Excuse the author's note. I usually don't do them. I do have to add, though, from here on out, any reviews decrying this simply because I write slash will be deleted without explanation. I realize that we all love Holmes, but some of us choose to interpret the story differently. Give it a chance, you might like it.
This is set during the Great Hiatus.
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I'm stamping my feet to warm them. It is cold. London looks dismal and Dickensian. I was preoccupied with the thought of getting home when I smelled you.
No one else has that particular scent of shag tobacco and gunpowder. But it is only the lapel of my coat. I sniff it again. It still holds your scent. It is an ordinary coat. Is it possible that as we lodged together mine was swapped for yours?
It no longer matters, true, but standing there in the coat that smells of you, it seems to matter more than all the world.