Glass - A Sherlock Fan Fiction

Chapter Twenty Seven

They sat at the small intimate table near the window as the rain pattered against the glass, scattering their view of the street with droplets glittering in the candlelight. Condensation trailed down the stems of their glasses, settling in cold puddles on the sleek wooden table.

They reached for their glasses in accidental unison, neither particularly enjoying the sharp, dry taste.

"Well, this is nice," Margaux joked.

"Indeed. Nicer than where I suggested anyway."

"I don't doubt that."

Sherlock leaned back and rested his hands in his lap while Margaux found herself absentmindedly gazing at him. The glow from the candle flickered along the structure of his face, making his cheekbones more prominent, his jaw sharper, his eyes darker. She had never seen him wear a shirt in this way before; buttoned to the collar, the luxurious burgundy fabric hugging his broad chest, his arms rippling under the long sleeves.

"You're staring." His voice was dark and smoky, like a burning wick.

"Would you like me to stop?"

"I don't know, does your staring make this a more believable 'date'?"

Margaux laughed as she flicked her hair off her shoulders. She glanced around the restaurant before leaning in and speaking quietly.

"I thought talking over dinner would be less conspicuous."

"Margaux, I plead with you to never attempt a career in espionage," he said, pitying her attempt to be discreet.

"Okay fine, I wanted to discuss something with you. But first, I need to tell you something..."

"Ugh you're not pregnant, are you?" he grimaced.

"How the bloody hell could I be pregnant? I haven't had sex since..." she began to count on her fingers before giving up. "Well you know, you were there."

"I just noticed what could be a few early signs." He nodded towards her chest.

"My breasts? Sherlock this isn't because of pregnancy, I'm just wearing my good bra."

"I also identified a possible swelling in the ankles."

She looked down at her feet. "They're just my ankles."

"It seems my deductions drew the wrong conclusion. Shame. I was spot on with Mary."

"Mm," she replied, unamused. "Anyway, what I–"

"May I take your order?" A waiter interrupted.

They chose their food and ordered more drinks, giving up on the wine and opting for brandy and gin. The waiter nodded, taking their menus and hurrying away to the bar.

"You were saying..." said Sherlock.

"Yes. Erm. Well, a few months ago, I accepted a job offer..."

He raised his eyebrows, willing her to spit it out.

"From Mycroft," she finished.

"What!? Doing what?"

"If I told you I'd have to kill you?"

"You're terrible at this."

"Yes, I know. But I really can't discuss what I do in a public place. All I–"

"You're resigning," he interrupted as he sat up straight, his tone growing more irate as he continued to speak. "You're not working for him anymore. I specifically told him to never– When I see him I'm going to– And you! Why would you accept it!?"