Glass - A Sherlock Fan Fiction

Chapter Fourteen

Margaux woke to two small, soft hands patting and prodding her cheeks. She opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the dim morning glow melting through the window. Next to her in the bed was Vaughan, propped on his knees, his hands still squishing her face. She gazed up at his perfectly round blue eyes and smiled; she hoped they would never lose their blueness.

"Up?" said Vaughan.

Margaux nodded and peeled back the sheets. She drowsily climbed out of the warmth of Sherlock's bed, longing to curl back up under the sheets and sleep for a little while longer. They smelled of him, the pillows especially. Sandalwood and sea salt, undeniably him. She had slept with her face buried in their scent for most of the night.

Margaux lifted Vaughan off the bed and let him walk beside her to the kitchen. She glanced at the clock. 6:52 am. Her eyes felt gritty as she poured milk into a saucepan.

"Good Morning." Sherlock's voice startled her.

She turned to the living room where he was sat at the table on his laptop, wrapped in a dressing gown, dark curls untamed, a mug of coffee beside him.

"I didn't think you'd be up so early," she said.

"John's bed is terribly uncomfortable. No wonder his girlfriends never lasted long; probably all died of sciatica."

Margaux laughed, stirring the warm milk before taking it off the stove and pouring it into Vaughan's bottle. "You can't die of sciatica."

"Don't be pedantic, Margaux. That's my job," he replied, taking a sip of coffee.

"You should have just slept with us. There was plenty of room." They exchanged a glance, both knowing her suggestion was futile.

"I'm not a bed sharer," he said matter-of-factly.

Margaux smiled and shook her head. "Okay, Sherlock."

"What?"

She carried Vaughan into the living room, sat him on the couch and handed him his milk. "I think you forget sometimes that we did the thing that made this thing." she gestured to their son. "More than once."

"Your point being?"

"'You're a bed sharer," she said with confidence.

"Only when it's forced upon me," he countered as he watched her walk back to the kitchen.

"You're also a cuddly sleeper," she added.

"Mm," he grimaced.

There were parts deep within Sherlock that screamed whenever he tried to push Margaux away; parts of himself he had locked away a long time ago. Parts that had always been locked away, that he never knew were there, that now cried out to him begging him to let her in. He knew that with every insult, every jab, every expression of disinterest, he could lose her. But he couldn't stop.

He closed his laptop to look at Vaughan who sat quietly, gulping his warm milk. He was so like Sherlock; his hair, his eyes, his marble-like skin, his inquisitiveness and his incredibly advanced development. But it was in the moments of giggles and smiles and arms extending for hugs that he was Margaux. And Sherlock was so thankful for that.

III

The living room door opened, just wide enough for John to peer his head around it.

"Oh, you're up," he said, "thought it'd be too early for you."

"I'm starting to get the feeling people assume I'm not a morning person," said Sherlock.