She let out a small gasp. Tilting her head to get a better view. Her figures settling themselves on the edge of her sharp jaw.
It was a picture of his bare chest. Pale with small lines of usage against sheets she knew all too well to be his. This was very unlike himself, he was always in something plane with his Jacket and scarf. She could think of many things that she could do with that scarf. His body was something note-worthy, he was always note-worthy. Unlike his brother he was thinner leaner. Her eyes traced every crevice every muscle of his torso. Gladly omitting to being curious, bewildering herself as her eyes flounced down the V of his pelvic bone. Just himself: just a man in his soon to be sullied sheets.
Even more unlike him there were no underlying messages he had forgone any sense of decency of a message. Irene Shivered in anticipation, of wanton need. Her readiness another unspoken unlikeness of herself; She was never so obedient.
REPLY:
I'm bored, have dinner with me.
FROM: Sherlock
It's a little late for dinner, dessert? -SH