Warning to readers: This chapter is NSFW, so if that's not your thing...scroll to the end for the last bit of important dialogue. :)
The Virgin
Sherlock was barely seven when he first heard the word 'virgin,' while holidaying with his family in Rome, touring St. Peter's Basilica. He and Mycroft had lagged behind their parents, when he asked his older brother what it meant, why Mary was given that name?
Sherlock stared at the carved marble statue, The Pietà by Michelangelo, his round, pale blue eyes narrowed in confusion. "Why do they call her the virgin?"
"It's a dull story, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed with boredom, "meant to astound the minds of the ignorant masses with an incredulous phenomenon."
"But, what does it mean?"
"It means that Mary conceived a baby," Mycroft nodded to the statue, "Jesus, through inhuman means."
Sherlock stared blankly at his older brother, not nearly satisfied with his answer.
Rolling his eyes, Mycroft conceded. "The stork brought the baby. Can you please stop asking questions," he pleaded. "The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can go back to the apartments."
"I'm not stupid. Babies don't come from storks, Mycroft, they grow in wombs."
"Yes." Mycroft considered his younger brother, deciding to answer more truthfully. "And that's what makes the story fantastical. The baby didn't come to Mary's womb by natural means. It was planted by a ghost."
"There's no such thing as ghosts."
"Which is why it's unbelievable, little brother."
"All these people believe it. Why?"
"Because sometimes, Sherlock, a lie is easier to accept than the truth."
Over time, he adopted, or been given, many names but none could have been more incongruous than that of 'The Virgin.' It never bothered him that his sexuality was questioned, or that people bored with their own little lives would wonder about his. After all, he accomplished what he set out to do those many years ago...manufacture a lie so ludicrous, it was more believable than the truth. Except for his brother, the interfering savior, who would pull him out of one sexual indiscretion after another, along with more dosshouses than he cared to remember.
"For God's sake, Sherlock, this has got to stop before..." Mycroft cut himself short, angrily pacing the library floor of his home. "You realize your behavior is a disgrace."
Sherlock stretched out on the rich, brown leather sofa, barely listening...the smell of Sophia was still too fresh on his skin. "And, which behavior would that be? Oh, that's right, the one that sullies your perfect reputation."
Mycroft sneered. "Don't be ridiculous. Rest assured, little brother, if you went that far, I could bury you so deep even our parents wouldn't know where to look."
Sherlock scoffed. "I'd like to see you try."
"Don't tempt me," he warned, rubbing at the frustration that contorted his face "No, Sherlock, it's off to the colonies with you. There's not a center left in Britain that will take you in."
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at his brother, before rolling over on his side. "Don't you have somewhere to be, Mycroft?"
"Yes, making sure you board the jet I arranged for you."
"You can't be serious?" he questioned, holding his head from the dizzying effect of sitting up too quickly.
"Oh, I am, little brother, and so will our parents when I inform them of your latest...escapade." A look of revolt fell over Mycroft's face when he emphasized the last word.
"There's no need to bring them into this!" Sherlock glared. "They're perfectly content doing whatever it is...they do."
"And, you, brother mine," he barked, "are the one disrupting their contentment. You're very lucky, Sherlock, that Inspector Lestrade owed me a favor. Look at you. You're twenty-five years old, a graduate of the highest honors in chemistry, and this is what you're doing with your life." Mycroft sat down behind his desk, his anger softening. "Is there nothing you want?"
"Sophia, until you rudely interrupted-"
"She's the wife of a cabinet minister!"
Sherlock crossed the room and leaned over his brother's desk, facing him nose-to-nose. "So what! It was only sex, Mycroft. Maybe if her husband paid more attention to her, than the boys in the stable house... Oh! You didn't know that, did you? Does that alarm you...about your precious 'minister'?"
"Sex doesn't alarm me, Sherlock."
"How would you know."
The irony, he thought, years later, is that this is how he used to see her...the Virgin. Not that she was as pure as the driven snow, but because of her Pollyannaism naiveté. He was warned before he met her, on that perfectly unassuming day, when she was described as 'bit different' and 'walking innocence,' causing him to scoff at the ridiculous notion, especially for someone who sliced up bodies for a living. He was right, because she was so much more. She was a dichotomy - a walking paradox that irritated him in her presence, and fascinated him in her absence. Her heart was made very different than his, which was evident because she liked him. For no reason at all. Simply because he existed and it left him feeling very uneasy and suspicious.
Then again, he would never admit to all the times she saved him, or how he came to rely upon her. He would never let her see that he cared, and that she was important. It was better to believe the lie and convince her of its truth. Until it wasn't. He needed her...all of her...the genius pathologist, the friend who he trusted with his life...the one person who, in spite of everything, was always there for him. She didn't think she counted, but she couldn't have been more wrong.
He kissed her before he left...before two years of aloneness consumed every corner of his life...away from London, from all the things he cared about. It was meant to be chaste, a token of gratitude, affection shared between two friends saying good-bye for a very long time, perhaps forever. But, something happened...something he never expected. He knew all too well the charge that gripped his body, the chill that ran over his skin, the force that crashed them together...taking her deep within his mouth...his mind arguing for him to let go...don't look back and forget this ever happened. And, that's what he did...he broke free, leaving her breathless, walked out the door and for two years gave her nothing...not even a clue that he was alive.
In the quiet moments of separation, him where he was and she someplace else , when it was safe to indulge his imagination and only his hand to pleasure himself, he thought of her. And, he promised himself that when he saw her again, he'd be gentle while running a tender hand over her naked body. He promised to drink her in as she slid slowly, sensually over his body. He promised to take care when cupping her breasts, tasting and licking her skin, listening to her moan from pleasure. He promised to be gentle when his fingers traced a slow trail up her inner thigh, sliding them between her warm, wet folds...watching her shudder as he came inside her.
Gone were all the promises.
There was nothing gentle in the way he kissed her...the sharp pull of her mouth to his...the force of lifting her hips as he stood...pushing his tongue passed her lips and stealing her breath for his own.
She broke away, her breath ragged. "You bastard," was the last defense to pass over her swollen lips before surrender...and, he'd let her have it, if it meant he could fuck her senseless...shove his cock so deep and hard within her, all memory of any other man erased. This was primal...animalistic...but he swore to the God he never believed in, as he captured her mouth and gripped her round ass to pull her close, he'd do anything for her. She belonged to him.
He would have called it 'frenzied.'
She would have said 'otherworldly.'
But none of that mattered when they couldn't remove their clothes fast enough.
It was exciting.
It was thrilling.
It was the perfect marriage between all their soft and hard parts; when the unspoken needed no words; and the aching pangs of desire entangled with love.
She released a high pitch gasp at the frightening arousal of his strength, and the power he wield tossing her body onto the sofa as though she were a rag doll, violently spreading her legs to burying his head between her thighs, his unshaven face rough against her soft, shaven skin. Her hips arched against the intensity of his teeth and tongue...biting...licking.
She was too roused to care that his fingers, clenched deep within her skin would leave her bruised. God help her, none of that mattered...she wanted this...wanted every inch of him to mark every inch of her.
All of this was new; a delicious improvisation of their senses.
She ached at his tortuously slow hands, memorizing every curve and dip, his fingers rotating the peak of her perfect breast, watching her writhe from his touch, until his mouth covered hers...where she tasted herself...on his tongue...along his lips...and where she mingled with his faded aftershave and sweat.
He wanted her for all the times he couldn't have her. He wanted her for leaving him... forgetting he was in this world and that he needed her. He wanted her because he was childish and desperately stingy in his possession of her. But he was hers...through the rise and fall of all their tides, he would always belong to her.
Tumbling to the floor, their desperate urgency consumed them. She frantically reached between his legs, he jerked her hips to meet his, thrusting himself deep inside, galvanizing their bodies together. "Not want you..." he groaned, shoving harder...stronger, pulling the long strands of her hair like reins and he the rider. "I can't stop wanting you..."
They were at war, battling an invisible enemy that kept them separate for too long, one that stripped away their agency, leaving them frightened they might never win and would be lost to one another for all time.
They had no choice but to obey the needful demand of their bodies, cocooned in this moment where his breath, hot and unyielding against her skin, and her lips soft against his mouth, left every sense heightened, clinging to each other as though it were their last.
His thrusts became more forceful, insistent, and she held tight to the strong muscles of his back as their bodies stiffened, a furious wave crashing against and through them...suspending them in timelessness...until they gave way to its force, their strangled cries echoing through the room when, finally, the weight of him fell upon her.
"Don't move," he whispered, breathless, his heart pounding thunderously against her chest. She had no desire to argue. It was hard to breathe, but she wasn't ready to let go of this moment where his body blanketed hers, the smell of him heady of sex.
The new memory of him swam through her mind...how smooth he felt slipping out of her, his warm stickiness slowly dripping down her thighs and buttocks.
He kissed her neck, and dragged his lips across her collarbone with a satisfied moan, rolling onto the floor along side of her. His breath slowed, became more even and, without looking, he reached out a hand knowing exactly where to find hers. "Come here," he whispered, pulling her body to his.
It's funny, she thought to herself, the memories that surface at the most unexpected times. She remembered when he stayed with her, before the 'things took an unexpected turn' part, how safe she felt. She remembered how much they'd grown and changed to be in each others company, where they found an easy rhythm, liked the comfort of their closeness. It's how she felt now, her head resting inside the crook where his arm met his chest, his heart returning to a slower and steady beat, safe and at ease.
"Don't go to Bart's." He wasn't asking.
"I'm not," she answered lazily, gently rocked by the hum of his breathing, fighting against sleep.
"Good," his voice trailed. "I'm not done with you yet."
They both smiled.
"Hard floor or soft bed?" He was asking.
She groaned. "Soft bed...too tired to move."
"Do I have to carry you?"
"Mmmmm." She nodded, her eyes closed.
He stretched, pulling himself up, leaving her whimpering on the floor.
"I get the left side," he said, taking her hands as she stood, but kept her next to him and placed a hand over her breast, as though seeing it new...through a different set of eyes. He leaned in and kissed the skin between the fine bone below her neck and where his hand rested, his other hand tracing gentle circles along her hip.
She laid her head on his arm, her fingers knotting his chest hair, surprised to feel the familiar twitch rise in her belly so soon...leaving her quite certain it wouldn't take much to be ready for him again.
He kissed the tiny space just behind her ear, her neck rolled to the side for him to take more. "I love you," he whispered, his breath cool upon her still-warm-skin. He kissed a trail to her mouth, his tongue tracing her lips-
Their moment interrupted by the harsh shrill of a mobile phone.
He groaned with frustration.
"It's been buzzing for some time," she said, softly kissing the underside of his chin.
He sighed. "I've been ignoring it."
"It could be important."
"It's Mycroft." He grabbed his suit coat off the sofa.
She felt the sudden chill of his absence, even though he was only a few steps away, and bent down to grab his pants, tossing them over. "Your pocket's ringing."
He looked at the unfamiliar phone, his own presumably still at Sherrinford, and saw he had five missed texts. "Mycroft," he answered, his voice was low and gravelly.
She tugged a chenille throw off the back of the chair, wrapping it around her shoulders, and began picking up their clothes. His shirt...minus a few buttons...her jeans and long sleeve t-shirt... his boxers...oh, and one sock...the other must be here someplace...then looked at him, his phone call eerily quiet.
"Get dressed," he said, slipping his long legs into his trousers. "We have to leave."
"What?"
He placed a kiss on her forehead. "Pack for a couple of days." He took the rest of his clothes from her arms and finished dressing. He just remembered that Baker Street blew up and the shirt he was now wearing, torn with half the buttons missing, and his pants dried with mud, could possibly be the last of his possessions.
"Wait. What's happening?" She quickly slid into her jeans, then pulled on her shirt. "W-where are we going?"
He tucked the mobile phone inside the pocket of his jacket, and gave her a wink. "Fancy a drive to the countryside?"
She found the long hair pin and pushed it into the thick knot she quickly twisted, watching him stop in the hallway, looking at her suitcase.
"You've already packed."
She turned the coffee table upright and picked up the empty bottle of Shiraz, grateful for the fact it didn't break. "Not for London."
"Then where for?" He wasn't successful in hiding the disappointment in his voice.
"Bali." She could tell by the look that fell over his face that this was the last place he would have suspected. Well, at least not the first.
He shook his head to push away both exhaustion and confusion. "Never mind. Throw a bag together...I'll bring your car around front." He grabbed the keys from the small, silver dish in the entry hall and called after her. "Take the cat. We can pick up anything he needs on the way."
"I can't."
He slowly peered around the corner. "Why?"
"That...that was my bad day, when you called. Toby was poisoned...he died."