He watched cautiously as she approached. Irene could see his eyes flicker over her naked body, not in a lustful way (a shame, that) but as if trying to read, though she could read the confusion on his face and could not help but smile at it. Let him look. She had nothing to hide, nothing to show.

"Drink this." Irene held the wine to his lips but he only stared at her in stony silence. She frowned at his insolence. After setting the goblet on the floor by her feet, she straightened, only to clench one fist in his dark hair and pulled sharply back. Sherlock grimaced but kept his eyes on her.

She brought her hand up and slapped him sharply across the face, one, two, four times, until he had bright red handprints on each cheek. They would bruise by morning but a little color, however dark, would become him. When next she brought the wine to him, he glowered but parted his lips to drink. The liquid dripped down his chin and left a wet stain across his lips. She lapped at it with tongue in an alcoholic kiss.