a.n. Wooo, my first ever Pondlock. & my first ever attempt at writing the insanely hard to get right Sherlock, so please let me know how I went! This chapter is set pre-series BBC Sherlock, & in the middle of The Eleventh Hour for Doctor Who (Series 5, Episode 1). There are a stack of references to Little Amy's encounter with the Doctor in this; cookies to anyone who can spot them & let me know in a review. :) Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!
- Dark Blue -
Amy Pond was used to people staring at her. Eleven years of insisting your imaginary friend the Raggedy Doctor is real and you get used to being looked at as though you're mentally unstable, and six months of working as a kissogram and you get used to being looked at as though you're being mentally undressed. Being looked at as though you're a puzzle to figure out, though – well, she hadn't been looked at like that for a while now. Past experience dictated that a good bite would wipe that stupid analytical expression right off this stranger's stupid, chiselled face, but Amy was here to do a job, and she could really use the money this week.
So she bared her teeth in a wide smile and sashayed across to where he sat at the bar, swinging her hips and purring, "I have a special warrant for one Mr Holmes."
His steely blue eyes widened at her words, for just the briefest of moments, before narrowing again into a look akin to disgust. Her smile twitched, but she managed to keep it in place, even if it did look a bit more forced than flirtatious.
"Apparently you've been a very naughty boy," she continued on with the scripted lines that went with the police uniform she was wearing, swinging the handcuffs looped through her belt around one finger.
"You can stop there, thank you," Holmes said, his tone polite but his expression – aimed not at her but at the man over her shoulder, who had introduced himself as Greg and pointed her in the birthday boy's direction – murderous.
"Ah," she tutted, wagging a finger at him as she stopped right in front of his bar stool. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
He rolled his eyes, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the whole thing, and muttered, "You're Scottish, not American."
Amy blinked at him, not sure if she should be offended. So she watched a lot of trashy television, so what? He didn't look like he'd meant his words to be malicious, though; nor did he look nervous, just… bored. What, was he gay or something? Normally even the most straight laced of guys got a bit flustered when she was up this close, all long legs and short skirt and darkly lashed eyes. But this Holmes guy was giving her nothing. Perhaps she'd have to do a bit of improvisation.
She grabbed the end of his scarf and pulled him forward, leaning down so that their faces were only centimetres apart. "Don't be scared though, I don't bite." She winked and added in a sultry whisper, "That'll cost you extra."
For a moment she thought he was going to laugh - like all the other people at the party, who had gathered around in a circle - but apart from the briefest of flashes in his blue eyes, Holmes' expression remained the same; completely disinterested. Amy pouted, biting the inside of her cheek and deciding that his mates really mustn't have had a clue what he liked if they'd hired a kissogram for his party and this was the response. She looked down at the scarf in her hand, and for a second she forgot where she was and allowed herself to just rub the pad of her thumb against the soft woollen material, noting that the colour matched the sky outside.
Holmes cleared his throat, causing Amy to look up with a start and drop the scarf. Now, she saw, he looked amused. And suddenly she felt mad, because this was supposed to be a laugh, like all the other parties she did; she was supposed to come in, embarrass the birthday boy, give him a quick kiss that left him a bit flustered and red faced, and then saunter out of the party with a nice sum of money in her pocket. But of course he was being difficult, and now he had the nerve to smirk at her, with the slightest tint of pity in his eyes. If there was one look Amy Pond couldn't stand people giving her, it was the look that said they thought they were better than her.
She perched herself on his lap, one of her legs either side of his, and set her hands on his shoulders. Now she had his attention, and she'd wiped that stupid look right off his arrogant face. With the power back in her hands, Amy stooped down and put her lips beside his ear, whispering, "Happy Birthday, Holmes."
She pressed her mouth to his, in a soft, seductive kiss that earned a few wolf-whistles from the other party guests, but that got no response at all from Holmes himself. Undeterred – because this was a matter of pride, now – Amy applied more pressure, and snaked one of her hands up into his curls, twirling them around her fingers. And finally she got a positive response.
He kissed her back, hesitently at first, but then with more confidence. He tasted like tobacco, strong tobacco, but his lips were soft and there was a good amount of give and take to the kiss that made her fingers curl just a little bit tighter over his shoulder. His hands didn't touch her, remaining awkwardly by his sides, until she pulled away, beaming at her victory, and he gently laced his fingers over the inside of her wrist, right over her beating pulse.
"Enjoy the rest of your night," Amy said, sliding off him and pulling down her impossibly short skirt.
He didn't reply, just moved his hand back into his coat pocket and stared at her impassively. She knew she'd won, though, and the way she smiled at him let him know it, too.
Greg had her money ready, and she took the cash from him with a grateful smile, wishing him a good night too before she excused herself from the rowdy pub and stepped back out into the crisp night air, shrugging her leather jacket over her shoulders as she went.
She'd had to travel all the way from Leadworth to London for this party – by train, because no one trusted her to drive their cars, no matter how many times she'd told them to come off it, because she wasn't that bad at driving. Yeah, she'd only had her licence for a bit over a week, but she couldn't be any more deadly than Mels on the road, could she? With a sigh, Amy began to walk down the street, past the queue of people waiting to get inside, her heels clicking against the pavement with each step.
"A cab is the quickest way to get back to the station," a voice said from behind her, and she spun around to see Holmes coming down the front steps of the pub, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. He lifted it to his lips when he reached the sidewalk and took a deep drag in, blowing out a puff of smoke but never once taking his eyes off her.
She hitched her jacket up higher and considered telling him to mind his own business, but instead surprised herself by asking, "Who says I'm going to the train station?"
He smirked at that, as though she'd asked just the question he'd been waiting to hear, and then began to roll off his explanation in a steady stream of speech. "You have no bag, just that jacket, and no car keys are in those pockets, because one's got your excessively large wallet in it and the other your phone, which you love and wouldn't allow to be scratched by keys, and your hand, which is clenched around your phone as a precautionary measure so that it's within easy reach in case anyone approaches you, which they probably will; a girl in a skirt that short, alone, at this time of night? You're right to be scared."
Amy grit her teeth. "I'm not scared."
Sherlock continued on as if she hadn't spoken, "The absence of any form of keys, not just car keys but house keys, too, indicates that you live in a small town, somewhere you could leave home without worrying about locking the front door, which makes it too far out from London for a cab ride to be feasible, leaving your next destination as the train station."
Amy narrowed her eyes at him, tilting her head to the side and saying testily, "I'm staying with a friend. In London."
"No, you're not." Holmes took another drag of his cigarette, still smirking at her.
Amy felt her temper bubbling over, and crossed her arms over her chest. She should just keep walking, away from this stupid, strange man who thought he knew better than she did. But Amy was more than capable of looking after herself, and a part of her wanted to stay and find out more about this enigmatic stranger with the dark curls and the long coat, who was still looking at her if she were a particularly frustrating puzzle.
"Pretty terrible friend then, leaving you to walk home alone," Holmes said blandly, stepping towards her. Amy didn't step back, meeting his piercing gaze evenly. "You're cold," he stated, glancing down at her stocking-clad legs and then back up to her eyes.
"I'm fine," she retorted, even though it was London, and it was night, so of course she was cold.
"Are you going to disagree with everything I say?"
He dropped his cigarette to the ground between them and extinguished it with the toe of his polished shoe, and Amy took the time he wasn't looking at her to observe the details of his face; the angular cheekbones, the prominent cupid's bow that she'd just kissed – and then his light blue eyes were focused on her again, the streetlight behind her reflected in the irises.
"Probably," she informed him, sounding slightly smug.
He didn't respond to that, just started slowly unwinding his dark blue scarf from around his neck. He held it out to her, and when she stared at it blankly he sighed heavily, as though she were being incredibly thick and could she please catch up, she was wasting his time.
"You're cold," he repeated, sending a small gust of cigarette tainted breath at her, "Take my scarf."
"Oh, no," she said, suddenly polite, "I couldn't."
"Take it," he insisted, practically shoving it into her hand. "I don't offer my things to others very often, you should be grateful."
"Well aren't you a charming fellow?" Amy mumbled, but she took the scarf and looped it around her own neck anyway. She was glad for the extra warmth, so she added a louder, "Thank you."
"Your favourite colour?" He spoke again, and this time it sounded a bit more like a question.
She blinked up at him. "What?"
"Blue. It's your favourite colour, isn't it?"
"How did you -"
"You were distracted by my scarf in the pub earlier," Holmes elaborated, delicately skipping over the just before we snogged part, "And while it's a lovely material, most people don't get sentimental about wool. Colours, rather, can trigger all sorts of emotions."
"I wasn't getting sentimental," Amy almost spat out.
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You're holding onto the scarf like it's a life line."
She looked down and saw that she was, indeed, clutching at the scarf with both of her hands, pressing it against her collarbones. "Shut up," she muttered, embarrassed.
"So, what was it that made you love the colour? Was it the colour of your house back in Scotland? Does it remind you of your favourite loch?" Holmes asked, rattling off possibilities.
Amy scoffed, "Remind me of my favourite loch; really?"
Holmes levelled his gaze at her. "You haven't lived in Scotland for years, since you were a child, well before the age of accent acquisition has passed, but you've kept yours relatively strong. You don't fit in in your small English town, that much is obvious. So perhaps you like the colour blue because it's the colour of the sky, the one you look up at night and the same one you looked up at when you were a little girl who'd just arrived in a strange new town with no friends, wishing on stars for a way out."
Amy felt indignation colouring her cheeks, and wrenched her hands away from the scarf and into fists at her sides. "You're wrong."
"I'm never wrong."
"Well you are this time. You're wrong and you're stupid."
Holmes said, without any inflection at all, "You've missed your train."
Amy lifted her arm to look at the small, gold watch on her left wrist, and gasped when she saw he was right – the last train back to Leadworth had just left the station. Without her on it.
"You made me miss my train!" She shrieked.
One corner of Holmes' mouth twisted up. "I thought you were staying with a friend."
Amy took a deep breath in, preparing to scream at him, but instead she just let out a low growl and hit him once on the arm before turning on her heel and storming away with no idea of where she was going.
"Take care of my scarf, Amelia," Holmes called out after her casually, and she stopped in her tracks.
"What did you call me?"
"Your name," Holmes said, "Amelia Pond."
She stalked back to him and poked him in the chest, her green eyes boring into him with an intensity that made her lean frame seem suddenly ferocious. "My name is Amy. Not Amelia."
"Your ID says otherwise," Holmes stated simply.
"Are you stalking me?" Amy asked incredulously.
Holmes actually laughed at that. "No, merely observing. You wear a necklace with the letter A on it around your neck, so there's your first initial. You're young, still a teenager, but your profession requires you to be over the age of eighteen, so you were born in eighty-nine, then, which narrows down the possibilities of your name considerably. A glimpse inside your wallet confirmed your name is Amelia Pond."
"Don't call me that," Amy hissed, glaring up at him.
Holmes met her gaze evenly. "You prefer Amy."
She faltered for a moment, her anger diminishing slightly in the face of his calm, and she told him, "Yes."
"Interesting," he said, tapping the fingers of his right hand against the outside of his coat pocket.
"And what's your name then?" Amy inquired. "You seem to know all this stuff about me and I know nothing about you, except for the fact that your last name is Holmes and today is your birthday."
"Sherlock," Holmes said.
Amy giggled despite herself, and he scowled.
"Well, Sherlock, how old are you turning today?" She asked.
Holmes shook his head, the corners of his lips turned up in a secretive smile. "Older than you."
"That much is obvious," Amy sighed, and then started appraising him. "I'd say, what, mid-twenties? Maybe twenty-five, twenty-six?" He didn't say anything, and she lifted her chin up haughtily. "Well, either way, you're an older man who's just come out of a pub, accosted an eighteen year old girl on the street and made her miss her only train home, so you're not really in a great moral position now, are you?"
He narrowed his eyes at that, but she thought she could maybe see a glint of amusement in them.
"You're a kissogram," he drawled, "Are you ever in a good moral position?"
"Hey now!" She exclaimed, reeling back. "Don't go insulting my job. It's a laugh!"
She could definitely see amusement in his eyes now, even as he kept his expression blank. "To some people, I'm sure it is."
"Oh of course you're going to pretend you didn't enjoy it," Amy grumbled, "You're one of those serious cops, aren't you? All straight laced and professional."
"I'm as much a part of the police force as you are," Holmes told her, looking absolutely appalled by the idea.
Amy looked down at her sexy police woman outfit. The skirt and heels were a tad impractical, and the vest was designed specifically to flatter her shape, but the costume had all the logos and everything; she was even wearing a matching hat, her red hair tucked up in a bun underneath. It could have been a pretty convincing get up, she thought, maybe even to someone as clever as Holmes – if she hadn't just been hired to snog him.
Choosing not to defend her outfit out loud, Amy said, "But Greg specifically requested the police costume, and he's a copper -"
"Lestrade is a police man, yes," Holmes said, "But I most certainly am not. There's too much bureaucracy and idiocy on the police force. I am a consulting detective."
Amy blinked. "I've never heard of that before."
"Of course you haven't, I invented the job," Holmes told her, as though this was completely obvious. "I'm the only one in the world."
Amy laughed outright at that. "You invented your job?"
Holmes raised his upper lip in what might have been a sneer. "There was nothing else that interested me."
Amy was thoroughly intrigued now. "So how does it work, then? What do you do?"
"When the police are struggling to solve a case, which is always, they call me," Holmes explained.
"And what, you just sweep in and solve it, just like that?" Amy questioned.
"I figured you out 'just like that'," Holmes retorted, and Amy was silenced. He continued, "I'm good at what I do. But it's boring at the moment. There hasn't been a remotely interesting case in weeks."
"It's your birthday, you can't be bored on your birthday!" She exclaimed, as though this was a travesty. "Come on, what do you want to do? What will 'interest' you?"
Holmes smiled at that, a big genuine smile that almost took Amy by surprise with its niceness. "I feel like I should warn you; I'm not a normal person, Amy."
"That doesn't worry me; trust me. And you're the only person in the city I know," Amy stated, shrugging her shoulders. "And you made me miss the last train home. So what else am I meant to do but entertain the birthday boy?"
"Will you charge me for this?" Holmes asked, his delivery so cutting that she couldn't tell if he was joking.
She nudged his arm. "What, consulting detective doesn't pay well?"
He screwed his mouth up and coughed into his palm, avoiding the question. "I know a good Chinese place," was all he said.
Amy's face lit up, but her smile dropped as she remembered the party gathered inside the pub for Holmes' party. "What about your friends, won't they notice you're gone and start to worry?"
Holmes laughed again, and shook his head. "They're all so intoxicated they won't notice I'm gone. They wouldn't care anyway."
"That's a horrible thing to say," Amy scolded. "They cared enough to throw you a birthday party, didn't they?"
"So they could hire a kissogram to make me uncomfortable," Holmes countered, and if Amy had been the type to get embarrassed she would have blushed at the look he gave her then.
Instead, she just said, "Oh, shut up and take me to this Chinese place then. I'm cold and hungry."
"You said you weren't cold earlier," Holmes said as he walked to the curb and held out an arm to hail them a cab.
"I thought we'd established that I was lying," Amy replied, smirking at him. When the cab pulled up in front of them she slid in before him and quipped over her shoulder, "By the way, this is your shout; I was going to walk, remember?"