The hand not at her neck comes to settle upon her hip, gingerly, mindful of the bruises beneath. His gentleness should not be mistaken for coddling; he knows her well enough (or thinks her does, anyway) to know that she would find coddling to be an insult. Her directness is a brittle but welcome thing.

He, too, is intimately acquainted with the freedom of being direct.

Sherlock steps backward, pulling them both away from the uncovered window and further into the blue murk of the room. Many shadows here, many scents. This safe house has seen its fair share of trauma, much of which sticks to the walls like painted remnants. He is intensely aware of the smell of sweat, blood, and sand. Aware, too, of the heady cocktail of olfactory impressions rising from Irene Adler; from her hair, her fingertips, the deep vee of her parted robe.

He kisses her again, the intensity of it pushing forward, seeking, like smoke curling into an empty room.