Excerpt from my fic, Op 13 No 9: The Bee
All things considered, I had retired to my room quite early for the odd hours I’ve known myself to keep. I was feeling rather fatigued and just as content from the day’s happenings though, and falling into Sleep’s arms was easy.
I must have slept for an hour or two before a knocking at my door roused me from my slumber. My old soldier’s instincts caused me to jolt in panic before my brain had the time to catch up to me. There was no danger for someone had simply knocked on my door, not burst in or hid under my bedboards.
The second knocking was even softer, somewhat, I recount now, timid.
“Come in, Holmes”, was my soft reply, for I was certain, even in my sleep and excitement muddled brain, that it was he.
Sure enough, Sherlock Holmes quietly opened the door and stepped in, before closing it back behind him.
In the darkness, my vision, which was starting to get used to the absence of light, was able to make out his glistening eyes and the apprehension in his features.
No matter. He had come in, hadn’t he?
I raised my upper half up to rest seated against the headboard. Holmes was in his nightshirt alone, hair flopping gently on his temple. He looked as vulnerable as I had seen him when ill, but he wasn’t taken by sickness. It was only a certain sort of sweetness that seemed to come over him sometimes, usually late at night like this, and my dearest friend looked decades younger, teary eyes staring down at me.
I could tell he wanted to come closer, give in to the natural human instinct of touch, of being warmed and giving warmth. Feeling suddenly brave and protective of the brilliant man in front of me, I reached out my hand.
He came closer timidly, padding softly closer. I held him by the forearm, unspeaking, and gently pulled him down. He went willingly.
An entirely involuntary exhale of relief left my friend’s lips once he found himself seated next to me. I smiled at him in encouragement, hoping he could make out my expression as well I was able to make out his.
Slowly, he raised up his legs and laid down entirely on the bed. I untucked the blankets from where they were tucked under my own sides and covered him as well. My bed wasn’t made to hold two people, but Holmes had the body build of a string bean and, with a little shuffling so we were half on top of each other, we managed to fit. We ended up with his head on my chest, sitting up as I was. I don’t think we spoke a single word. I only found the courage to bring my hand up to pet his neck, scratch at the shorted strands of hair at the nape of it. He went entirely boneless against me then, breathing deeply. I think I made out the sensation of a light kiss placed against my breastbone where I had not bothered to button up my night shirt. The movement, the way we laid there feeding off each other’s warmth seemed the most natural thing in the world. Further relaxed by the scent of him and the puffs of his breath against my chest, I drifted off to sleep once more.
