She was done towel drying her shaggy hair and put on her clothes; a grey cable knit sweater, black slacks, and a pair of red wool socks. Gathering her old clothes Emma made her back to the couch in the living room and put the old clothes back in the shopping bags. She knew that she was going to have to find a laundromat at some point or another Emma mused to herself while folding the blankets on the couch.
“Good morning”, said John mid yawn, “Sleep well, I hope?”
“Not nearly as well as you,” Emma joked back.
“I suppose I did have a bit too much last night,” the doctor replied sheepishly, “Was I that bad?” Emma shrugged as she followed John into the kitchen.
“How much of it do you remember?” Emma asked curious to see what he did in fact recall. Most importantly she wanted to see if John remembered stumbling in on Sherlock and her on the couch so close together.
It still felt a little funny for Emma to even think of him as Sherlock, and not as ‘Mister Holmes’. She had to suppress a laugh while John poured himself coffee, pondering what he did in fact remember from the previous night.
“Well,” he began taking a sip from his mug, “I remember going to the Waterpoet. Drinking. Food. More drinking. I believed I danced with you? And maybe some other people- this is where things began to get a little hazy- something happened during the dancing-”
“Emma took it upon herself to flip a man during the dancing portion,” interrupted Sherlock as he meandered into the kitchen. Emma rolled her eyes as she poured herself a mugful of black coffee.
“I believe I was asking John, Sherlock,” Emma said clearly enunciating the detective’s name which earned a slight smirk from the man, “You were there and fairly cognizant. John on the other hand...” She trailed off, smiling over the brim of her mug at John who turned a bright shade of pink. He cleared his throat.
“Yes well, anyway,” the embarrassed doctor continued while Sherlock made a face, “I remember walking out the bar, quite hastily at that but then it gets a bit blurry again.” He paused, taking another sip of his coffee, “We stumbled out and then I remember getting jostled around a bit. There was a bush? I think?” John was really struggling to remember what happened. It was pretty entertaining to Emma.
“Yes,” Sherlock interjected, “We were being followed by the man Emma flipped. He also had friends with him, friends who know and work for the Kosevos and more than likely Moriarty.” Emma visibly shook at the mention of man’s name, trying to shake the feeling off but she just couldn’t.
She would feel better once Emma's fist connected to his smug face, shattering his wolf like grin.
“Okay,” John said uneasily, “Glad I was out for that part, I guess.”
“Best part was when you heaved,” Emma said, earning her a glare from the doctor, “Really cut the tension of the situation.”
“And then,” John continued on trying to ignore the comment, “We somehow made it home. Emma got me into bed miraculously, and then I think I got up again.”
“Maybe I was dreaming, but I wandered into the living room and saw-”
“It’s already that late?” Emma gasped looking at her wrist watch and distracting the two men, “Don’t we need to go to the museum and meet up with Detective Inspector what’s-his-face?” Both John and Sherlock gave her look of complete confusion.
“You do mean Lestrade, right?” quipped John, obviously forgetting what he was talking about. Emma clapped her hands together.
“Ah, yup. That’s the one. We better get a move on. Don’t want to make him wait, right?” Both men shook their heads John exiting the kitchen first, followed by Emma who passed Sherlock. Their eyes met as Sherlock grabbed her arm and reeled Emma in close to him.
“What was that about?” He asked under his breath. Emma shot him a look of utter disbelief. Did the detective really not get it? Emma took a deep breath.
“Well,” she replied coolly. “I’d rather talk about what happened, or rather what almost happened, with only you. I don’t want nor need John to recount it for us.” Emma was getting more agitated by the second because of course he would want to talk about it now. At the most inconvenient time.
Figures, Emma thought.
“Are you embarrassed? Ashamed?” Sherlock asked who looked a little hurt. Emma didn’t know how to answer that question. She wasn’t embarrassed by the notion of kissing Sherlock, but more so how poorly he handled it when John walked in. Of course Emma couldn’t tell him that. Sherlock would never understand.
“Embarrassed of what?” She asked instead playing dumb, “Why should I be ashamed?” Sherlock gave her a look, and then loosened the grip on her arm.
“Never mind,” he exhaled, “Forget I asked. It’s not important.” Emma’s face burned with frustration. It was obviously bothering him, so why not just come out and say it?
Taking her arm back Emma grabbed her jacket and headed for the front door. John could feel the annoyance vibrate off of her body as she briskly walked past the doctor, slamming the door behind herself. Emma tried calming down breathing in the chilled air, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She stood on the stoop for a few moments trying to get herself centered.
These are the days where I really miss cigarettes, she huffed bitterly to herself. She went down the couple of steps on to the sidewalk waiting for the two men who were still inside. What’s taking them so long? They probably wanted to give her a few moments to cool down and Emma had to admit she did feel slightly better but there was still an underlining feeling of indignation beneath her skin. It itched like poison oak, crawling up and down her arms. She tried to shake the feeling, tried to convince herself lamely that she needed to "play nice" with the pompous bastard. After all, Sherlock was trying to keep her alive.
Emma looked up and down the nearly empty street with only a few cars and vans dotted it. She glanced down at her watch as she turned towards the door; it was late enough in the morning where it was more than likely everyone was at work or at school, so Emma wasn’t too surprised to be the only one outside.
At least she thought that.
Out of no where an arm came across her vision and around Emma’s neck, trying to her into a choke hold. She clawed at the limb, bucking and writhing like a calf in a rodeo; a frightened calf that obviously was not going to win.
“What the-?” Emma sputtered out.
“Come quietly, and it will be easier on you,” a voice laden thick with an Eastern European accent said. Emma grunted, spitting out a laugh.
“Didn’t you learn from the last time?” She managed to say. He applied more pressure around her neck as response, making it nearly impossible to breath much less call for help, her vision beginning to become blurry from lack of oxygen. Emma tried to keep struggling, but it was taking too much energy and she knew she needed to focus on staying awake.
God damn it all, Emma thought bitterly as she was being forcibly lead to the black van across the street, Where were they? Where was Sherlock?