She was standing at the window, the smog-tinted lamplight from outside lending her bare silhouette the kind of aura Sherlock had seen before in the opium dens of Limehouse. The lines of her body seemed to waver and Sherlock found himself instinctively sniffing the glass of wine in his hand - after all, this was Irene Adler, a woman who time and again had proven that she could, and would, do anything to get what she wanted.
The wine was clean. And expensive. He wondered what she had done to get that, and to whom.
Sherlock set down his glass.
Typical of Irene to get undressed over dinner. She didn't seem to have a game plan, although Sherlock knew better than to dismiss her actions as random or whimsical.
He walked to the window standing so close behind her that he could feel the warmth of her skin, a sharp contrast with the chill emanating from the cold glass in front of them. The escaped curls at the nape of her neck shivered at his breath, and he saw gooseflesh appear down her arms and over the curve of her breasts.
Irene's fingers were resting lightly on the window and Sherlock mirrored her, his arms encircling her without touching. He knew she hated covetousness almost as much as she loved instilling jealousy. Every moment with her was toeing a line between two almost synonymous concepts. It was exhausting, and he loved it.
Sherlock bent forward, his cheek brushing loose locks of hair as he traced with his lips an invisible, one-inch barrier over the skin of her neck. Without turning her head she was watching out of the corner of her eye, arching towards him, but Sherlock maintained his distance.
All of a sudden, electricity: she had let her fingers brush his against the window. Slowly she took his hand in hers and brought it to the chill flesh of her waist. Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, the tension left his chest and he melted against her, both hands exploring barely familiar though often-remembered pathways over her body. He skimmed the bottom of Irene's breast while slowly running fingertips through the very edge of the dark hair at the apex of her thighs and she sighed, her head leaning back onto his shoulder. Her eyes were closed.
Sherlock kissed at her neck and shoulder, up to her ear and down her jaw, his fingers inching ever-further until she grasped his hand, turned suddenly in his arms and pushed his fingers into her. Sherlock staggered forwards in surprise, bracing himself on the window frame, hearing a hiss from Irene as her bare flesh was pressed up against the cold glass. He braced one leg between hers and thrust forwards with his fingers, forwards and up, curling as he remembered only too well would make her-
Irene's fingernails dug sharply into his shoulder and she grabbed his hip with her free hand and pulled him against her, his hand pressing even harder against her. She thrust her hips into his hand in a few short, sharp bursts before he felt her come around his fingers. She held her breath as the spasms wracked her; the room was silent other than Sherlock's own blood thrumming in his ears.
A steady breath out: Irene placed both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and without withdrawing his fingers he knelt before her, body and mind, bowing his head, controlling his lust, humbled by her. She sat on the sill, legs spread wide, and smirked for a moment before she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his lips between her thighs. He saw her head roll back, her hair splayed out on the window. He knew the lamplight in their room was dim, but it was dark outside and the contrast would have made her starkly visible to anyone in the street who might look up. Sherlock knew she was aware of this. He knew she liked it.
He curled his fingers deep inside her, sucking at her clit while her breath quickened, though still she remained quiet. He pushed deeper, thrust faster, curled his fingers harder, flicked his tongue quicker, still not a whisper from her parted lips. She gripped his hair, pulling him close, her thighs tight around his head, her toes pointed against the ground as her back arched, her breathing halted for endless seconds as she came again.
Sherlock's mouth was filled with her, his hand was slick with her, his stomach knotted tight, and still she rode his fingers and his tongue. He pushed another finger inside her and she jerked her hips forward, almost slipping from the sill. She was so wet he could feel it dripping from his chin. Her swollen clit throbbed between his lips and he curled his fingers hard, pushing her towards her third orgasm. Suddenly her fingers in his hair were pulling him painfully upwards. She slid a hand to his belt and he helped her unbuckle it with one hand while continuing to fuck her with the other. She pushed his trousers down and pulled him close.
At the last possible moment he withdrew his fingers and pushed into her. She bit down on his shoulder, ripping a grunt from his throat. He thrust hard and fast, matching her frantic pace, his hands around her arse to pull her closer. Sherlock felt her body start to tense up and he slid one hand around, his fingers sliding against her clit and all at once a wild scream was bursting unbidden from her throat; a beautiful, animalistic cry of ecstasy as he pushed her over the edge. The sound jolted through Sherlock like a live wire straight to the pit of his stomach and with a loud moan he came hard inside her. For a long moment they cradled each other in the window.
Then Irene straightened up and Sherlock withdrew. She stroked his cheek and smiled. Then she pressed her lips momentarily to his forehead before standing and walking away from the window. His breathing just beginning to return to normal, Sherlock gazed down at the gloomy London streets. He wondered when he would next be invited back to this sanctum. He wondered when he would next see Irene.
And then he wondered where he would find a cab in this neighbourhood at three in the morning.