Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, unfortunately.
A/N: What can I say, angst is my one true love. Enjoy!
Sherlock Holmes's life ends with a clean, wet hole in the back of his head and utter surprise marring his features. He didn't see the gunman lurking round the corner because he was too busy engaging in his final shady-exchange with Moriarty's informant; after this last deal he'd be able to return home within the week. He could practically taste the cold, crisp London air. The smell of hot tea and John's shampoo were already tickling his nose. It was a mere matter of days before his veins would once again fill with adrenaline from a good case, rather than the nicotine (from patches—he promised John he wouldn't smoke) and fear he'd been living with for the past two years. It was wonderful, it was gorgeous.
He handed the man a suitcase packed full of perfectly counterfeited hundred pound notes and in return received a short list of information (who to kill, where to find them: the usual).
The man, Tajemnica Zyc, grinned into the darkness, a shaft of moonlight glancing off his gold-capped canines. "I trust you will be pleased, Grigori," Sherlock nodded at the pseudonym, then folded the list neatly into quarters.
"Yes, I'm sure I will"
And that is the last thing he ever utters, because on the tail of that sentence, gunshots explode throughout the abandoned warehouse like bottled fireworks. Tajemnica shouts and dives away in time, but Sherlock, innocuously turned and facing away from the shooter, is hit before he even has the chance to register the pain at the base of his skull.
It is so brief-sharp and sudden then gone-that it almost doesn't feel real. One minute he is standing upright with a list in his hands, victory dancing through his veins like cocaine, and the next he is lying in the supine position, face-down in a pool of blood. It's so dark in here that the liquid looks black, like tar. Sherlock immediately notices the fact that he is staring at himself outside of himself, as if the body on the floor is someone else's.
Sherlock has always found denial pointless, and now is no different. He examines his still corpse with the same cold precision he'd use with any other body and succinctly arrives at a conclusion:
He is dead.
Which is an absolute bloody shame, because after all he has gone through it just seems unfair that his death would be so anticlimactic. He didn't even get to look at his murderer's face. Deducing some embarrassing facts about the shooter would have been a decent consolation—it might've given him something to laugh about in the afterlife, anyway—but he's been denied even that small joy.
With nothing else to do, Sherlock gathers his ghostly wits and begins to drift.
He's bored, he's tired, and he's numb. He wanders around Germany for a week—or a day, he isn't quite sure if his perception of time is accurate—but it's too boring and quiet and there aren't any good murders to busy himself with. There isn't even as much as a domestic disturbance. The peacefulness makes his skin itch—though whether or not he technically has skin is debatable—and he wishes he still had functioning veins because cocaine sounds heavenly right now.
Ha! Heavenly. Get it? Because he's dead.
Speaking of which, he wonders who he should haunt. Perhaps Anderson?
He can already picture himself writing something jarring like "Heaven/Nirvana/Paradise isn't real, moron. Also, your wife is sleeping with your son's English teacher" in the condensation on his window or perhaps in blood-red lipstick across the bathroom mirror. Then again, that's a bit showy and lacks finesse. Maybe he'll just hide Anderson's possessions and make him think he's mad when he finds a shoe or something on top of his refrigerator. Or spell out "dolt" and "idiot" in his alphabet soup. So many options, so many possibilities.
Oh well. He needn't decide now; he has all of the time in the world.
Correction: he has all the timein His World, not the world. The world is still spinning around the sun, unknowing of a certain consulting detective's absence. His life has come and gone, snuffed out like so many others before him and like so many others to come.
In His World, however, he has infinite time. Or at least he thinks he does. Sherlock is still not quite sure how this whole "dead" thing works. He isn't even sure what he looks like, actually; for all he knows his afterlife form is a levitating ham.
(Though, he really hopes that is not the case)
He cringes. Death has made him silly, apparently, because in life he would have never even humored such a stupid thought. Sighing, he settles onto a bench in some park in some country that is probably still Germany, though it could be Russia for all he knows because he has no idea how long he'd been aimlessly drifting.
People pass by and no one looks at him twice. A woman sits next to him and babbles a breakup speech into her cellphone, claiming that she 'would like to remain friends' because she 'still loves him'. If Sherlock still had a stomach he'd most certainly vomit. He stands up and after a brief scan of the scenery absently deduces several impending heart attack victims, a serial adulterer, a closet lesbian, and a foot fetishist. Boring, boring, boring, dull.
He tucks his pale hands into his coat and continues to meaninglessly drift.
In Paris, he lounges against the spire of the Eiffel tower, bored, slightly cold, and annoyed at every single living person bumbling around beneath him. Experimentally, he grabs for a nearby bird—just to see if he can touch things—but his hand merely passes through it like a hologram.
Great: more things he can no longer do. He crosses his arms and glares alternatively between the sky and the sidewalk. Being dead is so bothersome.
Sherlock sits—well, floats—in a café somewhere in Ireland, inhaling the delicious but not quite right scent of tea (then again, he does have high standards; he firmly believes that the only proper tea in existence comes from 221B's kitchen). The wallpaper is burnt sienna-colored and decorated with paintings from local artists. From their (mediocre) art alone, Sherlock deduces at least three different cases of OCD, a bisexual swinger, a spouse guilty of infidelity, and a college dropout. The girl behind the counter is planning on breaking up with her girlfriend and the man whose order she is taking just ran over the family dog by mistake. Also, the woman near the door is a pyromaniac.
How bleak.
The bell above the door chimes as a short, fair-haired man steps through the threshold and into the shop. The bored expression immediately saps from Sherlock's features as his eyes drink the man in.
His hair is soft-looking and greyish blonde—it reminds him strangely of feathers—and his eyes are a bright emerald color. His stature is small and strong and he is wearing a very ugly, very comforting jumper. It is heather grey with a red and navy argyle pattern on it. Something heavy and uncomfortable twists in Sherlock's chest, but he can't look away because there is no use to denying the similarities between this man and John. Save for the eyes and a few dissimilar features, if Sherlock squints very hard from a good distance away it is almost like being in the same room as John.
When the man orders his chai tea, Sherlock stands beside him in line and waits, and when he receives his drink Sherlock follows him to his table. His name is written on the sleeve of his Styrofoam cup, but Sherlock does not bother looking. He tries not to stare at the man directly; it's easier to pretend he is someone else when he is just a smear of blonde in the corner of Sherlock's eye.
The man contently alternates between sipping his tea and typing something on his laptop. If Sherlock lets his analytical mind take over, it will take less than seconds to deduce that he is writing an email to a sick relative he is reluctant to visit; however, that is not Sherlock wants. Sherlock, for once, doesn't want reality; he wants to pretend for a bit. He'd like to believe the man is writing a mediocre blog with a ridiculously large readership, not an insincere email. So, he ignores the low buzz of observations that stream through his mind like computer code and instead just sits there beside the man, pushed so close to him that he is practically in his lap, listening to the steady sound of keys tapping.
If he closes his eyes and focuses very, very hard, it's almost as if he has his blogger back.
It takes longer than it should for him to return to John. Thinking back on it, he wonders why it didn't occur to him sooner to go to London. Perhaps because of fear? Reluctance?
Actually, he knows why he hasn't returned before right now: it's because seeing John and not being able to touch John or speak to him will be painful. And it is. Because when Sherlock finally stumbles up the walkway, tired eyes locked on the front door's knocker, his chest feels hollow. After he 'died' he assumed the next time he would see the familiar address 221B he'd be exhausted but glowing with victory, heart thrumming with the anticipation of seeing John and pulling him into a long-awaited embrace. Now that he's actually dead—hold the air quotes—he finds the experience of returning home much more saddening than joyous.
Soundlessly, he bleeds through the front door and glides up the staircase. He finds himself longing for the familiar creak of the fourth and sixth step, but there is no way to assuage this small bit of nostalgia because he now weighs nothing and stairs do not creak under weightless beings. He sighs.
When Sherlock slips into the flat, the first thing he thinks is: that old sulfuric sample should have been thrown out months ago. It smells absolutely dreadful. How does John stand it?
He drifts into the kitchen and is stunned to find the table looking exactly as he remembers. John has left all of his experiments untouched. It's been over a year and a half and everything is in the same place; the only differences between then and now are the fact that the blood and saliva in petri dish #3 have dried into a rusty film and there is a thick layer of dust coating his microscope.
Not a single, solitary, minute thing has been shifted or rearranged in more than five hundred and fifty days and Sherlock cannot fathom why. Now that he knows something is strange, his eyes are much keener as he reexamines the sitting room. Speechless, he glides over to their table where stacks and stacks of files are piling up. These are new; he's never seen these before and has no idea why they are there. That doesn't make sense unless…
Unless John has been collecting them from Lestrade.
He peers at the papers and documents that are visible, irritated as usual by the fact that he cannot physically sift through them, and arrives at the conclusion that every single file in this large heap is an unsolved case. Sherlock knows John wouldn't attempt to take over his craft, nor would he collect them for anyone else—as far as Sherlock can tell, no one but John has lived here in the past several months—so that must mean that these are for…Sherlock.
Suddenly it makes sense. The dog-eared corners, the little hastily-scribbled notes riddled with intimacy—"I know you'll love this one, no matter how dull you find planets" or "Ha! Here's a tricky one that'll stump even you"-and the careful, precise folds of notecards and photographs all scream one thing: John is waiting for him.
If his heart could still beat, it would break.
Now that he has a better understanding of the current situation, he is a bit reluctant to explore the rest of the house. His heart plummets to his feet at the thought of what kind of state he is going to find John in.
Warily, he walks down the hall to his own bedroom, because somehow he has a feeling that that is where he will find him. Sure enough, John is curled up on his bed, fists tangled in the sheets, in the midst of a terrible nightmare. His face is contorted in great pain, entire body shivering like a leaf. "Sherlock—stop—please—come back," tears trace down his cheeks and into his silently screaming mouth like rainwater.
Sherlock stays in the doorway for what seems like ten years, arms cradling himself, shoulder pressed into the threshold, desperately wanting to look away but unable. His heart somehow aches—how is that physically possible?—at the sight of John, his infallible pillar of strength, utterly destroyed.
When John finally settles down and slips into a deep slumber, Sherlock joins him in the bed and places his pale hand protectively over John's turned back. He whispers, "I'm here, I'm here," and wishes that John could hear him.
Sherlock's least favorite thing about New John is the massive weight loss. He never eats unless Mrs. Hudson forces something in him, and even then his meals are sparse. He is exactly twenty pounds lighter than Old John. His face is gaunt and his small form is swallowed up entirely by the overly-large jumpers he wears.
Perhaps it's odd, but Sherlock celebrates each morsel to pass John's lips as if his nutrition is the most important thing in the world—which it is. Sherlock finds himself suddenly understanding why John used to insistent that he eat three square meals a day. Food, however tedious, is actually quite important.
(Though, that is one upside of being a ghost: no need to bother with eating)
Ghosts are so bloody abstract. It's rather annoying, actually, and it bothers Sherlock to no end. In the afterlife there are no defined lines or succinct truths. Everything has a fuzzy, muted quality to it, as if he is viewing the world from within a fishbowl. Even 221b occasionally strikes him as strange, when the flicker of light switches, turning of pages, or low rumble of television do not sound as sharp as he remembers them. He wishes that John would laugh sometimes, though. At least just once more. He knows that if John were to laugh it wouldn't matter how muted the quality of it was, because the simple fact that he was happy would be more than enough to cut through the deafening silence of Sherlock's lonely, empty fishbowl.
But: John doesn't laugh anymore.
Today, he sits in his chair across from Sherlock's and glares at the empty seat, untouched tea sitting on the table beside him.
"You're an idiot, you know that?" his voice is harsh and low. Even though Sherlock knows John's tone isn't (technically) directed at him, he still shivers. John can be quite intimidating when he wants to.
"Don't get me wrong, you are a bloody genius in most regards-science, chemistry, criminology, deductions—but the minute you lied to me then flung yourself off of a fucking building you became the biggest idiot in the world," John's hands are clenched around the arms of the chair, his fingertips digging into the upholstery like claws. His jaw muscle visibly flexes and his body trembles with anger. "You lied, Sherlock" it comes out in a pained hiss, as if voicing the words is nearly too much. "You told me you were a fake, that everything was just a trick,"
John's eyes go glassy, the anger seeps from his tone. "'suppose it was true, though: you being a fake, you lying. Because when you said we were friends, that obviously wasn't the truth," he absently reaches for his tea and holds it loosely in his right hand. "You know how I know that?"
He raises the cup to his mouth shakily, eyes fixated on something distant. "Because if you were my friend you wouldn't have left me like this. Alone," he seems to forget he intended to drink his tea because he moves it away from his mouth seconds later, untouched. Sherlock settles himself gingerly into his chair, afraid to stir John from his musings, even though it isn't possible since John can't see him or hear him.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock says quietly, because he is and there is nothing else Sherlock has to offer but his apologies. He never wanted John to hurt like this; the whole point of 'dying' was to protect him, not cause him pain. Sherlock never intended to actually die.
John predictably says nothing. Silence stretches on like miles and miles of empty planes, before a small dry chuckle escapes John's lips. It's not a happy sound. "I don't know why I'm saying any of this," he smiles blandly at the chair—and unintentionally right at Sherlock—and runs a weary hand down his face. "You can't hear me, so what's the point? I'm talking to a bloody chair for christ's sake."
Sherlock watches his features contort in pain, a bitter smile ripping itself across the seam of John's lips.
"Going mad aren't I?" He asks no one.
Frustrated with himself, John rises from his chair and storms from the room. The sound of his bedroom door slamming is as loud as a bomb in the quiet flat, and Sherlock unintentionally flinches.
John doesn't come out of his room for the rest of the day. Silence pervades the flat like poison.
One morning, John walks into the sitting room with an air of determination. He sets his laptop on the table and opens up his blog, fingers flexing above the keyboard. Sherlock stands behind him and waits while John stares at the blinking cursor.
Minutes pass and he mumbles under his breath, starts to type something that pertains to Sherlock, and then thinks better of it and hits backspace. After a half hour he slams the computer shut and leans back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.
"Seems I don't actually like writing, I just like writing about you," he breathes. After a moment he gets up and goes for walk.
John does not attempt to work on his blog again.
Today, it's been weeks since Sherlock died. Other times, years. He doesn't know for sure, though. Time passes differently for the dead.
Sometimes it feels like it has been mere minutes since he last sat across from John, palms splayed against the cool leather arms of his chair, a hot cup of tea steaming at his side. For all he knows, he has only been dead for the time it takes to retrieve something from the kitchen. It feels as if it's been minutes or maybe hours. But no, it's been much longer than that—it has to have been—because he never reaches the undetermined item in the kitchen and he doesn't find his way back to his chair nor John. 221b is pulled from his fingertips and the world goes fuzzy and white for a moment. It is times like these that his name is an intangible truth slipping from his hands, John's face scrambles into peaches and pinks and greys, and he has difficulty remembering how to smile or laugh or curl his fingers into a fist. He can't breathe. There is a glowing white light somewhere just beyond him and he can't breathe. Then the memories trickle back, he reorganizes himself, pulls his unfurling, silver-soul back from the ether and gathers it in his chest where it belongs. Only then does he no longer panic about losing his breath, because he remembers that he no longer needs to breathe. (Lungs are troublesome things ghosts needn't bother with)
But other times, it's been decades. He drifts before a mirror and finds silver hair springing from his head where inky curls once resided, and the smooth planes of his face wrinkle delicately like crumpled silk. Age has seeped the sparse blue from his eyes and left them as pale as his skin, as his teeth, as his bones. He turns around and finds the flat covered in cobwebs and dust, the furniture draped in sheets and ready to move to storage. John is gone, because he is married with kids and a real house and a real job. John forgets about 221b, about London, and when someone says they recognize him from when he was in the papers years ago, "You were best mates with Sherlock Holmes, right?" He says "who?" and then goes about his day. Time slips forward like a speeding car, like a marathon runner, like a shot of cocaine, and Sherlock is left coughing in its dust. He can't remember what day or year or life he is in, because there is no solid ground beneath his feet and no blue sky above his head, so this could be a dream/nightmare/fantasy for all he knows. Time time time: the ticking of a clock echoes throughout the empty flat and he knows this isn't reality—John hasn't left, he isn't old, the world is still where is was ten seconds ago—but he doesn't have John's steadying palm on his shoulder to ground him nor the familiar smell of laundry soap and tea to lull him into placidity.
Other days, time is as insignificant as drifting dust motes. When John is curled into himself in the corner of his bed or in Sherlock's chair, eyes wide and haunted, whispering "Where are you, where did you go, why did you leave me?" over and over like a nursery rhyme, Sherlock doesn't care a single bit about how long he's been gone. He cares only that he is not there with John to comfort him. Maybe it has only been weeks or maybe it has been decades; it is no matter. John is alone and Sherlock is at fault.
He closes his pale eyelids over his pale eyes and curls into a windowsill somewhere, shaking like a small child. He's dead; his emotions should've died with his useless bloody transport. Hell—he would've preferred that they had. Because now he is stuck with a bloodless, silent heart that still somehow swells with pain, as well as a whole mishmash of anger-sorrow-bitterness-fear-hurt-confusion and most of all—worst of all—love.
Ghosts shouldn't be able to love, it's just cruel.
John stumbles into the flat at one in the morning with a half filled wine bottle in one hand and change from the taxi ride home in the other. He crashes into the wall on the way in, sloshing wine all down his front. He laughs sloppily at that and peels his jacket off with his free hand, all the while spilling even more wine on the floor.
"No'nes gonna notice that, don'tworry," he slurs.
By the time John makes it to the sitting room, he has dribbled bright red spirits across the entire carpet and it looks like blood from a particularly enthusiastic murder. The wine bottle—now empty—drops to his feet and rolls away as he sways before their two chairs and considers something. After a moment, he leans to the right and collapses into his seat of choice: Sherlock's chair. He curls into it so that his feet do not touch the floor, snuggling the side of his face into the chair's arm as if it were a person, not furniture.
"I…I miss you, Sherlock. Didja' know that?" He sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. "I miss those heads in the fridge n' your experiments n' your dramatic bloody coat…"
Sherlock doesn't want to see this.
"There's a lot of things I didn't say, but now it's too late coz you're dead and I'm alive and we're not in the same place anymore, ya' know? Yeah, of course ya' know. You know everything. But what you don't really know that I nevereverever thought I'd tell you is this," John opens his eyes and sits up in the chair, a dreamy, drunken smile on his face. "I love you," he throws his arms up in enthusiasm. "I do! I really really super love you,"
Sherlock curls into himself, shaking. John hiccups.
"I lovelovelovelove you! See! It's easy! Why didn't I say that before? Well, I dunno, Sherlock, you're the genius here not me. I'm just ordinary. But anyway, the important question is didja' love me too?" The smile fades from John's face His eyes turn vacant. "Prob'ly not. Detectives don't have time for ordinary people. There was no room in your mind palace for me, was there?"
Sherlock doesn't say anything, because there is no way to let John know that there is not only room for John, there are rooms upon rooms created solely for John. His face, laughter, voice, personality, ideas, eyes-his bloody soul—have seeped into nearly every inch of Sherlock's mental space.
John whispers, "I miss you so, so much, Sherlock, please come home," and Sherlock wordlessly crosses the room, curls up beside John and tucks his face into the curve of John's neck. He thinks John can feel him for a minute because his body stiffens and his eyes widen, but then the moment passes and Sherlock releases a breath he hadn't noticed he'd been holding.
When John begins to cry-loud, ugly, drunken sobs-Sherlock buries his face further into John, silent tears tracking his own cheeks, wishing for all the world that John could hear him when he says, "I love you too."
The skull on the mantle grins at him and whispers "You're fading, love,"
Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and tugs at fistfuls of his hair. "I know I know I know I know,"
"Time to go-o-o," it replies, in sing-song.
But John isn't ready—fuck it, Sherlock isn't ready to leave. He can't, he won't, he refuses—
The empty sockets narrow. "You must and you will."
He's losing his mind, which is odd because he's never heard of a mad ghost.
Then again he was also the only consulting detective so he supposes he has a knack for firsts.
Three and a half months after John goes back to work, he meets a girl. She is a small, petite blonde with pretty bottle-green eyes and a dimpled smile. She is a nurse. Her name is Mary.
John doesn't invite her to the flat, but they go on date every week for several months, and Sherlock notes that John is beginning to gain back weight and color to his cheeks.
It is in the middle of a winter month that John finally brings her home.
John invites her in very carefully, his entire body tense. He pushes open the door and walks her in. "And here we are, welcome to my humble abode," he says, feigning light-heartedness. Mary sees right through him.
"John," she says softly, placing a small hand on his forearm, "I understand, it's okay." She doesn't specify what it is that she understands, but whatever she means puts John immediately at ease. The fake grin disappears and a genuine albeit wan smile replaces it.
"Yeah, alright" he rubs the back of his neck and looks around. "He…he was a detective. I mean, a consulting detective. Only one there ever was,"
Mary nods and walks around the sitting room, gaze moving unhurriedly from one object to the next. "He must have been a very interesting person," she observes, and although Sherlock has heard many people insincerely say the same, from her it sounds like more than just an idle comment made to fill the silence. She sounds as if she truly means it.
"John," Mary says, "I know how difficult this is for you, showing me pieces of him like this, but I just want you to know how much it means to me. Thank you. He was a very special person."
Sherlock sits down in his chair and John walks over to stand beside him, his hand gripping the arm like an anchor. "Yeah, it is hard, but…but he was brilliant in every sense of the word and I'm glad you know it too, now." His voice sounds strained and a bit wobbly. Mary notices.
She stops scanning the dusty spines on the bookshelf and turns to face John "Tell me about him, John, tell me everything," which happens to be exactly what John needs to hear, because within seconds his face crumbles into a teary, sincere smile. "Yeah, I can do that."
John takes a shuddering breath and sits in Sherlock's chair. Sherlock scoots over obligingly to give him some room, even though John wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't. "I suppose I should start with when we first met. It was four years ago, and I had just been reunited with my mate, Mike…"
Sherlock and Mary crowd around John like little children, listening to the tale of the raven haired genius and his stalwart doctor with rapt attention. John cries and laughs and grins and shakes his head and giggles and there is so much color in so little time, that Sherlock feels overwhelmed. He can't breathe, he can't move. John is talking about Baskerville, about Sherlock's damned cheekbones and tall collar and dramatic airs, while Mary laughs and sighs and grips his hand.
The skull on the mantle grins at Sherlock. "Tick tock, time is fleeing fast, darling!"
Sherlock slides from his chair, leaving John and Mary tucked into it alone. He feels strange, almost like something in him is splitting and attempting to dash away.
"You must move on, it's time! It is time!"
Sherlock glances at Mary, stares right into the whorls of green and yellow in her eyes, and he knows she'll take care of John. He sees gold bands, lilac bridesmaids, and lovingly exchanged 'I do's. He sees a crying baby, beautiful and blonde and lucky enough to have the surname "Watson". She loves him, she will always love him, and she'll do whatever it takes to protect him.
John is talking about The Woman, about Sherlock in Buckingham palace in nothing but a sheet—"He didn't even have any pants!"—while Mary gasps and giggles right along with him.
"Tick tock tick tock"
Sherlock glances at John, stares right into the whorls of blue and brown in his eyes, and he knows John will be okay. He sees difficult days, night terrors, and pain, but he also sees an unmistakable lightness rising on John's horizon, a grinning baby girl, a beautiful wife, a colorful existence. He sees John visiting his grave every week until he himself dies, not carrying flowers in his hands but instead, good news on his lips. He sees John telling him about Lily Watson taking her first steps, then her first day of school, then graduation, and marriage, and finally John is telling him about his grandkids. He sees happiness, he sees hope.
"Come now, love, sleep,"
Sherlock takes a shuddering breath. He walks over to John who is still animatedly explaining "The Speckled Blonde", and runs his fingers lightly over his lips, his eyelids, his chin. So beautiful.
Later, after Mary has left, John sleeps better than he has in years. Soundlessly, Sherlock climbs underneath the covers and settles himself inches away from John's sleeping form. Sherlock closes his eyes and leans his forehead against John's. "I love you and now I must leave you," he whispers, "but don't worry, because Mary will treat you well. Just…don't forget about me, okay?"
John murmurs something in his sleep. Sherlock brushes away a stray bit of fringe and cradles the back of John's head in his hands, wishing for all the world that he could feel it. Lightly, Sherlock ghosts his mouth over John's, not bothering to lean forward because neither of them will know the difference.
"Good night, John."
And at last, Sherlock rests.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading, you wonderful people you! Feedback and criticism would be greatly appreciated; did you love it, hate it? Tell me in the reviews!
PS: Keep an eye out for chapter 3 of my very fluffy, non-angsty Johnlock story "Definitions", it should be out before this Friday!
Thanks again, lovelies! Until next time X0X0