[Sheathed completely, the only space between them created via his elbows, propped up on them, yet still very close. Here, like this, she can see there, concurrent with his usual spark of energy, exists proof of his lust — pupils blown wide.]

Mm, maybe so. Those who think I've not a romantic bone in my body.

[Or is so uninterested in sexual matters that they never ping on his radar, minus the times where they're relevant to a case at hand — and usually only because they're someone else's folly. But no, that could not be farther from the truth. At least, it certainly became the truth itself not terribly long after he met her in Reverie.

Sholmes thrusts into her without preamble, their bodies still hewn closely together. For now, this closeness is enough, and the warm pleasure that rolls through his body is incalculable.]

Those who believe that I've not an eye for any woman, no matter how beautiful she may be.

[Those who would not ever believe that the great detective Herlock Sholmes is married.]