Glass: Reader Requests

Sick

A large overnight bag sat on the dining table. Margaux stood in front of it, piling up folders and slotting them inside. She was wearing a long coat, her hair loose and tucked behind her ears as she leaned forward.

Sherlock stepped into the doorway, standing quietly for a moment and watching her pack. He walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them gently as he towered over her.

"That's a big bag for two nights," he said.

"I said possibly two nights," she replied. "It could be longer. This one bag has all my case work in it, as well as my clothes, shoes, toiletries. I actually think I've done well to fit it all in the one place."

"I'm still rather annoyed they didn't ask me to go."

She turned around to face him, leaning back against the edge of the table. "No, no, no. See, you catch the killers, I make them confess. In the words of Greg Lestrade: this is my division." She patted him on the arm. "Besides, I need you here to watch over our brood."

"Mm." He glanced around, suddenly noticing how quiet the house was. "Where are they anyway?"

"Vee's in Rosie's," she replied. "Flora, Sadie and Arden went to your parents' for dinner."

"What about Milo? Was one extra child too much for them?"

She laughed. "He's been fussy today, didn't want to leave my side."

"Hm. Where is he now?"

"Sleeping."

He raised an eyebrow, looking up at the clock on the wall. "Sleeping? It's almost 5 o'clock."

She sighed. "I know, I know. He didn't nap this afternoon and then he drifted off in his playpen about half an hour ago. I just had so much to do, so I left him in there to sleep."

"Well," he huffed. "I'm in for a long night."

"I'm sorry. Why don't you go in and see if you can wake him?"

"Now, if I've learned anything since becoming a father, it's that you never wake a two-year-old unless you want your head bitten off."

She laughed. "He's been in a funny mood all day. I doubt he'll sleep much longer."

She turned her back on him to zip up her bag before checking her watch. "Right, I better go. I'm meeting Dave Small at the train station."

He grimaced. David Small. A laddish, overly confident detective with too-white teeth and muscles so big he couldn't put his arms flat to his sides. They had got off on the wrong foot immediately when Dave spoke over him as he tried to deduce a crime scene. Things only getting worse when Sherlock forgot his name and referred to him as 'the meat head' in front of the entire homicide division. But the real reason Sherlock didn't like him, was because of Dave's clear attraction to his wife.

"Small," he said. "A rather fitting name - small brain, small feet, I wonder what else is small..."

"Stop it, you." She batted his arm.

"No. I don't like him."

"Why?"

"Why!? Because he's infatuated with a married woman. Sometimes he even flirts with her right in front of her husband," he gestured to himself. "It's like he forgets I know how to hide a body and it never be found."