(no subject)

[whatofthewarts]

Irene Adler had many homes, and many more hiding places, but months after her death Sherlock was certain he'd found at least half those in the country. She had her many stolen jewels tucked away all over the apartment, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to dig them all out of their hidey holes. When he had them in his pockets, he went searching for someone else entirely.

Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.

"Making headway, I presume?"

Comments

[whatofthewarts]

"This isn't going to get you out of anything."

Holmes finally does straddle his stomach, to have better leverage as he digs his thumb into the hollow of Sherlock's shoulder, so deep he might be trying to put his finger through the floor.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

There's a moment of uncomprehending eyecontact, and then his eyes roll back and he's thrashing, pinned, battering himself between Holmes and the floor, pinned by the one shoulder.

/hastiest tag

[whatofthewarts]

"If I didn't know better, I would say you enjoy this. Perhaps that explains your choices, the very simple difference between us."

He digs his middle and forefingers under the dip at the center of Sherlock's clavicle. "What do you think?"

wooh

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

It sends lightning through him, but paralyzes him, because if he moves his heart and chest will unhinge, ribs peeling open under his fingertips. His heart is hammering, face going blank. Hurts.

[whatofthewarts]

"See...you are making expressions I am certain I have never made. And I have been suspended from a hook, through that very point on your shoulder I just released."

It's so terribly fascinating. And Holmes doesn't get any thrill from battering the helpless, but Sherlock is not helpless. He is no victim. So what that makes this, he oesnt know, except that yes: he is enjoying it.

Enough to hook one leg over Sherlock's shoulder while the other presses his ribs. By yanking the man's arm just so, he can flip them over into a classical Greco-Roman hold. It won't hurt nearly as much as the pressure points, and it's more easily fought.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

It's still worse, somehow, because now that he isn't paralyzed by agony he has to fight again, and the frustration is what really sends him over the edge. Weak and trying.

"Hooks-"

He has memories of those, or maybe something to say about them, but he can't get his breath, can't still his thoughts.

[whatofthewarts]

"You have some experience with them?"

How curious. He shoves Sherlock down and stands, allowing him room to speak because he does want an answer.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

His bruised cheek connects with the floor, and he stays down, dazed and crumpled.

[whatofthewarts]

Holmes takes a seat on a lone chair and leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying Sherlock.

"Tell me what you know about hooks."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Irene."

Making it up a bit, managing to roll over.

"Hooks and needles."

[whatofthewarts]

His Irene is not into that. And Holmes's primary experience was being tortured by Moriarty. So his mind goes directly to one possibility alone.

"What happened to her?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"She was going to be beheaded by a terrorist cell because of me. I relented and rescued her, and then we had a psuedo-spiritual experience in the sand where she hung me up by my skin."

[whatofthewarts]

"Pseudo-spiritual."

Explain that. He knows that he and Sherlock are at least of one mind on all things metaphysical.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"The endorphin high briefly gave me the sensation of being connected to the entire universe. I've had worse cocaine."

To contextualize it.

[whatofthewarts]

"Ah. A delusional experience brought about by an overtaxed neural network."

He nods. Makes sense. He's seen priests experience the same.

"Why did she want to do it?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"It's what she does. Hurts people for pleasure."

He tells him, withdrawing further. He doesn't know 'broken heart' reads as transparently on him as all the rest.

"Dominatrix and sadist. She liked to whip, drug, and choke me now and again, to get me tractable enough to work for her."

[whatofthewarts]

"Mine was more into humiliation than beatings."

He doesn't smile, but there is a distinct softness in his expression.

"She once drugged me and left me naked and handcuffed to a bed in an upscale hotel."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"That too."

He admits, with the strange, defensive stillness back in him again, looking at the ceiling.

"Only not strangers. John and Mycroft. And it was never really nudity, just the- care, I suppose, the narcissism of presumed mutual infatuation."

[whatofthewarts]

"You felt no such thing?"

This could so easily come off as that 'psychoanalysis' that Sherlock had sneered at. But it's not. It's, if anything, more of a self-analysis. Feelings about Irene were never simple or clear.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"She informed them that I did, and she didn't."

He corrects, simply, still watching the play of firelight over the ceiling.

Another bee materializes, and drops stone dead to the floor, head severed. Another failure.

[whatofthewarts]

"She had reason to believe that you did."

Irene is--was--arrogant, and often wrong, but she didn't base her assumptions on empty air.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

There's no answer now. He's climbing to his feet again, eyes back on the door.

[whatofthewarts]

"We're not done yet."

Knowing this about Irene has stoked new fascination.

"Show me the scars."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Go to hell."

He informs him, tiredly, already know what's coming next.

[whatofthewarts]

"What I can't understand is how you act defiant, when you aren't truly helpless. What are you railing against? And why?"

He says it so Sherlock understands the reasoning behind Holmes slamming his heel against the back of Sherlock's knee.