The Blonde

The Gun

Rose was sitting in the chair across from him. The one John usually occupied. He wasn't sure how long the silence had stretched between them, but she sat there with knees bent, legs pulled up next to her, drinking her tea and gazing around at the room. Her eyes came to rest on him, as if she knew he'd come out of his thoughts.

"Protect me how?" he asked.

"Sorry?" she asked, her brows drawing together in confusion.

"You said if someone broke in you could protect me. How were you planning on doing that?"

He wasn't sure if she'd show him the weapon she was carrying, but since everything else failed he decided to try the direct approach.

"How would depend on the situation."

"Oh?" he asked, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his lips.

"Say it was just a bloke, unarmed, angry husband sort-"

The idea was absurd.

"That would never happen," he dismissed.


She arched her eyebrows. He caught her gaze.


"Okay, one bloke, angry because…" She looked him over. "You were rude to his wife."

"And that brought him over to my flat?"

"Very rude."

Her lips curved up slightly. He arched his eyebrow.


"And I suppose I'd let him have a go at you," she said, giving him that distracting smile. "You were rude to his wife after all," she laughed.

Joking. He might've let it go at that, but this little game had piqued his interest. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together.

"One man armed with a knife," he suggested.

"I'd disarm him."

She seemed pretty sure of herself.


"Again, that would depend on the situation," she replied, sitting back as she picked up her tea.

"And if you couldn't?"

She caught his eye.

"I could."

She was speaking from experience. It was evident in her voice. He smiled.

"And if he had a gun?"

"I'd disarm him."

She wasn't expecting him to believe that she'd kick the gun out of his hand, was she? Under certain circumstances that would work, but not all the time.


"With a little trick I learned," she said taking a drink of her tea.

"What trick?"

"If a bloke comes through that door," She nodded toward the door, "with a gun you'll find out."

The game had come to an end. There was only one way for him to find out what sort of weapon she possessed…he pulled the gun from his back waistband as he stood up and pointed it at her.

"Disarm me," he commanded.

"You forgot to come through the door," she teased.

Teased? He was pointing a gun at her. She hardly knew him. Did she think he was joking?

"It's loaded."

"I'll take your word on that."

He pointed at the wall above the sofa and fired. A shot rang across the room and imbedded in the wall. He swung the gun back to her.

"Disarm me," he demanded.


She was infuriating!

"Because I'm pointing a loaded gun at you."

"But you're not going to shoot me."

He wouldn't, but she couldn't know that.

"What makes you say that?"

"I know you're not."

"You can't possibly know that."

"Yes. I can." She stood up. "I can see it."

"For all you know I could be that sort of person."

She stepped toward him and reached out, putting her hand on his. The one holding the gun.

"No, you're not."

He gazed at her, distractedly, very aware of her hand on his.

"I…" his voice came out a bit gruff and he had to clear his throat before he continued. What the hell's wrong with me? "I know what you're trying to do."

She took her hand off his.

"What am I trying to do?"

"Distract me," he replied, lowering the gun.

"Distract you from what?" she asked, searching his eyes as if she didn't know what he was talking about, but she had to. She was the one doing all that smiling and touching and…he cleared his throat again.

"From learning the truth."

"If you want to know something then why don't you come out and ask?"

"I did."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did," he insisted.

"Well," she flopped back in John's chair. "Then maybe you're not asking the right question." Again with that distracting smile.

What did she mean by that? He always asked the right questions, but with her there were more questions than answers. What sort of science allowed her to appear in his flat? Where exactly had she come from? What did she do for a living? Why did she have a key hanging round her neck and what was it for? Who was The Doctor and why had she saved that particular name in her contacts? Why had she come here in the first place? What did she want from him? And what the hell was in her pocket? Were the immediate ones that came to mind and that was just scratching the surface.

"You've got that look again," she said.

He glanced at her.

"What look?"

"The one that tells me I better find out if there's anything edible in the flat before you lose another half hour."

"There's milk," he said, waving his hand dismissively, as if it didn't matter because, to him, it didn't.

"Milk's great for tea, but I haven't eaten since…this morning."

"You're hungry?" he asked.

He only ate when he wasn't working a case and usually only then because someone brought him something. John did seem to eat a few times a day, actually quite a bit some days.

"Yes. People generally get that way." She eyed him curiously. "You are human aren't you?"

He raised his eyebrow.

"There's another choice?"

"You'd be surprised." That distracting smile was back then she stood up and before he knew what she was doing she'd slipped her hand into his and helped him out of the chair.

"What're you-"

"You want answers I want dinner," she released his hand, grabbed his coat, and handed it to him. "Your treat."

"My treat?" he asked, sliding into his coat.

"You're the one who wants answers, yeah?"

She crossed the room and opened the door.

"Besides, I don't think my money's good here."

He gave her a quizzical look, but she shooed him through the door before he could ask about it. He followed her down the stairs and out the front door, mulling over her comment, but he did notice when she laced her arm through his as they walked down the road.

Standard Disclaimer.

Thank you to all my brilliant readers!

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