38Chapter 3: Nudity, Or The Disappointing Lack Thereof
Three months went by before she saw him again. She woke up in the middle of the night needing to use the loo, and got a terrible shock when she realised that there was another body stretched out beside her on the bed. Fortunately for him, there had been just enough moonlight shining in through her bedroom window for her to identify Sherlock's alabaster-pale features, otherwise she would have done what any normal person in her situation would do: Smother him with her pillow. He had his eyes closed and lay still as a corpse…if not for the fact that he was in his typical mind palace pose, she would have been tempted to check for a pulse. How on earth did I manage to sleep through Sherlock Holmes getting in bed with me? And on the heels of that thought came HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, SHERLOCK HOLMES IS IN BED WITH ME! and Of course he had to see me just when I decided to wear my oldest flannel nightie…
As she washed her hands after using the toilet, she debated whether she should just spend the rest of the night on the couch. The Molly Hooper of the past would have done just that so as not to disturb him, but she liked to think that their relationship had evolved since then, and that she'd grown more of a spine after helping him fake his death and being privy to his biggest secret. Molly 2.0 didn't give a fig if she disrupted his sacred communion with his mind palace…He was the one who had crawled into bed with her without prior notice!
Thus decided, she got back into bed, glared once more at the unmoving man beside her—although she did succumb to the urge to peek under the covers to check for nudity, or in this instance, the disappointing lack thereof—and promptly fell back asleep.
He was gone the next morning when she opened her eyes. She sat up slowly, stilling as she glanced at the space Sherlock had occupied. A small anatomically-correct heart pendant, cast in clear Murano glass with a burst of intense, arterial red at its centre, lay nestled in the indent of the pillow next to hers. There was no note...not that there was any doubt as to who had left it for her. As Molly lifted it to the light by the delicate silver chain, her breath caught at the finely-wrought, detailed workmanship and the sheer, unusual loveliness of the piece. She was sure it was custom made, and wondered how he had obtained it. Perhaps he'd helped some Venetian glassmaker get off a murder charge…
The gifts started appearing randomly after that. A Thai silk scarf hanging off her coat rack; a blue Turkish Nazar bead bracelet adorning her salt shaker; a little white ceramic Japanese cat beckoning with its paw from her dresser…After the first few items, she realised this was his way of letting her know that he was alive and well. These objects—sometimes mundane, but often as enigmatic as the man himself—painted, without words, a vivid picture of his journeys across the globe. While she treasured every single one of these gifts, she refused to let herself hope that they meant anything beyond friendship.
And yet…there were times that the things he did spoke straight to her heart.
She had spent a truly horrific day at the morgue performing an autopsy on a young woman who had been killed when a truck driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and swerved off the road onto the pavement. The twin foetuses nestled in her womb would never know laughter or sadness, pain or joy…Life cut short, before it had a chance to truly begin. Weighed down with bleak thoughts and a heavy heart, she came home to find a slightly battered waxed paper package tied with twine sitting beside the bathroom sink.
The single, oval bar of soap inside was delicately stamped with an intricate crest bordered with what looked like Cyrillic script. The reverse, in contrast, bore a single inscription in English: For being you. Very carefully, she snapped a few photos of it with her phone from several different angles, resolving to do research on the crest later, before slowly undressing and getting into the shower.
The scent…almost undid her. It smelled like the first frost over a towering alpine forest; of twilight with a hint of blackberries and green apples on the breeze. Ethereal and delicate, yet somehow, it reminded her of him. God, how she missed him. She missed seeing him in the morgue, barging in as if he owned the place; she missed his brilliant deductions, his cutting, often macabre sense of humour and yes, even his stupidly high cheekbones.
She did not know how long she stood there under the warm shower spray, clutching the bar of soap, tears pouring from her eyes, mourning for missed opportunities and things that would never be. For herself, for Sherlock, for the poor babies she'd had to sew back into their mother's womb…for all the injustices that life brought with it.
It was cathartic, in the way all good cries are. Emerging from the bathroom feeling inexplicably better, Molly prepared some spicy instant noodles for dinner and powered up her laptop. Downloading the photos from her phone onto her computer, she set about trying to translate the words in the crest. An hour and a half later, she had the name of an exclusive Macedonian soap-maker. According to the website she found when she typed the name into the internet search engine, this particular soap-maker specialised in one-of-a-kind handmade soaps.
She wondered if Sherlock had known how much she would love the scent; if he knew that it would move her to tears. Had he chosen the scent at random from amongst a hundred others? Or had he told them exactly what he wanted? Her mind whirled with questions that she doubted that she would ever have the answers to.
At the centre of it all was the walking conundrum that was the world's only consulting detective. He was the self-styled high functioning sociopath who had thrown himself off a building to save his friends; who appeared to possess no social sensibilities whatsoever, often hurting people with a well-placed barbed remark or deduction…
…But who would then turn around in the next breath and do something so incredibly sweet that made her soul literally ache with the need be close to him.
She knew that he never intentionally meant to hurt her feelings, nor was it his fault that he did not see her in a romantic light. Hope was a dangerous thing, for it was down that particular road that almost certain disaster lurked…because after all this time and all that they had been through, Molly Hooper wasn't sure if William Sherlock Scott Holmes was even capable of letting go of his cold logic and deductive reasoning long enough to fall in love.
Five days later, she was roused from a deep sleep by someone shaking her by the shoulder and turning on her bedroom lights. She bolted upright, her hand instinctively going to her bedside lamp with the intent of using it as a weapon.
"Doctor Hooper."
Molly froze. That voice…
"Mycroft?" She blinked rapidly as her vision adjusted to the light. What is it with the Holmes men and their fondness for breaking and entering? Mycroft Holmes was standing by her bedroom door, while his ever-present assistant, Anthea (or whatever her name was this week), was beside the bed, ostensibly having been the one to shake her awake. Her mortification at having the British Government (who was dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, no less) see her in her nightwear was swiftly eclipsed by a stab of pure anxiety. There were only a handful of reasons why Mycroft would show up in her flat in the middle of the night, and all of them revolved around a certain consulting detective's well-being. "Something's happened to Sherlock, hasn't it? Is he…?"
Although Mycroft Holmes was reputed to be even more emotionally detached than his younger brother, she could read his worry in the pinched look around his eyes and the slight disarray of his hair. "We've just had an…incident. He's alive, but I am afraid we have need of your medical expertise." The tone in which he spoke was flat, but even then, Molly sensed the thread of exhaustion behind every word. Knowing how much Mycroft cared for his sibling, he must have exerted every ounce of his not inconsiderable governmental influence to get Sherlock to safety.
Out of the corner of her eye, she vaguely registered that Anthea had moved over to her wardrobe and was packing a bag with silent efficiency.
Wide awake now, Molly's hands fisted in the duvet, "If he's b-badly hurt, you'll be better off finding a surgeon or at least someone with experience treating live patients! I'm…I'm a Pathologist, not a MD," she pointed out shakily, the rush of relief at hearing that Sherlock wasn't dead leaving her feeling light-headed and a bit nauseous.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and graced her with a tight-lipped smile, "I'm sure your medical skills are more than adequate, as is your experience treating this particular patient." He turned on his heel and walked back out of her bedroom, "Get dressed, Doctor Hooper. There's a car waiting downstairs. Anthea will see to the rest."
What she expected to be a short car ride turned out to be a trip to a deserted airstrip where she was then escorted onto a private Lear jet. She sat in awkward silence across from Mycroft, with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, watching as the man who was supposedly the smarter of the Holmes brothers issued orders into his phone in what she thought might be Czech or Russian. When he was not talking, he was busy texting, and barely spared her a glance. Anthea had not come with them, presumably staying behind to manage things in the absence of her boss.
Several hours later, they disembarked in yet another seemingly abandoned airfield just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. To her astonishment, Mycroft put a hand on her lower back and guided her to the front passenger seat of a black Mercedes with heavily tinted windows parked nearby. Molly was fairly sure her eyebrows touched her hairline when Mycroft himself got in on the driver's side.
"I'm guessing that we are not in the UK anymore," she finally said as they sped across a bridge spanning a scenic river.
"Well spotted, but I suppose it is to be expected, after having worked with my brother for so long." Mycroft began to drum his fingers on the steering wheel, then stopped as if he had suddenly realised that he'd been doing it. "We are heading to a country estate just outside Skopje, which is the capital of Macedonia…" The corners of the British Government's mouth twitched mirthlessly, as he spared her a brief, sidelong glance, "But of course, you already knew that, given the latest present from the Idiot."
Forcing herself to focus on more practical concerns instead of getting hung up on the evidence that Mycroft had her under surveillance, she pointed out that she was outside of Britain without a passport and that he had yet to tell her exactly what was wrong with the aforementioned Idiot.
"I took the liberty of arranging a diplomatic passport for you. No need to fret, Doctor Hooper, you are hardly an illegal immigrant. You shall find the necessary documentation along with the rest of your things at our destination." He paused, and for a moment, he looked every bit as worried as Molly felt. However, the brief seepage of emotion was gone almost as swiftly as it had appeared, his expression smoothing over into its usual cool haughtiness. "As for the other, I would prefer to wait until you have had an opportunity to assess his condition first-hand before we discuss this."
The evasiveness of his reply did nothing to diminish the leaden ball of uneasiness sitting in the pit of her belly. There's got to be more to it than Mycroft is letting on…the British Government had literally airlifted her out of London in the dead of night; all the way across Europe, to a small Balkan nation just to take care of Sherlock. Surely there were actual medical doctors who were eminently more qualified for this? John Watson, for instance.
Wrapped up in those increasingly troubling thoughts, she almost missed the sensation of the Mercedes coming to a stop. A surprised glance out the window yielded a view of a large two-storey house and expansive gardens. As she got out of the car, she was swamped by another wave of apprehension. Stop it, the British Government believes you to be up to the task, and Sherlock needs you right now! She clenched her hands to stop them from visibly trembling; determined not to give Mycroft any reason to doubt her, and quickly followed him through the open front door into a lovely white marble foyer.
She was led through a set of double doors into a large room, curiously empty…except that half of it had been converted into a holding cell. A trolley loaded with medical supplies stood in one corner.
There was enough morning sunlight coming in through the bay windows for her to instantly realise why Mycroft had been so reticent about his brother's condition.
"Dear god...Sherlock…" she whispered, crossing the room and dropping to her knees beside the padded bars.
On a mattress that had been placed on the floor, the consulting detective lay motionless on his side in jaguar form. His eyes were closed, but his breathing sounded shallow and laboured. Snowy white bandages were wrapped around his head, ribs and one leg, contrasting sharply with the darkness of his ebony pelt. He'd also been set up with an intravenous drip, the needle taped to an uninjured paw. The clear plastic tubing snaked through the bars to a bag of clear fluid suspended on a metal IV pole. Beside it, a state-of-the-art monitor displayed a myriad of readouts including heart rate and pulse.
Her heart twisted at how very vulnerable and helpless he looked like this.
Mycroft cleared his throat, "He's still sedated from the surgery…he was caught in a blast, the force of the explosion simultaneously threw him clear and put him on a collision course with a concrete retaining wall. The vet who operated on him—"
Her head jerked up in disbelief to stare at the civil servant in the three-piece suit, "Vet? You allowed a vet to perform surgery on your brother?!"
"The most renowned veterinary surgeon in the country actually," Mycroft said testily, handing her Sherlock's chart before letting out a long exhalation and gazing down at his little brother. "Sherlock was in this form when he was found. I could hardly send for a team of medical specialists from the local hospital to treat what, for all intents and purposes, appears to be a wild animal. It would simply raise too many questions."
Molly nodded slowly, biting her lip, "Sorry. I...the thought of him getting badly hurt turns me into a bit of an overprotective mother hen." She had no right to fault Mycroft for anything, especially when she knew that it had probably been the only logical course of action available to him.
Her words were summarily waved away, "Unnecessary. Do not apologise for your concern for him."
She flipped through the doctor's—vet's—notes on the chart, "Christ...hairline parietal skull fracture, three cracked ribs, shrapnel in left foreleg, dislocated shoulder joint...Why hasn't he shifted back?"
"From what my brother has deigned to tell me over the years, the shift is not automatic. He has to consciously will himself back into human form," Mycroft produced a keycard and swiped it through the electronic reader, "Before you ask, the cage is a precaution for his own safety as well as yours. We don't know how it's going to be like when he wakes. The head trauma…" He trailed off, not needing to complete the sentence, knowing that she was well aware of all the terrifying possibilities with a concussion being the most benign of them. Instead, he held the door open for her, "You may sit with him now if you like. He will remain under for a while yet. I believe they gave him enough tranquilisers to knock out a horse."
Without hesitation, she went in and settled down next to Sherlock. In the light of day, she could see that his coat had a beautiful pattern of dark rosettes in a deeper shade of black than the base colour of his fur. Black on black, like the black suit and dress shirt she had seen him wearing on several occasions when he had come into the morgue.
"Molly."
She looked up, startled at the sound of her name coming from Sherlock's intimidating older brother. Mycroft Holmes had never addressed her by her first name before, always preferring to remain formal by using her professional designation.
"I am glad what he will have the one person he trusts above all others by his side when he wakes up."
After changing Sherlock's dressings and examining the sutures for any signs of infection, Molly shut the cage door and sank back onto the small couch that she had dragged into the room.
The latest issue of Cosmopolitan lay open beside her; a bit of light reading to pass the time, although Sherlock would probably deride her choice of reading material and tell her that it was rotting her brain. He'll just have to wake up and quit being furry to do that! she thought defiantly, making a mental note to thank Anthea for sending it over along with her laptop (which was now apparently equipped with military-grade capability to surf the internet from anywhere on earth), a selection of novels and a few pathology journals. The PA had arranged for Molly to have paid time off from work (heaven knew what reason they had given her boss for her sudden disappearance), and was apparently also looking after Toby. Molly wished Anthea best of luck with the grumpy, thoroughly-spoilt ball of ginger fur which considered itself superior to most other life-forms. Then again, the same could be said about the Holmes brothers, so maybe the woman already had plenty of practice…
Mycroft had returned to London the previous evening—"Contrary to popular belief, Doctor Hooper, the British nation does not run itself!"—leaving her alone in the big house, as they could not risk anyone else finding out about Sherlock. The kitchen and pantry were fully stocked with everything that she could need, and there were prepared meals in the freezer that she could just heat up in the oven if she didn't feel like cooking.
It had been two days since she had arrived, and one since the sedatives keeping him under should have worn off. Sherlock had yet to show signs of returning to consciousness, although his pupils were responsive to light when tested. He was also breathing more easily, which was a good sign. She supposed his unique biology was responsible for the accelerated rate of healing, but it was not his physical injuries that had both her and Mycroft worried…Molly could only pray that his thick skull (both literally and figuratively) had protected the one thing that defined him above all others from any lasting damage.
The quiet was broken by the chiming of her phone. Sliding her thumb over the screen to accept the incoming call, she was further mystified when the caller started speaking before she even had a chance to say hello.
"Doctor Hooper, I apologise in advance for what you are about to be subjected to. It seems that the cavalry has arrived." The British Government sounded somewhat…harried, which was a rather disconcerting departure from his usual perfectly modulated tones.
Anything that could ruffle Mycroft's feathers had to be bad...Like nuclear winter or zombie apocalypse bad. "Wha-…What are you talking about?" Molly tried to keep the confusion out of her voice, but failed miserably. She was also starting to suspect that the propensity for theatrics was apparently not confined to Holmes-the-younger. Bloody hell, it runs in the family—
A barely audible sigh filtered down the line, along with an almost-tangible sense of impending doom. "My parents. I had to tell them about Sherlock and they are currently standing at the front door."
"WHAT?" Molly nearly fell off her seat onto the floor at Mycroft's announcement.
And then, precisely on cue, the doorbell rang.
Mr and Mrs Holmes, as it turned out, appeared to be blessedly ordinary. How had they managed to produce two geniuses with so many social and emotional neuroses? Molly was fairly certain that Mycroft had as many (if not more) sociopathic tendencies as Sherlock…he was just better at hiding it, whereas Sherlock did not even bother trying to relate to other people. She could almost hear his voice in her head saying Normal? Normal is boring…
"I'm so glad that my boy has you to look after him, Molly," Miranda Holmes declared whilst regarding her with eyes the same incredible oceanic blue-green as her younger son. She must have been a great beauty in her youth, with those striking eyes and fine bone structure.
Not wanting his mother to have the wrong impression, Molly forced a bright smile, "Sherlock and I…We're not…We're just friends." The words tasted odd on her tongue; not exactly bitter, not bland either. But there they were, out in the open. Just friends. It wasn't as bad as she had feared, although she did feel a small twinge somewhere behind her breastbone, just beneath the glass heart pendant she was wearing under her jumper. Maybe she was finally accepting the fact that a romantic relationship with Sherlock was not—and had never been—on the cards. That's good, isn't it? Far healthier than continuing to carry a torch for that insufferable git! Striving for levity, she added in what she hoped was a convincingly humorous tone, "And Mycroft didn't exactly give me the option to see what was behind Door Number Two!"
Mrs Holmes snorted delicately, as she absently ran her fingers through the jaguar's thick black fur, "Mikey has always been a bit…overbearing."
Molly really tried to hold it in, but a grin escaped nonetheless, "Mikey?"
"Keeps his pompousness in check, as does making him accompany his dear old mum to matinee performances of Mama Mia." Mrs Holmes said drily, although the twinkle in her eyes belied an unmistakable maternal fondness and a wicked sense of humour, "Lord knows that his ego is already bloated enough from swanning around Whitehall."
Miranda Holmes was indeed a force of nature—not everyone could just order the British Government to endure hours of ABBA, then hope to live to tell the tale—to be reckoned with, and shared many of the same qualities as her sons. Unlike her boys, however, the keen intelligence and steely resolve that Molly sensed was tempered by a very human warmth. The first thing that Sherlock's mother had done on the doorstep was to envelop Molly in a heartfelt hug.
The grey-haired woman looked down briefly at her son's comatose form, "I imagine that neither of those two ill-mannered oafs thought to thank you for all you've done. Their behaviour is dreadfully appalling; they were certainly not raised in a barn, I assure you!" She reached over to gently squeeze Molly's hand, a mysterious smile hovering over her stately features. "For what it's worth, my dear…thank you for being such a good friend to Sherlock."
Molly returned the gesture without hesitation, "It's fine, Mrs Holmes. Really. I'm just glad I can help."
A knock on the door heralded the arrival of Mr Holmes with a tray piled high with enough tea, biscuits and sandwiches for three. He was a sweet man who reminded her of a kindly, if absent-minded, professor. Now you know where the genetic coding for those amazing cheekbones came from…Molly was a little envious of Sherlock and Mycroft for having such wonderful parents, as well as slightly miffed that the two brothers didn't seem to appreciate how lucky they truly were. Molly's own parents had long since passed on, but she still missed them terribly.
Siger and Miranda Holmes were remarkably easy to talk to, seemed genuinely interested in getting to know her, and were not put off in the least by the morbid nature of her profession. In turn, they told her stories of Sherlock and Mycroft that made her laugh so hard that she almost snorted tea out of her nose. Sherlock, she learnt, at almost fifteen months old, had still been unable—or unwilling—to crawl like most babies. His concerned parents and brother had tried everything to coax him into it, but he'd remained stubbornly immobile. Then one day, he had sat very still on the carpet for a long time with a look of intense concentration on his little face…before simply getting off his diaper-clad bum and walking across the room, thus bypassing the indignity of crawling altogether.
When all the tea had been drunk and all the food eaten, the elderly couple had gently but firmly shooed her out, encouraging her take some time for herself; maybe take a trip into Skopje to explore and relax (Molly had been watching over Sherlock almost constantly over the last few days, even sleeping on the couch at night). They promised to call her if Sherlock showed any signs of waking.
Before long, her phone pinged with an incoming text from Mycroft, informing her that a car would pick her up and take her into town. Unsurprised by the British Government's omniscience, she sent back her thanks and went up to her room to get changed. She did pause briefly to wonder what that implied about her, since the average British civilian would be having a nervous breakdown knowing that Big Brother—in the most literal sense at that too—was watching, whilst she barely batted an eyelid at the notion these days.
Molly looked up at the sign hanging over an elegantly understated shop-front. The soap-maker was tucked away at the end of one of the small cobblestoned streets which branched out from the town centre. The location of the shop was a bit off the beaten track, but she would recognise the intricate scrolling crest anywhere.
A bell over the door tinkled as she entered, and she was met with tasteful displays of soaps, bath salts, gels, and lotions in every hue imaginable. The old man seated behind the counter looked up from the newspaper he had been reading, and she blurted out a greeting in Macedonian (which she had hurriedly searched out on the internet), her tongue stumbling clumsily over the unfamiliar consonants.
"You speak Ingle-lish?" the man asked with a heavy accent, the age-worn creases on his face deepening in an encouraging smile.
"Oh yes, thank you! Sorry, I can't speak your language," she apologised, but the man shook his head and queried if there was anything he could assist her with in slow, but understandable English.
Pulling out her mobile phone, she showed the shopkeeper the photos she had taken of Sherlock's gift, "A friend gave me this soap…" Molly offered by way of explanation, "I just wanted to know more about it."
The man (who had introduced himself as Josif) studied the photos, frowning for a minute before his face lit up. He bid her to wait while he ducked into the back of the shop, swiftly emerging again with a thick binder that was full almost to bursting. "I remember this soap, the one with the special inscription on the back," he told her, flipping through the file. "Your young man, he asked me to create a very unique scent. Ah, here it is…" The shopkeeper tapped on the page full of handwritten notes in Cyrillic.
Molly blushed and asserted that Sherlock was not 'her young man'.
Chuckling, the soap-maker continued, "Many customers, they come in, they describe what they like; rose, lavender, sandalwood. I let them smell the scents; they pick out what pleases them the most. Your friend…he walks into my shop and tells me exactly what ingredients he wants me to blend. He was strange, that one…"
Graduate chemist with genetically superior sense of smell, of course he would, Molly mused distractedly, trying (and failing) to reconcile the self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath she knew with the person who had apparently taken the trouble to order a custom-made soap for her. It boggled the mind.
"…But tell me, do you like the scent? What does it make you think of when you smell it?"
Abruptly realising that Josif had asked her a direct question, she mentally chastised herself for allowing her thoughts to wander, "I…I love it." Closing her eyes, she tried to recall those first fleeting impressions before the tears had overwhelmed her that night, struggling to put the memory into words, "It was like I was standing in a forest of giant firs just after sunset…ice crystals on the branches, and the wind…I thought there might be little bit of apples. Um…Green apples, not red. And blackberries?" She ended her lengthy, rambling description on a question. Molly Hooper, a poet you most definitely are not.
Warmth crept over her cheeks once more, and she wondered if her over-active imagination had run away with her. It was entirely possible that she was completely off the mark and Sherlock had meant the soap to smell like…mothballs, or perhaps a delightful combination of formaldehyde and the hand sanitizer back in the morgue. Unfortunately, one never quite knew what to expect when dealing with Sherlock Holmes. The Bart's morgue was, after all, his home away from home.
She opened her eyes, only to find the old man peering at her over the rims of his spectacles and smiling in a way that made her wonder if she'd just made a complete fool of herself. Something seemed to amuse Josif immensely, but he didn't seem at all inclined to enlighten her. All he would say was that the only person who could provide the answers she was searching for, was the one who had gifted her with the soap. Maybe I've just waxed poetic over something that is supposed to smell like industrial-strength hand sanitizer after all, and he's sparing me the embarrassment…
A short while later, Molly stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine carrying an embossed paper bag containing the small selection of soaps and hand-creams which she had purchased as souvenirs for friends back in London.
She would look back and remember fondly, the way the old soap-maker had walked her to the door, holding it open for her with a gentlemanly flourish that had her stifling a giggle.
It was his parting words to her, however, that would stand out most in her mind for a long time afterwards.
"There is an old belief, here in Macedonia…If two people smell the same scent, and it takes them to the very same place; then they will always find a way back to each other."
Notes:
1) I really meant for this to be a short story, but it appears that I'm pathologically incapable of writing anything below 10,000 words. Sorry. ;-)
2) Turkish Nazar beads are believed to help ward off the evil eye. Salt is also believed to ward off evil/bad luck (hence the old practice of tossing salt over one's shoulder). Weird little in-joke of having Sherlock put the bead bracelet around her salt shaker. And since Sherlock's other form is feline, of course he would get her a cat figurine from Japan...
3) Scents and perfumes are immensely complex and subjective. This means that a given scent will evoke different responses and associations from different people. Therefore, it is extremely rare that two people will visualise precisely the same thing even though they may be smelling the same perfume/scent.
4) This chapter turned out to be more serious than I anticipated. Sorry Again...Still, hope you enjoyed it! Do let me know what you think, I love receiving feedback!
