Glass: After the Storm

Doyle St

They had spent their last Christmas in Baker Street, brought in the New Year on the doorstep of 221B. Mrs Hudson had cried as they said goodbye, her tears turning to a chuckle when Sherlock reminded her he'd be back that same afternoon to work. Then they arrived at their new home - big, empty, daunting.

After a few days, 13 Doyle Street smelled like fresh paint and new furniture. There were flowers on the kitchen windowsill, coats hanging in the hall. But still, their voices would echo and their footsteps sounded hollow as they moved around the house. They had never realised how small the flat had been until now, until they found themselves surrounded by more space than they would ever need.

Sherlock stood at the living room window with his hands clasped behind his back. He was looking out at the January snow freezing over in the driveway, observing the salt-gritted road and trying to get a look at the neighbours beyond it.

"Sherlock!" The scream echoed through the house, bouncing off the bare walls and rattling the doorframes.

He left the window quickly,  rushing out of the living room and taking two stairs at a time until he reached the landing.

"Margaux!?"

"In here."

He followed her voice into the master bedroom. "Is something wrong?" he asked, panicking as he hurried towards her.

"No, I'm fine." She was sitting at the end of their new bed, running her hands over the freshly made sheets. "What do think?" She asked.

"What do I think? I thought something was wrong! Why would you shout like that just to ask me a question!?"

"I wanted you to come quickly."

"There are other less-dramatic ways to get someone's attention."

"Oh, you mean like firing a gun in the street instead of calling 999?"

He stopped for a moment. "I didn't know John told you about that..."

Margaux smirked. "So... What do you think?"

"Yes, the bedding is very nice. I told you that in the shop when you picked it."

"Don't be dim, Sherlock." She patted the space beside her, beckoning him to join her.

"Darling, it's twelve in the afternoon."

She huffed. "And?"

"And... I have things downstairs that I need to do."

"So you'd rather sort through boxes than be intimate with your wife?"

He glanced down, just for a second, at the large, round bump beneath her t-shirt.

She frowned as she noticed his eyes flicker. "You don't fancy me anymore, do you."

"Oh don't be ridiculous."

"You were so eager to get me pregnant. But now that I actually am pregnant, it's like I repel you."

"You don't repel me." He cleared his throat. "Rejection of sexual advances does not necessarily mean there is a lack of sexual attraction. It simply means there is something outweighing one's need for intimacy, such as fatigue, distractedness, stress..."

"It's been months." She leaned back, propping herself up on her elbows.

"Well then clearly I've been fatigued, distracted and stressed... for months."

"I knew you'd be like this."

"Like what?"

"Repulsed."