Jealous? {John, Sherlock, Irene}

There she was. On the backside of 221B Baker Street. And she was, again, trying to sneak into Sherlock's bedroom. She'd done it before, so now she could repeat it again. She remembered the bins that stood under Sherlock's bedroom window. A smile came upon her face. She sneaked into the garden and began her climb upon the bins to the window. The window was closed. Oh, clever boy. No problem though. She looked into the room. There was nobody. The door was open, but that wouldn't be much of a problem.
She forced the window and crept inside. But it didn't go as planned. The window smashed down on her back when she was halfway through.Ouch. Shit. Would someone have heard her?

John jumped up from the armchair when he heard the crash.
He instinctively looked for his gun against his side.
It was there.

It came from Sherlock's bedroom and he walked there quite aggravated, wishing it was nothing.

What he saw made him gape.
"Irene?" he snapped.
The annoyance was quick to give way to another feeling though. A woman was in need, he had to help.

"Are you alright?" he asked worriedly, moving closer.

Irene landed on the floor. Her bum and lower back hurt. A pain like a thunderbolt flashed through her back. She gasped for air. A moan of pain escaped her mouth

"My back." Another scream. "It" She gasped "It hurts"

All she could do was lay on the floor, in pain. (Not so fabulous.)

John was by her in no time, a worried frown on his face.

"Don't move," he ordered, his hand on her arm. "I am a doctor, just trust me for a second, and we'll see what's wrong..."

There was no blood, he quickly noted. "Just breathe."

She breathed, but it was shallow and like panting. She pressed her eyelids together and didn't try move. She heard John's footsteps approaching her. When she felt careful, warm hands on her cold body, she opened her eyes widely. She inhaled heavily and managed to ask.

"How bad is it?"

John inspected her in silence for a moment. "Nothing too drastic I believe,' he said with a reassuring grin.

"Can you move now? I'll help you up and you can lay on the bed so I can see if you need a bandage dressing," he suggested, taking her hand.

Irene swallowed and took his hand. She carefully got up. He was a short man, but firm. She could lean on him when she stumbled to the bed. The pain was still there. There was no improvement, but it didn't get worse. She looked John in the eye, searching for suspicion. She did tumble down in their flat for God's sake. But she saw none (yet). She laid on the bed with her chest down and her head on the pillow. She sniffed it when John went to the kitchen to fetch some doctor-stuff. The pillow smelled like Sherlock. She smiled through the aching. Something... familiar. She heard John coming back.

John sighed when he sat back on the bed, the first aid kit in his hands. It felt so surreal, to take care of Irene of all people, and because she had tried to sneak into Sherlock's bedroom!

He couldn't help but wonder whether it was the first time or a regular thing.

"Would you mind me pulling up your shirt? I need to see the skin..." he said, waiting for her to agree.

"Of course you can".
A bit of her dominatrix-ness came back in her voice, despite of her aching back. A moment she felt lost when she fell and injured herself. She didn't like to be dependent on someone's help, but it was nice of John to help her.
"Go ahead."

He slowly lifted the shirt, hands very delicate as they explored the quickly reddening skin.
"Are you allergic to anything? I would like to put some antiseptic healing cream on the wound. It'll heal quicker that way..."

"It really isn't much more than a bruise, you'll be up and about in no time..." he said and hesitated for a moment before asking. "Do you two do this? You come in his bedroom like this? So I won't notice anything?"

Sherlock walked in the door of 221B, rifling through a file that Lestrade had given him down at the station. Fool couldn't even make it all digital, it would have been much more convenient. He bypassed the living room, making a beeline for his own bedroom. Looked like an easy enough case. Bloody boring, more like.
He idly hummed Brahms' Concerto in D, taking away the part of his mind occupied by mundane, routine chores that should interrupt his thinking process, leaving him with the part that could crack this case in literally seconds, most likely.
Walking in the door of his bedroom, he heard John's voice and looked up to a sight that shocked him enough to drop his file, the papers scattering over the already cluttered floor.

John turned around when he heard the door open, he didn't expect Sherlock to come in in that moment.
Instinctively he pulled his fingers off Irene's skin and stared at him.

He blinked and then realized he was supposed to say something. "Hi Sherlock," he said with an unsteady mind.
Did this look bad?
God, why were they on Sherlock's bed?

When Irene heard the familiar voice, she started to smile. She got up, still stiff and a bit painful. She sat on the bed next to John and looked at Sherlock.
"Hi.... Sherlock" she said, smiling knowingly how this looked like in Sherlock's perspective. This looked bad. Just how she liked it.
"You have no idea. It's kind of... our thing."

John turned to her worriedly when Irene moved, his hands moving quickly to help her. "You shouldn't move, I still need to bandage your wound," he whispered, before looking at Sherlock. "It's already a nasty colour, you don't want it to stay like that for weeks."

Sherlock's mind clicked through thousands of reasons why John and the woman would be in his bed in such a compromising position. He didn't like any of them. His eyes, flashing around the room, noted the wound and forming bruise on the woman's back and the window. He narrowed down the range of possible reasons for the scene presenting itself.
Then it processed the 'it's kind of our thing'.
Ignoring that, clearly the woman had been attempting to sneak into the house through the window, at which point John would most likely have walked in and helped her, unable to relinquish his hero instincts. That explained everything, really.
Except the unadulterated rage that was severely inhibiting his thinking process.

Sherlock's glare made John feel strangely upset, he had a feeling something was very very wrong.
"Sherlock?" he muttered blinking, the detective had still not said a word.

He stood up and picked up the files Sherlock had dropped. "New case?" he tried for nonchalant, looking at the papers.

"...Yes." He replied after a pause, information still making its way through his brain. Rage still swirled behind his eyes, unexplainably.
Object of rage: The two people currently in the room with him.
External reason for rage: The situation in which he had found them.
Internal reason for rage: ...still not apparent.
Rage was a limiting emotion. It stopped up his thinking. He fought to put it aside and found doing so impossible. Focus on the case, focus on the case. The trouble was that the case was bloody easy, he hadn't even finished the file and he was fairly certain what had happened.
He took the file from a sheepish-looking John. If the only thing happening had been a doctor treating an admittedly spatially astray woman, why did John look so guilty? It failed to make sense.

John looked at him closely, Sherlock looked like a bomb about to burst, much more than he usually did. It was not about the case, it was about them, he was sure, but what was Sherlock thinking exactly?
Was he annoyed because they were taking up space in his room?
Was he annoyed because John had found Irene there and he ruined their time alone?

"She got hurt, I was just helping her out... you two can be alone now," he said, a stricken expression on his face.
There. He said it.
He just had to leave now.
If only his feet would move.

"I know what happened." He said shortly. "The width of the bruise and the places on her back where the skin is broken match the window. Furthermore, you've left it open. The window, I mean. Why would I want to be alone with her?"
Guilty. John looked guilty. Very guilty. He slapped the file down on an empty spot of wood on the table near the door with more force than necessary, not moving out of the doctor's way--he knew he was blocking the door.

"Of course you know. Very well. Mm. I would like to-" he moved to walk out of the room, but as he stepped closer Sherlock did not budge.
John blinked as he found himself in the other's personal space.

He jumped a bit as the papers were slapped to the table, it felt like a warning.

"I think she was looking for you, when she sneaked in your bedroom... so I reckon she wants you," he said simply, eyes moving restlessly on the other's face.

"Yes, well, she appears to have...forgotten to tell me that she was coming over." Sherlock replied, stubbornly not removing himself from John's path.
He eyed the woman on the bed.
John had looked at her when she'd been naked the other time.
Why did he want to hit her all of a sudden?
"Miss Adler, did you require assistance in getting up?" He asked pointedly, since she seemed not to have noticed that he was nearly in a killing rage.

"Very well, thank you."
Irene had to do her best to not burst into laughter. Two men and a dominatrix, unexpected in each others presence and the glances in each other eyes. She felt the tension rising between the three in the room. She waited until one of the two would help her. With a little moan she shifted on the bed.

John found himself smiling when Sherlock made clear he had not planned Irene's visit, that didn't mean they hadn't done this before, but it made him feel better.
He could not really relax though, Sherlock was still in his path, and didn't seem to want to move.

There was just something odd about the whole thing.

"Ah, we still need to dress your bruise," he protested to her desire to move, he didn't like the idea of leaving things half done. He moved closer, feeling protective of his patient.

"I believe that it's a shallow wound. Probably two weeks recuperation. I am sure she does not require your assistance." Sherlock interrupted, "In any case, I am sure that this is what is referred to as her 'just desserts' for invading our home."
His hand twitched, itching to reach out and pull John back as he headed over to the woman's side.
She was clearly faking that moan.
John was not going to touch her again.

John frowned at that: "I know very well, Sherlock, I am a doctor," he pointed out, nonetheless moving to help her up. "But that doesn't mean we have to leave her in pain, she is your guest after all," and if he sounded a bit accusing, well, he couldn't help it.

He looked at the detective in disbelief. He had never heard Sherlock refer to the obvious double meanings Irene always dished out on them, he had always taken for granted that he didn't understand them.
"How is this dessert? I am sure it was not planned..." he said, looking at Irene.