A/N These characters are not mine, and this story is evidence that it's a good thing they're not.

Sherlock looked out of the small round attic window as a black town car stopped in the drive, carrying more of his relatives. He blew out the smoke he had been holding in and coughed. He held the spliff out to Anthea, who was lounging on a quilt on the floor. She took the spliff from his outstretched hand and pulled on it daintily. She didn't like to hold it in, and smoked it more like a cigarette.

"Is that the last of them?" she asked.

Sherlock looked out the window again.

"Yes. Thank god. Uncle Oliver and his brats are in Madrid for the holiday and Grand-mère's cousin ison some spiritual quest in India."

"Should we go down, then?"

"No. Not until right before it's time to go in for dinner." He looked at his watch. "Mrs. Anders will have it on the table precisely at six. We'll go down at five to."

"I tried to go to Switzerland with a friend for the holiday but dad threw a fit. I should have gone anyway, but he'd probably have just had my passport flagged."

"I got off the train at Gatwick, thought I might spend the holiday in Amsterdam, but Mycroft had already had both of mine flagged."

"You should get a third."

"You should get a second."

He held out the spliff again and she took his hand, pulling him down to the floor. She groped around to extinguish the spliff in her wine glass as he kissed her, and threaded her hands in his hair as soon as they were both free.

Lush. That's the word that always came to mind when he looked at her. Her body, that bloomed when she was barely twelve. The thick ropes of hair that have always hung heavily, even when they were small children and she wore it in two braids. Her lovely English complexion with its mild rosacea and dusting of freckles. She perpetually looks as though she's just that moment come in from a brisk horse ride.

It's always been glorious, even more so because they know it's wrong. At least by modern standards. If you look back less than a century, the Holmes family tree is convoluted and messy from the pairing of couples more closely related than Anthea and Sherlock. They are, after all, only second cousins. And they have no intention of actually getting married or having babies.

This has always been easier, for both of them.

Though it was obvious to him from her badly bitten fingernails and the five pounds she's lost that she'd been seeing someone this term and it had not ended well. End of term exams never made Anthea nervous enough to ruin her manicure or forget meals. They never made her nervous at all.

Sherlock hadn't asked about whoever had broken her heart. He might ask later, to prove that he had figured it out, but now he was more concerned with working off her hideous Christmas jumper and becoming reacquainted with her breasts, which he hadn't seen since the end of summer.

More than once he had considered taking the train to her school at the weekend, but then he remembered that half the fun was sneaking off to do it while their extended family were gathered. The attic at his house was the usual spot, but there was also the boat house at her father's, the old peasant's cottage at his uncle's, and one glorious time, the library at her grandfather's while everyone else was still in the dining room.

"Did you get this at a charity shop?" he asked her as he pulled her jumper over her head.

"Ex-girlfriend," she said, yanking his shirt from his trousers.

"No wonder she's an ex. Is this acrylic?" He tossed the jumper aside, its texture offensive to him, and reached under her skirt to the waistband of her thick black tights. She leaned back, resting on her elbows while he peeled them off.

"Careful with those. It's my last pair of Wolfords and I'd much rather spend my money on weed and books."

He made a show of folding them carefully and setting them aside.

"Any other items I should take care with?" He slid his hands up her legs. She had shaved just that morning. He was flattered, even if he didn't really have a preference.

Anthea sat up and placed her hands over his, halting his progress.

"What color are they?"

He raised his eyebrow and thought about it for three seconds.

"White. Cotton. With a tiny bow on the front center of the waistband."

Her face revealed nothing as she released his hands and leaned back. He reached under her skirt and pulled her knickers off. He smiled and twirled them around his fingers in triumph before putting them in his pocket.

"Your turn," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "All of your underpants are black. But you're not wearing any because you ran out."

"Care to check?"

Anthea sat up again and reached for his belt. She tugged it open and undid his trouser button and zipper. She smiled when his erection was released, unfettered by pants.

"Well you're pretty eager, aren't you?"

"I'm nineteen years old. If you want half soft with lots of stamina go to one of your professors."

She took his cock in her hand and he leaned in to kiss her again. He made a low whining sound as she sucked on his bottom lip. He tried to press her to the floor but she stopped him.

"No way," she said. "I'm doing the driving this time." He shrugged sat back, shucking his shirt while she helped him remove his trousers. Once he was fully nude, he stretched out on the blanket, hands under his head. She reached back and unhooked her bra.

Sherlock's sexual experience was limited to his exploits with Anthea-which had started with innocent exploration as preteens and escalated- and a few encounters with other boys while he was away at school. But he had seen plenty of breasts via lad's magazines and the movies. He knew without any pretense of doubt that Anthea's breasts were spectacular. They were full and soft, with just enough drop to them to make it obvious they weren't enhanced. Her areolas were largeish, but he wasn't squeamish about that like he knew some men to be. He liked the contrast of the dark pink circle against her creamy skin, and the subtle gradient of color from the nipple to the edge of her areolas. A light brown freckle the size of a watermelon seed graced her left breast. Sherlock referred to it as her witch's mark.

When her breasts were finally free from their confinement, he bit back the urge to touch them right away, opting to observe how they moved as she moved.

She started to unzip her skirt. "Leave it on," he said.

"What is it with you and skirts?" she asked in that half bored tone that drove him mad. She fished a condom out of her bag

"Who knows. I've never thought to ask any of the therapists. Though it's interesting that you chose to wear one today."

"Special occasion," she said. She rolled the condom onto his cock and straddled him, hovering above him as she leaned down to kiss him. He finally got his hands on her tits. She sighed as he ran his thumbs along her nipples and squeaked when he pinched them roughly. He loved breaking through that façade of hers. She would probably say the same thing about him.

Anthea reached between them to position him properly and took him in two or three long strokes. She braced her hands on either side of his head, her chest flush with his and rocked back and forth while rolling her hips against his, maximizing the friction of her clit on his pubic bone. They had no time to lose despite the locked door with the chair pushed under it at the top of the stairs, and this was the quickest way to release for both of them. He caught her nipple in his mouth when it came in range, his hands roving to her hips, pressing her into him when he thrust into her.

He observed the flush creeping over her breasts, the way she bit her lip and the fluttering of her eyelids as she neared her peak. She pressed herself as closely against him as possible and he wrapped his arms around her as she tensed and then shuddered. She hid her head in his neck to stifle her whimpers, one hand gripping his chest and the other buried in his hair. Sherlock thrust into her one last time as the tension in his belly finally released.

He stroked her hair as their breathing slowed, and he thought to himself again how it was a shame that doing this with other people would potentially involve messy emotional entanglement, because it really was better than any drug.

Anthea got off of him and rummaged in her bag some more. Ever resourceful, she had brought a packet of wet naps. She tossed him one to aid in his cleanup and went about her own ablutions.

"I need my knickers back," she said as she sprayed perfume on her neck. "I'm not walking around all day in tights and no knickers."

He reluctantly handed them back after pulling on his trousers. After dressing, he checked himself in the dusty mirror in the corner. He was noticeably flushed, but he would just take a quick walk outside and smoke a cigarette before coming in to dinner. He watched in the mirror as Anthea pulled on her tights, amused at how graceless an activity it was compared to how it was usually depicted in films. She brushed her hair and applied new lip gloss before putting on her shoes.

"I'll go down first and take a stroll down to the duck pond before coming in." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before turning to leave. She stopped at the door.

"Do you think your brother knows?"

"I think he's known for years but chooses to throw out the information every time more evidence is presented."

"You're probably right. See you at dinner."

"You've got ten minutes. And Anthea?"

"Yes?"

"Always a pleasure."

"Likewise."