An assistant met them at the door - no need to punch Sherlock this time to bluff their way in, although John wouldn't have been averse to it for old times' sake - and led them down to the basement. Irene met them at the base of the stairs, wearing a skin-tight leather mini-dress remarkably similar to the one in the video Sherlock found the previous day. She looked amazing in it, which was probably the point. Sherlock barely gave her ensemble a glance, though, running through the bare minimum of a societally acceptable greeting and pointedly looking around while he spoke.
"No need to be so nervous - we've got a tour and quite a bit of talking to get through first," she said with a hint of a smile. John's estimation of her rose a bit - hardly anyone other than Mycroft or himself would have known to interpret Sherlock's rudeness as nerves. (It really was very similar to his signals for anger, frustration, and boredom. Slightly different shape of the mouth, but very close.) Sherlock grumbled, but didn't insist - another point in the "nervousness" category.
"It's a rather short tour, I'm afraid," she continued smoothly. "Loo's through that door there, if either of you boys should need it. It's a working one, floor-to-ceiling tile, lots of room to play, so don't let that surprise you. We'll be staying in the main room today, though. This way." She led them down the short hallway and into a larger room.
Which did have a dungeon-like feel to it, despite being hidden under a comfortably normal house. Not a medieval dungeon - a hospital facility, perhaps, with its white tiled floors and its vague smell of industrial-strength cleaning supplies. The floor probably saw a lot of bodily fluids which needed cleaning. The space wasn't as daunting as John had expected, but it wasn't exactly welcoming either.
The array of torture implements laid out on the tables didn't help. John eyed the assortment and tried not to think about what all of them might be for. Some were easy to identify - the riding crop, the handcuffs, the whip. Others were just twisted bits of metal or leather and were completely unfamiliar. Everything looked scrupulously clean, though, and well-organized. The two long tables were set up within easy reach of the black padded leather bench in the middle of the room. The only other furniture nearby was a flimsy folding table - the kind made for putting your plate on as you watched the telly - with a laptop on it, set near one end of the bench.
"Come on through, then we'll backtrack." Irene led them across the room and through a white door on the other side, which opened into what could politely have been termed an office. It had all the trappings - a heavy oak desk, an executive-style chair, another laptop computer, and a small stack of papers with a fountain pen laid across the top. Modern and classic and tasteful and completely out of place here.
"Quite nice," Sherlock said from the doorway. "Popcorn ceiling is a bit dated, but I'm sure your clients appreciate the effort it took for you to simulate fucking them across their own desks."
His sudden profanity made John wince. Not that John was a stranger to it from other sources, by any means, but it sounded so odd coming out of Sherlock's mouth. More evidence of the nerves Sherlock was trying to hide - he only swore when he was particularly anxious about something. John half expected Irene to pull out a riding crop and whack him a good one right then and there, but she just smiled as if his comment had been a compliment.
"Some of my clients do appreciate a more businesslike setting, it's true." She propped a hip up on the edge of the desk, exposing the long length of her legs and highlighting her dangerously sharp stiletto heels. "I had something a little less exciting, though - I thought John might like to set up here." She leaned diagonally backwards - exposing a bit more of her toned thighs - and hit the power button on the laptop. "I assume you want him to take notes?"
Sherlock nodded. John just stared. There were still times Sherlock could completely throw him for a loop, and acting like it was completely normal to parade through a fucking BDSM torture room and then expecting John to quietly sit at a desk and take notes definitely counted as one of those times.
"Sherlock -"
"No, she's right," Sherlock interrupted. "This really is a perfect setup. I brought printouts of my spreadsheet, but the computer will be easier, even with your hunt-and-poke typing."
"Hunt and peck," John growled. "And I still don't know what I'm doing here."
Irene cleared her throat delicately and gestured toward the screen. Which was currently showing a picture of the black padded bench from the other roo - oh. John made some rapid mental connections.
"Closed-circuit cameras, as transparent a program as I could get," Irene said. "You're welcome to inspect for hidden recording programs if you wish. The toggles are all here in this row - microphone on or off, speakers on or off, and outgoing and ingoing video feed. John, you'll be able to keep as close an eye on your boyfriend as you like, but you'll also be in control of the feed and of what Sherlock sees and hears from you. I suggest you start with audio and video both on both ways, but you can switch them around later however you like."
It probably should have meant something that the allegation of boyfriend didn't even phase him anymore. John looked around until he saw - oh, there was the tiny webcam. "Sherlock, are you sure about this? She's taken blackmail photos once already."
Sherlock made an exasperated noise. "Please, John, I don't have a jealous wife or a political career hanging on my sexual morality. In order to blackmail me, I'd have to be ashamed of my body." He rolled his eyes. "Besides, who on earth would want to see me naked?"
Irene laughed throatily. "At least half the readers of John's blog, for one. Or did you think they were only interested in your cases?"
That made Sherlock blink a few times - recalibrating and assimilating the idea - before dismissing it. "No matter - you'd not have offered if you didn't trust it was secure. Can we start already?"
John gaped. "Sherlock -"
"No," Sherlock snapped. "I came here to learn what the bloody fuck is wrong with my body, and I don't want to dither any longer. The sooner I figure out what the problematic stimuli are, the sooner I can learn how to avoid them." He pulled a small notebook out of his coat pocket. "I took the liberty of cataloging everything I thought might feature in the experiment today - they're alphabetized, and I included a short description for the more esoteric ones. The vertical columns may need some further refinement over the course of the trials, of course, but I marked them with a variety of parameters to start with. The first one is measurable arousal, on a 100-point scale. The second -"
Irene took the notebook from his hand and placed it on the desk next to John, effectively silencing Sherlock's monologue before it had a chance to get started. "John is going to observe, but not like that," she said in a tone which brooked no argument. "I'm going to work my way through the arsenal and you're going to tell him - explicitly, in words - how each experience makes you feel. And if you're very, very good, I might let you revisit a few of your favorites."
John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and counted to three before opening them again. Living with Sherlock often made him feel a step behind, but tonight felt like he was a whole bloody continent away. "Are you sure?" he asked again.
Sherlock noded tightly - the nervousness still there, but now edged with a manic determination - and indicated for Irene to precede him back out the door. "It'll be fine John," he said over his shoulder. "It's just science."