The smooth inner groove of her palm smells like the grease of the naan and...something else. Sherlock's remarkable olfactory machinery dives down the rabbit hole of atomized categorization, alighting on all of the likely suspects until -- ah. The unmistakable scent of a firearm, from where the handle of the pistol hugged her palm. Surely not the first -- or last -- time that Irene Adler would be required to pack heat, and Sherlock idly wonders what kind of markswoman she is.
Her thumb leaves an impression at the corner of his lip. His own hand slips nimbly down the swan curve of her am, beneath the tent of the dressing gown and into the supple dark beyond.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2020-10-09 09:15 pm (UTC)Her thumb leaves an impression at the corner of his lip. His own hand slips nimbly down the swan curve of her am, beneath the tent of the dressing gown and into the supple dark beyond.
His eyes remain fixed on her own.
"What are you doing?"