I've Got You

“Well aren’t you the confident fellow.” His own lips quirk into a warm smile. Then, quite suddenly, a through occurred. John cocked his head to the side, appraising Sherlock before he posed his question. “How do you think you’d fair against me at a shooting range?” The blogger may or may not be a tad smug about his question. They both knew that John was an excellent shot.

        Irene attempts not to seem too keen, like she hadn’t been waiting on him to speak those exact words for what now seems an absurd amount of time. So she pauses, as if to deliberate– to weigh up the pros and cons ( the aforementioned having already been done over countless nights with her head resting on his chest, hazily unpicking cases together until one or both fall asleep ). He sounds nonchalant, like it’s an afterthought, as if she’s the second choice, but at this point she knows him too well for that. 

       “I think I will.”

      Sherlock watches as she seems to weigh up his words, but he knows she’s been wanting this for a while. He may not be an expert on women, but he’s become rather adept at reading this one, and she hasn’t been entirely subtle in her hinting. Nonetheless, Sherlock’s been dwelling on the thought himself for some time, wondering whether or not she’d enjoy accompanying him on cases rather than simply working over them at home. 

“Nice save.” Comes her response as she offers the phone back to him, the device sitting balanced between her forefinger and thumb. “Don’t worry, though. My lips are sealed. Just in case you were entertaining the idea.”

      HE’S RIGHT, but giving him the satisfaction of knowing that fact is the last on her list of priorities, for fear of his ego inflating any more than it needs to be. “Absolutely beside the point.” Question well and truly swept under the carpet ( she believes ). “But fine. I can take you shooting the walls. Setting fire to the kitchen table, keeping SEVERED LIMBS in the bath— I mean, it’s a wonder John even brings Rosie here any more but I won’t let it bother me.” A sigh, then. Picking up the teacup that she had held down in the water and turning to face him, expression seemingly passive, yielding. “What IS life without a bit of chaos?” With that her grasp loosens, sending the china mug hurtling to the tiled floor, smashing on impact. An eyebrow pulls upwards. “Oops.”

      Retrieving the phone, she types a quick message to the Detective Inspector to outline her findings, hitting send with a smug smirk before she looks back to Sherlock in his place beside her. “The next thing you know he’ll be asking me to come on cases with you.”

      She’s looking down at the man’s bound wrists as Jim speaks, the red welts that have been left in the wake of his struggle against the restraints raw and inflamed. A smirk comes to her lips at his bargain, as if she needs any more motivation. “Oh that’s entirely fair.” She purrs in response, slowly lowering herself down behind the chair to trail fingertips along their victim’s forearm before she moves to the ropes, tightening them further and eliciting a stifled noise of agony. “My my, it sounds like he agrees, don’t you think?”

      Returning to her previous stance, her hands shift to rest heavy upon the man’s shoulders, his shirt damp with sweat as her thumbs begin to knead into rigid muscle. “Oh he’s so tense, James. I think we’ve frightened him.” She dips her head, lips pressing to his ear.

             “ Now where                              should                                       we                                            START? ”

      He knew that she wouldn’t have any objections to his little deal. It’s not as though she needed the extra incentive, but adding a little here and there doesn’t exactly hurt. “I certainly thought so,” he hums, his eyes following her as she circles around behind the man to tighten the ropes. She was going to enjoy this anyway, but the gleam in her eyes has sparked tenfold, and he can see the cogs whirring in her mind as she begins to work out what she wants to do to him.

      He watches her as her thumbs begin to knead the man’s tense muscles, can see him tense further at the contact, practically trembling in his seat. “Oh, really? But we’ve been so generous to him. So... welcoming.” He tuts lightly, casting the man a disapproving look before he replies to her likely rhetorical question.

      “Bugger.” She mentally scolds herself for missing it, the idea seeming so obvious in retrospect— though it’s times like this that she’s reminded of the advice he’s given her so many times before. There will always something. “Do you want to text Lestrade or should I? He’ll begin to think I’m after your job.”

      She crosses the room as he speaks, settling herself in the chair opposite him, legs crossing elegantly as she does so. “Oh God, of course. How awfully silly of me. Forgive me, I almost forgot how FUN it is to be fucking shot at.” 

     Childlike excitement lights up Irene’s expression as his gaze falls upon her, her own stare moving slowly to settle on the unfortunate soul that she had just been given free reign over. She watches him astutely as he begins to thrash against the restraints her own hands had tied, muffled yells of protest escaping from behind the gag pressed against his mouth. 

     “ OH SWEETHEART don’t be like that. People pay a lot of money for what you’re about to go through. You should be grateful. ” Standing from her chair, her expression contorts to that of a frown, an exaggerated pout forming on her lips. “ Admittedly they get to LIVE to tell the tale— but beggars can’t be choosers. ”

      It’s moments like THESE he’s reminded just why Irene Adler had deserved that second chance. She’s an artist, and Jim rather enjoys watching her work. Tongue sweeping his lower lip, he examines the cup of tea in his hands for a moment, idly sweeping away a stray droplet from the rim as Irene advances toward the man. 

       A retort pushes at her lips, a rather childish ‘do too’ threatening to escape— before she decides that maybe it’s SLIGHTLY too early for an argument about snoring. “Oh I was just in the area.” If the catchment of Marylebone includes Amsterdam, that is. “Thought I’d pay you a visit. I saw you on the news last night and decided that it had been far too long.”

       Her brows furrow slightly as she gives the sorry sight another once over, a small, mock-pout forming on her lips. She leans forward in her chair, arm extending out to run her fingers along Jim’s forearm, a playful gleam in her stare. “Let me play with him.”

     Arguing happens to be something they do very, very well. It’s just another element of their game, another level of their inexplicable brand of flirting— taking a somewhat domestic act and putting their bizarre twist on it. A psychologist’s nightmare. Therefore, it’s not lost on her when he uses the word relationship. It still sounds out of place coming from him, like a foreign language falling from his lips. “If you call cleaning up after you NAGGING, then I’m afraid we have incredibly different definitions.” She continues to talk with her back to him, albeit with a slightly more passive aggressive tone. “If you wanted me to nag I’d tell you to stop stabbing the fucking mantelpiece.”

      “—because he’s not his brother at all. He’s his husband.” She looks up at him wide-eyed, expectant, like a child waiting for a pat on the back or a gold star for her efforts. “Have I missed anything?”

“I would wholeheartedly appreciate it if you stopped trying to have me killed.” She stands at the threshold of his office, arms folded across herself. “It’s just getting a bit rude at this point.”

     “Oh, don’t pull that face. You should have better security if you don’t want guests, Johnny boy.”

One day, John will prove Sherlock wrong about that. For now, he checks the refrigerator, ignoring what appears to be some unsavoury body part, and glances behind at his friend now on the laptop.

          “Yeah, I suppose she means we’re out, judging from the state           of the fridge. Did you ever do shopping before I moved in?”

      Sherlock focuses on searching through his emails for a moment as he hears John opening up the fridge, looking for food, most likely. When he hears his friend speak once again, Sherlock answers without looking back, typing a reply to Lestrade as he does so.