~ A Knock at the Door ~

She's barely slept, and looks it, but it's probably just Mrs. Parks from down the hall, needing an egg, or a half cup of sugar, so she shuffles out in her fuzzy slippers, pulls tight the tie of her old dressing gown, tries to finger-comb her hair a bit. Pastes on a smile.

But it's not Mrs. Parks, and the smile vanishes.

Sherlock.

He hasn't knocked in years. In the early days, he'd merely climbed in the window, or picked the lock. That was before she'd finally given up and given him his own key.

But today he knocked.

For obvious reasons.

She's barely begun to register her own feelings when she seeshis, written plain on his face for a change.

He's a good actor. But not that good.

"Are you alright?" she asks, the habit of caring too strong, swamping every other emotion.

"I meant it." The words enunciated clearly. "And I'm sorry."

She processes this for a long moment. Then asks, "For… loving? Or for the call?" Amazed at herself for actually being able to voice such honestly.

A flash of impatience crosses his face. "The call. I have to explain." He hesitates, then adds, "But it does… complicate things. Doesn't it?"

He looks so uncharacteristically uncertain at this last that she almost laughs (hysteria?). "Maybe. Yes." She'd been focused on his face, but now gives him a swift once over, and frowns. She's seen him more disheveled, but… "Your hands. What happened?"

But raising her eyes again, she shivers. There's something… some emotion… some memorytearing at him.

He closes his own eyes. Tries to pull himself together.

More or less succeeds. "I have to explain!" he says again, choking over the words, and moves suddenly to grab her wrist in one damaged hand.

The door slams shut behind them as he pulls her toward the bedroom.

o-o-o

Some time later she is lying still beside his exhausted, sleeping form. Watching over him. Guarding his rest.

Wondering that such a long, black, cold night has been completely, miraculouslytransformed in the warm light of this new day.

~.~