When Sherlock still stayed silent, mouth against her collarbone, she felt herself grapple with his coat, digging her fingers into his back. “Sherlock, please, I’m sorry, I should have -- I wanted to, I wanted so badly, you have to know that. You have to have seen--”
“Seen what?”
“Fuck you, you wanker, you know exactly what. Seen me, seen me and you.”
“You said,” Sherlock finally straightened, ignorant of the vine leaf that brushed against his forehead as he leaned towards Joan. “You said that you don’t date friends. Or flatmates.”
“I don’t. I don’t, I never do, but god, Sherlock,” said Joan, cupping his face with her hands and looking directly into the questionable blue of his eyes. “You’re not just a flatmate or a friend. You have to know that. You have to have seen that.”
“How can I see something like that?”
“How can you not observe something like that?” She gathered her courage enough to lean forward to meld their lips together. It was almost impossible to not lose herself in how enthusiastically Sherlock responded. Her back became reaquainted with the brick wall very suddenly, and she longed for the smooth, if loud, wallpaper of Baker Street.
“Take me home, Sherlock,” she whispered into his parted lips, and he drew back just far enough that his thumb was no longer at the hollow of her neck but free to press against her cheek as he stared into her eyes, blue flickering in front of blue, eventually nodding with more and more enthusiasm.
“Let me take you home,” he said, dipping once again to close the distance.
As they pulled themselves over the fence, this time with Sherlock’s hand clutched tightly around Joan’s, Joan thought to ask, “What about the suspect?”
Very sharply, Sherlock spun her as soon as her heels (which Joan now appreciated since they made it that much easier to meet Sherlock’s lips) and said into the resultant, ecstatic kiss, “Who cares?”
It was as good as an I love you. Joan could wait for the real thing.
Fill: Give Your All to Me 5/5
“Seen what?”
“Fuck you, you wanker, you know exactly what. Seen me, seen me and you.”
“You said,” Sherlock finally straightened, ignorant of the vine leaf that brushed against his forehead as he leaned towards Joan. “You said that you don’t date friends. Or flatmates.”
“I don’t. I don’t, I never do, but god, Sherlock,” said Joan, cupping his face with her hands and looking directly into the questionable blue of his eyes. “You’re not just a flatmate or a friend. You have to know that. You have to have seen that.”
“How can I see something like that?”
“How can you not observe something like that?” She gathered her courage enough to lean forward to meld their lips together. It was almost impossible to not lose herself in how enthusiastically Sherlock responded. Her back became reaquainted with the brick wall very suddenly, and she longed for the smooth, if loud, wallpaper of Baker Street.
“Take me home, Sherlock,” she whispered into his parted lips, and he drew back just far enough that his thumb was no longer at the hollow of her neck but free to press against her cheek as he stared into her eyes, blue flickering in front of blue, eventually nodding with more and more enthusiasm.
“Let me take you home,” he said, dipping once again to close the distance.
As they pulled themselves over the fence, this time with Sherlock’s hand clutched tightly around Joan’s, Joan thought to ask, “What about the suspect?”
Very sharply, Sherlock spun her as soon as her heels (which Joan now appreciated since they made it that much easier to meet Sherlock’s lips) and said into the resultant, ecstatic kiss, “Who cares?”
It was as good as an I love you. Joan could wait for the real thing.