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Entry tags:
Crossover ficlet, Elementary, Person of Interest, G
Joan Watson and Joss Carter walk into a bar... posted because otherwise it will languish in this file. 300 words or so. Gen.
Joan doesn't do bars, as a rule. She's never really had time before--and being a surgeon was exhausting if fulfilling. But now she's got all the time in the world, and some nights, she just needs to feel something. So. bars.
This one's got a reputation for being a police hang-out, and Joan tells herself firmly that she's not there to get dirt on Holmes. She can find that on her own with google, for one thing.
Glass in hand, she takes a bar stool, one heel hooked into the ring down below to keep her balanced. And she watches. Most of the detectives and police don't really pay her any attention. But every so often, one will notice that she's a woman, give her a second glance. Luckily, she's perfected her blank "don't mess with me" look, so the glances don't really go anywhere.
Looks don't work as well on women, though.
"Carter." The black woman says, settling into the stool two down from Joan. She's got a folder in her hand, toying with the edge of it. "I hear you know Holmes." The words are reluctant, torn from Carter like she doesn't want to say them.
"Watson." She's not sure why she admits to a name.
The folder slides across the bar to her. "Thought you might need this."
It's a police file, and Joan checks the name on it, then almost grins. Holmes, Sherlock. "Why?"
Carter shrugs. "I've seen how he works. Know a few like him myself." There's something more there, but Joan's learned not to press.
Still... "When do you need the file back?"
"End of the night."
Well. Joan takes her drink and file to a corner of the room, leaving Carter at the bar to herself. There might not be anything useful in the file, but then again, anything that gives her another handle on her current charge is worth any bad hand-writing she'll come across.
Joan doesn't do bars, as a rule. She's never really had time before--and being a surgeon was exhausting if fulfilling. But now she's got all the time in the world, and some nights, she just needs to feel something. So. bars.
This one's got a reputation for being a police hang-out, and Joan tells herself firmly that she's not there to get dirt on Holmes. She can find that on her own with google, for one thing.
Glass in hand, she takes a bar stool, one heel hooked into the ring down below to keep her balanced. And she watches. Most of the detectives and police don't really pay her any attention. But every so often, one will notice that she's a woman, give her a second glance. Luckily, she's perfected her blank "don't mess with me" look, so the glances don't really go anywhere.
Looks don't work as well on women, though.
"Carter." The black woman says, settling into the stool two down from Joan. She's got a folder in her hand, toying with the edge of it. "I hear you know Holmes." The words are reluctant, torn from Carter like she doesn't want to say them.
"Watson." She's not sure why she admits to a name.
The folder slides across the bar to her. "Thought you might need this."
It's a police file, and Joan checks the name on it, then almost grins. Holmes, Sherlock. "Why?"
Carter shrugs. "I've seen how he works. Know a few like him myself." There's something more there, but Joan's learned not to press.
Still... "When do you need the file back?"
"End of the night."
Well. Joan takes her drink and file to a corner of the room, leaving Carter at the bar to herself. There might not be anything useful in the file, but then again, anything that gives her another handle on her current charge is worth any bad hand-writing she'll come across.
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