John and Mary Watson's wedding day arrived almost a full month after Sherlock's encounter with Natasha at The Shard. Preparations had taken up most of their time. The occasional case here and there. Perhaps most notably 'The Bloody Guardsman' and 'The Mayfly Man'.

Sherlock saw Natasha only twice during that time. She'd texted him regularly with updates. Often a morbidly humorous 'not dead' followed by a smiley face, referencing the hashtag made famous by his return from the dead. He found it somewhat endearing. Not that he would admit it.

The two times he'd seen her it hadn't been for more than a couple of hours at a time, similar to when they'd met at The Shard. Natasha was on the run from some very dangerous people and didn't want to risk his safety if it wasn't necessary. Sherlock wasn't one to shy away from danger but he understood.

He still missed her though. Without John taking up the usual space in his flat, the whole place felt empty. Lonely. John often visited with Mary but it simply wasn't the same. Sherlock was undoubtedly happy for his best friend. He approved of Mary. Liked her, even. He just couldn't get past the hollow emptiness that had taken him over.

Sherlock considered asking Natasha to move in with him. She'd gotten rid of most of her safe houses when she'd gone on the run, as well as her apartment in New York. She needed a place to stay. A home-base. It made perfect sense.

He'd known John no more than ten minutes before he'd agreed to be his flatmate several years previous. Natasha he'd known for several months already. And similar to John, he'd liked her instantly. Albeit in a different way.

Someone else might've been worried about the implications of living with a woman he'd snogged more than once, but Sherlock couldn't be bothered with such trivial considerations. He'd always known he was a man out of his time. Social convention meant very little to him if it made no logical sense.

He needed a flatmate and Natasha was available. There was no point in asking anyone else when there was a perfectly compatible candidate only a text away. Having made the decision, there was nothing left to do but make the offer.

The opportunity presented itself only days after he'd made up his mind. He'd only just stepped out of John's wedding reception and into the crisp night air, and he could still hear the music drifting out of the partially open door. Voices chattered over the heavy beat.

He took to the stone path with his hands in his pockets and caught sight of another figure heading his way. Short in stature. Feminine frame. Her gait was decidedly familiar. Graceful and fluid. He felt his lips pull up at the corner when a mane of wavy red hair caught the light of a nearby lamppost, followed by smiling lips and soft green eyes.

"Leaving so soon?"

"Weddings aren't really my thing," he quipped.

Natasha grabbed his hand when he was close enough to touch and twined their leather-clad fingers together. Sherlock still didn't entirely understand the purpose of holding hands, but they'd done it twice before and she seemed to enjoy it. He didn't mind.

They continued side by side towards the main road. "And here I was hoping I'd get a dance out of you," she said playfully.

"I suppose I could be convinced." He looked down at her. "Do I get to keep you for more than a couple of hours this time?"

"I suppose I could be convinced," she quoted and winked. "I actually have a proposition for you," she admitted. "Were you on your way home?"

Sherlock studied her for clues but her face gave nothing away. He was quite sure she was being purposefully enigmatic and it sparked his curiosity. Always that same intrigue. He turned his eyes ahead. "Yes I was," he answered quietly. "Will you be joining me?"

"If you don't mind the company."

"Not at all." Sherlock led her over to the car he'd borrowed from his brother for the day.

Mycroft's personal car was a sleek black Jaguar with matching leather seats. Sherlock was particularly fond of the purring engine underneath the hood. He was rarely allowed to borrow it, but that never stopped him from taking it out for the occasional clandestine spin. This time he'd asked for it several days in advance. He opened the door for Natasha when they reached it and slid into the driver's seat once she was tucked inside.

The drive from Bristol to London was little over two hours long and they caught each other up on their latest exploits along the way. Natasha was always inquisitive about his cases, and eager to hear of his continued studies in tobacco ash, perfume and, most recently, poisons.

She didn't mention her proposition again and he didn't ask. He was curious but he knew she would elaborate when she was ready. He deduced she would be within a couple hours' time, when they reached his flat. He could wait.

They arrived at Baker Street just after midnight. Sherlock removed his scarf while climbing up the stairs to 221B and his coat as he stepped into the dimly lit sitting room. Natasha did much the same with her black trench and draped it over the back of his couch.

She'd donned a shimmery black cocktail dress and shiny black heels for the occasion. Her arms and back were fully exposed but the hem just about grazed her knees.

Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf behind the door and reached up to loosen his tie. "You mentioned a proposition," he said without preamble.

"I did," she confirmed with the faintest of smiles. "Care to make a deduction?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact I would." Sherlock slipped the silk tie from around his neck and rolled it round his hand. "I'll just need a moment."

Natasha stepped forward to undo the first few buttons of his shirt and the deduction came within seconds. Her dress. Her dilated pupils ringed with green. Her offer to stay more than just a couple of hours. This was no ordinary visit. Natasha had gone to John's wedding reception with more than a quick conversation and a snog in the coat closet in mind. She'd come to spend the evening with him. His decision to leave early had simply derailed her plans. Although not by much. He'd scarcely blinked twice and she'd already tugged him down for a tender kiss.

Sherlock closed his eyes and furrowed his brow in concentration, hesitantly reaching up to cradle her head in his large hands. Her lips pulled away ever so slightly. "Got it?"

"I think so," he answered quietly. "It's—it's been a while."

"It's been a while for me too," she assured him. "Years, actually. I haven't been intimate with anyone since before I joined S.H.I.E.L.D."

He could deduce the reason but for once kept it to himself. "I can't promise I'll be any good."

"This isn't about that," she told him barely above a whisper. "I just want you."

Sherlock was undoubtedly curious. He'd set aside this part of his humanity for a reason but it was there. Safely tucked away in a corner of his mind palace where it wouldn't get in the way. Where he could ignore it if need be.

He wondered what it'd be like to explore it with Natasha. Natasha who saw him for who he was and accepted him. Natasha who intrigued him and challenged him and understood him. Who wanted him. Who trusted him. Natasha who'd seen him vulnerable and broken and hurting in Siberia, and had kept him safe.

Her lips met his one more time before she moved over to his laptop. Presumably to find a song they could dance to.

Sherlock followed her with his eyes. "Why?"

Natasha picked a slow song to start with and lifted her eyes to look at him. "I could give you a few reasons…" she began once she'd straightened, "but they all boil down to you being a remarkable man that I want to try something with. Something I haven't felt like trying in a very long time." Her steps were slow but purposeful as she came closer. "Something I didn't feel like trying until I met you."

Sherlock stared for several heartbeats. Calculating. Deducing. She offered one of her hands without breaking eye contact and Sherlock took it, pulling her into a slow dance as the song began in full. Natasha pressed her lips to his shoulder and silently swayed to his rhythm.

He bent his head low and dropped a grateful kiss just below her ear. "Yes," he decided quietly.

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"We can stop whenever you want."

"Yes," he repeated a third time.

Natasha pulled back to meet his eyes and he swooped in to catch her lips in a slow kiss. Soft as ever but warmer. Every inch of her was warmer. Scalding. He gathered her body close to his chest and felt bare arms snake round his neck. Slim fingers tangle in his hair. Russian whispers against his lips.

"Bedroom," she requested.

They stumbled down the hallway to his room in a tangle of eager hands and fervent kisses, accidentally knocking over his beside lamp in the process. Natasha braced herself by fisting her hand in his shirt and laughed into their kiss.

"Your fault," Sherlock accused raggedly against her lips.

"Get a new one," she retorted.

"You're buying me a new one."

"Deal."

Natasha's American accent had disappeared and a thick Russian lilt had taken its place. Her true speaking voice. Sherlock swept her off her feet with both arms around her waist and in one swift move tumbled with her to the bed.

"Your accent—"

"Yes," she interjected and caught his lips in another passionate kiss. "I can go on pretending if—"

"No," he quickly cut her off. "Don't pretend. It was only an—" Her lips wandered from his mouth to his jaw, and down his neck. "Observation," he finished with his eyes closed. "Never feel the need to pretend for my sake."

Natasha lifted her head to kiss his lips one more time. "Okay."

They spent the next few hours exploring each other slowly amidst breathless whispers and fervent touches. Sherlock's hands were hesitant and unsure but Natasha's were endlessly patient. He learned quickly.

They eventually stilled in each other's arms beneath the covers of his bed. Breathless and flushed and ultimately speechless. Sherlock pulled Natasha close to his side in lieu of conversation and dragged one of her legs over his hips, tracing gentle patterns on her thigh with his fingertips.

Natasha dropped her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock breathed deeply. "I'm not entirely sure 'okay' is the proper descriptive term," he said quietly.

Natasha's eyes opened halfway and he turned his head to meet them. Her voice had just the faintest edge of vulnerability. "Do you regret it?"

"Not in the slightest," he said honestly. "That's about all I know right now."

Natasha's lips lifted at the corner. "That's all I need."

Sherlock buried his free hand in her red hair. "Move in with me."

"Move—" Natasha blinked slowly. "What?"

"Move in with me," he repeated. "You need a home-base, of sorts. I need a flatmate. And the British Government is just about the only government that isn't targeting you for your sins against them. It's as close as you're going to get to safety," he continued quickly. "I know you must've considered it."

"It's not safe for you—"

"It's never safe for me," he argued. "If anyone could survive living with you, it's me. You know that as well as I do."

Natasha's lips parted as if she were going to say something, but Sherlock knew this look. Her pinched brows. Her narrowed eyes. He'd beaten her. "And you? I don't—"

"If anyone can survive living with me, it's you," he said almost victoriously.

"And John," she was quick to add.

"And John, but I think you'll find he's otherwise engaged nowadays," he quipped. "He's found himself a new flatmate."

Natasha propped herself up on an elbow so that her face was hovering just a short distance above his, but didn't move away. "You're serious."

"Yes," he answered without hesitation.

"Okay," she said after a moment's silence. "On one condition."

"I'm listening."

Natasha smiled and leaned down to tenderly kiss his lips. "We're sharing the bed," she informed him.

Sherlock wrapped her up in his arms and rolled her over in one swift move. He stared down into her dilated pupils with a predatory smile that rivaled her own. "Deal," he agreed.