Vivian advanced on him, green eyes blazing. "Take off the hat."
"Sorry, what?" Sherlock feigned innocence in one last ditch effort to throw her off.
It didn't work.
Lips compressed, Vivian shoved her way into the tiny closet, squeezing between him and the fire alarm panel, and pulled the door shut. There was hardly enough room for one person, let alone two, and she trod on his feet until he widened his stance to make room for her. Behind him, the metal ladder dug into his back.
"Take off the hat," she repeated. Cold fury coated each word.
Sherlock pretended to consider the demand. "Hmmm...no. I don't think I will." Like he'd just let her order him about. He matched her glare with one of his own.
The air grew thick and charged between them like right before an electrical storm. Sherlock's pulse began to pound, echoing in his temples, but for once there wasn't pain. Vivian let out an angry hiss. Her arm snaked up, and she ripped the hat off, looking like she wanted to tear his head off with it.
His hair tumbled loose, and her expression grew even more livid. "You bastard. What the hell are you playing at?"
A wave of anger rolled through him at her nerve. "You're one to talk, Miranda."
Rosy color suffused Vivian's cheeks, and her eyes turned to slits. If she'd been ill earlier at lunch, there was no sign of it now. Of course, that could have been another one of her lies. He leaned forward, away from the ladder's sharp angles. The movement had him looming over her, but she didn't appear the least bit intimidated.
Her chin lifted, nose nearly knocking into his. "Why are you here?"
Did she really need him to spell it out for her? His lip curled. "John came by to drop off the scarf you left at the morgue. Imagine his surprise when he discovered there was no one here by that name. The only person who fit your description was Miranda Blythe."
"So?"
His jaw clenched. She was being deliberately obtuse. "You're lying about your identity," he said, voice low and accusing.
"Of course I am, you numpty."
Sherlock stared. He'd expected her to concoct some elaborate lie, not agree and then insult him.
"Do you honestly think I just waltz into a company and tell them the truth?" A saccharine smile twisted her mouth. "Yes, hello everyone. My name is Vivian Walker, and I'm here to assess your productivity, after which I'll decide if you'll retain your job. Don't mind me."
Understanding crashed over Sherlock like an icy wave. Miranda Blythe was an alias given to Vivian by the consulting company she worked for. It allowed her to safely gather information from her coworkers who remained blissfully unaware they were being assessed. He frowned down at her. "You're a corporate spy."
An eye roll. "I'm more like a secret shopper working from the inside."
That sounded like a corporate spy to him. Sherlock's mind flashed back to Charles Wheeler. "Does the CEO know?"
"No one knows. I was hired by Cubic's investors to assess the health of the company and to determine whether their funds are being used wisely."
"And your Facebook page?"
The scowl on her face deepened. "It's fake. Every photo. Every friend. Every post. All created by the company who handles my contracts."
That made sense. Employers nowadays scoured the internet for information on potential employees. Her social media presence would satisfy the curiosity of her fellow coworkers and add greater verisimilitude to her cover story.
"Are you done, or would you like to interrogate me further?" she snapped.
Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. John had been right for once. There really was a reasonable explanation. Perhaps he'd been a bit hasty storming over here.
"Fine. It's my turn." She smacked him in the chest with his hat, but the limited space made it ineffectual. "What in the hell were you thinking coming here?"
The wisp of contrition vanished. "My job."
"Your job?" Her voice rose in pitch. "I'm not one of your cases, Sherlock."
"Well, you're certainly acting like one. You hid your injuries and lied about them. And today I discover you're going by another name and leading a double life." He scoffed. "Of course I came here. What did you expect?"
"I expected you to ring me up like a normal person, not invade my privacy and jeopardize my work."
"Oh please. I'm not jeopardizing your work. No one recognized me."
"I did!"
She had. And it irked him to no end. He scowled at her. "Only because I smelled like the morgue."
A finger jabbed at his sternum. "You made a mistake. One of many. Now, listen to me very carefully. You might have saved my life, but that doesn't give you the right to invade it. I--" Her eyes widened. "Someone's coming."
Sherlock couldn't hear anything, but he didn't doubt Vivian's sensitive ears. Her gaze swept the tiny room as if in search of an alternate exit or place to hide, but he already knew there were none. Mind racing, he quickly sifted through their limited options. Only one had an actual chance of working. Steeling himself, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.
The hat slipped from her grasp, and her palms shoved hard against his chest. "What are you--"
"Think. There's only one believable reason why two people would be in here," he said, tightening his hold.
She frowned, then understanding dawned on her face. "Oh."
"Yes, 'Oh.'" With his other hand, he cradled the back of her neck. "Now this needs to appear reciprocal, so do try and keep up."
The calculated taunt spurred Vivian into action. One hand gripped the front of his uniform in a tight hold, while the other slid up the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair. A shiver sparked down his spine at the contact, but this was no time to get distracted. He could hear footsteps now.
Vivian pulled his head down, and the smooth skin of her cheek glided along his. Warm breath teased his ear. "It's not me you should be worried about, Scott."
A spike of adrenaline surged through Sherlock, and his pulse raced impossibly faster. He'd only intended to goad Vivian just enough to get her to cooperate, but he realized now he may have pushed her too far, especially considering how furious she already was with him. If the door didn't open within the next thirty seconds, she would be certain to call his bluff. Despite his bold words, this really wasn't his area. The footsteps stopped just outside the door, and a faint murmur of conversation could be heard above the hum of the oscillating fan. Vivian's hand tightened in his hair. Sherlock's heart stuttered. She was going to do something. He braced himself, but nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.
Lips - harsh, wet, and hot descended on the skin just below his ear, followed by the faintest hint of teeth. The searing touch of her mouth burned into him like a brand, sending molten heat through his veins. From somewhere deep inside him, an answering fire roared to life. Sherlock's breath caught and held. His vision tunneled. The world dimmed.
All he could see, all he could feel, was Vivian.
Grey spots formed in front of his eyes as she forged a path along his jaw. His head buzzed like it was about to float away. He sucked in a ragged breath. She paused, and he bit back a curse. He might as well have held up a neon sign above his head announcing, "Yes, you're affecting me." He hadn't thought he could be affected, not like this. Never like this.
The onslaught resumed, but its execution changed. Vivian's mouth softened and slowed. Oh God. That was almost worse. Every nerve ending twanged in response to each gentle brush of her lips. He squeezed his eyes shut, scrambling for a way to regain the upper hand, but he couldn't think. Sensation sent his thoughts whirling away like so much vapor. His body had hijacked his brain. All he could do was feel, feel, feel.
Vivian's head shifted, angle changing, trajectory altered. There was little doubt in his mind of her destination. But her lips halted just as they grazed the edge of his own. His pulse tripped over itself.
"Do try and keep up," she murmured.
His stomach swooped as if he were standing at the edge of a precipice. "Vivian." Her name came out a strained whisper, the sound foreign to his ears. When she failed to move, he opened his eyes.
Lowered ginger lashes hid her gaze from view. The side of her nose bumped lightly against his, and red lips hovered just out of reach. Her warm exhalation met and mingled with his own, and they shared a breath. Once. Twice. Her gaze rose to meet his, and the ground opened up beneath Sherlock's feet. Black almost completely eclipsed the vibrant green of her eyes. Only a thin band of color remained.
Oh. She was just as affected by him as he was by her.
The revelation sent him reeling.
The knob twisted, and the closet door opened. Sherlock flinched in unfeigned shock and felt Vivian do the same. He'd completely forgotten about their expected visitor. A woman with spiky blonde hair and a nose piercing gaped at them. The mobile phone pressed to her ear fell to the floor with a clatter.
"Ol-Olivia," Vivian stuttered. While the color had been high in her cheeks before, now they positively glowed.
Realizing he still had her hauled up against him like they were posing for the cover of some rubbish romance novel, Sherlock released her waist and extracted his hand from her hair. Her French twist had come loose. Had he done that?
Olivia bent down and picked up her mobile, and a slow, gleeful smile spread across her face. "Sorry to interrupt," she said, looking like she meant the opposite. "I just needed a box of paperclips."
"Oh right. Of course. I'll just, um, grab one for you then." Vivian turned as much as the small space allowed and searched through the shelf. The deep red of her lipstick was smeared and missing in places. Sherlock had a very good idea where it had gone, as both his jaw and the edge of his mouth still tingled. Locating the box, she picked it up, and handed it over.
Olivia's smile widened until she resembled a Cheshire cat who'd gotten both the cream and the canary. "You've been holding out on me. I didn't know you had a boyfriend." The last word was uttered in a teasing, sing-song tone.
It took Sherlock a minute before he realized she was referring to him. His thoughts were thick and viscous as if honey clogged the gears of his mind.
Vivian cleared her throat. "Yes, well. It's all a bit...new. This is Scott, by the way."
Olivia wiggled her fingers at him. "Hello, Scott."
Sherlock managed a stiff nod.
"He, um, thought he'd surprise me at work," Vivian said.
Olivia eyed him up and down and gave a hum of approval. "It looks like you surprised him back, love."
"I have to go," Sherlock blurted out. He couldn't think. Not with Vivian still squeezed beside him and radiating heat. "I have to go," he repeated. He exited the closet, shouldered past Olivia, then hurried down the hallway. A blur of corridors and stairs later, he found himself outside Cubic Systems, chest tight and short of breath. He kept walking.
It took six blocks before the tingling on his skin receded, but it did nothing for the agitated thoughts buzzing in his head. What if they hadn't been interrupted? Would Vivian have closed the final gap between them? Would he have let her?
He wet his lips. Vanilla, smooth and sweet, blossomed on his tongue. Vivian's lipstick. It was still there on the edge of his mouth. Of course it would be flavored. The woman was a hedonist. Everything had to taste good, including her own mouth. His pulse pounded harder at the thought. Muttering a curse, he entered the nearest restaurant and headed into the washroom. Sherlock turned the deadbolt, barring anyone else from entry, then approached the small mirror to assess the damage. Five and a half near perfect lip-prints marked the side of his jaw, leading up to his mouth. He'd solved a murder using a lip print once. They were as unique as fingerprints and just as damning. He'd never expected one to be left on his skin though. Wetting a paper towel, he began to scrub away at the evidence, but it was just as reluctant to leave as the lingering effects of Vivian's touch. By the time he finished, his jaw was red from rubbing at it. He splashed cold water against his heated face and exhaled.
He'd never had the desire to explore someone's mouth with his own, nor have someone do the same to him, but there was no denying his reaction to her. A detached part of his mind had carefully cataloged his every physical response and now mocked him with a scathing report: pulse elevated, respiration increased, circulation diverted. The last set his fists clenching. He'd always been above all that nonsense. This was far worse than whatever fleeting awareness he'd had of Irene Adler all those years ago. Today, his own body had betrayed him, had turned his logic-driven brain into so much mush.
Sherlock left the loo and continued walking. Biology. That's all this was. Any red-blooded male forced into such close proximity with an attractive woman would have reacted the same way. So what if it had never happened to him before? It wasn't as if he'd been alone in his reaction. Vivian had responded too. And he was certain now it was just as involuntary and unwanted as his own. Despite her dilated pupils, there'd been little doubt of her intent. He'd goaded her, and she'd retaliated. It was as simple as that. It didn't mean anything. It didn't matter. And it certainly wasn't going to happen again.
***
The hot spray from the shower scoured away the remnants of the morgue left on Sherlock's skin and the remaining tension in his body. After arriving back at 221B, he'd given John a slightly edited version of his encounter with Vivian. John had been visibly relieved to hear there had been a reasonable, if not unusual, explanation for Vivian's dual identity. Before John could say, "I told you so," Mrs. Hudson had called, requesting help with a few burnt out bulbs in 221C, and John had left to oblige her. While the basement flat had never had a tenant, she still insisted on maintaining it. Sherlock didn't know why she bothered. No one wanted to live down there in the damp, musty place. He'd used the empty space for an experiment once, but the lack of ventilation had proved problematic. Feeling more like himself and content to be headache free for the first time in a while, Sherlock toweled off and returned to his room to dress. Right as he finished pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms, the door to his bedroom opened. A rush of cool air hit the bare skin of his back, sending goose flesh down his spine.
"Ever hear of knocking? You lift your-" The cutting remark died on Sherlock's lips as he turned. It wasn't John who'd so rudely invaded his room.
It was Vivian.
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