Did you miss me?

I apologize for leaving without warning, but my internet crashed and I was needing a little break anyway. Now that I'm all caught up on homework I think we're good.

I'm really glad I've been getting such positive feedback, you guys make my life.

Enjoy the long overdue Chapter 7.

The walls swelled with light. You leaned in your armchair, your head arched back, warm sunlight dancing off your throat. A sweet breeze spread its homely glow throughout the room, bringing the smell of sugar and cream. You soaked it all in, still; meditating silently along with the soft hum of the morning.

I took a place against the doorframe, spellbound. The apple of your throat bobbed as you turned to gaze back, your eyes flickering to life.

"There you are." Your lips bent into a lazy smile. "I was waiting."

"You're beautiful." I sighed, resting my head against the door.

"Am I?"

Slowly you stood, your collar falling open around your neck. My breath caught as you stepped forward, your fingers fluttering across my skin.

"Don't leave me, John." You whispered. "Don't leave me."

I stirred, my lungs sore and aching. We were spun within each other's arms, coccooned within thick layers of blankets, my head cushioned in the crook of your arm. You gently ran your fingers across my back, the smooth vibration of tenor in your chest as soothing as it was secure.

"Don't cry, John, they're just dreams."

Steadily, straining, I twisted the fabric of your shirt around my fingers, hands trembling with fear.

Cold darkness swirled around me, menacing and sharp. The world was dark, a blank sky stretching overhead, a Baker Street empty of life or light. Our door had been left open, deep snow building just inside the foyer, a mournful tune echoing out from the crooked stair.

You stood against the breeze, wearing only your dressing gown, the sleeves tied up around your arms. A dark song shivered up from your violin as ice hung off the neck. You held it carefully, cradling it against the cold. Your eyes met mine, crueler than the wind.

We slept until the windows were bright.

You tried to ease me off your chest, but as I woke I fought back in a sleepy panic, my arms looping tight around your waist, holding you down.

"Stop, stop, stay..." I cried, burying my face in your shoulder.

"John..." You whispered, rubbing my arms. "There's a case, John. Lestrade needs me."

"Please don't, Sherlock." I sniveled. My entire body was shaking now. "Please don't. Please."

You massaged my sides until my arms loosened, and then swiftly escaped, sliding away and pulling the blankets up around my shoulders. The new cold made me shiver. Your sheets smelled like you, and I breathed it in.

"Before I leave, take this." You offered me a pill, along with a rubber water-bottle. "It'll help."

I had no breath left to refuse. I swallowed. Sleep came.

Around seven o'clock, the door to the flat slammed open, jolting me from my comfortable spot tucked between the pillows of our bed. You trodded down the hall and poked your shoulders through the doorway. I blinked at you, and you blinked back. "John, you're awake."

"For a while now." I sighed, setting the newspaper down beside my knee. I had drawn the curtains, leaving the bed-side lamp light enough so that I could read, but dark enough that I couldn't do much else. You glanced over me with a suspicious prick of your eyebrow.

"It's nearly seven."

"Yes, I know."

"It isn't good for your health if you sit in the dark all day." You flipped the light, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

"It is good for my health if I relax," I argued, rubbing my forehead.

"Well you don't have to be shut up in your room to do that. Come and sit with me."

I complained, but complied.

"Do you want tea? Biscuits? You must be hungry." You quickly flew back into the living room, bending over to start a sloppy fire.

"Not at all," I said, groping to the window to look out into the street. Snow had piled up to nearly a meter, and as we spoke the plow was working up and down our road. The sidewalk was smashed in with footprints, but the machine was building a solid wall of snow and ice between it and the street. Nothing was falling at the moment, but dark snow-clouds loomed overhead. I frowned.

You turned to watch me. "You should still eat something."

"No." I stepped back and sat down. "I doubt I could stomach anything, anyway."

"Have you been sick?" You came over and pressed a hand to my forehead. I pushed it away.

"No, no. I just have no appetite."

"At least let me make you tea."

"Not in a mood for tea." I started to unfold my paper, but you stuck your head above it.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes! Jesus. Stop bothering me." I flipped the paper to cover your face.

"You can't be angry at me for taking precautions," You said, straightening.

"I can, and I am. You're the one who told me to come out here, don't make me sorry for it." I aggressively read the page.

You mumbled something and disappeared into the kitchen, trailed by bangs and sharp clicks. I glanced across my shoulder. You were grabbing various things off the table and stuffing them into the cabinets. It could very loosely even be called cleaning. But since when does Sherlock Holmes clean?

"Mycroft should be here any minute. Do me a favor, John, and don't sound so... tired when you speak. I would rather my brother not put in a negative word to your doctor after tonight. And don't mention the whole letter debacle. Alright?"

"Is he here on business, Sherlock? Or are you just trying to convince him I'm healthy."

"A little of both." You came around the chair, a damp cloth in your hand, and gently teased my forehead with it.

"The hell?" I batted him away. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to bring some color back into your face. Have you taken your medication?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good. Try to mention that."

"I'm not putting on a show for him, Sherlock." I sighed.

You huffed, then spun to look out the window. "He's turning the corner. Be friendly. Do you have your crutch? Oh, forget the crutch. Act normal."

"In that case, I'd better dig up my 'normal' newspaper. Sit in my 'normal' chair."

"Shut up."

Twirling, you tossed the rag across the room and into the kitchen sink and simultaneously grabbed the violin case from beneath the desk, setting it against your chair while you slapped it open. You seized instrument and tucked it beneath your chin, holding the bow and running it along the strings to make sure it was in tune. Beginning in the mid-part of some song, you began to play just a few seconds before I heard the car outside.

Per the usual, your bother didn't bother with knocking. The door opened and shut, and your brother's voice echoed up the stairway. "Should I leave my coat here, then?" He called up.

"That would be fine, yes." I answered.

Mycroft climbed the stairs, tapping his umbrella free of lingering snowflakes, with a long white package under his arm. His small eyes flashed around the flat and landed on me, glinting like steel. "Hello, John. It's good to see you again."

"You too, Mycroft." I struggled to my feet to greet him properly, but he shook his head, and I sat back down.

"I've brought you your gift." He handed his package to me. "I figured it would be better to give it to you myself, as my brother has fallen into the destructive habit of forgetting things. Tell me, Sherlock, when did you remember that you had invited me? Ten minutes ago? Five?"

"I have known," You defended.

"Have known, alright. Then was it traffic that held you up? Your cabinets are practically screaming with extra weight. Cleaned in a hurry, did you? Don't you think it's peculiar too, that you built your fire to look aged? You have to remember who taught you that trick." Mycroft took your seat. "And next time, try to at least remember to take off your coat and scarf before you play. I'm not a fool, Shirley."

"Don't call me Shirley." You grumbled, putting your violin back in its case.

"John." Mycroft cocked his head toward me, and I lowed the paper. "Has Sherlock been looking after you?"

"Yes, he has, Mycroft. He's been very helpful." I lifted the paper again.

"Is that the truth, or is that what he told you to say."

"It's the truth." I frowned. "Is it that hard to believe that your brother could be responsible."

"We are talking about the same brother, aren't we?" Mycroft smirked. "It's not easy for Sherlock to be responsible when he's not present. Tell me, how long have you been here, by yourself?"

I fidgeted, and he nodded his head.

"That's what I thought."

"I've had a case," You insisted. "And it was just today. I've stayed with him the rest of the time."

"Let's let John speak for that."

You both looked expectantly at me, and I cleared my throat. "I would rather not get involved with your squabbles."

"You should have thought of that before you aggreed to marry into the family," Mycroft commented.

"Don't work him up," You grumbled, pulling over a chair. "That wasn't the reason I had you here."

"Right." Your brother leaned his umbrella against the arm of the chair and crossed his legs, nonchalant. "I've combed through every centimeter of my kitchen, my halls, and my study, but there's no evidence of meddling. The silver and glassware were all inspected, no traces of anything. Though I did realize that my dish-soap is needing to be replaced."

"What about your staff."

Mycroft snorted. "My staff are airtight. I don't take risks such as hiring corruptible staff."

"Wine."

"Held in the cellar and the bar only. There was nothing amiss." He rubbed the bottom of his lip. "If there had been anything out of the ordinary, I would have seen it, or Anthea would have seen it."

"So there was no chance I could have been drugged," I asked, a little weaker than I'd meant.

"Not from my kitchen."

"You didn't have anything from outside the kitchen, did you?" You asked. "No candies or suspicious drink?"

"The only drink I had was Anne's champagne," I answered, honestly.

"Anne?" You turned to Mycroft. "Who's Anne?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade's guest," He answered, flatly.

"Remember, red hair, pale, a little thin? You met her. She congratulated us. Brought us champagne."

"Anne. Anne. Yes, I remember her now." Your eyes sparkled, and you glanced back at your brother. "Lovely, wasn't she? Geo's gotten himself a very nice little goldfish, now, hasn't he? Aren't you positively jealous?"

Mycroft squirmed in his seat, his cheeks flushing angrily. "Constantly bringing up the Inspector is not going to make me any more interested in him, brother mine."

I raised my eyebrow, looking suspiciously between you, but I really had no interest in digging up any dirt about Greg. "Alright, I'm done. Sorry, don't want to hear it." I huffed, collecting my paper again. "You guys can handle whatever your business is without me. And don't disturb the neighbors with racket, either. It's getting late." I nodded to myself and took my leave, hobbling back down the hall and closing the door tight behind me.

As I unfolded my paper for the fourth (or perhaps fifth) time that evening, I couldn't help but notice the silence still hanging in the other room. Your dark tenor vibrated easily through the thin walls.

"He will get better, Mycroft. You haven't given him enough time."

"I think it's quite clear that we've already run out of time, Sherlock."

Your voices then got quieter, as if sensing my presence in the walls.

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Next chapter up Thursday (fingers crossed).