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“I’ve never eaten eggs in my life.” Sherlock retorted, an eyebrow raised. “I’ve already eaten some toast, I’m fine.”
He went back to his paper, endlessly searching for some anomaly worth looking into.
“Toast isn’t enough to sustain you. What about pancakes? Grits? Oatmeal?” He’s not going to stop until Sherlock eats something of substance.
“How about a banana?”
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Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, watching the kids as if they were intruding in his territory. At the sight of John he snapped his paper straight and began to read, trying to avoid a lecture.
John sets his and Bernadette’s mugs in the sink before poking his head into the living room.
“I’m making breakfast for you before I head up to take a shower. I’m heading out to work today. How do you want your eggs?”
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“So am I.” She retorted. “Besides, I need to remind zhe underground who I am.” Her eyes flashed darkly as she smiled.
“And vhat’s mine.”
He smiles at her with such a warmth that it was never thought possible for him to look that much in love.
He kisses her firmly before getting back into the flat through the window.
i just miss what i thought we would have
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“Oh ja. I’m sure zhat sea of anger vill do you vonders.”
She fell silent, watching the street below.
“Maybe I should go vizh you.”
“I just need something to do.” He sighs, resting his forehead on her chest. “If I keep idle I’m going to go crazy. And fat.”
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“You ought to know. You bought his monstrosity.”
Her pale hand ran through his hair, shrouding his mind in silence and solitude.
“Ah ve babysuttahs now?” She asked, nodding toward the kids.
He looks into the window downstairs at the kids still sleeping. “They just needed a safe place to go. Not sure why they picked here to sleep.” John rolls his eyes before leaning into Bernadette’s silence.
“I still need to take a shower and then I might just go work at the pub today.”
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“You’re up early.”
Bernadette leaned against the window frame, her cup of tea in hand.
“How is your back doing?”
She’d nicked one of his worse jumpers, hoping that his seeing how bad it was on her would be enough to get it tossed in the rubbish.
John nods and rolls his shoulder. “Much better, thanks.” He cracks his neck before turning so he can see her.
“Looks good on you.” He smirks, sipping his tea as his eyes trail over her and the jumper.
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The first image came from Sherlock, washed in mixed emotions. The detective was seeing his grave for the first time in years.
The ground was wet from a recent rain, but his grave was dry.
An umbrella had been propped against the cold stone. The handle was engraved with the initials MH.
John grimaces, trying a different form of building walls. He uses memories to protect his mind, each day he visited Sherlock’s grave stone surround his spirit, an iron wrought gate allowing him to go in and out of his head.
He hears Bernadette moving in the bedroom.
John Watson. Ex Army Doctor. Blogger.