S h e r l o c k & H a t t i e l words that never amount to more than they're meant will play themselves out l
After a rather strained final half an hour of the lesson Sherlock had departed the school in haste, followed excitedly by Fran, or whatever her name happened to be. He had summoned a cab and she had climbed in beside him, settling a dainty hand upon his leg as he fiddled with his phone and arranged her swift departure from the country. Mycroft, at first, seemed rather unwilling to extradite a teenage girl to Russia but with some convincing Sherlock had managed to set the wheels in motion. It wasn't until they arrived safely back within 221b Baker Street that the girl informed him of telling her mother of her whereabouts. He found his ice blue eyes widening in frustration as he texted his brother to pause with the plan. Stupid, tedious, idiot humans. How he despised each and every one of them. Minutes had passed in silence as Sherlock placed himself in his retro chair and examined his skull held by awkward pale hands. Then, it seemed to happen suddenly - the girl (what was her name?) happened to be perched upon his knees, arms wound around his collared neck and lips closing in upon his own. He barely had time to react as he sucked in a deep breath, a few moments passing before she was kissing him with urgency. Sherlock's lips were frozen. He could feel the bile rising within his throat as his skull tumbled lifelessly to the floor.