Quite honestly, Sherlock had no idea how this evening was going to pan out. Irene was unpredictable in almost every way except for one: she knew what she was doing and would make sure that this engagement would be a memorable one.
While he waited for Irene to do whatever it was that she needed to do in order to prepare, he walked around the house, examining what she had decided to do with the place. The house was much warmer than the house in Belgravia, though there were elements that reminded him of the house.
Suddenly, Sherlock heard music playing. It was slow jazz, which was surprising to Sherlock; he'd never pegged Irene to be a fan of jazz. He interpreted this as his signal to come and find her.
And find her he did.
She was sitting on her bed, wearing only a nightshirt, surprisingly modest in comparison to other states in which he'd seen her in the past. "A bit overdressed?" he asked as he stepped into the room.
Irene smirked. "We'll see how quickly you can remedy that."
She stood up from the bed and started to help Sherlock out of his shirt. Sherlock busied himself with taking the pins out of her hair, setting each one down on the nightstand next to the bed. He wanted to rid the situation of anything that might poke him in the eye inadvertently. That point aside, he wanted to make sure that he had a playing role in this; Irene didn't have to do all of the work.
Her hands slipped under the waistband of his trousers as she pulled the shirttails free and she ran her hands over the base of his spine. Her hands were warm against his skin, and she started to gently rake over the skin with her immaculately manicured nails.
He pulled the last of the pins from her hair, sending the coiffed curls down her shoulders. The scent of her hair products was more prominent now, and with her hair free, Sherlock wove his fingers through the dark hair until he found the base of her skull. As relatively inexperienced as he was, he had had some basic knowledge of what made people feel good. Head massages in particular were things that he had enjoyed as a child, especially when he was ill. He was aware that Irene was targeting every erogenous zone, trying to elicit a response from him. He was trying to do the same, and for this reason, he was adamant that he wouldn't indicate that he was enjoying this before she did.
When he leaned in to kiss her forehead, he could feel her eyebrows rise under his lips. He hummed laughingly. "You didn't think I would know what I'm doing, did you?"
"Don't count your chickens before they hatch," Irene murmured as she eased the shirt off of his shoulders and started dotting his collarbone with kisses.
Sherlock started unbuttoning Irene's nightshirt and as soon as the shirt was completely unbuttoned, he pushed the shirt open and grasped her hips. Irene glanced up at him with an amused look, but then turned her attention down to undoing his belt and getting his trousers off.
Eventually, Irene was completely nude while Sherlock was still in his underwear. Of course, the fun had hardly begun, but if anything were to be kept in mind during this process, it would be that this was something that required a remarkable amount of time and attention paid to detail. Time and effort were necessary to do this properly.
They started slow; all of their actions were calculated and shallow for what seemed like ages until Sherlock tired of this and initiated the next step, where every motion became looser, more organic, until nothing was predictable, nothing was weak, and everything made sense. Sherlock's senses were more engaged in this moment than they had ever been before. This scared him; this was the drug that he had never had much experience with, and here it was, one of the strongest chemical reactions he had encountered.
And once things became heated, their actions and motions became rushed, intense, and escalated, leading them to a rather unexpected end. Irene rolled off of Sherlock and onto her back. She let out a nervous laugh and pushed her hair off of her sweaty forehead. Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach and moved so that he was between her legs, his head resting on Irene's abdomen. He was exhausted. Neither one of them had begged, but Sherlock had begun to think that maybe he shouldn't put it past Irene to make him beg twice.
The accusations that he was sexually inexperienced were not completely unfounded. Yes, he had had sex (there had been several occasions within the last three years when sex had been a useful means of getting what he wanted) but never had he had sex with someone who did sex for a profession. He feared that she was sorely disappointed in his performance.
Irene let out a sigh and combed back his curls from his forehead. "What made you change your mind?" she asked quietly.
He smiled against her skin. "A dream."
"A dream?" she echoed. "Sexual, I presume?"
"There was sex involved, but let me assure you, it did not play a leading role."
"Oh?"
"We had children."
Irene let out an involuntary snort. "I can assure you, that would never happen. I have taken every precaution against reproduction."
"I have no doubt."
Sherlock wasn't sure why Irene's words had impacted him, but they had. He felt a little embarrassed for confessing this to her, only to be scoffed at. He hadn't asked to have the dream; it just sort of happened.
Irene must have sensed this, because she moved her hand down from his hair and to his face, caressing his cheek. "What were they like?"
"The children?"
"Yes. How many, first of all?"
"Three."
"Three? You managed to procreate three times? That seems a bit wishful, don't you think?"
"Are you going to be rude, or are you going to let me tell you the story?" he snapped defensively.
"Sorry. Go on."
"Two daughters and a son."
"Whom did they look more like? Did we name them unordinary names?"
"The eldest, Adele, looked more like you. The middle, Aveline, looked more like my mother. The son, Julian, looked like me."
"No Hamish?"
"Julian's middle name."
Irene laughed quietly, her abdomen vibrating with her muffled laughs. "Now, Mr. Holmes, why would you dream that we had children? Is your biological clock ticking?" she teased.
"Haven't the slightest idea. The strangest thing about it though was not the actual dream itself, but rather, the fact that it didn't alarm me."
"Oh lord."
"I'm not saying that we should rush out and procreate. I think we both know that that would be an absolute disaster. But, it's an intriguing point. I never saw myself as the sort of person who would imagine myself as a father."
"I would have to concur with you on that point. You're not the fatherly sort."
"And you're not the motherly sort."
"So why would you dream about having kids? Were there any animals involved?"
"Gladstone, the dog."
"Picket fence?"
"Far from it."
"Oh good. So you're not dreaming of the stereotypical domestic life."
"Not by normal standards. But, in comparison to the lives that we lead, it was remarkably domestic."
She pondered this thought, but before she could bring it up again, Sherlock had fallen asleep.
