Title: Three Things That Never Happened to Irene Adler ...And One Thing That Did
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Pairing: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: Teen (*WEEPS*)
Summary: The future is sometimes not what we imagine.
Beta: by the lovely miarr, all remaining mistakes are my own.
Watson calls her cruel when she mentions her plan; she doesn't pay him any mind. She's not bound by the same rules of trust and honor when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. He and she do nothing but play games with each other, with the rules being uncertain and unfair as a given.
She's going to enjoy this.
Sherlock walks into his bedroom to find her already on top of Watson on the bed. She's a few buttons shy of fully dressed and Watson, lying between her legs on Holmes's bed, is missing his waistcoat.
The look on Sherlock's face is priceless. She doesn't laugh, which she considers an achievement. It only lasts for a moment, and then, before Watson has time to speak up and ruin everything, Sherlock's expression changes. Curiosity and excitement settle in over his shock.
"This is most unexpected," he says, batting his eyelashes, voice not yet wholly composed.
"I thought it would be cruel to make you choose," she says, looking at Sherlock and casually running her fingers through Watson's hair. It would be ridiculous to make him choose, and she is not one to turn down a handsome doctor when he and Sherlock Holmes come for the same price.
She walks in to find Sherlock kissing Watson, holding him in what can only be described as a gentle manner, right in the middle of the room, opposite the window. They make a striking visual.
They break apart as soon as she enters and Watson coughs, nervously, and is too embarrassed to question her being there in the first place. She hadn't announced her plans to visit Sherlock's residence but no doubt he'd known she was about to walk in. The curve of Sherlock's lips – the smile he uses as a poor disguise for smugness – and his unabashed stance prove so.
And yet he remains silent, and looks at her defiantly, and so she realizes this must be a test.
"Don't tell me you hadn't realized," he says, and now she's certain his condescension is a defense mechanism.
She hadn't known, but she'd suspected. If this is his attempt at scaring her or warning her off, he's in for a disappointment. "I hadn't," she confesses – honesty always confuses Sherlock, coming from her. "But I'm certain something can be arranged." She smiles and watches Watson pause to appraise her, behind Sherlock's back.
She thinks the idea is a little insane, but Sherlock insists it's brilliant and she eventually acquiesces. They start with dinner and then the opera, and by the time the night is done Watson has had more glasses of wine than he's kept count of. She helps Sherlock get him up the stairs. He protests, loudly and distinctly to make of a show of it, but then as soon as they're through the door and in the bedroom Sherlock kisses him, and protests turn into other sounds entirely.
She locks the door and joins them. She takes off Watson's hat and places it carefully on the table. She kisses his neck and the line of his jaw while Sherlock's fingers work at the knot around his neck. Watson startles, apparently having forgotten she was there, and gives Sherlock a panic-filled look, unable to disentangle himself from them entirely.
"Doctor, you must learn to relax," she says with a wicked smile.
Holmes pulls away from the kiss to start undressing Watson in earnest while Watson, still befuddled, offers little resistance.
"My dear, we must find some other, more personal name for you to call Watson if our private moments together are to be a repeated affair," Sherlock says.
She grabs Watson's face and forces him to lean down so she can kiss him. "How about 'precious'?" she says, afterward.
"That will most certainly not do!" Watson says, and she and Sherlock exchange amused glances before dragging him off to bed.
She wakes to Sherlock Holmes sitting in the chair by the window in her hotel room. She'd expected him to drop by. They hadn't seen each other since the day of Blackwood's death and no doubt he hadn't expected her to be back in London so soon. She can't tell him why she's here, but she's almost certain what he hopes her reasons for being here are – purely sentimental.
"I hear a Moroccan prince is due in London next month," he says. "I'm assured his inheritance is most impressive."
She tries to wipe the sleep from her eyes. It's some ungodly hour and she's tired. "Give him my best," she says. She doesn't say I can't stay in London because that would lead to the question of why she can't possibly allow herself to do it, and that's a conversation she's not even willing to have with herself.
He nods, a silhouette against the first glimmers of sunrise. "I hate London in the summer."
She knows it for a confession and appreciates it as such. She'll miss him as well. "I'm quite fond of it, actually." She yawns.
When he's gone she sits up in bed, unable to go back to sleep, and plans her next adventure. She'll go to Rome first. Winter is much more pleasant in the south and she hasn't had the opportunity to use most of her Italian accents in a while. Then Alexandria – the heat was terrible but she longed to see the city again; she hadn't had sufficient time to explore last time.
She would be back in London at some point. She'd see him and they would have their usual dance and maybe, just maybe, she'd get to take full advantage of Sherlock Holmes naked and handcuffed to her bed. But she couldn't stay, probably not ever. The world is too large and exciting and full of promise.
Fandom didn't make you a bitch (you were born one)
- Guess who saw Sherlock Holmes the other day?