Dinning with Frogs

11. All in

"Well?" Irene's voice comes out rather sharper then she'd intended. Sherlock doesn't answer, merely carries on staring at her.
"You walked off in rather a hurry." Irene points out, and feels irritated with herself. Stating the obvious is beneath her entirely. Sherlock doesn't mock her for it, though. He doesn't say anything at all. He is staring at her as if trying to see through her, as if the answer to all of life's problems might be printed at the back of her skull, and he might be able to see them if he just looked hard enough.
A car passes them on the rain slicked roads, spattering the back of Irene's legs with water. Sherlock twitches abruptly and whatever spell that had been on him appears to lift. He leans forward and catches Irene by the shoulder, in a grip that stops just short of being painful.
"Irene," He mutters in her ear. "Let's skip dinner."

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Irene isn't entirely sure how they make it up to her room. There is a buzzing in her ears, a strange insistent thrumming of blood, the only thing that seems solid and real is Sherlock's hand around her wrist. They close the door behind them and he pushed her against it, looking down at her for a long moment before lowering his head and pressing his lips against hers again. He kisses her lightly this time, barely doing more than brushing her lips with this, then moves to kiss her cheek, her neck. It's as if he is trying to map her out, measure the exact texture and taste of her before committing it all to memory. Enough teasing, Irene thinks. She grabs a fistful of jacket, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. Sherlock makes a choked off noise and then responds with equal vigour. His mouth is hot, greedy, for the moment entirely hers. Irene lets her eyes flutter closed. She wonders how she could ever wanted anything but this. Sherlock's mouth against hers, his choked breaths, his fingers tracing the lines of her body over through her clothes. His kisses are fierce, biting, but his hands are surprisingly gentle, when Irene opens her eyes she sees that he is looking at her with a kind of wildness in his eyes, an expression that is half a question, half a demand.

Irene pushes him back, tugging the jacket off his shoulders and dropping it to pool on the floor. She manoeuvres him until the back of his legs hit the bed and he sits abruptly, inelegantly. Irene looks down at him for a moment, tracing the line of his cheek with one finger, before climbing into his lap. He makes a muffled noise and Irene knows suddenly with a fierce rush of pride that he hasn't done this before, not with anyone. She tugs at his collar, angling his face upward, biting at his lower lip.

"Irene."

She pulls at his shirt, sliding her hand underneath the fabric to touch him. Sherlock's hands tighten around her waist, fingernails biting through her clothes. The world has narrowed to a single narrow point, this room, damp clothes and heated flesh, and Sherlock breathing raggedly in her ear.

"Irene," Sherlock's face is buried in her neck. "I don't – I don't know..."

"Shh." Irene replies, and pulls back, getting to her feet. Sherlock looks up at her, eyes burning. Slowly Irene shucks off her coat and then pulls down the zipper of her dress and steps out. Sherlock swallows watching her as she removes the last of her clothes. He moves to unbutton his own shirt, but Irene raises a hand to stop him.

"Wait."

Looking down at him she remembers the first time they met, when he'd sat in her drawing room in that ridiculous dog collar, the way his eyes widened when he saw her in her battle dress. She'd wanted to do this then, and now, now she finally has the chance. Irene climbs back into Sherlock's lap, pushing him back against the pillows, and he gasps, hands travelling up her body, stroking, touching. He must be so uncomfortable, Irene thinks, in those damp clothes, in the trousers that are rapidly growing too tight for him. Right now he probably can't even remember how to go about removing them. There isn't room for anything in his head but her.