The Broken Tango

Chapter 29

Baker Street was unusually deserted when Irene got there. She got out a street away, slipping through the allies and side streets until she reached the fire escape on the side of their building. Her motorbike was parked out there, shining in the mid-morning sun as she stroked a hand along its fender lovingly, before she hurried up the fire escape.

Her bedroom window was open, and she squeezed through the gap.

She hurried into the living room, stopping dead when she saw Sherlock standing before the lit fire, apparently gazing into it broodingly.

"Sherlock…?" she murmured hesitantly, chest heaving from climbing up the fire escape. She could hear no movement below, so guessed that Mrs Hudson wasn't home. The consulting detective didn't turn around, but she saw his entire body stiffen. He didn't answer, so she moved forward into the room. "You're going to run, aren't you? Run and leave John and I behind?"

"It's the best way," he muttered, still not facing her.

"The hell it is," Irene snarled, "You can't do this alone. I won't let you."

"Irene," Sherlock sighed, finally turning around and facing her as she walked right up to him, so their noses brushed.

"No, hush," she breathed, placing her fingers over his mouth before he could start speaking again. His eyes met hers, and she felt herself gasp at the pain, the anguish, the sheer turmoil she saw in them.

John had been right.

She abruptly focussed on the smooth lips beneath her fingertips, their softness, their austerity.

"You shouldn't be here. Moriarty is probably watching this place like a hawk," Sherlock whispered, dislodging her fingers gently.

"Neither should you," she retorted, eyes still fixed on his lips. Sherlock sighed, and tilted her head up.

"Why did you come after me?" he asked, coolly, calmly despite the storm in his piercing eyes.

"I just remembered it's been at least three days since I kissed you last," she managed to murmur, before she did exactly what she had said, and kissed him.

Hard.

Sherlock only hesitated for a second beneath her kiss, before he began to kiss back with urgency, arms like steel bands coming around her waist and drawing her to him forcefully. She scraped her hands through his hair, pulling none too gently to keep his mouth on hers as he groaned, hands leaving her waist to pull the hem of her ruined shirt from her skirt, sliding his palms underneath. Irene gasped into his mouth, releasing his hair to tug impatiently at his jacket, forcing him to release her for a moment to shrug it away, before reclaiming her mouth.

Irene's hands returned to his hair, to cling and to caress as Sherlock's mouth dropped to her neck, tongue and teeth desperately seeking out where her pulse throbbed erratically.

Words were entirely superfluous as hands stroked and glided and clawed desperately at clothing. Sherlock needed her, and she needed him.

Finally free of all restrictions, Irene basked in the heat of the flames less than a foot from where they stood, and the even more scalding fire of Sherlock's skin as it touched her own. Touched her, surrounded her entirely.

Unfazed by the danger, by the possibility of someone coming on them while they were vulnerable, Irene pulled Sherlock down with her to the rug, needing his body to completely surround hers.

She needed him inside her, now, with no barriers, no more shields to hide behind.

His body weighed heavily on hers, crushing her into the floor, the rough material abrading the sensitive skin of her back, but she didn't try to move away. She didn't want to, she just wanted him with her, now.

Nails digging into the flesh of his back, holding him to her desperately, their eyes locked, their chests rising and falling in syncopated gasps.

No barriers, no shields.

"I thought I would lose you," Sherlock growled out, looking unbelievably young and vulnerable with his dark hair curling over his eyes. Irene reached up to brush a stray lock away, Sherlock's lips pressing ardently into the palm of her hand, making her shiver.

"You haven't. I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere," she whispered, caressing his face lovingly. Their bodies were covered in a thin sheen of sweat, their lips just about brushing as Sherlock's body undulated gently into hers, making her gasp against his mouth. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the floor, his lips travelling the graceful arch of her neck. "Sherlock, please…"

He exhaled brokenly against her collarbone, before thrusting into her again, rougher and faster, an animalistic groan falling from his lips. Irene cried out, scoring her nails down his back, as their lips met again in a fiery dance, surrounded by heat, their bodies fused together, as one.

Unbreakable.

"You're wrong, you know," Sherlock husky voice in her ear pulled Irene out of the sated doze she'd relaxed into, safe in his arms. They lay together, still entwined, her back to his torso, facing away from the fire, his leg bent over hers. Their clothes lay scattered around them, Sherlock's jacket partially covering Irene's naked body.

"About what?" Irene murmured, turning her head so she could see his face over the rise of her shoulder. His fingers traced deft patterns on her skin, comforting rather than arousing.

"It hasn't been three days since you kissed me last. You kissed me last night," he murmured, as Irene rolled her eyes.

"We're lying, naked, on the floor of our flat, with a psychopath after us, and you're being pedantic?" she asked incredulously, at which he just smiled and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "I can see you're back to your old self."

"And I'm obviously forgiven, seeing as we're lying on the floor of our flat, naked," Sherlock replied, making both of them chuckle. He looked down at her, into her eyes, overflowing with emotion, and stroked his fingers up the line of her jaw. "Irene…"

Her fingers came up to cover his lips, hushing him before he could speak. "I know," she whispered. "But don't say it yet. Save it until there's no longer a sword hanging over our heads."

"Do you…?" he began to ask, again looking more vulnerable than she had ever seen him, and she shivered.

"Yes. I do," she replied simply, a gentle smile growing on her lips as she reached up and kissed him, sliding a hand into the curls at his nape to hold him to her. He groaned, and the arm around her waist tightened possessively. When their lips parted, Irene laid her head back on his supporting arm, gazing up at him with a determined glint in her eye. "Which also means there is no way in hell I'm letting you run off after Moriarty alone."

Sherlock opened his lips to reply, but he was cut off by a very familiar voice coming through the door.

"Correction: no way in hell we're letting you run off after Moria-?" John stopped dead at the sight of Irene and Sherlock lying in each other's arms, Sherlock's suit jacket the only thing protecting her modesty, and Irene's body the only thing protecting Sherlock's.

Irene's brow rose, with just a hint of amusement. "You took your time."

"Yeah, well, I kinda thought that…" John trailed off, clearing his throat. Sherlock chuckled, neither he nor Irene moving to cover themselves up. "You would want some time…alone."

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Sherlock asked, looking up at his friend as he supported himself on one elbow. Irene snickered.

"I discharged myself," John, still beetroot red, moved over to one of the armchairs and collapsed into it, very carefully keeping his eyes on Sherlock and Irene's faces. There weren't exactly many other places he could look safely. "We should probably get moving. Mrs Hudson could be back at any moment and Mycroft isn't going to stay knocked out forever."

"Knocked out…? What happened?" Sherlock asked, frowning as Irene reached for his shirt and tossed it to him. Irene sent a devilish smirk his way, as she shrugged into Sherlock's suit jacket, holding the lapels together to cover her.

"Oh, I punched him in the face for being an ass," she replied nonchalantly over her shoulder, before disappearing into her bedroom to change. John averted his eyes, shaking his head at his two sociopaths for companions, as Sherlock stood and dressed quickly.

"If it was Irene, I almost feel sorry for Mycroft. Almost," he muttered with a sly smile at John.

"That's twice in less than 24 hours that he's been decked," John chuckled. "Poor Mycroft."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I thought you were unconscious."

"Nope. Nice right hook by the way, I didn't know you had it in you," he grinned, as Irene re-emerged from her bedroom, dressed in sensible jeans, boots and a shirt, slinging a blazer over the top.

"So what now?" she asked, heading straight for her lover, whose arm reached out to twine her to his side. John smiled, sending a knowing glance Irene's way, who just glared at him pointedly.

"We don't know if Moriarty's alive or dead. With him, I think it a fair assumption to presume he survived the explosion, and will no doubt have assumed the same of us, or will know by now. We need to go into hiding, make everyone believe we're dead. No one can be told, but that we can leave to Mycroft to arrange. We need to start playing Moriarty at his own game, lead him into a trap of our making while letting him believe he's actually trapping us," Sherlock explained. John nodded.

"If Moriarty believes us alive, why did you take the risk of coming back here?" Irene asked, frowningly. Sherlock glanced towards the mantelpiece, with a mock-sad expression on his face.

"I missed my skull," he replied, making his two colleagues grin. The levity passed, as they all looked at each other. "You could die. Moriarty won't hesitate to try to use you against me. You're both giving up your lives for this." Sherlock continued, warningly. Irene rolled her eyes, as John looked sad for a moment.

"I will miss Sarah, and even Harry but…we're all involved now. Even if you left us behind, Moriarty could still try to get to you through us, and it's not like he'll just leave Irene alone. Right now, the safest place for you and us is to stick together," John slowly remarked, the cool calculation of the soldier beginning to shine in his eyes, replacing his usual affable warmth. Sherlock didn't need to glance at Irene to know her response.

"I'm coming with you, anywhere you go, I'm coming. John's right, James won't just leave me alone to follow you. My life is at your side, Sherlock," she breathed softly, smiling at her two friends warmly. Sherlock's arm tightened around her waist, before a shark like grin spread over his austere lips.

"Then the game is on!"

Looking up at his two flatmates, the sociopath detective and the dangerous beauty, John couldn't help but feel hopeful. Yes, Moriarty possessed more resources than they, was Sherlock's intellectual equal and possibly even more devious but somehow John doubted he would win their game.

No, this time they would play the game their way, and they would win.

Because Sherlock had a greater cause to fight for now than just avoiding boredom. It was standing in the circle of his arm, an equally determined and dangerous light in her eyes.

Sherlock and Irene were like two sides of a coin, both brilliant, both flawed, but ultimately complementing each other, fitting together like two pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. And John basked in the knowledge that he too was a part of that puzzle.

The puzzle, the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.

The game was on, indeed.

What felt like the end of the story was really only the beginning of another, one which would be dark and full of danger and death, and pain and loss before this was over.

John smiled.

And I thought my life was boring. I can't say nothing happens to me anymore…

He wouldn't have it any other way.

The end…or is it just the beginning?

And that's the end of 'The Broken Tango'. I hope you all enjoyed it, and I loved writing it. Thank you for all the reviews, and perhaps there'll be a sequel, although that probably won't be until the next series in 2011. I won't be writing anymore for Sherlock just yet, since I have a veritable mountain of WIPs that need finishing, before I start anything new. :)