Chemicals. Sherlock tried to keep that word the forefront in his mind. Only chemicals. They had both gone very still. He tried to ponder the similarities between the chemical rush he had here, staring at the Woman who could materialize a complex game from the mental acrobatics behind a small look or touch, and the adrenaline addiction he had to impossible cases and danger. He was almost able to convince himself he was in control. Then she tried to breathe in quietly, and the slightest friction of her fingers sliding on his thigh derailed his thoughts.

He took in her damp wavy dark hair and conjectured nothing about her recent shower. Instead, he only saw the tiny droplets collecting in her curls before they fell on her slightly bared shoulder and found himself startled by the very pressing urge to lick one off. The image flickered through his mind, and the most delicious cocktail of dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine rewarded him.

A faint feminine moan text alert had Sherlock's eyes flickering over to table where his phone sat. A confused second past, as his brain instantly identified the sound as the Woman's message alert noise and warred with the logic that he held her in a firm grip. His eyes flickered down to where he held her and realized his hold was so tight it must have been borderline painful. His gaze darted over to Irene's face. Her eyes half closed and her bottom lip caught between her teeth; her features a decadent mixture of pain and pleasure. The images clicked, and Sherlock quickly realized the sound had come from Irene. Reflexively, he released his vise-like grip.

Her eyes fluttered open; a faint accusation in her stare. He felt the slight pin prick from her nails on his leg as she squeezed. "I've had enough of your teasing, Mr. Holmes," she said. There was a bite to the way her words were clipped.

Sherlock relished in watching her lose her ability to maintain passivity. Loved the small crack in her control that blossomed in her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. As he quietly gloated, he tried to ignore his own building excitement at the way her other hand came up to push him down onto the couch and resisted the urge to grab her hips to pull her flush against him. A moment passed. His brow furrowed as his body waited, and Irene wasn't pressed against him. She hovered over him, balanced on her knees and hands. Sherlock looked at her face again, noticing her smirk.

His lips pursed. He felt his temper sharpen at the disappointment that the game wasn't over. Curious. Prolonging the game had always been the best part. "You've deceived yourself," he found himself saying, unable to keep the sneer out his voice. "I have no interest in teasing you. Whatever your mind has invented as me trying to tease you is wishful thinking on your part." His icy eyes scanned her face, trying to see how his barb hit its mark.

Only a small huff of laughter came out of her. "Oh, look at the poor man," she murmured. Sherlock's small spark of anger flared at the condescending inflection. "You can pull pigtails all you like-" She leaned in closer until her damp curls brushed against his cheeks. Her curled fingers lifted his chin up to keep eye contact as he tried to dodge the way her hair caressed his skin. Her thumb rested over his lips, silencing the retort rising to Sherlock's tongue. Unable to break away from her narrowed blue gaze, he couldn't resist as she slowly closed the distance between them until he could smell the hint of apple from her lip tint. "You're not getting what you want until you beg." Her last warm word flowed over his lips accentuating the near non-existent space between their lips.

Sherlock found himself speechless and craving apples with a ferocity he never felt before. His fingers flexed on the leather edge of the sofa as he tried the fight the intensity of the reaction. Inhaling sharply, he couldn't fight the groan that rose out of him when he flooded his nose with a stronger sample of her lips' apple scent. Irene softly shushed him. Sherlock couldn't help recalling the similarity to the last time she stood over him, gently hushing him in her victory as her drugging incapacitated him. Now, his own body was betraying him this time. Its chemical assault left him defenseless.

"Come now," she said. Her tone was low and lilting. "Being beaten isn't so bad. All you have to do is lose, and I will give you anything and everything." She accented the last words with a nip at his ear followed immediately with a gentle brush of her lips. He tried to fight the way she overwhelmed his senses by clinging to word "lose" to strengthen his resolve. Lose. Chemical defect. Losing side. Suddenly, his mind went exquisitely blank as Irene's thumb softly stroked his bottom lip, sending novel sensations tingling throughout his body. "You don't even have to use words." She lifted her thumb. Her mouth poised so painfully close to his; the invitation perfumed with the scent of apples.

Lifting his head up to her wasn't even a conscious decision. Her touch had magnetized his lips, and he was now inexorably drawn to her.

The sound of his cell ringing startled him upright. Irene squeaked as upward momentum had her straddling his lap. His eyes flew to the ringing and dancing phone on the table. "John." he blurted.

Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "Ah, your better half."

He scowled at her words and slid out from under her, dashing across the room to the mobile a little too quickly. Answering the phone, he kept his back to Irene. "Yes?" Sherlock said, unable to control the irritation in his voice. He could practically see how his terse tone had John's hackles rising.

"You okay?" John asked less out of concern and more of a warning in his voice.

"Fine."

"-Right. I guess I've interrupted one of your 'important' experiments." When Sherlock refused to dignify a response, John continued. "Just-whatever experiment has you in such a poor mood-don't bring it back to the flat. Get it all out of your system over there. You hear?"

"Never mind that. You're calling because Mr. Wilson has disappeared."

"-Lestrade called?"

"Course not. His disappearance was expected."

"Yeah-not following. Sorry-you said, 'expected?'"

"Yes, just tell Lestrade to look behind the display case on the right of Mr. Wilson's pawn shop."

"What-what does that have to do with anything? Sherlock, just come to the station and explain."

"No. Not for a five." Without another word, he ended the call. When he looked up from the mobile, Irene stood in front of him, regarding him keenly.

"A five?" She questioned, tilting her head slightly.

He cocked a brow. "There's no point in doing any legwork for anything less than a seven."

A sly look crossed her face. "Oh? Is that so?" He regarded her carefully, tucking his hands into his pockets. She only smiled wickedly, gliding up to him. She stood up on her tiptoes and laced her hands behind her back. "I guess it's safe to assume I am higher than a seven then." His lips quirked. "The real thing I want to know is how much more legwork I can expect." With that, she lifted her hand and brushed an invisible piece of lint from shoulder in a blatant excuse to touch him.

Sherlock frowned. "I don't expect any more trouble." There was a note of disappointment in his voice.

Irene traced his jawline with her finger. "Not what I was talking about," she said quickly and quietly. A playful smile bloomed on her lips, challenge in her eyes. "Would you like some trouble, then?"

He looked at her quizzically. He hesitated before he opened his mouth. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?" She looked at him expectantly her hand working through his hair in an idle affectionate way.

"Treat me like I could possibly reciprocate or understand your sentiments." His words were bland and cold hard fact spoken with his usually distain. However, there was a trace in the air; the barest faint hint of regret mingling with frustration in his voice.

Her hand stilled in his hair, and stressed crossed her brow for the briefest moment. Her smile was soft and reassuring as she shook her head. "It's just a game, Mr. Holmes." She watched his face for any reaction then dropped her gaze. "I wouldn't want to be boring."

"Yes. Of course," he said softly, staring down at the top of her head. He wanted to tell her she wasn't boring, could never be boring. Wanted to say she could create fascination with a glance and intrigue with a touch. She was singularly remarkable in a world full of dull people. Interesting, he never had any complications with saying what was on his mind, but couldn't put any of this in words that felt right.

She lowered her hand, and placed her hands at his waist lightly. Her fingers gingerly probed his waistband. "Let's say it's the end of the world." She hooked her fingers into his belt loops and jerked him towards her.

He hands came up to catch himself on her shoulders momentarily enjoying the way the material easily slipped through his fingers and the warmth he could feel through the thin silk. He forced his concentration back to the Woman's face. "It's not," he said flatly, but his heart was already drumming.

She clucked disapproving. "Use your imagination, my clever detective." One hand deftly untucked his dress shirt. Her other hand held fast to his belt loop, preventing him from jerking away. "An experiment." She slipped her hand underneath his black shirt, her palm pressed against his stomach and fingers whispered over the contours of his taunt muscles. "The very last night."

"An experiment," he echoed. He found himself mirroring her. His fingers slid under the dressing gown on her shoulder, tracing the shape of her trapezius muscle from the slope of her shoulder up the curve of her slender neck. He absorbed the way goosebumps rose on her flesh, and her warmth permeated his fingertips. He continued following the strong line of her jaw until he grasped her chin, matching the way she held him on the couch. Her lips immediately parted, eyes transfixed to his mouth. When he brushed the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip and felt the soft, giving heat, he felt his blood roar in his ears.

They stood transfixed, yet moving ever so slightly towards each other. Like two celestial bodies dancing closer and closer, impact imminent, all-consuming and devastating. If only one of them would give in. They were equally matched, fiercely burning stars, quivering with potential.

"Just a kiss," she murmured, pressing her lips against his thumb while her hand grazed his chest.

If either of them could have been cognoscente enough, they would have argued over whether there was a pleading note in Irene's voice, whether Sherlock leaned in those last few centimeters or she pulled him in. All the taunt resistant between them had their lips meeting in the most feather-light of glances. The feeling was so ephemeral that both were wonder-struck for an instant if it had actually happened. Sherlock took a breath and inhaled the ghost of apple still lingering on his lips. After that, nothing else occurred to him except getting a proper taste.

Author's note: Thanks to everyone for reading. This feels like an ending point of sorts. I might pick the story up further if I sort out a direction. Hope you enjoyed my first Sherlock fic.