A/N: Another chapter! Warnings- masturbation. As always, I'll say I'm not usually a graphic smut writer, but I want people to be warned either way.
Irene was focused, intent upon studying the past footage, while still examining the lone detective of course. He'd stopped playing his violin and had seated himself on the couch, staring into space. It was unfortunate the other pawn in the game had left, but she'd have him back soon enough, both of them at her disposal.
However, there were greater problems for her to worry about. The CIA was on to her, they'd found her and had proved themselves willing to take extreme measures to get to her phone.
Though her beautiful Holmes and Watson plan did appear to be working well, Irene knew it would likely have to take less of a priority in the next few weeks. But as she'd already told Kate—these things couldn't be rushed.
With a sigh she rose from the bed and went off to start working on finding another safe house. She'd likely have to move frequently for the next few months. At least she'd have some side entertainment to make it a little more fun. Even so, she turned the volume down on Sherlock mumbling things to himself, turning back to her work.
Sherlock didn't remember the last time he'd felt this level of distraction. This level of inability to think, to reason, to process through the events of earlier. Irene Adler—the woman.
Whatever she'd done to him it remained a mystery. He'd considered analyzing a sample of blood or urine, running a toxicology screen and seeing if there was anything he could make of it. Obviously she'd used some sort of incapacitating agent alongside what he suspected was an aphrodisiac. He couldn't be certain of that, but based on previous experiences and his usually low libido, the evidence pointed at that. But for what purpose? Why drug him with something to increase sexual desire?
If she'd been trying to get her claws into him, that he might have understood. But he'd been home alone in bed. And what had she whispered to him when putting his coat in his room? Something about John. He was almost certain of it. But again, that was absolute nonsense. There was no reason for the woman to talk about John. She hadn't appeared the least bit interested in him. Her attention had been focused on Sherlock instead. Brainy is the new sexy, she seemed to purr in his mind.
"Shut up," he muttered to himself.
So, what did the evidence tell him? What could he deduce from the little he'd known? Had the drugging been for her own amusement? Had it been to prove a point? Had it been an attempt to seduce him? That seemed a bit low for someone as intelligent as Ms. Adler, but he wouldn't put it past her. She was good at getting what she wanted. Quite good in fact.
"John, in your medical opinion, do you have any ideas what she might have dosed me with?" Sherlock asked.
He wondered if he should add the part about his libido, but a part of him felt…embarrassed by that. He'd acted like a pubescent, and though he was well aware of John's own level of sexual entertainment based on the large amount of pornographic material in his search history, he felt John wouldn't really understand.
But of course he wouldn't. John had been like any other boy growing up, was like any other man now. He had dealt with his share of arousal and masturbation and intercourse and pornography and girlfriends and all the other nonsense people put themselves through in an effort to lessen their sexual frustrations. To him such things were perfectly normal.
The thought seemed to open a door in his memory palace, one he tried to normally keep firmly shut. Memories of his adolescence swarmed him. Thoughts of confusion when he had his first wet dream, many years later than most boys probably would. The elation of realizing he wasn't a total freak, while at the same time wondering what this would mean for his future. Would he become a slave to his desires like so many men (and probably some women) were? Would he be able to find someone who would be interested in having sex with him? Would he find someone who he wanted to have sex with?
For the most part, he'd lived a fairly sexless life. As a boy one or two girls had approached him, but he'd never had much interest in them. Occasionally a more intelligent one would intrigue him, but the draw was rarely if ever sexual. And then of course, as a youth he'd considered boys…and had to admit if he was to act sexually those seemed slightly more appealing to him in some ways. He'd had a boy he'd liked back in secondary…a few years older than him and particularly gifted in school. He remembered being somewhat enthused at the prospect of spending time with him, happy in their platonic relationship when they'd gone out one night after a study session…but altogether confused when the boy had attempted to kiss him.
Sex doesn't alarm me, he'd told Mycroft.
It was true. It didn't. Not anymore. As a boy, yes, he'd shoved his potential sexual partner away, favoring something less physical. But he'd soon learned most people expected sex where any sense of romance or partnership were found. And he'd abandoned the idea of such things long ago as a result.
Still, the point was he was confused by what had happened yesterday, but that didn't mean he needed to linger on it. Sherlock shoved the door of those embarrassing boyhood memories closed and looked up to see why John hadn't answered him yet on the potential substances Irene had used.
To his surprise, however, he found the room empty.
"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called.
He heard her tromping up the steps before she poked her head in.
"What is it, Sherlock? Is everything alright?"
"Where's John?" Sherlock asked.
"Oh, he went out hours ago," Mrs. Hudson said with a smile. "Is that all? I have a cake in the oven. Best not leave it too long."
"Why did he leave?" Sherlock asked. "I thought he didn't have work today."
Sherlock ran through the possibilities quickly. Girlfriend—there hadn't been one in weeks. Work—he'd already said no on that. Shopping—the kitchen had looked well stocked enough this morning. Hmm…friends? He hadn't been out with anyone recently…hadn't said anything either.
"He looked a bit upset. I'm not sure. Did you two have a little domestic?"
Sherlock sighed and didn't answer. Mrs. Hudson always was assuming they were a couple. He supposed he didn't really have the heart to tell her otherwise. And besides, all of John's protesting had been done in vain. No matter how many times he said he wasn't gay, Mrs. Hudson kept persisting. Well, not that Sherlock wasn't persay, but that just brought back all those confusing questions about what he really was and—no he was not dealing with this now.
"Shut up," he muttered to himself.
"What was that?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"Make me some tea?" Sherlock decided to say.
"Not your housekeeper, dear."
He rolled his eyes as she disappeared back down the stairs.
John had been upset? By what? He tried to remember what they'd last said to each other, though it was difficult for him to determine exactly when John had left the room. Had he said anything that seemed offensive? He didn't remember doing so. Perhaps that was only Mrs. Hudson's overactive imagination. No doubt she was watching some crap telly program while baking, probably inspiring all sorts of ideas about the drama that was going on with her tenants.
Hmm, but if John was out that left him plenty of room to experiment however he liked. Not a bad idea really. Should he try to figure out what the chemicals he'd had forced into him were? Or should he try looking into the phone number from which Irene had texted him? Really, that was a good mystery in itself. Figuring out why she was playing this cat and mouse game, what was in it for her. Was this simply the mode she operated in? He supposed she had something attractive about her, but nothing that really struck his fancy…not that anything usually did.
However, as he thought of Irene and what she'd done to him, a better thought popped into his mind. Why not do an experiment? The drugs had likely been swept out of his system by now. Or at least he didn't feel altogether different from normal. So, if he tried recreating the same scenario and seeing if it had the same effect—why that might shed some light on whether or not she'd drugged him or not.
Sherlock decided to recreate things to the best of his ability. He slipped back into the bedroom, closed the door in case John should come home for some reason—doubtful, probably out having a drink or something.
He laid down on the bed and unbuttoned his trousers. His body didn't seem the least bit interested. Recalling the spark of heat the day before, it seemed obvious to him that the effects had to have been caused by a drug, not normal bodily reactions at all. Nonetheless, he should continue.
His hand wrapped around his flaccid length. Again, very little reaction, even to stimulation. This was what he'd normally recalled, his body acting in its usual asexual manner no matter how hard he tried otherwise in his brief attempts to be a normal boy.
Nothing. He moved his hand a bit, acted as he had the night before, as best he could remember. After all, he'd been quite out of it so it was possible he was forgetting something. His body had begun to respond, but it was nothing akin to his reaction the previous time. No, he was certainly missing something.
Hmm, same pattern of stimulation, same location, same…
Ah! Sherlock recalled another element he'd previously forgotten. What had he been thinking about at the time? This was yet another problem with being sexually active, his disinterest in other people, especially in the sense of physical intimacy. He tended to usually focus on sensations if he was masturbating, but he thought he recalled thinking of something in particular last night. He'd started feeling aroused after—
After John had touched him. Well, under the effects of a drug it wasn't improbable that human contact had felt good.
But still, he remembered something about John in all of that. Thinking about John. Hmm…odd. Still, in scientific process he decided to repeat with the same variables to see if he had the same results. So he began to think about John. Imagining him there in the room, smiling warmly.
"You look gorgeous," he imagined John saying. The man moved to take his shirt of, revealing an expanse of pale flesh.
To Sherlock's surprise, his body responded. He was achieving an erection with this stimulus.
But why? How could that be? Perhaps the drug was still active. Sherlock decided to switch to another choice of stimulus. Hmmm…well who were other people he knew and seemed to like. Perhaps—Molly Hooper? Sherlock imagined her taking off her top and found this much less inspiring. His erection flagged. No, not that then. Men maybe? Lestrade? He nearly gagged at the thought, and that was enough to let him know that wouldn't be effective. There were few other people he cared about in any capacity. So John it was.
He settled on prolonging the fantasy. John was on the bed with him, one hand running down Sherlock's chest, reaching for his buttons on his shirt, working them open one at a time. John's mouth was on his neck. Having undone his shirt he was working his way down his chest, kisses and licks and—the heat was growing hotter, energy coiling more and more. How was this happening? This seemed impossible.
All he had to do was imagine John descending a bit lower, John's mouth touching him, John—oh John, John, John…
He moaned out the name stuck in his mind, and before he could process anything else he was coming.
As he lay there panting, trying to regain his breath and his mind, Sherlock tried to make some sense of the implications of this. Option A, he was still under the effects of the drug and therefore was stimulated by the thought of sex with someone who was attractive to him. Option B, he was experiencing some level of sexual arousal due to his high adrenaline inducing activities (this had happened before actually).
However, both of those failed to take into account the fact that only John had been interesting to him. He hadn't been able to stimulate himself without that image of the doctor joining him in bed.
Sherlock began to catch his breath. He heard footsteps outside his door. John! Blast. He reached for one of the already dirty sheets and began cleaning himself off before quickly buttoning up his trousers.
Making sure he didn't look too rumpled, Sherlock opened the door and ventured out to find John on the couch with his laptop.
"Alright?" Sherlock asked, trying to catch his breath.
"Fine," John muttered, staring down at his computer.
"Oh. Mrs. Hudson mentioned you looked—upset when you left. Is everything fine?"
"Hmm? Yeah, just needed a little air. Just felt a little overwhelmed with everything, your brother and the woman and all that rubbish. Figured I'd take a walk, pick up a few things at the store."
"Oh," Sherlock said. He examined John and saw no signs of a supermarket trip. He hadn't been to his room upstairs, nor had he made any movements in the kitchen. Odd. He was tempted to pry, but at the same time, if John was upset perhaps that was a poor idea.
He wandered back towards the bathroom, deciding to have a thorough wash before coming out to discuss possible future cases with John. Maybe they could find something new to occupy their attention. Though he wasn't ready to let the woman slip just yet, John hadn't seemed eager to pursue that.
So, on to showering in the meantime and then hopefully to fresher ideas, 'til he could figure out the confusing mix of whatever had happened. Give it some time, Sherlock though. Repeat experiments would likely prove this was simply a fluke. At least that was what he'd have to hope.
Irene paused, flogger in hand as she watched the screen.
"What happened?" Kate gasped. She wriggled on the bed, trying to get more comfortable with her arms bound to the headboard as she knelt. The only clothing she wore was a silk blindfold, but otherwise she was nude. Irene had pondered a gag but was glad she'd left it out.
"Dr. Watson's back," Irene murmured.
"Ooo, please say Sherlock is jumping his bones after his wanking section!" Kate jerked her head, trying to see behind her.
"No," Irene said with a sigh. "Sadly no. Sherlock is showering though. Mmm…he looks nice all wet."
"So do I," Kate said with a lusty wiggle. "And just a bit more of that, and I'll be—ooh!"
Irene smacked her again before looking back up to examine the detective.
"I think things have become a bit more interesting," Irene agreed. "But with our next week of changing locations, I don't know that I'll mind waiting a bit for the speed to pick up. Don't you worry, Kate. We'll have them both."
"Mmm yes, Miss Adler," Kate agreed with another moan.
Irene glanced away from the screen and turned her attention back onto the woman on her bed. She was just about to suggest moving from flogging to something else when a noise caught her attention.
There was a knock at the door. Irene froze and looked up.
A/N: I just wanted to take this as a chance to tell people to embrace whatever sexual tendency you might have. I know I spent a lot of time in this chapter with Sherlock questioning what he is, wondering if he's asexual or bisexual or gay or whatever, but I figured it was a good chance to give this message about loving yourself no matter what you are, not sitting around wishing you could be normal (because normal is so dreadfully boring sometimes ;) ) Anyhow, preaching segment done.
Thanks to JessMill, emily . bond 368 for reviewing (sorry to those who reviewed a second time, don't want to cramp the story with too many thank yous).
Until next time- elsarenard