My father really does exaggerate.
~fifteen minutes earlier~
"I'm sorry." Peter apologized. "I'm sure you already know why I'm late so I won't bother explaining." He was right. I did know. He was late because Sherlock had asked him to sketch something and he had only just finished. I took his coat and scarf. His flesh ruptured in goosebumps wherever my fingers touched him.
"Sometimes I think he works you to hard." I said, dragging him to my room. We sat down on my bed and he leaned on his side to look at me.
"I like the way your hair curls." He always said things like that. It made me blush as he gently tugged a stray curl near my cheek.
"Can I see your sketchpad?" I asked eagerly, trying to move the conversation from such a delicate topic. He grinned and pulled it out. I was just about to take it when he pulled it out of reach.
"I drew a new one." He said. "For fun."
I flipped to the back. He had captured an old woman's coffee colored hands perfectly.
"Beautiful." I touched a pale finger to the rough paper. The pencil left grooves in the dimpled material.
"I thought about something." Peter continued, his voice less certain now. I caught the change in tone and looked up, my brow furrowed.
"I want to draw you." I stared at him. He was looking at me with a characteristic that could only be described as fear, and holding perfectly still like an animal caught in a trap.
Draw me? What would that entail? What would that require? Would I need to pose? Why?
"Ok." I finally said, shoving an enormous pile of questions to the back of my thoughts.
He could barely contain the relief in his voice. "Really?"
"Yes." I was slightly curious as to why he would want to put my likeness on paper, but I agreed. If I wasn't being vain in saying, my features were difficult, and the sketching would give him practice.
He situated himself so I was facing him, resting my chin on my hands. He sat on his knees and pulled out a collection of pencils.
"I need to figure out the dimensions. Can I?" He asked. I nodded, giving him permission. He brushed his hand across my nose, my jawline, my eyelids.
Then his pencil hit the paper and I could barely breath. He was so beautiful when he was drawing. His hair tumbled down in his face and his eyes sparked with excitement. Every so often, he would glance up and I would hurriedly look away in a heated flurry. What was this? I didn't know the word for it, but it tasted interesting against my tongue.
I held perfectly still, half of my mind still computing a word to describe what I was feeling as I watched this gorgeous man sketch me out.
His hands were so large it seemed impossible that he could make such delicate strokes. I couldn't keep myself from staring, my attention captured.
"Your eyes don't look like they did yesterday." He mumbled, one eye closed and his teeth tugging at his lip.
"What color are they?" I asked, barely a whisper, afraid that if I broke the quiet, I would never feel whatever this was again.
"Ice. Ice blue. Almost white and they've got gray and dark blue flecks in them and... Kyna, your eyes are beautiful."
He looked up, his lips slightly parted. I swallowed with difficulty. For some reason, his declaration hurt me. It hurt my chest in a way that was terrible, but absolutely pleasant in the same way.
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Consulting Daughter (BBC Sherlock)Fanfiction
Kyna Jocelyn Graham is unusually talented and intelligent, much to her mother's unending and embarrassing horror. For sixteen years Kyna's mother has been desperately trying to stamp out any traces of the man who is her father. But she is unsuccess...