A/N: For a second, I considered making this chapter a final one... but then I thought better of it.
Once again, it's quite 'M' at times. Consider yourselves warned...
And thank you for all the reviews! They really give me a spur to keep on writing.
On the following morning he comes to breakfast quite late, wrapped in the sheet that still smells like her.
He always held personal hygiene in high regard, but somehow the thought of taking a shower makes him angry.
John's already there, nursing a large mug of coffee and shielding his eyes from the sun. They share a look, and Sherlock walks into the kitchen to fix himself his own portion of caffeine.
"So, um… care to tell me something more about your friend?" John asks almost shyly once Sherlock's back is turned. "It's just… fancy finding you in bed with a woman; I mean…"
He remembers his conversation with Irene and grunts, "She's not my friend." And she's not a woman, she's the woman, he wants to add, but even John's smart enough to make the connection, despite the alcohol fumes clouding his mind.
"But… will we be seeing her again?"
"I don't know about you," Sherlock snaps, and smirks at his coffee cup as he puts the sugar in, "but I intend to tell Mary I no longer require her help with finding a date for the wedding."
Jane Murray. A post-graduate student of Forensic Medicine, originally of Chester, currently living in Glasgow. We met at Bart's, when I attended a conference in London, bumped into each other again at the pub, and ended up doing the nasty. How does that sound?
Plausible enough. Since when are you a fan of the Bronte sisters, though? Stoker, I could sympathize with, although his writing was overly emotional and hysterical.
Every girl dreams of romance, Sherlock. Well, almost every girl.
What do you dream of, Miss Murray?
Are you sure you want to know?...
It's easier to play when they're apart, to juggle the double meanings in the emails, to hide the true extent of their emotions behind nicely crafted puns and epigrams.
He could perhaps be satisfied with this, had they not shared those few moments in his bedroom. Had she not kissed him.
It's not that he's suddenly in love with her, no, there's nothing sentimental about it. Neither is it entirely physical: his libido hasn't changed either way; he sometimes seeks release the way he used to before (he's only a man in the end, and as such consists, regrettably, of the flesh as well as of the mind), and even if the vision filling his dreams has Irene's face now, it's most probably the result of his brain being fuelled with the images stored by his short-term memory, and nothing more.
At least that's what he keeps telling himself.
What it all comes down to is the mystery. The wonderment. The fact that their relationship, as established over texts and emails, is completely different to the one they seem to have when they're together, face to face and skin on skin, puzzles him to no end.
Is it possible that two such different states occurred simultaneously? Or is only one of them true, and the other could only be perceived as false, illusive and deceptive?
As if it's the latter that is true—which is which?
He can guess all he wants, but this is not something that could be resolved by the means of theoretical musings. This situation requires a hands-on approach.
Which is why he needs to see her. To solve the mystery.
It's not as if he misses her, or anything.
Where should I pick you up?
Don't worry. I'll come over.
And she does.
They need to be in church at 12:30. The ceremony starts at one; then there's the reception until four, and then John takes Mary to Brighton for a honeymoon weekend, and Mrs. Hudson goes to visit her sister somewhere in the country. It's obviously a ploy designed so that the house would empty, allowing him and his 'not friend' to feel comfortable.
Hadn't it been so painfully obvious, he might even appreciate their efforts.
Be it as it may, he has the theoretical possibility to spend over forty hours alone with Irene Adler.
'Theoretical' being the operative word: he has no idea what her plans for after the reception are, and even if she were to stay at Baker Street there's no saying that they wouldn't decapitate each other within minutes of being left on their own.
Another mystery. Could they actually tolerate the other's company for a whole day? A weekend? Possibly longer?
It could be the greatest experiment he'd ever participated in.
The doorbell rings: 11:35, not a moment too late. He knows she'd opt to spend as little time as possible around John and Mrs. Hudson, but they do have a schedule to work with.
He rushes down the stairs and opens the door, curious as to whom he's about to see.
"Hello, Sherlock, sorry I'm late," she says with a toothy grin, speaking with an accent that's neither Scottish nor Welsh, but a brilliant combination of the two. He all but laughs out at the sight of her: hair curled into an afro (to take the attention away from her cheekbones, dulled even more by carefully applied make-up), large glasses in an alarming shade of fuchsia, some artificial skin around the nose to blur its original shape, and a sensible, beige two-piece with an overly long skirt over an immaculately white shirt. A designer watch, long silver earrings, an ostentatiously big flowery ring on her right hand middle finger. Leather shoes, almost flat. It makes her look like somebody who spends most of their time working and studying science rather than human relations, with a touch of a highly functioning geek on the side.
All in all, an outfit one would never catch Irene Adler wearing.
It could never have fooled him, of course, but it should be more than sufficient for the others.
"Good to see you," he says, because it's expected in a social situation like this, and moves aside to let her in; she stands on tiptoe and presses a fleeting kiss to the underside of his jaw, rubbing her thumb over the spot to get rid of the lipstick. He glares at her, but says nothing.
He notices, however, that she's brought and overnight bag. She'll probably stay at least one night.
He smiles to himself as he follows her up the stairs, the bag in his hand.
John is absolutely thrilled, of course, and goes on babbling senselessly for about three minutes, before Sherlock points out that he really needs to finish getting dressed. That leaves them alone—Mrs. Hudson had said her hellos and promptly made herself scarce, blessed woman—standing in his sitting room, looking at each other and trying very hard not to burst out laughing.
"Stop smiling, it doesn't suit you," she quips in the end, adjusts her glasses. "I might even think you're glad to see me."
"What if I told you I was?"
"Honestly, Sherlock, the best man is supposed to stay sober until after the ceremony."
He gives her a lopsided grin, and puts his hands in his pockets. "I'm amazed at their short-sightedness. It never even occurred to them it might be you!"
"Well, I am supposed to be dead, you know. Besides, not everyone has such remarkable aptitude for observation as you do. Now, get dressed, we should be going soon."
"I am dressed."
She frowns at him with visible disgust. "Are you telling me you're going to your best friend's wedding in this?"
He looks down at his customary dark shirt and an 'everyday suit' he'd worn the previous day. "Problem?"
This actually earns him an eye roll. "Honestly, Sherlock, I look more like a best man than you do. Now come on, to the bedroom with you."
He steps towards her and arches one eyebrow. "I thought you said I should get dressed."
"Cheeky sod," she murmurs, and pushes him towards his room, taking her overnight bag along. "If you're going to take me out as your date, you have to do better than that."
"You're not really my girlfriend, you know."
It is supposed to be yet another quip, another line, but it stops her dead in her tracks. When she looks up and him, her eyes are cool, focused, and perhaps a little hostile. "No, I'm not."
"Then what gives you the authority to talk to me like that?"
They are already in his bedroom, so she pushes the doors closed and catches his hand, not going for his pulse, but simply squeezing his fingers. "You tell me."
She makes him wear a white shirt instead of the grey one.
He firmly states that he wants to keep the suit, not quite comfortable with undressing almost completely in front of her—and she wouldn't leave the room, that much is certain.
She agrees, in the end, but insists on him wearing a tie. She even finds one in his wardrobe, and claims that its dark green shade accentuates his eye colour.
"I'm not going to do this. It feels like a rope from the gallows."
"Fine, let me, then," she presses and throws the tie around his neck, pulling him towards her and looking him in the eye with the most lewd expression he'd ever seen on her face—and that's really saying something.
I should have him on a leash. Perhaps I will.
They don't say anything, but they're both probably thinking the same thing.
She ties the knot expertly, and brushes at the front of his shirt as she puts the finishing touches on his clothing. "There. All better."
He's not so sure it is.
It all goes surprisingly well. John doesn't lose his cool. Mary looks appropriately pretty. Sherlock doesn't say anything offensive to the priest's face, although he does express his feelings at length as soon as he rejoins Irene in front of the church. She smirks at him and lights a cigarette (her 'smoking habit' should keep her outside the reception hall for a quite some time, minimizing the risk of somebody seeing through her disguise, unlike as it may be): an expensive Japanese brand, its filter tip coated with watermelon flavour.
He wonders if the taste is going to linger.
"So, you're in forensics? Me too," Molly says after the soup plates have been cleared, and the waiters are bringing in the main course (starting from the ladies): steaks with roasted potatoes and baby carrots, apparently one of Mary's favourites. Irene looks up at her and wrinkles her nose.
"Well, yes, I am. Although I stopped doing post mortems long ago. I'm more into lab work now, research and such."
"Really?" one of Mary's aunts sitting opposite them asks, without any interest whatsoever. "What are working on?"
Irene cuts into her rare steak, the reddish juice flowing out and staining her knife. "Liver degeneration. I compare samples taken from long-term alcoholics, and those from people whose parents had had a drinking problem, creating a possibility of hereditary affliction, but they themselves did not." She mouths the meat and licks her lips, before plunging her knife in the steak again. "Fascinating work. I get so excited when I get a new specimen."
The look on the overly-polite lady's face makes Sherlock want to roar with laughter or kiss Irene senseless. Possibly both. Damn this woman!
"Isn't it overly complicated, though? There's prone to be much discolouration, especially in the older ones," he asks, keeping his face completely impassive.
"Depends on the age of the sample." She takes another mouthful and smiles innocently. "Usually they're perfectly preserved, red and juicy."
Their interlocutor turns green, and excuses herself hastily, making her way towards the bathroom. Even Molly looks mildly disgusted.
"This is absolutely wonderful," Irene purrs, and cuts off another chunk of meat. Sherlock's plate is yet to be brought, so she offers it to him on her fork. "Here, have a bite."
He shots her a warning glare, but leans in and eats the meat nonetheless. Another one of Mary's relatives wipes their mouth with a napkin and leaves the table. Molly looks positively crushed.
"Very nice," he nods, approving not only of the meat, but also of her morbid sense of humour. She simply smiles, and goes back to her meal.
Burning the place to the ground has effectively begun.
John and Mary run out of the building, waving and grinning at the crowd, and Irene hides behind Sherlock as Mary turns to throw the bouquet. He chuckles and looks at her, mocking. "Afraid you might be forced to marry, Miss Murray?"
She glares at him, and takes his arm, pulling him away from the cheering crowd. "There's a saying that the lady who catches the bouquet will most probably be married to the gentleman accompanying her at the time. I'm simply trying to protect you."
"As if," he mutters, but lets himself be dragged in the general direction of the taxi rank.
He's almost sure she'd have him pinned against the wall in the corridor as soon as the door closes behind them.
Which is why he's almost humming with frustration after they'd been back on Baker Street for two whole hours, and absolutely nothing has happened.
He's in the kitchen when she comes into the room after taking a shower and removing her make-up, wrapped in his robe and holding a packet of cigarettes in her hand. She opens the window and sits on the sill, pulling one leg close to her chest. "Fancy a drag?" she asks and lights one, licking her lips to taste the watermelon. He walks over and leans against the window frame, looking down at her, squint-eyed.
"I don't smoke."
"So I've been told." She shrugs and looks out to the empty yard. "It's all for the better, though—that's my last one." Another lick.
"Any good? I vaguely remember smoking flavoured cigarettes some time ago, they were absolutely disgusting."
She inhales the smoke and stands up, leaning into him, lips almost, but not quite, touching. Slowly, she exhales, and the smoke fills his mouth while he in turn inhales it, bringing his face closer to hers.
He turns his head to the side and lets the smoke out of his lungs, then looks back at her with a grin. "We're not poor college students, you know. We don't have to share."
"But it's much more fun this way." Her lips linger close to his; he can smell the watermelon, and knows it would take but one quick flick of his tongue to taste her…
He also knows it wouldn't be enough.
From the look in her eyes, he can say she's equally affected by all this. "Are you ready to give up?"
"Are you?"
"Never."
"How would you feel about a temporary armistice, then?"
"On what conditions?"
She shrugs, and flicks the cigarette out of the window; he watches it spiral down. "Nobody wins, nobody loses. We set up the time, we play, we go back to where we left off."
He reaches out and pulls at the belt holding her robe together. She puts her hands on his chest, scratches it gently through the shirt. He touches the skin over her navel with his fingertips. "I don't think an armistice would suffice, Irene."
She shakes her head and frowns, undoing his tie but keeping it around his neck. "Do you have any counter-proposal, Sherlock?"
"We agree that we both lost round one, and pick it up… say, thirty-seven hours from now."
"A rematch?"
"A revenge."
"Retaliation."
"Precisely."
"What if it proves as inconsequential as the first?"
"We may have to keep on playing."
Her eyes glint mischievously. "It does sound reasonable."
"Good."
He pulls her to him, hands finding their way under the robe and pressing against her back. She bites his lips furiously, and twines her fingers in his hair, pulling hard, as if she's trying to punish him for making her weak like this. Perhaps she is.
They claw at each other, clothes flying off in every direction as they move towards his bedroom. He has her pinned against the door and writhing in anticipation as he finally fulfils his fantasy of licking her collarbone. She has him flat on his back on the bed mere seconds later.
The first time is fast, hard and wild, leaving them both bruised and hurting, muscles spasming as they finally let go and lie down on the sheet, breathing loudly, looking at each other with slightly dazed eyes. Sherlock reaches out and brushes his knuckles against Irene's breast, down her side, over her hip and to her knee, then back again. She pushes his hair behind his ear, arches into his touch, rolls them over and stretches her body over his, head resting in the crook of his neck. "Much less of a virgin than I thought, you."
"If I didn't know you any better, I might have thought I'd managed to impress you."
"Beginner's luck, that's all."
"Oh, really?" his fingers delve into her heat, stroking experimentally, but without hesitation, learning the angles and pressure points. She bites his shoulder and pushes his hand away, rising above him.
"What did you think?" she asks, and he knows she doesn't mean the twenty-two minutes and several seconds they'd just spent screwing each other's brains out, but the night from three weeks ago, when they were both too stubborn to even consider the possibility of defeat. He smirks and pulls her down, feeling quite smug when she gasps at the contact.
She rolls her hips, and his smirk turns into a moan. "That it would never be easy, not with you."
"Do you wish it was?" she picks up the tempo, and he sits up to embrace her, lean her backwards, lick the top of her right breast, pull at her hair.
"What would be the fun in that?"
There's a considerable amount of variety in everything they do, since both of them seem to have devoted a lot of thought to the possibility of finding themselves in this situation, together.
They sleep a little, until Irene grumbles that she cannot possibly sleep with another person, and goes out to buy some cigarettes. They smoke together afterwards, sharing, and watch the news and argue over some evident mistakes the newsreader makes; then he takes her against the wall, one of her hands grasping the mantelpiece, the other clawing at his back.
He plays the violin for her as she sprawls on his armchair, naked and radiant and bruised from his lips in the most extraordinary places. She listens intently and walks over to him, dropping to her knees. "Don't stop," she commands, and he doesn't—for as long as he can.
Afterwards, he wishes he'd recorded the music. He could use the money from a bestseller album.
She comes back to bed shortly before dawn, snuggles next to him the way she did on the night John almost caught them. "My plane leaves at three PM," she murmurs into his shoulder. He sighs and puts his arms around her, holding her until she sleeps.
She puts 'Miss Murray' back on before leaving, and refuses when he offers to accompany her to the airport. Both of them know very well he didn't really mean it.
"I'll be seeing you," she says, and kisses him lightly before walking out of his house, but not his life.
Three days later there's news on the telly of some businessman committing suicide after losing considerable amount of money on shady investments. The death itself is quite straightforward, and the police close the investigation within a week.
Sherlock stays up that night, sticking fresh nicotine patches to his arm every two hours, and waits for an email, a text, a sign.
Nothing happens.
And that's how he knows the game's back on.
TBC…