#brainwcrk

Imogene,

If you've found this letter, then my predictions were (of course) correct, and you did infact take my dressing gown with you. Unusually sentimental of you, but I must admit I'm quite touched.

Now do please stop rolling your eyes. I am well aware that 1. You are only going to be away for four days and 2. I can get near-instant gratification by sending you a text message, but I simply thought that this would be a touch more dramatic. Not nearly as dramatic as stealing your brother's clothes, but here we are.

You're currently composing... Something... Downstairs on the piano. It does sound lovely, if a touch too melancholy. Ease back on the ebony, sister mine. I know you're going to miss me, but surely there will be enough at the cottage to keep you occupied. If not, well... You have an awfully good imagination. Use it. And failing that, just keep your mobile phone switched on. I predict a few restless nights for the pair of us.

I don't expect you to write back, seeing as you'll probably beat your reply home, but do let me know when you've found it. I'd quite like to revel in my own smugness.

What did I say about rolling your eyes?

Sherlock

“There’s more to it than that, surely. No case worthy of your time is ever ‘just a simple murder’---you’re keeping something from me and I know it. Now come on, Detective. Out with it.”

“ You’re leaving, aren’t you? ” It’s not a question, (though entirely rhetorical), more of a statement--- for no matter how much she pushes it to the back of her mind, she already knows the answer. It was made fairly clear early on that their days together were filtering through a sand timer; Sherlock had work to do, and no matter how used to this lifestyle Irene found herself getting, it was nothing more than a pipe dream, practicality be damned. Her nose brushes the dip of her jaw as she comes to rest her chin upon her shoulder, lips grazing against her neck as she speaks. “ You were talking Serbian in your sleep. I swear your brain doesn’t switch off. ”

They’re entwined in bed, sunlight beginning to stream in through a gap in the curtains, casting long shadows across their bodies------ which happened to be in a rather wonderful state of déshabillé following the previous night’s affairs. Irene’s head rests upon Sherlock’s shoulder, an arm strewn across her abdomen, fingertips lazily tracing prose against the dip of her waist.

Twins.