The kiss probably lasted only a few seconds, but in Sherlock's mind the time stopped completely. Most people don't know that he was kissed before, with or without his consent. Quite a number of times he was surprised with that act of affection from some uninteresting women who found him attractive. Boring. Only a couple of times he had consented to this experiment out of scientific reasons, just to investigate what's all the fuss about. But only this one time he felt the unmistakable feeling in his stomach while her thin fingers worked their way up his neck to the curls of his hair.

She moved away just a bit, her arms still around his neck, looking at his mouth with dreamy eyes.

"Pity. I hoped I was the first."

"Who sais you are not?"

"Oh please, we all have our areas of expertise."

They stood there, moving in the rhythm of the song which was long over and she kissed him again, and again. He decided it would be impolite not to return the favor; it seemed to mean a lot to her. 'Oh just shut up', said his own voice in the back of his head; his chain of thoughts was to unrealistic that he personally had to interfere. At first it felt as if they were walking on clouds, but at a certain moment, the feeling changed. He felt hungry...hungry of her. The dinner métaphore didn't seem inappropriate at the moment. As skilful as she was, she felt the change in his feelings even before he expressed it, so she pulled herself closer to him, kissing him more passionately. Restoring inner balance before irrecoverably crossing the line which the overcoming force he felt pushed him over, he stepped back from her.

For a brief moment she was hugging the air, so she looked at him in an irritated way, but she regained control over herself quickly, and put on the most flirtatious smile she had on her repertoire.

"You're trying to make me beg? It goes the other way around...at least twice." She said mischievously.

"Your appetites seemed to have grown since the last time we had this conversation." He said, reclaiming his usual serenity.

"It's called adapting to the situation. And just for the record, I could make you beg, you know."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

She briefly laughed, and then she struck back.

"I desire nothing more than a chance to prove my claim. It is you who denies me the pleasure of victory without any prove...to think that people consider you objective in your claims."

He wanted to make a comment about already proving his case by proving her sentiment towards him; but that would only give her ammunition to fire his minutes ago proven sentiment right back at him.

"Prove what? That you could beat me with a riding crop? I admit defeat." He said sarcastically.

"I had another kind of torture in mind but I'll let you come to me. Mark my words Sherlock Holmes; you will be the one coming after me."

"That is my line of duty, if you break any law."

"Coward."

"Sore loser."

One wouldn't expect to see two extremely intelligent adults sitting on opposite sides of a room sulking, looking at the other when he wasn't looking. In fact, for a detective and a dead sex worker, they behaved absolutely childish.

"This is nonsense. We should be fighting Moriarty, not fighting with each other." Said Irene, proving herself as the more mature one.

"I'm not fighting." Sherlock replied while carefully studying the carpet.

If she only hadn't promised him that he will make the next move, if it wasn't her precious game at stake, she would have made him think twice before behaving so childishly towards her...but she was as stubborn as he was, which was the beauty of it all. Or better said, the annoyance of it. The only way to make him act was to make him feel curious. So she stood up, walked to his chair and unzipped her dress which slid to the floor. With a smirk and without a word, she marched to her room.

He remained in hi place, motionless. It was so obvious she was trying to lure him to follow her. But he wouldn't buy it. Of course he wouldn't fall for it; it was a cheap, obvious trick. He was just fine on his own, sitting here, thinking. Why would he need her company? No reason at all.

After more than an hour spent in his mind palace, Sherlock couldn't pretend he wasn't nervous any longer. He went through his plan many times, and then he checked if he still knew the periodic system by heart, after that he classified firearms of German origin chronologically since the Second World War to the present day. When all of that couldn't keep his mind of The Woman, he tried to remember all of John's girlfriends since the two of them met, the 418 types of Tea which could be found in Britain, and as the final weapon against loosing focus, the famous 243 types of tobacco ash. When nothing of the mentioned helped, he was forced to admit to himself he was curious; what was she doing in the other room? Why didn't she come back for over an hour? Was she asleep? Was she angry? And the question he hated most of them all – Was she wondering what he was doing too?

From that moment on, he needed only half an hour to actually get up and go look for her. He approached her bedroom door. Somehow, this time he felt obligated to knock. Damn her, she thought. He was starting to behave polite because of her, she was bad influence. He knocked briefly, but there was no reply. She couldn't have gotten anywhere besides jumping out of the window. A wave of honest concern flooded him, so he decided to just come in. When he opened the door, he discovered the room was completely empty. Before he could figure out what was going on, a pair of quick, dexterous hands put a ribbon over his eyes. His natural impulse was to take it off immediately, but Irene's voice whispered a:

"Shhhh, don't." into his ear.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but he felt a finger on his lips instructing him not to. He sensed her moving around him and she was now standing in front of him.

He couldn't resist, so he started talking:

"What's the meaning of this?"

"A compromise."

He knew what smirk she had on her face, although he didn't see it.

She took him by the hand and after a few paces she pushed him on the bed. Before he could react, he felt handcuffs closing in on his wrists. She was really good at this, he thought. When his hands were securely tied, she removed the blindfold.

He was stunned by how the woman leaning over him looked. He never appreciated attractiveness in women very much, but he had to admit that she was inventing new levels of attractiveness in every new encounter he had with her. Since she slipped out of her dress, she dressed into a red corset. On her hands she wore black, fingerless lace gloves. Her lips were as red as always and her curly hair was free on her shoulders. On her left thigh was a garter in the shape of a red bow. She observed him looking at it and she laughed.

"It is a symbol of what a true gift I am for you."

He couldn't help but smile back at her and laugh to this rather unusual situation he had gotten himself into. He leaned his head backwards to look at his hands that were comfortably but firmly tied up with black furry handcuffs.

"What now?" he asked. He felt less nervous now then when she made him dance. Perhaps that is the dominatrix effect of being tied up, he thought, making a mental note to investigate that at some point.

She leaned in and kissed him. And this time, he kissed her back enthusiastically.

She stopped for a second, laughing at his disappointed expression.

He rolled his eyes:

"What now? And don't look so victorious, I would escape if I could."

"You know what? I find that extremely hard to believe."

So she kissed him again. Here actions could be best described as full of sincere emotions. She wasn't too gentle on him, but she didn't take the next step either. It was like she was trying to absorb as much of him as possible, like it was the first and last time she was with him, and she didn't want to spoil anything.

His action could be best described as tied up. At the beginning, he felt abnormally frustrated that he was deprived of any control, but then he somehow recognized what she felt and nothing mattered anymore. It was nice, this not thinking sometimes this way, he thought. Not boring at all. It could be compared to some of his most interesting cases. He had to laugh to himself; he was behaving like a teenage boy, without control, reason, purpose. Actually, he was behaving like John. John must never know anything of this, or Sherlock will be forced to live in a bunker underground to avoid the teasing. And then he stopped thinking again.

He lost track of time; it felt as if eternity had passed, but it could have easily been only ten minutes. All of a sudden she moved away and then he felt the blindfold on his face once again.

"Oh come on. Why?" he asked in a displeased manner.

"It's part of the game. Be patient." She said in a playful but commanding way.

Sherlock wasn't amused. He heard her wondering around the room, and when she finally took the blindfold off, she was fully dressed and she smiled at him, but her eyes looked sad.

He felt a pinch in his arm and saw a needle piercing his skin. He looked at her in panic, but she continued smiling at him in a sad way.

"It's been a pleasure. More than you know. But I owe you my life and it is time for me to take the risk of saving you this time. I hope this isn't a final goodbye, but if it is...well, I was never good at them."

She kissed him once more gently as everything started to blur away from the effects of the drug. His last rational thought was the comprehension of her behavior in the last hour and the desperation that was caused by it.

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He felt like he had slept for a very long time, and his head still felt very heavy. The light was too strong, he taught. John must have opened the curtains as a subtle sign for him to stand up. He decided to ignore this invasion to his lazy sleep routine so he covered his head with a pillow and rotated himself to a more comfortable position. And that's when he remembered.

Is it still in character enough? Please review :)