May 18th, 2014. London. 221B Baker Street.

Natasha liked his bedroom.

She hadn't known what to expect when she'd crawled in through his window only a few minutes before, but what met her when she clicked on his beside lamp immediately made sense. Sparse furnishings, soft white sheets and Mendeleev's Periodic Table tucked behind his bedroom door. She decided it suited him.

Breathing in the lingering scent of smoke, leather and something undeniably him layered beneath, Natasha took a seat on his bed and smoothed her fingers over the wrinkled cover. She had a little time before he arrived from John's wedding.

Several months had gone by since they'd last seen each other in Serbia. Several months since Sherlock Holmes had taken root in her thoughts and refused to leave. Natasha liked it that way.

She'd escaped that Serbian base with a new scar between her fourth and fifth ribs on her left side, but she'd gotten the information she'd been after. Confirmation that a S.H.I.E.L.D. weapon codenamed The Zodiac had been stolen from one of its storage facilities, and its last known location. She'd made quick work of loose ends shortly thereafter.

By the time she'd made her way back down to their previous holding cells to say goodbye, Sherlock had already disappeared. She'd been about to make a swift exit when her eyes caught on his sleeping pallet, shoved against the back wall of his cell. She'd slipped inside.

Carved into the wall, near the bottom where it joined with the floor, she'd found a code. She realized he must've stolen a knife for himself while he'd been here too, but couldn't pinpoint when. He was good. Really good. She memorized the message and slipped back out of the cell within seconds, saving the puzzle for when her life and mission weren't in danger.

Once she'd checked in with Fury and returned the missing weapon to its rightful place, she'd settled in with a glass of wine to review the code. It hadn't taken her long to figure out he'd used Pinocchio for his keyword. When she'd finally cracked it, she'd found herself smiling.

"You know, it's very difficult to tell what you're thinking," his deep voice cut into her thoughts.

Natasha's smile grew, even as she straightened to look him over. He leaned against the doorframe like he'd been studying her for a while, gloves held loosely in his elegant hands. When their eyes met, his lips turned up at the corner.

"Didn't know you were a mind reader," she quipped. "Consider me curious."

"I play a game with John," he explained, pushing himself upright. "Deduce what's on his mind based on where his eyes linger, what he's reading, his body language and the like. It's not very difficult and it has often proved insightful where our friendship is concerned." He hung his coat and scarf behind his door, tucking the gloves into a pocket.

"Does it bother you that you can't deduce what I'm thinking?" Natasha rose off the bed, reaching over to remove his tie once he'd granted her permission with a nod of his head.

"No, not at all. On the contrary, I find the challenge fascinating." Sherlock studied her with an intensity she remembered well from their encounter in Serbia. She'd thought about it often enough during their time apart, always craving the unique effect it had on her.

"I've deduced you like to dance," he added.

Natasha slowly slid the tie from his neck, never once looking away. "I do," she confirmed with a warm smile, despite the predatory gleam in her eyes, "with the right partner."

She offered him the tie and Sherlock took it from her hands, fingers just barely grazing her skin. "Is that an offer?"

"If you want it to be." Natasha pressed herself closer, gripping the lapels of his tuxedo jacket even as her gaze dropped briefly to his lips. "Would you like to dance with me, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock tossed his tie in the general direction of the bed and wrapped an arm around her waist, gently sinking one of his hands in her glossy red waves. He bent his head low, and she could feel his lips brush against the shell of her ear. His breath hot on her skin.

"No," he said at length, voice low enough to send shivers down her spine.

She let go of his jacket to smooth her hands over his chest, slowly inching her way up to his shoulders. "Liar," she shot back.

His lips were on hers a moment later, soft and inquisitive and smoldering. A stark contrast to the cold walls of their cells all those months before, where they'd found a scrap of comfort in each other.

She wanted more of it. More of the man she'd glimpsed beneath that broken, bleeding skin, prodding his captors with cunning deductions one moment and reaching for her the next. More of the person she'd become in his presence. More of whatever this magnetic, indefinable pull was between them.

Something crashed to the floor, and she realized they'd moved closer to head of the bed. His lamp had somehow toppled to the floor. She wasn't sure why, but he didn't seem particularly interested in finding out and neither did she. She couldn't concentrate on anything other than his hands beneath her cashmere jumper anyway, and the way he shivered in her arms when she ran her fingers through his hair. Somewhere along the way he'd lost his jacket and the first three buttons of his shirt.

She tipped her head back when his lips found her neck. "You…" He breathed between kisses. "Have to tell me… if I'm doing this right."

Natasha half opened her eyes when the meaning behind his words finally registered. She pulled him closer. "You are," she assured him breathlessly, turning so she could push him down to sit on the bed and crawl on top. She met his eyes in the soft light coming from the window, chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

"I've got you," she promised, and she didn't know if it was because they'd already seen each other hurt and vulnerable, but there was no mistaking the trust in those dilated blue eyes. Natasha felt an insane, overwhelming urge to claim Sherlock as hers. "I promise," she vowed again, melting against him even as they resumed the urgent pace of a few seconds previous, tugging and pulling at each other's clothes. "I've got you."

When they eventually stilled in each other's arms, Natasha tucked herself close against Sherlock's side and hooked a possessive leg over the lower half of his body. He dragged a wrinkled sheet over their bodies and turned his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I think we might've done that backwards," he spoke softly.

Natasha smiled to herself. "I think we might've done that perfectly, actually."

Sherlock's chest shook with his laugh, a low, quiet rumble. "I appreciate the feedback, but that's not what I meant."

"I know." Natasha pulled back just enough to study his face. "But to be fair, we started with dirty cells, torture and the threat of imminent death. I think it's safe to say this was never going to be normal or traditional." She paused very briefly, searching his features for doubt. "Should we talk about it?"

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock admitted, trailing a hand from her thigh to her waist. "This is more John's area than it is mine. I'd have to ask him"

Natasha pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering close when she broke away. "You do that and let me know," she said. "In the meantime, I vote we make our own rules for this thing, whatever it may be. I know your job is important to you as mine is to me, but I don't want this to be the last time we see each other." Her toned turned playful. "I did go to all that trouble to find you."

"Mm, you did. Was it worth it?"

"Absolutely," she answered without hesitation.

He drew her in for another kiss, pushing her back on the bed until he was on top. "Okay," he answered against her lips. "I vote with you. We make our own rules for this, because I doubt social convention would apply to us anyway."

"Good, now that we've got that settled…" Natasha ran a hand down the length of his back. "How about another dance?"