Sherlock awoke in someone else's bedroom. This in itself was unremarkable; he often found himself, upon waking, somewhere unfamiliar and with no real memory of arriving there. What did strike him as noteworthy through the fog in his skull was the warm body in the bed next to him. Well, on top of him, really.
Female. Aged 22-28.
Yellow stain on the middle and index fingers of the hand draped across his bare chest: heavy smoker, right-handed.
Track marks, remnants of dark lacquer on the nails in chipped half-moons, professionally bleached and highlighted hair with 3/4 inch roots: recent downfall, perhaps a month or two allowing for the average rate of hair growth.
The room showed signs of recently lapsed care as well. It was decorated in a style that Sherlock himself leaned towards – comforting modern Victorian. The woman gave a small moan and rolled off him, settling herself with her back towards him and her short, mostly blond hair spread against the pillow.
Faded tan, no lines: recent trip to the continent and one of their many celebrated nude beaches – no. Tanning bed. Comes from money; corroborated by the furnishings and the sheets. Egyptian cotton.
Large bruise on the left side of the neck. Possible bite mark on the left shoulder. Fresh bruises on her hips: oh.
Sherlock placed his left hand on the girl's smooth hip and covered the bruises perfectly with his splayed fingers. From this angle, then. Interesting. The girl stirred, turning towards him. Sherlock saw her sleeping face for the first time.
No traces of make-up, signs of childhood acne, carefully groomed eyebrows. Inference: cultivates image of being bohemian.
Definitely closer to early twenties. Possibly anaemic: vegetarian? Galaxy of freckles across bridge of nose. No significant recent weight loss or gain. Quite striking in appearance.
The girl in question sighed and opened her eyes. Brown. Astigmatic.
"Hello again," she said, grinning, and pushed her body against him. American. In London at least three years, judging by the vowel slippage. She brushed her lips over his, pressing her small breasts against his chest. She arched into him and he felt a jolt of indistinct memory, of sweat and salt and heat. Sherlock rolled onto his back and she sat astride him, kissing his neck, pulling at his hair, writhing and making small whimpering noises. He found this quite pleasing, if slightly amusing.
She placed a small hot hand around the erection he always woke up with and settled herself slowly onto him. His nerves sparked and jumped – this was unexpected. He knew people often got themselves into this type of situation. In fact, most males his age spent a great deal of time and mental effort in the single-minded pursuit of just such an occurrence. He'd never fully understood why until she lifted herself nearly off him and slid back down again.
"Oh." He said, and he heard the surprise in his own voice as the girl smiled down at him. This was something new. She rocked above him with a slow and steady pulling rhythm, in counter-time to her heart. He was intrigued. Quite suddenly she shuddered and pushed against him. He began to feel an odd, unsettled feeling, as if there was something more he should be doing, but she rolled off him and put her head on his chest.
Later, after he'd observed firsthand a bit more about female anatomy, she told him her name.
"Irene. Doesn't it sound like someone's nana?" She laughed, tracing her fingertips lightly along his hipbone, and if Sherlock had possessed a single poetic neuron he would have composed a thousand postmodern odes to that sensation.
"Not as bad as Sherlock," he joined in, warmth pooling in his belly. "I always thought that with a change in the wind they might have named me Trulatch." Irene thought for a moment and then began shaking with silent laughter. Irene. Peace, from the Greek. Warrants further study.
