When Jim awoke, he was in a strange place. He was naked, sprawled across a beautiful woman the colour of milk chocolate, and he had a vicious, bruising headache. Actually, his entire body was sore. The events of the previous night returned in a rush, and he felt a glow of contentment rise through him, even with the bitch of a hangover.

Irene Adler, for her part, was deeply asleep. Gently, Jim peeled himself away from her, then stalked over to the side board where lay the almost empty bottle of Glenfiddich. He seized the neck and upended the bottle into his mouth, swallowing what was left.

"Fuck," he said to no one in particular. Irene shifted a little, but didn't wake. He sat down next to her, gazing down at her reposing face. She looked infinitely less arch and fierce when she was asleep, he noticed. Infinitely more vulnerable. He would have second thoughts trying to physically assault her if she was conscious. She'd demonstrated a little of her strength last night. But lying here, naked, throat so very exposed...

Jim leaned down close to her, his nostrils taking in the scent of her. That throat was ever so inviting. He reached for it, let his fingers just barely ride across the surface of that sensitive skin. A tiny sound rose from her, just a little automatic "mew" of reaction to stimuli. He curled his hand around her neck and leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. She didn't open her eyes, but smiled, turned on her side and nestled up against him.

He could go downstairs right now and get that switchblade he knew she kept under the sofa cushions, and leave her in bed with her wrists cut. Another city girl takes the big dirt nap. He seriously considered it for a good thirty seconds, because he was cognizant enough to know that the threat this woman posed was not something he could overcome. She would, if he let her, be the death of him.

He wasn't stupid enough to deny the fact that he was now stupid in love with Irene Adler. He didn't typically put stock in love at first sight, but the fact that she wasn't afraid to laugh at him had been like a shot of morphine straight to the heart, and now he was hooked. It made it much more necessary to kill her now before this thing festered, but he had never wanted to kill someone less. He was surprised by the feeling. It had been so long since he'd felt more than a passing interest in any lover, and certainly not one that made him feel threatened enough to want to off them. But he was greedy. He wanted more of her. But if he had more of her, he would get more attached, and that would be dangerous.

But she offered a good game, and Jim had a weakness for games. Especially one that involved clever hands and a wonderfully cunning tongue. She was wicked fun. He thought of that gruesome giftie she'd left for him in Peterson's little burner apartment, wrapped so prettily in designer paper, with that thoughtful card. For someone reputed to be deeply pragmatic and no-nonsense, she did have a flare for the dramatic. It was charming, now that he thought about it. It might have been the most charming fuck-you he'd ever received, especially as any challenge to him was undeniably thumbing one's nose at death. She knew it, too. Come and get me, it screamed. Hmmmm.

He stroked her thick black hair, smoothing it away from her face. She opened her eyes and gazed sleepily at him. That vulnerability lingered. He gathered her up in his arms, kissed her again. He wanted her, wanted to possess her, wanted his hand on her so he could feel the recoil as she shot down the competition. He wanted to watch her kill Caleb Marcel, then fuck her while she was still blood-spattered.

"I could use a Bloody Mary," she said suddenly, with a yawn. "About ten of them, actually."

"God, yes," he agreed. "Know anywhere good? I don't hang about this 'hood much, my dear."

"James, darling. This is not the 'hood. Take my word for it."

He grinned. "I'd like to take you. Right now."

She stretched, ignoring him. "I think I'd like a shower."

With that, she padded into the bathroom. He sat on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head.

"Are you coming?" came the call from over the sound of the rushing water. Jim didn't need to be told twice.

An hour later found them at a nice little cafe with a decent brunch menu. They sat outside in the cool April air, enjoying the silence, occasionally speaking, but stepping over the awkwardness entirely. Jim happened to notice a camera mounted on the opposite building, and eyed it indifferently. Then he said something which made Irene laugh, tilt her head back, and expose that beautiful long neck. He leaned down and pressed a swift kiss under her ear, watching the camera. Making sure it saw them together. Making sure they knew he was watching them. Making sure they knew that the lovely and formidable Irene Adler was his, and he was twice as deadly for it.