I was just overwhelmed with the image of Sherlock writing a violin piece for Irene and wondered what it would be like if he played it for her one day. Then, this happened.

Hope you like it. :)

"What's this? A violin?" Tightening her robe with one hand, Irene leaned down to pick up the polished, wooden instrument from its place on the table. A smile graced her lips as she carefully brushed her fingers over it and strung a string.

Sherlock folded his hands behind his back and took a few steps towards her. "Yes. I like to play sometimes. It's a helpful distraction from my usual work."

He was surprised to see the sudden spark in Irene's eyes at his words. Her smile stretched even further. She opened her mouth as if to say something but hesitated, calmed the excitement in her expression and briefly bit her lip before asking, "Can you play something for me?"

Sherlock scanned her face with eyes slightly narrowed, as if trying to catch the trick. Nonetheless, he answered, "All right."

Irene handed the violin to him and sat herself down on the lounge chair. She spread out her hands. "Your audience is ready."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in curiosity. Playfulness, a flirtatious nature- that was Irene. But there was something childish and giddy about the way she gazed up at him expectantly. Seeing it felt like a fluctuation in a slow and constant frequency.

He grabbed the bow on the table, walked up to the window, and leafed through the book of compositions. He already knew what he was looking for, and the edges of his lips quirked up when he found it.

Shaky, rushed handwriting. Blotches of ink. Scribbles. Then, an evolution into neater notes and gentler strokes. Finally, an ending with evidence of a steady and determined hand. Perhaps even a passionate one.

"Let's see…" Sherlock placed the violin below his chin and drew up his bow. He took the liberty of shutting his eyes, having memorized the piece by heart, and began to play.

Slow, melancholy notes washed into the room, as fragile as porcelain cups. Irene leaned to the side and caught a glimpse of Sherlock's placid expression, the sunlight warming his face and making his eyelashes glow. The hand holding the violin was sure and steady, while the hand holding the bow was as fluid as a dance that has embedded itself into the heart of its dancer.

He must have rehearsed this a hundred times, she mused as she lowered her head against the soft, velvet back of the lounge chair and shut her eyes, too.

She tried to imagine herself somewhere happy, somewhere as soothing and calm as the music itself. Strangely, though, she always found herself back in the same place: the organized chaos that was the flat at 221B Baker Street, with Sherlock Holmes standing by the window just as he was now, completely submerged in something that slowed the rise and fall of his chest and ran a thumb against the irritated creases of his forehead.

She realized there was something rather intimate about the whole situation. She couldn't have foreseen the way every brush against the violin strings felt like brushes against her heart strings, or the way she began to taste the musician as the circulating oxygen that had touched his skin came to rest on her lips.

Irene was debating on whether falling asleep would be taken as a compliment or insult when suddenly everything quieted and a pleasant shadow fell over the room, masking the harsher glare of a lively, awake sun.

She cracked open her eyes just in time to see Sherlock place his instruments down and guessed, from the tentativeness of his movements, that he thought she was asleep. He caught her movement from the corner of his eye and twisted his head, his eyes immediately scanning her face to make a deduction.

She spoke before he tried to say anything. "That was beautiful. I've never heard the piece before."

He rose to his full height and briefly tucked at the lapels of his jacket. Irene smirked at the familiar pose.

"That's because it was an original work. And I attribute its beauty to the inspiration that created it."

Irene took a moment, taken aback. "You don't mean to say…you composed this?"

"Surprised?"

"No," she immediately decided. "It's coming from you, after all. I just think that it solidifies my theory."

"Which is?"

"Brainy is the new sexy."

"Oh, God, not that again."

"Don't pretend- you live for those compliments. They are the prize at the end of every chase. And if my memory serves correct, that particular compliment left you at a loss for words."

"I merely stuttered for half a second. Natural reaction to a bizarre, irrelevant comment."

Irene raised one eyebrow. "Irrelevant? You were demonstrating your thinking process splendidly. I was turned on. Hardly irrelevant."

"Oh, all right, all right."

Irene stood and boldly stepped in front of him. "Oh look at you, you're flustered! Admit it Sherlock, I flatter you so much it makes your brain sluggish."

His grey, stormy eyes locked on hers. Deftly, he locked his fingers around both her wrists and leaned down to brush his feathery lips against her ear. Quietly, he said, "You want to challenge me then?"

She froze and her breath hitched in her throat. To the untrained eye, it would've appeared as a sexual advance, but Irene knew it was far from it. No- it was deliberate. Tactical. Personal.

Ironically, she felt laughter bubbling in her throat at the awareness of her quickening heartbeat and his fingertips methodically pressing against her veins. She was terrified of how much her biology denied her silent brain commands to halt, but nevertheless, it was only instinct. She was quick to realize she could not possibly become anymore transparent- he knew every curve and edge and crevice and wrinkle of her anatomy, literally and figuratively. The dread dissolved as quickly as it came, and a magnet took its place, a magnet attracted to the heat of his chest.

"Yes," she replied, mimicking the position of mouth next to ear. His own breath hitched in surprise at her advance, but he stayed in place.

"Shall I take your pulse, Mr. Holmes?" she took a small step back and began to pull one arm away, but he slightly tightened his grip.

"I'm not finished yet. Stay still."

She did, only letting her eyes shift to study his face. She found herself dizzy from following the paths of the dark, perfect spirals of his hair. His broad forehead (behind which likely sat an equally broad brain demanding accommodation), was flat and less overwhelming. She traveled down to the bridge of his long, smooth nose, then to the sharp angles of his cheekbones. She fondly played with the words "I could cut myself slapping that face" at the surface of her tongue. Then, she found his lips, pale pink curves that now sat closed and straight. Finally, she returned back to his eyes.

"Hmm."

"What?"

"Faster than last time."

He didn't bother holding on when she swiftly pulled away her hands. "Come on now, you're lying."

"You've not lost your sentiment but made it grow."

"What about your pulse then?"

"You won't be able to find it. I have no heart, don't you remember?"

"Liar."

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together. "Weren't you just busy complimenting my music?"

"Irrelevant."

"Hardly irrelevant."

John came in to the kitchen and busied himself with going through the cabinets. "So, Sherlock finally played your composition for you yesterday?"

"What do you mean?" Irene leaned forward in her chair and narrowed her eyes.

"The violin piece he played. Your piece."

"I don't think I-" Irene stopped, the words suddenly sinking in. She leaned back against the chair, startled, her gaze momentarily losing focus before settling on John's back. "He…composed it for me?"

She had never felt vain or self-absorbed in all her life, and yet, for a fleeting moment, she wondered if maybe she shouldn't have dared to ask that question.

John stopped midway through closing a cabinet with a mug in hand and turned to face Irene. "Oh, he…hasn't told you?"

"No." Then, she reconsidered for a moment.

I attribute its beauty to the inspiration that created it.

"Or…maybe he characteristically left some hints here and there."

John resumed his work. "That's typical of him. Well, you should feel flattered."

"When did he compose it?"

"After your presumed death." John poured hot, steaming water into the mug and threw in a tea bag. He walked to the table and sat himself in front of Irene. "We thought he'd use the needle again. Panicked and kept on eye on him for a few days, in case he'd choose to spring back into it. We weren't sure if he was emotionally stable."

"You're not serious."

"It's a three-patch problem."

"I'll interrogate him later. Go on."

"Well, when he came back here after being convinced he saw you stone dead, he picked up the violin and began to play. Sprang into this tune and had it finished in a matter of hours. At the expense of my sleep, of course."

"It could be coincidence. It'd be more fitting if he wrote you the music as an apology for- well, everything."

"Did I not say 'at the expense of my sleep'?"

"Maybe you're right."

"Letting me sleep would be an apology."

"Does the piece have a name?"

"Mmm," John hummed a 'no' as he took a sip of his tea. "We don't ask him about it, we just assume."

"Would it be pointless to ask him?"

"Why? Want to give it a go?"

"I want to hear him admit it. Have some leverage."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't admit feelings, but I suppose you could try."

"I will," Irene said. The chair screeched against the tiles as she pushed it back and stood to carry out her promise.

"Wait." John held up a hand. "He doesn't admit feelings but he has them."

Irene felt an appreciation tug at her heart. She smiled at the earthiness and flecks of gold in John's eyes. "Don't worry, Doctor. I think we both owe him too much to be playing with his feelings, no matter how much one of us may enjoy a good game."

"You'd lose either way."

"I already have."

He found her hugging herself with one arm and flipping through his compositions with the other.

"John's told you, then."

Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice. He lingered in the shadows of the room, so she approached his suit-clad figure, fearlessly making her presence inevitable. "I would've preferred if you told me yourself."

"It was more of a spark that helped show off my genius than a melodic eulogy. Don't feel too flattered."

"John told me I should. And I do. But there's one thing I don't know."

"And what's that?"

Irene felt the hairs on her neck stand at sensation of his low, hushed, and rumbling tone. She swallowed and replied, "The title."

From the shadows, a hand emerged and stroked her cheek. "Let me give you a clue: its a stolen one."

She mimicked his movement but aimed for his collar, letting her fingertips teasingly graze the skin of his neck. "Stolen from whom?"

He grabbed the elbow of her other arm and pulled her closer, until their chests were touching. "You."

Their faces were centimeters away. Their hot breaths mingled and made some stray, individual hairs dance.

Irene had the urge to paint the way the moonlight poured in from the window and trickled down into his grey eyes. The thought drove her to lift both hands up to his face. "I'm afraid I've been completely incapacitated to be able to come up with any answer."

He wrapped a hand around her waist and left the other on her cheek. "Come now, what name makes you so powerful others literally get off on it?"

"'The Woman?'"

Sherlock leaned down and kissed her. Firmly, slowly. Everything in the room was quiet and still save for the shuffle of their clothes as they sought to entangle themselves more comfortably.

He pulled away for a moment, feeling the urge to look at her. As he did, he felt that that the lenses in his eyes were not deducing lenses, but savoring, wanting lenses, tinted with one dreaded, clear-cut word.

He paused before he resumed their kiss, absentmindedly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Simultaneously, he whispered, "No. The Woman."