The Great Game

by bayoublackjack

Sherlock Holmes doesn't like to lose, but with an opponent as worthy as Natasha Romanoff he finds himself drawn into the one game that he swore he'd never play. The stakes have never been higher because when it comes to the greatest game of all…there's a fine line between winning and losing. (A gift fic for Grace, Gracie Holmes)

Christmas Day came the same as it always did every year. Sherlock Holmes made his rounds out of habit rather than desire. Sherlock, after all, was not the sentimental sort. His first stop was to his family home. He always found that it was best to deal with the worst things first.

For a woman of such a superior level of intellect, Mrs. Holmes was prone to mawkish displays where her progeny were concerned. But Sherlock endured his mummy's ministrations during Christmas lunch if for no other reason than to bask in his brother's discomfort. It would seem that Mycroft had a new woman in his life.

Shortly after he finished at Cambridge, the eldest of the Holmes boys had become taken with a woman named, Georgiana Sutton. So taken, in fact, that Mycroft had even considered marriage. In the end, the whole thing took a disastrous turn for the worse during a trip to Trinidad with Mycroft's old chum Cyrus Douglas. Cyrus brought a disheartened Mycroft back to England, minus one Miss Georgiana Sutton and plus two stone gained. Afterwards, Mycroft had vowed to swear off all matters of the heart and complex carbohydrates. Despite such declarations, Sherlock had it on good authority that his brother had since made the acquaintance of a mysterious lady named Naomi, whom Mycroft affectionately referred to as 'his angel.'

Sherlock didn't place much stock in romance. Love was a game to which he didn't understand the rules and, therefore, refused to play. Sherlock refrained from making such declarations to that effect on this occasion. Mycroft had taken to surreptitious glances in Sherlock's direction when he spoke of such things in his brother's presence. As a rule, Sherlock never intentionally gave his brother an easy opening. Jibes were all the more enjoyable when inflicted without warning, as was the Holmesian way.

Following the tortuous tenure with his family, Sherlock returned to London proper. He stopped in quickly at Lestrade's flat. Molly was there as well, as Sherlock knew she would be. Neither of them was particularly adept at subtlety when it came to their flirtations. So Sherlock left the singles to their devices and proceeded on to the final stop on his tour, a visit to the Watson household.

John greeted Sherlock with a tight hug, Mary with a kiss to the cheek and their daughter gifted him with sick on his lapel. Mary was surprised Sherlock had taken the gaffe in stride until John reminded his wife of his former flatmate's predilection for grisly experiments and digging around in skips. What was a touch of baby vomit in the grand scheme of things? Sherlock declared it was much better received than a gift from the other end before promptly deducing that the littlest Watson was in desperate need of a nappy change.

After spending the majority of the evening with John and Mary, their daughter having slept through the night's festivities, Sherlock hailed a cab back to Baker Street intent on having the remainder of the evening to do with whatever he liked. He resigned himself to abiding a brief interlude with Mrs. Hudson. It was Christmas and some allowances must be made.

However, upon reaching the stairs to 221B, it was quite clear that someone had taken up residence in his flat and all signs suggested that it wasn't his landlady. A pair of woman's heels rested next to his chair and a black leather jacket was strewn across the back of it. On the side table sat a bottle of vodka and two empty glasses.

There was no question in Sherlock's mind of whom the culprit was. She was more than capable of masking her presence. Instead, she decided to blatantly announce her arrival by marking her territory.

"Along came a spider," Sherlock thought aloud.

Some would say their introduction into one another's lives was by providence, but neither of them believed in such things. Sherlock was the best at what he did and so was she. A job needed to be done, one that could only be performed with people of their unparalleled skill. It just so happened that they ended up on opposite sides of the equation.

It was not often that Mycroft actively sought Sherlock's help. When he did, it was only for matters of the utmost importance. Sherlock intended to savour his brother's desperation for a short while before declining to assist him, but the challenge Mycroft offered was simply too good to pass up.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked his brother with an air of boredom.

"There is no one as uniquely qualified to handle this particularly sensitive situation," Mycroft replied. "It seems as though those CIA agents weren't the only Americans after the information on Irene Adler's mobile." He inspected the handle of his umbrella with feigned interest. "A former…associate of mine has sent his best operative to gather information…his protégé. Her name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova, but she's gone by Natasha Romanoff since defecting to the States."

"Surely you have someone better suited to the task," Sherlock replied, offering his violin the same amount of interest to that his brother showed his umbrella.

"Would that I did, brother mine, but Miss Romanoff isn't your average spy. She was trained from a very young age with singular focus in mind…the mission comes first. A sentiment that Nicholas Fury has no doubt nourished over the years." He spoke of Fury in such a way that it was difficult to distinguish whether he viewed the other man as a friend or a foe, though with Mycroft the line between the two was invariably blurred.

"Your point?"

"My point is that it's not a matter of if Agent Romanoff has had access to the sensitive material, it's a matter of how much she knows and what she plans to do with it."

"I'm sure someone in your employ could apply the appropriate tactics to get the answers you require."

"Did you miss the part where I said she was trained in Soviet Russia?"

"Everyone has a breaking point."

"For a graduate of the Red Room, death would come knocking long before that point is ever reached," Mycroft informed him. "More to the point, there's not a lie detector in existence that she cannot best." He fixed his brother with a hard stare. "Except, perhaps, for one…you."

True to Churchill's description of the Russian enigma, Natasha Romanoff appeared to be a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. In a word, she was just the sort of challenge that appealed to Sherlock. A challenge that saw fit to face him directly. Following a failed attempt on his life, Sherlock agreed to a meeting with Agent Romanoff. They settled upon a public place, though they both knew that she could eliminate him with much ease regardless of the locale.

When Sherlock arrived, she was already waiting for him. To say that she was calm would be an understatement. Posture rigid yet without tension. She dressed for comfort and necessity. Sumptuous textiles. Well-tailored. No doubt chosen to convey a sense of professionalism while also camouflaging the weapons she had hidden about her person. Sherlock counted no less than four. A gun at her hip, a knife in her left boot, the garrotte disguised as a bracelet on her wrist and he was certain there was more than met the eye to that hairpin she had artfully arranged in her hair. Of course, those were just the ones she wanted him to know about.

"You tried to kill me," Sherlock said as way of greeting when he took his seat on the opposite end of the park bench, watching the people that passed without actually seeing them.

"Try being the operative word," she answered just as casually. Even from the corner of his eye, he could see that her expression gave nothing away.

"You missed."

She shrugged one shoulder. "It happens," she said with an air of indifference.

"Not to you, Agent Romanoff," Sherlock countered. "You're a trained assassin. You could have taken me down before I even knew what hit me."

"So you've heard of me, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock turned his eyes her way. "I always research my opponents."

Unperturbed, Natasha's green eyed gaze met his blue stare head-on. "Likewise."

"The famous Black Widow," Sherlock continued. "Well…infamous is probably a better description."

"And which one are you?" she countered seamlessly. "Sherlock Holmes…the brilliant detective or the attention seeking upstart?"

"Depends on whom you ask."

The corner on her mouth twitched upward. "Likewise," she repeated.

Sherlock folded his hands across his lap. "It would seem that we've both made a name for ourselves."

"It's not your forte, is it?" Natasha questioned, turning her eyes ahead once more. "Small talk."

Sherlock looked forward as well. "I try to avoid it whenever possible."

"Then why delay the inevitable? We both know what we're here for." She extended her arm to him, palm faced upward and wrist arched. "Will my pulse suffice or do you prefer to stare into one another's eyes?"

Sherlock regarded her with interest. "You submit freely." She offered another noncommittal one sided shrug. "Then why the assassination attempt?"

"I'm not really a fan of small talk either," she answered, prompting Sherlock's own mouth to involuntarily twitch upward at the corner.

Sherlock took her by the wrist and conducted the interrogation sent down by his brother. As expected, she answered all questions candidly. The veracity of her answers was harder to determine. True to reports, Natasha didn't give him an inch, failing to display any of the tell-tale signs of lying. Sherlock's frustration was only superseded by his sense of fascination. She was without a doubt, the most captivating woman he'd ever encountered, which was high praise in his post-Irene Adler assessment.

Sherlock had no sure-fire way to know if Natasha was lying about what she told him, but his instincts told him that she was being forthright. Mycroft's fears were realised. The Americans had learned all the secrets that he assumed they had. As to what they planned to do with said information, Sherlock would never know.

"It's curious," Natasha began as soon as Sherlock turned the topic of conversation to the intentions of her employers. "For all your research, you seem to have neglected an important detail about me."

"Which is?"

Natasha flashed a smile. Not just any smile. A victorious one. "I don't usually work alone anymore," she said, thumbing her nose.

A signal, Sherlock realised too late. Before he had a chance to properly respond, he felt the bite. A prick to the neck. He spun in the direction of the shot and glimpsed a man on a roof in the distance. And then the world began to spin. "Poison."

"Non-fatal," Natasha assured him. "An old Russian standby. You should be pleased. I only use it in extreme cases." Sherlock stumbled, barely catching himself on the bench's rail before he could crash to the ground. Natasha caught him about the shoulders and guided him backwards. "Easy, luv," she said loudly, affecting a perfect Yorkshire accent. "I've gotcha." She settled him back on the bench before he could injure himself, leaning forward in her seat and fretting over him as though she hadn't just played an active part in his demise. "Now then…" She quietly resumed her American accent. "Before you lose consciousness, I have a message from Fury to your brother. 'Don't worry, Mike. Your secrets are as safe with me as mine are with you.'"

Then everything went black.

Sometime later, Sherlock woke up abed back at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson informed him that he had arrived with a ginger from up North and a blond gentleman. "She left a note for you, Sherlock dear. Just there." Sherlock unfolded the missive as his landlady dithered about with the tea.

Told you I wasn't good with small talk. Till the next time, Sherlock. :)

Sherlock, never one content to let anything go unfinished, instituted the beginning of an ongoing correspondence. Text messages were the standard, but every so often Sherlock would find something out of place inside the flat only to discover a hidden note in its rightful destination. Perhaps Sherlock should have been disconcerted at the idea of a trained killer being able to slip in and out of his home at will undetected, but she wasn't the first and knowing his life she wouldn't be the last.

Despite John's accusations of flirtation, Sherlock was rather fervent in his assertion that their acquaintance was purely of the intellectual variety. Ludus was the only form of affection in which he took any stock and Natasha was someone Sherlock considered to be his intellectual equal.

Following the events that occurred on the rooftop of St. Bart's Hospital, Sherlock left London. His travels took him throughout Asia and Europe in attempts to dismantle Moriarty's network. On one occasion, however, it brought him to Manhattan. Specifically, the area of the East Village formerly referred to as Little Ukraine.

He entered the flat with ease. The lock posed no real challenge though he reckoned it need not have with who was residing beyond its door. Anyone who risked breaking in would be the one in need of protection. Armed with that knowledge, Sherlock pressed on. As he made his way towards the bedroom, the only form of security he encountered was a black cat that mewled lazily from the windowsill. Seemingly determining that Sherlock wasn't nearly as interesting as originally thought, the cat promptly returned to its business and Sherlock did the same.

When he opened the door to the bedroom, Sherlock's arrival was welcomed by a crown tousled red hair, a pair of tired yet alert green eyes and the barrel of Glock 26.

"My, what pretty eyes you have," she greeted. "It'd be a shame to put a bullet between them."

"You're not going to shoot me," Sherlock retorted, sounding bored.

"You sound so sure."

"If you wanted to kill me, Natasha, you would have done so by now."

"You underestimate how much I hate being woken up," Natasha said irritably as she took her finger off the trigger. She slid the gun back under her pillow and crawled out of bed. Sherlock declined to comment on the pinkness of her pyjamas and instead followed her out to her kitchen. "I heard you were dead."

"I got better."

Natasha reached for two water glasses, filling them halfway with vodka she retrieved from her freezer. "Why are you here?"

"You know why I'm here."

Natasha brushed past him and took a seat on her sofa with one of the glasses. "Maybe I want to hear you say it."

Sherlock turned to face her. "I need your help."

"Need?" She folded her legs beneath her and leaned against the arm of the couch as she sipped her vodka slowly.

"Want," Sherlock conceded begrudgingly. "I've grown accustomed to someone answering when I talk and your additions would likely be less insipid than most."

"I see your people skills still need some work," Natasha retorted as her feline friend decided to grace them with his presence. He curled up on her lap and she idly stroked him between the ears. "I'm listening."

Sherlock shrugged his Belstaff off, grabbed the second glass of vodka and took a seat in the armchair next to the sofa before proceeding to fill Natasha in on the details of his latest exploits. "So…" He finished his vodka and story simultaneously. "Will you help?"

"I'll help," Natasha decided. "But if this plan of yours is going to work, we're gonna need a sexy decoy," she told him with a wicked smile.

Less than twenty-four hours later, the two of them manipulated their way into a party at the John Henry Hammond House, home to the Consulate General of the Russian Federation in New York. Natasha was lost amidst the crowds, dutifully performing her role as a member of the wait staff. Meanwhile, Sherlock strolled down the staircase, scanning the room as he went along.

Natasha met him at the bottom of the stairs with a tray of blinis topped with crème fraiche and caviar that she proffered up for consumption. Sherlock waved it off. "You gotta sell it, if you expect anyone to buy it," Natasha teased with a Russian accent that he had reason to believe was her natural speaking voice. "I suggest you work those cheekbones." She furtively stole one of the blinis off her tray with the skill of trained spy and the enthusiasm of a naughty child then popped it into her mouth before disappearing in the throng of partygoers once more.

When they were reunited, it was during a mad dash through the corridors. "You do realise that a decoy is so supposed to take the attention off the person doing the dirty work, right?" Natasha asked in a huff.

"I suppose, in terms diversion capabilities, I'm not as sexy as previously implied," Sherlock shot back.

"There's no accounting for taste."

Hearing footsteps, Sherlock grabbed Natasha by the hand and yanked her towards the stairwell. He took a moment's pause while leaning against the door. "I think the coast is clear. What's our next—" His question was cut off by Natasha suddenly grabbing him by the collar and bringing his mouth down to hers in a crushing kiss. Sherlock's mind momentarily went blank at the sensation of her lips against his. Thankfully, the inconvenience was short-lived and he was soon consumed with a barrage of observations.

Soft lips. Even pressure only disrupted by the sudden intrusion of her tongue. Her mouth tasted of salt. More than just salty. Brininess. The caviar from before. She had pinched more than just the first one. There was something else as well. Something he was missing. Was her heart racing? No. That might have been his own. No matter. What was that other sensation? The hand on his lapel reached for his the neck, palm warming the nape and fingers getting lost amongst his curls as she deepened the kiss. There it was. The missing piece.

Natasha pulled back just as quickly as she had pushed in. "Top floor. Ten minutes. Act natural," she instructed calmly. After a quick adjustment of her uniform, she stepped out of the stairwell as though nothing were amiss.

Sherlock stared at the place she had been with a slightly bewildered expression. His hand lifted to his mouth, where hers had been only moments before. As he drew his hand away and tucked it into his pocket, he silently wondered if that style would be considered American, Russian, French or some amalgamation of the three.

In ten minutes time, Sherlock strolled into the office located on the top floor of the consulate. Natasha was already waiting for him with a small lockbox sitting before her on the desk. "I believe you'll need this." Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced a small key. "It was a brilliant strategy. Hiding the key under your tongue and passing it via kiss."

"I thought so," Natasha said, resuming her typical American accent. She took the key from him and set to work opening the box. "Doesn't explain why you used your tongue though," she teased.

"We had to make it look real, didn't we?"

"There wasn't anyone else around."

"There could have been cameras."

Natasha's gaze flashed in his direction, amusement written all over her usually stoic face. "Imbedded in my molar?"

"I was being thorough."

"I'd say." Natasha smiled coyly and returned her attention to her task. "My dentist could learn a thing or two from you."

Before long, she had retrieved the information Sherlock required and once more they parted ways with the promise of more adventures in the future. More than two years had passed since then. In the time that followed, Sherlock returned to England, to John and now Mary and their daughter as well. Natasha made a name for herself with her world saving exploits and, perhaps, an even bigger one with the release of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets.

Coming back to the present, Sherlock left Natasha's things where they were and slipped off to his bedroom to change into his pyjamas. The sound of the shower greeted him as he passed the bathroom. He wondered if somewhere across town a man in an eyepatch had ever paid his brother a similar visit. That made for a funny image, though no less believable than an angelic presence lightening Mycroft's life.

Sherlock packed the thought away as he moved to pull his dressing gown on but, at the last moment, he refrained and left at the corner of his bed. Returning to his chair, he picked up his violin where he proceeded to pluck the tune of the Itsy Bitsy Spider on the strings.

Not long after, Natasha emerged from the bathroom with hair damp and Sherlock's dressing gown wrapped around her. For the second time in recent history, Sherlock found himself unexpectedly in the presence of naked woman shielded from her natural state only by aid of an article of his clothing.

"I thought you were in hiding," he commented, laying his violin aside.

"I can't think of a better place to hide than in your shower," Natasha quipped. "No one would ever think to find me there." She walked over to the table, opening the bottle of vodka and filling both glasses.

"Cheers," Sherlock replied when she passed one to him.

"Za tvoyo zdorovie." Natasha clinked her glass with his and moved towards the window. "So I've been thinking…" She began after taking a huge gulp of vodka. "I'm suddenly unemployed and you're a doctor short. Maybe we should make our adventures more of a regular thing. We work well together. It'd be a shame to let our chemistry go to waste."

Sherlock rested his glass against his knee without drinking. "Still trying to seduce me after all this time?"

"I could ask you the same question," she accused.

"Is that what I'm doing?"

Natasha shrugged one shoulder. "They say the brain is the most important sexual organ."

"Brainy is the new sexy."

"There's nothing new under the sun. Just newfound or undiscovered," she insisted.

"Is that why you've come?" Sherlock questioned. "Because you seek to discover a new form of…stimulation?"

Natasha turned to face him. "I think I've already found it."

"Mmm and what of your partner?" He took a sip of his drink while he awaited her answer.

"Former partner and, no, I used to get a different type of stimulation from him. But he's married now and retired. Nothing can be gained from living in the past though," she replied in an unexpectedly wistful tone.

"You almost sounded convincing just then."

Natasha appeared to weigh her options before speaking again. "I care for him," she conceded. "Part of me probably always will feel connected to him, but it would have ended badly. Bloody. Bobbi is better fit for him."

"And you?"

"Not everyone is meant to live happily ever after," Natasha answered, moving over to the other chair. "And yet… I find myself drawn to someone else."

Sherlock suddenly took a profound interest in his glass. "Anyone I know?"

"I'll leave you to your deductions," Natasha retorted into her vodka. "Your turn," she said, abruptly turning focus to him.

"Mmm?"

"I've shown you mine."

"In more ways than one."

Natasha glanced down at her bare legs peeking out from underneath his dressing gown, but didn't attempt to cover them. "What do you get out of this arrangement of ours?"

"I've been led to believe that mutual stimulation is the ultimate goal in these situations."

"Is that what you want?"

"I want to solve you."

"Many have tried and failed."

"I'm no ordinary man."

"And I'm no ordinary woman."

"That's what makes you worth the effort."

The corner of Natasha's mouth turned upward. "You'll never solve me, Sherlock."

"Is that a challenge?"

"It's a promise," Natasha assured him. "No one knows my full story."

"Yet."

"Ever. I won't let it happen," she said seriously.

"Afraid?"

"No."

"Would you admit it if you were?"

"Maybe," she conceded with a sly smile. "But my motivation is purely selfish."

"Most people's motivations are."

"You'll get bored if you solve me and I don't want to let you go just yet."

"Is that sentiment I hear, Natasha?"

Natasha drained the contents of her glass and stood to refill it. "Intrigue."

"The feeling is mutual." Sherlock emptied his glass as well. Natasha promptly refilled both. "Will you stay?"

"For a while. I have business to settle in London."

"I was more concerned about the evening," Sherlock clarified.

Natasha's face was unreadable. "Where will I sleep?"

"Anywhere you like."

"And if I didn't want to sleep?" she challenged.

Sherlock paused thoughtfully. "I think it's important you know that I'm not someone who seeks to engage in…"

"I know," Natasha cut him off. "Neither am I." She shrugged. "I mean it can be a fun way to pass the time and for someone in my line of work, it's definitely a handy tool to have in your arsenal." She let a mirthless chuckle. "It's not something I need though."

"But something you want?"

"I am curious to see how well your deductions can be applied in a different arena," Natasha admitted. "Plus, nimble fingers can go a long way."

"As can powerful thighs," Sherlock retorted.

Natasha lifted a brow. "That almost sounded like actual come-on. Have you been practicing your people skills?"

"Blame my newest acquaintance. She's a relentless flirt."

"Is she smart?"

"As if I'd bother if she wasn't," Sherlock replied. "She's archaeologist."

"Attractive?"

"Physically?" Sherlock scrunched his nose, suddenly forced to consider matters he deemed irrelevant. "She's 5'7" so that would put her at a certain advantage. She dresses well and is in possession of expensive tastes. Good teeth. She smiles as much as she flirts, which is to say incessantly. Her hair is an uninspired shade of blonde, but the curls set her apart. The words 'massive' and 'unruly' comes to mind."

"Anything else I should know?"

"She's rather handy with a gun as well." Sherlock replied into his vodka.

"That sounds like your type," Natasha commented, returning to the window. "Should I be jealous?"

"Jealousy doesn't suit you. And I hardly see the point in any event," Sherlock said with a dismissive flick of his hand. "She's married and otherwise engaged in activities that leave room for little more than a casual acquaintance."

"Casual is enough for some people."

Sherlock rose from his seat with vodka still in hand. "As it were, I have a vacancy that requires a more…constant presence."

"Looking to replace John?"

"John's role in my life irreplaceable," Sherlock said. "As is yours," he added after a long pause.

Natasha stared at him as he approached. Her green eyes were wide and uncertain. Her hands found his shoulders once he was close enough, holding him in place as her gaze swept over his face in careful consideration. She was trying to read him as he had attempted with her on so many occasions before.

Sherlock inclined his head, as clearly was her intention, only to stop when her eyes were in close proximity to his own. Those eyes. Green. Pale. Indiscernible. Up close, however, he noticed something else. A ring of brown around her pupils. Golden even. There in laid the key. The warmth. The vulnerability. She didn't sweat and there was no point taking her pulse. She was in complete control of her heart, in the physical sense at least. Her eyes however…

For the second time since the beginning of their acquaintance, Sherlock was shockingly pulled into a kiss without warning. He found that he was more partial to vodka soaked snogs as opposed to the ones that tasted of caviar and keys.

Natasha pulled away first, her eyes searching his for a reaction. She stood before him completely bare, but her condition had nothing to do with her state of undress beneath his dressing gown. She had dropped her guard, if only for a brief moment.

"Imminent danger?" Sherlock asked, referencing their infamous first kiss.

Nat nodded her chin once, indicating something above his head. "Mistletoe."

"I never would have pegged you are someone who adheres to traditions."

"There's a lot you don't know about me."

"A situation I hope to one day remedy."

"One day."

"I shall look forward to it."

"Shall we play a game?" she proposed.

"I believe we already are."

"Not in the tradition way."

"I've never been accused of being a stickler for the rules."

"We could always make our own."

"Obviously."

Natasha nodded curtly. "My job comes first."

"That goes without saying."

"I may never say it," Natasha said suddenly. "Those three little words."

"I'd probably react poorly if you did."

"I've always been more of an actions speak louder than words kind of person."

"Speaking of words…no labels," Sherlock requested. "While 'friend' appears to no longer be a sufficient title, I loathe the word 'boyfriend.' 'Lover' may come to be an accurate description in the future, but it's hardly something to which I'd aspire to be referred as."

"I don't do pet names," Natasha added. "You can call me Natalia, Natasha, Nat, Nattie, Romanoff, or any other derivative of my name. I'll even tolerate nicknames about my red hair or job, but if you ever call me anything like baby or honey, or sweetie…I'll kill you in your sleep."

"No, you wouldn't," Sherlock challenged. "You'd make sure I felt every second it."

The corner of her mouth turned upward. "I can't promise there won't come a time that I won't genuinely ty to kill you."

Sherlock shrugged. "I can't guarantee that I wouldn't try to have you arrested."

"I'd mourn your death."

"I'd write to you in prison."

Natasha smiled fully at that declaration. "Are we really doing this?"

Sherlock nodded. "It seems as though we are."

"The stakes are high."

"The highest."

"Who do you think will win?"

"It's entirely possible that we both shall lose."

"In this game, winning and losing aren't so different."

"It could be dangerous," Sherlock warned.

Natasha smirked. "I certainly hope so."

"Then the game is afoot."

Her lips found his once more. This time, Sherlock met the kiss readily and with an attention to detail that her dentist reportedly lacked. Somewhere along the way, she lost governance over his dressing gown, allowing it to fall open. After only a brief bout of ungentlemanly fumbling, Sherlock blindly saw it retied with a proper double knot.

As they pulled apart, Natasha flashed him another victorious smile, not unlike the one she gave him when there first met. Only this time, there were no marksmen wielding poisons tipped projectiles. It was just Sherlock and Natasha alone in a world of their own making.

'She likes to play dirty,' Sherlock mused silently, while reaching for his for his vodka. One of these days, perhaps in the near future, he'd have to teach her that two could play that game.