"there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you."
―Charles Bukowski, Bluebird
...
Minotaur III
...
Two aurors came into his cell while he was dreaming about Spinner's End. The dream was grey and dismal, and when he woke up from the noise of the cell door being opened, Snape immediately forgot it.
"They're moving you to Azkaban," came a voice above him. Snape looked up to see Head Auror Toadle, and Senior Auror Shemkins standing above him. So they had told the rest of wizarding world that the old potions bat was caught. Snape had to exert little effort to control his emotions, though he still felt them acutely. This was not good.
"A trial is scheduled for the 13th of August. Given the substantial evidence against you, it doesn't look good…" Shemkins added. Snape scowled at the auror for stating the obvious. He wondered if he was going to get life in Azkaban, or if they would just get it over with and have a dementor give him the kiss.
"Look, if you just give us anything, maybe we could work out a deal, reduce the sentence?" Shemkins continued.
"I've already told you everything I know." Snape answered.
"No, you told Weasley." Toadle cut in.
"Yes, and Weasley is one of your aurors. Shouldn't you have his report?." Snape bit back. He knew perfectly well that Weasley had kept their conversations confidential, but it felt good to rub in the Head's face that his own man had not given up the information. Though, Snape had to admit, he was woefully disappointed when Weasley had become incapacitated. "How is Weasley faring?" Snape asked.
Shemkins immediately got red in the face, and Toadle's wrinkled face sagged into a frown.
"You have some nerve, Snape." Shemkins spat. Snape watched the two aurors very carefully. He was darkly amused that the aurors had immediately blamed him for Weasley's unfortunate run in with poison, despite all sense and logic. He was in a magically warded cell, in the pit of Ministry of Magic. There would be no conceivable way from him to harm Weasley.
This was very lucky for the real perpetrator. Instead of looking at each other, they all set their sights on Snape, who would be going to Azkaban regardless of whether the Weasley attack was pinned to him or not. Whoever had done it had made a masterful job of it.
When Snape continued to sit in silence, Shemkins swept out of the room without a word. Toadle lagged behind, to give Snape one last staredown.
"They'll move you in a couple of hours. Try to get ready. It's a rough place." Toadle said, then followed the other auror out.
Snape huffed. He did not need aurors to tell him about Azkaban. He'd heard enough from his death eater 'colleagues.'
When the cell door click shut, he carefully laid himself down on the bare bed again, and stared at the ceiling. There was no point in worrying over Azkaban, he told himself. There is nothing he could do to control his situation. Snape had unwisely placed all his herbs in one basket, and that basket went and got himself into a coma. That's what you get for trusting in the capabilities of others. A lesson he should have thoroughly learned, long ago.
He remembered his conversations with Weasley. After he was caught, he had immediately shed away all hope for an exoneration. Who would listen to him? Only Potter knew the whole truth, and he was in no place to make a statement on his behalf. The last person Snape thought he would find an ally in was his former student, Ronald Weasley, who had clearly hated his guts for many years.
The interrogations started hostile, with Weasley insulting him, and being generally unpleasant. He resisted the urge to taunt the auror, like he would have when he was a professor and Weasley was his student. Snape mostly remained silent. What could be gained from speaking after all?
That is, until Weasley turned their one sided conversation to the subject of Harry Potter.
"I'm going to tell you something, Snape," Ron always made sure to say Snape's name with as much venom as he could muster "and this isn't on the records, but I think you should know." He paused, ostensibly to take a breath, but Snape suspected he wanted to add dramatic effect to his next sentence.
"The last time I talked to him, that night Harry went mad, he said something to me. He told me that I need to catch you, if it's the last thing I do. So, I don't care if you cooperate or not. I'm already done." And with that, Auror Weasley stood up and had meant to sweep out of the room.
Except Snape had called his name, and Weasley stopped and turned around.
"What did he say? Tell me exactly what he said." Snape asked.
Weasley was more than happy to oblige. "'That snake bastard deserves to die.'" Weasley was studying Snape's face as he formed the words. "'Make sure you catch Snape; for me Ron.'"
Snape took a few seconds to place this information within the narrative he knew. All he had heard, while he was on the run in Europe, was that Harry Potter committed some very grisly murders and was now a wanted man, like Snape himself.
And of course, no one knew that the two men had worked to bring down Voldemort together. No one knew that Harry had been given (very unwillingly, on Snape's behalf) all the details of how and why Severus Snape remained loyal to the Order of the Phoenix. No one besides Potter knew that Snape had betrayed Voldemort, not Albus.
"That wasn't Potter." Snape stated, simply. Weasley looked enraged at first.
"Are you fucking playing with me?" he shouted, and Snape thought he must have hit a sore spot.
"No, I'm giving you information; just like you wanted. You want to know what I know. This is it. That wasn't Potter."
It took some time to convince Weasley. In fact, Snape was never quite sure that he fully won the auror over. But, the idea of Potter being innocent must have been too alluring for Weasley to pass up. So they had struck a very shaky truce.
Weasley agreed that no one ought to know about this. It was possible that the whoever framed Potter worked in the ministry, and they did not want that person tipped off that they were, after so many years, on their trail.
Then, out of nowhere, Weasley stopped coming. It took a couple of days for Snape to catch onto what had actually happened. In a way, it had furthered them along on their hunt. If Weasley were conscious, he could certainly take advantage of this information. Whoever they were looking for was surely in the ministry, and it would have been one of the people that knew of Snape's capture and subsequently his talks with Weasley. It was a small list.
Snape tried guessing who it was, but it was useless. He only knew about Shemkins and Toadle for sure, but there must have been other Department Heads in on it.
And anyway, it really didn't matter. With Weasley gone, he was on a straight track to Azkaban. He had been on it since he was a teenager. It was a stretch of good luck that allowed him to avoid it so long. Good luck, and Albus's forgiveness.
No more running, at least, he said to himself, and tried to not think about Azkaban.
...
There was a harsh sound of wind, and rain lashing against the curtained windows. A rainstorm was raging through early morning London, and outside the sky was still impenetrable, like black ink.
Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat, with a sick feeling in his throat. He laid in the darkness for endless minutes, willing the black dream to recede. He could not remember the details. All he knew was that it left a lingering sense of fear. Don't dwell on it, Sherlock told himself. Get up, and get on with it.
When he left his bedroom, the dream followed him. He felt his mind palace creaking as he walked, as though it was one loose nail away from collapse. Sherlock did not want to contemplate what would happen if his mental construction were to falter.
Ridiculous, a voice inside his head seethed, it's not a real house.
Harry was already up and about, making breakfast, and seemed chipper enough. That man, Sherlock decided, was an obnoxiously early riser.
As Sherlock sat at the table, and absently chewed on eggs (or was it toast?) he scrolled through his phone. Lestrade had left him a message, enquiring if he had any more luck locating Laura Baskey. Sherlock ignored it, since he had not even attempted it. There were more pressing matters to deal with.
Mycroft had sent a text congratulating him on another successful outing with their parents. Sherlock scowled and replied that it's certainly his turn to entertain them when they come to visit again.
When he looked up he found that the wizard was carefully studying Sherlock.
Sherlock did not say anything; he merely raised one eyebrow in question.
"You look pretty tired." Was all the wizard said.
"Let Mrs. Hudson worry over my health. She'll do so, even if it's useless."
'I'll follow you wherever you go, darling! What's the real use in running?'
Sherlock remembered a sudden snippet of his dream, and he felt a dread crawling through his brain. Who had said that?
Sherlock silently berated himself. It did not matter who was talking to him in his dreams, since they were just dreams. What was wrong with him, this morning?
Sherlock got up from the table, knowing what he had to do. It had been too long, anyway. Hermione was not expected at their flat until evening, so he had the time. Letting the wizard clean up after breakfast, Sherlock walked over to his favorite armchair, and sank into it.
He brought his fingertips to his temple, and rubbed small, clockwise circles into his skin. He found that it helped him concentrate when he brought forth the walls, doorways, and staircases that he had constructed in his mind.
Sherlock took three deep breaths, and stepped into his Mind Palace.
The structure rose in his mind like a phantom of a dearly departed friend, who's almost forgotten voice kept company at nights. The impossible architecture was jutted and cantilevered. The outside, which Sherlock never put much thought into, was the picture of a nondescript English countryside, in the purple glow of twilight, with tall pines stretching out of sight, their emerald colors fading to black in the perpetual gloom.
The centerpiece was the house.
It was not like any house from reality, but rather an amalgamation of many places.
Mycroft, who had introduced Sherlock to the idea of Mind Places, would be appalled if he could somehow see the way Sherlock had constructed his house, layer on layer, messily organized, and tangled. Sherlock imagined that his brother's Mind Place resembled a series of logically arranged grey room, in some sort of quadrilateral plan. His own house was closer to an atom, with a nucleus holding the center, and everything else spinning haphazardly around.
His childhood home in Suffolk was that nucleus. The most easily accessible bits of information were there. Every current case he worked on had a display in the quaint, wallpapered living room, where he had once grown up. Then, his University dorm, branching off the east side of the house, Baker Street to the west. Bart's Hospital, right above, reached by a series of spiral staircases. Below, was the Labyrinth. Of course, he knew directions were senseless, since the places he visited in his mind did not exist in real space.
The living room in his mind was currently occupied by two cases. There were Goetic diagrams on one wall, and piles of books, and one doorway, which, for now, led to a reconstruction of Laura Baskey's flat. Another wall had all of the information he had so far gathered about the wizarding world, with portraits, maps, and links between them. A scratched up wooden door, which was right next to the loo, led to his reconstruction of Diagon Alley. When Sherlock entered his old living room, he was surprised to find Harry sitting there as well. The wizard looked up at him with curiosity, and did not say anything.
Sherlock usually did not allow 'people,' or rather his memories of people, in his mind house. He only made an exception for John, when he was chasing Moriarty's network across the wide world, working completely alone. It was practical to have a memory-John in his mind palace, accessible at any time. He made a good partner, and Sherlock could always benefit from bouncing his opinions off John.
It was appropriate that Harry was there now. If he ever lost access to the real wizard, he could simply speak to the copy in his mind. That was sensible. Harry himself was an integral part of the case, more so than any evidence he could gather.
When he first started building his mind palace, every stroke was as deliberate as a chess move. But he had gotten better, and for many years, he would subconsciously fill the rooms inside his mind. However, they stilled required regular maintenance so as not to sacrifice order.
He acquired a large amount of data last evening, about Harry's case. Perhaps the disturbance he felt was due to the fact that he had not manually (admittedly, the word's meaning loses some sense when talking about figments and thoughts) deposited this information. He did so now. A chart appeared on the wall, that had a timeline of the events in Potter's life; or, more accurately, the ones Sherlock knew about, so far.
After he did so however, Sherlock did not feel any better. Or rather, the creeping sense of dread still followed him, and he was still oblivious of its source.
He decided to proceed logically, checking each room in his Mind Palace for abnormalities.
He went to his old house's bedroom, where Redbeard leaped at him, and licked his face (since Redbeard was a dog, and not a person, it was perfectly fine to keep a copy of him). Mycroft's old bedroom naturally contained all of Sherlock's knowledge of British and international politics (a rather modest amount of data, since Sherlock usually did not concern himself with the subject). It was empty and dust had gathered on all of Mycroft's old shelves, and his writing desk, like it once did during Mycroft's time at Uni. Nothing out of the ordinary, to be sure. The kitchen contained nothing new: only his study on Tobacco ash. It was an extensive amount of data, so it occupied most of the room.
He took care examining every room, and glancing over all of the data associated with each object therein. It would not do if he were sloppy and missed the cause of his present unease because he was in a hurry.
Sherlock systematically looked through every room in his old house, and finding nothing troublesome, decided to check Bart's. The morgue constructed in his mind also held no clues. As ever, it had an arrangement of whiteboards, which held common chemical formulas and their descriptions. The square, metal drawers still held ever cadaver that Sherlock had examined in his career. Naturally, they stretched very far.
There was nothing out of place in his old dorm, or in his mental rendition of Baker Street.
When Sherlock returned to the living room of his old country home, which was the nexus of his mind palace, he found the wizard pacing. Sherlock thought that mind-Harry was reflecting his own mood well, as he walked back and forth with agitation.
Sherlock sat down on the old tartan couch (which his mother had loved, despite his and Mycroft's distaste for the tacky thing) and looked around. He was ready to leave his Mind Palace, with the bitter taste of dissatisfaction, when it happened. The mental construction grated and creaked, as though it were a slender tree swaying in a strong wind. This was unnatural of houses, even more so of mind-houses. It lasted a few seconds, and on the tail end of the movement and noise, Sherlock could hear a low rumble coming from below.
The Labyrinth. How odd, Sherlock thought; that part of his house seldom gave him trouble. He did not even really bother to arrange in any logical design, since he only dumped useless information there. There was never any need to do a 'tune-up' to the maze below his Mind Palace.
Sherlock, ever the detective, decided to investigate.
…
When he was done with breakfast, and had nothing else to occupy him, Harry sat himself across from the detective. He doubted that Sherlock noticed. To Harry, it appeared that Sherlock was entering some sort of trance; he was humming tunelessly, and rubbing at his temple. He was senselessly reminded of Luna Lovegood, who would often hum to herself and sway with her eyes closed.
Harry observed the detective for a few minutes. He did not want to interrupt whatever it was that Sherlock was doing.
Harry knew that Hermione would come again that evening. He felt simultaneously happy, and very nervous about this. Reunion with his old best friend was fantastic, but rehashing his past was not a very pleasant prospect. He had tried to put it behind him, as best as he was able. Whenever he thought of the war with Voldemort he felt such overwhelming guilt, that he could hardly keep talking. He had made so many mistakes, some of which had cost people their lives. The memories, once given an opportunity, would overflow and threatened to drown him.
Harry did not even really care about being proven innocent. It had been too long. Even if Sherlock and Hermione found the real killer, Harry doubted they could convince the Wizengamot that they had made a mistake.
On the other hand, the killer was still free. Whoever it was had already taken out the Dursleys. It was possible that there would be more casualties, all a result of Harry's cowardice. So, Harry knew he had to help the detective in anyway he could. It was simply the right thing to do. But of course, that never made it easier.
Sherlock kept sitting motionless across from him.
"Sherlock," he said softly. Sherlock did not reply, so Harry shrugged his shoulders and decided to go do something else. The detective had given no indication of how long he would be thus occupied.
He went to visit Mrs. Hudson, who sat him down for an hour, as she gossiped about the other ladies that lived on their street, and the stuff she had seen on the telly last night.
When he came back to 221b Sherlock was still sitting motionless, with his brows furrowed in concentration.
He sat across from Sherlock. Without the distraction of Mrs. Hudson, his mind kept returning to the person responsible for killing the Dursleys. How close were they to him? What did they want from him? Would it put those around him in danger if the killer were somehow able to find him? Was he safe in Baker Street?
The idea of hiding in plain sight, in muggle London, had been a good one, but no one can stay hidden forever. Sherlock had found him on Archer Street. Sherlock was a genius, and there weren't many (possible none) like him; but that didn't mean that eventually, someone wouldn't be able to trace Harry's whereabouts.
No matter how brilliant the detective was, Harry didn't like the idea of Sherlock having to face dark wizards. His mind conjured a picture of coming to Baker Street to find the sickly green light of the killing curse flashing through the windows, and then, running upstairs, seeing Mrs. Hudson's open, blank eyes, and Sherlock, sprawled and lifeless on the floor.
Suddenly, the silence of the room was extinguished when the detective broke out of his trance with a violent coughing fit. Harry quickly went over to him.
"Are you alright?" Harry asked.
Sherlock shook his head, regaining his breath.
"I cannot access my labyrinth!" He gasped.
"Sorry- what?"
"My labyrinth! A part of my own mind palace; closed off!" Sherlock said hurriedly.
"I'm afraid I don't follow."
Sherlock was panting like he had run a mile, and looking around wildly. Harry could see that the detective was afraid. But Harry did not know what he was talking about, and there was no way for him to help.
"Do you… maybe I should call Mrs. Hudson? Or Mycroft..." Harry suggested.
"Oh, don't be daft! Mycroft will make any problem worse," Sherlock said, shaking, "just let me be for a minute."
Harry did just that, but he carefully watched the detective nonetheless. Sherlock clutched his hands over his knees, and went very still, staring straight ahead. Within a minute he spoke again, this time with a forced and measured calm.
"This has never happened before. It is preposterous that it can happen. It's my own mind; how can I be unable to access it?"
"Sherlock, what is your mind palace exactly?" Harry asked.
The detective began his explanation. Simply put, it was a way to remember a large quantity of information. Concepts and ideas were tied to locations and objects that existed. Sherlock apparently had a whole 'palace' constructed in his mind, to remember relevant data.
"...Of course the brain records so much that is utterly useless. Especially if one interacts with people who are intent on telling you mundane facts and trivia. So, the information which I do not need, I store in a completely different part of my psyche." Sherlock said, "The labyrinth."
Harry, who had studied and practiced occlumency, had a vague and familiar feeling.
"I used to tell John I simply 'deleted' the useless information," Sherlock continued talking, "but the truth is, it is impossible to do this, and I have tried. The mind cannot be erased, except, I suppose by magic. I have been thinking of experimenting with the Obliviate spell, but there are some difficulties, namely that I cannot be the subject."
"So, you made a labyrinth, in your mind, to store memories you did not want any longer?"
"Why do you looks so concerned?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes at Harry
"It's nothing... probably."
Sherlock gave him a look
Harry shifted in his chair, and thought on how to approach this subject.
"So, you know about legilimency?" Harry asked.
"Yes, continue."
"There's another school of magic, which is the twin of legilimency; or maybe, more like its opposite."
Sherlock merely twirled his hand in impatience.
"Occlumency. It's supposed to shield your mind from a legilimens."
"How do you shield your mind from a magical attack?" Sherlock asked.
Harry tried to remember the lecture that Snape had given him about organization of thoughts, and how a well ordered mind is the most secure.
"So, the memories which you would not want anyone to find, you put them out of the way, so to speak." Harry answered. "The further away from your regular thoughts, the better. Usually, you would imagine putting them in some sort of safe, or in a locked room…"
Sherlock scoffed. "If I were invading someone's mind and noticed a bloody safe lying around, that's the first place I would look."
"That's just an example…"
Sherlock closed his eyes. "I don't know if this is relevant." He said. Harry noticed that the detective's hands trembled, and he was just barely controlling his breath.
"It might not be. But I only bring it up because…" Harry paused. He wasn't sure how to explain this properly.
Sherlock gave an impatient huff.
"So, if one had a specific memory that it was absolutely vital to keep secret, you would build a labyrinth around it. So, a legilimens would not find his way through the labyrinth, but neither would the person who has it in their head," Sherlock looked up as Harry spoke, "But, the memory remains in your psyche. Which makes the practice dangerous; the memory still informs your actions, but you effectively don't know about it anymore."
"What is dangerous about this?"
"Well, you might experience emotions or act a certain way, but have no idea why… Though this happens to everyone on some level, when it happens repeatedly, wizards have thought they were going mad. Especially if the memory is important and has a lot of influence over the person carrying it."
Sherlock laughed, harshly and without humor.
"I see." Was all the detective said. He hid his face with his palms, and sat there silently. He might have been going into another trance.
"Sherlock?" Harry asked softly.
"Yes, still here," was the flat reply. They sat like that for endless minutes, Sherlock silent, with his head cradled between his palms.
…
It was unimaginable. Completely unthinkable.
Sherlock remembered stepping into the darkness beneath his mind palace, and instead of finding stone walls, with unwanted memories and facts associated with each brick, he found nothing.
Sherlock walked along, thinking perhaps he just had to go a little further, but all he saw was impenetrable darkness. It was disorienting, crushing, and Sherlock immediately wanted to return to the surface. But he had to find the cause of this change in his Mind Palace, which he, the owner, certainly did not authorize.
He wandered for what seemed like hours through the abyss. The further he went, the less sure Sherlock was, with each step, that there was a world that existed outside of this unyielding darkness, which stretched on forever.
His fear grew, until he was running in a blind panic, trying to find anything in the emptiness. And there was the entity. Something which he sensed, not with his reason, but with dumb animal instinct. It was lurking, just behind him, or just in front of him, always close, amused by Sherlock's terror.
"I've always been here." It whispered to him.
When Sherlock was beyond trying to find the cause of this horrible darkness, and all he wanted to do was leave, he tried prying open his eyes. At first it did nothing, but eventually, a faint picture of his living room appeared, until he found reality.
He was safely back in Baker Street, but the terror which stalked him now lurked the shadows in all the corners of the room, in the space behind the fireplace, and just behind his back, where he could not see.
The fear pumped raw and savage adrenaline through his system, but with the added insult of embarrassment. Sherlock was not a man who was scared of phantoms and figments; except he was, now, in broad daylight, with the wizard sitting only feet away from him, with a gently concerned look appropriate for a doctor examining a patient suffering from a made up disorder.
Slowly, like grappling a sheer cliff, Sherlock regained control of himself, under Harry's watchful gaze.
He critically examined each corner of the room. Nothing there, see? He told himself. Stop acting like a child.
This was a very inconvenient time for him to fall apart. So he would have to hold it together. No more going to the labyrinth for now. That's all. He would live with all the memories which he made, no matter whether he wanted them or not. Later, after Harry's case, maybe, he could pursue that dreadful pocket of darkness in his skull. But it would have to be later. Maybe even never, he thought.
"Sherlock," Harry started to say, "Maybe we ought to go for a walk?"
Sherlock jumped on the suggestion immediately. Yes, sunlight and London. Just what the doctor ordered.
…
The two men slowly made their way to Regent's park. The morning's rain had cleared the air, and it was easy and good to breath it.
They sat on a bench, and in the bright daylight, Sherlock felt that he could be more logical in his assessment of what had happened.
He had been storing unwanted memories in his labyrinth for almost twenty years with no negative consequence. He discarded Harry's suggestion that he had created it around a memory which he needed to keep secret. He started building his Mind Palace in his early teens; surely he had no conception of occlumency back then.
A young woman walked by, slowly pushing a pram, and quietly talking to the baby inside it. Her words got lost on the light summer breeze.
Sherlock felt himself relax. The wizard by his side, even if he now resembled someone else entirely, provided him with a measure of comfort.
Everything would be okay. He would monitor the rest of his mind palace. When he noticed anything changing, he could form a conclusion on what happened in his labyrinth. It was, truthfully speaking, the least important wing of his mental construction. He could get along just fine without it.
"Sherlock, about your labyrinth…" Harry started, his tone unsure, not wanting to broach the subject again.
"I'm sure I'll figure out what went wrong." Sherlock answered. "I'm feeling much better now."
"Good, good."
A light breeze blew across the park, and Sherlock glanced sideways at the wizard to see it pick up strands of auburn hair. Wrong color.
"When is Hermione meant to come over?" Harry asked, blessedly changing the subject entirely.
"Six o'clock." Sherlock answered.
He heard a hum of acknowledgment from Harry side
"Sherlock?" The wizard spoke up.
"Yes?"
"You know, I've been thinking about that day you cornered me in that house on Archer…" Harry said. His tone was very mellow. The weather was having a balming effect on both of the men.
"When I jumped out from behind the kitchenette table and waved a gun in your face?" Sherlock supplied. Harry laughed lightly.
"Yeah, yeah that day. Well, I don't know, I guess I just want to say that I'm happy you found me. I've been very glad to know you."
Sherlock turned around and examined the wizard. Something about the statement struck Sherlock as odd. It sounded less like a compliment, or an acknowledgement of friendship, and more like a good-bye.
"I am very glad to know you, too." Sherlock responded, in the correct, present tense.
…
As the two walked quietly back to Baker Street, Sherlock was fighting the suspicion that every one of his assistant/flatmates/friends would eventually leave him. He did not consider himself to have issues with abandonment, but there's only so much one person can face before developing a complex.
They walked under the scattered shade from towering Linden trees, growing from concrete planters on edge of the sidewalk. Sherlock could not think of a more pleasant day to be in London, and he tried very hard to enjoy the easy air, and the noise of the bustling street. He suddenly felt a brush of warmth on the knuckle of his index finger. They accidently bumped hands. Sherlock waited exactly seven seconds, then casually placed his hands in his pockets, to resist the temptation of reaching out and grabbing the offender's hand.
When they got to the door of Baker Street, Sherlock watched Harry enter. As soon as the door clicked close behind them, Harry's glamour faded away with a sharp swipe of his wand.
Sherlock watched him easily loping up the stairs, the way his limbs met his joints, and how motion gracefully illuminated his body. He followed slowly after him, taking each step with care, with a death grip on the bannister.
"Want anything for lunch?" Sherlock heard his voice from behind a wall. Instead of answering, he went after it.
Sherlock turned into his living room. He turned into the doorless archway that separates the living space from the kitchen, and collided with him. Sherlock heard a soft oof from Harry, as he stumbled back a few steps.
"Sorry about that." Harry laughed, but Sherlock didn't think there was any need to apologize. It didn't hurt at all.
"Lunch?" Harry asked again.
Sherlock thought about what he should say, while his body softly vibrated with the contact.
I find your anatomical build exquisite.
I could watch you for the next century, and it would be a divine show, of which I would enjoy every minute.
If you bump into me like that again, I will pull you close so I can feel your body generating heat, and, and...
"Whatever you want," is what he said, instead.
...
AN: A long break since the last one, I know, but I'm back. The next chapter should be up much sooner. This one's a little shorter, but hopefully you all like it anyway.
As always, a giant thank you to all of the wonderful people who have reviewed this story. I really appreciate feedback, of any sort. Like it, don't like it, let me know. Reviews keep me motivated, and coming back to the keyboard.
Thanks!
