Sherlock's cat-like eyes were drawn to her automatically. Golden blonde wavy hair, no roots, natural. Tick, tick ticking, she constantly tapped her cheap pen, even holding it between her lips now and then, nervous? Green orbs concentrated on her tapping foot, ready to go? She wore ballet flats, active, but self-conscious? Oversized sweater, dislikes her body shape? No, the skinny jeans say otherwise. Wait, skinny jeans, an American, no doubt. He smirked at his wits with a deep rumble.
His mind wandered to her looks. She was thin, but from what he can see she had a nice bottom and… he shook his head so he wouldn't go there. He never goes there, well except with Irene, but that was due to their first meeting. His hands flexed in their leather gloves.
The thought lead to how the two women were rather polar opposites. This girl was indeed pale, but almost golden in a way with faint freckles, she had blue Bambi eyes, framed to what seems to be natural dark and long lashes. Her lips were smaller, but they reminded him of petals of a pink rose and her hands so dainty, that they would fit in his large ones easily. Sherlock shook his soft locks once more with an annoyed growled, sipping on his ridiculously priced source of fuel.
Tick, tick, ticking again, why the ticking? The investigator pursed his lips; it has been a while since someone had interested him, but why her? Perhaps he was bored. Sherlock took note of her sesame seed bar. Health conscious? No, she is drinking mocha, unless she was indulging or ignorant of its ingredients. He gazed at his watch for a moment, 9:00 in the morning. Sherlock growled, he was entirely the opposite of a morning person, but if he had stayed any longer at his flat, his sanity would have worn away due to John's constant nagging for milk.
She was always ticking, why so much ticking? It was starting to get on his nerves. The investigator let out a low rumble, frustrated with the constant worried texts from John making his pink phone sigh repeatedly. He contemplated about throwing in the trash or at the larger gentleman nearby who seemed have to forgotten that everyone can still hear his flatulence even when he coughed to cover up the sound.
Sherlock glanced once more at the woman, but he became rigid. She was walking directly to him with those long legs. Her eye contact confirmed that she indeed was approaching him, however her slight smirk left him puzzled and paranoid. She smoothly folded her legs, elegantly even almost floating; she sat in the iron chair before him, hands politely clasped. The investigator opened his mouth to speak, but his phone sighed. She arched a brow with a small and sweet chuckle, but that chuckle sounded familiar to him.
"Tick, tick, ticking is my thinking. I'm always thinking, forever thinking, thinking, nothing more. Don't read into everything, unless you know how to…though that may be difficult in your case." She leaned in closer at every syllable, tickling his bottom lip with her hot breath. He only blinked, static on his brain from the surprise. She chuckled lowly with a triumphant smirk, leaning back. Sherlock shook his head, recognizing the laugh. That's his laugh, his victorious, superior trademark.
Now he knows why he was drawn to her, but this was impossible. Not a million years have the investigator would have thought that he would find his match.