Joan stiffened, shocked. Sherlock's soft lips pressed against hers eagerly and cautiously. Joan felt heat spread through her lips and down to the pit of her stomach. Her eyes closed slowly.
Sherlock pulled Joan closer. Her hand caressing the back of Joan's head.
Joan let a moan escape her lips as she reached for Sherlock's curls.
Sherlock pulled away a bit. She looked at Joan and smiled, pressing another kiss to Joan's lips.
Joan melted at Sherlock's touch and kiss. She wrapped her hands in Sherlock's dark curls and melted against her body.
Sherlock pulled back once more, this time holding still.
"Joan..."
Joan opened her eyes and gaze
"I've just never kissed a girl before," she said breathily. Her whole body was on fire as she pictured Sherlock kissing her.
"Neither have I." Sherlock whispered back, she pulled away when their waiter brought over their food, "Thank you." Sherlock said gently.
Joan shifted uncomfortably before picking up her fork and exhaling deeply.
"You said guys weren't your division, but you have never kissed a girl?"
"I am married to my work." Sherlock recited.
Joan swallowed her food.
"This is great. So you have never kissed anyone?"
"I kissed a boy when I was twelve. He was a right out jerk to me so I called him out on it, saying he liked me.
Sherlock sighed, climbing up a ladder and running on the rooftops. She had to jump between buildings and weave around sunroofs. "Come on, Joan, we are losing them!" She called behind her.
"Isn't this a little dangerous?" Joan called as she jumped between buildings. She caught up with Sherlock as she dodged sunroofs.
Sherlock gave Joan a look before continuing on. She saw the cab, she swore, recalculating a route. She continued running through the roofs, taking a particularly risky jump between two, she jumped down a story and then continued down to the alley. She ran through it, thinking only of her next turn.
Joan sprinted after Sherlock,
Joan stripped her plastic suit and hurried after Sherlock, "Pink?" She asked.
"Pink." Sherlock smiled, "Come on, we have work to do."
"What exactly are we doing, Sherlock?" Joan questioned.
"Looking for her suitcase. It wouldn't have taken the murderer more than 5 minutes to realize they had it, most likely a man, which would be all the more reason to get rid of it."
Joan stopped in her tracks, "We are going through dumpsters aren't we."
"Come on, Joan!" Sherlock called, not answering her question. She turned down an alley and found a pile of trash, she started going through it.
Joan sprinted to follow Sherlock, "I was right." She start
Joan stared out the window of the cafe and ran her fingers across the ceramic mug sitting in front of her. A man cleared his throat.
"Do you need anything else?" Joan turned to see the waiter that had brought her mint tea.
"Oh, no, thank you," Joan looked back out the window. She heard the man quietly leave and she was once again left with her depressing thoughts. Joan looked at the letter sitting in front of her and felt her tears well up in her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Reese," She shook her head and wiped her eyes. "I should have jumped in front of you and taken that bullet in Afghanistan,"
Sherlock walked arm in arm with Stamford down to th
John Watson stood at the grave of his best friend holding a watch in his hands. The early morning fog curled around him as he clutched it, feeling the clasp bite into his palm. It was just another painful reminder that Sherlock was gone. This stupid pocket watch.
He sat down on the grass and traced the circles etched on its case, remembering a time when when he had felt a living presence behind the doors. He had not seen it since a few months before his best friend’s death and now, two years latter, it had appeared on his door step.
John closed his eyes as he remembered the bizarre situation that had led to his knowledge of the watch.
Johnlock: Burned the Heart Out of You (Prologue) by consulting-kylie, literature
Literature
Johnlock: Burned the Heart Out of You (Prologue)
Sherlock roamed the midnight streets of London, not truly paying attention to where he was going, or why. Ever since that day, "The Fall" as the press had dubbed it, his mind was...fragile. He would often find himself in this situation: walking down the dark streets, avoiding any eyes that might wander to him. On occasion, he would wander to some dark alley and pass out from complete exhaustion, only to panic when he woke up in some strange, foul-smelling alley. Sometimes, he would find himself on Baker Street, staring across the road at all that used to be his. It had been months since the acclaimed genius threw everything away and faked su