A/N: Unbeta'd and unbritpick'd. Sorry! But enjoy nonetheless


The woman arched her back, wordless exclamations with what little left of her bated breath falling out of her parted lips. Somewhere in between each of them was his name over and over again, incomplete and utterly maddening. As he categorised the sound as unique desire, associated it with the concept of her person—Irene, Irene Adler—and the sensation of building ecstasy along with the burning friction of their skin when she rolled her hips against his, he combined all of the processed information to be stored deep in his mind palace. When added with the clenching of her muscles of her arse in his grip and around him—inside her, the swarm of multiple sensory experiences overwhelmed his brain and his whole being. He could biologically and, surprisingly, emotionally empathise with her body and mind. In the microsecond of this thought process, he gasped involuntarily and the most logical word slipped from his mouth, "Woman…"

Irene closed her eyes and half-smiled at the word he so passionately uttered, albeit unconsciously and certainly assisted by the combination of pleasurable chemicals in his brain. Nonetheless, a whole different kind of warmth ran through her veins and fuelled the fire in her stomach. She preferred to think it was driven by the most genuine part of him previously untouched by others, regardless of his physiological responses. She was endeavouring to uncover his soul, and this was a chance that she had been waiting for. But would he yield to her? Would he trust her just enough to strip him off his defences? Somehow, the questions became more important the longer they spend time in each other's company. Behind her lids, unshed tears began to form out of many conflicted thoughts in her head mixing with the return of burning pain on her shoulder's back. She bit her lip to suppress the building pressure in her throat. Yet, as Sherlock kept moving beneath her and grounding her to the reality of their connection, she couldn't stop a sob from escaping her lustfully parted lips.

He forced an exhale and a deep frown, misinterpreting her different, wavering low tone as a form of disagreement or dissatisfaction. His unfocused eyes searched for her face and found a pair of gleaming orbs, moist and tender. A reminiscence of that night in the desert, the same wild eyes tinted with pain. "What—" But she already bent down and silenced him with a kiss before he could question anything. The image of vulnerability and her taste in his mouth melted all pretences of restraint.

"Just..." After a stolen breath and another peck on the side of his lips, she muttered, "Stop thinking." The latter words came out as a surprised moan; he had jerked his hips upwards and sheathed himself further into her. She hadn't expected him to be an excellent novice in this matter, but he was still a novice and this was her area of expertise. Irene intensified her rocking motion and observed his reaction, keeping herself just above carried away to concentrate on his part of pleasure. The pain on her back made it easier for her to stay sober, and she briefly regretted that they wouldn't reach the same high together. Just watching and feeling him giving in to his raw desire was worth it for her; even almost cathartic. It felt like a penance for every pain she had ever induced. Every painful sting on her back was nothing compared to watching Sherlock Holmes giving himself to her at last. And in equal respect, she gave herself to him. Not entirely, but just enough for this moment of scorching desire.

Sherlock automatically followed her increasing rhythm, but not without difficulty. Every single friction of her warm flesh and wetness sent sudden jolts of pleasure up his spine, and he was so close to falling apart. He couldn't control the almost-wistful noises he made and hated to admit she could do this to him almost instantly without much effort. To gain a measure of some control, he once again sought out her clitoris and continued his ministration. The difference being, this time, he also felt his own movement inside her on his fingertips and it only encouraged him further to make her reach the same degree of intensity.

She let out a high-pitched moan of his name, filled with longing and something else entirely that she would come to recognise as affection. Pain and pleasure mixed into one, it sounded unfamiliar in her voice, and yet, it felt natural all the same. "Sherlock."

And so he knew it was the voice that would haunt his dream in the coming nights, calling him from the depths of his memory, in the corner where she reign over the side of him undiscovered by nobody else but her.


Cold hands adjusted the man's tie with a sharp tug. The man himself was practically covered in sweat and it had nothing to do with the marginally damp atmosphere or the dress suit he was wearing. He was dressed for a funeral, like the owner of the cold hands had intended. To give a sense of theatricality, they said. A white carnation in his breast pocket, a pair of shining shoes, black suit and tie, and a couple of C4 on the inside of his jacket to make sure he wouldn't 'stray from the path', as they so kindly put it when they fitted all the wires to the sophisticatedly slim detonator in his back pocket.

"Now, now, stick to the script, okay? Don't forget to start with your full name, date of birth, all basic information and everything else after that, especially about your lovely daughters. We don't want you to ruin your funeral with collateral damage, do we? And it would be nicer all around if we still have your body for your family to cry on and bury next to your father, like a real family man. You'll have a grave your children and grandchildren can visit instead of a mere name in the yellowing newspapers and government files with fading typewriter ink. Your name, year of birth, year of death, a traditional inscription of 'a father and a son'..."

The long monologue was spoken with a parody of enthusiasm as the cold hands gripped his shoulders tightly from behind. A pair of lips grazed the man's ear and he shuddered in fear.

"Don't worry, if the words escaped you, I'll give you a hand."

There was an earpiece attached to his right ear, and as the pale finger tapped it, he winced as he heard some static noises.

"Anyway, contrary to popular belief, going out with a bang is very inconvenient. Good luck, keep in mind that you're lucky enough to give your own eulogy at your funeral."

The last smile he would ever see before his death was as cold as the owner's hands. It made the speaker's whole feature lit up in the most terrible fashion of a cynical executioner, hungry for the dying light in his victim's eyes.


Sherlock lifted his shaking hand and observed the colour of blood on his fingers. He had the most peculiar feeling of déjà vu in which more than twenty hours earlier he experienced a similar high and had his hands covered with the same shade of red. The side of his neck where she buried her face was wet with the mixture of his perspiration and her tears. She was panting, and he felt a stab deep inside his chest at the sound of her continuous rapid breathing. They had been tangled in each other for a while and Sherlock, having just come down from the height of his first orgasm, realised there was something wrong when she haven't quite controlled her breathing. He stiffened and tried to free himself from her tight embrace. "The wound behind your shoulder—"

Irene didn't let him go. "Don't." Her voice was hoarse and the command was only half as demanding.

"Don't be stupid, I need to see it." He shoved her arm from his waist and sat up. Looking down, he trailed the side of her bleeding gash lightly with a finger and furrowed his brows. His face darkened as he stared pointedly at her. "I have to replace the gauze with a fresh one. Don't move."

From the side of her face, she could see him wincing as he stood up. "So,"

He spared a glance behind his back to see her raising her upper body with her elbows, noticing the way her face contorted slightly from obvious pain. Clearly, she didn't listen to his words.

"How was it?"

The bathroom door opened and he walked in, trying to steady his shaking hand as he turned the tap to wash the blood. "Elementary." He felt a lump in his throat and coughed lightly before he continued with what he hoped as an even tone in his voice. "The chemicals in my brain are clouding my mind right now; it would be unwise to make any observation in this state."

Irene grinned at his frankly ridiculous response and found herself shaking with laughter seconds later. The tears falling from her eyes were tears of pain instead of mirth, but she couldn't care less because Sherlock was being—well, himself. "Oh god, help me." Give this man a heart to spare mine from breaking, she thought as the laugh turned slightly bitter.

Sherlock walked back into the room with fresh gauzes in his hand and a deep frown. "What are you laughing at?" Looking at her again, he felt the heat rising in his stomach. She was sprawled on her stomach, the visible part of her face lighting up with laughter and her whole body shaking. He wasn't entirely sure how to react and it felt like he had been trapped in a perpetual cycle of momentary confusion for the first time in his life ever since they arrived in this hotel room. Never before anyone (or even anything) ever frustrated him and incited his desires simultaneously like Irene Adler. And he was still trying to adjust this new side of him into the Sherlock Holmes that he already was. "I don't understand what could amuse you so when you're clearly in pain. Stop moving." He held her shoulder hesitantly.

She took deep breaths to calm herself and dried her tears on the sheet. The touch of his hand felt like a brand of an entirely different ache than her bleeding wound. Now that they finally succumbed to their baser, animalistic needs, she longed for more of it. Not just because she didn't reach the same high as he did,—she knew that his inexperience would rid him of the knowledge of this particular subject—but the yearning for his whole being (everything, mind and soul and body) was becoming unbearable for her. As he gently ripped the drenched gauze from her back, she hissed in pain and she could feel his grip on her shoulder tightened.

"Can't laugh anymore, I see." Sherlock murmured lightly and wiped her bleeding gash lightly to clean it again before covering it with fresh gauze. He could feel her squirming from his tight grip instead of returning his sharp comment with a remark of her own. But her breathing was beginning to slow and for some reason he felt relieved. After throwing away the bloodied gauze and getting rid the first aid kit, he flopped down on the bed beside her, exhausted physically and emotionally for some reason.

She could have sworn that it was unintentional, but nevertheless, she gravitated towards him and closed the distance between them as soon as he lied down. Irene buried her face in the crook of his neck, half of her body on top of his and one of her hands stroking his shoulder. "How do you feel?" she whispered.

He didn't answer, but he pulled away from her embrace to watch her face intently. Her gleaming eyes reflected the light from outside the window and they were still wet from tears. The corners of her mouth turned down and there was a crease of worry between her brows. There was no mask or pretension, and her gaze made him nervous because he knew she was bearing her raw self to him. Well, if they were disassembling their armours tonight, he might as well come clean too. So, Sherlock swallowed visibly and blurted the thought that had bothered him since five minutes ago. "You didn't come."

Irene's eyes widened at his statement. She had never thought he could be so straightforward like this, especially in the matter of sex, and it made her stomach suddenly feel warm. A grin crept over her face. "Excuse me?" She asked in a playful tone, as playful as she could be with a hoarse voice.

Sherlock flushed at her inquiry, the next onslaught of words were unavoidable. "I'm not entirely ignorant about sex, I have done some research and of course I know the biological signs of orgasm in a woman. I noted—with difficulties—your responses to every stimulation a-and" he stammered uncharacteristically. "I tried to properly stimulate your erogenous zones but I'm afraid because I have no experience with your particular anatomy, I experimented liberally without considering my own limit and since I couldn't hold back from—"

Her lips descended on his in a fierce kiss. She felt the urgency to silence that clever tongue and tangle it with hers before he could finish his sentence. They parted with a delightful moan from her and a pleasant sigh from him. "You are full of surprises, Mister Holmes." Irene whispered with a luscious glint in her eyes.

Feeling slightly more confident after the kiss, he narrowed his eyes, his lips forming a thin, devious smile. "I'd rather you call me with my first name," The hand he put on her waist trailed down the back of her thigh and Sherlock relished in Irene's sudden hitched breath. Connecting his lips with hers once again, his eyes wide open with hunger, trying to commit every inch of desire on her face to memory. "Like you did precisely ten minutes and thirty five seconds ago." Every word dragged out of his mouth in continuous low growls against her lips.

That was when Irene felt his fingers reached the aching flesh between her thighs. She let out a heavy sigh and bared her teeth in a ravenous grin. "Well, Mister Holmes," She raised a hand to grab the back of his neck, as if she refused to part with his lustful gaze just even for just one second. "What are you going to do for that?"


"Psssshhhht.

Six hours in, the subject is surprisingly still alive. Don't know why they're so unwilling to die, these people. They worth nothing more than insects; kill one and you got another four billion left still crawling the planet, eating up space, and polluting the air. A word to the wise: kill one. Kill one for sport, entertainment, science, meditation, who cares? Just kill one. And then another. And another. And another. Pile their bodies up on the streets, dictators, as a warning for their kind. It's the end of their world."

A sigh.

"This is getting rather boring. There's eight hours left before the party starts, I'm just wasting my time here. The coffee is horrible. They got better action in Iran. I'm taking a flight to Tehran after finishing the business here to catch up with the latest political heat. You owe me big time for this, Jim. I'll send you a postcard with this guy's fingernail attached to it later for a joke. Byeee!"