Kūkaku never imagined she'd be feeling this way, but there just didn't seem to be enough things in the world to blow up right now to make her feel better. So she thought about what she'd like to blowup the most, which explosion might give her the utmost satisfaction out of any she could ever conceive and she knew right away what that was.
"Fire in the hole!"
She liked to give at least three seconds of warning after lobbing in a nice hissing, smoking explosive in through the door of Sherlock's office and then leaning on the doorframe to see how he'd respond.
So help her, if it wasn't the most beautiful thing in the world, she was going to just go in there and punch him in the face. That would be pretty damn satisfying, too.
Who had one thumb and was so not going to do warning anymore?
This girl.
"Oh, mother of Go--" Kūkaku ducked as the bomb came flying back and blew up over her head, showering her in ashes and filling the hallway with a small puff of smoke (she wasn't about to set off any alarms, here).
"You moron! Three more seconds, and you'd have blown off your hand! An' there's no way you'd look as good as me with a stump, ya idiot!"
Oh, like that was going to stop Sherlock from grinning like an absolute moron at the thrill of it. "Then perhaps you shouldn't lob bombs at people if that's a concern."
At least now he knew how long the fuse lasted, though.
Sherlock followed the bomb with his eyes, snatching it up again and staring for a moment with far too much interest. "Is that all you have?" he asked, plucking the fuse from the bomb.
What he was now getting, though, was a screaming, flying, surprisingly (and possibly inhumanly) fast flying kick to those massive caverns of cheekbones.
"'Cuz your head don't blow up," Kūkaku informed him, straightening from the crouch she landed in, pulling up with a satisfied grin. "But felt much better than I thought it would."
"Fu-!" Kūkaku crumpled a bit toward the knee that he elbows, before shouting out, "You ASSHOLE!" and brought her elbow down on the top of his stupid curly head.
Of course he was an asshole. He was Sherlock Holmes. Just ask any member of the London Met and they'll tell you about the same.
Possibly add in something about being a freak or psychopath.
They should both be glad this hadn't ended up in the middle of a pond, though. Because that meant Sherlock was shoving her down against the ground, waiting for his head to clear.
Kūkaku's clothes at least appreciated the fact that they weren't in the pond. They barely fit her when they were dry.
Her back, however, was not nearly as happy. Didn't it go through enough abuse on a daily basis?
"Oof," Kūkaku said, landing and hard and immediately trying to kick her leg out to kick him in the delicate spot. She didn't care that he was an amoral sociopath freak, he was still, at the end of the day, a male.
At least she assumed. His voice was too deep for a eunuch.
It did have that deep, Alan Rickman quality to it...
And, despite his own ignoring of all things physical, he was a fully functioning male. Which meant that he was twisting to the side and slamming her back against the floor.
"Fire in the hole!"
She liked to give at least three seconds of warning after lobbing in a nice hissing, smoking explosive in through the door of Sherlock's office and then leaning on the doorframe to see how he'd respond.
So help her, if it wasn't the most beautiful thing in the world, she was going to just go in there and punch him in the face. That would be pretty damn satisfying, too.
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While he was no John, he was at least quick enough on the draw to move into a crouch on the floor and snatch the bomb back up to throw back at her.
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This girl.
"Oh, mother of Go--" Kūkaku ducked as the bomb came flying back and blew up over her head, showering her in ashes and filling the hallway with a small puff of smoke (she wasn't about to set off any alarms, here).
"You moron! Three more seconds, and you'd have blown off your hand! An' there's no way you'd look as good as me with a stump, ya idiot!"
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Another bomb being thrown, without warning this time, back into Sherlock's office.
As if she wouldn't come into this prepared.
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Sherlock followed the bomb with his eyes, snatching it up again and staring for a moment with far too much interest. "Is that all you have?" he asked, plucking the fuse from the bomb.
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What he was now getting, though, was a screaming, flying, surprisingly (and possibly inhumanly) fast flying kick to those massive caverns of cheekbones.
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"You're very fast," he managed from his spot on the floor, dragging himself back on up. "Why exactly didn't you do that before?"
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As if she would have reservations about kicking a man while he was down, especially when Sherlock made it feel just so damn good.
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"Good," he wheezed, forcing himself up onto his knees to elbow the side of her knee.
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Possibly add in something about being a freak or psychopath.
They should both be glad this hadn't ended up in the middle of a pond, though. Because that meant Sherlock was shoving her down against the ground, waiting for his head to clear.
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Her back, however, was not nearly as happy. Didn't it go through enough abuse on a daily basis?
"Oof," Kūkaku said, landing and hard and immediately trying to kick her leg out to kick him in the delicate spot. She didn't care that he was an amoral sociopath freak, he was still, at the end of the day, a male.
At least she assumed. His voice was too deep for a eunuch.
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And, despite his own ignoring of all things physical, he was a fully functioning male. Which meant that he was twisting to the side and slamming her back against the floor.
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