Chapter Five: Door Number Three
I woke up the next morning around six and trudged downstairs, opening the door to 221B-2 quietly, but to my surprise Sherlock was already up, completely awake, and dressed in a blue button up shirt and black trousers. He was reading the paper and had a mug in his hand. I didn't smell coffee so I assumed it was tea.
"You're late." Sherlock said simply, not looking up from his paper as I hesitated by the door.
"I didn't know this was an appointment." I said and entered the apartment, reading the headlines on Sherlock's paper as I did. Well, the main headline, as I hadn't put on my glasses before coming down.
"Serial arsonist?" I asked, coming close and bending over to read the subheadline.
"Do you mind?" All I saw was Sherlock's annoyed gaze over the top of the paper.
"No, not at all. " I answered. "So is that the sort of thing that you might investigate?" I asked him curiously.
"I might, if it were interesting at all. It's clearly an insurance scam, and even the idiots at Scotland Yard will be able to parse that one out."
"Ah." I stood up and nodded at Sherlock, looking at him for a few moments just to annoy him. He pretended not to notice and did a good job until I saw his nose twitch slightly and I smirked to myself, walking into the kitchen and gathering the supplies to make coffee. As the coffee was brewing I walked back into the front room, tidying up some of the piles and things on the desk.
"What. Are you doing. Now?" Sherlock slammed his paper down, hissing at me.
"You told me you wanted me to work on the flat this week. Make it a little less…gross." I wrinkled my nose.
"Must you be moving constantly?" He growled at me, back behind the paper and flipping the pages angrily.
"Sorry." I walked over and sat down across from him in the armchair, leaning forward to read his paper.
"Stop. It." He growled again and folded the paper into his lap. I smiled at him. He looked at me incredulously. "You're annoying me on purpose, aren't you?"
"I'm just waiting for my coffee, and then I'll be out of your hair for the rest of the day, if that's what you want."
"It's not, because we have an appointment at the car dealership." He got up and tucked the paper under his arm, walking around the chair to look out the window. He seemed to be glaring directly at my bike.
"Come again?" I asked him.
"I am in want of a car. I don't want to take cabs anymore, and I detest driving. So I'm buying a car. You can drive it instead of your motorcycle."
"No." I said, standing up.
Sherlock spun around, glaring at me with his eyes blazing. "What do you mean no?"
"I mean, we've already talked about this and the answer was no. I like my motorcycle."
"And I told you." He threw the paper down and stomped around the armchair, coming to rest very close to me and again trying to intimidate me with his extra head and a half above me. "I don't want you driving it anymore, it's unnecessarily risky."
"You don't get to tell me what to do in personal matters like this. What are you going to control next? Where I go? Who I see?" I turned to go into the kitchen and Sherlock grabbed my arm roughly.
"I don't know, is who you are going to see apt to bash your brains in?" He hissed at me.
Sherlock's face was close to mine, his skin flush, nostrils flared. I studied him for a moment, a particular thought regarding our discussions last night crossing my mind.
Sherlock's gaze into my eyes intensified and his eyes widened slightly, his grip on my arm loosening.
"What are you thinking about?" He asked, startled.
"What areyouthinking about?" I asked him back, pulling from his grip and heading into the kitchen, opening the cupboards to look for a mug for my coffee.
"Your pupils dilated and your cheeks got blotchy." He pestered me.
"Would you like me to verbally observe all of your physiological tells, because two can play at that game you know." I looked him up and down as I found a mug and poured myself some coffee.
"I don't have tells." He argued.
"HA! Okay." I lifted my eyebrows and gingerly took a sip of black coffee. I closed my eyes and let out an involuntary sigh of contentment.
Sherlock reddened and clenched his fists. "You are maddening."
I looked him up and down briefly. I occasionally liked to goad people to get a rise out of them, that much was true. But I didn't want to genuinely vex Sherlock. My gaze softened and I put my mug on the counter, lowering my head slightly.
"I'm sorry if I'm actually annoying you." I told him. "I like to frustrate people sometimes but I don't want to legitimately anger you. And if the motorcycle thing is that important to you, I will…at least consider riding less. Okay?" I asked him, looking up to meet his gaze.
He looked completely caught off guard and perplexed, a soft rosy color creeping out of his collar and up his neck, overtaking his face. "Oh-Okay. I will accept that. And, um…all is forgiven." He waved at me, still staring at me as if I had done something shocking.
My same thought from earlier crept in again and I stifled a smile.
"There it is again! You are looking at me and you are thinking! Tell me what you are thinking!"
"I was wondering when our car appointment is."
Sherlock closed the space between us.
"Delilah Beatrice Patrick. You just told me you don't aim to be legitimately vexing, yet you are doing it again." He growled at me through gritted teeth.
"I'm sorry, I just don't really think that you want to continue our conversation from last night is all. Also how did you know my middle name?"
"Social Security Card. Which conversation?"
"The very long and detailed exploration of your late blooming sexuality." I crossed my arm underneath my bust and sipped more coffee.
"Oh. That." He backed away from me a little. "Why are you thinking aboutthat?"
"I don't know, it's just my simple, sex-addled mind I guess."
He snorted. "Seriously. If you have a thought, I guess I…well, welcome might be too powerful a word."
I slowly drew in a breath. "You seem to…enjoy telling people what to do." I started.
"Only if they need to be told." He defended himself.
I squinted one eye, my head turned. "Maybe? You seem to enjoy telling me what to do. You also seem…appreciative when I defer to you."
Sherlock blushed. I would call it a real, proper blush. "Well, obviously I enjoy being deferred to, as I am often right and people should do the things I tell them to do."
"Maybe." I said again. "You like being called 'sir'."
Sherlock looked like he was about to choke. "I do not." He said, practically in a whisper.
I full-on smiled. "Oh…you really do." I said in a similarly hushed tone.
"What are you trying to say?" He asked. He didn't look angry. He looked almost…ashamed.
I sipped my coffee and set it down on the counter, walking over to the kitchen table and sitting on the edge by Sherlock, trying to look non judgmental.
"You might have a slight…preference…for domination. Rather, being dominant, specifically." Sherlock blanched and I reached out my hand, grabbing his forearm and squeezing it, trying to get him to look at me. "There's nothing wrong with that. Heaven knows this world needs a few more doms."
Sherlock couldn't help but snort at that, even though I had to say he looked slightly mortified.
"We can stop talking about this now if you like." I squeezed him with my hand again. Sherlock moved his hand forward and clasped my forearm, and I let him turn my arm over, his eyes moving briefly over the scar on my wrist and then more broadly from my palm up to my shoulder.
"No, that's okay." He mumbled, distracted.
"As long as you have a willing participant, and you follow mutually agreed upon rules, there's nothing to feel bad about wanting to be the one in control. In fact, it's often therapeutic for submissives to be able to trust someone to take control. Their obedience is an act of thanksgiving."
"You seem rather…familiar with the roles." Sherlock observed, dropping my arm unexpectedly.
"I mean, in theory, yes."
"In theory?"
"In my own research." I laughed a little. "Fiction. Online spaces. Maybe a little porn." I snorted.
"So you're not a submissive then?"
I thought for a moment, smirking at the floor. "I've never had the opportunity to be, no. Never met anyone I've trusted enough to submit to, or that wanted to put in the effort to be a proper dominant."
"Proper dominant?" Sherlock folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe across from me.
"Demanding undue respect, complete laziness with foreplay. A lot of guys just want an excuse to have rough non reciprocal sex. Which is fine occasionally, but does not a BDSM relationship make. Also I would say there's a measure of imagination necessary."
"It sounds like a lot of effort to put into an orgasm." Sherlock looked at me, halfway between bored and skeptical.
"It might be." I conceded with a shrug.
Sherlock shook his head as if to snap out of a trance. "Well. As educational as this has all been, it's time to get back to more important matters. I have a meeting with a big client at the end of this week, they can't come to meet me, and I don't want to hire a car. So I very much intend to buy one today and then you can drive me. How's that?" He gave me his fake smile.
I threw up my hands. "Just tell me when."
"Nine this morning. I'll have a hired car waiting for us at 830. We'll meet out front."
I took the last half of my coffee off of the counter and headed toward the door.
"Don't be late!" Sherlock called sternly as I was walking out. I stopped in the door and looked over my shoulder.
"Yes, sir." I told him with a wry smile and shut the door behind me.
I got dressed in gray slacks and a white cream silk button up, leaving my hair down and putting on a touch of makeup. Sherlock seemed to be fairly dressed for our appointment and I tried my best to match his energy, thought the aristocratic casual look that seemed to come to him easily felt elusive to me. I called to schedule movers on Wednesday to finish bringing the rest of my items to 221C and as I took a moment to casually browse social media I received a text message.
"How was the first night at your new place?" It was John.
"It was interesting. Apparently a new part of my job description is cook and maid."
"Are you serious? Let me talk to him about it."
"No!" I texted quickly, followed with, "It's fine, he's paying me, so whatever. Also he's buying a car today."
There was a brief pause and then, "Sherlock is buying a car?"
"For me to drive him places, yes."
"I think I need to have a discussion with Sherlock. This is far too much for you to do."
"Please, no. It's fine. I'm being compensated. I honestly don't mind."
"Maybe we should get together and talk soon." John wrote back finally.
"Actually, are you available on Wednesday? I have the movers coming and it would be nice to have a male presence there."
"Absolutely, and I'll get a sitter so you don't have to worry about watching Rosie."
I smiled to myself thinking about the little sprite. "I don't mind watching her but it's probably better she stays behind this time."
I looked at the time. 8:27 AM. Shit.
I grabbed my jacket and threw it on, grabbing my bag and running downstairs.
By the time I got outside Sherlock was already there.
"You're late." He didn't look at me as I came to stand next to him near the curb.
"Not." I argued, my phone dinging in my hand. I looked down and saw a text from John.
"Rosie keeps asking me to play The Beatles constantly, by the way. I was ambivalent about them before but I've grown to despise them in the last 24 hours."
I snorted and Sherlock's hand lunged for my phone.
My reflexes quicker than his for once, I pulled the phone away and hit the screen off button, putting it in my jacket pocket.
"What the hell?" I asked, glaring.
"Why are you texting with John?" He asked me, irritated.
"He's helping me finish moving on Wednesday."
"That wasn't about moving." Sherlock snorted.
"We were talking about Rosie's new affinity for The Beatles." I told him.
"I didn't tell you you could fraternize with my friends." He stated.
"I don't think my friendly interactions are within the scope of your bossing."
"I think it's inappropriate-"
"And I think it's inappropriate that you think it's inappropriate!" I stepped back, facing him fully and yelling at him with my hands shoved deep in my jacket pockets. He took a step forward, reaching out his hand toward me and a black car pulled up along the curb suddenly. Our cab.
I stepped in front of Sherlock to open my door and he body checked me, opening the door for me instead.
"Oh my god." I muttered through gritted teeth and slammed myself into the back seat. He slammed the door closed and practically ran around the back of the car, yanking the door open and slamming it shut behind him as he sat next to me.
The car left the curb and I turned to face Sherlock, opening my mouth angrily to lay into him when suddenly he had me pinned against the corner of the backseat and my door, one of his hands on the door and his other arm right next to my head near the headrest. His face was very close to mine, a vein I hadn't noticed in his forehead before raised on his flushed face.
"After this appointment you will meet me in 221B-2 and we will discuss your public insolence." His voice was low and his speech slurred by clenched teeth.
"Public insolence?" I asked, my voice a whisper as I became aware of the proximity of my breath to his face. I wanted to maintain my defiant nature but I felt my righteous anger being overtaken by fear. Fear and-slash-or something else entirely. The knit of my brow loosened slightly and I forced my lips to stay closed, told myself to keep my eye-line above the bridge of his nose. Look at his eyebrows. Look at his eyes, electric with rage. Look at the tiny veins in his sclera. Do not, and I repeat, do not look at his lips.
My body just as defiant to my brain as my brain was to Sherlock, my eyes dropped to his lips. I spent a lot of my time in Sherlock's vicinity actively ignoring what I felt to be the most fascinating lips I had ever seen on a man.
My momentary indiscretion started a chain reaction of biological imperative, as my nostrils flared and took in additional olfactory information, becoming aware of soap, shampoo, shaving cream, deodorant, tobacco, leather, books, man. The unmistakable smell of a man. Sherlock smelled far too human to me, all of a sudden.
My hands, previously balled in fists against the seat of the car, loosened and flattened against the sides of my thighs. I moved backward slightly and forced my eyes back up to Sherlock's, even though that suddenly seemed like the more dangerous option.
It had been mere seconds since he had, let's face it, pounced on me, looking into my eyes like he wanted to throw me into a fire. Surely he didn't also sense the way time had entered quantum spacing. To him he was still angrily reprimanding his foolish and disobedient new employee, who squirmed awkwardly beneath the power of his size and anger. He couldn't know that I wasn't able to breathe, blink, or think. That my brain had become a pastiche of impressionistic replays of every sexual encounter I had ever had in my life, that I was hearing my own heart like a throbbing bassline in a dark club and that at that moment I would have sold my soul just to feel a piece of him penetrate me for half a second.
Surely, even he wasn't that observant.
My eyes locked on his and I knew he knew. His brow twitched backward almost imperceptible and he looked at me with a question in his eyes and on his mouth. His lips parted and that was his question. I inhaled through my nose, and that was my answer.
I saw a flash of amusement on his face and his lips quirked into a smirk for a moment, until his expression became more of a "Really?", a mask of disbelief.
"I…" My mouth opened and voice attempted to escape. I wanted to try and defend myself. If I could pull out of this tailspin, I would gain the upper hand. He was knocked askew, as I was, and if I took the win now, we would both be back on solid ground, but I would have the winning hand of full knowledge and acceptance of my own carnal desires and he would be the one still fumbling in denial.
But maybe I wasn't as smart as he was. If my mind were more powerful, I would be able to ignore the heat of his body radiating onto mine even through the layers of both of our clothes.
I was thinking too slowly. I was reacting too slowly.
But the counterpoint to that is he was reacting more slowly than I expected. It was almost as if he was having the same power struggle.
"Yes. Sir." I whispered, finally, swallowing dryly.
Suddenly I had knocked us both through Door Number Three.
Sherlock made a pained noise before moving his hand off of the door. He held it up and to the side of my face for a moment, flexing his fingers once before it struck like a cobra, grabbing my lower jaw and forcing my head upward slightly. My lips were forced forward and open slightly as I gasped, peering at him from over the bridge of my nose.
"That's better." He murmured, his breathing fast.
And with that he released me and withdrew from me completely.
I wanted to collapse forward and catch my breath, but instead I gripped the fabric of my slacks and looked out the window, blinking back tears of intense frustration and I tried to orientate myself not only as to where we were going, back where I was in the universe.
For the rest of the car ride I could not bring myself to look at Sherlock, but I could tell from the faint reflection in the glass of the car window that he did not turn to look at me once.
He could tell, I assumed, that I did not look at him either. We were in a stalemate, but now the stakes were higher than before.