“So there he was, lying flat on his back, completely naked—”
“Can you please not,” Sherlock mumbles into his coffee cup.
Irene’s smile is infuriatingly patronizing. “Hush, dear.” She presses a slim finger to her lips. “I’m only practicing. I want to make sure I get the story straight for—”
Tilting her head to the side, Irene says, “Well, when I recount it. It’s a funny story. Don’t worry, I won’t mention you by name.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, there he was, lying on his back, completely naked, and I’d barely touched him when—”
Sherlock winces. He remembers very well. He was there. “I really don’t think this is in need of telling.”
She waves her hand around, brushing him off. Her nails are long and red and reflect the harsh lighting in her kitchen. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about. So you have a stamina problem, so what? Not all that uncommon—and not unexpected, either, given your inexperience. We’ll just have to take precautions next time.”
He blinks, trying not to think about what she means by precautions. “I don’t understand. If it isn’t embarrassing, then why is it funny?”
Irene rests her chin on her hand. “Well, the look on your face was…” She pauses, biting her lip, stifling what might have been a giggle. “Extraordinary.”
Sherlock takes a long drink of his coffee. Maybe he should have asked for something a bit stronger to drown out her words. A seven-percent solution, he thinks, would not go amiss.