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yoonsshadow · 3 years

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ETERNAL - iv

➳ summary ; They have died so often that death has lost its meaning; hurt so regularly that pain has become inconsequential; lost so much that they hold each other to the light of the stars. They have nothing yet they have everything, as long as they have each other. And, after centuries, they now have her.

➳ pairing ; bts!ot7 x fem!reader

➳ genres ; The Old Guard au; fantasy, historical, action, romance, alternate universe

➳ themes ; angst, fluff, death

➳ warnings ; talk of death, ptsd/flashbacks, war zone, heavy violence, course language, panic attack

➳ word count ; 2k

➳ note ; Hello! I know that this chapter took a little longer to get out, and it is a little shorter than usual, but it’s because it takes a lot of time and research to make sure that I’m doing this story justice. That being said, I hope that you enjoy!! The journey for these eight have truly begun now, and boy, do they have a lot coming. :3

masterlist

For a while now, your life has been slipping between your fingers. Like a shadow passing through the night, every moment has melted through you, pooling at your feet until you’re slipping, falling, thrown to the ground. From the moment the first bullet was delivered through your skull, you have lost grip of your control; of the things you hold dearest to you.

Sitting here, surrounded by these seven men, that empty cavern in your chest aches just a little less. It hasn’t started to fill up yet⎯⎯might not for a very long while⎯⎯but the silence no longer echoes.

“It still feels weird to think about,” you say, soft voice carrying through the room with ease. They are all listening so carefully that you cannot meet any of their eyes. “That I died, I mean. I’ve had time to rationalise it, but my whole life has been spent thinking one way⎯⎯believing in life and death, mortality, the fragility and preciousness of living⎯⎯but now I’ve been killed multiple times, died naturally a handful more, and so it feels as though the whole world has been skewed and I’m yet to find my balance.”

Your fingers fiddle together in your lap, eyes downcast to the empty soup bowl on the coffee table.

“The story of how I died the first time is kind of a long one. I can’t tell you about the final moments without explaining everything that led up to it, but there are a few years of history to go through. So, if you want me to condense it…”

“We have all the time in the world,” Namjoon assures, and it could be a joke, a satirical remark regarding your current situations, but instead he speaks with the utmost care, as if he is afraid of any wrong word, any misstep. He is telling you that they are patient, that they don’t mind waiting, that they will listen to every word you say. For you.

And it warms that hole in your chest enough for you to meet his eyes⎯⎯all of their eyes⎯⎯and offer a small smile. Then you nod to yourself. This is a story you need to tell, no matter how painful the memories are.

“Two-and-a-half years ago,” you begin, “the Special Warfare Command uncovered the elaborate smuggling operation of North Korean forces. Untraceable men⎯⎯assumed Black-Ops⎯⎯would enter South Korea through other countries using fake documentation. It’s unclear how long they stayed, months or years, but they would eventually kidnap vulnerable children and smuggle them to North Korea via Mongolia and China.

“Unfortunately, it took years to trace the movements of these men to a point where we knew what they were doing and how they were doing it. The SWC eventually concluded that North Korea were kidnapping and training future sleeper agents and spies, and avoiding suspicion by hiding in the Gobi Desert. They had an entire base of operations on a grey-zone of the border between Mongolia and China, and managed to leave no traces of their movements.”

You need to take a deep gulp of air at this point. Up until now, you have merely stated facts; regurgitated information as you have been told. However, you know that everything from this point on will become personal. You try to think back on your years of conditioning in the army.

“It was at this point that my team was requested for the operation. The 707th Special Mission Group has hundreds of personnel, all within two assault companies, one support company, and one all-female company. There are many missions in which female operators are a better fit, this one included, and out of the female company, my team was chosen.

“When I was promoted to Captain, and at such a young age... All I felt was excitement. Excitement for such an honour, for the experiences ahead, for being able to lead my very own team. The women on my team worked so well, too. We had many successful missions, small and big, and we were ready for this operation. We were ready for Operation Fawn.”

The air in your lungs stutters as you exhale, and you try to swallow the lump in your throat. You’ve avoided thoughts of the thirteen women who had become your friends, your family, but now you are submerged in the memories. Both joyous and tragic.

A few of the men around you look as if they want to move forward, to comfort you, but they also know that it isn’t their place to do so. Not yet.

“The plan was relatively straight-forward. We had found the location of the children, and so it was our job to silently infiltrate the site. Remove all hostiles, retrieve the missing kids, bring them back safely. It wasn’t unlike other missions we had completed before, so we were confident that we could execute it without fail.”

Pulse pumping loudly in your ears, heart beating violently in your chest, you begin to see flashes of that night, playing before your eyes without your permission.

“Get down!” A bullet whirs through the air where your lieutenant’s head had just been, close enough to be able to hear it cutting through the air. “Shit,” you mumble to yourself, peeking around the corner of the collapsed wall for the rest of your team, “how the fuck are there so many of them?”

“Captain.” A voice cuts through the chaos, the intercom in your ear crackling to life. “They’re still pouring in - West entrance - all armed. There shouldn’t be this many men.”

You land shots on three oncoming men, their bodies falling to the ground, but they are quickly replaced by more on their way. You have to do something; you can’t allow your team⎯⎯or the children⎯⎯to die tonight.

While your lieutenant watches your back, you fiddle with the dial of your radio, changing to a different channel.

“Command, this is Dragon, do you copy?”

No response comes through, and you’re forced to move from the wall with your gun poised, firing shots at any unfamiliar figure you see.

“Command, this is Dragon, do you copy?!”

A grenade explodes a short distance away, shaking the ground and sending you stumbling.

“Command, this is Dragon, Operation Fawn has been compromised! I repeat, Operation Fawn has been compromised! Delta Team needs immediate backup, over a hundred hostiles, and counting!”

Either the commotion around you drowns out the voice in your ear, or you’ve yet again received no response. You are starting to get desperate.

“Jesus fuc⎯ we’re completely overwhelmed, Command! My team can only hold out for a little while longer, but these fuckers just keep pouring in! Something is wrong, there shouldn’t be this many of them, we can’t fucking⎯”

Somebody tackles you to the ground. Gunshots, shouts, dirt in your face, a hand on your throat. The man on top of you is heavy, but you’re able to roll him off of you and shoot him between the eyes.

The blood splatters across your goggles.

It’s all too much. There are men everywhere, and you can’t see any of your team members throughout the chaos. You can’t get through to your command centre. Everything that was supposed to be easy tonight has gone wrong. Something heavy, and dark⎯⎯something that feels a lot like doom and panic and we’re going to die⎯⎯lurks in your guts, but you can’t think about that right now. You have to find your girls, have to save these children, have to stay alive⎯

Your fist aches nearly as much as your thudding chest.

Images of death and violence fade away as you blink violently, flexing your fingers individually and then all together, mind still scrambled, still alert.

There are hands on your shoulders, solid and heavy and grounding, and a pair of soft eyes searching for yours. All eyes in the room are on you, but all you can focus on is Yoongi, who looks as if he knows, as if he understands.

And there is a fist-sized patch of red on his left cheekbone. God, your fist, his face, what have you done, oh god I’ve hurt him⎯

Cool air blows on the silent tears that stream down your cheeks, your bones trembling with adrenaline and fear and sorrow. He’s saying something, lips moving slowly, but the clouds in your head are muffling everything. His hands move to hold yours.

You recognise the movement of his lips as the words breathe, it’s okay, and you try your best to obey, but your throat has closed up, tight like the grip of that enemy soldier who had held you to the ground⎯

Yoongi brings one of your hands to his chest, pressing your fingers into him, and you faintly feel the thudding of a heartbeat against your palm. Then, he breathes in, slow and deep, and you follow.

In and out, one by one, Yoongi slowly guides you to breathe steadily once again, your chest growing less tight with each shaky gasp. The tears have stopped flowing, and your limbs have calmed into only a slight tremor, and the darkness in his eyes are captivating. You want to lean forward, let them swallow you whole, but you instead squeeze his hands in silent thanks.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he whispers, and you realise that your head has calmed down enough to take in your surroundings. All seven are watching you with a careful and guarded eye, but you find no pity. It brings you a sliver of relief.

Rather than replying, you merely nod your head and allow Yoongi to pull you up onto shaky legs. Exhaustion is already weighing you down, and all you want to do is escape your own mind.

They have been once before. You, asleep in the spare room, and them, huddled together on the lounges. They are worried about you, but they are also much more; the fear in your voice, the heartache in each memory, was familiar to them. As they watched you relive your trauma, they relived theirs as well.

“I’m sorry, I-” Namjoon’s words stutter out, unsure, unplanned, unlike the way he usually speaks. “This is my fault. I should’ve known- it was too early to- and maybe you wouldn’t have gotten hurt...”

“Hey, no.” Seokjin’s hands on Namjoon’s shoulders are as firm as his words, kind eyes seeking regretful ones. “Don’t blame yourself; this is nobody’s fault. She made her decision to tell us. Don’t take that away from her. And we all know that she couldn’t help that reflex. Yoongi’s been hit harder.”

“We didn’t even hear the rest of the story,” Jimin pouts, nibbling his lower lip between his teeth. “Like, how she died, how her team died, what happened to the mission.”

“We’ll have to be patient,” Yoongi sighs. His cheek is already blue and purple, and will probably be fully healed in an hour. “We know the fundamentals, anyway. A mission that was supposed to be clear-cut somehow got turned on its head. It cost her team’s lives.”

“How does something like that even happen?” Next to Jimin, Taehyung’s pout is not quite as full, but still full of the emotions he is trying to keep in. “It isn’t just her team that got hit, but the entire Special Warfare Command. This was a big operation, guys, so something like this should’ve been prevented.”

“Do you think…” Jeongguk is clutching a pillow close to his chest. “Do you think somebody from the inside betrayed them?” Six faces turn to look at him, shocked at the implication, shocked that it makes sense. “I mean, the information about the operation would have been top secret. North Korea has resources, sure, but they shouldn’t have known the when, where, and how of the mission. Somebody had to have turned.”

“Who would’ve done it?” Jimin’s question is not asking for an answer. He feels sick at the thought.

It is at this moment that Hoseok chooses to emerge from his deep silence. When he speaks, his voice is regretful. Knowing. “I think she knows exactly who did it.”

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tags: @leafyturtle, @loveyoongles, @paint-music-with-me, @barbikatherine, @itsmorgo1604, @calling-dips-on-j-hope, @veronawrites, @applepie1000, @yoonchrisgullwrites, @ally22042000, @ireallylikefoodandyoutube, @blglmgk01, @basicgukk, @softescapism, @sinceritythatcouldntbedelivered, @m1nt-3lla, @hunnayesblog, @rosycheekb, @hemmofluke, @the-bisaster

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honeymoonjin · 5 years

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A/N: Thank you to all you wonderful people for supporting the first chapter so much! I got inspired and wanted to write more straight away! 3k words.

LOST IN TRANSLATION ↳What do you do when you have no qualifications but want to see the world? You help teach English in a Korean primary school, apparently. ↳Principal!Jin, math teacher!Yoongi, PE teacher!Hoseok, English teacher!Namjoon, school nurse!Jimin, art teacher!Taehyung, and science teacher!Jungkook.

CHAPTER TWO ↳You finish your tour of the school, and meet the person you’ll be teaching with, and the one you’ll be living with for the next year.

When you followed the principal into the classroom anxiously, you were surrounded by the joyous squeals of about twenty 10-year-olds as the bounced around the room wearing tiny white lab coats and massive safety goggles.

The teacher was at the head of the chaos, holding up a pair of sooty tongs and turning off a Bunsen burner’s blue flame on the front desk. He was young, like the rest of the staff so far, and had a mad grin on his face as the children lost their minds.

The two of you storming in certainly got their attention though, and the room fell into silence at the sight of their principal. The teacher turned around to face the door, and his grin faltered.

“Principal Kim,” he greeted, bowing quickly, still clutching onto the metal tongs, “I was just showing the kids how magnesium burns in fire. We’re learning about different types of oxidation.”

Kim scoffed and shook his head. “The Year 6 syllabus is focused on basic evolution in term 1 and electricity in term 2. We don’t even teach chemistry here, where did you get that magnesium?”

The teacher shrugs. As you look over him properly while they talk, you notice his hair is an odd shade of washed-out pink, although it certainly suits him. You don’t believe there’s a single shade of hair that could make him look any less attractive. “I’m just getting them interested in science at an early age. We need more women in STEM, don’t we, Min-ah?”

A chubby-cheeked girl in a burgundy sweater and corduroy overalls cheers out an affirming ‘yeah!’ although you don’t believe she was paying attention to a single thing the teacher was saying until he called out her name.

“Great,” Principal Kim sighs, “now I’m going to have 23 sets of parents breathing down my neck about why they should blow stuff up in class.”

“With all due respect, sir, magnesium doesn’t explode, it actua-”

“Jeon, this is our new English assistant, Y/n. Y/n, Teacher Jeon Jungkook. If you avoid him for your own safety, no one will blame you.”

You smile at the way Jeon pouts at you, as if vying for his own innocence. Less than an hour on the premises, and you were already beginning to feel like this was the best decision you had made in a long time. As much as Principal Kim seemed completely done with the antics of his staff, you could see the love and respect they all seemed to have for each other.

“Nice to meet you, Teacher Jeon. I look forward to…”

You trail off awkwardly as a mobile phone begins to ring, blasting a PSY song right at the catchy chorus. Jeon gives you a big toothy grin and wags his finger at the principal. “No phones in class, Principal Kim. That’s detention.”

Kim ignores this and pulls out his phone, wincing at the contact name. “I have to take this,” he says reluctantly, “Jeon, can you point Y/n in the direction of the English classroom? English Kim can look after her while I’m in my office.”

He departs without further ado, and you’re left standing at the front of the classroom awkwardly, waiting for Jeon to take off his goggles and put away the equipment so that the kids don’t mess around with it while he’s out briefly.

A small boy in a t-shirt and jeans walks shyly up to you. “Miss?” You nod at him to continue, squatting down on the balls of your feet so you can meet his eye-level. “You’re teaching English?” You nod again. “Can you please keep an eye on my sister, In-je, when she’s in your class? She’s not very good at English and mummy and daddy want her to get good grades.”

Your heart swells. “Of course. What’s your name?”

“In-jeong,” he declares in a quiet voice, gaze on the floor.

“Well, In-jeong, you’re a much kind brother. In-je is lucky for you is her brother.” You internally wince at your rubbish Korean, but he giggles in a high pitch, exposing a dimple in his chin and a gap between his front teeth.

“That’s what I say! Maybe if you tell her I’m the best brother ever she’ll believe you!”

A deeper voice calls out from above you. “I see you met Thing One.”

You look up at Teacher Jeon from your squat and tilt your head in confusion. “Thing One?”

“Yeah.” He reaches out and ruffles up In-jeong’s hair, causing the kid to squeal again. “Thing One and Thing Two, the sneakiest rascals in the whole school, huh?” It brings a smile to your face to see a guy with such great chemistry with kids, and it affirms why you’ve taken this job as your calling. “Anyway, Y/n, right? Let’s go, I’ll take you to the English classroom.”

You stand back up and straighten your skirt. “I can find it. If you need to be teaching?”

He shakes his head with a soft smile and sends In-jeong back to his seat with a pat on his shoulders. He addresses the class. “Now, I know science is the coolest thing in the world and all you want to do is touch everything, but if I come back and a single thing is out of place, I’ll never show you an explosion in class again.” He fixes them with a serious look. “Never ever.”

The kids gasp in perfect unison, and you have to restrain yourself from openly cooing at how cute they are. Teacher Jeon can’t be out of the classroom for long, so he jogs over to literally the next classroom block over, points at a door and declares, “that one,” then jogs back inside, cheered on by 23 tiny voices.

Before nerves at being alone can get the best of you, you climb the steps to the classroom door, and knock lightly. After hearing a muffled voice tell you to come in, you enter and look around the room for the teacher.

It doesn’t take you long. Although he’s sat at one of the mini kids’ tables, his legs stick out, almost up to his chest when he sits on the low chairs. He’s looking at you as you come in with a warm smile on his face, and you’re taken by how kind he looks.

His hair is a honey brown, his skin is golden, and his beam just about takes your breath away. When he speaks up, he goes straight to English, which gives you an entirely different sensation of friendliness. “Ah, Y/n! I’ve told my students that we were getting a visitor, they’re extremely excited. Come sit and tell us who you are.”

Unlike the science and math room rows, and the art room’s small clusters, the English teacher has the tables in one big circle with a mat in the middle, so that everyone is facing everyone. You sit gingerly in a spare seat near him, but between two young kids instead of right next to him. He grins over at you and waves a hand to indicate you should introduce yourself.

You glance over unsurely. “In English?”

He shrugs. “Maybe say something in English and something in Korean.”

You nod slowly, thinking of what you could say, not wanting to repeat the embarrassing first impression you gave the math class (and, more importantly, the math teacher). “Hello, everyone, my name is Y/n. I’m from [country]. I’m [age] years old.” You’re relieved when you can switch to English, but you still make sure to speak slowly and clearly. “I’m going to help you learn English this year. I’m very excited to be here in Korea for the first time.”

To their credit, each and every one of the students nods thoughtfully, but their eyes are either wide and panicked or glossing over.

The teacher initiates a round of awkward but enthusiastic applause. “Thank you, Y/n. We’re very grateful to have you here to help us, aren’t we?” They all agree cheerfully. “I’m Teacher Kim, or English Kim. You can probably just call me Namjoon, if you’d like. I know Western countries have a different level of formality, so I want you to still feel comfortable.”

Your cheeks warm up a little, and you smile, flustered. “Thank you very much. I appreciate it, really.”

He shoots you a quick blink-and-you-miss-it wink and turns back to the classroom. “Alright, team, let’s show off how much we know! We’re going to play a game!” After the predictable whoops and hoots he gets at that exciting announcement, he continues. “We’re going to play the charades with this week’s words, okay? What were our words this week about?”

The class shouts a unanimous, “animals!” and you can’t help but laugh at their energy. You remember being forced to take Spanish in middle school and not having nearly as much fun as these bouncy balls of energy.

“Yes, animals! Animals! Let’s start with So-min and work our way around the group. You act out one of the animals on our vocabulary list and the rest of us have to guess the English name, okay? So-min, start!”

A little girl with plaits wiggles in her seat until she comes up with one, she hops up and licks the back of her hand, then rubs it into her hair. The girl sitting next to her all but screams out, “rat!”

You muffle a giggle behind your hand but Namjoon is much more professional. “Almost,” he encourages with a proud smile on his face.

“Ooh, ooh, ooh, I know it! It’s, um… cat!”

The rest of the class goes by that way, and it feels like five minutes have passed when the school bell rings, although it must’ve been at least half an hour. They didn’t quite make it all the way around the circle, having too much fun watching each other act like animals to really even try guessing quickly, but you can tell Namjoon is too happy that they’re all energized about English to really care too much.

You watch the girl beside you pack up her stuff and shove it all into her neon pink backpack. You notice the backpack has characters drawn on in sharpie, and you recognize them to read In-je.

You remember your promise to her brother. “Uh, In-je?”

“Yes, teacher?” She blinks at you with wide eyes, and the same bone structure as her brother.

“I met In-jeong earlier. He asked me say hello to you.” She giggles happily, a slightly higher pitched version of her brother’s giggle. “My Korean is not good, I know. I think Korean is hard. You think English is hard, right?”

Her face crumples into a little pout. “English is very hard!”

You give her your softest smile. “I think we can help each other. You can help me my Korean, and I can help you your English.”

“Oh, please, unnie, that would be so nice!” She glances up as Namjoon approaches and squats down beside her with a frown on his face.

He rests his hand on her shoulder. “Now, In-je, you can’t call Teacher Y/n unnie. She’s much older than you and needs to be treated with respect.”

Before In-je can feel bad, you shake your head quickly. “No, no, Teacher Kim. In-je says me unnie because we are friends. We are friends, In-je?”

The brightest smile lights up her features as she launches herself off her chair and into your arms, agreeing emphatically and wrapping her arms tightly around your torso.

Namjoon raises his eyebrows at you with a bemused smile. You pat In-je’s back as she buries her face in your scarf, giving Namjoon a shrug and a grin back.

Once all the students clear out, you’re left in a quiet classroom with Namjoon. It’s lunch break for the kids, and you can hear the distant sounds of them screaming and laughing on the field, nowhere else to go since the school had no playground.

He thanks you for participating in the class, clearing up as he speaks in perfect, American-ized English. “They really loved you, I could tell. Normally when new people visit, they get all shy.” He looks over his shoulder from wiping down the blackboard and flicks you a knowing grin. “You’ve got a fan already. In-je was head over heels.”

You laugh dismissively. “Her brother asked me to help her with English. Said their parents were unhappy with her grades.”

He sighs and leans against the clean blackboard, butt resting on the little shelf at the bottom. “Oh, I worry about our In-je. Her parents are very strict. They can’t afford a good school, so they know she has to perform very well if she wants to get into a better high school.” He hums thoughtfully, sighing again. “It’s a lot of pressure for one little kid.”

“Sad.” You can’t think of anything better to say than that, though you know it’s not nearly enough.

He lifts his eyebrows and shrugs, pushing up off the blackboard and dusting his chalky hands off as he goes to leave the room. “Come with me, I’ll take you to the guy you’ll be living with. Nurse Park.”

You smile and follow, but your mind has screeched to a halt. Guy? Maybe it was sexist of you, but when the email read that a Nurse Park had offered to let you stay, you assumed it was a woman.

He leads you back towards the general reception area, where a small building is off to one side, on the other half of the school field to the classrooms you had just had a tour of. While from the outside it looks more like a shed, you can hear soothing classical music drifting out from the open door. Namjoon takes the steps before you, and you’re too preoccupied with the thought that you’d just signed up to live a year with a complete stranger that turned out to be a man that you didn’t even realize there were any steps, until your foot catches on the lip of the first one and you go pitching forward, hands flailing out to catch you.

You land on one wrist with more weight than the other, and it twists with a sharp pain as you do. Embarrassed beyond belief, you stumble up quickly, cradling your wrist, feeling your cheeks blaze.

Namjoon stares at you with wide eyes. “If there was ever a place to get injured, directly outside a clinic would be the one. You okay?”

You nod with a pained smile, biting hard on your lip to banish the tears building up in your eyes. He gives you a worried look, but disappears around the doorway anyway, inviting you to follow after him.

“…check it out to make sure it’s not serious.”

“Absolutely.”

When you enter, Namjoon’s obscuring the nurse’s face, and all you can see is a white shirt with red piping, and some white pants. Namjoon’s gesturing over his shoulder and speaking quietly, and he turns and steps aside as he hears you come in.

The moment he does, and you can see the man behind you, it’s like the sun breaking through a patch of cloud. Nurse Park is sitting on the inspection bench, one foot up on the shelving underneath, the other dangling off the side, and lounging back against the wall with a lollipop in his mouth like he owns the place.

He glances over at you, and sits up, pushing the lollipop to one side of his mouth, bulging his left cheek. “Did you fall over?” he asks you softly, and once he starts interacting with you instead of Namjoon, a wave of shyness seems to overcome him. He shakes his silvery hair forward, so it hangs a little over his eyes, and his eyes squint with a sweet smile.

You hold up your limp wrist to him, wincing slightly at the twinge of pain the motion causes.

“Let me take a look at it, sweetheart.” He shakes his head harshly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to call you sweetheart, old habit from talking with the kids. May I look at it?”

You give your assent, and he waves for you to come closer and sit on one of the chairs by the little storage cabinet in the corner. Once you do, he hops off the examination table, gesturing for Namjoon to take his place, and gives his lollipop once last hard suck before taking it out and dumping it in the trash.

Your eyes can’t help but fixate on the way it’s left his tongue and inner parts of his lips stained a deep red, and you force yourself to stop staring at his mouth and look him in the eyes as he grabs another chair and scoots in front of you, widening his knees around yours so he can get even closer.

You cough lightly and bite onto your lip as he tenderly holds onto your arm in one hand and your wrist itself in the other. He wiggles it methodically in all directions, eyes regularly coming up to inspect your face for any signs of discomfort.

It aches a little, sure, but the way your eyebrows are furrowed isn’t a result of pain, but the reaction to his startling proximity all of a sudden.

“Does this hurt? No, okay, does this hurt? And this?” Your eyes wander over the dewy skin of his cheeks and the gentle slope of his eyes as he gingerly pushes down on the muscles and bones in and around your wrist. When he’s satisfied, he gives the back of your hand a pat and lets you cradle it back against your chest. He says what it is, but you’re not familiar with the Korean word, so you just assume it’s not serious.

“…so I’ll give you an ice-pack, and you just hold it like you are now, up high against your chest to reduce swelling, and you’ll be just fine, okay? Good girl.”

Your cheeks blaze up again and your gaze shoots down to avoid his.

He makes a cute surprised sound. “Oh! I’m so sorry, I did it again. Here, let me get my keys and I can take you home.”

You swallow hard and nod at him. Maybe living with a guy for a year wouldn’t be so bad after all.

TAGLIST Message me or send an ask if you wish to be notified every time I post a new chapter of Lost in Translation.

#bts au #bts fic #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts scenario

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goodguidanceptc · 6 years

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Louisville IM Race Report October 14, 2018

Welcome coaches, training buddies, close friends and masochists/insomniacs. As with prior race reports, be warned that this post contains STRONG LANGUAGE. Here goes:

Abstract:

Read the Athlete Guide. Always. Miserable cold and wet conditions. Water temp warmer than air temp, wetsuit legal. Absurd Swim (shortened due to aggressive current); T1 was all about gear choices; Adequate Bike under demanding conditions; T2 was also all about gear choices; Tough Run. Two key takeaways: 1) Read the Athlete Guide; 2) I haven't quite properly calibrated in-race fueling.

Total race time result = 10:18*

* Under grossly dis-humane weather conditions and my own flubs, that is a good result...with which I am completely unsatisfied. A no-surprise, well-managed bike and a somewhat uneven run (matched stand-alone marathon result). Feel free to stop reading now.

Pre-Race (aka: “the Dumbening”)

I cannot emphasize strongly enough: no matter how many races you’ve done, how confident you may be in knowing the procedures, the timing, the places, etc... read and re-read the Athlete Guide.

So although I cannot provide details, just know that I--through my own dumbness--was told to acquire my timing chip in T1 after an official manually noted my swim start time, while standing on the dock to jump into the Ohio River. Clearly communicated in multiple places: check-in closes at 5pm Friday.

Brief rewind: woke up, standard pre-race breakfast, uneventful gear check and load bottles onto bike, walked over to Swim in. Shoulda found an IM staffer then, but didn’t think. Just didn't think it through; too cold and pre-race- process oriented. Got a little tunnel vision to get to the front of the self-seeded “1-1:10″ swim line.

Announcer: The current is so strong, some of the pros were struggling to get up river. Swim shortened to .9 mile, in other words an Olympic distance. Race delayed.

Some squats to stay warm, chat up some folks in line, never once thought to go get my chip before passing though that big black arch.

Swim (:18 min or 1:18/100 pace)

I swear to you by all the barge traffic and catfish whiskers in the Ohio River, there is no way I was in that river for 18 minutes. More on this in T1. Feet first into the river, sight that first buoy and...

Ever look through a kaleidoscope? Or imagine a Disney version of puke from a flying whale? The view from my goggles was:

[Kayaks + swim caps + buoys]

(river current exceeding posted speed limits)

flying Disney whale puke (as I imagine it rendered)

Just utter chaos. I aimed for the big wall, hit the metal steps and out. To quote one of my training partners, “My hair barely got wet.”

T1 (9:20)

Up the steps and skipped the peelers. Rationale: stay as warm as possible as long as possible. Jogged to changing tent, quickly passed the clumping “under 1 hour” swimmers, grabbed a chair near the exit.

Decision time on what to wear and how much skin to cover for the bike. I went with 100% coverage. Socks, thermal legs, long sleeves, gloves, balaclava. Plastic bag under the jersey and five of those little hand warmers hunters use (squeeze and shake for 6+ hours warming) in my back jersey pockets.

Out to bike rack, unhook and... it’s find-my-chip time. Found an IM staffer who radioed multiple people before finally sending me past the Bike Out arch to where the chip folks were.

I. Stood. There. Forrr -- evv -- errr.

Trying to alleviate my own frustration and anxiety, I literally put my head in my hands and made Hulk sounds.

Now, even in my adrenalized and hyper-performance-oriented state, I remember that I brought this shit on myself. So any expectation of special treatment, expedited problem-solving or what I call the lack of a “hop to!” by IM staffers simply cannot be criticized. This crapola? All. On. Me.

Furthermore, I'm grateful. (Check prior race reports, if you must. OR just trust me when I say that...) I thank all the volunteers and cops and EMTs and Traffic Management and general staff within earshot. No matter what speed I’m biking or running. Seriously. I’m all about appreciation.

All that said, Swim and T1 times are clearly inaccurate. Although IM staff noted the time of day I jumped into the water, another IM staffer wrote my time on a clipboard when they activated my chip and yet another other IM staff told me they’d estimate my T1 time. But I didn’t know precisely where to go in T1. So I lingered.

[So again: read the Athlete Guide.]

And if you are ever in that situation--which I guaran-frikkin-tee you I will NEVER be--I recommend you DO NOT stop to ask questions. Continue until you happen upon the chip folks. Worst case: you miss them and back track... the biking equivalent of going back to get dropped nutrition.

Bike (5:43)

While I definitely did not feel myself relax heading down River Road, I did feel a certain familiar comfort. I’d ridden this course a few times so even in the cold, wet wind, I was pretty confident I could manage the bike.

In the spirit of gratitude, whether passing or getting passed, I try to say something positive (looking good, go git some, stay strong).

Even on a hilly course, I ended up pacing with a few others. I try to be sensitive to any ‘gamesmanship’ (I’m not trying to get in your head competitively) but I'm definitely chatty. And the cold and wet just invited comment, even if only to distract from the misery.

Stick out and first loop was uneventful other than the number of people shivering on the sides of the route. Second loop had more than a few cars on course that seemed patient and considerate (relatively, IMO) but still required careful negotiations.

A FEW FIRSTS FOR ME

BLINDING ANGER. I admit I might have been “kicking the cat” but I’ve never experienced this on course.

On the back side of the loop, in the narrow stretch of blacktop through the small neighborhood just after the long descent out of La Grange, there’s short, steep descent with a well-marked/painted “BUMP” before a short, steep uphill. I’m a technically strong and confident cyclist so getting through here on the first loop was a piece of cake. Second time though, there was a hefty pack of windbreakers weaving(!) across the entire width of the road. Despite shouting “on your left” repeatedly and loudly, I had to brake. On an uphill. Dropped my chain. Nearly fell. Unclipped. All in the tiny 8ish yards of that short ascent.

What did I do? Stood there trying to get my chain back on and swearing profusely that dickhead bucket-listers with fucking no fucking business fucking leaving their fucking strip-mall periodontist practices should fucking learn to handle their goddamn bikes.

As I passed them on the descent towards the hay-bale bullseye, I gently advised them about blocking, race etiquette and having some goddamn self-awareness. In my defense, I averaged very nearly 20mph that day. And when I accidentally felt somebody too close as they passed, I always apologized. In retrospect, I’m sorry I was that guy right then.

PROFOUND SOLITUDE Stay with me as I get a little bing-bongy here... At the split to repeat the loop or return on the stick, most folks (the fat part of the bell curve) go left for their second loop. I was returning on the stick.

Suddenly I was not saying or hearing “on your left” or listening for the difference between aero wheels or a passing car.

I was alone. Like the guy in that Robert Frost poem. Miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep. And the mental chatter started. Cold. Grey. Wet. Stupid. Wasteful. What ego on you, chump. Clips from Moby Dick, Chapter 96. Burning ship, drove on to some vengeful deed. Gloom. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. ee cummings A Leaf Falls.

[Stop wasting your time with this race report. Go read some actual writers.]

Even my mantras had abandoned me. I may have started singing or rapping something from my training playlist to shut down the negative chatter. And that’s about when I realized how well I was managing this bike leg. I think that’s called a paradox.

DON’T BLOW IT NOW Somewhere along one of the last ascents, I realized that I’d dressed properly! Coach Robbie’s advice for plastic grocery bag was spot on. Sure the toes and fingers were cold, but functional. Ears and neck felt okay and core temp was a non-issue. I wondered if I’d taken enough calories (thought: probably) but come on! I’d handled some real shitball conditions pretty well.

T2 (8:49)

Pulled off everything soaking wet except kit shorts. Replaced with dry thermal long-sleeve top, dry hat, dry gloves. Run belt, bottle, dry socks, shoes. Go.

While neither T1 or T2 were very fast, I really didn’t linger in the warmth. I remember thinking, “Take two deep breaths, make this decision and move it.” In other words, time was spent actually changing clothes.

BTW, Transition volunteers? True Guardian Bros. Can’t thank em enough.

Run (3:58 aka: avg 9:03/mi)

Two MAJOR joyous moments within the first mile:

1) As we’d pre-planned, my unbelievably awesome wife told me I was 18 minutes behind a podium slot. She told me later that I barked, “FUCK!” Regardless, I steal a kiss every race. Better than a GU and just as sweet. [Yes she reads these. Wink!]

2) Coincidentally, she was standing a few feet from Coach Robbie (C26), who I recognized but accidentally called Mike (his podcast co-host who I knew was on course). I think I shook his hand? Or maybe just shouted a happy shout?

So those two intercepts helped make the first 25% of the run all good. I kept turning down the pace because, as Coach Robbie has said, “your legs are lying to you.”

Then all that good ju-ju abandoned me like buoys on the Ohio River on the backside of the first loop.

I’d dropped my Infinit before finishing the entire first 24oz bottle. Why not stop and get it? I got no good rational answer. Ditched hat and gloves and actually rolled up my sleeves. My legs and shoes were soaked. (Walk-peeing wasn’t doing me any favors.)

I felt better once I had another bottle from my Special Needs bag, but by then I’d already burned my biscuits (another C26 gem) so I was well below my planned and expected 8:40/mile pace.

I may have even cried a little. Apologies to extremely helpful volunteer who graciously ignored a grown-ass man losing his shit. I KNOW i was talking to myself, “It’s all in your head. Move it.” and other more terrible words.

The last 25% in-bound was an exercise in utter stubbornness. Coke Gatorade Coke Gatorade Coke Gatorade and tons of verbal self-flagellation to keep going. I sincerely believe I passed two guys in my AG out of pure self-loathing.

The Fourth Street Live finish lived up to the hype. There’s photographic evidence that I actually smiled as I crossed and nearly collapsed (again, super kudos to the volunteers). I was wheeled straight to medical, shivering and borderline shock-ey. Broth, blankets, checked vitals (core temp too low). As planned, Susan brought me multiple layers of dry clothes. Changed. Got my mental shit together after finding out I’d finished 16th. Gold star to Al V., the med tent massage therapist. Another Guardian Bro. Limped home.

OVERALL RACE GRADE: PASS

As with prior races, IM-LOU yielded incremental improvements in all racing phases. As I said at the top, this was a good result, with which I am completely unsatisfied.

Am I one of the guys at the pointy end of the bell curve? Clearly yes.

Did I KQ? Unequivocal NO. Not even close.

There is clearly opportunity for additional incremental improvements to all five aspects of my racing:

Swim pace was an anomaly. 3x/wk in the lap pool could be improved by 2x/wk in endless pool.

Bike power was lost due to shitass Garmin tech. But from what I remember, I was mostly high Z2 with relatively few power spikes given the course and conditions. I definitely managed the bike with patience and smarts.

Run suffered due to fueling strategy that is just not... quite...perfected. And again, deplorable conditions.

Fuel strategy. I over corrected from IM-AZ (early run GI problems). Calories, liquids (no solids) and delivery method feels right. Timing around T2 needs tweaking.

Transitions were what they were. MY dumbassery in T1 was offset by my smart gear decisions.

See you in New Zealand in March, 2019!

WITH GRATITUDE FOR...

I’m very grateful to my lovely wife Susan and my wonderful kids, Peter and Veronica for their support. Susan, you are my salvation.

I’m grateful to have the expert professionals Coach Klebacha and Coach Sharone and the entire Well-Fit staff and athletes who generously share their wisdom.

I’m grateful to my inspiring and impressive training partners, including but not limited to the TriFam, the Well-Fit Elite Team (too many bad-asses to list but special GOLD STARS to LIZ and LAURA) and other triathlete rockstars like Nic, Dana, Andrew, John, James, Tony, and all the Pauls and Mikes.

I’m very grateful to anybody willing to excuse my terrible smell, deplorable language and barbaric sounds during training.

Maximum gratitude to Well-Fit, FFC, UIC, Whitney Young, Get-A-Grip, Live Grit, Fleet Feet, the Lakeshore path, Louisville Landsharks.

I’m grateful for Crushing Iron (C26), Matt Fitzgerald, Joe Friel, Training Peaks, Scott brand bikes, Apple, Ironman.

Thank you to all the on-course maniacs cheering and making signs and wearing all sorts of crazy outfits to show love and support. For strangers exercising.

Special thanks and appreciation to Bernie Mc for the most amazing on course support. Extra special Top Marks to Bernie!

I’m grateful that I’m able to race triathlons. Thanks for reading.

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geekmama · 7 years

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Chapter 6: Fresh Air

Bognor Regis, on the coast of the county of West Sussex, was ordinarily a quiet little seaside resort, its citizens genteel and set in their ways, the air sea-fresh, the tone uniformly peaceful -- though not on one fine, warm day in May when the carriage that had been hired and was driven by Sherlock Holmes, accompanied by the Honorable Bertram Ashworth, turned a blind corner and shockingly locked wheels with another vehicle traveling in the opposite direction.

The horses reared and snorted, and the occupant of the second carriage pulled back on his reins, shouting, “Blast you, if you’ve damaged my carriage I’ll take it out of your hide, young man!” He was a large, bearded gentleman whose age, grim aspect, and conservative suit of clothing might (and did) reveal the nature of his profession to an observant man.

“You are the doctor of the town?” Sherlock demanded, handing his own reins to Ashworth. Sherlock hopped down and went to his horse’s head.

“I am, and I’m in a hurry just now, so if you’ll be so kind as to extricate your carriage from my own I’ll be on my way.”

Sherlock backed his horse, but as he did so he asked, “Might I inquire if you happen to know a Miss Emily Beaufort, sir? I’d be grateful for any information you might be able to give me of her direction.”

But at this the doctor stared. “And what do you want with Miss Beaufort?” he demanded warily.

Having freed the carriages, which by good fortune were only a little scratched but otherwise undamaged, Sherlock walked over to the doctor. “I have reason to believe my wife is paying Miss Beaufort a visit. Miss Beaufort was my wife’s governess at one time, and they have maintained an epistolary relationship in the years since Molly left the schoolroom.”

“Molly? Molly Hooper, is it?”

Sherlock felt strangely cold at these words, but replied as steadily as he could, “She may be using her maiden name of Hooper, yes, but she is my wife, Mrs. Molly Holmes. You know her?”

The doctor eyed Sherlock with evident disapproval, then did the same for Ashworth, who was still goggling from the carriage. The doctor ignored Sherlock’s question and demanded with a jerk of his chin, “Who is your companion?”

But Ashworth himself spoke, quavering, “I am Bertram Ashworth and I’m looking for my wife, too -- she… she may be calling herself Miss Copperthwaite. Sir, if you have seen her, I beg of you—“

“Wife?” the doctor said sharply. “Your wife?” And from his expression it was obvious he knew the truth of the matter.

Ashworth flushed, but said, “She soon will be, upon my honor.”

The doctor gave a humorless laugh. “Your honor, eh? It seems to me your honor should be horsewhipped! But I’ve no time now, and I don’t suppose it’s my place, though I’m a father of three girls myself and… well… I’ll tell you this: if all goes as it should, Miss Copperthwaite will be a mother before the day’s out, long before she’s your wife or anyone else’s, more’s the pity. I’m on my way to attend her, for they have sent word of some difficulty.”

“Difficulty! Oh, God!” Ashworth exclaimed, his shamed flush fading to an unhealthy grey.

“There’s no need to worry just yet,” the doctor said, a little more kindly. “It’s her first, and I told them they might need to send word if the child didn’t shift his position.”

“It’s a boy?” Ashworth exclaimed, almost in a squeak.

“How should I know? It’s just my way of speaking. But I suppose you had better come along, since you’re the scoundrel that brought her to bed. And you!” The doctor turned back to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes? Well, I don’t know why your lady wife chooses to revert to her maiden name, but she’s a good little thing, probably worth ten of you and if I find you abusing her in any way I’ll throw you out on your ear -- and don’t think I won’t do it!”

Sherlock couldn’t help giving a grim smile. “Sir, if you knew the whole story… but rest assured, there is no cause to be concerned. I’d sooner cut my own throat than abuse her, and my fondest wish at this moment is to be reunited with her once more. Pray lead the way!”

Miss Emily Beaufort’s home was located nearly two miles inland from the town, in an isolated, yet idyllic setting as Sherlock could see as the two carriages finally closed on their destination. Yet, as they pulled up against the white, rose-bedecked picket fence that enclosed the front garden, Sherlock was momentarily disconcerted to hear an almost inhuman cry issue from one of the windows in the house’s upper story which was standing open to allow entry to any passing breeze, cooling or not, so close had the day now become. Realizing who must have made that sound and in what circumstances, Sherlock turned quickly to his companion. Young Ashworth was staring up at the window, white as a sheet, and uttered in despairing tones, “Lucinda!"

The doctor seemed composed enough, however, and began to calmly descend from his carriage. But as Sherlock followed suit, he saw a figure burst out of the door of the house.

Molly!

She halted in surprise for a moment, and then gave a joyous shout that made his heart leap: “Sherlock!” She picked up her skirts, and flew down the steps.

Sherlock strode through the open gate, almost overset at the sight of his wife running eagerly toward him. He opened his arms to receive her, grinning like a fool, and caught her against him, his heart thudding, his throat tight.

“Sherlock!” she uttered again in a constricted voice.

“Molly!” he returned, with deep satisfaction. “Oh my God. You little wretch.”

She lifted her face to his, her eyes swimming with tears. “Kiss me immediately!” she demanded.

He did, quick and hard, then said unsteadily, “Ah! How can I help but love you? But by God, Molly, I should put you over my knee and make you sore as bedamned for leading me such a dance!” The embers of his wrath suddenly flaring to life, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Practicing upon me in such a way -- and I’ve had to endure lectures from Mycroft, Watson, and even Alphonse for permitting it, as well as being forced to travel to Bath and apply to your family for Miss Beaufort’s direction.”

She gasped. “You went to Bath? Oh, Sherlock, what did you tell my mother and sister?”

“Barely anything -- only enough to get the information I needed to find you. And I managed to refrain from assaulting Cavanaugh.”

“Oh, how truly heroic!” she exclaimed. And then she said, contritely, but with a spark of mischief (for she knew him too well), “Oh, my dear, I’m so very sorry to have brought such trouble upon you, and I quite understand your desire to… to exact retribution -- entirely justified retribution, I fear -- and of course, I have in the last few months heard that certain men find such pursuits most strangely stimulating. But indeed, husband, I beg--.”

“You, wife, are an impertinent baggage!” he said with all the asperity he could muster, “and you may consider yourself extremely fortunate that I am not one of those certain men. But by God, Madame Celeste has much to answer for when we get back to London.”

“Oh, no!” Molly protested, now genuinely dismayed. “Please don’t take her to task! It was entirely my fault. My horrid curiosity -- and… and my excessive love of you, too, of course.”

He pulled her close and kissed her again, but then said, “As if that is an excuse for deceiving me for months.”

Abashed, she reddened, and had some difficulty meeting his gaze. “I know. And I promise that I will never lie to you again! Or… I mean… I’ll tell you everything, for I never did precisely tell you a lie.”

“Such quibbling!” he tsked. “My love, you may not always be able to keep such a promise, but in future I do hope that you will feel you can be honest with me, and trust me more.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and she hugged him fiercely. ”Oh Sherlock! I do love you so!”

“I know you do. I love you, too, Molly. With all my heart.” He kissed the top of her head, then fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket for her. As she straightened and took it from him, he asked, “How is Lucinda doing?”

She wiped her wet cheeks and quickly blew her nose, then said, “She is in some distress as the baby is not positioned correctly and must be turned, if possible. That’s why we sent for the doctor.” And just then another wail came from above and Molly started, exclaiming, “Oh! Oh dear, I must go to her!”

But at that moment, Mr. Ashworth stumbled from the carriage.

“Molly,” said Sherlock to his startled wife, “this is the father, the Honorable Bertram Ashworth. He has acquired a small inheritance since last seeing Lucinda, as well as two hundred pounds through the publication of a number of his poems, and he says he means to live up to his thus far undeserved honorific by marrying the mother of his child, if she can but succeed in surviving the ordeal before her.”

Molly, far from showing any sign of spite, rounded on Ashworth and gripped his limp hand with both of hers and shook it vigorously. “How do you do! Oh, this is most fortunate, I cannot conceive of anything more encouraging for Lucy in her hour of need. You must come up to her -- Doctor Harrington, you will permit Lucy’s young man to attend her? It seems they are to be married as soon as may be contrived!”

The doctor, who had retrieved his bag from the carriage and was coming toward their group, looked doubtfully at Ashworth. “Well, it’s far from usual, and it’s for the patient to decide whether she wants him there or no. But I won’t have time to tend to him if he falls over in a faint.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will not!” said Molly, smiling bracingly up at the trembling Ashworth. Another cry was heard from above and Ashworth looked to the window, swallowing convulsively. But Molly grabbed his hand again and said, “Come, we must make haste. Your presence will reassure her and the doctor will make all right.” And she pulled the terrified young man after her, up the flower-lined path toward the house, the doctor following along after them and shaking his head.

Sherlock stayed outside in the fresh air, so filled with happiness to be reunited with Molly that he was little disturbed by Lucinda’s distress. Presently her cry was heard again, but this time the words were intelligible: “Bertram! Oh, Bertram!” Then the doctor’s gruff tones were heard, barking orders. Things grew somewhat quieter after that, and Sherlock was just beginning to think that he might as well unhitch the carriage horses and give them some food and water -- a small stable lay off to the side of the house -- when a middle aged woman emerged from the door and came down the steps toward him.

“You are Sherlock Holmes!” she exclaimed with a smile.

“I am,” he acknowledged. “Are you Miss Beaufort?”

“Yes, indeed,” she said, and held out her hand. As he took it, she said, “Molly has told me all about you, and I have been most anxious to meet such a paragon of husbandly virtue.”

He gave a short laugh. “It’s possible she may have perjured herself somewhat. She is good enough to overlook my considerable faults.”

“Oh, no,” said Miss Beaufort. “I don’t think that’s true at all. But she loves you very dearly, in spite of all, and I can see that your attachment to her is in a similar vein.”

“I…” Sherlock’s voice became oddly constricted, but he pulled himself together. “It’s been a difficult time without her, ma’am,” he said simply.

“I know. I beg you will forgive her. She has a good heart, but she is a trifle... unconventional? And a little headstrong. It was always so, and this is not the first time she has landed in a scrape because of it. But you will know better how to handle her in future, I daresay.”

“I very much hope you are correct,” Sherlock said wryly.

The house had been quieter for some time, though footsteps could be heard, and occasionally voices. Miss Beaufort had brewed him a pot of tea while he’d seen to the horses and then installed him in her formal and very feminine parlor while she went back upstairs. Somewhat later, Molly came running lightly down, dashed in and kissed Sherlock, said, “Thank you for bringing Mr. Ashworth! His presence has given her such courage! She barely cried out at all when the doctor turned the baby into the correct position. Just a little longer now, I think,” and dashed out again to fetch something from the kitchen and disappear up the stairs again.

It was more than a little longer, but finally, something over an hour later, there seemed to be some sudden commotion, excited voices, exclamations, one terrible, guttural scream from Lucinda that made Sherlock’s hair stand on end, and then, at long last, the sound of a newborn lustily squalling.

Sherlock slumped down in his chair, muttering, “Thank God!”

After a very few minutes, Mr. Ashworth staggered down the stairs and into the parlor. “It’s a boy!” he told Sherlock, his face deathly. “My son. Oh my God…” And he collapsed onto one of the ornate and uncomfortable side chairs, covering his face with his hands.

Sherlock got up and went to him, pulling a flask from the inside pocket of his coat. “Here,” he said simply.

Ashworth looked at the flask, then at Sherlock as though he were some sort of angel of deliverance. He took it in a trembling hand, opened it, and drank half of it off at once.

Sherlock took it back, took a sip himself, then capped it again and put it back in his pocket. “You don’t want to be jug-bitten when they call you to come back into the room. I presume they’re cleaning up? Is Lucinda well?”

“Yes! She did marvelously! And there was very little blood, really -- some at the end, when… when her flesh tore…” His color faded again.

Sherlock could hardly blame him. “The doctor says she’ll be fine though?

“Y-yes. He said the damage was minimal and she will heal.”

“And the child?”

“He’s very well.” Ashworth laughed weakly. “He looks exactly like my father, when he’s in a passion.”

Sherlock laughed. “Perhaps you should let your father know that. I expect it would go a long way toward reconciling him to your marriage. And Lucinda is gently bred, for all her misfortune in ending up at Celeste’s.”

Ashworth said, “I cannot count it misfortune. I would never have met her, else.”

“Very true,” Sherlock agreed, wondering a little at the vagaries of Fate.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, but then Molly’s footsteps were again heard coming down the stairs, and Sherlock smiled as she came into the room.

“He’s beautiful!” Molly said, returning his smile with one of her own.

But Sherlock, rising to go to her, said, “That’s strange. Ashworth says he looks like a choleric old man.”

Ashworth looked up with a laugh, a healthier color in his face now, and Molly chuckled.

She said to Ashworth, “Would you like to go back upstairs? Lucinda wishes to see you, now that she and the baby are tidy.”

Ashworth rose with alacrity and went out of the room.

Molly turned to Sherlock. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock gave a short laugh that she should be concerned for him, and he looked her over with a more discerning eye as he approached. She was very tired, the strain of the last month and particularly of the last twenty-four hours obviously starting to catch up with her. She brushed a wisp of hair back over her ear, and looked up at him, her great brown eyes even more enormous than usual, and the bone structure of her face too prominent.

He set his hands at her slender waist and frowned. “More to the point, are you alright. You’ve lost weight. Six pounds? Six pounds that you could ill afford, slight as you are. Molly, you have not been taking good care of yourself.”

“I have tried, but… there were reasons.” She reached up to caress his cheek.

He caught her hand and dragged it over his shoulder, bent and swept her up into his arms, carrying her over to his chair, the one comfortable one in the room, probably Miss Beaufort’s easy chair, set by the tiled hearth. As he sat down again, with Molly in his lap, she curled into him, laying her head against his neck and shoulder. He picked up her other hand, kissed it and held it warm in his own. She sighed, utterly content.

Presently he ventured to say, as though in jest, “How glad I am that it was Lucinda and that ridiculous Ashworth that were put to the test today, and not you and I. To be frank, my love, I’m not certain I will ever be ready to see you endure such agony.”

But she had stiffened slightly at these words and now she sat up and looked at him, flushing. “Oh, Sherlock! I… well… you must be brave. And you will have eight months to accustom yourself to the idea.”

He stared at her, his mouth suddenly going dry.

Molly cocked her head to one side, eyes bright with both joy and sympathy.

He found himself blurting, “Molly! Don’t tell me…”, but found he could not continue, instinctively drawing back from the utterance of words that would place the staggering disclosure forever beyond denial.

“I won’t then,” she said gently, and kissed his cheek. Then she settled back down against him and added apologetically, “Though I fear, my love, if all goes as it should, the deduction will soon be quite obvious.”

#Sherlock #sherlolly

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