The Blurred Lines of Love, Lust and Sentiment
A moment in time from the adventures in death of Sherlock. He needs a partner for the evening and she surprises them both in staying Sex/Fluff/Slight Action. Irene/Sherlock.
A/N I actually wrote a similar story almost a year ago and titled it 'Il pleut á Paris' but I've lost the document, I rewrote this as an attempt to deflect from some more personal problems and because I am utterly in love with Sherlock/Irene and I always have been since I read Conan Doyle. It's set during Sherlock's 'death' as he's dismantling Moriaty's web, it's definitely canon in my mind that on occasion he'd bump into Irene and she'd help him which what happens here.
My grammar's not fantastic and I apologise profoundly in advance for that but I hope you all will enjoy it nonetheless. I just wanted to write something that dealt with the issue of sentiment surrounding Sherlock and Irene and the complications that it would bring to them as individuals. As I was watching Fleming (I've watched all four episodes multiple times already) with Lara Pulver and Dominic Cooper, I liked how they talk about their relationship and his inability/unwillingness to love her (how very Sherlock) in bed and I really thought it was rather relevant to Adlock, so I was influenced by that in a sense. If any of you haven't watched Fleming yet I would highly recommend it, Lara truly is a fantastic actor and is definitely suited to period/femme fatale roles.
Disclaimer: Alas 'Sherlock' per se is not mine.
By the end of Sherlock's first year of playing dead, Moriaty's network was almost completely dismantled bar Europe, Europe had been Moriaty's stronghold and despite his demise it would still be difficult to end things here. Sherlock had planned to begin his attack in Paris and work his way across Europe when the appropriate opportunity arose. Thus, he landed at Charles de Gaulle airport at 8am on New Year's Eve; after emerging from passport control he slipped his mobile from his pocket and tapped in a number he'd memorised. He had no contacts within the phone and would delete the conversation afterwards, for much as his safety as the recipients.
Paris, can you get here by this evening?
He pressed send and didn't bother to pocket the phone, she'd reply quickly, she always did. Indeed, only minutes later, as Sherlock slipped into a taxi, her response dinged in.
I never took you as a romantic.
This isn't a social call. He typed back his response quickly and directed the taxi to the hotel he'd booked.
It never is.
Sherlock took her response as a yes, she would have declined immediately if she was unable to make it. He then deleted the conversation, it was better to be safe than sorry, before pocketing the phone. There was an event that evening, that would be very useful in his plan to dismantle the European base of Moriaty's network and Irene Adler would be a valuable asset in doing so. He didn't know where she was right now; it had been months since he'd last heard from her as they'd bid goodbye in a dank and decrepit apartment block in Alexandria.
They'd texted infrequently since but he'd had to concentrate on destroying the web, however he'd still surprised them both in replying occasionally, but more often than before his death. Things had changed between them but he desperately did not want to dwell on the implications of that. Trying to remove her from his mind, Sherlock tried to concentrate at the task at hand. After checking in to the upmarket hotel he'd arranged, as he was utterly tired of low budget dirty accommodation, Sherlock proceeded to gather the items he'd mentally listed and prepared to speak to his contact in the Parisian Police force.
Sherlock returned to his hotel room at 2pm, with two suit bags and a lot of intel to make sense of, to find no less than Irene Adler, lounging on his bed, reading Machiavelli's The Prince in its original Italian, how very apt he thought. He hid his surprise as he entered the room and made his way to the wardrobe, hanging the bags inside. Irene ignored him and continued to the end of the page before looking up and winking at him. She laid down the book on the bed side table and got up, attempting to approach him but he raised a hand to her.
"We've got lots of work to do. No distractions."
"Me a distraction?" Irene smirked and then laughed.
"Woman-" He warned as she continued closer.
"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy."
Sherlock looked a bid oblivious to her comment.
"British idiom."
"How mundane."
"I am not mundane." She said firmly as she traced her fingers down his suit jacket, he'd played the businessman as his disguise, the material told her it was upmarket. Sherlock tried to get his breathing under control as her fingers danced down his sleeve and towards his wrist. He didn't reply to her but allowed her fingers to reach his wrist and take his pulse. It was only slightly elevated, it didn't give much away but unfortunately it would give her the satisfaction that she had some effect on him.
He stared at her. She was dressed in a fitted navy long sleeved dress, it was expensive and despite her now dyed red hair she looked more Irene Adler than he'd have liked, given their proximity to England.
"Stop thinking." She moved herself even closer to him and whispered in his ear.
"I thought 'brainy was the new sexy.'" He retorted, repeating her words from a lifetime ago.
She smirked as she turned her head to his, her lips so close to his. She didn't speak and he waited with baited breath, using all of his self control not to lean in any closer. He didn't have to because suddenly her lips brushed his and he was involuntarily responding in a similar manor. It had been six months and he hadn't realised how much he'd missed her and this until she withdrew, far too quickly for his liking. Sherlock took note of his reaction and filed it in his mind palace for analysis later; he was aware that on a biological level he was sexually attracted to the woman, their past actions since his death and even before that in Pakistan had proven that. But lust was a dangerous game and Sherlock was well aware that it would be a hinderance if not kept in check. For that reason he let her go and didn't pull her back to deepen that kiss. He watched as she sauntered to the mirror to touch up her hair, there would be time for all of that later he decided, but for now there was work to be done.
"So what's the plan?" Irene asked as she repinned her hair in place.
"New Year's Eve ball."
"High Society?"
"Naturally."
"The President?"
"Will be in attendance."
Irene nodded, silently impressed. "I'm sure there's a story there on how you managed to wrangle such tickets."
Sherlock looked at her for a moment and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I misbehaved."
Irene raised an eyebrow and tried to get her own breathing under control. "What am I to wear at such short notice?"
"I arranged for a dress." Sherlock replied, increasing the distance between them as she had to them. It was a game they sometimes played, a dance almost, where each player gave and took back.
"I am capable of shopping for myself you know."
"I didn't know what time you'd be arriving, as I didn't know where you were coming from." Sherlock paused and surveyed her. "Florence." He added.
Irene shook her head with a laugh. "Not this time."
Sherlock furrowed his brows. "But the Italian heels, rubbed away at the bottom as if on cobblestones, Machiavelli, your ticket stub-"
"Redherrings Sherlock."
"Europe though."
"Hardly a deduction Mr Holmes given how quickly I arrived."
Sherlock was inwardly exasperated, she didn't have a tan but given that it was winter that was no real clue as to her whereabouts, she'd taken less than six hours to reach Paris and locate his hotel, signalling to him that she'd come from a European country, but other than that he had no clue.
"Plane or Train?" Irene asked. "Think. It's the new sexy."
"The fact you even suggested the train suggests it wasn't the plane. You'd only take the train if you were in Western Europe, a country close by. You said no to Florence but I'd still say Italy, or at least you've spent some time there recently. You don't like being cold, so southern Europe is more likely…" Sherlock trailed off as he racked his brain a bid to deduce her, Irene Adler, the Woman.
"I was in Paris already Sherlock." Irene said simply, interrupting his deductions. "I kept you waiting because I'm not a woman who likes to come when called."
"No." His voice was cold. "You're not are you."
Irene reached out and cupped his cheek in her hand, his ego was clearly damaged.
"I wouldn't worry Sherlock, I am you're exception."
His eyes softened at her but he turned away from her touch and moved towards the desk, taking out some papers he'd taken from an office in Algiers.
"My sources have suggested that a Monsieur Benoit is the best way to infiltrate the web."
"Max?"
"You know of him?"
"I've been here for a while Sherlock. I've met him at parties."
Her revelation brought new questions to Sherlock's mind, about what she'd been up to since their last meeting.
"Will there be anybody else you'll know tonight?" Sherlock's voice was colder than he'd meant it to be.
"Perhaps but I think not, I'd have been told if they'd been invited, this event is high calibre, it's something people would share immediately."
Sherlock didn't respond and instead busied himself with some manilla files from the Parisian Police department.
"Let me see the dress then." Irene asked, when it was evident Sherlock was not going to reply.
Sherlock made no effort to move to the wardrobe where he'd placed the two suit bags. Irene rolled her eyes as he immersed himself into his work and moved past him to view the dress. Sherlock Holmes, she had know before she'd met him, came from a well to do family, his mother had been a gifted mathematician and both Sherlock and his brother Mycroft had grown up lavishly. It was evident from his natural indulgence in fitted shirts even at weekends that Sherlock had an awareness to fashion and fine taste. Even despite this knowledge, Irene was pleasantly surprised when she undid the zip and took the dress out of the bag to find a gorgeous black gown.
He'd known her measurements from when they'd first met in her Belgravia townhouse and he'd seen her body many more times since. He'd touched, tasted, and committed her entire being to memory and Irene knew that she wouldn't even need to try it on before this evening; that the dress would fit perfectly.
"What time do we need to leave?" Irene asked.
"6." Sherlock uttered but didn't look up from the papers he was reading.
"Only 4 hours, we have plenty of time." She drew up behind him from where he was sitting at the desk and placed her head on his shoulder. It had been six months and despite the fact both of them had gotten on with their lives and pushed the thoughts of the other out of their minds, now that they were faced with the physical being of the other, their self control was beginning to wain. Sherlock swallowed as her breath hit his ear.
"There's a lot to do Woman, not now." He dismissed her but didn't pull away a
"Six months is a long time Mr Holmes..." She trailed her painted nails across his shoulder.
"I'm busy." He said as she nipped at his neck, sending his heart beat into spasms.
"And I'm bored."
"There's shoes in the box. Their Louis Vuittons, black, I was advised by the shop assistant that they'd go with the dress."
Irene laughed. "How romantic of you, a dress and shoes. I presume she thought you were buying for your lover."
Sherlock turned to look at her. "Yes, it was in keeping with my disguise."
"Which is?" Irene asked, slipping herself onto the table by the side of him, so that she was sitting on the papers he'd been trying to read.
"French businessman, my French is fluent and I assumed yours was too."
"Oui."
"Are we married?"
"No. We're not the type."
"I wasn't talking about us." Irene retorted. "What's my name?" She asked, moving the conversation away from shaky ground.
"If you've met Monsieur Benoit already or plan to stay in Paris, which I advise against." He added with a darkened look at her. "Then keep whatever name you've been using."
"Isabelle DuPont."
Sherlock nodded in recognition and went to try and go back to his work but Irene was still perched on top of his papers. "Irene-"
"Isabelle." She corrected with a smirk.
"Mademoiselle DuPont." He corrected, getting to his feet. "I wonder how many names you've had."
"Guess." Irene laughed as he neared closer to her, towering of her.
"I don't guess." He growled as he placed his hands either side of her body. "I deduce."
"So deduce me Mr Holmes."
Sherlock couldn't admit to her that he couldn't, that he never could have and probably never would be able to deduce her. She was an enigma, a puzzle that would always be his exception. So instead of responding to her he covered her lips with his, distracting them both from their conversation. Prior to death he never would have been so forward, indeed it had been her that had always initiated things. In the hotel in Karachi, in the alleyway in Bogatoa, the apartment in Cairo whilst the riots had played out in a fire below their window. It had always been her. It had only been in Alexandria on the rickety staircase outside their door had he taken the first move.
As the kiss deepened one of Irene's hands reached up to rake her hands through his curls. She was intoxicating he thought as their lips parted slightly allowing each other to breath, she caught his lip between her teeth, preventing him from pulling away properly and he let her wrap her legs around his waist pulling him closer to her.
He felt a warmth in his trousers as he reacted to her body pressing on him. They had hours before they had to be ready, they had time. He thought, effortlessly moving his hand to her waist and lifting her off of the table. She didn't move her lips from his as they hungrily devoured the other that they had not seen in months. He skilfully managed to rotate them and take the few steps towards the bed where he lowered them down so that she was beneath him. It was only when her back made contact with the sheets that Irene pulled away and untangled one of her legs from his waist.
"Too much clothing." She muttered and Sherlock bent down closer to press a butterfly kiss to her neck.
He had been clumsy and new to it all back in Karachi two years ago, but he'd been a quick learner and Irene involuntarily moaned as he lightly bit at the sensitive skin that he knew from experience made her squirm.
She undid his belt with her hands and he quickly used his arm muscles to get off of her and step out of his trousers and slip his socks off. There was a sudden urgency to their actions as it became evident that six months really was a long time to go without one another. Sherlock didn't want to think about the implications and redirected his attention to the woman on front of him who was undoing each the buttons on his white shirt. She practically ripped it off of him as he reached down and slip his hand up her thigh, she wasn't wearing at tights or stockings today and he could feel her smooth pale skin of his thighs as he pushed the dress up.
"Take it off." Irene growled as his fingers slipped higher. "Now." Not removing his hand from her upper thigh, Sherlock reached around her with his right hand undid the zipper. He helped her lift the dress off of her, leaving them both just in their underwear. There was little time to revel in her body, to pick up any new scars or bruises since Alexandria and they both became quite aggressive with their actions. He moved back on top of her but she was quick to flip them over as he became distracted when her hand slipped into the waistband of his boxer shorts. They too became quickly discarded as did her bra. Irene straddled his chest and lowered her lips down to his, as they kissed he took the opportunity reach up and grope her breasts in a sensual manner, pinching her nipples slightly as she groaned against his mouth. She'd missed him, she thought, he truly was a remarkable man to have learnt so quickly in a realm that certainly wasn't his forte. After a moment, Sherlock used his hands to shift her body higher up his, so that he could suck on her breasts, a feat that almost sent Irene over the edge as he used his tongue to flick her nipple whilst using his slim fingers to play with the other. She began to buck her hips slightly on his chest and they both felt the urgency to speed things up. So, he moved his hands to her hips and helped lower Irene down onto him before setting the rhythm of the thrusts that quickly became rather urgent and fast indeed. He pumped into her as he came beneath her and their moans were lost in each others mouths as they refused to part.
Irene eventually slid off of him when he was completely done, and moved her body to the side of his, making sure to maintain the physical contact.
"Definitely not a virgin." She said breathlessly after a moment. The sheets were in a mess around them from where they'd tugged and rolled around on top of them.
"What an unnecessary comment." Sherlock stated, staring down at the beautiful woman beside him. "I haven't been for some years, you evidently took care of that."
"So I did." Irene smiled at the memory.
Her neck was exposed as she chuckled and Sherlock leaned down to take advantage of the moment, his mouth moving to the exposed skin of her elongated neck.
"Hmm." Irene murmured, closing her eyes once more.
Sherlock withdrew his mouth from her skin, knowing full well that soon she would have to lather her neck in foundation to cover up the various pink spots of skin that he had caused. Her eyes were still closed in a pleasant peaceful manner and Sherlock gave into the urge to give her lips a chaste kiss before rolling back to his position beside her, not yet quite willing to let go of the woman just yet.
After a while, when she felt that she had regain control over her legs and that they wouldn't turn to jelly if she chose to put weight on them Irene sat up, forcing Sherlock to retract his arms from around her.
"I'd better start getting ready." She turned to him and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before getting up and moving to the bathroom.
Sherlock didn't move from the bed as he watched through the open doorway at Irene in the ensuite bathroom. She leaned down and started the taps for the elegant Victorian bathtub, when she turned she saw him staring at her naked body. Sherlock looked away and blushed slightly. He'd never been immune to her beauty, he certainly recognised that she was particularly beautiful, what with her pale skin and dark hair as well as he perfectly proportioned features and sultry voice. However, what had first attracted him to her had been her mind, his inability to deduce her had been because she'd been clever enough to disguise herself. She had shocked him senseless by appearing naked, but her ability to match him and his intelligence had been what had made his pulse elevate as hers had. Sherlock had looked down on her and the sentiment she had shown that had given him the key to her downfall. But he'd also recognised that he had been as guilty as she had for the same reason. Something had stirred within him when he'd first thought she'd died and he'd kept tabs on her after he'd crudely let her go without her protection. He'd even gone as far as to travel all the way to Pakistan to save her from her death. That had been the moment when he'd been unable to deny his at attachment to Irene Adler no longer. It had been then that he'd finally given in to his attraction to her and allowed the physical displays of affection and lust that had then played out that night in the name of sentiment. Much had changed even since then, it had been nearly a year later when he'd next seen her and the sentiment had only strengthened when he'd turned up at her door soon after his death.
Sherlock pulled himself out of his thoughts before he delved deeper into analysing his attraction to Irene, the lines of which were not as clear cut as 'purely intellectual' or 'purely physical' anymore. The sky was beginning to darken red as the afternoon began to move on as Sherlock finally sat up and moved to get on with the work Irene had interrupted. He didn't bother getting dressed, he'd need to shower in a minute and Irene had already seen him naked, however he did lift the top sheet off and wrap it around him nonetheless. When he heard the water begin to drain from the bath and the sound of Irene stepping out of it, Sherlock stopped what he was doing but didn't bother to tidy away. Irene would just go through his bags if he did, to find out for herself what his plans were. This way she wouldn't need to mess up his order, although upon further thought he realised she probably would, just to annoy him. Irene was still in the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and brushing her hair out in the mirror when Sherlock entered, having dropped the sheet and moved towards the shower.
By the time he'd finished, a much quicker feat than Irene's bath been, she had dried her hair and was wrapped, he noticed immediately, in his dressing gown. She'd discarded the towels by the bath, knowing that the hotel staff would tidy and replace them whilst they were out. He stopped and stared at her for a moment as she sat at the desk in their room, his papers having been haphazardly pushed onto the floor, with her make up strewn In it's place. She was drying her wavy red hair and smiled at him via the mirror when she noticed him staring. She looked beautiful with the striking auburn hair, but he knew she missed her dark hair. She would never admit it but Irene missed everything about her old life and although she was grateful that Sherlock had saved her but sometimes she wished he'd just left her to die. Everything had changed and she desperately missed London more and more now that the years had gone on.
Sherlock looked at her as she began twisting her now dry hair into a complicated updo. She was intoxicating even whilst doing such a mundane task and Sherlock wondered for a moment how it would feel waking up watching her do this everyday. Everything had changed, they were almost domestic, although he detested using the word with its connotations, they were both far too interesting to be tied down to such a dull word.
He got changed into his suit a few hour laters, and his thoughts about domesticity came flooding back as he buttoned up his shirt whilst watching her apply the last of her makeup, red lipstick in an appropriately scarlet shade. Sherlock had been too distracted by the strangely erotic picture of Irene applying the lipstick that he hadn't realised that he'd missed a button halfway down his shirt. Irene held back a laugh at his mistake when she turned to face him and sauntered across the room to button it herself. She tries to think about when things began to change, she certainly wouldn't have done this in Karachi but her thoughts are interrupted by Sherlock.
"I've arranged for a car." Sherlock said.
Irene nodded and finished the last button, surprised that he'd let her and returned to sorting out herself. She increased the distance between them before dropping his dressing gown with her back to him. She picked up fresh underwear from her bag before slipping the dress Sherlock had bought her off of the hanger and stepping into it. The zip was at the side, not at the back, and they both knew full well that she could have zipped herself up but Sherlock stepped around the bed and did it himself anyway. They tried not to think at how intimate a gesture it was and they individually told themselves that it was in keeping with their new disguise as lovers, but they both knew that that was a lie. Their disguise was a reflection of themselves and not the other way around.
He had to admit she was gorgeous, even with the red hair that she detested. Sherlock watched as his lover Isobelle DuPont conversed with strangers she'd only just met and watched in begrudging admiration as she caused the men around her to turn their heads and to cause others to flock to her. She had that voice, that was sultry and attractive, striking and entrancing and everybody loved her. Sherlock gripped the champagne glass, that had been placed in his hand upon arrival tighter as he watched a prominently promiscuous French politician slip his hand lower on Irene's back during conversation. He gulped down any emotion and tried to empty himself of any sentiment before turning to the matter at hand, he hadn't seen Monsieur Max Benoit as of yet and Irene had left him so that they could both pursue their own individual lines of inquiry.
It was the President's annual New Year's Eve ball and the room was packed with Parisian society guests, which included several key members of Moriaty's network. He'd finished up a conversation with the CEO of a multi-national company that Sherlock was sure had investments within the web when Sherlock felt Irene's hand make contact with his arm.
"Found Max yet?" Irene asked, kissing his cheek in an intimate manner. He pulled her closer, in a gesture he'd seen lovers do at such events and she reached up to wipe the lipstick mark she'd just made on his perfect skin.
"No. Found anything?"
"Other than that half the women here are having an affair with a very high-profile politician?"
Sherlock chuckled. "Did they tell you that?"
Irene looked mildly offended. "You're not the only one that can deduce, Hugo." She used his cover name.
Sherlock was about to retort when he noticed a middle aged man enter the room with a far younger woman on his arm. He was handsome but with a slightly crooked nose and despite his expensive suit, the cheap shoes on his feet suggested he was struggling to pay his bills. Maximillion Benoit, the weakest link in Moriaty's web.
"Would you like me to introduce you?"
"Not yet." Sherlock hummed and took her hand, leading her towards the dance floor.
Pleasantly surprised, Irene led herself be led my Sherlock and grasped his hand as they began the waltz. "Dancing lessons, your insistence not your mothers." Irene scrutinised him with a smile.
For once, Sherlock didn't hate that she'd deduced something right about him. "I used to love dancing as I love science. It was the only thing that Mycroft was awful at in comparison. I held it above him for years." Sherlock said and Irene chuckled.
There was a wonderful moment as Irene's laughter died down of relaxation, as they both moved with the steps in each other's arms.
"He's obviously having cash-flow problems." Irene said after a moment.
He knew she was referring to Monsieur Benoit and it was Sherlock's turn to smile. "How rudimentary."
Irene cocked an eyebrow at him. "That's why you chose him isn't it? Because you know you won't have to get your fingers dirty, he'll simply pass over information to the highest bidder."
Sherlock neither confirmed nor denied it but he knew Irene was aware that she was right.
"However, he's not the only one of interest here tonight. I know for a fact the man you were just talking to is a colleague of Jim's." Sherlock winced as she used Moriaty's forename. "I saw them together in London once." Irene added. "For such a personal visit he must be somebody of significance. Which means-" She continued as Sherlock turned her with the music. "That the man talking to Fleur Texerau over there is also of interest to you. He keeps trying to gesture to the other man and to our main target this evening, they're connected."
"Impressive Mamoiselle DuPont." Sherlock drew his face closer to hers. "But you read their files."
Irene's smirked. "Naturally."
They spent the rest of the song, secretly enjoying the embrace of the other whilst deducing who was sleeping with who and working out the best exit strategy if things went wrong. Before Irene, there had only been Mycroft who could adequately play this game and with the age difference as it was and his brother's choice in career, Sherlock rarely got the chance to play the game not to impress someone but to beat them. Irene matched his intelligence in other ways, Sherlock deduced what people were whereas Irene had the ability to know human nature and could read their emotions. They complemented each other in a perverse way that nobody, not even them could understand.
The evening wore on and the duo began to stick closer and closer together, they ate and they drank, or rather Irene did, and they spoke to Politicians and Actors and CEOs together. There was no doubt to the strangers they conversed with that they were together in some sort of intimate arrangement, but then again, both were masters of disguise and even Irene was beginning to wonder as to whether the hand at the small of her back that tightened when a good looking male approached her, was more Hugo Aubert or Sherlock Holmes.
The opportunity to question Monsieur Benoit arose towards the end of the evening, Irene approached the man alone and struck up a conversation about their mutual friends, Sherlock joined them swiftly after managing to wrangle himself out of a conversation with the President himself.
"Monsieur Benoit, I don't think you've met my partner Monsieur Aubert."
Sherlock saw Benoit's eyes darken as he realised that Isabelle was not single, not that it stopped many of these french men, thought Sherlock. Half the men in the room were evidently having affairs with married women.
"Bonsoir Monsieur." Benoit nodded to Sherlock and the pleasantries began.
"Bonsoir." Sherlock responded.
Both Sherlock and Irene knew that the best way to stay inconspicuous was to stay in a crowded room and so they did not ask Monsieur Benoit whether or not he would like to take a breath of fresh air in the gardens when they began asking him questions about his associations with less than desirable names.
"50,000 euros for names." Sherlock stated.
"100,000."
"I don't really think you're in a position to argue." Irene who had been silent throughout the duration of the initial conversation spoke.
"They would kill me-"
"We will kill you." Sherlock's voice was passive as he said it and it freaked Benoit out even more.
"But you need me alive." Benoit was beginning to sweat and Irene was beginning to regret continuing to stay in the room. If he began to look more worried, Benoit would draw attention to himself and the two men, one of whom had disappeared and the other who was now talking to the President's partner, would surely notice and begin to join the dots. They couldn't afford for Benoit to panic.
"No." Sherlock said simply and he looked almost sadistic, towering over the shorter man. "Conversing with you would be quicker and a lot less messier but it is not the only way I can collect the information I need. I am not a patient man Monsieur Benoit. If you have information, talk to me."
Beads of sweat continued to drop down Benoit's forehead and it was certainly beginning to look like Sherlock and Irene were interrogating him, rather than having a pleasant conversation.
"Hugo." Irene warned as she noticed one of the men reappear in the room.
"Answer me Monsieur Benoit, will you give us the information we need." Sherlock pressed on.
Benoit looked around and but his colleagues had their backs to him. Benoit gulped. "Oui."
"Good. Now would you like some fresh air Monsieur?" Irene asked sweetly.
Benoit nodded and let himself be led out by Irene, Sherlock went to follow but Irene stopped him with her foot. "Allow me." She whispered.
Sherlock nodded. "I'll get the drinks then." He said and moved over towards a waiter with a platter of champagne glasses, allowing Irene to lead the target outside.
She returned 10 minutes later alone and Sherlock handed her the glass he'd taken for her. She muttered a thanks before taking two long sips, evidently relishing in keeping Sherlock waiting from the information she'd found out.
"I have names and you'll also be glad to know that the whole European network is experiencing widespread financial problems, mutiny is brewing in the lower ranks of the network and the top has lost it's control over payment issues. The French Police have already raided their LeHarve warehouse when one member switched sides, it won't be as much work as you initially thought to finish up in Europe."
Sherlock nodded. "Thank you." He flashed her a genuine smile.
"I like playing games Sherlock, death is boring me." Irene admitted truthfully.
"Lying low has never been your strong point." Sherlock agreed.
Irene was about to respond but was interrupted by the beginning of the countdown to the New Year. She hadn't realised what the time was and found a new full champagne glass being shoved into her hand. A crowd formed towards the door, the guests knew that a special firework display would be seen when the clock struck 12. There was 2 minutes to midnight and Irene was about to join the crowds but felt Sherlock's arm tug her back.
"Where did the Monsieur go?" Sherlock's voice was urgent now.
"He left when I returned, he walked right past us." Irene said, surveying the room trying to see what he saw.
"I think I was recognised by one of the others." Sherlock stated simply.
"Max." Irene stopped and gestured to the doors. "They'll kill him."
"I was lying when I said we don't need him. We certainly need him now if the others know who I am. Without him, we have no leads."
Irene nodded. "Let's go then."
Luckily, everybody else was distracted by the countdown to notice them pass, and those that did merely dismissed them for two lovestruck lovers sneaking out to find a quieter place to relieve themselves.
New Year's Eve had been thrilling, the adrenaline pumping through Sherlock's veins had been all that he'd needed to feel like himself again and to stop himself from relapsing, but that was left unspoken. However, the curse of the matter was that after such a high there was also a dramatic fall. The feeling that sparked his body did indeed start to wear off at around 2am, after they'd manage to dispose of the two men that had recognise Sherlock and head back to their hotel room, or rather his. Sadly, they had been too late to save Monsieur Benoit but they'd still managed to get some information out of the other two before they'd died of blood loss. Sherlock was now complaining about being bored by the time they'd crossed the lobby, causing Irene to roll her eyes in mild amusement. However, when they did finally reached the room Irene was already ready to throttle the man. Sherlock stormed into the room ahead of her at such a pace that Irene had to reach out and grab the slightly ripped sleeve of his tuxedo. He turned in impatience but Irene was equally as fast and tugged him closer, crashing his lips onto hers. Using his momentum Irene almost slammed her back into the door, closing it without releasing her hands from his lapels. Sherlock who had been cut off mid-rant by her lips on his, was stunned momentarily, before he complied with her, moving his lips in rhythm with hers, hungrily eating her up.
"What you need darling is a good distraction." She whispered against his lips as they drew breath.
"And what might that be?"
"Me."
Sherlock smirked against her lips and Irene personally thought that he'd never looked so attractive, with ruffled hair and a smile on his face. She didn't get long to stare at him though, because his weight suddenly shifted almost crushing her against the door and her legs automatically began to wrap around him. It was a testament to the adrenaline and arousal, as well as his ability to learn quickly, that was evident by the fact Sherlock did not try to move them away from the door when he hardened. Primal lust ran through his veins as their bodies pressed up against one another. There'd be no time to move, Irene thought as Sherlock expertly shimmied her panties down her legs. She doubted they'd even manage to get her dress off of her and she was right, it was merely bunched up at her waist by the time Sherlock had taken off his suit trousers and had positioned himself at her entrance. There was nothing soft and sensual about this time, this wasn't love this was lust now. Irene kept one heel clad foot on the floor and bit down on the skin of his shoulder as he began to thrust into her. She was trying to make it easier for him as a novice but as the his rhythm increased, Irene gave in to her own desires and wrapped her stationary leg around his waist, allowing Sherlock to stand up fully to thrust into her against the wall. Sherlock noted as his thrusts quickened that Irene was experiencing an increase in visible pleasure; he'd researched this position before and had read that it was good for both G spot and clitoris stimulation, they'd have to try it again sometime. However, halfway through his analysis of the effectiveness of the position, Sherlock's mind went blank as a wave of pleasure hit him and he moaned Irene's name incomprehensibly as he released himself right into her.
Before Sherlock, Irene had rarely had sex with men voluntarily for pleasure. She had found that women, who were much more hygienic and soft, made much better lovers than the hard brutes of men that rarely knew the appropriate way to stimulate the clitoris. Sherlock was her exception, as she knew she was his. Sherlock had been messy and lacking in experience back in Karachi, but they'd been intimate many more times since and he had progressed and learnt a lot more in that time. Before Sherlock, Irene hated sleeping after sex, she'd always needed space away and although to begin with Irene had slept next to Sherlock purely because there had been no other choice, it had since evolved. It had gone without saying that she would return to his room after the event, despite the fact he'd already known that she was also residing in Paris. She hadn't left him after they'd had sex and she'd even fallen asleep, naked and still entwined with him. Things had changed, lust was turning into something more and there was nothing Irene could do but watch as the sentiment she felt for this man began to consume her.
Irene woke up at 9 surprised, usually she never slept in so late and she knew that since being 'dead' neither did Sherlock. However, they'd only arrived back in the early morning and even then they'd been distracted by one another afterwards and so it was understandable that both their bodies had wanted more time to sleep. When Irene did eventually open her eyes, she did so to find herself curled up into Sherlock's side, one of her arms was draped over his bare chest and her legs were entwined in his. She'd never been so intimate with somebody before. It scared her of the sentiment that was showing by the fact she didn't shift herself away, and that she actually relished in the physical touch of another being.
A few moments later, Sherlock woke up himself to find her auburn hair tickling his nose, without opening his eyes or moving any other part of his body, he used the arm that was currently not wrapped around the woman beside him to wipe it away. He felt Irene shift slightly in his arms to look up at him, she was obviously surprised that he'd woken up so quickly. He opened his eyes slowly to see her blue ones analysing him. Sherlock tried desperately to suppress the feelings of desire and sentiment that were beginning to rise within him. He'd never been asexual, he'd always had desires per se but he'd successfully suppressed them in order to work effectively without distraction. Irene Adler had been the only woman strong enough to break through his self control and make him want somebody. This was dangerous ground and Sherlock knew it, if by the time he returned back to Baker Street, this woman was still a distraction he would never be able to be as a successful detective as he had been before. This arrangement as such, was weakening his will power to even try and push her away as he felt something more than lust begin to stir inside.
In their post-coital bliss, they were simply just two dead ghosts lounging around in the early morning light, staring at one another, yet trying and failing to read one another.
"I don't love you." He said it softly and quietly, as if unsure of his own sincerity of such words.
"You don't or you can't." She retorted instantly, refusing to waiver their eye contact.
He didn't respond and she raised an eyebrow, her lips breaking in to a slight smile at the edges as he tried to read the emotion in her eyes. He couldn't read it and she knew it. He knew she knew, even though he was refusing to admit it, that it wasn't that he didn't love her, in his own way that is, but rather that he couldn't. Sherlock tightened his grip on her waist and used his fingers to trace the contours of her right breast and he watched in delight as there was a slight hitch in Irene's breath. This was what lovers did, he thought, and instantly stopped what he was doing, he was definitely more confident in death. Irene didn't appreciate the fact he'd stopped just as she was beginning to get aroused and so used her own hand to snake below the covers to trace her own pattern on his intimate areas. Sherlock's eyes involuntarily widened and Irene smirked, a look that was wiped off of her face in surprise as his lips met hers. She kept up the motions on his member as he slipped his tongue into her mouth and she moaned as he began to grope at her breast in a more urgent motion than before. She continued rubbing him until she felt the pre-cum on her hands, she didn't remove them but merely moved herself down the length of his body to lap the liquid up with her tongue. She didn't stop there however and continued taking his length and not just the tip in her mouth.
He was fully aware that he did not have the stamina of other men and stopped her before he went over the edge too quickly. Instead he drew Irene up and closer to him, allowing Sherlock to both kiss her and to reach down to touch her sensitive skin to repay the favour. He had noted from a previous encounter with her, which parts of her flesh to press in what direction and that by rubbing in a circular motion whilst inserting one of his fingers slightly made her moisten and moan simultaneously. When she began involuntarily bucking her hips into her hands and Sherlock's self-control was losing its battle, Sherlock withdrew his hand and lined himself up to enter her. Irene usually preferred to be on top and so it was a strange sensation to be able to thrust into her from above. He was careful to use his arm muscles to stay above her and not to crush her as they both rode out their orgasms together. When eventually he felt himself begin to soften inside of her, Sherlock slid off of her and they both lay there panting slightly, the sheets haphazardly strewn around them.
"It's nearly over. I've almost finished dismantling the web. We can't do this again." Sherlock was serious now.
"We'll see." Irene turned her head to look up at him but her face gave nothing away about the emotions that were stirring within her.
"You can't ever come back to England."
"We'll see." She repeated.
He gave her a warning look.
"I don't usually like to play by the rules Mr Holmes."
"Irene-" he warned in concern.
"Sherlock your sentiment is showing." Irene laughed and tapped her fingers onto the skin of his chest.
"I don't love you." He retorted.
"I didn't suggest that you did."
There was a moment of comfortable silence when all that could be heard was their dying heavy breaths, as the side effects of sex began to wear off. Underneath her fingers that she'd kept on his chest, Irene could feel his heart beat begin to slow down to a normal pace
"I like you more than just for sex." Sherlock interrupted the silence and was blunt without realising and Irene smirked in response. Sherlock swallowed before continuing. "Obviously you epitomise society's socially constructed view of beauty but you also, albeit unfortunately, have a habit of being-"
"The woman that beat you?" Irene asked, interrupting his speal, knowing how hard he found it to broach such a subject.
"No." He glowered.
Sherlock wasn't great at articulating himself in sentimental situations and so he was much better at expressing himself with actions than words. To Irene's surprise she suddenly found his lips on hers, his tongue slipping its way inside her mouth deepening the kiss. He would never tell her he loved her and she'd never expect him too, but the lines of love and lust and sentiment were beginning to blur, and for them actions spoke louder than words.