In the crispness of the morning sun peeking through the open curtains, your body jolted awake. Internally groaning at the bright light shining in your eyes, you moved your arm to cover your eyes before realizing it was immobile, stuck under the arm thrown over your body. Ever so cautiously, you lifted your head from the pillow it was laying on and gazed at the person beside you, a lump forming in your throat as your ex breathed peacefully, his fringe lifting the slightest bit as he exhaled each time.
Panic settled into your bones as you realized you should be anywhere but here, but knowing that Michael was a light sleeper (honestly, you were surprised he hadn’t woken yet), you also knew there was no way to leave his apartment without at least an awkward encounter. Deciding you might as well just get it over with, you began lifting the arm strung over your chest with great difficulty. It wasn’t necessarily that he was heavy, it was just dead weight you were trying to lift. Slowly, Michael blinked himself awake.
You watched as recognition slowly bloomed across his face, a light blush dusting itself prettily across his features as he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. You offered him a weak smile as confusion replaced the shock in his expression. “Hey,” you muttered.
Mycroft selects an envelope from the stack on the mantel and opens it.
“Your electric is overdue,” he says, and then adds, “perhaps in more time,” as
if Sherlock hadn’t just flat out refused. “Perhaps Doctor Watson would be
willing to assist you in sorting through some of her personal belongings.”
Sherlock stops the sharp breath in his throat. He will not
react. He will not react.
“Doctor Watson is very busy with his family,” Sherlock bites out. I
need to see you again, John had said, not four hours ago. Please.Every time I saw you, I thought about leaving them. Sherlock
reaches out and turns one of the shards out of order so that it jumbles up its
line, sticking out awkwardly, disrupting the row. The invocation of John’s family is a necessary reminder for them all. The way things are.
Mycroft makes a considering noise and holds up the envelope with the
electric bill in it as he gathers his coat from the chair by the door. “I’ll
see that this gets paid this month, then, shall I?” He says it in the same
voice he used to say my sincerest
apologies, barely more than a week ago, and Sherlock doesn’t breathe again
until the front door clicks closed.
- a wee teaser again from carrying up his morning tea, part II, which is very nearly finished and only three weeks late (please forgive me, I’m sorry, I changed everything like three times)
A fanfic for your inbox (Part 1): As Abbie fixed his cravat, her tiny hands at his throat, Crane felt the edges of his two lives blur together: he remembered Katrina fixing his cravat in a similar way--so long ago now, it seemed--and now Abbie stood before him doing the same. Performing tasks like a wife would, he realized, and suddenly all he could see was Abbie as that person in his life: laughing over meals, irritated by various hosiery on furniture, waking together in the morning.
(Part II): When Abbie stepped away, he gazed at her, imagining, wishing, hoping, agonizing, wanting to touch her like a husband would touch his wife. But before he could speak, he heard the movement of his wife–his actual wife, Katrina, ‘till death do us part–step up behind him, and his wishes dissolved like snowflakes on the tongue.