Irene woke to the early morning light, a vaguely unpleasant taste in her mouth and a banging in her head that mimicked the banging at the door. She rubbed her eyes, hoping that her mascara wasn't as smudged as she thought, and unlocked the door.
"Oh." She nearly shut the door on him in shock, but he held it open.
"You texted me."
Shit. "I'm sorry. I was drunk and I wasn't thinking straight." She tried to dab inconspicuously at her shining eyes and then frowned. "Why are you in Brooklyn?"
"You texted me last night." He repeated, this time with the hint of a smirk. "I'm sure you remember what you said, you didn't drink so very much."
Irene straightened herself and attempted to look more like her dominatrix self. "Well, I can hardly suppose you're here for dinner. It's only nine in the morning, and even if it weren't, you're never hungry."
Sherlock was definitely smirking now. "Perhaps I'm not hungry yet, but I might be by dinnertime."
Irene quirked an eyebrow. "Perhaps I don't want to have dinner with the man who broke me."
He scoffed. "I didn't break you."
"Don't be so sure. I moved to Brooklyn solely because of you. Why else would I be here?"
"To escape the people looking to kill you, I assumed."
"You assumed wrong. Well, perhaps not. It depends on who you consider someone trying to kill me."
"If you didn't want to have dinner with me, you wouldn't have texted me. I know you better than you think."
Irene shrugged. "I expect you to make it up to me at some point."
"Perhaps I will."
"You could start by cooking me breakfast."
"I don't cook." Sherlock replied, sounding haughty.
"Don't lie, darling."
"How did you know?"
She grinned. "I don't think I'll tell you. But even if you didn't know how, I'm certain you're clever enough to figure out eggs, toast, and bacon."
Soon the sound of sizzling and the scent of bacon, eggs, and toast filled the tiny kitchen and Sherlock set two plates at the table where Irene was waiting.
"Clearly I was right. You can absolutely cook." Irene said, breaking the yolk of her egg and dabbing at it with toast.
"I couldn't afford to live on my own for years and get takeaway all the time."
"I'm aware." Irene took a bite of bacon.
They ate in silence for a few moments. Irene finished her plate, dabbed at her lips with a napkin, and sighed. "I wish I could have such a nice breakfast every day."
"Maybe I'll make you one tomorrow."
She laughed. "You're so certain that you'll still be here."
"You've wanted to have dinner with me for a long time. You wouldn't give up the chance simply to get revenge. Not if you got your well-deserved chance to make me beg for mercy."
"Twice." She corrected before she could help herself and Sherlock smirked. She brushed it off. "Why are you suddenly interested in having dinner?"
"Curiosity." He replied, slightly to fast. It wasn't a lie, nor was it the entire truth. Any attempts to convince her it was because he regretted his previous cruelty would seem uncharacteristic and she didn't want pity. Of course there was no way he would admit to himself, let alone Irene, that perhaps there was a deeper reason.
"If you say so." Irene replied. "But do you honestly think I'd agree that quickly?"
Twenty minutes later they were strolling down the Brooklyn Bridge, their collars turned up against the wind, arms linked.
"Any new cases?" Irene asked as they walked, her hands in her pockets.
"Hardly. You had only just left when I decided to follow."
"You're mad." Irene said, grinning. "Not that I mind."
"Perhaps I am. It would explain quite a bit. But if I'm mad, you can hardly be quite sane to want to have dinner with a madman."
"'There's always some madness in love, but there is always some reason in madness.'" Irene quoted and Sherlock made a face.
"Quoting Nietzsche? Is that supposed to impress me?"
She looked disgusted. "Absolutely not. However, I thought it was applicable to the situation."
He quirked an eyebrow. "You think we're in love?"
Irene laughed. "Hardly. Lust, yes. Sentiment, perhaps. I doubt whether either of us is capable of feeling love."
Both of them were silent and tense and they walked like that for several minutes.
"Shall we go to the cinema, then?" Sherlock asked, his tone cool.
"Fine." She said shortly.
The building was nearly empty, early on a Thursday morning clearly not being an ideal time to see films. Sherlock bought two tickets to some sci-fi thing that neither of them were really interested in.
Halfway through the film, Sherlock slipped his hand over hers, silent forgiveness and an apology for his own wrong, and she tilted her head, resting it against his shoulder.
They were like that for a moment, the thrum of imaginary starships ignored in the background. Then she pulled his head down and pressed her lips to his. They both had their eyes open, watching each other as their lips moved against each other, until Sherlock pulled away.
"Is that a 'yes' to dinner?"
"Was it ever really a no?"
They continued kissing, several men plummeting to fiery deaths on the screen behind them, and then Irene stood up.
"We're leaving." She hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the exit. Once outside, looking slightly disheveled, they hailed a cab and directed it to Irene's flat.
"Is something wrong?" Sherlock asked, referencing their hasty departure.
Instead of responding, she kissed him again.
A/N: Well, thank you for reading! I don't think I like this as well as the other things I've written, some of it seems a bit choppy particularly where I've removed lyrics and such, but I do enjoy writing it. The rating may change in the next chapter, or not depending on what I decide to include. Originally there wasn't to be much of a plot but I think I happened upon something accidentally. Love you all very much! xM
