lostwithoutmyblogger

Irene's text back is so immediate that it might beg the question of whether she'd responded before his text.

Medicine cabinet

Where all manner of salves and more esoteric supplies were already waiting. As for The Woman herself? Well, she can't be too far behind...

Good, because the great detective manages to open the cabinet, but instead just moves to sit down in front of it, staring at all the contents rather listlessly.

Sherlock Holmes is a man used to scrapes, bruises, and even the odd bite mark or two. His is not, however, the sort of person who handles a drop in adrenaline or endorphins particularly well. He'll be sitting there, eyes glazed over, until she arrives.

She slips in through his window. How she managed it without anyone calling the police is anyone's guess. How she managed it wearing nothing but Sherlock's second best dressing gown and carrying a riding crop... Well some things are better left to the imagination, aren't they?

The caress of cool leather against skin comes a second before the voice. "Mmm, I can just imagine how your fans would react if this little photograph made it onto that blog."

"Don't."

His hands press over his ears defensively, eyes closing, like he can wish the words away along with the feelings. He should make sure she isn't preserving the moment with that camera phone of hers, but it would be far too much effort to move.

His habits of forgoing food and sleep have contributed to his state considerably.

The crop follows the line of his back as he moves, its touch deceptively light. She has no doubt he could read a thousand deductions from the motion, the amount of force she was applying, perhaps, but that was part of the fun. Knowing he could and daring him to despite the way he shrunk in on himself.

"Say please."

"Don't."

His voice comes out ragged this time. He can hear the dare, can feel the crop, and he'd bat back at her happily any day he wasn't itching to find something pharmaceutical and just fall into the oblivion he wasn't supposed to want quite this badly any more.

"Leave, if you're going to-"

One didn't have to be the legendary Sherlock Holmes to hear the smile in her voice. This was her arena so much more than his, and Irene Adler reveled in it. The riding crop traced along a particularly vivid scrape before Irene stepped forward into the washroom, tucking the leather strap beneath Sherlock's chin and forcing him to meet her eye.

"And leave you to John's tender loving mercies, Mr. Holmes? You would enjoy that far too much."

"What is happening?"

To him, he means, looking at her left eyebrow, rather than her eyes, voice positively hollow. One disadvantage of his inexperience is the total loss he's at now.

His question hangs in the air, and her expression grows thoughtful, though no less penetrating as she searches his face. She can hear the difference between truly submissive begging and one for show, and there's a similar hint of truth, of shattered illusions, to his voice now.

It thrills a part of her to hear it, but the game would be poor if he stayed like this forever. She leans forward head, running a bright red fingernail along his cheekbone, the same hand that'd done far worse not too long ago. "Come now, you know the answer to that," she replies. "Think, Mr. Holmes. Biologically. Chemically. You already know the answer."

It takes eight whole seconds, the entire length of time it had taken him to crack the code that had baffled her for so long.

"A reduction in endorphins."

Mild relief. It means that it will pass. He looks perfectly content to stay curled up on the tile floor until it does.

"I think there are sugar cubes downstairs."

She blinks in surprise at his answer. She'd expected him to come up with the answer, yes, but it does surprise her when he manages it so quickly. Perhaps not quite as clueless as the elder Holmes thought.

Irene schools her expression back to amusement, knowing that no doubt he could read whatever he wished in the gesture. She trailed the riding crop along the counter, seemingly unaware of the coat falling open as she moved.

"So is your housekeeper. Having tea with John, if I'm not mistaken. And complaining about her bins."

"Then I'm sorry for disturbing you."

Settling back down. He can suffer through it.

"I hope I didn't disrupt any of your own work? No blackmailing opportunities passed up on my account?

aftercare

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