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A Bit Better	By : VulpineBeesKnees Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3330 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
A/N: Okay so maybe things aren't all better... but we did say 'A Bit Better' right? Comparatively, they're doing great =). Also, thanks to the upcoming release for series three you will be getting the rest of this last part of the trilogy a lot faster. Enjoy =)
John waited until he was sure Sherlock had retreated to their room before he closed the laptop and began tidying up the room. He hadn't intended on making him wait long for him to come to bed, he just needed to make his point. It seemed, from how quickly Sherlock had pulled away, he at least knew something was wrong.
It was rather juvenile to hold sex as a bargaining chip, John knew that. Unfortunately he was dealing with a juvenile. Hopefully Sherlocks insatiable libido would be stronger than his obstinance in this case.
Satisfied that he'd made some dent in their whirlwind of a flat, John brushed his teeth and headed off to bed. Wordlessly stripping down to his pants and a t-shirt John slid into the sheets. He placed a chaste kiss to the exposed bit of skin he could reach, right below Sherlock’s ear, and closed his eyes.
He wasn't quite sure what to expect, he'd never turned Sherlock down. His best guess was one of two things; a sulk for the ages, or a painfully accurate deduction of Johns plan and a show of how sure Sherlock was of his resolve. To John’s dismay it seemed, for the night at least, Sherlock had picked the first option.
Sherlock didn’t react at all, just stayed on his side with his back to the other man. However the kiss did send his brain train careening off the track. So it was alright for John to show affection but Sherlock’s was met with indifference. What was this game John was playing? Sherlock couldn’t fathom what was going on with him. Normally it was the other way around, and the detective felt very vulnerable and confused, and he didn’t like it. He listened very carefully and when John was deep in sleep, about three minutes into his REM cycle, Sherlock sat up slowly and left the bed. He needed something to help him think.
He wasn’t allowed Nicotine patches for the time being, not with the last of his withdrawal symptoms only a few weeks behind him, so he had to settle for composing. Creating something that echoed the chaos in his mind always helped him think, but he worried that the stradivarius would not be a pleasant companion this time. He retrieved some staff paper from the stack on the shelf and set up his music stand with a mechanical pencil and his violin. Once he’d prepped the bow and tuned the instrument itself, he began to play quietly so as not to wake the older man. If the reason for his frustration were to be here in the room with him, he feared his process would be futile.
Soft somber notes flowed from the violin, and as he played his thoughts swirled around him, almost tangible. He played for a long time before they developed into something he was fairly sure could be what was plaguing the doctor. Whilst discussing his mother, John had made mention of Sherlock’s funeral. Perhaps something had sparked a reaction within the man that made him keep his distance. Had the gentle kiss when he’d finally retired been an attempt to soothe his abrupt reaction to the looming unresolved issues between them? Sherlock wasn’t stupid. He’d seen all the questions John had asked him since his return were still hanging between them, even after the near death experience. There hadn’t really been a good time to talk about them, and Sherlock wasn’t sure he wanted to yet, but here they were rearing their ugly heads in his face.
With a soft, aggravated noise, Sherlock ran the hand with the bow in it through his curly hair, tugging at the locks in frustration. He didn’t know how to do this, this relationship thing, he was so lost. He’d tried using past experiences to formulate some sort of contingency plan, but none of it was compatible with his current situation. Laying his violin down in his chair, he sat in John’s, the union jack pillow wedged between his legs and chest as he pulled his feet up into the seat.
Being out of his element was new for him, and he wasn’t taking it well. He stayed in the chair for a long time, trying to get his mind to calm down. He even cleared the cups away and put them in the sink before making himself another cup of tea, catching the kettle before it whistled. He took a few sips, but it was in John’s chair, the small pillow wedged down beside him that he stayed until morning broke through the small windows into the flat, and Sherlock could hear the noises of John beginning to wake. He noticed that the tea in his mostly full cup was ice cold, but his stiff limbs refused to obey him, so he stayed there, staring at the wall, his mind never ceasing.
John wasn’t particularly surprised to find the bed empty as he rolled into consciousness. It was a common occurrence on a good day for Sherlock to disappear during the night, normally to another room in the flat, occasionally to the depths of London. But today, John thought as the memories of the previous evening trickled back, was probably going to be a bit not good. Slipping on a pair of loose sweatpants he made his way out into the sitting room.
Tea was always the first thing on John’s list in the morning, so he barely noticed that Sherlock was curled into his own chair until after he’d started the pot and ventured back into the sitting room. His hand carded through the wrecked curls absentmindedly as he walked past.
“You get any sleep last night?” Moving the stradivarius to lay across the desk John fell into Sherlock’s chair, waiting for the tell tale whistle of the tea pot. The faint color surrounding the green eyes and the forgotten cup of tea told John he hadn’t, but that was the only answer he received.
Sherlock was staring past John, into the wall behind him, so he rattled on. “Lestrade still doesn’t have any suitable cases, but the websites getting busy again. I’m not working today so I’ll see what I can find there.” Still nothing.
Shaking his head John went to finish his tea, a soft whistle emanating from the kitchen. He grabbed Sherlock’s ice cold cup to refill on the way. He didn’t bother asking, obviously he wasn’t going to get a response. He returned with two cups of tea, setting one on the small table beside Sherlock, before taking a seat back in the opposite chair.
After a few more useless attempts at conversation John gave up and went back to finishing up the blog post from the night before and responding to emails. After a while Sherlock did move, seemingly getting showered and dressed for the day, but he still didn’t say a word to John. The blonde worried, as Sherlock huffed about the flat, if he had underestimated the detectives resolve. When he finally emerged fully dressed, in the purple flannel and tight black jeans no less, he headed for the door.
“Wait.” John stumbled from the desk chair as it rolled away behind him. “Where are you going?” He definitely had not meant to drive him away.
Sherlock stopped in the doorway and turned, pulling leather gloves over his long fingers. John looked upset that he was leaving and it made the detective furious because it was just another layer that he didn't understand.
"Out." Was all he said before briskly turning and thumping down the stairs, slamming the door hard enough behind him that Mrs. Hudson replaced him in the doorway a few moments later. John let out a groan as he ran a hand through his hair, cursing silently under his breath.
"Did you two have a bit of a domestic?" She asked moving to John's side, laying a hand on his upper arm much like a mother would.
He looked up at her and offered a smile that only reached half his features. "Yeah, something like that." Mrs. Hudson was the only one that possibly came close to understanding their relationship. He truly did love her like a mother. Laying his hand over hers he continued a bit more chipper, "We'll be fine though, nothing we can't handle." No reason to worry her needlessly.
John considered running after him of course, but decided against it. He wouldn't go far, he never did. It was best to let him cool off.
Sure enough a few hours later he heard his phone chirp. It wasn't exactly who he had been hoping for, as the screen read GREG LESTRADE. Opening the phone he read
What the hell did you do to Sherlock? He's up here causing a fuss. Said he wanted to do some social experiments before we sent these guys on to prison he-
The text was so long it was cut into two messages.
Is in some kind of rage. I swear he made a serial rapist twice my size cry. Come get your detective before I let Donovan loose on him!
-Greg
John was already at the door shrugging on his coat and on his way out the door by the time he finished reading the message.
What the hell did you do to Sherlock?
John hadn't meant to upset him, not like this. There was a fine line with Sherlock. He could be rude and brusque but he didn't often completely lose control.
When the cabbie finally pulled up to the Yard John practically lunged from the vehicle, throwing a few crumpled bills over the seat. He found Lestrade waiting when the elevator opened up on the DIs floor.
"Where is he?"
"I had to lock him in an interrogation room for his own safety." He started leading John towards the interrogation rooms, venting angrily as they walked. "After he made the rapist cry I told him he needed to go home. Told me he couldn't do that. Anderson said something stupid, and Sherlock lit into him like nothing I've ever seen. It was vicious John. I don't know what happened between you two, and frankly it's none of my business, but I can't have him coming up here terrorizing the entire force just because you two had a spat."
Donovan was standing outside the door, but the DI had the smarts not to leave her alone to guard the door, as another burly looking man was standing beside her.
Instead of leading him into the room with Sherlock, he steered him into the observation room. The large two way mirror showed Sherlock pacing in a circle around the table, his hands clasped in the small of his back. He seemed to be muttering to himself, his lips were moving but no words came out.
"As a friend, to both of you." Greg started as he pushed John down into a chair. "Is everything alright? When I asked him what was wrong, he only looked at me with his big eyes and said your name. Now emotional mumbo jumbo is not my division, but I've been dealing with a Holmes on this level a bit longer, maybe I can help?"
Lestrade might not have been a great man, and the Holmes brothers were nowhere near cookie cutter personalities, but he could definitely see similarities between this and his and Mycroft's first big row. He had been glad that he'd never planned to visit Syria, after seeing the wreckage from Mycroft's 'minor tantrum' he knew he wouldn't be able to set foot in the country without feeling guilty.
Looking back at Sherlock pacing the room John shook his head. This was not what he had intended to happen, not at all. But what was he supposed to tell Greg?
Sherlock was refusing to see his mother so John was denying him sex, but of course he hadn't explained this to Sherlock. He just shouldered him off, ignored him, and given absolutely no explanation. It was finally dawning on John that he had expected too much of him.
"We're fine." His voice was short, but when he looked up at the DI who was obviously looking for more of an answer he dropped the bitter tone. "He... Mycroft wanted him to see their mum... Sherlock was refusing to go..." He pinched his brow between two fingers, pressing his eyes shut tight, before moving to stand. "I pushed him and obviously I shouldn't have. Can I get him now?"
John didn't look back at Lestrade as he stood, he didn't need to see whatever worry or pity lie there.
“You have to remember John.” Greg said, standing with him and placing a hand on his shoulder, “They don’t know relationships like we do. Things that seem... “ He struggled to find the right word, “Normal to us, may not compute. Hell look at the way they treat each other. Mycroft takes care of his brother by spying on him. Who does that?” He shook his head and led the blonde back out into the hallway.
“Just be careful.” he said softly, before shooing away the guards and opening the door, letting John into the interrogation room before closing it quietly behind him. Sherlock stopped pacing, and although he didn’t change his posture, he looked for all the world like a caged animal. His eyes were cold and sharp but there was a hesitance there that wasn’t normal for the way things had been between them lately.
“Come to collect me have you.” he quipped with an obvious temper.
"Sherlock," John took a few steps forward, pausing hesitantly just out of reach. They had fallen back so many hard earned steps in such a short amount of time that the air between them was tense. "Let's just go home." He didn't want to have it out at all, especially not here.
John bit at the inside of his lip, desperately hoping Sherlock wouldn't put up a fight about this.
The detective couldn’t decipher John’s mood. He looked tired, and a little irritated, but besides that he couldn’t see anything like he normally could. He thought about fighting him, about refusing to leave, but that was how this started wasn’t it? By him refusing John something he asked for. John never asked for much, so who was he to deny him?
Slowly, the detective nodded, feeling like a chastised child. He wanted to be mad, he wanted a piece of the fury that had consumed him earlier, but seeing John had caused all the anger to leave him, and the worry from the night before to sweep back in. He was going to tell him tonight. He’d been working through it in his mind while Lestrade had locked him in here and called John, and he had decided exactly how and what he was going to say. Sherlock was nervous to tell John, he could be mad at the detective for not having told him sooner, or worse he could leave. His stomach fell as that thought crossed his mind. If John left, he’d be completely alone, just like Moriarty. He didn’t want to turn into his father, but he knew that by not telling John now, it could make him leave anyway. It was now or never, and they needed to get home before Sherlock would be able to muster the courage to say another word. When John opened the door, he moved passed him careful not to touch. Lestrade nodded to them both, but Sally Donovan’s glare followed them to the elevator doors.
The ride downstairs was excruciating, and he thought he was going to die before they made it out of the cab. He spent most of it silently staring out the window, but he was quite in tune with John and his body.
John tried to engage Sherlock, resting his hand on a shoulder tentatively. A surge of fear went through him as he tried to imagine what would happen when the got home. They hadn’t fought before, not like this, and he had no idea what to expect. His hand fell between them awkwardly when it became evident Sherlock wasn’t responding to the touch. John spent the rest of the ride trying to come up with something that would bring the detective from his reverie.
But when they finally made it home, Sherlock paid the cabby and slipped out of the backseat before John could even get his door open. He left the door to the flat open and slipped into the kitchen to make tea. He knew John would need it for what he had to say. “Sit.” he said simply when he heard the door close and footsteps making their way to the kitchen.
He moved slowly towards Sherlock, worry etched across his features as he watched the detective from the doorway. “I’m sorry Sherlock.” He had thought of saying many things. Explaining what had happened the night before, that having a row does not constitute attacking half of Lestrade's team, but none of that managed to make its way out as he watched him making tea for the both of them.
“Don’t apologize John, just sit.” He didn’t look at him, and turned away to retrieve the milk Mrs. Hudson had bought for them. He splashed some into both cups, added sugar to his own, and carried the cups to the living room. He set John’s down on the table next to his chair, and sat in his own, showing John he wanted to talk, not sitting on the couch where they could sit together.
He set his own cup on the table and rested his elbows on his knees as he hung his head, hands running through his curly hair in frustration. “Sit.” he half commanded. His tone was no nonsense, and as he looked back up at John, his eyes were hard.
John obliged, he could feel his heart beating in his throat. He didn’t make a move for the tea, instead he leaned forward, watching Sherlock carefully. The man looked absolutely wrecked. He’d obviously been tearing at his hair the entire time he’d been out and it was standing at all sorts of odd angles. Then of course was the fact that he’d made John tea, which could only mean he felt whatever he had to say would call for it.
“Talk to me Sherlock.” John’s voice was soft, masking most of the fear he was feeling.
“I knew Moriarty, or Sebastian Moran rather... I knew he was going to try to kill me or force me to kill myself. I had to take drastic measures in order to assure him that I had in the event that I was unable to persuade him to stand down. The moment he killed himself on that rooftop, before I called you I sent a text message out to a few select people. Molly, some of my homeless network, and Mycroft. I put them all on red alert.” He raised his head, a hand rubbing over his face and pulling at his lips.
It had been months since they’d finished with Moriarty, but John still hadn’t asked what happened during Sherlock’s hiatus. It was like a careful subject they had hidden away, something they were both aware of, but made sure to never speak of.
“Sherlock.” John’s voice was barely above a whisper, he could see how emotionally draining this was for the detective already, “You don’t have to do this. It’s ok-.”
“Hush John.” Sherlock’s words cut through John’s feeble attempt at brushing this all over, “You made me promise once that I would tell you. I told you I would tell you once I was sure that things were more stable between us. I didn’t think it would ever be, but...” He trailed off for a moment before his eyes snapped to John’s blue ones, suddenly very calm and resolved.
“I called you. I had to make you believe that I was going to die too. There were assassins trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and they had to see me die John. I knew if I kept you in a convenient location, they would be watching you and your reactions, you would sell it John. You would keep them all safe.” His fingers dug into the tender skin beneath his cheekbones as he pressed on.
“When I jumped, I kept you to where the building between the street and Barts would hinder your sight. You would see me fall, but you wouldn’t see me hit the ground. With the man on the bicycle that knocked you down I would have precisely ninety seconds from the time I hit the back of the garbage truck to get out and lay down. I had parts of my homeless network in scrubs, and I’d donated a pint of blood earlier that week. That combined with my own concoction of sedatives and other various drugs, I could slow my heart and breathing enough to fool even you.”
Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out before continuing. “Didn’t you notice that even though you were practically shouting that you were a doctor, they were pulling you away?” he scrubbed at his eyes with both hands. “They whisked me away where Molly gave me a shot of adrenaline to get my heart rate back up. Mycroft hid me away for a while, but soon I started out here in London, tracking down and finding all of Moriarty’s web of criminals. For a long time my searching was futile. Then, I caught a break.”
He had to stand for this next bit, he was getting far too nervous to remain sitting. “I started small, worked my way up. Finally after a year, I was infiltrating their groups within a matter of weeks instead of months. Sometimes it was easy to make it into their midst, others... not so much.” He stopped and looked at John, his eyes were wild and almost frightened. They didn’t waver as he lifted his fingers to remove his coat, tossing it back onto his chair, and then almost clinically removed his flannel shirt as well. The afternoon light spilled into 221B practically reflecting off of his alabaster skin. Although John had seen him naked before something was different about baring his chest to the man now.
He pointed to his chest where a long thin scar arched across his left pectoral muscle. “Knife. I barely dodged out of the way. The man had been aiming for my throat.” He pointed out a few other smaller scars much the same way, ones with different stories, when finally, he lifted his left arm, and pointed to the dark puckered skin across his left side.
“They were torturing me. It was a necessary way that I had to utilize quite often to gain access to the group. However, this group had heard about my movements, and captured me unawares. The leader took a hot knife, slid it right between my ribs and opened me up like some sort of lab dissection. I passed out. It was one of the few times Mycroft actually had to step in and save my life... They had already burned my skin enough that I wouldn’t get an infection from the gash... but it didn’t heal well, that’s why it’s so horrid.” Shaking his head, he turned around and ran his fingers down the long thin scar on his back.
“I was running away, leading them further into the forest where I could pick them off one by one. I was outnumbered five to one, and they had guns. A chain link fence was barring my way, and when I lept over it, I didn’t see the piece sticking straight out on the other side. I slid down the fence and it ripped a deep gash in my back.” His fingers reached a spot at the top near his right shoulder where the scar flared out and was pink instead of the white of the rest of it. “I got stuck. I thought I was done for, but... I got free somehow.” Sherlock refused to tell him that it was the thought of John and never seeing him again that had given him the extra gall he’d needed to rip the metal from his flesh.
With his back turned Sherlock didn’t see John silently slip to his feet. He had known a little of what had happened, what little Mycroft had shared with him at least, but hearing it like this was so much different. He’d been sitting with one hand pressed to his mouth since Sherlock had rid himself of his shirt, trying not to imagine too vividly the horrors Sherlock had gone through.
He was standing directly behind the detective in a few swift steps and he reached out for him. Calloused fingers lightly grazed the gash Sherlock’s own hand was still resting on. He traced up the soft skin until he reached the dip, where the skin was torn deeper. As their fingers brushed over the old wound images flashed through his mind. All the nightmares they’d protected each other from, this had been why. It sickened him that even for a moment, he’d considered their scars as something good, paths that had led them to each other.
“Sher-” He breathed the detectives name, unsure of what else to say. John had been through war, but he hadn’t been alone. The wound on his shoulder had scared him, mentally and physically, but he was cared for and sent home. Sherlock hadn’t had any of that. He had fought a one man war, and almost died for it time and time again with practically no one to turn to.
Sherlock’s fingers gripped John’s hand as he turned. They were now almost chest to chest. The detective’s hand was tight around John’s, almost crushing his fingers. “Do not for one minute pity me John. I deserve all of these.” He took a breath and closed his eyes before pushing forward, “I could have turned them in. I could have dropped them off with Mycroft but I didn’t. I killed every last one of them.”
Sherlock didn’t want to open his eyes. He didn’t want to see John’s expression. He had wanted to wait until he was positive things were okay, but he had seen since last night and his tantrum today, things were not going to be okay, not with secrets looming over their heads. If John did leave him, he would have to cope. He couldn’t keep smiling and hiding the truth from the only person who truly cared for him.
“For a while after I came home, I could pretend like I wasn’t that monster. I could act like everything was normal. Life moved on, you helped to fix me, how could I show you what I had become? You already knew I had little regard for human life, how could I tell you how skewed my conscience was without you to balance it out? Now you see why I refused to tell you?” He asked.
In the end, Moriarty had strived to find someone just like him, little did anyone know that he had succeeded. He didn’t dare say it aloud though, even he wasn’t that dramatic.Sherlock’s teeth were grit together as he released John’s hand from his tight grip. He did however, press the open palm to his face. The touches on his scars had been gentle, and for one moment, he just wanted to imagine that nothing had changed, even though he was sure it had.
John’s thumb brushed along the sharp cheekbone softly. Had Sherlock opened his eyes he would have seen a very confused man in front of him. His free hand moved to graze along with jagged cut along his ribs. Now that the marks had stories the touch felt as if it might burn his fingertips, as if somehow he might take the pain away through the gesture.
It was a few moments before John finally spoke, the pain was evident in his voice. “What did you think would happen if you told me?” He cupped Sherlock’s jaw softly, willing him to open his eyes.
“The same thing that happened when I ever opened up to anyone else.” When he opened his eyes, they met John’s blue ones and all the fear of rejection that had been cultivated from the three years of being away, all the fights, all the times he’d expected John to walk out and never come back, they were all laid out in his gaze. His thumb brushed against the back of John’s hand and he gave a small smile. He wasn’t sure how to interpret what he saw in John’s face. Were things better between them? John certainly didn’t seem to be considering running away.
“You won’t... will you?” His voice was soft and low.
“I’m not going anywhere Sherlock.” John didn’t try and move closer or pull away, just touching Sherlock gently, supporting him. Somehow, their tiff had led to Sherlock sharing what was probably the most intimate secret he held, and John wasn’t going to push him for any more. “You did what you had to. I hate that you were forced into that and that you were alone, but it doesn’t make you any less human.”
Sherlock’s lip quivered, though he would deny it later. He moved his hands almost hesitantly before sliding them around John’s waist and pulling him the last few inches into his embrace. “Now that I’ve told you...” His voice caught in his throat, “Now that I’ve told you, are you quite finished being angry with me?” The words were spoken into John’s hair, his hands were light on the other’s hips, ready to pull back at the first sign of John’s displeasure.
“Oh shit.” John breathed, finally realizing what had happened. He felt Sherlock tense up as he cursed and had to wrap an arm tight around the thin waist to keep him from pulling away. Somehow Sherlock had assumed he was upset that they hadn’t yet talked about everything. The man had bared his soul, because John had wanted him to visit his mum.
Keeping Sherlock close he spoke against his chest, “I’m not angry with you Sherlock, honestly. I never was, not really anyways. Just... Okay this was actually quite horrible of me.” He released Sherlock so that he could look up at him. John chewed at the inside of his lip, hoping he wouldn’t be too upset, again. “I think it’s your turn not to be angry with me actually..”
“Why on earth would I be angry with you John?” he asked.
Taking a deep breath John pressed on. “I.. I really wasn’t angry with you. I was just trying to get you to agree to go to your mum’s.” He bit at his bottom lip again, waiting for Sherlock to react, fully prepared for this to set off another fit.
The detective’s eyes narrowed. That’s what John had pulled away for? “You mean to tell me that this entire thing was about going to visit my mother?”
Unable to hold the piercing gaze any longer John focused on a stain on the wall behind them, he was fairly certain it was tea Sherlock had thrown across the room during one of the more difficult days of his recovery.
Sherlock grabbed John’s chin and forced him to look into his eyes once more. “Does it really mean that much to you for me to go see my mother? Enough that you would rebuff my advances for everything that has become normal...” He trailed off for a moment, “What will Lestrade say when he finds out. Oh, John you may be banned from the yard for quite some time..” His voice had taken on a light air to drive away the tense feelings they’d been sharing not a moment ago
John relaxed slightly when he heard the change in his tone. “Oi! Who has to tell Lestrade anything? Plus if I’m banned you’ll be shit out of luck because I doubt you’ll be let in there without me for quite a while, not after today.” This banter was normal, comfortable. It felt as if a small weight had been lifted of John’s shoulders. He hadn’t realized until now just how much he needed their relationship, the idea of scaring Sherlock away had absolutely terrified him.
Dropping the teasing tone he answered the real question. “And yes. I mean, she’s your mother, and she thought you were dead for christs sake. I just... It’s the right thing to do Sherlock.”
“Then I’ll go.” The words came so easily, and he pulled John back into a quick hug before letting him go. He moved across the flat, scooped both of their tea cups up and deposited them on the coffee table before sliding his hips tight into the corner of the couch and patting the space beside him.
“Now that I know why you were so indifferent yesterday, I’m sure you’ve been regretting not taking care of my... “ he rolled his eyes at the word, “cuddly mood. Come here.” He held his arm out, making the space right up against his side look very inviting. The brunette would never admit it, but after having bared his gritty history to John, he needed some physical reassurance that he was not about to leave.
Any residual tension that John had been holding on to left at the invitation. Grabbing the cup of tea he nestled against the lanky man.
"Yes. I have. We could still..." John let his implication hang in the air as his eyes traveled up the still bare chest. Taking a sip of the tea to fill the silence his gaze met Sherlocks. "If you want to I mean."
For the first time since he and John had entered into that kind of relationship, Sherlock could say that he really didn’t. After the worry of the afternoon, the steeling himself for John to storm out the door, he felt rather deflated, and the only thing he truly desired was to have his arms around John to prove to himself that he was still here, and this wasn’t some dream.
“No.” he said softly, wrapping his arm around the doctor and taking his own tea in hand, “If you don’t mind, I’d just like to stay like this for a while.” He knew the words would sound odd, but he frankly didn’t care.
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