sherlock made a disgusted face.

"Now you're being just rude and stupid. Go away."

Irene laughed.

"Just trying to cheer you up." She looked at his sad eyes and the laughter died in her throat. "He will come back. Believe me."

"I wish I could," he sounded wistful.

oooOOOoooOOOoooOOOooo

A few miles and a whole world away, John Watson sat at his desk, reading through the weekly reports about his current activities.

Across the desk sat Mike Stamford, idly flipping through some papers.

"The deal with the Baskervilles went well," he stated.

"Yes," John confirmed abstractedly. He then closed the folder he had been reading and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Never would have thought it would run that smooth."

"Yeah… not after that bumpy start," Mike laughed. "Have you seen this Adler-guy again? What was his name? Hemlock… Shamrock…"

"Sherlock," John replied in a clipped tone. "Yes, I've been with him a second time."

"Was he any good?" Mike asked.

John looked at him sharply.

"Why are you asking?"

"What?" Mike asked baffled. "Am I not allowed to ask if my old friend had some fun? I'm just concerned about you… you're so grumpy again. After your first visit your mood really had improved. You had whistled, John. Whistled. The last time I heard you whistling…"

"Yes, I get it!" John interjected. "You're concerned about my well-being. I've been there, I've fucked him, it was nice. That's the whole story."

"Nice?" Mike exclaimed. "That bad, eh?"

John fumed.

"What do you want to hear?! That he's the best cocksucker I've ever known? That he was an extraordinary fuck? We're here to work! Not to discuss my latest sexual encounter!"

"Jesus, Johnny… no need to bite my head off," Mike tried to calm his friend down. "I can take a hint. Back to work it is."

(to be continued...)

Edited version – thanks to a very good friend of mine.