Sherlock and The Woman

Moriarty's Ultimate Weapon

17. Moriarty's Ultimate Weapon

The following day, Sherlock awoke early by the morning light piercing through his bedroom window. As the detective suppressed a yawn he came aware of a gentle pressure on his chest. As he gazed down, he found his vision blurred by a mane of chocolate colored, curly hair. It carried a scent of gentle lavender that slowly filled his nostrils.

The man realized he had grown accustomed to Irene and her scent around him. The idea of any such familiarity towards anyone was entirely new to Sherlock, and he was still not sure how he felt about it. The idea of sex and closeness, which previously had been unwanted enigmas, had began to make sense to the man's unique brain. Warm skin on skin, breathing synchronized in perfect echo, two bodies moving together as one.

He had to hand it to The woman, she had promised him an outlet for his brilliance and she had delivered. Sherlock believed he now understood why John had gone through so many girlfriends over the years.

This, too – awakening beside the woman – was a tradition he didn't mind terribly.

As if sensing he had awoken, the fair brunette on his chest stirred with a disgruntled moan as the light outside played on her ivory pale skin above the covers.

There was a knock against the closed door and through the wood, John's voice inquired softly, "Sherlock? You awake? Lestrade just phoned me and I came right over. Said he'd be here, too, soon with an emergent case for us."

"I'll be right up," the detective replied at once and pried himself free from his lover's grasp.

"Must you?" Irene's tired, muffled voice asked as she tiredly snuggled into his pillow now that the man had disappeared from her grasp. The man couldn't help but smile down at the woman in his bed. When her stay at Baker Street had begun he hadn't expected she could sometimes be more unwilling to rise in the mornings than either her flat mate.

Sherlock swiftly dressed into his pj's and as he reached for the blue fabric that hung over the back of the chair, Irene's soft voice stopped him. "Dibs on the robe."

The man sighed indignantly and threw the garment atop her slim form beneath the covers.

--

Less than ten minutes later, the grey-haired policeman knocked on the door to 221 B and was swiftly let in. Lestrade patted John's arm in a friendly greeting as the two hurried up the stairs. The blond man couldn't hide the pained hiss that escaped past his lips. The doctor swore internally as he gazed up and realized Sherlock and Irene, who both stood in the kitchen, had heard his pained groan. The silence seemed tense and thick, though John prayed that was simply his imagination.

"What's happened to your arm?" Lestrade frowned.

"Eh," the man tried to think of an answer that wouldn't automatically set his friend's keen mind off. "Just rough massage at the spa this weekend, you know."

The inspector nodded and then let the topic slide as he turned to face the detective consultant in the room. It was plain to them all that these were pressing times and there was no room for small talk.

"A little over an hour ago, we got a report about a missing, Irish woman," the policeman explained while he dug through his deep coat pockets to retrieve something. "Half an hour ago,this" – he withdrew a small package and put it on the kitchen table in the center of the room – "arrived at the police station with a personal note for you, Sherlock. It's from Moriarty."

The detective frowned down at the small, wrapped box before him. It was off-white with a small, paper rose atop, which seemed a stark contrast to the darkness which ruled the criminal's mind. A small note was attached between two of the flower's thorns. "What's it got to do with the missing woman?"