Here it is, my first smut ever. I hope it makes sense and it somehow stays in character. This is the chapter I am more anxious about, so any comment is welcomed to help me develop these characters further.

It is also my most descriptive chapter yet. I am not sure how it would have turned out.

Important NOTE: if you don´t feel comfortable with smut, the safe parts of the story are up until the first line break, and from the last line break till the end.

Disclaimer: All the characters displayed in this fic are property of their respective creators, JK Rowling (Harry Potter), Moffat and Gatiss (BBC Sherlock), and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Sherlock Holmes).

Chapter 14: The Sign of Three, Act II: Climax

"Who leaves a wedding early?"

Sherlock turned around, seeing Hermione closing her thin coat around her, with a cigarette hanging between her fingers. He looked at her, in silence. Without leaving her place, she silently offered him the cigarette, stretching her arm. Sherlock retraced his steps on the gravel path, and took it, inhaling his first drag.

"May I ask why?"

Sherlock let the smoke out slowly, his head tilted back mere an inch, his eyes on her, the ambers reflecting on his face. From inside she could hear the music, the lights illuminating the bushes underneath the windows and barely reaching their secluded corner. She brushed his fingers, coming for her nicotine dose. His eyes involuntarily watched as her rouge lips touched the same spot his had been on seconds ago.

"Weddings are not really my thing"

"Oh, I see." She laughed, and a cloud of smoke twirled in between them. "You have called Mycroft, haven't you?"

"He didn't RSVP."

"Of course he didn't."

He took a drag and passed it to her again, watching the small movement of the corners of her mouth.

"What are you doing here?"

Hermione extinguished the remains of the cigarette on a stone. "I needed a bit of space. And maybe I deduced, you'd eventually need some as well."

Sherlock smirked and turned his head to the party, which was full-on. You could distinguish Molly dancing away with Tom, John and Mary still moving to their own tune.

"They don't seem to miss us."

"John and Mary will. They'll look for us and you, mister, and I, are going to be there for them."

"They might have another issue in mind right now."

"You told them, didn't you? About the baby?"

Sherlock looked at her surprised.

"I wasn't sure until today, and you everything but confirmed it. I was with Mary when she chose the wine. And she has been complaining about breast tenderness for the past four days. But of course, you do not know that."

"There is always something."

"Indeed." She started walking towards the entrance. "So, shall we get back inside and guess how many divorces would there be in the next months?"

Sherlock joined her, offering his arms. "That's hardly amusing if I cannot tell them."

"How is it that no one has punched you at this wedding yet?"

Despite his own reluctance, Sherlock had to admit he was having fun that night. Mostly because Hermione had been keeping him entertained playing deductions with him between drinks. Greg had eventually joined them, his drunk-self being incredibly spot on. It was near three in the morning when John and Mary said their goodbyes to all of them, leaving for the private jet that would let them to their honey-moon – Mycroft's wedding gift. By then, few remained dancing, and Hermione suggested they had had enough mingling for an evening. She had gone to look for Mrs Hudson and Mr Chatterjee, leaving Sherlock waiting at the door. When Hermione came back, she saw Janine discretely pocketing him a paper – her phone number, surely – when saying goodbye. She cleared her throat and Sherlock moved away from the bridesmaid, arching an eyebrow.

"Ajay left like an hour ago and Mrs Hudson made very good friends with one of John´s aunts and they both have ended the reserves of gin. I don't think we can move her without one of us ending covered in fluid." She said, scrunching her nose in disgust.

"She certainly can't hold her alcohol"

"Thank Mary for reserving some of the rooms for the guests." She looked at him. "Well, that makes you and me for the trip back, unless you want to stay as well."

Sherlock opened her coat and helped her with it. "I rather sleep in Baker Street."

After entering the car that would take them home, the atmosphere started to feel dense and loaded. Mycroft's driver was speeding through the motorway, the scarcely illuminated English landscape went by like a blur. Hermione looked away from the window.

"Are you happy you stayed?"

He gave a tiny noise of agreement.

"And you were fairly popular among the ladies." He turned his eyes, his body still flushed against the leather. "Or so it says the phone number in your pocket."

"Please" He put his index finger on his cheek while the rest of the hand was under his chin, his elbow resting on the door handle. "I wouldn't go for someone so obvious."

She snorted as if wondering if he ever would go for anyone. She could blame the blunt affirmations she was doing to the alcohol, but she was curious. She could also blame them to the frustration she felt now that she was painfully aware of how beautiful and attractive this man was and how little she could do.

"Jealous?"

"Not at all."

Sherlock turned this time to her, directly looking into her eyes. His eyes shone, maybe because of the champagne he rarely indulged on. But there was something else in them, something she could not decipher, but was making her blood boil and her insides twisting in a knot he would not take care of.

"What about you, Hermione?"

"Me?"

He hummed, telling her he was listening. She knew Sherlock understood how physical attraction worked. She knew he knew, he was not unappealing to the female – and male – population. His mind was always on duty, observing. He surely must had noticed how everyone, and her included, had been ogling him.

"Well, there was this guy. He looked dashing."

"Was it the waiter? Janine left with him."

"Please, I wouldn't go for someone so obvious."

He smirked at his words being thrown back to him. He rested his head against the back of the car, looking outside again. His hands were resting on top of his legs, tapping, distracting her. She mimicked him, but she closed her eyes, falling into a light sleep. She opened her eyes when the car halted and the rumble from the engine stopped. The driver opened her door and she walked to the sidewalk, searching for her keys inside her clutch. She heard the car dashing away and Sherlock standing behind her.

"Was it the man who wore the purple tie?"

"What?" She looked at him over her shoulder

"The man with the purple tie. He was...handsome according to the standards. Also, gay."

She laughed. "What is it to you, anyway? Jealous?"

"Not at all."

She opened the door and left it open for him, while taking off her coat and hanging it while he did the same, revealing his long pale neck to her. Sherlock had turned to her, not making a movement to get to the stairs and call it a night. He did not seem nervous, or uncomfortable. Not even curious. His head slightly cocked to his left, his gaze never leaving her, almost like if he was waiting.

Could it be?

More importantly, would she dare?

Sherlock pursed his lips, wetting them, was everything she needed to decide.

"Well, if you must know," Hermione took the few steps that separated them, her hands finding and losing his tie, her eyes fixed on his. "He was wearing a perfectly fitted suit, the spitting image of a British gentleman. I'd say from Savile Row, Gieves & Hawkes probably, the one Mycroft favours. He was tall, probably towering over everyone else. Long hands, deep voice... The centre of attention once he decided to stay."

She could feel his breathing on her face, the faint smell of tobacco and expensive whiskey in it. The slight movement of his pupils was the only cue to know he had heard her, as he stood perfectly still. She laughed lowly and focused her eyes on the first buttons of his shirt. "'Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds. What's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.' I might add, how ignorant he is when there is a woman wanting to rip his clothes off within an inch from him"

She saw how he blinked a couple of times as if his brain was trying to catch up with what it just heard. Two heartbeats after, Hermione withdraw her hand and took a step back. She had misread.

Before she could reach the stairs, a strong hand closed around her wrist.

A touch, a noise, a shiver.

She heard his step before she felt the heat radiating from him burning her back, his shirt almost brushing her exposed shoulder blades, his breath tickling her skin. He turned her around, gently, his long fingers releasing her and making their way up, barely touching her.

Arm, shoulder, neck.

The same hand slid to the back of her head, fingertips threading through her hair. She had to fight herself to stop the sigh that was stuck in her windpipes. In a different situation, she would have closed her eyes. But there was something in his that was magnetic. His lovely sea-blue eyes were nothing but a rim, their pupils wider with every second. She felt him moving closer to her, their bodies just teasing each other. He was above her, his lips millimetres apart.

She did not know who closed the small distance because ever since he had touched her she had shut down her mind and had left her limbic system take over. It was just a touch, a taste of something bigger, something better. He withdrew for a moment, inhaling deeply. His pupils seemed to cover the complete area of his irises. Somehow, they had transformed his face. He looked hungry, and just a glance at his lips was enough to trigger a storm.

Tongue, teeth, everything is fair in love and war.

His mouth on hers was now demanding, persistent. Her hands had moved to his shoulders and then buried in his hair, gently tugging, and making him grunt. His other hand had trapped her hip in a vicious grip, pressing her against him. In a split of a second, she found herself holstered against the wall, trapped by the man's body, making her buckle trying to get any kind of friction.

Oh, how wrong Mycroft, everyone, were. There was no way in hell that this man was a virgin.

She felt on fire, her magic travelling along her veins. They were devouring each other, angrily fighting for domination, separating when breathing was unavoidable, sharing gasps and low noises. His hand had travelled to her lower back, pressing her against him, feeling him hot and hard and gorgeous and fuck if she could think of anything else but undressing him. She stopped for a second and pushed Sherlock to have some distance between them, watching his dark and hooded eyes, breathing heavily. Before he could ask, she stepped out of her stilettos, grabbed the hem of her dress and started climbing the stairs. Midway, she noticed that he was not following her, so she turned her head slightly, looking at the detective. With his messy hair, the red lips, the hunger-filled stare, and the way the dress shirt and ivory waistcoat clung to his chest, the tie skewed, she thought she had never seen anything as sexy as this man.

"Aren't you coming?"

Long gone was the man that had shyly kissed her not even ten minutes ago. Hold and behold, this was Sherlock Holmes, the one and only. He was watching her as if he wanted to crack her and her secrets as if this was a wit battle and he had finally found a decent competitor. Because he knew, they were one and the same. Survivors, trapped lions that catered with death for a living, bombs ticking away. Outcasts who had found their niche.

He stood there, working on the first buttons of his shirt. He started climbing the stairs until their heads were at the same level, him a couple of steps down. He reached her hip with a tentative hand, sliding it over the curve of her waist, letting his hand wander its way up to the zipper on her dress, playing with it. She hooked her index fingers in his loop belt and brought him a step closer, making him tower above her. She could still feel his hand on her ribcage and his eyes looking down at her, but she kept her gaze on his chest. Her fingertips met the silky material of his shirt, and let them explore the plain of his abdomen, feeling the slight contraction of his muscles.

"How long has it been, Sherlock?"

His voice, hoarse and deep, went straight to Hermione's core. "Long enough."

She should not be doing this. This was not sex anymore. She certainly doubted if it would have been just that at some point. In her mind, this would have been a quick relief of tension, because damn if the man did not have that stupid self-sufficient grin that she wanted to fuck away of his face. But this, the intimacy, the light touches and looks and confessions…

"Are you... having second thoughts about this?"

He voiced the same concerns that were swimming in her head. But she wanted this, she wanted him. And she had never wanted anything with such a passion in all her life. Tomorrow he will be back to his automat self, and she will probably berate herself for having been such a fool. But heavens above, she wanted him.

Her voice was lost somewhere between the overwhelming lust and fear. She let her right hand slide over his neck, thumb brushing over his lips, convening everything she wanted to say, without words. He smirked, that Sherlock trademarked smirk that made everything felt right. Despite how out of character this might feel, he was still him.

His mouth crashed down her lips, setting a brutal pace. Neither of them were being cautious anymore, the small hall filled with the small moans that were drowned in the other's lips. She did not even realize that she had let go of her heels and that her hands had flown to his trousers, tugging his shirt out of them. His hands had travelled down her thighs, where he, with agonizingly slow movements, started to raise the skirt of the dress. He lifted her then, guiding her legs around his hips. His palms went up her thighs, revelling in their smoothness until arriving at the soft curve of her butt, finding no impediment in the form of underwear. He let a pained growled and move his mouth to her neck, where he bit in the point under her ear. Hermione whimpered and made an involuntary movement of her hips, that were dangerously close to his now throbbing erection. He climbed the few steps that were left to the upstairs hall, feeling how her hands started unbuttoning his waistcoat.

Entering the kitchen, he closed the door by pushing them both to it, Hermione's back first. Her wine nails that had been busy with his buttons where now scrapping the skin available, leaving red angry marks all the way from his pectorals to the band of his trousers, only to gain her a nip in her lips. He spun around and dropped her unceremoniously on the table they had fought so long and hard about. He slowed down his kisses, until they were just mere touches, while he shrugged off the shirt and tie, while her hands caressed the shoulders that were left uncovered. She marvelled at the lean body beneath the clothes, all hard planes and taut muscles. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked the magnificent view he had. Hermione, that had just opened her eyes, was flushed everywhere, her skin glowing from the thin layer of sweat that was starting to cover them. Her dress gathered around her tights.

Sherlock knew he could just rip off his clothes and have her there, on the table, making her moan in the way he would get addicted to. Because he will get addicted to them, to her. Mycroft was right, he did have an addictive personality. And he loved to get addicted to dangerous things: cocaine, morphine, heroin, MI-7 agents with magical powers. He brushed her hair over her shoulder, seeing how she let her eyelids fall shut and gave a small sigh, content. His hand went down her left arm, lingering on the spot in her forearm he knew should not be unscarred.

"It's hideous, Sherlock." She muttered, opening her eyes.

"I have hundreds."

"Yours healed"

"So?"

She looked at him, and he felt it: the sudden change in the environment, the rush of energy that emanated from her, and the pads of his fingers where touching ragged skin where before there was nothing. The magic around him, although he could not describe it, left him dizzy, like if it was playing on top of his skin. It was electrifying, it was powerful, and it was her. He let himself fall to his knees, his lips travelling along her arm, his hands on her knees, playing with the bunch of fabric that was there.

Whatever she might have been thinking about her scars slipped through the cracks of her mind when she saw him there, on his knees and between hers, with his strong hands just centimetres away from her centre. She had to strain herself from moving her hips forward, but he seemed to have caught her intentions because he started drawing the skirt further up, slowly. Without removing his eyes from hers, his teeth grazed the inner thigh, which drew a long moan from the woman. At the same time, he let one of his hands slip underneath the fabric, tracing a path from the knee to end in the thin mat in the apex of her thighs. She closed her eyes, the soft noises hitching an octave higher while she could not suppress a thrust this time. She looked down at him when she felt the lack of his lips, and he had closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and fast.

"Sherlock…"

All his resolve seemed to disappear when his name came out her lips. His hands gripped the skirt and pushed it up to her waist. Before she could protest, he grabbed the back of her knees and scooped her over the edge of the table, opening her for him. The soft pink of her, surrounded by a thin mat of brown hair, was glistening. The scent was maddening, and without thinking he sank on her, tasting. He planted small kisses, trying, experimenting, taking mental notes. Grazing her clitoris with his teeth made her quiver. A long stroke with the tongue meant moans. Quick ones made her tug his hair. His licks and nips were faster, trying to commit to memory all those sounds and smells for the future. He brought one finger under his mouth and slowly, inserted in her, making her gasp.

"Fuck Sherlock. Faster"

He smiled against her, feeling how her hips pistoned to get more friction with him. He added another finger and started moving, caressing. Her moans got louder, and Sherlock added another finger, stretching her as a preparation of what was about to come. Her walls started contracting, gripping his fingers with sheer force. She felt the rumble of his moan around her, as he incremented the speed of his fingers. Hermione was moving faster and faster, the crest of her pelvic bones digging into the table, probably leaving bruises. She could not care less. The world had reduced to a table and the man between her legs driving her insane. With one strong bite from him, she knew she was done for. Her mouth open in a silent cry, while she felt the few slow contractions before one of the most powerful orgasms she had experienced.

He did not stop, though.

He continued, pushing her to climb again the mountain she had just fall from. She could feel it. It was there, building at a pace that was going to leave her useless. Not even a minute after her first orgasm the second came crashing with a force that made her collapse on the table, he sweaty skin thanking the contact with the cool surface. She felt his fingers coming off her and she opened her eyes to see Sherlock standing up in all his glory. He offered her a hand that she took and straighten herself. She looked at his eyes, breathing heavily, wetting her lips. He went down and kissed her, making her moan to her own taste. He lifted her as if she were a bride, and carried to his old room, leaving her on the floor.

He took his time travelling down her neck, while his hand unzipped her dress letting it puddle on the floor. Taking a couple of steps back, Sherlock looked at her, naked. She was really a marvellous human being. Her hands went to her hair, letting the bobby pins of her braid fall to the ground. Her breast tensed at the movement, and he could not do anything else but admire. Her shapely legs, the small tattoos on her body, the small curve around her belly probably due to Mrs Hudson's cooking. He had never been a holy man, he had never believed in anything but crude facts and biology. But seeing how her white skin almost shone under the moonlight, how her curly hair cascaded around her shoulders, he thought that maybe she was becoming the sole thing he would ever believe in. She approached him and started kissing his neck while her hand fell to the trousers, pushing them down, together with his pants, while he merely threw his head back to make room for her, his hands touching everywhere he could. He hissed at the feel of hair on him. He clumsily tried to kick his shoes, earning him a very heartily laugh from her, and despite the ridiculous of the situation, he smiled. He reached down and kissed her, still feeling his smile and hers together. But with another step their naked bodies touched for the first time and the smiles were substituted by sharps intakes of breath and pained moan, turning the kiss in a frantic fight. Because this was it, this was the last straw. His hand pushing her flat against him, his tip pressing hot in her stomach, chest against chest, sweat mingling together. He pushed them both to the bed, falling into a mess of limbs and wandering hands. Instinctively, she fastened her legs around his torso, and he felt the wetness, the heat.

Right then, the world became a bed.

She moved her hips, the friction letting him enter her an inch, and he stooped kissing her because the overstimulation was killing him. She gave an open-mouthed kiss to his neck while she pushed him a bit deeper, and he continued until he was seated inside of her. He started counting the commuting possibilities from Brighton to Edinburgh to stop himself from coming there and then. He was awfully aware of being surrounded by her, within her, with her legs on his hips, her hands on his back, and her lips on his neck. His senses were overloading, his ever-working brain trying to focus on everything at the same time. She tried to star moving, but he stopped her with one of his hands on her hips, his stare a mixture of pain and pleasure, his voice low and warning.

"Don't move."

Her nails dug into the skin of his back and he moaned. He started then, withdrawing completely before entering again, earning him one of those torturing groans. Hermione threw her head back with the second thrust, and Sherlock seized the opportunity to drag his lips from the hollow of her throat to the shell of her ear. She felt every slow and strong thrust filling her, her head heady with his scent.

"Do you have any idea of what you do to me?" His hips went faster with every word he muttered. "How difficult it is for me to think when you are around? To work when you are working with me." His voice had always had this effect on her, but hearing it, just for her, with the darker edge of someone about to lose control, was the most erotic things she could imagine. She moaned loudly when the first cues of her orgasm started, and Sherlock replied with one of his own. "Fuck…"

She opened her eyes and saw Sherlock's furrowed brow, sweat sliding from his hairline. He was so transparent when vulnerable. He was fighting himself to not to disappoint her, and she has started to think that was his normal stance. She bit his neck and in the moment of weakness it provoked, she managed to turn them both around. He looked at her, and she stopped for a second, just admiring him from this position. With him now under her mercy, the Sherlock Holmes about to become a mess under her, to lose all those masks of indifference and superiority… She had never felt so powerful. Without leaving his eyes, she waved her hips tentatively, and Sherlock moaned closing his eyes. She felt his hands on her, urging her to move quicker. She ran her hands over his abs and using them to support her, while Sherlock's digits and nails dug on the end of her back.

Nothing he had ever tasted had left him with the mind as blank as this. All he could think was her, and all he could feel were the spams that were threatening to tip him over the edge. Her movements now sharp and precise, purposeful. He felt her hair cascade around him, her lips ghosting above his.

"Come for me, Mr Holmes."

He felt his body tensing and his eyes going to the back of his head as he let himself drown in his own orgasm. She kissed along his neck, letting him come undone, while still lazily rocking her hips. His hands made their way up from her spine, milking the aftershocks. They looked at each other, and she let herself fall beside him, gazing the ceiling, but with one of the hand outstretched in between them. Giving him space to decide whether he wanted to stay or not. He looked at her, and decided in a split of a second

Sherlock was awake.

However, his mind was uncharacteristically quiet.

One hand was at the back of his head, cushioning under his mat of hair. The other was secured over Hermione's bare shoulder, relishing on the velvety tact of her skin. Her naked form was tucked to his left side, legs intertwined with his and right arm thrown over his torso.

He felt the anxiety creeping over him, threatening to suffocate him.

They had to talk.

Sherlock knew he was not good at people in general. But he did not know what to make of this, whatever this had been. The last time he had slept with someone, Irene had been gone before they had caught their breaths. They absolutely did not trust each other, and he would not have fallen sleep with her.

But Hermione had just put her head on his chest, without a care in the world. And he did not know what to do with such a trust. Because he would fail her. He always ended up failing everyone. He had lied to the one person that had appreciated him with all his flaws. He had been incapable of having a normal relationship with his family. He had gone to stupid lengths for a case, for escaping boredom. How could he not fail something with so many social constructs and unwritten rules as a romantic relationship?

He would betray her trust. She would hate him.

And he preferred not to see that.

So… Let's bet. What do you think happens in the next chapter?

Next: His Last Vow Act I. It will probably take a while for me to publish because HLV and season 4 are very intertwined (and let's be honest, understanding Mycroft is very difficult). I'll strive to publish it before the end of the month, at least the first chapter.

Beth