The sun was just going down as I walked through the door of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock acted as if I was a nuisance, interrupting something of great importance, but I had learned better. We had some fish and chips delivered and sat down to eat, reminiscing about days gone by and the time he had spent abroad dismantling Moriarty’s network.
It was then that his phone made a sound. A sound Mrs. Hudson once referred to as “rude.” It was the sound of a sigh, highly sexual woman sighing. The Woman sighing. I hadn't heard it in well over two years, long before the day Sherlock Holmes did not die. He stared at his mobile and said nothing.
“Sherlock?” I nudged him. “Sherlock, isn't that…”
“Yes,” he answered. “She’s back. Apparently ‘witness protection’ didn’t quite suit her, did it?”
“Right, right, I suppose it wouldn’t contain someone like her for long.” I had thought her dead all this time. “Well don’t keep me in suspense, Sherlock, what does the bloody text say?”
“It reads, ‘Where you found your finest livery.”
“‘Finest?’ Well that makes no sense, now does it? I mean, you always seem to be wearing the same clothing day in and day out and I would hardly say any of it is your “fine…” He cut me off as always.
“Not that sort of livery, John! Think! She’s referring to the finest taxi ride I’ve ever had. The one where you and I first met.”
“Ohhh, I see now.”
“Come, we must head to that school library now, John! The game is…”
And now it was my turn to interrupt.
“I’m rather confused about one thing, Sherlock, that I can’t quite wrap my head around.”
“Yes, yes, what is it, John? Spit it out! The game is…”
“Well, you see, you were gone. For over two years. And that,” I pointed at his mobile, still on the table,” is NOT the same phone you had back then. You’ve gotten yourself a new one, haven’t you?”
“John, if indeed you intend on making a point of some kind, I would request you make it soon.”
“Why do her texts still have the same notification tone? By all rights they shouldn't. In fact, the only reason I could imagine the same noise is being used is because you…”
“Because I programmed this phone to make that noise whenever she texted me.”
I nodded and smiled, my satisfaction clear as day on my face. “You hated that noise. The expression on your face was that of a schoolboy hearing chalk on a blackboard every time she messaged you. It humiliated you, a reminder of a time when that woman outwitted you. Well, the first time that woman outwitted you, at least…”
He looked at me and said not a word.
“Well, look at us, tarrying about. Come, Sherlock. The game is on!”
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There was nothing at the library. We searched high and low, the two of us. It took him much longer than it should have to realize that we had fallen for a ruse. But why? To what end?
“We must hurry, John. Back to Baker street! Something is amiss!”
Upon our return it was clear that someone had been there. Things had been tossed about from drawers, the cushions on the sofa tossed, books pulled from the shelves. It had been a minute before we realize that someone was still there, sitting in the kitchen, their back to us.
Sherlock squinted and spoke with authority. “Whoever you are, I suggest you tell me what your intent is, before I call…”
He stopped. He seemed woozy. In fact, so did I. The figure stood up and turned to face us. A woman. Wearing a gas mask. And then everything went black…
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I found myself in a chair, tied down. Gagged. Still in 221B Baker street. I looked across the room and saw Sherlock. He was stripped naked and tied down to his desk. Then she came into view. The Woman. Irene Adler. Dressed in the leather I saw all that time ago in the pictures from her site. She gave me but a glance, and then turned towards him.
“Sherlock...I warned you about this, didn’t you. That I would have you on this desk…”
“And begging for mercy. Twice. Yes, I do recall. I also recall telling you I do not beg.”
Why was he not gagged? I wondered to myself. There was a gag sitting there, right next to his face, though.
“Poor Doctor Watson is probably wondering why you aren't gagged right now.” Her eyes darted at me. “Because he will not scream for help. Oh, he’ll scream, but not like that. The great Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t dream of it, would he?”
“What do you want?”
“It should be obvious, my love. I want my damned phone back. It’s completely useless to you. You are going to tell me where it is.”
He laughed. Her cupped hand smacked him on his pale butt-cheek.
“The game is on, Mr. Holmes,” she said, mocking him.
First came the riding crop. Light little taps at first. “A little higher, please. Little higher. Oh yes, that’s the spot,” Sherlock quipped. The taps came down harder, each swing accompanied by a loud ‘thwap!’ Those pale-white buttocks were turned a little rosy. More interesting to me was the look on The Woman’s face. Her eyes narrowing. The corner of her mouth turned up in a grotesque smile.
She dropped the crop rather suddenly and in the blink of an eye picked up a cane. “Thwack, thwack, thwack!” the cane struck Sherlock’s arse. He was grunting now. Angry red stripes appearing on his backside. Just when it seemed another swing was going to happen she curled her gloved fingers around his scrotum and tugged, pulling his testicles away and bunching them into a tight little package that she started to thwack. I could hear the pain in his whimpers. She had barely even started. I could not help but notice his tumescence.
Minutes passed before she stopped. She pulled a strange-looking block of wood out of her bag. I would later learn that it was called a ‘humbler’. It served much like her fist had before, pulling his balls away from his body. A shiver went down my spine as she attached a strap-on sex toy to her pelvis and lubed it and Sherlock’s arsehole up. Without hesitation, The Woman slid the rubber cock into him and pounded him. She grabbed the humbler as if it were a handle. A glint from Sherlock’s face told me the man was crying as she raped his virgin asshole. She let go of her handles every once in a while to smack his raw ass and call him her bitch.
It all came to a head while, her cock still deep inside of him, she reached around and took his nipples with her fingernails. She dug them deep. She pinched. Twisted. Tugged hard, her pelvis still pounding him, until, suddenly, one hand let go and shocked him with a punch straight to his scrotum. He wailed through the tears, crying out “Mercy! Irene, please stop! I beg you for mercy. I’ll tell you, please…”
She leapt into action, swiftly taking the gag that rested near his face to strap it on. I blinked, confused by what was going on. She swiftly packed up all of the implements she had brought with her, minus the rope. She was hoping someone like Mrs. Hudson, or maybe even LeStrade would find us like this, I imagine. I noticed her taking a videocamera I hadn’t spotted earlier. This was all on tape.
Adler slipped on a trench-coat, strode over to Sherlock, and spoke in his ear. “I said ‘twice,’ Sherlock. One down, one to go. Then you may tell me where my phone is.”
And with with that she patted him on the head, gave me a wink, and waltzed out of the flat, her heels clicking down the wooden stairs of 221B Baker street.
The End.
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