#mindofaphilosopher

Sasha Raley

@mindofaphilosopher

The sun plays hide and seek on their skins as they move underneath the shadows of olden trees. The perfume of wild lavender rises in the air and tickles their senses. He remembers his father always detested France and anything that had anything to do with it, and although he has always felt the shadow of his father’s influence upon him, he fears that he must disagree with him on this one occasion, for this is easily one of the most beautiful pieces of God's earth he has set foot upon. Other than that, this village is a part of Sherlock, and Victor has come to love every small part of him which he has managed to discover.

  ❝——I’m glad we decided to separate ourselves from the others for a little while. Took me a lot of courage to come up with an excuse, but it was worth having you all to myself again.❞ Says he, locking arms with his newly betrothed. Sherlock’s family is bizarre, to say the least, and Victor is unused to impressing a partner’s family. Of course it had been thoroughly expected for Sherlock Holmes’ family to go above and beyond the ordinary, but that piece of knowledge makes it no less overwhelming.

He heard the floorboards creak before he could feel the gentle shift in the air. His hand reached for his pistol instinctively. He didn’t receive many visitors these days, and those he did were hardly welcome here; this one was rather daring, or foolish, walking in through the front door as if they could not comprehend the danger which lay inside. His heart hammered against his rib cage like a thousand raging ocean waves slamming against the shore rocks with all of their might, but his breathing remained steady; in, out, in, out. 

His finger slid above the trigger as he stepped out from behind the wall where he had chosen to hide, and aimed at the shadows lurking in the narrow hallway. The end of the pistol met rich fabric and solid flesh, and he lifted his gaze to seek the face of the intruder. And then it was as if the world tipped over, and he was falling. Or perhaps it was more as if the wind was knocked out of his lungs by a sheer invisible force.

  ❝——Sherlock, I’m home!❞ Heavy suitcase was forgotten at the entrance of the hall as he went on a search for his husband. ❝——I’m really sorry for missing your birthday, darling, there was an absolutely horrendous dust storm and we couldn’t take off. But I have your present right here and I’m sure you’re going to love it—❞ That was when his voice slowly began to die down, for now he was standing before his partner, and he was far too shocked at the sight in front to remember the rest of his speech. There Sherlock was, sitting in his favoured chair, with ten days worth of stubble and one bloodshot eye, a bruise running down his left cheek, stitches next to his eyebrow and looking very much like a man at the end of his days. The smile on Victor’s lips faded away, and a look of horror made home in his eyes. 

@mindofaphilosopher

{meme}

“Did you finally grow bored of annoying Sherlock and have now come to do me the honours instead?” I find no heat in my own voice; my sister’s presence has always been comforting more than anything else. I can see in her eyes that she is fighting the urge to ruin my curls which I have managed to finally groom into a more acceptable condition in retaliation, but only very halfheartedly.

“We actually had a very civil conversation, thank you very much.” She manages to feign some semblance of annoyance. “He tries to hide it, but I don’t think he feels quite ready to sit through an entire day filled with people, much less practice friendly smiles at them.” She wills a shudder through her delicate figure, and I know we are both imagining all of the sharp teeth Sherlock will be baring at our guests.

“I’m still surprised he agreed to a proper wedding ceremony at all.” I utter through a sigh. Sherlock is far too good to me, truly. I know he has only agreed for us to have an actual ceremony for my sake. I simply wish to share our happiness with those whom we care for. I believe the both of us deserve that much.

“You know, mother called.” I can sense how hesitant Anna is to voice those words; no doubt she has been expecting the way they harden the muscles lining my jaw. I don’t wish to hear it, and I tell her so. “I don’t want her to ruin this for me.” I won’t allow her to. “And anyway, you know how she is. She is going to get herself drunk out of boredom and then there will be no stopping her.” Anna very well knows my reasons for not sending our mother an invitation, but she has always felt more for her than I. Perhaps she has always been able to understand mother better. She gathers herself as elegantly as she has been trained to throughout her life, and her smile grows once more. “Well, this is your day, after all. You’re allowed to feel happy.”