[But he's fine. Only he's not, is he? Absolutely full of a guilt that makes him hate himself, and that's odd, because he's never hated himself before - and some small part of him wants to hate John, because he didn't - he couldn't hate Sherlock.
Even though he gave him more than enough reason to.
Dear. [It's quite hard to tell whether that's an endearment or an exclamation of dismay, so soft it's barely a breath.]
Look at you. After everything. 'Fine' indeed.
Let's see. We could reminisce about the living, or does that hurt? Physical contact? [She holds out a hand, palm upwards.] Probably out, but worth a try. I could tell you it was brave, if you like. Or I could tell you that you're keeping him safe. [Not happy. But safe.]
[He's quiet, uncharacteristically so, simply staring down at her. Almost hopeless. Almost.
He's eyeing her hand absently, looking from the the lines on her palm to the silver bracelet around her wrist; it wouldn't hurt, why would it? But he's weighing his options, over thinking everything the way that only Sherlock Holmes can do.]
It wouldn't make much of a difference.
[But he's vulnerable. And she knows that. He's never been more vulnerable in his life, and it settles over his stomach like a plastic film, unsettling and uncomfortable.]
Irene used BREASTS they are-- possibly not as much as of a surprise anymore
[Vulnerable people, however, are Irene's area. She's a dominatrix, after all- and in its most basic form, that's about taking people apart until you can see the most basic blocks of their personalities and lives, letting them give themselves up utterly.
The really good dominatrixes know how to do more than that- can carry their clients through it, drag them through it if they have to, and build them up again as good as new- and Irene is the very best.
People are to her what facts are to Sherlock, and people who are vulnerable are the best sort, because they're as human as they can possibly be- whether they're tied to a bed or standing in front of her looking lost.
She keeps her hand out. It's an offer, not a demand.]
Much of a difference? Sherlock. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm trying to make any difference at all.
YOU AND YOUR BOOBS put them away they're clearly cold
[He can break people perfectly well, it's just that whole - building back up thing. He's never done that because he's never needed to.
He didn't think he'd ever have to build himself back up, because he's always so high up with that brilliant ego of his. Block by block it's all falling away but he's still here, so it's not all lost, is it?
He's never been easier to read, because he's so tired of pulling up the same mask and keeping himself distant. He wasn't distant this time, he was never distant, it was a critical hit and he has to disappear which is as good as being dead in some ways.
Sherlock hesitates before taking her hand, feeling the weight of it in his.]
[A smile spread over her face, encouraging- that's right. She's familiar with this curious, fragile state, has seen it before- but she's never seen him like this. She'd say she's surprised (it is incongruous, the great Sherlock Holmes so broken) but she's very much aware that everyone has their particular loose thread. All it takes is for someone to find it and pull and everything unravels.]
Copious amounts.
[She flicks a thumb over his knuckles.]
I can't imagine you drunk. Do you talk more, or less?
[He's still Sherlock Holmes, and he hates that smile because it's almost pitying him in the way that it's encouraging, but he's too tired to raise an objection.
Is he really so predictable.]
I hope it's incredibly expensive scotch.
[He accepts that he's vulnerable, no matter how much he hates it, and he accepts that Irene is, at the very least, good company. So wherever she leads him, he'll follow - though he'll be quietly wary.
For a man who's had his world turned upside down, he's reasonably companionable. He'd never thought Irene Adler would be a sight for sore eyes. He smile a tight-lipped smile, looking down at their hands.]
It's exorbitantly expensive, and you're going to like it.
[That sounds like it could be finished with or else, but Irene's eyes aren't predatory, for once- they're gentler than that, and maybe a little sad- sentiment and so on. Still, better to be sentimental and understand it than to be cold as ice and terrified when you start to melt, she thinks- poor Sherlock, he hasn't got a clue what to do with himself. She runs a fingernail incredibly lightly over the palm of his hand and then releases his hand (reluctantly, but she isn't a teenage girl on a date) to start walking.]
Come on, then. To the scotch and beyond. [Wryly, over her shoulder:] I'm afraid I'm a sentimental drunk, dear. I get either terribly happy or terribly sad and sometimes I can't tell which. It's all very human and illogical. Can you bear that, I wonder?
[Sherlock merely swallows, his hand dropped dropped delicately and his feet moving to follow her without any hesitation. The sound of her heels is echoing off of the walls loudly and he's finding the rhythm of it all somewhat comforting. He hasn't lost his footing and knowing that wherever life is, there will be rhythm is a help he can't even explain.
He can still fall into an automatic state, his mind filled with the thoughts he's trying so desperately to skirt around.
There's an emptiness settling in his stomach, but it's not the sort he's used to, oh, and his heart. He can't even explain it, and it's so much easier to ignore it than it is to deal with it. He's never had this many emotions swelling up before and he can barely name them let alone carefully dissect and understand them. He just falls into the beat of life, where he moves absently and he speaks without really listening to the words aimed his way.]
[She casts a glance over at him, her eyes prying and thoughtful. Every time she gets a glimpse of him, she gets the most dreadful feeling in her chest- a sympathetic sinking.
She'd say she knows what it's like- and to an extent she does. She's cut her ties enough. Of course, by this point, she's begun to stop forging them when she can, to save herself the trouble of ripping herself loose time and time again. Cutting him off had been painful in a strange way- an I wonder what could have been way, a sort of paid-forward regret at losing something she hadn't ever actually had. Cutting off Kate had hurt in an entirely different fashion, but she hadn't been to Irene what John was to Sherlock. The difference between- well. What? Sane and insane?
I've got my work cut out for me.
She steps into the lift- empty save for them- the clicks of her heels changing tone, and presses the buttons. (Not the time for a 'going down' joke).]
If you don't talk, you're going to keep thinking.
[Neutral. It's not exactly a warning- just a statement. Perhaps he wants to keep thinking, in which case Irene can stay in silence.]
[Sherlock is hard to read at the best of times. It's clear to see from his posture that he's not trying to hold his mask on, but there's still a sense of control there - the kind that's closely linked with pride and ego, and that protects him from becoming too emotional; he's forcing his mind to slow and he's telling his heart to stop betraying his calm façade, because it's getting hard to keep things straight inside his head.
Sherlock has never been close to people. They've either fucked him over or he's fucked them over, it was never a delicate balance. He's never actively put trust into someone the way that he did with John, so to betray him has left him with this bitter taste in his mouth and a guilt he's never experienced before.
His head is swimming with every negative thought he's ever had, and he hates it, because he's usually brilliant, he's usually fantastic and an absolute genius, but he's not right now. He's nothing.
He'll need a new alias, and he's already hopped the country to France. Finally, the ability to speak French fluently has come in handy.]
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No hats. It's a rule.
[But he's fine. Only he's not, is he? Absolutely full of a guilt that makes him hate himself, and that's odd, because he's never hated himself before - and some small part of him wants to hate John, because he didn't - he couldn't hate Sherlock.
Even though he gave him more than enough reason to.
Idiot.]
I'm - fine.
:c
Look at you. After everything. 'Fine' indeed.
Let's see. We could reminisce about the living, or does that hurt? Physical contact? [She holds out a hand, palm upwards.] Probably out, but worth a try. I could tell you it was brave, if you like. Or I could tell you that you're keeping him safe. [Not happy. But safe.]
NO your womanly wiles will not help you this time
He's eyeing her hand absently, looking from the the lines on her palm to the silver bracelet around her wrist; it wouldn't hurt, why would it? But he's weighing his options, over thinking everything the way that only Sherlock Holmes can do.]
It wouldn't make much of a difference.
[But he's vulnerable. And she knows that. He's never been more vulnerable in his life, and it settles over his stomach like a plastic film, unsettling and uncomfortable.]
Irene used BREASTS they are-- possibly not as much as of a surprise anymore
The really good dominatrixes know how to do more than that- can carry their clients through it, drag them through it if they have to, and build them up again as good as new- and Irene is the very best.
People are to her what facts are to Sherlock, and people who are vulnerable are the best sort, because they're as human as they can possibly be- whether they're tied to a bed or standing in front of her looking lost.
She keeps her hand out. It's an offer, not a demand.]
Much of a difference? Sherlock. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm trying to make any difference at all.
YOU AND YOUR BOOBS put them away they're clearly cold
He didn't think he'd ever have to build himself back up, because he's always so high up with that brilliant ego of his. Block by block it's all falling away but he's still here, so it's not all lost, is it?
He's never been easier to read, because he's so tired of pulling up the same mask and keeping himself distant. He wasn't distant this time, he was never distant, it was a critical hit and he has to disappear which is as good as being dead in some ways.
Sherlock hesitates before taking her hand, feeling the weight of it in his.]
I hope you have scotch.
NO SHAN'T
Copious amounts.
[She flicks a thumb over his knuckles.]
I can't imagine you drunk. Do you talk more, or less?
SIGH /WRAPS COAT AROUND
Is he really so predictable.]
I hope it's incredibly expensive scotch.
[He accepts that he's vulnerable, no matter how much he hates it, and he accepts that Irene is, at the very least, good company. So wherever she leads him, he'll follow - though he'll be quietly wary.
For a man who's had his world turned upside down, he's reasonably companionable. He'd never thought Irene Adler would be a sight for sore eyes. He smile a tight-lipped smile, looking down at their hands.]
Both, depending on the situation.
<3
[That sounds like it could be finished with or else, but Irene's eyes aren't predatory, for once- they're gentler than that, and maybe a little sad- sentiment and so on. Still, better to be sentimental and understand it than to be cold as ice and terrified when you start to melt, she thinks- poor Sherlock, he hasn't got a clue what to do with himself. She runs a fingernail incredibly lightly over the palm of his hand and then releases his hand (reluctantly, but she isn't a teenage girl on a date) to start walking.]
Come on, then. To the scotch and beyond. [Wryly, over her shoulder:] I'm afraid I'm a sentimental drunk, dear. I get either terribly happy or terribly sad and sometimes I can't tell which. It's all very human and illogical. Can you bear that, I wonder?
[She's not going to mention dinner. Yet.]
hmph. ... <3
He can still fall into an automatic state, his mind filled with the thoughts he's trying so desperately to skirt around.
There's an emptiness settling in his stomach, but it's not the sort he's used to, oh, and his heart. He can't even explain it, and it's so much easier to ignore it than it is to deal with it. He's never had this many emotions swelling up before and he can barely name them let alone carefully dissect and understand them. He just falls into the beat of life, where he moves absently and he speaks without really listening to the words aimed his way.]
I suppose we'll find out, won't we?
no subject
[She casts a glance over at him, her eyes prying and thoughtful. Every time she gets a glimpse of him, she gets the most dreadful feeling in her chest- a sympathetic sinking.
She'd say she knows what it's like- and to an extent she does. She's cut her ties enough. Of course, by this point, she's begun to stop forging them when she can, to save herself the trouble of ripping herself loose time and time again. Cutting him off had been painful in a strange way- an I wonder what could have been way, a sort of paid-forward regret at losing something she hadn't ever actually had. Cutting off Kate had hurt in an entirely different fashion, but she hadn't been to Irene what John was to Sherlock. The difference between- well. What? Sane and insane?
I've got my work cut out for me.
She steps into the lift- empty save for them- the clicks of her heels changing tone, and presses the buttons. (Not the time for a 'going down' joke).]
If you don't talk, you're going to keep thinking.
[Neutral. It's not exactly a warning- just a statement. Perhaps he wants to keep thinking, in which case Irene can stay in silence.]
no subject
Sherlock has never been close to people. They've either fucked him over or he's fucked them over, it was never a delicate balance. He's never actively put trust into someone the way that he did with John, so to betray him has left him with this bitter taste in his mouth and a guilt he's never experienced before.
His head is swimming with every negative thought he's ever had, and he hates it, because he's usually brilliant, he's usually fantastic and an absolute genius, but he's not right now. He's nothing.
He'll need a new alias, and he's already hopped the country to France. Finally, the ability to speak French fluently has come in handy.]
I've never been particularly good at small talk.
no subject
[The lift doors slide smoothly open, and she exits first. She says nothing until they're just outside her door.]
I know a man in the Ministère de l'Intérieur if you need documents.
[Click, and the door opens. She slips in and peels off her jacket.]
That is, I know what he likes.