The smooth, caramel-colored intrusion of her hand. Of her touch. It rises out of the same dull gray shadow as the rest of the room but, as it permeates his own fingertips with warmth, sends a thousand ringing klaxons singing off the ramparts of Sherlock's mind that no warning, however asute, could preface. His tongue finds a home at the base of his molars, swishing imperceptibly, slick as an eel over its reef at the inkling of new prey.

There is a dull shift of threadbare floor as he turns imperceptibly nearer.

"Hardly enough time," he rumbles, his voice a deep baritone. "Given everything."

The long violinist fingers scoop the soft flesh of her inner arm.