Jan 22, 2012
♥~?
Where did all these people come from? Okay, um. You're Sherlock's niece or something, that's- that's really weird.
[He takes her hand, pressing a light kiss the knuckles, and then drops it.]
Right. That's that then.
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♥~?
Where did all these people come from? Okay, um. You're Sherlock's niece or something, that's- that's really weird.
[He takes her hand, pressing a light kiss the knuckles, and then drops it.]
Right. That's that then.
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"So you're the Watson of this universe." She gives a smile. "Sherlock is my uncle." Her voice grows quiet once he sees him shaking, her other hand taking the one still in her hands. "Are you alright, Mr. Watson?" She tilts her her head, dark eyes watching with curiosity and worry.
"Sherlock's alternate universe niece is a thief... why am I not surprised." He puts his hands to his temples, trying to stave off a headache at the thought of Sherlock. "No Holmes could ever be average. I'm fine."
[Just to let you know, because of an anon she wants into John's pants for the next 48 hours.] Sol looks at him a little sadly, feeling her heart quicken as she looks into his eyes. She sees the sadness, the despair, as if she'd lost someone. "I-I'm sorry." She bites her lip and offers her hand. "I-I'm Sol, Sol Holmes."
He takes it, shaking it with complete bemusement. ...Not everyone named Holmes is related to Sherlock, okay John? Stop thinking that. "I'm... John Watson. I'd say it's a pleasure, but you just tried to steal from me."
She jumps when he grabs her wrist, still holding the wallet. "H-hey, let me go!" Sol cried but quickly shut up, knowing people wouldn't take kindly to her screaming when she was the bad guy. Her face set into a scowl, fingers still tight around his wallet and watch.
Sherlock's letter is safe, and he reaches the other hand around to pluck his wallet and his watch from her grasp, holding them loosely. He's utterly expressionless as he lets her go. "Go on then. I'm not in the mood."
She'd slipped past him through the busy streets of London, humming softly as she spotted him. The perfect target, and it seemed he was distracted. She bumped into him, hands already in his pockets.
He is distracted, enough that he doesn't notice her going for his wallet, but he does notice the brush of paper against his wrist when Sherlock's letter slips out along with it, and his hands fly back as he turns. "What-?"
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