Ah! Another prompt with the always-shining-and-brilliant Sherlock Nelms! *que fireworks in her honor* And this time, another brilliant writer, GoggleBox, has joined this figurative wagon! ;) The prompt ended up being 'bet', 'jam', and 'magazine'. Be sure to check out their takes on the prompt. :)
I am very worried that Irene is out of character for this one, and for that, I'm sorry. I had fun writing this, though, and for that I hope you enjoy the read! :)
Laughter. Screeching, mocking laughter, and then Moriarty's voice jeered, "I bet you can't!"
Sherlock just looked at him, piercing him with his cool, grey eyes. "I am... confident in my abilities concerning that area. I may have little experience, yes, but I know enough about how the mind works and the science of love to make it work."
More laughter. "Tell you what, Sherly, I'll give you... four days. If you've had a successful date by then, I'll let you keep the evidence against me!"
Sherlock looked down at the jump drive in his hand. Do you know how many sleepless nights it took to acquire this? "Fine," Sherlock answered.
The game was on.
Irene sighed and looked out of the window of the airplane; she was starting to feel a little ill. And she wasn't so sure it was only the motion sickness. Moving her hand, she twirled the small amount of water that remained in the plastic cup and sighed.
"More water, miss?" She heard flight attendant's voice say from beside her.
Turning slightly, Irene smiled seductively (because how else does Irene smile?) and nodded. "Yes I would, thank you." She handed her cup to the woman, who refilled it and handed it back to her.
Her phone buzzed, and she reached down to grab it.
I put it in the jam. Have fun. JM
Irene suppressed a groan. That wouldn't be very ladylike at all.
Sherlock was still seriously considering Molly as his 'date' before he heard the doorbell ring. Rolling his eyes and sighing, he was about to just ignore the sound completely, before he remembered he /had/, in fact, ordered a box of penguin intestines the day before and shot out of his seat. Yes, that's right, Sherlock Holmes was getting worked up about penguin intestines.
As soon as he opened the door, however, he was greeted with something else entirely.
"Miss me?" Irene said, smiling (again, seductively).
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What are you doing here?" He paused, trying to look sternly at Irene, but altogether failing and cracking a smile. Sherlock stepped back and opened the door wider. "Come in." This was just perfect. But, then again, seducing a dominatrix might be a bit harder than you'd think.
"So," John said, "why, exactly, are you here again?"
"Just a little visit," Irene said, hoping they would be happy with that answer and not inquire further. "It's awfully dull in the suburbs where Sherlock put me," she said, shooting a teasing glare his way.
"And he put you there... after he saved you from being decapitated by the terrorist group in Belgravia." John said, still a little confused. Irene didn't blame him.
"That's correct, dear," Irene said patiently.
"But why a magazine reporter?" John asked after a moment, gesturing to the pad of paper and recording device on top of her suitcase.
Irene closed her eyes and sighed heavily on the inside. Moriarty had such a sense of humor. "Figured I wouldn't be as welcomed if I stated my... true profession," she paused before directing her voice into the other room, "wouldn't you agree, dear?"
"Hmm?" Sherlock said, looking up from his microscope. "Ah, yes," he said distractedly, and then, "John, call Lestrade that he should take a look at the underside of the victim's shoes; I'm telling you, it was the pool cleaner."
John sighed, got out his mobile, and left the room.
Irene smiled over at Sherlock and wondered when he was going to ask her to dinner already; Moriarty said he would have by now.
Turns out, Sherlock didn't need to; Irene had grown impatient. "Since John is gone away to Mary's... we've got the flat to ourselves." Irene stated from the other room.
"And how on earth did you deduce that?" Sherlock responded facetiously.
"Let's have dinner." Irene called from the other room.
"Fine." Sherlock answered, not really interested in what she had to say; his penguin intestines were far more interesting. And they didn't constantly ask him to dinner. Then he realized she had asked him to dinner. "Wait-" Sherlock said, crossing into the other room, "dinner?"
"Yes." Irene breathed, looking up at him.
Sherlock took a deep breath and repeated himself, "fine." He paused for a moment. "But I don't want to leave the flat. I have things," he gestured to the microscope, "to attend to."
"Sherlock, dear, that doesn't really count then-"
He interrupted her, "says who?"
Irene pursed her lips. "Alright; but I'm making it. Your cooking skills are horrific, to say the least."
Sherlock watched her walk past him and into the kitchen. "Don't touch any of my experiments."
He heard Irene sigh. "Wouldn't dream of it, dear."
This counted as a date, right?
Irene scanned the kitchen once more for anything edible. This was going to take a while. The only things that were really acceptable for human consumption was the bread and the milk... and the 'milk' idea was violently discarded with a suspicious sniff.
Then she got an idea and pulled the little jar of jam out of her handbag.
Sherlock, at once, took it upon himself to rummage through her suitcase. She had only packed for three nights; the very number of nights he had left to have a successful 'date'. Sherlock didn't believe in coincidences. Irene was working with Moriarty.
Big surprise there.
"Alright, dear, dinner's ready." Irene's voice sounded from the kitchen.
Sherlock quickly closed the suitcase and walked into the other room. On the table were two plates, filled only with a piece of toast covered in jam. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at Irene.
"Not my fault your kitchen was poorly stocked." Irene said defensively and sat down. "Sit."
Sherlock sighed but sat. Some 'dinner'. Then something hit him. "Well that's all fine, dear, but there's only one thing that's bothering me: we didn't have any jam. I know; I used the last of it in an experiment last week. So, question is, what is this?"
"Maybe I brought some with me," Irene said.
"Yes," Sherlock responded, "that's the problem. I ask you again: what is this?"
Irene sighed. "Everyone has secrets, dear," Irene said, leaning in closer, "dark secrets."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, his expression bored. "Go on."
Irene threw her hands up, "Alright; alright. The jam is filled with this... chemical... that Moriarty had been experimenting with. He wanted to use it on you. It's supposed to make you tell the truth, spill all your secrets and all that."
"I thought you weren't working with Moriarty anymore." Sherlock responded.
"Turns out," Irene said, "he did want something in return. For... helping me."
"Ah," Sherlock said simply. How on earth do you respond to that?
"Can we please just go out?" Irene asked, tired.
"Of course, dear," Sherlock replied with a smirk and fingered the jump drive in his pocket. He needed a successful date, after all.