Another Sherlock/Irene fic, which is more of a sequel to the pulse scene in Scandal in Belgravia. I know that's not really an original subject, but I tried to write the scene as uniquely as possible. The story is set after Scandal, but before Reichenbach. I'm aware that the ending is rather open, so perhaps there's room for a second chapter, I haven't decided that yet. I hope you like it, and constructive criticism is appreciated, of course.
Once again, I don't own anything and I write these characters just for fun.
Irene's making tea in her kitchen on a rainy Saturday afternoon, generally minding her own business when her train of thought gets interrupted by a sharp knock on the door.
She straightens her back and listens if she heard it correctly through the whistling of the kettle, because what she heard surprised her.
She can tell that it's him. She might not be as good at deductions as he is, but she certainly recognizes his determined manner in the sound his knuckle made on the wood. That, and the fact that she never gets unexpected guests.
As she opens the door, she stares at the man whom she pretty much owes her life to, and she isn't even sure if she should be grateful for that. There are too many mixed feelings, some of which she thought she was not capable of having.
He has found her (and he probably always will, she thinks). Even though she has tried to stay under the radar, he has managed to do it again. Nothing ever escapes the consulting detective, who is looking rather worn down at the moment because of the rain.
"Well, you found me," is the first thing she says after letting him in, watching him take off his coat, a few drops of water landing on her rug. She's staring him right in the eye, her trademark smirk on her face, "took you long enough."
"Oh, I tracked you down ages ago, it was only a matter of time before you would attract attention to yourself in one way or the other," he says, and if she isn't mistaken she can sense a hint of respect in his voice. She might be wrong and it might as well be disgust.
"Then why didn't you come and visit me earlier?" she says, "I could've used some company. It's strange how such a big city can make one feel so lonely at times."
"I was working on a case, I was unable to leave London for a longer period of time."
"And now you're here… why?" she asks.
"I was bored," he replies, as though this answer would qualify as a good excuse in any situation.
"You tracked me down…because you were bored? And then you decided that coming here was the best cure for boredom?" she says, still the look of slight amusement on her face. "Why? What could drive Sherlock Holmes to visit a woman who's supposed to be buried underground, at least, that's what the rest of the world has been lead to believe. Is that what they call sentiment? I'm rather flattered."
"You shouldn't be," Sherlock replies, shaking his head, warning her she should stop there and not go any further, silently implying that she is going to make a fool out of herself if she doesn't stop. She swallows all the other words she wanted to say, and it doesn't go unnoticed by the observant detective.
She tells him to sit down in one of the chairs in her small spaced living room so she can get him something to drink. She's surprised when she catches him standing in one place, his hair looking slightly out of place because of the droplets of water still sticking. His brow is furrowed and the look on his face tells her he's lost in thought. She finds his behavior remarkable, and she isn't sure what to think of it.
But then, this is Sherlock, and she never quite knows what to expect from this man.
At least it's rather refreshing, she thinks, folding her arms in front of her chest, observing the man in front of her as he suddenly snaps out of his trance and focuses his eyes on her again.
"It's curious how you should be the one talking about sentiment," he says, and this time it's her turn to stop dead in her tracks.
"We both know I wasn't implying anything," she says, her voice as steady as ever, but her arms fall down at her sides as an involuntary gesture of defeat.
"Weren't you? I thought your body language was quite clear. One would have thought that people learn from previous experiences," Sherlock says, crossing the small space that is her living room, getting rather too close for her liking, "but I gather that you haven't, probably because you thought you would never have to deal with me after your death."
She just doesn't want to have to beg him. Again. But she's tongue-tied, and her eyes are large and screaming "Don't."
It's only a matter of seconds before he's too close for comfort. His hand finds its way through the air, settling on a spot on her arm just above her hand, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. She has a terrible flashback and she tries to push the memories to the back of her mind.
This time she's expecting it, and she braces herself for the fall, but she's too late and the impact is too deep.
As his fingers brush over the exposed skin of her wrist excruciatingly slowly, she swears she can actually feel her pupils dilating. She closes her eyes and curses silently because her body is betraying her once again. She doesn't need a mirror to see what her face is giving away, she doesn't need to see her face to know that her eyes have darkened, to know she's subconsciously started to bite her lip in order to keep her composure, and the fact that her front teeth are leaving a slight indent in her bottom lip.
Inside her head she's drawing parallels. His hand envelop her wrist with a tender touch just like last time. She knows her pulse is elevated, it has been since she knew it was him standing at her door, and the reason why should be obvious even to people who aren't as observant as mister Sherlock Holmes. The similarities between this time and last time frighten her because she's afraid he'll shake up her world once again with one simple observation.
And yet there are significant differences to be found between the two situations. This time there's no audience, they are in her tiny pristine living room in her tiny apartment in which she's trying to build up a new life, and this time there aren't any dark secrets at stake.
She's yet to find out what the motive is, but at least she's not completely oblivious this time. Oblivious to the fact that he has an ulterior motive for his actions.
Yet she wants to hurl something out of the window because her brains processed the information too slowly, she wasn't fast enough, and once again she finds herself long past the point of no return.
And now she's standing in the middle of her apartment, desperately trying to steady herself, but it's too late and her walls are coming down. Brick by brick. She should have seen it coming, but she's been too blind to see. And at that moment she realizes Sherlock was right: her goddamn sentiment has clouded her judgment again. She had vouched for it never to happen again, yet here she is, losing herself in one simple touch.
As she opens her eyes again, she swears see can see a small smirk on Sherlock's face. Apart from the undeniable desire there's now another feeling boiling inside of her: anger.
He knows what he's doing to her, and he's actually enjoying it.
However, she doubts he's enjoying it the same way she does. He probably doesn't find much satisfaction in the sensuality of his actions, the feeling of his fingertips against her skin, or the way she leans into his touch. It's more likely that he's enjoying this ritual because it means he found a way to make her part of his experiment.
He's probably counting the seconds until she snaps, then all the fun of the experiment will be over.
But until then she's his, and his only.
She knows that this experiment is possibly the closest they'll ever get to the dreams she has every once in a while. Dreams in which Sherlock doesn't play the cold blooded detective, but is rather more… appreciative of the opportunities she gives him. Dreams in which it's only a matter of time before either one of them has pinned the other to the wall or kitchen sink, and in which Sherlock uses his mouth to find the pulse point in her neck. Dreams in which she has her wicked with him, in which he does indeed beg for mercy. Twice.
But those are just dreams, illusions that leave her panting as she wakes up in the middle of the night, when she can actually feel her pulse in an entirely different part of her anatomy.
After those dreams she finds herself sitting in her bed, her shirt-if she's wearing one- sticking to her back, realizing it wasn't real and never will be. She always rolls her eyes at herself in the dark before throwing her head back on her pillow and closing her eyes again.
A cough snaps her back to reality, and she realizes Sherlock has been examining her face thoroughly. She knows that her face and body language are showing all signs of arousal. Her eyes flick to his mouth for only a second, but it's enough to convince him.
He looks at her as to say "There, I told you. Sentiment."
The worst thing is, she knows he's right, but she just isn't going to let him win this time.
"Well now, Sherlock Holmes," she says, backing away slowly so Sherlock's hands falling to his sides, a hint of surprise in his blue eyes, "do you want some tea?"
"And perhaps dinner later?" She adds without saying a word.