"You met a man, I see." Sherlock spoke as Joan stepped into the room, looking up from his experiment with acids for only a moment.
Joan rolled her eyes. "And I suppose you expect me to ask you how you know that?"
Sherlock grinned. "He's good-looking too, judging by your flushed cheeks, heightened pulse, and the fact you didn't shoot down the deduction."
Joan sighed in defeat. "Yes. I met a man."
Sherlock dropped his lab utensils and removed his safety goggles. "So, when do I get to meet him?"
"Uh, never…" Joan dropped her purse on the table and began to light the stove, placing a kettle onto the flame.
"Why not?" Sherlock pouted.
"Because you'd scare him away…"
"And how would I do that?" Sherlock furrowed his brow and watched her mouth drop.
"You're joking."
"I do not joke…I would not joke. How would I scare him away?" Sherlock repeated.
"Because you're you." Joan flipped her hair and returned her attention to the kettle.
"You're going to see him again." Sherlock stated.
"Yes. That's the plan."
"What's his name?" Sherlock pried.
"None of your business." Joan poured the boiling water into a mug and emptied the packet of tea mix into it. She took a spoon and began to stir, sensing Sherlock's frustration filling the room.
"Please?" Sherlock put on a trying smile.
Joan took one look at him and laughed. "No. I won't let you look him up."
"Why not? What if he's a dangerous criminal?"
Joan shook her head, a smile on her lips, and took a cautious sip of her boiling hot tea.
Sherlock lit up. "What if he's married? Remember Aaron?"
"The green-card marriage guy?" Joan shook her head. "No. He's nothing like that."
"How do you know?" He muttered.
Joan just shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips.
Sherlock teetered on the balls of his feet and studied her. "Tell me about him."
"No." Joan answered in a heartbeat.
Sherlock fought the urge to pace. "I only want what's best for you, Joan. Tell me about him and I can make a deduction that will tell us if he's right for you."
Joan laughed. "I am not letting you in on my love life."
"When are you seeing him again?" Sherlock pressed on.
Joan eyed him. "I am not going to tell you. I know what you're planning."
"I'm not planning anything." Sherlock smiled innocently.
Joan polished off her tea and placed her cup in the sink. "I know you, Sherlock. You're always planning something."
Sherlock chuckled. "My dear Watson, I would never ruin a relationship for you."
"You've ruined three already." She muttered. Joan walked up the stairs, trying to ignore Sherlock's presence behind her.
Sherlock stopped her at her door. "At least give me one detail about him."
Joan sighed and turned to face him. "No." Joan shut the door and smiled to herself. This was one of the few times Sherlock had failed to get inside her head. She was definitely getting better at keeping her private life from him.
…
Joan stood outside the restaurant under the awning as the rain began to pour and flood the streets. She anxiously watched the cabs speed by, not slowing down the tiniest bit. She checked her phone again for the time.
Eight fifteen.
John had texted her earlier that morning telling her to meet him at Trell's Restaurant at exactly eight o'clock.
Joan had gotten there fifteen minutes early, hoping to find him there as well, but she had been waiting for half an hour now.
Maybe he changed his mind…
Joan sighed and checked her phone again, her excitement turning into despair.
It had been three days since their meeting in the graveyard and Joan found herself missing him. She had texted him, just once. The text had simply said, 'this is my number, text/call me anytime.' She hadn't felt this way about a man…ever. She had been too nervous to call him the day after their coffee date, thinking she'd seem desperate. She was about to call him earlier in the day, but was met with a text from him. Her heart had fluttered and she immediately had begun to plan her attire for the evening. After much deliberation, she had chosen a black, strapless dress. It accentuated her slim waist and slightly curvy hips, every girls dream figure. She topped the look off with black, six inch heels, diamonds encrusted in the needle-point heel. Her hair was done up, some strands falling to shape her face in the most appealing way possible. She had applied light makeup, eye shadow creating a smoky eye, and a clear lip-gloss to make her lips appear shiny and well, kissable.
She sighed as her eyes swept across the dark, empty street. She shivered and adjusted her small wristlet purse, moving it to the opposite wrist. She took one last, hopeful look at the street and frowned. No cabs in sight. Joan turned and walked into the restaurant. She had to make sure they didn't lose their reservation –as Trell's Restaurant was one of the more popular restaurants in New York.
"Do you have a reservation?" A man with a thick, unidentifiable accent asked, standing behind a large podium that was placed next to the entrance.
Joan took another look at the door behind her, wishing John would be there, his warm smile greeting her, but no. Just a regular, glass restaurant door, Joan's sad reflection staring back at her. Her attention snapped back to the man as he grunted.
"Reservation?" He repeated, clearly impatient.
"Um, yes. Is there a reservation for John…?" She trailed off, realizing she didn't know his last name. "Um…"
The man frowned. "I have four Johns on my list. You'll have to be more specific."
Joan got an idea. She pulled out her phone and found his contact. "Reservations require phone numbers, correct?"
The man nodded, the frown becoming deeper.
She smiled and began to read his number. "Is there a reservation matching the phone number…zero, seven, five, one, seven, eight, nine, zero, five, three, one?"
He scanned the reservation sheet and nodded. "Under Watson?"
Joan was confused. Watson? Did he just say Watson? "Um, yeah. Joan Watson…"
He nodded. "John." His accent twisted the word, making it sound different.
Joan nodded, thinking she had heard 'Joan'. "That's me."
He squinted at her and shrugged. He never understood why parents were naming girls after the weirdest things –a girl with a boy name? What's next? A baby named after a compass' direction? He chuckled to himself as he led her to the table by the window, a candle burning in the center of the table.
Joan removed her wristlet and placed it on the table. She smiled to herself.
He put the reservation in my name…How sweet. He knew I'd get here before him…Ha…But, wait…He knew my last name! How?
Joan thought about all the different ways he could've figured it out until one came to her.
I work with Sherlock and he's pretty well known –for the attitude, of course. Of course he knows who I am…I work with the 'famous' Sherlock Holmes!
Unbeknownst to Joan, John rushed into the restaurant and approached the podium. "Reservation for John Watson?"
The man eyed him and nodded. "Your lady friend is here…she has been for a half an hour now…"
John sighed and followed him to the table. When he caught sight of Joan, his heart almost stopped. She looked drop-dead gorgeous! Was this the same woman he had met three days ago? Then she had been extremely beautiful, but now…she was sexy.
"Joan! I'm so sorry I'm late. The bloody cabbie wouldn't drive any faster and then the sodding git got us lost."
"Sodding git? More British terms?" Joan laughed.
He chuckled and peeled off his wet coat, handing it to the host who then hung it in the coat room. "Again, I'm sorry. I should've called…"
Joan placed a hand on his and smiled. "It's fine, John. Really."
He smiled and flipped his hand over beneath her hand, her hand coming to rest in his palm. He held it and sighed. "I still feel bloody awful about it though."
"Well, we'll just have to figure out some way for you to make it up to me, then." Joan retracted her hand and winked, grabbing a menu and hiding her blush behind it.
John grinned and followed her movement, grabbing a menu and holding it in front of his face. He pulled out three mints from his pocket-tin and thrust them in his mouth. Whatever might happen tonight, might as well have good-smelling, minty breath.
A man came over to the table and stood, staring at them.
John set his menu down and looked up at him. "We may need a few more moments for our order…"
"Get up. Now." The man growled.
Joan looked up and felt the blood drain from her face. "What?"
He glanced between the both of them. "I said, get up. Both of you, now." He pointed a gun at John under the table.
John slowly slid his hand in his pocket, feeling around for his handgun he always kept with him. His hand closed around the cool metallic barrel and he was about to clock the man in the head, but Joan beat him to it.
Joan stood quickly and pepper-sprayed him in the eyes and mouth.
The man dropped to his knees and John took that as a chance to hit him with the gun. He grabbed for Joan's hand as the man dropped to the ground, teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.
"Come on!" He yanked Joan away from the table and pulled her to the back of the restaurant. He ignored the complaints and protests from the workers, pulling her to the back door.
Joan tripped –not surprising seeing as she was in six inch heels- and fell to the ground.
John stopped and helped her up. "What is it with you and heels?" He half-joked, helping her up as she pulled her heels off.
Joan chucked them to the side and they began to run again.
"We need to get off the main street." John spoke, nearly breathless, as they entered the alley behind the restaurant.
"I know the way, follow me." Joan took off sprinting and reached for his hand again. "Take my hand!"
John tripped as a memory came flooding back to him.
John is pushed up against a police car, handcuffs clicking around his wrists.
Sherlock looks over at him and smiles. "Joining me?"
John winces from the metal being tightened and grunts. "Yeah. Apparently it's against the law to chin the chief superintendent."
"Hmm. Bit awkward, this."
"No one to bail us." John sighs.
"I was thinking more of our imminent and daring escape." Sherlock hits a button and feedback deafens the police officers handcuffing them. He takes a gun from an officer's holster and points it at them.
"Ladies and gentlemen, will you all please get on your knees?" Sherlock asks, politely. Ironic really, seeing as the situation they're in. He fires the gun into the air as nobody moves.
"Now would be good!" He says, irritation creeping into his tone.
"Do as he says!" Lestrade yells to the other officers.
"J-just so you're aware, the gun is his idea. I'm just, uh, you know..." John stutters.
"My hostage!" Sherlock finishes for him.
"Hostage, yes, that works. That works." John backs up, still handcuffed to Sherlock. "So what now?" He whispers to Sherlock.
"Doing what Moriarty wants; becoming a fugitive. Run." Sherlock demands and they take off sprinting, the handcuffs slicing their wrists. Sherlock thinks quickly and yells to him, "Take my hand!"
John wakes up to screaming and yelling.
"John! John! Help me!" Joan is screaming for him from somewhere far away.
John gets up from the ground and shakes off the ache in his head. He must've fallen and smacked his head on the pavement, resulting in a mild concussion. He looks around and sees three men pulling Joan away from him, headed for a black Cadillac parked on the street. He sprints toward them and swings his fist. It connects with one of the men's jaw and he falls to the ground.
The man on the ground quickly regains his footing and knocks John to the ground.
His head hits and he's out like a light.
"John!" Joan screams before being stuffed into the back of the awaiting getaway car.
The door shuts as the attacker's board the car and they step on it.
The car disappears down the dark, New York street, Joan being restrained in the backseat.
And before people start telling me the phone number I used isn't correct, I'd like to point out that I did, in fact, get it from the actual show. The pilot, A Study in Pink, to be exact. When John is calling the cabbie, it shows his number on the cabbies –the pink lady's phone. THANKS FOR READING AND I HOPE YOU ENJOYED. THERE WILL BE A THIRD CHAPTER…MAYBE EVEN A FOURTH…
PLEASE FAV/FOLLOW/REVIEW!