Sherlock ficlet: 'Two A.M.' (sh/mh - PG - 450 words - sequel to 'Unacceptable')
For the "Middles" prompt, a 450 word sequel to Unacceptable
~ Two A.M. ~
He used to knock, but that was years ago, and he doesn’t want to disturb her sleep… well, not any more than needs must. And needs must. He needs a bolthole tonight. And he needs an answer.
The process of picking the lock is virtually silent, but when he opens the door her cat meows loudly in the darkness, loud and close.
“Shut up!” he hisses, but refrains from further abuse, verbal or physical: she’s thrown him out before for merely nudging the creature with his toe.
But this time Toby falls silent and allows him to pass.
The hinge on her bedroom door squeaks a bit and he makes a mental note to see to it in the morning.
“Sherlock?” Her sleepy voice is a little anxious.
“Yes. May I stay?”
A sigh. “Yes. Of course.”
He can hear the rustle of the bedclothes as she scoots over to make room. By the time he’s stripped to briefs and vest his eyes have adjusted to the minimal light and he can see she’s facing him, her pale face on the paler pillow.
“Are you OK?,” she says as he gets in beside her. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has. And no.” He pulls the covers up over his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
He stills and doesn’t answer for a moment, but then does something he rarely allows himself: slowly reaches out and touches -- caresses -- her silken hair. Hunts for the right words, fails to find them, and finally merely blurts, “You’re not cutting it?”
A gasp of relieved laughter and “Oh, you ridiculous man!” and suddenly she’s there, warm and solid and sweet scented, taking his face between her hands and kissing him soundly. He’s so surprised he doesn’t react and then it’s too late, she’s pulling back just enough to affirm, “No, I’m not cutting it.”
He swallows hard. “Good.” Thank God the word comes out soft and low, not the high-pitched stammer he’d feared to utter. The feel of her beneath his hands is… quite… intriguing…
But she chuckles, kisses him again, on the cheek this time, and then it’s over. She’s moving back to her side of the bed. “Sorry, got carried away.” Her amused voice belies her words. “What is it with men and long hair?” She settles in again.
He registers disappointment, and reverts to idiocy, replying, “Or women with four hundred milliliters of Chardonnay?”
Instead of taking offense, she gives another tiny (adorable) snort of laughter. “Got that, did you?”
“Indeed.” He watches her as she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep, a smile still touching her lips and eventually he completes the comment, whispering, “Perhaps they should indulge more often.”
~.~
~ Two A.M. ~
He used to knock, but that was years ago, and he doesn’t want to disturb her sleep… well, not any more than needs must. And needs must. He needs a bolthole tonight. And he needs an answer.
The process of picking the lock is virtually silent, but when he opens the door her cat meows loudly in the darkness, loud and close.
“Shut up!” he hisses, but refrains from further abuse, verbal or physical: she’s thrown him out before for merely nudging the creature with his toe.
But this time Toby falls silent and allows him to pass.
The hinge on her bedroom door squeaks a bit and he makes a mental note to see to it in the morning.
“Sherlock?” Her sleepy voice is a little anxious.
“Yes. May I stay?”
A sigh. “Yes. Of course.”
He can hear the rustle of the bedclothes as she scoots over to make room. By the time he’s stripped to briefs and vest his eyes have adjusted to the minimal light and he can see she’s facing him, her pale face on the paler pillow.
“Are you OK?,” she says as he gets in beside her. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has. And no.” He pulls the covers up over his shoulder.
“What’s wrong?”
He stills and doesn’t answer for a moment, but then does something he rarely allows himself: slowly reaches out and touches -- caresses -- her silken hair. Hunts for the right words, fails to find them, and finally merely blurts, “You’re not cutting it?”
A gasp of relieved laughter and “Oh, you ridiculous man!” and suddenly she’s there, warm and solid and sweet scented, taking his face between her hands and kissing him soundly. He’s so surprised he doesn’t react and then it’s too late, she’s pulling back just enough to affirm, “No, I’m not cutting it.”
He swallows hard. “Good.” Thank God the word comes out soft and low, not the high-pitched stammer he’d feared to utter. The feel of her beneath his hands is… quite… intriguing…
But she chuckles, kisses him again, on the cheek this time, and then it’s over. She’s moving back to her side of the bed. “Sorry, got carried away.” Her amused voice belies her words. “What is it with men and long hair?” She settles in again.
He registers disappointment, and reverts to idiocy, replying, “Or women with four hundred milliliters of Chardonnay?”
Instead of taking offense, she gives another tiny (adorable) snort of laughter. “Got that, did you?”
“Indeed.” He watches her as she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep, a smile still touching her lips and eventually he completes the comment, whispering, “Perhaps they should indulge more often.”
~.~