#pruning shears

So I've been working on some TAD inspired bookmarks recently, but I've realised that as I've been working on them, the designs and colour schemes have gotten a lot more complicated and now I'm not sure they all match as well any more... so I figured I'd ask you guys

Many in London moved there to find their soulmates - something everyone has. It’s a pull you get once you’re within a 160 kilometre radius of your soulmate. You just start having this pull of thoughts in the back of your mind until you find the person you’re meant to spend your lives with. Neither Sherlock nor John had felt this pull, much to Mrs Hudson’s dismay. Unlike John, Sherlock didn’t care to find his soulmate. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, it’s that he didn’t have time. 

One day Sherlock and John were called to investigate a crime scene. One that Sherlock had thought would be good, just for it to be an open shut case once he got there. The scuff marks on the floor showed a struggle, the broken window showing how the killer escaped, it was rather simple. What wasn’t simple were the intrusive thoughts Sherlock was getting. Both John and Lestrade could tell something was wrong with the detective. 

“You alright, mate?” John asked his friend after he spent a minute staring at a shard of glass on the floor. A shard of glass that used to belong to the now broken window. It took Sherlock a second to respond, which made John even more alarmed. “Nothing, it doesn’t matter,” Sherlock responds, straightening up. Sherlock started walking off, causing John to quickly say goodbye to Lestrade, who had all the details he needed to make the arrest. 

Meanwhile, the neurons in Sherlock’s brain wouldn’t stop firing, annoying the man. The stairs he’d now walked down in the stairwell was 56, no, 57…anyways, that wasn’t the point. What was the point again? Man walking his dog, normal, 32 years old, banker, his girlfriend’s dog. A woman with dark brown hair was 21 yet already a divorceé, according to Sherlock’s deductions. Then an army man, short-ish, dirty blonde hair…oh wait, that’s John. And apparently he’s speaking. “What?” Sherlock responds to his friend.

“Something’s wrong. I don’t know. Which way is it again to Baker Street?” Sherlock asked John, further concerning his doctor. Sherlock knew the way back to Baker Street, it’s that part of him was clawing for control against his logical mind, wanting him to go in the opposite direction of where home was. John started walking to the tube, but Sherlock hailed a cab instead, prompting annoyance from the doctor. If anything showed how posh Sherlock Holmes was, it was the fact that he had a perfectly fine oyster card but still chose to waste so much money on cabs when he also owned a car and could drive. The farther they got from the crime scene, the better Sherlock felt. His pulse was normal, the thoughts were leaving his head, yet he felt…emptier. It was like coming down from an intense high. 

Apparently the Yard was hosting a gala, which Sherlock had called “a great use of taxpayer money”. Nonetheless, John and Sherlock were expected to attend. Sherlock hated such events, but John was fine with the publicity. Sherlock knew to let John do the talking, he knew he often said the wrong thing to people. Sherlock meant well, it just always came out as an insult. 

The event was formal, with some publicity. For a police department it was alarming the amount of officers that were actually doing their jobs instead of being here. On the way to the event, the intrusive thoughts came back, except this time pulling him towards the event. It was as if he couldn’t get there fast enough, like he was running late. 

John had never seen his friend so eager to get to an event before. Once getting through security, it was a lot of rich people and coppers talking. Lestrade and his wife - seems they’re back together at the moment - were discussing champagne with another couple, whom Sherlock believed to be Lestrade’s boss and his wife. Anderson was talking about his stock investments, ones that Sherlock knew would not make Anderson any wealthier, despite the man’s insistence that in a year he’d be a millionaire. Despite Sherlock’s usual disposition to correct Anderson, he felt his legs moving away towards another part of the room. And then someone tripped, bumping into him. 

He heard apologies from a Southend voice, and his brain stopped. He turned. “I’m sorry, I-“ but when her eyes met his, she stopped speaking. It was as if she’d felt it too. Sherlock snapped out of his reveries, and analysed what he could. Her outfit was something she’d made herself, her features were plain, her makeup was very little. She was in her early thirties, a romantic, a journalist. She knew who he was, he could see she knew what he was doing. She was doing the same thing too. “What are you doing?” Sherlock asked her, afraid he already knew. “Cataloguing you,” she smoothly responds. Ah, investigative journalist. He saw her eyes sweep over his lack of cufflinks, the shoes John had insisted buying him from Oxfam because it was “for a good cause”, and she listened to his attempt at a quip to neutralise the situation. And she laughed. She laughed at his joke. 

She and Sherlock drank cocktails while watching John flirt and dance with others. Being a wallflower with her was the calmest Sherlock had been in a long time. As the night went on, the duo got more and more pissed. It was like he was bewitched and under her spell. John eventually came over to check on Sherlock, surprised at his quiet complacency this whole night. John could tell from a mile away that Sherlock was definitely not sober. “Time to go home, Sherlock,” John told his friend. “No, no, the party’s just starting,” Sherlock slurred out. “Yeah, it’s not even midnight yet,” she adds to Sherlock’s argument. “Nope, come on, closing time for us,” John says. Despite Sherlock’s training in combat, nothing could beat the actual experience of a soldier. It didn’t take too much effort for John to start dragging Sherlock away. Sherlock’s brain was rapid fire again. He never got her name, he didn’t spend enough time with her, this chance encounter wasn’t enough. And now Anderson was talking to her as if he’d been only waiting for Sherlock to leave. Her eyes were on Sherlock, and he could tell she would follow him if not for the person talking to her. Sherlock couldn’t take it.