AN: I just wanted to take some time out from composing the angsty chapters for 'The Baker Street Tragedy'. This idea came to me the other night and as we've recently been doing descriptive writing in English this piece is more descriptive than usual. Its quite different (I think) from how I normally write s reviews would be enormously helpful.

WORD COUNT: 400+

PAIRING: JOHNLOCK

WARNING: Kinda fluffy with a hint of cheese at the end.

Erin:)


The moon hangs dimly in the foggy, mysterious London sky. Our breath fills the air, mixing with the smoggy dust that is already swirling around blocking most of the stars. His hand grips mine tighter as we sprint through the maze of streets. Our feet pound against the grey, chewing gum littered concrete. The shadow we are following changes direction and we continue the chase down a cobbled side street. We've almost caught the man when Sherlock skitters to the left, dragging me to the wall. He's noticed something that I haven't. As usual.

Another man slithers out of the gloom, a gun held steadily in his clenched hands. It quivers with anticipation eagerly awaiting the pressure on the trigger that will end one of our lives. I feel Sherlock's hand squeeze mine, breaking me away from my gun-filled daydream. The man stealthily creeps towards us and with seemingly no significant change in the situation Sherlock sprints away from the attacker, pulling me along with him. We charge down the alleyway knocking dustbins behind us, anything that could slow down our pursuer. We emerge out of the side street and I greet the main road with a slight moan of relief.

The man has cut off the chase.

Sherlock pants by my side, our heads loosely entwined, sweat clammy on our palms. The detective hails a taxi, coat flapping open to show his purple tight-fitting shirt that clings to his muscular but slim frame.

The cab door swings open and I slip inside, resting against the soft, worn leather seat and feeling the warmth of Sherlock by my side. The raven haired man opens his mouth to speak and I twist myself slightly to the left so that I can see his face. The face which, with the lights streaming through the windows is highlighted and covered in sharp shadows cast by the movement of the cab.

"He got away, John." The baritone voice grumbles.

"I know."

"We almost had him."

"That's right."

"Who was that? He wasn't a part of the plan. Was the gun even loaded? It didn't seem like it, you could tell from the way he was standing th-" I interrupt his rambling by gently pressing my lips to his. I draw away, staring into his eyes and seeing the world inside them. My world.

"We'll catch him next time, Sherlock." I assure him, kissing the tip of his nose, "We always do."