The cab ride had been silent, Sherlock had stared forward, but his eyes moved slightly side to side. As if he was seeing something she could not. Serene had hoped she would feel satisfied catching the killer. This hadn't been how she foresaw it. All she had predicted crouching over the poor dead woman in the alley had come true. The killer had fallen into their trap so easily. It was unsatisfying; it sat under her skin like an impossible itch. It was wrong. She was wrong and yet she appeared to be right.
The cab stopped outside her address, Serene got out and to her mild surprise Sherlock got out with her. He looked up at the imposing glass building, lit from within like a glowing lantern. She supposed it wasn't what he had expected. They continued wordlessly through security up to her apartment, She felt ridiculous with her swelling, bruised flesh and matted hair. Swimming in scrubs. The staff was too highly paid to be anything but impassively helpful, but she was sure that her appearance with a famous detective was sure to cause a murmur in the break room.
She turned the key in her door and walked into her warmly lit flat. She trusted Sherlock to follow and close the door. After all he had made no attempt to bid her farewell outside her door.
"I will be back. Then you can tell me everything you've 'deduced'" Serene mocked his use of the word a little. He was dramatic. He felt different than how Gregory had described him those long months of his death. Not that Greg had been wrong, just focusing on different things. There was something living and breathing beneath Sherlock Holmes' surface, that she felt few people saw. Perhaps they intentionally looked away. She had found it was easier to put things in terms of stupidity when it came to other people, that somehow it was their intelligence that limited them. Serene had started to feel differently the more she traveled, that maybe it was more about self-preservation. Stepping back from the void, before you drove yourself mad.
That is what it felt like to her sometimes; madness. This desire to have everything lay out before her, to know and feel everything. There was joy in it, but where it led in the end was an unknown. She left Sherlock then, in her flat to tear it apart with his eyes. All she could think of was a shower.
Sherlock waited until he heard the shower start running in the other room, then he came to life. The apartment was huge, high ceilings, balcony. Expensive. This apartment alone cost an unimaginable sum of money; it was full to the brim of even more wealth. Opulence spilling out of every room, but like lighted points on a map Serene's possessions began to stand out to him. She lived here, moved herself into the small spaces between this other person. Why was she here? She was a game this woman, finding the truth under the facade. Lestrade was like John, always getting himself distracted by women. Although he had to give him credit for this one woman, she wasn't boring. She was smart; she saw things. He had been extraneous tonight; he didn't like to feel extraneous. At first he had thought Lestrade was trying to set him up, to offer him another assistant. He was sentimental about John and the baby. Everyone seemed to want to keep John at home, in his domesticity. It was laughable, even Mary understood.
He thought Lestrade was offering this woman to him, but he had been wrong. He had been watching in the alley and inside the club. Lestrade was infatuated; he had brought them both there unintentionally. He looked around the apartment and it became so clear. She was back tonight; she had been gone and now she was back. Lestrade had found out after he had called Sherlock, he had invited her then, because he had missed her. Who was this woman who dropped everything to come to a crime scene, barely home and she leaves to go find a killer in a nightclub. She was fascinating. He heard the shower stop. She would be back again soon, in front of him.
Serene wiped the fog from the mirror, the black tile made her feel like she was glowing. She ran a comb through her hair; it hurt more than it should. It pulled at her bruises, but she wanted to be presentable. The itch hadn't subsided since the cab; it had grown to a hungry clawing inside her. She wanted to satisfy it. She thought about Sherlock waiting for her. Probably to question her and she considered seducing him. She wanted to burn with someone; she wanted to drown the clawing in her with sex and whiskey. His reputation preceded him of course, unavailable and uninterested. Serene felt this was wrong. He offered himself to everyone; they were just too intimidated to see it. She pulled her hair half back from her face, cataloguing her injuries. The handprints were the most offensive, spreading across her neck. She pulled on the fresh clothes she had grabbed from her suitcase; it was still half packed on the bed. That's what she had been doing when Greg called. That seemed so long ago now, but it had really only been hours.
His voice had sounded so warm on the phone, rough and deep. She could hear him smiling. It was nice to know she had been missed. She had left immediately, the fire of the chase spreading through her veins. She loved her work, but it was so satisfying in Greg's world. She dealt in theories, she guessed but could never really know with her research. She liked Greg's black and white world she liked Greg, really.
He had started smoking again he could never really quit. It had clung to his coat and his skin. Maybe that was why she had never let things get too far with him; he couldn't let go. He couldn't let go of his ex wife, either. He was still married in his mind.
Starting a sexual relationship with him meant she would never be free again. He would be a pin holding her to one point, but Sherlock was different. Her mind drifted to him, thinking about tonight. He was tall, and attractive; he would be enjoyable. She wanted to open him up and watch all the gears turn.
She had made up her mind before she had even made it back to the living room. He was standing his hands in a reflective steeple against his lips. She walked passed him into the open kitchen. She opened a cupboard and reached for a glass.
Sherlock was watching her as she reached for a bottle. It is on a high shelf. Expensive so she keeps it out of the way. She lifts onto the balls of her feet to reach it. The muscles in her legs, bum and back are stretching and contracting.
He notices how beautiful her legs are; people think he doesn't notice. He does though. He sees beauty he just feels no urge to possess it. He is drawn to her though she isn't boring. Some people try to not be boring, but they always fail.
She is nearly naked in front of him, cotton shorts and a top. She isn't wearing underwear, the observation whispers against his skin. Women have attempted seduction before, they are always so obvious about it. She is ignoring him. Why is she ignoring him? She is damp, mostly naked and nearly died tonight and she is acting like he is not in the apartment.
She pours a glass from the bottle, it is honey brown and immediately the sting of alcohol is in the air. She puts the cork back in the bottle and pulls a blue enamel jar towards her, meant to hold sugar judging by the seal. She opens it reaching her hand in, not sugar then. She pulls out a small bag of loose tobacco and papers. She smokes, rarely. She has made it a ritual, overly complex to discourage the habit. He watches her hands deftly roll a cigarette.
It's intoxicating; the tobacco, the whiskey and the sandalwood perfume clinging to her damp skin. He wonders if it is intentional: the scents, the intimate action of rolling a cigarette, ignoring him. If this is her method of seduction he is surprised Lestrade has resisted it so long. Unless, unless he had never made it this far. She doesn't take people here she didn't want him here.
He had pushed and she had let him. Why had she let him get farther than any other person? She stretches again to reach the shelf, bumping her bandages trying to slide the bottle back. She hisses. He is behind her within a moment catching hold of the bottle, she lets go dropping down to the flats of her feet. She is between his body and the counter. He is warm; he shed his coat and his jacket while she was in the shower. He looks at the bottle while he slides it back into its place.
"You drugged yourself not two hours ago, maybe scotch isn't the way to go." His voice is deep in his chest. It rumbles against her and she feels warmth traveling from her neck to her toes. Something in her wails for satisfaction, but she refuses to rush.
"Perhaps I should share then." She picks up the cigarette she had carefully rolled and the glass. Slipping out from between him and the counter. She doesn't need to look back to know he is watching her.
"Are you why Lestrade started smoking again? Have you been sharing with him too?"
Serene doesn't even stop walking. She continues to the balcony. She does stop as she slides open the glass. "Find me some matches."
She slips through the glass door, leaving it open. It is cool out. Too cool for what she is wearing. His eyes rove over the apartment quickly. She is asking him to solve a puzzle, and he can't help himself. It's an obvious one, but it makes something lick inside him. This also feels intentional, he was wrong. This was seduction a masterful one. He smiles, matches in hand. This is a game he wants to play 'til the end. He grabs his coat.
When he walks out on the balcony she is facing him, her back to the skyline. The drink is untouched balanced on the railing, the cigarette perched between two of her fingers.
"That took an age."
"I stopped for my coat." He is close to her again; her skin is gooseflesh in the cool breeze. "It's cold."
"I had barely noticed."
He puts the coat around her; she doesn't slip her arms into it. She leaves it open, an invitation to step closer. She brings the cigarette to her lips and Sherlock steps closer. He lights the match, sheltering it against the breeze. She inhales, the tip catching and burning. He shakes the match out as she exhales lavender tendrils of smoke. The smell burns inside him and he takes the cigarette from her. It feels intimate, sharing this with her. The tobacco, the expensive scotch, this view of her body outlined by the city lights are an offering. As he inhales he realizes he has accepted it.
"What kind of entomologist can afford a 30 million dollar flat in the middle of London?" It's a question with an obvious answer; it isn't hers. He wants to distract her though, turn her focus back inwards.
She takes a drink from the scotch he keeps the cigarette. She watches him observe it in his hand, taking in the way it is rolled. He brings it to his lips, she watches him suck the smoke into his mouth. She feels like she is being catalogued, everything about her another clue.
"How long has it been since you've had shag?" She looks at the cigarette in his hand; it's a lame entendre but it pleases her. He laughs surprised.
"It's been awhile, there was a case involving a professional beggar. Mrs. Hudson banished it from the house, said it devalued her wallpaper or some such nonsense. Almost impossible to be a smoker in London these days. This however-' He held up the cigarette in his hand, turning it for her to see. 'An unusual hobby for a woman."
"So says the king of unusual hobbies. I thought you might like the clue." She takes it from him, pressing the scotch into his other hand. She watches him, seeing if he will drink it.
"Yes, you are full of them." Sherlock swirls the scotch in the glass as he lifts it and he takes a sip. He grimaces slightly, "I like this one the least though."
She laughs, and he smiles. He likes her laugh, her real laugh. Not the one he heard at the club, this one is different. Lestrade likes it too; he remembers her laughing at him and the way he stepped closer. Sherlock feels the inclination now, he has accepted the first and second offering, why not the third? He steps closer to her, taking the cigarette back, his hand slides over hers and he feels a frisson of anticipation. This is new territory and it is definitely not boring. While she is looking at him, watching him, he splashes the scotch over the side of the balcony. To her credit she doesn't turn her head.
"I might have wanted that, since you are hogging the cigarette."
"You don't need it, you drugged yourself in an alley, remember?"
"You keep bringing it up, how could I forget? Seemed like the only option."
"I agree, he could have been watching. No, it was Lestrade's screw up-"
"Not yours?"
"I can't be expected to take care of you."
"No, neither can DI Lestrade."
"No, you can take care of yourself can't you?" He looks at her, his eyes searching her. He takes her hand, turning it palm up. The bandages are wrapped tightly he turns her hand. "You unwrapped and rewrapped your bandages once we got here. You hurt your wrists and forearm, this wrapping is different than what the ambulance did-' He runs his finger from the tip of her middle finger across her palm over her pulse point down her forearm. He wonders if she knows the way her tongue caresses her teeth when he touches her. Her fingers twitched from the stimulus. If it hurt when he touched her injuries it only makes the fire behind her eyes burn brighter. '- this is your handiwork. An injured wrist but the wrapping goes up and around your fingers."
"A boxer then. An experienced one at that, it takes time to learn to properly wrap your hands so that begs the question; why drug yourself, stumble out to an alley and not even get a single punch in?" Sherlock flicks the cigarette over the balcony too.
"I wanted that too."
"Is there anything else you want?"
Serene smiles her fingers ghost down his front resting on the edge of his belt. "If I tell you, promise not to throw it off the balcony too?"
He laughs; she is close and touching him and making him laugh. How had the evening ended up here? It seemed so long ago, the evening stretched into days in his mind. This woman had appeared to him and now they were standing close on the balcony ash clinging to their clothes, her verbena and sandalwood scent soaking into the wool of his coat. He would smell her later, he found that appealing. The wind blew her hair into her eyes and she turned her face towards it, sweeping the hair away behind her ear. She looks into the distance. He misses her hand from his belt.
Sherlock didn't think they could be closer, but she closes the distance between them. Her body pressed against him was cold, his jacket was slipping down her, she had one hand caressing his ear, and the other is running a thumb down his jaw. He stops the coat from slipping down and suddenly he is holding her. It all seems so intentional now; from the moment she walked out of the shower, but why?
"You know what I wanted tonight?" She murmurs her lips are millimeters from his jaw. His hands grip reflexively on her shoulders.
"I want you to tell me." He did, he wanted to hear it from her.
"I could have stayed in the club, let Greg find him, but then I wouldn't have got to see him. I wanted to see him change, the animal come out. So rare that we get to see what people are hiding, underneath it all."
Her voice was slow, deeper and it made his stomach tense. This was what he expected, but instead of boring him it enthralled him. To have read her so accurately, it felt like his seduction. Knowing her so thoroughly and not looking away. He hated the way his heart was beating; she must be able to see it ticking away in his neck. Betraying him.
"You could have died."
Serene wasn't sure if it was concern she was hearing in his voice or if he was just stating the obvious. Either way she enjoyed the effect. She had felt watched all night and now on the balcony she was sure of it. She was enjoying herself, being so close to him, watching his pulse jump in his neck. She closes the microscopic distance between them. He tastes like cigarettes and scotch, she had made him taste that way.
His hands move inside the coat, spreading over her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. The coat was sliding hopelessly, and to her shock he stepped into her, forcing her back against the railing. Effectively catching the coat and pushing Serene's mind into a frenzy. She kissed him more thoroughly then, her hands clawing over his hair.
He had been fully enjoying himself, learning her body with his hands. Comparing his observations with the tactile feel of flesh. He was aware of her, her tiniest movements and breathes. He had felt her hand leave his hair move down his body. Twitch in a way he couldn't connect, then he felt himself being pushed away.
"Tell me." Serene needed something, it was nameless and formless, but it encompassed her entire being. He blinked at her momentarily, before stuttering out a fountain of words.
"You- you're Canadian. Your grandfather was Dutch he taught you to roll cigarettes. You found the same papers he used to use when you were studying in France. The edges of the pack were worn, they are cheap but they travel with you. Why? You are far away from home living in a flat that isn't yours. They remind you of him, the cigarettes are a ritual. One you don't share with many people. Why me? You wanted to show me something about yourself. Something others won't see."
He touches her, tilting her face so he can see her neck. The bruises are darkening, but she seems generally unharmed. His coat has fallen off her shoulders and is pinned behind her. Her skin is pink she is cold. "You should go to bed."
"Alone?" She knows the answer, before he says it. She catches the coat behind her, as she pushes away from the balcony. She walks towards the house; he had forgotten her feet were bare. They are pink too they must be frozen.
Serene's flesh aches as she comes back into the warm flat. Her wrists have started aching too; she lays the coat down next to his blazer, hugging her wrists to her heart. He had been right of course. The cigarette made her think of her grandfather, made her feel grounded; the one little string connecting her to one point on the map. What he hadn't said, what she had shown him was that she had nothing left to lose. All those moments wrapped together in a thin pink paper, all she had to remember the man by. Now here she was in this palatial flat, squeezing in the cracks of another man's life. She was that to so many men, the light slipping through the cracks in their life. It wasn't always sex, or anything easily articulated.
"Doctor, I feel I should tell you that I am married to my work."
His voice truly was melodious, she smiles feeling colder than on the balcony. It was sweet in a way; the distance he kept.
"A relationship I am not eager to disrupt, Mr. Holmes." She turns to him; she knows she must be shivering. "Only enjoying a bit of sport"
"The distraction was-' He walks to his jacket and coat. '-Unprecedented"
He dresses himself again. Now there is physical distance between them, he is leaving and her mind is no longer consumed with the thought of seduction, she feels the frustration settling in again. It hadn't been right tonight. None of it. Not just that it had gone badly, there was something dancing on the edge of her memory.
Sherlock Holmes is almost at the door, "I was wrong." She hears him pause; she won't turn to see him.
"It all played out the way you said in the end."
"It's not over, I was wrong."
"Well then, I shall be seeing you again."
She hears the door click. She is alone once again.