There is suddenly warmth, originating from the touch of his hand at her elbow and the long, sure fingers at the base of her neck. It is the first time in weeks Irene Adler has felt a touch that was not a strike or a blow, something connected to pain or torture. The feeling grows from those places, rushing outward to the rest of her body, and the sensation draws a soft exhale from her in the moment before their lips touch. It feels so impossibly good, beyond descriptions or adjectives, to be held like this; to be kissed by him.

Her toes curl into the carpet more tightly as Irene raises further on the balls of her feet, meeting Sherlock’s kiss with parted lips and a warm sweep of her tongue. The hand at the back of his neck trails downwards, resting her palm against the high arch of his cheek. Her other hand is against his chest, fingers splayed slightly, and is it her imagination? Or is there an irregularity, an acceleration in his heartbeat now? The question registers briefly, then fades to the back of her mind as her hand moves from his chest, bringing her arm to wrap around him in a closer embrace. A slight tilt of her head allows the kiss to deepen, the pass of her tongue warm against his lower lip.