A World Alone (Conclusion to the Life Is But a Dream Saga)

Chapter Six: Out of the Woods

ASPEN

I woke up with heavy limbs and rested eyes. My breathing had was a normal interval of inhales and exhales. I could smell tea being made in the air, and gazed out the window to see a muted grey sky. Rolling over like a bear, I shut my eyes again wishing I could lay down longer, maybe even sink into my bed and be forever shrouded in the sheets. To say I needed some morning coffee would be an understatement. It was well into a few weeks of being back home, and began to feel it. I hadn't heard from Jim in so long, and suppressed my worries for him. Hopefully when I am with Wes later I am comfortable enough with myself to speak with him.

 I rolled over and extended my arms past the sides of the bed and felt cool air shroud my wrist and glide up my arm. Once I had stretched enough, I relaxed and just let the white sounds of the flat surround my ears. My hand rubbed my eyes in weary, but then lingered down to my lips. I smiled at the lingering thought of Wes, and how he provided an escape from the confusing environment of 221B and Sherlock and John, a relationship that I've started to layer in secrets and guilt. Burying my head in my pillow, I heard someone ascending the steps and entering the flat. Sincerely, I hoped that no one would come inside. I yawned as that proved to be untrue. I turned my head slightly to the door as it burst open, and grey light flooded my room with Sherlock.

    "Good Morning Aspen!" The detective greeted loudly. I groaned as he entered my room and turned on a nearby desk light. "Lovely day, isn't it?" he continued. It didn't take me long to become annoyed, confused, and irritated at his unusually chipper attitude. Especially when yesterday he had been all weird about Wes and I going out.

    "Is this a nightmare?" I thought out loud and started lazily slapping my head with the back of my hand, "Wake up, Aspen it's not real." Somehow, I always forget through the magic of time and a good night's sleep, that Sherlock does this every morning now since I've been back. Hence the nightmarish argument. Usually followed by-

    "Let's get you some coffee." He exclaimed and threw off my blankets and picked me up, my back facing him. Conveniently he would wait until John had left the flat before beginning his morning routine.

    "Damn it, Sherlock!" I complained as he took me out into the kitchen. Noise escaped that sounded like an uncomfortable laugh, but they were purely a reflex to his arms tightly wrapped around my waist. I cleared the ground for the whole way to the couch, where Sherlock threw me down and I popped back up. This odd behavior perplexed me every single morning, but something about how it was just us comforted me. Nevertheless, I still threw some hits to Sherlock's abdomen, and heard him laugh as well.

    "Damn you, Sherlock!" I exclaimed, feeling annoyed and admirable, "There's no way you could keep doing this and stay sober."

Either it was from fatigue from carrying me or just annoyance, but Sherlock eased up and went to pour his tea in the kitchen. "I kind of hate you more e-every day you continue to do that, Sherlock." I stammered, feeling guilty at my remark. It wasn't easy, but I had actually tried to stay sort of sober myself since the night I came back. I hung out with Wes nearly every day since I've been back: we'd get coffee down the street and talk before wandering around London.

"Are you seeing him again today?" Sherlock asked, almost reading my mind about the boy. He gestured a mug to me in offerance, and I shook my head whilst rolling my eyes about the tone of his question.

"Yes, and we're going to gossip about how evil our dads are, like we always do." I freely joked again, and again to Sherlock's distaste. This time it was him who rolled his eyes and I cringed at my joke, making an ashamed face as he turned away. "I didn't mean-"

"Just don't. We promised not to talk about him, right?" He quipped, giving me a hard look. I nodded, "Good." He proceeded with his tea, now losing interest in any further casual conversation with me, but did stop at his bedroom door, "if he has said anything, you know... threatening, however, say the word." Sherlock stated, and before I could defend myself, he shut the door and I was left alone on the sofa. A small guilt started in my stomach, both for the detective and for my complicated relationship with my father.