Summary: Irene knew, of course, that Sherlock was not going to stay permanently. This is their last night together. Het; Mature.
A/N: Inspired by the Maroon 5 song 'Daylight', and my random headcanon that Sherlock stayed at Irene's for a while during the hiatus because Irenelock dammit xD
Irene knew, of course, that Sherlock was not going to stay permanently.
Irene knew what he was doing in the States , knew what happened in London, knew that he couldn't possibly be dead, somehow, so when he appeared at her door she wasn't too surprised.
She had let him in, knowing better than to ask any questions, and just gave him shelter. If he came home bloodied and bruised, she put him back together. If he had any questions, she answered them. He repaid her with little things like doing work and chores around the flat, or the occasional piece of information that she just happened to need at a certain moment appearing in one of the file folders on her computer.
They went on for months with this routine, until Sherlock told her that he was finished with his business here, and that he had to leave.
And just when the domesticity was getting bizarrely comfortable.
"Let's have dinner."
He didn't reply. She didn't really expect him to, but she hoped, at the very least, for something - she wasn't sure what, but it was his last night, and she wanted…
She had walked in at the end of her shift with dinner served on the dinner table that she never used, with plates and utensils that she didn't own, with food that she didn't cook.
"Someone owed me a favour." He gave in the way of explanation.
It was the first time that Irene saw Sherlock smile.
They ate, and talked about work - at least, whatever they were willing to divulge about their respective work, dancing around each other's question like how they usually did.
It was refreshing, and Irene missed it. Admittedly, her life here was getting unbearably tedious, and sometimes even misbehavingdidn't compare to the thrill Sherlock gave as they played their game.
They ate as slowly as possible, dragging it out as long as they could, but eventually, they finished the food on their plates and the wine in the bottle.
Irene stood, and ended the dinner with a kiss on Sherlock's cheek.
His hand brushed against her arm as she turned away, his fingers closing upon her wrist as she moved.
She knew he could feel her pulse, fast and hot, with his fingertips.
Irene turned back, and reached for Sherlock's face tentatively. She traced his cheekbones with her fingers, and smiled.
She pressed her lips against his. She didn't quite get a response, so she pulled away apologetically.
Sherlock responded by drawing her back in, hand resting at her neck as he gave in, lips soft and sweet, with the lingering taste of red wine. It was such a pleasant surprise that, for a split second, Irene forgot how to respond.
For once, she wasn't sure what someone wanted. It was what she liked about Sherlock: he always kept her guessing. But this… this was herterritory. It felt quite strange.
She ran her tongue over his lower lip.
He bit her lower lip gently.
The next few minutes were both a blur and yet so clear.
They stood up, almost falling flat on the floor as Irene back-pedalled from Sherlock's heated responses. Plates were swiped off the table and shattered on the floor, and Sherlock raised her up onto the sturdy oak as he gave her neck a playful nibble.
Irene threw her head back and moaned, and Sherlock grinned at her. "I didn't think I'd hear that in person."
"Neither did I." Irene said, and pushed Sherlock against the wall. "I said I was going to make you beg, twice."
"On the desk in 221 B."
"Well. You're just going to have to invite me over when all this is done, then."
Sherlock hummed appreciatively, and didn't answer. He gave Irene a kiss under her jaw, and Irene answered back with kisses tracing Sherlock's throat.
They were pushing and pulling at each other, hands wrapped around waists and curled in hair, drawing breaths from slight pauses.
As unfamiliar as this was, it was so familiaras well.
It was like their usual game. Someone was always fighting to win, to get on the metaphorical top, and it showed. By god it showed.
By the time they had slipped into the bedroom, they both fought to get each others' clothes off, and Sherlock had groaned in slight disapproval as Irene tore some of the buttons from his shirt in haste. Irene merely smirked at him.
He ruined the zipper of her dress, in turn.
It was actually fortunate, Irene supposed, that her bed was huge. At first she wanted to switch it for something smaller - she had no intention of taking anybodyback to her own flat, but she was glad she hadn't, now.
They kept fighting for the top position, literally. Sherlock had rolled over her at first, paying rapt attention to her breasts with his own kind of intensity. She wrestled him down and shifted on top of him, straddling him. She watched his chest with fascination as he breathed hard and fast, imagining how his heart sounded as it thudded in his ears. She slowly teased him with her dancing fingers as she slid a hand down to give him some attention.
She would never forget how Sherlock's eyes widened at her touch, how he threw his head back, and how his mouth opened in a perfect little shape with a sound that would echo at the edge of her dreams for days to come.
She traced his lips with her free fingers as she worked with the others.
After a few minutes, Sherlock took her by the shoulders and pulled her down beside him. His hands traced her thigh slowly, sensually, making his way slowly as she impatiently urged him to get on with it.
She had speculated how his fingers, adept at playing the violin, would feel like as they played her. Her imagination didn't even come close to how goodit felt.
She was half-tempted to close her legs, to trap him so he wouldn't ever remove his hand again, because god, she hadn't had any in a while and now it was Sherlockshe was with.
They teased each other endlessly, waiting for the other to give in first.
Irene still contested that it was a mutual decision.
Both of them gave a slight gasp at the sensation, their voices rising in unison. It felt full and foreign, natural and wonderful. He took it slow, then fast, then slow again, as if he were measuring something.
"Sherlock, I know you're thinking, I love your thinking, but stop thinking." Irene finally said when he slowed again, as if in hesitation.
Sherlock laughed, and shifted slightly, pressing slowly against a spot that drove her crazy. Her fingernails dug into his back, and Sherlock grinned. "If I wasn't thinkingand observing, I wouldn't have found that."
"Oh enlighten me, detective, with your deductions."
"I deducethat with your slight movements in one direction, this particular part of your body is very responsive to - "
His hand slipped down the curve of her spine delectably slowly, and she gasped. "And I deduce, if I do this move with a slight variation, I can make you go - "
She squeaked, her breath coming in ragged, sharp sounds. He gave her a couple of quick thrusts, and she groaned as she grasped his arm. He slowed again, and Irene huffed in slight protest. "You are a tease, Mr Holmes."
"It's part of our game, is it not?"
"My turn." Irene said, and they flipped. She leaned over, her words tickling Sherlock's ear. "Usually, I would use my riding crop or my palm to inflict delicious, delirious pain, Sherlock, but I think I'd rather - "
She licked down to his throat, and gave him a sharp bite on the throat, sucking at it hard.
Sherlock's hand went to it immediately. "It's going to bruise."
"You look lovely in a scarf."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and pointedly pulled Irene closer by the hips. Irene laughed. "As you wish." She whispered, and slowly, oh-so-carefully, moved on top of him, and drove down in quick, sudden motions.
Sherlock's appreciative noises would forever be recorded in her memory.
He pulled her down to the bed, and wrapped an arm around Irene. Sherlock pulled her closer, and they shifted and adjusted around each other to get comfortable.
They faced each other, levelling the playing field. It was an unspoken truce, a temporary cease-fire. Just this once, the game didn't matter. This was something they had to do for themselves, for each other, and no one was going to take away their moment.
They moved slowly, exploring each other's bodies. He almost cradled her gently in his arms, his touches soft and tender. She had imagined their first time to be a bit more heated, more violent - riding crops usually come to mind, especially with how she preferred with her clients.
This was a pleasant surprise.
Sometimes that was all she needed, something gentle and calm, for a nice change.
Faster. Gasps and moans filled the room, and Irene grasped Sherlock's arm as tightly as she could. Sherlock's hands tensed around her hips, and their actions moved in time with a staccato rhythm only they could hear.
Irene felt like she was doing it all over again for the first time. This was hardly the first time she had ever slept with a man, even if she preferred women, but this was - how can something be so different, only because it was Sherlock?
They climaxed at the same time, with Irene crying out Sherlock's name, as he struggled to keep his eyes open, staring at her, like he was cataloguing each moment in his mind palace, shutting the memory in a room so it couldn't escape.
Easing out of their position, Irene slowly rolled into the duvet, and drew it around her. Sherlock wrapped the blanket around himself, and pulled Irene closer.
They remained like that, quiet, just letting the moment linger, until they both fell asleep to the sound of each other's breathing.
Irene awoke after a few hours, hoping that whatever happened hadn't been a dream. She looked around, making sure she was still in her flat, and she turned to look to the other side of her bed.
Daylight spilled through the half-drawn blinds, and shone upon Sherlock's curls. He was tangled in the white sheets, arm curled protectively over Irene's stomach. She shifted a bit in the bed, the duvet falling from her chest. She nuzzled his hair, and he hummed appreciatively, still asleep.
She was almost content to watch him like this. She knew it wouldn't last, but she could pretend it would. Just a couple more hours. Just a bit more.
He was so beautiful in the daylight.
Irene sighed. He would wake up in a few hours, pack, and leave.
Well. Maybe it was time for her to move elsewhere, too.
Okay, at first I kinda didn't want to publish this, because... er... I don't know. Anyway, er, this is my first foray into smut, tell me what you think?
Beta'd by hopeinashes. :)