She had liked him immediately. Rough at the edges, for all that his suit was expensive enough to be a down payment on a house in the neighbourhood she'd grown up in. But he wore it well, the navy silk becoming a second skin on hi s compact frame. He wasn't slight, but he wasn't long. Not bulky, but not thin, either. Something in the middle. Sinewy muscle underneath that showy Westwood. Scrappy. She liked that. Despite his preference of staying several times removed from his operations, he had the air of a man who could, if necessary, strangle the life out of someone with his own capable hands. Right for the jugular.

True, Irene Adler had the reputation for being direct, and Jim Moriarty had...well. That was just it. She didn't know. Time to find out.

She was immediately aware of the tremendous risk she was running by demanding a personal audience, but something, but something about Peterson's terror absolutely intrigued her. The poor, hapless mole didn't so much as beg for his life as beg that she didn't float his name along those channels. Kill me, please. Just don't let him find me.

Irene didn't normally indulge in whimsy, but the gift-wrap idea had struck her as an effective approach. After years of running petty thugs and enforcing Syndicate edicts on even the most hardened of criminals, she instinctively knew that this one...whoever he was...was different. She couldn't scare him. She couldn't bully him. She would need a different angle.

At first he was all business. Something in those charming accoutrements set him apart from the vulgarians and clowns she was used to dealing with. Something about the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and when it did, the light seemed to go out of them. He was a close player, Irene thought. But there was something there, a spark, burning beneath the surface. It was the way he grinned behind his hand, like he was holding back laughter. And as time wore on, after she she sold him her bit, turned it all off, his smile became genuine. His fascination, which had initially begun as the fascination of a predator, had turned into something a little more nuanced. She capitalised on it without hesitation.

He didn't touch her during the cab ride to Belgravia, careful to stay just six inches away from her. Ostensibly they were returning to her place for a jam session over some Scotch, but there were no illusions. She would not, under normal circumstances, permit a man as dangerous as James Moriarty to cross the threshold of her home, but it was a moot point. He already knew where she lived, when she rose, showered, dressed, left for work, where she typically had lunch and when she had, until recently, met her lover and employer Caleb Marcel in the evenings.

For another, he was infinitely more dangerous than Caleb Marcel. To her mind, in the interest of keeping things interesting, that was even more reason to let him in. See what he was made of. Irene was confident that if things weren't going her way, that a shot in the dark, so to speak, would save any argument. Contrary to her profession, she really didn't like to argue. She won her cases on the principle that a solid, hard silence often carried more power than any outraged declamation.

And James Moriarty did not try to fill the silences for her. She liked that, too. Whatever it was, tied up under all of that careful politeness, that beautifully modulated voice, it made her nervous. Which she also liked, as it was a rare man that could make her nervous. People were as a rule, she found, so fucking predictable.

She flipped on the hall light, feeling that presence hovering just behind her. She kicked off her fashionable-but-sensible shoes and shucked off her leather jacket. Behind her, James Moriarty was thoughtfully removing his polished leather loafers. They were slightly more evenly matched now, though she still had a few inches on him. He didn't seem to mind at all. She sensed him appreciating her figure, like one might appreciate a fine horse. But then, something else. That spark.

"Thirsty?" she asked, padding into the kitchen to dig out a bottle of Glenfiddich.

"Parched," he said, and the Irish in his voice was thickened. The precise BBC enunciation had dimmed somewhat, though it still danced across the top of his consonants. The vowels, she noticed, had just the faintest hint of mirth in them, slanted though they were. A few years of singing and speech lessons had helped her develop a keen ear, but she could not for the life of her place the specific region of his accent, because it kept evolving and shifting.

He followed her into the kitchen, stripping off his jacket and laying it on her spotless black stone counter.

"No ice," he said, suddenly pensive.

Irene arched a brow, but acquiesced, sliding the glass towards him and taking a small sip from her own. He watched her intently, eyes glittering, as he pulled his tie off and added it to the jacket. Pulling open his collar, he suddenly let fly with a roguish smile, took up the glass and knocked back its contents.

He let out a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a giggle, that was a little too dark for the latter but a little too loopy for the former. He set down the glass and smacked his lips.

"Liquid courage?" Irene asked, teasing. She wondered how far she could tease him.

"No," he chastised. "I was thirsty."

She rolled her head back on her neck, the vertebrae popping in succession, then took a long drink. She sauntered into the sitting room, laying back against the sofa and resting the cold glass against her forehead.

"Long day," he remarked as he followed her, lingering behind the sofa. If he wanted to try to kill her, he was ideally placed, and but for the switchblade hidden behind the cushion, he might succeed.

"Christ, yes."

Gently taking the glass from her (and stealing a sip, she noticed) he lay his fingers along her shoulders. They were longer, more delicate than she expected, and soft. No doubt, he used some very expensive hand lotions. He was obviously vain, for all of his fashionable rough-and-tumble veneer.

As she had guessed, there was strength in those hands. His thumbs were firm against her tensed muscles, expertly making them submit with rolling, sustained pressure. Dangerous hands. Irene basked in the glow of the alcohol, feeling herself relax as those dangerous hands loosened the tension in her neck and banished it.

"You're good at that," she murmured, leaning back into his hands.

Moriarty took index and middle finger, placed them under her chin and tilted her head back. Her lips were parted when his mouth came down on hers, an upside down kiss. All scotch and meaty saltiness. It deepened, a slow motion battle of tongues and teeth. His hand wandered down under her satin tank, cupping one breast, an absolutely wanton gesture placed aside the careful, gentle kisses he was distributing along her throat.

Irene shoved him away, gave him an insolent look, and made her way towards the stairs. It was just a matter of course, she thought, as she stripped off the tank top, leaving it on the steps, along with her bra. By the time she made it into her bedroom, she was stripped bare, except for a pair of black lace panties.

She leaned back against the bed, resting on her hands, watching. Moriarty hovered in her doorway for just a moment, absorbing the view of her mostly naked body. He had in his hand, she noticed, the satin tank top, and appeared to be nuzzling his face against it, taking a deep inhalation of her scent, before tossing it aside and advancing on her.

He reached for her, but she caught his hands.

"No," she said in a silken voice. "Wait."

"I don't want to," he breathed.

"Trust me," she whispered.

He bit his lip. She went down on her knees in front of him, one hand running up his thigh.

"Trust me," she said again.

He said nothing, merely watched her, toying with a few errant strands of her hair.

Quickly, and carefully, she undid his fly, and worked him out of his boxer-briefs. He was, as she anticipated, rigid as rebar. She dipped her finger into her mouth, and drew a line of saliva along the underside, base to tip, and his whole body shuddered.

She licked her lips and took him into her mouth, all the way, and began a convulsive sucking that caused him to actually whimper. When was the last time someone had made him whimper, she wondered? The last time someone had made him beg?

"Oh, God," he croaked as she lashed him with her tongue, taking him deep enough that her nose brushed against his abdomen. Then, when he was near the breaking point, she withdrew. Wordlessly, she went and sprawled on the bed, stretching idly.

"Bitch," he panted, gripping the corner of the bed for support.

"What are you going to do about it?" she shot back, licking her teeth.

He seized her by the calves and dragged her forward to the edge of the bed. Without warning, he had ripped aside her panties and was inside her, and she felt tension rocket through her. She wrapped her legs around him, reaching backwards to grasp the other end of the bed, holding her body arched. He thrust into her, one hand tight on her thigh, the other pressed down between her legs, thumbing her clit with an expert touch that she wouldn't have credited to him. Pleasing others was not something she would have thought to be his strong suits, but then maybe she was entirely wrong. Maybe that was how he oiled his transactions. Charm offensive, with all the implied violence.

The idea was thrilling. Surprise me. Anything to make it worth my while. It was more than enough, his hand on her, riding along her abdomen, but it was the expression on his face that really did her in. It was an absolute intensity, just complete focus, so blank it could be mistaken for emptiness, but she could see him there, underneath the shadow. It was their common disease, and she recognised the shared symptom: hungry rage.

He gathered her up against him, her arms wrapping around his neck, eyes locked to his. Blackness reflected blackness. All or nothing. Climax ripped through her, and she clung to him, his fingers clawing at her, his pupils dilating in exact time as he came too, lips drawn back to reveal his teeth in a snarl. Together they sprawled across the bed spread, bodies still fitted to each other.

After an uninterrupted five minutes of passionate kissing, he pulled away, licking his swollen lips. He looked about ten degrees less threatening with puffy lips, but his eyes were still that hard black, difficult to read in the half-light.

"Why did it take me so long to find you?" he wondered out loud.

"Good question, tiger," she replied glibly. "I don't exactly fly under the radar."

He laughed, mouth against her shoulder, and kicked off the trousers and briefs that had been holding his ankles captive. She had pulled apart the buttons on his shirt during their make out session, hands exploring all of that compact muscle. The little chirp of pleasure he'd made when she scratched her nails across one nipple had been absolutely adorable. He was absolutely adorable, she decided. Probably the most dangerous criminal in Britain, and ranking fairly high in the rest of the world. Fiercely, dangerously, ruthlessly adorable.

"I get so bored," he said quietly, tracing patterns along her stomach with one finger. "It can the better of me now and then."

"How so?"

He pursed his lips, clearly unsure as to whether he wanted to divulge that information. "Let's just say I got careless. It is, unfortunately, possible to enjoy oneself too much."

"Are you bored now?"

He smiled, said nothing, traced his finger along her collar, shoulder to shoulder, and leaned in to catch her mouth in a quick, wet kiss.

"That, my dear, is a silly question."

"It is, isn't it."

His smile turned licentious. "I want to watch you fuck me, Irene."

"Say please."

"Now."

She fixed him with an unyielding stare. He grinned back. She licked the palm of her hand, and reached down to grasp him in it, holding him in a firm grip.

"Tell me when," she said in sneering tone.

It didn't take long at all. In a trice, he had his arms spread the length of the bed, gripping the edges, his back arched and his head tilted back.

"Please," he whimpered, and now his voice was pure, singing Dublin. "Oh, God, Irene."

"Better," she assented, straddling him. She rode him at a steady pace, sweat pricking on her skin from the exertion. He didn't really participate, but smiled as he watched her with one hand on her thigh, his eyes hazy and expression somewhat drugged.

She decided to test some dangerous water, and slithered down against him, pressing soft kisses to his mouth and neck. She slowed her pace, carefully moderating the undulation of her hips, as she very gently let her forearm lay across his throat.

He watched her, still intoxicated, and she could feel his fingers digging into her thighs. His mouth parted slightly, and then his whole body gave a shudder as she added some weight, just a little. Then, she bore down, and added a hard thrust to her rhythm. He bucked, clenched his teeth, and made a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a growl. Shoving her arm aside, he grasped her by the hair and pulled her down into a hard, deep kiss, moaning into her mouth as he came, twitching spasms running the course of his body.

He fell back, stupefied with pleasure. "Ohhh, you."

"Stay here," she instructed, making her way down stairs to retrieve the scotch. When she returned, he was perched at the edge of her bed, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees. He still looked a bit winded, clearly basking in the afterglow.

"Brilliant," he said, as she handed him the bottle. "Come here."

She arched a brow, standing her ground.

"Pretty please," he amended in a saccharine tone.

Smirking, she slouched towards him and handed him the scotch. He took a swig from the bottle, seized her by the waist, and with a show of strength she didn't anticipate, tossed her on the bed. He pinned her before she could react, then leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, expressing the liquor into her mouth. She drank it from his lips, and felt a buzz rise through her almost immediately that had as much to do with the feeling of him entering her again, his fingers tracing the wetness along her inner thigh, before lifting them to his mouth and sucking the saltiness off them.

"Do you know, Irene," he purred as she watched him, feeling quite paralysed herself now as he slow-motion fucked her, hands playing along every parabola of her body. "It's been a long time since I've enjoyed myself this much."

"Don't stop," she entreated, feeling a delicious, curling pleasure ride through the lower part of her body.

"What's the magic word, Irene?" He was laughing at her.

"Fuck you."

"That is redundant." He slowed his pace, but his thumb just barely teased her clit. Then, as she very purposefully tightened around him, he bent forward with a groan. "You are just not going to play fair, are you?"

She wrapped one leg around him, grinding against him. "Better get used to it."

He circled his hand around her slender neck and squeezed, just so, his eyes alight, biting his lip in a demonstration of considerable restraint. She felt several vertebrae in her lower back crack as she came hard and wet, the tension going out of her all at once, relinquishing control as she went limp as a corpse. She closed her eyes, letting herself feel the aftermath, taking sparse, shallow breaths, her heart fluttering in her chest.

James Moriarty, too, found himself a victim of the sudden onslaught of sensation, and rode it out with his arms circled around her long torso, face buried in her breasts.

"Mmm," he hummed against her, the sound vibrated against her skin. "I think we're going to get along just fine."

She ran her fingers through his short cropped hair. It was unexpectedly soft, like down, and she amused herself by toying with it until exhaustion finally got the better of her and she drifted off. Coiled around her, the most dangerous man in Britain was already dead asleep.