It was three in the morning when she appeared in the doorway, his linen dressing gown clinging to her body, her arms folded loosely.
He had been dead for two months, and she for five, and this was the fourth night he had spent on the sofa of her terraced house in Oxford - far enough from London to not be recognised, but not so far that their accents stood out - and from the look in her eyes, they had both come to the same conclusion.
Death, for once, had uncomplicated things.
She walked to him, not with domination nor with submission but with a muted anticipation. She stood before him and was close enough that he could reach up and touch her, curl his fingers softly around her jaw, lean down and kiss her with a tenderness neither of them knew they possessed. A short moment passed before he became content to let her lead the kiss, her lips moving expertly against his, her hands resting on his collarbones, his arms encircling her.
They melted into each other and seconds soon slipped into minutes. Sherlock felt like his senses had been rewired to make him only focus on her and the feel of her soft body against his and the sensations she was eliciting from somewhere as insignificant as his mouth and the adrenaline in his veins pushing him for more, for more of her softness and her cleverness and her sexuality.
She moaned into him, and part of him was disappointed that the sound was different to her inappropriate custom text alert but then a bigger part of him was significantly pleased that this new sound was his and, for now at least, his alone.
The backs of his knees touched the arm of the sofa before he fully recognised that he was moving, and as he sank onto it Irene slid up astride him. He automatically moved his hands to her backside to help support her and felt her smirk against his mouth.
He kissed her hungrily and felt her fingers scrape through his hair before they held the back of his head, her lips pressing harder onto his.
She rolled her hips down over him, and he barely managed to bite back a breathless groan. He nudged his pelvis up automatically and was again met with the same shock of pleasure before he pulled his head back, breaking the kiss and looking Irene in the eye.
She, when he didn't say anything right away, raised an eyebrow as if urging him on, her lips formed into that knowing smirk that simultaneously irked and thrilled him.
"I believe that it is customary for people in this particular situation to assure the other of the lack of things such as disease and violent ex-partners," he stated in a manner-of-fact tone that prompted Irene to laugh, which he ignored and continued, "so I feel obliged to tell you that I have neither."
Irene stifled her laughter by kissing him again briefly.
"That's good," she murmured against his lips, "wouldn't want any of your 'violent exes' ruining a perfectly good evening."
He ignored her remark and invested himself into kissing her more, tongues touching and lips sliding and the sharpness of her fingernails in his back.
Goosebumps started to spread over the tops of her thighs and he felt her shiver.
"Perhaps it would be best-"
"I agree," she interrupted, climbing off of his lap. The robe fell back into shape from where it had bunched up around her upper thighs and she let the rest follow, baring her body like she had in their first meeting. This time was completely different though, and he let his eyes trail over her in a way that was far more intimate (but not objectifying) than he had on that day.
Apart from a slight shift to keep balance without having her weight to counter, Sherlock had not moved. He was still braced against the arm of the sofa, evidence of his body's reaction to her showing obviously from inside his trousers. Part of him knew that he should feel exposed or embarrassed, but he found that it was difficult to experience more emotion than the all-consuming, almost animalistic, lust that he was currently subject to.
"Bedroom?" she suggested, and Sherlock watched a trail of goosebumps grain the flesh of her breasts before his eyes flicked back up to meet hers (which he noted were focused below his waistline).
"Lead the way,"