Milk, No Sugar
by Alicia (aisumitsukai at home.com)
Couldn't help myself, I seem to be falling back into a severe
H/L phase. Ah, well, I also needed a break from trying to write a
Watson fic...it's hard to write from the POV of someone so
You don't ask how I want my tea. You haven't since the day we
met. Milk, no sugar. Sometimes I wonder if you really needed to
ask at all. You seem to know everything before it even considers
existence. Well, almost everything. But, supposedly, you can
never see what's right under your nose. Though to be fair, I'm not
right under your nose. If I were... never mind.
The tea burns my hands through the insulated cup. Not that I'm
complaining, I just about froze coming here in the rain. Watson
told me I should take better care of myself. You didn't even look
And I wonder, am I that insubstantial? What do I need to do to
make you notice me, my *dear* Mr. Holmes? I've exhausted all of
my ideas. Death, disease, insanity, kindness, loyalty? Love.
It's like I'm the middle child in a family of seven. The middle
child with plain features, braces and straight B's.
First there was... who was there? You never tell anyone about
yourself, but you know anything about everyone else. Your father,
mother, aunt, a beautiful woman? A beautiful man, perhaps? Maybe
you yourself have always come first. That's the way it seems now.
No, I'm not bitter.
Second, Watson. Third, The Woman. Fourth, me. I understand how
I'm nothing compared to her. Don't worry. It was the first thing
I realised. That and I love you. Fifth, sixth, seventh, Wiggins,
Deidre and Tennyson. Or maybe they're fourth, fifth and sixth and
I'm kidding myself?
But then there are times I flatter myself that I might be the
first and foremost on your mind. When I'm attacked, buried,
drowned, controlled, sometimes I think I see the flickerings of
Or maybe I'm mistaking the love of victory for the love of a
lover. Maybe you really are simply thinking about how now they've
overdone it and you've got them. Got them right you want them.
Right where you've got me, you ass.
Do you do this intentionally to keep me under your thumb or do I
do this to myself, hoping one day you'll lift your thumb and see
me there? Sometimes I wonder.
If only I could hate you for the arrogant snob you really are.
But you've just dropped a towel on my shoulders and given me a
plate of cookies I love; and you hate. If only I could actually
be the strong, independent woman I like to pretend I am.
No harm in dreaming, though, I suppose.
Ta daa! yes, yes I know it's concentrated sap. (Hee, hee, maple
syrup! ... never mind.) However, if I were Lestrade I'd certainly
get fed up from time to time with him.
On to the sequel,
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