Sherlock approaches the dark figure on the rooftop, her long legs obscured by a long coat.
“So if you’re not with the Met, or MI6, or a spook, does this count as a kink?” Her breath pools across her cheekbones, spilling out into the air.
“Is this what you like?”
Joan ignores her reflexes and relies on her training. Twisting like a falling cat, she hastily stashes all of her gear in jacket pockets and is on her feet within seconds. And the soldier runs, staying low, until she has one hand on the rooftop wall, about to vault over the side of the building.
She only takes seconds to look back at the other woman, breath caught in her shemagh and goggles glinting in the dark, before leaping onto the fire escape below.
Sherlock speaks after a moment.
“… oh, but I do love it when they run.”
(Ah, ah, ah. Bollocks. I … totally had to edit this bit in, actually. The Watson-parts of this evening’s post were in fact, written by my wife. She’s a brilliant author and a beautiful artist and a wonderful human being and I would be entirely lost, a lot more bemused and rather lonely without her.
You can find her work at artbyval.ca. And ta very much to her. Yes. Alright. That’s done.)