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#sherlock x male reader
moonyswritinq · 11 months
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conflicted bodies — sherlock holmes x male reader
❝ CONFLICTED BODIES ❞ — PART ⅠⅠ
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PART Ⅰ — ❝ conflicted feelings ❞
SYNOPSIS ➢ After a drunken night of revealing one's feelings, Sherlock cannot go back on his words however much he'd like to. When you turn up to his flat, in need of his help, Sherlock is forced to face the consequences. However, the consequences aren't all that bad when it might lead to another night spent together.
PAIRING ➢ top!sherlock holmes x bottom!male reader
CONTENT WARNING ➢ 18+ SMUT, switch/dom!Sherlock, switch/sub!reader, edging, teasing, restraints, orgasm denial, fingering, p in a, handjob, rivals to lovers, mentions of alcohol & drinking, physical affection, romantic affection, cursing, slight gore and blood, mentions of needles and stitches, slight fluff at the end
WORD COUNT ➢ 5.3 k
AUTHORS NOTE ➢ this is my first and last time writing smut, cause i hate writing it. i’m sorry if it sucks, but at least it’s something? enjoy, you horny Sherlock whores! this is the last part.
MASTERLIST
non-male and minors DO NOT INTERACT !
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Sherlock was pacing again.
He walked back and forth. Thinking. Contemplating. Deducing.
His eyes jumped between the clues hung up on his wall to the papers scattered across the floors. He tried to piece it together, to connect the dots. But… It just didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Who could be behind it all? Who could continue to effortlessly outwit him like this? He was convinced there were a simple answer to it all; an answer that laid right beneath his nose. 
A forgotten cup of tea stood on a table close to him, its steam already gone cold. Beside it, was the sofa. His eyes jumped to it, immediately averting when his thoughts rushed to you. To the way you had felt in his arms. To the way you had kissed him. You were so soft and so warm against his skin. Warmth had pooled in the pit of his stomach.
He ignored the way his heart seemed to skip a beat, instead returning his focus to the case at hand. It had plagued him for quite some time, and he was no closer to solving it than before. It was the whole reason he had gone out to drink last night, at all. He just wanted one night of not having to think constantly. And ironically, it was what caused his thoughts to now be messier than ever before.
The memory of you was so fresh in his mind, still; he had to shut his eyes and rubbed them with the soles of his hands. No matter how hard he tried, he could not get you out of his thoughts. And it wasn’t exactly pure thoughts, per se, either. Every time he remembered how your hands had felt against his skin, he felt warmth pool in the bottom of his stomach and cheeks began to burn. 
Why?
That was the big question, wasn’t it? 
Why?
He had loathed you for all of his career. It wasn’t exactly because he disliked you as a person, no. You were clever, funny, and, he could admit it, handsome. You were also very skilled at your job, something he often admired. It was just…
Sherlock sighed at the thought.
You were too good. Too clever, at times. You were a competitor to him. A rival. He saw you as someone he had to be better than, someone to beat.
Sherlock stopped his pacing, gazing out the window, the low afternoon sun shining in.
However, he supposed that his competitiveness stemmed from that he admired some part of you. Your cleverness. Your humour. Your handsomeness.
His drunken self maybe hadn’t been so far off from the truth, after all.
“Fuck.”
The second the word was uttered a noise rang throughout the flat, haunting his ears with it’s sound. The ring clock. Sherlock’s eyes turned to the direction of the door, waving it off without a second thought. Probably Lestrade or Mrs Hudson waiting to disturb him with something useless.
He didn’t have time for this!
Whoever it was had now turned to knocking on the door, forceful enough to make it rattle in its hinges. The sound made Sherlock stop in his tracks. Whoever stood on the other side of the door was adamant on disturbing him, and therefore, annoying him. With a defeated sigh he walked over to it and threw it open, fully prepared to berate whoever stood before him. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was the sight of you.
Your tired form rested against the doorframe, barely being able to hold it up. Dark splattering of blood spread across your face, as well as reaching from your hands up to your arms. Sherlock’s gaze raked over your body, noticing the dark pool on your abdomen, to where your hand was pressed in a futile attempt to stop the flow. You could feel the stabbing pain of your wound slowly fading into a faint throb. The lids of your eyes threatened to droop closed from exhaustion and you had to force your gaze into meeting Sherlock’s.
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
Sherlock considered you, mind still occupied of the night before. Ultimately, he stepped aside to let you in, his gaze softening. At your wavering step he instinctively reached out, hands steadying you against him. It was his turn to support you into his flat, mindful of not putting pressure on your injury. The flat was as messy as you had left it that morning, if not more so. Sherlock helped you lower into the same sofa you had spent the night on, and you couldn’t keep the thoughts of the feel of him against you from invading your mind.
You groaned, leaning back against the soft cushions, still keeping pressure against your wound. Sherlock dared lift your shirt, peering at the dark red glistening in the golden candlelight.
“What happened?” he asked.
“What does it look like, detective?” You sucked in a breath.
His unamused glare pinned you to the spot. “It looks like you’ve been a fool.”
You rolled your eyes. “I got stabbed, genius. And now I’m bleeding. Need I explain further for you?”
Sherlock stood up without another word and made his way towards the kitchen with hurried steps. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting your head fall back against the cushions. Sherlock was right. You had acted foolishly and irrationally — probably because your mind was still fully occupied by last night’s events — which had led to your injury. And now you had turned up at the last place you wanted to be found at. Despite your better judgment, Sherlock had been the first person to come to mind.
He came back to your spot on the sofa with medical supplies in hand, and a bottle of whiskey. You were mildly surprised he actually possessed those things in his flat, but you guessed looks could be deceiving. With a careful hand, he lifted the ends of your shirt and fully exposed your flush skin to his eyes, and gave him access to the bleeding wound. Sherlock began to wash the area with a clean washcloth and water, and then with rubbing alcohol. You winced at the stinging sensation it caused you, and he poured some whiskey into a glass, handing it over to you with a curt nod.
“Cheers,” you said, downing the thing in one swipe. The alcohol burned in your throat, but numbed the pain a tad.
Sherlock pinned you with his observative gaze, letting the washcloth soak in a bowl of now bloody water.
“Good news, it wasn’t a very deep stab wound and you’ll recover quickly.”
“Reckoned as much,” you nodded.
“You’ll still need stitches.”
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
You glanced at your abdomen, before shifting to the needles beside Sherlock. You cocked your head, extending a hand with the palm up. Sherlock removed them from out of your reach, settling you with a glare. You scoffed, rolling your eyes.
“Can you even stitch wounds back together?” you asked.
Sherlock started prepping the needle, hands as steady as ever. “As a matter of fact, I can. And I reckon I could do a better job than you could ever do in a state such as this.”
You rolled your eyes again, but let him have access to your abdomen. Sherlock leaned closer, needle in hand, and his observative eyes jumped over your face as his fingers danced across the skin of your stomach. It made shivers crawl up your spine and you had to fight against your own mind to not think of how good that felt. You could still feel the remembrance of his touches the previous night and it was strange to now be pinned underneath his gaze in such a vulnerable state.
With a sharp pain that made your face contort into a wince, Sherlock started sewing your wound together. His eyes kept jumping between his work and your face, watchful of every change in your features. When he noticed no danger, his whole focus turned to stitching the wound. You took the opportunity to watch him, eyes glazing over every detail of his face. The nearby candlelight highlighted his sharp features, and maybe it was the loss of blood, but it presented him in an almost ethereal way. His hair was in better kept curls than how he had woken up that morning, and it fell perfectly to frame his face. You could only imagine how you looked in contrast to him: your disheveled hair, the bruises already forming on your skin, the blood splattered across your whole body, and your dirty clothes. Despite yourself, you felt the urge to reach out to him; to caress his chin and jaw; to trace the lines of his mouth and lips, wanting to drag him closer.
“It’s considered rude to stare.”
“A lot of things are considered rude, but that doesn’t stop you from doing them,” you said, but averted your eyes.
Sherlock blew out a breath in answer, choosing not to reply to your bait. His eyes flitted up to your face, before his hands stilled, removing them from you. You glanced at the wound, seeing rows of perfect stitching sitting securely in your skin. He took hold of a bandage and rolled it over your whole abdomen, securing the wound against further strain and harm. You nodded to him as thanks, hoisting yourself further on the cushions. A surge of pain shot from the wound and you winced, feeling the dried blood against your face.
“Are you in danger?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Not anymore.”
Sherlock’s unyielding gaze stayed on yours, trying to coax an explanation out of you. When your eyes strayed across the flat and avoided his glare, he finally cleared his throat.
“Will you tell me what’s going on?” He didn’t quite manage to keep the sharpness out of his voice.
You turned your face to his, letting your gaze meet his. Sherlock’s eyes were hard in their stare, and his mouth set in a straight line. Sherlock’s leg kept jumping up and down, and his hands twisting with anxiety. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought he was nervous. Why?
You shook off the thought, taking a deep breath.
“You’re the first one I thought of, Sherlock.”
A frown formed on his face. “What?”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. Did you really have to spell it out for him? He was a detective, for God’s sake.
“I got injured, and I immediately thought of you.”
You could see the moment he understood. The way his eyes widened, frown fading into raised eyebrows, mouth gaping, and leg stopped jumping. Despite your better judgement, you considered him safe, someone you could trust. And you hated your body for relaxing in his presence, your heart for beating so fast.
This was the moment you had been dreading. He would cast you out, shouting and swear words following your steps. He would never want to see you again, never to be near you again, even if it were only to taunt you. All you had built the previous night would come crashing down in a vicious mess as you desperately tried to crawl your way out of it.
When you realised he still hadn’t uttered a word you dared meet his eye. They were deep pools of emotion, swirling with their usual secrets. There was something else there, too. A softness that had never been there before. It was possible you had just never noticed it before, though.
He closed his eyes as a hand dragged across his face. When he met your gaze he released a breath and said, “Fuck it.”
Before you could gather your bearings, Sherlock’s lips met yours.
In less than twenty-four hours, Sherlock had kissed you twice. In less than twenty-four hours, he had caused you to question everything you knew about yourself and the man across from you. Sherlock brought forth feelings you didn’t know you had, and was an expert in making you show them.
The sudden kiss made a moan escape your lips, muffled by his soft lips. They felt the same as you had remembered them yesterday, but this time you could feel the emotions behind the kiss. It was like Sherlock wanted to convey all he wanted to tell you with a press of his lips. You wouldn’t let him. You demanded more.
You pulled away from him, falling back onto the sofa. His brows furrowed and eyes widened. He began to throw out a desperate explanation, his words a tangled mess. His voice died to nothing when your hand landed against his cheek, bringing his attention to your touch.
“Sherlock.”
His eyes met yours at the sound of his name, almost afraid to do so. “Yes?”
“Are you going to throw me out again?”
Sherlock winced as if the words had physically struck him. The morning was all too fresh in his mind, as hard as he had tried to forget it. All day, he had bargained with himself, trying to justify what he was feeling. However much Sherlock tried to convince himself, it was pointless. He admired all of you. He fancied you.
“I won’t throw you out again.”
“You didn’t show any signs of throwing me out last night, either. And yet…” you trailed off, letting him finish the sentence himself.
He swallowed hard, lowering his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“What was that?”
He settled you with a hard glare. You could barely take him seriously, though. His chest was rising and falling rapidly with his breaths, and pupils were blown wide. He wasn’t drunk this time, but it might be the next best thing. Drunk off of me, you mused.
Sherlock opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead he turned to the side, pressing his lips against your palm. You could feel his breath tickle the skin, the sensation sending shivers down your arm, allowing heat to rise to your ears. Such a simple gesture and it still managed to make you flustered.
“I was afraid,” he said.
A laugh almost escaped your lips. “The great Sherlock Holmes, afraid of me?”
His eyes were steady, humour gone from his voice when he spoke, “Yes. Afraid to confront my feelings for you. Feelings,” he rushed out to say, “that I very much have.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
You tugged his face forward, crashing your lips together. His tongue danced against your own, fighting for control. Not again, you thought. Carefully, you bit down on his lip, drawing a groan from his chest. He leant closer, encasing you between his arms as he lowered himself.
Sherlock’s hand pressed against your chest, making you sink further into the cushions. He pulled away, ever so slightly, to allow room for breathing. His lips brushed yours, barely touching, and you felt his breath fan across them, prickling your skin. Heat pooled in the pit of your stomach as his hand ventured lower, tugging at the ends of your shirt.
The fingers that had earlier stitched your skin together now danced across it, tentative, and made shivers spread through your spine. With a frustrated sigh, you took ahold of his waist, digging your nails into the skin there. He moaned into your mouth, eyes fluttering closed.
“Wait,” he whispered.
You hesitated, scanning his face for any signs of regret. Instead, his fingers brushed against your bandaged side, his eyes flitting between it and your face.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
You huffed out a laugh. So that was what all the fuss was about.
“I think that ship has already sailed.”
Sherlock’s gaze stayed on yours, still serious. But you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes kept jumping to your lips, his pupils blown wide, and breath ragged. He looked almost as intoxicated as you felt.
You settled his worries by pushing his hand further down, closer to your abdomen. You could feel the strain of your pants, pressing against a too sensitive area, waiting to be released. Sherlock’s breath hitched as he felt the bulge, before pressing firmer against it. You had to fight a moan.
“I have suffered worse,” you rasped, “Like your attitude.”
Sherlock only huffed a breath before crashing your lips together. It was frustration, a clashing of teeth, and a pulling on lips that made you submit to him with a moan. There was that fiery passion that made you weak in the knees. It was alarming how eager you were for him to take control over you.
“Let’s take this to the bedroom, hm?”
His low murmur reverberated through your joined limbs. You nodded with a jerk of your head. He pulled you to your feet by your hand, pressing you closer by your waist. The journey to Sherlock’s bedroom was a short one, but a difficult one as neither of you could keep your hands to yourself for very long. His tongue pressed against yours, as his hands travelled over your skin.
Sherlock removed your shirt, throwing it on the floor. You huffed, sending him the best glare you could muster at a moment like this.
“What?”
“It’ll get dirty.”
“I don’t have such a dirty floor.”
You meaningfully eyed the shirt laying against the mess of other countless items of clothing. To be truthful, you couldn’t care less about a dirty shirt when Sherlock was looking at you with those eyes. It only managed to rile him up, bring that flare you adored so much. Nonetheless, Sherlock rolled his eyes and brought you closer by your neck, pressing his lips to your jaw. Then to your throat. Then across your collarbone.
Gods knew he felt glorious against you, almost making you delirious with every touch of his lips. You couldn’t admit it to Sherlock, though. His ego would never recover.
He came back up to your face for air, breath fanning over your lips. Carefully, he pushed you against the bed so you laid against it, gazing up at him. His hair was dishevelled, eyes heavy lidded with dark pupils blown wide. He stretched to take off his own shirt and undid his belt, throwing it across the bed. He crawled against you, skin meeting skin. Sherlock’s warm breath prickled yours as he brought his face closers to yours. He looked divine, and felt it, too. His arms held himself up so he hovered over you, his muscles clearly defined in the streetlight coming from the window.
“My Gods,” he rasped.
You let out a chuckle against his lips. “I’m not faithful, but I was thinking the exact same thing.”
Again, Sherlock’s lips closed over yours. You couldn’t notice anything further than the feel of his mouth, his warm skin flush against yours, and the locks of his hair prickling your face. You could only imagine how he looked right now, so you did the next best thing and travelled your hands to his head. Sherlock’s hair was soft against your fingers, grabbing hold of it and eliciting a deep moan from his chest.
You grinned, yanking his head back. Sherlock gasped against your lips, before smiling down at you. Of course the bastard would be into harsher play. And you would be lying if you said you weren't also into it.
He kissed you again, letting his hand trail the side of your stomach, inching closer to the band of your trousers. You felt yourself getting impatient by the featherlight touches, yearning for him to touch you properly. Sherlock knew it, too, by the way his hand hovered over the visible pressure in your trousers. Instead of indulging you, he dropped his hand to let his fingers graze up and down the inside of your leg. It only added to your discomfort and you bucked impatiently.
Immediately, a sharp pain shot through your body, making you wince. The wound was too recent for you to move much. Sherlock noticed, stilling instantly. His eyes jumped between your face and your bandages.
“Are you sure you’re okay for this?” he asked.
You rolled your eyes, drawing his lips to yours again. And again, you tried to move your hips for any sort of friction. Sherlock pulled away, sending you a stern glare.
“You have to keep still or you’ll wound yourself even worse.”
“Then stop being a tease and touch me.”
Sherlock considered you before smirking. “I’m not sure I can refrain from that.”
Without any hesitation, he took hold of your wrists and pinned your hands above you. Your eyes widened, feeling the tight grip of his fingers that wouldn’t allow you to move your arms. He glanced around, before reaching over you and tying something over your wrists. You tilted your head, seeing his belt holding your hands together to the bed frame. Tentatively, you pulled on it, feeling the leather dig into your skin. Sherlock’s hands grazed yours as he met your shocked gaze.
“You’re serious?” you asked.
He cocked his head, giving you a meaningful glare.
“It wont’t keep me from moving my hips, y’know?”
Sherlock smiled. “No, but it might teach you to stay still.”
His hands kept travelling south, making their way to your jaw and lifting it closer to him. You were rendered defenceless, your only option to meet the touch of his lips. You felt the flutter of your stomach, fully realising the control he now had over you. It was incredible.
As if he could read your thoughts, Sherlock’s lips curled into a mischievous smile, and you could feel the warmth of his fingers close over the skin of your throat. There wasn’t any pressure, but just the feel of it brought shivers up your spine and the strain of your trousers became impossibly tighter. You gave Sherlock a meaningful stare, cocking your head.
Sherlock shook his head, chuckling. “Let’s take these off, huh?”
Finally he allowed his hands to fall to your trousers, unbuckling them and dragging them down your legs. You lifted your hips for him, allowing him to take off your underwear, as well. The relief was immediate and you gasped at the colder air around your skin. You were now completely naked, wholly at Sherlock’s mercy, and the thought seemed to thrill him by the way his mouth hung open. His eyes jumped all over you, speechless, not seeming to be able to get enough of the sight. You smiled with smug pleasure.
Quickly, Sherlock removed his own trousers, hurrying to get closer to you again. He was more careful with his touches, allowing the feel of his skin warm yours and send your mind spiralling. Not in a million years could you have predicted to find yourself where you were right now — who you were with, and who was currently grinding his hips against your unclothed ones. The feeling made you see stars, so desperate for release.
Sherlock’s lips met yours, drawing your focus to how you couldn’t bring your hands to draw them through his hair. The thought frustrated you and you groaned into the kiss. Sherlock’s hand lowered, closing over your dick. You let out a gasp, tugging at the restraints. Sherlock’s lips danced against yours as his hand tugged, spreading the precum over your dick.
It was all you could do to not cry out in relief. Finally feeling some friction made you moan, pressing against Sherlock’s lips even harder in appreciation. He smiled into the kiss, allowing his thumb to press against your tip. You could feel the pressure in your stomach building, making you impatient and wanting.
Just then, Sherlock drew away his hand, leaving you wanting for more. You bit his lip in retaliation, letting him feel every part of your frustration. He sighed, lowering his hand to your bottom, the pad of his finger probing at your ass. He entered one finger, carefully feeling you out. He watched your face for any reaction and you closed your eyes, sighing.
Sherlock entered one, and then two, more fingers into. It felt amazing when he started stretching you out, carefully curling his fingers. His lips met yours, swallowing any sounds and moans you let out. It allowed you to just bask in the feeling of him. Every shift of his muscles, breath of his chest, and moving of his hips made you want to embrace the man. But you couldn’t, due to the cursed restraints. Still, that didn’t keep you from trying and from moving your knee to graze his growing arousal.
Sherlock moaned with you, pressing against somewhere sensitive inside you. Again, you could feel your orgasm coming, dick twitching, clenching around his fingers and biting Sherlock’s bottom lip. Your hips lifted against them, shooting pain through your body again. You cringed, but pairing it with the pleasure Sherlock’s fingers were doing made you moan. Soft words of praising or pleading left your tongue, the meaning of them so slurred to the point not even you could make out. You wanted him impossibly closer.
You groaned when Sherlock, once again, drew away. You were getting real tired of his behaviour. The man finally got you into bed, and you were starting to think he wanted to get you out if it. Sherlock was playing a dangerous game with you, and you swore to get him back on it.
“Please,” you whispered.
You didn’t care about your pride at this point, just that you would get what you wanted. The only thing you could think about was the absence of his touch. Sherlock seemed to realise what he was doing, a cheeky smirk forming on his lips.
“Please what?” came his coy reply.
“Please fuck me or I swear I’m going to punch you in your smug face.”
His eyebrows raised. “You can’t punch me.”
You glanced up at your restraints and then down at where his hands rested beside your legs. A smile tugged at your lips. “I could kick you.”
Sherlock breath fanned over your face, his lips grazing yours before pulling into a lazy smile. “Then I better give you what I want.”
He sat up to pull of his underwear, drawing your eyes to every detail of him. He was breathing heavily, his muscles pulled taut and hair in a dishevelled mess. Sherlock sank back close to you, embracing you closely. The warmth of his skin spread to yours, creating a sheen layer of sweat between you. You were way too aware of every part of you touching, every sensation turned tenfold.
Carefully, Sherlock hovered over you, his elbows holding himself up as he guided his hips to yours. You could feel the long awaited moment of his cock probing at your entrance, careful as he watched your face. You nodded, smiling.
Sherlock sighed as he sunk into you, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck. You moaned at the feel of stretching you out, trying to move him closer. Your hands were still restrained, but you could roll your hips into some resemblance of friction. Sherlock kissed your jaw, trailing his lips across your neck. It was messy but so full of passion you couldn’t seem to care.
“Please,” you muttered again.
Sherlock’s head lifted from your neck, tilting to look you in the eye. “You’re already getting what you want, what is it now?”
You tugged at the restrains, yearning to be able to run your hands over his back. “Just let me touch you.”
“You gonna stay still?”
“Can’t promise anything,” you smiled.
He glanced up at your wrists, before leaning over to set them free. The second you could move, your hands shot to take hold of his jaw, drawing his face to meet yours. The warmth of his skin was finally under your touch. You couldn’t help but to pull him closer, settling him even deeper inside you, and drawing a moan out of his chest. The sound made you crazy, bringing your arms around his shoulders, the defined muscles feeling glorious beneath your fingers.
As Sherlock continuously pulled in and out of you, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside you, your nails raked over his warm skin. You were sure deep marks were left behind, but you weren’t sure if Sherlock was just ignoring the pain, or enjoying it. By the way his face turned to mark your neck with moans leaving his tongue in mutterings, you suspected the latter was true.
You would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it either, the mixing of pain and pleasure. Your wound was still sore, and every grind of Sherlock’s hips reminded you of some sort of phantom of that pain. It left your mouth agape, left to just keep still underneath Sherlock, every touch of his lips sending goosebumps over your skin, and every sting of your wound adding to the surreal feeling.
For a third time this night, you felt yourself getting close, clinging to every movement of his hips, feeling the shift of his muscles as he held himself up. You muttered so, kissing the shell of his ear. Sherlock sped up, hitting your prostate even harder and faster, chasing his own release to match yours. The pain and pleasure became too much for you and your dick twitched in anticipation.
He dipped down to connect your lips, before drawing a deep moan from your chest as you climaxed, clenching his dick in the process. Sherlock almost fell against you in the relief of the feeling but caught himself as to not burden your wound, and stayed still as his own orgasm powered through.
Only when both your heartbeats had slowed and your breathing returned to normal did Sherlock meet your eye, kissing you slowly as he pulled out, the sensation feeling like too much for your oversensitive body. Every little movement was too much, and now that the pleasure had begun to subside the pain in your stomach was more prominent than ever.
Sherlock’s fingers trailed along your body, carefully bringing your mind back to him, to your body, and all the places you were touching. It was grounding your mind, allowing you to fully relax. He touched your bandages with a tender hand, trying to feel for any faults.
“You’re still good.”
“No thanks to you,” came your witty answer.
Sherlock sent you a deadened glare, trying not to quick back a no-doubt clever reply. Instead, he moved away, making you shiver in the cold air, and returned with a fresh rag to wipe down the sweat and fluids between the both of you. You accepted it gratefully, sitting up against the bedpost when finished. Sherlock’s hands surrounded your shoulders to steady you, still a careful air around him.
You brought his lips to yours in a sudden kiss, allowing him to relax. “I’m good, Sherlock. Don’t worry.”
He forced himself to take a deep breath and to sit down beside you, pulling the covers over your shoulders. You watched him with an amused glint.
“What?” he asked.
You shrugged your shoulders before smiling. “Nothing. Just not used to seeing you this nervous.”
“I’m always nervous around you.”
Sherlock met your eye with the most sincere expression you’ve seen on him. An eyebrow raised in his direction.
“You sure have a peculiar way of showing it. Throwing me out and tying me up—”
Sherlock huffed and scooted down to lay down against the bed, avoiding your amused gaze. “Will you ever let that go?”
You bent down to lay against him, your head by his shoulder, your breath fanning against his ear. “I don’t think so.”
Sherlock turned his head so that his lips grazed yours. “Careful, or I’ll have to tie you up again.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” you whispered, pressing your mouth to his in a deep kiss. “Maybe next time you’ll be the one tied up.”
Fuck, Sherlock thought. There was no way in bloody hell he could ever go back to being just colleagues again, not after having known you so close to him. It was done. He was falling for you, and you both knew it.
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just-a-strange-boy · 10 months
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experimenting for friends
part 2 - hair-pulling
part 1
Sherlock Holmes is a man prone to addiction. In means of trying to finally set an end to his substance abuse by finding something equally stimulating, he is eager to do his share of research - and of course, it's your help he's requesting. Another experiment entails.
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader (GN)
Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), mentions of drug abuse/addiction, mentions of relapse, penetrative sex, mentions inexperienced/virgin Sherlock, questionable sexual favours, fwb (?)
A/N: this is definitely not how you (should) treat substance abuse, but hey... it's Sherlock
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"I have a request."
You were just sorting through some paperwork, a whole clutter of important documents you figured he should keep, neatly organizing them in binders and folders, something Sherlock thought was too mundane and boring to do, when the detective came to approach you, downright startling you with one of his spontaneous verbal outbursts.
"Fire away", you had said, looking up from the piles of paper to find him standing in the doorway, hoping that he wasn't just going to ask for another walk so he could have yet another cigarette. You'd managed to get him down to three a day, which was a huge success, considering he had only relapsed recently, heavily abusing substances far worse than nicotine. It had been your agreement from the get go – you'd turn a blind eye to Sherlock smoking a limited amount of cigarettes as long as he stopped using otherwise.
However, it wasn't a cigarette he was asking for.
"Obviously my desire for substances mostly stems from how they affect the release of chemicals within my brain, chemicals that stimulate and influence the way I process my thoughts. They minimize the often overwhelming sensations I experience and are inhibiting my natural urge to deduce everything. They manage to calm my mind, a rather positive effect, which is why I have always relied on getting high if I needed a moment of peace. Can you follow me?"
Sherlock was speaking as rapidly as you were used to, not even allowing you the slightest opportunity of uttering a single word, "Of course you can follow me. You're not an idiot. I know you've done your research and I explained it to you plenty. My point is that I have been researching with the intention of finding something that will have a similar positive effect, in order to...not having to use."
"Let me guess", you replied with a sigh, processing what he was telling you, figuring quickly why he came forward with a request, "You're suggesting another experiment that I will have to be part of? To research and find out whether any theory you have might be correct?"
The detective nodded, striding over until he was standing next to the table, gaze drifting over what you were currently sorting, before giving it a dismissive look and focusing back on you.
"Yes. Exactly. I knew you would get it. I have... reconsidered that time when we... um...uh", he began almost awkwardly, all the sudden stuttering in a way very unlike him, "...when you touched me and when we were close... I felt good. In a way that might be comparable to a high. But I need to figure out what kind of effects it has on me from an analytical point of view to make sure I am right about my assumption."
So very clearly, Sherlock was suggesting you gave him another sexual favour – like once before in an experimental setting, needing to gather 'information' before he could confirm his assumption.
You had no doubt that a sexual high could be comparable to a drug high in some way – you wouldn't know though – and you would have liked to help him, but also considered it risky.
As much as you would have wanted him to find something, anything, to stop him from using ever again, you didn't know whether that would be the right way.
Leading Sherlock to another kind of addiction was risky, considering he was definitely prone to developing them, may it be his evident addiction to the thrill of his work, trying to keep up with and challenge the dangerous minds of criminals, or the substance abuse itself.
Besides that, you didn't want to put your friendship at risk and you were also not going to be some object for Sherlock to figure out whether sex could make him feel similar as a high on drugs.
The man sensed your initial reluctance, continuing his lengthy explanations, so typically like him, so casually like only Sherlock could as he seemed to have found his grip again.
"But at the same time I know it wouldn't be fair of me to continue requesting those things for my own gain. You are your own person and I would never try to guilt-trip you into something that could possibly set an end to my habitual substance abuse. I am very aware that I am the one owing you a favour for your help in the first place. I do not want to further strain our friendship with my demands, but I need you to know that... if I can share and research this with anyone, I would want it to be you."
You sighed. It was ridiculous. Ridiculous that you were even considering this in the first place.
Could you have refused Sherlock? Possibly. That's what you should have done anyway.
Did you want to refuse him? Certainly not.
Last time you had decided to work on an experiment with him, you had gotten to see a very different side of Sherlock, soft and submissive and gorgeous. You had kissed him, touched him, not to mention you had absolutely jerked him off too. You had praised and cherished him. Sherlock had sounded wonderful, looked beautiful, so raw and open and honest – you had definitely not forgotten the sight. And yes, you might have masturbated to the memory itself too.
The instance had been hard to forget.
But ever since then nothing else had happened between you two. For good reasons.
Sure, you had sought out his presence like you usually did. You were friends, comfortable around each other, spend time with one another, though Sherlock wasn't necessarily an affectionate person. He didn't hug, didn't cuddle. He certainly wasn't interested in being anything but friends.
So you had figured that first time was just going to be a one time thing, just an experiment for research, and tried your hardest to get over the fact that Sherlock didn't harvest feelings for you other than appreciation for the friendship you offered. Romantic and sexual attraction were a rarity for him, so you knew, and you had never pretended you might be the exception.
Nevertheless you couldn't help your own feelings. You liked Sherlock a lot.
It pained you to see the detective on edge and all sombre, to see him lost in drug addiction and throwing himself into dangerous case work, just to escape from his own mind for a moment. You hated to see him hurt and so bloody lonely.
Of course it also made your heart ache to know you were nothing more than a friend to Sherlock, so you should have been wiser, refusing to partake in the experiment, because you indeed weren't some test subject and this was a recipe for disaster, something that would likely hurt you and potentially harm him in the end – which you did not want.
But the idea of being close to him again, of being able to potentially help Sherlock get his mind off the drugs, to ensure he would be feeling good and okay, even if just for a little while. You couldn't quite escape your own track of thoughts, your own wants, your own conviction that you might the person meant to save Sherlock Holmes from himself.
"Do you want me to... uhh... you know?", you asked, followed by a very specific hand gesture, unable to ignore the certain awkwardness, you sitting there, Sherlock standing there, a mess of case and paper work all around, as you kept looking at each other.
There was no distinct expression on the detective's face save for slight expectation and a bit of redness on his cheeks, blushing as you suggested giving him another handjob.
"I have not determined any specifics", Sherlock admitted to you, though not in refusing, "Meaning... I don't know what I would want, what would work. The things you offered me last time have had a positive effect on me. I know that I want to be close to you. I don't know what would suffice."
You contemplated, gnawing on your lips like you always did when you were a bit nervous, breaking his gaze for a moment as your glance fleeted over the table, even though your head was undeniably full of Sherlock.
You were both only human. While the detective craved something to ease his mind, you craved the physical intimacy and emotional connection to him. Neither of you should have taken use of the other, but since you were both consenting adults, you allowed yourself to be weak and stupid.
"We'll try to figure it out then", you agreed, "Let me finish this first?"
"Of course", Sherlock nodded, "Don't be too long, Mrs Hudson has invited us downstairs for dinner and I was suggesting we watch an episode of that ridiculous show you like afterwards. Before we... um... do anything?"
Evident surprise must have crossed your face and for a moment you had a hard time searching for the right words, not knowing what to think. It was kind of him to suggest, almost domestic.
Of course, having dinner at Mrs Hudson's wouldn't be like dinner at an actual restaurant, but Sherlock didn't want to go anywhere public in his current state of body and mind, so soon after his relapse. His landlady made impeccable food and she was even went out of her way to make it for the two of you, so you were amenable.
"Yes to dinner. We don't have to necessarily watch the show though", was all you replied, "You'd never be able to shut your mouth during the episode anyway, making comments about it the entire time. That's why we never watch TV together, Sherlock.”
"I comment on everything and you usually don't seem to mind", Sherlock stated and the slightest sign of a smile snook onto his lips.
And you smiled right back at him, not needing to have the last word and returning to your paperwork, while Sherlock continued his usual pacing and casework.
Needless to say, any attempt of continuing this work was useless anyway, since you were entirely incapable of focusing on the stack of files before you, unable to shrug off your nervousness as your thoughts went spiralling about what you had just agreed on.
You eventually came to the conclusion, while you were brooding over payment checks from clients, this might actually make for a nice time together.
Having dinner with Mrs Hudson was nothing unusual for you two and always made for an enjoyable time. Sharing a bed wouldn't be weird, as you had done so before, if only for a couple of danger nights, with a distance appropriate for friends between you.
What was appropriate for friends by definition anyway? Hadn't that line already been crossed by the one sexual favour you had given him? If you followed through with this today, closing that distance between you once again and going even further than last time, every possible line you could think of was going to be blurred forever.
It was very hard to not think about the possibilities, not the consequences, but how far Sherlock would be willing to go with you, what he would allow and ask for.
You wondered whether Sherlock would want to kiss you again, whether he would want to give as much as receive, whether you would actually have sex and how it was going to be, whether he would ask you to stay afterwards and share the bed with you.
Even thinking about what your evening would entail made you a little nervous.
Thus you were more than grateful for having dinner beforehand, considering it was so much easier to keep your doubts at bay and just stop thinking so damn much as Mrs Hudson was bustling around the two of you. She was as chatty as always, kept you entertained with stories from her past and her good food was a welcome distraction. Once again, she expressed her gratitude over you getting Sherlock back on his feet and voiced how glad she was that her tenant was doing much better with your assistance, going on about how happy she was he had found an actual friend, even though she still heavily insinuated your romantic involvement with each other.
You neither denied nor confirmed the idea in the moment, finding it rather amusing how flustered Sherlock got at the mention, though not bothering to say a word about it either, and after helping Mrs Hudson with the dishes, the two of you eventually headed upstairs together again.
It was fair that she had her suspicions. Probably many people had.
After that last experiment and tonight, rightfully so.
You ended up taking turns in the bathroom.
Admittedly, you were more anxious than expected while in the shower, scrubbing yourself clean everywhere, not knowing what to expect, what you were going to do, if Sherlock would even want to touch your body or if he just required you to touch him – and you were just as nervous while Sherlock was in the shower, sitting on the bed, fidgeting with your glasses, scrolling mindlessly through your phone as you kept thinking about what you wanted the man to do to you and more so how you were planning on bringing him pleasure.
If he'd let you.
You had dressed down to what you usually wore to bed, a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, being so bold as to forgo underwear altogether, curious how Sherlock would react to such a clear proposal, if he took note of it at all. Glasses still perched atop your nose, you turned your head when you heard the door to the bathroom open again, eyes following Sherlock as he came back out to join you on the bed, shrugging off his housecoat to reveal his choice of pyjamas, not so different from what you had decided on wearing.
"So, what did you have on your mind?", you dared to ask again, courageously, placing your phone on the bedside table, before turning further to Sherlock, who was now just sitting there, right next to you, neither seeming expectant nor nervous by any means, "I know you said specifics weren't clear, but I'm sure you have a fair amount of imagination."
"That is correct", the detective agreed, "I came to the conclusion that perhaps it would be wise to... begin like we did last time."
You shot him a smile. "So, you'd like to kiss me?", you asked, arching your eyebrows at him, hoping that Sherlock would take the bait and just go for it. There was nothing he could've done wrong. The thought of getting to kiss him again made you awfully excited.
"I'd like you to kiss me, yes." Though seeming slightly reluctant and reserved, his words were clear. He wanted you to kiss him.
And you definitely were going to kiss him, but most importantly you wanted to give it time. There was no need to rush and hopefully, neither of you were going anywhere any time soon.
So you reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand. Instead of climbing him like a tree and slipping onto his lap right away, kissing him like your life depended on it, you were deciding for the two of you to take this slow, beginning with something as simple and innocent as touch.
Perhaps this would allow Sherlock to gather information better, how he responded to affection, how he responded to you initiating, how the simplest things would influence him or perhaps how they wouldn't. Whether it would leave him hungry for more, driving him mad with anticipation, or whether it wouldn't do anything for him at all.
This was an experiment after all. Might as well just do some experimenting.
You slotted your fingers together, marvelling how your hand fit into his so smoothly, so perfectly, and pulled them apart again, letting your fingertips dance over the expanse of his hand, tracing those long, skilled fingers with simple fascination. Fingers you had watched so often, whether it was them dancing over the fret of his violin, preparing samples for his microscope, picking up evidence at a crime scene. Wonderful and careful hands.
Eventually linking them into one another again, you gave his hand a gentle squeeze and looked at him, finding him glancing back at you. Of course you tried to read Sherlock's expression right away. There was some curiosity, he seemed attentive and receptive, the grip of his hand tightening instinctively, a response. He was just looking at you, observing, perhaps contemplating.
Your own heart was beating a little faster, sensations heightened by the sheer intimacy of the moment, time seemingly standing still all around you, so you couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment when you decided to move further. Perhaps it was the synapses in your brain finally snapping, perhaps it was just the need to break the tension that had come up between the two of you, perhaps it was a mutual silent agreement to do this all of the sudden.
Whatever it was, you leant into Sherlock, who met you halfway, pressing your lips together, responding to one another immediately.
As your mouths slotted together, a rather gentle brush of lips at first, you could feel how the grip on your hand was instinctively tightening, holding onto you more, in fear you might be slipping away any second again. But you certainly did not, would not, wrapped up in Sherlock's taste and warmth and his smell, licking along the seam of his lips, sliding your tongues together as he let you claim his mouth, as you let him explore.
You didn't know what had gotten you so hungry all of the sudden, but you knew you needed more of Sherlock. Speaking of addiction. So you decided to get more of him, who seemed compliant to your every move, absorbing every little bit, every touch, you allowed him.
Even those moments apart, when both of you had to catch your breaths, small gasps of air between you, he was quiet and observant. He let you shift around, slipping onto his lap again, greeting you with another sweet kiss after having you perched on his thighs.
Reaching up, you gently cupped Sherlock's face in your hands, tracing his jawline, those high cheekbones, before sliding them all the way up into his dark curls, tugging on his hair.
The reaction was imminent, the kiss broken immediately, a groan slipping from Sherlock's mouth, leaving the two of you a bit startled at the sudden response.
"I need you to do the exact thing again", the detective requested then, his tone demanding and firm, before smacking your mouths together again, a kiss hot and downright desperate for more, and you gladly obliged, fingers tangled in his locks, giving them another pull, which caused a reaction not so different from the first time.
Apparently praising wasn't the only thing that got Sherlock going.
So you continued your eager advances, seeing how far you could take this, brushing through his curls before gently tugging on them again, letting Sherlock's moan break the kiss, tilting his head back by his hair and baring his throat.
"How are you doing this?", the man groaned, almost hissed when you began mouthing at his neck, "I don't understand how you can have this effect on me."
But there was no explanation you could have possibly given him. Perhaps you just clicked with Sherlock and that was why.
You only knew how addicted you already were, how you couldn't get enough of the man's taste, the warmth of his body, the sweet noises from his throat and the thought that perhaps he really wanted you too.
Making sure to not bruise the skin, you kept nipping at the expanse of his throat, pulling on his hair times and times again, dragging more moans out of him. Your name passed his lips after a while, the softest sound, then a "Can we stop for a moment?"
Raising you head again to look at Sherlock – a delectable sight, slight blush on his cheek, lips swollen red from kissing, pupils dilated with need, a dreamy expression on his face – and waited for however long was necessary.
"Are you okay, Sherl?", you asked immediately, hoping you hadn't made him uncomfortable.
Apparently he just wanted to elaborate though.
"I am more than okay. I just need to tell you something", Sherlock replied, holding onto you by your hips, a steady grip, "As you have... um... figured, I respond quite heavily to your advances. I am puzzled by the effect you have on me, because I was always very convinced that I simply was not interested in things of a more physical nature. But you keep kissing and touching me and I'm not entirely sure what it means that my body reacts like this."
Quite passively, you continued to stroke the back of his head, listening to him as attentively as you could, trying to ignore your own arousal. You were going to work through this with Sherlock, not questioning his worries or uncertainty for a single moment, allowing him to take the time he needed in order to understand himself and what he wanted and most of all, why he did.
Of course, you had wondered before and you were still asking yourself the same question now. Had Sherlock even had sex with anyone ever? Everything about his words and his behaviour was indicating he hadn't. But he didn't seem to be all too nervous, instead content and collected.
Maybe you were even more nervous than him.
"You're turned on, if I had to guess. Which I find really flattering. And it's more than okay that you're feeling like this. I want you to enjoy this experience, so please don't let the unknown hold you back", you advised with a soft smile, "I like you, Sherlock. I enjoy being around you and doing this with you... it turns me on too."
"You know I don't experience and approach things like most would do. Sex has never been the focus of my interest, so I... I have never done this. I have done research, but I'm not going to know exactly what to do", Sherlock admitted, eyes flicking over your face, the look of consideration, as if he were searching for the right words, "You're... absolutely endearing. It's nice to have you around and I trust you. And I want to do this with you."
"So do I", you responded, unable to stop the smile slipping to your lips, thinking it was lovely how Sherlock entrusted you with his mind and body, how he wanted to share this moment with you and no one else. "We can sure figure out what you like best", you added, "Would you want me to take the lead?"
The man seemed to consider your question, although you were partially convinced that he was more so enjoying the quiet of the moment, your fingers brushing over his scalp, basking in the closeness, though simple affection usually was something Sherlock didn't like. Not with anyone other than you apparently.
"Would you want to participate in penetration? If so, I suppose I have no clear knowledge of which position would serve best, but I am interested in learning. Since you are the one with more experience, I find it only logical you are the leading part", he spoke up eventually.
"Fine with me", you hummed, "I have no preference either, but I find it quite comfortable on your lap, so perhaps we can work around that?"
Admittedly, your wet dreams always tended to drift in a direction similar to this. There was something submissive about Sherlock, something that made you want to take him apart, lay him out on the bed, mount him and fuck him silly until he was a desperate mess begging to come, and you were sure it would have been a beautiful sight to have him this way.
Since you were already sitting on his lap, your crotches pressed together, hands tangled in his hair, seconds away from bringing your lips to his throat again, you wouldn't mind it sweet and gentle either, letting him explore all you had, letting him consume all you offered, letting him take his time to harvest the information he needed.
Maybe one day he would like to take the reins, but you couldn't really imagine him as the dominant part just yet.
You knew exactly how you would take the lead, how you would ride Sherlock all the way to ecstasy, until the brilliant and smart detective would fail to find the proper words and fall apart under you. Oh, how you wanted to hold him close, wanted your bodies entangled and conjoined, wanted to be able to sense and enjoy all of him.
It was a silent and natural agreement between you, so you figured as Sherlock's skilled hands sought out the hem of your shirt.
"I'm afraid you have to stop touching me for a moment", he mused and went on to gently pry the thin shirt off your body as you complied. After all you had been together for all kinds of weird occasions and sharing rooms, you had been close to him before but never quite so exposed, not in a way like this. Never undressed for him to see or touch.
In comparison, you had seen Sherlock bare plenty of times before, naked and vulnerable, so stripping him out of his shirt in return was by no means unfamiliar. There was something about this level of intimacy though, the sensuality of his touch on your skin that already made you shudder with need, winding you up with anticipation.
It was Sherlock then, who so carefully let his lips ghost over the expanse of your neck, exploring bit by bit, spreading gentle kisses, teeth grazing the skin and you supposed he was not entirely distracted from making deductions just yet – how else would he have possibly figured how to strike a nerve within you?
Your hands wound up in the dark curls again, playing with strands of hair, tugging on them, using them to pull Sherlock's head backwards as the advances on your sensitive skin were too much to handle. You too were soon moaning, panting hard, a pretty rosy colour to your cheeks.
"I find it very enjoyable when you pull on my hair", Sherlock admitted to you and while he had previously held his hands very still, he couldn't continue to resist and began touching you more, exploring your body with diligence. He had never touched you or potentially any other person like this, so excessively. If you thought about it, no one ever really had been so thorough as him, trying to map out every inch, every crease, every little mark. It was as if he was memorizing you, cataloguing. Careful with you. Mesmerized by you.
You didn't mind his advances, had never been on the self-conscious side but under the impression you weren't really sporting an exceptionally beauty. If anything you were ordinary, and still... this man looked at you, touched you with utmost adoration, curiosity, interest. Like he couldn't simply get enough from you. Like he didn't want to ever stop again.
"I find most of you very enjoyable", he added.
"Likewise", you smiled at him, hands busy stroking his nape, his upper back, pale shoulders, skin flush with heat under your touch, "I suppose you figured out what's getting me going."
"I think it's fascinating", Sherlock mused, "Because I could feel your pulse quickening and your body tensing up when I began kissing your neck. I imagine these are the exact responses you could notice on me when you tug on my hair. It's fascinating how our bodies respond so impulsively to a variety of triggers in such different ways and..."
Not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting to let Sherlock ramble about the creation of personal preferences, you quickly shut him up with another kiss, sealing your lips together promptly, giving a sharp tug to his curls. It certainly earned you a moan of surprise and Sherlock seemed not entirely displeased about your decision, hands returning to your waist to keep you steady, maybe wanting to prevent you from slipping away, afraid of losing what he was just learning to enjoy, kissing hungrily and with the kind of fervour one didn't really expect him to have, every bit of what he had wanted to say forgotten.
Your mind ran quite blank too. You knew that you wanted and desired Sherlock, pressing further up to him, could feel heat pooling in your groin and knew that you were already aching for him within the restraints of your sweatpants, becoming painfully very aware of how you had decided to forego underwear altogether, meaning it was just a bit of fabric between you.
Starting to rock your hips atop Sherlock's lap, because you couldn't hold yourself back anymore, you figured you weren't the only one getting aroused, feeling his hardness trapped beneath the remaining clothing, soft groans leaving both your mouths as you ground down on his bulge, creating a friction that left neither of you unaffected.
"I need you, Sherl", you moaned against his lips, throwing the decision to take this slow out the window, too far gone at this point, wanting nothing more than to feel the man inside of you and ride him to the breaking point. You were so horny you almost whined as you moved atop of him and your obvious neediness seemed to render Sherlock speechless altogether, his gaze just as clouded with lust as he simply stared at you and you lost yourselves into each other, chests heaving hard, bodies melting together.
All he gave was a nod of consent and you started beaming with unrestrained joy, slipping off Sherlock's lap to come kneel on the bed, hands drifting up to the waistband of his pants. "Are you sure this is okay with you?", you still decided to ask. Even though the man had seemed consenting before, you'd rather have him be comfortable too.
Whereas you would have expected a snappy comment or an entire mass of words breaking loose over you, Sherlock remained rather quiet, nodding, the smallest 'Yes' slipping past his lips.
He seemed entirely enticed and you made sure to keep on looking at him, pulling the soft material down by the waistband and stripping him bare, carelessly throwing the clothing aside, once you had wrestled it down his legs.
To have him so exposed and naked before you was a sight to take in, letting yourself simply look at him for just a moment, your hands rubbing over those lean thighs.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous", you uttered, fingers gliding along the inner sides, brushing over wisps of hair, all the way up to his crotch, the hardening cock, taking the member into your hand, watching him twitch and grow in size. You would be lying if you said you hadn't thought about his cock after the first time, never been able to forget the sight, wishing to feel all of him inside.
"I...um... how do we do this?", Sherlock quietly asked, redness burning on his cheeks as his eyes were fixed on the sight before him, "How would you want me?"
"You lay down on your back, get comfortable and let me do the work", you advised and gave him a quick wink, watching Sherlock settle down almost immediately after your advise, more than eager. And wasn't it just the most perfect sight, his lean body atop the sheets, skin reddened with small blotches, traces of his arousal, his cock raging hard in the grasp of your hand, dark curls bedded on the pillow, dreamy look in his eyes as you looked at one another.
"There's... uh... lube and condoms in the bedside drawer", Sherlock muttered, like he didn't quite want to admit to it.
You shot him a pleased, but surprised expression. "Did you plan for this?", you wondered, reaching over to fetch anything you'd need from the drawer, "Or do you just keep them in your bedroom all the time?"
"I was certain that I had at least a seventy-eight percent chance you wouldn't refuse and since I have considered all possibilities that almost meant including the accomplishment of a sexual encounter, I thought it was best to be prepared just in case. As I have however opened up to you that I have no experience with sexual interactions, so no, I don't keep them here all the time, I've purchased them for this purpose... recently", Sherlock answered, his nervousness evidently easing again as he managed to speak mostly unaffected as he always did, the kind of rationality not unusual by any means.
"78 percent? You did the math and all, didn't you?", you grinned, using the moment to slide your own sweatpants off your hips, revealing your full nakedness to the man, whose eyes remained on you, widening, darkening, looking up and down your body, trying to seemingly capture every single little detail of you, lips parted and his pink tongue slipping through as he admired you.
At a lack for words, Sherlock just nodded, watching you return to him and slump down atop his lap again. You gave him a reassuring smile, reaching for those fine and skilled hands, placing them on your body as Sherlock remained a little taken aback, probably slightly overwhelmed with the sight and sensations alone. Though once he dared to begin touching you again, he got this look of fascination on his face, a spark in his eyes, tender touches on your thighs.
"Would you like to help me prepare?", you asked, knowing full well that with a curiosity like Sherlock's he would likely not refuse.
"I understand that it will make this more pleasurable for you, so yes, I think I'd like to", he agreed and you canted your hips forward, towards him, allowing Sherlock to reach out to you, trailing his fingers down your body, lower, across the expanse of your belly before slipping between your thighs, no doubt finding what they were searching for.
A heavy shudder surged through your body when he did, breath hitching in your throat as you felt fingertips circle your entrance. You knew the breach would initially feel unusual, not having had a partner in a long time and not being an avid user of sex toys either, but god, how you ached for him to touch you, how you wanted to just feel him. After adjusting his hand into a comfortable position for the both of you and slicking fingers up with lube, Sherlock slid one into you so easily that all worries were just leaving you at once.
You couldn't stop a moan from leaving your lips, even just one finger in, and wondered how much research Sherlock had actually done as you found yourself arching into his touch. It wasn't clumsy by any means, if a little more careful.
There was a pleasant tingle pooling low in your stomach, your arousal rising to indescribable heights in thorough interest of getting fucked, and your mind went blank when he pushed another finger into you, gently spreading you open with a passion.
"Fuck, Sherl, feels so good", you groaned, looking down at the man, who so gently and kindly fingered you open, like he wasn't doing this for the first time, like he wasn't a stranger to this at all, "Can't wait to have your cock inside of me."
While Sherlock did not seem to be one for dirty talk, remaining mostly quiet and fixed on you, he definitely seemed pleased with your reaction, urged on to continue his advances, fingers already sinking in deep and lord, he had these long and wonderfully skilled fingers that were certainly capable of finding the sweet spot. If you let him continue, he was no doubt going to make you cum like this. You were so obsessed with the feel of him already, bloody hell, his fingers alone, pressing further into his touch and technically begging to be fucked.
Trying to keep your right mind though, you thought it was best to request Sherlock to stop, knowing that as soon as you were going to ride his dick, it would all be over for you anyway.
The small break did you well as he withdrew his fingers again, not leaving you out of his sight for a moment. You shuffled back down on the man's lap, making sure to prepare Sherlock just as much, rolling a condom over his raging arousal, before drizzling a bit of lube on him, coaxing another grunt from him as you rubbed him up and down.
You weren't sure who was more gone on the other – yourself, cock-hungry and needy, positioning the tip of his hardness against your hole, already going crazy at the slightest nudge, or Sherlock, watching you with a dreamy and blissful look on his face, blushing hard, lips parted and breath stuck in his throat in anticipation as you eventually sank down on his cock, taking him all in, slowly.
Bodies combined, becoming one, groans and panting immediately merged into one as well.
"God, Sherl...", you mewled, filled out so sweetly. It felt just right. You began moving once used to the stretch of his length, fully sheathed within you, and tried to keep your gazes locked, save for taking in the entire sight of Sherlock once in a while – skin flush from arousal and the heat of the moment, his eyes attentive and almost adoring, full blown with desire, his chest heaving and sinking hard, hands almost trembling as he let them skim over your waist, your thighs and all he could reach.
"This feels very good", the detective acknowledged, only occasionally and shyly rocking his hips in time with your movements, seeming unsure and perhaps a bit overwhelmed with the sensations, "You feel very good."
You couldn't quite respond anything that would make sense and at a loss for words simply continued to move atop him, supporting your slow motions with hands perched flat against the man's stomach.
There was no need to talk about what was going on, neither for you nor for Sherlock, as unspoken truths were shared between you two, how well your bodies fit together, how good you felt and how much admiration you had for each other. You hadn't expected it to be like that, so intimate and fulfilling – to be honest, you hadn't even had expectations when it came to Sherlock anymore.
There was always this element of surprise about him, something unpredictable, and fairly said you hadn't even expected to get into this situation with him in the first place.
But there was this amount of comfort and trust that exuded Sherlock in the moment, being vulnerable with you, submitting to you, an unusual innocence sticking to him. It made you feel possessive of him and even more so, protective.
Though he never failed to surprise you.
While he had previously held back moving too much under you or daring to explore your body with more bold touches, he seemed to warm up to the idea of intimacy and sex, for that matter. Astonished by the suddenness of his motion, you couldn't hold back a gasp when Sherlock pushed himself into a seating position, sliding his arms around your waist to keep you steady on his lap, his cerulean eyes fixed onto you with curiosity as he observed your reaction, as you continued to ride him with long and deep strokes, one hand shooting up to support yourself on Sherlock's shoulder, the other drifting into his hair.
You swore you could hear him cuss under his breath, once tugging on his dark curls again, but since you were entirely overcome with a mass of different sensations and emotions, it really could have been anything he muttered. And all the same, you found it didn't matter.
Your mouths slid together again, tongues finding each other once more, and you rocked even harder into him, pulling on his hair over and over, wanting to elicit more sweet sounds from him, being rewarded with the most desperate whimper.
You were completely lost in one another, something you hadn't quite awaited, but very well welcomed. That was the thing about Sherlock, always seeming so put together, so closed off and shielded from the outside world, so focused on facts and information and logic - and yet he was far from all that. You only knew all that because he let you see.
Sherlock was sensitive, could be pried apart as easily as made whole again, he lost himself in the smallest things so quickly, searching for things to ease his thoughts and mind, prone to getting addicted to them. Emotions overwhelmed him and that's why he refused most human interaction.
But he wasn't refusing this, wasn't refusing you, because there was an unspoken trust between you. You didn't know where that trust stemmed from or how Sherlock truly felt about you, but this wouldn't be happening if he weren't convinced of you being trustworthy.
On the cusp of pleasure, you were both entirely gone, and all that mattered were the raw sensations, bodies sliding together, obvious heightened emotions pouring out between you.
Head buried in the crook of your neck, Sherlock was breathing hard, moaning into you skin, shaking in your hold as you continued to tug on his hair, causing him to twitch and whine and crumble apart under you.
You spoke the sweetest praises, words mangled with your own moans, your thighs trembling but still riding him with fervour, though you could sense your stamina failing you, could feel yourself being so close to the edge by the way your nerves tingled within your core, the way pleasure heightened immensely with each thrust, something building up, and yet you were only able to let go as Sherlock himself toppled over.
His entire body went tense, not to say rigid, tightening his hold on you like he was afraid of losing you altogether, a moaning and twitching mess as he was overcome by his own pleasure.
"You're doing so good, Sherl, so good for me", you found yourself whispering and it must have been a combination of all things going on, Sherlock falling apart and pulsating inside of you, keeping you seated on his cock with a tight hold, and being on the absolute verge of sexual excitement, that made your own orgasm hit, causing you take him exceptionally deep with one last thrust, rocking out waves of pleasure and arousal.
"Oh, Sherl, my Sherlock", you let out a heavy sigh, coming back to your senses fast, while the man still seemed a little absent, clutching onto you tightly, face pressed to your shoulder, where you could feel laboured breathing and an unexpected wetness against his skin.
You knew they were tears, but didn't mention it, stroking the back of his head with the comfort that Sherlock just needed, comfort that he often refused or wouldn't allow himself to get. Perhaps it wasn't even sadness, but relief washing over him, the sudden overwhelming feel of orgasming.
While his previous responsiveness to affections and especially praising had fired up a curiosity within you, it was this specific moment, just holding Sherlock so close and having him so vulnerable after just having sex with him, that caused your heart to swell as well as ache, mind heavy and clouded with so many thoughts and sensations rushing in.
You couldn't help but feel for him. For his sadness and loneliness and desperation, all things Sherlock would never admit to having, but all deeply rooted within him.
And you couldn't help but feel love. A love that shouldn't be, because that was not what you were to Sherlock. It was not the point of your care for Sherlock, it was not what his older brother was paying you for. It should not be the reason behind your thorough protectiveness of the man, behind you caring, behind... this and all you did for him. But it was. You couldn't shut it off.
Yes, you were Sherlock's caretaker and this shouldn't be happening.
You had already crossed the line of sentimentality and any professionalism by becoming his friend so early on. Any decision you had ever made for Sherlock's sake was painted by your friendship to him and therefore not logical but emotional.
It would be surprising to none that you had developed this love for the man and everything he was. Feelings couldn't be helped, of course not, and you doubted people close to the two of you were unaware of how much you actually liked him.
In the end, it wouldn't matter anyway.
Sherlock didn't feel and love like most people did, not to say that he couldn't, but the way he was and would always be simply differed from the mass – so it would be wise of you to expect nothing and accept things as they were.
And whether Sherlock Holmes could ever feel the same or something similar as you did for him, would perhaps forever remain a question unanswered.
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Evening Cuddles
Summary: Sherlock helps his friend fall asleep.
Ship: Sherlock Holmes x masc!reader Word Count: 1070
🔸The reader uses he/him pronouns and is called a man, and the relationship between him and Sherlock is inherently queer.🔸
A/N: It's just fluff based on pure vibes. I wrote it a while ago, rediscovered it recently and rewrote it today! The reader is implied to be Sherlock's roommate. I think/hope he's racially/ethnically ambiguous. Also, the reader is described as taller than Sherlock, but somehow, Sherlock is able to lift him up without any issues?? 😭I don't know, and I don't care to be honest. It's pure vibes, no common sense.
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“[Y/N], are you even listening to me? [Y/N]?” Sherlock sighed, irritated at the lack of response from his companion.
Holmes shifted his position to look at the man sitting beside the window.
“[Y/N]?”
When the Detective, once again, didn’t get a response, his frustration went from “mildly annoyed” to “extremely irritated”. It wasn’t exactly in his friend’s character to ignore his pleading for attention. So Sherlock did what any reasonable adult would do in the given situation.
“OUCH!” [H/C]-haired man screamed out when the shoe hit him in the arm. “GOD DAMN YOU, YOU BASTARD!” [Y/N] slurred while rubbing the painful spot. “You’re worse than a five-year-old!”
“I was talking about something important. Something you promised to help with,” Holmes pointed out while walking up to his friend.
The taller man sighed and fell back on the soft pillows. His head was pounding, and his body felt like it was about to perish to dust any second. He was tired, and for some reason, he couldn’t verbalise it to his friend. Building sentences felt like a marathon. His brain refused to use English, forcing him to fight with his sluggish mind just to construct the easiest sentences.
“I know. I’m sorry.” [Y/N] finally mumbled, more or less, towards the dark-haired man beside him.
Sherlock just shook his head and kneeled in front of [Y/N], taking his hands and squeezing them in an attempt to provide some comfort.
“What’s on your mind? You hadn’t been yourself for the past week.”
[Y/N] ignored the question and just silently brought one of the detective's hands to cup his cheek. Silently absorbing the pleasant sensation of Sherlock’s rough fingers brushing against his cheekbones and warmth radiating from his palm. [Y/N] would never admit this, but sometimes he’d kill for more moments like this. Moments filled with silence and gentleness that were almost impossible to find in their life. Sherlock had this almost magical ability to become soft and gentle if he noticed that it was needed, but he never was great at recognising the needs of people around him.
“Just tired. Incredibly tired…” [Y/N] finally muttered while closing his eyes and hiding his face in Holmes’ hand.
“If you want to, we could take a little vacation. We’d stop taking cases for a while. Mycroft has a mansion in the mountains. Maybe fresh air will make you feel better, hm…?” Sherlock spoke softly, seeing how his friend was almost falling asleep in front of him.
“Mhm…”
Only now, when his face was mere inches away from his friend, could he see the mark that overworking left on a usually radiant face. [Y/N]’s skin was an unhealthy, muted colour as if he was made of wax. Dark circles painting his under-eye looked scarily similar to bruises. His hair was tangled and messy, framed his equally messy face, dirty with dust and dirt after a long day of working and running around London, searching for a case that’d satisfy Sherlock’s hunger for mental stimulation. It was frightening to see his friend like this – a shadow of himself. A ghost.
Sherlock’s face twisted with guilt, the awareness that he led to one of his dearest friends being so incredibly worn out that he wasn’t even able to form coherent sentences. He’s been whining about the lack of good mysteries for weeks now, and after a while, [Y/N] just wanted to help him and see him happy.
“You know what you need? A good sleep.” Holmes muttered, talking more to himself than to, already half-asleep, friend.
Sherlock stood up and carefully picked up [Y/N] from the settee. [H/C]-haired man himself, was already so exhausted that he didn’t protest. The only thing that he did was snuggle into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.
One of the many advantages of living in a small flat was that every room was close. So only after about a dozen steps were they already in [Y/N]'s bedroom. Holmes carefully placed his friend among his pillows and blankets and covered him with the woven coverlet. [Y/N] grunted, with upset painted across his face when he felt Sherlock’s hands leaving him.
“Don’t go…” he softly pleaded, grabbing Holmes by the sleeve.
Sherlock turned around only to be met with soft [E/C] eyes looking at him longingly, half-covered by eyelids. How could he deny his friend’s innocent request?
“If I’m not to go, what do you want me to do?” The detective asked with slight amusement in his voice.
“Lay with me… I don’t want to be alone…”.
[Y/N] looked like he was close to begging Sherlock to stay with him. Looking at his friend with such sorrow, as if the thought of Holmes leaving his side caused him physical pain. Sherlock felt his cheeks growing hotter while his knees became a bit softer.
Dear god.
“Alright, move over, so I’ll have a place to lay down…”.
[H/C]-haired man eagerly shifted, lifting the blanket, inviting the detective.
He’s just tired. He’s just exhausted and lonesome.
Sherlock tried to reason with himself while lying beside [Y/N]. But it was hard to logically explain how hot his face felt and how happy his friend looked while cuddling up to his side, a lazy smile spread across his handsome face. Fuck, his friend was just shamelessly cuddling with him. Making all kinds of “I feel good” noises, some sounding almost like purring. It was strange. So strange, almost wrong. But he’d lie if he said he didn’t like it. After a few moments, he relaxed and embraced the man lying beside him.
Fuck, shit, fuck.
Holmes tried to take a couple of deep breaths to calm himself down. His nostrils instantly filled with the eccentric mix of scents of old books, dust, chocolate and paraffin oil. The unmistakable smell of his friend. If he wasn’t freaking out already, Holmes would probably panic. He knew it was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.
But he smelled so good.
And his hands were so pleasant to the touch.
His breathing was so calm.
And he was so close.
It’d be a sin to not savour this moment as long as possible.
Sherlock was finally fully relaxed. He held his friend tight, relishing the smell, the feel, and the sounds [Y/N] would make. He was just so peaceful. So sweet. After a while, Holmes himself drifted to sleep. Happy and relaxed. Embraced by another man.
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One Way To Move In (Sherlock x Male!Reader)
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A/N: So, it’s been a few years since I wrote anything and I decided to turn my old oneshot My Girlfriend Tells Me Everything (and now it’s other gendered counterparts) into a series so please read that first if you haven’t. I’m not quite happy with how this turned out but I’m going to continue this series anyway so please be kind.
It was 8pm by the time (Y/N) saw their apartment door. After just getting off a twelve-hour shift, all they wanted was to eat the leftover Chinese in the fridge and pass out in bed. Being a doctor was always (Y/N)’s dream but the hours sucked….hard. Seeing the door in front of them, they quickened their pace and hurried inside.
“Look what the cat dragged in” Claire, (Y/N)’s roommate of two years, states. (Y/N) turns towards them on the couch and glares at them, which comes out as more of a grimace due to exhaustion. Claire looks them up and down and proceeds a drawn-out whistle. “Damn, that cat drag you through a hedge or something? You look rough.”
“Wow, thanks. That’s just what I wanted to hear.” (Y/N) snaps before heading to the fridge for the desired Chinese food.
“Well, what do you expect, you’ve been out since yester-“ Claire cuts herself off with a gasp. “Oh, you dirty stop out you! You were with Sherlock weren’t you! Omg, when am I going to meet this ‘elusive genius’ of yours?” This draws a laugh out of (Y/N).
“No, I wasn’t with Sherlock, I was at work. Which by the way, shouldn’t you be heading off to work now? Go get ready to leave and let me eat my Chinese and pass out for a week in peace please” said Chinese gets stuffed into (Y/N)’s mouth to emphasise his point. Claire just chuckles at the sight whilst heading to her room. She calls over her shoulder, “Yeah, yeah. I’m going. Jeez. Not all of us can crash for a week you know, we’re not all fancy private doctors.”
______________________________________________________________
The following day finds (Y/N) heading to the hospital to meet up with John for lunch, a regular occurrence since he found out about the whole ‘dating his best friend’ thing. He doesn’t even have to enter the hospital as he spots him at the entrance upon his arrival. “Hey John!” Said man looks up from his phone upon hearing his name. “Hey (Y/N). I hope you don’t mind but I’ll have to bail on lunch a bit early. Rosamund has a bit of a cold and Mrs. Hudson has to leave in an hour. I’m really sorry” John starts to ramble his apology.
“John…John…John!” The shout finally catches his attention, “That’s completely fine, you don’t have to apologise. What kind of person would be upset at you wanting to look after your sick kid” (Y/N) smiles kindly.
“You’re right. Sorry.”
“Stop apologising John.”
“Right. Sorry” they both look at each other at the involuntary apology and giggle. “Shall we?”.
The walk to the café felt relatively short as they spent the time cooing over pictures of Rosamund. They decided to go to the café under 221B Baker Street so that John could be close to Rosamund in case Mrs. Hudson had to leave early. After sitting down with some tea and John buying some cake to share, as Mary would kill him if he broke his diet, the conversation turned to Sherlock.
“So, you never did explain why you kept your relationship a secret.” John states giving (Y/N) an expectant look. He sighs.
“Well, you know how Sherlock is. At first I interested him, he said it was because he can’t deduce me. At first he thought it was because I was dangerous as the last time this happened it was with Mary, back when she was lying” at this John look uncomfortable. “But then he started ‘engaging me in intellectual conversation’ as he put it. I realised this was his way of trying to decipher whether I was a threat. When he realised I wasn’t it was also around the time he realised he may ‘like’ me. Of course, being the sociopath he is, he had no idea what to do with that and started being rude and distant” at this (Y/N) laughs “You should have seen his face when I called him out on his shit. He looked like I may have hung the moon itself.”
John laughs himself when trying to imagine it as the image he comes up with is ridiculous. “What happened then?”
“What do you think happened? I get dragged into a car on my way home by Mycroft’s assistant” (Y/N) says exasperated. John laughs remembering his first Mycroft kidnapping. “He spent the next two hours interrogating me. When he deemed me as ‘more than a goldfish’ he proceeded to tell me how I should go about Sherlock”. John looks interested and says, “What did you do?”.
“I told him where he can shove his advice. If I wanted to be with Sherlock I would do it my way.”
“What happened?”
“Well, it turns out Sherlock was listening; he’d stormed straight to Mycroft’s office when he heard I was there. He asked me out for coffee-” John looked shocked, “-I know! He asked me! And as we were on the date he asked we keep it a secret until he makes sure that this is real for him. He was so worried about hurting me as he finds emotions hard to understand”
Before the conversation could go any further, they get interrupted by John’s phone going off. He excuses himself to answer it. When he comes back he starts apologising again. “Sorry, I have to go. That was Mrs. Hudson. I have to go pick up Rosamund. I’m so sorry”
“John, what did I tell you?”
“Stop apologising, sorry.” He says with a smile which makes (Y/N) chuckle.
“Go, I should head home anyway. Give her hugs and kisses from me?” John promises he would, they hug and part ways.
______________________________________________________________
After arriving home (Y/N) decides to surprise Claire with a movie night, with his long hours he hasn’t been able to spend time with Claire in weeks. Deciding to make it special, he goes around the apartment collecting all the things necessary to make a pillow fort because you’re never too old for a pillow fort!
By the time the fort was built, Claire was just arriving home. “What’s all this?”
“Surprise! Pillow fort and movie night?” Claire’s face lights up at the suggestion. “Hell yes! Chinese food followed by copious amounts of ice cream?”
(Y/N) laughs, “You read my mind”.
“Ok well let me change out of my work clothes and then you can ord-” she gets cut off by the window shattering. (Y/N) screams whilst turning towards the window. He presses himself to the floor and sees Claire’s hair against the floor behind the couch. He shuffles his way over to help her hide and come up with a plan to leave without getting shot. (Y/N) screams again as he makes it to Claire. Surrounding her head was a puddle of blood, growing by the second and right in the centre of her forehead was a bullet wound. (Y/N) grabs his phone out of his pocket and calls Lestrade.
“Hello?”
“Greg?” Greg hears the tears and uneven breath and immediately fires of questions.
“(Y/N)? Are you ok? What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Greg. My friend she…she’s…she’s been shot. Oh, my go-” a sob forces its way out of (Y/N)’s mouth.
“(Y/N)? Where are you, tell me where you are?”
“I’m at my home”
“I’m on my way, I’ll bring Sherlock and John” and with that the line goes dead.
______________________________________________________________
Much of what happens next goes by in a blur for (Y/N). He pays some attention when Sherlock pulls him into a hug but all he can focus on is the spot his friend lay. Even when the coroners remove the body, he still focuses on that spot. All he can hear is an overwhelming buzzing in his ears. It wasn’t until Greg kneels in his line of sight that he snaps out of it. “Mm, what?” He says in a daze.
“Hey, I said it’s probably best if you don’t stay here. We’re still not sure if you were also a target or not. It’s not safe here.” Greg says gently.
“Obviously Gareth, he’ll be staying with me at 221.” Sherlock cuts in like it was obvious.
“Greg.” (Y/N) says numbly.
“Yes?” Greg answers thinking he was talking to him.
“His name is Greg, Sherlock” He continues, almost sounding dead inside.
“Really? That’s what he focuses on?” Anderson says in the background, receiving glares from Sherlock, John, and Greg.
“He’s in shock you buffoon!” Greg admonishes.
“Want me to pack your things (Y/N)?” John asks kindly.
“Wait? Pack my things for what?” (Y/N) asks confused, having missed most of what was spoken about in the last ten minutes.
“To move to 221B. It’s not safe here.” States Sherlock, looking more concerned by the minute.
“Well…” (Y/N) attempts some form of smile to break the tension, “…That’s one way to ask me to move in.”
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icarus-has-falllen · 1 year
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bro a couple years ago I read a full BBC Sherlock Holmes x Reader and I stayed up all night reading it I fake slept when my stepmom came in the room at 6am bro shit was wild
It was wattpad too 🥲
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Detective!Ghost : Punch me in the face!
Y/N : …punch you? 🤨
Detective!Ghost, points to his face : Yes, punch me. In the face. Didn’t you hear me?
Y/N, squints : I always hear “punch me in the face” when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.
Detective!Ghost, rolls his eyes : Oh, for god’s sakes.
Detective!Ghost, smacks them hard across the face :
Y/N, gasps : 😨😵‍💫
Y/N, returns the punch to his face :
Detective!Ghost, stumbles a bit : Thank you. That was …that was…
Y/N, continues to punch him in the gut :
Y/N, puts Ghost in a headlock : You ought to remember, Ghost, I was a soldier! I killed people!
Detective!Ghost, struggles to break free : You were a doctor!
Y/N, grips harder : I had bad days!
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lazydoodlesandfanfic · 7 months
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Keeping Quiet (Sherlock & Mycroft X Deaf!Brother!Reader) *PLATONIC
Characters: Sherlock & Mycroft X Deaf!Brother!Reader
Universe: Sherlock
Warnings: Severe bullying, injuries, turf burn, mention of violence
Request: Hi, can I request?, a Holmes brother fic, where reader is their youngest brother who is in high school/university getting bullied bc their disability(mute/deaf) and how their deal with that situation, I kinda want reader to be a ball of sunshine who always smile but are sad inside and although they can see through his smile, they struggle to find a way to help them. 🥺
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Your life from the get go has always been a little harder than other kids your age. For one, you were the youngest Holmes, which wasn’t necessarily a problem, though when you were born your eldest brother had already graduated university, and your other brother was a teenager not far from leaving school. With their own unique personalities, they struggled to connect you immediately, and you didn’t see them much as a young child. However, since starting Secondary school, they had become a bit more involved, especially since you had moved in with your eldest brother so you could attend a good school that was closer to him, however, you were still mostly by yourself, especially since how work driven both your brother’s were. Oh yeah, and the other thing that made your life a little harder- you were deaf. 
A silent world was all you had known since birth, and because of that, you didn’t have to adjust to any change, instead you just learned to do things differently, like when trying to cross a road on a corner, you’d look at those around you to see if they were going to cross, knowing that if the road was clear and they didn’t move, they could hear a car coming. You never had speech therapy growing up, and since when growing up your parents and brothers always communicated with you with sign language, you never used your voice. To you, your hands were your voice, and the thing in your throat that let you make noises was only for dire emergencies to get immediate attention. 
Right now, you were convinced this wasn’t an emergency, but you had the overwhelming urge to just scream as hard as you can. You wanted so badly to be heard, but feared backlash, either from your peers of your issues being perceived as fake or not nowhere near as bad as you felt they were, or backlash from the people who were making you feel like this. 
You’d just gotten home from school, and you entered as quietly as you could, closing the door briskly and looking around, not sure if Mycroft was home, and you didn’t want to see him right now. You closed the front door, looking at the empty coat hook where you’d usually place your coat, except you didn’t have it with you, so instead you just kicked off your shoes and tried to head to your bedroom with your school bag. However, for obvious reasons, you hadn’t heard Mycroft and Sherlock bickering in the other room, or that they had promptly stopped when the front door shut loudly from how quickly you had shut, followed by your footsteps through the house at an accelerated rate to your bedroom, and the noise of your door being shut just as quickly as the front door. The two brothers stood in silence, staring in the direction of the noises before turning to face each other. “Something’s wrong.” Sherlock spoke up. 
“I’m aware of that.” Mycroft scoffed, before they began to walk to go up the stairs. Sherlock stopped at the bottom though, though Mycroft continued up. Sherlock checked the entrance of the house, noticing your lack of coat, either meaning you were still wearing it or didn’t have it, and the droplets of water on the floor, as well as your school shoes being shiny and darker than usual, told him it was the latter. It hadn’t rained in the last hour. He finally followed after Myrcoft, who was already trying your door, though it was locked. He turned to Sherlock, and Sherlock’s eyes followed the wet droplet stains in the carpet to your door. “He’s locked himself inside.” Mycroft pointed out.
“Give me your credit card.” Sherlock demanded. Mycroft went into his back pocket, grabbing his wallet and going through it to hand him a card, before Sherlock shoved him out of the way, sliding the card through the door, pushing the lock out, and when it clicked open, he turned the handle opened the door enough to stick his hand in, reaching for the light switch, flicking the lights on and off in your room to get your attention. He didn’t get a reaction from you. No multiple knocks to signify he could enter, and not a singular knock for him not to come in. He waited another moment, before looking at Mycroft who at this point looked worried, fist pressed to his mouth. Sherlock opened the door further.
They didn’t see you when they first stepped into the room, but Sherlock noticed your school bag- wet through, soaking the carpet, dirty, the zip busted, a strap broken, several school books looking ready to fall out after being crammed in that were soggy and ruined. With that, he knew where you were- the small bathroom attached to your room. He walked to the shut door, trying the door, finding this one unlocked, and he slowly stepped in, looking down and to the side, seeing you sat on the floor, legs pulled to your chest, head resting on your knees. 
“Mycroft, go make tea.” Sherlock said monotone, not taking his eyes away from you. Mcroft, who had noticed your bag and was trying to find anything to salvage, stood up straight, processing the situation, before turning and leaving the room. Sherlock slowly entered the bathroom, kneeling down before sitting on the floor beside you, carefully reaching out, lightly tugging on your soaked and dirty school jumper to get your attention. You peeked up, making eye contact, your eyes red and as wet as your uniform. Sherlock didn’t need to ask what happened, and you didn’t need him going on a revenge campaign in your honour, at least not yet. Instead, he signed ‘I’ll run you a hot bath, and you get undressed. Are you hurt?” You sniffed, signing a yes, before you started to take off your jumper, pulling it over your head, and Sherlock’s eyes immediately took notice of the wet white material that had stains of red on your arms, and as he looked closer, he saw your hands, and presumably your forearms as well were scraped up and red raw. Sherlock took your jumper from you, standing up, before signing to you again. “Drop them just outside the door when you’re done.” He said, turning to the bath, plugging the drain, and turning on the taps, before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.
Mycroft arrived shortly after with a tray, cup of tea and snacks as well, placing it on your bedside table. “What happened?” Mycroft asked. 
“He’s been bullied. I’m not sure what happened, maybe he tried to bring up what was happening or tried to stand up for himself, but it escalated outside of school- his uniform needs to be cleaned and died- where’s your first aid, he’s scraped up as well.” Sherlock listed. Mycroft’s mouth open and closed repeatedly, before he spoke. 
“I-I didn’t know.” He stuttered. “He never… he never told me he was having issues at school. I had no idea.” He explained, and Sherlock frowned. 
“I didn’t know either.” Sherlock added. It wasn’t a lot to say, but it made Mycroft feel so much better. If Sherlock didn’t notice something was wrong until now, then there was practically no way for Mycroft to see either. You hid it, and you hid it well. You hid it from the best. 
“I’ll call the school administration and organise a meeting with them. I’ll find out who did this.” Mycroft decided, reaching out and taking the jumper from Sherlock. “I’ll also get the first aid” he commented, turning and leaving the room again. Sherlock stood in your room, not moving, and he waited until he heard the bath water turn off, the door open, your clothes hit the floor and the door shut again before he turned and went and grabbed the clothes, taking them to be washed with your jumper. Sherlock heard Mycroft on the other side of the house, yelling on the phone about repercussions, demanding a meeting tomorrow, even if it’s the weekend, before his voice became louder, him walking into the same room with Sherlock, wordlessly giving him the first aid before leaving again to continue his argument, and Sherlock headed back upstairs to your room. 
He peeked into your room, seeing you had gotten out, dried off and dressed into your pyjamas, sitting on the edge of your bed. He flashed the lights again to get your attention before stepping in, coming and sitting down on your bedside, carefully taking your hands, rolling up the sleeves to properly see the scrapes and turf burn, which made him wince, imagining the pain in the bath, even though you didn’t make a peep. You didn’t make sound despite the pain, and that really, really bothered him. He wordlessly cleaned them and bandaged them, before signing to you “Are you hurt anywhere else?” You nodded, crawling deeper into the bed so your legs were rested on it, and Sherlock pulled your pant legs up to your knees, seeing even more turf burns, and he copied what he did with your hands, pulling the legs back down when he was done, before he pushed the medical equipment away from him, and waited in front of you till you looked at him. “Why didn’t you tell us?” He signed to you, speaking the words along with it. All he got was a shrug, which Sherlock was not going to accept. “Did they threaten you?” He added. You looked away, before finally signing. 
“It wasn’t too bad. I could handle it, I didn’t want to worry you. But I think someone else reported what they saw and they thought it was me.” You explained to him. 
“So if it wasn’t reported, you hadn’t planned to tell us?” Sherlock questioned. 
“It wasn’t a big deal.” You signed, clearly frustrated, which was paralleled by Sherlock. 
“Well it is now. We’re your brothers, your family. If something bothers you, you tell us, even if you’re annoyed at the way light reflects through a window, or how they’ve changed the packaging on a product in the shops, you tell us. Even if you think it’s harmless or not a big deal, we’d rather you told us about little things instead of hiding things until they become huge things. This is huge now, and we’re going to deal with it.” His signing firm and almost exaggerated. You’d never seen someone yell via sign language, yet here Sherlock was, somehow finding a way to do it, and it was pretty effective. 
“Okay. I’m sorry.” You quickly apologised to try and calm him down, which seemed to work. 
“How long has this been going on? How many of them are there, and what are their names? Tell me everything.” 
A few minutes later, Mycroft finally got off the phone, pacing for a minute to plan his next actions- deciding if he needed to call someone else, or go and check on you, but then Sherlock came into the room, and handed him a piece of paper, with names, examples of what each person did and their role in the attack, and how long it had been going on with a short timeline of other incidents. “I trust this is enough to start with?” Sherlock asked, watching as Mycroft skimmed over it. 
“This has been going on since he started secondary school?” Mycroft questioned, Sherlock briskly nodded, before tapping the paper to make him focus again. “Yes. This is enough. I’ll locate their parents and addresses, gather more information, I’ll have people look into CCTV to see if we can catch any footage of them following, chasing or… attacking him.” Mycroft explained, folding the paper up, before tucking it into his pocket. “How is he?” 
“He’s going to be sore for a while, keep an eye on his injuries- maybe take him to the doctor just to have it on record. He’s not very talkative at the moment, but we really need to get him to start talking to us more about things happening to him. If he’s ever quiet around you, try and engage him and ask about what he’s thinking about, get him out of the habit of keeping everything locked up. Leave the addresses to me. I’ll personally make sure they get the letters about the police investigation when you have it ready.” Sherlock said, walking to the entrance of the house, Mycroft followed him, watching his younger brother grab his coat, swing it around him and put it on. 
“Sherlock, do not threaten them- it’ll not be good for the investigation.” 
“I have no intention of threatening children, Mycroft. But I will make sure the point is put across that those parents have done an awful job and that they shouldn’t have messed with Y/N.” Sherlock promised, before promptly leaving. Mycroft huffed after the door shut, glancing up the stairs, before deciding to make a fresh hot drink for you to get started with a conversation with you.
Hope you like it! If you have any questions, please send them in!
*Not my gif
TAGS: @holy-tea-cup-blog @sassy-specter@keenmarvellover @multifandomfix @sleutherclaw @otterly-fey @rebellionofthecattle @hello-love-youre-pretty @werosemagic @courtneychicken  @graysonmalfoy @bellero @originalpottervengerlock @supernatural-pan @esoltis280 @lady-of-lies @lenaswritingandstuff @macbetheliza @mandywholock1980 @cdwmtjb8 @caswinchester2000 @determinedpines @huntheimpossible @automaticbakeryfreakshoe
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kahuunknown · 7 months
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The "Normal" one - BBC Sherlock sibling fanfic
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!NOTE!: Non-specified reader/insert, inspiration from SHERLOCK TV Show
~~~
The normal one
(Y/n) Holmes.
That was your name. Of course you loved your family, you held them all dear and close to your heart, but that name came with a lot of baggage and responsibility. You’d often wonder what living life normally would be like, being born under a different name. These were just thoughts however, you knew in the end, you wouldn’t change a thing.
You were smart; there was no doubt in that fact, being born a Holmes provides such natural intelligence with ease. However, you would argue that you were anything but. You were a humble, gentle and modest soul, you were adamant in arguing that both your brother’s surpassed your measly intelligence without effort. Of course, the IQ tests would prove otherwise, but they were rid from the world quickly after there creation.
Living a normal life wasn’t something you detested, rather you grew rather fond of the mundane routines people lived day-to-day, it was funny watching them fuss over little mistakes, or creating the emotion of happiness with simple gifts and pleasures. You worked as a psychologist funnily enough. You could deduce much like the rest of your siblings, and decided to apply that skill toward something complimentary.
You were a young prodigy with a psychology major at only 26 years old; you lived a very financially stable life with your own private at-home psychology firm. You were comfortable with you life within London, you enjoyed being close to your family, and so it was never an option to live anywhere else. Often as a well respected personal to the community and the police, you were requested to provide psychoanalysis on victims, suspects or even the criminals themselves. You’d get paid of course, but your real motivation was helping you middle brother with his detective cases. Sometimes even the eldest would request your help, those were rare favours however.
Your brother’s wouldn’t admit it, but they absolutely adored you, you were the baby of the family and the most normal of them all. Your parents didn’t like to pick favourites but you were always the exception. Mycroft and Sherlock treated you like a child most often, they couldn’t wrap their heads around the thought of you growing up and maturing, when they looked at you, all they could see were those innocent orbs staring right back at them. This admittedly made them overprotective, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it was restricting.
You proved your intelligence and maturity every now-and-again, but you honestly didn’t mind their dotting. It showed the world that Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were human too.
So when the two were on the way to your house, they were honestly surprised and both mortified when the Consulting Criminal Jim Moriarty of all people stepped outside of your house with a laugh and bid you farewell, hopping into a awaiting sleek black car and driving off smoothly. Sherlock and Mycroft had hidden themselves upon the sight, they weren’t stupid, but they were terrified for your safety. Did you even know the true identity of the criminal you’d invited inside?
Neither brother remembered if they’d disclosed that information to you or not, they tried they upmost hardest to give you the privacy you desired, as hard as that was. They weren’t very good at it, but they did try their best to shield you from their enemies. You were untrained in any sort of defensive arts like they were; you were utterly defenceless if someone attacked you.
Nodding to each other, once they were satisfied with the distance Moriarty’s car had driven away; they quickly made their way to your doorstep and hurriedly rang your doorbell. You needed to be warned straight away, you needed to cut your ties with the villain immediately. Your safety was compromised.
You greeted them with a kind smile as always, both brothers nearly forgot the urgency and softened upon your sweetness, but reality was quick to return to them. They ushered you to let them inside, which you calmly did so, asking if they wanted any snacks or tea. Mycroft paused and politely requested some sweets and both brothers of course agreed to some tea. You chuckled at them, reminding them to make themselves at home; they were family of course, no matter how dysfunctional. The two elder Holmes watched you like hawks as you waddled around the kitchen. It was cute that you inherited their mother’s much shorter height, leaving you struggling and whining about reaching items on the top shelf. Though your brothers were more than willing to help, they teased you often about this fact.
Returning to the living room, you gently placed down the tray with balanced drinks and sweets situated on top.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Theo chimed, cradling his own cup of tea close and bringing his legs to his chest, curling into his usual ball-like position on his single seated couch.
Sherlock was first to speak, “Well, originally we both decided to check-in on you, we hadn’t seen you in a while.”
You chuckle, “Yes, well I was having a fantastic time in New Zealand. You should visit if you have the chance, it’s beautiful country.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes, completely disinterested in the idea. But he admired your simplicity.
“Like Sherlock said, that was ‘originally’.” Mycroft pressed, narrowing his eyes at the detective.
“Who was that man that left your house moments before we arrived?” Sherlock questioned, though he already knew, he wanted to see if you were aware.
You rolled your eyes at the two overbearing brothers, “That was one of my clients, of course.”
“He’s dangerous, (Y/n-“
“Jim Moriarty.” You finished, “A charming man, to say the least. The infamous consulting criminal.”
Mycroft and Sherlock frowned, this couldn’t be good.
“You know who he is.” Sherlock stated.
“Of course, I do.” You retorted, “But that’s not my business, is it? I’m a psychiatrist and psychologist; my client’s background means nothing to me. That is my work.”
“Yes, but it’s also a hazard-“
You interrupted Mycroft, “Without Moriarty confessing to future crimes in the motion, I have no legal standing. Past crimes are useless.”
“A scientific priest.” Sherlock grumbles.
“In some ways.” You agreed absentmindedly. “I’m bound by my word.”
“Then I suppose there is no use asking you to share some details.” Mycroft sighs.
“None at all.” You chirped, “Now, if you two are free this afternoon, would you care for some fish ‘n chips? It’s been a long while since we’ve talked like this.”
Mycroft pursed his lips, it was his favourite food. A Holmes delicacy in some ways, as even Sherlock was fond of the food as well. Mycroft frowned, a defeated expression forming on his face, “I suppose, I have time.” He admitted.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at your happy face, you were sweet and innocent, but boy did you now how to use that to your advantage. Those damn puppy eyes.
“Fine.” Sherlock sighed.
Suddenly a knock sounded at the polished wood of your door, you furrowed your brows in confusion, not expecting any clients or guests over at this time. Standing, you gestured for your brothers to stay put while you answered the door.
Sherlock and Mycroft tensed as Moriarty waltzed into the house, smirking at the two of them confidently. He looked more than comfortable in your home, and both the protective brothers felt their instincts flare in that instant.
“Sorry to intrude, I believe I forgot my jacket.” Jim swooned, slinging his arm over your shoulder as you rolled your eyes and led him away from your siblings and into the office/ library room, where all your clients reveals their deepest secrets and feelings. Sure enough, Moriarty returned to the front door with his suit jacket under one arm.
He seemed to be talking normally to you, joking and laughing as if he were just a mundane human male, like all the rest. It was obvious to the brothers, that you and Moriarty knew each other quite well, they didn’t like that one bit.
Jumping to his feet, Sherlock decided he’d had enough of seeing that smug face and those evil beady little eyes looking at his youngest sibling.
“Leave.” Sherlock simply ordered, holding open the door for the mastermind to exit. Jim raised an accusing eyebrow at the new emotions Sherlock provided him with, but decided to play nice and do as he was told, for now at least. He left quietly, ignoring the slam of the wooden door after him; he was far too satisfied with this new discovery to care about rude behaviour.
He was originally just curious about you, intrigued and fascinated. He didn’t even know you existed; it wasn’t until Eurus cooed about you during his visit. She was smitten by you, couldn’t stop remembering all those memories as young children, when you’d follow her around, listen to her every tale with admiration and love. She talked about you as if perhaps you were a god, a higher being that she prayed to- or a rare exotic creature like most thought fantasy. You seemed too good to be true.
Yet here he was, obsessed with it all. Obsessed with you.
The expression of your brother’s were both the same, stern beyond belief. And you sighed, anticipating the emerging argument to take place.
“This is my job.” You stated, smile vanishing with the seriousness of your tone.
Mycroft and Sherlock almost didn’t recognise you, you looked different without the aura of sweetness drifting around you like a halo. They’d never seen this side of you.
Mycroft clears his throat, “He is dangerous, (Y/n). We would be fools to-“
“Then be fools.” You hissed, “This is my job. The career I’ve strived for, and Jim Moriarty is a normal client. You will not drag me around under the guise of your ‘safety’.”
Sherlock watched you carefully, scanning your expression and body language, trying to deduce you. Yet he came up with nothing. Normally you were so open to him and Mycroft, usually it was so easy to pull you apart, dissect every emotion and activity you’d been up to for the past week or so. But you’d shut down that gate, preventing any clue to find.
But then your shoulders slumped, and suddenly everything came flooding back, he could read you like an open book once more.
Sighing you looked them both in the eye, “I propose this.” Instantly you had your brothers intrigued, “I’ll install a camera within my office. You may have access to its feed at any time, and I’ll send you both my schedule, if you so desire as well. However, due to patient-confidentiality, the audio will be wiped, you will hear nothing.”
Sherlock scowls at the idea, obviously wanting to hear the conversations you and Moriarty had, he wanted to know everything. Mycroft on the other hand was more open to the idea; he eventually gave a slow nod.
“Deal.”
“Great.” You clapped your hands together, smiling once more and instantly relieving the tenseness in your brother’s posture, “Now, how about that fish ‘n chips, eh?
In the end, perhaps you were not as normal as everyone believed.
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supercap2319 · 2 months
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Y/N entered the room with a smug look on his face. The blind were closed up and there was an excessive groan in the library. He knew exactly who that belonged to and he so wished that he had a Kodak box at the moment. To commemorate this momentous occasion.
"As you can see sir, Y/N. My brother is in an unfortunate state of drunken drinking." Enola said.
Sherlock groans as he heard his sister's voice. He put a nearby pillow over his head. As if such an act would cure the pain in his head. "I can see that, miss Holmes. Not to worry. I shall help your brother."
"Thank you. Forgive me. I must be going." Enola excused herself and left the apartment.
Y/N smiled and let out a laugh. "You seem to have gotten too much whiskey or bourbon in your system, Sherlock. Did you spend all night in the tavern?"
Sherlock looks at Y/N, his blue eyes are unfocused, but there's a fury of hate behind them. Oh how he detested Y/N. "Piss off you pillock. I'm not in the mood for your incessive prattle."
"Oh, how the righteous have fallen, Sherlock." Y/N giggles at his enemy.
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tenthcrowley · 1 year
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[JOHN]: So, are you two...?
[SHERLOCK, Y/N]: No.
[JOHN]: (Looks at the clothes all over the floor) You sure?
[SHERLOCK, Y/N]: Yeah.
[JOHN]: O-okay, if you say so.
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awkwardchaosposts · 3 months
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Icarus and his fool
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Sherlock Holmes x Golden retriever!male reader (part 2)
TW: none
*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°
Stroh, Baroque,Electric. Sherlock didn't like change but he had found an interest in the new selection of violins.
He was busy admiring a certain classic edition when something startled him.
What on earth was that noise?
"You" his gaze narrowed. It's like you were some curse haunting him. A very cheerful curse he had to admit.
But that only made it worse. It was obnoxious. No one had a reason to be that happy.
"Hi" you greeted with excitement. Meeting a busy man like Sherlock once was a happy coincidence. Meeting him twice was a miracle.
"What's this?" he raised an eyebrow at the card you not so sneakily tried to get in his pocket.
"My business card. You never called me about that interview"
"I never intended to"
He moved around the shop only to be followed by you like some persistent pest. "Why not? You said you'd think about it"
"Perhaps I lied"
"Why?"
Unlike Sherlock you found this little chase game rather amusing,following him around the shop without complaint. Blissfully unaware that you were the sole reason for the man's grumpiness.
"I have an Iq of 230. Why would I punish my intelligent brain with an interview" he said as if it was the most dreadfully boring thing.
Sherlock's hands trailed over the spines of the record players that were proudly displayed in the middle of the shop on well kept shelves. Distracting himself as he waited for an insult,a comeback,just something that would prove you're not as idiotically pleasant as you seemed.
Instead he got an amused "Ok" and the most dreadful sound as you tried out an instrument you managed to get your hands on.
"What on earth are you doing?"
"I'm making music"
He scoffed. How dare you slander the name of music like that?
"I guess we should add the meaning of music to the list of things you seemingly don't understand"
Your grin made him confused in ways that made his blood boil. Sherlock liked being in control. He could predict everyone's moves and know everything about them with just one look. But you. You were another story.
"I'll be taking that" he took the harmonica from you just as you were about to resume playing it
Your excitement shone like the sun.
"You're going to buy it for me?"
"What? No. Absolutely not"
~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Will that be all?" the cashier asked after putting the harmonica and violin in one bag.
"Yes" he muttered,avoiding your giddy smile.
Weak. His mind degraded himself as he handed the young lady at the counter his debit card.
*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°*°
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just-a-strange-boy · 11 months
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experimenting for friends
part 1 - praise
part 2
An unawaited opportunity introduces you to the complicated and intriguing man named Sherlock Holmes. Harder to understand than most, you are not quite sure why he reacts peculiarly everytime you spare him a compliment. Well, not until you get wrapped up in one of his "experiments".
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader (GN)
Warnings: 18+ (Minors DNI), mentions of drug abuse/addiction, handjob, praise kink, hints at inexperienced/virgin Sherlock
A/N: listen, I'm so fond of submissive Sherlock and just want him to get the love he deserves :')
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When you met Sherlock Holmes for the first time, he saw through you right away.
Straight away, he knew that you were raised by a single mum, who had always tried her hardest to ensure to the happy childhood you deserved, since your father had left the family early on.
That you were living with two cats, one Cornish Rex, one coming from mixed breeding, both awfully affectionate, apparently leaving traces over nearly everything you wore.
That you were ambidextrous, ink from pens on both hands, also indicating you were working an ordinary office job, usually taking down notes with your right hand, though whenever you took phone calls you tended to use your left to write things down – and that you took a lot of pride in your handwriting, which was why you had a knack for using pens with ink in the first place.
But that wasn't all.
He figured that you were short-sighted, working a desk job that included staring at a computer screen far too often, missing out the fact that you were also on your phone a lot.
That your glasses were an old model from the early 2010s, which also told him you didn't have the finances for purchasing new ones, money likely being the reason for you taking this new job in the first place (which however wasn't entirely true). And also that your glasses were, of course, entirely unsuited for your current sight, still making you have to squint an awful lot while looking at your surroundings.
He even found out that you used to take acting classes during your school years, obtaining a compassion for the old bards and newer works alike, but didn't continue playing theatre, settling for your ordinary, time consuming desk job instead in order to make a living in London, more so because you were never confident enough in your skills.
And damn, if he weren't right about that.
Needless to say, Sherlock had been right about everything, his gift of picking up any piece of information nothing short of amazing, his talent for deduction truly unmatched, though you were certain that he might have had a little help on one or two details. It had been impressive, regardless of whether he might have gone through your personal records at least once or not.
Considering that someone definitely had kept a close eye on you, presumably meant that there was a lovely file titled with your name on the desk of your new and well-paying employer, Sherlock's older brother and relentless watchdog, Mycroft Holmes. Who, as you understood, was doing secret government work, keeping the state upright and preventing international chaos from ensuing, when he wasn't busy tending to his slightly odd, self-proclaimed sociopathic brother from a distance.
You weren't sure whether you would have even tried applying for the job if you had known what it entailed. But you hadn't needed, nor planned, to apply at all.
Truth is, you had been approached out of nowhere, a plain call coming through on your work phone. After hearing the rather scarce explanation as to what you were meant to do and the large sum the older Holmes brother offered for this position, you had definitely not wanted to say No. You hadn't asked why you out of all people had been chosen – so you hadn't gotten an answer either.
But since Mycroft Holmes was thorough in all he did, you supposed he wouldn't have gone for someone as ordinary as you if he hadn't had a good reason for it.
And fairly enough, for that much money, the job description didn't sound too challenging – take care of Sherlock Holmes. Be his companion, keep an watchful eye on him, make sure he doesn't get back into a habit of using again. Three simple points.
It might not have sounded too challenging at first, but then you had gotten to meet Sherlock and words couldn't describe how peculiar, how unique, how utterly confusing this man was.
People didn't really get him. Sherlock didn't really get people, though clearly able of picking them apart with deductions or uncovering their motives for all kinds of crimes, having solved plenty of unusual cases in the past. Sometimes people's behaviour clearly struck Sherlock as odd and while he was exceptionally smart, there were some things in the world even he wasn't able to understand.
While you had been worrying you might not get along with each other at first – plenty of people had made it their mission to warn you about Sherlock having a dismissive stance on ordinary people – you quickly figured out the consulting detective was simply misunderstood by those around him and not that dismissive after all.
He was peculiar, unique and utterly confusing. He was thinking differently, behaving and acting by his own logic. It took a while to figure out, though finding yourself incapable of understanding Sherlock as whole, you started to catch glimpses of what he was truly like.
Sherlock Holmes was lonely.
Even though regularly solving cases with his best friend John Watson, he had also gotten significantly lonelier since the man had found himself a wife, a child following not long after, and was not living with him anymore. As a husband and father and doctor, case work was nothing more than a distraction from his ordinary life. His responsibilities often kept him from actively joining cases and therefore, more than once in the time you've gotten to know Sherlock, the detective was out solving them on his own.
While he loved the work and didn't seem too bothered, you figured it substantially dampened his mood when John couldn't be around.
You also learned that Sherlock was actually quite friendly with a few people – especially his very motherly and caring landlady Mrs Hudson (who got regularly annoyed by the ruckus he was making upstairs in his flat), DI Lestrade (who slipped him the cases, relying on his help all too often) and Molly from St Bart's morgue (who provided him with body parts for experiments).
But he never sought them out when feeling some sort of way, more so relying on the exchange – accepting their presence because he deemed them useful. This for that. Never unconditional.
Sherlock Holmes also got bored easily.
Casework and experiments, both sometimes of questionable importance or downright dangerous, could only keep him busy for so long. You figured that he lived for the thrill as much as trying to keep his brain constantly working – he needed the distraction for his mind, needed something to stimulate it or else it would get too loud, too dark, too insufferable in his head.
As soon as he got bored, he took to moaning and complaining and behaving unhinged, desperate for something, anything, to cure him from the boredom, to keep his mind busy.
Having him in a state like that was anything but good.
Because when he was lonely and bored, Sherlock Holmes had a tendency of substance abuse.
It started with a heightened craving for nicotine, especially in the form of cigarettes, which you sometimes gave in to, for the sake of preventing worse – even if it meant going on a walk in the middle of a night to have one, since Mrs Hudson would have strangled you both for even thinking about smoking at Baker Street.
When it wasn't cigarettes, it was something worse he desired. Mostly heroin, though Mycroft Holmes had made sure to slip you a full list of substances Sherlock had abused in the past.
It had been unsettlingly long.
So you tried your very best to keep Sherlock away from those things by simply keeping him busy and well, less lonely.
By the time you would have considered yourself and the odd detective being something like friends, you were also finally able see that Sherlock Holmes – even though not nursing relationships to others like normal people did – was in his own way very sweet.
He wasn't always cold or seemingly incapable of feeling things, just direct and less reliant on sentiment. He was absolutely not a cat person, but still accepted whenever your rather friendly pets decided to climb all over him.
And all the times you had happened to unexpectedly fall asleep after crashing on Sherlock's couch (that man wore you out with his ever changing temper and the way he sometimes talked constantly) while he would still be working on researching for cases or doing his fair share of experiments, you would always wake up covered by a blanket, your glasses perched on the table next to a water cup.
Sherlock Holmes didn't like a lot of people, he struggled with making strong connections and put off a lot of the people around him by the way he was. But that didn't apply to you.
Initially perceiving you an entirely obnoxious obstacle in his thinking process, he had soon noticed you weren't so distracting in a negative way at all and even found himself positively surprised how pleasant you were to have around, beginning to tolerate you in the same room.
For his standards, he seemed to like you plenty enough and appeared to be rather comfortable around you too, in a way seeking out the companionship you were meant to offer to him, even if it was just being around each other in complete silence.
While Sherlock worked best in silence, especially when he figured out a case in his mind, sitting and staring for hours, there were also moments when you couldn't stop him from talking and showing off his knowledge. Often times, he seemed so happy to share his thoughts with someone, even though he was likely aware you usually weren't really able to follow him.
Admittedly, you liked Sherlock too.
You knew a lot of people were blind to Sherlock's humanity and never got to know him well enough to truly discover how much there was to him. He didn't let most in, or at least never far enough for them to really see him. You knew though. It was there, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to prove otherwise with his resenting behaviour, and you caught plenty of glimpses of him being human.
So after a while of knowing Sherlock Holmes, there was this one thing that had caught your attention and remained to be uncovered.
Why he avoided words of praise.
It was something you had brushed off at first, thinking that Sherlock's odd reaction whenever you said something nice to him, his sudden quietness and slow blinking and urge to swiftly leave the room before awkward silence arose, was completely normal behaviour for him.
You doubted that the detective got to hear a lot of niceties or compliments. Obviously his work was impressive, but did most even consider thanking him for it? If they had the chance, that was.
One could have also gotten the impression that Sherlock didn't really know how to nor wanted to take a 'Thank you', or a compliment for that matter.
Therefore he was more likely to escape the situation than accept it with content.
One day, you had asked "Did you compose that yourself?" after having listened to Sherlock play the violin for what must have been a good twenty minutes, without the man even having taken note of you being in the room, though you had walked in and slumped down on the couch normally, like on any other day.
Sherlock had seemed startled hearing your question, only acknowledging you then, but had shaken his head in silence.
"Well, sounded very beautiful anyway. I love your playing. Could listen to it for hours", you had added then, "Always surprises me how bloody skilled your hands are with everything you do."
Much like you had offended him, Sherlock had placed down the violin and the bow immediately, turning to leave the room.
You had let him, knowing that if he needed space, it was best to leave him be. But you had immediately wondered if perhaps your compliment had made him uncomfortable and asked yourself why.
On another day, you had been asked to accompany him on a case – there was no other logical explanation to it than the fact that John was busy yet again and couldn't make it in time – so there you were, looking at different samples of dirt, trying to make yourself as useful as you could (which wasn't much, but you tried).
Sherlock didn't seem to mind that you had no idea what you were supposed to be looking for. Whereas he would have called another one in your stead stupid, small-brained or dull for only having an average mind, the detective had simply begun explaining the necessity of taking dirt samples and how much they could tell the human eye if looked at properly.
Well, what they could tell his eyes, at least – because you still had not an ounce of an idea what he was talking about, even after his explanations.
"How does your brain even work?", you had only muttered under your breath, staring at Sherlock in awe, "It's just...amazing. The fact that you can read people like a book was already pretty mind blowing, but now that you are doing it with something as mundane as dirt, words can't describe how amazing that is."
While usually so quick and rational in his responses, Sherlock had just blankly stared back at you, until continuing with his dirt samples, speechless, not saying another word about ground analysis.
Then another time, you had been flat on your couch for a good few days after catching a cold. While Sherlock had made sure to keep his distance, not wanting to contract anything, he had come by anyway. He had helped you with the cats, had brought you a bag of pills and goodies (that Mrs Hudson had packed, but it didn't matter since Sherlock was the one making time for you, bringing them over) and had chatted away about the latest case, trying to cheer you up while you sniffled into your tissues. Then he had made you tea and warmed up chicken soup for you, before deciding to take his leave again.
"Thanks, Sherl, you're a great friend. A true blessing when you get all domestic", you had sighed with a stuffed nose, trying to joke, although you knew joking around Sherlock was risky business, because... well... he didn't think like most people. That meant he didn't get jokes most of the time either, had problems trying to figure out whether you were actually serious about some of the comments you made or not, didn't know what to make of it.
You had thought that must have been the reason why Sherlock had left your flat in a hurry.
Honestly, you had begun to worry a little about Sherlock's behaviour by then.
Whenever you tended to say something nice, or gave him a compliment for that matter, the man simply went out of your way immediately. It was making him feel some sort of way, negatively you thought.
Maybe he really didn't know how to handle kind words and just couldn't show that he appreciated them. Maybe you had actually made him uncomfortable, but Sherlock never admitted to it, because he didn't want to put you off or hurt your feelings in return – you were friends after all.
Maybe it would take him a while to get used to someone being so unconditionally nice to him.
Things cleared up a little when Sherlock had approached you one day, deciding to start an 'experiment' in order to gain 'data' for his 'research' – he had something along those lines at least – which apparently included you as a test subject as well. He had specifically asked for your help, and though unmentioned you knew it was likely because of the bond and trust between you two.
Sherlock hadn't wanted to share what the point of his research was, but you had no opportunity to ask either after agreeing to it, because before you could open your mouth again, the detective had moved way too close into your personal space for his usual standards, cupped your cheeks and just leaned in to kiss you.
Short and sweet and... a little inexplicable.
"What was that for?", you wondered then, knowing that there always was an explanation to everything Sherlock did. You just didn't really know how he was going to explain this, overwhelmed with wrapping your head around what had just occurred, staring at him in an almost shock-like state and most definitely frozen to the spot.
"I told you, it's an experiment", Sherlock responded, "About... my own responses to... certain stimulus from certain...uh...people. I've decided to start with you, because we are significantly close, you have decided to pester me with your presence today once again and I figured you will not mind."
You only replied with a soft smile. How convenient you happened to be around right now, pestering him, just in time for his experiment. Though you had to admit, Sherlock wasn't wrong about his assumption either: you didn't mind. You were perfectly decent friends and being friends with Sherlock meant partaking in things out of the ordinary anyway. This was a way better experiment than lightening things on fire in the kitchen and causing the house to be contaminated with toxic smoke.
The kiss was tempting you. It made you curious. What was he trying to figure out?
"Alright, let's see what your experiment entails then", you agreed to partaking in Sherlock's personal studies, "Will you kiss me again, to get more data?"
"Likely", the detective mused, not wasting another moment before bending down to capture your lips in another and longer kiss, this time evidently unsure what to do with his hands as he didn't hold onto your face anymore, a little fidgety before eventually placing them on your waist, keeping you close.
He was a surprisingly sweet kisser. You adored the softness of his lips, the slight initial awkwardness, placing your hands on his shoulders, gently smoothing them over the material of his suit jacket, and returning the kiss with equal gentleness.
"Is that...to your liking?", Sherlock asked, upon parting for a moment.
You slid one hand to the nape of his neck, ready to pull him into another kiss, just to feel those lips on yours again. He was endearing and admittedly kind of addictive.
"I thought this experiment was about your responses, so why care what I'm thinking?”, you began, seeing a flicker of insecurity passing his face, since you avoided answering his question.
“Yeah, I love how tender and careful you are. Your lips feel great", you added in a whisper, hoping it would lift the worry from his brow.
An entirely different reaction followed. Now that you had just complimented him and Sherlock couldn't flee the situation like he usually did, you were more than surprised taking note of his reaction, a slight shudder, but not of discomfort.
Thus, you finally understood why he had wanted to avoid praise times and times again: It caused him to react.
"I honestly can't wait for you to touch me with those hands of yours", you added then, fingers carding upwards into Sherlock's curls, trying to push your own exploration to the limit, continuing to praise him with sweet words of affirmation, "Once we get there, I bet your touch will feel incredible. Just like you are."
Standing so close to the detective, you could hear his breath hitch, and there was no doubt his pulse was rapidly quickening too. Pupils blown wide with interest, lips parted, and oh, a little bit of red tainted his cheeks too. He definitely liked being praised.
"What do you want me to do with my hands?", Sherlock asked. He was still holding them placed on your waist and the unexpected question was more out of innocent curiosity, as blandly spoken as Sherlock usually talked, paired with the slight notion that he was perhaps truly a little clueless.
You wondered if he had ever done this with another person before – experimenting, kissing, touching – and came to the conclusion you couldn't quite imagine Sherlock being touchy and affectionate or sexual for that matter.
"I'm sure you know exactly what to do with those hands of yours", you chuckled, however trusting that Sherlock had to know at least a little bit about those things or else he wouldn't have dared to be so bold and just kiss you. Perhaps he had done a different kind of research beforehand.
"It's okay to touch me, I don't bite. There's no wrong and no right, go with what feels natural. Your deduction skills are unmatched, so why don't you just experiment and collect the necessary information?"
Blue eyes mustered your face, a slight look of confusion written all across his expression, and he still didn't move his hands, searching your face for something in return.
If you didn't know any better, you would have said that you might have broken Sherlock.
But then he came to life again, speaking up once more. "I've come to the conclusion that I like you. Being around you, usually at least, does not only calm my heart rate, it also quietens my brain. However being this close to you, I find my heart rate rising and my brain rattling. I just cannot figure out why your words cause me to feel the way I do."
"Well, if I might say so, I think that you're into it", you shrugged, fingers gently brushing through his thick curls, letting your other hand glide down the front of his shirt, feeling up his chest under it.
What would he look like under this? Would he enjoy being touched? How far was this experiment meant to go?
"I kind of enjoy how flustered you get when I praise you. Makes me think that no one has ever cherished you like you deserve it."
"I don't know if I am... interested in being cherished, but you do manage to make me feel like no one else has ever accomplished. I am tempted by your amenability", the detective admitted, finally catching the drift as he pulled you into a tighter embrace, arms sneaking around you, bowing down to capture your lips in a kiss again, this time with a lot more force.
As sweet and tender Sherlock was, you had simply known there was more passion, more curiosity, more hunger within him than suspected at first.
Saying you were amenable was also an understatement. You were more than compliant and sure let him know, responding to his advances with a passion, curiosity, hunger paralleling his.
So you began moving together, stumbling through the living room, careful not to trip over Sherlock's organized chaos on the floor, mouths busy with each other as you clung onto his neck, letting yourself be ushered all the way into the bedroom – a place you had only occasionally caught a glimpse of, neat and tidy compared to the rest of the flat, and while you had never expected you would ever end up in Sherlock's bed, you certainly weren't complaining about the opportunity.
Though technically, you were the one to shove the man down on his bed, wasting no time to climb onto his lap.
As much as you liked Sherlock for who he was, for his peculiarity, for the fact that he did not fit in with the rest of people, what he was being like right now definitely added onto the feelings you had for the man. Looking at him after pulling back from the kiss, you took note how beautiful Sherlock was in a moment of passion, his pretty dark curls, his sharp features, blue eyes watching you with interest, his luscious lips all swollen from kissing.
"You're such a pleasure to look at", you muttered, knowing that your praises would strike Sherlock where you wanted them too, "I've never known someone so graced by both intellect and beauty."
The man under you let out a soft sigh, wanton, perhaps a little aroused even. As you placed a hand on his pulse point, stroking along the curve of his jaw and the crook of his neck, you could very well feel that his heart was beating fast, just like his breathing got more intense, swallowing hard, even slightly squirming.
Sherlock's grip on your waist tightened a little, especially when you, perched on his thighs, slid forward in his lap, carefully pushing the suit jacket off the man's shoulders, before continuing to work on his shirt.
You were more than interested in discovering what Sherlock looked like under all those clothes, most certainly not disappointed, in awe as the man let you continue the quest to strip him off his shirt without a word of protest. You wondered what Sherlock was thinking, could never quite figure it out - because honestly, whoever managed to figure all of him out?
He was eyeing you curiously, occasionally brushing his large hands over your thighs, seemingly trying to take note of all affections given, but completely overwhelmed and unsure what to do.
"I usually don't like being touched", Sherlock spoke up eventually, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he seemed to swallow down a bit of nervousness yet again, "But I must admit that I want you to touch me."
"Good", you mused, sliding your hands over the man's pale skin, along his toned arms, back up to his shoulders, down the plane of his chest.
"Because I like touching you", you admitted, coaxing a moan out of Sherlock, as you just happened to brush your thumbs over his nipples. He seemed almost a little embarrassed after the sound had slipped past his lips, causing him to bite them in a try to repress any further noises.
And even more so, he was blushing a darker shade.
"Don't feel like you have to hold back", you assured him, trailing curious fingers over Sherlock's sensitive and delicate skin, flush with redness, since you had established that touch alone would get lovely reactions out of him, "You sound wonderful. I love how responsive you are."
Yet again, the words of praise caused Sherlock to shudder and he leant forward, asking for another kiss. You gave into it immediately, responding with eagerness as your hands moved over his slim belly, brushing far beyond his belt buckle, which startled the needy detective as he broke away for another moan, fingers squeezing into your thighs.
"Is this okay?", you took a moment of consideration, searching for uncertainty on Sherlock's face, who seemed oddly concentrated and focused on the situation, either of you unable to ignore that he was very aroused.
"I suppose this is a perfectly normal reaction to being touched so...thoroughly", the detective said oddly collected, a little out of breath, perfectly aware that he was responding and while the attention to his body certainly played a part, it undeniably were the words of praise that heightened the experience for him, "So yes, I would consider it okay."
"Do you want me to... go on?", you tried to assure yourself, wanting his consent before you went further, toying with the belt loops of his trousers, deciding to not give any more attention to his growing hardness until Sherlock confirmed that it was fine to continue.
"Yes", was the curt answer you received, rather eager, and you didn't want to deny him anything of what you were promising anymore. He wanted more. You were happy to give.
Opening the buckle of his belt with swift hands, it took a little bit of shuffling and changing positions for a moment to free him from his restraints, pulling his hardening cock out of his pants, wrapping a firm hand around him – no less sensitive, this caused Sherlock to take a deep breath, eyes closed and brows furrowed in concentration, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours.
"Just focus on my touch. I'll take good care of you", you simply whispered, gently running your fingers along the warm skin of his throbbing cock as it was quite responsive to your touch, giving an interested twitch, trickle of precome leaking from the tip.
"Gorgeous. I love how hard you get for me", you started praising Sherlock, rubbing your thumb over the glistening head, and then gently going on to stroke him, his head slumping down onto your shoulder, another desperate moan slipping past his lips.
"I wish you could see how lovely you are", you continued murmuring, pressing your face into Sherlock's soft curls, smiling to yourself. He really was lovely, sweet, surprisingly needy.
You tightened and eased your grip around the weeping cock, changing the rhythm times and times again, sometimes firmly grasping him, sometimes barely applying any pressure.
"You're doing so good for me", another soft praise as you dragged out the sweetest sounds from him, the response a warm and breathy moan against the crook of your neck, "Beautiful, brilliant Sherlock."
It was a huge turn on for you, something about Sherlock being all needy and desperate, whimpering against your own skin, breathing hard, tensing up, even shuddering at times, surrendering to his own pleasure in a way that you had never thought would happen.
Who would have thought the cold, distant detective was so submissive at heart?
Being painfully aroused yourself – your body was craving to feel the same amount of pleasure and attention, because of course it was – you did want to make sure this was all about Sherlock though, pushing your own desperation and need aside.
The man clung onto you for dear life, too overstimulated by the sensations rushing in, not used to this sort of attention, too gone and weak at the knees by being praised and teased and touched.
"I bet you're going to look and sound so beautiful when you come", you muttered, your strokes quicker, more erratic, the man beneath you shaking, panting heavily, face still hidden in your shoulder. Sherlock was getting really vocal, groaning and whimpering, claiming that he was close, so close, that he didn't want you to stop, not now.
It wasn't a demand. It was a plea. A desperate request.
"Are you going to be good and come for me, Sherl?", you asked then, placing a gentle kiss into his curls, lucky to have such composure or else Sherlock's warmth, the smell and touch of his hair, his desperation, his neediness, the sounds he made might have caused you to throw all of your self-composure out of the window and ride him to your own ecstasy.
But this was enough for now. Good enough for you, because when Sherlock did come, it was all for you.
His body was trembling, squirming, bucking under you as he fell apart, his words getting lost in his panting, culminating into a moan of relief – he surrendered, spilled himself so wonderfully all over your torturous hand, guiding him all the way through his orgasm, and between your bodies.
Coming down from the high took him long, shaking and gasping for air as he went completely lax and fell back into the pillows.
It was the perfect moment for you to look at the mess you both had made. The detective's cheeks were glowing with red, before he went ahead to cover his own face in shame with his arm, his curls spread out on the pillow, skin flushed pink from arousal and perhaps a bit embarrassment, the flat of his stomach heaving, his hardness softening in your hand.
He looked downright ethereal.
And you would always make sure to let him know.
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elvestoneanzelote1 · 1 month
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A:n- 𝘴𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘴𝘰...
𝘌𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘭𝘴𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘱𝘢𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦.
𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 from 𝘰𝘧 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥𝘴
(Slight yan) Sherlock Holmes x male reader
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It wasn't the fact you were too quiet. No, he is fine with people been quiet.
And there are many artist.
Illustration, architect, and... Good in chemistry and painters.
Nor he should bother himself to name all of them.
But something was different about you.
You have knowledge he knows but you pretend you aren't compatible in intellect.
He doesn't get you at all.
Not even one bit.
He doesn't.
Perhaps he was annoying you often.
Perhaps...
But you don't seem to bother much so it's fine right?
Confining yourself in the room he had to unlock it because you make Miss Husson worry perhaps... Even him.
Friends... Were you even his friends can you both call each other that? He wonders.
People will lose interest in silent people who barely talks but he couldn't.
He never understands you or perhaps he does but never really takes into consideration that he may over bothering you.
Right...?
You were so unbothered... So blank with poker face of sort.
Not even a smile.
And the fact he gets annoyed that you can't even draw him unlike how you drew the others.
He wonders why you often hang out with Madeline either.
Yes she is pretty but isn't she overbearing sometimes? Like often hog your attentions?
Hugging you as if you both are couples.
Trying to swoon you with her smile and.. And.. He doesn't know why.
He felt irritated that you never told her to keep distance but to him.
Hey both of you were boys either way it wouldn't bother you to hug you... Will it?
Even John and you hang out quiet well.
you spoke more with John than... Him.
And whatever he does it never... Get your attention.
Like... He never caught your attention.
He doesn't know why he is feeling this way.
Frustrated he was and annoyed.
But... He just want to hug you is it... Weird?
Or will it bother you if lean closer to you more?
I mean... Okay you are irritated by the cigarette smell... Which he try not to smoke often around you.
He doesn't understand you at all.
He felt his mind been consume constantly... By either the case he should do as a detective or... Try to...
Why were you so... Difficult.
His brother said women's are hard to tell but for him it was you.
He... Just want to see... Your smile.
Once.
That's all he ask.
And perhaps... He will crack you open more.
He doesn't understand why you talk to William well too.
Like you both knew each other well.
He knows Liam also is interested on you.
He is too he admit.
You were strange.
But perhaps that's the strange thing he find himself lured to you.
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But he isn't going to ignore some who try to break your boundaries.
Clients or not if they make you uncomfortable to even approach him he will make sure they won't come again.
No no he won't resort to anything threatening yet. if the person knows and backs away.
Is it wrong to get know something that perk your interest no right?
After all... You and him are not far of to get to know each other more and more.
And perhaps... Something more.
After all... He can let himself be slight greedy can he?
He doesn't know... And he will try to know.
Whatever is it about you that make him feel so connected and lured he will... Find it.
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A:n- that's all take care good day/night to all
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laverne-grace · 10 months
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*Y/N brushes Sherlock's hair off his face*
Y/N : Do you feel the same way that I do?
Sherlock : Feeling annoyed whenever you breath? Wanting to shoot you every chance I get so I don't have to see your face everyday? Yeah Y/N, I do!
Y/N : Ouch!
John : That was harsh.
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itsamedebression · 9 months
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POV: Him (your fave male character), picks up your teeny tiny frame, but then he breathes too hard and you're accidentally sent billowing across the room and your small spindly limbs violently smash and twist in sixty different ways, leaving you softly whimpering in unimaginable agony so then he has to spoonfeed you back to health, but using a pinpoint carved into the shape of a spoon via lasers, because normal ones are just too big and you're hoisted up onto the fireplace with duct tape because you're too short for the bed, uWu.
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Detective!Ghost, leaning closer to insepct : Do people actually read your blog?
Detective!Y/N, stops typing abruptly :
Detective!Y/N, glances at him : Where do you think our clients come from?
Detective!Ghost : I have a website.
Detective!Y/N, sighs & went back to typing : In which you enumerated two hundred and forty different types of bourbon brands. Nobody’s reading your website.
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