Hello lovelies,
Just a quicky really. This is my first attempt, so please don't hate me if I fail miserably. However, reviews and CC are always appreciated and valued. Cheers!
Oh, and I'm no where near awesome enough to own/have thought up Sherlock or any of the characters. Unfortunately :(
DFTBA,
Amelia.
John Watson had grown accustomed to multitasking. That is, he had become accustomed to running and cursing the name of Sherlock Holmes simultaneously. That man was always getting himself into scrapes, having absolutely no discernable regard for his own safety and/or wellbeing. Or that, John added mentally, of his blogger. John's common sense told him to sever all ties with the mysterious detective, but the rest of his mind was thrilled at the danger that awaited the pair around every corner. Plus, John had to admit that he was rather fond of his flatmate.
Where was that blasted man anyway? It was just typical of him to speed off after the suspect like that, disappearing into the mist like a phantom. Leaving John to follow behind like a lost puppy, fingers twitching towards his gun at every slight movement, ready to pick up all the pieces when Sherlock got himself hurt. Again.
Breathe, John told himself, hearing his feet slosh through the dark, wet streets of London in a steady rhythm. He welcomed the rain, actually. It cooled his forehead and washed away some of the sweat there. Even if it did mean that one of his favourite jumpers would smell a bit like dog for the next few wash cycles. His breath caressed his face in a white fog as he panted into the night air. Wow, he was out of shape since Afghanistan. Silently, he blamed it on Sherlock having a far bigger stride than him. The lanky bastard.
Taking a sharp turn, he sped through the alleyway he came across on his right. He didn't like this. Not one bit. The alleyways, the dark, the mist, the rain… it all screamed ambush. Danger. And, despite himself, John grinned.
"You certainly took your time." A voice drawled as Sherlock jogged up behind him, the rain having plastered his ebony curls to his head, hardly sounding out of breath. John gritted his teeth.
"Only… short legs… lanky git." John ground out, his chest heaving. "Don't run off like that… worried about you."
If he had really looked at Sherlock, rather than concentrating on his feet on the pavement, he would have seen the man's mouth jerk up into a little smirking smile, as he allowed his cool, slim fingers to encircle John's wrist, helping him along.
Really, John knew that he should focus his mind back on the case at hand, on keeping his feet slapping onto the pavement though his body screamed for release, on capturing the murderer of those innocent girls.
But really, for all he tried, all his mind could focus on was the comforting pressure of Sherlock's fingers around his wrist as he pulled him further into darkness's embrace.