They rode together in the back of a black cab. Neither spoke. Instead they sat looking out at the dark streets through streams of rain against the window. The cab stopped on Baker Street. Margaux climbed out. Sherlock leaned forward and handed the driver money before climbing out after her. They stood together outside 221B; Sherlock took off his long grey coat and draped it over Margaux's bare shoulders. He walked up to the door, she followed.

III

Inside the flat was warm and Mrs Hudson had vacuumed, Sherlock could tell. He wondered if John was back yet. Probably not. He seemed to hit it off with one of the guests at the museum; yet another woman to add to the list of girlfriends Sherlock couldn't quite remember the names of. He removed his scarf and loosened his bow tie before walking to his desk and closing the pages of research that he no longer needed.

"Well, thank you," said Margaux, catching Sherlock's attention as he wandered around the flat. She took his coat off and lay it gently on the couch.

"What for?" he asked.

"Well where to start? Thank you for… letting me stay here tonight with you and John. Thank you for… lending me your coat. Thank you for… Quite literally saving my life on that balcony."

"Saving your life? I was saving my own, you just so happened to be the first thing I grabbed on the way down."

"It's okay to admit that you care," Margaux laughed. "You're not losing any points for caring."

Sherlock paused. He shut his laptop and looked up at Margaux. "I saved you because that's what I do."

She sighed and stepped towards him, "You didn't just save me, Sherlock. You threw yourself in front of me like a bloody shield. Why can't you just admit that you're not completely made out of stone?"

"You're trying to create something that isn't there, Margaux."

"Attraction is human."

"Attraction is stupid. Weak. A waste of time–"

"I'm not stupid. Weak, maybe."

"Why would you be so eager to call yourself weak?" His eyes burned through her as he tried to figure her out.

Margaux laughed in disbelief. She didn't think she could be any more transparent. "Because for some reason my heart beats in my bloody throat every time you look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like this, right now," she began. "This face, these eyes, the way you're looking at me right this second…"

"I'm simply looking at you." Sherlock stood up and walked across the room into the kitchen. "It would be rude to not look at the person you're talking to."

"But see you're not denying it. Because you can't deny it." She followed him slowly.

"What do you want from me, Margaux?" Sherlock turned around quickly, startling Margaux who was right behind him. "Do you want me to tell you you're different? That I've fallen in love with you and that I just can't bare not being next to you?" He stepped closer to her and cupped her face in his hands, his voice deep and slow as he spoke. He walked her backwards to the kitchen table, lifting her onto it and pressing his body between her legs. He grasped her hair in his fists. "Do you want me to kiss you?" His lips were close enough to touch hers. "Undress you? Take you right here on this table? Because I could."

There was silence. Margaux's breath quivered.

"Because I'm brilliant at pretending to feel," Sherlock finished. He stepped away, leaving her breathless.

Margaux gulped, bringing herself back to reality. "Of course, how could I forget, you're a "sociopath". And I suppose the fact that your pupils dilated just now when we were face to face, and the fact that your pulse sped up… that's all just a sociopath mastering the art of involuntary biological reactions? Which is physically impossible to do by the way."

Sherlock walked around the table and sat in a dining chair. Margaux swivelled around to face him, still sitting on the table.

"Do you know what I think?" she said.

"Of course, I know what everyone thinks," Sherlock countered.

"I think you've gone your entire life feeling nothing. I think feeling nothing has made you the brilliant mind that you are today. I think you felt nothing for so long that you assumed it was because you couldn't feel. But you can. You just don't want to. And I think you hate the fact that I make you feel something."

"I think you're lonely," Sherlock deflected quickly. He stood up and put his hands on the table, leaning in to Margaux's face. "Judging by the stick-and-poke tattoo on the inside of your upper arm and the subconcious distain in your face whenever family is mentioned, I'd say you were emancipated from your parents at sixteen, no, fifteen wasn't it? So you've worked and fought for everything you have, so much so that nothing you want is ever the easy option."

"Who says I want you?" said Margaux.

"You do. Right now. It's written all over your face, it's in your body language…"

"How is it you can sense that in me, but not in yourself?"

"Because I don't–"

"Shut up."

"Love, attraction, romance… it's all futile. It's messy, it just clouds your thinking." Sherlock continued.

"How would you know?"

"I know everything."

"No you don't."

There was a long, intense silence as Sherlock and Margaux stared at each other, and while his hands remained planted on the dining table, she turned her back to him. But he couldn't take his eyes off her. She was so frustrating. How dare she make him confront his feeling when he was so comfortable supressing them.

After a long bout of silence, Sherlock walked around the table, bringing himself face to face with Margaux again. His glances darted between her eyes and her lips as he slowly and tentatively leant in to kiss her. Margaux's hands gripped the edge of the table she was sitting on. She kissed him back, sensing his nerves, allowing him to lead.

He pulled away, his eyes remaining closed as he whispered against Margaux's lips. "That was just, it's just an experiment. Just to… Just to see…"

"Of course. Just an experiment," Margaux whispered back.

Sherlock kissed her again. This time, Margaux couldn't help but weave her fingers into his hair. He cupped her face with his hands in response and pulled his body closer to hers. Without warning, Sherlock lifted Margaux with such ease it was as if she were a doll. They continued to kiss as he carried her to his bedroom.

III

She pushed off his tuxedo jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He wrapped his hands around her waist and unzipped the back of her dress. He threw her onto his bed and climbed on after her, the pair continuing to kiss as they shuffled up to the headboard. He knelt up to unbutton his trousers and head-butted the shelf above the bed. She burst into laughter. He laughed too, lying back down as she rolled on top of him.

"Is all of this still part of the experiment?" Margaux asked breathlessly.

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he tucked a piece of fallen hair back behind her ear. He wanted to see her face. She was beautiful. He kissed her again. What was he doing? He didn't care.

III

John fumbled with the lock. He pushed the door open and stepped into a familiar scene; Sherlock wrapped in his dressing gown, drinking a cup of tea in his armchair.

"You stink of lager and shame," said Sherlock from behind his newspaper.

"She was… interesting," said John as he threw himself in the chair opposite, covering his tired eyes with his arm.

"You'll not be seeing her again, she thought you were too short."

"How do you…!? Forget it, I don't want to know. I'm just glad that's over," said John as he stood up and began rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. "Any painkillers? My head is killing me."

"There should be some in my nightstand," Sherlock called as he continued reading the paper.

John nodded and made his way to Sherlock's bedroom.

The morning sun seeped through the dark curtains, casting a warm, dim light into the bedroom. John opened the door and stepped over to Sherlock's nightstand. He slid open the drawer and looked inside. A shuffling sound startled John for a moment. He looked up to see Margaux sleeping in Sherlock's bed. Her hair was strewn messily across the pillow and the makeup around her eyes had smudged from sleep. John covered his mouth, closed the drawer and quickly left the room.

"Did you get the painkillers?" asked Sherlock as John walked back into the living room.

"Painkillers? Painkillers!? When exactly were you going to mention that there's a naked woman in your bed?" John shouted.

Sherlock looked up at John. He slowly and calmly closed his newspaper, folded it and placed it on the table. He took a sip of tea. "Ah yes, Margaux… spent the night."

John let out a laugh. "Spent the night."

"Yes. She was shaken after the incident at the museum."

"And you… comforted her?"

"Don't be vulgar, John."

John sat opposite him again. "Right, so… you slept on the couch?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "If you have a question, John, just ask it. This is tiring–"

"Did you sleep with her?"

"Yes."

"Really?" As much as he wanted to know, John wasn't quite ready for the answer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Yes."

"Well… Well what does this mean?" John found himself growing excited. "Do you like her? I mean, is she…"

"Oh for god's sake, where did I put my gun?"

"Why?"

"So I can shoot myself."

"Oh, Sherlock come on! This is brilliant. In all the time I've known you, I thought you were… I don't know what I thought you were. But this is… Oh I'm so happy for you."

"Oh, hi John," said Margaux as she stepped into the living room.

"And this is why I don't do emotion," Sherlock said to Margaux. "It's abhorrent."

Margaux looked down at John who was still grinning. She had pulled on a t-shirt from Sherlock's dresser. Sherlock stood up and left the room.

Margaux sat in Sherlock's armchair. "Don't expect much from him, John," she began. "I'm not."