Irene woke up to an empty bed. She smelled coffee and something cooking in the kitchen, but couldn't hear anything. She slid out of the bed and plucked a shirt from the floor. The garment was cool from disuse and smelled of Sherlock, though this time, instead of smelling of laundry detergent, soap, and shampoo, the shirt smelled of Sherlock himself. She couldn't decide what the smell was, other than to say that it smelled of his body odor. It wasn't pungent or unpleasant, just familiar. She smirked as she thought of how the shirt might have become sweaty the night before.
Quietly, she padded out into the kitchen and found Sherlock sitting at the table, reading the paper. He didn't notice when she walked out of the bedroom, so she helped herself to the food that was on the stove. When she sat down and poked her utensil into the food, she glanced up at Sherlock, who still had yet to acknowledge her presence. "I'm not going to die from this, am I?" she asked jokingly.
His eyes flicked over to her. "Did you know my family lived in France for a few years during my adolescence?" he asked airily.
"No, I didn't."
"Mother thought it would behoove me if I were to take cooking classes during the summer. It was extremely dull, but in hindsight, it served its purpose."
"So you can cook?"
"Yes. But that detail remains between you and me. Do you understand?"
Despite the fact that he was stern as he scrutinized every detail of her face, Irene saw that there was a playful glint in his eye. "John doesn't know?"
"Heavens, no! Could you imagine what that would be like if he knew? I've learned how to keep his expectations of me very low, and if he knew that I can cook, that might ruin things."
"You're horrible!" Irene laughed. "Oh, poor John. Not only does he have to live with you, but he has to live with you and your conniving scheming."
He smirked. "He doesn't mind."
"How do you know?"
"He's still my flatmate, no?"
Irene sighed. Sherlock had obviously had some sort of an epiphany during the course of the night, because he was being uncharacteristically chipper. Unless this is what the de-flowered Sherlock was like, of course.
"Did you solve the case?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"You clearly have had experience with what the case was dealing with."
"One of my favorite things," Irene crooned. "Would you like for me to show you how it's done, just so you can fully understand the case?"
"The man died from autoerotic asphyxiation. I think I'd rather not."
"Suit yourself," Irene hummed.
"Besides, you said that I was the worst lover you've ever taken. Proclamations like that don't sit well with a man's ego."
"Sherlock, your ego is so large that large stars revolve around it."
"Ah… John has reliably informed me that stars don't typically revolve around planets; it's the other way around."
"Oh good, you've gotten that sorted."
"You still reading the blog?"
"Of course."
Irene ate her breakfast quietly as Sherlock went back to reading the paper. After about ten minutes of silence, Sherlock looked up from the paper. Irene glanced up and their eyes locked. "Do you want to give it another go?" he asked her quietly.
Irene set down her fork and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "I thought you would never ask," she confessed as she stood up from the table abruptly and started unbuttoning the shirt as she headed back into the bedroom, Sherlock following close behind.