He couldn't stop thinking about her. Something…something wouldn't let him.
He still smelled her in his bed. He'd refused to wash the bedding. He'd given up telling Mrs. Hudson not to dust, but she was not, under any circumstances, to enter his bedroom to wash the bedding.
Not his housekeeper, indeed.
She'd texted him "Happy Birthday," 'The Woman.' He'd kept it on his phone, read it periodically. He'd begun texting her, periodically. She still wanted to have dinner. He had no interest in eating with her. He wanted more. More…of her.
He'd agreed to meet her, but only on his turf. He spent all afternoon trying on clothes, scoffing at his reflection. His bedroom was a mess. He finally decided on his favorite purple shirt and jacket, and sat in his chair and waited for what seemed like an eternity. He checked his watch, his phone, looked out the window. He hated waiting.
Around ten p.m., a car pulled up outside. Sherlock watched out the window, waited for her to exit, which she did, eventually. He was nervous. Too nervous. His palms were sweating, his heart was racing; in his Mind Palace, his virginity was jumping for joy.
Mrs. Hudson led her upstairs to Sherlock's door, gave him a smile and a wink as Irene Adler stepped inside 221 B Baker Street. Sherlock rolled his eyes and closed the door; he could imagine her, Mrs. Hudson, on the phone to John within the next five minutes. He turned his phone off, double checked that he'd removed the eyeballs from the microwave as Irene sat down. He glanced around, turned in a circle, unsure why, as Irene stared at him.
"So, Mr. Holmes," she said finally, "what shall we do?"
Sherlock cleared his throat and sat down across from her in his chair. His chair where she'd touched him. Where she'd leaned in close…so close.
He chuckled. "Sudoku?" he joked, but Irene didn't smile. She stood up and dropped her coat. He knew she'd be naked underneath. He swallowed, hard. She moved toward him, climbed onto his lap and straddled him. He felt like he couldn't breathe, but it was exciting.
She began unbuttoning his shirt, and he watched her intently. Her fingers moved with such ease that he wondered how many times she'd done this before.
His mind raced. His erection was imminent, and when she slid his jacket from his arms, she intentionally put weight there, making Sherlock inhale sharply. God, he needed release. Without saying anything, he stood up, taking Irene with him. Her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist as he stumbled to the kitchen. He rested her on the kitchen table and kissed her. Her tongue pushed his lips apart, and he welcomed it. She unbuttoned his trousers and found him quickly, pushed herself onto him, her heels digging into his backside to push him further into her.
Sherlock steadied himself on the table and groaned as Irene expertly moved, faster and faster until he came, hard, with a shudder and a loud moan.
He buried his face into her neck, tried to steady his breathing. Irene ran her fingers through his hair and tugged gently; he was already hard again, and she smiled.
"I told you I'd have you twice on this table."
"No," Sherlock replied, looking at her.
He moved quickly, taking her by the hand and leading her to his bedroom, which was still a mess.
She pushed him onto the bed and straddled him, lowered herself onto him. He grabbed her hips and she moved in circles, arching her back and breathing heavily; her own release was close, as was Sherlock's. They came together, and Irene rested herself on Sherlock's chest. She could still feel him pulsing inside her. She moved off of him slowly and laid beside him. She was surprised when he pulled her closed and kissed her, deeply.
"Now we can have dinner," he said finally, and Irene laughed.