Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. Suggested by a prompt from, and beta read by, the lovely wickedwanton. Enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated.

NONPAREIL

The room has no running water or electricity.

It has no furniture either, just a roof which doesn't leak and windows which, though curtain-less, don't rattle.

There's a light rain outside and a full moon, clouds like cobwebs drifting across the sky. Stars glint coldly, iron nails piercing the firmament, rain dropping down- plink, plink, plink- across the roof's metallic boards. It's freezing and it's filthy and it smells as if several dead bodies may be buried under the floor-boards-

But Irene must admit that- right now- there is no more perfect place in existence for her.

Whether it will continue to be so once morning comes is another matter entirely.

Sherlock pulls the door closed then, stepping inside. Dropping his rucksack, rustling through the bag until he pulls out two high intensity orange snap lights and sets them off, casting an eerie-but-warm light throughout the room. It's bright enough to see by but not to draw attention unless pursuers are actually on top of them, and the forethought of that makes Irene smile. Sherlock smiles too, pleased with himself and his bag of tricks. Rolling out two long, thick sleeping bags with surprisingly practiced ease. He pulls off the mask and headgear which obscured his face to look around, blue eyes brilliant and nervous and restless in the gloom. Long, gloved fingers skimming over every surface, as if testing the air. The atmosphere. This very new place he's brought her, this place where they're finally alone. Irene's known a lot of men- well, she's known what they liked- and she recognises his movements as nervousness. He hadn't a trace of it during the retreat from her execution, then he was all action and brusqueness, very much the man who'd taken care of Neilson's CIA goons. But here, now, with her? He's completely out of his comfort zone.

Irene is torn between wanting to soothe him and wanting to keep him at a distance. She settles on saying, "Thank you," instead.

Sherlock blinks at her, as if surprised by the word. She hadn't said it when he'd bundled her into the ancient SUV that brought her here, but she doesn't want it to go unuttered. "You're welcome, Ms. Adler," he says. "I- I trust you're unhurt?"

He looks at his feet as he says it, not at her.

She does him the courtesy of not pointing out how unhelpful that action is for observation.

Instead she nods, smiles. She's not sure whether he sees it. In the rush of adrenaline when he came for her all she could really think was ohgodohgodI'mnotgoingtodieohgod, but now she knows she's safe other, more pleasant instincts, are starting to kick in. Instincts which remind her that of all her former opponents, the man before her was by far the most fun. Instincts that remind her that she could cut her hand open slapping that face, and the sensation would be exquisite. Divine. Irene doesn't like being on the receiving end of pain any more than she likes being on the receiving end of consequences. She makes trouble and then she disappears, that's her MO. That's who she is. And right now the man who saved her is looking like ten miles of good sex and better road, a perfect tonic for nearly losing her head- literally- to a bunch of extremists-

She knows that tomorrow he'll be gone. That she'll probably never see him again. That's who he is.

But she can live with being The Woman to him for the rest of his days, the One and Only, and she realises with a start how determined that makes her to have him- Right. Fucking. Now.

She's across the room, her hands on his chest, tugging at the black cloth before he even has a chance to look up. He stumbles backwards a little, tripping on the tube-light. Rights himself on the door-jam, opens his mouth- to ask her what she's doing probably- only to be silenced with a kiss. If either of them start talking she doubts they'll do anything else. For the slightest moment he's hesitant, almost as if he doesn't know what to do, and then- Then he joins in. Mouth on hers, breath warm and wan against her own. Strangely diffident for such a smugly confident man. His kiss is a question rather than an answer; His hands go around her waist, hers against his chest. Long, elegant fingers digging into the small of her back even as she shifts her weight to push him harder back against the wall. Her hands press upwards, thumbs circling against his belly then moving higher and higher again until she finds the edges of his tunic- "There you are," she murmurs. "There you are, Mr. Holmes-"

He blinks at her again, distracted. "I think, considering where your hands are," he mutters, "that you can call me Sherlock, Ms. Adler..."

She looks down, belatedly realises that while one of her hands has indeed been travelling up his chest the other is now maintaining a course resolutely southwards. What a clever little hand, she thinks, smiling. Biting lightly at his lip. She's wanted to do that for ages. "I do believe you're right, Sherlock," she says. "And I will take you up on your offer- Though you will call me Ms. Adler."

And she grins wickedly. Pushes aside the black tunic's fabric, finds the shirt underneath. She feels his entire body stiffen as her hands splay across his flesh, sees him frown even as she kisses him. She might be wrong (though she doubts it) but these are not the actions of a man familiar with pleasures of the flesh. Perhaps Moriarty's title of The Virgin was apt after all, she muses.

Though it won't be by the time I'm through with him.

So she tugs and he raises his arms- "Ever the gentleman,"- even as she pulls the garment up and off before starting on the shirt buttons. Leading him, showing him what she wants from him. Letting him give her what he needs. There's an intimacy to undressing someone which Irene has always enjoyed: She never had any siblings to take care of and she's lived alone most of her life so removing clothes has always been erotic. Sensual. And this first glimpse of Sherlock is definitely that. She can feel his heart thumping beneath her hands, its measure as laboured as his breathing. He shivers where she touches him, hips pressing into hers with a sharp, insistent urgency which she doubts he even notices. Which she knows he'd be mortified to admit to aloud. But still, he continues to do it, his body responding to hers as surely as one note responds to another in a melody. The beat of it percussive, insistent. A tune she'd always known she wants to hear, to play. Irene presses her own hips in to his even as she pulls the last of his upper garments off, tossing them impatiently into a corner, and then- Then-

For a moment she stares: That sheet in Buckingham Palace did not do him justice. He's long and lean as a shadow, sharp as a curt word. Elegant throat and fingers, an arch of ribs and skin and musculature as precise as a clockwork heart. Those blue eyes meet hers in question, a dip of shoulder and spine indicating… shyness? Uncertainty about what she sees when she looks at him. About what she expects him to do. Irene nods, indicating that she understands without him saying it. Underneath all his smugness and tart self-confidence she can see the question every lover asks their mistress: Do I please you? Will I be enough? Irene knows he would never put that into words though, and she has no intention of making him do so. It's not enough to know what Sherlock likes, she thinks, she wants to give him what he needs-

So she kisses him again, not making him speak. Pressing him back against the wall for all his greater height and weight. Hands pulling and kneading his flesh, nails raking lightly against his skin. It feels so bloody good. He makes some sound in the back of his throat, hungry and wanting, and Irene feels that torque of attraction to him wind tighter. Yank itself so sharply it feels like it's tying her into knots. She leans him down until he's on his back, her weight pinning him as she kneels on his wrists. It's uncomfortable and dominating for him, but she knows that if he needed to he could throw her off. So the fact that she's still in position would indicate that he acquiesces. Without breaking eye-contact she reaches out for the fabric belt nipping her black dress in at the waist. She pulls it loose and unfurls it, stretching it around her knuckles and then holding her hands apart. Sherlock's eyes widen at it, realising what she's about to do, and he shakes his head at her.

"I'm not foolish enough to let you tie me, Miss Adler," he says roughly. Lips quirk in a smile as he tries to summon back some of his old bravado. "And I'm certainly not docile enough to just lean back and think of England-"

Irene leans down to him, her fingers going to the back of his neck. Scraping. Instinctively Sherlock cocks his head to accept her kiss but she nips sharply at his lower lip instead. He frowns at her with an almost comically boyish look of betrayal and she shakes her head, lowering her mouth down to lick it. It's her first taste of him tonight- It won't be her last.

"If you want me to kiss it better, you'll have to let me tie you, and more," she murmurs. "You'll have to work very, very hard, my dear." She scrapes her nails from his nape around to his nose, his lips. Down to his chest, and he gasps in delight. It seems her darling detective likes a little monster in his maiden. "And as for laying back and thinking of England, I suggest you lean forward and think of Miss Adler…"

She reaches down and nips his earlobe sharply. Grins girlishly.

"That's what I always do."

And she digs her nails in with a final, tearing twist. He opens his mouth to answer back, or maybe to protest at the pain, but before he can she slides her hand downwards, easily opening his fly with deft, quick fingers. Reaching inside and pressing against the hardening flesh she finds there. Palm and fingers tightening on that hot, heavy weight. He whines, moves his hips, giving her better access even as he lets out a string of the filthiest swear-words she's heard in a long while. The crude words even more arousing when spit out in that cut-glass, upper-class accent. His breath is coming hard and sharp now, face twisting as if he were in pain though Irene knows he is not. As soon as his arse leaves the ground she uses the other hand to yank down his trousers and underwear, baring his belly, his hips, his buttocks and thighs to her. Pressing him into the cold, hard floor. He swears again, contorts- she's not sure whether he's fighting her or getting more aroused- and she pulls his clothes down further. Leans back on her haunches, pushing, until he helpfully kicks his way out. She raises her eyebrows in question and he snaps- "If I have to run I won't get far in those-"

"You won't run from me, Sherlock, that's not why we're here tonight-"

"I'll run if I bloody want to-"

"But you don't want to," she whispers.

"If you wanted to run from me you wouldn't have come here, my clever, brilliant boy."

And she shifts so that her knees are bracketing his hips, her hands replacing them at his wrists. The press of him between her thighs is exquisite- wanted. Oh, but she's going to enjoy this. He opens his mouth to say something else and this time she shifts, pressing herself down on him, feeling his hardened flesh push upwards inside her even as she drives the belt down into his open mouth. They both gasp as he slides inside her, both take a sharp, harsh breath at feeling something so novel. So new. Sherlock's pupils dilate, darkness drowning out the blue. His teeth bites into the belt, his spine arching for her like the war-taut string of a bow. A shudder goes through him, his eyes drooping closed. Tension drains out of him, a breath that might be a sigh leaving his lips. For a moment they're still. Silent. Just allowing themselves to feel and experience.

Irene doesn't often think it, but she feels a tiny prick of… gratitude, that he is here, with her, like this- If only for tonight.

Because she knows herself well enough to understand that tonight is all she can give him.

Neither the peace nor the gratitude can last though. Pleasure and instinct are gaining control and neither Irene nor Sherlock seem willing to entirely push them away. So she begins to move atop him, rolling her hips in a slow, drowning rhythm. Noting that Sherlock doesn't spit the gag away, rather allows her to tie it at the back of his head. This frees up her hand to roam, to press his hands above his head with hers, to enjoy the feel of their fingers clasped together, palm to palm. He struggles a little, pressing back and frowning though he doesn't open his eyes. His cock pressing up into hers in sharper, quicker strokes now, his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl. Irene hushes him, kisses him, murmurs how good he's being for her. Tells him she understands how overwhelming it all is the first time but that he can give her what he wants. He can just let go. His brows draw together at those words and his eyes flutter open, blue irises burning up into hers. She can see the questions there, the arousal, the embarrassment he'd die rather than admit to. The shame she'd played on so heartlessly that night negotiating with Mycroft, when she told him she hadn't given a damn.

So she strokes one hand through his curls, snaking down to his heart. The other still pressing his hands above his head, both his wrists in one hand. He seems to accept their new terms, the closest thing to peace she's ever seen in him washing through his expression. She pulls back and for a moment they both just stare at one another again, breathing heavily. Touching. Being. And then… He presses up into her again and this time she rolls her hips in time with him, letting him ride the sensation. His head tips back- it's completely unconscious, she guesses- and they both let out a long, low moan. She presses his hands above his head again, adjusts herself so she can move against his properly. He nods, almost unconsciously, smiling this bright, blinding smile she's never seen before.

He must see her surprise at it because it falters, almost as if he hadn't realised he had it in him to smile like that. And then she kisses him, sharp and sweet and hot, showing him he didn't do anything wrong. That she liked it. Showing him that he has nothing to fear here, and everything to gain. Their rhythm accelerates, pleasure rolling through them both. Irene's had enough lovers to tell when they're reaching their crisis before her own and she takes one of those clever fingers, presses it delicately against her clit. Smiles at the surprised, proud expression that washes over his face when she growls in pleasure. That clever brain likes a challenge when it sees one, she knows that, and he brings that to bear on her body, giving her her pleasure just as surely as she gives him his. There's a twist of joy, of bliss, of oblivion. The one thing Irene chases, the one thing Sherlock probably needs, flooding through them both like bright, white noise. Irene closes her eyes and rides out the fall, content as she only ever is in the arms of her own pleasure. Dimly she feels Sherlock buck and jerk beneath her, his body finally escaping that desperate, iron-wrought control he keeps on it. There's heat- wetness- loss of tension. She leans forwards, drained, and rests her forehead on his. Through her dress- she dimly remembers that she's still clothed- she feels Sherlock's hands stroke her back. Her shoulder-blades. It's blissful.

She hears rather than sees him pull away the gag, feels the press of his lips on her own.

Still clothed, still sated, Irene curls and leans into him and as she lets herself drift into darkness she knows there's nowhere she'd rather be. They spend the night in one another, only dropping into sleep just before daybreak.

When he wakes up in the morning, she's gone.

So is his backpack, most of his equipment and every penny he brought from home.

There's a locker key for Karachi airport taped to the door and when he eventually opens it he finds his fake passport and a ticket back to London under his assumed name. He also finds the belt of her dress and a single sheet of paper, folded in two. It smells of her perfume. `

Thank you, Mr. Holmes, he reads. Don't make me say that again.

So he goes home to London- to John- because he realises he completely understands her. He holds no illusions about what either of them might be to one another, no illusions at all. But it's the strangest thing… He swears he can still feel her sometimes.

It's almost like he carries her underneath his skin.