So he kept going, taking in the delicious feel of her body wound around his. He couldn't isolate individual elements of the experience the way he normally would, and some part of his brain screamed in protest at what such an undoing meant. But those screams were being drowned out now by the real, vocal exclamations filling the room and the enormous rush of hormones profusing every ounce of tissue in Sherlock's body, including, thank God, his pesky brain.

As he let himself be carried off on the tide of all the sensations, it didn't take long for Sherlock's thrusts to become rough, his kisses on Irene's neck dissolving into an open, hot mouth on her collar bone. His breath was growing ragged, and sweat dampened the wavy black hair around his forehead and at the nape of his neck. Irene's fingernails dug into his back through his shirt, and Sherlock shifted, the sound of crunching glass beneath his feet drowned out by both their increasingly loud sounds of ecstasy and the rhythmic pounding of Irene's back against the wall.

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