They sat at the small intimate table near the window as the rain pattered against the glass, scattering their view of the street with droplets glittering in the candlelight. Condensation trailed down the stems of their glasses, settling in cold puddles on the sleek wooden table.

They reached for their glasses in accidental unison, neither particularly enjoying the sharp, dry taste.

"Well, this is nice," Margaux joked.

"Indeed. Nicer than where I suggested anyway."

"I don't doubt that."

Sherlock leaned back and rested his hands in his lap while Margaux found herself absentmindedly gazing at him. The glow from the candle flickered along the structure of his face, making his cheekbones more prominent, his jaw sharper, his eyes darker. She had never seen him wear a shirt in this way before; buttoned to the collar, the luxurious burgundy fabric hugging his broad chest, his arms rippling under the long sleeves.

"You're staring." His voice was dark and smoky, like a burning wick.

"Would you like me to stop?"

"I don't know, does your staring make this a more believable 'date'?"

Margaux laughed as she flicked her hair off her shoulders. She glanced around the restaurant before leaning in and speaking quietly.

"I thought talking over dinner would be less conspicuous."

"Margaux, I plead with you to never attempt a career in espionage," he said, pitying her attempt to be discreet.

"Okay fine, I wanted to discuss something with you. But first, I need to tell you something…"

"Ugh you're not pregnant, are you?" he grimaced.

"How the bloody hell could I be pregnant? I haven't had sex since…" she began to count on her fingers before giving up. "Well you know, you were there."

"I just noticed what could be a few early signs." He nodded towards her chest.

"My breasts? Sherlock this isn't because of pregnancy, I'm just wearing my good bra."

"I also identified a possible swelling in the ankles."

She looked down at her feet. "They're just my ankles."

"It seems my deductions drew the wrong conclusion. Shame. I was spot on with Mary."

"Mm," she replied, unamused. "Anyway, what I–"

"May I take your order?" A waiter interrupted.

They chose their food and ordered more drinks, giving up on the wine and opting for brandy and gin. The waiter nodded, taking their menus and hurrying away to the bar.

"You were saying…" said Sherlock.

"Yes. Erm. Well, a few months ago, I accepted a job offer…"

He raised his eyebrows, willing her to spit it out.

"From Mycroft," she finished.

"What!? Doing what?"

"If I told you I'd have to kill you?"

"You're terrible at this."

"Yes, I know. But I really can't discuss what I do in a public place. All I–"

"You're resigning," he interrupted as he sat up straight, his tone growing more irate as he continued to speak. "You're not working for him anymore. I specifically told him to never– When I see him I'm going to– And you! Why would you accept it!?"

"Sherlock, this is all beside the point. The only reason I told you this is so I can explain how I know what I know."

"What do you know?"

"I was there today, when you were talking to Mycroft…"

They glared at each other.

"Thorn74. A.G.R.A?" she finally said.

Sherlock took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring and his jaw clenching tightly. When he looked like this, it almost scared her. Like he was possessed by his own anger.

He exhaled and began to speak calmly. "You read her file?"

"Yes. All of it."

"And?"

"And nothing. My opinion of her hasn't changed." She took another sip of wine. "I've been through things in my life, done things I would never dream of doing today. Granted, I've never assassinated anyone, but my past is far from clean. I would hate to think that after all the hard work I've put in to changing, all the sacrifices I've made to become the person I am today, that my future husband could stop loving me because of the person I used to be."

"John still loves her. I understand how I may appear to have sabotaged their marriage. But I set him up to find out about her past because he needed to know. If I was going to take her case then it was imperative that he knew. He will come around."

"I know. I believe you did what you did for a reason. You know John better than anyone and I trust that you know what you're doing." She gave a sigh before leaning in slowly. "What I don't trust… is Magnussen."

The waiter brought them their starters and new drinks. Margaux took her time folding a napkin, laying it across her lap and taking a large gulp of gin and tonic. Sherlock sat like a marble statue, cold and still as he waited for her to continue.

"The man is dangerous," she finally said as she tucked into her food. "I read about him too. He uses information – life-destroying information – like some sort of insurance against people."

"Yes, I know. Now you see why I've been so focused on him."

"I do. That's why I wanted to speak to you… We need to stop him."

"Oh yes, thank you Margaux, I hadn't thought of that." He rolled his eyes and stuffed a forkful of food in his mouth.

She kicked him gently under the table. "I know you're working on it. But I want to help. We both know that he's not going to give up the information he has on Mary. Not unless you make it worth his while by trading him something more valuable." She looked around the restaurant. "So I was thinking Mycroft's–"

"Laptop. Yes, I've been working out a plan for weeks."

They thought more similarly than Sherlock would ever care to admit. She was sharp and he was logical, yet their biggest difference lay in her warmth; in her kind intentions and unwavering loyalty.

"Well now you have me, I can help," she said.

"No."

"What do you mean no? She's my friend too and I want to help put an end to–"

He shook his head. "I'm not putting you at risk. I can't."

"What risk? It's a laptop." She smiled.

"Mycroft isn't the risk, Margaux. You said yourself Magnussen is dangerous. He identifies–"

"Pressure points – and I'm one of yours. I remember."

"Exactly. Being involved with me almost got you killed by Moriarty. I'd be a fool to make you vulnerable to Magnussen."

"Then what can I do? Anything?"

"You really want to help her, don't you."

"Of course I do."

"Then just… be there for her." He winced at the soppiness of his words. "When the time is right, I'll move forward with my plan."

"What if he doesn't accept a trade?"

"I don't know."

"If he doesn't accept a trade, I suppose the only thing left to do is kill him…"

The silence between them was heavy and intense. They looked at each other across the table, examining each other's eyes as Margaux's comment lingered in the air.

"I'm joking…" she reassured.

"Yes. Yes of course."

No more words were shared over their starters. Instead they ate quietly, allowing the sounds of the restaurant to fade in like white noise as they exchanged glances and accidentally brushed legs beneath the table.

III

Their main courses were placed in front of them. Margaux thanked the waiter while Sherlock didn't acknowledge his presence. The people skills, she thought, still lacking.

"So…" Sherlock began. "You really want me to believe that you asked me to dinner just to discuss Charles Magnussen?"

She swallowed a mouthful of food. "Not just that. I wanted to spend time with you too. Two birds, one stone." She shrugged.

He sank into silence again, his brow furrowing as he stared at the flame of the candle.

"Look," she began. "I'm sorry for snooping into things–"

"No, it's not that. I'm just so angry with Mycroft. I explicitly told him to never involve you in anything that could get you in trouble or hurt. If anything ever happened to you I'd–" He stopped himself.

The cogs in his head were fighting again. This time, the one that felt for her almost won. He couldn't let that happen.

Margaux bit down on her bottom lip as she gazed at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Protective Sherlock is quite sexy." She laughed.

"Protective Sherlock is furious."

"Which is also, arguably, quite sexy. I should put myself in danger more often."

"Why would you do that?"

"That was another joke."

He lifted his brandy glass, examining the golden-brown liquid as it swilled amongst the ice cubes. "You're lucky you're beautiful, Margaux, because you're not very funny." He took a sip.

She felt another jolt in her stomach. The word 'beautiful' on Sherlock's lips was so alien, yet so satisfying.

"I think that's the first time you've ever called me beautiful. Is this… are we making progress?"

"Don't be ridiculous, I've told you you're beautiful before."

"No you haven't." she scoffed.

"Alright, well I've thought it."

"Thanks?"

III

London was draped in darkness and the candle on their table was almost burnt to the base. They sipped on another round of drinks while their meal settled in their stomachs, watching the rain as it drizzled down the window next to them.

"I feel like there's a lot I don't know about you. I feel like I only know what you want me to know." said Margaux. The gin burned in her throat, igniting a confidence she never knew was there.

"What do you want to know?"

"A lot."

"Well then ask."

"And you'll answer? Honestly and without editing yourself?"

"Yes."

"And you won't deflect? Or refuse? You won't dismiss me?"

"No."

He watched as she shifted excitedly in her seat, tilting her head from side-to-side and rolling her shoulders as if preparing to run a race. He glanced at her exposed collar bones as she moved – delicate, sensitive, will elicit sexual pleasure if kissed in the correct spot. He shook the mental note away, returning from his momentary visit to the mind palace.

"Okay," she said with a nod. "Were you a mummy's boy?"

"Yes... against my will."

"You said you wouldn't edit your answers."

He sighed. "Sorry, yes."

"What were you like as a teenager?"

"Like this but skinner. The occasional spot."

"The 'occasional' spot."

"I always got a single big painful spot right here." He pointed above his nose between his brows, cracking a smile at the thought. "Always in the same place. And another one here." He pointed to the corner of his mouth. "My mother always tried to squeeze it, even against my protests."

"Do you think we would have got along as teenagers?"

"It depends. What were you like?"

"Like this but skinnier," she repeated.

He rolled his eyes.

"Underweight. Eyebrows that met in the middle, completely un-ironically interested in serial killers and crime. Listened to nothing but Crowded House and The Verve while smoking cigarettes out my bedroom window."

"What's changed?" He joked.

She was still petite, though no longer underweight, with dark, fluffy eyebrows. And he had found her on more than one occasion smoking a cigarette out of the window of her flat, her favourite songs playing softly from her stereo.

Margaux laughed. "Oh, and my hair was really long, like really stupidly long. People would tie it in a knot around the back of my chair in college so that when I stood up, I'd almost break my neck."

"Despicable."

"People are arse holes... So do you think we'd have been friends?"

"I think we'd have shared a silent glance of understanding across the canteen at lunch."

She gave a nod. That would do fine.

"Next question," he said.

"If you'd have been there when I gave birth, what name would you have suggested for the baby?"

"Hm, I don't know. I'll think of some names for the next one instead."
"The next one!?"

"Well it only makes sense given how well our genes combined the first time."

"It's not some biological business agreement," she laughed, attempting to mask her horror.

"Maybe it should be; I've always wondered what my bone structure would look like on a girl."

She rolled her eyes.

"Next question," he said again as he took a sip of brandy.

"Did you agree to come to dinner with me because you felt like you had to?"

"Yes. I felt I owed it to you."

"You owed it to me... So you're here for me, not you?"

"Can it not be both?"

"Yes, yes of course."

"Next question."

She became quiet for a moment, watching as he tilted his almost empty glass into his mouth, his lips slick with brandy.

She cleared her throat. "The first time we ever... You called it an experiment. Was that true?"

"At the time I believed so. But now I don't."

"Did you sleep with me to prove a point? To prove that you could if you wanted to?"

He thought about his answer for a moment. "You frustrated me. You still do."

"Sorry about that," she giggled.

"I'd never experienced frustration manifest itself as... desire before. I wanted you to stop talking, but I wanted to make you stop talking."

Her breath hitched. He continued, seemingly unaware of his affect.

"I never made room in my mind for love, sex, attraction, because it was unnecessary - took up space, and you had the nerve to sit with your back to me and tell me I was wrong. That was... sexy?" He grimaced at the word, disliking himself greatly for using it. "You drew it out of me; ignited a fire in a part of me I never knew existed. I was angry with you for making me feel it, so I wanted you to feel it. In my touch, on your lips, between your legs..."

Margaux made an audible gasp. He raised an eyebrow.

"You don't even realise what your words can do–"

"I know exactly what they do." He allowed an ever-so-slight smirk to tug at the corners of his mouth. "Maybe we should move on to your next question."

She waited a moment before speaking. "Was I your first?"

"What do you mean?"

"Was I the first person you ever..."

"That's a juvenile question."

"If it's juvenile then it should be easy to answer. Yes or no, did you lose your virginity to me?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Did you lose your virginity to me?"

Margaux laughed into her gin before realising he was serious. "Oh..." She placed her glass down, trying to be serious too. "No."

He accepted her answer with a nod.

She looked around the restaurant, noticing the staff beginning to clean up.

"I'm going to go and pay the bill. I'll meet you outside." She stood up and smiled.

He watched her walk away. The back of her dress draped low, revealing a trail of bare skin from the base of her neck to the middle of her back. Her back – soft, ticklish, will arch when– Once again, he shook the thought away. Must. Not. Go. There. He got up and walked to the door, taking both of their coats from the rack and pushing through the large doors into the cold, wet night.

"Do you want to walk a bit?" her voice appeared behind him. "I wouldn't mind a cigarette before we hail a cab."

He nodded and they began to walk down the street.

She placed a cigarette between her lips before offering him one.

He slid one out of the box. "Terrible habit," he tutted.

"Well I only do it when I've been drinking or when I'm stressed, and I've just been to dinner with Sherlock Holmes so I'm pretty much both," she teased.

They walked down a few streets as they smoked and barely talked. She felt uneasy in her heeled shoes on the broken pavements, taking his arm without a word. Smiling to herself when he neither protested nor pulled away.

III

They knocked at Mrs Hudson's flat. She opened the door slowly to stop it from creaking, smiling as she laid eyes on the pair.

"Oh, don't you two look wonderful together," she whispered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, disregarding her comment. "Judging by your whispering, it is clear that our son is asleep in there."

"Yes, he drifted off about an hour or so ago. I just wrapped him up and popped him in my bed. I don't mind keeping him for the night; seems a shame to wake him."

"Are you sure? I'm sorry we're so late, I didn't mean for you to have to put him to bed," said Margaux apologetically.

"Don't be silly, dear. He's a pleasure to look after. I'll keep him, you go on and have a good night's sleep."

They wished each other goodnight and Mrs Hudson closed the door. The distinctive sound of a chain lock rattled from inside her flat. Margaux walked down the hall towards the front door and Sherlock turned to make his way upstairs, stopping on the first step. She turned to look at him.

"I'll see you in the morning?" she said.

"Yes. Would you like me to wait with you until you get into a cab?"

She shook her head. "I'll be fine. I'm going to call a private hire so I'll just wait here until it turns up."

"Ah." He nodded, glancing up the staircase.

Margaux folded her arms and shifted her weight from one foot to another. "Y'know, I've been thinking about the thing you said earlier, about wanting to remove a person's clothes when you like how they look in them..."

"Yes, a rather strange paradox," Sherlock replied.

"Mhm."

They stood feet away from each other, their eyes boring through the dimly-lit hall and fixating on each other. Margaux could feel her heart beating in her throat, Sherlock was sure he could hear it.

They rushed towards each other with a desperate hunger, their lips colliding roughly as if life poured from the other's mouth. Their fingertips traced the maps of each other bodies with familiarity; his fists balling in her hair as her hands grasped the back of his neck. They stumbled up the stairs in a chaos of kisses and heavy breaths, teeth and tongues, fingernails and goosebumps, when Sherlock lost his footing near the top of the stairs causing him to fall backwards into the bannister. Margaux pressed her body against his, pinning him to the rail as she traced kisses along his jaw and began to undo the first few buttons of his shirt.

Control. His sociopathic nature craved it in all aspects of his life. It fuelled him, comforted him, and this was no different. As his collar popped free and he felt her lips on his neck, the heady mix of desire for control and desire for her took over. He grabbed her by the arms and lifted her onto the step above him, bringing him face to chest, eyes to collar bones - delicate, sensitive, will elicit sexual pleasure when kissed... he leaned in, trailing his teeth gently across them until she let out a soft hum of pleasure that weakened her knees. She placed her hands on his face, pulling his lips up to meet hers as they continued their clumsy journey up the stairs and along the landing until they reached the door of 221B. He pushed her back against the door, harder than he had meant to. She gasped.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, cupping her face in his hands and placing a soft kiss on her parted lips. "Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head, returning the kiss with a reassuring smile and reaching for the door handle behind her.

They stumbled into the flat. Margaux closed the door behind them and lead him to his armchair where she pushed him down and straddled his lap. His fingers clutched at her thighs as their lips met again.

"Anyone want a cuppa?" John's voice bellowed from the kitchen like cold water on a roaring fire.

Margaux jumped, almost letting out a scream, before turning to see John sitting at the kitchen table holding up a mug as if he were toasting to them. It took a moment or two for the realisation to kick in. Sherlock sighed as Margaux climbed off him and fixed her dress.

"For god's sake, John," she said, embarrassment flushing her cheeks.

"Next time, maybe scan a room before you decide to have sex in it?" he replied.

"Excellent advice John, thank you," said Sherlock.

Margaux reluctantly made her way to the kitchen and sat down opposite him.

"You coming over too?" John called into the living room.

Sherlock very carefully and gently crossed one leg over the other. "You'll have to… give me a minute."

John let out a small laugh and Margaux let her forehead fall to the table. If she thought hard enough, surely she would melt away into it? That way she could spare herself the humiliation of the next few hours.