When Melanie Anderson got the pictures in the mail at her office, she really wasn't all that surprised.
She knew Phil had been messing around – the sheets were fresh every time she came home from a conference. If that wasn't a tell, what was? And Sally Donovan? That was the twist. Melanie knew she wasn't the most exciting creature on the planet, and he was her first, but it's not like he didn't know what he was getting when he married her. Like calls to like, occasionally, and despite her friends despairing at how "deathly dull" Phil was, as a fellow scientist, he understood her, knew her need to be at the lab, in on the newest research, always learning, always questioning.
Well.
She thought, anyway.
...
Melanie leans forward, peering into the mirror over the sink in the Ladies at Bart's Hospital, and touches up her deep red lipstick. It had taken a good part of the day to get ready; shopping, waxing, manicure and pedicure, stylist. Her strawberry blonde hair falls in a cascade of waves over her back, accenting the low cut back of the black spangle top she'd bought last year and never worn. If she was going to lose the battle, she was going to go down with all flags flying. At 35, she is still fit, long lithe legs and smooth skin. And if Phil doesn't appreciate it, she'll find someone who does.
She bends to adjust the seams on her chevron-patterned stockings, smoothing the black silk pencil skirt over her legs and settling her feet in the platform red Louboutins she picked up at Harrods. They cost a fortune – the whole day did, really – but who the hell cares? Phil could take a flying leap, and she'd love to be a mouse in the corner when he gets the credit card bill. She knows she certainly won't be there in person. Not after tonight.
She swings the door open and makes her way down the hall to the double-doors to the morgue, pausing briefly to look around to see if she's been seen. It's late, and the halls are mostly empty except for the night staff. It's a risk, doing this here, where she works, but it's such a perfect setup she can't resist. Of all the people in the world that would get to Phil the most, it'd be him. She steps up quietly, trying not to clack in her heels, and peeks in the little circular window in the top of the door.
Luck was with her tonight, because the lights to the morgue are on and he's there, taking prints from a body on a table. Melanie hates the morgue, doesn't know how Molly and Phil can work down here all the time. She much prefers her bright lab, the clean, sharp smell of the chemicals, and the quiet peaceful hum of the instruments. Well, when he wasn't in there, stealing something. She pushes the door open before she can have second thoughts, closing it quickly behind her and locking it. He doesn't even turn around.
"Yes, Melanie, I did blow the column on your mass spectrometer, and I really didn't have time to…" Sherlock Holmes trails off as he turns and catches sight of her, leaning against the door.
"Hello, Sherlock," she purrs, in what she hopes is a seductive voice.
He looks confused for a moment, then understanding dawns. "Melanie. I take it you know about Sally."
She doesn't bother to ask how he knew; she frankly doesn't care. She saunters toward him, watching his smirk grow and his eyes turn speculative. He's never seen her like this; not dressed in a full lab coat and safety goggles, without makeup and hair in a twist. Working in a lab requires practicality, not glamor, so the shock on his face isn't a surprise.
One red-lacquered nail lifts to trace down his collar, and Melanie hopes she can control her trembling. But instead of derision, there is a flare of interest in his eyes, an appreciative glance down her cleavage. Perhaps this will go well, after all.
"I do. He's an utter bastard for it, and even with this, I'll probably take him for everything he has. Sometimes revenge is a dish best served boiling hot." Melanie reaches out and tucks her fingers into Sherlock's beltloops and tugs him toward her.
"Mrs. Anderson, you're trying to seduce me," that honey-rich baritone rumbles.
"Would you like me to seduce you?" she asks, throwing caution to the wind and sliding her hands around to cup that fine arse she and Molly had giggled over together any number of times before. Oh yes, it was just as firm as she'd imagined.
"You want him to find out, don't you? Conniving. I approve."
She smirks at him. "You better make it good, or I'll tell everyone I know that Sherlock Holmes is a lousy fuck."
In response, Sherlock stoops down, hooks his hands behind her thighs, and lifts her up, her skirt rucking up and legs wrapping around his waist. He gets an eyeful of the black La Perla garters she bought on a lark, wondering if it would help in the conquest. Sherlock deposits her on the desk in the corner (thank God not a steel worktable, she'd never have gotten over it), and tips her backward so she's on her back with her legs still up around his waist. His grey eyes are predatory, and she knows, in that very instant, that the idea of sticking one to Phil would have been enough, but it at least seems he likes what he sees. He slides his hands down her thighs, slipping his fingers under the snaps of the garters, and flicks them open with a surprisingly practiced movement.
"How blatant do you want this to be?" he asks, reaching forward to kiss her throat. Melanie gasps, the rush of the first man other than Phil in 15 years touching her hitting her straight in the libido. Oh, God, had she been missing this all these years? Phil has to have been the worst lover in the universe.
"In flagrante, if possible, but I don't know-" she pants, those clever fingers sneaking up the sides of her hips, pushing her skirt all the way up and sliding under the sides of her panties and moving them to the side.
"Good. Because he's due here in about 15 minutes with a murder victim. Which gives me some time."
He slides his fingers around her opening, and in one movement slips two fingers in, sliding in and out, thumbing her clit on each stroke. Melanie feels like she's on fire, flames licking up her stomach, her head thrown back. She knows she's moaning, but she can't help it, not really, and if this is how Sherlock Holmes gets his kicks, by screwing her just to spite Phil, well, pot calling the kettle, really. And Jesus, she'd be a kettle any day for this, and when Sherlock pulls her panties off, carefully removing them around her shoes, the visual she's getting with him between her thighs makes her moan.
"Feel free to be louder, if you like," he says, and leans forward to suck her clit into his mouth.
Melanie arches off the desk, fingers scrabbling helplessly against the wooden top, panting as she feels her orgasm building under the ministrations of his tongue, a tight hot knot in her belly, and before she can blink, she's there, screaming.
Sherlock lifts his face away from the apex of her thighs, lips shiny with her, and gives a smug smile. "My turn," he says, unbuckling his belt and lowering the zip on his trousers. Melanie gulps (damn, she hasn't given head in a couple of years, Phil said she was terrible at it anyway, so why bother?), she does her best to mask her fear and reaches out for him, pushing his trousers and pants down, freeing him from the fabric.
Oh, Lord. He's big. Bigger than Phil by quite a bit. Sherlock correctly interprets the look on her face and snorts.
"Why am I not surprised. Honestly, Melanie. Anderson? You're much too clever for him, and you know it. And he obviously can't satisfy you."
"Habits, Sherlock, die hard. Now shut up." She sits up on the desk, grabs him by the hip and cock, and starts to lick and nibble on the head. He groans, eyes rolling back in his head. Confidence boosted, she sucks down as much as she can, using her other hand to stroke. He grips her hair lightly, guiding but not pushing, and lets her set the pace. After a moment or two, though, he says "Time, Melanie, time, we need to – "
Remembering the point of it, she stops, licking her lips and breathing hard, somewhat proud of the fact that it seemed like he was enjoying himself. Sherlock, panting, pulls a condom from her purse and rolls it over himself, smoothing it down. He pauses, looking her in the face.
"Are you certain? It doesn't have to go this far, to be effective."
She gives him an incredulous look. What kind of man has a woman open and waiting for him, and stops?
A good one, her mind says.
Melanie smiles and nods. "Look, yes, it's about that bloody idiot Phil, but I'd be a fool to stop when I've got you right here, you gorgeous man. Come on."
He leans forward, hitching her legs over his arms, and slides into her effortlessly, thrusting a smooth, deep rhythm, hips slapping against her, rocking together until the bang of the door being swung open by a gurney breaks Melanie's concentration.
"What the bloody hell!" Anderson stops dead in the doorway, hands still on the gurney , black body bag hanging slightly off the end. "Melanie! What are you doing?"
Sherlock, however, doesn't even break stride, continuing to move in her in slow, easy strokes.
"Oh, do be quiet, Anderson. You're putting me off. And I think you'll agree, your wife is too delectable to waste. That's right, you already did. Your loss." Sherlock turns his head dismissively, looking down at Melanie, who'd been giggling in a combination of carnal pleasure and utter glee. Phil, who is breathing heavily and looking like he's about to be sick, staggers for the door. Sherlock pokes her in the side gently, making her look at him.
The smile on his face is bright as the sun, and Melanie can't help but laugh, still feeling him moving inside her. It's not a perfect revenge, but it's a fitting one, and the both of them can't help but beam at each other for a moment, until the fact that they're still actually joined together takes over, and with a last glance over his shoulder at the swinging door where Anderson just left, he pistons his hips into hers, bringing her back into the moment. She relaxes into it, letting him bring her to the peak again, ushering her into a new, better life.