She slid her hands up his chest, body bent in a bow the centre of whose arc was his hands. When their lips met, his urgency infected her even more, and she threw herself into the kiss, already nipping at his mouth. Not real, a fading voice whispered at the back of her mind, and she shoved it away. Didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was Sherlock’s hands on her body and her mouth on his.
Sherlock’s hips ground against her slightly and his hands wandered on the redhead’s back. His tongue snaked out to part her lips and when they did, he plunged his tongue into hers. His body was flush against hers and he found himself pulling on her shirt.
/His/ shirt had buttons, which she busied her hands opening. It took a long time, in the midst of deepening kisses, maddening kisses, for her to even become aware that he was all but yanking on her shirt. She took advantage of a need to breathe to yank her shirt off over her head and abandon it, then part the sides of his and slide her hands underneath to meet as his back, fingernails striping marks. One leg hitched around his, and she threw her head back, baring her throat to him. “Please, Sherlock, god, please,” she panted.