A/N: I have been informed that, if I update this fic before Valentine's Day, Bananahammock will come to Poland and ask for my hand in marriage.
Although I'm quite happy to remain single for the time being (despite my family's wishes), I feel flattered. Thank you. All of you, not only those expressing desire to help me alter my marital status. I hope you enjoy this update, as an early Valentine's present.
It was poisoning, he finds; Moriarty drenched a tampon in a pretty nasty chemical compound, let it dry and them placed it conveniently in Kitty Riley's bathroom. A time-bomb, with virtually no way to trace it back to him.
Unless it's Sherlock that does the tracing.
Molly is impressed, not to mention her superiors, who actually give her a bonus for performing a much more detailed cavity swap than is usually expected during a simple post-mortem. She proudly tells him about it when he calls to check on things.
"It's all thanks to you, of course. How can I repay? Maybe you'd like to have dinner? My treat."
He smirks at her choice of words, and declines politely. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea, Molly. Stay safe."
"You too," she answers automatically, and he hangs up before she manages to say anything else.
"Asked you out again, didn't she?" Irene asks from the armchair she's curled up on, with a laptop and a glass of wine.
Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes a sip from his own glass. "Jealous?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
He gets up and stretches, his vertebrae popping into place with quiet clicks. "How about I coorder dinner tonight?" It's a word Irene's invented after discovering that, whenever Sherlock offered to 'cook' something, they would inevitably end up 'ordering' take-out. He thinks it's a rather appropriate term, and wishes he'd thought about it first.
"There's still some Thai food left in the refrigerator. Help yourself."
"What about you?"
"Not that hungry. Let me work, Sherlock."
"Is that 'work' as in: 'send an email to the CEO of an international electronic corporation, threatening to expose dirty details from his private life unless he makes sure a company ran by a friend of yours wins a tender for supplying printed circuit boards of questionable quality'?"
"Have you been on my computer again?"
"I was bored. What would you have me do?"
"Go out, annoy somebody else for a change, as a general suggestion. Eat your dinner and let me finish this, presently."
If it was John telling him off, he'd probably continue to tease him, make his life miserable: but Irene knows her bonds and her whips, and she sleeps in the same bed as he. Better to leave it be, at least for the time being—even if they both realize she's not really angry, since whatever real work she's doing is well protected, and Sherlock cannot reach it.
(Of course he'd tried. Repeatedly.)
It's been quite domestic this past week. They spent at least five hours together every day, and managed not to kill or seriously injure the other. Sherlock has memorized the way Irene takes her tea, as well as some basic facts one needs to know when living under the same roof with an ex-dominatrix: for instance, never to talk loudly before seven o'clock in the morning, unless one wants to be suffocated with a pillow in an utterly non-playful way.
He thinks that by now he has it all figured out—her small, yet significant frowns, the way she bites her lip when she's deep in thought, the pattern of her breathing just before she falls asleep—and then she does something completely unexpected, and destroys each and every theory he'd created.
Which is good, at least by his standards. The way it should be. She's still a mystery to him, always changing, never staying the same.
"You really should get out more often," she tells him, slightly breathless, approximately three hours later. "Or perhaps we could get you a treadmill."
He chuckles into the skin at the nape of her neck, and lies down on the bed, pulling her with him.
"Any complaints regarding my performance?"
"Only a carefully expressed concern. You're restless, again, and you've only been off a case for several hours."
"Longer than that. Waiting for the results that would undoubtedly confirm your theory doesn't count as 'being on the case'."
"Still—you need to find yourself something to do while I'm gone."
That's the first time he hears about it, and, naturally, he's not amused. "You're going away?"
"Only for a week or so." She turns in his arms, kisses him—slowly, sensually, without the burn and haste of passion they sometimes let themselves be consumed by. "It'll do you good."
She's right. This—this thing they're having, it's not what he's used to, not the way he'd imagined himself to be living. It's not dull (of course it's not, not with Irene), but it's tame, and rather monotonous, compared to everything he used to do—before.
Before everything in his life has about the chase, the adrenaline, the riddles and the unknown. Now it's about staying low and lurking in the shadows, like a sea monster from the depths, a murrain that only occasionally jumps out to hunt and kill.
The rational part of his brain understands that this is the predicament that has to be kept up in order to maintain the illusion of his being dead—but the irrational part, the dominating, angry and stubborn part—wants to get out, to be seen.
And although they never talk about it directly, Sherlock is convinced Irene understands this need, understands him. Which is why he's even angrier at the thought of her leaving him like this.
"Oh, yes," he drawls, looking away, "very good. Bleeding perfect."
Wisely, she chooses not to comment on that.
It's infinitely more boring without her, so he decides to keep himself busy.
He goes out at night and walks around for hours, keeping away from all the places his old self could have been associated with.
He drops into Molly's lab, asks if there's something for him to do. Solves three cases in two hours. Then she orders take-out, and they eat it together in her small, crammed up office.
It's quite amusing to think he's having dinner—actual dinner—with her, all the while thinking about Irene.
"This was fun," Molly tells him as he turns to leave. "Maybe we could do it again some time."
No, we couldn't, he thinks, before nodding curtly and dashing out of the doors and into the street.
We couldn't, because it isn't right. It doesn't feel right.
For several hours he wonders what his being with Irene feels like.
It turns out that there is no good answer to that.
It's the first time he's ever come here. The light is hard, cold and too bright, all but striking at John's slumped shoulders.
This doesn't feel right either.
It feels as if he's seeing a part of himself he'd long forgotten existed—and the sight of it brings back a multitude of feelings, emotions and thoughts he cannot possibly deal with, not here, not now.
He stays there, motionless against a thick, rugged tree trunk, for at least thirty minutes after John's gone.
"Alright. What happened?"
It's the very first thing she says, after dropping her keys into the glass bowl and putting her bag down. Sherlock shrugs, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"I went to the cemetery. Saw John."
Irene sits down in her armchair, crosses her legs. "What did you think?"
"That I cannot stay here. Not unless I'd go back, which is impossible, at least for the time being."
She nods, having apparently come to the same conclusion a while ago. "What do you suggest?"
He turns his head to look at her, acutely aware of the state he's in (he hasn't eaten for two days, living on nicotine patches and caffeine; he's pale, sweaty, and probably smells quite a bit), and feels a surge of relief at her calm, almost peaceful expression. She had been expecting this, she saw it all coming—and she stayed, he realizes with overwhelming clarity.
He's grateful: an emotion he seldom experiences. "Can we just… go somewhere?"
She wrinkles her nose, pretending to seriously consider the question. "Only if you shower beforehand."
Her skin is perfect, luminous and warm like porcelain held over a candle flame. It slides against his as they move together, fingers tangled, half-opened lips moulded together, her hair, still wet from their shared shower, sticking to his neck.
This time there is no rush, no frenzy, just a slow, sensual build of pleasure between gasps and kisses.
"We could go to Germany. We both speak the language," Irene proposes, grazing her teeth against his pulse point.
"I'd need a passport, though." He licks her collarbone, probably his favourite part of her body—at least tonight.
"I could get you one." A playful nip, soothed with a flick of her tongue. "You'd have to pretend to be married to me, though."
"I believe there are worse things to be. Not too many of them, but still…"
"Oh, you cheeky bastard, you'll pay for this," she breathes and clenches her muscles around him, causing him to moan and drive deeper into her, fingers curling into her hips with bruising force.
"Go on," he urges her hoarsely, "make me."
She does.
She always does.
He pays the cab driver as Irene supervises the bellboy carrying their scarce luggage. The street is surprisingly quiet even for such small a town, and the hotel seems deserted, although the reviews they'd found on its webpage were quite enticing. Sherlock sees a distinctively British-looking guy, smoking greedily on the front steps, and turns to him for explanation, practising his phony American accent. "What the hell is wrong with this place? Did somebody die?"
The other man shivers and inhales deeply, his hands shaking so hard he's scattering ash everywhere. "You got that right, mate. They've found a body in the winery this morning. I'd get out of here right about now if I were you."
Sherlock shrugs with studied indifference and enters the lobby to join Irene by the counter. The clerk meets his eyes with an apologetic smile.
"Ah, Mr. Norton. I'm afraid your stay at our hotel might prove a little more 'exciting' than you wished."
"Oh, that's alright," Sherlock drawls, slipping one arm around Irene's waist. "I'm sure we'll manage…"
TBC...