#belated entry

The box had been on their porch when he had gotten back from his run, so he had grabbed it on his way in and carried it upstairs with him. He followed the sound of soft music to their ensuite and found Mel submerged in a bubble bath in their oversized tub. It had been one of her favorite things about this house when she first moved in, even more so during both of her pregnancies. She didn’t get to use it often, usually opting for a shower for efficiency, but when she did, she made a moment of it. With Olivia nupping, the older kids at Abby’s for the week, and Frank on a run, she had settled down for an extended soak. She offered him a lazy smile when he entered the room, one hand resting on her stomach where it just peeked out from beneath the bubbles. He sat himself down on the toilet with the box in his lap. 

“Package?” he repeated.

She shifted a little higher in the tub, and he tried not to notice that the bubbles were no longer protecting her modesty as well as before. “Oh, right. I ordered some books for the kids.”

His brows pulled together. “You don’t think they’re covered in the literary department?”

Between all the books Tanner and Ava had accumulated over the years and the ones that had been gifted to Olivia over time, their shelves were full to bursting. Picture books, chapter books, classics, fairytales–they had every category covered. Or so he thought. 

“These are for a special circumstance,” she said. When his frown deepened, she encouraged him. “Go ahead, open it up.”

It took him a second to get the tape on the box popped open, but she waited patiently as he worked open the flaps. He pulled each book out, reading the titles as he stacked them on the counter.

Two is for Twins.

A Twin is to Hug.

Take Two: A Celebration of Twins.

Bathtime for Twins.

Twin to Twin.

The Twinniest Twins and The Twinniest Twins and Me. 

He was sure there was a conclusion to be drawn, but his brain had short circuited.

When he finally looked up from the collection of books to meet her eyes, she smiled with her shoulders lifted to her ears. “Surprise?”

The next thing he knew, the empty box was tossed across the floor and he was curling himself around her in the bathtub with a splash. 

“Frank!” She nearly shrieked. Her face scrunched up even as she accepted the barrage of kisses he was peppering against her soap slick skin. “You’re sweaty! And still dressed!”

“I don’t care,” he replied before finally catching her mouth in a real, deep kiss. He rested his forehead against hers when they each pulled back with a sigh. “I miss one appointment and this is how you tell me?”

“It thought it was clever,” she grinned, cheeky, and he nuzzled his sweat damp fringe into the crook of her neck in retaliation. 

“It was clever,” he admitted after, grazing his lips and teeth along her bare shoulder. “My clever, clever girl.”

Later, when his drenched clothes are in a pile outside the tub, his hair and body have been washed at her insistence, they had drained the chilling bath to replace it with fresh steamy water and added bubbles, and they had settled into the more comfortable position of her lounging between his legs, back to his front, to enjoy the rest of her bath together, reality sunk in. One of her hands was in his, fingers laced, so they could stroke the round curve of her belly together.

“Twins,” he whispered against the side of her head, lips to her temple, awed, and she nodded, accepting. 

Ever rational and realistic, he initially rejected the notion of any sort of magical being… but he couldn’t help but wonder. How had he come to be the only person his size, if not through magic? What other explanation could there be? As he often said to himself, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

And the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

Perhaps he was meant to have been a fairy himself. Perhaps something had gone wrong, resulting in his wings not growing or appearing, or however one came to have wings. Perhaps, he thought in his darker moments, someone had taken them. He might never know the answers, but he could not rid himself of the notion, nor the obsession. Day and night, he pored over the few books with information on the fae. Some presented that information as fact, others as fiction, but all had one similarity: There was a queen of the fairies, and she had the power to make a mortal one of their own.

His path was clear; he would have to find this queen of the fairies, and convince her to give him wings.

Sherlock told Mrs Hudson of his plan one evening, and predictably, he was met with concerns for his safety and pleas for him not to go. He presented his research and logic as an argument, and eventually, she conceded, only asking that he wait to leave until morning. A small concession to make, he thought, and easily agreed.

That night, however, as he lay in his walnut-shell bed, too excited to sleep, he heard a strange sound. He sat upright, holding his breath as he listened.

It was… a bee?

Sure enough, as he got out of bed and made his way toward the window, where the sound came from, he found a bee settled just outside. But that wasn’t all. The bee had a sort of saddle on it, suggesting that someone—or something—had been riding it. Sherlock hardly had time to process this revelation before the rider appeared, having pushed the window open just enough to slip inside.

And Sherlock’s jaw dropped.

A fairy.

She was a bit smaller than even him, clad in a dress that seemed to be made of flower petals, her opalescent wings fluttering at her back. Her eyes, wide and brown, landed on him, and her mouth fell open to match his. They stared at one another in silence for several moments, before she swallowed and put on a shy smile. “Hello,” she said in a soft voice.

Sherlock finally closed his mouth, but didn’t stop staring. “Who are you?”

“My name is Molly,” she answered. “What’s yours?”

“Sherlock. Why are you here?”

Her face fell a bit. “Oh, er, sorry… would you like me to leave?”

“NO!” he bellowed, then winced at his volume. She jumped back at the outburst, but she didn’t seem at all put off by him. In fact, she was smiling. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Sorry. What I meant was, you can stay… if you like.”

Her smile grew. “That’s a relief. Thank you.” Another silence settled between them for a few seconds, then her brow furrowed as she looked past him. “What happened to your wings?”

Sherlock’s stomach twisted. “I… I’ve never had any.”

Now her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Not ever?” He shook his head. “I’ve never met a mortal who was the same size as me.”

“I’ve never met anyone the same size as me,” he countered, then more seriously added, “I’ve never really met anyone at all, come to think of it. It’s always been just me and Mrs Hudson.”

“Mrs Hudson?”

“My mother… adoptive,” he clarified unnecessarily.

Those brown eyes continued staring at him, but a slow smile spread across her elfin face. “Would you like to meet more people your size?”

His heart did a somersault in his chest, and he nodded. She held out her hand to him, but he hesitated, looking over his shoulder in the direction of Mrs Hudson’s bedroom. He’d promised to wait until the morning to start his adventure, and she would be terribly upset if he broke that promise… but this may be his only chance. Finally, with a deep breath, he stepped forward and took her hand.

“I don’t have any wings,” he reminded her as they moved to the window.