Written for my twin, because its our birthday tomorrow. I hope you enjoy, most of the chapters are written now, just waiting to be proofread.


1.

Two figures were stood together giggling with adrenaline, the sound echoing around them. The vibrations bounced off the bricks which arched over their heads, supporting the railway bridge above. The slightly taller of the two quietened, grinning upwards at the ceiling.

"Isn't it brilliant?"

"What?" The girl asked, the adrenaline of having run all the way there beginning to ebb as she looked around her.

"This place, it's so…" The young man struggles to find the right words to describe the space, the height, the feeling of the towering archway surrounding them.

"It's just a bridge John…" The woman tugs at the sleeve of his jacket, taking his hand in an attempt to regain his attention.

He smiled, squeezing her hand in return and bent down to kiss her, wrapping his jacket around her as her hands snake around him, her slim fingers lacing into the fabric of the t-shirt he was wearing.

The moment of perfect seclusion was broken as a voice cut from the other side of the archway.

"What are you doing?"

The couple broke apart hurriedly, turning to look, first in surprise but in due course annoyance, towards the speaker. The angular, dark haired, vivid young man sat cross legged on the muddy, bare ground at the foot of the archway, his back leaning against the damp purple-ish bricks.

"What does it look like?" John asked, defensively. One arm was still wrapped around the girl beside him. The man seated in front of them glanced at his watch, frowning.

"You need to go before it gets dark." He stated, haughtily. "And she's not right."

The girl snorted indignantly at this and made a move to steer her boyfriend away, but he held his ground.

"What do you mean we need to go. What are you doing here that's so important?" He paused as the second half of the other's sentence sunk in, "What do you mean 'not right.'?"

"It's not right. It won't last three days." He stated, uninterestedly before returning his attention to the notepad in his lap.

John, at a loss for a retort, allowed himself to be dragged back outside, through the small patch of urban wasteland that bordered the canal and back up the wrought iron steps to the real world.

XXXXX

Later, when it was dark, the wasteland was inhabited again; shadowy figures immersed in the blackness pair off into the night. Sherlock watched and drew; not the people but the feeling of being there, of living, the snapshots of a dozen lives revolving anonymously around each other. Like John, Sherlock was no more than a spectator, an intruder, but he knew that the moment was hardly clean enough for him to tarnish it by his presence.


By the way, this story is based on a series of unrelated prompts that i asked him to give me. Prompts included in this chapter are: actually i haven't included any yet... nevermind, next one up shortly x