Sherlock Imagines & One-Shots

Stages (Sherlock) Part Two

"So."
Lestrade exhaled, kneading his brow with his knuckles warily. His silhouette was highlighted by the flickering lights of the police car, pasting his shadow across the cool, cracked cement.
The blackened frame of what had once been a coffee shop groaned from behind them as a dark skinned officer- Donovan- propped her leg up upon what used to be a window, a rather worn expression plastered across her speckled face. The same look one might give a child who had misbehaved.
The smokey smell of gunpowder and spilled lattes wafted through the darkness of the street, mingling with the eager chatter of reporters and frazzled witnesses. Swirling spires of silky smoke danced in the breeze, fading into the London night like the ever present fog.
"Lemme get this straight," Lestrade sighed, his brassy voice heavy as he paced upon the sidewalk, wiping his hands down his face.
"You punched an employee in the face, assaulted the manager, bloody shot him in the leg, and then- Christ- you set off a fucking bomb ?"

There was a pause.

"Well, when you put it that way," Sherlock started, causing John to elbow him in the ribs.
Hard.
The force jostled him into Quinn, his shoulder bumping against hers- not exactly gently. He toppled onto her, causing her to let out a little yelp. Her hands instintively flew to his arm, gripping his shirt to steady them.
...However, it didn't exactly work. In fact, the extra force only brought them further down, feet jumping over feet as they stumbled a few steps backwards. Quinn's back hit the side of the van roughly, Sherlock smushing flush against her. He caught himself with his elbows as to not completely crush the woman, but he was still unbarebly close. Or not close enough. He didn't know. What he did know was that he was close enough to feel her deep curves against his chest- which certainly meant she could feel his elevated pulse hammering againnst his ribcage. Though he would just blame it on adrenaline, and not the fact that her shirt had ridden up in the fall, her exposed waist was brushing against him as her face hovered a few painful centimeters away.
It went quiet.
Quinn looked up at him from her place in between his arms with widened, thickly lashes eyes, her pupils dilated in suprise. And something else, too, but before Sherlock could properly examine it the shock faded, giving way for a wicked, wicked smirk to slowly wind its way into her face.
His eyes narrowed.
Oh.
That smirk.
The smirk that perpetually haunted his thoughts, tormenting his dreams far more then any common nightmare. The smirk that drove men insane, leaving them a mess of hormones and sentiment. The smirk that held the fate of the entire world upon curved lips and white, imperfect teeth. A smirk he was just burning to understand, to get out of his head once and for all.
She was close. Close enough he could feel her breath brushing against his jaw, hot and rather caffinated against his own. And then-
"Well, Mr. Holmes. Rather forward today, aren't we?"
Shit.
In a perfect world, Sherlock would have crashed his lips against hers right then and there. He would have kissed her until she could barely breath, tangling a hand into her hair and using the other to hold her closer, tighter. But that wouldn't be enough. It would never be enough. He would have hauled her right back to Baker street, never letting go of her until they were securely in his room- or on the couch- or anywhere, actually- and- well. Do things.
However, this was not a perfect world.
Nor was Sherlock Holmes a perfect person.
Therefore, he simply stood there, shoving away any sort of ache in his gut, any sort of ill-wanted emotion away and locking it all deep, deep away inside of him, obliviating the key into the depths of his skull.
Because Sherlock Holmes was not stupid.
He was not going to fall prey to the ever lurking temptation of Quinn Caunter, no matter how difficult it might be. Sentiment- worse, sexual companionship- did not have its place in Sherlock, nor did he long for it to. It did nothing but steal and rot, molding the mind into a useless object of confusion and addled pain. Pain. Sentiment was a deceiver, the high before the withdraw. And God, did Sherlock know about withdraw. It was a sharp knife in his skull, left him shivering, a pathetic mess of pulsating pain and suffering. His brain would go numb, a useless clump of cells and neurons dulled with hurt and need.
Of course, his concious mind was not aware of any of these thoughts. Because to him, she wasn't even an option. This- sentiment- simply wasn't a possibility. His feelings were lost, detached, confused thoughts he'd find any sort of fathomable excuse for. He couldn't reconize the burning vat stewing inside of his chest, or the creature just growling to be let out. They were foregeiners in a the valley of reason, speaking a language he couldn't understand. A language he couldn't remember. They were disorted, fuzzy shapes on the horizon, something couldn't comprehend.
He scowled at her. Why? Because he was a stupid asshole, that's why.
"Now isn't the time, Caunter." He said cooly, dropping his arms. He turned back to Lestrade, but if he hadn't, he might have seen the flicker in her eyes.
Sherlock felt a pricking on the back of his neck as John gave him an odd glance, one that bothered the detective. The same look Sherlock gave John when the doctor rambled off about his girlfriend. But that didn't make sense. Unless John thought that-
A sharp sting in his side alerted Holmes to Quinn's presence as she poked him in the ribs, retaliation for the stumble. Well, for a lot of things, but mostly the fall.
And the scene would have been more awkard if not for Quinn's blantent disregard for anything remotely uncomfortable. She began to hum, ignoring the stares she was receiving as she pulled out her cell phone (the screen of which had cracked during the explosion) and began texting.
And then the tension went away, and everything was normal.
Mostly. It also helped that Lestrade was fuming with indignation.
" Are you bloody insane?" He finally managed. Well, shouted, really. Nonetheless.
  "Do you realize what the hell you've done? You've literally exploded the busiest street in london!"
"Oh, you're exaggerating. It wasn't that bad."
As the words left Sherlock's mouth, a scream shot out from behind him, the paramedics shouting as they hustled towards the sound. Apparently,  fire had started (again), and the familar sounds of extinguishers blowing foam drowned out the cries of the standbyers.
Lestrade gave them a look.