Cold Tea

A crack of light slips through the gap in the door as Sherlock Holmes enters his flat.

He tugs at his scarf, and in a flourish of exposed neck and obscenely tight buttons, is entirely at home with his coat hung on the peg near the door. He can smell tea, strong, black, left steeping – no food. Jumper, baggy, not old, earrings left on the counter where she took them off, knee high rugby socks, Kings…This is what she wears when she feels like she’s home. Legs shaved — confidence increase, not to impress. But she’s turned her mug, pushed it away, she’s tired, restless, can’t find the right word.

He would have left her to her work, he’d already seen what was on her laptop – her password was startlingly obvious, but then he saw she was typing. His angular cheekbones slip close to hers as he reads. “Arrogant, imperious, rude? What happened to excellent, amazing, brilliant?” The question in his tone is almost playful, but his baritone is deep and thick like molasses.

Dr. Watson sits up taller when Sherlock returns, even though he brings the cold in with him. It’s an obscene hour — the sun will be up shortly, followed by the alarm set on her phone — but the last thing she feels like doing as he slips over to her is resting.

 

(So I totally forgot to add the fact that my lovely wife wrote the last paragraph here. She’s brilliant, and an excellent writer and an even better artist. You can find all of her work at artbyval.ca, or you can sift back through all of my posts and read all my stiflingly sweet comments about her. Whichever you prefer.)

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