221c - A Sherlock Fanfiction

Allison

I awoke to a thin, golden beam of sunlight playing across my face. I sighed, and stretched, content and happy in my bed.

I started. I was in my bed. That's not the last place I remembered being. The last place I remembered being was Sherlock's sofa.

He must've taken me down here in the middle of the night after we watched the movie. I was still in my clothes from the night before.

I took a quick shower, and dressed into a fresh outfit. I spied the shirt that Sherlock had lent me when I spilt tea all down my front a while ago. It was just washed, and I needed to return it. I folded it up neatly, and picked it up

"Hey Sherlock!" I called, mounting the stairs. I threw open the door, and he was lying prostrate on the sofa, hands stilted under his chin.

"Hm?" he asked.

"Shirt."

"Hm?"

"I have your shirt. The one I borrowed. I washed it."

"Oh, that shirt! Thank you! Just set it on my bed!"

I waltzed into his bedroom and set it on his bed. I walked back out to the sofa where he was still lying with his hands under his chin.

"Anything I can do? Anything you need?" I asked, shifting my weight from side to side.

He opened his beautiful green-blue eyes and turned head to look at me. His almost black curls flopped over into his eyes. "Not really, but you can keep me company."

"Okay." I said, cheerily, and flopped down in his chair. After about two hours of thinking did it become evident to me that I had not eaten breakfast.

I cracked an eye open. "Sherlock." I mumbled.

"Hm?" he mumbled back.

"I'm feeling peckish. Wanna get something to eat?"

"Sure. Good reason to get offa this sofa."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Oh, I dunno. You pick."

Since I got to pick, about thirty minutes later we were at a Starbucks near Baker Street. I ordered a pumpkin spice latte and the pumpkin scone, and Sher got a caramel macchiato and a cinnamon morning bun. We sat in the back of the Starbucks, neither of us taking off our coats. No doubt, people thought we were a couple on a date. The thought made me laugh into my latte.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"Oh, nothing, just that people who see you and me right now are gonna think we're on a date."

Sherlock chuckled. "Does it matter?"

"Not really."

"I mean, they're more correct than they used to be."

"What?"

"Oh, people used to always think that whenever John and I went somewhere for food, we were on a date." he dropped his voice to a whisper, playfully. "Sometimes waiters would even bring us candles."

I started laughing, and had to set my latte down to keep from spilling it. He joined in on my laughter, and soon we were holding our sides, trying to keep from drawing too much attention to ourselves. I had never seen Sherlock laugh like this before.

We finished our coffee date, I use the term date loosely here, and we headed back to 221b. I had to take longer steps in order to keep up with Sherlock, whose long legs took long steps. His coat billowed out behind him like smoke as we walked.

I felt myself lagging behind. "Sher!" I exclaimed, breathlessly, trying to keep up. I reached an arm out and grabbed the crook of his arm at the elbow, and pulled myself in stride with him. He didn't say anything, so I decided to leave my hand where it was. It wasn't quite holding hands, that would have been a bit awkward.

We were finally able to hail a taxi. They had been ignoring us in a rather rude manner. We piled into the backseat, my hand still on his arm. He pulled off his leather gloves and flexed his fingers. I moved my hand from the crook of his arm, and copied his actions, pulling off my gloves to flex and warm my fingers.

He glanced sharply at the space on his arm where my hand used to be, but covered it up like there was lint on his trench coat. There was no lint.