Chapter Eight: The Adventure in Sherlock's Bedroom.
Disclaimer: You know the drill; I'm not making monetary profit off of this, so on and soforth.
Reviews and PMs are always welcomed and given a good home.
Acknowledgments: I have to thank all of the betas for helping me with grammar andpunctuation, brit-picking, suggestions and remindersof what they liked.Sloggingthrough this on my own would have been impossible. TheDubliner, MeiHitokiri, xXMildredXx, thisisforyou,SapphireElric, Sianco, Kanna-chan94, and LosGatos.
I am so very sorry my loves, I have been working everyday for the past three weeks, had a skin reaction to stress, and have been working on my class, plus trying to find a new house. With many apologies and my love, here's chapter 8.
It was just another two hours before dawn when he arrived back home. Irene was sitting on his sofa, had borrowed his robe and was reading his paper. "They left out about the Minister," she commented as he walked in. Someone had worked fast to get that into the papers for this morning.
"Not a surprising outcome considering how much work was gone through to cover it up in the first place."
She put the paper down on the floor and got up, went to him and put her hand out for his jacket.
"Any more cases?" She asked as he passed it to her, giving her a quizzical look.
"Not unless you've sent some more my way."
She stared at him a moment longer before replying. "No."
He sat down on the sofa and made his hands into a steeple, resting them on his chin. Irene sat beside him.
"Would you like to have dinner?" She asked, resting her hand on his left thigh.
He closed his eyes. "I'm not hungry."
"Sherlock," she warned.
"Why did you come to London?"
Her apprehension made its mark on her body. She got more controlling when she was uncomfortable. It reminded him of the last time she had been in London, right when he had unlocked the phone.
"To make sure my grandmother was going to be okay."
"Oh please, we both know you could easily have had someone do that for you, without you stepping foot in the country."
"I thought it was best if I did it myself."
He just looked at her, long lashes framing his famous eyes.
"If I told you it was because I wanted to see London again, would you believe me?"
"Probably not."
"I needed to make sure she was safe. After Lady K called me I knew it wouldn't be a matter of if the killer found out who was running the operation, but a matter of when. I couldn't risk this getting swept under the rug. I needed you."
The double meaning wasn't lost on Sherlock.
He kept his silence and temporary blindness. Forty minutes went by before Irene removed her hand from his thigh and placed it on the back of his neck, gently massaging. He relaxed into it and found his thoughts slipping away. Her touch was feathery but firm, skin soft as she stroked his delicate scalp.
He opened his eyes and turned his head sharply towards her. Blue eyes slicing through him. Her hand didn't stop.
"This isn't going to be a repeat of Karachi," he informed her. A smile splayed itself across her face.
"I don't think we could do a repeat of that if we tried. The city of lights, as they call it, was an extraordinary experience. Even for me."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Irene moved her hand slowly down his neck, then to his shoulder and down his arm, massaging as she went.
"Who said I wanted to do a repeat?" He asked.
She leaned in closer to him and touched her lips to his cheek. "I have a new theory I am devising. Think of it as an experiment of sorts."
He raised his eyebrow at her a fraction. He wasn't sure if he was amused that she was trying to experiment on him, or if it was because she had used the word 'experiment' and tried to make it sound alluring. She moved her mouth to his.
He didn't move or try to stop her. Instead he let her slide onto his lap. She had put perfume on while he was out, he noted. She leaned back and watched him as she trailed freshly French manicured fingernails down his cheek. She let her fingers fall to collarbone before returning to the nape of his neck once more where she curled them in his thick, dark hair. He felt his body tense up as she made rough pulls through it.
She kissed him again, harder, his own lips answering with an unhurried force. Let me savor thought. His hands found her waist and pulled her closer. The neck of the robe had started to loosen and come down one of her shoulders; he moaned as the rest of his body tried to relax.
She undid the sash of the robe one-handed and let it fall to the floor, the cool air of the room raising gooseflesh along her arms, her back, her chest. With her one hand still tangled in his hair she knelt his head towards her chest while the left hand cupped her breast, "suck." She told him in a dangerous whisper. He teased the soft flesh with his tongue, the tip of her mammary gland already hardening from her arousal and the cold. He made it as vertical as his external organ was. He paused and looked up at her, then she undid the top two buttons of his shirt before deciding to worry about his belt first.
He felt out of his depth. It wasn't the onslaught of sensations he was feeling. Sensation and senses were what he relied on to solve cases. The smell of her was arousing, the unique scent of her when she was turned on was fascinating.
She bent her front over him. She's remembered I have shoes on, he thought, though he knew it had been intentional, something to get him going even more. She had his first shoe and sock off and had quickly moved to the second. She turned to look at him.
"Let's move this to the bedroom, shall we?" She suggested.
As they quickly made their way to the more appropriate room, it was difficult to tell who was in control.
Sherlock figured it to be both of them. It wasn't about the power games anymore, now it was something different.
"Clothes. Off. Now," she ordered.
He left his clothing in a neat pile at the foot of the bed. He got on top of her, a bit awkwardly, before she had enough of that and turned him onto his back. With protection in mind, he fished around in the bedside table drawer until he found what he was looking for. She waited impatiently, trailing her tongue down his inner thigh until he was ready. She savored the moment before letting him in, and after she had, she savored that moment as well. She reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his; she wanted to keep their bodies close.
She felt the heat of his body next to hers and felt the smooth skin of his chest. He raked his nails down her back. She tasted his skin, traced the scar just beneath his left shoulder that had to be from a touched the soft flesh of her thighs and felt the power surging in her muscles.
"Sherlock." She tasted his name, tested it out, not unlike she had done by herself late at night. This was better. He propped himself up on his elbows, trying to bowl her over so that he would have the advantage. She let him, her legs dangling over the side.
After only a few moments, she breathed,"The desk." He looked quickly over his shoulder and saw what she meant.
He picked her up a bit ungracefully and sat her on the desk, both of them pushing papers, case files, and his cased arachnid collection to the back of the desk. The arachnids were the deadly ones that had been discovered in the world, all dozen of them, they were not alive, of course. Sherlock forgot about the spiders as Irene's hands did some wonderful things before pulling him closer with her legs around his hips, nearly causing him to topple over her. He steadied himself against the wall with his one arm as he kissed her, her hips rising up to meet his urgently.
The next and final chapter will be posted tomorrow. I have yet to complete the one-shot about what happened in Karachi, which I am really tempted to title "What Happened in Karachi," but it will be coming to you soon!