Glass: After the Storm

Honey

Margaux awoke with her face buried in her pillow. The thin cotton sheets were bunched up at the bottom of the bed, allowing a cool breeze to brush across her naked back. She propped herself up on her elbows, glancing at the empty space where her husband should have been sleeping. She climbed out of bed and picked a shirt up off the floor.

She walked out of the bedroom, glancing around the small apartment before noticing the open double doors that led onto the veranda. She stepped out into the fresh air and bright morning sun, smiling as she was greeted by the smell of coffee and cut grass. She leaned against the door frame admiring the view of the Eiffel Tower amongst a sea of green trees and blue sky, the sounds of the city in harmony with chirping birds.

Sherlock was sitting at a metal-framed table on the veranda. He was wearing a fresh white shirt, yet his hair was still wild from sleep. A cup of coffee sat in front of him, but instead of drinking it while gazing over Paris, his eyes were closed. Margaux watched as his eyelids twitched, his hands moving methodically as if he were sifting through a catalogue in front of his face. She waited for a moment, crossing her arms to keep the shirt from blowing open in the breeze.

Suddenly, his hands stopped moving and his eyes pinged open. He blinked rapidly for a moment as he adjusted to the sunlight.

"Found what you were looking for in there?" asked Margaux.

"I was just browsing the internet," he replied.

"In your head?"

"Yes," he nodded, finally taking a sip of his coffee. "I was searching to see if a photograph of our living room has ever been posted online, and if so, which of those photographs show the smiley face on the wall."

"Okay, and has there?"

"No. So how did the copycat know to spray one on the wall outside the theatre that night?"

Margaux sighed before sitting opposite him. She shivered as her bare thighs touched the cold metal chair. "Sherlock, you said you weren't going to engage in all of this..."

"I know, I know, we're on our honeymoon, it's not the time for–"

"No." She rested her arms on the table, leaning towards him. "I'm not talking to you as your wife right now. I'm talking to you as a doctor of forensic psychology; as someone who analyses criminal behaviour for a living. Sherlock, trust me when I say the worst thing you can do is try to solve these crimes. Whoever this person is, they're a fire. You're the fuel. Pursuing this will just make it worse. Please trust my advice; believe it or not but I sort of know what I'm talking about."

He huffed and placed both hands behind his head, stretching as he leaned back in his chair.

"Also, speaking as your wife again," she continued. "There are many things I'd rather be doing with you right now. None of which involve detective work..."

*

Sherlock had organised a route for them to travel, taking her to the locations of Paris' most infamous crimes. John had warned her before they left that he was planning something, and although she assumed that 'something' would be romantic, she wasn't disappointed by the morbid tour.

They crossed the road towards a large stone arch, the pavement below swarming with people. She let go of his arm and walked ahead before turning around and holding her hands out.

"Take a picture of me," she said.

"Why?"

She pointed behind her. "It's the Arc de Triomphe..."