Caught

The room is dark, and Irene holds her breath for one count, then two, clutching the diamond in her fist. The footsteps fade away, and Irene steps out into the hallway. A gas lamp illuminates the other end of the hall. She crouches and keeps her steps soft and light; a technique she perfected years ago so that she could slip around the night watch at the Lourve.

A scant four steps from the front door, and she is interrupted by a woman’s voice. “I believe you have my engagement ring.”

Irene could run, but she knows who that voice belongs to, and she is curious. So she turns on the balls of her feet so she can face Mary Watson. “It was mine before Sherlock Holmes stole it from me,” she says.

Mary is prettier than Irene expected, blond and composed and lovely. She carries herself like one who must frequently deal with small children, and the expression on her face is coolly amused. “Oh, but I have my doubts that it came into your possession legally,” she says, and at Irene’s look of surprise, she smiles. “I do read my husband’s publishings after all. And you are a very distinctive character.”

Irene grins. Mary is a few feet away, a lamp in hand, still in a long white dressing gown that clings to her curves. There’s not so much distance between them, and Irene steps in close, the diamond is still curled in her hand. A strand of Mary’s hair brushes Irene’s cheek. Mary’s lips are soft against Irene’s own, and her hand is warm on the curve of Irene’s neck. A familiar heat settles in the pit of Irene’s stomach, even as she pulls away. She imagines the two of them intertwined on a bed, her mouth on Mary’s breasts, her hands between Mary’s thighs. She wonders what sort of noises Mary would make if Irene were to press her tongue against Mary’s clit, if Irene were to nip at the lobe of Mary’s ear.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Irene says, her voice a little more breathless than she would like. She holds the diamond up so that it catches the light from the lamp, so lovely she briefly reconsiders her decision to simply run away with it. “You can have it back if you can catch me by tomorrow night.”

Mary’s smile is dangerous. “Is that all I can have?” she asks, and Irene can see exactly why the dear John Watson married her.

“We can negotiate the details later,” Irene replies, a shiver running down her spine. As much as Irene loves to outmaneuver a worthy opponent, there are times when she enjoys being caught as well. She will probably not run that far over the next day.

But they must get started first, so Irene ducks around Mary so that she can get to the back door. She gives Mary a wink before she disappears into the cool London night, the thrill of the chase humming vibrant underneath her skin.