Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes (John/Sherlock, Sherlock/Irene Adler)
Notes: Written for MMOM 2012, Day 6. Prompt from photoash: Sherlock TV - Watson/Sherlock - theoretical wanking discussion. Unbeta'd. Comments and concrit welcome, including Brit-picking. Takes place after The Reichenbach Fall.
Summary: Even a dead man has needs.
“Are we even then, Sherlock?”
It was the first thing she said as he was waking up from the drugs in the back seat of the car. He’d nodded, still too groggy to form actual words, but of course they would never be even. That was the attraction, after all, and Irene must know it as well as he did.
He was grateful, however, merely to be alive. More so when he arrived at the accommodation she’d arranged. Ms. Adler lived on the grand scale and this safe house had clearly been decorated to her specifications. It was certainly comfortable enough, with a well-stocked larder, extensive library, and high-speed internet access.
The residence also appeared to be a place of business. Every room had surreptitiously placed iron rings and what appeared to hard-wood floors were suspiciously soft and springy, certainly convenient for anyone who might need to spend a considerable amount of time on their knees.
It appeared that Irene Adler’s study of pain and pleasure had been as extensive as Sherlock’s investigations into various aspects of criminology. He had tobacco ash and shoeprints. She had a collection of whips, floggers, restraints, vibrators and dildoes, each group organized by size and colour to an extent that others might have described as obsessive but which Sherlock found admirable.
“See anything you like?”
“The configuration is most pleasing,” he replied honestly, but also warily. His mind was producing images that he would prefer not to see.
“Thank you. Feel free to avail yourself.”
Irene was gifting him with her most infuriating smile, the one that said she knew exactly what he was thinking. Sherlock had spent a lifetime keeping his most private thoughts so hidden that not only could they not be discerned, but that no one even knew they existed. Irene seemed to have unlocked his code as deftly as he had broken hers.
It wasn’t just that he might be looking for some kind of manual stimulation, leading to an orgasm, and thus a release of tension, but rather that she knew precisely what or rather who he intended to sodomise in his mind’s eye while masturbating.
“I’ll whip you if you like, just to help alleviate the guilt.”
“It’s not guilt. It’s loss,” he admitted.
“Of course. You kept him at arm’s length as long as there was any possibility it could actually happen.”
“Yes. My work was too important,” Sherlock said, the word “work” tasting especially bitter. He’d devoted himself to the work, pushing every possible emotional entanglement aside. His only physical indulgences had been the drugs and the occasional liaison based purely on sex. When he chose a solitary physical release, he focused on the depersonalized images of pornography or a completely impossible relationship, such as his fascination with Irene, who had made it clear he could have her, but never possess her.
“He loves you.”
“I know. I always knew. And I…I could have felt something if I’d…if I could have let it happen.”
He could barely say the words out loud.
“Well you’ll never see him again, so you're free to wank over him to your heart’s content.”
“You make it sound so coarse.”
“Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes. I can make it sound as beautiful or nasty as you like.”
He knew her inflections were part of her stock in trade. Equivalent to his ability to observe a suspect and make deductions. It still worked, forcing him to listen to the signals his body was sending. The needs that had been neglected for so long, the emotions that had been building up while he denied they even existed, and yes, the self-hatred for the pain he’d ended up inflicting on anyone who tried to get close, especially his…he still didn’t have a good enough word, but that fact that John had been his friend in spite of everything would have to suffice.
“Yes, of course. I think perhaps some lashes to my buttocks and upper thighs, I’m especially sensitive there.”
He considered, shivered at the prospect and then rejected it.
“Not at this time.”
Sherlock could sense her chuckle, although she kept her expression strictly professional.
“You’ll touch yourself when I give you permission, and bring yourself to orgasm on my command, and I will direct you to think very graphically of all the ways you and John Watson could have brought joy to each other and which you threw away in the name of your great crusade, which was merely a way to keep your colossal intellect amused.”
“You are a bitch,” he enunciated, and this time she didn’t hide her smile.
“High praise,” she noted.
“Yes, I believe it is. Shall I consider this a business transaction?”
“No, Sherlock, we shall consider it a favour between friends.”
“Thank you, Irene.”