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The door shuts forcefully. The shutter could be heard from upstairs. That was her favorite part about the house. Others would be feigning, absolutely annoyed by the sound, but she was unique, and that’s why he loved her. Her face lit up at the sound. Quickly she dropped the shirt she’d been folding and ran to the frame at the beginning of the stairs. She pulled her hair out of its tight bun and it flapped down in a tangled mess. Back and forth she swung her hair until it fell to the sides of her cheeks, covering part of the pink that had risen from her neck. Her eyes were as bright as the day he first laid eyes on her and her spirits were even higher. “Ohh who is in my home this lovely Tuesday evening?” She called down in a mock British accent. Her husband smiled up at her, not at all surprised to see how happy she was, but still pleased all the same. His level of glory shot up at the sight of her.
"Well I’m not quite sure." He spoke in a true posh British accent. Not mock, just born and raised. Honest to goodness, he never thought he would marry an American woman, yet there she was in their house at the top their stairs, filling his chest with butterflies.
She backed herself up, hitting dramatically against the hallway wall, hand thrown against her forehead. “Well come up fair sir, so that I may look at you in the dim light of my bedroom.” she said, switching to southern American accent. She was no actor like her husband, one personality was never enough, and she could not keep her characters straight. He laughed as his steps grew quick up the stairs. Seeing this, she ran from him and into their dark room, lit only by the bathroom light she always forgot to turn off.
She bounced onto the bed, giddy. Her husband came into the room, seconds after she did but refrained from the bed. Instead, he pressed himself against the door frame waiting for her call. She twist herself in a comically unsuductive way, holding her right ankle in her right hand behind her back, her left foot pointed towards him, and biting her lip awkwardly with her head slightly down, eyebrows furrowed. “Now, who comes to my bed this evening?” She asks. The man does not answer, simply starts moving towards the bed. “Is it the high functioning sociopath detective virgin, who is also somehow a sex symbol?” She tilts her head slightly like a confused puppy. “Or is it my strapping actor husband who works long hours and enjoys long showers with his stay at home wife.”
"Tis I" he answers. He removes his coat and shirt first, dropping them quickly on the ground.
"Oh, so it is Sherlock Holmes" she laughs and waits for his reaction. He giggles down at her, smiling his beautifully uneven smile. "Mr. Holmes" She groans, moving toward the edge of the bed to help him remove his belt and trousers. "My husband has told me so much about you." She looks up into his eyes as she scoots back to where she was and removes her own clothes. "That won’t be a problem will it?" She pauses, a look of confusion lighting up his face. "Me having a husband, I mean."
He laughs a deep rumbling from within his chest. “Not at all.” He crawls over her onto the bed. Arms on each side of her shoulders, he hovers there. She makes the first move, leaning up to steal a deep loving kiss. “You taste like strawberries.” He says on her lips.
"And you taste like my husband." She counters. They giggled into each other’s mouths. "I love you." She whispers.
"I love you too."