He only notices that his hand is bleeding when the Woman takes it between her own. Her fingers are unexpectedly gentle as she cleans and dresses the wound, and he finds himself staring into the unfathomable depths of her eyes.
"It's not too late for dinner," she smirks then, her tone both wry and seductive.
"I don't want dinner," he frowns, pulling away. "I have no use for dinner."
Realization dawns on her at last, and she gives a slight nod of her head. "I see. You're not afraid of sex – just not interested."
"Sex is overrated," he shrugs in annoyance, because how does he explain asexuality to a gay dominatrix in the stifling warmth of a Pakistani night?
Irene is smarter than most, though, and she understands. "The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. That's what makes you feel alive, isn't it?"
On a sudden whim he tilts his head and kisses her. He's tried every drug known to mankind, why shouldn't he try sex as well? His mind could use the data, and the Woman is his safest bet when it comes to clinical, dispassionate intercourse.
He's vaguely surprised when she presses a hand to his chest, gently but firmly pushing him away. "Not this way. I don't want you to remember me as one of your failed experiments."
As loathe as he is to admit it, she's probably right. Irene Adler will always be the Woman to him, and that's more than enough.