Notes: Much credit and gratitude to all the Artists collaborating to make the amazing BBC Sherlock. I don't own these characters, but lately it seems they fully own me. Though there could be worse ways to go through life, right? Tessa DeMauro is mine however; an American actress quietly making her living on the London stage. Not a "star" by any means, just lucky enough to be of the breed of actors who can earn their daily bread doing what they love best. In my own little happy world, she's also found herself lucky enough to spend some time in the company of the marvelous Sherlock Holmes. Please treat with her patiently, Kind Reader; she only intends the best of things

Back in London, for the Lady Waits

(Tuesday, mid morning)

"Case successfully concluded. Train arrives London 2:30ish. May I call on you? S"

"You really have to ask? Haven't I told you I've been missing you?"

"It's just so nice to see you say it again."

"Please stop teasing and come here straightaway."

"As you wish."

Oh, but it was a very good thing she'd eaten breakfast before his text arrived. The butterflies she felt now would have prevented her eating anything at all, no matter how hungry she was. Tessa was currently a bundle of nervous energy, pacing the circuit of her flat at least two dozen times, in anticipation of Sherlock's arrival. She'd laid out several outfits on her bed, in search of something that might best showcase her colouring and figure, repeatedly changing her mind, finally settling on something simple that he hadn't yet seen her in. She hoped she'd chosen wisely.

They'd seen each other several times over the previous few weeks, but they'd only shared one kiss—the one that she had initiated the last time they were together. It was a bold move on her part, as he appeared to be interested, yet had not made a move of his own; but the desired effect seemed to have been achieved—his text the next morning told her that much, that it had left him wanting more. Tessa herself found that each night's dreams pleasantly relived it for her, and more if she was very lucky. When he left London suddenly on a case, he promised to stay in touch, and was as good as his word; the texts they shared were her daily delight, though toward the end she knew she had grown more sentimental than she perhaps should have. But she couldn't help it; that was her nature.

Thus, musing on this and possible future kisses, she let the shower run, lost in daydreaming until the hot water finally gave out. It would still be some time before his train reached London, and then with the travel from the station to her flat, she wasn't exactly sure when to expect him. She hoped the time they had would be more than brief, as her call at the theatre was set at 6:30.

She tried reading; she tried the television; she tried the relaxation exercises she employed in her craft. Each worked, but not for long, and the butterflies continued in flight. Then the knock came on her door.

Tessa took a deep breath, purposely rising slowly from the sofa, and walked to the door. Her heart was racing, but she called on her best skill to let it not show in her face, and hoped her voice wouldn't betray her either. She opened the door and there he stood, tall, lanky and utterly breathtaking, in her view.

The human mind is a wonder, capable of so much more than most people can even comprehend. In that moment, in the doorway, she was aware of so many things at once, and on reflection later might be able to list them, but in the now could only realize their totality. That being: he was even more handsome than the image she'd been carrying in her head since their last meeting. From the perfect curl of his hair which made her fingers itch to touch it (and which she was certain he came by naturally, probably woke up in the morning and shook those curls into place, whereas every woman she knew who'd want that same effect would have to work hours to achieve it)—his chiseled cheekbones (also begging to be touched)—his straight as a blade posture, hands casually tucked in his trouser pockets—his shirt that was, as it seemed always to be, just slightly too tight so that the buttons sometimes strained with mild pull when he moved, hinting at what was beneath (she knew this wasn't a calculated effect, so appreciated it even more)—his riveting blue eyes (she'd noticed at their first dinner how the colour sometimes varied with the light), exotic, compelling eyes, eyes that if focused on you could discern you to your Soul—to those tempting lips (especially that fuller bottom one) she'd kissed but once (and she daren't look at them now, else a blush would give her feelings away). The man before her was as delightful a dream as any she'd ever had.

In that moment, Reason told her it was her blossoming feelings for him that made her see him as she did; but it was her soft femininity that held sway. Any resolve she'd had to "play it cool" evaporated in an instant.

Sherlock must have noticed at once that she was dumbfounded, and took charge of the situation. "Hello, Tessa," he said with a slight grin, his voice dark velvet, just as she remembered. "May I come in?"

Tessa had to stop herself from stammering in her pleasure at finally seeing him again, "Sherlock, yes, where are my manners? Please," she said, stepping back and motioning for him to enter. And simple as that, he was over the threshold and in her flat for the first time, after all those polite refusals.

Tessa closed the door and took a step toward him. "Sherlock, where are your bags?"

"Oh, I left them with John. He was going right back to Baker Street, I thought I'd move faster without them." Tessa raised a brow, her interest piqued. He continued, "Well, obviously, I wanted to get here before you left for the theatre." She bit her lower lip to keep from smiling too much, thrilled that he'd thought of that.

Tessa asked the obvious question, already fairly certain what his answer would be, "Are you hungry? I could fix you something." Sherlock shook his head no. "Would you like something to drink? I'll put a kettle on." Again, he quietly declined. What now, she thought to herself; where do we go from here?

He was looking at her in a way he never had before, an appraising sort of way that was pleasant and surprising. "I'm not thirsty, at the moment," he said as he casually reached out and fingered a few strands of hair that had fallen against her cheek. "Are you?" This seemed to be an echo of the conversation they'd had before she'd kissed him; she gave a sly smile and tilt of her head "You are teasing me again, aren't you?"

He dipped his head a bit, smiling in full "Perhaps." then turned around, hands clasped behind his back and walked to the sofa. "So tell me, how was your week?"

Should she tease him back, or go on nonchalantly? She quickly chose, "Uneventful. Great crowds at the show. Then there was this gentleman friend of mine, had to leave town suddenly," she moved to sit beside him on the sofa, gaining confidence she'd chosen correctly, "I missed him terribly." she continued, with an air of mock sulkiness.

Sherlock picked up her cue "Really? Chronic condition?" he asked, indulging her flirtatious air. Tessa sighed dramatically, "Even so."

He gave a quiet sigh and inclined his head toward her. "A gentleman would tell the lady he missed her as well, don't you think?" A smile played about his mouth. Tessa nodded solemnly, breathless now as she saw intent in his eyes. He gently placed his hands upon her cheeks; hands very warm and pleasing against her skin. Then his face was oh so close to hers and before she knew it, she'd closed her eyes and he was kissing her at last, softly to begin with, then with growing fervor. When the kiss broke, he rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed as well. "Been waiting to do that all week." He paused to gauge her reaction, "It's what you wanted, yes?"

"Oh yes, Sherlock. Yes." Tessa realized she was probably smiling like a fool, but couldn't help it in her surprise. He'd just have to accept she wasn't cool or composed and didn't really know the right thing to say or do, but could only follow the prompting of her heart. She looked down, now very self-conscious. She had allowed herself to fantasize about Sherlock actually—finally—kissing her. In those brief flights from reality she had been as bold as that night she'd kissed in him the hallway; bold and then some. But for him to respond in kind, Tessa hadn't expected to feel so…girlishly awkward. The heat of a blush spread across her cheeks, and she at once worried he would find it silly, even unbecoming. She coughed softly into her hand, and looked back up at him.

Sherlock was smiling as though he read her thoughts, that crooked smile she already found so dear; she wished in that moment to kiss the crinkle lines it left on his cheek. By his demeanor he seemed quite amused—whether it was her surprised reaction or the pleasure of the kiss itself—she had no way of knowing. She certainly could not ask without looking foolish.

For his part, Sherlock was smiling for an entirely different reason. He was forming a theory about the power of an Unexpected Kiss. Remembering how hers had dazed him (only slightly, he still maintained); he now thought he was seeing the same sort of reaction from Tessa. It was a very pleasant turn of the tables, and a change of dynamic he could probably have observed in others (if he ever took the time or interest) but it was most impressive firsthand. He found he liked having the upper hand for the moment, and seeing the usually confident Tessa somewhat abashed in this manner was quite attractive, more so because he was the cause.

Tessa was doing her utmost to overcome her surprise and get herself back on track. "So, um…" biting her lip as she searched for something to say that wouldn't sound nervous or contrived, "Tell me about York."

He tilted his head to the side, raising a brow, clearly pleased she had asked. This put them both at ease; Sherlock doing his best to relate the pertinent facts, without too much showing off; Tessa starting to relax a bit as she listened to him, knowing he enjoyed an audience—even of only one—as much as she did. She was trying very hard to concentrate fully on the details he was relaying, but her mind kept going back to how the kiss had felt, and more importantly, pondering when would he kiss her again. She found as she watched him, the urge to move closer, to take his hand, to brush her lips against his cheek, was growing stronger. She wondered if there was any part of him considering the same options, and if so, who might be the first to break.

"…and then I," he paused, looking at her curiously, "You're smiling, why are you smiling so?" Apparently her mask had fallen and what she was ruminating upon now showed on her face. "Your brilliance, of course; what else could it be?" she quickly replied.

Sherlock looked flattered at first, then a bit skeptical at her answer, but that did not stop him recounting his tale. As he finished the story, he noticed Tessa's bout of ungainliness seemed to have passed, replaced with the insouciance which more properly suited her. He couldn't help but smile at how pretty such confidence made her. He had definitely missedthat while he was in York.

"So all's well that ends well," Tessa observed wryly. "Are all your cases so complicated?" She laid a hand lightly on his forearm as she asked, which drew his attention away from her face to the place she had touched him. He became very conscious of how close she was sitting, the subtle notes of her perfume teasing him to move closer still. It was a new and exhilarating feeling to him. He found he'd missed the question entirely, but was loath to admit it. Sherlock nodded his head, hoping it would be enough of a vague response to satisfy her query.

He cleared his throat, seeking to change the subject. Tessa was smiling at him now, clearly feeling the momentum was now in her favor. He felt rather warm of a sudden, certain the cause was Tessa's proximity. "Excuse me," he said, and rose to remove his jacket, laying it on the arm of the sofa, buying a few seconds grace from the pressure—albeit delightful—that seemed to be mounting. Sherlock had imagined that once he had kissed her (that was the plan he came through the door with, thinking that in itself would be sufficient) that he would be in control of the situation, but her recovery had now set him off kilter. He wondered how long he might stall for time until he could figure his next move.

"Now where were we?" he mused, trying not to sound as uncertain as he felt. The mischievous glint in Tessa's eyes gave answer as she moved in closer. She pressed her lips lightly against his temple. "No, not there," she said softly, moving to kiss his ear, nipping gently at the lobe. He breathed in sharply in surprise. "Not there either," she whispered, moving down and slowly kissing his neck again and again, her lips so tender, her breath so warm, upon his skin. Her hair tickled deliciously where it brushed against him, and he felt as though he were sinking into the sofa as he relaxed into her kisses.

Sherlock tried to pay attention to each new sensation in turn, a last-ditch effort to maintain at least part of his brain in the rational. Yet they came now so fast upon the previous that he could only respond to them as a whole, and that response was eventually a surrender of sorts. Tessa's softness, coupled with her obvious experience, left him at disadvantage to any other outcome. Abandoning reluctance, he gave in to her insistent ministrations, until so very moved, he buried his hands in her hair to finally bring her mouth back to his. He felt her smile as she yielded to him.

Thus passed the afternoon, and Sherlock's education in the Art of Romance had truly commenced.

Eventually though, time enough passed that it was the hour for Tessa to leave for the theatre. She pulled back from Sherlock very reluctantly, and it was clear she was as affected by the pleasant way they had spent the afternoon as he was. Sherlock remained seated as she got up to duck into the bathroom and compose herself. He raised a hand to take his pulse, willing it to slow now to a more normal pace.

There was silence for a few minutes, and Sherlock felt he was finally, fully, collected. "Good lord, I look a mess!" he heard Tessa exclaim, a note of shock in her voice, "Thank god for stage make-up." She walked back into the small living room, still brushing the ends of her hair.

Sherlock rose as she entered the room, that familiar half-smile now on his face, hands clasped behind him as his usual self-assurance returned. Without skipping a beat, he told her, "On the contrary, I've never seen you look prettier." And it was the truth as far as he was concerned. The flush of her skin and her kiss-swollen lips were simply lovely, and the knowledge that he was the author of them filled him with a happy satisfaction that was another new experience for him.

Tessa retorted swiftly, "You would say that; you're the one responsible for my….disarray!" If her tone was meant to be indignant, she looked too pleased to be truly upset.

Oh, but how could he let that comment pass? "In fact, you look quite beguiling at the moment…." he trailed off, enjoying how the flattery he presented brought a sweet smile to her face. He slipped his jacket back on, straightening his collar and buttoning the top button.

"It's a very good thing I'm not Viola tonight, and just a swing, thank you very much. I'd be missing my cues, forgetting lines, and looking at me like you are now—saying such charming things—will only confuse me more." She gave him such a pout, that he had to stifle a laugh before he responded "Really-and who was doing the distracting while I was in York? I think this about evens the score, don't you?"

Tessa's eyes widened and she laughed softly. "I suppose I deserved that then." She stepped closer, to stand before him. "But what do I get if I behave like a prim and proper lady?" She rested her hands on the lapels of his jacket, daring him to answer.

"I'd rather you didn't. I find you much more interesting when you're being impertinent," Sherlock let that thought linger between them a moment, then added "time and place being appropriate, of course."

"Of course," she echoed, "although you know, I could very well pick times and places you least expect." Tessa had moved even closer now, her mouth a half-open invitation; she was challenging him to kiss her, and he found he was more than up to the task. This was a learning curve he was mastering with speed and dexterity, as he was certain Tessa would attest to.

"But darling," she murmured breathlessly, in the wake of his thorough demonstration, "the theatre now. And perhaps a bite to eat beforehand."

Sherlock nodded, tracing his thumb across her lower lip, as though unwilling to forsake its charms so soon; Tessa gave a little shiver at that, and sighed contentedly. He turned and took his greatcoat and her jacket from the coat rack near the door, placing hers around her shoulders, then offered her his arm. She accepted it gladly, and they left her little flat, where—to her joy—a fine beginning had at last been made.

(their story continues in Not Just Another Goodnight)