→ you're so naive.

[thedominatrix]

Who: Irene Adler, Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes.
What: Irene plays Jeremy Kyle, or possibly just sits back to watch the carnage.
Where: The Lost Society.
When: Sukkardi night.
Notes: Irene's outfit.
Warnings: ...The Holmes cast. Also, TBA.

Why is she doing this?

Well, because she's bored, and unlike Sherlock, she makes her own fun. (That's something that rather irritates her about him; why roll around on the sofa and whine when you could go out and...well, invite two feuding brothers to the same place at the same time and not inform them beforehand, for instance?)

Perhaps there's a more practical motive- she does actually enjoy talking to both of them in some capacity, after all, and she could probably play it off towards Mycroft as a chance for him to check up on Sherlock ("Well, he wouldn't have come if you'd asked and he does so hate being kidnapped, I'm sure--")...but Sherlock's just going to kill her for it, unless she's very careful to take his side a little more than Mycroft's.

And there will be sides.

Maybe she'll point out that this is better than staring at the ceiling hoping for a murder.

Anyway, if all else fails, the Lost Society does fantastic cocktails, as she has already sampled; having arrived purposefully early she's on her second mint julep, and considering something called The Fruit of 43 Virgins (does she have the self control not to make a joke-- no) if her guests- her boys, as she's begun to rather dangerously call them- don't arrive soon.

She wonders, crossing her legs and surveying her own immaculate nail polish, who will turn up first--

And goes cold.

Oh God, don't let them meet each other on the way in.

Which provokes her to down the rest of her drink, get up and get instantly to work, excuse me, sir, I've got a slightly strange request, but I have utmost faith in you- my guests are each other's surprise, you see, so...

Eyelashes are fluttered, dark chuckles are given and her best femme-fatale smile gets some use. Having been assured that the doorman will attempt to delay any meetings and send them on separate routes to the (delightfully shocking) private corner of the library she's chosen, she sinks back into her chair and regains every ounce of her composure, adjusting a pin in her hair. And she's picked up a Fruit of 43 Virgins on her way.

(It's a little too fruity, but worth it for the name).

Comments

[thedominatrix]

Her smile grows and grows as he gets closer, the fingers of her unoccupied hand briefly at her lips.

Well, what do you know? She's missed having him around, for one reason or another. He's never boring, after all.

"And you came running. Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?" she remarks, getting up and extending her free hand- heaven knows whether she wants him to shake it or kiss it. Could be either. "Why on Earth didn't we meet up sooner, Mr Holmes?"

Simple: because she's just managed to shake the more visible evidence of her reaction to the crisis. It hadn't been pleasant. Now, however, she's regained enough of her control to relax slightly, to meet him as she wants to meet him.

Of course, he might well deduce how she's been dealing with things anyway. It occurs to her that she may have thrown herself to the sharks by exposing herself to the deductive powers of both Holmeses at once- but that rather makes it sound like she's totally defenceless against them, and she's far from it.

[defenestrations]

He rolls his shoulders, the slightest of shrugs, as he reaches for her hand. That's John Watson's influence as a decent man coming to bear, there; he's not here but one can almost hear him uttering a mildly reproachful Sherlock, almost see him raising his eyebrows in the universal expression of you know what you're supposed to do.

"It's useless to try to forestall the inevitable," he says, giving her hand the briefest shake before once more clasping both his behind his back. "I've been busy establishing myself since my arrival, but tonight, I was free."

He's seen the aftermath of whatever went on just before his arrival. As much as she'd like to hide it behind her usual impeccable dress and broadcast confidence, he has a sense it took a toll on her, too. A barrage of texts since his arrival, yes, but no appearance, no video, and no direct summons until tonight. He won't point it out but he's certain she needed to regain her composure.

"Have you called me here merely to gaze upon me?" he asks, though they both know it's not true. But there's a game, rules to follow, rituals to heed.

[thedominatrix]

"No, not solely," she purrs, giving him an up and down look that is- purely for show, really. Oh, he's handsome, in his distinctly pointy sort of way, but she doesn't like him for his looks. It's just entertaining to pretend, to follow the steps of the dance, to pretend to be halfway normal (whatever that is) when they both know the truth.

"You know, I've read all through your website," she says, in the sort of tone that suggests this is the beginning of a story; she's moving back towards her seat, a smile on her face. "What was it- oh, yes, you mentioned how you could know a software engineer from his left thumb. Well, I can spot a detective from his dating etiquette. He's the one looking for a motive. Sit down, Mr Holmes."

Yes, she's going to use the word 'dating'- purely for the sake of trying to drag him from his comfort zone and into hers.

It's always quite hard to tell whether she's drunk or not, because she could just be being her usual flamboyant self- and because she is never as drunk as she acts. There's a distinctly languid, playfully tipsy air about her, but it's as purposefully exaggerated as everything else.

[defenestrations]

"That might," he says, moving toward a chair, "be the first time I've been suggested to possess any etiquette."

He smiles--well, it can almost be called that, almost, it's sort of there and gone, sliding into existence with one breath and out with the next. And while he approaches a chair, he does not take the seat, leaning against it instead, elbow bent, his forearm braced against the high back. "I could almost say my dear brother might be pleased that such an accusation was leveled were I not convinced he would instead find every reason why it was impossible."

He remains on his feet but the chair is still partway between himself and Irene, an unconscious barrier, perhaps? "Did you have to wait long to have your windows replaced? I heard the damage was ghastly in some parts of the city after the monsters." And there, one of the abrupt changes of subject he's so fond of, as much a verbal manifestation of the nonstop motion of his mind as it is a disarming tactic, helpfully startling most off-balance.

...Most. They both know just how much of this exchange is so much artifice, a show most others would fall for, but no, not these two. And yet the game must be played, masks worn.

[thedominatrix]

"Show off," she tells him fondly. "But you're missing the obvious- getting the very clever, techinical stuff and not seeing what's right in front of you. Really, Mr Holmes, think."

She's taunting, but that doesn't mean she's being unpleasant. Really, she suspects they'd both get bored if they were to have a conversation without the push and pull, the eternal tug of war between wit, will power and the desire to knock each other off stride.

"Do you think people keep me waiting often?"

Modesty is not a virtue. It's just lying. And that's immoral, don't you know?

[diogenesis]

"Well. I see I have, at least."

Mycroft's tone is devoid of anything resembling friendliness. After being given some sort of run-around at the door, he'd begun to suspect something, but his brother's presence was one of the most remote possibilities he'd considered as he'd been led around the restaurant the long way. He can't say he's surprised Irene would pull something like this, but the timing is poor, and although Mycroft is aware that Irene can't possibly know why, he's having trouble not holding it against her.

The two Holmeses have not yet been face-to-face in Baedal. Seeing Sherlock for the first time since before his brother jumped off the roof of St. Bart's was something for which Mycroft had been carefully preparing himself. He needn't have bothered; the shock of running into Sherlock unexpectedly has rendered much of his preparation useless.

Emotions have always run deep in Mycroft, very deep and very strong, but their depth makes it easy to bury them and turn away, which he does. He can feel them clawing toward the surface now, from miles below. His mask is already fixed so tightly that it's become stiff and obvious. The only cover it gives him is blankness.

He meets Sherlock's eyes. "Brother."