"I swear to God," Lestrade says hotly, over Mycroft's rich chuckle, and takes a sip of the champagne. Before dating Mycroft Holmes, he'd have said it was the best stuff he'd likely ever taste in his life. Right now, standing at Mycroft's elbow, he can tell it's a bit flat. He drinks, and nods at a tall black-suited back. "He's not looking at her."
"Hm?" Mycroft is looking at him, and looking like he'd quite like to do something to Lestrade's throat, and Lestrade shakes his head with a smile.
"Sherlock. He's not looking at Joanna, he's barely paying attention. I thought..." Mycroft's gaze sharpens, on Lestrade's face: Lestrade shrugs. "I thought--she's all dressed up, you know, I--I thought he liked her."
"He's busy with the diplomat," Mycroft says with a lift of his shoulders.
"I know," says Lestrade dubiously, looking down at his champagne flute.
Mycroft touches his arm, resolving to do that something to Lestrade's throat within the next fifteen minutes. "Greg," he says quietly, "you're around the two of them almost every day. Watch him and see every time he looks her way."
--
The diplomat excuses himself to the bathroom during the first act; five rows back, three and a half minutes later, Sherlock checks his phone and whispers something in Joanna's ear. They both get up.
Joanna waits outside the men's washroom, bored and tapping her foot and checking her phone--covering all the exits, keeping an ear to the door. Sherlock heads inside and washes his hands before kicking the stall door open.
The diplomat pushes Sherlock's head back into the mirror, cracking it, and jabs his thumbs at Sherlock's eyes. Joanna has a gun barrel pressed against his forehead within the next minute. She's the one who texts Lestrade and Mycroft, while Sherlock asks some very specific questions, and moments later she's the one escorting the diplomat out to a black car.
The diplomat thinks it's a great idea to try and break her wrist before they reach the open door. Joanna disagrees, and in the fight--conducted almost noiselessly, barely indistinguishable in the dark--Joanna's dress gets torn, one earring goes missing, and her hair comes loose on one side.
Of course James Bond always looks perfectly gorgeously rumpled after his fights, Joanna thinks sourly, breathing hard as the door slams on the unconscious diplomat and the engine guns. She wonders if it's worth it to get on her hands and knees and look for the damn thing, and sighs.
--
"Charge it to Mycroft," says Sherlock, shrugging.
"There is no way I can pay this back," Joanna groans, staring down at the lone earring in her hand.
"I care," she says, more sharply than she means to, and pinches the bridge of her nose before she can help herself. "It's not--it isn't transport to me, okay?"
When she looks over at him, he's wearing a look identical to the first time she mentioned Russell Brand. "What are you talking about?"
"When you said it was all transport--" Joanna makes a frustrated gesture, and somewhere in the back of her mind something is screeching about champagne and tiredness. "It's all transport. You wear really nice clothing and you have really nice hair, and you look--you--you look extraordinary, you look like nobody I've ever seen in my life, and that's just completely normal for you, you don't--" She puts one hand up to her face, tries to wipe her words and her expression away. "I'm not beautiful, like you or my mother and my sister, and I'm not rich like you or Mycroft, and if I lose a diamond earring it means something. And the back of my head just caught up with me and told me I'm probably had too much champagne to be saying this, so please don't mention it again."
There's silence for a little bit.
Finally Sherlock says, and she can't see the expression on his face: "I've met your sister."
"Yes."
"She's very pretty."
"I know."
"You're not."
"Thank you, Sherlock--"
"She's pretty," Sherlock says, slowly. "She has regular, symmetrical features and long blonde hair and she weighs less than average, and she dresses beyond her means but she has a good relationship with her bank so they'll keep extending her line of credit. But you--" he stops, starts again, "you're not pretty. But you look kind. You look warm and clever, and people--you don't even notice how people gravitate to that because they've always done, they like you, of course they do, you make it easy, and then you go and you--you do something like smile or laugh, or something ordinary and stupid and pointless and--"
He looks down to take something out of his pocket, and drops it into her hand: it's the missing earring. "And I can't breathe."
--
Not immediately after this, but a while later:
Joanna gets up out of bed, kicking aside the covers, because she has an early shift and then they have an appointment with Sherlock's newest case, this thing about a hound. She pushes her hair out of her eyes as she heads for the first-floor bathroom--the bed upstairs is covered in papers, and maybe or maybe not something dead (best not to ask). It's too early in the morning to think.
She turns the faucet on and splashes her eyes, mechanically pulling her hair back with an elastic, and faces herself in the mirror.
She has her mum and Harry's nose, and the curve of their eyebrows, and her dad's determined chin. There's a bite mark on the side of her neck and her legs are still shaky as she balances herself against the countertop. She will never have Harry's mouth or Harry's perfect complexion, and she will never, ever get the hang of high heels.
Joanna runs a fingertip over the scar on her shoulder, and lifts her head high, and smiles at her own reflection.
Re: Here goes (5/5)delicateflower8March 18 2011, 19:10:12 UTC
This was really good and super sweet! I loved it! I especially liked the line, "And I can't breathe." That made me sigh dreamily and go, "Jo, you had better kiss him for that..." Great job!
Re: Here goes (5/5)brightest_wingsMarch 18 2011, 20:45:08 UTC
Op here. I love you. Internet cookies for life. I mean this is wonderful. Better then I would have hoped. I started pulling my favorite parts but I would have to copy and paste the whole thing. I loved Jo as one of the guys on base. I love how she was bad ass she was in the dress. I love Mycroft and Lestrade together, they were so cute! And I love Sherlock at the end. All in all a perfect fill. Thank you so much! All I can say is more please? ;-). Maybe Harry being pissed that Jo's got such a good looking partner. ;-P. Thanks again.
Re: Here goes (5/5)ningen_demonaiMarch 20 2011, 11:49:41 UTC
Oh my God, I want to make out with all of your girl!John x Sherlock fics. SERIOUSLY. They give me the biggest case of fluffy bunnies in my heart, they are so adorable and so perfectly written. I really love the relationship between Sherlock and Joanna in this. That bit where the 3rd man notices the two and observes that Sherlock really wants to kiss Joanna? I melted. ♥ But yes, Sherlock loves Joanna no matter what she's like (and I am biased towards freckles, so noooo makeup don't cover them!) and all is well in the world.
Thank you thank you thank you for writing this. Not the OP but damned if I didn't enjoy it all the same!
"Hm?" Mycroft is looking at him, and looking like he'd quite like to do something to Lestrade's throat, and Lestrade shakes his head with a smile.
"Sherlock. He's not looking at Joanna, he's barely paying attention. I thought..." Mycroft's gaze sharpens, on Lestrade's face: Lestrade shrugs. "I thought--she's all dressed up, you know, I--I thought he liked her."
"He's busy with the diplomat," Mycroft says with a lift of his shoulders.
"I know," says Lestrade dubiously, looking down at his champagne flute.
Mycroft touches his arm, resolving to do that something to Lestrade's throat within the next fifteen minutes. "Greg," he says quietly, "you're around the two of them almost every day. Watch him and see every time he looks her way."
--
The diplomat excuses himself to the bathroom during the first act; five rows back, three and a half minutes later, Sherlock checks his phone and whispers something in Joanna's ear. They both get up.
Joanna waits outside the men's washroom, bored and tapping her foot and checking her phone--covering all the exits, keeping an ear to the door. Sherlock heads inside and washes his hands before kicking the stall door open.
The diplomat pushes Sherlock's head back into the mirror, cracking it, and jabs his thumbs at Sherlock's eyes. Joanna has a gun barrel pressed against his forehead within the next minute. She's the one who texts Lestrade and Mycroft, while Sherlock asks some very specific questions, and moments later she's the one escorting the diplomat out to a black car.
The diplomat thinks it's a great idea to try and break her wrist before they reach the open door. Joanna disagrees, and in the fight--conducted almost noiselessly, barely indistinguishable in the dark--Joanna's dress gets torn, one earring goes missing, and her hair comes loose on one side.
Of course James Bond always looks perfectly gorgeously rumpled after his fights, Joanna thinks sourly, breathing hard as the door slams on the unconscious diplomat and the engine guns. She wonders if it's worth it to get on her hands and knees and look for the damn thing, and sighs.
--
"Charge it to Mycroft," says Sherlock, shrugging.
"There is no way I can pay this back," Joanna groans, staring down at the lone earring in her hand.
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"I care," she says, more sharply than she means to, and pinches the bridge of her nose before she can help herself. "It's not--it isn't transport to me, okay?"
When she looks over at him, he's wearing a look identical to the first time she mentioned Russell Brand. "What are you talking about?"
"When you said it was all transport--" Joanna makes a frustrated gesture, and somewhere in the back of her mind something is screeching about champagne and tiredness. "It's all transport. You wear really nice clothing and you have really nice hair, and you look--you--you look extraordinary, you look like nobody I've ever seen in my life, and that's just completely normal for you, you don't--" She puts one hand up to her face, tries to wipe her words and her expression away. "I'm not beautiful, like you or my mother and my sister, and I'm not rich like you or Mycroft, and if I lose a diamond earring it means something. And the back of my head just caught up with me and told me I'm probably had too much champagne to be saying this, so please don't mention it again."
There's silence for a little bit.
Finally Sherlock says, and she can't see the expression on his face: "I've met your sister."
"Yes."
"She's very pretty."
"I know."
"You're not."
"Thank you, Sherlock--"
"She's pretty," Sherlock says, slowly. "She has regular, symmetrical features and long blonde hair and she weighs less than average, and she dresses beyond her means but she has a good relationship with her bank so they'll keep extending her line of credit. But you--" he stops, starts again, "you're not pretty. But you look kind. You look warm and clever, and people--you don't even notice how people gravitate to that because they've always done, they like you, of course they do, you make it easy, and then you go and you--you do something like smile or laugh, or something ordinary and stupid and pointless and--"
He looks down to take something out of his pocket, and drops it into her hand: it's the missing earring. "And I can't breathe."
--
Not immediately after this, but a while later:
Joanna gets up out of bed, kicking aside the covers, because she has an early shift and then they have an appointment with Sherlock's newest case, this thing about a hound. She pushes her hair out of her eyes as she heads for the first-floor bathroom--the bed upstairs is covered in papers, and maybe or maybe not something dead (best not to ask). It's too early in the morning to think.
She turns the faucet on and splashes her eyes, mechanically pulling her hair back with an elastic, and faces herself in the mirror.
She has her mum and Harry's nose, and the curve of their eyebrows, and her dad's determined chin. There's a bite mark on the side of her neck and her legs are still shaky as she balances herself against the countertop. She will never have Harry's mouth or Harry's perfect complexion, and she will never, ever get the hang of high heels.
Joanna runs a fingertip over the scar on her shoulder, and lifts her head high, and smiles at her own reflection.
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you do something like smile or laugh, or something ordinary and stupid and pointless and--"
He looks down to take something out of his pocket, and drops it into her hand: it's the missing earring. "And I can't breathe."
Just perfect!
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Thank you thank you thank you for writing this. Not the OP but damned if I didn't enjoy it all the same!
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