Ghosts
“Do you think you'll be seeing her again?”
Their eyes meet. The whole world stands still.
And then Sherlock turns away...
John comes awake with a bit of start, and even though the dream dissolves as quickly as it came, the upset that had come with it remains.
Irene Adler again. He sniffs, brushes an imaginary piece of dust off of his nose with his free hand. The third time this week. So, it's going to be The Woman this month, is it?
The world outside Baker Street is cold and running with rain, but inside their flat John is even more cozy than usual. The indoor picnic was his idea, but Sherlock has made it his own, dragging the winter blankets out onto the sitting room floor, rewiring their table lamp until it emits a lovely, gentle glow- and hogging every single pillow and throw cushion to himself, so he can lounge like some sort of emperor. Or harem girl.
John would complain, but since the lack of soft surfaces means that he's had to commandeer Sherloc
LadyBethsheba
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