Heat rises, and Sherlock falls.


AN: Eeep. Okay, here's the thing you guys. Some of you may have noticed the rating has changed, and some of you might be worried. Honestly this chapter is one of the reasons it's been taking me forever to get through this installment. I wanted to make sure I was a tasteful as possible, because I've said before I am really not a smut writer. But I changed the rating just in case for everybody's discretion. I hope you like it, and yes it is a bit angsty, but I promise these two will get their shit together soon. (And so will I lol)

So without further ado...

xxHoney


Jane's phone rings, and with a heavy sigh, she answers it.

"Mycroft."

"He's on his way. Did you find anything?"

"No. Did he take the cigarette?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Shit."

"There's nothing in the bedroom," Mrs. Hudson confirms entering the kitchen where Jane is leaning against the table.

"Are you sure tonight's a 'danger night?'" she asks.

"No, but then again I never am. You have to stay with him, Jane."

"Funny, that's not the tune you've been singing lately," she says bitterly. It's frustrating because she doesn't know what transpired between the brothers aside from a vague text and worrisome code phrase, however there is a very good chance it was Mycroft that upset him more than anything else. Which just makes her job loads easier.

"Stay with him," he repeats tersely, before ringing off.

"Mycroft…?" She is greeted with silence, and with an irritated huff, she slams her phone down onto the table. She runs her hands through her tangled hair and tries not to scream in frustration.

"Anything I can do?"

Startled she whips around where Stephen is hovering in the door way. "Oh, Stephen, god I'm sorry," she says chagrined she forgot he was still here.

He gives her a rueful grin, adjusting his glasses. "Nothing to be sorry about. Can't say I've ever been to a Christmas party quite like this one."

"Er…yeah. Again, sorry."

"Don't be," he says rubbing the back of his neck. "I appreciate it though. What you were trying to do." At this he looks at her shrewdly, and she bites her lip.

"Caught that did you?" she asks, and he laughs shaking his head.

"You clearly told me the wrong time for the party. It was a bit obvious when I showed up exactly when she did," he teases.

"Hey, I'm not going to apologize for that. I think you and Molly would be smashing together. I knew she was working, and hated the idea of her feeling awkward the whole night for showing up late. You would have never seen her relaxed and loose otherwise. Well…not without a few Peppermint Schnapps in her," Jane says, then pinches her lips together when she realises she's rambling.

"Well. Thank you all the same," Stephen says, inclining his head like the gracious gentleman that his is. He shakes out his jacket and slips it on.

"Wait, are you —? You are going to call her, right?" Jane says, seeing him to the door.

He slowly pulls on his gloves, a thoughtful expression on his kind face. "It's a nice thought, but…" he looks up at her, "I've learned early on not to compete with Sherlock Holmes."

"Stephen…" she says, but he quiets her with a kiss to her cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Jane," he says, and heads down the creaky stairs. Jane touches her fingertips to her cheek.

"Merry Christmas," she says softly to the empty flat. Or almost empty.

"Oh, that kind boy forgot to take some afters with him," Mrs. Hudson tsks, holding a plate covered in tin foil. She huffs a sad sigh. "Ah well. Hopefully he's buttoned up; it's snowing like the dickens out there."

"Yeah," she agrees, knowing they are both talking about someone else.

"He'll be all right, I'm sure of it," Mrs. Hudson says giving her hand a sympathetic squeeze. Jane smiles, and gives her landlady a fervent hug. She helps her carry down her roaster, and stays for the obligatory cup of tea, all the while listening with half an ear for the front door while Mrs. Hudson chatters about nothing at all. When it's apparent she's lingered long enough, she bids her goodnight, and makes the reluctant trek up to an empty flat.

She looks around the sitting room, a despondent feeling settling around her like a cloak, every ounce of cheer from earlier vanishing at the sight of the lonely tableau before her. The wind howls balefully through the panes causing the glass to wail and rattle, and it is still too quiet.

"Wine," she says with a nod, and heads in the direction of the kitchen.

She's on her second glass, when a thunderous bang makes her jump sky high. She drops the glass with a crash and runs out into the sitting room where the windows have blown inward in the gale.

The fairy lights are hanging by their last measly thumbtack, lashing back and forth in a tangled whip, and Sherlock's music stand has toppled over, sheet music billowing around the room in one beautiful moment of absolute chaos. She can do nothing but stare at the literal manifestation of the swirling mess inside of her, reveling in the stinging cold biting her cheeks before she springs into action, heaving one of the windows closed with a yell.

When she reaches for the other one, however, her hand slips causing the metal window latch to tear into her palm. She curses, clutching her arm to her chest, shivering in the frosty air.

With one hand she takes hold of the window and heaves it closed, but before she can try and get the other side, it's already being secured shut by a dark figure in a long coat.

"Sherlock?" she says, dizzy from the wind, her eyes straining to see him in the dimness.

"Christ," he mutters, facing her. He smells like the city — that sharp smell of cigarette smoke and London winter. It makes her heart pound, and she hisses in pain when her palm starts to throb. "Why is there blood on the window?" He grips her elbow, and she's embarrassed to find that her knees turn a little wobbly at his touch.

God, it's been so long since she felt like she could just lean into him and —

"Jane?" Sherlock says, gripping her more firmly as she teeters.

She shakes her head, berating herself for being ridiculous. "Wine," she mumbles to herself, straightening. Then in a voice she hopes is steady: "Power must have gone out."

Sherlock makes a noise of agreement in the back of his throat. He hesitates for a second before pulling her over to his armchair, making her sit. Feeling a little foolish, she just sits there, dazed, while he rummages around for a torch and something to start the fire up again. Soon, he has the flames crackling brightly in the grate, and the sitting room is illuminated in soft orange light.

Her eyes rove over the side of his face, his intense concentration bent to the task of banking the fire. He looks much too pale, even in this light.

"Where did you go?" she asks, and he stiffens.

"Morgue," he says brusquely, reaching for something at the foot of the armchair — a small first aid kit, one of many they have scattered around the flat for occasions such as these.

"That was four hours ago," she says, letting him look at her hand. "Where have you been?"

"Walking," he says, jaw clenching.

"In the storm?"

"Well I had to give you lot time to search my stuff, didn't I?" he snaps, eyes flashing. She refuses to feel guilty.

"I was worried. Mycroft called, can you blame me?" she volleys. He scowls, but doesn't answer, and instead tends to the cut on her palm. She suffers the disinfectant in stoic silence. She can't explain it, but she's suddenly annoyed with the whole thing. "So what was so important that his Royal Wideness needed you to come down to the morgue? Not to mention dragging Molly out with you, which was incredibly inconsiderate by the way."

Sherlock doesn't look up, but he pauses for a second. "There was a body that needed to be identified," he says in an odd muted tone. He continues to unwrap a plaster, pressing it to her skin.

"Obviously," she snorts, but still he doesn't meet her eyes. He smoothes his fingers over the bandage, a methodic brush back and forth. "So are you going to tell me what this was all about, then?"

The brushing stops, the pads of his fingers resting on the delicate skin of her wrist. "Irene Adler," he says.

"W…Adler? What does she have to do with anything?" Jane says, confused. She was supposed to be long gone off in Normandy or something.

He looks up at her then, blinking hard a few times before his eyes glaze over somewhat. "It was her. Her body."

"What?" Jane says, horrified. Sherlock closes his eyes.

"Don't make me say it again," he says, fingers tightening around her wrist. "Please."

Jane's heart clenches, and she suddenly feels so helpless. Is there anything she can even say at this point? "Oh, Sherlock…"

"She – she left me her phone. Her insurance policy," he scoffs, a sharp jagged sound. "I just…why didn't she come to me sooner, Jane? God." He looks up at her, finally, his eyes shrouded by the devastation written across his face. She cups his cheek, and he releases a harsh laugh, hand flying up to cover hers. "God," he repeats, breath coming faster and faster.

"Shh, love. Breathe," she says, cradling his face in both hands now. He devolves into hyperventilating, and she urges him to his feet. He clings to her, and she helps him into the kitchen where he leans raggedly against the counter, hand frantically clawing at his coat and scarf. "Shh," she says again, helping him out of his constricting clothes. In the dim light from the sitting room, she locates a flannel and runs it under the cool water. She folds it and places it on the nape of his neck, other hand back to caressing his cheek.

He grips her desperately, one hand fisted in the back of her shirt, and the other back around her wrist. "Jane," he croaks.

"I'm here," she murmurs. "Just breathe, Sherlock." He nods, gulping in huge draughts of air.

"I d-don't know why this is h-happening," he grits out, a dry sob getting caught in between panicked bursts of air.

Jane sighs, turning the flannel to the cool side. He shudders visibly, closing his eyes. "It's because…you care for her, Sherlock."

"I — I —"

"It's okay. You get that right? It's okay that you love…loved her," Jane says voice hitching over the truth of the words. She lets the pain in only for a moment. It's all she'll allow herself.

Sherlock gasps, suddenly crushing her to himself in a fervid embrace. "Jane."

She drops the flannel, arms wrapping around him, fingers tangling in his hair when he buries his face in her neck.

"Tell me what to do, Sherlock," Jane says, looking toward the ceiling for answers she doesn't have. He shakes his head against her, and she swallows roughly. The pain is so visceral, she can feel it pouring off of him in droves, and she would give anything, anything to fix it. She grasps his hair pulling his head up so he can focus on her words. "Tell me what you need."

-oOo-

Jane's fingers curled snug against his scalp (sharp, cool, soft, calloused) stop the twisting feeling in his lungs, and he moans as bright spots of light streak across his vision. His head pounds briefly from lack of oxygen, the sensation of breathing almost too much. He lets himself be locked in her solid grip, relishing the unyielding tension preventing him from shaking apart. He reaches up with one hand, and covers her own, encouraging her to grip tighter and tighter and — oh that is a sensation, isn't it?

Finally, his diaphragm no longer seems to be working against him, and his breathing finds its rhythm.

"What do you need?" Jane whispers again, her expression earnest, her eyes so clear he's reminded of the rock pools he visited in Cornwall when he was a child — transparent and still like glass and so full of teeming life and colour. Incandescent. Instead of answering, he crushes his lips to hers.

She stiffens in shock, and Sherlock tries to pull away, he really does, but the feel of her soft lips, and compact body against his is what he's been utterly craving for so long.

Jane resists for a second more before she all but melts against him, going soft all over. He cups the pliant arch of her beautiful neck, fingertips curling around the downy hairs at her nape causing her to gasp when he tugs lightly. It's a delightful sound, one that he wants to drink in like rain in the desert — the humid smell of petrichor filling his lungs and clinging to his skin.

He wants to devour her.

Without breaking the kiss, he spins her around and lifts her up onto the counter. She makes a noise of surprise that he catches in his mouth, his hands roving atop her thighs to her waist, and then back again.

"Sherlock," she whispers against his lips, blunt nails digging into his shoulders. He growls low in his throat, and she shivers.

He gets his hands under her jumper, and she helps him pull off the thick material. The tee shirt underneath is already damp at the small of her back, the heat from the fire warming their small flat rather thoroughly. He presses his nose to the light sheen of sweat at the hollow of her throat and inhales the scent of her at its most concentrated. He can't help himself from lipping at her collar bone, tasting tentatively. She murmurs softly, wrapping her legs around his waist, and suddenly they aren't nearly close enough. He gathers her to him, scooping her up, and in silent agreement they make their way to his bedroom, kissing all the while.

He sets her down, pressing her into the wall beside his door, his hand tangling in her soft hair. She fumbles with the buttons of his shirt in the dark, huffing when Sherlock does little to help her. He's completely unrepentant, however, preoccupied as he is with the soft spot behind her ear. Her scent is even stronger here, and it is a heady combination of her rosemary mint shampoo with a hint of that maddening apple blossom. He doesn't know if he shivers due to her intoxicating presence, or due to the fact he is now sans shirt in the chill air of his room. He inhales sharply when she runs her warm hands over his chest, and he pulls away, blinking owlishly at her.

In an unspoken question he fingers the hem of her tee shirt, brushing the smooth skin of her belly which makes her tremble. She takes his hands and leads him to the bed where he sits on the edge.

Jane draws back with a kiss to his lips and cheek, and stands straight and striking in the slant of moonlight through the window. Her lambent eyes smoulder into his as she slips her thumbs into the waistband of her jeans, unfastening the button. He watches her intently, tracing the bend of her spine as she lowers them to the floor and steps out of them. She smiles self-consciously, hesitating a moment before lifting her shirt over her head.

Her right hand immediately comes up to cover her left shoulder, fiddling nervously with the strap of black lace against her collar bone. At the sight of her insecurity, Sherlock can't not go to her.

He surges up from the bed, cupping her face and touching their foreheads together. Jane shudders out a breath, and he gently takes her hand lowering it from the pucker of skin that makes up her scar. He replaces her fingers with his, tracing the starburst edge in awe. She sucks in a breath, her brow furrowing.

"You…" Sherlock says, but words fail him at the sight and feel of her. She breathes in steadily through her nose, reaching for the clasp behind her. Another layer falls away like a rose petal, and he almost can't breathe from how beautiful she is. He enfolds her tenderly in his arms, reveling in the feel of her wonderfully fragrant skin against his.

"Sherlock. Love," Jane whispers, trembling under the onslaught of his exploration as he tastes the place where the bullet pierced her. He clutches at her waist, feeling another ridge of scarring from her rib across to her hip, but before he can deduce the particulars Jane rakes her fingernails down his spine causing something in him to snap.

He pulls her flush to his body, and their kisses grow frenzied with tongues and teeth, and Sherlock can't seem to make up his mind whether he wants to continue kissing her mouth, or other parts of her tempting skin.

Somehow they end up tangled on the bed, fingers roaming, legs twining around each other.

Somehow the rest of their clothes are removed as they unwrap each other with eager impatience.

Somehow words cease to have meaning, the only language that matters is that in grasping hands and wayward kisses.

Ebb and flow. Rise and fall. Push and pull, give and take, take, take.

Hot breath, damp skin, the taste of salt, and more.

He wants to subsume her and everything she has. Everything she is.

He wants to be her air, her marrow, the delicate sweat between her breasts, the eyelash on her cheek.

He wants to lay devastation to her, leave nothing left.

…Because he is — and always has been — hollow.

And when they lay replete, gasping for breath and aching from the pouring out of one another, it is still not enough for him.

He still must entangle their limbs, and fuse their heartbeats. Cage them together even as she falls gently into sleep. Fight his own weariness because he knows the garishness of day will come, shedding its stark light on him. On his freakish emptiness.

In the morning Jane will see this — him — and she will recoil. And when she does, she will leave eventually, there is no question. Everyone always has.

Bitter regret threatens to choke him, and fear keeps his eyes rigidly open, his heart hammering against Jane's back so hard he's afraid he'll wake her.

He doesn't sleep.

He doesn't let go of her for a long, long time.


Since this is new territory for me, (relatively) comments on this chapter are especially welcome!