A/N: Apologies for the delay, I am computerless and phone-typing is apparently not conducive to Shermione.

Shite forgot the rating change. Ok fixed.

Sherlock Holmes was within 221b Baker Street, which was normal, walking up the stairs toward the room where John had slept, which was somewhat out of the ordinary, in order to commence sexual relations with Hermione Granger.

That was, admittedly, rather astonishing.

He had sworn off all of this since uni, when those attempts to see what the fuss was about erupted into turmoil of women (and one man) who apparently believed their coital engagement with him somehow meant afterward he owed them his attention. A ridiculous notion. Though not as ridiculous as the people themselves: the last woman had had the gall to disrupt him in the lab, so emphatic in her ranting that she knocked over his experiment. Months of work, ruined, because of seven days ignoring her calls. The vow of celibacy had been pledged right then and there.

He had indulged once, with Irene Adler, and only in the adrenaline-fueled high brought on by her rescue in Karachi. Irene did not muddle sex with emotion. Power, yes, but her power-parrying with Sherlock would happen regardless of their physical relations (not that he was a fool; when he made his pre-dawn departure as she slept, he'd taken her cell phone). Essentially, she was a woman, he was a man, he had a few hours until his transportation out arrived and he so obviously hated being bored.

It was just the same with Hermione. Clearly. Well of course she was not a duplicitous schemer. Her mind was much sharper. Her edges much softer. They might be equally perceptive, but the Woman was in a calculating way, whereas Hermione usually just seemed entertained. And, the Woman had hands like talons, but Hermione's were... nearly squeezing his fingers off?

"Having second thoughts?" Sherlock said, eyeing his purpling fingertips. Hers was the grip of one leading another through a haunted house, not to the bedroom.

Hermione froze, spun around. She looked to where Sherlock was looking and immediately let go of his hand.

"Sorry," she said, swallowing. It did little to ease the dryness at the back of her throat.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

Ok, so Hermione's gut was twisting a bit. Nothing major. Just a bit of residual cultural guilt from growing up in a Christian country. It was that whole nonsense of only having sex with one's husband (or wife, presumably, but honestly everyone knew "waiting till marriage" was a clearly gendered construct). A notion for the sexually inhibited, of which Hermione was not.

Still. It'd be easier to ignore the societal expectation of one-and-done if she didn't have dear friends who had enthusiastically embraced it. Harry, Ginny, Neville, Hannah, all lovely people who found their first lovely relationship was enough love to carry them through a lifetime, wasn't that lovely.

And yes even Ron knew, deep down, that the relationship they commenced at age 17 was never going to be a lasting one (she would never be submissive enough for him, and he would never be clever enough for her). But that didn't keep his mother from sniffing disdainfully when Hermione dropped by, as if it were Hermione's fault that Ron's partners multiplied, not his own sexual kinks—

"Stop thinking." Sherlock's voice was low but firm.

Being two steps above him, she stood, for the first time, a few inches taller than he. She let her eyebrow rise to match his. "And have you ever had success telling yourself to stop thinking?" she asked him pointedly.

His eyes did not meet hers. He seemed to not paying attention at all, though in fairness, only to what she had said. To her body, Sherlock was riveted. He was busy cataloguing every inch of her: neck, collarbone, breasts, ribs, the inward curve of the waist, the outward swell of the hips. "No…" he breathed, and almost of its own accord, one of his hands slowly crossed the barrier of air between them, only to settle on her thigh.

She so thoroughly forgot to think that she forgot she had been told to stop thinking at all.

Slowly, slowly, his hand slid down her leg. His long fingers wrapped wide around her, thumb brushing down the length of her hamstring. Over the bony knob of her knee, down the calf (he could almost wrap his fingers all the way around her) until they pulled away, slowed, so that only a few fingertips skimmed the final inches to the hem of her jeans, slid under it, touched skin—

Hermione sucked in hard through her nostrils.

Sherlock looked up, eyes questioning.

"Is—?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

And Sherlock's hand again settled on the thin denim of her trousers, this time on this inside of her leg, this time inching upward, leaving the extremities, approaching her core.

Sherlock had been four the first time he looked in a microscope. That amazement of seeing something so extraordinary had rendered his otherwise-ever-moving body very still. He only knew he mustn't blink for fear of missing even for the barest second what lay before him.

He had had his moments of intellectual pursuit since then, of sucking in information through all his senses, only for the vast volume of data to shift and coherentize within his head until the puzzle pieces slotted neatly together. But not since he had been a boy had he experienced that jaw-dropping awe.

Until now.

The thread count of the denim, the rough line of her inseam, the trembling of her muscles beneath it, all were absorbed with such open-mouthed wonder that Sherlock had gone still with awe. All he knew was that he mustn't blink, for fear of missing even for the barest second what lay before him.

His hand settled into the crease where thigh met pelvis. His thumb continued to travel, across the seam between her legs.

Hermione groaned.

She was gripping the banister with a white-knuckled intensity, her ability to remain upright becoming severely compromised. Her legs trembled, not to mention her belly (and her heart). She was fully clothed and Sherlock was stroking with just his thumb and already she felt she might bodily collapse.

It was a new puzzle for Sherlock: how little would it take for Hermione to buckle at the knees. He was attuned to every muscle and tendon of the woman in front of him, how they tensed and jerked and weakened even as his movements grew ever smaller-

He knew her legs were giving out just before she did. He swooped her up into his arms, bridal style, so that Hermione felt herself give way only to be suddenly crushed against Sherlock's chest. His footsteps were even as he effortlessly carried her up the stairs, into her room, gently laying her out on her bed.

For a moment, she only looked up at him as he hovered several inches above her. He had one knee up on the mattress, one hand pressed to the sheet near her head, the other at the inward curve of her waist. She reached up, gently brushed the pad of her thumb across his lips.

Then she grabbed his shirt, pulled him on top of her and snogged the daylights out of him.

He had fallen with an 'oof,' feeling all knees and elbows as his lips were taken, roughly. His mouth opened just slightly, why he wasn't sure, perhaps to ask to pause to get his body in order, or to suck in the air that had thickened around him. But it was received as an invitation, Hermione sweeping her tongue in his mouth, and all conscientious attempts at grace or breathing were forgotten.

She had one leg hitched up around his hips, grinding the sweet spot between her legs against his hip bone. Sherlock wrapped his arm around her waist, fingers sliding under her back to grip on to her opposite hip. His body seemed to have decided that there could be no space between his and hers, so firmly was he pressed against her.

His teeth nipped at her bottom lip and she moaned, a noise he captured with his mouth. He breathed in the sound of her desire, the vibration humming down into his bones. His skin was afire with pleasure.

Hermione slowly writhed against him, dropping her head back in a gasp when his hand slipped up under the hem of her shirt. Sherlock buried his face in the crook of her neck. His tongue brushed over her skin, tasting the sweat of her arousal.

"Harder," Hermione breathed, and Sherlock ground himself into her as he sucked the skin of her shoulders, bit down the length of her clavicle. Her moans grew louder.

He suddenly hoisted her up into sitting. "Off," he growled, yanking upward at the hem of her shirt. She complied readily.

Pebbled nipples jutted under black lace, nipples that needed to be under his tongue, but when he darted forward, his progress was impeded by a forefinger to the sternum.

Smiling devilishly, Hermione traced a finger down the length of his shirt, over buttons, feeling the surprising hardness of his stomach behind the designer fabric. At his belt, she slowed, bringing up her other hand and setting to task of pulling the shirt from his pants.

Once it was freed, both hands slid back up the fabric, fingers spread wide. Just a few inches from the top, they paused.

Without hesitation, Hermione ripped Sherlock's shirt open.

Buttons flew off unnoticed, so desperate were they to have skin against skin, the softness of her breasts against the wiry hair on his chest, the flat planes of his belly rubbing over the swell of hers. The sensation mollified Sherlock for approximately two seconds before he lifted his body slightly and narrowed his eyes at her.

"You interrupted me," he said.

Hermione's grin at his growl dropped away into gasps as he took her left nipple into his mouth, right over the lace of the bra. The scratchiness of the fabric rubbed the nub, even as his tongue flicked soothingly through it. The warmth of his hand covered the breast as he moved to the other, licking, sucking.

He drew his head up slightly, eyes on hers. "Harder? Softer?"

"Harder," she growled, and her moans became full-throated cries as he grasped both nipples between his thumb and forefinger and twisted.

She scrabbled at his belt and buttons, yanking down trousers and pants in one go, hooking her foot up over the fabric and pushing them all the way off. Hers followed almost instantly.

Her other leg slipped around his waist. Her hips scooted down. And barely had Sherlock a moment to realize Hermione considered the foreplay portion of the evening concluded before she pressed tip of his cock to her vagina and thrust herself up.

Her heat swallowed him in one, smooth motion.

Sherlock fingers on Hermione's breasts went slack. His lips parted, stunned. Fiery pleasure consumed him. Every nerve ending was blazingly stimulated, yet screaming for more. He thought he might die if he moved. He thought he might die if he didn't.

Hermione removed his option for choice. "Fuck me," she whispered.

And so he did. God did he fuck her, hips slamming against her, penis sliding and slicking within her. Rude sucking sounds emitted from between her legs, but they neither cared nor, frankly, heard. Too loud did the blood rush in their ears, too deep did their groans rock them to the marrow of their bones.

Hermione's hips bucked up, meeting him with as much force as he gave. The friction was exquisite, the pounding immense, but after a minute even that was no longer enough. She jerked her body over so she was diagonal beneath him, one leg wrapped right around his waist. With his hips locked where she wanted them, his cock thrust into that elusive spot inside her, delicious pressure building just so—

To Sherlock, fucking Hermione was fascinating. She didn't do what she thought would be sexy. She didn't do what she thought he thought would be sexy. She simply lost herself in pleasure. Entwined in the arms of one without inhibition, there was no other choice but to submit to the wills of his own body as well.

If there was one quirk to Hermione's lovemaking, Sherlock didn't notice it, for he did it, too. Even as skin slapped and breaths hitched and they rutted against each other like beasts in heat, they both kept their eyes shut tight.

Probably Hermione would say that removing visual input allowed for great tactical sensation. Without sight, they could be all-consumed by touch. Probably Sherlock would provide biochemical evidence to support the theory, pointing to the increase of oxytocin, testosterone, estrogen, etc, as influenced by stimulation of nerve endings in the epidermis.

Probably, neither would acknowledge the actual truth. In closing their eyes, they did not remove a barrier. They erected one.

It was a simple matter of self-protection. The eyes conveyed too much. Fear, hope, love. Already they were bodily nude. No reason to bare their souls as well.

So it was in self-imposed darkness that they fell over the edge, endorphins shuddering through them. Her vaginal walls rippled around him even as her arms squeezed ever tighter. His fingernails clenched into her shoulders. His belly trembled against hers. And their last moans became grunts, became gasps, became sighs.

For two-thirds of one second, they lay pressed against each other, sated.

Then Sherlock rolled off. Hermione as quickly hopped up to clean herself off in the bathroom..

It had been quite satisfactory, she thought, as she wiped herself between her legs. A bit fast. But effective. She felt properly stimulated and relaxed. Skin shivery, muscles jellied. She'd sleep like the dead tonight.

Sherlock's eyes were closed when Hermione returned, but the set of his mouth indicated he was occupied in his Mind Palace, not Dreamland. He lay centered within the right half of the mattress. If Hermione mirrored his positioning on her side of the bed, it would leave a good few inches between them.

There was a lot that could be supposed from his posture, but Hermione really couldn't be fussed with it at the moment. She flopped on her side and immediately fell asleep.

A more emotionally perceptive man might have wondered at Hermione's lack of snuggling. Sherlock did indeed note it, but he didn't wonder about it. He was too deeply considering what precisely "sleep with" meant.

The euphemistic obligation had been met. Now the question remained: was he required to remain here for the duration of the night? John would probably say yes. Mary definitely would. But honestly, he couldn't be expected to sacrifice eight hours for the benefit of a sleeping individual incapable of knowing it? Deeply inefficient.

And, he told himself, the fact that he had done so the previous evening could be disregarded. It had been unintended. Everyone knew he neither slept (much) nor snuggled (at all). The one-time occurrence of both acts was simply a statistical anomaly.

Sherlock could viscerally feel John's and Mary's stares of disapproval.

Fine. He would disregard the question of whether he should stay, lying there next to the sleeping witch. It apparently was not a valid approach to the conundrum. The better question was not whether he should stay, but how long. And that was easily determined: until his obligation to not annoy Hermione was surpassed by looming tedium.

Turned out, it was about forty seconds. Pleased with himself, Sherlock stole noiselessly out of her bedroom and back down the stairs.

Hermione woke up alone. It felt like an instant had passed since she'd first closed her eyes. She rolled her head toward her clock.

Nope, it had been a good seven hours.

Unhurriedly, she rolled out of bed. She still wore her bra. The underwire was jabbing into her upper rib, nipples positively chafing after rubbing against lace all night. Sighing, she unhooked it, throwing it on the floor, and replaced it with a sports bra. It mushed her almost completely flat, but it sturdily prevented any further stimulation. All that mattered at the moment.

She eyed her bed critically. The pillow on her side was bunched up against the headboard. The one opposite lay flat, barely indented. Sherlock clearly had not slept in her bed. And frankly, she wasn't surprised. Hermione was well aware that Sherlock falling asleep beside her two nights prior had not been not intentional.

Still. Hermione was slightly peeved. Not hurt, but annoyed. Because now, she realized as acidity slithered through her gut, she was going to have to have A Talk with Sherlock.

It was basic hook-up protocol: if the pair wakes up together, there might be blushing, there might be more sex, but eventually, there would be That Smile, the one of familiarity that signaled all was good. Even if there was no further talking for the rest of the day afterward, the proper comfort level would be established. Even if one person was more invested in a future than the other, parting under the auspices of That Smile at least lay the foundation for an angst-less future chat (if tears came, they would only do so well after the conversation, a safe distance away from the other).

Waking together set up a relationship of mutual ease. Hermione sighed. Sherlock was never one to make things easy.

Ok. So he'd left. Comfort levels were unknown. Whether he regretted last night or wanted a repeat of it, there was no shorthand facial expression to get them on the same footing. Nope, they'd need words. She, Hermione Granger, was going to have to make Sherlock Holmes talk about his feelings.

She thunked her forehead with the heel of her hand.

Inhaling deeply, Hermione forced herself to stand up straight. She set her shoulders back. Sherlock might have a double digit emotional intelligence IQ, but she was brilliant. She'd dated Ron Weasley for chrissakes, and put up with his mother besides. If that didn't prepare her for all the emotional ineptitudes a person might have, nothing could.

Dressing in a t-shirt and sweatpants, Hermione moved quickly down the stairs. There was the noise of paper rustling in the sitting room—Sherlock must be reading the paper in his chair. Good. She'd sit right across from him and they'd talk this out like adults.

But of course first Hermione had to veer into the kitchen for tea. She wasn't stalling. Of course not. Merely projecting an attitude of calm as she began her day like she did every other. That she had the chance to take a few deep breaths waiting for the kettle to boil was just happenstance. And that she approached conversation with Sherlock armed with her mug, like a knight with a shield walking into combat, was just prudence.

Chin high, Hermione strode into the sitting room and sat herself across from the detective. She cleared her throat.

There was no response but for the speedy flip of newspaper pages..

"Sherlock?"

"Mm." His newspaper remained upright, face unseen. Flip, flip, flip.

In her head, Hermione's words were assured: I know you probably don't want to have this talk and frankly I don't love having these talks either but considering you have the emotional maturity of a bullfrog it's important we just make sure we're on the same page about what this is.

Out of her mouth, they were a lot less certain. "Just… we should… um."

The paper suddenly folded away. Sherlock scrutinized her, eyes narrowed. He placed steepled hands under his chin. "You want to have the Morning After conversation," Sherlock said.

Dumbfounded, Hermione could only nod.

With a burdened sigh, he rolled his eyes. "Fine." Sherlock sat up from the chair with purpose, pacing back and forth across the room as if talking out a case with John. "You don't do relationships," he said.

Wide-eyed, Hermione shook her head.

"Nor do I. But we have established that we are friends."

She nodded again.

"Still last night's activities were enjoyable, or at least I am presuming so from what I estimate the decibel level to have been.

Here, she just flushed.

"You are responsible for my protection, however, you seem to have the intelligence to understand the negotiation between professional and personal interactions."

He looked at her. "That said, we can reasonably guess that others of our colleagues may not appreciate your capabilities."

She swallowed, finally recovering her voice. "Meaning don't tell Mycroft."

"Actually that's a rule for almost everything in life, but yes, also applicable on this occasion. I also meant Mr. Wood, Ms. Skeeter, my associates."

"What about John?"

He swiveled toward her. "What about him?"

"You should tell him."

His head tilted as he considered her, wondering how much insight she had into the inner workings of his mind. Not that he was going to make it easy for her. He raised his eyebrows imperviously.

Hermione explained. "If you tell him, later when you're about to do something that will hurt my feelings, you can consult with him. Hopefully before rather than after the fact."

His eyebrows crept higher. "You're worried I will hurt your feelings?"

She smiled. "Merely spreading my bets."

He nodded to himself, as if this made perfect sense. "Though our interactions will remain discreet, they will of course continue."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Of course?"

"Obviously! I have discovered that sex with you clarifies my mind substantially." He smiled at her, as if she should consider this an enormous accomplishment.

Mouth slowly dropping open, Hermione stared at him. "Wait. You are saying that because we had sex you are now… smarter?"

He huffed. "Of course not! There really is no room for improvement there. No, I find after orgasm with you, all the extraneous clutter in my mind is gone. Without the deluge of those thoughts, I can focus." He pointed dramatically at the folded paper. "I memorized the relevant facts of the newspaper in seconds. Usually it would take me minutes to read that!"

Hermione's mouth opened and closed a few times before she could get words out. "And so you want to… continue."

"Yes, I just said that! Do keep up."

Blinking, Hermione slumped back into her chair. She looked at the ceiling, wondering how she had gotten herself into this odd situation with this odd, odd man, and wondering why a smile was spreading across her face at the thought of it.

"Ok." Hermione dropped her head back down so Sherlock was in her sight again. She grinned. "Works for me."

"Good!" Sherlock clapped his hands and strode off toward his violin.

"Wait a minute, how did you know to say all of that?" Hermione sat back up as Sherlock picked up the bow and settled the instrument under this chin. "How'd you know about the 'Morning After' conversation?"

"Hm? Oh. John has forced me to watch crap telly. If they simply said what they thought there wouldn't be so much manufactured drama. Tedious."

And so it was as the first notes of a Grieg violin solo trilled around the room that Hermione began to wonder if this insulting, irritating man wasn't perhaps a bit perceptive after all.