Hi! I tried updating as soon as possible, as I promised. Thank you once again for so many reviews! I must say, I think this is my favorite chapter yet, so enjoy :)

It was so funny watching Sherlock sleep, Irene thought with a smile. She observed him lying on his side, his face turned towards her with an ultimate carefree expression. He frowned at some point, as if he had a bad dream, but he resumed his serene state soon enough; he reminded her of an overgrown child. She wondered weather anyone ever had the privilege of being this close to him while he slept; did anyone get an invitation before her to approach him in such a state. Her inner dominatrix was dying to misbehave while he was just lying there, helpless in her claws; she briefly considered cuffing him to the bed just for the opportunity to cherish the look of surprise and horror on his face. But she decided it was better not to; at least for a while more, she decided with a devilish smile. Instead, she traced patterns over his shoulder and arm with the very tips of her long, thin fingers.

If he only knew how he fascinated her, how she wanted to examine every single part of him, to sneak into the darkest corners of his mind and see what is hidden there, to own him entirely, soul and body. She desired the feeling of being in power of him completely, having him in control in order to do wonderful things with him, things that would make his cheeks so adorably pink in the way they were last night. Translating her thoughts from the language of a dominatrix at heart, she felt quite in love in the object of her observation. And she also felt bored with his passiveness; he slept long enough, she decided.

With one quick move, she repositioned herself on top of him, lying parallel with his body, crossing her arms bellow his neck. He opened his eyes and discovered her looking back at him with a smirk from a very close distance.

"You were bored, weren't you?"

She replied by kissing his neck, breaking him away from the last traces of sleep.

"I let you sleep as long as you liked yesterday." He wailed sleepily.

"Yes, but that was so yesterday. And besides, now I'm the one that is bored."

Sherlock smiled. "Will I survive this cohabiting with you?"

"Only if you learn how to misbehave; otherwise, you are in big trouble."

"Oh but we don't want that to happen, do we?" he smiled, rolling her over so she was tightly secured between him and the bed.

She wanted to resume control but he was quicker, catching both of her wrists and holding them above her head.

"Mr. Holmes, you have some tricks up your sleeve after all, I'm pleasantly surprised."

"I have to, given the circumstances. I'm surprised I didn't wake up cuffed to the bed."

"You've read my mind."

"Oh, if only I could." He sighed.

"Will you have breakfast with me?"

They sat on opposite sides of the table; Irene wearing the shirt she stole off of Sherlock's shoulders during the negotiations whether or not he must eat. He was frustrated by her interference in his unorthodox life style, but he was also secretly glad that she cared whether or not he will starve himself to death one day simply because he forgot to eat. She increased the frustration level when she wouldn't let him eat in piece, since she constantly teased him by touching his knee with her foot under the table.

"I can see why people paid you to torture them, you are insufferably persistent." Said Sherlock, taking another bite of the scrambled eggs Irene had made.

"I know. Trust me, you will beg for more someday."

"I thought we discussed the whole begging thing?"

"Indeed. We could use this very table if you agree?" she raised one eyebrow provocatively.

"It wouldn't be fair of me to put you through all that trouble when I haven't deserved it by deciphering anything." He stated, faking the shyness in his voice.

"That reminds me, you still haven't explained me why you think Moriarty is alive? I read that they found his body."

"Oh Ms. Adler, since when are you so naïve? You read of my death too, but they got that wrong as well, as you can see."

She rolled her eyes to his 'naïve' comment. She'll show him who is naïve later.

"Alright then. I'm listening." Irene demanded.

"As I've told you before, Moriarty tried to make me jump of that rooftop by threatening to kill my friends. By that point I knew the following: Since he tried to take my reputation, my freedom and the people around me away, I knew that the only remaining step in his plan would be to take my life. I made a plan of my own, choosing the hospital as the rendezvous point since I know the surroundings so well. I arranged some details with Molly, a friend from the coroner's office. I came up there, ready to act the broken, desperate man that I was expected to be, when the conversation took a different turn when Moriarty apparently shot himself in the head. I knew he would never deprive himself of actually witnessing his final victory, my bloody body on the pavement, so that had to be a show, made to push me even deeper in despair. In a split second I realized it was far more convenient for me to have the ghostly advantage a dead man has, so I made a show for him as well. I called John, asking him to tell everyone I had lied, that I was indeed a fraud; I even cried to make Moriarty behind my back believe that he won. Not for a single moment have I given him reason to suspect that I believed he was gone forever. Then I jumped into my prearranged death and the rest you know."

"But how can you be sure he faked it? You know, better than anyone, how mad he is; or was."

"I checked, with Molly's assistance. The body in the Morgue was identical to him, except it was dead for half a day longer then it should have been. He obviously had a double, somebody he paid to go through a series of surgeries in order to look exactly like him, probably for protection reasons, like presidents sometimes do. It suits him, president of all crime. And faking the blood coming out of your head is just a simple trick. My guess is, he planned his fake suicide before coming to meet me and then somebody switched his body with his double he killed before. It can be easily done; you just need someone on the inside, like I had Molly. "

"Alright, I'll trust your way of thinking." Said Irene seriously. "But what now?"

"Now I'm going to finish him off. He was quite right; we do have a problem, the final problem. We cannot coexist. If he is clever enough to bring destruction upon me, he can rest assured that I shall do as much to him."

The conversation started troubling Irene. She was at first secretly proud of Sherlock's play, of the genius way in which he survived, but then she realized that his living might not last for a while. She never doubted Sherlock's intelligence, but she knew that only a fool would underestimate Moriarty. The thing that frightened her most was the one advantage Moriarty had; he didn't have a heart, Sherlock did, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, it was there. Was he clever enough to compensate for that?

"You seem worried." Sherlock stated. He wasn't teasing her, he merely studied her expression.

"I was simply thinking what a shame it would be if you died without having dinner with me." She said, lousily covering her real fears up.

Sherlock saw right through it, but decided to say nothing. He just smiled and let it go.

Irene wanted to take a shower after another long walk they took in the middle of the day. She was going through a cupboard in the bedroom, looking for something of Sherlock's she could wear later on when she saw something that she couldn't explain, something that shocked her; her photograph, taken years ago in front of Martin's castle during one of her summer holidays there.

How was it possible that it was here? She knew Martin kept it because he particularly liked it; he said it showed the way she truly was. She was sure he would never give it to Sherlock, especially not without telling her about it. She smiled. That leaves only one explanation. She felt a bit sad when she realized how hurt he was, and he still took it; he liked it for the same reasons that Martin did. Picking the purple shirt out of the closet; or the purple shirt of sex as she secretly called it, she headed for the shower.

Sherlock was busy writing a report for the university Steven Ezard was assigned to. He felt Irene's hand on his shoulder:

"Just let me finish this, alright?" he said, without even looking at her.

She didn't move so he rolled his eyes and turned around to look at her. She was wearing his favorite purple shirt. Only his favorite purple shirt.

"That's mine." He simply stated, since nothing better popped into his mind at the moment.

"Come and get it then." She said in her most provocative tone, turning over her shoulder since she was already headed to his room.

Sherlock sat in his chair, motionless. He quickly analyzed the situation: If he remained where he was, he would be safe from whatever she wanted to do to him, which he potentially also wanted, but the only risk was that her disappointment might consequentially result in her drugging him and doing whatever she wanted in the first place. If he, on the other hand went there, the only risk was that he would be petrified like the night before, which would cause embarrassment to him and potential drugging urges to her. Basically, he had no choice, so he swallowed and slowly got up.

She met him halfway, since she wasn't the most patient type of woman. They looked at each other during one second which seemed like eternity, and then she just jumped at him, literally. She wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing him deeply and passionately. His brain had only one thought before completely shutting down for the evening; the fact that we are standing next to a desk doesn't mean that I'm going to beg.

He turned, dropping her on the very desk. Irene pushed away all the things that were on the desk, including his laptop, which his gaze sadly followed to the ground. She traced the pattern of his lips with her finger, so he decided he will just ask Mycroft for a new one, no big deal. She unbuttoned his shirt in one move, like they do in the stupid romantic films John saw. She was even more dexterous with the rest of his clothes, so he was standing only in his underwear in a matter of seconds. He started unbuttoning the purple shirt off of her (which justified its nickname that evening; twice), and she let him do it, in his own clumsy, shy tempo.

She was so attractive; he realized that just now, unlike any other woman he ever observed. She was the right combination of skinny and curvy, which he also, shockingly, realized at the moment she was up on her elbows on the desk, looking at him with true hunger in her eyes. Although she wore the same battle dress as the last time he saw her with nothing on, this time it was intimate; she didn't try to scare him off with it or make him lose focus. On the contrary, she wanted all his focus on her, as she twisted under his touch, provoking him with the movements of her nails on his bare back and her lips on his neck.

Irene didn't know what she wanted to do first, there were so many things she fantasized about for months. Sherlock didn't think; he wasn't able to, so he just did something. At some point, he just understood. It didn't take a genius to understand, and for better, he was one. His actions became bolder and that was just a motivation for her to do the same.

At some point, when time started flowing again, they were both lying on the desk exhausted.

Irene looked up at Sherlock with a playful smile:

"Do you think we should let Moriarty know that he should start working on a new nickname for you?"

He smiled. "Cigarette?"

"Cigarette indeed."

They smoked gratefully in silence. Sherlock only broke it to say: "I didn't beg in the end."

"The night is still young." Said Irene mischievously.

Thank you for reading and please review :)