In a way, she was right. Less photographs of him in various states of undress - and who knew how many photos she’d taken of him since she’d decided that 221B was ‘home’ - was better. While he doubted the CIA would pay for photographs of him, the tabloids certainly would. They’d given Janine more than enough to buy her a cozy cottage away from the city.
Unlike Magnussen’s personal assistant, however, he knew that Irene wouldn’t stoop that low.
Sherlock shook his head, reassuring his landlady that he and Irene weren’t - hadn’t been - doing anything. The dominatrix’s fingers were soft against his skin, and he narrowed his eyes at her as she made her way back to the bedroom.
“Client?” he asked Mrs. Hudson, as if nothing had happened.
Mycroft’s footsteps thumped on the stairs and Sherlock groaned loudly, glad that Irene was at least out of the way.
[For how long?]
The temptation to stick a chair under the doorknob of the bedroom was strong, but even his brother would know something was up if he did that. Just as the government official stepped inside, thanking Mrs. Hudson, he crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows slowly.
“What is it this time, Mycroft? Another runaway delegate? A missing socialite?”
She left the living room with a strong smile on her face, she always jumped at the chance to leave Sherlock Holmes in some kind of compromising position, although she did find it hard, he was the one who went to Buckingham Palace in nothing but a bed sheet.
…but Mycroft…
She knew, perhaps more than anyone that the Detective despised having to explain himself to his older brother.
- {all part of the fun}
As clear as days she heard the distinct voice of Mycroft Holmes, she pulled out her phone,
[text] It’s boring in here, lets have dinner. - IA
Upon hitting send, Irene slipped out of the shirt and into one of her dresses. It was then that she took one of her usual routes out, through the window. She left the shirt sitting on the bed, smelling of nothing but her own perfume.
