After Sherlock saves Margaux's life on the museum balcony, the pair arrive back at 221B Baker Street. Things get heated after Margaux pushes Sherlock to admit his feelings.


6.5 / After the Ball

Margaux had imagined this moment before, more times than she liked to admit. She would see him in the labs of St Bart's, sleeves rolled up, face pressed against a microscope, and find herself wondering what it would feel like to kiss him, to hear his moans against her ear. She'd imagined he would be slow, methodical, deliberate; that he would move with diligence, touch with intent. She would bite her lip and shake away the image, ignore the heat rising from her core. She had imagined the moment before, but in all of her fantasies, she had never expected this.

Sherlock kicked open the bedroom door, grasping her thighs through the fabric of her dress and throwing her onto the bed. She pushed the tuxedo jacket down his arms as he climbed on top of her, helping him take it off and throw it to the floor. She grabbed the bowtie around his neck and pulled his face towards hers, stealing a kiss before he curled his fingers around her wrist, released her grip of the bowtie and pinned her hand to the bed. She stared up at him through the dark, her breath hot like steam as she panted, waiting for him to do something.

He climbed off the bed and undid the tie, throwing it aside before unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. She propped herself up on her elbows and watched with heavy breaths, desperate to touch him - waiting for permission. She had never tread so lightly before; never feared someone would change their mind. Sherlock found comfort in control, so she had to let him lead.

"Come here," he said quietly, his voice dark and rich.

Margaux clambered to her knees on the edge of the bed, her eyes drawn to the open collar exposing his neck. She couldn't help but lay a kiss there; pressing her lips against his soft, pale skin and lavishing the taste of salt, soap and faded cologne. A gentle moan escaped his lips as he felt her tongue at the base of his throat. The sound was even better than she had imagined.

"Turn around," he said.

She turned quickly, sensing the impatience in his voice, her skin pricking into goosebumps as she felt his hands on her bare back. The backless dress fit her like a glove, flush to her skin and held in place with a set of clasp and buttons that were too small and intricate even for Sherlock's nimble violinist fingers. She waited quietly as he battled with them, his fingertips hurting as he pinched at the clasps, each time slipping and failing to prise them apart.

She glanced over her shoulder. "Do you need h-"

He growled in frustration, grabbing a fistful of material and pulling it hard. The dress tore away with a burst of beads and thread. Margaux gasped at the sound of them flying across the room, bouncing off the walls and clattering against the wooden floor.

"This cost me a fortune," she said breathlessly.

"I'll write you a cheque," Sherlock replied as he hastily slid the straps down her arms and turned her around.

She lay back, helping him shimmy the dress over her hips and down her legs, watching in anticipation as he threw it aside and climbed back onto the bed. She pulled him back on top of her, kissing him hungrily and clutching at his hair, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush against each other. He pressed himself between her legs as they kissed, the pressure providing small relief to the ache trapped beneath his trousers. Margaux moaned at the feeling, her fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and impatiently popping each one open until she could push it down his arms and toss it aside to join her dress on the floor. She placed a palm on his slender torso, her fingers caressing the creamy, marble skin of his chest before travelling slowly down his stomach towards the waistline of his trousers.

He jerked his hips back, moving himself away from her eager fingers. "You're being impatient."

"Can you blame me?"

He brushed her hair out of her face, trailing kisses down her jaw. His mouth travelled hungrily to to her neck where he nipped his teeth and sucked soft, rosy blooms along her pulse. With each placement, he assessed her reaction; the goosebumps, the gasps, until eventually, there was a moan. He ran his tongue over the same spot again – the hollow above her collarbone – revelling in the sounds pouring from her mouth like honey.

He trailed his mouth down from her neck to her chest, his movements just like she had imagined; methodical and deliberate. But the feeling of him, she could never have prepared for that. As his lips travelled across her breasts, his delicate fingers continued to move down her body, over her ribs, hips, stomach, caressing them like the strings of a violin. Hard, soft, long strokes, small tickles. He was playing her, composing music against her skin and revelling in the sounds he was drawing from her lips.

She thought he would be more tentative, more submissive and unsure. But as he tugged on her underwear, pulling the crotch to one side, she realised she had underestimated him. He was confident in everything he did, sex was clearly no different.

He slid down the bed, grasping her thighs and pushing them apart.

"Sherlock," her voice quivered. "Please..."

He felt her hips rolling beneath him as he listened to her laboured breath, her body begging for him. And with that, he buried his face between her legs. She groaned in a mix of pleasure and relief, almost certain she felt him smile as he began to devour her, gently at first, tasting her desire. Her fingers tangled into his hair, her back arching as he lapped and pressed his tongue against her. She wondered how a tongue so sharp could be capable of such pleasure.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

He glanced up at her. "What?"

"No. Don't stop- I need-"

She was incoherent; the words too heavy to properly leave her lips. This was a good sign, he knew. But he needed to be certain. He raised up onto his knees, his eyes never leaving hers as he pushed two fingers inside her, watching as she cried out and threw her head back. He began to move his fingers, curling them as he felt her walls tensing around him. He took his other hand and wrapped it around her throat, applying pressure until he could feel her pulse throbbing under his grip. Her heart rate was elevated, he noted, as he continued to move his fingers in deep, quick strokes.

He stared at her as she writhed in pleasure beneath his touch; at her mussed hair and swollen lips, at the trail of bites and blooms along her neck and chest. He watched her throw her arms above her head - trusting him completely. And suddenly, he was gone.

She opened her eyes, whimpering at the loss of his touch, and looked down to the bottom of the bed. She sat up and watched him quietly, breathing heavily and biting her lip. The sight of him was divine; moonlight shining through the small window, casting a milky glow across his bare skin, dark curls falling over intense eyes as he stood unbuttoning his trousers. If it weren't for the fact that she could still feel the imprint of his hand around her neck, she would have thought she was dreaming. He let his trousers drop to floor and kicked them aside. She watched as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of his underwear, sighing softly as he freed himself from the restricting fabric.

He returned to the bed, crawling up to meet her as she sat waiting, still trembling from his touch. She took his face in her hands and kissed him, as if she were dying and life poured from his lips. She could taste herself on his tongue, unsure if she would ever be able to look at his face again without imagining it buried between her thighs. He took her hair in his fists and pushed her onto her back, his bare chest pressing against her breasts, his knees parting her legs.

She could feel him now, pressing against the thin, wet fabric of her underwear. He rocked his hips forward. She moaned, remembering how his mouth had been there, his fingers. He continued to kiss her, giving another lazy thrust.

"Please," she whispered against his lips, reaching between them and wrapping her hand around his hard length. "Please..."

Sherlock's breath hitched as she grabbed him. He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. He liked to be in control, to understand everything, to know exactly what to expect. But the sound of her soft, wanton voice begging him to take her, he hadn't planned for that. He kissed her again, slipping his hand down and moving her underwear to one side again as she guided him towards her opening. She gave gentle gasp as he entered. Slowly and ever so slightly. He shifted on his knees, placing a hand on the bed either side of her to steady himself.

A groan rattled in his throat as he sank himself into her. She let out a cry, digging her fingers into the backs of his shoulders, stretching as he filled her completely. He rested his forehead on her shoulder as he began to move, his pace agonisingly slow as he continued to slide out almost completely before burying himself inside her again.

She turned to look at him. "Kiss me."

He obliged, moving his forehead from her shoulder to catch kisses between moans and incoherent mumbles. He stroked the hair out of her face, leaving his hand resting on her cheek as he continued to move in slow, deliberate thrusts, each one as satisfying as the last. She took his hand in hers, leading it back towards her neck, like a silent granting of permission. His eyes never left hers as he slightly tightened his grip, watching her as she gave a gentle nod beneath his grasp.

He kissed her again, hungrier, more desperate, as he quickened his pace. She gasped as his thrusts became harder, faster, each one sending an electric current from her core to every nerve ending. Her body ached for him, drawing him in like he belonged there. She closed her eyes, wrapping her hands around the wrist that pinned her to the bed.

She had always thought if she ever got to sleep with him, that she would savour it, take her time. But the moment had carried her away, like a strong tide. She couldn't hold back. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

"Oh god." She could feel it coming, like a wave of pulsating heat. White hot as it tore through her, blurring her vision and forcing cries of pleasure to pour from her open mouth.

He could feel her tightening around him. He slowed down, watching intensely as she trembled beneath him. "Did you..."

She nodded, reaching up and wrapping her hands around the back of his neck. She pulled him into a kiss, feeling his full weight, his still rigid length as it moved torturously slow inside her.

"Don't stop." Her voice was tired, desperate. She raised her hips to meet his thrust, the sensation drawing a hiss from Sherlock's lips. "Please."

She was doing it again, he thought, catching him off guard. He felt her lean forward and bite his shoulder, eliciting a deep, wanton groan in the back of his throat. He gripped her thighs before snapping his hips forward, making her gasp as he drew himself out of her and entered again. She threw her arms around his shoulders, burying her face into the crook of his neck as he continued his hard, unrelenting thrusts. She could feel his hot breath on her shoulder, his voice melting back and forth between whimpers and quiet growls as his rhythm became staggered.

He plunged himself into her, releasing his climax. "Margaux," he moaned, almost incoherently.

But she heard it.

He breathed deeply against her skin, before turning his head and laying a kiss on her neck. A smile crept across her face as she began to run her fingers through his curls; they were wild and dampened with sweat, but she didn't care. He pulled out of her slowly, letting his body fall to her side while his head continued to rest on her shoulder.

She looked down at him, almost bemused by his calm. She knew Sherlock Holmes as intense, erratic, difficult and cold. Even as he had kissed her on the kitchen table, he made it clear that she was nothing more than an experiment. Yet now he lay beside her, his leg draped over hers as he stroked his fingers up and down her bare stomach. She had no doubt that come sunrise, this night would feel like a distant memory. But for now, she was happy to revel in it.