Maximum awkward, you say?bringscoffeeMarch 27 2012, 04:23:15 UTC
[She's smart. Brilliant, even. The sort of person that made the rest of the world look ridiculous and childish--Mol included, of course.
She's also the sort of person who seems to wind up inherently dangerous situations. Puts herself in inherently dangerous situations, even. Even half-hearing the stories, little bits and pieces Watson drops now and then, tend to send his mind reeling with the implications. Every long absence became a worry. A terror.
So he can't help the bright half-gasp, half-shout of her name when Holmes appears in the morgue after a particularly long absence (and she was fine, of course she was fine, but a person can't spend all day every day in a morgue without becoming just a touch morbidly inclined). Or the way he finds himself quite suddenly scrambled to her side, arms out to catch her, lips ducking to kiss her cheek.]
It's really the only way to go~onbakerstMarch 27 2012, 04:32:56 UTC
[According to Holmes, the rest of the world is ridiculous and childish. She supposes she cannot fault the tepid masses; after all, they did not train their brains the way she has over the years.
It has been a difficult few weeks. The murders, the thefts, Watson and Holmes both dangling off a cliff at some point... She is exhausted and needs sleep, but there is still a remainder of energy left in her body. Clearly, the best thing to do once Lestrade made the arrest is to go the morgue for a nice session with a riding crop and a dead body.
And, oh, there's Mol. She turns when she hears her name and opens her mouth to say something in greeting, but -- wait, what's that. That is a mouth on her mouth. She had turned at the wrong (?) moment and - what? She clears her throat.]
[Oh. Oh, well. That's certainly. Not a kiss on the cheek. Those are lips. Slightly parted lips, as if in the act of saying something. A woman's lips.
Holmes' lips.
And this, perhaps, is a major contribution to the thought that the rest of the world is just a touch slow, because it takes him more than a beat to properly process that he's just accidentally kissed one Shadley Holmes, consulting detective, square on the mouth.
Jerking back with cheeks already beginning to turn bright red is entirely inevitable.] Sorry. That-- it-- sorry. I didn't-- it's-- I know you've-- ah.
[She's just flabbergasted. Of all things, of all places ... Little does he know that this happened to be her very first kiss. Ever. Ever.
Holmes lifts her eyebrows and blinks ever so slowly, recovering from this a beat behind her usual pace. She clears her throat again, flicking a dark curl away from her face before resting her hands on her hips, under her coat.]
I've come for my riding crop. [Yes, great recovery.]
[Of course she'll just keep going. Of course she doesn't want to stop, talk about it, let him keep blubbering through more and more apologies. Words die on his lips, splutter and fail. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. His... entire self.]
...right. [The flush isn't going to leave his cheeks anytime soon. He tries crossing his arms--wrong--then settle for shoving into his pants pockets.] I'll... We're-- square, aren't we?
[She's smart. Brilliant, even. Maybe it's just that he can't keep up with the speed at which she handles her own emotions. Maybe she doesn't have them. Maybe she just doesn't have them about him.]
Well, it's... I mean, it wasn't appropriate. Or-- my intention. And if it... offended you or...
[God, if it had been anyone else, he'd have something coherent to say.]
I am not offended. That is what people do, isn't it? Judging from the way you reacted, your aim was for my cheek, which was a more standard greeting, I suppose. But not for you. You often stand a foot away from me - likely because I intimidate you.
But why did you try to kiss my cheek today? Likely because my absence was longer than usual, and that Elizabeth hadn't kept you informed this time - she is currently writing her latest blog post. God knows how she can function on that laptop of hers, since she only types with two fingers.
[Or maybe, as always, she's got a mind like a supercomputer and never feels her tongue tangling into twisted confusion.
It's frustrating, amazing, intimidating, fascinating to listen to her walk through something that's clearly taken her the blink of an eye to figure out. Above all, it's so irrevocably her (and she's fine, and she's not missing, and she's not a body on his table, and she's not mad at him) that it nearly has him smiling again as one hand lifts to scratch the back of his neck.]
[His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Closes and presses tight shut. His eyes often have the faint touch of a doe to them, but for this long silent moment his face is entirely that of a deer in headlights.]
[She knows so much about everything else, but not about these little things, these small landmarks that most other people remember for the rest of their lives.]
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She's also the sort of person who seems to wind up inherently dangerous situations. Puts herself in inherently dangerous situations, even. Even half-hearing the stories, little bits and pieces Watson drops now and then, tend to send his mind reeling with the implications. Every long absence became a worry. A terror.
So he can't help the bright half-gasp, half-shout of her name when Holmes appears in the morgue after a particularly long absence (and she was fine, of course she was fine, but a person can't spend all day every day in a morgue without becoming just a touch morbidly inclined). Or the way he finds himself quite suddenly scrambled to her side, arms out to catch her, lips ducking to kiss her cheek.]
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It has been a difficult few weeks. The murders, the thefts, Watson and Holmes both dangling off a cliff at some point... She is exhausted and needs sleep, but there is still a remainder of energy left in her body. Clearly, the best thing to do once Lestrade made the arrest is to go the morgue for a nice session with a riding crop and a dead body.
And, oh, there's Mol. She turns when she hears her name and opens her mouth to say something in greeting, but -- wait, what's that. That is a mouth on her mouth. She had turned at the wrong (?) moment and - what? She clears her throat.]
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Holmes' lips.
And this, perhaps, is a major contribution to the thought that the rest of the world is just a touch slow, because it takes him more than a beat to properly process that he's just accidentally kissed one Shadley Holmes, consulting detective, square on the mouth.
Jerking back with cheeks already beginning to turn bright red is entirely inevitable.] Sorry. That-- it-- sorry. I didn't-- it's-- I know you've-- ah.
Sorry.
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Holmes lifts her eyebrows and blinks ever so slowly, recovering from this a beat behind her usual pace. She clears her throat again, flicking a dark curl away from her face before resting her hands on her hips, under her coat.]
I've come for my riding crop. [Yes, great recovery.]
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...right. [The flush isn't going to leave his cheeks anytime soon. He tries crossing his arms--wrong--then settle for shoving into his pants pockets.] I'll... We're-- square, aren't we?
[Smooth? Eternally.]
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That was a -- kiss. [Ever eloquent, she is, still standing there with her hands on her hips. Confusion.] What is there to clarify?
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Well, it's... I mean, it wasn't appropriate. Or-- my intention. And if it... offended you or...
[God, if it had been anyone else, he'd have something coherent to say.]
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But why did you try to kiss my cheek today? Likely because my absence was longer than usual, and that Elizabeth hadn't kept you informed this time - she is currently writing her latest blog post. God knows how she can function on that laptop of hers, since she only types with two fingers.
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It's frustrating, amazing, intimidating, fascinating to listen to her walk through something that's clearly taken her the blink of an eye to figure out. Above all, it's so irrevocably her (and she's fine, and she's not missing, and she's not a body on his table, and she's not mad at him) that it nearly has him smiling again as one hand lifts to scratch the back of his neck.]
...right. I'll... get the body, then.
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...so that... was...
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What?
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