She turned the dial and watched the water burst from the shower head. It was cold at first, but steam soon began to rise. She undressed carefully, using one hand to unbutton her trousers and shimmy them down her legs. She lifted her shirt over her head, trying her best to ignore the pain as she moved her arm to take off her bra. She unstrapped her sling and draped it over the sink, turning to the mirror and leaning in close to examine her slowly healing scar, and the swollen bumps and ridges where steel screws sat under her delicate skin. A shiver scuttled down her spine as she thought back the nightmare that had woken her that morning.

She climbed in and tilted her head back, letting the water soak her hair and trickle down her back. The hot water was a relief, easing her muscles and washing away the remnants of hospital that still clung to her skin. She reached for the bottle of body wash on the edge of the bath. The scent was clean and masculine, like she was wrapped in Sherlock's arms.

"This isn't so bad," she said to herself as she rinsed away the bubbles. Thinking back to the argument she'd had with him that morning:

He had insisted she wait to shower until he got back. She would need his help, he said, and what if she slipped. She had responded by reminding him she wasn't an invalid – that she was perfectly capable of showering alone. Then he stormed out with Vaughan in hand, his coat flaring out like a cape behind him.

No, it wasn't so bad at all. She reached for the shampoo, opening the lid with a struggle and squeezing it straight onto her hair. Too much. She groaned as she began trying to lather it with one hand as soap seeped down her forehead into her eyes and she knocked a clutter of bottles into the bath with her knee.

As Sherlock stepped back into the flat, a sense of pride overcame him. He had managed to drop his son off at nursery without a hitch; no uncomfortable interactions and no detours to solve crimes. He took off his coat and tugged his scarf away from his neck as he noticed the faint sound of water running. He walked down the hall and stood at the bathroom door.

"Margaux, are you alright?" He waited a moment, but when he didn't hear a response, he leaned his ear closer to the door. "Margaux?"

"Can you come in please?" she sighed.

He opened the door and stepped into the humid, steamy bathroom, before pulling the shower curtain back.

She looked at him with a pout and a head full of shampoo. "Can you… help me?"

He raised an eyebrow and sighed. "I told you to wa-"

"I know, I know, can you just… help me wash this out? Please. I can't lift my arms, everything hurts."

He took off his blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. "How do you want me?"

"Here," she said, turning around and putting her head under the stream of water. "If I go here, can you make sure it's all washed out?"

He leaned over the edge of the bath and began running his hands through her hair.

"Ow!" she shouted as his fingers snagged.

"Sorry, it's a difficult angle."

He continued trying to reach her as water splashed his face and shirt. She tried to bend down further, losing her balance and almost slipping. Sherlock caught her by the waist and steadied her again as they continued to struggle. Finally, he gave up.

"Right, just move over," he said before climbing into the shower alongside her.

"Sherlock! Your clothes!"

"It's fine, just… come here." Water dripped from his wet hair as he moved her under the shower head, turning her around to face him. "Now lean back a little bit."

Margaux tipped her head back and closed her eyes as he ran his hands gently through her hair, wringing out the suds and brushing soap and water away from her face.

"There," he said. "Now what?"

"Do you have conditioner?"

He blinked at her.

"I'll take that as a no," she said.

He stood with her in the shower with his shirt soaked and clinging to his body, his hair was dripping water onto his face as he waited patiently for her next request.

"I'm good," she nodded. "Let's get out."

Sherlock helped her carefully out of the bath and switched off the water. He lifted a towel and wrapped it around her before slicking her hair back away from her face.

"Thank you," she smiled.

"No problem."

She pulled him into a kiss.

"Oh god, you're soaking," she said as her eyes trailed his body.

He looked down at himself. "Ah yes, so I am." He shrugged, running his hands through his hair.

She shook her head and giggled before opening the bathroom door, watching as the steam escaped into the hallway. She stepped out, glancing down towards the kitchen where John stood. He looked at her and rolled his eyes before averting his gaze.

"For god's sake," he said. "I'm gonna start calling before I come 'round."

She sighed, turning back to Sherlock as he undressed in the bathroom. "Sherlock, John's here. And I'm wearing nothing but a towel."

III

Sherlock emerged from the bedroom in a fresh shirt and trousers. He walked into the living room where John sat in the armchair twiddling his thumbs. As he sat down opposite him, John raised an eyebrow, trying desperately to supress a smirk.

"She needed help in the shower, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She has a shattered collarbone and you think we're performing acrobatics in the shower?"

John shrugged. "Hey, you're a couple now. You don't have to justify what you get up to in the bathroom."

Sherlock groaned. "Can we just get on with it? Why don't you go and get the first client?"

"Oh… No one was there."

"No one?"

"Nope. Mustn't be any mysteries to solve."

"There's always mysteries to solve."

"Well there must be a delay then, because downstairs was empty."

"Hm." Sherlock rubbed his chin. "I should call Molly Hooper, see if she can spare me some human fingers; I could use this as an opportunity to conduct those experiments I've been meaning to do…"

"Lovely. Nice to see you haven't gone completely soft."

"I haven't gone soft."

Sherlock took out his phone and typed a text.

'Requesting a donation of fingers from the morgue. Will collect later. S'

"Well, maybe not flowers and chocolates soft," said John. "But having a girlfriend, that's pretty soft for you."

"It's ultimately a flaw of humanity that an imaginary label can somehow alter one's obligations to another."

Margaux walked into the living room. She was wearing a knitted jumper and a pair of jeans, her hair falling down her back in damp waves. She smiled at the men as she crouched down to look through a pile of books. John turned his attention to Sherlock who was watching her, smiling absentmindedly as she chose her book and headed back to the bedroom.

"You're absolutely smitten," said John with a huge grin plastered across his face.

Sherlock glanced back to his friend. "I'm terrified," he admitted quietly.

John had been close to Sherlock for many years. He had seen him stare down the barrel of guns and stand face to face with evil. But he had never heard that word leave his lips, until now.

He shifted forward in his chair. "Wh- Why?"

"Hm? Oh, did I say that out loud? Please delete it."

"I'm afraid I can't. Not all of us can erase memories at will." He paused, looking behind him to make sure Margaux was still in the bedroom before speaking again. "You got everything you wanted. What are you scared of?"

"That I'll disappoint her. I mean… Boyfriend." He grimaced. "What do boyfriends even do? How should I behave?"

John laughed, stopping suddenly when he saw the stern expression on Sherlock's face. "You're being serious. You've really never been in a relationship before, have you?"

"Not a real one."

"Well, I don't know. Physical contact? Don't be afraid to touch her–"

"Must everything be about sex with you?"

"No! I'm not talking about- well, yes, I suppose I am. But I also mean in general; hold her, kiss her, hug her, sit beside her on the couch…"

"Okay."

"And… Communicate with her. Be honest about how you feel. If you think she looks nice, tell her. If you're enjoying her company, tell her. Go on dates, spend time together, don't be afraid to be a couple in front of other people."

"Hm."

"You know how you faked your feelings for Janine?"

"Mhm."

"Well like that, but real."

Sherlock pressed his palms together. "Interesting…"

"What's interesting?" asked Margaux as she walked back into the living room.

"Oh, er…" John stammered. "We er, we haven't got a single client today."

Margaux perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair. "Wow. Well that's great, you can come to my flat to pick up some stuff."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh well done, John. Why couldn't you have said we had lots of clients? Then we wouldn't have to help."

III

Margaux's flat was cold and quiet. It had gone unoccupied for almost a fortnight; the only evidence of life coming from the perfectly vacuumed rug in the hall, courtesy of Mrs Hudson.

She told them what she needed, sending them off to different rooms to collect things to bring back to Baker Street. She flicked on the light in the kitchen and walked to the cupboard looking for Vaughan's favourite cup. On the counter sat a torn package and a letter – her blood turning to ice as she laid eyes on it. She picked it up with a shaking hand and read over it quietly.

Margaux,

I have taken the liberty of providing you with directions to a specific location.

Meet me there at 4pm.

Bring Vaughan.

"What've you got there?" asked John as he walked into the kitchen carrying a bag of toys and clothes.

She swallowed hard, her eyes never leaving the paper. "It's the letter Eurus used… to lure me to Musgrave Hall."

He put the things down and walked to her side, taking the paper and scanning over it quickly. He sighed, turning to look at her before noticing a tear falling down her cheek.

"Hey," he whispered, rubbing her back. "Hey, come on. You're safe now, it's all over."

She sniffed and wiped her face with the sleeve of her jumper. "I know, I just… ugh." She stopped as the sound of Sherlock's footsteps approached the kitchen. "I'm fine. Really, I'm fine."

John looked behind them for a moment. "You know you don't have to pretend you're okay for him. I know he's a robot, but he's an understanding robot. Sometimes."

Margaux giggled.

Sherlock entered the kitchen. He walked up beside her and handed her a small plastic comb. She looked down at it pressed her lips together.

"Love, I asked you for my hairbrush. This is a comb."

"Yes, well I couldn't find the hairbrush so I just brought this. Do they not serve the same purpose?"

"Well, yes, I suppose. But you a see a hairbrush is better for–" She looked up at his vacant expression. "Y'know what, it's fine. I'll go have a look myself."

As Margaux left the room, John handed Sherlock the letter. He read over it – unblinking and hardly breathing – before tearing it up and throwing it in the bin. John's phone began to ring in his pocket. He took it out and answered it.

"Hello? Oh really? Er, okay, tell them we'll be right over." He slid the phone back into his pocket and turned to Sherlock. "That was Mrs H. We've got a potential client waiting for us."

"Excellent. Tell her we'll be right over."

"I just did…"

"Oh, I wasn't listening."

"Some things never change."

They found Margaux in the bedroom. She was packing away her makeup into a pouch, holding the handle of her hairbrush between her teeth. She glanced into the mirror, noticing them behind her, and spat out the brush onto the dressing table.

"This 'having one arm' thing is a pain in the arse. I can't wait to get this stupid thing off."

"We have a client waiting for us," said Sherlock.

"Potential client," John added.

Margaux turned around. "So, you're leaving me here?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock, looking at his watch. "We'll leave you at the nursery, Vaughan's finishing soon."

She fluttered her eyelashes and smiled. "My boyfriend's so sweet, I'm so lucky." she said sarcastically.

III

On the landing of 221B sat a staircase which lead to the third floor. At the top of the staircase was a small landing and a single door, through which was the old bedroom of Dr John Watson. As expected from an ex-soldier, the room was neat with minimal furniture. The walls and carpet blended together in a neutral blur, even the view through the window was cloudy and dim.

Vaughan sat on the floor of the bedroom playing with his dolls while Margaux fixed a safety gate to the top of the stairs with great difficulty. As she tightened it in place, she heard a shuffle on the landing below.

"Sherlock, is that you?" she called.

"I'm afraid not…"

"Ah, hi Mycroft. He's not here."

"Good, I'm here to talk to you."

"Oh… What's up?"

He sighed. "As much as this game of call and response is… riveting, could you possibly come down so we can speak at a normal volume?"

She left Vaughan playing in his new room, making sure to lock the gate behind her. Mycroft sat down by the fireplace, his crossed legs raising the hem of his trousers to reveal his perfectly polished shoes. Mycroft never wanted to 'just talk'; there was always a purpose – a request, a warning, a telling-off. Margaux sat down in Sherlock's armchair, staring across at him in anticipation as she waited to find out which one she was going to get.

"I've been informed that you told a woman in the playground today that you were shot," he finally said.

She was being told off.

"I did get shot," she replied dryly.

"Yes, but we don't tell people that. We tell them you had an 'accident', remember? Like we discussed?"

"Yes, but come on, Mycroft, what kind of accident shatters a collarbone to smithereens and severs an artery in someone's neck?"

"People don't need to know the details, Margaux. They see you in a sling, you simply say you broke your collarbone – slipped on some ice, took a tumble…"

"Ah yes, because I'm 84-years-old."

He rolled his eyes. "Just… stop telling people you got shot, will you?"

"Fine."

Sherlock hurried into the flat, making his way to the table and flicking through a mound of papers.

"John, good, you're here," he said. "What did you find out about the delivery company?"

Mycroft's brow furrowed as he looked up at him.

"Don't say anything," said Margaux quietly. "He needs to notice on his own."

He sighed and remained quiet as his brother continued to talk to him.

"I'm still waiting for the autopsy report," said Sherlock. "Still waiting on those fingers too, actually. I checked the crime scene again – nothing. But the delivery company, John, the delivery company… what did you find out? Hello!? Earth to John!?" he finally looked over to the armchair. His back straightened and his eyes narrowed. "You're not John."

"No, I'm not. Awfully sorry to disappoint."

Vaughan toddled into the room, his eyes brightening as he saw his uncle. "Hi Mycof!"

"Hello, little one."

"Vaughan! How did you get past the gate!?" said Margaux, panicking as she thought of the two-year-old climbing down the stairs alone.

"Popped open," he replied simply, holding up the plastic arm of one of his dolls. "With this."

"Good work, son," said Sherlock.

"Ah, I remember the first time I ever picked a lock," Mycroft reminisced fondly.

Margaux glanced between the two men and her son, convinced now more than ever that 'Holmes' was its own rare blood type.

III

Night time brought a vicious wind that whipped against the windows. As Vaughan slept soundly upstairs, Sherlock sat at the kitchen table looking through his microscope. He was surrounded by jars and petri dishes of human fingers soaked in different chemicals.

Margaux walked up behind him, wrapping her arm around his chest and resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Will you come to bed with me?" she asked.

"Hm? Do you need help getting in?"

"No," she laughed. "I just thought… Well, it's just what couples do, isn't it; they go to bed at the same time."

"Really? Why?" he asked as he continued to look through his microscope.

"Well it's nice to lay in bed together – talk, cuddle, fall asleep."

Sherlock thought for a moment as he felt her arm around him and her hair tickling the back of his neck. He looked down at the macabre experiment laid out in front of him, then out of the corner of his eye to the woman who loved him. The choice was obvious.

"Of course," he said. "You go ahead. I need to clear this up first."

She smiled against his cheek before making her way to the bedroom.

III

Margaux woke in a sweat, her breaths tight and shallow. Her eyes felt sore and her cheeks were soaked with tears. She sat up and reached her hand out beside her, her heart sinking as she realised the bed was empty. She climbed out of bed and lifted Sherlock's dressing gown off the back of the door, wrapping it around herself and creeping tentatively down the hall.

As she stepped into the kitchen, she saw him sat at the table; still looking down the microscope, still surrounded by the collection of human digits. Sherlock looked up. His eyes widened as he noticed her, before letting out a sigh and pushing the microscope away.

"Margaux, I am so sorry," he said quietly. "I got distracted. I completely forgot you were waiting for me."

She shook her head and walked towards him. "It's okay," she said as she sat down in the chair next to him. "There's always tomorrow. We'll try again then?"

"I'm sorry, I really am." He ran a hand through her hair. "Are you alright? You've very recently been in a physical state of panic," he said as he observed the sweat on her forehead, the paleness of her complexion.

"Oh, I… I had a dream." She shuddered. "I keep having the same dream over and over - I'm lying in wet grass, it's soaking into my clothes but I'm completely paralysed. I hear you and John calling out to me, looking for me, but I can't talk, I can't shout, I can't move at all. You give up and leave and I'm screaming for you to come back. But no sound comes out."

Sherlock noticed the pain in her face and pulled her gently onto his lap. "Trauma manifests itself in sleep. It's understandable." He paused, thinking back to John's advice.

Communicate. Be honest about how you feel.

He took a breath. "After Moriarty, when I… When I went away. I would have the same dream; Moriarty standing on the edge of a waterfall… watching me fall. And I would fall and fall and fall…"

She looked up at him. He was staring straight ahead with an intense glare. She rested her head on his chest.

"I just want to move on. I can't do this every night."

"You won't. My dreams eventually stopped, and so will yours."

III

He checked on Vaughan as he slept in his new room before returning downstairs and clearing away his experiment. Fingers in the fridge, he thought, a nice surprise for Mrs Hudson.

In the bedroom, Margaux slipped off the dressing gown and climbed back into bed. Her pillow was wet from crying. She flipped it over and let her head sink into it, shuffling to find a comfortable, painless position. Sherlock stepped through the door and closed it over, leaving it open by a sliver to listen out for Vaughan. He climbed in beside her and rolled onto his side, stroking her face softly.

"You haven't changed your mind yet, have you?" she whispered.

"About what?"

"About loving me."

"You think I'll change my mind?"

"I hope not."

"Margaux, I left an experiment to lay in bed with you. I think it's clear that I'll not be changing my mind."

The lights were off and the wind howled against the window. But even in the darkness, he could still feel her smiling against his touch.

Author's Note:

Hi everyone, I hope you enjoyed the penultimate chapter of Glass. Yep, I can't believe I'm actually saying it but the next chapter will be the last!

Thank you all for your incredible support; reading your comments and feedback has honestly been the best part of writing this story. I appreciate you all immensely, and as a thank you (and also because I really want to), I'm writing a smaller-length sequel that will be posted one chapter at a time like this. So if, like me, you're not ready to let go of Sherlock and Margaux just yet, a link/details of the sequel will be at the end of the next chapter.

Thank you all again, so much!

Daydream.