Your postcards came
To the address where you didn’t
Your postcards came
To the address where you didn’t
I might as well just hide
From your timeline
As you slide away
No where near each other’s
Deep in thoughts
Dipping and lifting
Before it drips
Along the bottle
Towards the end
The edge reached its destination
Running across until it runs dry
The world is in a bottle
Ours to draw
The room is too quiet for a ten o’clock weekday. Wato thought while she enters the room, getting a full view of chocolate wraps and half opened liquor across the room. She almost ran over a bottle on the floor, picking up an Avion tequila, whatever that may be.
“Sherlock,” She said with her hands on her hip, bag still hung from her shoulder after a long day at her part time library job. “You expect me to clean this?” Her eyes screened through the room. I’m picking up for a kid, no doubt about it.
“Sussh…I’m trying to experiment.” Sherlock answered in a whisper, lying on her couch with her gaze fixated to the ceiling. “I think I understand why people like the sensation. But barely equatable to ecstasy.” She sighed and said, “Better off going to the Medical Box.”
Wato remembered the disco bar, she was the one being taught of what a pusher is.
“Would you like to try?” Sherlock turned to her flatmate which is recapping all the liquor on the coffee table. “Milk chocolate with rum would be good.”
“I don’t drink, Sherlock.” Wato replied. The detective picks up a bottle of white wine and drained the remaining half in the matter of seconds.
“Now that, should do the trick.” Sherlock with a cheeky smile placed the empty bottle down to a wide-eyed Wato. “Give me a minute.”
“Sherlock?! Why would your do that! I’m getting you more water whether you like it or not.”
Wato is angry. How rare. She laughed giddily.
Her feet feels light and the ceiling seems to spin. Wato’s blue coat was on a reachable distance so she snatched it up and wraps herself in it. The faint smell of old and new books is welcoming.
“You should drink up.” Wato gave the usual black cup to Sherlock.
Sherlock shot her right arm from underneath her blue coat and said, “I can’t get up.” Her face cringed at the throbbing ache around her temple.
“Does it hurt?” Wato asked with concern, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and tugs to what seems to be her whole weight.
“Sit here,” Sherlock reaches out and slowly pulls Wato by her shirt, patting on her thigh. She tried to resist but Sherlock doesn’t seem to loosen her grip.
Wato sighed and sat. Sherlock hugs and snuggles onto her, feeling a stiffened Wato holding her breath.
“Much better.” Sherlock mumbled as the pain eases. Wato exhaled and had a bittersweet smile.
Slow and steady respiratory rate. With a hint of alcohol and chocolate.
“You’re drunk, Sherlock.”
“And you’re my oxycodone…”
“Not to mention its addiction, abuse and misuse.” Sherlock continued to ramble with her eyes closed, “Neonatal opiod withdrawal syndrome, respiratory depression and cytochrome p450 3A4 interactions..”
“Okay okay, I know.” Wato managed to pass Sherlock’s cup into her hands. She was smiling gleefully at the water.
“By the way, the name is Sara. Sara Shelly Futaba.” Sherlock muttered and smiled, her right hand outstretched for a handshake which Wato takes it in doubt. Her grip was firm with seven shakes.
“Yoroshiku~” The detective made a weird salute and gulped the whole cup of water before leaning onto Wato’s arm.
“Sara?” Wato bends her head sideways to take a glimpse of her face.
Sherlock woke up with a headache and ample memory of what she did yesterday night.
“Sherlock, ohaiyo.” Wato came into her room and made coffee as usual. The room is tidied and no sign of liquor or stain.
Sherlock feigns ignorance, noticing the difference in her room. A bottle of rum and a box of milk chocolate stood quietly at the corner of her work desk.
Something flew overhead
Got away under my grasp
Before I could put a word on it
Pages still untainted
And time slips
On a warm summer evening
Her coat. Her boots. Her strides and the sound of her foot steps.
“Okaeri Sherlock, Wato.” Miss Hatano stood in front of the apartment, smiling at the familiar figures. Tachibana’s eyes were red, hand still holding onto the green coat while Sherlock held onto her shoulder. Kento nodded from behind with Wato’s luggage beside him.
“Arigatou Hatano-san.” Sherlock smiled warmly and continued, “I think Wato needs a cup of tea. Let’s get her in.”
Wato followed obediently as Sherlock guides her back into the room, seating her in the usual seat across Sherlock’s favorite sofa. It doesn’t take long for Miss Hatano to reappear with a tray of tea and biscuits but the silence were deafening. Wato held onto her hand over her shoulders when she tried to move away.
Sherlock sighed and sat on the armrest instead. “I’m real, Wato. And I’m not going to disappear.”
“Mmm…” Wato only managed to give a small squeeze before tears came dropping down her cheeks.
She felt a hand on top of her head, trailing down and running lightly through her hair.
“Wato, the tea is getting cold,” Sherlock shifts and got down in front of her, eyes staring straight and both hands on her knee. The trail of tears made Sherlock’s heart ache.
Wato looked down. Just like a kid.
“Sherlock…” Wato cupped Sherlock’s cheeks and went for a full bear hug entrapping her shoulders. Light sobs could still be heard upon her neck.
Two arms reached up and held onto Wato’s shoulder blades.
“I’m here. Don’t worry,” whispered Sherlock and both of them felt warmer in each other’s embrace.
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