a/n: I really struggled with this one, and my sister made a haiku as she watched me try to finish this chapter:
"Tris writes a story
With a set amount of words
It is difficult"
Thanks sis. ^^
I sat down quietly in my armchair with a stack of papers and pencils at hand. The snow spat at the window, but the fireplace was a bucolic grey tabby, bathing itself with myriad orange tongues. I was prepared for an afternoon of poetry writing, and just a little sad. I was expecting to be on my own for a fair stretch.
Holmes had shown every sign at breakfast of preparing for one of his occasional retreats in which he took to bed for days, and yet—unless my ears deceived, I was sure I could now hear slow, tired steps--and suddenly the door was being nudged open.
He padded in, arms full of clothes from his bed. With a small yawn he tossed them onto the couch and began the long, involved and cat-like process of settling down.
I tried to slip away with my materials once he was comfortable (to afford him privacy), but his brow darkened at my footsteps, and he made a sound—quiet, involuntary and most unhappy. I sat back down at once, and watched his expression return to tranquility.
I wrote.
"When I was a boy I once found a swarm of hibernating ladybirds, and even then I wondered—was it more than warmth they sought in clustering near each other, beneath the bark?"