The Broken Tango

Warning: do I really need to? Oh well, may as well. Smut, lots of smut ;P

Chapter 10

Irene gasped when she felt her back hit the unforgiving surface of Sherlock's door, barely able to get her breath back before the reason why she was currently crushed against a door kissed her again, almost viciously.

She kissed him back with as much hunger and violence, pulling on his curls, as he rolled his hips into hers, making her cry out. She clawed at the buttons holding the collar of his shirt closed, wrenching her lips from his to hungrily devour the reddened skin. Sherlock gasped, his hands braced on the door either side of her, neck arched into her kiss.

She bit down, and relished his groan of mixed pain and pleasure, after their heated argument in the kitchenette. She felt like she was finally getting her own back.

She should have known, that with Sherlock Holmes, it wouldn't last long.

He slammed her back against the door, pinning her wrists to it with one of his hands, as he kissed her again, tongue taunting hers mercilessly.

Irene groaned, struggling against his grip as that insatiable need began to build again, but he refused to let her, his free hand splayed over her jaw. He broke the kiss, although their lips still brushed, neither wanting to break the contact between them.

Sherlock could feel every breath in her body, every pounding contraction of her heart, as he looked down into her quicksilver eyes.

If they crossed this line, there would be no going back. His obsession with her would never end, no matter whether he discovered the truth about her past or not.

Maybe they had crossed the line long ago, but had been too blind to see it.

He could see the same thoughts in her mind, through those all-too expressive eyes.

He couldn't have resisted the invitation in them if he'd tried.

He lowered his head to hers, not bothering to ask permission or to give her a chance to back away. He explored the warm cavern of her mouth devotedly, until she was like soft putty in his arms, hands hanging limp in his grasp. He pulled her away from the door, and towards his bed, throwing her onto it. She levered herself up onto her elbows, breathing shallowly, eyes on fire and fixed on his, as he slowly stalked towards her, steadily undoing the buttons of his shirt, before throwing it away negligently.

He crawled over her on hands and knees, every inch a predator unleashed, looking down at her as her trembling hands rose to his pectorals, tracing the thinly defined muscles before splaying over his heart. The feel of her burning hands on his skin, that simple touch invested with so much emotion, wiped Sherlock's mind of all rationale as she stretched up towards him, offering her lips.

Irene moaned in pleasure when he kissed her, loving every inch of the slender, yet powerful body covering hers, as she explored eagerly. Her hands glided over his back, down his spine, to the small hollow just above the waistband of his suit trousers. He groaned into her mouth, sliding his hands into her hair before pulling it sharply, forcing her head to arch back to alleviate the pressure on her neck. The movement also dragged her lips from under his, pressing her body up into his. His lips glided over her chin and onto her throat, laying a trail of kisses down her neck, relishing the tangible rush in blood pressure, where her pulse beat under his tongue.

Time passed in a haze of need and passion, as clothes were discarded hastily, and bodies caressed covetously.

Irene could barely think beyond the near frantic state he'd pushed her into, twining her legs around his just so he couldn't leave her, clinging to him when he kissed her, only to flop back when he once again laid a trail of kisses down her neck, continuing on over her body, taking the peak of one breast into his mouth until she cried out, before nuzzling his way down her stomach.

As he had done once before, he laved and suckled her navel, her thighs thrown over his shoulders. He glanced up at her, and behind the bestial haze in his eyes, she glimpsed a familiar twinkle of mischief, before looking down at his prey, as she tensed expectantly, hoping he was going to do what she thought he would.

He did.

As in all things he did, he was thorough and he missed nothing, tracking her state by the moans and whimpers escaping from her lips, until neither he nor she could take anymore.

Irene hated begging, she really did. But the plea which escaped from her lips was inevitable. "Sherlock, please…"

He surged over her without hesitation, kissing her urgently, his lips tasting of her. She gasped when she felt him thrust into her, without preamble or thought, just the irresistible need to feel her body surrender to his, her fingernails clinging to his back.

The pain grounded him, focussed his mind so he could set a rhythm, relentless, steady almost viciously torturing for both him and her, working out the frustration of the past month, emotional, sexual and personal.

It had been there between them from the start, this tension, this gravity pulling them together. Only now were they accepting it.

Skin to skin contact had never felt so profound, so incredible to Sherlock. As he withdrew and then returned to the warm, welcoming haven of her body, he looked down on Irene, on the red marks of his passion already blooming on her body, and felt the same thrill he felt when solving a case, but only ten times better.

Maybe, just maybe something else could matter to him as much as his work.

Maybe, just maybe that something else, or rather someone else was lying under him, hips lifting in time with his, his name a breathless moan on her lips.

He felt her body begin to contract, the onset of orgasm, and fought off his own just long enough to see her cry out, bliss flooding her face.

She looked like a Botticelli angel in the presence of the Divine, as she gazed up at him, while he groaned, letting everything go as he closed his eyes and leant his forehead on hers.

Irene had never felt this peaceful, never this languid after sex. She'd had a fair few lovers, nothing serious, but no one had managed to make her feel like this.

They were currently sprawled in Sherlock's bed, Irene in his arms, her head on his chest so she could his steady heartbeat thundering against her ear.

She closed her eyes and savoured the sound, savoured the feel of his arms around her as the events of the past hour dawned on her.

With this one impulsive act, she had put her trust in Sherlock Holmes, had given in to all she really felt for him beneath the anger and the frustration.

She sighed, wearily. She was so tired of running, and Sherlock's comment before they had collapsed in sated exhaustion still rang in her ears.

"Wherever you run, I'll always be there to catch you,"

She could feel him now, slender fingers which had pleasured her and now knew every inch of her so well, tracing the line of her tattoo in the small of her back. So he wasn't asleep either.

Taking a deep breath, pushing down every instinct which told her to shut up, she opened her mouth.

"Moriarty killed my parents."

Sherlock had been drifting in a mental sea of bliss until she said that. Within seconds his mind awoke, stretching like a hunting cat in the sun, alert and wary.

He continued to stroke her back and hair, relishing the differing textures beneath his fingers. He had never understood why people would describe hair and skin as feeling like silk and satin; one was a mass of fibres which held no chemical compositional similarities to silk and the other was a series of layers, interspersed with nerves and muscles and blood.

But now, having Irene's hair and skin under his hands, he could understand why, and for now that was enough, even though his post-coital fatigue had worn off ten minutes before. He waited for her to continue, sensing it was the best way. She sighed heavily, and he held her tightly, as if he could lend her his strength through physical contact.

"It was my sixth birthday. I was playing in the garden, when my mother came out, and even then I knew something was wrong," she began, stiltedly.

"You were a child prodigy," Sherlock interjected with a soft smile, now tracing the rise of her shoulder with his fingertips.

"I was," she agreed, with just a touch of humour. "She took me up to my bedroom, and made me play a game of Simon Says, making me pack my schoolbag and then told me that when she told me to run, I had to run and not look back. That night…" she faltered, and Sherlock held her closer, sensing her fight not to break down. Eventually, she continued, quietly but strongly. "That night she came into my room, and told me to run. Our house had a conservatory under my room, so I could slide onto the roof and climb down the drainpipe. I ran across the garden and through the gate into next door's garden, hiding in their shed. When morning came, I went back to the house, and…found my parents, murdered. My mother, with her throat slit, and my father beaten to death. Blood covered the walls, and those words…the message he left behind. Loyalty is all and nothing is death."

"How do you know it was Moriarty?" Sherlock asked gently, for once. He could hear the pain in her voice, feel her tension and it only increased the protectiveness he now felt towards her, along with the tight knot in his chest.

"We'd gone into hiding, under a false name. I know it was him, knew he wouldn't stop until we were dead, I just didn't know why," she replied, in a whisper. Sherlock frowned momentarily, when he felt her shiver of fear.

"He's the reason you pushed your foster parents away, wasn't it?" he murmured, as her head shot up. "It wasn't just their desire to dictate your life that caused the rift, was it? You used that to push them away even further, so Moriarty wouldn't be tempted to go after them."

"You are very annoying, Sherlock," she replied, narrowing her eyes. He rolled his, despite grinning mischievously.

"Thank you," he muttered, pleased when she smirked amusedly, some of the sadness lifting from her eyes.

"And smug. Suppose that comes from being a high-functioning sociopath?" she shot back, with a tilt of her head, her eyes now shining beadily.

"Hark whose talking. You're quite the sociopath yourself," he retorted, still lazily stroking her back. Irene's eyes narrowed.

"Borderline," she muttered, looking away.

"Considerably more than borderline, after our little display in the kitchen. Poor John will probably need more therapy after that," Sherlock replied lazily, making Irene laugh.

"The look on his face…we're nightmares aren't we?" she asked rhetorically, before meeting his eyes again. "Anything else you want to know while you're at it?"

"Yes," he replied, dropping his hand back to her tattoo. "Two questions. One: How did you get involved with the Fujiwaras?"

"When I was a teenager, I was your typical one. I was angry and rebellious, and even more determined to drive a wedge between my foster parents and I. That's when I started street dancing. I'd already received formal training in classical dance, ballroom and Latin, but when I saw some kids dancing on the street, I couldn't resist plus it really pissed my dance teacher off," she added with an impish grin, making Sherlock laugh. "Running away to clubs and things was just another way to rebel, until I met Riki. He used to bet on me in dance battles and things, but then it started to get dangerous. He tried to rope me into selling drugs, and tried to come onto me but by then I was getting ready to go to Oxford. I just disappeared, especially as no one knew my real name and I had always made sure Riki learnt not to set men tailing me. Your second question?"

"Two: the triquetra on your back?"

"Just a whim," she shrugged. "I got very drunk in university. I guess I liked the idea of three people, united as one."

Sherlock considered that as Irene subsided back into his arms, using his chest as a pillow, his brow puckered slightly.

"Come and work with me and John," he abruptly said, prompting Irene to look up at him in shock. "I mean it. It makes sense, especially with our new…relationship."

Irene's face turned calculating, then she smirked as she raised herself up on her hands and knees, over him, and jut brushed her lips over his.

"What new relationship? I could just walk out that door and pretend like this never happened…" she trailed off, as Sherlock growled and flipped her over onto her back, pinning her hands to the mattress.

"You couldn't pretend, not now," he growled against her lips, feeling his body stir again.

"Says who?" she asked archly, one brow rising arrogantly. Resisting the urge to kiss that smug grin off her face, Sherlock returned it with one of his own, a hint of the predator in him beginning to bleed through, making her shiver.

"Your pulse says otherwise," he murmured, turning her wrist so she could see where his fingers were clamped over her pulse, which was skyrocketing, damn him!

"You're the cockiest consulting detective in the world, for sure," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Go on, what else tells you I couldn't pretend?"

"Well that reflexive shiver a minute ago," he replied softly, very carefully pressing his hips to hers, making her shiver again. "And that one. The fact that your pupils are dilated, your skin flushed and dewed, your breathing has quickened and this of course…"

He trailed his fingers down her body, until she shuddered and arched, despite still glaring up at him.

"All that points to my desiring you now, not whether I could pretend I don't once out of this room," she breathed cockily, provocatively as Sherlock teased and explored her.

Then he'd just have to make sure she never left this room.

"You're not running away that easily, Irene Adler. Not anymore," he growled, lowering his lips to her.

They met greedily, already needing another fix of each other, their shared obsession now an addiction as well. Irene threaded her fingers into Sherlock's mussed, raven hair, pulling him down to her, craving the feel of his body against hers as their tongues duelled urgently.

In truth both knew they couldn't pretend anymore. They'd crossed the line long ago, and neither wanted to go back.

And maybe, just maybe Irene could finally stop running. What was the point with the world's only consulting detective there to catch you?