docwithablog | storyline one.

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[ 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. ]

[ 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. ]

Edited 2020-05-02 07:39 (UTC)

storyline one.

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