Summary: "Ah, stupid. Sherlock opened his eyes, 99.95% certain of whom he would see."
Disclaimer: Too many brilliant people own these characters to name. I'm just playing with the BBC's versions. I promise to return them not any more sullied than they started.
A Remembered Kiss in the Dark of Night
Sherlock was never groggy when he awoke. Perhaps because he slept so rarely. Perhaps because, occasionally, someone did try to kill him. But that was beside the point. His mind's default setting was on, full power. Therefore, when he woke to someone straddling him in bed, Sherlock's mind instantly launched at full speed, racing to catch up on what he'd missed while sleeping.
Eyes still closed and breathing even, his arms shot out to grab the intruder by their wrists (bare), yank them behind the person's back (also bare), and he quickly tugged down and rolled, so that he was pressing the intruder against the bed, (her) arms immobilized beneath her.
Ah, stupid. Sherlock opened his eyes, 99.95% certain of whom he would see.
Irene Adler lay pinned beneath him, smirking, looking for all the world like she was enjoying lying there with her arms wrenched behind her back. Perhaps she was. "You didn't have this reaction last time."
Ignoring the comment as obvious, Sherlock's eyes scanned her quickly, one eyebrow raised. She certainly had made a point to look exactly as she had at their first encounter. "What are you doing here?" His voice was wide-awake and sharp, demanding.
Irene rose one perfect eyebrow in response, her lips curving suggestively. "Dinner?" The word was practically sinful from her mouth.
Sherlock did not take his eyes from hers. "It's four thirty in the morning."
"Good." And then, deliberately, Irene lifted her hips and brushed them against his.
There were twin, involuntary, sharp intakes of breath. Irene's eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise. Nagging details that Sherlock had earlier deemed irrelevant were suddenly at the forefront of his mind. Namely, that Irene Adler was an arm's length beneath him, completely naked. More pressingly, the fact that Sherlock himself usually slept naked. Which led to the inevitable conclusion that the only thing between them was his tangled bed sheet, which, in their tussle, had slipped down to his waist. "Stop it." It was a demand, not a plea, his voice low and dangerous.
Eyes locked on his, Irene tilted her hips again. "And you certainly didn't react like this, either."
It was painfully obvious to both of them that Sherlock was definitely reacting to her presence. In his bed. Pressed against him. Sherlock blinked at her. "You wanted this to happen. Even then."
It wasn't a question. Nothing with Sherlock was. Irene didn't bother to deny it. She simply smirked back at him, wiggling slightly in his grasp.
If his voice was husky, it wasn't with sleep. "Irene." It was a warning.
"Sherlock." Irene purred, her voice low and sinuous; a challenge.
The way she said his name. Sherlock's eyes flicked quickly over Irene again, trying to make sense of her and what game she might be playing. Then he nodded, once; a short, sharp gesture.
Before Irene had time to wonder what he had decided, Sherlock had bent down to kiss her, demanding, pressing his body flush against hers. If she was surprised, it didn't show. Irene matched him in intensity and demand, pressing her hips against his and meeting his tongue just as she would his words or wit.
And, perhaps she wasn't surprised. This had been building since their first encounter, surely, when they had both been too stubborn and prideful to do anything but lie through their teeth. When they'd thought the battle was a game of wits, and hadn't yet realized how evenly matched they were. It had been building over text messages. And it had certainly been building since Karachi, when it had become painfully clear how infected with sentiment they both were.
When Sherlock tore his mouth from hers, reluctantly surrendering to the completely boring task of breathing, it was only to yank Irene's arms from behind her back and pin them above her head instead, shifting both of her wrists to one of his hands and leaving the other free.
His lips wandered down her collarbone, and his newly freed fingers gave one of her nipples a sharp tug. Irene gasped, arching up towards him. When Sherlock lifted his head to meet her eyes, smug smirk firmly in place, Irene offered, "I don't usually hand over control to someone unless they know how to use it." Teasing. "Do you?"
"Of course." Brisk, no hesitation. Relishing her surprise.
A tingle ran down her spine. If Irene had expected some blushing, bumbling virgin, this wasn't it. All of Sherlock's considerable focus was zeroed in on her, full of an intensity that engulfed her. His hair was messy from sleep and his eyes were dark, staring down at her in his bed like he wanted to devour her. But then, she should have known. Sherlock never did anything halfway.
His freed hand was purposefully exploring her body, fingertips dancing along her skin in a relentless rhythm. Lips pressed against her in an impatient trail, one hand keeping her arms pinned above her head while the other drifted lower, closely followed by his lips.
Irene ground her hips against his, feet sliding purposefully down his calves as far as she could reach. She wiggled her arms against his grip. It was tight, but relaxed marginally at her movement. A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth, even as the dominatrix in her railed. It was all right, she'd whip him into shape soon enough. Very likely, literally.
When Sherlock moved to kiss away her amusement, the brush of even more bare skin stopped him. He shot her a suspicious look, while Irene's eyes glittered mischievously. She had managed to divest him of the last of his sheet. Their bodies were aligned from head to toe, pressed flush, naked. They both froze for a moment, straining on the edge of considerable willpower.
Suddenly, Sherlock's lips brushed her ear, voice low, "Do I have to tie you up?"
Irene shuddered and heard a dark chuckle in response. He was putting all that considerable intellect into learning what she liked, and, as usual, he was excelling. Sherlock pulled back slightly, and without looking, she knew that he was scanning the room for something. As delicious as the idea of being tied to Sherlock's bed was (perhaps with his scarf?), she wasn't about to let him pull away. Besides, Irene had every intention of tying him up first.
She caught his quick glance towards the closed door and teased, "It's unlocked. Anyone could walk right in..."
Sherlock's disdainful snort was her response. Obvious. Still, the look he gave her was as calculating as her own. He released her wrists, hands moving down her body in brisk strokes to rest at her hips.
Irene's hands immediately tangled in his hair and she tugged him back up to kiss him breathless again.
Impatient, Sherlock pulled back. His hands closed firmly around her thighs, pressing them back against the bed hard enough to leave fingerprints. Sliding down between her legs, he matched her raised eyebrow with a smirk that she could feel as he pressed his lips against her clit. And then Irene Adler was treated to the singular combination of Sherlock's oral fixation and musician's fingers, playing her body with all the intensity that he showed in every other aspect of his life.
And he was a quick study, certainly. His mouth was suddenly everywhere. Mapping every inch of her that he could reach. Long licks that made her shiver and quick nips that left her squirming against his tongue and mouth and teeth, even as his hands held her firmly where he wanted her, not willing to acquiesce to her silent demands. Instead, he kept up a brisk pace: mouth, tongue and teeth teasing her with just the right pleasure/pain before backing off, testing her responses, finding what she liked best.
Everything about it was methodical, incredibly hot, and infinitely frustrating as he wound her up to the perfect pitch before pressing on to the next spot. Sherlock stroked his tongue against her clit in intricate patterns until her breath hitched, then replicated the motion exactly, a pleased hum escaping him when her breath caught again. And oh, that made her reach down and clench her hands in his hair with a shudder. He varied the pressure until her nails dug against his scalp and, with one more swipe, released her clit to press his tongue into her, repeating the process with delightful results. Irene managed to disentangle her hands from his hair in favor of running them along his shoulders, mostly to feel the way he went taut under her grip and only a little because she was worried that otherwise she might accidentally tug his hair out.
Sherlock was drawing her slowly and surely towards the edge with his mouth, his focus finally returning to her clit once he had explored her folds and nipped at her hips. One hand gripped her splayed thigh, but the fingers of the other slipped down to press into her, searching until they found the spot that made her choke back a moan. First one finger, then a second and a third, both demanding and thorough as they twisted and stretched and pumped in and out of her. He was clearly determined to wring every last ounce of pleasure from her body before he let her fall off the precipice and into her orgasm. Finally, mercifully, he threw her over the edge, fingers pressing hard against her g-spot at the same time as his teeth grazed her clit.
Irene threw her head back, gasping, probably too loud for the unlocked door, her fingernails clawing into his back. Sherlock pulled back to watch her, licking his lips, cat-ate-canary smirk firmly in place. His mouth opened, but Irene tightened her grip and drug him up for a messy kiss that would shut him up. Certainly, there were far better things Sherlock Holmes could use that wicked mouth for than scathing repartee.
He tasted like her. Sherlock. Kissing her, hot and heavy, the heady dark taste of him (had he been smoking again?) combined with her own. It was an intoxicating combination, and Irene surrendered easily to it, letting him take control while she imagined all the dirty things she wanted to do with that mouth. After all, she already knew what he liked.
After a few lazy moments, Sherlock disentangled himself and moved off the bed. Irene took a moment to try to come down off her high, scooting back against the headboard, legs splayed, breathing harsh. She watched Sherlock move purposefully throughout the room, typically unconcerned about his lack of clothing. Irene licked her lips. She liked him like this. Her unruffled detective all ruffled, but still just as deliberate in his every movement.
Sherlock returned to sit up against the headboard next to Irene and narrowed his gaze at her, something caught in his fist. Perhaps he couldn't read her as well as she'd thought. Irene shifted to the side and curled one leg over his, fingernails skimming down his chest, enjoying the shiver he couldn't quite suppress. Oh yes, she knew what he liked.
Moving to her knees, Irene crawled over him, hovering, one hand trailing along his arm until she tangled her hand with his, unclenching his fist. She eyed the condom with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock shrugged, but there was a twist at the corner of his mouth. "Always be prepared."
Irene's light laugh was genuine and surprised, but her voice was seductive as she leaned closer, "Such a boy scout."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. His voice was still low. "Hardly." He stiffened, but relaxed when she caught his lips in another kiss.
Pulling back ever so slightly, Irene offered, "Shall I?"
She didn't wait for his response before neatly tearing open the condom wrapper with her teeth. Before he could protest, she had the condom on and was straddling him with purpose, just sliding herself over the head of his cock. His hand on her waist stopped her. "Irene." Are you sure?
"Not to worry, darling, I'll go slow. Wouldn't want to make you beg so early on." Her words were teasing, but her eyes softened, and Sherlock gave an almost imperceptible nod. This was not exactly a normal occurrence for either of them, but then, they'd both known this was coming.
Eyes locked, hands braced against his chest, Irene sank down until their hips were flush against each other. Sherlock's hand tightened at her waist ever so slightly, but he remained otherwise still, eyes locked with hers, breathing ragged.
Licking her lips deliberately, Irene lifted her hips up and snapped them back down, letting her head tip back with a soft moan. The electricity between them sparked and was set ablaze, and suddenly Sherlock's hands were everywhere, sliding along her body as his hips met hers stroke for stroke.
It was so much more than everything that had come before. Their minds and bodies racing against one another, trying to match and stretch and make one another bite their lips to keep from gasping in pleasure. Still competing, but only in the best possible ways.
Sherlock let Irene set the pace, and it was appropriately punishing. Apparently, going slow had only been a brief concern, and now he knew she wanted to make him beg. Not that he had any intention of just letting her win.
They both liked a little edge, and he relished her gasp as his teeth closed against her collarbone, trailing bites across every bit of her he could reach and musing that perhaps he would leave a hidden message in the red marks along her skin.
He was running his hands along her breasts, hips, torso, twisting her pebbled nipples before splaying his hands along her ribs, one part of his mind counting her bones while another marveled at the reality of the mere 2.83 centimeters separating his hands when he wrapped them around her waist. Though most of his considerable intellect was currently devoted to dissecting and recording the feel of her wrapped around him: hot and slick and frustratingly, brilliantly indescribable. The exact friction was hard to calculate when his body was distracted by how it felt, so he filed that away for later.
Sherlock tore his eyes away from tracing her skin to catch Irene's wicked grin, and he was struck with an overwhelming desire to bury his hands in her hair. Her ridiculous twist made that proposition more complicated than Sherlock preferred, and he had to divert a precious one and three quarter seconds of concentration to tugging out her bobby pins and tossing them across the room.
It was worth it to see her hair tumbling down her shoulders above him, soft in the pale yellow light from his lamp. A perfect contrast to her wicked grin and the harsh grind of her hips against his. Sherlock traced musical notes against her skin, scores of composition that he knew he would devote days to once she was gone.
Irene couldn't suppress a delicious shiver as Sherlock's fingers tapped out music against her skin everywhere he could reach - she wondered if it was deliberate. Her skin was still flushed and sensitive from her orgasm and it almost scared her how well he could play her body. How completely different it felt to have Sherlock inside of her compared to any other time she'd been with a man. He set her on fire.
Irene pressed her chest against his and ground her hips down so that his pelvic bone pressed against her clit deliciously, reveling when his grip on her waist tightened just so. Irene ran her fingers through his hair, tugging until she could reclaim his mouth and bite and kiss those lips. She wanted to make him beg. She wanted Sherlock Holmes to come undone in her arms.
Perhaps sensing her goal, Sherlock's hands were moving again, one to tangle in her hair and the other down to the small of her back, pressing firmly and pushing her closer still.
Irene couldn't help but arch against him, and Sherlock took the opportunity to bury his head against her shoulder, nipping and licking at her in some unidentifiable pattern. And Irene realized he was speaking. A low growled litany of observations and profanity and ratios and descriptions of the feel of her. She let out a delighted moan, "Oh, God."
Irene could feel Sherlock's smirk against her skin before he murmured, "Likes her hair pulled." And proceeded to validate his hypothesis, tightening his grip on her hair and arching Irene back further as his other hand kept pressure against her lower back.
Irene gasped, struggling to keep her hips moving in a firm rhythm as the new angle changed his strokes, her clit grinding against him with the firm guidance of his hand on her lower back, her hands digging into Sherlock's shoulders for support. She'd wanted Sherlock to come apart in her arms but, as she surrendered her body to Sherlock's ministrations, Irene was shocked to realize she was the one about to fall apart.
Sherlock took advantage of her new position to bring his mouth down over one of her breasts, meeting her eyes with blazing intensity for one moment before he enveloped her nipple in his mouth and bit down at the same time as his hand tugged her hair and bent her further back.
That look. Irene found her hands scratching down his arms for support as she came apart, trying not to lose her rhythm and trusting Sherlock to keep her balance. Irene's moan was far too loud and deep and keening because this was – she hadn't ever imagined – and oh, God, she worried for a minute she might black out.
Sherlock's hand released her hair, sliding around to cover her mouth and cut off her moan, taking over the rhythm of their hips at a harder pace as his hands pressed her in different directions. Irene's skin warmed to fire against him and she moaned into his palm, her whole body shaking as she rode out her orgasm.
Irene gave herself only a moment of dazed reprieve before she was picking her rhythm back up, meeting his hips and trembling at the aftershocks as every downward stroke hit her clit. Naughty boy. Irene grinned against his palm and bit down. Hard.
Sherlock shuddered and pressed his hand across her mouth more firmly, his fingers digging into her jaw and his hips pushing up against hers.
It was such a delicious response. Irene released her grip from his arms to trace one hand lightly down his ribs, leaving him to balance her with a grunt, her nails drawing far fainter marks than they had on the rest of his body. Sherlock's skin jumped, instinctively following the electricity of her touch.
Her other hand ran along his collarbone before coming to rest against his throat. She didn't have to meet his eyes to feel the way his body tensed. Irene tightened her grip and relished Sherlock's gasp, his whole body going taut under hers.
As both their grips tightened, his control frayed at the seams, rhythm faltering for the first time. Irene traced her lips along his palm, grinding her hips down against his, squeezing his neck and cock at the same time as Sherlock began to come apart underneath her.
Sherlock's pace became more frantic. His breathing was short and controlled (not the first time he'd done this, then) but becoming shallower, ending on slight gasps. Irene pushed his hand away from her mouth and moved closer, meeting his eyes and pressing her lips close to his, breathing in her control with the puffs of air that passed between them.
She'd expected it to be exhilarating, watching Sherlock Holmes surrender to her like this. But Irene had not expected it to be quite like this. She felt herself half gasping with him, her own need recoiling tight and low to match his.
Sherlock slid his freed hand down into the nonexistent space between them, his fingers skating against her clit and twisting, and they were both climbing towards the edge at lightning speed, hips pistoning and hearts pounding in counterpoint to one another.
Irene pulled her mouth from his, biting back moans over rough kisses and stolen breaths, meeting Sherlock's eyes and forcing her voice into a commanding tone that brooked no argument. "Come for me, Mr. Holmes. Right. Now."
Sherlock's eyes rolled half back in his head, his rhythm completely undone as he shattered, every muscle clenching.
Irene released her grip on his neck to let him catch his breath, burying her hands in his hair and pressing her lips against his as he pinched her clit and pulsed inside her. She'd never really found a man orgasming all that sexy before, but this was Sherlock. This was Sherlock Holmes falling apart at her command. That brilliant mind focused entirely on her and what she was doing to his body. From the look in his eyes, she thought she'd rather taken more than his breath away.
Irene fed her shout into Sherlock's mouth as she followed him off the edge, both of them gasping and shaking against one another. A tangle of sweaty limbs propped up against Sherlock's headboard.
For several long moments, two of the world's most brilliant minds were blissfully silent, drifting in a euphoric haze as the bodies that contained them struggled to catch their breath and calm their racing hearts.
Sherlock's hands were idly tracing patterns across Irene's back when she finally managed to lift her head from his shoulder. They were hot and sweaty and naked and it was so physical that it hurt (beyond all the expected aches and bruises), and yet their minds were equally as sated as their bodies.
Irene ran her nails across his shoulders just to enjoy his shiver (a purely physiological reaction, of course), and pushed herself up. She met Sherlock's narrowed eyes with a smirk pressed against his mouth, her heart stuttering when his lips curved into an answering grin under hers.
Forcing sore muscles up, Irene swung herself off Sherlock's lap and out of his arms, rolling to the side and off the bed, heading for her discarded coat (one could hardly wander around London naked, even in the middle of the night).
She heard Sherlock do likewise, and by the time she found what she was looking for and turned around, Sherlock was pressed against the headboard, sheet still down by his feet, studying her with the same shocking intensity that he had wielded during sex. Irene failed to suppress a shudder – if he'd looked at her like that any other time they had met, she would have jumped him immediately and ruined all her plans on the spot for him.
Regaining her equilibrium, Irene sauntered back towards the bed, holding up her reclaimed package of cigarettes and lighter as a further enticement as she settled down next to him. "Fag?"
"Oh. God. Yes." Sherlock reached over her to snag the package, deftly lighting up and exhaling a long smoky sigh as he handed the pack back to her. His head tilted back against the headboard, exposing the long column of his neck to her gaze.
Irene suppressed the urge to bite said neck by reminding herself that the red imprint there was certainly from her hand, and ignored the full cigarette pack in favor of stealing his and bringing it to her own lips for a long drag.
Sherlock opened his mouth to complain and then snapped it shut again as Irene wrapped her lips around the cigarette in a manner that was blatantly meant to invoke comparisons to the way her lips would wrap around certain parts of his anatomy. Besides, it was her pack, after all. And John said he couldn't share.
He was still musing when Irene handed the cigarette back, and Sherlock let his mind slowly reboot as he took another drag before returning it. Forget his bloody plan to quit. A post-coital fag was practically a requirement. God, he'd missed nicotine. Among other things. And Irene certainly seemed to enjoy watching him smoke, almost as much as she enjoyed taunting him when she was.
They remained like that until the cigarette was done. Sherlock snubbing it out on one of the many random paperweights lying about while Irene pulled two more from the pack, stuck them both between her lips, and lit them with a flourish before pressing one against Sherlock's lips. He opened his mouth and brushed his lips against her fingers deliberately.
Irene pulled back with a knowing glint to her eye, and they both enjoyed the sweet rush of nicotine for a few more moments. The bedroom window was open to the breeze (where Irene had entered), curtains flapping gently while dust from the bookshelves traced lazy currents intertwined with the smoke in the air.
Despite the twin endorphins running through his system from both orgasm and nicotine, Sherlock's brain could only sublimate its curiosity for so long. "What are you doing here?" His voice was clipped and impatient, the question bursting forth half against his will.
But Irene had never let his bluntness bother her. She found it rather refreshing. And it made teasing him so much easier. "I wanted to see a detective, of course." Her arched brow was positively wicked.
Sherlock ignored her teasing, his voice matter of fact, if somewhat huskier than normal. "It isn't safe."
Now Irene turned towards him, cigarette dangling from one hand while her eyes sparkled and she leaned close. "Worried about me?"
Author's Notes: I have spent what is probably an unhealthy amount of time speculating on Sherlock's sleepwear (or lack thereof). He clearly has pajamas, but he also was very clearly naked under The Sheet. My personal head-cannon is that he sleeps naked when he actually goes to bed, and wears his pajamas when he's either trying not to sleep, or accidentally falls asleep on the couch. And, after all, it works so much better for this story to have him naked and sleepy and all susceptible to Irene's charms.
P.S. This piece, as far as I can tell, is complete. There might be some outtakes to post later but, for the moment, I like the mystery to the ending.