storyline one.

[docwithablog]

chronology -

00. word association w/ Sherlock

1. gen texting w/ Sherlock

2. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

3. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

4. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

5. the case of the missing first violinist w/ Sherlock

6. texting w/ Sherlock

7. texting w/ Sherlock

8. texting w/ Sherlock

9. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

10. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

11. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

12. the case of the dying detective w/ Sherlock

13. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

14. the case of the great game w/ Sherlock

15. texting w/ Sherlock

16. otherwordly w/ Sherlock

17. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

18. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

19. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

20. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

21. texting - part one | texting - part two w/ Sherlock

22. the case of the navel treatment w/ Sherlock

23. texting w/ Sherlock

24. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

25. texting w/ Sherlock

26. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

27. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

28. the case of a scandal in belgravia w/ Sherlock

29. truth or dare w/ Sherlock

00. texts from last night w/ Sherlock

30. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

31. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

32. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

33. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

34. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

35. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

36. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

37. texting w/ Sherlock

38. the case of the devil's foot w/ Sherlock

39. the case of the devil's root w/ Sherlock

00. word association w/ Sherlock

00. texting w/ Sherlock

00. penny for your thoughts w/ Sherlock

40. midnight texting w/ Sherlock

41. interlude w/ Sherlock

42. interlude w/ Sherlock

43. interlude w/ Sherlock

44. texting w/ Sherlock

45. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

46. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

47. the case of the sign of three w/ Sherlock

48. texting w/ Sherlock

49. texting w/ Sherlock

50. texting w/ Sherlock

51. anniversary w/ Sherlock

52. texting w/ Sherlock

53. interlude w/ Sherlock

Comments

26.

[acuriousincident]

[ It's half past ten o'clock in the evening and the illusive Irene Adler has left her flat two hours ago, all evidence pointing to her leaving for a night-out (club wear, elaborate make-up, small clutch). Presumably, she might be back at any time within the next two or three hours (going by what he's been hearing about her habits from other residents in the building) or she might stay out until morning.

Consequently, they should have ample time for a break-in. Having crawled in from the roof (jumping three stories by way of individual balconies and entering through her bedroom door), they're currently making their way through her flat. The talk backstage at the opera didn't produce much data, aside from personal info and a glimpse into her professional life (she's highly conscientious about her work, has grown up in the theatre world back in the US, second home away from home but not, as it were, the hiding place for the photographs; the dressing room revealed no clues worth pursuing). She keeps those photographs, she said, for her own protection. Nothing more, nothing less.

But naturally, the Royals aren't so easily appeased.

He slips down the hallway, glancing at the paintings on the walls (most of them prints of modern art, frames unmoved since they were hung, nothing), moving quietly. John's right behind him - John, who's apparently upset with him for reasons he hasn't yet figured out. Either he does or he doesn't. Not important right now. Lips tightening, he steps inside the sitting room and looks around, gaze narrowed in the darkness. Everything's very carefully in order, it gives away nothing perhaps except for the woman's cleverness. She knows exactly what she wants to show her audience, doesn't she, at any given moment. ]

[docwithablog]

[ He can tell how his own, what, sentiment is seeping into it, like a bloody oil spill. Come on, he's not stupid, he can vividly feel how he's constantly shifting between a very irritable, very dour mood and his normal case mode, the slip happening for about every second step he takes down the hallway, not really noticing the prints on the walls (modern art, though, very cultured of her, isn't it), instead remaining mainly focused on Sherlock's back up front. He makes light work of the distance between here and there, John following along like always, because that's what he does, isn't it? You got to wonder if the other man knows where he is at this precise moment, he's finding it enough of a challenge in plenty of other contexts, after all. Maybe he should blow up a balloon, draw a face on it and just -- disappear, see if Sherlock would notice the difference. See if the balloon makes him all red around the nose, too.

Fuck.

Squaring his jaw, he exhales deeply, with as little noise as he can manage, seeing as they have apparently broken into the woman's flat in search of the illusive photographic evidence of her sexual escapades. His knee still hurts from the tumble he took on the second out of three balconies, but it's nothing acutely worrying, might be a bit sore tomorrow, but since he doesn't exactly expect them to engage in any straining physical activity (read: sex) the next couple of days, what does it matter? Another tug at the already tight line of his jaw and he steps up next to Sherlock inside the sitting room, looking around. It's all very magazine-like. Licking his lips, John crosses his arms over his chest in the semi-darkness. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ It takes him less than five minutes to rule out the sitting room. They've been through the kitchen and the various hallways and the floorboards are all sound, untouched. He frowns. Looks around, then out the windows, glimpsing the facade of the house. Nothing of note, no good place for hiding anything, let alone something of worth. Turning away, he moves past John without looking at him (the irritation is basically oozing off him and despite Sherlock's immense case focus, there's something a little bit distracting about it, like an annoying itch that can't be reached or scratched), heading down the hallway once more towards the third bedroom.

As he walks, something starts flashing in his mind. Hallway, he thinks, gaze narrowing. Sitting room, bedroom, kitchen with eating area, balcony x 2. Spare bedroom. His mental blueprints should be quite exact but there's something about the look of the third bedroom that throws him off. The size seems... odd, somehow. As if the hallway's too... short? He pauses. Turns. Gauges the length of the hallway and compares it to his expectations.

It's not... Is it too short? Did he calculate wrong? He blinks, standing quite still, the third bedroom door slightly ajar. Moving closer, he peaks inside very, very carefully.

Nothing. Just an empty bedroom, furnished like the rest of the flat. Small, though. Too small. ]

[docwithablog]

[ They don't -- talk. Which isn't exactly new, they rarely talk like that, after all. Sure, they say a lot of stuff to each other, but mostly related to cases or daily life or crap telly or eyes in the fridge. John has tried getting Sherlock to talk about more sensitive topics, yes, and it's always been the horse and water experience. So this time he isn't trying, though honestly, Sherlock can't bear the blame for that. It's on John, he knows. This slight sense of awkward embarrassment he feels, realizing that he's actually jealous. Because that's what this is, don't try to tell him differently. The possessive righteousness, the anger, the insecurity. He thinks Sherlock's going to run off with some woman who dresses up as men for a living and whips people in her free time and just thinking it, it seems ludicrous, but he knows what he saw. That fluster is very, very telling, Sherlock. You only ever get that way in bed. With him -- until now.

Just because John was the first, doesn't mean he's going to be the last. The only one. He's come a long way since he was 16, himself.

So, wordlessly, Sherlock moves around the sitting room, apparently deeming it clear, before turning around and venturing back the way they came. John takes a deep breath before following, arms falling to his sides as he makes his way after the other man. Third bedroom, not the one they broke in through, and John frowns as Sherlock comes to a halt in the door. What little he can glimpse looks like a completely regular bedroom, no sex dungeons or whatever you might expect a woman like her to have at her disposal. Giving Sherlock's back a slight nudge with his hand, not much in the way of a touch, but it's there, he meets the other man's eyes and inclined his head in a what now gesture. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ John nudges his back and Sherlock glances over his shoulder at him, raising one eyebrow to say - time for action - before stepping inside the bedroom (his back tingles slightly from John's touch and he realises distantly that he feels bereft of it). He steps carefully around the floor, the sofa bed by one wall very nondescript, the small desk by the window even more so. There's nothing particularly strange or out of place - except - oh.

Why would a relatively anonymous room like this have a huge walk-in closet along the back wall? Storage? It doesn't look like storage. And the rest of the room shows no signs of being used for it, the floor doesn't look even a little bit worn and it isn't new, either. Frowning, he steps closer, closer - before sliding the closet door open.

As he does so, the entire wall seemingly opens. A warm, heavy orange light spills out onto the floor, illuminating them both. Heat, he thinks immediately. Then, sex (the smell, sweat, arousal, cum) along with a rising sense of complete and utter panic as he stares, transfixed, at the scene in front of them. It's a room, yes, those missing square meters were exactly that; the third bedroom and parts of the bathroom have been joined into a fourth... well. He stares. Blinks. There's a naked man shackled to what seems to be a crux decussata, his face completely covered by a leather mask, leaving only a small hole for the nose. Additionally, he's been equipped with headphones (sensory deprivation). He's got whipping marks all over his chest, though you couldn't tell from the way he's breathing - calmly, evenly.

Next to him with her back to them stands Irene Adler, dressed casually in men's wear, a riding crop dangling loosely from her right hand. ]

[docwithablog]

[ Action, Sherlock says with just a look, because he can do that, a practical ability to possess, indeed, in this type of situation. John half-rolls his eyes, stepping into the bedroom after him, noticing the huge walk-in closet immediately, mostly because it's immense, even for a very fashionable lady with vast needs of room. Sherlock thinks so, too, of course, walking over to it unceremoniously and sliding the doors open, baring -- not a closet, that's for sure. It's a room, dimly lit and inside it a young man (long, lean, dark curls, though not as dark as Sherlock's) is strung up on a cross of some kind, face covered by a leather mask and headphones covering his ears. John comes to an abrupt halt next to Sherlock, his face falling quite spectacularly, going through a range of emotions. Surprise, realisation, disbelief. Exasperation, then. A visual urge to just facepalm. Everything reeks like sex, like cum and sweat and bodily excitement, physical exhaustion and the reason's apparently the woman with the whip, standing with her back to them, but John would recognise that hourglass figure anywhere, seriously. About to mutter something along the lines of let's get out of here, Sherl--, he finally looks at the other man, finding him staring transfixed at the scene, that tell-tale blush back across the bridge of his nose, cheeks... neck... Jesus Christ, really?

Gentlemen, Irene Adler says, still not turning towards them and John does reach up to run a hand down over his face this time, pursing his lips and waiting for Sherlock to snap out of it, so they can leave this very precarious sight behind and return to a normalcy that doesn't include Sherlock getting visibly -- what, affected, is that what we call it these days, by the sight of someone else, dominating his accurate copy, minus a few details. Not as well-endowed, for example.

Is he seriously noticing these things? Help. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ Gentlemen, says Irene Adler and suddenly, he realises how stupid he's been, underestimating this woman's sneakiness. Privacy, one of the most expensive and rare commodities in this time and age, at least if you're interesting enough for the public to pay attention. She offers it, plain and simple, and in return she gets... He stares, still. His face feels burning hot. The man on the cross doesn't move, doesn't seem to even notice their presence and he wouldn't, would he, with all his senses blocked. Other... things blocked too, it seems. Uh. He swallows heavily, realising that John's looking at him (let's go, says his gaze, though there's something else there, too, something a lot more complicated).

At that moment, Irene turns towards them, her gaze flat. Unimpressed. "Please," she says and signals towards a door on the opposite side of the room (Christ, where does it lead? Does she have her very own passage to the streets, off the blueprints and no doubt, unbeknownst to anyone but her and whomever she chooses to bring here?). He blinks. Shakes his head to clear it, though it doesn't help overly much. He keeps staring at the man in the bondage. A pitiful sight, on one hand. Pathetic.

On the other...

Lips thinning, he pulls himself straight and follows her as she strides towards the door, clearly expecting them to follow. They might as well, really. There's nothing to be gained from this. The photos aren't here, aren't in her flat at all. He should have figured that out from the very beginning but then again, he thinks as he glances sideways, just to make sure John's still there, still following, stil close - then again, she's a lot smarter than he thought. That much, at least, is obvious. ]

[docwithablog]

[ While John does his best to not look too closely, not to notice too much -- and Sherlock would tell him, he shouldn't worry, he's unobservant anyway, he doesn't follow the other man as much as falling into step next to him, when Irene asks them please and nods to a very secret and hidden door leading down, supposedly. One can hope. Unless they're on their way into the second part of her secret sex dungeon. With the looks she's shooting Sherlock, you can't bloody well know, can you? Christ.

His lips tighten into a thin line. He can feel Sherlock glancing at him briefly, not looking to the side quickly enough to catch the man's gaze, though his own is flat, even, uncommunicative for the time being. There wouldn't be much to see anyway beyond an uncomfortable awareness. He doesn't even have any other words right now. It's just that, uncomfortable and aware. Very aware.

Taking the lead on this one, he steps forward and opens the door, the staircase behind it very narrow and dark. Then, he turns towards Sherlock, nodding down it once in a this time we're going gesture. Because they are. They're going right now. Irene moves up behind them soundlessly, her men's clothes rustling only minimally and stopping just within hearing range, not too close, not too far, her riding crop dangling loosely from her hand still, John frowns. Looks back at the man strung up behind them, looks away again.

It seems I had a little something I needed to get out of my system, doesn't it? She comments. The woman. John scoffs and turns away, making ready to scale the stairs down and get the hell out. The man resembles Sherlock, so of course she had. You don't just pick Sherlock's type out by the dozen, do you? He would know. The man's too much of an annoying dick. ]

[acuriousincident]

[ The door opens up to a dark staircase, leading, presumably, to an old and otherwise unofficial fire escape. It must lead underground, presumably - there weren't any exits on ground level on either side of the building. He follows along, feeling oddly light-headed as he tries (in vain) to delete what he's just seen from his mindscape. It doesn't belong. He's not a stranger to this aspect of human sexual behaviour, he's seen it in cases from time to time (one in particular springs to mind, concerning death due to auto-erotic asphyxiation and the stupid loser in question who kept stealing rope from a BDSM club) and never reacted to it beyond a slight scoff. What's different now? He glances at Irene Adler who follows them down the stairs, talking about getting things out of her system and thank you, he noted the resemblance to himself, that's not even the least bit ambiguous. Unimpressed, he raises an eyebrow at her. She, in turn, stares him down and for a second, he doesn't actually know how to respond.

"It's sweet, how you're both trying so very hard," she says, her lips pursed for a moment in faux sympathy before she smiles, sweeping the tip of her riding crop up the back of his leg, just the tiniest, lightest little brush. His skin immediately breaks into goose bumps as he keeps himself from startling away. Trying for a contemptuous look, he's surprised to find himself utterly ignored as she turns her attention to John instead, her arm falling to the side again. "I have the perfect safe, though, and you can't hope to breach it so - leave it be, my darlings. Go home. Sleep." A pause, as she gives Sherlock a knowing look. "Dream."

He can feel the heat in his face, down his neck, spreading lower. It's all-consuming. For a moment, he can't do anything but look at her, her words resonating in his mind like echoes dissipating into darkness. He swallows, convulsively almost, then spins on his heel and stalks past John in the narrow hallway, realising very clearly that he's basically running away. Hands tightening in his pockets, he heads straight into the shadows, his footsteps loud and fast as he keeps his eyes on the door in the distance. ]