Margaux woke to two small, soft hands patting and prodding her cheeks. She opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the dim morning glow melting through the window. Next to her in the bed was Vaughan, propped on his knees, his hands still squishing her face. She gazed up at his perfectly round blue eyes and smiled; she hoped they would never lose their blueness.
"Up?" said Vaughan.
Margaux nodded and peeled back the sheets. She drowsily climbed out of the warmth of Sherlock's bed, longing to curl back up under the sheets and sleep for a little while longer. They smelled of him, the pillows especially. Sandalwood and sea salt, undeniably him. She had slept with her face buried in their scent for most of the night.
Margaux lifted Vaughan off the bed and let him walk beside her to the kitchen. She glanced at the clock. 6:52 am. Her eyes felt gritty as she poured milk into a saucepan.
"Good Morning." Sherlock's voice startled her.
She turned to the living room where he was sat at the table on his laptop, wrapped in a dressing gown, dark curls untamed, a mug of coffee beside him.
"I didn't think you'd be up so early," she said.
"John's bed is terribly uncomfortable. No wonder his girlfriends never lasted long; probably all died of sciatica."
Margaux laughed, stirring the warm milk before taking it off the stove and pouring it into Vaughan's bottle. "You can't die of sciatica."
"Don't be pedantic, Margaux. That's my job," he replied, taking a sip of coffee.
"You should have just slept with us. There was plenty of room." They exchanged a glance, both knowing her suggestion was futile.
"I'm not a bed sharer," he said matter-of-factly.
Margaux smiled and shook her head. "Okay, Sherlock."
"What?"
She carried Vaughan into the living room, sat him on the couch and handed him his milk. "I think you forget sometimes that we did the thing that made this thing." she gestured to their son. "More than once."
"Your point being?"
"`You're a bed sharer," she said with confidence.
"Only when it's forced upon me," he countered as he watched her walk back to the kitchen.
"You're also a cuddly sleeper," she added.
"Mm," he grimaced.
There were parts deep within Sherlock that screamed whenever he tried to push Margaux away; parts of himself he had locked away a long time ago. Parts that had always been locked away, that he never knew were there, that now cried out to him begging him to let her in. He knew that with every insult, every jab, every expression of disinterest, he could lose her. But he couldn't stop.
He closed his laptop to look at Vaughan who sat quietly, gulping his warm milk. He was so like Sherlock; his hair, his eyes, his marble-like skin, his inquisitiveness and his incredibly advanced development. But it was in the moments of giggles and smiles and arms extending for hugs that he was Margaux. And Sherlock was so thankful for that.
III
The living room door opened, just wide enough for John to peer his head around it.
"Oh, you're up," he said, "thought it'd be too early for you."
"I'm starting to get the feeling people assume I'm not a morning person," said Sherlock.
"That's because you're not," John countered as he sat down next to Vaughan and gently pinched his cheek.
"Hi John." Margaux smiled. She was standing in the archway between the kitchen and living room, clutching a mug of coffee, sipping at it slowly like it were an elixir.
John blinked a couple of times and averted his gaze, "Oh, hi."
Margaux suddenly became very conscious of her bare legs and the hem of Sherlock's tee shirt that barely grazed the tops of her thighs.
"Sorry about the lack of trousers," she said. "Impromptu stay."
"Ah." He looked down at Vaughan, a grin fighting with the corners of his mouth.
Vaughan grinned back as if he knew why John was smiling.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Get your mind out of the gutter, John. Your newly-engaged smugness is incredibly irritating."
"I didn't say anything!"
"You didn't have to. Just because you're drunk on love doesn't mean you have to romanticise everything you see. If you must know, I slept in your bed; terribly uncomfortable. Explains your high levels of irritability when you lived here."
"Well," Margaux interrupted. "I better go and get dressed; early lecture."
III
She slipped on her trousers and shoes, buckling the thin straps tight around her ankles. She looked at her blouse which lay crumpled on the chair, she couldn't wear the same outfit again; students notice those things. She sifted through the pile of fresh laundry and pulled out one of Sherlock's shirts. She put it on and buttoned it up, leaving the top few undone. She rolled the sleeves to just below her elbows and tucked the bottom into her trousers. It was much too big for her but it would have to do, she thought, as she combed her fingers through her hair and wiped away the small crystals of sleep that had formed in the corners of her eyes.
She walked back to the living room and picked up her phone from the table.
"That's my shirt," said Sherlock.
"I know, thanks for letting me borrow it."
"I didn't let you–"
"Working late today, Margaux?" John interrupted.
'Hm, I'm not sure yet. I hope not," said Margaux as she sifted through notifications on her phone. Voicemail (1).
She clicked on the voicemail and listened closely. 'Hi Margaux, this is Claire from playgroup. So sorry for the inconvenience but the rain last night has damaged the roof of the nursery. We will be closed for the rest of the week. Sorry, again.'
III
"So you're sure you'll be okay?" Margaux asked again for what felt like the fiftieth time.
"We'll be fine," assured John.
"Any problems please just call me okay?" She said as she ran down the stairs. She stopped at the bottom and looked up at the two men with her son. "Sherlock…"
"Yes, yes, of course," he said as Vaughan climbed up his chest and tugged at his hair.
"Okay." She sighed, taking one more glance before leaving through the front door.
III
Sherlock sat in his arm chair with his legs crossed and his hands pressed palm-to-palm, resting under his chin as he listened. The woman sat opposite was not much younger than Sherlock himself. Slim and attractive with fiery auburn hair that bounced softly as she moved; professionally styled at least once a week, Sherlock observed. She sat cross-legged with her arms poised across her lap as she told him about her problem.
John walked into the room with Vaughan resting on the side of his hip, like a koala clinging to its mother. In his free hand, he was holding a bowl containing his mushed up lunch, a bib over his shoulder and a packet of wipes tucked into his armpit.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said to the woman. "Sherlock, can you just grab his juice out the fridge? I've got no hands free."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sprung from his seat. He walked towards the kitchen, cupping Vaughan's cheek in his hand for just a moment as he passed them. He retrieved the juice, placed it on the table and pulled out a chair for John, before returning to his seat opposite the woman and recomposing himself.
"What a sweet family," she said. She was the fourth potential client to make that assumption so far.
'We're not gay!" John shouted from the kitchen.
"The child belongs to me. Dr Watson is simply lending a helping hand while his mother is at work."
"Oh, my apologies." The woman stopped for a moment, her eyes drifting off as if she were thinking about something. "It's funny, the papers always paint you as this… loner type. They never talk about your wife and child."
"She's not my wife–"
"Sorry, girlfriend –partner, oh how old fashioned of me to assume you were married. That's my dad's beliefs coming out in me, there." She laughed nervously.
Sherlock let out a laboured breath. "Miss Crossley, we could be here all day so I'll just save you the discomfort of your foot continuously finding itself in your mouth; No wife, no girlfriend, just a child. A series of sexual encounters with the same woman resulted in the conception of our son whom we now raise together as friends. Clear?"
"Y-yes. Sorry…"
"Can we get back to the matter at hand?"
'Oh, yes…" she stammered. "So I keep having these… blackouts."
Sherlock regarded her again; drinks occasionally, doesn't smoke, doesn't do drugs, goes to the salon once a week, gym three times a week, serial dieter, is currently reading a romance novel set in the 1950's, engaged to be married, recently set the wedding date. The list of observations was endless. But a running theme throughout them all was normality.
"They started as small moments of fuzziness, almost like after a few glasses of wine," she continued. "But they've gotten worse –longer. I'm missing full days now, and I always feel drowsy and nauseas. I even wondered if I could be–"
"You're not pregnant." Sherlock interrupted.
"How do you…"
"He knows everything," John's voice chimed in.
"Well… you're right, Mr Holmes, I'm not pregnant. I'm also not sick. I've had every test imaginable and everything has come back normal. The worst part is… When I ask my fiancé what happened during my blackouts, he says nothing."
"Miss Crossley, you don't have a case; I suggest you find a better doctor." Sherlock dismissed.
"But Mr Holmes… I think I'm being poisoned."
Author's note:
Hi everyone!
Thank you so much to everyone who continues to read, review, follow and favourite this story. It means so much and reading your reviews really inspires me to keep the chapters coming.
I just wanted to firstly say sorry for how short this chapter is compared to the previous few; I've cut it in half as the second part isn't quite ready yet, but I was aware I hadn't updated in a while.
Secondly, a question. When it comes to *potential* future romance scenes, I'm in two minds of whether they would be 'graphic' or not as I really don't know what my audience prefers. So I suppose the question I'm asking to those of you who read and follow this story is: Do you want any *potential* romance/sex scenes to be somewhat smutty/lemony, or do you prefer the less explicit way (Similar to how Margaux and Sherlock's first night together was written)?
It's not super important, just something I wanted to open up to comment/suggestion.
Thanks again to you all for reading!