|Primary Characters:||Holmes, Irene Adler|
|Description:||What really happened between Holmes and Irene Adler? Was there something special going on and if so, why didn’t it work out? Another look into the great detective’s secret life.|
These words I am writing are meant for my own eyes only. When I have put down my pen, I shall burn these sheets of paper, lest Watson – or anyone else – shall find them and learn my secret. For many years I struggled with another secret, in the eyes of the world more shameful, yet in my own, far less enigmatic. Though at times it was hard to hide my vice from the populace, it eventually afforded me some release.
This – I can never even begin to explain to myself – or – if the question were posed to me – to Watson, the only man who in some small way knows my heart. Many things I know, and many things I have been able to find out, but I shall never understand what powers were at work when I first laid eyes on the most remarkable woman the world has known. I find myself in the grip of the strongest emotions and my hand, ever steady under any circumstances, shakes as I write her name. Irene Adler. Irene, the possessor of my heart, my soul, my body.
Readers of Watson’s accounts of my exploits are already familiar with that name. The circumstances of my encounter with her are known to anyone who cares to follow my work. What really passed between us, is known only to myself and her, and perhaps – I can not guess what conclusions Watson drew of the event – my close friend and beloved companion.
Irrelevant circumstances – such as how we met and when – are known to the public and to Watson. I remember it all so clearly myself. What truly came to pass – as I have already gone into above – it is my hope that no one knew to interpret the signs.
The first time we found ourselves alone together – this I count as the beginning of our time together – yet, was it not also the end of myself as the possessor of my own heart? Little did I know how events would shape me.
Believing myself immune to the charms of the sex known as the fairest, it never occurred to me that this woman would in any way be different.
Her smile – did she already know what effect she would have on me? – or – as I like to think – did it all come as a surprise to her as well? I know not and in the years that have passed since, I have not ever gained a better understanding of that moment.
Very well. I shall follow Watson’s example and make note of each event as it unfolded, and save what feeble interpretation of them as I am capable of, until the end of this account.
I had already planned what I would say to her and the rest of my course of action, too, was planned out in detail. All had been taken into account. All but one small fact. My tongue was tied, leaving me as dumb as a beast – or as any man, lacking in power of the intellect.
In the end, it was she who spoke first.
“Mr Holmes, to what do I owe this honour?”
Leave it to a woman, never to become speechless, even in the face of an unannounced nocturnal visitor.
“Mrs Adler -”
The words had fled. My eyes fastened on her face and noted all the details of it, committing it to memory. So few memories of her have I, that each one has been turned over and over in my mind, until it is stretched thin and I no longer know if it is a true memory or a memory of a memory. I do know that her lips were slightly parted and I fancied I spied the merest glimpse of the tip of her tongue.
For all my powers of perception, I could not read her reaction to my visit or my silence. Her bosom heaved, and for the first time in my life this caused a shortness of breath and made my heart beat faster. Due to the lateness of the hour, she had already donned her nightdress and had merely put on a robe above it.
“Irene – would you do me the honour of calling me Sherlock?”
“Sherlock. Very well.”
Realizing that my visit demanded some sort of explanation, I forced myself to think of one. Not the true cause of my visit – a scarcely convincing, transparent lie. It did not seem to me as if she believed me, yet there was no sign of dismay or even astonishment.
“Sherlock – would you like to sit down? I shall have my maid send for -”
“No, please. No trouble on my account.”
Lest my legs gave out under me, I did, however, sit down. There was a group of chairs around a small, round table. The chairs were covered with thick red velvet, of a shade closely resembling that of her robe.
She, too, sat down, and we regarded each other intently across the table.
Gripped by a feverish compulsion, I reached out and took her hand. She did not snatch it back. Instead, I felt her eyes bore into me, as if trying to gauge the depth of my emotion. At last, seemingly satisfied, she squeezed my hand.
Unable to control myself any longer, I lifted her hand to my lips and covered it with kisses.
A frown appeared on her face and her knitted brows told of dismay at my forward behaviour. Though I had never in the past, while wooing another man, been inclined to take my cues from the other, I now instantly obeyed her slightest hint. Dropping her hand, I pulled back, anxious I had offended her.
Irene rose in one graceful movement and stood above me, an enigmatic smile playing on her lips.
“It appears I shall have to teach you some manners, Sherlock. This will not do. It will not do at all. Come.”
She led me to her boudoir, which was somewhat overornated, and in which there was a heavy scent of perfume – one which entered my nostrils and settled inside. It went to my head. From then on, I can only assume I was acting as if under the influence of my trusted cocaine, only more so. It is my firm opinion that the female sex is one of the strongest narcotics the world has known.
Standing beside her bed, she gestured gracefully, but determinedly towards it. I could not believe I had read her correctly and my countenance must have told her as much.
More impatiently now, she nodded towards the bed. I could no longer misinterpret her intention and wild with exultation, I hastened to comply. Thus stretched out, I regarded her eagerly, filled with anticipation.
To my chagrin, she now turned her back on me and proceeded to open and shut drawers, outside the circle of light cast by the lamp, standing on the bedside table. Bearing in mind my excitement, it was just as well that she was soon back, holding in her hands what to my untrained eye appeared to be stockings. She laid them aside and began to undress me. Each time one of her fingers brushed my skin, I shuddered, pleasurably.
At last, I lay in a shameless state of undress, naked before her eyes. She now reached for the stockings again. With these she tied my hands to one of the bedposts. Appearing satisfied, she now proceeded to divest herself of her robe and gown. Underneath it all, she wore garments I must confess to never having laid eyes on before and furthermore, never imagined or known to have existed. These too, were shed.
Never before had the sight of a female body produced such a reaction in me. Her white skin and soft, yet full shape, so utterly different from that of my customary lover, so stimulated my already excited breathing I fair lost consciousness for a moment. When I recovered she was sitting on the side of the bed, so close to me, I could have touched her, had my hands been free.
I had, hardly surprisingly, not been paying attention to her actions. It seemed she had once again been to fetch some objects which were to be of use to her and – me. What it was, I could not yet see, and therefore I was still, or even more so, in a state of excitability. It seemed I was to be enlightened almost at once. She held out a scarf and tied it around my head, as a blindfold. Thus sightless, I was forced to rely more on other senses. Straining my ears, I awaited the continuation of our encounter.
I did not have long to wait. Pain, such as I had never known it hitherto, shot through my skin. Something, which must have been heated in a fire or at the very least a lamp’s flame, caressed my chest. A muffled cry of pain escaped my lips while at the same time, I experienced an excitement beyond any previously felt. It was beyond belief that a mere woman could cause such emotions to stir inside me, yet it was unmistakably so. As in the past I had, upon occasion, taught my male lovers to understand their cravings for punishment and helped them learn the joys of submission, so was I now undergoing her instruction.
Had any man suggested to me, heretofore, that it could be so inclined, I would have denied it. More so, I would have laughed. It has ever been my disposition to dominate. Yet now, here I was drinking from the well of pain, and – delighting in it as never before.
Barely had this insight had time to register, before I found myself being turned over, and placed face down. This caused a certain amount of pain in my wrists, but that was nothing compared to what was to come. The moment the lash ate into my skin, my arousal knew no bounds. Even so, this did not last nearly long enough for my taste, yet – when it was over, I found myself unable to dwell on what had already come to pass.
For the moment, I was once more turned over, to again lie flat on my back. I now saw, for the first time, her luxurious hair flowing free over her naked shoulders, thus framing her face in such a fashion as to further enhance her beauty, had that been possible. She straddled me, and began to fondle a part of my anatomy which had not known a female’s touch, since I was a babe in my nanny’s arms. This touch, however had a profoundly different effect.
I had not imagined a woman’s hand could so move me. My arousal mounted and had I felt capable of coherent speech, I would have begged her to proceed to at last quench my thirst. It was as if she had read my mind. I felt her hair brush my face and seconds later, her lips and mine met in a kiss which, literally, took my breath away. The tip of her tongue pried my lips apart and began her exploration anew in the warm, moist cavity which was my mouth.
All the while, her hands continued on their way across my skin, leaving a trail at times invisible, at times red, and smarting, as she alternately fondled and tweaked. At last, my hopes and expectations reached fulfillment. Thus engulfed, I could but lie there and await her moves, in time to the beating of my heart and the pounding of the pulse in my veins. My hips strained to rise and meet her. Taking my cue from her, I found the rhythm and moved with her in perfect unison. Riding the wave of excitement until it waned, we climaxed and slumped down, spent.
Such was our first meeting out of the public eye. It was the beginning of our far too brief liaison. Readers of my friend Watson’s chronicles, know far too well how she came to leave me. What no one knows – or at least I pray so – is why this came to pass.
It was inevitable, I suppose. Two such forceful individuals clashing. Once the first passion was spent, came the struggle for the upper hand. We both felt it natural, indeed inevitable, to lead, yet expected the other to accept submission. It could not be.
Yet, now, as I write these words, I know I would gladly give up everything if I could but turn back the clock and this time make another choice.
Irene, I would lay myself at your feet and beg you to walk across my body.
In vain do I call these words to the empty room. She does not hear me. She will not come. Yet hope springs eternal. I could not exist, if I did not hope that one day she will once more be by my side. One day, a message of some kind will arrive. When it comes, I will heed her call.
Whatever the price, I will pay it gladly and never look back.
Thus it is, to be possessed body and soul. To no longer be one’s own master. I do not even regret my lost free will. The years I spent before knowing her, were empty, meaningless. It was but for a brief time, while she was with me, that I truly lived.
Come back, Irene, and take possession of your slave.
Thoughts of her produce a fever in me and I do what little I can to relieve my need.
Once more, I am able to control myself.
I shall tear up these pieces of paper and fling them into the fire. On the morrow, I have work to do. Appearances must be kept up. Watson must not know.
It is time I retired to bed, to spend another night without her to prepare for another day without her. Another day which might be the day I hear from her. As I fall asleep, I shall whisper her name.
Irene. Irene. Irene.