Fic for sherlockholmes: The Flight of the Queen Bee
Title: The Flight of the Queen Bee
Recipient: sherlockholmes
Author: venusinthenight
Characters/Pairings: Joan/Irene, Joan/Moriarty, historic Sherlock/Irene
Verse: Elementary
Rating: R/Mature
Warnings/Notes: If you haven't seen Elementary 1x23 and 1x24, be prepared for spoilers. Contains some D/s dynamics. Otherwise, no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Sherlock isn't the only one Irene was, is, and will be, fascinated by and or/obsessed with.
Beta Reader: Mouse
There are some things Irene Adler, real surname Moriarty, did not deduce, or expect, with regards to Sherlock Holmes.
She did not expect him to become an addict after her supposed death. On the other hand, he had always used, even when they were together. He had admitted as much to her. Perhaps she should have known it was just a matter of time before it happened. Sherlock had always been prone to outbursts at times, even when they were together, and not always while he came during sex.
She did not deduce that he would get clean and stay that way. She had thought that he would simply stay in ruin forever, that he would overdose and put an end to himself so she and her organization would not have to take the fall, and that she would triumph. It would have been her finest work of art -- the end of the great Sherlock Holmes. But that is still a work in progress, she thinks.
She may be better than Sherlock, but she certainly did not deduce or expect that his “sidekick”, his “mascot” as she called her, was a force to be reckoned with.
Goddamn you, Joan Watson, you sodding brilliant woman.
Joan had seen right through Irene, had known what she was up to. Now, Irene is impressed, disturbed, disgusted, aroused, fascinated.
As she sits in her holding cell, she realizes she needs to be with Joan again, only in a much more intimate setting than lunch at the Four Seasons.
* * *
(A month later...)
“You got out,” is the first thing out of Joan’s mouth when she and Irene are face to face again.
Irene had lured her to a penthouse somewhere in Manhattan, via a text message purported to be from her friend Emily asking if she would come over and give her opinion of a new place she was looking to rent, as well as to catch up on things.
“Of course I did,” Irene retorts with a smirk. “Had you expected otherwise?”
“No.”
“When did you realize it wasn’t Emily who had sent you the text?”
“When I received the address. Emily doesn’t make nearly enough money to afford this place.” Joan looks around, notices the modern furnishings and decor. “This isn’t even her style anyway. Or yours, as I recall.”
“You’re right, it isn’t. The mansion would have been too predictable, and besides,” Irene begins walking slowly toward Joan, “I appreciate all art, even the pieces I merely dislike or otherwise detest. In your case, my dear Watson,” she reaches a hand up to take her blonde hair out of the updo she has been wearing, then removes her grey pinstripe suit jacket, “I need to do some further investigation.”
“Oh, really?” Joan counters. Then, after a beat, her eyes narrowing and eyebrows raised, “Only if I’m allowed to do the same.”
Irene leans in and gives Joan a firm kiss, as if to seal it. “Yes, of course.” She cups Joan’s chin in her hand. “If you knew that you wouldn’t find your friend Emily here, why did you still come?”
“Because I knew who I would find here,” replies Joan as she removes her jacket and cardigan. “If you could use my brother to get to me, you’re more than capable of using my friends, and under less nefarious circumstances.”
Irene kisses her again. “You like my game, don’t you?” She flashes Joan a sly smile.
Joan tilts her head to one side as Irene removes her hand from her face. “You fascinate me. You’re an intelligent woman. Why turn to a life of crime?”
“Why consult with Sherlock Holmes? You had a career as a sober companion, and as a physician -- a surgeon -- before that.”
“Yes,” Joan reaches up and unbuttons Irene’s suit jacket, which she then slips off, followed by her blouse.
“A disgraced surgeon.” Irene watches as Joan’s dark brown eyes widen and brows raise, watches as her breath quickens just slightly. She knows she has struck a nerve, knows this is a part of Joan’s past that she had assumed was long behind her.
“I chose to resign.” Joan’s voice is eerily calm, Irene thinks. Too calm. She observes Joan as she reaches down to take off her boots; Joan keeps her own eyes on Irene.
“And then you chose to be a sober companion,” Irene retorted, “which ultimately led you to Sherlock Holmes.” She goes for the hem of Joan’s dusky pink t-shirt and pushes it up as Joan lifts her arms. Irene then kicks off her own black pumps.
“But I didn’t need to hide behind an assumed identity to meet him.”
Irene’s icy eyes fixate on Joan, watching as she removes her printed blue skirt. “Have you ever--?”
“No, and I don’t want to,” Joan interrupts, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t, and don’t, need to.” She draws closer to Irene and wraps her arms around Irene’s waist to search for her skirt’s zipper. After a few seconds, it’s undone, and Joan shimmies it down Irene’s hips and legs and waits for her to step out of it.
“Really? I cannot believe that.”
“Sherlock takes care of his own business. I stay out of it.” As Joan removes her tights, she continues, “He said you taught him things. Sexually.”
Irene can feel her cheeks flush as she remembers instructing Sherlock on the finer points of sexual dominance and submission and teaching him the art of the latter. She can visualize him hanging upside down on a modified version of one of Sebastian Moran’s killing contraptions, cock hard and ripe while she would take it into her hands and stroke him into orgasmic oblivion. She wants to put Joan in that position, wants to introduce her fingers to her vagina, make her clitoris pulsate, and watch her come. Irene shuts her eyes as tight as she can as she listens to the unfastening of bra hooks, can hear the sound of Joan’s knickers as she takes them off. How? How does this woman make her feel this way? How does she figure her out every fucking time?
She can hear Joan’s bare feet on the floor as she comes closer, can feel her warm fingers on her back as she unfastens her bra. Irene opens her eyes, turns her head to the left. “I hate you, Joan Watson,” she says. “I hate you so much. But you’re so...” She loses her train of thought as Joan pushes her knickers down, now fully aware that she and Joan are naked and that she’d had nothing to do with her own nakedness.
“The feeling is mutual,” confesses Joan as she returns to stand in front of her. “Now spread your legs and put your hands above your head.”
“I’m... I’m sorry, what?” Irene is taken aback by Joan’s forwardness.
“If one of the things you taught Sherlock was how to be submissive, I’d like to see you demonstrate it.” Joan cocks her head to one side. “If you don’t want to --”
“I’d, erm, be very happy to submit to you,” Irene replies, hesitant. This isn’t going how she’d imagined. Joan should be the one submitting. Not her.
“I don’t believe you.” Joan’s words come out slowly, softly. She bends down to collect her clothes, then adds, “You can’t submit. Not completely. It’s foreign territory for you. You’re afraid of it.”
Irene cannot come up with a suitable retort. Instead, with her mouth agape, she watches Joan walk to a different room to put her clothes back on, and continues to stand there as Joan walks out. She knows she has been bested, again, left naked with no defense left -- literally and figuratively.
They will meet again. One day, Irene hopes, Joan will succomb.