When she first stepped into the hotel room, the solitary bed already had her calculating. Of course the bed was larger than her usual game room fare, but the fact that they would be forced to share it was a tremendous boost for her game of bringing the consulting detective to his knees. In a single bed together, she could coax Mr. Holmes into testing caress and kisses and more. A delighted shiver had cascaded down her spine at the prospect. Now, she stared at the detective sitting across the room and frowned. It was quite amazing and disappointing then, how fast Sherlock could render her lovely plans and plotting completely pointless.
Sherlock sat forward in the middle of white leather couch, palms pressed together with his fingertips resting in front of his mouth, eyes distant. He had been locked in that position for two hours immediately after receiving a call from Dr. John Watson. All she had been able to the catch of the conversation was the phrase "ginger league" before Sherlock had started pacing, juggling clues and theories in his mind. After ten minutes of frantic movement, he settled into a fixed position on the couch. When he neither moved nor spoke for the first thirty minutes, she knew he was out of reach, and there was no sign that anything would change anytime soon.
While he was gone, she had eaten and showered at her leisure, soaking up the decadence and pampering she had missed while captured by the Karachi terrorists. The warm water and perfumed soap washed away the despair of the past week, reclaiming the Woman that has reawakened when Sherlock had taken her hand. She allowed her damp, dark hair to hang loose as she padded across the room to check on her virginal detective. He remained still as ever, only his ice-blue eyes' rapid movements testified to his consciousness. Alone with her own thoughts and one of the most fascinating men she had ever met, Irene couldn't help but examine the pensive feelings that Sherlock stirred up.
She remembered his name coming to her in whispers. From clients to acquaintances, his name was on everybody's lips. She made it her business to know what everybody liked, and her own personal fascination with detective stories brought Sherlock Holmes to her attention. His adventures and brilliance danced vividly in the stories she heard about him, and she found herself a small secret fan before she knew it.
Then there was all that unfortunateness with Moriarty. She sighed. If only she weren't so keen on misbehaving. None the less, she was able to lure Sherlock to her door. With his reputation, she knew she had to push their first meeting together, ride into battle with all her best weapons. She had surprised him, but he had also surprised her. She had made the first impression, but her dear detective had quickly taken control out of her hands. She had barely escaped losing to him by a hair.
Irene had made a successful career by dominating the most powerful people in the world. Reducing rulers to submissive playthings was a morning exercise completed before afternoon tea. Sherlock challenged her. Demanded she use her mind to solve the mysterious death of the man by the river. He didn't give her what she wanted like everyone else. He gave her the tools and expected her get what she wanted. Her clever detective in the funny hat moved with deliberate purpose. He took in everything about a room and the people in it, and used everything to control events and people, including himself, to an exacting precision. Sherlock walked into rooms and dominated them.
Her eyes watched him carefully as she moved cautious step by cautious step closer. When she was satisfied that he couldn't see her wherever he was mentally, Irene kneeled in front of Sherlock, drinking in his striking features. His high cheekbones were still irresistible, begging to be struck. She bit back a smile at the memory. His long dark lashes framed his light blue-gray eyes. Looking at his face so candidly brought back their last encounter when he had deconstructed her so completely. She couldn't help the way looking at him, without the veil of desire or the dressings of marvel, brought up in her a naked sentiment. She liked him. In this quiet moment where they couldn't clash dramatically, she liked the things that added up to the man that was Sherlock Holmes.
Tentatively, Irene reached out. Her fingertips brushed against his cheekbone. No reaction stirred in the man that was a mental marble statue. Something relaxed in her with this private moment. Her fingers drifted down to his hands, still poised on his lips. Affectionately, she traced the lines in his well-worn hands, admiring the stories etched in skin of all the legwork his brilliance demanded. She placed her palms on the back of his hands, embracing his devotional stance with her own. She pressed a kiss into his ring finger on level with his pale lips.
"Thank you for saving me, Sherlock," she murmured, eyes closed and her lips delighting in the feel of his skin. She felt him exhale heavily. Her eyes fluttered open, and she leaned back.
"The bank, of course," Sherlock rumbled, his brow furrowing. "The break-in had to happen soon." He glanced at her without seeing her. "Behind the display case on the right side of the store."
Irene didn't know whether to laugh or to moan. For a moment she had felt like Pygmalion, incredulous at having raised a statue to life with a kiss. She looked again to satisfy her assumption that he was still lost in his own world. Watching and listening to the snippets that were brilliant puzzle pieces of the way his sexy brain worked recharged her desire for him. She let the feelings blanket her softer emotions. After all, sentiment was a characteristic of the losing side.
She settled into the space on seat next to him. He was certainly handsome, and she had bedded handsome people that had not captivated her in such a way before. Her body responded to his, appreciating his dark looks and sharp features. However, it was when she looked into his blue-slate eyes and saw the keen, ruthless intelligence there that she felt a foreign thrill. Irene knew the pleasures of arousal, satisfaction, and dominance, but in Sherlock's eyes she saw a beautiful chaos and challenge. They both saw each other in a way the rest of the world couldn't. That's why she wouldn't pass up the challenge of bringing Sherlock to his knees.
The silence was boring, and Irene soon dismissed the idea of resigning herself to sleep in the bed alone. She looked at his hunch broad back with fascination. Smiling to herself, she began to trace the curve of his spine with her fingers, alternating between the edge of her nail and pad of her fingertips. She didn't expect a reaction, but she sharpened her senses looking for any changes at all. Just as she was about to resign to having better luck pulling a reaction out of an actual statue, she realized Sherlock had stopped breathing. She hid her smile and kept her strokes languid, watching with fascination as he tried to resume breathing in a subtle way.
When she had let enough moments pass, so he could think he got away with it, she let her nail follow the trail from his spine to his ribs. Midway on the side of his chest she curled her fingers, her knuckles ghosting over his side down to his waist. From beneath his shirt, Irene could feel his muscles rippling as they tensed under her touch.
Her darling detective couldn't feign immunity as he turned quickly catching the criminal hand in a firm grip. He didn't say anything immediately, but his brows were drawn down and eyes were flashing and intense. After a few heated breaths, his lips parted. "Ms. Adler." There were hints of huskiness to his voice that made an excited sigh spill from her lips.
Her fingers itched to turn her hand, pull him towards her, and crawl on top of him. She kept her hand still though, so they could both pretend they had forgotten that Sherlock held her wrist, his fingers nowhere near her pulse. Instead, she drew his focus by biting her lower lip and keeping her eyes trained to his like an unrepentant sinner daring him to rebuke her. "Mr. Holmes," she said, letting the "r" and "s" roll off her tongue sensually as her other hand slid up his leg just enough to threaten his resolve without unhinging hers.
Exhilaration strummed through her as she watched darkened desire began to roll over his features like a sudden London fog. She had seen that look on many men and women right before they lost all semblance of control. The heavy lidded look and the slight part in his lips screamed of being on the precipice of the moment of no return. Most of her clients softened immediately after that look; their faces and demeanors becoming pliant and begging. But Sherlock. Ah. He looked like the devil intent on the claim, and there would be no softening of his desire. Her body shuddered with anticipation, knowing that look was the one that got you thrown up against a wall or pulled down to a floor.