aftercare

[riding_crop]

She texts him at half past noon, so that he's had time to sleep in if he needs it, but will probably be awake.

What channel are we watching, Sherlock?

Because he'd laughed, so she considers it a promise.

Comments

[seesobserves]

She can probably picture his expression. What she may or may not be picturing is the way one corner of his mouth tightens at her proposition.

"Oh, if it's this shocking, gotta be the niece," he tosses off.

[riding_crop]

Niece it is, though Irene almost misses it, because she's honest to goodness laughing. So hard she upends her saucer off it's precarious position on the arm of the chair when she picks up the teacup. The little plate rolls away, a few drops of tea splash, and the dominatrix slash blackmailer is still giggling like a bit of a schoolgirl.

"Oh dear."

[seesobserves]

Sherlock stays quiet, listening to the sound of the plate falling and rolling, the previously unfamiliar sound of her laughter.

After a moment, he marks it down as a positive. He's caught her off guard, even if the reaction was unexpected.

"Surprised?"

[riding_crop]

She muffles the last of it with her fingertips, taking in a deep breath and letting it out as almost a hum of delight, tickled.

"A little. The after-scene... wobbling, shall we say, can get to both parties." She's been a little bit giggly all day. "The poor niece. Having the bad judgement to flirt with an uncle, in a family of such exhibitionists."

[seesobserves]

"The population of England is a parade of stupidity and bad judgment. Programmes like these only serve to shine a spotlight on that fact."

Wobbling. Good word for it. Sherlock hasn't been showing it much, even once he was alone, but there have been... moments.

[riding_crop]

"Speaking of bad judgement, I owe you a very sincere apology." Gently redirecting away from the television program. "I believed we were... going to bed, I suppose, with a kinky overtone or two. Touching you, even undressing you completely wasn't something I should have done without explicit consent."

Because she sort of feels responsible for making sure he's all right, going forwards in this, and she's decided that means making sure he has some of the tools he'll need to bottom safely. That means not letting what happened become normalized, at all.

[seesobserves]

Sherlock suddenly has to swallow to fight back a rising impulse to start crying. It comes on incredibly quick, astonishingly so, and he barely tamps it down.

The shower. That was where he'd lost his grip for a while. The water had washed his face clear faster than the tears would come. Even if anybody had seen, they probably wouldn't have been able to tell.

Audibly, the only sign that anything's amiss is a quick inhale after the pause. He's been holding his breath.

"I was stepping into your world. Your rules." A short pause. He should clarify. "The clothes weren't an issue."

[riding_crop]

"If only I'd realized that. I'm very glad you safeworded. You did exactly the right thing."

The breath is confirmation, not that she'd needed it. His reaction yesterday had been serious enough.

"And I'm sorry. I never meant to do anything that would sincerely distress you, and I should have checked to be sure we were on the same page. That was my responsibility."

The danger, really, of playing like this after coming so very close, after hurting each other so very badly, after dilated pupils and a pulse taken in front of a fireplace. Still, she knows she should have known better. Though it scares her, faintly, to say so.

[seesobserves]

Danger indeed. Sherlock hadn't been able to separate those moments from what they'd been doing yesterday, in the beginning. He's still having difficulty.

"You said," he took a breath, quiet and controlled. "Distress - was normal. Afterwards."

[riding_crop]

"It is. Especially when one partner is new, or if the scene touches on something particularly trying. Have you eaten anything today?"

Sitting up a little.

"If there's nothing in the flat, I'll order you delivery myself."

[seesobserves]

He hasn't.

Problem.

"Excuse me." Smoothly, Sherlock sets the phone down on the armrest and stands up, walking to the threshold between the sitting room and kitchen. He stands there a moment, tears running hot tracks down both sides of his face.

He didn't mute the phone. That would take extra time and look all the more suspicious. She should still be able to hear the television going in the background.

He makes certain to keep himself quiet. Back of his hand pressed to his mouth, at one point, to stop a sob from crawling out.

[riding_crop]

She puts her own phone on speaker as she heads upstairs, abandoning the television in favour of moving to dress. Jeans, a blouse, simple 'real world' clothes she normally disdains.

Irene won't actually charge Baker Street until his voice is back on the line. Dealing with bottom drop when you've accidentally blurred a boundary, it's important to ask for permission before further inserting yourself in your play partner's life, but Lord, he makes her want to storm the place, with his silence.

She doesn't actually know just how bad it is on his end, but she's imagining the worst.

[seesobserves]

He moves to the fridge once the worst has passed. It's not empty. Milk, cold chips, leftover Chinese. A foot in a plastic bag. Sherlock grabs the chow mein. The silverware drawer rattles.

He sets himself down in the chair again and calmly flips the phone to speaker.

"I'm here."

[riding_crop]

"Could you stand a little company? I'll bring something delicious. I can answer any other questions you might have."

Snatching the phone back up, switching it off speaker and pressing it to her ear. Irene is careful only to let the tiniest bit of worry creep into her tone, though the fact that she's calling at all should be indication enough.

"Only if it wouldn't make things worse."

[seesobserves]

Sherlock sits there and chews cold noodles while the tears dry on his face and the wife on the television barks a half-censored diatribe at her husband.

God. He's pathetic.

"You're the one with experience in these matters," he reminds her, and stabs a shrimp. "Tell me your interpretation."

[riding_crop]

"I'm out the door."

It slams shut behind her with haste. She hails a cab, directs him to Baker Street, and settles in to her seat.

"I know you're not much one for physical contact, but it's the best solution I know. If you're half as bad as I was my first night, I don't envy you this step. I bawled my way through a full box of tissue. Thankfully, it generally only improves, provided it hasn't scared you off."

[seesobserves]

Needing other people is not a new phenomenon to Sherlock's life. Acknowledging and accepting it is. Coming right out and asking for help, even when he's like this? That's a bit beyond him still.

All told, he isn't having the worst possible reaction. Instead of the fridge, he could have gone for the hollowed-out leg of his bed. Sherlock manages to pull himself somewhat out of feeling pathetic - for this particular moment.

"So I'm experiencing a perfectly anticipated psychological reaction." He sniffs. "Emotional distress, uncertainty. Tea hasn't been enough to stop it, neither has the crap telly. Well, why not," he goes on, the bitterness creeping back in. "Let's try a hug."

[riding_crop]

"I love it when you get all snide." Sighing into the phone, propping her feet up up against the back of the seat, sliding down a little bit. "I'll tell you all about what happened when I get there, but there might be a dreadful accident if I go into detail right now."

The man is already glancing at her suspiciously in his rear view mirror. She ignores him, thinking idly about his Study in Pink adventure, of being stuck in the murderous man's cab.

"Why don't you tell me if there was anything you enjoyed about yesterday? Not to fish for compliments, but focusing on the good will help you refocus."

[seesobserves]

Sherlock runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth, picking out tiny noodle remnants, and puts himself back there. There's a great deal he could mention, but one detail jumps out straight away.

"The -- electricity on my scalp."

[riding_crop]

"Good sensation? Or intellectually stimulating?"

She checks, trying to keep her questions most cab appropriate, trusting him to see what she means, though. There's a difference between liking a feeling and liking to be forced to feel something painful.

[seesobserves]

He sets aside the food and shuts off the telly. Too much residual noise.

"Call it my earthing system." It had been the last thing to still feel good when everything else had become pain. Something to reference and return to. Without it he might have got overwhelmed - 'shorted out' - given up too early.

[riding_crop]

"I'll remember that."

If only because it's such a Tin Man thing to say, referring to himself as a an electrical system, even in terms of such intense feeling.

"You know, it's possible to play strictly by numbers. Easy stimulation, abrupt escalation, then again at a slightly lower setting. Level one, then level three for a moment, then level two, then level four for a moment, then three again, but sustained, to produce specifically timed waves of endorphins. I think if you confine yourself to such an approach, you risk losing the psychological complexities, but it is important to keep in mind. And, of course, one man's one is another's eleven..."

[seesobserves]

He does wonder whether that would be too predictable - but the last thing she says catches his attention.

"Trial and error. You would need to test me in order to assign my - numbers." And oh, that's an interesting proposition. He can already picture it in the abstract, like some kinked-up version of the Periodic Table. If you apply this tool in this area with this much force, and then if you mix up the elements to invoke the proper reaction...

"Sadomasochism as chemistry. I imagine the process would take some time."

[riding_crop]

"Well, of course. You'd need a formula that would include not only location, but intensity and duration. Give me just a moment-"

The car pulls to a halt, and Irene has to lower the phone for a moment to pay the (incredibly curious, but too invested in his tip to be any more nosy, coughs like a chain smoker, didn't sleep well last night) cab driver. Outside, a car door shuts.

"How's this sandwich shop? Anything good on the menu?"

[seesobserves]

The sound of the car door drives home the reality of the situation. Sherlock has to rally himself - not so much she'd notice, not over the phone. It manifests outwardly as a turning of his head to one side, a measured breath while she's still talking.

"Stay away from the tuna, otherwise it'll do." A sudden impulse. "Their breakfast is best, actually." And served all day, as luck would have it.

"Cabbie stayed quiet. You must have tipped well. Either that, or he was too tired to bother."