Well, that wasn't bad, Janine conceded. Sprawled across her massive four-poster bed like some confused and oversexed starfish, her mind kept wandering between the realms of consciousness whilst her body recovered from some incredibly intense skin-on-skin contact. Not that she had expected it to be awful, of course. From his opening ambush in the garden, it had become apparent that Sherlock Holmes wasn't just adept at dishonesty and detective work; that he was, in fact, full of gorgeous surprises. Janine had gone from nothing to pretty much gagging for it within seconds, and would have been ashamed of herself had the result not been so bloody exhilarating.

On the other hand, the initial foreplay was clearly Sherlock's forte. Once they had stumbled into the master bedroom, his tongue had only taken a few cautious swipes at her already throbbing clitoris before he became bored. The rest could be reduced to carnal, impulsive rutting. Sherlock had shredded his way through Janine's very expensive pair of knickers, although she told herself that she had pre-empted this and exacted her revenge accordingly; the plum-coloured shirt had shed a few buttons on the stairs, plus she would force him to buy her some new lingerie. She wasn't exactly shocked over his seduction tactics, because the man clearly preferred the thrill of the chase and knew precisely when he had got what he wanted from her. And Mr Holmes wasn't renowned for being a gentleman in any context. He had given her the animal, as promised.

Somewhere in her pie-eyed bliss, Janine felt his form stir beside her and a cooling sensation as their remaining bodily contact was lost. She felt the mattress dip beneath them when he sat up and it suddenly occurred to her what he was doing. Janine wasn't having any of it.

'Oi! Where do you think you're going, Mister?' She murmured loud enough for her voice to carry, her eyes still closed. The movement beneath the covers stopped and Janine ventured a peek through her lashes. Sherlock was frozen by on the edge of the bed, an inquisitive expression occupying his sharp features as he gazed back down at her. She opened her eyes fully and continued. 'I thought we agreed that I'm not your sex toy?'

'We did. You are not. I've got work to do; I wouldn't be anywhere near the Downs if it weren't essential for a particular case.'

'Really? Well, you know how to make a girl feel special.'

'I assumed that the act which we just performed qualified.' He was still examining her with that same look of incredulity. It was becoming a real struggle for Janine to remember who he was and not slap him for being a selfish prick.

'Sarcasm, Sherl. I'll tell you this; if you leave now, I'll feel like I've been used by you for a second time. I won't like it, and I'll use it to buy myself a holiday.'

'Well, what do you propose instead?' His reply was flat, as if he still didn't get it. In all honesty, she thought that he probably didn't.

'That you come back inside. Cuddle.' Janine wriggled up in the direction of the headboard, using her elbow to prop herself up and deliberately expose her breasts. She saw Sherlock's pupils flicker and expand; he'd noticed.

'I….' Sherlock looked slightly mortified at her suggestion. The duvet rustled as he teetered between her and the outside world. 'I don't do cuddling.'

'And that would make a great headline, but you're lucky; you were alright and I'm feeling nice.' She laughed as she watched the usually seamless façade flicker between a bruised ego and genuine relief. Apparently the great Sherlock Holmes was much more transparent after shagging someone's brains out. 'Let me put it this way; you said what you feel for me is instinctual, right? If that instinct is as ingrained as you say it is, it can only be satisfied by spending more time with me. And, as we are both basically knackered, surely cuddling is your best bet?'

'I am working on a case.'

'Which you won't be giving your best efforts to if you're distracted by some very dirty thoughts.' She gave him her best flirtatious smile. 'Your little pause can last as long as you want to; until you get me out of your system.'

The afterthought stung a little, but Janine guessed that it would do the trick. She wouldn't be where she was today without a thick skin. There was a beat's worth of silence before she thought that she heard a begrudging noise of acceptance. He slid back down next to her, a stray black ringlet falling across his face when he reached her eye-level. Whilst Sherlock happened to be a genius, he also happened to be a man, and Janine had been counting upon that little fact in order to regain her immoral high ground. She snuggled into him, testing his reaction. Sherlock didn't seem as uncomfortable or tense as she had anticipated; rather, his arm was relaxed above her head, long fingers trailing lazily across her shoulder blades. In response to this slightly erotic tingling, Janine was feeling more inquisitive and started examining the aspects of Sherlock's body which she had previously neglected. The shiny, bullet-shaped scar in the middle of his chest, for example. Stroking it with a light circling motion and catching the occasional chest hair, she broke the comfortable silence between them.

'So, did you ever get what you wanted from Magnussen? You never told me what it actually was, and I've been wondering.'

'It didn't seem relevant.'

'As if anything between us ever was, Sherl!' She snorted in bitter amusement. 'Are you going to tell me then?'

'I did what needed to be done. It was a difficult case made exceptionally complicated by my incapacitation for six months. That's all you need to know.'

'Bullshit, Sherlock. You involved me in something that I didn't want to be involved in, cut me out completely and wouldn't even admit who shot you! I think I qualify for a few of the details.'

'I rather doubt that you did not want to be involved.' When she looked up at him, Janine could see that he was smirking. Sherlock might have had a point to that one. She impishly slapped his leg as punishment, listening to the rumble of his vocal chords in his chest as he went on. 'Additionally I was not the only one who was utilising you for your connections. Mary also had an agenda. She's the one who shot me, by the way.'

Ouch; that was a bloody low blow, but Janine could tell that he was being truthful for once. It would explain why, in spite of Janine's best efforts, she hadn't spoken to Mary since quitting her job. A thick skin couldn't hide everything; Janine had been doubly betrayed, and Mary was a fucking bitch. Janine would be having words with the Watsons' answer machine later, and then maybe the woman would actually pick up.

'Is everyone I know a deceiving bastard?'

'You "sold me out" in order to purchase this house, your former employer had half of the Western world eating excrement out of the palm of his hand, and you worked in an industry which is famed for its subterfuge. Should you really be asking that particular question?' Sherlock replied smoothly.

'Fair point.'

She knew that he was right, and her annoyance with Sherlock was quickly dissipating in favour of her disgust at Mary. Except that she couldn't milk the tabloids over stories about Mary Watson. They descended back into silence, although this time it felt like the two of them were sulking simultaneously instead of persisting with the ecstatic afterglow. She had every right to be upset, but she didn't know about Sherlock. Janine jolted in surprise when, after an eternity of stillness, he reached over the side of the bed and selected an item from his coat pocket in one swift motion. She scowled as Sherlock fumbled awkwardly with a packet of cigarettes, one arm still around her.

'Sherlock, don't you dare.' She cut across him when he lent forward to light one up.

'What?' The flame still flickered in his hand.

'You're not having a fag in here. Anyway, I thought that was what the attempt at nicotine poisoning was for, with the patches?'

'It helps me think. Stop being predictable and boring.' Sherlock snorted, ignoring her protest in favour of feeding his addiction. 'Having a hole carved through the abdomen tends to reshuffle one's priorities. The patches were dull.'

'Well, if you are essentially going to blank me, you can damn well go and open a window.' Janine disentangled herself from his embrace, fanning away the emerging cloud of smoke. She nudged him towards her side of the bed and indicated the presence of a single-glazed window a few metres away. 'I might actually want to sell this place one day.'

'You will, in about six months. Your discomfort in forcing yourself to live in countrified bliss is already clearly manifesting.'

'No it isn't.'

'Really?' Sherlock's words became a tad muffled as she watched him take another defiant drag. 'There are far too many rooms in this building for one person, which suggests that you are compensating, and we both know what for. There is an intermittent twitch above your left eye when you are not experiencing pleasure, indicative of stress brought about through boredom; believe me, I know the signs. Having spent the majority of your adult life as an office worker, you were vastly unprepared for the level of upkeep required for the grounds and hence have no idea what to do with them.' He quickly indulged himself once more, seeming to treat the cigarette like any normal person would oxygen. 'Not to mention your prolonged and inexplicable distaste towards the Anthophila species. Did I miss anything?'

'I don't trust the bees. They remind me of someone.'

'Clearly. As I said; six months.'

'Stop being such a clever arsehole and move.' Janine glowered. She kicked him gently when he remained where he was. 'Window. Now.'

Sherlock finally took the hint and climbed over her, aiming for the pane of glass on the other side. Janine felt a renewed tingle of arousal as his form brushed softly against her; though Sherlock's gangly limbs had propelled him far out of her reach before she could surrender to it once more. She watched as he meandered slowly, teasingly across the room; hair tousled and not so much as a stitch on him. There wasn't a hint of false modesty, and Janine knew that it was because Sherlock thought that the concept was outdated. His alabaster skin tautened when he anticipated the rush of cold air flooding into the room, and Janine found herself transfixed by the flexing of Sherlock's slender yet toned muscles as he reached upwards to unhook the latch. He appeared statuesque as he relaxed and settled upon the windowsill like an unconscious exhibitionist. The only indications that he was in any way human were the rise and fall of his chest and the occasional ash-induced reflex. It was delicious. She couldn't look away.

Curiosity had always been part of her nature, never mind the bit about it killing the cat. And as much as she was enjoying this particular distraction, Janine thought that she may as well take advantage of the fact that the world's only consulting detective was striding around her room in his birthday suit. She was his "tabloid whore", after all. She had some digging to do.

'I heard about Magnussen turning up dead.' She called over to him, still eyeing his pert behind. 'What do you think happened?'

'You saw the news. It was a suicide; a straight, open-and-shut case which even Scotland Yard couldn't fail to miss.'

'I know the people who wrote that crap. They gave one possible explanation, Sherl.'

'And you believe that it was the wrong one.' It wasn't a question. Janine couldn't see his face, but she imagined a rueful smile accompanying Sherlock's statement; he seemed to take a kind of dark pleasure in the subject.

'Magnussen was twisted, egotistical and self-centred. He made people dance to his tune for kicks –.'

'I am well aware what Magnussen was capable of; be grateful that he did not have access to anything too significant about you.'

' – What I'm trying to say is, I won't miss him. Far from it, but it just doesn't fit.'

'So you think that Magnussen was murdered. A cold-blooded vengeance killing by one of his…clients.'

'No; I think it was you.'

The shift in Sherlock's body language as he tensed was almost imperceptible. Janine wouldn't have noticed had she not been looking for it. Damn. Things must have really gone up shit's creek with that case. From what little information she had gleaned, he was a sociopath, but one with standards. Janine wondered how the hell they managed the cover up with a place the size of Appledore. Had Mike been involved? Janine snapped back to attention when she realised that those steely eyes were gazing intently over his shoulder and in her general direction. A sharp line of smoke hissed upwards from Sherlock's bottom lip as he made her wait with baited breath for his response.

'We are not discussing this, Janine.'

This was a change; Sherlock Holmes not wanting to flaunt his skills in front of the general public. He wasn't denying it, which seemed to be part of his nature, so Janine knew that she must be right on some level. It was confirmation enough, and today had hurled a lot of shock-factor her way already. She could deal with not knowing the details behind this one.

'Okay, if you want to pretend it didn't happen then that's fine by me. Just saying; at least the bastard got what was coming to him. Not bad Mr Holmes. Not bad at all.'

A moment of relative calm passed between them whilst Janine listened to the rain pattering faintly upon the tin outhouse roof. Sherlock took several more drags of his cigarette, experimenting with every outward breath in the same way which a child would blow bubbles. Janine twitched and heaved the duvet cover closer to her chest as one of those tiny yellow-and-black bandits deigned to seek refuge from the outside world, simultaneously inciting Sherlock to glance at the clock which was occupying her dresser.

'I've wasted enough time here.' He sighed, addressing her from over his shoulder again. 'I need to finish explaining the obvious to these morons and return to London. There are bigger things which I could be doing.'

'What's the crime you're investigating down here then? Aside from me, I mean.' She smiled at her own inquisitiveness; she had to ask because she couldn't resist.

'Four corpses, all were members of the same family and found in mysterious circumstances.' Sherlock huffed, acknowledging her aside. 'Those mysterious circumstances involved a series of very fine puncture wounds at the base of the neck and apparent exsanguination; there was very little blood at the respective sites. The local police are predictably clueless.'

'Exsanguinated; do you mean that they bled out? Or was it a vampire fetish thing?' It sounded ludicrous when she said it aloud, and Janine earned herself a disparaging stare for her trouble.

'Don't be ridiculous, Janine! The case itself was straightforward; facile, in fact. I solved it before I left the flat. Hypodermic needles were used to inject a blood thinner and poison directly into the victims' carotid artery. The bodies had been moved and carefully positioned where others would find them. Hardly worth my time.'

'Why did you bother coming all the way to the middle of bloody nowhere then?'

'Aside from my client's incessant whining, isn't it obvious?' Sherlock turned around to greet her with a sad smile. His stance, although ultimately defensive, yielded to her unspoken pleasure of gaining a full-frontal view. This sincere slice of emotion disappeared as quickly as it came and was replaced with the specific air of business which every sentient life form had come to associate with Sherlock Holmes. 'I really do have to leave now; I abandoned John when he insisted upon investigating the prices of buggies in Mothercare. It is not a difficult leap to work out that the trauma of that particular experience alone may lead to his thinking that I've fallen off a building again. His mind does love to over-exaggerate.'

'Fine; I suppose it's for your own good if you head off. Mary told me that he tried to break your nose the last time you went missing.' Janine grinned back at him as he flung the cigarette into the rain.

'I wouldn't take everything which Mary says as gospel these days. She is perfectly trustworthy; however she does possess the same dangerous penchant for overstatement as John.'

Sherlock wandered back over to the bed to hunt for the remnants of his clothes. Janine used the waistband of his pants as a catapult to send the underwear flying towards him. He caught it with a deft grab and crawled back to her side, permitting her a soft kiss on the lips. She watched Sherlock dress meticulously, fluff his hair, and saunter across the room with a staccato of designer shoes. He stopped just before reaching the door and Janine couldn't get over the idea that he was taking her in; preserving her exposed image, still curled up where he had left her on the warm mattress. She watched him open his mouth to speak, think better of it, and then try for a second time.

'It can't happen again, Janine.'

'I know that, Sherl. But that doesn't mean you don't want it to.'

'I know.'

And then he was gone.

One word; wow! The sheer level of response to this fic has been overwhelming for what essentially is a post-Series Three doodle. Thank you so much to all of you who reviewed, favourited and alerted! I hope the second instalment didn't disappoint. If you've got any final thoughts, reviews are still very much adored. :) MC. xx