As Sherlock Holmes finished washing his hands in the restroom sink and looked into the mirror, the woman whom he'd led into the loo finally made a move.
"You're him," she said breathlessly, her heavy purse dropping onto the floor. Her eyes roamed over his lean body clad in a snug black suit with a matching black shirt. The spark of interest in her green eyes was surprisingly genuine for someone with a recording device tucked into her jacket pocket.
Sherlock's sharp blue eyes skimmed over her figure, zeroing in on the cheap "I heart Sherlock" badge on her breast.
"Wrong toilet," he said.
Sherlock and Dr. Watson strode into the court building and were swallowed up by the crowd inside the noisy hallways as soon as they entered. Police officers, witnesses and private citizens waited restlessly to file into the courtroom. The trial of the notorious thief who'd targeted Pentonville Prison, the Bank of England and the Crown Jewels all in one day was due to begin in less than an hour.
Though appearing calm and relaxed outwardly, inside Sherlock seethed with controlled anger and tension. He still hadn't worked out why Jim Moriarty allowed himself to be captured. He didn't escape from jail either, an easy task for a man with his means. The consulting criminal had devised some new game, and not knowing what it was ate at the detective. He'd run out of patches too, and there'd been no time to pick up more before the trial began. The unsatisfied craving for nicotine had him jittery and testy with nowhere to direct his furious energy.
Spotting D.I. Lestrade and more people from New Scotland Yard that he recognized, Dr. Watson looked at Sherlock and nodded in the officers' direction pointedly. He didn't bother shouting over the loud din of nervous chatter.
Sherlock nodded back to indicate John should go see Lestrade, and then pointed in the direction of the men's restroom down the hall. John waved back, understanding.
As Sherlock pushed through the crowd a bit too roughly, he became aware of a young woman in a deerstalker hat detaching herself from the wall and falling in step behind him.
As he neared the men's room door, the detective smirked slightly and walked past it.
He turned right at the end of the corridor, affecting an air of indifference as the young woman trailing became so obvious about it that he had to restrain himself from mocking her. He turned left down another corridor.
Her light footsteps continued behind him, only quieting when Sherlock stepped through the door of the other men's room, the one set deeper into the building, away from the court room.
Kitty Riley stood outside the door for two minutes, debating whether approaching the famous consulting detective in the loo was a good idea or not.
Screw it. I need this story. I'm not spending another year typing up obits. I'm better than that. I've got to get him. The journalist straightened the goofy hat over her braided pigtails, smoothed down her skirt, and forced herself into the mindset of a giggly, horny fan of Sherlock Holmes.
As she pushed open the restroom door and walked in, Kitty saw his unique reflection in the mirror and thought, Faking shouldn't be hard. He is bloody gorgeous. Eyes like a cat. All that black curly hair. Great arse. Pictures didn't do him justice. Wouldn't blame his flatmate for shagging him at all. Mental note: drill him about that.
Kitty smiled confidently, unaware of how she'd been drawn into precisely the position Sherlock wished her to be.
"Wrong toilet." He took in the shape of her curves, in the mirror's reflection. Yes, she'll do just fine.
"I'm a big fan," she purred.
"Evidently," he remarked as he dried his hands and turned to face her. Auburn hair, flattering but not natural. Dyed at home, can't afford a salon. Shirt unbuttoned to expose cleavage at just the right moment. Lips, soft pink, full, parted. Trying to look younger, to convey girlishness.
"I read your cases…follow them all." She moved close to Sherlock. Gazing up at him, she unzipped her navy blue jacket, displaying an expanse of creamy white skin and the valley between her breasts.
Holding up a black marker, she asked, "Sign my shirt, would you?" His eyes couldn't avoid her chest now, even if he'd wanted to.
Watching her play out this pathetic attempt of a seduction amused him. Sherlock's mood lifted. This was going to be fun. Nasty, but fun.
He raised an eyebrow, assessed her clothing openly and coldly, and began.
"There are two types of fans."
"Oh?" Kitty found herself unable to look away from his face. The color of his eyes shifted as he spoke. How had she gotten so close to his body? She didn't remember doing that. She was close enough to smell masculine-scented soap and shampoo. She was very aware that her breasts were only a few centimeters away from his chest now.
"Catch me before I kill again- type A." His blue-green eyes were locked on hers, refusing to let go.
"Uh huh. What's type B?" Kitty felt her tentative control of the situation slipping away. This was the overpowering personality people had spoken of when she'd researched him. Kitty could only watch his eyes move as she kept the marker aloft.
He smirked. "Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away."
"Guess which one I am?" She smiled, keeping up the flirty pretense, but her stomach fluttered. She could feel his disdain. It tinted every word that he tossed in her direction. She found herself hoping he wanted to explore option B.
He glanced up and down her body again, assessing and evaluating her. Kitty had the urge to zip up her jacket and cover herself, but she kept her hands still.
I will not break in front of this arrogant arsehole, she thought. I will get what I came for.
Oh fuck, she thought. "Really?"
"No you're not a fan at all." His eyes lit up and fell upon like her a predator's, stripping her down to the bone.
"Those marks on your forearm- edge of a desk. You've been typing in a hurry." His face began to shift now; he was enjoying himself and her discomfort. "Pressure on, facing a deadline…."
"Is that all?" Defiance and an attempt at skepticism shone in the arch of her eyebrows and twist of her mouth.
"No…there's a smudge of ink on your wrist. And the bulge in your left jacket pocket."
Kitty paled and felt anger rising in her gut. If he took her recorder, she was completely and utterly fucked. This fit son of a bitch was ruining the amazing article she had planned before she could even write the thing. Kitty controlled her response with the skill learned from years of dealing with condescending male colleagues.
"Bit of a giveaway," she remarked blithely.
"The smudge is deliberate, it's to see if I'm as good as they say I am."
Sherlock picked up her arm and sniffed her wrist. The intimacy of the gesture threw Kitty. His mouth was so close to her pulse point. She wondered if he could feel the speedy pace of her pulse if he licked the sensitive skin there.
No that's impossible. Don't be stupid. He can't tell that I'm getting…
As she thought it, he looked up and smiled crookedly at her. "Hmm, oil-based, used in newspaper print," he said, stroking the ink-stained skin, "But drawn on with an index finger. Your finger," he announced, grasping her other hand.
"Journalist. Unlikely you'll get your hands dirty at the press. You did that to test me." His eyes were cool and unfriendly but he didn't let go of her hands.
Kitty summoned her guts, and uttered the most honest thing she'd said all day.
"Oh wow. I'm liking you."
So he was the real deal. If she could get him to agree to the interview, she could spend more time trying to figure out exactly what color his eyes were. The photos of him alongside her front-page article would be phenomenal.
Scorn showed on his face, as he let go of her wrists. "You mean I'd make a great feature. Sherlock Holmes, the man beneath the hat."
Sensing she'd made a tactical error with that choice, Kitty removed the deerstalker.
"Kitty…Riley. Pleased to meet you." She offered a handshake, attempting to reassert professional control over the situation. She was so close to winning him over, she could practically taste it. Everyone wants to tell their own story, she reasoned. Let him pick me. I can do this. He wouldn't have spent so much time talking to me now if he weren't at least interested.
That was Kitty's real mistake. She didn't have the slightest clue how Sherlock Holmes's mind worked.
"No. I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you an interview. No, I don't want the money." He began to walk away, knowing she'd follow in desperation. Reporters, they never gave up easily. So far he'd predicted virtually everything she'd said and done.
"You and John Watson, just platonic? Can I put you down for a 'no' there as well?"
He turned and stepped into her, violating the unspoken personal boundary. His mouth was mere inches from hers and the front of her jacket brushed his as she tried to salvage the meeting.
"There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you," Kitty managed, unable to pull her eyes from his lips. Perfect triangles, and the bottom lip tightened as he watched her through narrowed eyes. "Sooner or later, you're going to be needing someone on your side."
"Someone to set the record straight." She couldn't resist letting her fingers linger on his jacket pocket as her business card slipped in. He didn't pull away, she noted.
"You think you're the girl for that job, do you?"
"I'm smart and you can trust me. Totally." Her fingertips rested on his chest still, barely touching. She had the bizarre urge to take a handful of the fabric in his hands, to see if she could shake up the cold-as-ice detective.
His eyebrows rose. "Smart, okay, investigative journalist. Good, well look at me and tell me what you see." He tilted his head and a mocking tone slipped into his slow words. "You're that skillful, you don't need an interview, you can just… read what you need."
Kitty's green eyes were wide, and she swallowed. Her stomach fluttered again and she fought to keep her face still.
She couldn't think of a response that wouldn't make her sound like a total amateur.
"No? Okay my turn." He stepped back and walked around her, eyes probing her as he circled around Kitty.
"I look at you and I see someone still waiting for her first big scoop, so their editor will notice them. You're wearing an expensive skirt but it's been re-hemmed twice- it's the only posh skirt you've got. And your nails, you can't afford to do them that often."
Humiliated, Kitty's fingers curled inward into claws. She turned to face him, feeling oddly vulnerable when her back to him. He continued his ruthless appraisal, looking directly into her eyes.
"I see someone who's hungry. I don't see smart. And I definitely don't see trustworthy. But I'll give you a quote if you like, three little words." With that, he reached into her pocket, extracting the recorder. She looked down at his elegant hands and her forehead nearly brushed his nose. They were so close together that anyone entering the loo would think they were about to embrace instead of strangers challenging one another.
He lifted the device, and held it between their mouths. They were almost nose to nose when he pressed down the record button.
Sherlock looked hard into her eyes.
"You. Repel. Me."
Kitty's mouth dropped open in surprise. Without even considering it, she raised her hand and whipped it across his face. It landed with a satisfying crack on his high cheekbone, leaving a red mark. Sherlock's eyes lit with shock, and some other emotion she couldn't put her finger on.
She blinked a few times, taken aback by her own action, before shaking herself. She ripped the recording device from his hand, and shoved it in her pocket. There were still only inches between their bodies. She shoved him back from her in disgust, gripping the lapels of his jacket.
"You bastard. You don't know anything about me. Who the hell do you-"
The rest of her growing rant was cut off when Sherlock grabbed onto Kitty's upper arms and yanked her against him, his lips slanting against hers ruthlessly as her breasts were crushed against him.
She froze for a few seconds, confused, but instinct kicked in and she opened her mouth to let his deft tongue in to tangle with hers.
Kitty didn't know what the hell was going on and she didn't care.
Letting go of his lapels, she snaked her hands up into his hair to drag his head further down so she didn't have to stand on her tip-toes anymore.
His kisses were wild and hard, his teeth tugging on her lips to the point of almost hurting. Kitty gave as good as she got, exploring his mouth in return and nibbling on those full lips. She pushed his head down so his mouth was forced onto her neck. She nudged him onto the right places, the sweet hollows on her throat that made her shiver when licked and sucked. His grip on her upper arms loosened, and one hand moved across her front to slip into her cleavage.
Her nipples were already pebbled. She had enjoyed the verbal sparring as much as he had. Well, maybe not quite as much. He'd won, after all.
Pulling his hand out of her shirt, he kept his mouth tight to her skin, working the sensitive flesh of the nape of her neck as his hands settled on her hips. Without even looking up, he began backing her further into the restroom until her bottom hit the outer stall wall.
Startled, Kitty's eyes focused themselves, and she realized this man was going to take her against a loo wall if she let him.
She wanted to let him. She wanted to feel his cock inside her, instead of just the hard bulge nudging against her stomach now.
But he was such a prick. Could she? Should she?
Kitty made up her mind. She grabbed his hair and pulled it so he was forced to unlatch from her neck. He gritted his teeth in annoyance and mild pain.
Her legs were wobbling and her knickers were soaked from the things he'd been doing to her. She needed to finish this. Brushing aside his demanding hands, Kitty walked over to her purse on the floor. She reached inside and pulled out a condom. Leaving the bag there, she returned to Sherlock, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the stall.
She kicked the toilet seat down with her foot, and turned to Sherlock.
"Give me your jacket."
"What? No." He looked repulsed.
"Oh, for fucks sake." She pushed the jacket down off his shoulders, making sure to give his cock a few rubs in the process for her own fun. His look of distaste turned to fierce hunger when she bent down and licked at his cock through the trouser fabric.
Kitty laughed, and turned to toss his jacket on top of the toilet seat. Well, she wasn't going to use her best jacket as one more feeble layer between her genitals and the seat.
She handed him the condom, and he worked to extract it, while Kitty reached under her best skirt to remove her wet knickers. Keeping her shoes on, she precariously balanced herself with one hand on Sherlock's chest. She tossed the underwear out of the stall, on top of her handbag.
Reaching forward impatiently, she unzipped Sherlock who had observed her hopping knickers removal with a slight smirk.
Rolling her eyes at the smug detective, Kitty dropped to her knees and pulled his thick cock out, and sucked him deep into her mouth. He was already hard so it wasn't strictly necessary but he had a beautiful package there and she'd be damned if she didn't taste it at least once.
Kitty bobbed intensely for a minute, wrapping her hands around him and squeezing his gorgeous arse while his cock slid in and out of her throat. He pumped his hips, fucking her face and pulling on her braided pigtails when she didn't move fast enough for his liking.
She didn't like that. Slapping his hands away, Kitty stood, her lips pink and gleaming with spit. She plucked the condom from his hand, finished pulling it out, and slid it onto him quickly.
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and went to grab Kitty's arm to position her but she wasn't having that.
She grabbed his lapels as she had earlier, swiveled, and shoved him down so he was sitting on the toilet.
He raised one elegant eyebrow, and amusement showed in his light eyes.
"Oh shut up, you arse. You don't know everything. You just sit and put your arms against the walls and don't move them."
He pursed his lips in thought for five seconds, and then nodded. This wasn't precisely what he'd planned, but the less effort he had to exert, the better.
Kitty straddled his lap, reaching down to make sure he was still good and hard in the condom. Mmm. Perfect.
She hiked her skirt up to her waist, exposing a thatch of dark curls above her folds. Anchoring herself to his shoulders with her hands, Kitty spread her legs further and slid down hard to take all of his hard cock deep into her.
Kitty pulled open her jacket and blouse now, unbuttoning the shirt, and pulling her breasts out, above the bra fabric so they could bounce freely before Sherlock's lips.
He pumped upward, into her, keeping his arms braced on the walls. Her nipples tantalized him, only occasionally bouncing close enough for him to suck as she rode his dick.
She may have been a failure in her investigative journalism career but she is good at this, Sherlock thought, as her tight inner muscles clenched his cock, squeezing him as he slid in and out of her. He closed his eyes, feeling the irritation and pressure of the last few weeks to pour out of him as he fucked her. The frustration was decreasing with every thrust into her hot wetness.
Kitty was completely lost as she felt the detective pumping into her. He did as she asked, and kept his hands securely against the walls. She ground hard against the base of his dick, rubbing her clit on him, and feeling the tension build in her pelvis. This was crazy, it was stupid, it was in a bloody loo, and it was so hot she thought she was going to come all over his cock within two minutes.
She reached one hand up to dig into his hair, those soft curls, and pressed him to her chest, forcing a nipple into his mouth.
"Bite it," she ordered. "I need to come."
His eyes were fierce, looking up at her as he sucked on the nub and brought his teeth down lightly. He experimented with various pressures until he found the right mix of pain and pleasure. He worked her nipples each in turn like that as she groaned and whimpered and rode him. She found a steady rhythm, rocking her hips on his lap until she felt the shivers at the base of her spine.
Her orgasm rose fast, ripping through her belly as she rode quickly to reach the peak and stay there. At the height of it, she bit her lips hard to keep herself from screaming. The sound of Kitty's ragged breathing filled the restroom. Her head dropped onto his shoulder.
"Sorry?" she asked in a daze.
"Get up. I have to get back to the court room."
Kitty stood awkwardly. Was he just going to go now…?
Her question was answered when he took her hips in hand and pressed her against the stall wall. Before she knew what he planned, he yanked her leg up around his waist and slid his cock back inside her.
Kitty wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her hips. He fucked her now in turn, riding her as she had him. No cares for her pleasure, just a wild, primal need to get off, to come. His eyes burned into Kitty's, and he kissed her hard again as his thickness filled her over and over.
His paced picked up suddenly, pushing his cock into her at a brutal pace. He tilted his head and latched onto her neck as he neared his own orgasm. Just as he reached a frenzied peak, his teeth sank down into her neck. Not hard enough to bleed, but enough to cause Kitty to cry out finally. His hand instinctively moved up to cover her mouth, even as he rode out his orgasm inside her.
His shoulders finally relaxed and his hand dropped. He pulled himself out of Kitty, scooped his jacket off the seat, and efficiently removed the condom, dropping it into the toilet and flushing.
Kitty fixed her bra and shirt up, and pushed her skirt down, though her knees were still trembling and she thought she ought to see about mopping up the wetness between her thighs.
Sherlock zipped his trousers up, and hung his jacket over his arm. He wouldn't be able to wear it now with Kitty's juices creating a sizable wet spot.
He walked out of the stall and began washing his hands and face in the sink. Kitty stepped out of the stall as well and gathered up her things from the floor.
Unsure of what the protocol was in this sort of situation, Kitty stood staring blankly before coming up with something to say.
"We might make a good team, Sherlock Holmes. You've got my number. Give me a call, and we can have that talk?"
Sherlock dried his hands and ran a hand through his ruffled hair. He looked now as cool and composed as he had when she first walked in. More so, actually.
He smiled at her, relaxed and pleasant.
"But I already gave you my answer, Miss Riley."
He strolled to the door and looked back at her.
"No. Oh, and you might want to exit through a back door of the court house. You've got a large pool of wetness on your skirt. You're a very wet woman. I fear we may have ruined your one good skirt." He smirked and exited the restroom.
Yes, he was in a much better mood. He was really looking forward to the trial now.
Kitty watched in silence as the door slammed shut. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her pigtails were a mess, one braid had come totally undone. Her lipstick and mascara were smudged and her usually creamy skin was red and blotchy from the exertions. She'd misbuttoned her blouse and there was a huge visible hickey on her neck.
He just…left, she thought. Like nothing happened. That fucking arsehole.
Kitty Riley knew now what course of action she'd be taking.
I am going to nail that guy to the wall if it's the last thing I do.