Sherlock had gone to the morgue, insisting on completing some experiments and left John at the flat wth Francesca.
John was being extremely awkward around Francesca due to the tea incident. He was worried that she might have a bad impression of him and the fact that he would have to live with her for at the least, two weeks, was daunting.
He stared at her plum skirt absently, particularly where the stain should have been on her black dress and formulated several possible elaborate apologies in his head before Francesca spoke up:
"Staring is rude, Watson." He started a bit and glanced up at her. She looked back at him expectantly. "If you are still thinking about the tea spill, I'm fine with it, honestly."
"Well, I was also worried about if...I happened to damage anything of yours." John rushed out the last part and the temperature in the room shot up. He had meant her dress, of course, but anything that hot could have damaged more than just fabric and leg skin.
"Thank you for your concern, Doctor. But my dress is fine. And anything else that you didn't mean to imply." She stood up and tugged on her black dress shirt absently, and studied Sherlock's wall of suspects. Maps were messily pinned up along with newspaper clippings and photos of men and women. Red crossouts and markings were all over the place.
Solving crimes was his obsession.
Francesca was a crime, Venticelli was a crime, and sentiment was a crime and they were all things he needed to solve. Just like the obsession that Francesca inhibited. She needed to find that magician.
Otherwise, he would kill her before she let him.
YOU ARE READING
Book I : Fantàsticque :: The Estranged Trilogie ::: A Sherlock Fanfiction
FanficWhat you think is true, is definitely, most certainly not true. It could be half true; your mind could even be playing tricks on you. It might not be the truth at all. For all you know. Enter Francesca Dela-Cruz Arlington. She's a high stakes poker...
