𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄, sherlock holmes

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 . . . THINK, PAIR, SHARE!

SEB HAD BEEN DROPPED OFF AT PRE-SCHOOL by the time Poppy had woken up, swaddled in the knitted blankets she'd thrown over her bed to keep her warm throughout the middle of the night. She was groggy and burry-eyed, trying in vain to focus the glass of water placed on her bedside table and hold it steady in her hand. In her haze of trying to lift it up to her lips, she poured the liquid down her front and into a puddle on the sheets. There wasn't many mornings where the first words Poppy spoke were curses, but as soon as the phrase "Fucking bollocks" passed the precipice of her mouth and into the empty room, she knew the day wasn't going to be in her favour.

The box of her favourite cereal had produced a measly pile of chocolate curls into the bowl she'd had since the age of four. In fact all she'd shovelled into her mouth, using the spoon that had arrived with the bowl complete with a small clay Coco Pops monkey, was dust that faintly tasted of the cereal bag. She looked at the expiration date, found out that her breakfast had been stale ( go figure, the day was off to a cracking start ) and dropped her bowl onto the kitchen tiles when a bird hit the windows.

A pile of cash had been tucked under the glass dish by the telephone in the entrance hall table from Blair, left with a note telling Poppy to do what she wished with it. She shuffled through the notes, one two three... six ten pound notes would buy her a new set of gel nails and a chance to splash out on an M&S meal deal from the centre of town. With a pep in her step, one startlingly cold shower under her belt and a jumper she'd neglected to notice was inside out until she'd wound half-way down the gravel drive way, Poppy set off down the soggy lane. Mud squelched under foot and dew drops slid off tree branches around her.

She tiptoed through the cemetery circling the small cobblestone church, staring up at the stained glass windows as she passed and rejoined the path just a stones-throw away from the high street. Poppy walked past the carpark for the town centre, a line of black bonnets guarding her as she walked past the Cornish bakery, the small 1940s themed Tea Shop, eyes set on her final destination of the glassy windows of the luckily empty nail salon. The small bell above the door chimed sweetly to announce her entry, and a panicked voice called from the small kitchen area, "Just a minute!"

Poppy's brows furrowed. The woman's voice sounded familiar, and it wasn't until the ends of her curly red hair poked out from behind the doorframe that Poppy knew who it was. "Jane?" Jane had been a shy girl in the year below Poppy in secondary school, and she often found her crying in the toilets at break time because she'd gotten into arguments with her long-term boyfriend, Callum. Callum was a dick and didn't deserve Jane, but he often made squabbles up to her by buying her lunch from the school canteen offering to walk her dog when she was at debating club.

"Yeah?" She called out, unaware of who was trying to get her attention. "I won't be a moment, just pick a seat and make yourself comfortable whilst I sat up. . ." In her hands as she rounded the door from the small kitchen was a cup of tea in a mug larger than her forehead. "Poppy!" In a flurry of straggly blonde hair and distinct English frazzled-ness, Jane's arms locked around Poppy's neck in a matter of seconds. She squeezed and squeezed at her until she was gasping for breath, hands making grabbing motions for the free air in the space around her when Jane eventually let go with a sheepish giggle. "Sorry, it's been such a long time." She motioned for Poppy to sit in one of the chairs, settling herself behind the table as she reached behind her for the colour selection.

"I'm assuming you're doing alright for yourself?" Poppy's gaze flicked to the wedding ring on Jane's finger, and the small picture of a baby on the staff notice board. "Yeah, mum's just annoyed I didn't do it all in the right order."

Poppy thought back to all the times she and Sherlock had to pretend to be a couple, or all the underhanded tactics she'd used against men because Mycroft willed her to do it. She missed him, it pained her to admit, but missed Sherlock more. She hoped he was doing alright, and wasn't pushing John too close to the edge. "I don't think there's really a right way," She hummed, pointing to a deep wine colour. Jane pulled it off the shelf and began to prep Poppy's nails.