Dinning with Frogs

9. Magpie's Nest

Irene wakes feeling unexpectedly warm. She turns to see Sherlock, face softened in sleep, one hand arm flung above his head. Irene shifts slightly to look at him and becomes aware of warm weight on her abdomen. Sherlock's hand on her resting on her stomach. Irene looks down at the long pale fingers stretched possessively over satiny fabric.

They haven't ever woken up together, like this. Sherlock has always gets into bed after her, keeping a small but distinct distance between their bodies. He must have moved closer to her in the night, unconsciously reached out to touch her. And now Irene can feel the heat from his body, his breath brushing her cheek. This is – dangerous.

She's had hook ups, once or twice over the past year - mostly out or boredom, to keep her hand in... and then there was Sara. But this feeling – this wanting that seems to fill her – stretching out of her body to fill the room with aching tension - this isn't just loneliness, isn't just the pleasure of an attractive body beside her. It isn't even the darker stirring of lust. Irene hasn't felt like this with anyone before. It makes her want to reach out, to touch him – just to touch him. To feel his skin against hers.

What a ridiculous sentiment for a grown woman.

Sherlock opens his eyes.

He looks at her for a moment, blinking, as if trying to account for her face on the pillow beside him. He looks down at his own hand, and frowns slightly. For a moment the blue eyes are thoughtful, as if trying to solve an equation in his head.

"Good morning." Irene's voice is a little huskier than she intended it to be. She makes herself smile, a wide uncaring smile, and moves her own hand onto Sherlock's keeping his hand in position. "Should I be reading into this?"

Sherlock's lips part "An involuntary–" he stops, frowning.

"Yes?" Irene prompts.

"I find," his voice is rough with sleep, almost a growl. "In spite of all of the available evidence, which indicates that you, Irene, are a predator, a terrorist, a pathological liar – there appears to be a subconscious part of me that wishes –"

"Yes?" Irene prompts, pitching her voice deliberately low.

His eyes move to her face, a clear questioning gaze. Then he turns to look up at the ceiling. "It isn't relevant."

"Isn't it?"

The distance between his mouth and her own is so very small. He owes her a kiss. She could ask him for it. His eyes flick down to her mouth briefly, and then back up at her face.

Fingers tighten on her belly, finger tips biting through the thin fabric before pulling away. He sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed. "Are you meeting Fiona today?"

Irene tries to ignore the flood of cold disappointment in the pit of her stomach.

"National Gallery." She says. "The woman appears to have some kind of fetish for cultural institutions."

"Suggest the Science Museum next time. I believe the new exhibit on dark matter is worth viewing. Largely inaccurate of course, but.." Sherlock disappears into the bathroom without a backward glance.

"I'll bear it in mind." Irene says dryly.

She finds Fiona standing under the portrait of a sixteenth century nobleman, head tilted and a slight smile on her face as if she and the painting have some kind of understanding.

"It's a pity men don't dress that way anymore." Irene comments, glancing at the man's ruffled lace collar, puffed sleeves and copious jewellery.

"Yes, isn't it?" Fiona turns on her heel, smiles at Irene. "You did well."