a/u: happy reading, as always. thank you for the positive reviews. it means a lot– but my laptop is broken and won't let me reply; so just know that i'm grateful.
When they arrived at Irene's house, the snow had started up again. Sherlock's phone buzzed his coat pocket just as he slid out of the cab.
Where are you? It's getting late.
-JW
I'm aware. Goodnight, John.
-SH
"Does he always keep an eye on you like that?" Irene said, fiddling with her key.
Sherlock shook his head and glanced at the front door, winding his arms around himself. She let them in, putting a finger to her lips to signal him to be quiet. They took their coats off and she let him towards the kitchen– Irene set the kittle on the stove.
The sound of bubbling water made Sherlock tired. He glanced at Irene. When she caught his eye she opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words; Sherlock's gaze was warm, like sliding into a warm bath– she smiled.
"Hungry?"
"No," he breathed, "this is England, Irene."
She snorted. "Are you hungry?"
"No, thank you," Sherlock said, taking a seat near the island.
When she turned around to grab an apple, his gaze got caught on the way her hair was coming unpinned in the back. Irene had dark hair, though, not as dark as Sherlock's, and it was beginning to grow out. It nearly touched her waistline.
She turned around and he adverted her gaze, a blush rising to his pale face.
"What were you looking at?" she said quietly.
"You're hair. It's grown out."
"Keep meaning to cut it."
"Why?"
The question tumbled out before he could stop it; and it surprised Irene, who was about to take a bite from her apple. She gazed at him, then, the shock of his own question still present on his angular face.
"What, can't read it on me?" she joked.
Sherlock tilted his head to the side and reached across the island, long fingers catching a strand that had fallen into her soft face. He didn't speak. Irene felt her pulse quicken, just so, and she looked up and caught Sherlock's hazy gaze.
"I hope you don't cut it too short," he murmured. "You look nice with all this hair."
"You think I'm pretty?"
The words were meant to be sarcastic, but Sherlock gave her a drunken smile.
"No."
Irene laughed and moved her head away, her silky strands of hair falling from Sherlock's pale fingers. For a moment he left his hand there, suspended in air, before dropping it to the island. It landed with a small thud. Irene looked down and let her eyes wonder over all the shadows on Sherlock's forearm.
"You always wear long sleeves," she noted.
"It's usually cold."
"Are you tired?"
"What day is it?"
Irene chuckled and slid her hand into the pocket of her blouse, because she had the sudden urge to reach across the counter and lay a hand on his face. He might have seen the desire in her eyes, because he leaned forward ever so slightly.
She could still smell the vodka on his breath.
The clock struck twelve and soft bells floated in from the hallway. Sherlock smiled.
"It's a new day."
"Obvious," she said mockingly and was surprised by his lips turning downward.
"Do I say that a lot?"
"Yes."
He leaned forward and rested his head on his folded arms. "Mm."
Irene came around the other side of the island and threw away her apple core. Beside her, Sherlock sat up and almost reached out to her; but even with his thoughts a blur he knew that he shouldn't. He looked past her and out the window.
"Remember when I drugged you?"
Sherlock couldn't repress his smile. "The first time we met.
"You were okay, though?"
"'Okay' is my middle name."
Irene leaned against the wall and watched Sherlock stand, uneasy on his feet but still with an idle grin on his face. He walked towards her until he was standing in front of her, looking down at her. When she looked up at him, she wondered if he was going to kiss her.
"I'm not," he slurred.
"Not what?"
"Going to kiss you."
Irene leaned her head against the wall; her heartbeat felt like waves in her veins.
"And why's that? Never kissed anyone before?"
At that, Sherlock actually laughed. "Is that really what you think?"
"Prove me wrong," she whispered, and felt his hand fall onto her neck.
His touch was cool and heavy; his breath fell like snow on her forehead. Sherlock's hand moved upward until his hand was cupping the side of her face, and she leaned into to his touch. He was electric, but soft– something new.
She didn't see his other hand move, but it came up and tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear. Sherlock shook his head, smiling lopsidedly at her.
"No," he breathed into her ear; she felt his words against her neck and nearly shivered.
"Why?"
"Because you're just curious," he murmured, pulling away, "and I'm not sober."
Irene grinned at him. "Good enough reason."
"Do you kiss your clients?" he asked suddenly.
"No."
"Why?"
"Kissing," she said softly, "is too much of an emotional attachment."
Sherlock rolled his head to the side and grinned at her, leaning against the wall.
"Tell me about it." He looked down at his watch and sighed. "I should get home."
Irene saw that it was nearly one and nodded; she walked him to the door, almost sad to see him go.
"Irene?" he said, turning around when he was at the door.
She was right behind him, but he took a step forward all the same– he nearly fell, bracing his hand against the wall by her head. Irene breathed him in like air.
"Yes?"
He grinned– she felt his cheek in her hair and bit her lip. Damn.
"Let's have dinner sometime," he slurred, his hand winding around her wrist.
"Fine."
Sherlock pulled away and left, then– just like that he was gone and Irene was alone, drowning in her thoughts and her awkwardly fast heartbeat. She felt like she had just run a mile.
Hell, so did Sherlock.
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John was asleep by the time that Sherlock came in, and by then, he was nearly sober. He stumbled into his room and kicked off his shoes and shirt, falling into a heap in his bed.
His words were still fresh on his tongue; but he was weighted by a thousand words that he didn't say and probably never would say to her.
When we awoke, he wasn't nearly as hung over as he had feared– John saw nonetheless, and almost didn't say anything. That is, until he came home for lunch to find him face down on the couch with a pillow over his head. He walked around quietly but heard Sherlock groan when he accidentally dropped a plate on the floor; the microwave beeped at about the same time and even John cringed.
"Late night?" he asked Sherlock when he wondered into the kitchen for a glass of water and some aspirin.
Sherlock shrugged and threw the pills back.
"Who were you with?" John asked, trying not to sound too interested.
"Someone."
He shot his friend a look and leaned against the counter as he ate. Sherlock looked at his food, wrinkled his nose and soon enough John heard his door close.
Sherlock's phone moaned.
Hung-over?
Not much.
-SH.
Dinner tomorrow night?
There's a good Chinese place near my flat. 887 North Carryway. 7?
-SH
See you then.
He slid his phone shut and leaned back against his bed, his lips curling into a shy smile.
