Chemicals

It was around two in the afternoon and Toby had been in the hospital about four and a half days when he was wheeled out in a little wheelchair to the private car that Mycroft had sent to pick them up. Toby, though a little paler and thinner than his usual self, seemed pleased to be leaving the hospital. The past few days had taken a toll on the little family. After the first night, no one had really slept except for Toby and Lily, who was half-ordered half-shoved into the elevator each evening, and even she didn't sleep well. Sherlock was silent and stiff, responding only to his son, and Irene had the air of a coiled viper, loaded with venom and ready to strike the second someone gave her a reason.

Toby was in a car seat between his parents with Lily sitting quietly in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing at the driver's mirrored sunglasses wondering why he was wearing them seeing as in typical London fashion, it was overcast and looked like it was debating a light drizzle just for the hell of it. When they reached an upscale building with a doorman which Irene tipped (because Lily didn't know to do so and Sherlock didn't care to), they rode up several stories and found themselves in one of Mycroft's offices.

There was a long pause as Irene balanced Toby on her hip, Sherlock pointedly ignored his brother, and Lily stood uncomfortably behind the trio, feeling very out of place. After a solid minute of silence, Lily opened her mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by Irene's smooth purr.

"Why are we here?"

"I should think it obvious. Sherlock?"

"He expects to be thanked."

"Try again, though thanks would be appreciated."

"He wants to discuss visiting Tobias more often."

Mycroft smiled.

"Precisely."

"I don't see why you find it necessary to visit my son," Sherlock told him coldly.

"Family is everything. And...well Mummy will be ever so put out if she doesn't learn of her grandson."

Sherlock blew air out of his nostrils forcefully and scowled.

"You know very well that we are not telling Mummy about any of this."

"I think to ensure that it occurs, I ought to be able to see him a few tmes a month."

"A few times a year perhaps."

"Twice a month."

"Once every six months."

"Monthly."

"Every other month."

"I think monthly will do nicely."

Sherlock's scowl deepened.

"Any other suggestions for raising my son?"

Irene stepped forward, venom in her voice.

"Mr. Holmes, I do believe that neither you nor your mother has any say over what happens to my son. Currently, he is primarily cared for by Lillian as well as myself and his father."

Toby wriggled to get down and Irene instead passed him to Lily, who pulled a small toy train from her pocket and offered it to Toby. He turned it over and over in his hands, fascinated. After a moment, Lily put him down and watched him push the train along the border of the carpet.

"Ms. Adler, you are dead and Tobias does not exist as far as most of the population of the world knows. I don't think that me asking to see him occasionally is much to ask considering I am assisting in keeping his existence and your own a secret."

Irene gritted her teeth and glanced at Sherlock, who minutely dipped his head before kneeling down next to Toby and his train. Irene glanced down at the pair of them before nodding shortly at Mycroft Holmes.

"Once a month will suffice. No more often. And you will notify myself, Sherlock, and Lily a full two weeks before your planed date and time so we can all be sure to make space in our schedules."

"That sounds satisfactory."

Lily looked to both parents, then sighed and picked up Toby, carrying him over to the desk.

"Toby, this is your uncle Mycroft."

Mycroft held out a hand, bemused, though he was significantly less amused when Toby ignored it pointedly in favor of picking up a gilt little hunting dog off of the edge of the desk and sticking it in his mouth.

"That was given to me by-" Mycroft began,

"No one cares," Sherlock snapped as Lily softly cajoled the child into giving her back the figurine and setting it, drool and all, onto his desk.

"I suppose we'll be going now," the nanny said, barely concealing a smile. When they got into the elevator, she burst into laughter which Sherlock, then Irene, joined in.

"He hasn't put things in his mouth in ages!" Irene chuckled.

"He's a very smart boy, aren't you Toby? That was very rude." Lily bit her lip to keep from smiling. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

Toby revealed a few teeth in a wide grin and reached for his father.

"Daddy doesn't like Uncle Mycroft very much so neither do you, eh?"

Toby giggled and Sherlock held him up to eye level.

"You have definitely inherited my intellect, Tobias. Good show."

"Sherlock!" Lily said in a mildly scolding tone, but Irene brushed the exclamation aside.

"He's learning to determine who he does and doesn't like. I see no problem with it."

Rolling her eyes, Lily rode the rest of the way down the elevator as Sherlock tried to coax Toby into saying 'Mycroft is a moron' with absolutely no results.

"You're still here," Sherlock mumbled when he awoke. Irene was sitting in a dressing gown and sipping tea from a white mug identical to the second one on the breakfast tray beside her.

"And you actually slept."

"Unfortunate genetic defect."

Irene took another sip of tea and indicated the two covered silver dishes.

"There's breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"I'm sure you weren't tired either."

He snorted and rolled out of bed, shuffling silently to the hotel's spacious bathroom. She didn't hold herself back from admiring his sleep-tousled hair, the lines the sheet had left on his skin. He was still in only his boxers and she allowed her eyes to run over his nearly-naked form.

"Do stop objectifying me, Irene."

"Make me."

His response was a low rumble which the firm click of the bathroom door cut off. His warm, sleepy baritone made a line of warmth tingle down her spine and settle just above her tailbone. She sipped tea, waiting for him to emerge, which he eventually did, this time in a hotel-issue robe tied at the waist.

"My clothes are dirty."

"I've taken the liberty of having some things sent up."

He didn't ask how she knew his sizes, only helped himself to the second cup of tea and lifted both silvery lids over the breakfast plates, setting them aside.

"Traditional English breakfast?"

Irene shrugged,

"I thought if you were tired enough to sleep, you may be hungry enough to eat."

He scowled at her but his heart wasn't in it as he sullenly picked up a fork and began to eat his breakfast with an air of one to whom a great injustice has been done. After only a few bites, Irene looked up at him, her grin wicked.

"Would you like a shower afterwards?"

Suspicious, he asked.

"Is it necessary?"

"Your untidiness bothers you more than it bothers me."

It was true and he stopped himself from flinching as she brought to his attention the fact that he had not bathed in a week or so. He had been ignoring it but once it was brought to his attention, it seemed that every speck of dirt on his skin was suddenly itching, rubbing, irritating his skin.

"You did that on purpose."

"Yes. Because I'm going to shower after breakfast."

"To frustrate me, obviously."

"Frustrate?" Irene smiled. "Hardly; I was going to offer to share."

"Share?"

"The shower, Sherlock. Do use your brain."

He sneered at her, took another bite of breakfast.

"I fail to see the point."

"Water conservation, experimentation, entertainment, because you can't reach the middle of your back and need someone to wash it for you."

"You're trying to make me uncomfortable."

"I'm trying to test your boundaries, see what you're comfortable with."

"I submitted to your experimentation last night. Surely that is enough for one visit."

"Did you not feel the effects?"

"Hardly as effective as cocaine. But yes...to a minor degree. Afterwards was akin to having a nicotine buzz."

"And knowing that,you aren't willing to see what else can give you that same buzz?"

"I have no need for it right now."

"Aren't experiments done best when they are not rushed? If you wish to replicate the high again, mustn't you first experience it while you have time to process it fully?"

He looked coolly at her over his tea.

"Your subtlety is lacking."

"I'm not trying to be subtle."

They stared at each other until Irene set down her mug.

"Leave the door unlocked if company is welcome. If it isn't, I'll shower after you."

He nodded slowly, then rose and walked from the room. A moment later, the door clicked shut. His fingers on the key sitting loosely in the bathroom door, Sherlock started to turn it, then reversed the twist and left the key on the edge of the marble sink. Shivering partially from cold and partially from his own daring, he shrugged out of the robe and reached into the shower, turning the knobs until the water was steaming. He had only just stepped in when he heard the doorknob jiggle softly, then turn as the door clicked open.

"Sherlock Holmes."

He swore her voice wove its way into his bones; he could feel it everywhere.

"Yes?"

His voice was embarrassingly deep and it echoed faintly in the enclosed space. He caught his breath as her pale leg slipped into the shower, followed by the rest of her.

It was not the nudity that bothered him; he had seen her naked the first time he met her. He had her figure memorized and her face etched into his memory. He had seen her all dressed up and with her hair wet from showering. In Karachi he had come very close to much more but between exhaustion and her recent brush with death, they had instead slept in the same bed, reassuring themselves that they were both alive and still there. It was sentiment he denied to himself often, though then and there the denial was slipping away.

For her, it was partially his naked form, but more his face, soft and vulnerable and adorably puzzled, as though he had no idea what to do with her. She had a few ideas, but kept them to herself.

"Pass the shampoo, would you?" She slipped past him and under the stream of water, feeling his skin, wet from steam and condensation, gloriously silky where she brushed it. Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back and began to get her hair wet.

After that it got...uncomfortable...for Sherlock. The shower was an intimate place; a place that you were never monitored, completely free to think and behave as you willed it. And now, in one of his private thinking spaces there was a woman—The Woman to be specific. The Woman naked and wet and in the shower with him...and it was incredibly uncomfortable. However, all of that discomfort was not as negative as he expected. Some of it was a prickling along his skin, an itching to just reach out and touch her because there was no one watching and once they stepped out of this little space he could erase it if he chose, make it so it had never happened.

When her eyes opened, they were expectant, and ever so gently, he leaned down and brushed a kiss against her lips. He told himself that the burst of lightning that shot down his spine was just a coincidence, but as he kissed her a second time and the energy crackled in his veins, he knew it wasn't a coincidence but rather his body responding to nearly unknown stimuli. When he pulled away, she smiled up at him.

"I was expecting the shampoo, but that was nicer."

He looked almost embarrassed but Irene smiled up at him.

"Did you not enjoy yourself?"

He licked his lips.

"The serotonin rush appears to indicate I have."

She chuckled softly.

"Do you ever enjoy anything without analyzing it?"

He opened his mouth to protest, but she stood on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. Her arms, slick with water wrapped around his neck as she tilted her head and ran her tongue along his lower lip, then nipped it gently with her teeth. He gave a little gasp of surprise and she pulled away.

"Did you analyze that?"

He swallowed slowly.

"I did not have the time to."

"Did you enjoy it more?"

He cocked his head to one side at her.

"It was...interesting."

Rolling her eyes, she lifted the shampoo bottle from the little shelf on the shower wall and turned it over, then squeezed a stream of it into her palm. Lifting it to her head, she deposited it into her hair. In a moment, there was a hand around her wrist.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm interested in further study."

"Of my hair?"

"Is that a problem?"

Irene lowered her hands.

"Not at all."

Slowly, gingerly, he ran his hands through her hair, kneading her scalp, working the shampoo into a lather. After her hair was full of suds, he gently tilted her head back and rinsed the suds before drawing her back out from under the stream and working conditioner into her hair. As he finished, she splashed a little water on her face and turned towards him.

"Any observations?"

"Your hair is very soft."

"Anything else?"

"It is pleasurable to touch."

"So may I also partake in the experiment?"

"You wash your own regularly so I assume you mean to attempt washing my hair."

"That would be correct."

"I'm a great deal taller than you."

"Then sit down."

"There is hardly the space for it."

"I disagree. Just sit and try."

"Ridiculous."

"Well then what is your suggestion?"

"Kneeling perhaps?"

"Sounds more uncomfortable."

"Would you rather I am uncomfortable or that you are unable to take part in the experiment?"

Seizing his shoulders, Irene pulled Sherlock down until he was sitting on the floor. Standing over him, Irene worked shampoo into his hair before rinsing it out and stepping back to allow him to stand.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Hardly bad."

"See?"

Sherlock Holmes had an aura around him that screamed to most that he was not to be touched. So when her hands began to work shampoo through his hair, he felt his body go into overdrive, processing every scrap of data—pressure, heat, the way her fingernails lightly scratched across his scalp. Glancing down at him, Irene smiled.

"Excited, Sherlock?"

"I don't see why any appendage receiving blood flow is of interest to you."

"I'll take that as a line you're not willing to cross, then."

Washing his hair with dexterous ease, she then wet washcloth and worked a bar of soap over it. It was this cloth that she rubbed over his back, his neck, his shoulders, scrubbing off days of sweat and dirt. It was this cloth that she scrubbed the backs of his legs with, his upper thighs, the angle of his hip, giving his ass a gentle swipe with the cloth before noticing that he had accepted it. Taking the reins, she scrubbed his ass, then had his turn, washing his chest, his arms and the fronts of his legs, his neck. When she was finished, she handed him the cloth.

"I assumed you'd prefer to wash your groin yourself."

He half-nodded, dipping his chin at her, his face strained as he glanced down at her, the faintest trace of pink spreading over his cheekbones and chest.

"Had enough?"

Sherlock's face tightened.

"Hardly. If you'll turn I can return the favor."

His hands were gentle, caressing her skin with the soapy cloth and then stepping away, being a perfect gentleman and avoiding her butt, breasts, and groin. Once he finished, she rinsed off and stepped out of the shower, drying off and walking out of the bathroom.

Only once he was certain he was alone did Sherlock slide his hand between his legs and relieve the tension that Irene's presence had left him with. It was not something he did often; only when his body would not cease demanding it or when it drowned out all other thoughts in his head. Now was one of those times.

When he left the bathroom, he found her fully clothed and sitting in a chair, reading. She indicated a pile of clothes.

"I hope everything fits."

"I have no doubt it will."

Once back at the house, Toby made his way to the playroom and began building a tower out of a set of wooden blocks. Irene followed and sat watching him. Sherlock was about to follow when his phone rang.

"John? Yes, he's fine. No, nothing serious. Just Mycroft being an ass."

Lily shot him a look, mouthing, 'Not in front of Toby' at him, but he ignored it.

"A what? Tell me."

He nodded for a minute or so.

"No that sounds brilliant. Meet me there."

He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"John has a case."

The way his face lit up with intelligence and excitement transformed his features from the exhausted and irritated man that had left Mycroft's office. He pulled his coat on and walked determinedly to the door, then paused. Turning, he strode through the house and into the playroom. Lily followed in time to see him kneel down and tell Toby that he would be back the next day and to walk over to the half-asleep Irene on the couch and gently press a kiss to her forehead. When he walked out, Lily pretended not to notice the way Irene's face relaxed into a genuine smile and her eyes fluttered shut.

"Come on Toby," she whispered. "Your Mummy needs to sleep. Let's go into the sitting room and I'll read you a story."