He looked at her... and saw nothing. Not a single weakness, nor mistake or failure. But how could this be? How she could completely expose yet cover herself at the same time? Of course he hadn't known back then, and she hadn't either, that emotion will become her weakness. It's so trival, so... human. So not their style.
She was intriguied. From the very beginning. The fact that he perfectly knew her measurements without even looking at her. Because he did not look, he wasn't bothered by the fact that she was naked. Watson was disturbed, dictracted, but him... nothing like that.
And the fact that he outplayed her. Made her slip. Make her fail in the game she was playing and mastering for so long... she was The Woman after all.
But... he found himself thinking about her. Not about her body, but her mind – it was her mind that was interesting. Her mind was beautiful, sharp as a knife. She was a step ahead him.
And he was a step ahead her.
Their relationship grew deeper, like a deadly dance, like a dance macabre. Perfect coordination, one always step ahead of the other, the world played and they danced. Thinking of that, it was the other way around. They were playing, and the world was spinning to their melody and rythm. Crazy, but great rythm.
When they touched it other sparkles flew. She knew what it ment, she knew that feeling. He figured it out, like he always does. This is something Sherlock just does. Looking at her dilated pupils, feeling her pulse, seeing her rosy cheeks that makeup couldn't cover, hearing her breath fastening... No one would have noticed such things. But he did.
Sherlock Holmes did not love Irene Adler. God, she didn't love him either. Not even in a milion years. Love slows you down, sentiments disturb, they make you vulnerable. Make you susceptible. Someone holds the strings, and they can pull them in the most unexpected moment. And that is not what is acceptable in their proffesions.
Irene had her moment of weakness. One and only. This password... this was a mistake, a stupid mistake. She won't let it happen again. She erased those feelings, pushed them deep down into her mind.
But she intentionally did not get rid of the effect that Sherlock had on her. How her body and mind reacts. This was safe, as long as her heart will remain still and quiet.
She was certaing that he is impassive, that his body and his wonderful mind were as quiet as his heart. And she would be right, if it had been about every other woman or man. For them Sherlock was intert. But she was different.
She was inscrutable. She was a mystery. And she will always remain one. She wasn't boring, and will never be. Because no one can ever predict what her next step will be. Today they become one on a satin sheets, chasing one another, and tomorrow... tomorrow she won't be here, she may be far away, she may be gone for good. And that's how things should be.
And he will always be a source of this delightful adrenaline for her, something that Irene didn't have on a daily basis. She ruled people, and people are so boring, so... vanila. But him... he makes love just the way he thinks – presto, violently, leading. He cannot be tamed, he's like a hurricane – intense and devastating as such. Just for a brief moment anything else is meaningless. And when the new interesting case arrives he will put her aside, because that's just the way he is. This makes him... well, that makes him Sherlock.
Two greatest minds of their times, combined together. Always for quick precious moments, just when the music plays.