This is not meant to be a "songfic." The song simply reminds me of Irene and Sherlock.

Harder to Breathe

Irene was pinned down on the back side of the dance floor in Monaco by a pair of blazing green eyes from clear across the room. The bass is so heavy that the walls seem to be quaking. She straightens up on her petite frame to meet his glare. Over the heads of the club goers the back beat is the sound of a giant heart beating in terror. He made it clear not too long ago that she was supposed to disappear. She frowns, her perfectly arched eyebrows meeting in a 'v' above her pert nose. He stalks across the room like some giant cat, not a panther, no, but one of those giant hybrids she read about: maybe a cross between a black leopard and an African lion. Even from this distance, the anger directed her way is palpable. His long strides eat up the dance floor, people moving out of his way; too afraid to be burned by the walking pillar of invisible flame. She thinks about the last thing she said to him, right after the Fall, when she told him without mincing words that he was a giant arse to leave John behind and told him in great detail the kind of life John could have had, and possibly was having without him, back in London.

"How dare you say that my behavior is unacceptable?

So condescending, unnecessarily critical…

I have a tendency of getting very physical,

So watch your step 'cause if I do you'll need a miracle."

Irene looks left and right, searching for an exit to miraculously appear. There are none. She backs up against the wall, hopelessly trapped. She wills herself under control, shifting from foot to foot as she feels for the tiny can of pepper spray concealed in the bodice she wears under her tight shift dress. Her ears pick up the next set of lyrics as he stops in front of her, arms held stiffly at his sides, expression tumultuous.

She considers the game they once played so long ago: appealing to his ego, getting him to crack a code for Moriarty. He was so wonderfully angry, almost in her clutches but then the great reveal and all of her carefully constructed clouds parted to allow his clarity of mind to burn through. In the same instant, she thinks about wearing one of his sumptuous button-downs against her naked skin and mourns, just a little, for those things she has never really wanted. Normal really is boring. Mostly.

"This double vision I was seeing is finally clear.

You want to stay but you know very well I want you gone.

Not fit to fuckin' tread the ground that I am walking on…"

"Irene." Her name could not have been more erotic said in the shadowy bass of the tall fury dressed from head to toe in black that is looming over her; the lights flash in sync to the rhythm of the song behind him, at once giving and taking away every unusual detail to be found on his face. He grasps her forearm with one large hand and spins her so that her face is to the wall, then steps in close, never releasing the hold and speaking directly into her ear. She is aroused, ashamed and terrified when he speaks the next line in the song, his plush lips sending hot puffs of air from her ear canal down her spine.

"What you are doing is screwing things up inside my head

You should know better, you never listened to a word I said,

Clutching your pillow and writing in a naked sweat,

Hoping somebody someday will do you like I did."

At the tail end of the line he shoves her, hard, so that her face is mashed up against the wall. The way her body is trembling like some foolish teenager playing at sex for the first time in the backseat of daddy's car sends a matching line of anger through her; not enough to make her push back, but enough to make her say.

"You can do me any time." She tries her best to hide the tremor in her voice, attempting to cover it up with lust, though she knows he will always see right through her.

Time begins to slow down for her as she stands; legs spread shoulder width apart, one of his magnificent hands on her arm, the other around her waist. From behind, anyone would think they are doing the bed sheet mambo against the wall. No one in the place pays them any attention, too busy trying to pull their own or make a drug deal. She wiggles against him a little and the hand on her waist tightens. A girl can't help but be curious, after all.

"I'm not John Watson, lover, but you could take me from there and imagine him."

"Why are you here?" He hisses; she can clearly hear the names he refuses to break down and call her by in those four words.

"I promised Big Brother I'd keep an eye on you." Irene uselessly winks one eye. She cannot help herself, after so many years of cultivating a persona, it is almost impossible to drop it now.

"Fine, I will tell him you are no longer necessary." He shifts behind her, waiting.

"Please." She says simply.

"Beg." His thin chest is pressed against her back. If he were anyone else…

"I can help you…" He forces her even closer to the wall. She can no longer hear the music behind them, all her focus is on the taut muscles she can feel through her dress, the heat of the only man she would ever…

"No." He snaps. "I know your brand of help…isn't what I need at present. I need you out of the way." His hands tighten against her again. She knows he is not bluffing.

"Please." The word jumps between her lips long before her brain catches up to them. At once, he lets go and moves. "That's twice." He quips darkly as he begins walking away.

She quickly turns and follows, knowing she is nothing more than a crude copy of the only person who can ever really do this for him. He is already several ground-eating strides ahead of her, shoving the oddly silent emergency exit door open. When she catches up with him, he is leaning against the door in the weak light known only to those who frequent places such as this one, cigarette between his finger, head tilted to the side. The only sound she can hear is the faint pulse of the music of the club, the metallic snick of a lighter, and the sound of her own heels.

When she finally draws close enough to really see him, she finds a man who is almost as physically exhausted and still be living can be. She reaches out to touch his face, an out of place maternal instinct, and he recoils as if she were an adder poised to strike; for a moment his expression is furious, then it crumbles. He slides down the wall, his face in one hand, the other holding a cigarette that will quickly burn up, and sobs into his palm. She sits down beside him on the damp, dirty pavement to awkwardly put an arm around his shoulders and waits. Somehow she has to get him home.