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"I went to meet Mr. Braginski," Sherlock explained, casually leaning back in the armchair. Of course, Sherlock would do something like that, you thought. Watson was the first to speak (more like yell) after that, and he wasn't going to stop for a while.

Sherlock stared absentmindedly at his skull, paying very little attention to the man lecturing him about his ignorance. Watson went on, angry that his friend had been so stupid as to confront a trained assassin, but also just worried for him.

You had gone about the apartment building, hoping Mrs. Hudson had a first aid kit for Sherlock's injury. Once you had found it and assured Mrs. Hudson that everything was fine and under control, you ventured back to your own place. Watson didn't seem to notice that you had entered the room, but stopped his ranting when you had coughed to get his attention. "John, don't you have a date?"

"No, it's not until--"

"I'm sure you can be early," you returned and smiled when he understood what you meant. You didn't want to sound. . .well, bitchy, but you wanted to talk to Sherlock alone. John nodded, muttered goodbyes to his friends, and left for his date seven hours early.

All the while, Sherlock studied your movements intently, up until you were kneeling in front of him, opening the first aid kit. He watched with a hint of amusement as you looked angrily at him. Sherlock took a piece of your (h/c) hair that had fallen from behind you ear, and put it back, tracing his fingers slowly along your jaw while doing so.

"Fuck you," you mumbled, fully aware that he was trying to distract you from trying to help him. He chuckled softly, something he was doing more and more often. Blood rose to your cheeks when you had to ask him to take his shirt off.

"Eager, aren't we?" he teased, starting to unbutton his shirt. "It's to fix your goddamn cut," you answered coldly, a little pissed at him. He had gotten himself into this mess and he refused to do anything to help himself. Sherlock shrugged off the shirt and tossed it to the left. "You're going to need bloody stitches, Sherlock," you commented, standing up to get a better angle to clean the wound.

"It's not that bad," he sighed and pulled you onto his lap, so that you were basically straddling him."I swear to God, Sherlock," you muttered, but you could feel that you were blushing quite a bit. It was strange to see Sherlock acting like that, but at the same time it wasn't. You never knew what he was going to do.

With John, you could tell when he was angry, sad, or excited, and he is always up before nine. With Sherlock, all you knew was that he's Sherlock. He'd wake up in the evenings or at one in the morning, and sometimes never sleep at all.

Seconds ticked slowly by as all you did was stare into his eyes, trying to figure him out. Your anger seemed to be washed away by waves of emotion. It frustrated you how he could do that so easily. Then, as if you didn't have a hole in your shoulder and as if Sherlock didn't have a bleeding gash by his collarbone, he reached up to kiss you.

This kiss felt different from the hungry kisses you've received from him before. It was sweet and passionate, like Sherlock was trying to communicate what he just couldn't just form into words. Your lips fell into a perfect rhythm with his, while his hands found a spot behind your head, pulling you closer. He bit your lower lip, earning a small moan from you that drove him crazy.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" Sherlock asked after you broke away for air. "Yeah, I'm still going to stitch you up rather you like it or not," you replied. Realization struck Sherlock like he was being hit by a train. You didn't believe him.

Sherlock was never one for relationships, because to him they were unnecessary. A bunch of emotions tied to one person that held you back and clouded your vision. That one person is a weak spot, and Sherlock really didn't need that. But the first time he's in love with someone who may well be in love with him, she doesn't believe him. It was odd to him, but heartbreaking.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And Sherlock was thinking too much and he became so OOC that the writer had to put down her laptop and walk away.

Description
"I went to meet Mr. Braginski," Sherlock explained, casually leaning back in the armchair. Of course, Sherlock would do something like that, you thought. Watson was the first to speak (more like yell) after that, and he wasn't going to stop for a while.

Sherlock stared absentmindedly at his skull, paying very little attention to the man lecturing him about his ignorance. Watson went on, angry that his friend had been so stupid as to confront a trained assassin, but also just worried for him.

You had gone about the apartment building, hoping Mrs. Hudson had a first aid kit for Sherlock's injury. Once you had found it and assured Mrs. Hudson that everything was fine and under control, you ventured back to your own place. Watson didn't seem to notice that you had entered the room, but stopped his ranting when you had coughed to get his attention. "John, don't you have a date?"

"No, it's not until--"

"I'm sure you can be early," you returned and smiled when he understood what you meant. You didn't want to sound. . .well, bitchy, but you wanted to talk to Sherlock alone. John nodded, muttered goodbyes to his friends, and left for his date seven hours early.

All the while, Sherlock studied your movements intently, up until you were kneeling in front of him, opening the first aid kit. He watched with a hint of amusement as you looked angrily at him. Sherlock took a piece of your (h/c) hair that had fallen from behind you ear, and put it back, tracing his fingers slowly along your jaw while doing so.

"Fuck you," you mumbled, fully aware that he was trying to distract you from trying to help him. He chuckled softly, something he was doing more and more often. Blood rose to your cheeks when you had to ask him to take his shirt off.

"Eager, aren't we?" he teased, starting to unbutton his shirt. "It's to fix your goddamn cut," you answered coldly, a little pissed at him. He had gotten himself into this mess and he refused to do anything to help himself. Sherlock shrugged off the shirt and tossed it to the left. "You're going to need bloody stitches, Sherlock," you commented, standing up to get a better angle to clean the wound.

"It's not that bad," he sighed and pulled you onto his lap, so that you were basically straddling him."I swear to God, Sherlock," you muttered, but you could feel that you were blushing quite a bit. It was strange to see Sherlock acting like that, but at the same time it wasn't. You never knew what he was going to do.

With John, you could tell when he was angry, sad, or excited, and he is always up before nine. With Sherlock, all you knew was that he's Sherlock. He'd wake up in the evenings or at one in the morning, and sometimes never sleep at all.

Seconds ticked slowly by as all you did was stare into his eyes, trying to figure him out. Your anger seemed to be washed away by waves of emotion. It frustrated you how he could do that so easily. Then, as if you didn't have a hole in your shoulder and as if Sherlock didn't have a bleeding gash by his collarbone, he reached up to kiss you.

This kiss felt different from the hungry kisses you've received from him before. It was sweet and passionate, like Sherlock was trying to communicate what he just couldn't just form into words. Your lips fell into a perfect rhythm with his, while his hands found a spot behind your head, pulling you closer. He bit your lower lip, earning a small moan from you that drove him crazy.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" Sherlock asked after you broke away for air. "Yeah, I'm still going to stitch you up rather you like it or not," you replied. Realization struck Sherlock like he was being hit by a train. You didn't believe him.

Sherlock was never one for relationships, because to him they were unnecessary. A bunch of emotions tied to one person that held you back and clouded your vision. That one person is a weak spot, and Sherlock really didn't need that. But the first time he's in love with someone who may well be in love with him, she doesn't believe him. It was odd to him, but heartbreaking.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And Sherlock was thinking too much and he became so OOC that the writer had to put down her laptop and walk away.