Disclaimer: I own none of these wonderful characters!
"If this was the end of the world, if it was the very last night… would you have dinner with me?"
They were so close she could hear the soft puffs of breath escaping his lips. Her eyes raked over his face, scanning for flicker, any sign that she was winning.
Nothing.
How was it that he was so completely unfazed where any other man would have her half-undressed already? He was a puzzle, a challenge. But she would break him just like any other.
"But it's not the end of the world, is it?"
His eyes were fixed on hers, all ice and fire and stone. And yet his hand on her wrist was like silk, his long, violinist's fingers tracing songs on her skin. The bizarre, deviant mixture was almost intoxicating, never in her life had she had an opponent, or a lover, who was quite so interesting. She lifted a hand to his face, blood-red nails grazing his cheekbone. "Perhaps not, Mr Holmes, but that doesn't mean we can't pretend."
She went in for the kill. Slowly, cruelly, she brushed her lips against his. One hand raked through his hair as she launched herself closer. She lost herself to the simple warmth of that moment. Just the fire, the armchair and them. It seemed odd to her, after so many years of cruelty, to indulge in something as innocent as a fire-side kiss. Yet, to win, one must be adaptable. And she would win, she always did. The stage was set and the lights were going down, all that was needed were the actors, taking to the floor. Her heart raced with the sheer exhilaration of another performance, another conquest. Her lips seared with passion that had brought so many to their knees. But then why was it so cold?
She drew away and plunged into his eyes once more, searching, almost frantically now, for something that would betray him.
Nothing.
"Sentiment," he whispered, his face could have been made of stone. Pursing his lips, he gave a small, sarcastic smirk, "how dull." Brushing her aside, he strode towards the door. "Do remember to put the fire out before you go to bed". He swept out of the room.
Frowning, she sank into the chair and let a cocktail of anger wash over her, sickening and delicious. Yet there was something else mixed up in it. It took her a moment to discover that it was disappointment. She scoffed inwardly. Impossible. Dropping the thought, she began to take inventory. She was going to get to him, somehow. She would latch on to some fragment of humanity, beyond those stony eyes and turned-up coat. It was so long since she had had to play so hard to get it. Yet The Game was hers, and so would be Sherlock Holmes.