Author's note: Been sitting on this one for a while, finally got around to posting it. Hope you enjoy; feedback is always welcomed!
It's a long hallway, which gives him ample time to wonder what the hell he's doing as he approaches her room. God only knows how she got herself entangled with a Pakistani terror group, but she's safe now. His flight back to London leaves in the morning. This should be the end of it. But he finds himself here, drawn to her like a magnet, without even knowing why.
He hates not knowing. It's a measure of his unease, that that is the lie he chooses to tell himself.
He can hear the water running as he passes her room. Standard Western-style hotel design, baths just inside the room doors, means you always know when guests are having a shower. He reaches the end of the hall, turns around and walks past her door- twice more- before he finally stops, fiddling with the keycard he's sneaked from the front desk.
The water is still running. He lets himself in, silently eases the door shut. Steam seeps through the crack under the bathroom door. He pauses, realizing that the sound of the water is too regular, too constant. No one is standing under it, moving around, disrupting the water's flow. He's made a mistake, miscalculated, but he is already in the room. It would just be silly to leave again. He slips round the corner to the rest of the suite, and stops.
The woman- the Woman- is waiting for him, like the first time they'd met: gloriously naked, a wicked smile on her lips. She lounges on a chair, legs crossed, a few dark curls spilling from her hair's loose updo. She wants him to look, and so he stubbornly keeps his eyes on hers.
"You know, if you keep doing that, it's going to lose its impact," he says.
Her smile promises all sorts of things that he doesn't want to let himself consider. "Do you think so?"
Not really, he thinks. He tears his eyes away, glances about the room, though there's little to see. It's laid out the same as his, with a large bed near the window, beyond the seating area. "So you knew I'd come, then," he says, feeling stupid. She'd expected him to let himself in, had been two steps ahead of him.
"Oh, I counted on it," Irene murmurs, with a glance at the table in front of her. She's ordered room service, for two. Still smiling, she nudges the other chair with her toes, pushing it towards him. "Let's have dinner."
"I'm... not hungry."
Her smile widens. "Liar. Be a dear and turn off the tap?"
He does, and comes back from the bath to see her shrugging into a short robe. He's not sure if he's relieved, or disappointed. He does approve of the way it leaves her long legs bare, though. The silk is stark black against her ivory skin.
He sits in the chair across from her, trying not to stare. She pours two glasses of claret wine, hands him one, and he promptly forgets that he's holding it.
"How did you find me?" She asks, settling back in her own chair.
"Wasn't difficult. I booked the hotel rooms, remember."
Irene raises one brow, eyeing him over the rim of her glass. "You know what I mean."
"Mycroft isn't the only one with international contacts. I simply called in a few favors. The real question, though..." He blinks at his glass, sets it down. "How did youend up in Pakistan?"
"You don't know?" she asks, amused.
Given the excuse, nearly an invitation, he seizes the opportunity to look at her, really look. He's missed her, and months apart have only made it worse. Irene Adler has become his new drug of choice, as addictive as the old ones- alluring, exotic, edged with risk and danger. All the more enticing because she's also a puzzle, the only one he can never seem to solve. He can see, yes- the damp ends of her hair, where it hadn't finished drying before she'd hurriedly put it up, rushing to be ready before he sneaked in. The fading bruises on her wrists, marks of the rope her captors had used days earlier. The sharp intelligence in her eyes, the challenge in that single arched brow. Her capacity for easy, elegant violence- is he reading that, or remembering it? A memory: Irene casually pistol-whipping the American agent in her sitting room.
He can see Irene, but he can't put the pieces together. He's only been able to read her once. Pulse, elevated, 93 beats per minute against his fingertips. Skin, warm and smooth and-
She clouds his reasoning, makes it impossible to trust his own thoughts. It's unsettling, and fascinating. He can't read the answer he seeks, but maybe he can work it out.
And the game is on, he thinks, steepling his fingers together while she smiles.
The great Sherlock Holmes, finally joining her for dinner. She hadn't expected him to sit down, but here he is. He looks as impeccable as ever, Taliban robes swapped for his usual tailored suit, though he's left the jacket and that wonderful overcoat in his room. He's washed the blood from his hair, which now falls in a soft mass of curls around his head. She's dying to seize a handful of those curls, to pull his head back and nip at the hollow of his throat, and she wonders if he knows it.
He tries to piece together the mess of events that led her here, but she doesn't make it easy for him. They banter back and forth, and the food grows cold- it doesn't matter. She'd known he wouldn't eat. This is what nourishes him: the mental exercise of solving puzzles, the thrill of putting that stunning brain of his to work. She loves to watch him. Loves to see those ice-blue eyes flicker while he works through a problem, loves to see the almost-childish excitement that lights his face when he makes a connection.
In the end, he doesn't guess the truth, though he gets close. He seems delighted anyway, having enjoyed the challenge. He is smiling, relaxed, as if he's forgotten that she makes him nervous. The only time she'd seen him look less guarded was the night at his flat when he'd lost himself in his violin, playing for hours without realizing she'd been there listening.
She watches him lean forward, pluck a grape from the bowl of fruit.
"I thought you weren't hungry."
Sherlock pauses, looks up at her past a fall of dark curls. His expression, darkly amused, says of course I'm hungry, and you know it. It's fleeting, gone an instant later behind the careful mask that he prefers to show her. Oh, she does make him nervous, though he'll never admit it. But she knows that hungry look when she sees it, however quickly it's hidden away again.
He sits back in the chair, pops the grape into his mouth. They regard each other silently while he chews.
"My turn," she murmurs eventually. Her glass clinks softly on the tabletop. Amused, Sherlock waves a graceful hand, confident that she will do no better at this game than he did.
She lets her fingertips slide up and down the stem of her wine glass, a slow, smooth rhythm. His eyes flicker towards the motion. Briefly, she wishes her nails were done; it would make the whole gesture so much more striking... but given that her head is still blessedly attached to her shoulders, she isn't inclined to dwell on such details.
"I know what you like, Mr. Holmes," she says with a smile.
Silence. He eyes her for a long moment, absolutely neutral, and she swears she can see the calculations whirring in his head.
"No, you don't."
"It's a skill I've cultivated, much like yours. It's my job, you know. You can look at a man and read his life in what you see; I can look at a man and read what he likes. What he wants, what he needs, how far he'll let me go..." She bares her teeth, a feral smile. "You're harder to read than most- but I'm very good."
He lifts his chin, accepting the challenge. "Go on, then. What do I want?"
"You don't even know yourself- or won't admit it," she says, and is gratified to see the startled light in his eyes. "That's a good start, isn't it? You spend so much time concentrating on that clever mind of yours, you don't know how to handle it when your body speaks up and decides it wants something."
"Hmm... I had expected something more... specific," Sherlock murmurs.
She smiles, just a little. "I'm not finished."
They stare at each other for a moment, and she keeps smiling, enjoying making him wait. She gains a tiny victory when his eyes flicker to her chest as she leans forward.
"You're intrigued," she says, just above a whisper. "You know all about me, the services I offer to my clients. And you spend so much time in control of yourself, of your body, you're not accustomed to giving it up. The thought makes you nervous.
"But part of you- that little voice that drives you to find danger and risk- thinks that you might enjoy it. It would be novel, wouldn't it, to let yourself go, to cede control and give in to the fact that you have no idea what's coming next? You would love to shut off that racing mind, and just... feel... Am I wrong?"
Sherlock is staring at her, eyes a bit wide, looking absolutely flummoxed. It's adorable. She rises to her feet, amused by the way he's watching her. Just to unsettle him, she walks around his chair. Under her trailing fingers, his shoulders are tense, wary. When she stops on his other side, he stands up slowly, obviously more comfortable when he can loom over her.
"Am I wrong?" she says again.
Sherlock swallows. Evidently he's decided that silence is the safest reply. He lets her trace his jaw with a fingertip, watching her with a startling intensity in his eyes. Beneath his skin, against the side of his neck, his pulse races against her pressing fingers.
"Hmm," she murmurs, giving him a knowing smile.
They eye each other for a long moment. Sherlock cracks first, moves away, gazes out the window with his hands clasped behind his back. "I know how this works, Miss Adler. You like to have people beholden to you, it's how you protect yourself... but you dislike finding yourself in anyone's debt. When you are, you want to clear it as soon as possible."
She smiles at his back. "Is that really what you think of me? That I use sex to pay anyone who does me a favor? That I would do that to you?"
"I think that you are accustomed to using your particular skills in any way necessary to ensure your survival."
She laughs softly. "Aren't we all? But tonight is not about repaying favors."
"Good," Sherlock says, after a moment. He half-turns, eyeing her over his shoulder. She can only see his profile, shadows sharp and shifting in the dim light. "Because you are in no one's debt."
Such a small sentence to affect her this way, sending thrills down her spine! He'd come halfway round the world to find her, infiltrated a terror cell, killed God knows how many men to rescue her. He has his own reasons for it, and she doesn't think even he knows what they are- but he does know what they are not. He hasn't come expecting a reward, nor will he take one. In any other man, any boring, normal man, she would call that sweet. Actually, in any other man, she wouldn't believe it.
But this man...
"I know," she says quietly. She knows it is true, knows it's as close to sweet as he can get.
Sherlock turns to face her again. Behind him, below him, the city lights sparkle, glowing against his pale skin. She can't decide which sight she likes better... Sherlock pondering, working out a problem in his head, or this: Sherlock off balance, with uncertainty layered over his refined arrogance. He looks deliciously lost... and not altogether unhappy about it.
She watches him like a falcon watches a mouse, still wearing that wicked smile. He had not expected her to be so perceptive. Even his brother's occasional deductions had never been so discerning about anything, never hit quite so close to the mark as she had. She'd been right: she is indeed very good.
"You needn't worry," Irene teases lightly. "I'll be gentle... at first."
He raises an eyebrow, watching her move closer. What makes you think I'm worried, he means to ask. But what comes out of his mouth is, "What makes you think I want gentle?"
"You don't," she murmurs, her wicked smile widening.
Despite himself, he feels his lips curve into an answering, lopsided smirk. And then she leans into him, into his senses, the heat of her skin radiating against his. He can smell her: the hotel's fruit-infused shampoo, the cheap sample bar of soap- lavender and oatmeal. Under it, her skin, her scent. He knows it well; that spicy-sweet scent had lingered in his sheets, his dressing-gown, for days after she'd broken into his flat. He can almost taste her. And it's suddenly the most natural thing in the world for him to tilt his head and press his lips to hers.
Astonishing, really, how so small a touch can make his brain stop working, make instincts take over. He doesn't remember grasping her waist, but there's silk under his palms now, gliding over the warm skin beneath. He doesn't remember stepping forward, but now she is pressed up to his chest, one hand clenching his shirt above his pounding heart. He doesn't remember consciously deepening the kiss, either, but now she tastes like rich red wine on his tongue. All of it—her mouth, her scent, her warm curves beneath his hands, the way her breathing's gone uneven just like his- it's intoxicating, addicting.
Always, always, he is thinking; analyzing, deducing, solving. It's just how he is, and he can't turn it off. But Irene Adler's touch shuts that all down, leaving him with nothing but a flood of sensations that he wouldn't want to analyze even if he could. She spills into his senses, overwhelms him. He drinks her in with lips and tongue and fingers, for once blissfully unaware of anything and everything else. When she tugs on his hair, adding a perfect tension to the kiss, he surprises himself with a soft groan.
Irene smiles against his lips. They break apart, then find each other again, more urgently this time. Again, he moves without conscious decision, finds one hand cradling her head as he leans her back a bit. She hums in approval, and then there's that deliciously firm grip on his hair again, sending a shiver through him. He can hear his own breath hissing through his teeth as she moves to his throat, alternating soft kisses with sharp nips. He thinks, inanely, that he will definitely have to wear his scarf tomorrow despite the heat, but it doesn't matter because now Irene's mouth is at his again, driving away all thoughts. He has no idea how long it lasts, it might be moments or hours, but then Irene is pushing at him, and the mattress bumps the backs of his calves, and at the silent urging of her hands he drops to the bed, staring up at her.
He's fairly certain that he must look ridiculous, as breathless and tongue-tied as he feels, but Irene... she looks brilliant. Pupils dilated to nearly impossible widths, ivory skin flushed to rose, nipples very clearly erect beneath the thin silk robe. She's looking down at him with an undisguised heat in her gaze. He has caused this, wrought this physical response, and the realization is so startling that he draws in a sharp breath. Given her... profession... he wouldn't have expected a few kisses to have such an effect, but clearly he'd been wrong. What could cause such a profound reaction? Sentiment?
Stop thinking, he tells himself, hearing his own mental admonition in John's voice. As always, even on the other side of the world, his friend keeps him on track. Irene moves closer, and he reaches for her, seeking to silence his mind again in her touch.
This, she decides, is the Sherlock that she loves to see the most: finally giving in to his hunger, his usual reservations forgotten. Hair disheveled, pale blue shirt rumpled and gaping open where she's undone a second button... His lips are slightly swollen, throat reddened where she's tasted his skin. He looks up at her, and the look in his eyes is so vastly different from his normal, icy expression that her breath sticks in her throat.
Sherlock lifts one hand, and very slowly parts the lower edges of her robe, lightly brushing his fingertips over her thigh. The touch is feather-light, and she could almost call it hesitant- but no, there is an unhurried sort of confidence in the movement. Each gentle stroke of his fingers sends a new wave of chills over her skin. She feels a smile tugging at her lips.
"You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?" She murmurs, amused. "Not as inexperienced as I thought."
"Inexperienced?" He repeats. He's so close that it vibrates through her, the sound of his deep voice thrumming along her nerves. He tilts his head, focusing on her with those icy-pale eyes. "No... I just so rarely find it worth the bother."
"Careful, Mr. Holmes," she purrs. "That was very nearly a compliment."
He rewards her with a conspiratorial smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. His hand slides to the back of her leg, tugging; she obliges, lifts her foot to rest it on the bed beside him. Sherlock dips his head to the side, presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, while his fingers stroke on, gliding up and down the length of her thigh. Absurdly, delightfully, it reminds her of watching him play his violin. He touches her with the same deliberate care, the same measured patience, the same confidence that he will produce the exact result he wants.
He keeps his cheek pressed to her leg, kissing her thigh, as his slender fingers reach higher, still with that teasing feather-touch. He lets out a soft groan when he finds how wet she is, and she lets him continue for a few moments, relishing the warmth that spreads through her body at his touch. He does indeed know exactly what he's doing, able to read her every reaction and know exactly what she wants.
"Mr. Holmes," she murmurs again, finally. She rocks forward, sinks a caressing hand into his curls, tilts his head to meet her gaze. God, if his eyes had been striking before, they are breathtaking when they're dark with desire. "Are you ready to let go, now? Would you like me to quiet that racing mind of yours?"
Sherlock's thumb traces circles against her flesh. With a smirk, he turns her own earlier words against her. "You don't know?"
Unhurried, she trails her fingers down the side of his face, grasps his chin and tilts it up even more. "I want-" you to beg, she wants to say, but she knows that word will only make him stubborn. "- to hear you say it."
She tightens her grip, until he is sitting ramrod-straight, chin as high as it will go without making him rise off the bed. He stares up at her, hands gone still against her skin. Then he draws in a hissing breath, lets it out in a slow whisper. "Ye-e-essss... please," he adds.
Good boy, she thinks. She moves forward, and Sherlock wraps his fingers to her waist as she kneels over him, straddling his hips. His arousal is hard and urgent beneath her. She can't help but smile; she loves to see how desperately he's trying, and failing, to maintain his careful composure under her touch.
She shoves him roughly. He tumbles back, lets out a grunt of surprise when she follows, pins his wrists to the bed. She doesn't have the weight to restrain him, but she doesn't need it; he's already surrendered, watching her with wide eyes.
"Good," she breathes. "Stay right there, Mr. Holmes..." She begins to undo his shirt buttons, following a slow, deliberate line down his torso. Obediently, he keeps his clenched fists pressed to the bed where she'd put them. When the last of his buttons are loose, she slides her hands beneath his undershirt. The vulnerable skin of his stomach is feverishly hot, and he twitches under the light tracings of her fingernails.
She withdraws her hands, tugs at his shirt. "Off," she orders, and lets him sit up to obey. He watches, breath unsteady, eyes a little wild, as she loosens his trousers and helps him kick them off. His jaw clenches as she explores his body with her fingers, and then her lips. She teases him for a long time, until he finally breathes out an impatient curse, squirming beneath her.
She laughs softly, delighted- she hadn't expected to elicit profanity. She moves, their eyes meet again, and then Sherlock's drift closed as she slides down his length. It feels natural, as right as their first kiss; Sherlock fills her as if he were made for it. His hands find her hips, holding her in place as if afraid she might disappear. Her name, as a helpless plea, spills out of his mouth in a groan.
Suddenly, as if just now noticing it, Sherlock seizes fistfuls of her robe, then fumbles with the tie. With a frustrated growl, he jerks the robe open, helps her shrug out of it. She sinks both hands into his hair and kisses him hard, driving him back down onto the bed. She hadn't intended to lose herself in him, at least not so soon, but the two of them are surging against each other now, limbs tangling together, and she can't remember what she was waiting for.
Their coupling is fierce and intense. Both of them, normally so carefully refined, so sharply calculating- there is nothing refined or calculating in Sherlock's movements now, nor her own. At some point, she realizes that she's given in to an abandon that she never allows herself with her clients. Sherlock, it seems, wasn't the only one who needed release from the prison of an overactive mind.
A soft moan wakes him. His eyes pop open immediately, a Pavlovian response he can never overcome. He knows what that sound means, and the empty bed confirms it. He turns onto his back, stares at the ceiling as he tries to stop himself remembering, in delicious detail, how Irene felt… tasted… sounded…
He makes himself sit up, stretches his arms overhead. A double handful of sharp pains prickle at his skin as he stretches. Frowning, he contorts, peering over his shoulder. He can just see the top ends of the long furrows that Irene's nails had drawn along his back.
The memory, and another breathy moan from his mobile phone, make his lips twitch in a smile. He fumbles with the clothing on the floor, retrieves the mobile.
I let you off easy- for now.
Till the next time, Mr. Holmes…
Still smiling, he keys in a response, and sends her a reply for the first time.