He sat poised in his chair staring at her intently. He had, just by looking at the file, solved her friend's case and had remained bored until an email popped up on his website. It was devious; it was a game; it seemed impossible, and it required a very important favor from his current flatmate. Her face was impassive like stone as she stared at him in challenge. She opposed his request.
"No," she told him before she pulled her book in front of her face to ignore him and his insistent request. She didn't care how much he would pout about it; she refused.
"This is the most interesting case I've had in months, Ginny!" he exclaimed trying to change her mind as he thought she would. She was in love with him- God knows why-, and he was sure he could sway this argument in his favor by manipulation if necessary.
"No." She remained firm in her resolution still pretending to read her book, but she wasn't really seeing it so much as using it to ignore his piercing eyes.
"It would be a wasted opportunity," he argued with her. She rolled her eyes.
"Ask Mycroft," she replied shortly.
"He would never let me in," he replied scoffing at her, and she knew he was right, but that wasn't her problem. "Do I have to beg?" he asked her, but he was more vicious with her than he was whining at her. She sighed and set her book down before she smirked amused with her own idea. Lately, her teasing and own bold actions around the flat have been getting her in trouble and giving him something to be shocked about. She was rather enjoying the mixed reactions that where clear on his face.
"If I agree to ask Robbie for an invite, you have to give me something in return," she remarked with a charmingly mischievous smile.
"Anything," he replied waiting for the request.
"I want to have sex," she answered enjoying his reaction to how bold she had been being lately, "with you." He seemed to freeze to the spot narrowing his eyes at her. She knew he would never accept such a stupid request. He claims sex didn't alarm him, yet, she saw signs that perhaps that was a lie.
"Why?" he asked though he should have known the answer to that. She gave him a teasing smile and then a proper answer.
"Because I know you would never agree to such terms, and I really don't want to go," she answered simply as she lifted her book to read again. He was silent for a time before he stood and took her book out of her hands throwing it onto the floor. "Eh!" she objected before he gripped her arm and pulled her up, so they were chest to chest. Sherlock put his hands on the small of her back pressing her against him.
"Ginny," he said easing his voice down so that it was far more gentle and emotional than usual. "My beautiful, wonderful Ginny," he muttered pushing her hair behind her ears and rested his forehead gently on hers. "You and I could spend the whole evening together dancing in each other's arms, only to the end the evening making love in one of the most exquisite buildings in the country." He leaned his head down toward her lips.
"Sherlock," she whispered in something of a quiver knowing he had her as his lips were just an inch from hers, "I'm not idiot." He scoffed and pulled away from her in annoyance. She had an amused, smug look on her face.
"If you don't do it, I'll destroy your piano," he threatened realizing that flattery and the like would not work on Jen. She knew him too well.
"You will not!"
"Yes, I will!"
"Sherlock Holmes, I… oh! I hate you!" she shouted before she ran up to her room like a teenager angry with her parents.
"You better being making a phone call to your brother up there!" he shouted at her as he heard the door slam shut more forceful than necessary.
"Are you even going to tell me what the case is?" she asked falling onto the bed in the grand hotel. He had to practically kidnap her to get her to their destination, but they arrived on time. They had already checked in and were now waiting for the masquerade ball to start.
"A bombing," he told her with a smile leaning out the bathroom door to address her. He paused and frowned looking at her still in her jeans and sweater. He didn't particularly enjoy seeing her dressed up; he liked seeing her in a sweater and jeans. There was something intimate about her dressing in those clothes. She almost never went out dressed like that; she only dressed down when she was comfortable, when she was at home. He liked that he was part of her home. But for the case, she would need to dress up. "Aren't you supposed to be…?"
"What?" she asked popping her gum glancing at him.
"I don't know fluffing your hair or whatever women do that takes them so long in everything they do," he grumbled making her laugh.
"We sacrifice goats to our divine overlord," she told him quite seriously.
"Satan?" he guessed.
"Chocolate," she answered making him 'ah.' "And I suppose it is that time if even you are getting ready. So who contacted you about the bombing?" she asked going to a vanity to do something about her face. She collapsed on the ottoman seeming exhausted by the idea of putting on makeup. She had been out of a job for nearly a year now and makeup seemed like such effort. She mused for a moment that perhaps she should go looking for a job, but then, she couldn't go running off at a moments notice with Sherlock like she so enjoyed.
"The bomber," he replied seeming giddy at the idea. "Sent me a message on my website."
"How can you trust what they say? They are trying to bomb a party attended by the most intelligent, powerful men in the world. That's a bit stupid," she muttered before she slowly began to apply the makeup she so despised wearing.
"How many people know about this party, Ginny?" he asked her. She shrugged.
"I don't know. The people here pretty much," she replied.
"Exactly," he answered making her 'oh.'
"I suppose… that makes sense," she agreed now at the potential bombing. "So any idea what you are looking for in the bomber?"
"No idea," he told her sounding quite pleased, "but I'm confident I'll know the bomber when we get to the party."
"God, I hate these stupid things," she muttered throwing down her eyeliner to pick up her eye shadow. "Robbie used to take me to these stupid things when I was a kid when he was just the protégé of Bertram Richter. He'll be here of course, and that should be interesting. I used to try and burn this bloody place to the ground. I used to cause trouble with the French government's kid, Lyon Lecuyer."
"Good, you can impress them," Sherlock told her, "and actually burn the place to the ground." She let out a laugh.
"What is your brother going to say when he sees you here?"
"He'll try and have me thrown out, which is why I had to come with you as a guest."
"Oh, your brother will be too distracted anyway," she replied in amusement as Mycroft's only known weakness outside of Sherlock. "Elea will be here with him. I convinced her to, so that you could solve your case in peace."
"Oh, good, I'll have to let you keep your piano then," he remarked making her roll her eyes.
"If you ever threaten my piano again, I'll tear apart your violin piece by piece and give the pieces out to your fangirls," she warned putting down the eye shadow and picking up her mascara.
"A rather proper threat," he admitted throwing himself in the chair in the corner of the room. "Are you almost done?"
"Yes, now, don't be impatient. You're lucky I even agreed to this," she told him moving onto her lips.
"It was this, or I was going to ask you to pose as a stripper at the Rabbit Hole," he replied.
"First off, I can't dance, and secondly, I never would have agreed to that," she scolded him. "Why did you need me to pose as a stripper anyways?"
"The owner's human trafficking," he answered as she stood.
"And you were just going to throw me in the grips of a human trafficker?"
"If you weren't going to help me with this case, yes," he replied as she pulled her dress out and began to remove her clothes. "It's curious that you cover your eyes when I have no clothes on, but you care little if I see you without clothes."
"Eh, I'm wearing what one would see me in if I was at a beach. How is my underwear any different from a bikini? Besides, you could use a dirty thought or two of me in that mind palace of yours. Me? I already have far too many dirty thoughts of you roaming around my… what would I call my mind? It's more of a cellar or a gutter," she laughed. "Also, I rather like my body, well, since I've gain the weight back. Have you noticed?" she asked looking to him. He was observing her, and if she didn't know him better, she would think he was checking her out.
"I've noticed," he answered. She smiled before turning to the nude colored dress.
"Besides, if you recall, the women in my family seem to rather enjoy taking off their clothes for people especially you apparently," she said as she began to slip on the dress.
"Have you spoken to your mother since the funeral?" Sherlock asked as she straightened the thick straps of the dress that were covered in beads that matched the small bead strip that lie on the dark gold sash around the waist.
"No, I… I'm not sure what I will do about her," she admitted not wishing to dwell on that for the moment. "Will you zip up my dress?" She pulled her hair into a quick bun as to not get it caught in the zipper. Sherlock stood and stepped behind her. He pulled at the zipper, and without realized it, his hand skimmed against her flesh. It was a subconscious action; his body had been betraying his mind. More than once he had caught his eyes drifting up her figure in a way that he would when deducing someone, but his eyes traveling Jen's figure was not due to deduction, but due to a desire that had been overwhelming his thoughts when she was too close to him or wearing something that teased his imagination. His thoughts drifted to the ever mysterious Raine Aigle, who claimed he craved Jen, and after much analysis, he could only conclude that is exactly what it was. He craved her like he craved a case, no, not strong enough. He craved her like he had once craved cocaine, but this craving was overwhelming, bordering animalistic. He desired the craving to die, to subside, but it just grew and grew to the point where his own body was now betraying him as his mind temporarily shut down just to touch the flesh that her clothes hid. When he had let go of the zipper his mind came rushing back, they both seemed to freeze in what had just happened, a very intimate gesture for Sherlock. Jen slowly turned around to address it, but Sherlock took a step passed her.
"Party! The party," he told her not sure what to say, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him back to her with something of confusion and disappointment in her eyes as he struggled with his own primal thoughts.
"Why are you so afraid… of sex… of love?"
"I'm not afraid," he sneered confident in his own ability.
"Yes, you are," she laughed. "It's so clear in your eyes; it's… rather disappointed to tell the truth."
"You confuse disinterest for fear," he argued.
"No," she shook her head. "You confuse fear for disinterest. I don't get it; what is about a human body that you fear so much? Is it the intimacy of the act, or perhaps it's the animalistic nature of sex? After all, it hasn't changed much in ten thousand years. So sex makes you no better than an animal?" She tried to think like Sherlock Holmes, but it was practically impossible.
"Ginny, the party," he tried to pull away, but she kept both hands firmly on his waist bringing him closer to her.
"I wish you would answer me," she begged.
"Bombing," he reminded her, but she didn't need reminding. She didn't care about the case or the bomb.
"You're avoiding answering me, Sherlock," she told him.
"What do you want me to tell you, Ginny?" he asked finally giving into her.
"I want you to tell me you love me," she answered as if it was so simply. He stared down at her and seemed to be glitching slightly as he tried to find something, anything to say. He couldn't simply tell her he loved her; he couldn't simply accept that he loved her even to himself. Too much ruination waited for him down that path. She sighed and looked to the door. "Forget it," she told him with a crack in her voice as she pulled him to the door. "Let's go. Party." He walked at her side as they walked down the steps and put on their masks. They were silent as his eyes flickered to her; she was disappointed with the events in the room, and maybe, so was he. They walked through the door into the elegant, huge ballroom to see a plethora of people already there. "So what are we looking for?" she asked him trying to brighten her dampened mood. He appreciated the effort.
"Someone who doesn't fit," he told her focusing his attention to the case.
"So that means… talking to these people," she said disliking the idea already.
"Unfortunately," he replied before leading her toward her brother and his wife, a willowy woman with a fragile smile and a slight spark in her brown eyes. They both had already pulled their masks up and were talking to Mycroft and Elea and an elderly couple. "Go," he shoved her toward them.
"What about you?" she hissed.
"Investigating," he told her before disappearing into the crowd. She paused and approached them. Robbie's wife, Susan, was the first to notice her. She smiled gingerly at the woman before tugging Robbie's sleeve and whispering something in his ear. He looked to his left at her, and everyone's eyes followed him. Jen pushed up her mask and reached them.
"Hello, Lupa," Elea smiled at her brightly.
"Elea," she said with a nod slightly envious of the woman, and how confidently she wore herself.
"Ah, Bertram," Robbie addressed the elderly robust man, "you remember my sister, Gina?"
"Hello, Mr. Richter. How do you do?" she asked with a nod and a smile.
"My word," Bertram laughed amused as he took in her appearance. "You certainly have grown up child. I recall a little rebellious thing running around with Lyon not such an exquisite lady." Jen smiled genuinely amused.
"My brother's with you, isn't he?" Mycroft asked her distastefully.
"Why yes he is," Sherlock answered reappearing and giving Jen a glass.
"Is there-"
"No, it's just water," he told her having no desire for either of them to be hazy while there was a potential bomber on the loose.
"Thank you, then," she replied sipping the water.
"Bertram, may I introduce my brother, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said sounding rather irritated with the fact that he was there.
"My boy, I have heard much about you," Bertram said offering a hand.
"Have you?" Sherlock asked ignoring the hand. He was staring rather intently at Elea.
"Ah, very much like, Mycroft, he is in the emotional level," Jen sneered, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention as Elea pulled away with a smile.
"Dance with me," she demanded of Mycroft pulling him toward the dance floor despite protesting the whole way.
"What was that?" Jen muttered to Sherlock.
"Blinking. Morose Code. She's going to keep him busy for me," Sherlock answered.
"So what is it you do these day, Gina?" Bertram asked her causing her to snap her attention back to the man.
"Oh, I'm between jobs right now. I was a psychiatrist, but it just wasn't what I wanted. My friend Damon's been encouraging me to-"
"I'm sorry to interrupt," a polite, smooth voice broke her off. She blinked looking to the sharply dressed man with a crooked smile and curly chestnut hair. He was rather good looking and somehow familiar. "I recognized your voice," he told Jen. "Is that you, Ginny?"
"It's Jen now," she told him disliking anyone but Sherlock calling her Ginny. For some reason, she liked the way Ginny seemed to seep off Sherlock's vocal cords. "Do I know you?"
"Oh, I'm… I'm sorry," he stumbled with a laugh. "I guess I grew up too. Um… Lyon… Lyon Lecuyer."
"Oh my god, Lyon," she laughed before he grinned, and they hugged with him kissing her cheek. "It's been… God, I haven't seen you since I was fifteen. How are you?"
"I'm good; I'm my father's apprentice now that I've cooled down," he told her with a laugh. She liked his smile; it was one of those smiles that made her trust him without a doubt. "How are you?"
"Well, I um… I was just telling Bertram that I was psychiatrist for several years, and um then I worked as a detective while er… Sherlock Holmes," she paused and made a half-gesture at Sherlock, "was dead. Now, I've been doing a little work in theater and lending a hand when Sherlock needs it."
"You're a lucky guy," Lyon told Sherlock with a nod with the assumption that they were a couple.
"Oh, he's not my- we're just friends," she said quickly before adding, "I'm single." Lyon smiled and nodded willing to take the opportunity since it arose..
"Would you like to dance?" he asked offering an arm.
"Absolutely," she grinned.
"Ginny," Sherlock warned.
"You brought me to a party, now shut it," she ordered before taking Lyon's arm despite them both knowing she had two left feet. He led her to the dance floor, and Sherlock watched them for a moment as they laughed before he huffed and went off looking for his bomber.
"Any luck, Mr. Holmes?" Jen asked as Sherlock approached her as she stood alone against one of the columns of the ballroom.
"No," he spat bitterly. He quickly checked his watch. "I see you lost your dance partner after three hours and twenty minutes."
"Have you been counting?" she teased.
"He's hindering my investigation."
"No, no," she answered. "He's hindering my investigation, and I rather enjoy it. Also, if you must know, I didn't lose him. He was getting me a drink and ended up being dragged in conversation with Aaron Burns; he's the most longwinded talker I have ever had the displeasure to meet." She nodded to the refreshment table; he turned to see Lyon talking to a well-dressed American man of age.
"He's boring."
"I like him," she argued, and she did like him, but she had an ulterior motive.
"He's like every person in this room; they're dull, arrogant, and completely moronic," he snapped. "Besides, it's obvious by the way he talks that his only interest in you is conquest."
"Oh, Sherlock," she tisked with his lack of deduction, an usual aspect of the night. "You should know better than that; he isn't interested in conquest since he's already conquered years ago."
"What?" he asked having not caught that. Was he slipping?
"Yeah, Lyon and I used to… I wouldn't really call it dating since I only saw him a few times a year, but we used to fool around. Plus, you know, sentiment," she shrugged.
"Sentiment? How is 'fooling around' sentimental? Have you reached a new level of stupid, Ginny?" he argued. She twitched not liking his tone.
"Well, if you must know, Sherlock," she snapped pushing off the wall, "he was the first person I ever slept with, so you can go fuck yourself." With a huff, she made her way toward Lyon.
"First person she ever slept with," he scoffed. "Yeah, well, it was a poor choice!" he shouted at her, but she flipped him off.
Jen was laughing; she really did enjoy Lyon's company. He was always funny and rather nice, and their personalities were always in sync, but she couldn't help but miss Sherlock's company. Lyon was nice, but Sherlock was, well, he was better than nice. Sherlock was interesting, and he understood her in a level most people couldn't quite understand, and despite understanding her, he accepted her as she was. With Lyon, it was still a carefully placed mask of normality.
"Do you remember the chaos we used to cause?" he asked with a laugh.
"How could I forget?" she grinned. "God, we used to drive everyone insane. I'm pretty sure I nearly gave poor Bertram a heart attack when he saw me earlier. I think he was having flashbacks." Lyon laughed.
"God, I've missed you," he answered. "Do you remember the time we drank ourselves stupid and set fire to the tapestry in the hallway?" Laughing, Jen nodded.
"Or the time we convinced Marianne's kid to go running through the ballroom naked screaming the Italian national anthem?" Laughing, Lyon pulled another story from the past.
"And, of course, who could forget the time we accidentally broke the pillar in the tunnels collapsing in part of the east end?"
"Sure accidentally," she said sarcastically as they both laughed, but Jen's laughter ended abruptly as a piece fell into place. She spun around frantically searching for her detective.
"Jen?" Lyon asked.
"Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes," she told Lyon before spotting the top of his head. She ran through the crowd pushing everyone out of the way. "Sherlock," she breathed as he continued scanning the crowd.
"Get bored of your boyfriend?" he sneered.
"What?" she snapped before quickly following up. "No, shut up. I don't know who the bomber will be, but I know where the bomb will be."
"Really?" he asked turning to her.
"If I was a bomber, I would want to make sure everyone in this building dies, but how can you do that when guests come and go and a single blast simply would not do the trick?" she asked.
"I wouldn't use a bomb," he informed her.
"What? No, shut up," she ordered again. "I would just blow the castle off the cliff side."
"That wouldn't be a plausible feat unless-"
"There are tunnels under the castle, Sherlock," she reasoned. "This place was used for smuggling. Put it in the right place, and BOOM! Get it?"
"Oh, that's brilliant!" he told her before kissing her forehead. "Let's go!" He grabbed her hand and then paused. "Perhaps you should…?"
"Yeah," she laughed before she ran toward the back of the room through a door before entering the kitchen. She led him through the kitchen and down a small pair of stairs into a wine cellar. She weaved her way among the bottles and barrels before she reached a small utility bookshelf. She pushed it aside to reveal a hidden entryway.
"Someone's been here recently," Sherlock told her letting his eyes flicker over the small tunnel.
"Well, then, we better hurry," she grinned before she ducked inside, and he followed. "So Mr. Mathematician, where would you have to place a bomb if you wanted to blow this place off the maps?"
"This way," he said grabbing her hand and pulling her down one of the tunnels.
"For a room full of geniuses, they sure were stupid to leave this place wide open," she replied. "It's just begging for a bomb."
"They're arrogant," he answered. "They think because they're clever no one would make the foolish attempt to bomb them."
"But someone did," she replied. "Do you have any idea who?"
"No, but if I defuse the bomb, I have a feeling we'll be hearing from our bomber," he told her. "They're a show off, and they gave me this change to figure out. They're trying to get my attention."
"Why?" Jen asked with a frown.
"A game, Ginny. They want a game," he informed her as they reached a large open chamber with a rather impressive bomb in the middle. It looked like an archaic device instead of one of the more recent models. On top, there was a single piece of paper. "A letter from our bomber," he mused ripping the paper from the bomb and holding it so that Jen could read over his shoulder.
Mr. Holmes,
A pleasure to be in contact a second time. It seems, perhaps with help, you've found my bomb. Congratulations. The electrical pulse emitted by Gina's mobile will not work in this case. So sorry about that. If you manage to survive this encounter, please respond to the message I sent to you on your website.
Always,
A Fan
"A fan?" Jen asked with a frown, but Sherlock focused on a different line of the text: The electrical pulse emitted by Gina's mobile will not work in this case. Whoever they were, they knew Jen would be with him, and that she had that handy little app on her phone. How could they know that? "Sherlock, what do we do?" she asked looking at the bomb ticking down from five minutes. He didn't answer immediately knowing there were only two options. "Sherlock?"
"Ginny," he told her looking to her, "leave."
"What?" she asked. He sighed.
"There are only two choices. We can run from here, and if we run fast enough, we can get out of here, but this building with everyone in it would fall."
"What's the other option?"
"You run, and I move the bomb to a location where when it detonates, it'll cause the least amount of damage, but I wouldn't have time to escape the blast. I would be incinerated," he told her. Jen took a controlled breath running her hands through her hair.
"We really have no choice, do we?"
"I'm afraid not," he answered before he backtracked. "We?"
"You stay; I stay," she told him quietly.
"Ginny-"
"Sherlock, shut up, and help me," she nodded to the bomb. He paused for a moment to stare at her deciding it was a waste of time to try and convince her to live it to him, so he leaned down to start toward the destination Sherlock deemed as the cause the least damage when the time came. They had to be careful not to set it off, but it was a relatively easy feat as they put in on the east side. Jen slid down the wall and looked at the timer: 78 seconds. Sherlock sat next to her. "So, what do you want to talk about with the last," she looked at the timer again, "69 seconds left of our lives?"
"Too much to say, too little time," he answered.
"Ah, the lament of all men," she told him; she paused to consider her next question. "Do you believe in an afterlife?"
"No," he answered simply.
"I like to think there's something though hopefully not a hell as I'll be going there if that's the case," she joked halfheartedly.
"You're very calm about this. Most people as close to death are generally fearful," he told her. She shrugged.
"I've been so close to death so many times that I no longer fear it," she answered. "I suppose it's the same for you."
"Occupational hazard," he answered her making her laugh despite being thirty seconds from death. "So you and Lyon?"
"No," she replied with a chuckle. "I was just trying to make you jealous."
"Really?" he said sounding surprised.
"Sometimes it bothers me how aloof toward me even though I know you care in some respect." She glanced at the clock again seventeen seconds left. "Can I ask you while there's only seconds left… just yes or no… you don't even have to say the words... just yes or no, do you love me?" He paused, but only for a moment as there was just seconds left. Yes or no? She made it simple for him. There was barely anytime left; he could just let the clock run out, but what the hell? Who gives a damn? It's not like he would have a mind left to keep in pristine order. So, he took a breath, and finally let the emotional damn he put up crumble, and the answer was so easy.
"Yes," he answered with a nod looking to her wondering what her response would be.
"Okay," she whispered pulling him to her in a kiss that threatened to kill her before the bomb managed to. Perhaps there was a part of her who wished her love for the world's most infuriating detective would amount to nothing. That this kiss, their first kiss, would end up being nothing but a joke as the first and last time she kissed John, but she was wrong. In fact, maybe it was the adrenaline of the bomb just next to her, but this was the most passionate, most intimate, most incredible kiss she had ever experienced in her life and given how she was as a teenager that was quite an accomplishment. She didn't want to die; God, if she died only doing this once, then what a waste! As her hands wrapped around his neck, she vaguely realized their four seconds should have been up, and he was alarmingly aware that he should be looking at the countdown to see what was wrong, but instead, he was too focused on her lips, her tongue, the scent of lavender hazing his brain, the gentle scratch of her nails on his scalp when her hands moved to his hair, the way she fit him perfectly as he pushed on the small of her back closing the small gap between their bodies. Fucking hell, this is what he had been missing the whole time he had refused to acknowledge her feelings toward him?
She pushed against him with equal force, and her lips found his jawline and neck. He was left defenseless as every thought he kept hidden in that tiny, well-locked room in his mind palace barreled against the door spilling out his desire, his craving for her that went as far back as their years in school together: erotic dreams, nagging daydreams, inappropriate thoughts at inappropriate times, and the overwhelming desire he had suppressed to hold her, kiss her, touch her, be inside her. He was sure the desire would consume him as he brought her lips back to his. To hell with the bomb and the bomber; to hell with the case; to hell with keeping his mind in pristine order. Who the fuck cared? His hands found the zipper that held her dress together and quickly tugged on the metal exposing the delicate flesh that twitch at his touch and stressed across her bones and muscles as she convulsed at his gentle touch, as his own lips found her neck to claim her as his.
Had the two been left to their own devices, left in peace, they would have caved into their desires even in the small, dingy cave under one of the most beautiful buildings in England. Their clothes would have been dispelled and tossed over the dud of a bomb without a care. They wouldn't have been found until Mycroft or Robbie came looking. Oh, and what a scandal it would have been! But that wasn't in the cards for them tonight.
Sherlock's phone rang out from his pocket as Jen made to remove his suit jacket. It sent them both crashing back to Earth, back to reality. This wasn't reality. Sherlock Holmes didn't seduce women. He didn't ditch a case, and he wasn't in the habit to cave into any sort of advancement. He didn't throw caution to the wind. The moment that had occurred was on an alternate plane of reality where they could be a sort of normal couple, but now, they were back in their reality. Sherlock pulled himself from Jen as he fumbled for his phone as Jen sat up and quickly zipped her dress back up as well as she could on her own. He could pretend that it never happened, but she wouldn't let him nor would she allow herself to waste what was presented to her.
"What?" he snapped echoing through the cave. The noise sounded foreign after nothing but their symphony of heavy breathing. Jen wary looked to see Sherlock's face fall from annoyance to puzzlement before he looked to the bomb that was blinking 00:00 but remained intact. Sherlock hung up the phone. "It was a distraction," Sherlock told her standing. He held out a hand for her as she questioned him.
"What?" she asked as he pulled her up.
"Baker Street. It's nothing but rumble, Ginny. It's gone."
A/N: Early cause I was quite excited to get this chapter up, and after a full story and 18 chapters they finally kiss! And I hope! I really hope I didn't disappoint! My brain processed the only way that Sherlock would admit he loved her was if they were in a situation with seemingly no way out. And Baker Street is gone. No worries I didn't just completely go well no Baker Street anymore! Everything will be made right in the world eventually.
I must admit that we are almost caught up to the point I've written. Not good as it could at some point mean minihiatus, but hopefully, it won't come to that. I better get my butt in gear to finish it. I've been distracted with vicious plot bunnies that inform me I should write a Khan story, or they'll destroy everything I hold dear. It's become extremely problematic. Damn you Benedict Cumberbatch for playing incredibly appealing psyhopaths!
Thanks to reviewers: short-skirtbluescarf, scarlet tribe, flaming-amber, hannahhobnob, zare . downey . okumura, AnaDona, and kawaiixkisses. I'll see you lovelies next Fridayish.