Dinning with Frogs

6. Play the Game

At Irene's insistence, they dress for dinner. It is a little ridiculous to be wearing a cocktail dress to eat Chinese take away at Irene's kitchen counter, but Irene's never been afraid of looking silly. It wouldn't do for a dominatrix to be easily embarrassed, after all. She is surprised to find that Sherlock has entered into the spirit of things whole heartedly – his suit looks like it is fresh from the press and his shirt is blindingly white and he has somehow managed to find himself a bow tie. He looks like something out of a James Bond movie. As Irene enters the living room, Sherlock gets to his feet, offering her his arm. With an utterly straight face he escorts her into the kitchen and holds out her the aluminium kitchen stool for her. Irene isn't sure if the over elaborate manners are a subtle form of mockery, or whether he actually is taking the whole thing seriously. She suspects that Sherlock comes from the kind of family where this kind of behaviour is actually considered normal, so maybe he is simply reverting to type.

"Chow mein?" he asks her, passing the plastic take away box her way.

"Ta." Irene says, fishing out a pair of chop sticks from the bottom of the bag. "I like the bow tie, by the way. Very sexy."

"I hate wearing them." Sherlock says petulantly. "Makes me feel like I'm being strangled. But Mummy always insisted on it."

Irene suppresses a smile. "I won't make you wear it for our next dinner, then. Although you do look rather dashing. Wine?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "We should keep a clear head. We've got a phone call to make, remember?"

Irene pours herself a glass anyway. "Never do anything important with a clear head, I say."

"That explains a lot." Sherlock mutters. Irene grins at him.

"That isn't a Milliver's dress." Sherlock comments, glancing at Irene's gown.

"Certainly not."

"I'm guessing an Italian designer – Alessio perhaps, retailing at about £700 when new, from the 2010 spring collection. There's no mistaking that hem line. Reliving your glory days? That shade of blue is calculated to bring out your eyes. Sounds like a romantic notion, but in fact is very pragmatic. Despite of the vulgar wisdom of men's magazines all scientific research suggests that heterosexual males are primarily attracted to faces rather than any other attribute. As the eyes are the focal point of the face calling attention to them is the surest way to incite admiration." Sherlock finally pauses in his monologue long enough to take a mouthful of curry.

"You know, most people would just tell me I look nice."

"How profoundly uninteresting of them."

"And yet for some reason most people prefer compliments to being picked to pieces."

"If you wanted to be complimented, there is doubtless a vast array of men and women who would fall over themselves for an opportunity to sit here and drivel nonsense at you. Instead you chose to blackmail me into eating with you."

"True." Irene smiles at him. "You are more entertaining than my other admirers."

"That is because I don't admire you."

"No?" Irene arches her eyebrows at him.

Sherlock leans forward.

"You aren't wearing that very flattering evening gown because you think it will attract me. You're reminding me that you have a rather lucrative career behind you, not to mention a quite remarkable ability to manipulate simply by adopting the correct appearance. It isn't sex you're interested in. It's power. You flirt with me because that's how you control people. And because I don't fall into line, you get interested."