She was the singer in a frankly appalling folk band comprised of uni dropouts and trust-fund babies. Her voice was incandescent.
Sherlock concluded that they were made for each other one night after a particularly poorly-attended gig. The rest of the band had wandered off and he and Irene had remained behind in the alleyway to the rear of the club. To begin the experiment Sherlock reached a hand between the buttons of Irene's blouse, causing one to pop off and bounce away into the dimness of the alley. "Look what you've done," she teased, and began unfastening his fly.
He undid the rest of her buttons carefully, pulling the fabric aside to reveal her bare breasts. Her hand was in his boxers now, freeing him. He soon had her backed up against the brick wall. He was panting, which made him feel slightly ridiculous, but then she hiked up her skirt and he no longer cared about anything else, which felt wonderful. He lifted her up so that they were level with each other and she guided him into her as she wrapped her legs tight around his waist. He put his forehead against hers and watched the flush spread in her cheeks, but remained perfectly still. Irene made an extraordinary little mewling sound and began to rock against him, but he gripped her thighs tighter to prevent her from achieving any movement.
"Stop." Sherlock said, almost a growl, in a voice he didn't recognize as his own. Irene was panting, too. She began running her hands through his hair wildly, turning his head from side to side. He kept his mouth too far away for her to kiss.
"Fuck you." She was grinning. "You fuck. Fucker." She dug her nails into his scalp and scratched him up and down his back. He arched into her despite himself.
"Bad form, Adler." He knew he was grinning too, tried to stop and couldn't. He was fascinated to see what would happen next.
Their breathing began to synchronize. His heart started to beat where they were joined and he saw by the steady throb of her carotid that their hearts had matched up as well. He closed his eyes and felt as if he was disappearing into her. The scientist in him demanded further experimentation before Sherlock shut him up.
He remained still. Irene seemed to have given in when he felt her tense around him. His eyes flew open at the sensation and he saw that she still wore her lopsided grin.
Poor dental work in adolescence. Upper mandible slightly crowded. Left incisor sticks out like a fang. Signs of tartar between the - "Bloody hell, Irene!" She'd spit in his face and was struggling now, wildly, her hands scrabbling at his shoulder blades. Sherlock slammed her back against the wall and bit her shoulder gently as she pulled him to her, cursing and scratching. He managed to still her again by pinning her hands against her sides, but he was suddenly unable to prevent himself from thrusting into her. Their shared rhythm had become undeniable. He relaxed his grip on her arms and she grabbed his arse, pulling him towards her, trapping him.
"Yes." She said. There was a note of pleading in the word which sent a bolt of white up Sherlock's spine and behind his eyes, momentarily blinding him. He kissed her jaw, just below the earlobe; his first kiss. Irene met his thrusts while her hot breath kept tempo in his ear. It felt wonderful and terrible – he was almost frightened at his lack of control. He didn't want to stop, but didn't feel he could stop even if he wished to.
Something much too large began to fill his body. He smelled ozone and came suddenly, violently, his knees going weak under him. He poured into her and lost himself, thinking absolutely nothing, for how long he wasn't sure. Moments after his senses had returned he felt Irene fluttering around him and she made a noise more beautiful than anything he had ever heard, an equal blend of pleasure and pain, tuned to a perfect E.
