A/N: For those who have stuck with this one, thank you. Have some smut.

Warnings: Coercion across all of it. Restraint, sexual scenes.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.

During the week Phil comes up to me in the tea room. He gives me an awkward, "Hi."

I say hello, but wait for him to make the first move. After an uncomfortable silence he asks, "How are you?"

I say fine, thank you, and wonder if this is going to get anywhere. Another awkward pause.

"Ehm, listen," he says, "I didn't react very well to what you told me the other day."

"No," I say, "You didn't, really." I don't really want to push him away, but I am still upset that he has ignored me for such a long time.

"Look, I'm sorry," he says. "It was a lot to take in."

You haven't heard anything yet, I think. I can't say it though. If he is willing to have another go I will give him a chance. "There's a lot more, Phil," I say. "You might want to have a think about that."

"Maybe you want to come over to mine for dinner on Friday? Then you can talk about it," he says.

"Sorry," I say, "I can't do Friday. I should be ok for Saturday though."

He's grinning at me now. "Great, Saturday. Thanks."

With that, he's off, looking very pleased with himself. I wonder how long he had been hyping himself up for that.

The week passes without any further incident. I keep an eye out for Sherlock, but if he is watching me at all he is staying out of sight extremely well. I decide that since there's nothing I can do about anyway it I shouldn't be worrying about it, and try to remember his point about the CCTV cameras. I never really noticed quite how many of the things there are around these days until he mentioned it.

At lunchtime on Friday my phone goes off with a text alert.

"Hide and seek. Rules as before. Loser cooks. SH."

I have to read it twice. Loser cooks. That's really what it says. I text back.

"I am in the middle of work. Can we do this after five? A."

The response comes back after exactly a minute.

"One. No. SH."

I look at what I still have to do and wonder if I can come back to it on Monday. There's nothing too urgent, but I don't know what my manager will say. On the other hand, I don't have a lot of time to get going. I walk quickly towards her office, but bump into her before I get to it.

"Hi Adriane, are you all right?" she says.

"Yes," I say. "Ehm, Sophie, could I have the afternoon off? Something has come up."

She looks at me a little surprised, but says, "Yes, I think that should be OK. Make sure you fill in a leave sheet on Monday though."

While we are talking my telephone beeps. Two, I think. I say a hurried thank you and walk off. I check the message as I grab my jacket and walk out of the building.

"Two. You are still at work. SH."

I text back, "I'm switching it off, Sherlock. A."

I'm wondering if the whole countdown will be there on my phone when I switch it back on again, or whether he will not bother. I am dying to poke him a little about the cooking, but I suspect he was trying to get me to leave my phone on for longer by throwing that in. I wonder what dinner would be if he won, although I realise that the chances of that are slim. Beans on toast, probably. I am briefly tempted to text back that I'd rather lose. However, I'm intrigued, and so intend to give it my best shot.

It's been a while since I've had a Friday afternoon off work, and it's nice to be in the buzz of London on a spring day like today. I decide to walk down to Oxford Street rather than face the crowded tube. My plan is to stay in the busy places, to try and hide amongst the people. I didn't so much dress up as dress down today, and my worn jeans and old sweatshirt raised a few comments at work. I managed to find my old denim jacket too, and I belief I could pass easily as yet another student in a crowd.

I know that Sherlock anticipates something of the sort from last week, but to be honest I have begun to run out of ideas. I reckon that the city centre is such a big place with so many people that it should be very hard to locate me even if he knows I am there. Without the use of his homeless network I think I should have a good chance of at least making it past the one hour mark. Given how things have gone with these games so far, that would be a result.

Oxford Street is very busy and I slow down a little when I get there. I like it here, even though Sherlock has effectively drained my budget for shopping for the next three months or so with the extortionate meal at the Criterion two weeks ago. Still, I can look, and who knows I will come across a bargain that I can talk myself into. The crowd is the usual mixture of well-to-do Londoners, students, ladies that lunch, tourists of all nationalities, business people, street artists and the homeless. I keep an eye out for the latter, but the few homeless people that I see don't give me any special notice, so it appears that Sherlock is keeping that part of the deal. On a whim I buy a Big Issue.

I look at my watch. Twenty minutes have passed since the countdown started, and I haven't even started going into the shops yet. This is going better than I expected. I decide to have a look around Monsoon. If I'm not going to spend any money, I may as well do it in style. Thankfully the shop assistants leave me alone as I browse the racks and I take my time looking through the clothes. The price tags make me laugh though. I know I love living in London, but how anyone could afford to live here and dress well at the same time is beyond me. Sherlock's barbed remarks about my fashion sense come back to haunt me and I leave the shop. Maybe I should have gone to Covent Garden instead.

I walk down Oxford Street again, wondering where to go next. Thirty minutes. Time to hide in a coffee shop for a while, I think, but not in a small street-level one with lots of windows this time. I head into one of the big department stores instead, just in case I am being watched.

I manage to make the coffee last another fifteen minutes. After I finish I have a wander around the store, ending up in the houseware department. It reminds me that I need to buy my mum a birthday present in the next week or so, but I can't really concentrate at the moment. The thought that I might actually make it past an hour this time is making me buzz. Small victories, I think, but it would make my day.

Walking back through the menswear department I glance at the suits, not something I have taken much of an interest in before. The prices make me do a second take. All I can think is that consulting detective must be a lucrative occupation, or maybe Sherlock is holding Mrs Hudson to ransom over the rent. The thought makes me smile. I wouldn't put it past him, although I'm sure John would have something to say about it. Anyway, for all I know it may be old money that is paying for the suits, he does come across as being from a very well-to-do background. I suddenly realise that I know nothing at all about Sherlock, other than what it says on his website. For all the time I have spent at Baker Street he has never actually told me anything about himself apart from the fact that he has no real interest in me.

I'm still mulling over the thought when I walk back out of the store onto Oxford Street. I'm wondering whether to turn left or right when a man walks up to me, looking confused. He's a business type, sharp suit and tie, a few years older than me, slightly overweight. He hesitates for a moment.

"Ehm. Are you Adriane Woodford?" he says.

I've never seen this guy before. I say yes anyway, getting a little suspicious now. He passes me his mobile phone.

"It's for you." He looks bemused.

I look at him blankly and take the phone off him. It isn't showing an incoming call. I am about to pass it back to him and ask him whether this is some kind of joke when a text message comes in.

"Found you. TQ 28822 81194. Outside John Lewis, wearing shabby jeans, an unspeakable sweater and a denim jacket. 58 minutes. Switch your phone on. SH."

I look at the message for far too long before I give the man his phone back and say, "Thank you. Do you know the person that was from?" I think I know what the answer is going to be.

"No, I just… I got a phone call from this guy. Asking me to pass the phone onto you. He gave a pretty accurate description," he says. He's still looking confused. "Is this some kind of set-up?" he asks. He's beginning to look suspicious now.

I shake my head, "No. Not for you, in any case. Thank you very much."

I walk off before he can say any more. As I am walking, I switch my phone on. I'm curious what messages are waiting for me, if any. The phone beeps as soon as it comes on. One text.

"When you get this I have no doubt located you somewhere on Oxford Street. Will be at your flat for 6:30. SH."

I check the message envelope. It was sent just under fifty minutes ago.

The sheer arrogance of the man makes me want to scream. Against my better judgment I text him back.

"How did you know I was going to Oxford Street? A."

The return text is nearly immediate.

"Obvious. You were walking straight towards it. SH."

I'm getting angry now. It seems that he's happy to cheat.

"If you were watching me then that's cheating. A." I text back.

"I wasn't watching you. SH." Comes the reply.

"Then someone else was. You promised no homeless network. A." I respond. It doesn't make any sense.

"Nobody was watching you on my behalf. SH."

Why he can't just answer the question straight is beyond me. I can only conclude that he is really enjoying this. I try one last time.

"Then how could you possibly know? You were still counting. I switched my phone off. A."

"I reminded you of the existence of CCTV networks only last week. I really expected your retention to be better than that. SH."

I'm not sure I can quite believe it. All I can think is how the hell did he manage to get access to the footage. I take a look around me, at the busy street. There are cameras everywhere. It would have been easy to spot me even if he only had access to a small number of them. I don't even have to send my next text, because the answer has already arrived.

"I have told you before not to assume anything. SH."

While I am still thinking about it, another text.

"For your information, I only started scanning the footage after my count had finished. There was no cheating involved. 6:30, your flat. SH."

I sigh. At least it was close. I send him one more text.

"What would you like for dinner? A."

"Surprise me. SH," is the response.

Unlikely, I think, but I keep it to myself.

I look at my watch. One thirty. Plenty of time. I decide to spend the rest of the afternoon in town, window shopping and getting stuff for dinner. I briefly consider cooking something really messy like cheesy chilli with nachos but conclude that that would be petty, and most likely I would be the one who'd end up getting covered in it. In the end I settle on a Thai green curry because it's easy and looks good.

I am surprised at how nervous I am for this evening. I'm not used to entertaining and I'm conscious that compared to the flat at Baker Street my pad looks uninspiring and a bit shabby. I try to make the most of it, but don't overdo it. He's seen this place after all so he should know what to expect. I get dressed up a bit though, as I don't fancy yet more barbed comments on my sense of style. As the time gets closer to 6:30, I get more and more jittery. It would have been better to go out, I think, at least I'd be going somewhere rather than hanging around waiting.

Sherlock arrives at 6:30 on the dot, bringing just himself. I don't know why I half expected him to bring drinks, but he clearly thinks that even a two minute margin doesn't count. Thankfully I have bought wine.

"Adriane," he says as he enters my flat.

I just say, "Hi." This is awkward.

Sherlock doesn't seem to notice, but just carries on and hangs his coat up. He is looking gorgeous in all black and I try not to stare. I envy him his easy sense of style. I couldn't look that good even if I spent two hours in front of the mirror, I think.

Thankfully Sherlock is oblivious to my musings as he walks into the living room and sniffs a moment.

"Thai curry," he says. "I fully expected you to make something messier than that."

I look at him a moment, hoping that that was just an educated guess.

"I decided that would be petty," I say.

He smirks, happy that at least I considered it.

Once dinner gets underway I relax a little. Sherlock is on good form, obviously pleased with himself that he found me so quickly in town. He talks CCTV networks because I ask him about it, and I'm impressed how much he knows about the subject, and how easy he seems to find it to hack his way around anything. He is completely disdainful about people's ability to pick difficult passwords. I make a note to myself to increase the security on my computer when he goes.

"There's one thing I don't understand," I say after we have finished the dim sum, and the first glass of wine is starting to make me mellow out.

Sherlock looks at me, waiting for my question.

"Who was the guy with the mobile phone? I've never seen him before. He wasn't homeless network."

"Oh him," Sherlock says. "The nearest person with a mobile phone that looked gormless enough to pass you a message. And who didn't look homeless."

"Oh," I say. "How…"

He just smiles. "You don't need to know everything, Adriane."

I take that as my cue to get the main course on the table. I have to admit the food is good, and I feel proud of it. Even though I don't think Sherlock would ever say anything nice about it, I take the fact he is apparently enjoying it as a compliment. For a moment I consider asking him straight out but decide against it.

He looks up, and says, "It's good, Adriane. Stop worrying about the food."

Now I am getting worried. I have never heard Sherlock trying to be niceabout anything. I am wondering if I'm missing something. I'm sure my confusion is showing, but Sherlock just returns my gaze, all innocence, and continues eating.

The conversation drifts towards my teenage years. I'm not sure how, but I find myself talking about my college days, my first boyfriends, how things got out of hand with some of them. Sherlock is listening without comment, never asking why, sometimes asking how. I am still vaguely wondering what he is driving at, why he is taking an interest at all, but the second glass of wine has clouded my judgement a little and I decide I don't care. Somewhere in the back of my head I realise I should stop drinking before I do anything silly, while at the same time the rest of my mind wonders what would happen if I just made a pass at him.

After dessert, he goes quiet for a moment and then says, "Adriane, I would like you to do me a personal favour."

I'm not sure what to think. It almost sounds like a polite request, which is very unlike him. The word personalsets off a tiny alarm bell.

"What is it?" I ask, no doubt sounding guarded.

"Masturbate for me."

I have to close my eyes a moment to register my disbelief and move on from it. When I look at him again he is still in the same place, looking at me without showing any signs of embarrassment.

"What?" is all I can say.

"You heard what I said," he says calmly.

"But why?" I say. "I thought you took no interest in that kind of thing."

"It is of incidental relevance to a case I am working on," he says. "But mainly out of personal interest. It is not something I have observed before."

I try to collect my thoughts a moment before responding.

"Sherlock, there are any number of films out there that will show you that kind of stuff in educational detail," I say in the end.

"All of which are edited to a greater or lesser extent," he responds. "In any case, I prefer direct observation as a method of gathering data. You as a scientist should appreciate that. And films don't tend to answer questions."

"But," I manage. Unfortunately I'm not sure what to say.

"Adriane, it's not something I could ask of many other people. I very much doubt Molly would comply," he says.

I'm not so sure,I think, but I don't say it. As usual his logic is watertight, but it really isn't that simple. I'm still lost for words. I've also gone bright red.

He sits back in his chair, observing me. Then he says, "Only a moment ago you were considering making a pass at me, which shows that sex wasn't all that far from your mind. Is this so different?"

It takes me a while to unscramble my brain from that one. I should know better than to think stuff like that when he's watching me, I think. Unfortunately I can feel him manoeuvring me into a position where he is completely in control again. In a way it was silly of me to think that he ever wasn't. The submissive part of me finds this highly arousing, while the sensible half is still struggling with the embarrassment and exposure. In a last ditch attempt to get out of this I cling onto my sensible thoughts and say, "Sherlock, it's not as simple as that. It's not like pushing a button. I'd have to be in the mood."

As soon as the last words leave my mouth I know I have said the wrong thing if I was intending to get out of it. Even to me it sounds like a concession.

No, I think desperately, not what I wanted to say.

But it's too late. Sherlock has already taken up the challenge, as he is looking at me with a slight smile, all focus.

"That can be arranged," he says.

For a very brief moment I consider just running away, but I'm at home, there's nowhere to go. It might have been different if we had been at Baker Street. A sudden realisation dawns on me.

"You planned this," I say.

"I wasn't going to put you in a position where Mrs Hudson could walk in at any moment," Sherlock replies.

He gets up and motions me to stand. I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I get off my chair anyway. He's already walking towards the bedroom, saying, "Come."

His unfailing certainty that I will do exactly what he is saying is intoxicating. It is as if there is no option to say no, but I also realise that if I did he would only use it as an opportunity to manipulate the hell out of me again until I said yes anyway. Better to preserve my sanity, or what's left of it, and comply, I think.

When I get to the bedroom Sherlock takes my arms and moves me until my back is against one of the walls. The symbolism isn't lost on me but I don't say anything. He is standing very close to me, far too close for comfort, and I can feel my own excitement mounting waiting for him to touch me. He's just watching me for the moment, but I find I can't hold his gaze and look away. I silently curse my own body for being so transparent. He takes my chin, gently turning my head until I am looking at him again.

"Look at me."

I meet his eyes. He's completely calm, just watching me squirm.

"Adriane, the embarrassment is entirely yours. I am not embarrassed and I promise you that won't change. It would be better if you could let it go," he says.

His hand moves from my chin, along my throat to the first button on my top. He calmly proceeds to unbutton it. I take a deep breath and go with it. After all, my body made its own mind up about ten minutes ago. He's still watching me as he is making his way down my top, occasionally touching my skin.

"Given everything else I have done to you, I am surprised how embarrassed you are at this," he says. "Why?"

He has reached the last button now and is casually running his fingers down along my body. I am finding it very hard to form any rational thought. I manage, "Hng. Dunno"

He stops and takes his hand off.

Wrong answer, I think.

"Wrong answer. Articulate," he says.

I try to focus my thoughts into something cohesive, then I throw out the first thing that comes to mind, which is gut feeling and as such probably right.

"When you do things to me all I have to do is accept it, to submit to it. The choice is taken away from me. Now you are asking me to do something to myself which implies an active choice on my part. You are asking me to show you that I am not just putting up with this but I actually wantit, in the most personal way possible. And it goes against everything I have ever been brought up to believe is decent. And you'll be taking notes."

He smiles at me, briefly, and says, "Good. And with properwords, too." I try to ignore the sarcasm.

Sherlock carries on where he left off, running his hand over my stomach down to my trousers. He makes short work of unzipping them and they drop to the floor. Then he moves my top off my shoulders, which also makes its way down. I am down to my underwear, and he stands back a moment to look at me. I find it unnerving and am feeling very exposed under his cool gaze. There is no denying that by now I am very aroused, and I know he can see it. He waves his hand in my general direction and says, "Take the rest off."

I do, but I'm fumbling, and it takes a moment. The fact he is watching me is not helping. I don't have time to worry about what will happen next, however. As I straighten up I become aware that he is standing very close to me again. I didn't notice him move, and I unwillingly give a start. He just smiles a second, then runs his fingers over me again, this time touching my breast and nipple, and finishing down my waist. Then he does this again, running his hand down the other side of my body, making my skin tingle and my breathing uneven.

I can't think much more than how much I want him, and reach out to touch him. He takes my arm with his other hand before I get to him and puts it gently back against the wall.

"No," he says calmly.

It only serves to get me more excited. I half consider trying again, but he leans close to my ear, and says quietly, "Adriane, you'll want the use of your hands later. Don't make me tie them together. You'd only have to humiliate yourself to get me to let you go again."

"I'm not the begging type," I manage, just about.

"Oh, I wouldn't force you to beg," he says, "I'd make you want to."

As he moves away he briefly brushes my neck with his lips. By now I am barely holding myself together. I know this is all a game to him, none of it is real, but he knows all the right buttons to press and the effect on me is very real indeed.

He takes my hand and walks me over to the bed.

"Lie down."

I get down on the bed, feeling exposed and self-conscious once again. Sherlock sits down on the edge. He looks at me a moment, then says, "It's not like this is the first time you've done this for someone, Adriane."

I'm not going to ask how he worked that out. Instead, I say, "That was different."

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to explain. It takes me a moment to get my thoughts in order.

"I was never the only aroused person in the room," I say. Or the only undressed one,I add to myself. For some reason, the contrast only feeds my excitement. I wonder if he is aware of it.

Sherlock just says, "Hm." Then he leans over and kisses my nipple, slowly running his tongue around it.

All my carefully arranged thoughts evaporate. I close my eyes as the intense sensation overwhelms me. I can feel his hand on my wrist as he takes my arm and moves it between my legs. I can feel how wet I am, and I don't need any further prompting. The self-consciousness of a moment ago is gone, replaced by pure lust, and I begin to finger myself. Without thought my other hand moves to touch him, but he quickly takes my arm, holding it down on the bed. After a moment he releases my nipple and sits up, still holding onto my arm. I briefly open my eyes to look at him. He is calmly studying me, and now his eyes meet mine. He lifts my arm, then releases it, saying, "Last chance."

I close my eyes again, unable to look at him any longer. All I want to do is touch him. I settle on touching myself instead, running my hand over my breasts and playing with my nipples. I am getting carried away by the sensations, one hand on my clit, the other on my breast. A half-formed thought flits through my mind, At least I can give him a good show.

With that I move my hand from my nipple and between my legs, sliding two fingers inside me. I go with the sensation, moving with what feels good, not thinking anything at all anymore. Occasionally I open my eyes to look at Sherlock. He is watching me intently, but without showing any emotion. His complete detachment is maddening, but it feeds into my arousal until I feel as if I have enough for two.

It doesn't take long for my excitement to build to a peak. I am not really in control of what I am doing anymore, my hands now doing their own thing, moving with their own rhythm, the feeling taking over my body. I am no longer aware of my surroundings as I slowly feel my climax building up. When it comes, the orgasm crashes over me in waves, obliterating everything.

Just as I am starting to come out of it, I can feel Sherlock move my hands away. I start to open my eyes, wondering what is going on, but I am stopped by the feeling of him sliding his fingers inside me. His hand is cool, and the sensation takes my orgasm to another level. I grab hold of him in order to control myself, and this time he doesn't push me away. I can feel myself contracting on his fingers. He carries on way beyond where I would have stopped, until I cannot tell up from down anymore, to a point where it becomes unbearable. To stop myself from screaming I sink my teeth into his shoulder. If he registers it he doesn't show it, or I don't notice.

When he finally stops and slowly slides his fingers out of me it takes a while for the world to come back into focus. I let go of him and lie back on the bed. He looks at his hand and briefly tastes his fingers. I find the gesture indescribably sexy, although I am sure it wasn't intended as such. He looks back at me and says, "Thank you. That was interesting."

I don't have any words at the moment, so I just nod. My breath is still coming rapidly, but all tension has drained out of me and I feel relaxed just lying there, not in any way self-conscious anymore.

"I'm sorry I bit you," I say after a while.

"Yes," he says. He looks amused more than anything. Then he asks, "Do you always close your eyes, or was that because I was here?"

I think about it a moment.

"No, I usually close my eyes. The ceiling isn't all that interesting."

He looks at me a while longer.

"Any more questions?" I ask when he doesn't say anything.

"No," he answers, and gets up.

He walks to the kitchen and I can hear him wash his hands. I think about just staying in bed but that would be rude, so I get up and put on my bathrobe. As I walk into the living room, Sherlock comes out of the kitchen. He says,

"There was no need for you to get up, Adriane. I can let myself out."

He's going, just like that, I think. I guess it makes sense to him though, he has got what he came for, there is no need to hang around. Clinical, as always, and I briefly wonder what he actually feels. I think I have earned an opportunity for one honest answer though, so I say, "Sherlock, one thing."

He looks at me, waiting for my question.

"Did you not get slightly aroused? At all?" I just want to know.

He just smiles at me in his superior fashion, clearly not prepared to answer that, and says, "Good night, Adriane. Thank you for dinner." Then he gets on his coat and leaves.

After half an hour or so I receive a text.

"One more chance for you to win next week. I think we will up the stakes a little. I wouldn't want you to get complacent. SH."