Glass - A Sherlock Fan Fiction

Chapter Thirty Eight

John stood on the busy high street, watching as a bubbly, awkward woman hurried away and disappeared into the crowd. He twiddled a strip of paper between his fingers, a plastic daisy in his other hand.

07700 900 552

E xx

He read over her quick scribble, smiling at the angular scrawling – it reminded him of Sherlock's handwriting. He laughed to himself for a moment before opening his phone. But something stopped him. He thought about her smile; the flutter of nerves he felt when he noticed her looking at him on the bus. He shook the feeling away, holding the paper over the mouth of a street bin.

"Who was that?"

He turned quickly to see Margaux standing beside him. "Hm?" He stuffed the paper into his jacket pocket, looking back towards the spot he had stood with the woman. "Oh, I spent an entire bus ride with Rosie's plastic daisy in my hair." He held up the flower. "Gained some attention."

"Ah," she laughed. "Anyway, shall we go?"

They walked to a small café and found a place near the window. Margaux slipped off her bag and coat as John carried a tray of coffees to their table. He sat across from her, distracted by the thought of the woman's phone number sitting in his pocket.

"I actually forgot we'd planned to have coffee until about twenty minutes ago," she chuckled. "Which is why I love having a car. I can do everything last minute."

"Mhm."

She tilted her head and squinted her eyes. "Something on your mind, Watson?"

"Sorry," he shook his head. "Sorry, no, I'm fine."

Margaux shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee. "So, I've been thinking about Sherlock's birthday. I was–"

"Sorry, what?" John's back straightened with intrigue.

"I wanted to talk to you about Sherlock's birthday. I was thinking of throwing him a small surprise thing–"

"He'd hate that."

"Exactly." She smiled.

"Wait, how do you know when Sherlock's birthday is? He won't tell anyone. I've been trying to figure it out for years."

"I asked his mum on Christmas Day."

"Ah, so simple yet so brilliant."

"I know."

"When is it?"

"18th February. He's an Aquarius in case you were interested. It explains a lot."

"I'll take your word for it."

They finished their coffees slowly. Margaux knew exactly how tired John was; noticing the bags under his eyes and how he basked in the moments of quiet. She recognised it in herself, not having the heart to tell him it would be years before he would sleep properly again.

III

In the days that followed, there had been a body in a car, a broken bust, Margaret Thatcher? Something was itching in the back of Sherlock's mind; a familiar voice in a clean-cut suit asking him did you miss me?

He had pondered the thought for some time, whether it was possible to miss something so toxic – so fundamentally bad. He knew he shouldn't miss him, that his return shouldn't excite him. But Moriarty was the moon and Sherlock was the tide, and since the moon had disappeared, the water had been eerily still.

He stood in a dark corner, slowing his breath and turning his head to listen carefully. His heart fluttered with excitement as he waited, like a chess player anxiously awaiting his opponent's next move. He had followed Moriarty's breadcrumbs and they had lead him to this house. For what? He didn't know. But he was certain something was coming.