14. Virginity is dead
As John dropped by for a quick visit the following day, he was surprised to be greeted by two frozen, severed head upon the kitchen table. Thankfully, the heads were wrapped in plastic bags, but on the stove something boiled that smelled like old feet. The doctor kept his distance as he walked into the living room to find it empty.
"Ah, John," the detective greeted as he exited his bedroom, dressed sharply in a dark suit and pale-blue shirt. "Could you take one of those heads home with you and place in your bathtub? It's for a very important experiment on decay."
"What?" the doctor asked with wide eyes. "That would stink up the entire flat. We wouldn't be able to live in it for a while, you know."
"Mm, yes," Sherlock nodded and moved over to the stove as if his friend's implication was lost on him.
John bit back a retort, knowing it would be pointless anyway, and exhaled slowly as he gained control of his thoughts. "... What's with all the experiments today? You usually stick to one experiment at a time. Except for that time you decided to dry human tongues and withered roses at the same time. You called it multitasking, if I remember correctly."
"Hmm," the tall man began in a high-key note as he stirred the contents of the pot around. "I awoke this morning with a lot of ideas."
"… Any particular reason for that?"
"Not really," Sherlock shook his head brusquely.
"Is Irene still asleep?" John asked and turned in the direction of the closed door. The detective nodded. "Would you like some coffee? Do you think she'll awake any time soon to join us? Or should I wake her?"
"Do," the man flashed him a quick grin. "That reminds me. I'd better email Lestrade about the solution to this smaller case I'd been working."
"Ah, so you've solved that, too, before lunch?" the blond man grinned in amazement. It had been a long time since he saw his friend so invigorated. There was definitely something different with him this morning, though John wasn't sure what could have caused it. Usually only nicotine patches or a good serial killer got him so excited, but neither were the answer this time. Maybe Mrs Hudson's energetic dancing last night had given the man fresh energy.
--
Sherlock's high, of course, didn't last long. Not thirty minutes later, after having sent his email to Lestrade and Irene had woken up, the man stood with his coffee mug by the window looking down on the pedestrians below with dreary eyes. The liquid in his cup had gone cold long ago.
"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John asked from his armchair as he noticed the impassiveness on his friend's face. He glanced behind him at the cleaned kitchen, from which he could still smell a faint odor. "No more experiments to do?"
The detective's sigh seemed to vibrate from the bottom of an abyss as he replied in a low, dull voice. "No. I'm bored."
"Maybe you just need to channel your brilliance," Irene cooed from where she sat behind the desk and the detective's laptop. The dark-haired man glanced at her from the corner of her eyes and she smirked widely.
"I need to be inspired first," Sherlock replied dryly.
"Oh, I can think of plenty of ways to inspire," the woman didn't miss a beat.
"What I need is a case."
Irene took a sip from her coffee and then frowned up at the man. "I thought you had just solved one."
John looked over and frantically shook his head. "Don't go there."
"That was hours ago!" The detective sighed in exasperation and began to pace the room back and forth, discarding his cup on the desk. "I need a challenge! I'm bored! Find me something to do!"
"Well…" Irene smirked and her keen gaze followed the tall man as he walked back and forth in the space of the room. She didn't need to say any more words as the detective stopped by her side, though without turning his head down to meet her gaze.
John couldn't help but inconspicuously glance over as Sherlock placed one hand on her shoulder and muttered a low, "Please... Enough."
The doctor felt all his powers of observation pull towards the simple scene playing out before him. Between others that scene might have meant nothing, but for Irene and Sherlock it had to mean something. In shock the man pointed from the one to the other. "Wait. Did you… did you two…? Last night?"
The woman pretended not to have heard the doctor. "If you've got no case, maybe you'll lose your touch."
Though it was evident she was merely pulling his leg, the man was anything but amused. His hand immediately left her shoulder as there was a single knock on the front door.
Sherlock knew it could only mean a client. With one seething look at Irene, the detective commented. "Challenge accepted. Get the door. Not you, Irene – John."
"Why me? I don't even live here anymore! ...I'm not your bloody butler," John muttered but got up from his seat to open the door. He let in the woman standing outside and guided her up the stairs. She was tall and lean, with a white, slightly muddy raincoat on and dark brown pants. Her blonde hair was disheveled and hung loose around her shoulders.
"Stop!" Sherlock commanded as the woman entered the room. The poor woman haltered and her green eyes widened in confusion. "Don't say your name or you problem. In fact, say nothing at all."
"O-oh, w-why?" the stranger managed and gazed from John to Irene in hope of getting some sort of explanation from them.
"Because I'll tell you why you're here," the detective explained and threw one confident glance at Irene before getting to work. "You've just driven here from your countryside villa about three miles outside of town where you keep two cats, one dog and one pig. How do I know this, you might wonder? There's mud on your boots and raincoat and a hint of manure in the scent about you. A city woman would never leave home smelling or looking like that, which indicates you're not from the city but from the countryside. You've obviously driven here judging by the car keys in your pocket and since it's still quite early in the day, you couldn't have driven too far. Three-four miles at the most. From the hairs on your pants I can make out two species of cat and one dog; 1) a Ragdoll, 2) a Burma and 3) a mix-breed Retriever… Did I miss something?"
"The pig," The woman offered.
Sherlock nodded down at her. "Ah, yes. Thank you. That one is obvious, though. You have the partial foot print of a pig on the tip of your muddy boot. Am I wrong so far?"
The blonde woman seemed to have entered a shocked trance. She managed to shake her head while she gazed up at the man as if believing him to be a freak. "How...? …No, no, you're not wrong."
"Of course I'm not. Now, to the matter at hand. Red shot eyes, hair in a complete mess and one of your gloves inside out. You've obviously hurried here and had a good cry in the car. The ring on your finger suggests you married ten years ago, which is obvious from the scratches visible upon it which only come with age and, of course, the faded color of the ring. Your finger, however, is slightly swollen and red, suggesting you've distractedly and quite anxiously wrung the ring around your finger repeatedly today. This hints at marriage trouble. Your completely disheveled look-"
"Sherlock, be nice," John asked.
"- suggests you hurried to get dressed, and from your shaking hand I'd say you left even before your morning coffee. Something must have happened with your husband as you woke up. He's obviously not dead... No, it's something less significant. Was it something he did? It was something he said. What did your husband say to you when you woke up this morning?"
His potential client merely shook her head in awe. "How did you…?"
"It's what I do," there was a stiff grin on Sherlock's full, impatient lips. "Now, please answer the question. Quickly."
"Eh... He said: 'Where am I, Susan?'."
John frowned up at the blonde woman. "… And why did that make you upset?"
"My name is Caroline! That bitch!"
"Ah," Sherlock turned and gave Irene a smug smile as if to tell her 'I won'. "As for why you want my help, I'll make your suffering short. The answer to your question is 'Yes. Your husband is having an affair' - I'm guessing with his secretary. I suggest you divorce him and take all the money you can get. Good luck with that. Now bye bye, I suppose you remember the way out. Off you go."
Caroline burst into tears at the end of the man's long-winded monologue and hurried from the flat. John sighed as he heard the door slam. "You couldn't have been a bit more sensitive?"
Sherlock frowned over at his friend as if that option was not a conceivable one. "What was wrong with that? I wished her good luck, didn't I?"
The doctor stood from his chair. "And people wonder why you're single."
"No, they don't," the dark-haired man commented with a snort as the doctor entered the kitchen. After a beat, Sherlock strained his neck and gazed back at his friend expectantly. "What people?"
Getting no reply, Sherlock turned back to the seated brunette and smirked broadly to express his gloating. There was a distant, impressed smile tugging at the corner of her lips and a fire burned in her blue eyes. For a minute the two remained like that, gazing intently into the other's soul.
"Twice," Irene said pointedly at last and glanced down at the desk below her hands, teasing Sherlock's memory.
The tall man smirked but shook his head. "You could see it, too."
"No, no, not until you pointed it out, I believe. But I wonder if you might have been wrong on one detail."
"Impossible."
Irene shrugged and stood up from her chair. As she rose, she came into Sherlock's personal space and gazed up at the man who was just about a head taller than her. "I got the feeling she knew the other woman personally, with her short remark at the end. How many women know their husband's secretaries? My guess would be that it's someone closer to the wife. A best friend or a sister, perhaps."
Her eyes burned through his defenses and the man knew she was reliving last night in her mind. She swayed an inch closer to him as her eyes drifted to his lips and then back up to his eyes.
"John, take a walk," Sherlock ordered as his eyes bore into the dominatrix. He had to admit he, too, felt somewhat hot in his clothes after their recent deductions. He had always known the woman had a sharp mind, but that she had ventured such a fine guess was indeed admirable.
The blond man entered the living room then with a steaming cup of coffee and frowned up at his friend. "Why?"
"Because…Eh…" the detective faltered.
John gazed over at the couple in anticipation. It wasn't often words failed his friend. In fact, the doctor had never seen him so floundered in the past, especially not after such a display of his powers of deductions. As he gazed from the man to the woman, it didn't take long before he found the situation crystal clear. "…Oh. Oh!… Ew. Consider me gone. Please don't have him beg for mercy until I'm out the door."
"Then you'd better hurry," Irene teased as the man quickly fled the room.
--
John returned hours later as he realized he'd forgotten his phone. He'd taken a long stroll through Kensington Park and stopped for an even longer lunch at a diner on the other end of town. Somehow, even being in the same part of London as Irene and Sherlock when they… did it, was something he couldn't bear. The mental images were bad enough from afar. He hadn't even been sure how long time he ought to give them. With The woman's past career, the man guessed the experience could last quite awhile. In the end, he'd opted to stay out just a bit longer to be on the safe side.
When he finally arrived to Baker Street again, it was with hesitant feet he walked up the stairs. His eyes were immediately drawn to Sherlock sitting by the desk in the living room, wrapped in nothing but a sheet, as his fingers flew frantically across the keyboard.
John cleared his throat as he glanced about in fear, hoping he wasn't about to see the woman wearing less.
"She's out," the detective commented as if having read the other man's thoughts, without looking up from his laptop. "She found your phone. Put in on the table."
"Good," the doctor exhaled in relief, walked over to his old armchair and sank into it somewhat uncomfortably. He wanted to talk to his friend about the recent developments, but didn't know how to. Having a conversation about Sherlock's love life had seemed to be something the two would never share. Still, here they were. "So…"
"No," Sherlock said without pausing in his work.
"No-what?"
"No, we don't have to have the talk," the dark-haired explained dryly and shifted in his sheet.
"Eh… I think we sort of do. Or, at least, I'm curious to know."
"Why? What's going on between Irene and I is between the two of us, it doesn't concern you. ...Unless you're asking because you are interested in joining?"
John shook his head frantically. "No! I'm good. I'm just curious because you're my friend and this is your personal life, which I up until this moment believed to be non-existent. Friends talk about these sorts of thing."
"Oh, you mean just like you've been nagging on and on about all your girlfriends in the past?"
"Could you just… tell me what's happened between you and Irene?"
"I think you know exactly what's happened, John, without me telling you," Sherlock glanced back at his friend pointedly.
The blond man decided to bite the bullet. "You've had sex."
"Yes."
"More than once."
"Yes."
"What does it mean?"
"Nothing. It doesn't mean anything, John."
The other let out a confused breath and shook his head. "Of course it does. It has to mean something."
"It's strictly business, if you will," the detective shrugged.
"And why don't I buy that?"
Sherlock pretended he hadn't heard his friends obvious disbelief. "We both win. She gets sex, I get to channel my brilliance."
"Channel yo-what? Oh, so that's what she meant this morning!" John sighed. "I still don't buy it, Sherlock."
"Your mind is too placid and one-dimensional to wrap itself around agreements outside the accepted norm," the detective offered. "But don't worry, it's just like everyone else's. Well, with the exception of my mind, of course."
The short man grimaced and leaned back in his seat. "Nah, that's not why. Are you sure you don't…?"
"What, John?"
"…care for each other?" he finished with hesitation.
"Positive," the man replied without missing a beat.
"But you slept together, Sherlock," John said pointedly trying to make his friend see the truth.
The other man did not. "So? It's really not a big deal. I'm told people do it all the time. Without feelings. It's… it's… what do you call it?"
".. Friends with benefits?" John questioned in disbelief and the other man nodded. "No, it's not. It can't be. You two… you two…"
"What?"
The blond doctor gazed over at his friend's profile. He couldn't tell if Sherlock truly wanted to know his opinion, or if he simply wanted the conversation to end so he could finish working on the laptop. Either way, the doctor knew he wouldn't get through to his friend today and eventually sighed. "Nothing. I'm… glad for you two, I guess."
"Oh…" Sherlock said. "You don't have to be."
"I know, but I can't help it. This is gonna be… interesting to see," John said and then opted to change topics before the ordeal got to painful and awkward. "Hey, Irene did tell you that Mary and I are going to Belfast next weekend, right?"
The dark-haired man inclined his head. "She did."
The blond man opened his mouth to ask if Sherlock had managed to deduce Irene's true motives for the gift, but was interrupted by a small 'pling!' coming from the computer.
"You know," John began as the man opened his mail, "each time I hear that sound, I'm gonna think you've gotten something from Mo-"
The man was cut short as Sherlock opened the video message he'd received. On the screen, a close up of a manically grinning Moriarty popped up. The criminal mastermind blew colorful party streamers left and right and then gazed into the camera.
"Congratulations, Sherlock!" the mad man exclaimed proudly. "I just heard the great news and had to send my love to you. Congratulations on losing your virginity - at last! She is a stinger, isn't she? 'Love is rich with both honey and venom', eh? …It's a shame, though, now I have to think of a new nickname for you. How do you like 'Angel'? Nah. I didn't think so either... I'll think of something. Oh, and Sherlock? There was one more thing. Just a teeny, tiny piece of information. I want you to consider this a fair warning that I've decided to go ahead with my misbehavior a little earlier than planned. I hope you won't hold it against me, but 'finis coronat opus', right? Let the final game begin!"
With that, the screen went black and Sherlock slowly turned back to face his friend.
"Finis coronat opus," the detective muttered. "The ends justifies the means."
John gazed intently at his friend's reaction. "Are you okay, Sherlock?"
"How could he know about Irene and I?" the man asked as he glared down at the dark screen lost in his own thoughts.
"Do you have any idea what he has in store for you?"
"No," Sherlock admitted in all honesty and gazed back at his friend. "But at least he won't keep us guessing for long."
The other man closed his eyes tight and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He just never gives it a rest, does he?"
"'Honey and venom'...'A stinger'." Sherlock repeated to himself and then sternly turned to the doctor once more. "Don't tell Irene about this, John."
The blond man frowned. "Why not? You don't want to alarm her?"
"Moriarty insinuated something by describing her like a bee with honey and venom. And he does have a fondness for games."
"You think… she might have told him this? You think Irene's involved in this?"
The detective shook his head, but there was no conviction to his eyes. "I intend to find out."
--
Irene arrived home an hour after dinner and strode into the living room to face the two men with a smile on her red lips. "Greg and Molly send their greetings. I must say, pairing those two together might be my best accomplishment in a long time. Maybe I should pursue a career of match-making?"
"Maybe," Sherlock conceded gruffly and looked up at the woman which scrutinizing eyes. His swift eyes searched every clue he could find on her flawless form, as if this was the greatest quest of his lifetime.
The woman frowned as she noticed the perilous journey his eyes were taking. "What now?"
"Sherlock…" John half-pleaded but words failed him as his friend glared over at him. The doctor didn't think the idea was a good one, but knew better than to stop his friend from discovering the truth no matter the cost. Still, he had lingered with his friend in case he would be needed to minimize the battle field.
Irene turned her frown in the blond man's direction. "…What?"
"Nothing."
The woman nodded slowly and tucked a strand of dark, wispy hair behind her ear. "Would that be 'nothing' as in 'we've received a special message from Moriarty'?"
"So you know something about it," Sherlock said and the tone of his voice was far from kind.
Irene noticed this loud and clear and raised her chin high into the air. "Stop guessing, Sherlock. Just because we slept together doesn't mean you automatically get the key to all my inner thoughts. Go on; Ask."
The detective locked gazes with the woman and conceded to her request. "Did you tell Moriarty we had intercourse?"
John grimaced from the sidelines. "You really shouldn't call it that."
"Ah…" the woman breathed. "So one day after sleeping with a woman for the very first time you blame her for being in cohorts with the devil. And you say you don't have intimacy issues."
"That's not answering my question," Sherlock pointed out.
Irene searched through her purse, pulled out her phone and flipped through it for something. "He texted me, congratulating me on 'doing you'. I guessed he'd be in touch with you as well. Would you like to read the text? Here." She pushed the phone into the man's large hand and then crossed her arms over her chest. "Satisfied with that reply?"
"That's a reasonable explanation, Sherlock," the doctor muttered under his breath and then looked up at the woman. "Did he tell you he's gonna start the final game, too?"
"He did not," the dark-haired man replied as he read the text and then held out the phone for Irene to take back. "I'm not trying to pin this on you. But he had to figure it out from some source."
"He has spies everywhere," the woman's irritation seemed to melt into hurt, though she took another step back and held her chin high to conceal the truth. "Why do you by default accuse me so easily?"
"Because you have worked with him," Sherlock admitted bluntly. "And, let's be honest, you don't have a history of being trustworthy."
"I guess not..." Irene nodded and her gaze didn't meet his. "You might not see the humor in this, but I do. I no longer work for him, but with you - and still you seem to believe it's an advantage for him instead of using it as one for yourself. He knew you would do this, knew you would blame me. Did you ever consider that? Of course you did. Tell me, did you consider it before or after you thought I was to blame?"
"I-" the man began, but the woman interrupted him.
"Don't bother. I understand. It's fine," With those words, she spun on her heels and walked off into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her before either man could comment. The sound of the door closing echoed in the tense silence.
"And you claim the two of you aren't in a relationship…" John couldn't help but take a jibe at his friend. The look in Sherlock's eyes was half-terrified, half-confused as he turned around to face the doctor. "She is pissed."
The man frowned. "Pissed? She said she was fine…"
"You know, sometimes I forget you're new to this," the former army doctor sighed. "Trust me, she was definitely not fine."
"What do I do?" the detective asked.
"Do you trust her?" John asked and the man nodded once. "And you want to know how to make her forgive you for accusing her of still working with your nemesis who tried to kill her just a few weeks ago and damn well nearly succeeded?"
Sherlock nodded again. "...Yes."
"I'm not sure," his friend admitted at length. "But I'm guessing flowers won't cut it."
--
Hours later, Irene sat by the desk in the bedroom and gazed into the Victorian mirror set she had made the man buy for the room and put on the desk. The fine piece of furniture reminded her of the dressing table she had owned when living in Belgravia and of the life she had used to live before being robbed of it.
The woman had changed for the night and wore an off-white peignoir. She'd wiped all make-up from her face and now looked at the reflection of the bared woman beneath the perfect mask. The eyes gazing back at her seemed to question every step of her heart's journey that had brought her to this moment.
The door suddenly opened behind her and Irene hurriedly picked up the brush to brush through her long hair. Sherlock lingered in the open doorway before he slowly walked over to the desk and looked down at the woman expectantly. When she didn't turn, he tossed a hideous-looking, frizzy package of angelic purple onto the surface before her. Irene glanced down at it in surprise. Purple. She saw the connection plainly. The man's favorite shirt was purple, there was obviously a significant point behind this gift.
"What's this?" she managed to keep her voice indifferent as she gazed down at the thing.
"An apology."
Irene glanced up at the man by her side as she put the brush down and reached for the wrapped gift. She unwrapped it slowly, as if she didn't particularly care for it and then stopped as the contents were revealed before her. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips. Inside the purple package lay a matching deerstalker to Sherlock's own funny hat and beside it a long, golden chain with a small, round spyglass at the end of it.
"How's that for humor?" the detective offered dryly. " I thought it was appropriate... Actually, Mary did. I asked for help."
The woman stood from the seat and smiled up at him as she put the necklace on. "Thank you. Why-"
Sherlock swiftly interrupted, "The idea itself is John's. He suggested you might need something to do since you no longer have your dominating business. He suggested you might want to tag along on crime solving. And now that Moriarty threatens the beginning of the end I figure it's perfect timing to introduce you to the fine arts of deducti-"
It's was Irene's turn to interrupt. She rose on her toes and pressed her lips against his, gentle at first but then slowly wrapped her arms around his neck to intensify the kiss.
When she finally pulled back, the great detective seemed somewhat thrown by her actions.
"Apology not accepted," she smiled up at him as one of her hands wound itself into his dark curls.
"...No?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.
"No, you've been a very bad boy. But I can show you how to make amends…" she smirked and tugged on the man's strong shoulders to bring him back down towards her lips once more.