Note: This story (like all Natlock stories on this profile) was inspired by experiences on the Role Play forum 'The Convergence' of which I am a part of, along with the wonderful GraceW (whose spot on portrayal of Sherlock allowed for a lot of the dialogue in this fic).

If you like these two as a couple and you're into Star Wars AU's, stay tuned for an ongoing series to be published on our joint profile (that I can't link to here) Jedi Holmes.

Happy reading!

Show and Tell

Whenever Natasha Romanoff came to visit, she made it a point not to announce her arrival. There was no text to say she'd be stopping by, no amount of time between one visit and another by which to establish a pattern. She could be gone for days, weeks or months, and suddenly pop in on a Wednesday afternoon for a few hours or on a Friday night for the whole weekend.

More than once Sherlock Holmes had attempted to question her about the matter, but questions were always skillfully avoided with a smile and a wink. Natasha, as he'd learned during the four years he'd known her, did not answer questions she did not want to answer. She'd indulge him on occasion; perhaps on the cab ride home after she'd accompanied him on a successfully solved case, or late at night after the rare tousle on his sheets. At any other time Sherlock relied strictly on his deductions, making the entire visit more of a game than what it truly was and neither would admit.

By that same token, there was rarely anything left in her wake as evidence of her presence once she disappeared. Save for the faint smell of perfume on his bed sheets or a quickly scribbled note on the bedside table, the woman was a ghost in all but name.

It had been only a month and a half since her last visit when Sherlock found himself climbing the steps up to 221B to the sounds of female humming. An old Russian love song, no doubt. She refused to admit it, but she was always partial to that sort of music. The briefest of smirks ghosted over his lips as he removed his scarf, and a second later he was poking his head just past the partially open bathroom door.

"Back already, Princess? It's only been a month and a half."

"Didn't miss me, then?"

He nudged the door with his foot, straightened and leaned against the doorframe. "I always miss you."

A deceptively delicate hand reached out to move the shower curtain just a little to the side; enough to see her water-speckled face, a shoulder, the curve of a hip, cunning green eyes and a smile. "Could always get in here and show me how much."

"Could," he conceded, bright blue eyes flitting over her while he waited for the other half of her statement.

Her smile widened knowingly. "But someone left something for you out on the doorstep, I left it on your bed." She slipped back behind the curtain. "An early Christmas gift, maybe?"

"Another case I've been working on." He pushed himself off the doorframe. "How long will you be staying this time?"

"You know the answer to that question already."

"I never know the answer to that question," he answered irritably.

There was a smile in her voice when she spoke again. "And that's the answer, Charming."

"I've asked you not to call me that."

"And I've asked you not to call me Princess."

"Hm." Sherlock didn't immediately move from his spot, fingers fidgeting anxiously beside his leg while he thought things over. "I'll go see what it is, then. The sooner I solve the case, the sooner I can return to the demonstration you requested."

A light chuckle erupted from behind the curtain and once again Natasha moved it to the side to look at him. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

"Do I ever disappoint?"

"Not once in four years," she conceded.

Sherlock winked and reached for the doorknob. "That's what I thought."

He closed the door for her with a soft click and slipped into his bedroom without bothering to remove his coat. If his deductions were correct, and they usually were, the item in question would be a transcription of the 'dancing men' drawings Mr. Cubitt's socialite wife had been seeing on doors, tables, walls and floors over the course of two weeks. When he'd visited Sherlock three days before in hopes of solving the mystery, he'd mentioned his wife was always visibly terrified upon seeing the 'dancing men' but never offered an explanation as to why. Immediately Sherlock had concluded that these drawings were messages, the meaning of which could only be figured out through careful analysis of every single one.

Hence the cream envelope he now held open in his hands. A quick inspection of the paper inside revealed it to be exactly what he suspected, and after memorizing its contents, he once again put it away. When Natasha finally emerged from the bathroom in one of his robes, it was to find him sitting in his chair with his hands in the usual prayer position in front of his mouth, the envelope tucked in between.

"Get dressed," he ordered without looking her way. "We're going out."

"You know I've killed people for a lot less," she commented, quick fingers plucking the envelope from his grasp to inspect it herself.

Sherlock settled his hands on the armrests without complaint. "And yet here I am. Unscathed."

"I'll leave you to your deductions," Natasha quoted, and he smirked. "A substitution cipher," she muttered after a moment. "It might just be the spy in me talking, but ciphers usually spell out trouble."

"Naturally." He took the envelope, tucked it into one of his coat pockets and rose to his feet. "Which is why you're coming with me. I've already called for a cab."

Natasha raised a brow and turned for the bedroom. "And here I thought you were only interested in my pretty face."

Sherlock followed her with his eyes while knotting his scarf around his neck and popping the collar of his coat. "Only one of your many attractive qualities, Princess."

Thirty minutes later both spy and detective found themselves pulling up in front of Mr. Cubitt's house, now turned into a crime scene. The place was cordoned off from the majority of the people there, but what appeared to be the whole of NSY was crawling over the scene. Natasha stepped out of the cab in high-heeled boots and a blood red trench coat, and leaned back in to pay the cabbie. "Awful lot of people here."

"As usual," Sherlock returned dryly, barely sparing a glance for the people around him as he made his way past the yellow tape and into the house itself. He didn't miss the usual curious stares shot Natasha's way, but as always Natasha's forbidding expression prevented anyone but Lestrade from asking any questions.

"Where's John?" The detective inspector asked, gesturing for the remaining occupants of the room to leave. Mrs. Cubitt, hurt but alive, was wheeled out of the room as well to receive proper medical attention. "He was with you not two hours ago."

"We'd just finished a case, as you know," Sherlock answered absently, bright blue eyes already sweeping over the scene. "He was anxious to see his wife."

"Right, right." Lestrade glanced at Natasha and smiled. "I'm sorry, I can't really remember your name."

"I never gave one," Natasha answered, and out of the corner of his eye Lestrade caught what appeared to be a smirk on Sherlock's face. It was gone before he could confirm, and he gave up attempting to find an answer to the many questions brought up by the two people now looking over his crime scene.

"Right then," he said after a moment. "You've got five minutes here, Sherlock. If you can't find anything, we're ruling it a murder and attempted suicide, holding the wife accountable. I'll be right outside."

Without waiting for a reply, Lestrade slipped out the door and closed it behind him to give Sherlock the time and space he needed to do what he did best.

The crime scene itself was not difficult to read. Mr. Cubitt's corpse was still lying prone on the floor, pistol just a short distance away. Cubitt himself had been shot in the head, as had been his wife with less successful results, but a third shot had pierced the open window leading to a flowerbed just beyond. Sherlock took note of the trampled flowers underneath and turned towards Natasha, pulling out a pair of latex gloves and passing them over.

"If you don't mind, Princess."

While he waited, he walked over to the desk lined up against the far wall where a pile of money rested on its surface.

Natasha slipped on the gloves and crouched down beside the gun to inspect it. "Two shots fired."

"And yet?" Sherlock prompted.

"And yet there were three shots overall." She looked up at him with the amused expression she sported when he was working himself up to a dramatic deduction. "A third party was involved, and a sloppy one at that."

"Exactly," Sherlock replied, coat flaring out around him as he turned on the spot and headed for the door. "The person responsible for the dancing men."

Natasha rose to her feet and snapped off the gloves. "You've already figured this out, haven't you?"

"Obviously," he answered confidently, pulling the door open and gesturing for Lestrade to come inside. Not a second after, there was a commotion at the front door pulling everyone's attention toward the man now staggering through it.

"Let me see her!" The man cried out.

"Ah," Sherlock said mildly. "That must be Mr. Slaney."

"How did you—" Lestrade began, but Sherlock interrupted him by pulling out the cream envelope containing the 'dancing men' drawings and handing it over.

"You'll find all the information you need in the piece of paper tucked inside," he announced. "It seems Mr. Slaney here was once engaged to Mr. Cubitt's wife. She fled, and he searched for her to no avail for a long time until he finally caught on to the fact that she'd changed her name and resumed her life with another man. He pleaded with her to come back, she refused. His messages became increasingly more violent, until in the last one he threatened her with murder." There was a bit of a scuffle when Slaney attempted to run away, but he was promptly detained.

"However, he couldn't go through with it and tried talking to Mr. Cubitt instead. Cubitt offered him money to leave his wife alone, but as evidenced by the fact that it is still laying in a pile on Mr. Cubitt's desk, he didn't take it. They shot at each other, Slaney fled, and upon seeing her husband dead on the floor, Mrs. Cubitt attempted to shoot herself with his gun." He turned sharp blue eyes towards Lestrade after speed talking through his explanation. "I'm sure I've given you enough for the court case, text me if you need anything else. Natasha, come along."

The smirking redhead followed as ordered, waiting only until they were settled into the backseat of a cab before grabbing him by the scarf pulling him in for a passionate kiss. "I love it when I get to watch you do that," she muttered breathlessly against his lips, paying absolutely no attention to the cabbie driving them home. "But I hate it when you make me watch while we're in public."

"And yet you always seem so much more eager on the cab ride home when I do," he retorted in a husky voice.

"Tease," Natasha accused, but already she was kissing him again without so much as giving him a chance to breathe. Sherlock slipped a hand behind her neck to hold her in place while the other tugged open her trench coat, and it wasn't until the cab came to a stop in front of his flat that he pulled away from her altogether. More than enough money to pay the cabbie was tossed the man's way, and in the midst of fierce kisses, torn clothes, overturned lamps and slammed doors, they made it to Sherlock's bed and collapsed on top of the covers.

It was always the same with them. Barely touching until they were alone, because once they started it always proved considerably harder to stop. Natasha's hands were all over; in his hair, over his shoulders, down his back. His lips burned her skin; her lips, beneath her jaw, down her neck. Whispered words in breathy Russian mixed with Sherlock's deep, but equally breathless chuckles until a long while later they collapsed while still in each others' arms in a mess of sweaty limbs and tangled sheets.

"Bozhe moi," she panted against his skin, all flushed cheeks and self-satisfied smile.

"Not quite," Sherlock quipped between breaths, earning himself playful swat on his arm. "Hey!"

Natasha let out a light laugh and flipped to her back, reaching up with one hand to smooth red hair away from her face. Finally opening bright green eyes, she stared up at the ceiling until her breathing slowed and her heart returned to its usual steady rhythm.

"So how did Slaney know?" She asked after a moment.

Sherlock turned his head to look at her. "Know what?"

"Where Cubitt's wife was," Natasha replied. "He's not a pro and she changed her name. You yourself said he spent a long while trying to find her and what? He suddenly caught a lucky break? I don't think so. I doubt he found her on her own."

There was a hint of teasing in Sherlock's tone when he answered. "I do have a theory."

"One you won't tell me."

"Not yet."

Natasha turned on her side and propped herself up on one arm to look at him. "Next time, maybe."

"If there is a next time," he countered.

"There's always a next time with you."

Sherlock rolled to his side and locked eyes with her, sweat dampened curls falling over his forehead and making Natasha smile. He lifted a brow. "And when will this next time be, exactly?"

"You know my methods, Charming," Natasha paraphrased after a moment. "See if you can get it out of me."

And in an already rumpled bed they spent the next few hours playing a game they were both exceedingly familiar with, but never grew tired of. It was only by early afternoon that Sherlock finally stirred from a deep sleep to find an empty bed and a note on his bedside table. Expecting Natasha's elegant scroll bidding him farewell until 'next time', he rolled over to his side and retrieved the piece of paper. On its surface, he found something else entirely. An answer to his question spelled out using the 'dancing men' cipher.

Back in London in one month. -Nat

An amused smirk twisted his lips. "Clever minx."