So this is just a drabble of sorts about Irene and Sherlock and their odd relationship.
I suppose it could either be pre movie or post movie but either way it has nothing to do with the events in the movie.
So,I hope you like it and will review it.
Rated T for suggestive sex. I don't think I need to rate it M but if so let me know.
There was no simple way to describe Irene Adler opposed to with most people. For example, if one were to attempt to describe her beauty they would undoubtedly go into detail as they would when attempting to describe her wit and strength. At least, Sherlock Holmes had to and always felt that if he attempted to simplify her he could not as though it felt like he was cheating her out of something.
So many moments were passed with thoughts of her devious ways, her brilliant and challenging mind always outwitting him. How did she manage to control his mind even when she was not in the room? Even when she was there it only made it worse. His calculating mind was nearly swept to the side when she'd cast her brilliant green orbs his way; like a rare set of emeralds embedded in her sockets. (Ones that she would undoubtedly steal, no less, if they were not in such a place.)
She was doing this now, looking at him in a way which proved she was amused with him and knew of her power over him. It was nearly cruel, really, and the great detective can only look back with caution and attempt to press on as he tares his eyes away to grasp at his violin via nervous habit. Comforted by the plucking of strings, he can look at her once more and now can see a all together too tantalizing smirk on her face.
"Sherlock." Her brows are slightly raised, giving him a look that suggests she believes he is behaving like a child. It makes him feel somehow rebellious and he simply continues to pluck the strings with even more enthusiasm in his finger tips. A sigh escapes those sinister ( all together to perfect and too soft ) lips of hers as she rises from her chair and begins to approach.
He only plucks faster now, calculating how his heart has sped up at least two percent from only a moment ago. She is, of course, responsible for this (as usual) and all he can do is watch like a scared school boy as she stops to stand in front of his chair. Her smile grows, eyes seeming to dance with amusement as she leans forward to place her hands around the sides of his head. "Why do you always become so nervous?"
The answer, of course, is more then clear to Holmes as he stops his plucking of strings and swallows hard. "Shall I go over all the hundreds of reasons?" Brown eyes meet green with brows pulled together, attempting to appear as if strong.
Another sigh, "I am not about to do anything you should be nervous about, Sherlock. Relax, will you?" As if this would persuade him otherwise. He knows of her tricks, knows of her ways. Though as his violin is lifted right from his own finger tips (he swears he couldn't even feel it pulled from him) his mind is beginning to scream at him. It's screaming, however, is not louder then the smell of her Parisian perfume or the feel of her breath against his skin. Nor can it drown out the feel of her crawling onto his lap, warm skin against his and the silk of her dress leaving a coolness.
She purposefully is wearing one of those lower cut corsets where her feminine charms shine brighter then the summer sun and as such he suddenly finds it difficult to keep his eyes on her face. Throat suddenly going dry he swallows and can only watch the seductress as she smiles oh so coyly at him and brings runs her fingers over the sides of his face and down around his collar bone (but so very softly and full of tease). Brain beginning to spin he can feel his façade melting as he slowly places his hands around her waist (finger tips slowly caressing at the fabric) and he allows his eyes to wander over her striking features (and other places as well) . She seems satisfied with this, her grin becoming more devious as she leans in closer to him and whispers something into his ear while gently biting at it between words.
It is then and there he forgets his façade all together and falls into the state of passion and need. Only with her did he ever feel such a way and it boggles him. Through the kisses and hot touches there is a silent understanding that he still can not seem to figure out yet it is there all the same. It is there as Irene pulls from the chair and brings Sherlock onto the floor and it is there as their bodies touch and their breath mixes. Yet, they will never tell the other of what they feel nor will they ever see the sun rise as anything but a thief and a detective.
But for the moment, in one another's embrace, they are neither. Time stands still and all else closes out. The world belongs to them and at the same time the world fails to exist.
In the morning, when she has gone and he is gazing out the window all will return back to its place. Sherlock will give a long look in the direction of her portrait and then that will be the last of it.
That is, until she comes back.
Which she will.
When Watson comes to visit him later on in the day, he will know nearly automatically that Irene has been there by just the way Sherlock will be staring out the window and playing that damn violin.
It always will happen this way.
Yet neither have the will to stop. Even if it kills them.