Sherlockmas Summer Vacay fic: While the Cat's Away. Part 1, Summertime Blues
BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (explicit femslash)
Summary: For how much longer can Kate and Irene keep going?
Thanks for betaing and plot advice to Kalypso_V
NOTE: This was written for Prompt 56 of the Sherlockmas Summer Vacay festival: "Irene/Kate; It's already a hot summer day, but Irene would like to make it even hotter." There is a second linked story that I will post tomorrow, but this fic is complete in itself.
Thursday 23rd June 2011
It's high summer in Karachi and wearyingly hot; when Kate picks up Irene at Jinnah International Airport, she makes sure she has an air-conditioned car. She's hired a driver as well; she doesn't fancy chauffeuring duties among the appalling traffic jams.
Irene settles wearily back in her corner of the car and points to the driver.
"Is he...?"
"One of ours," Kate says, and leans forward, smiling, to announce to the driver:
"Abdul, this is Ms Schneider, whom you'll be kidnapping tomorrow."
Abdul turns his head, gives a broad grin and a wave of his hand, and then returns to a running commentary on the stupidity of the motorists around him.
"You think he'll be OK?" Irene asks.
"He's pretty reliable," Kate replies. It's the old dilemma: it's easy to find criminals, but how do you know you can trust them not to sell you out? "The other three are his relatives, and he vouches for them. Four should be plenty for this. They don't have to snatch you from the street, after all."
In eighteen hours "Diane Schneider" is going to set off for a meeting to discuss off-shoring her firm's call centre. She's never going to arrive at it. Her terrified PA will alert both the American and British embassies. By the time they work out that this isn't a normal kidnapping, the video will be ready to send...
"What about Sherlock? Is he coming?" Irene asks softly, and Kate tries not to groan.
"I've left messages, but there's been no reply."
"Did you explain what we needed him to do?"
"Yes." But maybe she hadn't sounded desperate enough, she thinks, even as she tells Irene: "We don't need him to help. We've fooled his brother before."
"Which is why he'll be even more suspicious this time," Irene says. "If Mycroft Holmes accepts the video, the CIA will as well. It'll be over; we'll be safe. But Sherlock's better on the inside helping us than on the outside looking for flaws..."
"There won't be any." But there always are, Kate knows. And Irene's confidence in her own judgement has been shaken ever since she lost her camera phone. Since Sherlock outwitted her and sent her out to die. That's the real reason she wants him to help her, of course. To prove that, even now, she has a claim on him.
It's always been the winning that matters to Irene, not how many male egos she has to flatter to get there. She strip-mined Moriarty for his secrets, even while fluttering her eyelashes at him and pretending she needed his opinions on Sherlock's sexual tastes. If they're desperate, she's picked up enough for a fall-back option. Kate will return to Britain to get on the trail of a journalist called Katherine Reilly. Irene thinks Moriarty may be planning to use her to plant hostile stories about Sherlock in the tabloids, and Mycroft would surely be interested to hear about that. But if they can just make this plan work, there's no need for anything more. They'll be safe and the running can stop at last, before it breaks them both.
Irene is jet-lagged; inadequate dabs of Diane Schneider's concealer are failing to hide the dark circles under her eyes. She's had ten days criss-crossing America, breaking the trail before picking up the Schneider identity. When they reach the Sheraton, Kate has to nudge her awake to get her out of the car. Abdul carries their luggage in, but even in the minute till they reach the hotel lobby, Kate can feel the sweat building on her own skin.
All her extra padding doesn't help, of course. She may be dressed modestly in long sleeves and trousers, but there's nothing modest about "Karen Bradley" in her platinum blonde wig and fake bosoms. It's Ms Schneider's PA who draws the attention, not the pale and unstylish brunette beside her. The fine art of distraction yet again.
Since Diane Schneider has a sharp eye for a deal - as a gossipy Karen has already told half the staff - they're sharing a twin bedroom. Kate helps Irene unpack, and then tells her: "If you want to have a rest, I can go out for a bit."
"Phone me if you hear from Sherlock," Irene says, sitting on her bed, head bowed down, and Kate nods. She picks up her special travel bag, and then, as she's walking out of the door, Irene straightens and says: "I brought you a little present."
Kate turns and Irene has a rectangular dark-red box in her hand. Jewellery, she thinks with amused pleasure. It's Irene's most frequent way of rewarding her, but when she opens the box, it's not the normal delicate necklace. Instead, Kate finds two substantial bracelets, shiny green segments held together with gold fittings.
"Jade?" she asks.
Irene nods, and says: "Put them on."
They're far too big for Kate's slender wrists and she wonders for a moment how Irene got her measurements so wrong. Till Irene, smiling, says: "They're arm-rings. Roll up your sleeves."
Kate does so and Irene fastens the clasps carefully round Kate's forearms. Against the fake tan of her skin, they seem to glow, and she suddenly thinks of whatever superhero it was who had bracelets that could repel bullets. Wonder Woman, perhaps? She could do with super powers now, but even though the arm-rings aren't to her normal taste, they do look good, make her feel like some kind of exotic princess. She realises Irene is rolling her sleeves back down again.
"I don't want anyone else to see them," Irene says. "I want you to be wearing them and nobody else to know that you are. So that no-one knows how precious you are to me."
Irene always wants to conceal things; Kate's used to that by now. And she has to admit the perverse thrill of a private, hidden gift, as if she is really a princess - or Wonder Woman - in disguise. No-one will guess the secret beneath the concealing arms of her blouse, unless they are close enough to touch her, hold her. As Irene may hold her, touch her later. It's a good thought to treasure as she walks out into the corridor, leaves Irene to rest.
***
As Abdul drives Kate to her preferred shopping mall, she Googles the arm-rings. Irene expects her to know the value of everything that she or anyone else wears, to read a person's status from their clothes and accessories. She knows the jade will be expensive, but it's still a surprise to discover that she has a thousand dollars worth of jewellery on each arm. For a moment she feels a glow of pleasure, and then a shudder runs through her that's not just due to the car's air-conditioning. It's not simply a token of affection that's Irene given her; it's an escape route. The arm-rings can easily be pawned or sold for enough money to enable Kate to leave Karachi, if the worst comes to the worst. If something goes wrong, she can make a run for it immediately, whether or not Irene's with her. It's at once a reassuring and a terrifying thought. Irene is looking after her still, but she may not always be around to do that.
But it doesn't matter, because now it's Kate's turn to look after Irene, to make sure the kidnapping works. Once she's been dropped off at the mall, she retreats to a corner she's used on previous occasions; the store room of a shop that the shopkeeper keeps conveniently tucked away from prying eyes. She enters as a rather over-blown western Amazon. She leaves, ten minutes later, as an unremarkable Pakistani man, blonde wig and padded bra safely stowed away in the travel bag. With blue eyes and a few streaks of mascara giving her a touch of five o'clock shadow, she can pass for a northern youth, and that too explains why she speaks not in Sindhi or even Urdu but broken English. Irene's taught over her the years to impersonate a Western man; it needs less adaptation than she expected to move with the swagger of a Pashtun. She's learning her way round the city and she has a wicked little knife strapped inside her baggy trousers; if Abdul or his friends try and make trouble during the kidnap, she's going to go down fighting to save Irene.
Before she leaves the store room, she switches her iPhone off; even though almost no-one knows her number, she doesn't want any distractions. Still no message from Sherlock, and she's torn between pleasure and worry at that. She wants to be the one arranging Irene's death, but if he can shorten the odds, she mustn't refuse his help. She wishes once again she knew exactly what he feels about Irene. And that she didn't know what Irene feels about him.
She can't remember Irene being fascinated by a man before. It's not just his brains, Kate thinks; Irene's made a lot of very clever men do some very stupid things over the years. And for all Sherlock's looks, Irene's physical preference has always been for women. It's not even the possible asexuality that seems to be the draw; Irene's had asexual clients before now, knows how to administer a beating in a thoroughly non-erotic way.
***
September 2010
He's not asexual and he's interested in me, Irene says, after her first meeting with Sherlock. Kate listens muzzily, her head throbbing from the after-effect of concussion. She'd presumed the detective and his little doctor friend were a couple, but Irene's seen more of them and she's seldom wrong about people's tastes.
"So are you going to seduce him?" she asks.
"Oh no," Irene purrs. "He'll expect that. But he's a romantic at heart; a man who wears a coat like that has to be. Give him a puzzle to solve and a damsel in distress and I'm sure to hook him."
Irene talks on, explaining her moves, the intricate web that will lure in not only Sherlock but his brother as well. Kate lets the words wash over her, feeling too weary to argue. It's never any use arguing with Irene about her plans anyhow.
***
If Irene's plan had worked Kate wouldn't be here now, walking out of the mall and into what feels like a steam room in the street outside. A polluted, noisy steam room, that leaves her throat itching and her ears aching. She's been trying to build up her stamina and she can get a bus most of the way, but the journey she plans will still be exhausting.
It's an odd thing to be wandering round like this when they have four and a half million pounds in the bank, but the money's no use if they don't live to spend it. Five million pounds for one decrypted e-mail; when Moriarty had arranged the transfer, Kate had spent fifteen minutes checking and rechecking the account, convinced that the noughts would somehow evaporate at a second glance. What if Irene had stopped then, had run away from Sherlock once he'd solved her problem for her? Once Kate had texted her to say that Moriarty had paid up?
Stupid to wonder what might have been. Irene has always been a risk-taker, never gone for the safe option in the five years Kate has known her. Once she'd bested Sherlock, she'd upped the stakes as usual, gambled successfully on being able to break Mycroft Holmes. But Sherlock had then broken her. Irene's never told Kate exactly what happened at their last meeting and Kate knows better than to ask for details. But somehow Sherlock outwitted Irene and stole the phone that was her only protection. And then sent her out to her death, the heartless bastard.
Well, they're not dead yet, and Kate's doing her best to ensure they stay that way. The kidnapping is the key thing; they have only one chance to get that to work. If the execution video doesn't look convincing enough first time round, they can always reshoot it, and the body double for Irene's corpse is already lurking in a convenient mortuary, along with a very well-bribed pathologist. But if anyone spots that the kidnapping's a sham, they'll have to abort the plan and get out of Pakistan immediately.
Which is why, every day since Abdul told her about it, a disguised Kate has been back to the disused warehouse in Korangi they'll use as a hideout, checked that it's still secure, that none of the roads along which the car will drive looks blocked or unusable. When she started to walk round the district she felt self-conscious, even though she knew that wandering around uncertain where she was could be excused as the act of a confused country lad. But now she strides confidently through the nearby streets, dodging the heaps of rubbish as she checks out yet another possible escape route if the police do track them down.
It's such attention to detail that makes the difference between success and failure; Irene's taught her that. It's not the first time that Kate's planned a fake kidnapping at Irene's command; you need a good grasp of logistics to be a domme's PA. It is the first time she's hoping that none of the men participating will get his rocks off from the thrill of it all.
***
The trickiest part, she decides a couple of hours later, is going to be getting back into the Sheraton. But it's time she proved that her acting skills really do make her a convincing man, that she can fool even people who have seen her repeatedly. The problem, she realises, as she gets off a bus on Club Road, is that she's hot and grubby and doesn't look like the sort of man who belongs in a five-star hotel. Still, a week studying other Westerners in the city gives her an idea. As she heads towards the hotel's entrance, passing the abnormally green grass of the front gardens, she pulls out her iPhone and dials Irene's number.
"Who is it?" Irene's voice is low and neutral.
"Tom, it's Olly," Kate announces in an upper-class English bray. And then "Olly" is demanding his friend's room number and sweeping confidently past the doorman as he does so. Just some eccentric toff, who's done a bit of slumming it with the natives and now wants to get back to home comforts.
Kate enthusiastically keeps up Olly's phone conversation as she walks through the hotel, hearing the occasional snigger from Irene. Because Olly is not Kate's own invention but a take-off of a man they once knew. The second son of an earl, whom Kate was going to marry, before Irene came along. Before Kate took the biggest gamble of her life and followed an adventuress onto the road.
She's on the fourth floor now, and there's no-one around, so she announces, "Ciao, Tom" and ends the call. Then she knocks out the familiar call sign on Irene's door: two rapid knocks, a pause, another short knock and then a longer one. The Morse code for IA. She has her own keycard, of course, but it never does to surprise a woman who's as handy with a weapon as Irene is.
But when the door opens, it's Kate that gets the surprise. Because there, in all her scarlet-lipped and elegant glory, is The Woman.
***
August 2006
"I'm The Woman," Irene tells her, the night that Kate comes to her house in Sloane Square, "but she's not me. She's just a role. If it's her you want, you should leave now."
"It's you I want," Kate replies, as she gazes hungrily into those huge blue eyes. "Oliver...how can I marry him when it's you I'm thinking about all the time?"
Irene smiles then, as her fingers brush across the thin cotton of Kate's Jil Sander shirt, tracing the contours of her nipples. "I know what you need, Katherine Winter. Come with me and I'll give it to you." Her hand reaches down, skilfully working Kate's emerald engagement ring off her hand and dropping it into her own shirt pocket. "Don't worry. Oliver will know better than to ask for it back."
And Kate smiles back as she realises just how dangerous being with The Woman might be.
***
Irene isn't The Woman to Kate any more. Kate's seen behind the scenes too many times to get a thrill from that persona now; she and Irene play different games when they're alone.
So why is she back, Kate thinks, even as Irene says: "Come in, Miss Winter. I've been wondering where you'd got to." Her tone is icy, disappointed. Kate feels a shiver run through her as she enters the bedroom, but it's not from Irene's words. Irene must have put the air-conditioning up to maximum and Kate can feel the sweat on her skin turning into chilly beads. She feels gangly and awkward in what's basically a pair of men's pyjamas, especially when Irene reaches up and pulls her turban off, revealing Kate's cropped brown hair, dull from repeated dyeing. Irene, in contrast, looks flawless, her glossy hair in an updo, her slim body encased in a linen sheath dress.
"On your knees, over there," Irene orders, pointing to a spot near the window, and as Kate looks deep into those familiar, gorgeous eyes, she sees something like worry there. She obeys almost automatically, her mind racing. Domming is all about power and Irene's probably feeling vulnerable. Maybe she needs this, one last time of being in complete control. Creating a space in which she calls all the shots.
The kneeling is one part of that, giving Irene a height advantage she normally lacks. At least here in a posh hotel the thick green carpet is easy on Kate's knees. Now comes the next tool of Irene's power; she's taking out a short leather riding crop from its travelling case. She won't hit Kate; that's against their private rules. But Kate abruptly decides that this afternoon Irene can have whatever else she needs; anything to get them through the next twenty-four hours.
"I gave you a present, Kate," Irene says, coming over to stand in front of her, "and then you promptly vanish. What have you been up to?"
"I haven't-"
"You've been up to your old tricks, haven't you? Dressing up as a man, sneaking off without me."
"I can explain-" Kate begins, and she can feel herself falling into the role, the outside world beginning to retreat from view. Her mind starting to close down into simple binaries: has she been good or bad? Will The Woman be pleased with her or not?
"Silence!" The looped end of Irene's crop strokes down one side of Kate's face. "I don't want to hear your lies. When you went out, did you meet someone?"
"Yes," Kate whispers.
"Speak up, girl." Irene would have made a terrifying teacher.
"Yes, Miss Adler." The riding crop moves back a few inches, ready to strike. Even though Kate knows that Irene won't use it, a primitive instinct is leaking into her now; she's going to be hit, she's going to be hurt. The prickle of irrational fear that makes her breath come faster. Add that to the chill of the room and the pressure on her tired legs, just starting to tremble, and her body's already overloaded with stress.
Which is part of the point. She can hear Irene's cool voice in her head now: the misattribution of arousal. Your body experiences the symptoms of fear - sweaty palms, a rapid pulse - and your mind misinterprets it as erotic arousal. Repeat that stimulus enough, though, and it's no longer a misinterpretation, because the fear itself becomes a turn-on.
Irene knows all these psychological tricks, how to exploit them. Knows exactly how a client will react, how Kate herself-
"Stop day-dreaming, Miss Winter," Irene says, and the tip of the crop is on Kate's other cheek now. "Why did you go out? Did I give you permission to?"
"No."
"No, what?"
"No, Miss Adler."
"I employ you as my PA to do a job. Not to run around Karachi chasing after men. I saw the way you looked at Abdul in the car."
Irene sounds so convincing that Kate finds herself dizzily wondering if she is guilty of something, even though she knows it's all just an illusion.
"I didn't-" She stops as the crop brushes her lips.
"Silence, I said." At the back of Kate's mind, the part of her brain that is rapidly reverting to the terrors of a schoolgirl, she thinks that it's not fair that Irene asks her questions and then gets cross when she answers them.
"Did you go out to meet a man?" Irene asks and Kate shakes her head, feeling the leather loop against her dry lips. Then it moves down her face, heading for her exposed throat, above the collar of her kameez. To strike or to caress, Kate wonders, wishing it was Irene's scarlet-tipped fingers on her.
"A woman?" Irene barks, and Kate looks up at her in surprise. "Did you go out to meet a woman?"
Kate starts to shake her head and Irene's crop catches her very gently under the chin.
"Don't lie to me, I know you did," Irene says in a quiet, tense voice. "You're thinking about her even now. About her, not me, and you're getting wet at the thought of that, aren't you? Of kissing her, of your hands on her body."
"No," Kate protests, "there's no-one else, there's no-one but you." Even though she knows it's a trick, some part of her can't help responding to Irene's faked jealousy. She waits for Irene to tell her to be silent, but they're clearly beyond that now. She's no longer a naughty schoolgirl or a negligent employee, but a cheating lover.
"What's her name?" Irene says, and Kate replies breathlessly:
"There's no-one."
Irene looks down at her for a minute, and then walks away, leaving Kate still kneeling. Kate doesn't look round; that's cheating and Irene might decide to blindfold her. Instead she stares at the blonde wood chair that's in her field of vision, calculating how one could best tie someone to it. Furniture has never been the same to Kate since she's known Irene.
With the thick carpet, it's hard to work out exactly what Irene is doing by sound alone, though she must still be somewhere in the bedroom. And then there's a sudden additional silence that tells Kate exactly what's she up to; she's just turned the air-conditioning off. As Kate surreptitiously stretches her now aching thigh muscles, she realises she'll soon be right in the path of the sunlight that's streaming in through the window. Without the air-conditioning, she's going to boil alive, the way she did out on the streets.
"Tell me her name," Irene says reappearing in front of her, and adjusting the curtains so that she will remain in the shade. Even so, a few minutes of this heat and Irene will be suffering too, unsightly patches starting to sully the perfection of her linen dress, as the sweat builds and trickles. She's not acclimatised to Karachi either, Kate thinks, as she kneels silently, licking her lips and dreaming of the salty taste of Irene's nipples in her own hot mouth. Soon, she is going to leave Irene begging and pleading for more. But first, Irene has to be allowed to have her way.
"Her name?" Irene says for the third time and Kate croaks out:
"I don't know."
"Where did you meet her?"
"At the bazaar. She had a veil but I saw her eyes and I followed her home."
"Does she know you're not a man?" It's one of the secrets of Irene's success that she can always disconcert you. Think of a fantasy you didn't even know you had and then drive you half-insane wanting it.
"I-"
"It was dark when you climbed into her room, wasn't it?" Irene's voice is soft now, the intimate therapist's voice that draws your deepest secrets out of you. Kate nods, as she lets Irene's imagination run away with them both. "You can see the shine of her eyes behind her veil, and then she takes that off, but you still can't see the rest of her face clearly. You undress her by touch and your hand is curving round her small breast. She's slender, isn't she, young and tender? Even though you can't see her, you can feel how young she is from her smooth skin. And the belly that your fingertips trace has never held a child. You're kissing her skin and it smells of cinnamon, and as your kisses trace lower, her hands are on you, pulling up your shirt..." Her voice is suddenly cold. "And what does she find there, when she reaches into your trousers? Let's see what's underneath all of this, shall we, Kate, how you're planning to fool her? Strip. Now."
Kate starts to get to her feet and the crop taps lightly on her shoulder.
"Did I say you could stand?" Irene enquires, and Kate ducks her head and kneels back down, her hands reaching for her shirt buttons.
Underneath her kameez, she is wearing nothing but a binder and the jade arm bands. She removes the binder with relief: the reduced pressure on her exposed breasts feels wonderful. But even through the arm rings are chafing her skin, she doesn't want to take them off. Once she's topless, she looks up at Irene and notes the minute signs that she's losing her cool too. Irene's breath is coming a tiny bit faster now, her hand grips the crop a little tighter. It's not just the increasingly stuffy heat of the room that's getting Irene hot and bothered, Kate thinks gleefully, straightening her spine to highlight her slender torso.
"I said strip," Irene's voice is harsh now and Kate reaches round to remove her shoes and socks, before fumbling with the drawstring of her shalwar. She's practised and practised the intricate knot that keeps her baggy trousers up, but once again it jams when she tries to undo the cord, and her sweaty fingers can't seem to find the right loop.
"Hold still," Irene says, putting the crop on the window sill and bending down, and her scarlet nails, so familiar with knots, pull at the string, untying it abruptly. The trousers fall around Kate's knees, revealing the plain cotton briefs beneath. She's not packing; she doesn't need to, in this concealing outfit.
"Was your Sindhi girlfriend disappointed, when she found there was nothing underneath?" Irene asks, and the fingertips of one hand reach into the briefs, stroking the soft flesh, feeling its wetness, as her other hand traces the line of Kate's buttocks.
"Not when I showed her that she didn't need a man to feel good," Kate says, and her mouth reaches up to nuzzle at Irene's exposed neck. This is the moment she craves, that she's worked for, as Irene's controlling mask falls away and she too becomes subject to desire...
A phone beeps abruptly, and Kate curses silently at the distraction. Then she realises that it's her mobile, that she forgot to switch it back off. Irene's hands have left Kate's body and are instead searching eagerly for the phone hidden in the pile of discarded clothes. Kate forces her cramping legs upright so she can stand up straight. Five foot ten of her in nothing but underpants and arm-rings, as she looks down at Irene, who's picking up the iPhone.
"Give it to me," Kate says, and reaches out her hand. Irene's blood-red nails are poised to slide over the touchscreen and when she looks up at Kate, her eyes are wide. Fear...desire?
"It might be Sherlock," Irene whispers, and Kate says:
"He can wait. Give me the phone."
She hopes Irene doesn't hear the tremor in her voice. Her outstretched hand hangs there, waiting for the phone, and her muscles ache and she's so tired. Part of her is ready to give in, but a small voice inside her is stubbornly repeating no, as she gazes determinedly into Irene's eyes. She can't come second to a man who doesn't care about Irene. Not the way that Kate does, always has done. Irene can't think about Sherlock now.
If you don't give it to me, I will, I will... She doesn't know what she'll do, only that it's something impossible, terrible. That it will be the end of everything. Her vision is blurring, till all that is left is the merciless scarlet line of The Woman's mouth. And then Irene - the true Irene - smiles at her, and places the phone gently in her trembling fingers. Kate switches it off, and puts it beside the riding crop on the window.
"Where were we?" Irene says, her chin tilting up imperiously, and Kate breathes out a relieved sigh as she tugs off her briefs. She kneels back at Irene's feet and reaches up inside the linen dress. In a few hours, they'll know if Sherlock will help, if their intricate plans will need adjusting to accommodate an extra player. And tomorrow, whether Sherlock comes or not, the plan will start into motion. In a few days, perhaps, Irene Adler, The Woman, will be gone for good.
But for now, both Kate and Irene have all they need in this one hot, anonymous hotel room. For now, there is nothing more that either of them could desire.
.