Photogenic pt. 1(Sherlock x Irene)
Summary: Sherlock is a photographer for the Baker Street Focus. He begins shooting a fashion segment with the infamous model Irene Adler. This wasn’t originally a series but I’ve put time into this so IT IS NOW.
“Yes, yes,” Sherlock’s lips pulled into a cruel smile as his camera shuttered, “Finally, you’re doing something correctly!” The lights sputtered a few more time, and he hunched down to check the pictures of the dark-skinned model.
“They’re gorgeous, Sally,” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably away from where Anderson - Sally Donovan’s talent agent with no real talent to speak of - had shoved his head over Sherlock’s shoulder to observe the photos he had taken.
“Yes, of course, she looks good today,” Sherlock responded bitterly, “She gets paid to let Molly work magic on her.” He waved at her caked, perfect face with a sneer.
“Forgive him, Sally,” John looked up from the couch behind the set, his eyes coming away from their screen. “He’s a bit of an arse at the end of a shoot.”
The curly-haired photographer just rolled his eyes, dismissing the writer as he removed his camera from its tripod, falling carelessly into his designated seat and beginning to upload the pictures of Sally Donavan to his laptop to photoshop later.
“He’s an arse all day, actually.” A posh, familiar voice drifted over the set, and Sherlock glanced up at his elder brother as he entered, his assistant Anthea in tow as always. “I think he’s reached his breaking point for today, however.” He said with a signature, straight-lipped smile.
“I got some good pictures of her,” He said, “Molly, good job with the pores but her blush is too obvious.”
“Yes, well you can do it yourself next time if you know best.” The makeup artist retorted, her and the photographer beginning to absent-mindedly bicker about their model’s contour while Anthea gave a quick goodbye to Sally and the ever-talentless Anderson as they stepped out of the studio into the evening.
“Well, I should be getting home as well,” John said, stretching his shoulders out as he reached to close his overheating laptop.
“Yes, I understand it’s late, but I need to talk to all of you about tomorrow,” announced Mycroft - the owner of the Baker Street Focus magazine. Sherlock and John stepped away from their laptops and Anthea and Molly broke from their conversation to give their attention to Mycroft instead.
“For starters, Anthea, I need you to write a letter to Greg Lestrade informing him that Miss Donavan’s pictures will be posted next week, and his line will be mentioned then.” He instructed as Anthea typed herself a reminder to send the message to the designer later tonight. “And then send John all the information he needs to write the segment we’re starting tomorrow.”
John, Baker Street’s editor-in-chief, gave Anthea a quizzical look.
“Tomorrow, we will begin a photo shoot of James Moriarty’s Fall line,” Mycroft mentioned as Molly and Anthea chattered under their breaths about the high quality of their clothes. “Like I said, Anthea will send you information about the designer, the line, and the model. That should give you about a week to write the segment.”
“Yeah,” John shrugged casually, “That shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll talk to the model tomorrow too.”
“Who’s the model?” Sherlock bit; he didn’t care about the designer or the line or the clothes. He needed to know who he was going to make his muse. Who he would have to turn into a god or goddess in the spotlight for a day.
“Irene Adler,” Said Mycroft, “Professionally known as the Woman.”
“Yeah, Yeah, I know her,” John said, his eyes lighting up with recognition. “She worked for something …”
“The Whip Hand, I believe.” Sherlock mused, “BDSM magazine. I found some stashed away on John’s side of the flat … I can appreciate their camera angles, however.” his lips pulled into a smile as his flatmate’s face went crimson.
“Well, whatever she used to do-”
“Still does,” Sherlock corrected his brother.
“James Moriarty has turned her into a star.” Mycroft sighed, “And it took a lot of convincing for you to even be the photographer for this.”
Sherlock just rolled his eyes, “Sebastian Moran has no talent-”
“He’s a good shot, and you know it.” Molly sighed, “Either way, he’s not going to be at the studio.”
“Alright, fine.” The younger Holmes brother sighed in defeat,
“Good,” Mycroft smiled, “Miss Adler will be here in the morning. Try not to be too much of an arse to her, Brother mine.”
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2087
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