I had this new really long story all planned out, but I'm not sure anymore I can write the whole thing (honestly, my life is a mess and I'm depressed and I suck), so here, I give it to you in the form of drabbles, some will be long-ish, some will be super short, some will be set before the movies, some during, and some in the future that I had conceived for the story. Some will be unabashed fluff, some will be angsty, though I like to think the fluff will outweigh them.

As of right now, I have about 20 little ficlets that I will be posting during the next weeks (some still need tying up so bear with me) and after that... well, who knows, maybe someday I will write you the whole story, it depends on whether my muse comes back or not.

The title comes from Donizetti's aria of the same name, which you should have no trouble finding in youtube (tell me again why ff hasn't enabled links?), preferably choose the one sung by Cecilia Bartoli (who is a goddess and you should worship her), but hey, whatever floats your boat.

Yeah, so... that's it. I hope you enjoy them.

~Dinner~

Ah! remember, lovely Irene,
That you have sworn to be faithful to me.
What comfort, oh! God, is left for me,
What hope shall I have?
For whom do I have to stay alive,
If that heart is no longer mine?

.

He follows her, not a rare occurrence.

He grabs her arm as he catches up, pulls her aside to hide her from prying eyes, then comes face to face with prying eyes that are hers, and he's not as annoyed as he was five minutes ago. Is it really too much to ask? To have a moment to themselves? A moment like those of the old days?

She starts walking again. He follows her because it doesn't seem as though she would follow him, and somebody has to follow. Following in itself isn't a new development, it's something he has always done, it's just that recently he has realized the importance of doing it.

So now, he follows her when he is able and for as long as he is able, which is miles more than he used to dare to. And in return she stays as close as she is able, for as long as she is able, which is a considerably longer time than she used to care to.

Maybe they are coming to an agreement.

She still asks him to come away with her, though, from time to time (because she has to, because she can't not do it and then spend entire nights up wondering if he might have accepted this time). He still asks her to stay, too, every time she does, because he knows at some point one of them has to give in, and although he has the sneaking suspicion that it won't be her, he can't go down without a fight.

So this time, after he followed her and she didn't put up half the struggle she usually puts into not being caught, after she kissed him and they made dinner plans like it was something they had been doing for years, he is certain that something has shifted, and whatever that was it cannot go back to the way it used to be. Tonight the dust will settle. Tonight one of them will make the choice.

He's got half a mind to pack up his most indispensable possessions, the ones that are always in the spot he methodically picked for them, and place them by the front door, just in case it's him. He's got the other half of his mind set on packing up his least indispensable possessions, the ones that are just taking up much needed space in the flat, and putting them away in the storage attic, just in case it's her.

He then considers doing both, just to not put all of his eggs in one basket.

He briefly wishes he could make a bet, take the risk, choose the outcome he wants and hope he has luck on his side. Except he believes in no such thing as luck and making a bet on such an ambiguous outcome would be utterly foolish and Watson certainly would never let him live it down.

Eventually, he decides to do neither and settles for plucking the strings of his violin as he contemplates his conspiracy web, all red ribbons and well-composed though hard to prove theories. He throws his mind into it, because if he asks himself what he thinks the outcome of tonight's events will be one more time, he will drive himself insane and then convince himself not to show up at all.

Eight o'clock rolls around and finds him at The Savoy, sitting alone in a white loveseat strategically placed in one of the further corners of the establishment, shooing away waiters because he's not ready to order yet. He returns home a little past midnight, filled up on bread and a little inebriated from the expensive wine bottle he had to finish all on his own.

He wonders why he's always left to dine alone.