Again, this chapter is rated M for sexual content and drug references. Please wait for the next chapter if you are not of the appropriate age.

A Shifting Paradigm

The physical sensations were unlike anything he had ever experienced before, and a small part of him was apprehensive that he had found a replacement 'drug' to challenge his hard-won sobriety. He had an addictive personality, and he'd struggled with vice before. Perhaps it had never been this particular vice simply because he had considered it too much of an inconvenience to obtain it—too much investment of time and energy to justify such a seemingly dubious objective.

It had all just seemed so messy and distasteful; one had to deal with the expectations of another person, and the potential emotional ramifications that followed. He had never seen the point to it, not when one could choose the much easier option of just using drugs for escapism, on demand. With cocaine, all you needed was a reliable dealer and the pound sterling.

And yet. . .surely this could prove more addictive than any artificial pharmaceutical high. The physiological effects were the same—his lateral orbitofrontal cortex, responsible for control, was shutting down and the reward neurotransmitter dopamine was being activated—but the pleasure was so much greater, and it was directly hardwired to his most basic instincts. In addition, there was such an array of stimuli: temperature, pressure, friction, degree of moisture... all which were constantly changing and shifting, so that he had no ability to predict or expect what was coming next. Unlike cocaine, whose rewards depreciated over time as his receptors grew tolerant (causing him to increase his dosage from his original seven percent solution to something much stronger over time), he couldn't imagine becoming bored with this. Somehow, with The Woman acting in the role of the needle and administering, this pursuit didn't seem so objectionable after all.

He lifted his head to observe a view he could have never fathomed seeing, let alone from such a personal vantage point, and she sensed his intense stare and looked up with a raised eyebrow and slight smirk. She maintained unwavering eye contact as she continued, and it felt like their gazes would be permanently locked together; there was no sense of time passing, and he could not look away. He was transfixed.

No detached clinical study of human sexuality and behaviour could have ever prepared him for the intensity and immediacy of this experience, and he vaguely detected dozens of new insights and understandings about previous cases and people's motives attempting to connect in his brain. But in an unprecedented reversal, he actively repressed the completion of any such comprehensions, and let his sensory neurons take over. He could analyse later. For now—

"Oh, God," he choked, his voice hoarse, and he realised that both of his hands were clenching bunches of bedspread into fists on either side of him. He hadn't intended to speak at all, but it had been completely involuntary, and the uttered oath had been loud in the silence of the room. Irene simply smiled like Mona Lisa, and for a moment he felt faintly embarrassed, yet another novel and new experience. But when she actually stopped what she was doing and sat back on her heels, this emotion was immediately overridden by the sensation of panic, driven by that relentless force of lust.

His brain tried to kick into high function again, to ascertain why she'd ceased her actions, especially when he'd so fully lost his inhibitions and indicated that he was enjoying it. But it was too late, his mind—and by that token, he—felt slow and lethargic, and rather than it being able to call up a comprehensive lists of possible motives, it remained snagged on the simple fact that she had stopped, like a broken slide projector caught on the same image, click after click. Damn, he thought, but couldn't really generate too much worry. He was far more concerned with his physiological, rather than his psychological, distress in the moment.

"Why-" he started in a desire-roughened voice, but she leaned forward and pressed a finger against his lips.

"Shhh," she crooned, in that artificially soothing and sing-song tone he recalled from the end of their first meeting. "You've 'never begged for mercy in your life.' We wouldn't you to start tonight, would we? Not when there are so many other firsts." She leaned in to kiss him, and he responded with desperation, before she pulled back, her smile wider now. "But now you know. . . I could make you."

Ah. The mental slide projector finally clicked forward.

"Twice," he acknowledged, but with slightly awed disbelief rather than resentment, and her eyes seemed to warm in genuine gratification. She leaned over him and her hair cascaded around them, enclosing them in a hot darkness as they captured each other's lips again. Yet as their tongues tangled together and their breath fanned across the other's faces in hot bursts, something she had said tugged insistently at his diverted consciousness, distracting him.

Impatient with himself, but unable to block out this one thought, he pulled back and looked into her face. "Was that true?"

She was clearly not operating on her usual level either, because she just simply at him blankly, her cheeks flushed.

"You've. . .never done that at work?" He could barely get all the words out, he was breathing so heavily.

Why did he care? And why did his voice sound accusatory? But no, this was not a night for introspection. A boundary line had undeniably been crossed, and now this was a night to blurt out whatever happened to enter his mind; to act upon whatever impulse he felt in the moment. As addicting as this whole state of affairs was, realistically the circumstances might never be repeated, he might never dare again, so he needed to seize the moment.

She was regarding him with much more lucid eyes now, and when she spoke her voice was strangely steely.

"In my industry sex sells, but I don't sell actual sex, you know. I'm a dominatrix, not a prostitute."

She watched him for another moment, as if daring him to remark or scoff incredulously, but he said nothing, and he just felt. . .what? Not happiness or relief, exactly, but it was difficult to categorise. He was already imprecise at analysing emotions, and with his current handicap, there wasn't a chance.

"And—" she started, but just as quickly she stopped herself from saying anything else, and when he raised his eyebrows in question, she simply shook her head firmly, and seemed to subconsciously dig her nails into his chest. The sharp contact instantly and thoroughly erased any leftover curiosity he might have had about how he felt or what she was going to say, and he lost all semblance of control, impatiently rolling them over so that she was beneath him again.

Without pausing, he attacked her lips with his own again, aggressively pushing his tongue into her mouth, and to his satisfaction she whimpered slightly, which only spurred him on further. Steadying himself on one elbow, he splayed his other hand across her collar bone and then dragged it downward, leaving slight marks of his own, wanting to cover and possess every inch of her skin. He roughly fondled her chest, before pushing his hand downward further, noting the smoothness of the skin at her waist, the softness of her slightly curved belly, the coarse silkiness at the juncture between her legs, and then the crease below.

He didn't know what he'd expected (though to be honest, prior to tonight he'd never thought to have any expectations at all), but he was instantly engrossed in the exotic texture and feel of her, so very alien to anything he had ever experienced on a tactile level before. He traced every contour and recess of her form with his thumb and fingertips, trying to familiarise himself with her anatomy, and before he even realised what was happening she was covering her hand with his, squeezing tightly, and her head was thrust back and her chest heaving. He was familiar on an elementary level of the physical changes that took place as a woman became aroused, but as he observed from such an intimate distance, even the most basic details seemed incredibly nuanced and erotic. No, there wasn't a textbook in the world that could have ever prepared him for this.

He watched in hungry fascination as he made and executed some very rudimentary deductions (the only kind of which he was currently capable) about what increased her pleasure, and when, a few moments later, her grip became like a vise and she arched her back, squeezing her thighs together around his hand, he wore an expression of fierce satisfaction.

When she opened her eyes, they were bright and gleamed with a dangerous spark, and Sherlock found himself slightly intimidated yet profoundly eager for what that look promised. She laced her fingers between his and pulled him forward so that their faces came together, but rather than close the distance between their lips with a kiss, she stared intently into his eyes, and their heavy breaths mingled in the inches between them. Then, slowly and deliberately and never releasing eye contact, she let go of his hand and lightly skimmed her fingertips down his side, making him shiver involuntarily. Still, she continued: down his waist, across his hips, over his pelvic bone, and then—

He uttered a low gasping moan as her warm, sure hand tightened around him, and a dark and hazy mist suddenly surrounded his entire field of vision; all he could see now was a small pinprick of intense blue, and all he could hear was the roar of blood in his ears, like the revving engines of a 757 passenger jet. Every sense, in fact, was dulled, while every sensation, every thought (or lack thereof), and every care was with her hand, and the insanely pleasurable way she was moving it.

The word 'insane' was incredibly appropriate, because he felt like he was going to go out of his mind with lust. He felt as if he might've never been so consumed by any one desire, not even during his most fiending nights in rehab, and though he had never experienced this situation, had never needed to contemplate how he would proceed if he encountered it, he knew exactly what he wanted to do—must do, in fact.

He was sure he had never wanted anything more in his entire life.

If someone—the Devil, for intents and purposes—materialised there, in that moment, and made him choose between consummating his desire and ever receiving another case from New Scotland Yard, he wouldn't have hesitated. Not for one second. After his admittedly brilliant rescue earlier in the evening, he was certain that he was still the "great" Sherlock Holmes, but now he also knew that he was a man who was just as fallible and susceptible to the most basic human instincts as any other man.

Suddenly he craved the contact of her mouth again, and he closed the small distance between them to capture her lips possessively. Unconsciously he mimicked the patterns she was setting below, and became increasingly more passionate as her grip quickened its movements. Then, just as he didn't think he could last another minute under her ministrations, her hand relaxed, and she dropped her knees apart so that the entire length of his body was pressed against hers, and their hips aligned.

They both caught and held their breaths as the implication of the moment came crashing down around them, but when she shifted slightly so that she brushed up against his sensitive flesh, he expelled it all in a loud gust. His heart rate ratcheted up yet another degree, and he felt dizzy and disoriented, yet somehow anchored by the intensity of their eye contact. There was only one thing that could ameliorate this, he knew, and with a compulsion as ancient as humankind, he grasped himself in one hand and lifted her knee with the other in one fluid motion.

She stared up at him, her mouth pressed into a line and her nostrils flaring from fast-paced breaths, but she didn't look upset. She looked (again he struggled to label the emotion). . . anticipatory, and fiercely aware and present—much more so than he was, in fact. There was something more in her expression, too, but he wasn't sure that even on his keenest and most observant day he would have been able to place it.

He remained poised above her for another moment, every sinew and synapse in his body screaming for him to complete the act, but still he paused, looking into The Woman's eyes and waiting for a signal that he didn't know, but understood that he would recognise when he saw it.

It came when she grasped his triceps and lightly pressed her thighs against his sides, and without thinking or hesitating any further, he pushed his hips forward until they were fully flush with hers, and he could feel their heartbeats pounding against each other in rapid syncopation.

For a moment he actively tried to process that the thing he previously, unconditionally "didn't do," was actually occurring, but with all the astonishing sensations that were overwhelming his physical and mental processes, he was finding it next to impossible comprehend. Even harder to fathom in the moment were all his reasons against ever exploring this (now undeniably real) component of his being, though they had seemed perfectly rational before. He had rejected his own sexuality, but for what? To what end?

He withdrew experimentally and thrust again, and she tightened her grasp on his arms and smiled lazily up at him, breaking her previous look of deep concentration. Her expression sent spikes of adrenaline throughout his nervous system and he had a fleeting moment of clarity. He hadn't wanted this because he hadn't met her. She, to quote her himself, 'incited a reaction in him, something he didn't normally feel—maybe something he'd never felt.'" How accurate her words had been.

The key, he knew, was equality. He had never met someone, a woman included, whom he felt rivalled him, someone he could esteem as an equal. How could he ever be interested in someone he didn't respect? How could he want to be with a person who wasn't a challenge? She represented all those things—in a beautiful, sexually-appealing package, he had to admit, although that fact still remained secondary and overshadowed by how much her mind attracted him.

But yes, a very attractive package, he thought as his pupils dilated to take in her face: the bright blue eyes, long dark eyelashes, symmetrical bone structure, graceful, slender throat, glowing, rosy cheeks, and white teeth. For the second time that night he marveled at how the shift in his perception of her intellect had so radically changed his assessment of her physical self.

A hand reached up and lightly traced a shape along his jaw. "Bruise," she stated simply, and he nodded at the appropriate time but had barely heard her.

He was far too preoccupied with the fact that she had simultaneously wrapped her legs around his waist, abruptly altering the angle at which they came together. This shift sent new and different tremors of pleasure through him, and his mind was blissfully blank.

Her eyes seemed to flicker with understanding; she had undoubtedly seen countless men go into this identical trance. Even if she didn't actively engage in any type of intercourse, there was no question that many men did get sexual gratification from the humiliation and degradation that she provided.

She smiled seductively up at him and then tightened her legs while slightly lifting her hips to meet his. This captured Sherlock's attention; he uttered a choked cry and strained forward at the waist to grasp her hands in his and capture her mouth, desperately needing more contact. He kissed her forcefully, and although his lips began to feel bruised, the discomfort—like the pain from the injuries he'd accrued during the fight—was meaningless compared to the other physical stimuli he was experiencing in the moment.

They didn't speak again, at least not verbally. Physically, however, they continued the same dialogue they had been exchanging since they met. As soon as he had become more assured in his actions and became almost smug with himself, Irene subverted his new-found confidence by pushing him onto his back and firmly taking control. This left him at a loss, although only temporarily, and it was certainly not to his detriment. He even allowed himself to enjoy it—although there really wasn't an alternative; his automatic physiological responses were the true masters, now.

Their unyielding eye contact spoke eloquently as well as they moved together: approval, challenge, temporary dissatisfaction, eagerness, and even trust. His eyes widened at once when he read that in her face, almost as much from the fact that he had been able to actually discern the emotion as from surprise at seeing her direct it towards him. Had she seen it mirrored back at her? Doubtful, he thought, but he wasn't certain.

It had happened when he'd grown impatient with his passive role below her, and he'd resolved to take back some initiative and shift positions. Curiously, the trust in her eyes flashed the exact moment when he'd expect derision: when he'd rather clumsily surged forward into a sitting position with his arms tight around her waist, nearly toppling them both sideways. It had been ephemeral and it was almost immediately replaced by another look of flirtatious defiance, but he had seen it.

But almost as quickly as he'd noted it, the observation faded, along with almost every other semi-rational thought. She was doing mysterious yet magnificent things to him with her internal muscles, and scraping her nails down his chest, making him feel as if the locus of earth's gravity had shifted and magnified to where their hips joined together with increasing urgency.

In fact, the drowning feeling was coming back, and he reflexively pushed her back on the bed, tangling their legs and pressing her down into the mattress, without giving a moment's forethought to do so. First his mind had been lost, and now his body was no longer his own; his limbs and movements were animated by this overwhelming, unyielding force. All his ineptitude had faded away, and he now moved over her with smooth, intense and precise grace.

She seemed to be surrendering to a similar tidal wave. Gone now was her expression of presence and watchfulness; her eyes had lost their sharpness and they were staring unfocused, looking through him rather than into him. Not only did she not seem to mind as he blindly groped at her chest, then her shoulders, then clasped her hands in his again, but his ardency seemed to push her further. Emitting a sound he'd heard dozens of time from his mobile but never in person, she buried her face into the straining crook of his neck, breaking eye contact at last.

Without that single grounding connection, he lost all sense of reality and his basest instincts reigned unequivocally. There was no past or future, only the immediate present, and there was no world outside this humid Karachi hotel room; his entire universe was scaled down to include only himself and The Woman. And every need he'd ever considered vital in his past—a dose of cocaine, a new case, a compelling experiment—was trivia compared to this imperative.

Wearing the snarling mask of a man possessed—which in many ways he was—he released her hands to grab her under her knees and press in even closer, and she immediately threw her arms around his neck and her locked her ankles around his back, clutching onto him as if he were a life preserver.

But it was no use; he was going over the edge and he would only drag her with him.

He clenched his eyes shut and pressed his open mouth against her shoulder, breathing harshly through his nose, suspended in torturous rapture at the precipice. Then, after what seemed like an eternity of ever-building, sweet anticipation, it was the woman who spun them off into the abyss.

She suddenly tensed, every muscle contracting tightly around him, and she lifted her head from the crook of his neck to toss it back with a choked, breathy moan that sounded suspiciously like his name.

He couldn't be certain, though, because her convulsive movements had been too much for him to take, and his tension finally, abruptly shattered. A surging, all-consuming pleasure engulfed his entire body, blooming from his centre and radiating through every muscle and limb, leaving him gasping for oxygen. Yet even that most fundamental physical necessity was secondary to the inexorable force pulsing relentlessly through his being.

Then, as quickly as his muscles had contracted, they suddenly and completely relaxed, sapping his last reserves of energy and strength. Gasping, he collapsed onto the bed next to Irene, where he felt as if he had had been poured like molten lead.

Next to him, The Woman was equally breathless, slack-limbed, and shining with sweat, but her eyes burned brightly with that same emotion Sherlock had seen before, but had been unable to name.

He was still unsure of most of it, but there was one facet of her expression that he did fully recognise.

Victory.