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delicatenightfury · 1 year

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Letters

2022 Month of Writing: Day 5

Pairing: Henry!Sherlock Holmes x reader

Prompt:

Word Count: 2,551

Author's Note: please don't steal my work! you can choose to respond to the prompt as well, but don't steal my work.

I just watched Enola Holmes 2 last night and felt inspired to write a Sherlock Holmes (Enola Holmes style) fic today.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Newman,” y/n said with a smile.

“Not a problem, dear!” the man said. “It’s always a pleasure to see you around. Feel free to stop by again soon!”

“I’ll do my best. Good day!”

She stepped out on the cobble street, still smiling. Mr. Newman was a pleasant man. He was old enough to be her father, and greeted every customer that walked into his shop with a smile. He sold a variety of items, but she primarily stopped in for art supplies. She would send him a telegram, detailing the items she wanted, and within a week, Mr. Newman would make sure to have them for her.

Painting was a hobby of hers, one she didn’t get to do often but greatly enjoyed. She had learned at a young age from her mother and had continued to enhance her skills as she grew older. However, painting now remained a thing to do in her spare time.

She quickly ran the rest of her errands, making her last stop in the local market. She greeted the usual stall owners as she bought her groceries for the week. She knew that some people found it odd that she did her own shopping, but she enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the market. The people were pleasant for the most part and it gave her a chance to get out of the house.

Once she had all that she needed, she began making her way back home. She hummed lightly to herself and smiled at people as she passed by them. She always felt that it was right to smile at people, because you never knew if they needed a little bit of happiness. Not everyone responded to her smiles, but she was never offended by it.

Just as she turned a corner, she heard someone shout her name.

“Miss l/n!”

y/n turned her head quickly to determine the source and smiled. Lilliana, a local florist, waved at her. y/n walked over to her, carefully crossing the street.

“Lilliana, it’s so good to see you!” y/n said. “How are you? Is your sister doing all right? Better I hope?”

“Much, thank you. Seemed to have just been a little cold. She’s back to causing chaos, that one.” Lilliana took in y/n’s bags. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

“I’m afraid so. Otherwise I would be more than happy to buy some flowers off of you today. They look absolutely lovely.”

Lilliana smiled at the compliment.

“Well at least take a look around,” she invited. “If you’re not in a rush, that is.”

“All right, I’ll take a look.”

The girl cheered and left y/n to attend to another guest. y/n slowly walked through the selection of flowers, admiring the colors and scents. She carefully knelt down next to a basket full of (favorite flower). They were beautiful. She felt a little silly buying flowers for herself, but she couldn’t resist.

She waved down Lilliana and requested a small bundle of flowers. She smiled as she watched Lilliana build a small bouquet for her. Lilliana always treated her too well, giving her more than she paid for. As Lilliana carefully picked flowers to put together, she glanced at y/n.

“You know, y/n,” she said, “you seem to have an admirer.”

y/n looked at her, puzzled.

“I’m sorry?”

“An admirer. Since you started browsing, there’s a gent across the street that’s had an eye on you.”

Now that she mentioned it, y/n could feel the gaze. She was used to the occasional glance, but this felt different. It was… more persistent, curious even. y/n glanced around, making sure not to make it obvious. She didn’t notice anyone terribly out of place, but the street was filled with people. However, she knew not to question Lilliana. The girl saw these people almost every day. She would know when someone breaks routine.

y/n simply smiled, playing it off. She carefully adjusted her bags so she could get out a bit of money to pay Lilliana. They exchanged the money for the bouquet and y/n smiled.

“It’s beautiful, Lilliana,” she said. “Excellent job as always.”

“You flatter me. Have a lovely day, y/n.”

“You too! I’ll see you soon.”

y/n started back down the street, ready to get home. Her shoulders were starting to hurt from the weight of her bags. Luckily her flat was only about a block away. She briefly wondered about her mysterious admirer, but chose to forget about him.

She made good time and got to her home in no time. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. It was moments like this when she disliked living on the third floor. She waved briefly to the landlord’s wife, slowly made her way up, and was soon back in her comfortable home. She laid her things out on the dining table, sorting them briefly before beginning to put things away.

The food went in their respective homes, organized in a way that would be easy for her to access later. She cut the bottoms of the stems of her flowers and placed them in a vase, which she left by the window.

She then went to her bedroom and shed her overcoat. It had been cold, so the coat had been welcome on her outing. Her gloves and hat were put away, and her purse stored. She proceeded to make herself comfortable. She changed into slightly more comfortable clothing, a skirt and shirt that allowed her more movement. She pulled the pins out of her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. Finally comfortable again, she went back to the main room and stored her new paints and canvases.

Suddenly, she heard a knock on her door. She paused for a moment before slowly making her way to the door. She rarely got visitors, so questions started filling her mind.

y/n undid the lock and pulled the door open a little. A rather tall man stood in the hall. He looked a little awkward due to his height and broad shoulders. He turned to look at her and offered a small smile.

“Good afternoon,” he greeted.

“Hello,” y/n said. She remained partly behind the door. “Can I help you?”

“Ah, yes. I, um, well…” He fiddled slightly with his cane and hat, something she wouldn’t typically expect. “You are y/n l/n, correct?”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Yes?”

“You used to live near Ferndell Hall.”

He sounded more sure of his statement this time, meanwhile she became slightly more wary.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes. I used to live at Ferndell with my mother and siblings.”

Of course!

“Oh my word!” y/n exclaimed, opening the door a little more. She could see it now. Those bright, intense eyes so full of wonder and never missed a thing. “I didn’t recognize you, it’s been so long!”

“Indeed it has. Might I come in?”

“Yes, forgive me.” She opened the door wider and watched him step into her home. Once he was in, she shut the door. “Can I get you anything? Tea?”

“Thank you.”

She went to the kitchen and started a kettle of water to heat. When she went back to check on Sherlock, she found him wandering around her flat, looking at her belongings. She didn’t say anything and simply let him observe.

It had been so long.

Sure enough, they had been neighbors. The two of them were close in age, so they frequently played together as children, running through the fields and climbing trees. They would occasionally study together too. Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft had often thought of her actions as “unfit for a lady”, but their mother Eudora encouraged the behavior for many years. They had been the closest of friends for many years. y/n smiled slightly; those were some of the best years of her life.

He had changed so much from the boy she knew. They were once the same height, now he towered over her. His dark hair was still curly and his eyes were still the same, if not more intense now. He definitely filled out. It was hard to tell with his suit jacket on, but he looked like he had gained a lot of muscle. His features became more defined. He looked handsome. She almost blushed.

“I see you still paint,” Sherlock observed. He was looking at her new and old paints, then her recent painting. “It’s lovely.”

“Thank you.”

He continued on, only briefly, and stopped at a collection of photographs. There weren’t many, but y/n loved them. One of her parents, one of her old home, one she had taken of London when she first arrived, then one of…

“Is this Alexander?”

y/n nodded sadly.

“Yes,” she said.

Alex had been her brother. He had died when she was early in her teen years. An accident. He had been on the road when his carriage was attacked. Those responsible had shot him and stolen most of his belongings. He hadn’t made it through the night. He had been only an hour from home when he was attacked.

“I am sorry,” Sherlock said, bringing her back once again. “He was a good man.”

She nodded, blinking to get rid of the tears that threatened to spill.

“Yes, he was.”

He had been her biggest supporter. He included her in all of his activities and lessons, never wanting her to feel excluded. He was the reason she knew the Holmes family. He would drag her out of the house and take her with him to visit Mycroft and Sherlock.

Just then, the kettle started to whistle. She went to the kitchen and started on the tea. She heard Sherlock’s footsteps continue to move around somewhere behind her.

“You receive letters from Enola?” he suddenly asked, loud enough for her to hear.

“Yes, I do,” she replied. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the youngest Holmes. “She is quite a character. I met her briefly when I returned from finishing school and spent many weeks with her and Eudora. We’ve kept in contact, so I’ve been up to date on her adventures.”

She joined him again and passed him his cup. He took it with a nod. y/n sat down in one of her chairs, reclining comfortably. She supposed she should be a little more polite with the way she sat, but she couldn’t really bring herself to care.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Do you remember when we used to write to one another?” he asked.

y/n smiled a little and nodded.

“Yes. We lived only a mile apart but we sent letters almost daily. I looked forward to those moments. Your stories were quite interesting.”

“As were yours. We could have written a novel.”

y/n laughed.

“What a story that would have been. The tales of two children and their imagination.”

Sherlock hummed.

“You know,” he continued slowly. He didn’t look at her and instead stared into his cup. He cleared his throat with a hum. “After Alex’s passing, and you went off to finishing school, I still tried to write to you.”

y/n froze, teacup lifted halfway to her lips. But Sherlock surprisingly didn’t seem to notice.

“I wrote to you, daily at first. I had hoped you were well for I knew you were still grieving when you left. I wanted to continue our stories, as a way to distract you or perhaps give you something other than your schooling to think about. When I didn’t receive a response at first, I thought it was just because you were busy. So I wrote weekly. Then monthly. Then…” He sighed. “I know I really have no right to ask you this, but why didn’t you answer any of my letters?”

He finally looked at her and his deduction skills kicked in almost against his will.

Her grip was tight on her cup, yet her hands were shaking. Her eyes were wide. There were tears in them. She looked like a deer. Her expression was a little harder to read: shock, sadness, and puzzlement were the primary emotions. She gaped at him for another moment before swallowing.

“Sherlock,” she said, her voice thick. “You wrote me letters?”

Now it was his turn to be confused.

“What? Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

She shook her head slightly.

“I never received any letters, Sherlock.”

His eyes widened.

She blinked and the first tear fell. She quickly wiped it away.

“My going to finishing school was not by choice,” she said. “I was perfectly content to learn at home, like how your mother raised Enola. My parents were the ones who sent me away. Alex was the only thing keeping me home.” She paused to collect herself a little. “At finishing school, I would talk about you and our adventures, and I would get reprimanded by the headmistress. It’s apparently frowned upon to remain friends with a boy after a certain age.”

She looked at him and continued: “If you sent letters, Sherlock, I never saw them. I would presume the headmistress got rid of them..”

Sherlock set down his cup and moved to kneel in front of her. He gently grabbed her hand.

“I never wanted that. I wanted to keep in contact with you, to remain friends.” He paused for a moment. “Why didn’t you try to find me afterwards? You went back to Ferndell to see my mother and sister, and I was solving cases at the time. Surely…”

“I had thought you didn’t want to be friends any longer and never wanted to speak to me again. I became different after finishing school.”

He chuckled a little.

“I never wanted that. And I don’t think you’re much different now than you were then, y/n. As a detective, I can tell you are the same woman. Perhaps to an outsider you are one of society’s polite women, but here, deep down, you are the same spitfire girl I used to play with. Perhaps even more so now. If you’re friends with Enola, then I know that to be true.”

y/n laughed a little. She had to admit, he was right. Finishing school had taught her how to act in public, but had little effect on her interests and personality. She wiped away her tears and took a deep breath to calm herself. She looked back at him. He was still kneeling beside her, his large hand wrapped around hers.

“So what now?” she asked.

“Whatever you wish, I suppose. Personally, I want to get to know you again. I want to catch up on all we missed. And perhaps, make something new with it?”

y/n smiled and squeezed his hand.

“I would love that.”

She leaned forward a little and pressed her forehead to his, closing her eyes. He sighed and closed his own eyes, enjoying the new peace that settled around them.

“Just wait until Enola hears about this,” y/n then muttered. “She will lose her mind.”

“Let’s hold off on telling Mycroft then, yes?”

#month of writing #writing prompt #Henry!sherlock #Henry!sherlock x reader #sherlock x reader #Enola holmes #Enola Holmes 2 #angst #Cavill!sherlock #Henry!holmes

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tommiruewrites · 1 year

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Hi! I would like to request a Tewksbury x fem’Reader (romantic)! Reader is Enola Holmes’ sister

So basically, I was hoping for this to take place in Enola Holmes 2 in the theater fight scene. If you remember, Enola almost gets stabbed, but her corset protected her. So what if it was reader instead, and the corset didn’t protect her? Reader does finish the fight like in the movie because she’s just a girlboss like that and has that whole moment with Tewksbury after, but the stab wound finally takes its toll. That’s sort of just the base of the idea, you can do whatever you come up with after that! I sort of think of this as an angst + fluff? Thank you!

Just a Little Longer - V.T.

word count: 1.2k

requested: yes | no requests: open | closed request rules here

warnings: fem!reader, fluff to angst (but mostly angst bc i love to make myself miserable but in a cute poetic way), brief mentions of fighting, talk of blood, major injury, main character death, best friends to lovers/idiots in love, tragedy, holmes!reader, NOT PROOFREAD

a/n: i'm SOOOO sorry, ik it's been ages since you put in this ask, but my adhd slump was a pain in my ass. it has finally been forcibly lifted (by yours truly) bc i want to write again, and i found the start of this fic in my drafts and decided to finish it. i hope you're still active and able to read this, lovely anon! <3

remember to like, comment, and reblog to support my writing <3

part 2

· • —– ٠ ☆ ٠ —– • · • —– ٠ ☆ ٠ —– • · • —– ٠ ☆ ٠ —– • ·

Everything went by in a blur. You were fighting alongside Tewkesbury and Enola, dodging weapons and fists. The next thing you know, you’re on the floor, wind knocked out of you.

A loud crack rings out and you feel an intense pounding in your head, so you guess you must have hit it when you fell back. As you begin to stand, you feel a dull ache in your ribs. You look down to see the cause, and you thank the heavens that you’re wearing one of those god-awful corsets you've always hated so much. Shouldn’t leave more than a nasty bruise.

You hear Tewksbury —who’s still fighting from across the room— call out your name to make sure you’re alright, but you don’t have time to respond. Your sister reaches a hand out to help you up off the floor as she dodges a hit. A bit preoccupied in a fight of her own she misses the silver handle sticking out of your corset.

“Are you alright?” she screams over the chaos.

You stand firm on your feet, still staring down your opponent. “Fine. Just a little fall, nothing I can’t handle.” Pulling the blade from your abdomen, you miss the red glint of blood as you resume the fight.

———————

The battle is over, and the energy is high. You and Tewkesbury bounce off the walls blabbering on about the recent events, adrenaline running through you while Enola concludes the investigation with your brother, Sherlock.

“Did you see me! I got some really good ones in there. Think I got him in the nose!”

You laugh, breath like shard of glass in your lungs from the cold, "You were wonderful! Just like I showed you."

He beams at that, his cheeks glowing a warm pink, which he hopes could be chalked up to the biting chill outside, “You didn’t do so bad out there yourself.”

“Not bad?” you scoff, "You must have missed the look on that guy’s face when I threw him across the room!"

You both laugh softly, your breath visible in the winter air. You ignore the tight feeling in your lungs.

Suddenly you’re both hyper aware of the lack of space between you. Looking between his cold pink lips and his glassy doe eyes, you hold your breath as he begins to lean closer.

Just as you feel his intoxicating lips graze yours, your knees buckle beneath you. You try to steady yourself against Tewksbury, hand pressed against his chest, as he quickly grabs your waist to hold you up. He chuckles a bit as he tries to help you regain your footing, but immediately stops when notices that you’re practically limp in his hold.

“What's wrong? Talk to me.”

It feels like your chest is collapsing in on itself, and your head starts to spin. “Oh- I’m fine. Just cold.” Mostly reassuring yourself, nothing bad could happen right? You won after all. You beat them. Your family is safe and your best friend that you've been in love with for years is finally kissing you. Those are all good things. Really good things. So it's just the cold making you feel weak and breathless, right?

“I’m just really, really tired.”

Just as you begin to stand up straighter, sharp pain shoots through your stomach and your knees buckle again, causing Tewkesbury to almost fall over. He panics when he hears a gasp that sounds too much like you’re in pain.

“Enola! Something’s wrong!”

Enola and Sherlock stop their current debate and immediately notice your uncharacteristically frail state, rushing over to help Tewkesbury get you on the ground. They sit you down as quickly as possible without hurting you, your back to Tewksbury’s chest so he can keep you stable. His shaky hand tremble against your hips as he surveys your body for injuries. Enola kneels to be eye-level with you, “What's going on? Are you hurt?”

"No-" You nod your head, "I'm fine, I just-" you cut yourself short, unable to create a more convincing reply as a groan of pain rips through you. Thats when Enola notices a deep tear in your dress.

“Her corset. Take off her corset!”

Enola and Sherlock work to quickly remove the thick article of clothing, Tewksbury squeezing your hand reassuringly when you wince at the movement of him lifting your arms. Once the corset is successfully removed, a deep cut reveals itself, crimson red seeping through your under-dress. "Oh my god-"

You look up, the concern in Tewkesbury’s voice making you nervous. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

Enola grabs your focus when she presses her hands against your wound.

"Oh..."

Sherlock frantically removes his coat to tie around you and try to stop the bleeding. “Nothing's wrong. Nothing at all. You’re going to be just fine.” He rambles out, trying to calm both you and himself.

In your hazy state you can't fully sense the anxiety all around you, or how serious your injury truly is. You only register one thing. You’re going to be just fine. Your brother would never lie to you. Not ever.

Your breathing begins to slow as you relax, leaning your head back against Tewkesbury's shoulder. You begin to feel your own shoulder dampen. Looking over at the cause, you see Tewksbury’s face tacked with glistening streaks down his cheeks, staring at Enola and Sherlock frantically try to stop the bleeding as he helps where he can.

“Tewks?” His eyes jump to yours, sniffling. “What's the matter? Why are you crying?”

Much to your dismay, that makes him cry harder. "Nothing’s the matter."

You reach a weak hand up to wipe tears from his cheek as more roll down in their place. “Then why are you crying?”

There’s a long pause, your sibling’s desperate shouting falling deaf on your ears as a faint ringing replaces it. "I’m just so proud of you is all."

You smile at that, "I'm proud of you too, fighter." You tease. He chuckles weakly, not surprised that your wit is still intact even as you're bleeding out. Your eyes begin to feel heavy as you stare into his, eyelids fluttering open and closed.

“Hey! Hey, keep your eyes open for me. Just a little bit longer.” He stammers, squeezing your hand to keep you awake. "We just need a few more minutes. Just a few more minutes, and then you can rest, alright?"

You groan in discomfort, feeling all of your energy go into the one simple task as your body begins to feel floaty and numb. “Tired.”

“I know, I know. Just a little longer. I promise everything will be fine. I promise. Just please, don’t close your eyes.” He sobs out desperately, interlacing his fingers with yours.

Enola and Sherlock keep trying everything in their power to stop the bleeding, sobbing and begging for anything to work. For you to be okay. You try your best to keep your eyes open for them, you really do, but it’s just too difficult. You can hear distant shouts of your name as you finally let the peaceful darkness consume you.

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softestqueeen · 8 months

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i can't do this anymore!

pairing: bbc!sherlock x gn!reader

summary: When Sherlock overhears you talking on the phone, he thinks you're going to leave him.

warnings: nothing really, just miscommunication and a little angst

a/n: hey, this is my first ever fanfic so please be a bit patient with me. English is not my first language, I apologise for all the mistakes I've probably made.

Sherlock and you have been in an relationship for almost two years and so far everything was going great. Well, at least that’s what Sherlock thought.

Until one day, when he overheard you on the phone talking to your best friend, Mary. It wasn’t his intention to eavesdrop, but you looked upset while talking and he just wanted to assure he wasn’t the cause for it.

You were on the phone ranting to your best friend about wanting to quit your job. It didn’t make you happy anymore and you’ve already applied for new jobs. You didn’t tell Sherlock yet, because he was very busy with one of his cases and didn’t want to bother him with something that could wait.

“I’ve noticed that in these past few weeks I wasn’t happy anymore with this situation. I can’t keep on doing this, it’s just too much. So the only right thing to do, is end it. Once and for all.”, you told her.

Hearing this, Sherlocks heart shattered. He thought you were happy with how things were in your relationship, but apparently that was not the case. He couldn’t hear what Mary said on the other end, but he could hear very clearly that your plan was to end it tomorrow.

He couldn’t lose you. You were his everything, his reason to live. You made his life worth living and managed to break down the walls he built to protect himself. He trusted you with his life, so just thinking about you wanting to break up with him, nearly send him spiralling.

He didn’t know what to do or say so hedecided to wait until tomorrow and then beg you to not break up with him. Even if he’d have to get on his knees and beg. Alone the thought of you leaving made tears well up in his eyes.

He quickly composed himself, because he could hear you saying goodbye to your best friend. Acting like he was in his mind palace when you entered, gave him some time to think about what to say tomorrow.

“Hey Sherly”, he could hear your joyful voice call for him, but choose to ignore it, keeping up with the act. You were not happy at all with Sherlock ignoring you. After all the time you’ve spent with the consulting detective you knew when he was really in his mind palace and when he was just pretending.

With a frown on your face, you bent down to be at eye level with him. You crossed your arms and lifted an eyebrow. The moment you lifted your brow you could already hear the defeated sigh from your boyfriend.

“Hello, love”, he greeted you with a tight lipped smile. Immediately a crease started to form between your brows. “Is everything alright, honey?”, you asked him. “Yes, everything is just fine, love. I just have to.. uh.. go to a crime scene. Exactly, John called, he needs my help. Now. Don’t wait up for me.”, while explaining his not really convincing plan he put on his signature coat and his scarf.

He kissed you on the side of your head and left without another word. You could just mumble a short “take care” before you heard the door to the busy streets of London shut closed.

Not going to lie, you were worried. Why was he acting so weird all of the sudden? He seemed almost distant. Normally, when something is on the genius’ mind he talks to you. You’ve made a lot of progress since you first got together and talk about almost everything. You knew each other so well, you could always tell what’s on his mind, even if he doesn’t like to admit that. It’s his own fault, if he teaches you to deduct people. But in this case you wanted to wait until he came to you with his worries. Whatever it was it seemed to really bother your boyfriend.

Sherlock wandered around aimlessly before he returned to Baker Street. He wasn’t ready to face you just yet, so he did something he rarely did. He visited his house keeper Mrs. Hudson. He was that desperate.

He knocked twice, before the elderly woman opened the door with a surprised smile on her lips. “What do I owe the honour to, Sherlock? You never come to visit me.”, she ushered him in and set on a kettle.

“Uhm… I fear y/n wants to break up with me.”, he mumbled, not daring to look Mrs. Hudson in the eyes. “Oh, Sherlock! What makes you believe that?”, she wanted to know from the detective, that has grown into her heart and is now like a son to her. She was worried, she knew how much you meant to him.

On the other side she also knew how much you loved him and doubted that you wanted to end things. Sherlock told her what he overheard of your conversation. “But Sherlock, are you really sure that’s what she meant? Couldn’t she have been talking about her job or something?”, she wanted to know.

He just shrugged and sipped his tea.

“I think you should go and talk to her, Sherlock. Maybe it’s all just a big misunderstanding.”, she reasoned. Still unsure of himself he nodded and thanked her for the advice. “Anytime, Sherlock, anytime.”

He went back into the flat you two shared, first as flatmates and now as lovers. He couldn’t see you anywhere and softly called out your name. He went into his bedroom, which the two of you mostly share and found you underneath the blanked, hugging his pillow. The dried tears on your face made his heart shatter.

He wasn’t sure what to do, thinking he messed up. He undressed and put on his pyjamas, but instead of joining his lover in the bed, he went back to the living area and settled on the couch. It wasn’t comfortable but he couldn’t sleep anyways. At around 4 o’clock in the morning his exhaustion won and he fell into a dreamless slumber.

You woke up to an empty bed. It wasn’t something new, but you worried about your boyfriends whereabouts. A lot.

You got up and found him asleep on the couch, looking incredibly uncomfortable, his tall frame not fitting into the small space provided. You started to rub your hand up and down his arm to wake him up.

Slowly he opened his blue-green eyes and looked into your e/c eyes. He sat up, stretched and then looked at you like a kicked puppy. If you looked close enough you could even see a pout forming on his plump lips.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”, you asked cautiously.

After a very pregnant pause he chocked out, “Please don’t leave me. I- I- I just cant live without you, you are my everything!”

You looked at the tear that rolled down his face, taking a path over his high cheekbone to the corner of his lip, with utter shock and heartbreak.

“Oh darling, what makes you believe I want to break up with you?”, you sat down next to him, cupped his cheek and used the pad of your thumb to wipe away a new tear that threatened to roll down his face. “I love you so much, I would never leave you!”

Sherlock released a shaky breath and leaned forward, making your foreheads touch. He cupped your face and whispered with his eyes closed, “I thought you’re going to leave me. I- I was so scared I-“ “Shh, it’s alright, darling. I’m not going to leave you. You’re stuck with me now.”

The last sentence made the detective smile. You furrowed your brows. “What made you think I was going to leave you?”, you wanted to know. He looked hesitant and then admitted, “I heard you talking to Mary about how fed up you were and that you wanted to end things. I assumed that you were talking about us.” He avoided looking at your eyes.

You chuckled a bit but stopped when you saw his puzzled expression. “I want to quit my job. I’m not unhappy with us, silly, I’m unhappy with my boss and my colleagues. I haven’t told you about it because you’ve been so busy with your case.”, you reassured him, “Why did you eavesdrop on our conversation in the first place?”

“You looked worried and I wanted to be sure that I’m not the cause of it. I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.”, he confessed. You knew that when he dropped the words ‘I’m sorry’ he really meant it.

“It’s alright, you meant it well.”, you told him, “I wish you would have been honest with me from the beginning, but I could have asked you what’s going on when I noticed you acting weird. From now on we know better.”

“You are right. As always.”, even though he whispered the last part, you’ve still heard it.

With a soft smile you stood up, “Come on darling, let’s go to bed.”

He immediately stood up, picked you up bridal style and took you to his bedroom.

He was just glad, he still gets to call you his love.

a/n: if you liked this, please leave some notes! you can now also request fics on my page!

#love #fluff #miscommunication #sherlock holmes x reader #bbc!sherlock holmes x reader #happy ending #angst #sherlock holmes is bad with fellings #first fanfic #benedict cumberbatch #sherlock bbc #reader insert #x reader #female reader #fem reader #gender neutral reader

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futureplayboibunnie · 1 year

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‘Innocent’

Sherlock x fem! reader

- oh. my. god. i got a few requests for this virgin/ inexperienced smutty fic and lord i got so carried away. I LOVE THIS ONE SO MUCH IT TOOK ME SO LONG BUT MY OWN WRITING HAS ME FERAL??? help x

Sherlock was feeling completative, pondering upon forbidden grounds that he wouldn't usually travel. He was walking through the avenues of his mind, the thoughts reeling through him- even though it really wasn’t a good time.

You were next to him, he was being awarded another stupid gift for his incredible and somewhat pretentious sleuthing skills but he really wasn't paying much attention. Not after what he did. Not after what he felt.

Sherlock accidentally grazed your fingers while you were standing next to him, he was versed enough to catch onto bodily reactions but yours was incredibly different. Your breath caught in your throat but you still let out an audible gasp, you stiffened under his glare and your face started to blush a heated rose with every moment he stared at you. Lips parted, eyes widened with a surprised sheen, teeth clamping onto your lower lip- he didn't know he had the ability to draw that type of reaction out of you. He hasn't really seen a woman react like that before. Especially because of something he did.

Jesus Christ, it's like you've never been touched before.

He stole another glance at you. You were incredibly bashful, not in a nervous way but in an endearing shyness. Naive but knowing, chilling but warm...sexy yet sweet. A mystery altogether and Sherlock wanted to uncover all the secrets you were hiding, you were concealing something and he wanted to find out what it was. It was nagging him relentlessly. He was in spite of it. Sherlock was able to deduce anything about anyone but he couldn't place his finger on you, maybe it's because he couldn't but maybe it was because he didn't want to. This helpless attitude he was beginning to adopt was disarming him and he did not like it one bit. Even if he did want you, he simply wouldn't have the opportunity, you were as blocked off as he was.

Stop, Sherlock. She's much too young.

Sherlock's sex life was incredibly demanding. It never really occured to others that he had a sex life at all but what he demanded in the bedroom was intricate and detailed- he fucked his women in the way he alone wanted. He pushed the limits of every woman he had ever bedded and to some it may be shocking that he had a line of women begging for him.

Sherlock's tastes were very singular, specific and he was beggining to question if...you...were adventurous in bed. He shouldn't even be thinking about you in this way because you seemed so...innocent. Normally he didn't find that attractive but you were a fascinating creature altogether.

His brow creased. He could quite literally feel you shiver. He wondered if you were cold or nervous, but it all began to click- the puzzle pieces began to fall into place and he only realised once you were alone in his presence.

He asked you to meet him at Baker Street.

You were filled with dread and pining, you weren't even sure if it was quiet or loud pining but the desperation that was beginning to bubble within you was becoming very difficult to control and hide. Especially when the object of your desires wanted you to meet him..alone. You were so sweet for him. So ready for him but concern began whirring the cogs in your mind...for one, Sherlock Holmes was quite frankly unattainable and you were...inexperienced. Either way you were fucked, and not in the way you wanted too. He was just too potent, too strong and he could see through anything and everyone, you couldn't deal with the embarrassment he would be so unashamed to put on you- dealing with the ramifications of that would simply be your downfall.

But you couldn't find it in your bones to say no. Saying no to Sherlock Holmes? It simply wasn't within you, you couldn't find the strength to pretend not to want him anymore. Your heart thundered with every step you took up those stairs. Velveteen and living single wasn't really cutting it for you anymore.

‘’Sherlock?’’ You called after him as you creaked the door open, not really expecting an answer from him. ‘’Sherlock, what do you want?'’ You sighed exasperated and annoyed by the way he was keeping you waiting.

He was very certain with himself. He had a simple hypothesis but he wasn't sure if it was true, it really couldn't be true. Sherlock came out from the kitchen to see you standing there, trying to keep yourself cool, calm and collected but anyone with a brain stem could see that you were filled with panic. He straightened his blazer and unbottoned it as he made his way over to you.

‘’Can I try something? Please.’’ Sherlock asked with inquisitive and dark eyes, you were wondering what he wanted, what he was going to do. ‘’An experiment of sorts.’’

All you could do was mindlessly nod. ‘’Yeah.’’ You breathed.

Sherlock gazed into the endless summer of your eyes. If time stood still you'd take this moment and make it last forever. Your pupils dialated and that was something to cross off his checklist, his face was nearing yours and you blinked up at his dumbly. Your breath mingled with his and you stilled once his fingertips grazed up the bare skin of your arm, the pads flowing on the suppleness like oil upon water. Smooth skin left with goosebumps, you let out a shaky breath- completely confused yet enthralled with what he was doing.

His head dipped near your ear. Sherlock could feel your pulse kick into overdrive, he felt your body alight as he neared you- warm breath coating your skin. You were so damn shy, bright, deep and arousing as hell.

‘’No. It simply can't be true.’’ Sherlock muttered, he let go of you and you felt as though the sun just left everything in complete darkness.

Sherlock swayed slowly to lean on the edge of the table, arms crossed and the way he stood was enough to make electricity shoot down your thighs. Sherlock was shocked. It really couldn't be true but he secretly hoped it was.

‘’What are you talking about?’’ You asked impassively, afraid to reveal too much of yourself and the desire to jump his bones you were feigning in.

Sherlock finally pieced together you hadn't had anyone. You were a virgin.

It made his breath halt in his tracks when he came to the realisation, aren't people your age supposed to be fucking like bunnies? It was an objective expression: you were beautiful, sweet, charming and completely disarming. You had barely been touched. The thought is strangely appealling. Inexperienced? He could work with that, God knows he wanted to.

‘’Have you been kissed before?’’ Sherlock asked out of the blue, completely oblivious to how dumbfounded you were.

‘’Of course I have.’’ He thought you looked offended.

Yeah, you've been kissed but not often.... for some damn reason, it pleased him.

‘’Have you ever been touched before?’’ He questioned as if it was a normal thing to say.

You opened your mouth to talk but you couldn't find it in yourself to speak.

Hmm…interesting.

You were so...different. So different to his other women. He liked that.

And he wanted to fuck you, spank you and watch your skin pink beneath his cold hands. You weren't talking, that's out of the question now- isn't it?

He wanted to whip you into shape, your mouth would need training of course but he liked your naivite- it provided a challenge. Well maybe not fuck, that's too heavy handed for you. Maybe he could break you in...show you the ropes. It would be a novel experience for the both of you.

The look in Sherlock's eyes was that of fire swirling into a cylone, he sauntered his way over to you like a sly fox. Your chest was heavy as you looked up at him, the proximity between you two growing smaller and smaller. You daren't blink when he hooked his fingers up from your chin and jutted it up slightly- the feeling of his hands on yours was enough to do you in.

‘’I would like to bite that lip.’’ Sherlock grumbled concisely, his voice low and authoritative and your lips parted in surprise, he grazed his thumb over the soft pink flesh of your lips.

‘’I think I'd like that too.’’ You whispered, shocked by your own words.

‘’Where have you been? How have you been- how could you…?’’ Sherlock breathed, eyes inquisitive. Imploring you to make him understand how no one had taken you, no one had had you or touched you. How could it be possible?

‘’Waiting.’’ You breathed as you felt his hands cradle your face. ‘’For you.’’

‘’And a nice young man hasn't swooped you off of your feet? Men must throw themselves at you.’’

You were melting, knees buckling- you felt pathetic.

‘’No. No one. Just wanted you.’’ You exhaled, so intense and certain of your desire for him as you give him a bright come hither look, he was startled by the fact you weren't feeling so innocent now.

‘’Can I kiss you?’’ Sherlock asked politely and under his breath, which he wouldn't normally do but for you he was willing to bend the rules, his rules and it made him irate. He didn't like his specific rules he set be broken...he was just so curious about you that he was pushing to just get you out of that skirt, gag you and fuck you over the table but he had to tread lightly.

You shocked him when you grabbed him by the collar like instinct and slanted your mouth against his. Sherlock twisted his hand in your hair while your lips seek to find his. You moan into his mouth, the call of a siren and finally he could sample you: mint, tea, peach and an orchard of mellow fruitfulness, a fresh full supply that he wanted to drown in. Innocence and sweetness.

You taste every bit as good as you look.

You reminded him of a time of plenty. Good Lord, he was yearning for you.

Sherlock grasped your chin, deepening the kiss and your tongue tentatively touches his...exploring. Considering. Feeling. Revelling. Kissing him back.

Good God in Heaven. You thought you would grow wings before you could see the day, this could only happen in your wildest fantasies and dreams. A manifestation of sorts. You were punch drunk off of his taste, completely intoxicated beyond your reach and you didn't want to let go but you had to tear your lips away from his to breathe.

‘’I want to take you now...can I?’’ Sherlock had to ask politely, he couldn't just jump your bones although he wanted to.

‘’Sherlock, please. Do whatever you want with me, take control, I don't care. Just because I haven't been touched in this way doesn't mean I'm fragile and breakable. Fuck me how you want to, show me what you like. I've waited long enough, just do something.’’

Your voice sensual and that of an exotic creature, far too holy to be considered earthly. Sherlock had to contain his amusement and surprise, wow you were pulling the rug from under him and he liked that a lot. Those big doe eyes wide and gleaming to give you a morsel of the pleasure you were craving. He loved your incessant blushing.

‘’You don't mean that.’’ Sherlock warned.

‘’Yes I do.’’ Your voice timid.

‘’You're incredibly brave. I'm in awe of you.’’

‘’I feel like I'm too clothed.’’ You flirted.

Sherlock wanted to taste you, eat you out until tears were leaking down your face and then shock you with his cock.

He'd get there soon...in time. Maybe next time, he'd use the riding crop.

Yeah, yeah keep dreaming Sherlock. You have her here right now, just ease into it.

When he gripped you by the hand and lead you to his room, you felt your cheeks pink in desire. Sherlock felt a wholly unexpected thrill unfurl inside of him. He held you flush against his body. You gasp in surprise and his loud thoughts were subdued by his libido, he was so damn horny because of you- you had no clue how arousing you where. So alluring.

Sherlock's fingers tug at your hair, pulling your face up to his as he gazed into your captivating eyes.

This is so different...so intimate. It felt so heated. Although there was no arrangement made between you two, nothing placed, no limits set, you weren't his to do with as he pleases but yet he was still excited.

Aroused. It was obvious the way he was trying to reign his eagerness in when he was peeling you out of your clothes. You were shivering into his feather light touches, your body was alight like the fourth of July- a million fireworks exploding into the clear night sky and you were bathing in the feeling. He was so damn seductive. It was an unfamilair and exhilerating feeling, the desire for him coursing through you, at the tipping edge of a giant rollercoaster.

Sherlock got you half naked fairly quickly, he kneeled in front of you as you stood and your eyes widened. Sherlock Holmes on his knees? Dear God. You felt so special. He got you in your bra and now he wanted to peel your skirt off. His gleaming eyes met with yours and they daren't waver, they were blown out and dialated. Sherlock hands gripped onto your hips and he kissed the skin below the hem of your skirt and it began riding up with his nose as it travelled north. You whimpered and threw your head back in pure ecstasy. Your brows tensed as he stopped kissing you and finally shimmied your skirt down your legs.

Damn it.

His cock hardened in his pants. You in stockings? You in fine lingerie even though you had no one getting to see you like this, this…intimate? Who were you wearing them for? Him? Oh fuck. He was on top of the world.

His nose trailed over your panties and the scent of you was simply perfect, so delicious, he was salivating.

‘’Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you?’’ He grumbled, planting kisses on your thighs.

You whined at nothing, the words filling you up entirely. You were entranced- lost in his spell- he was clearly happy with himself.

‘’Do you want me to kiss you here, sweetheart?’’ Sherlock asked and you nodded fervently as his mouth was dangerously near the place where your ache was.

Lord, you were pulsating. Soaked.

‘’Yes. Please.’’ You agreed politely and he loved how naive and cute you were, it was delightful that you remembered your manners.

Sherlock's thick finger pulled your panties to the side as he kissed and suckled on that spot that no one else had touched. You felt electricity course through you, your hands flew to his soft curls to tug at it. It made him feel so good. His tongue was doing his magic now, swiping and suckling on your swollen clit, illiciting these lewd noises out of you in the process.

You were seriously about to cry, it was all so much.

You grabbed his face to make him stand and he got on his feet in quick hot flashes, his mouth was fastened to yours again. You moaned into his mouth when his tongue tangled with yours again, you could taste yourself off of him- it was so damn erotic, something out of a dream. When he ripped his lips from yours to see the wanton look in your eyes, he found that you were covered in a delicious rose, your breathing shallow and quick. You were clearly embarrassed at how quickly he got you like this.

Sherlock groaned when you gripped onto his arms, he finally reached behind you and unclasped your bra. Your tits fell free and he immediately palmed at them, your nipples were painfully hard and it made him realise how badly you actually wanted him. Your skin was warm as you flushed. It was the first time anyone else had seen you naked and the fact it was the infamous Sherlock Holmes made it all the more better.

'So pretty, I want to mark your skin up, make you mine." He wasn't sure why he blurted the last part. Would he make you his? Well you weren't.

‘’Do it then.’’ You breathed.

Like clockwork, he obeyed. His teeth sunk into the skin of your neck as he littered bites all down the column of it, leaving his mark on you.

His mark all over you. You then noticed that he was still fully clothed and it made you frown and Sherlock saw that as he peeked at you.

‘’What's with the frown? Am I not satisfying you enough?’’ He taunted.

‘’You've still got clothes on.’’ You pouted. ‘’Let me take it off for you.’’ You offered so deliciously and for once, Sherlock let you. It was unheard of, but you were already bending his rules.

You unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off him, but before you could revel in his physique he pushed you onto the bed. Your face contorted into different scenarios of pleasure and he wasn't even inside you yet. Sherlock fawned over you, hands roaming every inch of your skin, your hands raking in his hair. Breath warm as he kissed you. Your hands flew to his pants.

Whoa...gentle. Easy. So...eager. He liked that. The naive innocent itching to just get into his pants- interesting.

You unzipped it and Sherlock finally let his cock spring free. He peeked up at your face to check that you were still keen but it was more than that. You were desperate. Your mouth formed into an 'o' as it popped open, eyes wide with how big he was. It startled you, even envisioning what it would look like. He was leaking. Fuck.

‘’You still want this?’’ He checks again and you nodded furiously, already panting. Has he ever been this aroused? He didn't get it…it must be you.

Sherlock postioned himself in between your thighs as he slid into you so he could take you on his whim. Your eyes were open wide, imploring him as you strained. Should he be gentle and prolong the agony or just go for it?

The need to posses you clouds him. He goes for it.

You cry out and the pain felt so fucking God, the sting burned and you fucking loved it.

‘’Is that okay?’’ Sherlock checked as his eyes bore into yours, your face was etched in pure pleasure.

‘’Mmhmm...fuck...it feels...nice.’’ You whisper in his ear, moaning and whimpering and it was like his favourite sound of music.

Nice?

Sherlock? Nice?

Oh no, that's not good enough.

Sherlock wasn't nice in bed he was downright devilish in bed but for you he was willing to be soft, maybe later he'll fuck you in every way possible.

He had never felt this desire. This hunger before. He wanted so much from you but for now, he wanted you to cum on him.

Sherlock eased in and out of you slowly, eyes connected and scorching. Intimate. Hot. Slow. Normally, he would've pinned your hands above your head but right now they were in his hair and that's exactly where he wanted them to be right now. He began to pick up the pace and your moans echoed throughout his bedroom. It was just beginning to dawn on you that you were being fucked by Sherlock Holmes in his own bedroom.

‘’You're so fucking wet, I love it.’’ He cooed condescendingly and you didn't find it in yourself to care.

Sherlock reached you at the hilt, hitting that spot over and over as he kissed your lips and your jaw. He was just relentless and perfect.

‘’..God..'’ It was more of a strangled cry than an actual word.

‘’Cum with me...feel it with me, baby.’’

That's it…Feel it.

He loved that you were so responsive, he'd have to keep you in line for that later though. The pet name drove you to insanity as you bottomed out, gushing onto him as the flood gates opened and you had none of the means to keep them closed. Your cry was incandescent and it made him follow you in your footsteps. How telling. It was an explosive collision, a once in a lifetime event. That blush began to coat and prick your skin again.

When he finished, he rolled off beside you to regain his breath. The air was so thick and fulfilled, fire and erosion turning the atmosphere to molten lava. You cut through the pants.

‘’Am I supposed to thank you...because..uhm. Thank you.’’ You breathed bashfully, so sensual in your stance but you attempted to collect yourself and he wanted to laugh.

You were so amusing. So fun.

‘’This was more for me than you.’’ Sherlock admitted truthfully.

‘’Humility will always be a mystery to you.’’ You raised your eyebrow as you leaned to your side to peek up at him. Silence encompassed the air as your statement was incredibly true, he wasn't oblivious to it.

‘’How on Earth have you avoided…?’’ Sherlock seemed exasperated, confused as his brows creased but you cut him off.

‘’I told you, I wasn't interested. I only wanted you.’’

#bbc sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes fluff #sherlock smut #sherlock holmes angst #sherlock x fem!reader #sherlock holmes smut #sherlock fanfic

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annesthaeticc · 3 months

Text

lovers rock | sherlock x fem!reader

| Sherlock Holmes x Fem!Reader

| one shot , song fic

| 961 words

| 'because love can burn like a cigarette, and leave you alone with nothing...' What Sherlock and Y/N had was beautiful, but it crashed and burned.

A/N okay bear with me it's short, but hey it's something, right? testing the waters asi hopefully hopefully come back into writing. let me know what you think!

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“Such a small world,” you quietly said and watched as the air escaped your lungs, echoing your words. The party inside was loud, but not loud enough for the silence outside was piercing yet calming. And so, he heard you. Slowly, he turned to see who spoke and found your silhouette, your shape outlined amongst the trees and the pillars.

Slowly, he walked towards you. Yet another mistake he was about to make. For all the choices he made that involved you, it led to one.

One. Big. Mistake.

Sherlock heard his heart thudding. Crashing and breaking in every step he made towards you. You sat there frozen, your eyes unblinking, or at least trying not to blink for you feared that if you do so, he might disappear.

Just like he did back then.

Sherlock sometimes wished he never pursued you, but here he was, about to do the very same thing. He never learned.

“Indeed it is.” he replied, his very perfect presence now crowding over you. His shadow embraced you and your eyes finally blinked only to find he was still there, standing in front of you.

He was taller. His face is more defined. His curls, curled to perfection. His perfume was the same, or is it? His lips fuller, more inviting than ever.

Sherlock noticed this, and cannot help himself but do the very same. You were perfect in every shape and form, as the day he met you. He committed crimes before, but his favorite might be the one he is about to make; to kiss you.

Silence passed by the small distance between you and him and it was almost deafening. You were waiting for him to say something. Something along the lines of “I’m sorry I left you…” And he was doing just the same, waiting for the words like “I’m sorry I couldn't wait for you…”

“Best man leaving early?” you finally said, shyly asking. He nodded and looked away.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, cutting you off before you could even say anything.

“I was invited, well not just me really, Ian and I were…” your voice trailed off as your husband's name left your lips. Again, he nodded.

Ah yes, Ian. Sherlock knew more than you. He is decent enough, this Sherlock could guarantee. But not decent enough to leave you on your own for days, even weeks or months on end while he was traveling the world on some sort of opera tour. Sherlock didn't care enough to dig for more details.

All he knew was deep seated anger and sadness.

And this resonated through the walls of the second floor of 221B Baker Street for months. Your wedding invitation sent for him lay hopeless on his desk, waiting to be written on to confirm his invitation. He was about to decline after finally making a decision that went on for weeks, only to find out it was pointless to respond because your wedding was already done.

And so, he threw the invitation in the fire. He watched as the intricate paper got swallowed by the flames, melting into ashes, into nothing. He was mesmerized by it. How something could be nothing because of the burning flames.

He was shaken from his thoughts when he saw your hand, holding a packet of cigarettes. You were offering him one and Sherlock accepted. You sat down again on the bench and he followed, allowing a few inches between you.

Quietly, the two of you smoked. Avoiding glancing or talking. You were caught up in a trance and were shaken out of it when you felt movement. Sherlock stood up and stepped on the cigarette. His shoe dug into the grass as the last of the embers glowed.

“Going somewhere?” you asked.

“Home.” he replied, his voice deep.

“I could drive you.” you offered.

“No thank you. I’ll catch a cab.” he replied, slowly walking away.

“Sherlock, wait, please—” you caught up with him and offered to drive him once more. He declined and you almost gave up.

His figure faded into the darkness when you cried out, “Sherlock, I'm sorry.”

Tears flooded your eyes and you couldn't help. It fell from your eyes, flowing down your face. Everything was blurry and you felt your hands shaking from the nicotine and from the adrenaline of your apology.

“It's been 12 years, Y/N,” he replied. “Why are you saying sorry now?”

“Because…”

“You will not tempt me to play one of your games, Y/N. Not this time. Not ever again.”

“Sherlock, please,”

“I'm sorry? Is that all you could think? You left me, Y/N,” he cried. And now you see his face. Anger, despair, and longing painted his face,

“You left me first!” you accused him. He really did.

“And yet you couldn't wait for me, couldn't you? All the promises I made—”

“Were gone as soon as you disappeared, Sherlock.”

“Oh ye of little faith!” he said, his voice booming.

“Sherlock,” you breathlessly begged. “I'm sorry.”

Sherlock heard you, and saw your eyes. He hated you for marrying someone else, but what he hated most is seeing you cry. He pulled out his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed your face, wiping away the tears. He pulled you into his embrace, just like he did back then. When your cries died down, he pulled away then planted a kiss on your temple.

“We would never work out. You're happier with him.” Sherlock said.

“I realized that what he had, was all that it was. Nothing more, nothing less. We burned too fast until we became nothing, Y/N.” he continued.

“I loved you,” you whispered.

“And I did too. So much.” he said, his voice breaking.

————— • ————— • ————— • ————— • ————— • ——

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xohachi · 9 months

Text

illuminate

| sherlock holmes x u |

word count: 966

u have a date tonight! ur actually on the date for the first half of the story and sherlock’s brooding about it so badly that he can’t sleep :( BUT u come back sad 😧 so he comforts u ☺️. {angst/comfort/cute ending} {this is for the girls w no dad.}

(LOOK AT HIS PUPPY DOG EYES I WANNA CRYYYYYY) (i hate writing stories in my notes app but I watched American beauty last night and that “you could never be ordinary,” scene literally ate me so i just haddd to write something based off it. so enjoy this blurb i wrote first thing in the morning at a sleepover)

The mundane tick of the clock nearly lulled Sherlock to sleep. He persevered through the heavy bricks on his eyelids, pacing the room thinking of you. The time now was 12:34am. You’d left for a date at around 8, you never went on dates. Sherlock preferred it that way, maybe then he’d get some sleep. He thought of you, the image of you in your little black dress and red heels… the way you styled your hair and left a few dangling curls to frame your already perfect face. The stubborn detective would never say it but it enraged him to see you dressed up like this for another man.

…

“How do I look?” You asked sheepishly. He watched your eyes meet his, inhaling the presence of your soul snaking its way into the void where his was supposed to be. Somehow during the time that the two of you had roomed together at 221B Baker St, Sherlock had fallen in love with you and he hated the fact that he didn’t hate it.

“You’re leaving?” His tone was low, monotonous.

“Yeah silly, I happen to have a date tonight.” You gave him a spin. His eyes locked onto the slit in your already short dress and how it hiked up even higher when you moved. A scowl snuck onto his face as he thought about you dancing with lesser men at sub par bars, the way they’d probably slide a hand down your back, itching for an invitation to taint you with their touch.

…

‘A date,’ He muttered to himself. A cigarette sat between his lips. Sherlock leaned onto the fireplace and pulled his head back as he exhaled. Finally, your footsteps echoed up the stairs. He put out his cigarette and scrambled to find a place in his chair. Quickly picking up his violin, fumbling with the tuning to look busy. You’d left the house wearing heels yet your footsteps showed no indication of heels on your feet. You’d probably taken them off after too much dancing & the thought brought a red jealous haze back into his mind but he decided to let it go. Your dark silhouette emerged from the shadows. Something was wrong. He quickly scanned you with his eyes. Messy hair, your left dress strap sliding down your shoulder, your hand on your right shoulder seemingly massaging a bothering ache, perhaps from carrying your purse. Turning around, a yelp emerged from your throat.

“Sorry,” You choked out, trying to mask your sobs, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” You glanced down at the violin in his hands, yet his attention was solely on you. Sherlock’s eyebrow was cocked as he continued to silently read your tells. Shaky voice, running mascara, you’d been crying. Your arms were hugging your body, you’d been hurt. He stood up cautiously.

“He hurt you…” Sherlock concluded aloud, inching closer. His hands were somewhat extended towards you as if he wanted to touch you but couldn’t.

“No, Sherlock he didn’t, I’m alright.” You closed the space between the two of you. The sudden feeling of your small hands on his chest electrified him yet also diminished a fraction of his anger. Physically sure, you seemed to be okay. Sherlock realized that you were hugging your body to console deep emotional pain. Physical or emotional didn’t matter to him though, all that mattered was that you were in pain.

“You’re crying. He made you cry, I’ll murder him.” His rough calloused hands cupped either side of your face, his words venomous with intent. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation but Sherlock had never allowed himself to touch you like this. The most touch you shared was when he’d let you rest your head on his shoulder during long train rides, even then he felt like he was playing with fire.

“He was good to me, I promise,” a small silence, “I did this to myself, with my own insecurities.”

“Am I… ordinary, Sherlock?”

The streetlights trickled through the curtains, illuminating the silhouette of you both holding back from indulging in your deepest desires. The image of you, gazing up at the cold detective with wide teary eyes, clinging to his word like he’s god reciting the bible directly to you. Him, his hands on either sides of your face, soothing you with his words, “You could never be ordinary, not even if you tried.”

Although your crying had ceased, his words broke the dam behind your y/e/c eyes. Your head fell into his chest and the sudden intimacy caused Sherlock tense up. He could feel you needing him, begging him to hold you just this once, to tell you that everything will be okay…and that he loves you so. He opened his mouth to protest the hug, only to be cut off by a small, “Please, just this once,” whispered into his chest.

Frozen in time, the gears in his brain began to short circuit. He was a sociopath, how could he feel like this? The two of you were never even meant to get this close. He could feel his defenses crumble. Every alarm inside his mind palace blaring. Emergency! Emergency! The void where his soul should lie was no longer empty. You’d fought your way past his defenses, seemingly effortlessly. He lived and breathed you. He burned for you, and only you. Your soul igniting him, Sherlock finally allowed himself to wrap his arms around your small figure tightly. His chin resting atop your head. He wouldn’t admit any of this aloud. As a matter of fact, he wouldn’t say anything at all. This was enough for now, he’d just be here, with you, for you, in the moment.

#bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes #fluff #angst comfort

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j-eryewrites · 5 months

Text

The Great Game (I)

Part 19 of the Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221 B Baker St.

Word Count: ~12k

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SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Warnings: Canon typical violence, explosions, injuries, angst, Mycroft is Mycroft, Sherlock is Sherlock, murder, bomb threats, kidnappings, language, mentions of serial killers and murder (let me know if I have missed anything)

Author's Note: Man, this was such a long and fun chapter to write. After all, y'all did ask for full-course meals, so I present to you this chapter! NGL there will be mistakes...but I wanted to get this out as soon as possible. Lots of fun and angsty stuff happens, and I'm warning you again, it will get worse, but it will be so good when everything comes together! I hope you enjoy! I always appreciate reblogs and comments! I love hearing from you all!!

Sherlock was busy, or at least, he was trying to be. Busy meant his mind couldn’t stop to rest and if he didn’t have time to rest then it was a guaranteed way of avoiding everything: Y/N, feelings, boredom, feelings again, and then of course Y/N. That always how his thoughts seemed to run these days, both starting and ending with Y/N.

“Just tell me what happened, from the beginning,” Sherlock sighed.

It was a dreary place, the prison, and exactly like anyone would imagine: Gray, cold, and dreary. Yet this prison was where Sherlock’s next case was, well, he hoped so.

“We'd been to a bar – a nice place – and, er, I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't 'appy with that, so... when we get back to the 'otel, we end up havin' a bit of a ding-dong, don't we?” The man, named Berwick, sitting across from Sherlock explains. He’s in an orange jumpsuit which makes sense since he’s in prison. From a quick glance, Sherlock can tell he’s nervous with the way his hands fidget and flail around as he narrated his story to convince Sherlock to take the case. It was an argument already bound to fail, something Sherlock knew from the moment he sat down.

“She was always gettin' at me, sayin' I weren't a real man!” Berwick exclaimed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as his ears bled from the misuse of words. “Wasn't a real man,” the consulting detective corrected.

“-What?” Berwick asked. Everything on the man’s face told Sherlock that he did not have a clue as to what he was correcting.

“It's not "weren't", it's "wasn't", Sherlock duly noted.

“Oh.” Berwick’s voice got small.

“Go on,” Sherlock said.

Berwick nodded his head. “Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands. And, you know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives. He learned us how to cut up a beast.”

Sherlock winced. “Taught.”

“What?” Berwick asked again at Sherlock’s interruption.

Sherlock leaned slightly forward in the cold metal seat. “Taught you how to cut up a beast.”

A tiny vein bulged out from Berwick’s forehead as his hand motions got more frantic. “Yeah, well, then-then I done it.”

His shoulders slumped and Sherlock fell back into his chair with disappointment. “Did it.”

Berwick shoots out of his seat and slams his hands on the table between him and the detective. “Did it! Stabbed her... over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren't…” Sherlock eyes flashed with disapproval. “...wasn't movin' no more...anymore.”

Sherlock nodded and at least he didn’t have to correct Berwick anymore.

Sitting back down Berwick drew his hands together to plead with Sherlock. “You've gotta help me. I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear. You've gotta help me, Mr. Holmes!”

With a deep breath in, Sherlock stands from his seat and begins to walk away from Berwick.

“Everyone says you're the best. Without you, I'll get hung for this!” Berwick cried.

Sherlock’s footsteps halted and he briefly looked at his shoulder. “No, no, no, Mr. Berwick, not at all. Hanged, yes.” Then without another word, Sherlock left to try and find another case to keep him busy. It was the only thing he could do if he didn’t want to think of her at all.

_____

A sigh escaped the young woman’s lungs. It was a full body experience: her spine sunk, her shoulders slumped, and her head fell into her hands. She hurt everywhere, but what hurt the most was her heart.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, John.” Y/N confessed to her friend next to her. She was on the brink of tears.

By the inflection of her voice, John could tell there was a serious disturbance in Y/N’s character. Sitting a little straighter, he placed his right hand on her back, giving it a rub. “Start from the beginning,” John said, even though he already had an idea as to what placed Y/N in that particular mood.

“I…I’m not really sure. I thought I had it under control. We were friends and I–”

She was going on a rant. Y/N tended to do these things when expressing herself. It was as if she could never find the right words, so in her mind, as long as she kept talking, maybe the right words would just come.

“Y/N. Breathe,” John calmly stated. He was right. She did need to breathe, and so she did. “What did Sherlock do?” John asked. He thought that maybe a more direct question would help Y/N along.

“He–He did everything and nothing,” Y/N explained. Her fingers tightened their hold on the strands of her hair as John patiently waited. After a particularly long exhale, Y/N finally answered. “He kissed me. He kissed me, John. I kissed back, because–” She faltered.

John finished Y/N’s thought. “You like him.”

With glassy eyes, Y/N peered up at John. He was one of her greatest friends since she came to England. He was there for her through thick and thin. He was a friend for life. “Yeah,” Y/N muttered.

John sensed a hesitancy in the woman. “But…?”

Y/N sat up and glanced to the side. Her eyes trailing the other visitors of the park. She watched as people played with their dogs, children ran with glee, and old women gossiped. “He pushed me away. He left me there in that room and has hardly acknowledged that I exist since we got back. John, he’s…pushing me away and I don’t know why.”

At that moment, John wished he could see into the great detective's mind. He wished every and all secrets that had ever crossed Sherlock’s mind would now be visible to him, just so he could ease Y/N’s pain. But he couldn’t. He was sure no one would ever know what happened inside Sherlock’s mind. So instead, John said, “I’m sorry.” Sniffling, Y/N replied telling John he didn’t need to apologize, but John just shook his head. “No, you need to know that what’s happening to you isn’t fair. When I say sorry, it’s to say you aren’t alone in this. I’m here for you, Mrs. Hudson is, hell, I’m even sure Lestrade would be willing to lend a shoulder for you.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said in a whisper.

A peaceful silence fell over the two of them. The park bench was the perfect place for them to get away from the chaos that was Sherlock. On the park bench, they could think without being criticized and feel without being judged. Both John and Y/N cared for Sherlock, but sometimes, they needed to be cared about too. They needed to not feel alone and ostracized from the brilliant mind that was their friend.

Together they hoped that maybe one day, they could find solace in Sherlock. That one day his brain wouldn’t come in the way of his heart and soul. Maybe together, all three of them, Sherlock, John, and Y/N would never feel alone again.

_____

Being welcomed home to the sound of gunshots wasn’t exactly what John and Y/N had planned on but expected altogether.

“What the hell are you doing?!” John scolded Sherlock the second he reached their flat.

There Sherlock sat in his chair. His knees rose higher than the cushion he sat on. One hand hung lazily over the side, and in the other he held a gun. Still in his pajamas from the night before, Sherlock briefly glanced over at John. “Bored,” he enunciated.

“What?” John asked. He couldn’t hear Sherlock clearly with the last gunshot echoing in his ears.

“Bored!” Sherlock yelled before raising his arm to fire another shot.

“No!” John cried as he saw another whole form in the wall.

“Bored! Bored!” Sherlock bellowed again. Each time he said the word, he took another shot at the wall of his apartment.

“Sherlock!” Y/N yelled as the gunshot rang throughout the apartment. Then pinching the bridge of her nose, she held out her hand to Sherlock, waiting for the gun. When he reluctantly placed it in her hand, she mumbled to herself. “I thought I hid all the guns…”

“You didn’t hide them very well, Y/N. You have a tell.” Y/N shared an exasperated look with Sherlock, who ignored her. “Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job, I'm not one of them.”

John ground his teeth together. “So, you take it out on the wall!”

“Ah,” Sherlock shrugged. “The wall had it coming.”

Feeling the peace, he received from his time with Y/N vanished, John decided to change the subject. “What about that Russian case?”

Sherlock got up from his seat and marched over to the couch before plopping down as if it was his bed. “Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.”

John fought the urge to roll his eyes as he made his way over to the fridge. “Ah, shame!” Opening the door, he continued. “Anything in? I'm starving. Oh, fu…” John muttered.

Y/N whipped her head around to look at John. “John, what is it?”

“It's a head. A severed head!” John felt like crying now.

“A what?!” Y/N responded. “A head?” She walked over to the fridge and felt her stomach turn. “Oh god…Sherlock.”

“Just tea for me, thanks,” Sherlock said at the sound of his name.

Now John rolled his eyes. “No, there's a head in the fridge!”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“A bloody head!” John flipped his arms into the air and then shut the fridge door.

“Well, where else was I supposed to put it? You don't mind, do you?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course, he minds, Sherlock. Just look at him. Where’d you get it from anyway?” Y/N questioned.

Without sitting up from his lying position on the couch, Sherlock answered. “I got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.”

Muttering curses and pleas, John turned away from the fridge and found a seat in his armchair. He quickly pulled his laptop into his lap and opened it.

“I see you've written up the taxi driver case,” Sherlock commented.

Y/N clenched her eyes shut at the memory of that case.

“Er... yes,” John replied.

“A Study in Pink. Nice!” Sherlock said and John wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a mark of disgust and disapproval. John hoped it was a compliment.

“Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone,” John explained. “There was a lot of pink. Did you like it?”

“Um... no,” Sherlock stated.

“Why not? I thought you'd be flattered," John said.

“Flattered?” This irked Sherlock. Sitting up from his seat he turned to look at John. There was a flash of hurt within his eyes as he recited John’s post. "Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things."

John was supposed to be his friend, yet he wrote something so harsh. It was something Sherlock knew well and that plagued his very being. It was the one of the reasons he had left her in that room. He had left Y/N there making his lips grow cold from wanting her. He knew he was ignorant in the ways of love. The very ways that Jim, her boyfriend, was able to give. Afterall, he was perfect, and Sherlock was not.

“Now hang on a minute. I didn't mean that in a…” John tried to explain.

“Oh, you meant "spectacularly ignorant" in a nice way! Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister…” Sherlock barked. He was angry and hurt. He was angry at himself for kissing her. He was hurt by John. He was hurt that he couldn’t love Y/N. However, Sherlock couldn’t say that. At least not now, so he released his anger, frustration, and fury through another source. “...or who's sleeping with who... Whether the Earth goes round the Sun…It's not important.”

John was shocked. “Not impor...?! It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?”

“Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it," Sherlock spat.

"Deleted it?” Y/N questioned.

“Listen. This is my hard drive,” Sherlock pointed to his mind. “And it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful... really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

“But it's the solar system!” John exclaimed.

“Oh, hell! What does that matter?!” Sherlock began to rage. "So, we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!”

Without a word, John opened the door to the apartment and left. His footsteps seemed louder as they pounded on the wooden staircase.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demanded.

“John…,” Y/N called out.

At the sound of Y/N’s voice, John turned around. “Out. I need some air.” He saw the look of pity on her face, but he knew in her eyes there was understanding. Suddenly, he bumped into something. He quickly glanced at the source and found Mrs. Hudson. 'Scuse me, Mrs...

“Oh, sorry, love!” She chuckled.

“Sorry,” John apologized before heading down the rest of the stairs and out the door.

A mix between a sigh and a groan left Y/N’s mouth as she watched John’s disappearing figure. She whipped around to Sherlock and sent him a glare before busying herself with things in the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room and took one look at her grand-niece and Sherlock. “Ooh-ooh! Have you two had a little domestic?” There was silence after her comment. Quickly, Mrs. Hudson changed the subject to John. “–Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more.”

Sherlock huffed and bounced out of his seat before stepping to the window. His long fingers drew back the curtain to watch John cross the street below. “Look at that, Mrs. Hudson. Quiet, calm, peaceful.” Sherlock sighed. “Isn't it hateful?”

“A little quiet and calm won’t kill you, Sherlock,” Y/N hissed over her shoulder.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed on the young woman’s figure. The look wasn’t one of distaste like Mrs. Hudson was expecting. Instead, Sherlock’s blue eyes seemed to be longing for something. Mrs. Hudson softly smiled to herself. She knew that look well. Afterall, it is the very look all the young men in her romantic dramas had in their eyes when gazing upon their love interests.

“Oh… Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder – that'll cheer you up,” Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock glanced away from Y/N. “Can't come too soon,” he muttered.

Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at Sherlock and Y/N. Her mind began to flood with ideas on how to bring them together when she noticed new holes in her walls. “Hey. What've you done to my bloody wall?!” Sherlock’s smirk did not go unnoticed by Mrs. Hudson or Y/N. “I'm putting this on your rent, young man!”

Then, just like John had left, Mrs. Hudson returned to her flat.

Sherlock was still standing by the window. His back was now turned to Y/N, but even so, she could still sense his ever-cocky smirk.

“Don’t.” Y/N’s hand’s stilled as her voice pleaded.

“Don’t?” Sherlock asked. His body now faced her.

“Don’t,” Y/N repeated. She sent him a warning glare.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock began to approach her. “I’m bored,” he said with a precise enunciation.

Y/N scoffed and took a few steps closer to Sherlock. “That’s not an excuse, Sherlock.” She raised her hands in frustration before dropping them by her side. She was now standing only a few steps away from him and his captivating blue eyes. Y/N shook her head and turned away towards the window. “You’re not the on–”

There it was. A deafening roar that broke the conversation as a sudden explosion ripped through the air. The force of the blast shattered the frail windows of 221B with a thunderous crash. Shards of glass were sent flying in every direction: down onto the streets below, on the wooden floor of the apartment, and deep into the skin of Y/N and Sherlock. The two of them were thrown off their feet with such a force that sent them flying. Furniture toppled over and the walls seemed to tremble with the shockwave of the explosion.

Alarms blared, smoke filled the arm, people screamed, at least that is what Y/N would have heard if she could hear. Her head was ringing, screaming, pounding, and bleeding all at once. She felt immense pain coursing through her body as she tried to push herself off the floor. Then there was Sherlock. He hovered above her. Y/N’s dazed eyes watched the fear in Sherlock grow. His mouth opened and closed over and over. She couldn’t hear him.

Meanwhile, Sherlock felt powerless as the fear and vulnerability washed over him. One minute he was conversing with her and the next her they were on the floor. It was the blood he saw first. The dark red liquid spilled from where the shards of glass imbedded themselves into her skin. He crawled over to her, and said the only thing he could, her name. Sherlock said it like a prayer and a plea. Then she moved, the pain evident in her face as she tried to sit up. The sight of her moving did little to stop Sherlock from rushing to her. He pulled her in close and into the safety of his embrace.

The tremors in the 221 B Baker Street stilled and the kicked up dust fell back down to the floor. There they would sit, Y/N and Sherlock, holding on to each other like a life line. If they were to let go, they were confident they’d both break into a thousand pieces. So, there they would sit until the sound of police sirens and ambulances came cascading down the street to the rescue.

______

The scent of old leather and perfume filled John’s nose as the light of the morning flooded his senses as the curtains drew back with a sharp screech.

“Morning!” Sarah’s voice called out cheerfully.

John winced as he sat up. He carefully turned his head back and forth, finally discovering where his pain came from, his neck. “Oh, mor... Morning,” John groaned.

Sarah chuckled. “See? Told you you should've gone with the lilo.”

Shaking his head in refusal, John replied, “No, no, no, it's fine. I-I slept fine. It's very kind of you.”

“Well, maybe next time I'll let you kip at the end of my bed, you know,” Sarah joked.

Smiling John, continued on with the joke. “What about the time after that?”

Sarah rolled her eyes playfully before reaching to turn on the telly. The news flashed onto the box-like screen and the clear voice of the anchor woman spoke out. “Experts are hailing it as the artistic find of the century. The last time…”

For a moment, the two of them focused their attention on the telly to see if there was anything newsworthy before tuning it out as the morning background noise.

“So, d'you want some breakfast?” Sarah asked.

John sighed before turning back to look up at Sarah. “Love some.”

Patting her hand on John’s shoulder, Sarah began to walk away. “Yeah, well you'd better make it yourself, 'cause I'm gonna have a shower!”

Now it was John’s turn to roll his eyes with a hint of amusement. With his neck still horrifically sore, John decided he could wait a few minutes before starting up breakfast, instead, he turned his attention back to the telly. His hand took up the remote and turned up the volume.

“...it fetched over twenty million pounds. This one is anticipated to do even better. Back now to our main story. There's been a massive explosion in central London. As yet, there are no reports of any casualties, and the police are unable to say if there is any suspicion of terrorist involvement.”

Suddenly a dreadfully familiar street flashed upon the screen. It was Baker street, but not the street he had left the night before. No, this street was in disarray: Broken glass, ambulances and police cars, debris, fires, the list went on and John couldn’t bear to look at the screen any longer.

“Sarah!” John yelled. He could hear the sound of water pouring out of the shower head.

“Police have issued an emergency number…” The television continued to play.

“Sarah!” John yelled again. His voice now echoed throughout the apartment.

“...for friends and relatives…” The news broadcast interrupted.

“Sorry! I've got to run!” John said before he dashed out the door hailing a cab to Baker Street.

____

Panic coursed through John’s veins like blood. Even so, John still remained the polite gentleman his mother raised him to be. “'Scuse me, can I get through? 'Scuse me.”

For the aftermath of an explosion there were an awful lot of people. Some of which John believed were intrigued by the destruction as if it was some sort of entertainment.

“Can I go through?” He asked impatiently once he reached the police line. The officer standing guard shook his head. “I live over there.” John frantically pointed to the 221 B Baker Street and the officer reluctantly let him through.

Nodding his head to nearby officers, John weaved between the chaos finally coming to the black door. It was truly a sight for sore eyes. Immediately, John opened the door, and darted up the stairs. “Sherlock. Sherlock!” John called out to his best friend.

There was a sharp pizzicato note. Sherlock sat unamused in his chair with an annoyed expression plastered onto his face. His violin was still in pristine condition as he plucked the strings.

“John,” Sherlock acknowledged. His attention was elsewhere.

“I saw it on the telly,” John said out of breath. “Are you okay? Where’s Y/N?”

“Here…” the woman groaned. She was holding an ice pack to her head. “...and I’m alright.”

John’s brows creased at her disheveled state. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked, bringing his attention to John. “Hmm? What? Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently.” He played another note of annoyance on the instrument and turned back to John's chair. John tilted his head in confusion, the chair was occupied. “I can't,” Sherlock said to the person in the chair.

"Can't?” It was Mycroft. John would recognize that voice anywhere.

“The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time,” Sherlock explained. His eyes narrowed as they glanced over at Y/N. “Maybe ask your spy.”

Y/N let out a defeated sigh and clenched her eyes shut. “Sherlock… for the last time–”

“Am I wrong?” Sherlock interrupted as he lowered his violin. His grip on the bow in his other hand tightened. “You are under my brother’s employment afterall to…spy on me.” There was a nasty tone in his voice that made John shudder.

“What?” John asked. His eyes darted between Sherlock, Y/N, and Mycroft for an explanation.

“John, did you know Y/N took my brother’s deal? The very one you were offered when you first moved into Baker Street?”

“No, but–”

“She’s been spying on me ever since,” Sherlock spat.

“Sherlock,” Y/N pleaded and the sight forced Sherlock to turn his gaze away from the woman. It hurt more than he thought it would seeing her like that, but he had to. She had hurt him just as much by conspiring with his brother.

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his younger brother’s antics. “Oh, never mind this usual trivia. Sherlock, this is of national importance.”

The sound of Sherlock’s violin picked up again. “How's the diet?” He asked his brother.

“Fine,” Mycroft said. He turned to John who was still standing in the entrance of the apartment. “Perhaps you can get through to him, John.”

“What?” John asked.

“I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent,” Mycroft noted and he flashed a tense smile on his face.

“If you're so keen,” Sherlock questioned, “why don't you investigate it?”

Mycroft shook his head, the smile was still present on his face, but it was anything but pleasant. “No, no, no, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time – not with the Korean elections so...well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this – it requires... legwork.” He eyed his brother’s long legs.

A flat note rang in the air and Sherlock’s jaw tensed. “Sounds like a perfect job for Y/N.”

Y/N’s teeth dug into her lip leaving an iron taste in her mouth. “I’m getting a migraine,” she whispered. The growing ache in her mind could be from a matter of things; The recent explosion, how Sherlock had held onto her for hours after the event and now wouldn’t even look at her without disdain in his glossy blue eyes, or the increasing stress levels caused by her newly discovered feelings for the consulting detective. It all was growing too much and she felt like she’d drown in the sea of it all with no one to save her.

“How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?” Sherlock abruptly asked his friend.

“Sofa, Sherlock,” Mycroft corrected. “It was the sofa.”

Sherlock widened his eyes at his brother’s word. “Oh yes, of course.”

Meanwhile John was still trying to process Sherlock’s new animosity towards Y/N, the explosion, the presence of Mycroft, and how they knew he slept on the sofa. “How...? Oh, never mind.” Sherlock’s and his brother’s skills still amazed John despite the lengthy time he had known them. However, being on the receiving end of such skills wasn’t quite so delightful.

Mycroft shuffled around in his seat and his posture began even straighter, if that was possible. His calculating eyes fell on Y/N. She had made herself small. Her legs were drawn in close to her chest and her head rested on her knees. Her eyes casted aside staring at one of the only undamaged spots on the wall. They were filled with utter misery. Mycroft felt like he should pity her, but he had better things to be worrying about than his brother’s sweetheart. It was obvious to Mycroft what his brother felt for the young woman and it wasn’t ideal. Sherlock was supposed to be free from all the trivial stuff that is accompanied by love, but it seemed no matter how hard Mycroft worked, the damned thing still snuck into his brother’s life and it appeared like he was partially to blame. Afterall, he had paid the woman to check in on Sherlock.

“Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became... pals.” Y/N’s shoulders tensed as she continued to ice the injury on her head. “What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine,” Mycroft mentioned.

“I'm never bored,” she replied.

“Good! “ Mycroft beamed, this smile resembled something a bit more real. “That's good, isn't it?” Suddenly he stood up and handed a file to John, whose hands unconsciously held onto it. “Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant,” Mycroft explained, “found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in.”

John opened the file and took a quick peek at the crime scene photos. “Jumped in front of a train?” He guessed from the gruesome scene depicted in the photos: A man lay dead with his eyes wide open next to train tracks. He shook the imagery from his brain before peeking up at Mycroft.

“Seems like a logical assumption,” Mycroft muttered.

John recognized that tone. It was the same one Sherlock had when he made an incorrect observation. “But...?”

"But?” Mycroft encouraged.

“Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident,” John promptly said. It was the best response he could muster until he had something more. It was better to be vague than incorrect.

Mycroft smiled at John’s words. “The MoD is working on a new missile defence system, the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called.” John nodded. “The plans for it were on a memory stick.”

“That wasn't very clever,” Y/N added, the small comment brought a bit of light into her eyes.

“It's not the only copy,” Mycroft told the woman.

“Oh,” she apologetically said and the light was gone as fast as it came, replaced by sorrow.

“But it is secret. And missing.”

“Top secret?” John asked, already knowing the answer. Afterall, Mycroft was the British government in person.

“Very,” Mycroft replied. “We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you.”

“I'd like to see you try,” Sherlock challenged. A cunning smirk grew on his face as his eyes were lit with a defiant fire. It raged on as he stared at Mycroft.

“Think it over,” Mycroft tensely said, moving his gaze from his brother. It was not a fight he would win now, not with Sherlock still aggressive from his latest discovery. “Goodbye, John. Goodbye, Y/N. See you very soon.”

Sherlock huffed once his brother disappeared from view before he raised his bow with strict accuracy and began to loudly play the same phrase of music over and over.

“Why'd you lie?” John had to yell over the music. “You've got nothing on – not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?”

“Why shouldn't I?” Sherlock shrugged. He brought the bow close to his face, pretending to examine the thin horse hairs strewn together.

“Oh! Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere,” John grumbled. “What happened between you two?” John pointed between Sherlock and Y/N.

Sherlock just glowered in response. Y/N pinched the back of her neck letting out a defeated exhale.

“He found out I took Mycroft’s deal to check in on him.”

“A spy. You’re a spy,” Sherlock spat. The fire in his eyes in his gaze from Mycroft’s presence diminished. John knew Sherlock was furious at his brother, not at Y/N. She was the ‘spy’ but it was Mycroft who was truly at fault in Sherlock’s mind. His blue eyes shivered as they admired Y/N. John internally smiled knowing a physical one would only gain Sherlock’s annoyance. He could see the reflection of yearning in Sherlock’s ocean eyes. They often say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and now John felt like he could truly see inside Sherlock’s soul. It was battered and bruised from the years empty from the light of sentiment. Now, with Y/N in view those bruises had faded, no longer an angry blue and purple, but a warm yellow. He was healing in her loving presence. She made him feel safe. Sherlock didn’t have to say it, John already knew. In his mind, John recalled all the times she was there for him, holding his hand or shutting down any harsh comment aimed in Sherlock’s direction. The longer Sherlock gazed at Y/N, the warm feeling in John’s heart only grew stronger. Sherlock was in love with Y/N. But Sherlock was an idiot. Love was strong but Sherlock’s lunacy appeared to be stronger.

“No, I’m not. I’m just a messenger for a concerned brother,” Y/N replied. “And for your information I took the deal before I really even knew you. I wouldn’t even think about–”

Sherlock played the strings louder.

“Agh!” She groaned in frustration. Then Y/N clenched her hands into fists and raised them into the air before pushing herself off the couch. She brushed past John with a sad look in her eyes that made his heart suffocate at her predicament and in the blink of an eye the sound of her apartment door slamming shut echoed throughout the building.

“Are you happy with yourself?” John angrily questioned Sherlock, but Sherlock ignored John’s presence. Instead, the consulting detective had discarded his violin and now occupied himself with his phone.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said over the phone. “Of course. How could I refuse?” With a click the call was over and an inferno of intrigue was lit in his blue eyes. He whipped around to face John. “ Lestrade,” Sherlock explained. “I've been summoned. Coming?”

No, John wanted to say. His anger at Sherlock’s actions and the disheartened state he consistently had been leaving Y/N as of late made him want to run and comfort her. John wanted to grab Sherlock by the collar and scold him for being so blind. He wanted to pry open Sherlock’s heart and deliver it to Y/N. He wanted them to no longer hurt. There were so many things John wanted for his two best friends. Yet John knew if he went to Y/N, Sherlock would tag along only resulting in more hurt for the two of them. It was in his nature for Sherlock to find Y/N. No matter how much the infuriatingly intelligent man wanted to deny it, he was drawn to her, seeking her out wherever he was. “If you want me to,” John defeatingly said.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied as he flicked the collar of his coat up. “I'd be lost without my blogger and—” He didn’t finish his thought, but it didn’t take a genius to know who else he was going to say. It didn’t take cunning and wits for John to figure out that Sherlock would be lost, and is lost without her, his Y/N. Yet here was Sherlock leading himself astray when he knew all paths would lead to her, and for once in all the time John had known Sherlock, he knew the man was truly insane.

_____

Greg Lestrade was supposed to have the week off. He planned on taking a nice trip to visit his mother and father in the countryside and take a break from Sherlock Holmes and everything that seemed to follow the man. Greg was supposed to get some sleep for once in his life and maybe enjoy a few home-made meals instead of take-out dishes and frozen dinners. This time off seemed too good to be true, and it was. Rather than spending quality time with his elderly parents in the home of his childhood, Greg sat in his office filled to the brim with case files. The phones hadn’t stopped ringing since the explosion the other day. It was getting annoying, and now Sherlock had arrived, Greg’s workload got even bigger.

“You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones,” Lestrade asked Sherlock. It was a rhetorical question. The strange cases were always the ones Sherlock solved for Scotland Yard.

“Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“You've love this. That explosion... Where’s Y/N?” Lestrade peered around Sherlock and John hoping to catch sight of the third companion. He had only known the young woman for a few months, but she soon became ingrained in the chaos of it all. A slight frown appeared on his face, when he realized she was absent. She was the only glimpse of normal he could find around here, and now she was nowhere to be found.

“Traitor,” Sherlock muttered. Lestrade sent John a questioning look to which John only shrugged.

“Alright…anyways, that explosion–” Lestrade continued.

“Gas leak, yes?” Sherlock phrased it more like a statement than a question.

“No,” Lestrade corrected.

Sherlock looked puzzled. He was hardly ever wrong. “No?”

“No. Made to look like one,” Lestrade explained.

John’s eyes widened. “What?” He felt a pounding in his chest. It was an animosity he had never felt before, and it only grew stronger with each hit. Someone had purposefully hurt his family. His best friends. His home.

“Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box,” Lestrade said. “A very strong box and inside it was this.” He raised up an envelope. On the well-kept paper, the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ was carefully scribed.

“You haven't opened it?” Sherlock questioned. He eyed the envelope with intrigue. The same anger in John was a light in Sherlock.

Lestrade shook his head. “It's addressed to you, isn't it? We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped.”

“How reassuring!” Sherlock replied, his voice full of sarcasm. He snatched the envelope out of Greg’s hand and held it close to the light. His eyes narrowed as he observed every detail about the seemingly simple letter. “Nice stationery. Bohemian,” he noted.

“What?” Lestrade asked.

“From the Czech Republic,” Sherlock specified. “No fingerprints?”

“No,” Lestrade replied.

Straightening up, Sherlock lowered the envelope. “She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duo fold, iridium nib.”

"She?” John repeated. His tone was full of disbelief.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said. He was a man of few words today. His mind was elsewhere. The explosion, the gas leak was purposeful. He was a target, and so was she. Y/N. He had to keep her safe. It was a foreign feeling, his mind being filled by his desire for her safety rather than the thrill of the case, and no matter how much Sherlock fought it, the desire only grew stronger.

“Obviously!” John grunted in defeat. Without a warning, Sherlock tore the envelope open revealing the contents inside. A block of pink slipped out the envelope and sent John into a shock. “But that... That's the phone. The pink phone.”

“What, from the Study in Pink?” Lestrade wondered with eyes just as wide as John’s.

“Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like…” Sherlock mumbled before tilting his head to face Lestrade. “The Study in Pink? You read his blog?”

“Course I read his blog! We all do. D'you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?” Lestrade genuinely asked and a wave of vile snickers echoed throughout the office. Sherlock’s shoulder’s tensed and his hand ached for the comfort of another–Of Y/N. Sherlock wished she was there, but he couldn’t–no shouldn’t be wishing for that. Sherlock closed his eyes; everything was all too complicated.

“It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new,” Sherlock noted once he returned his focus to the present case.

“Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone,” John mentioned, and he looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the device.

“Which means your blog has a far wider readership,” Sherlock muttered, and John gulped. John was proud of his work, but knowing a criminal who meant his family harm was reading it was almost too much to bear.

Turning on the pink device, the screen came to life and an automated voice spoke. “You have one new message.” Then five beeps followed after.

“Is that it?” John asked after hearing the beeping.

Sherlock frowned, but then a photo appeared on the tiny screen. “No. That's not it.”

“What the hell are we supposed to make of that?” Lestrade gasped looking at the photo. It was a room: practically pristine with everything cleaned and stored away. In all honesty, it looked like something out of a housing catalog. “An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!”

While Lestrade threw a fit, Sherlock found his voice stolen away. His lungs collapsed as his eyes scanned over the photo. This feeling was one he hadn’t felt in awhile. A feeling he hoped to never feel again. The very one that encapsulated his soul the night in the museum during the Blind Banker case. As he looked at the picture, Sherlock realized that he knew this place, yet it wasn’t the place that brought a momentary lapse in his composure. It was where the photo was. “It's a warning,” Sherlock whispered.

“A warning?” John asked.

“Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that,” Sherlock explained. “Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again. I know where that is. Let’s go.” With shaky hands, Sherlock pocketed the phone.

By the time John had processed Sherlock’s words the man had already left Lestrade’s office. “H-hang on,” John called after Sherlock. “What's gonna happen again?”

When Sherlock looked back at John, there was the terror of uncertainty reflected in his eyes. Cases like these typically excited Sherlock, making John doubt the fear in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock was hardly ever scared. Yet Sherlock’s response only confirmed John’s observations. Sherlock Holmes was terrified.

____

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed the moment he returned home to Baker Street. In tow followed John.

“Yes dear?” Sherlock felt a slight feeling of relief when Mrs. Hudson peeked her head out of her apartment. The elder woman’s eyes smiled at the young detective until she locked onto his trajectory, and she stepped out blocking his path. “No, Sherlock. She doesn’t want to talk to you–”

Sherlock brushed her aside. “The door's open,” he announced to John.

“Oh! Men!” Mrs. Hudson said wringing her hands in the air with frustration. She caught sight of John. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything–”

“Stupid?” John finished. “I’m way ahead of you Mrs. Hudson.” Then quickly he ran after Sherlock to Y/N’s apartment.

There was a loudly hissing sound when they entered. Bjørn was furious with the intrusion of Sherlock Holmes and so was the cat’s owner. He growled as Sherlock strolled into Y/N’s apartment like he owned the place. His strides were long and quick as he approached the closed room in the back of the flat: Y/N’s spare room.

“Christ Sherlock! What are you–” Y/N gasped as the man intruded into her home. Her patience for Sherlock was running thin.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks at the sound of Y/N’s voice. He stood frozen ignorant of the angry cat. His eyes only saw one thing, Y/N. The fear and anxiety that had piled up on his journey back to Baker Street dissipated at the sight of her. Now that he gazed upon her, Sherlock knew he couldn’t live without her in his presence. It was if his eyes were crafted to only look at her. In this trance, Sherlock stood watching her as the confusion appeared on her face.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” Y/N asked. Just as her voice drew him into her spell, her words pulled him back out.

“He's a bomber, remember," John cautioned everyone as he appeared in Y/N’s doorway.

“Does anyone care to fill me in on anything?” Y/N looked around at the two men. None of them answered. Sherlock, now free from her spell, turned back to the spare room. He trekked over to the door and swung it open.

It was a neatly organized room despite the cardboard boxes shoved in the corner. The walls matched those in the living room. Everything had a place, except for one thing. In the center of the room sat a pair of shoes. Shoes that hadn’t been there before.

“Sherlock what are you doing?” Y/N hurried on after him. “Why are you–how’d those get there?”

“That’s exactly my question.” Sherlock stepped away from the door and approached the shoes. He carefully took a step closer and closer until he deemed the shoes no threat.

“They’re shoes,” John muttered. “Are they yours?”

“Not mine. I don’t even know how they got here,” Y/N whispered. “Now do you mind explaining things to me. What about the bomber?”

Before any of them could answer Y/N, the phone in Sherlock’s pocket buzzed. He quickly retrieved it, placing it on speaker.

“Hello,” A soft voice said followed by ragged breathing.

“Hello?” Sherlock replied.

“H-hello... sexy,” the voice said. There was a sniffle. The voice, whoever it belonged to began to cry.

“Who's this?” Sherlock demanded.

A sob from the phone echoed around the room. “I've... sent you... a little puzzle... just to say hi.”

“Who's talking? Why are you crying?” Sherlock listened as the woman over the phone continued to cry.

“I-I'm not... crying… I'm typing....and this... stupid... bitch... is reading it out.”

Y/N gasped and raised a hand to cover her mouth. She had seen many things working with Sherlock. Being held hostage was something she knew well. It was an experience she never wished on anyone, and an experience she’d never be able to forget. John felt Y/N’s demeanor change and offered his hand as comfort. She gratefully grabbed his hand squeezing it tight as she fought off the terrors of memory.

“The curtain rises,” Sherlock whispered as if he was connecting the dots.

“What?” John wondered.

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing,” he responded.

“No, what did you mean?” John urged Sherlock to answer.

“I've been expecting this for some time,” Sherlock said. Y/N’s hand squeezed John’s tighter. The sight made Sherlock tense.

“Twelve hours to solve... my puzzle, Sherlock” the crying woman read. “...or I'm going... to be... so naughty.” The call had ended.

“So, who d'you suppose it was?” John was the first to speak after the concerning call.

“Hmm?” Sherlock quizzically raised his brow up. His mind was still focused on Y/N’s hand in John’s and not his.

John blinked. “The woman on the phone – the crying woman,” he mentioned.

“Oh, she doesn't matter.” Sherlock waved his hand as if to brush away the anxiousness John felt for the hostage. “She's just a hostage. No lead there.”

Y/N released John’s hand and her jaw hung open with shock. “Sherlock! John wasn't thinking about leads.”

“You're not going to be much use to her,” Sherlock shrugged.

“Really? Sherloc–” Y/N scoffed.

“I need a lab,” Sherlock mumbled before walking out of the room with the shoes in hand. “Come on, Y/N! John!”

Taking in a deep breath, Y/N and John shared an expressionless look. They were worried with all of this new information. What did Sherlock mean he was expecting this? What about the bomber and the shoes? There were too many questions and little to no answers to be found. With the look, an uneasy feeling made their stomachs churn. They felt sick, but there was no turning back now. A case needed to be solved. A woman’s life was on the line as well as the potential for more tragedy and destruction.

“We’re coming Sherlock!”

____

John paced around the lab with his arms crossed over his chest. “Are-are they trying to trace it, trace the call?”

“The bomber's too smart for that,” Sherlock boredly said before holding his hand out. “Pass me my phone.”

“Where is it?” John asked as his eyes darted around the room looking for the small cellular device.

“Jacket,” Sherlock replied. John’s shoulders slumped. Sherlock was wearing his jacket. Biting the inside of his cheek, John reached for Sherlock’s pocket.

“Careful,” Sherlock cautioned without taking his eyes away from the microscope.

John rolled his eyes as his fingers carefully brushed over Sherlock’s phone. “Text from your brother,” John announced.

Sherlock let out a disappointed grunt. “Delete it.”

“Delete it?” John questioned.

“Missile plans are out of the country now,” Sherlock noted. “Nothing we can do about it.”

John huffed. “Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important.” He turned the phone around to flash Sherlock the screen. Sherlock didn’t look up from the microscope.

“Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?” Sherlock muttered.

“His what?” John asked. His eyes widened and he peered back at the phone. How had Sherlock known?

As if sensing John’s doubt, Sherlock began to explain. “Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?”

John just stared at Sherlock before reluctantly deleting the text messages.

Immediately after the messages on Sherlock’s phone disappeared, Y/N’s phone buzzed. “Sherlock. He’s texting me now.”

Sherlock looked up from the microscope at Y/N. “Then maybe think next time before agreeing to my brother’s antics. Now shut up. I need silence.” He winced at his words upon seeing the pang of hurt in her face. He wasn’t planning on them coming out so harsh, yet they were already spoken.

“Really?!” Y/N scoffed. All the pain in her expression vanished and was replaced with an unknown yet terrifying look. John shivered and he was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end. “Alright then! John. I’m off to the bathroom to cool down before I murder him.” She reached for her coat, before stomping out the door.

Once the door had clicked shut, John turned to Sherlock. “Try and remember there's a woman here who might die,” he hissed.

“What for?” Sherlock impatiently said. “This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?” Sherlock didn’t give John’s stunned expression any thought as the machine next to him beeped. “Ah! He exclaimed.

Suddenly a young brunette entered the room with an adoring smile on her face. “Any luck?” Molly asked. John felt relieved at her presence.

“Oh, yes!” Sherlock replied, his mouth still hung open waiting to say more until the door opened once more.

It was a young man. “Oh, sorry. I didn't…” He nervously glanced around the room.

“Jim! Hi!” Molly beamed at the man. “Come in! Come in!” She waved him in and lovingly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.” She introduced. Sherlock barely spared a glance at the man. “And this is John. And thi…where’s Y/N?” Molly wondered.

“Bathroom,” John replied before sticking out his hand for Jim to shake. “John Watson. Hi. Funny, Y/N’s boyfriend has the same name,” He commented looking between Molly and Jim. John had actually never met Jim yet, he was always too busy with work or Y/N. Not that John really minded. However, he noticed a flinch in Jim’s expression at the mention of Y/N, but it was gone before he could read further into it.

Jim chuckled and ran his hand along the back of his neck. His dark brown eyes scanned the consulting detective who was still staring at the screen of the computer next to him. “Jim’s a common name…,” he said to John. Then Jim turned to Sherlock. “Uh Hi. So, you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly told me all about you. You on one of your cases?” He pointed a shaking hand to the objects captivating Sherlock’s attention.

“Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance,” Molly proudly grinned as she adored her boyfriend. Her cheeks flushed a light pink. John smiled at the sight.

“Gay,” Sherlock coughed.

The smile on Molly’s face flattered. “Sorry, what?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock shook his head. He removed his eyes from the microscope. “Um, hey.”

“Hi.” Jim’s face flushed even redder than Molly’s. He stuck out his hand for Sherlock to shake, only knocking over one of the tools off the counter. “Sorry. Sorry!” He apologized. He twirled around placing the object back on the counter. “Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, 'bout six-ish?” He told Molly.

“Yeah!” Molly smiled. Her eyes trailed as Jim's figure turned to leave the room.

“'Bye.” He said to her, giving her a swift kiss on the cheek.

“Bye,” Molly whispered back.

“It was nice to meet you,” Jim said to Sherlock and John.

John replied for both of them. “You too.” And then Jim was gone.

The door clicked shut “What d'you mean, gay? We're together,” Molly growled.

“And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly.” Sherlock sarcastically said. “You've put on three pounds since I last saw you.” There was a bitterness in his voice. He hated it. He hated how Molly was happy. He hated how his name was Jim. It all reminded Sherlock of her. Y/N. He couldn’t have her because of her damned boyfriend. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. Sherlock wanted to scream.

“Two and a half,” Molly corrected.

“No, three,” Sherlock stated. Molly’s jaw clenched and her eyes grew watery.

“Sherlock…,” John warned.

“He's not gay. Why d'you have to spoil...? He's not,’ Molly denied. All joy in her face was replaced with sadness.

“With that level of personal grooming?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair,” John said. His tone was protective as he stood up for Molly.

“You wash your hair. There's a difference,” Sherlock noted. “No-no – tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear.”

“His underwear?” Molly’s voice broke.

“Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand. That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here…” Sherlock lifted up the bowl Jim had knocked over and there sat a small slip of paper. Jim’s number. “...and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain.” Sherlock tossed her the paper as a waterfall of tears fell from Molly’s face. She ran out of the room not a moment later.

_____

Bathroom. Y/N and Molly

Women building women up.

Cultural differences. Y/N loved discovering them as she progressed through her new life in London. But now, as she stands in front of one of the mirrors in the public bathrooms, she can say she found a cultural similarity, crying alone in the women’s bathroom.

Y/N found herself to be releasing tears more often than she thought. It was both a terrific and terrible thing; Terrific because she could express herself without any judgment, horrible because she was doing it more. However, what was worse was because all the tears came from a single source, Sherlock.

Sniffling, Y/N wiped the latest of tears falling down her cheeks. The tiny droplets were leaving noticeable streaks down her face and her hand eagerly erased them. Less evidence for Sherlock to notice.

Suddenly the door swung open, startling Y/N. She jumped back and instinctively turned her face away from the door. Her cheeks flushed red as she hoped her eyes weren’t as red as she thought they were. However, all signs of embarrassment fled when she heard a muffled whimper beside her.

Correction. Bathrooms were the perfect place for women to cry together.

Turning her head to view the addition to the bathroom, Y/N saw Molly. It took the young woman to remember her, but Y/N could recall the few times they had met before. Each time dealing with a case. More tears crept into Y/N’s eyes as she saw Molly hunched over hiding her face with her shoulders.

“Molly?” Y/N whispered. She stepped towards the other woman wondering if she should put her hand on Molly’s back to comfort her. She decided against it.

Molly jolted up at the sound of her name. Her fist clenched tightly around a small sheet of paper in her hand. “Huh? Oh, Y/N. Um, sorry about…” Molly wiped her tears feeling embarrassed until she saw Y/N’s. “You too?”

Y/N nodded, wiping a few more tears away. “Are you alright,” Y/N found herself asking.

Shaking her head, Molly glanced down. “My boyfriend is gay. He just–” A sob broke her train of thought and Molly almost collapsed to the floor if it weren’t for Y/N’s gentle hold.

“Men suck,” Y/N muttered as she held Molly helping stand up once more.

A light chuckle left Molly’s mouth at Y/N’s words. “They really do. Here I thought he might be nice, but he just used me to get his number to Sherlock and then he went and did his thing, you know,” Molly motioned with her hands when words no longer seemed to find her.

“When he deducted you?” Y/N finished. Molly could only nod before breaking down again. Y/N frowned. She had seen firsthand Sherlock’s deducting abilities. He never held anything back for the sake of accuracy. Oftentimes he’d forget one key factor, feelings. Y/N had yet to be on the other end of Sherlock’s observations. She was sure John had something to do with it; he was always protective of her when it came to Sherlock’s judgment. However, Molly was never spared. “I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered.

“It’s not your fault…” Molly began but Y/N cut her off. She stood Molly up right and looked into her watery eyes.

“No, I know it’s not, but sometimes it's nice to know you’re not alone when it comes to Sherlock.” Y/N smiled, and Molly’s eyes widened.

“He’s made you cry?” She asked.

Y/N somberly nodded. “A lot actually.” Saying those words made more tears appear.

Molly looked at Y/N with confusion. “But he’s…I thought he…well, he always looks like he’s…” she mumbled nervously. Raising a brow, Y/N urged Molly to continue. “Why would he make you cry when…I thought he was in love with you.”

Y/N froze. “What?”

“It’s obvious. At least it is to everyone. Sherlock really likes you,” Molly said. Tears no longer fell from her eyes.

Her heart jumped at Molly’s words. Sherlock. Love. Obvious. “Really? Because it doesn’t feel like that.” If anything, Y/N thought Sherlock hated her now. It was as if she could never do anything right anymore after that night in the hotel. Even her need to breath made Sherlock tense. If he was in love, he sure had a strange way of showing it. But just the idea of Sherlock being in love with her washed away all sadness. It filled Y/N with hope.

That was the other great thing about women crying together in bathrooms, they built hope together. You never left the bathroom sadder than when you entered it. You always emerged revived. It was the power of women. Something that was the same all over the world.

“I’m sorry,” Molly whispered, and Y/N knew Molly was saying it for the same reasons she had said it to her. They weren’t alone.

They stood in the bathroom chatting with each other for minutes longer. Each word only gave the women back strength they thought that they had lost. Soon, they could stand on their own. Their cheeks were no longer wet, and their eyes were no longer puffy and red. They were ready to face the world once more.

_____

“Sherlock. What did you do?” Y/N hissed as she entered the lab. Her talk to Molly only made her even more infuriated with Sherlock.

Sherlock immediately knew what Y/N was talking about. “Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?” He smiled.

Y/N’s eyes ticked.

"Kinder? No, no, Sherlock. That wasn't kind,” John said. “He announced rudely to Molly her boyfriend was gay,” he explained to Y/N.

“I know, I heard all about it in the bathroom as she was crying. Sherl–” Y/N scolded.

“Go on, then,” Sherlock interrupted. His gaze was on John as he raised his hand to the shoes on the counter.

“Mm?” John stared back at Sherlock confused. Y/N’s mouth hung wide open. A fly could have flown in and out and she wouldn’t have noticed.

“You know what I do. Off you go,” Sherlock clarified now looking at the shoes.

“No,” John shook his head. “You hurt Molly, and then interrupted Y/N. I’m not–”

“Go on,” Sherlock insisted. Y/N began to curse in the background.

John angrily placed his hands on his hips. “I'm not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try to disseminate…”

“An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me,” Sherlock sarcastically smiled.

“Yeah, right!” Y/N huffed.

“Really,” Sherlock repeated. His tone was calm and serious.

John bit his tongue as he stared at Sherlock. “Fine,” he grumbled before moving onto the shoes. “I dunno, they're just a pair of shoes. Trainers.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

“Umm... they're in good condition. I'd say they were pretty new... except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while,” John continued. “Uh, they're very eighties – probably one of those retro designs.”

“You're in sparkling form,” Sherlock praised. It struck John’s pride just right to keep him talking and the focus off of him and Y/N. “What else?”

“Well, they're quite big, so a man's,” John noted. His eyes glanced at Sherlock and then to Y/N as they watched him.

“But...?”

“But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip,” John said. “Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid.”

Sherlock was beaming now. “Excellent. What else?”

“Uh... that's it," John muttered. His hand flopped to his sides as if to further express the point.

“That's it?” Sherlock was disappointed.

“How did I do?” John asked like he was a child being tested on the colors of the rainbow.

“Well, John; really well,” Sherlock began. John softly smiled. “I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know…”

Y/N saw red. “If you’re so wise then Sherlock, show us what you’ve got.”

“Gladly,” Sherlock smiled at her, taking a bow with his head. “The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored. Changed the laces three... no, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old.”

“Twenty years?” John questioned.

“They're not retro, they're original. Limited edition - two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine,” Sherlock explained.

John shook his head. “But there's still mud on them. They look new.”

“Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it.” Sherlock peered at the shoes.

“And how do you know that?” Y/N asked, stepping closer to the counter with the shoes.

“Pollen,” Sherlock smirked. “Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind.”

“So what happened to him?” John wondered.

“Something bad. He loved those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets…” Sherlock trailed off and his eyes bulged. “Oh.”

“What?” Y/N and John eagerly asked.

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock whispered.

John and Y/N looked at each other as if they had missed something. “Sorry, who?”

“Carl Powers, John,” Sherlock said. The annoyance in his voice was noticeable.

“What is it?” Y/N found herself asking.

“It's where I began,” Sherlock muttered. “Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid – champion swimmer – came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?”

As Sherlock relayed the story, something deep within Y/N had risen. “Carl Powers…huh.” She whispered to herself. The name felt familiar in her mouth. She couldn’t place why.

“But you remember,” John noted.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“Something fishy about it?” John asked.

“Nobody thought so – nobody except me,” Sherlock explained. “I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers.”

“Started young, didn't you?” John jokingly said. Sherlock ignored it.

“The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head.”

“What?” Y/N wondered.

“His shoes,” Sherlock said.

“What about them?” John looked at Sherlock stare off into the distance.

“They weren't there,” Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair and stood up. “I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes...until now.”

Sherlock had put on his coat in an instant before moving towards Y/N. With each step he took toward her, the ache in his chest lessened. “Right. Y/N with me.” His hand reached for hers wrapping around them so tightly she wouldn’t be able to escape. He didn’t care if she was pissed at him. All he cared about was keeping her safe. She could only be safe when he was with her. His observant eyes would keep danger away. He would keep the monster from twenty-years ago far away from her. The very one who broke into her apartment. The very monster who was warning and taunting him. “John, go deal with my brother.”

John stood dazed as he watched Sherlock drag Y/N behind him. They were gone before he could give Sherlock his reply. “Uh…fine.”

_____

It wasn’t often Mycroft got visitors. Although, to be fair, all his visitors were invited, so they weren’t technically visitors. “John. How nice,” Mycroft said. It said more to be socially acceptable than from joy that John had visited. “I was hoping you wouldn't be long. How can I help you?” Again, another trivial social phrase. Mycroft knew exactly why John was here, however being the British government required such pleasantries that his brother could afford not to have.

“Thank you. Um, well,” John looked around Mycroft’s office. It was exactly as he expected. The office was practically decorated. The walls only had two paintings, each on opposite sides to create a sense of symmetry. There were a few chairs and of course a desk. Everything else was empty space. Mycroft was a practical person, a trait sometimes shared by Sherlock (barely). “I was wanting to... um, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans - the missile plans.”

Mycroft raised a brow up skeptically. “Did he?”

“Yes.” John nodded before moving his eyes to look at a small notebook with questions and notes about the case. “He's investigating now. He's, er, investigating away,” John corrected. “Um, I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man.”

Leaning back into his chair, Mycroft began to answer John’s questions. “Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington programmed in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies... Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.”

“Right. He was found at Battersea, yes?” John noted, “So he got on the train.”

“No,” Mycroft replied.

John looked up from his notes. The scribbling with his pen stopped. “What?”

“He had an Oyster card…” Mycroft said. “...but it hadn't been used.”

“Must have bought a ticket,” was John’s response and he went back to jotting down some notes.

“There was no ticket on the body,” Mycroft corrected.

John stopped again. “Then…”

Mycroft had grown a bit impatient. His back straightened and he leaned in the direction of where John stood. “Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea? That is the question – the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?” He smiled letting John know he knew what his brother was actually doing.

“He-he's fine, yes. Oh, and-and it is going…” John hesitantly gulped. Despite it all he hid his nervousness well. “...very well. It's, um, you know – he's completely focused on it.”

_____

Sherlock was, in fact, not focused on it. With his thumb tucked under his chin and his pointer fingers in front of his lips, Sherlock focused on Y/N. Well, he was thinking of the case, but each thought about the case was broken up with thought of her.

The woman in question was making tea. She had to keep her hands busy so she wouldn’t accidentally strangle Sherlock for dragging her along and giving her no explanation. Even so, she had tried talking to him about everything: the kiss, the case, their relationship, Carl Powers, and the shoes found in her apartment. Each attempt was met with silence. All Sherlock seemed to do was stare at her. She found it unnerving as his careful eyes trailed across her face and body.

“Poison,” Sherlock muttered.

“What?” Y/N placed the teapot on the stove. Her eyes flitted over to Sherlock who was still gazing at her.

“Clostridium botulinum!” He exclaimed before jumping out of his seat and pranced over to her. He had begun his dance. The one Y/N hated to admit she enjoyed watching. It really was beautiful how Sherlock twirled around the room as the ideas came to him. Each step entangled with new observations from the case. “It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet! Carl Powers!”

“Wait, are you saying he was murdered?” Y/N asked for clarification. Her eyes floated around the room finding Sherlock’s figure as he approached her.

“Remember the shoelaces?” he smiled and she thought that this was her Sherlock. The intelligent, lively, and caring man was back. She could see it in his eyes as he looked at her. She had missed that look. She had missed his eyes on her. Once her Sherlock had returned, Y/N also felt herself return.

“Mmm,” she nodded letting Sherlock know she was following. He was close now. Just as close as he had been when he held her after the explosion.

“The boy suffered from eczema,” Sherlock beamed. “It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyzes the muscles and he drowns.”

Her stomach jolted at the proximity, but she longed to be closer. “What – how-how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?”

Instinctively Sherlock’s hands found the sides of her face. His cold fingers were warmed by the heat in her cheeks. “It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it. But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet. That's why they had to go,” Sherlock whispered. His nose brushed against hers. They were so close. He could just–

“So how do we let the bomber know…” Y/N wondered.

Sherlock licked his lips and then let his hands grow cold once more. “Get his attention…”

“Mmm-hmm,” Y/N stepped in closer just as he stepped away. The distance remained the same.

“...stop the clock,” Sherlock said. His blue eyes trailed over hers before coming to rest on her lips. The very lips he had kissed so fervently not so long ago. He could still taste her on his tongue, but it was faint. The sweet intoxicating flavor plagued his mind and he knew he was addicted. He had to have more or else he’d waste away in withdrawal for the rest of his life.

“The killer kept the shoes all these years,” Y/N said. Her breath was heavy weighing down her lungs. The air she exhaled was exhilarating.

“Yes. Meaning…,” Sherlock muttered.

“He's our bomber,” she finished.

Before they could lean in closer and ease the ache in their souls, the pink phone buzzed.

“Well done, you,” the woman cried. “Come and get me.”

When Sherlock stepped away from Y/N, the pain in his chest grew a million times worse. “Where are you? Tell us where you are.”

_____

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a-cup-of-earl-grey-please · 1 year

Text

Beg For Forgiveness (BBC Sherlock x Fem!Reader)

Word count: 2,436 words

Pairing: BBC Sherlock x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your fiancé, the great Sherlock Holmes, comes back from the dead—just when you were ready to move on. Can you forgive him?

Warning: semi-heavy angst, description of dealing with grief. references to the Reichenbach fall, failing to "move on," suggestive themes towards the end

Note: this has been in my drafts for so long and i'm not completely satisfied. but hey, i really needed to get this off my mind! so i hope you like it.

It was one of those nights where you felt like you were absolutely over Sherlock’s death. You felt fine. You did the dishes. You ate dinner on your own—Mrs. Hudson was out on a date. You felt okay. You finally brought yourself to send his coat away for laundry last week—even though you knew it wouldn’t smell like him anymore. There was one step left in your “getting over Sherlock” project: letting go of the engagement ring on your finger. You fiddled with the ring, slipping it way down to the tip of your finger and back down. The ring felt like it was heavier than an elephant, yet lighter than a single snowflake landing on your eyelashes. You grit your teeth together and pulled on it once more, and it came near your fingertips—

Knock, knock.

You sighed, your breath strained. You hastily slipped the ring off your hand and held it tightly in your hand. You could feel the jewel biting into your palm, but you didn’t let that undo all your efforts to erase him from your narrative. As you went down toward the door. Your padded footsteps softly echoed through the stairwell.

“Who is it?” You absentmindedly said as you glanced up toward the door. Your breath hitched—caught in your throat in incredulousness. That silhouette was all too familiar. But you knew it couldn’t be. It really, truly couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be him turning up his coat collar against the November winds—the very coat that you sent out for laundry last week and hadn’t picked up yet. It couldn't be that very man who put that very coat around your shoulders when you shivered in the winter—tutting at you for trying to impress him with your skirts and blouses.

He’s dead. You bit down on your tongue. This is all a cruel joke. I’ll punch them square in the face. That’ll teach whomever it is to not kid about things like that. No, they have no right to his death. You clenched your fists and opened the door in one angry move.

“You don’t get to joke about—“ Your chastising screams were stopped at the sight of him. Him. It was Sherlock Holmes. The curve of his lips, his pretty cheekbones, his fluffy hair, and oh, his eyes.

“Hello, Y/N, my darling fiancée.” He gave her a smirk and a little wave. And his voice, his stupid voice. The rich voice you had tried for years now to rub clean from your memories. Oh, how every single thing he said to you had ruined you after his fall. A boiling anger surged through her and you slammed your clenched fist against his firm chest. He barely staggered, as if he had expected the blow. “I get the sense that you are mad—“ He said, his voice awfully clipped for a man who just had his chest slammed with a fist. Of course, it was not hard enough to bruise—but it was hard enough, oh yes, it was hard enough. A smug thought surfaced through your blinding anger.

“Is it really you?” You cut him off.

“Yes, Sherlock Holmes. Looking into the eyes of soon-to-be Mrs. Holmes.” He said, smug as always. So sure of your forgiveness. Watching him rub his chest—where you hit him—made you mad. Angrier, if possible.

Your left fist still rested on his chest, just below his right shoulder. And you, seething with anger and sorrow, knew just what move would hurt him. Hurt him—let him feel a fraction of what the past few years had been for you. You looked him straight in the eyes. His eyes swirled with hope and desperation—as if he knew anything about desperation. Yet.

You unclenched your fist and dropped the ring—the precious little silver thing. It hit the ground with a small, yet cruel cling onto the doorstep. Sherlock flinched at the sound. He knew exactly what you had dropped, even without having to spare a glance. He was the greatest detective in all of Britain after all. You could see tears forming in his eyes—oh great, you reduced the supposed heartless man to tears. Tears welled in his eyes—daring to drip. Drip down those cheekbones you loved to caress. Maybe even graze those lips you loved to kiss before he left the flat in the morning. But most importantly, it magnified the emotions in his eyes. The hundreds of layers of feelings he always hid behind a cold curtain were all exposed, vulnerable to your attacks.

You opened your mouth to speak—to spit the devilish words that you could come up with easily in your rage. But you couldn’t. You knew him too well. You knew how his mind carefully stored every word that had ever been spoken to him. Especially yours—you knew how he treated your words. A passing comment on a shade of blue you liked in a flower made him go on a wild goose chase for a dress that had the exact same shade once—just to see that smile on your face. A compliment on one of his shirts—yes, the purple one—had made him save it for special days. He remembered all your “icks” and avoided them, deliberately and lovingly. He learned all your childhood bedtime stories just so he could recite them to you when you suffered from nightmares. He knew your comfort meals and even attempted to cook them when you were feeling down. He knew you. And you knew him. Too well on both sides.

You knew how to break his heart, and the knowledge scared you.

A ring was easier to let go of; the promise was easier to break than the love it represented.

The ring was only a mere symbol for that night when you shoved all the furniture to one corner of the room and made him waltz with you in a drunken frenzy. It was just a reminder of the day he kissed you for the first time in a basement with a tied-up serial killer next to them—at least the serial killer cheered for you two. The ring was barely even representing a fraction of what you both felt on the day he knelt down on one knee to propose—he followed an obscure superstition from East Asia that love comes true on the day of the first snow of the year. He had carried around the ring box for a month in his pocket—just to make sure he did not miss the first snow because he was unprepared. The ring was just a shard of what you had seen in his eyes the first time you two met—surprise, curiosity, sharp intellect, and a warm heart.

The ring was easy to drop, but it was not easy to let go of all that. When he left, all you had were the remnants of him. And they all slowly faded away. His clothes—you left all of them in the drawers—only opening it sometimes to feel his scent engulf you, only that faded away as well. His phone was already cracked during the fall. You left it on the mantelpiece— it lay there forgotten, collecting dust.

The last one to go away before your ring was the mug John convinced Sherlock to buy you—#1 Girlfriend in a pink, barbie font—you dropped it by accident one day.

The mug cracked and so did your heart.

Stupid—you thought as you felt hot tears race down your cheeks, a sharp contrast to the cold outside.

“I had no other choice—besides, I foolishly thought our relationship was strong enough to survive a few months. I was naïve—it took me this long to resolve everything. I think it’s fair though, I must admit, that I would say that you don’t love me anymore, judging by how you literally slammed me in the chest and proceeded to drop the most socially noticeable signifier of our relationship onto—well, a slab of concrete. That was your engagement ring—our engagement.” His words were harsher than the winter winds whooshing past them. His voice was unwavering despite visible tears rolling down his cheeks. His eyes were wounded,

“Don’t lecture me about our relationship, love, if that word still means anything to you after 2 years of being dead? Do you know how many nights I’ve spent, touching that ring—imagining that it was actually your face? I couldn’t send your coat—which you’re wearing right now, heaven knows how—for those 2 years just because I was scared I would lose your scent in the flat!” You shoved him away, and this time, he stepped back, shocked.

“I hate you so, so much. Why did you have to do this to me? All this time, seriously? Are you kidding me? Surely you’re kidding me. Surely. You couldn’t even bear to talk to me, huh? To give me even the slightest hint that you were, you know, not dead?” Pedestrians were staring as they walked past, keeping a safe distance away from the surely maniacal you. You started sobbing uncontrollably. You wanted to turn around and slam the door in Sherlock’s face. But you also wanted to kiss him—feel him, remind yourself of that fading sensation. Kiss him square on the mouth until both of you couldn’t utter anything but sweet nothings and ardent confessions of love. You wanted to bang your fists against him, but instead, you ended up burying your face into his coat—oh, he smelled just the same. Sandalwood and a delightful touch of old books. Focus. You’re angry—you reminded yourself.

“Forgive me, Y/N. It was for your safety. I’m sorry. I really am. How can I make it up to you?“ He tearily whispered into your ear, caressing your hair. To your heartbreak, you could feel his tears dripping down his face, onto your forehead. Your anger dissolved—it would be a lasting grudge, just like how his “death” would be a lasting scar in your heart, but for now, you couldn’t do anything but fall for him once again. You cried into his chest—you could hear his heartbeat. You grabbed his coat lapels and brought his face down to your face—now just barely a centimeter away. His eyes were overflowing with love and fear. You didn’t like that look in his eyes. You wanted them to be full of the former only.

“Kiss it away. Kiss it better. Kiss me, Sherlock. Kiss my scars away. I love you and I hate you—so kiss my hatred away. Simple math: we’ll be left with just love.” You murmured.

His mouth attacked yours with its familiar swiftness and accuracy. Your lips, salty with tears, answered with equal enthusiasm. His tongue grazed over your bottom lip—he was unsure if a kiss of passion was appropriate in that moment. Screw his manners. You needed physical confirmation.

“You know, faking your death wasn’t so gentlemanly either.” You cheekily said into his mouth—only to gently push your tongue into his mouth, capturing his mouth just like you longed to do for the past 2 years. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open in surprise. He reciprocated the action, cupping your face with his hands—and oh, you could melt into his touch and stay there forever. The door creaked open behind you as his body pressed against yours, causing both of you to stumble backward into the building.

He let out a needy breath as he—quite forcefully—slipped your ring back on your left hand. Heaven knows how he picked it up without you noticing. You hummed against his mouth. Taking advantage of the situation, you caught his hand—now retreating from your left hand—and pulled him flush against you. You did not want to allow a single inch between you two. Your hands were tangled up in his hair, pinky wrapped around a curl. Desperate to confirm each other’s physical presence, you two were hugging each other so tight that it was a surprise both of you were breathing—actually, you weren’t sure if you were breathing.

All you could focus on were his warm lips on yours—the universe could have easily orbited around you two at that moment. As your heel touched the base of the stairs, he broke the kiss. He held you by one hand still entangled with your left and the other one on a suggestive spot near your waist. As you struggled to catch your breath, Sherlock opened his mouth once again.

“Y/N, I thought about you every day, all day, even with the most dangerous criminals in the world—pressing a knife against my throat—all I could think of was you. But I couldn’t let my love come in front of your safety—you could’ve died. One text from me, and a sniper might have shot clear through your skull. Forgive me, Y/N. I love you so much—and I understand if you want me to go away, but please forgive me. I beg you.” Oh, how you couldn’t stay mad at this man for once. His sincerity bled through his usually sharp eyes, flowing down in teardrops over his cheekbones. You wiped his tears away and smiled through your own tears.

“Sherlock, I’m not mad at you anymore—that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you. But hey, at least I’m not mad at you anymore,” You let out a little laugh. “These are tears of joy. Of incredulousness. Of hopes and thankfulness.” You said, touching his face as if it were the most precious thing to ever exist in this world. Touching the curve of his nose. Following it down to his lips, wet from his tears and the kiss you just shared. All the way down to his chin.

“I love you so, so much. Y/N. You do know that, right? Never doubt that, never. I don’t like saying never, as a detective, but this is the one time I’ll allow myself. Never doubt my love. Even when yours waver, mine won’t.” Sherlock hugged you tight, so tight you were afraid that you two might just become one—from what you felt, his coat was welding into your sweater and his ribcage was touching yours.

“I love you more.” You said, a teary laugh falling from your lips.

“That’s impossible.” He simply stated, holding your hands—leading you up towards your flat—your shared flat. The soon-to-be Holmes flat—as your ring, once again on your finger, reminded you.

“Be a sweetheart and beg for forgiveness again in the bedroom, won’t you, Mr. Holmes?” And it’s safe to say that he definitely begged for something in the bedroom—and not just forgiveness.

#earl's cup of tea #sherlock angst #sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x reader #sherlock x you #bbc sherlock #sherlock reader insert

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princessaxoxo · 6 months

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Strangers to lovers Masterlist

A/N: This is a Sherlock Holmes inspired series. 18+ Only, if you would like to be apart of the taglist, feel free to ask.

Fluff = 🌼 Smut=❤️‍🔥 Angst=🥀

Summary: Being Enola’s sitter was an adventure, but not as much as falling for her brother, Sherlock.

Part 1 (🌼❤️‍🔥) · Part 2 (🥀) · Part 3 (❤️‍🔥🥀🌼) · Part 4 (🌼) · Part 5 (🌼❤️‍🔥🥀) · Part 6 (🌼❤️‍🔥)

#sherlock holmes x you #henry cavill #first post #henry cavill smut #smutty #henry cavill x reader #fluff #sherlock holmes #henry cavill fanfic #angst #henry cavill sherlock holmes #sherlock fanfic #sherlock x reader #enola and sherlock #sherlock holmes smut

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classickook · 1 year

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a study in vulnerability | sherlock holmes

part one | part two

pairing: sherlock holmes x fem!reader

summary: sherlock wants to know why you’ve been avoiding him.

warnings: angst, swearing

word count: 2.2k

a/n: i’m so sorry this is a million years late omg i hope it’s worth the wait 😭

a few months had passed since the incident between sherlock and irene, and you had done everything in your power to stay as far away from the consulting detective as possible. you couldn’t stomach the thought of bumping into the pair again; who knew what you might interrupt next. the reminder caused a wave of nausea to roil in your stomach until the acidic taste of bile burned your throat and coated your tongue.

enough!

sherlock didn’t think of you in the way you wanted and that was fine. you were over it now—really, you were. you had decided that you would just continue on without seeing him, rushing past his flat and up the stairs to yours with barely a glance at his door; the days where it was left wide open and you caught sight of him pacing back and forth were harder for you, but you pushed the creeping feelings far, far down and kept them under lock and key.

he was your neighbor, and that was all.

in the past couple of weeks, however, sherlock seemed to be loitering just outside his flat, or close enough to its threshold that he could meet your gaze as you ascended the staircase. you had tried countless times to brush past him without a word, pretending as if you were scrolling on your phone or reading through your mail, but he managed to catch your attention each and every time, much to your chagrin.

he would offer a polite greeting—a ridiculous attempt at small talk on his part—but all you could muster was a tight lipped smile and faint hi before continuing on your way.

it turned out that sherlock holmes was unable to accept your meager greeting and took it upon himself to put in more effort, which was nothing less of surprising that the seemingly robotic, closed-off, emotionless, married-to-his-work, (the list could go on) man would go to such lengths to catch your attention was something you couldn’t wrap your head around. what were you to him, and why now?

the following week began sherlock’s next level of neighborly, and downright uncharacteristic, hospitality.

“good evening, y/n,” sherlock announced to you from the top of the staircase, hands casually shoved into his trouser pockets and suit jacket nowhere to be seen.

your workbag was draped heavily over your shoulder and hindered your balance as you climbed up the steps. the soles of your feet ached from standing all day and desperately needed a proper lie-down. you moved past him as fast as your tired feet could manage with a light, “hi, sherlock.”

“good day at work today?” he continued as if you weren’t practically running for your life to get away from him. he was now propped lazily against the doorframe in a very un-sherlock fashion; you had never seen the man so uncharacteristically relaxed in all the time that you’d known him.

“it was fine, thanks,” you replied crisply, injecting a certain edge to your tone that would hint at your desperation to get away from him and up to your flat.

much to your disappointment, and surprise—wasn’t he supposed to be the most famous detective around? read the room, you begged silently—a soft smile pulled across his lips in a way that made his blue eyes sparkle in the dark hallway lighting as he offered kindly, “i made some tea. would you like a cup?”

“no, thank you.”

“have you eaten yet?”

you mentally rolled your eyes. why couldn’t he just get the fucking hint already?

“i’m not really hungry. i’ll probably just head to bed. so, if you’ll excuse me—” your additional attempt at moving away from him was rendered useless once again as he quite literally blocked your path to the next set of steps that would lead to the comfort of your flat.

your eyes widened. “sherlock—”

“y/n.”

his tone was deep yet soft, a hint of quiet pleading on his lips as he tried to meet your fleeting gaze that was looking at everything but him.

you were left staring at the wall behind him as he took a hesitant step closer, the scent of his cologne invading your senses with the close proximity: warm amber, sandalwood, and musk. the familiarity of it was a bittersweet sort of nostalgia, coating your skin and hair with its rich earthiness that you once loved but now dreaded as it settled in your lungs.

as much as you hated to admit to yourself, it reminded you of her… you wondered if the scent of him lingered on the delicate skin beneath her ear or across her pale collarbones or along the blue-green veins that lined the insides of her wrists—

you were caught in your own thoughts, the echoing silence of the hallway pounding at your eardrums in a painful rhythm. sherlock’s own silence could be felt as well, his attention now fully drawn to you. the lowering of his dark brows, the spaced-out gaze, the twitching of his fingertips against his clothed thigh signaled to you that he had slipped into detective mode as he tried to figure you out, digging into your psyche to find what lingered beneath the silence.

but you were in no mood for it today.

“i’m tired, sherlock,” you said carefully, “can i please go up to my flat?”

“you never come round anymore.” his voice was nothing but a rasp, the statement rushing through his lips as if they couldn’t be forced out fast enough.

“i’ve been busy.”

“doing what?”

you bit your lip. what were you supposed to say, that you’ve been busying trying to avoid him?

“all right,” he said, taking a cautious step back, giving you room to breathe but silently hoping you wouldn’t make a run for it again. “well, could you just stop by and say hi every once in a while?”

your brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “why?”

“because i’d like to see you.”

“you’re seeing me now.”

his lips twitched. “yes, but you don’t want me to. you won’t even look at me and i’ve been blocking your path to go upstairs.”

well, you certainly couldn’t argue with that.

“have i done something wrong?” he voiced quietly, almost afraid—vulnerable, even. when had you ever seen him in such a state, and at your expense of all things?

“...no.”

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

“i haven’t.”

you have.

“yes, you have,” he said, reiterating your silent thoughts aloud. “you never come by the flat anymore, and every time i try to make conversation, you always rush off without saying barely anything. as such,” he continued in his usual detective tone, “this causes me to believe that you’re avoiding me, which means i must have done something that upset you.”

“i’m fine, sherlock. i’ve been busy… had a lot on my mind.”

“certainly you have enough time for a cup of tea, at least. would now be all right?”

a sharp inhale. “i don’t know, i—”

“please?”

—a rush of deflated air. you couldn’t recall a time when the detective had ever uttered that word in the past year or so that you knew him.

you should just get it over with, you thought. bite the bullet, humor him for a bit, and then be on your way. you could go back to your original scheme of avoiding him and maybe this minor interaction would soothe his hurt—or whatever it was—for the time being.

“fine,” you said defeatedly, “i guess i have time for one cup.”

the look that crossed his features could only be described as immense relief, his eyes alight with childlike wonder and unashamed enthusiasm.

you readjusted the strap of your work bag and crossed the threshold, rubbing your arms self consciously at the chill settling over you at being inside his flat again. it felt familiar but changed somehow, like the worst kind of nostalgia.

“cold?”

your eyes flicked to sherlock from where he now stood waiting for you in the kitchen.

“i’m fine.”

sherlock stepped closer, noticing your slight shiver and refusal to meet his gaze. “yes, you are. here.” in his outstretched hand was one of his dressing gowns that had been lazily strewn across an armchair. you chanced a glance at him before staring over his head at the fireplace, arms crossed defensively and ignoring his offer.

he exhaled out a sharp breath, still insisting that you take the robe.

“i said i’m fine,” you muttered, hoping he would just drop it and get to preparing the damn tea so you could leave. you couldn’t stand being in his flat again with all the memories that followed, feeling like an outsider who didn’t belong.

sherlock stepped around you, the clipped heels of his leather shoes echoing throughout the otherwise silent room as the weight of your bag was lifted and replaced by the silken material of his robe, the detective gently slipping each arm into the sleeves without a word. the action was achingly sweet and so unlike him, you weren’t sure what to do or say.

why was he acting like this, desperate to see you and have you in his company again? he had never seemed to require it before your gradual disappearance from his life, so why now?

sherlock stepped away silently with a hesitant smile in your direction before wandering off to make the tea he promised you. in the meantime, you stood in the middle of the living room and took in the usual state of disarray that you had grown accustomed to: crinkled newspapers placed haphazardly along the coffee table, half-empty teacups teetering on the kitchen counter, even more bullet holes decorating the wall that could only be a result of sherlock’s ceaseless boredom. as your eyes took in every familiarity and difference, nowhere within his flat could you locate a sign that irene adler had been present.

you cleared your throat before speaking. “where is ms. adler?”

a sudden clattering could be heard from the kitchen followed by sherlock’s voice, sounding unsteady. “how do you mean?”

how could you say this without sounding jealous…? your fingers toyed with the silken tie that hung loosely at your sides. “I just… thought she would be here. weren’t the two of you”—oh, god, you were going to puke—“together?”

the clattering amplified into a full-on shattering as sherlock stumbled out of the kitchen and into the living room. “what?”

you swallowed down the bile rising in your throat. fuck, you were royally screwing this up. you should just turn around and leave, forget about the damn tea, this was a mistake—

“y/n,” sherlock began quietly, tilting his chin down to meet your wild gaze, “what do you mean? why would ms. adler and i be together?”

your eyes squeezed shut. what could you say now? no way in hell would you mention walking in on the two of them together from that awful evening. “forget i said anything, i’m sorry—”

“y/n,” he repeated, tone suddenly serious, “talk to me. why are you asking me that?”

“i just… i saw her in here—with you—and the two of you looked awfully close, i just assumed that—”

sherlock’s cool touch met either side of your jaw as he drew your attention back to him. “i’m so sorry, my dear girl,” he said vehemently. “it wasn’t anything like what you’re thinking, i swear it. she was helping me with a case and that was all.”

“the two of you looked awfully close for a case.” you hated how you sounded; it was absolutely none of your business who he spent his time with or who he dated. what gave you the right to question him like this?

you felt utterly vulnerable in that moment, paper-thin as sherlock searched your face, his brows arched in concern while the smooth stroking of his thumb across your cheek aimed to soothe your fractured thoughts.

“she is nothing to me, i promise you that. i have not been in contact with her since that evening and i have no desire to reach out to her—ever. you are who i want to spend my time with, my dear. you have no idea how useless i’ve felt without you here in the flat like before.” he expelled a shuddering breath that warmed your mouth as he said, “i’ve missed you.”

you felt the prickling of tears at the sincerity in his tone and gaze, his emotions written on his face in a way you had never seen from him before. he typically kept such private emotions to himself, or barely allowed himself to even feel such things in the first place, yet here he was, practically pouring out his heart to you by the sheer depth in his blue eyes.

“i want you here with me, y/n. i always have.”

your lower lip wobbled pathetically. “really?”

“yes.” he brushed his thumbs across the apples of your cheeks to collect the wetness there. “you’re important to me. please don’t ignore me anymore. my heart would break if you did.”

the vulnerability in his tone did not go unnoticed. you clasped your fingers around his wrist, feeling the sharp jump in his pulse as he held you carefully, reverently, as if afraid you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

you offered a watery smile up at him to which he returned in earnest, a certain brightness surging across his features. “stay with me for now?”

“of course,” you replied coyly. “you still owe me that tea.”

tags: @sherlocks-blanket @selcouthangel @singhfae @nicoletk @sherlocksgirl91 @ironstrange1991 @evelynrosestuff @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds @feral-for-strange @readingbookelf @starstruck-loner @winsteria @dadcomfort @imeternallylove @x-avantgarde-x

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fanfiction #bbc sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock fic #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock fanfic #sherlock fic #Sherlock angst #sherlock x you #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x reader #benedict cumberbatch

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tommiruewrites · 11 months

Text

JUST A LITTLE LONGER | PT2 - V.T.

requested: yes | no

requests: open | closed

request rules here

REQ BY: @cia-agapanthus SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT ML i finished this like two weeks after you suggested it and then my brain decided posting it was too much apparently 💀💀 here it is now

WARNINGS: mention of past traumatic events, kissing, NOT PROOFREAD at all !! lmk if i missed smth!!

remember to like, comment, and reblog to support my writing <3

part 1

———————

You wake up to the sound of wind whispering softly in your ear. Only able to see the darkness behind your eyelids, you feel like you’ve been stampeded by a dozen horses. As you pry your eyelids open, finding it unusually draining to move even the smallest of body parts, you’re finally able to take in the warm glow of your surroundings. You lay beneath your quilted bedding, the rising sun dancing shades of orange and gold across the tall ceiling through the open window. Catching the source of the breeze, you can’t help but notice the chill that coats your skin.

Gaining more strength, you attempt to push yourself up to go get a glass of water. As you do, a sharp pain shoots through your stomach, gasping at the unexpected feeling.

“You’re awake!”

You hear a familiar voice exclaim from beside you, his voice a bit hoarse. He rises from your vanity chair, swiftly rushing to your side to help you sit up properly.

“How do you feel? Are you in pain?”

You wince at the pinch as you shift, “I feel fine.” but you’re voice comes out gravelly and thin. Tewkesbury immediately reaches for the glass of water he’d set on your bedside table. You thank him quietly as you let the water ease your throat, your head pounding as you lean it back.

“What happened? Where are Sherlock and Enola?” you ask, putting the water back on your table. Your memories seem hazy and jumbled, unsure of why you feel so horrible at the present.

Tewkesbury sits down beside you, careful not to hurt you as he does. “They went out for a walk. They haven’t gotten much sleep since…” he hesitates, not wanting either of you to relive it, “We were fighting… and you got hurt pretty badly.” He explains softly, and your brows furrow while flashes of the night come back to you. “You fell unconscious before we could get you to a medic.”

His eyes meet yours for the first time since he’s sat down, and you see his lashes glisten with tears, “We weren’t sure if you were going to wake up.”

You look around the room, taking in the information and trying to process the fragmented memories flooding back to you. Your eye catches on the table across the room, overflowing with more flowers than one person could possibly need.

“How long was I out?” You ask curiously, noticing how all of your favorite flowers make up the bouquets.

“Four days.” he responds, watching your eyes as they roam the flowers he’s left for you.

You meet his eyes once more. He looks like he hasn’t gotten a proper rest in days. Your heart squeezes at the thought, not wanting him to fall ill due to lack of sleep. From the looks of it he’s been up at your bedside every day.

“I’m happy you’re alright.” he admits, grabbing your hand tentatively in his own, “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

You smile at the confession, “Can’t get rid of me that easily, Tewkesbury.”

He mirrors your grin, letting you interlace your fingers with his own. “Do like the flowers?” he asks as a blush breaks out on his cheeks.

“Mmm…” you pretend to think, biting back a bright smile, “I think you could have gotten a bit more. I’m sure there’s a field somewhere you missed.” playful sarcasm laced in your tone.

His cheeks hurt at the smile gracing his lips, and you can’t help the butterflies that swarm your belly as you admire the pretty sight. Reaching an arm up, he brushes your messy hair off of your neck.

“I’ll make sure to find them for you.”

His hand lingers against your pulse, but his eyes stare into yours. Searching and scanning for any bit of tangible evidence that you’re safe. You bring a hand up to his, guiding it to cradle your cheek, leaning into the warmth if his touch.

“You know, we were kind of in the middle of something before… you know.” you suggest softly.

His eyes flicker wider for a moment, swallowing his nerves at the intimacy of your closeness. “Yeah?” he replies with the same softness, not wanting to ruin the moment.

You nod in response, eyes flickering to his lips at the memory. “Do you want to pick up where we left off?”

He contemplates it for a moment, glancing between your lips and eyes, looking torn. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Your heart swells at the sweet notion, smiling sweetly, “If you do, you can always kiss it better?” you suggest cheekily, suppressing your laughter as his shoulders shake with it, forehead falling to yours.

The fond smile never leaves your face, even as he’s leaning in to press his soft lips to yours. Even as you feel your whole body buzz with electricity. Not even when his thumb brushes your cheek and a matching smile moves perfectly against yours.

Suddenly your pushing him away, his lips chasing yours. The look in your face makes his head tilt in confusion. “What is it?”

“I still won though, right?”

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spencerrxids · 1 year

Text

labyrinth

pairing : sherlock holmes x fem!oc

summary :

ANNALIÉSE MOORE was young when she first met SHERLOCK HOLMES, accidentally stumbled onto him when she was running away from the small commotion she had caused which ended with him helping her out of it. He was early in his career but already making a name for himself. Being not much more than two years older than her, they’ve become close, perhaps closer than both had ever thought they would be. The young woman has seen more sides of the renowned genius detective than the one he always ought to put in front of the public's eyes. Although in recent years, they’ve found some distance between themselves, primarily because of the number of cases, Sherlock had drowned him in. And she tried, for the longest time, she tried to understand him until one day, it all stopped.

ANNALIÉSE MOORE had only been in London for a month-long after she returned from France when she heard the news of the missing EUDORIA HOLMES which then followed by the missing of ENOLA HOLMES. So it wasn't really surprising when her old friend had finally decided to acknowledge her existence again, seeking out her help. And boy was it such a privilege to have SHERLOCK HOLMES looking rather helpless on her doorstep.

tags : friends to lovers, slowburn, 1880s slowburn(?), sherlock being painfully oblivious, fluff but also angst

masterlist

chapter 01 : begin with a dance

chapter 02 : patterned days

chapter 03 : tbd

more chapter to be added

taglist! (CLOSED)

#sherlock holmes x oc #sherlock x oc #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes #enola holmes #sherlock fandom #sherlock x reader #sherlock reader insert #sherlock x you #enola 2 #fluff #sherlock holmes angst #fanfiction #sherlock holmes fanfiction

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futureplayboibunnie · 1 year

Note

Hello! I really luv your work so maybe could you do more smutty sherlock stuff? Maybe dom!sherlock and a reader with a praise kink?

‘Distraction’

Sherlock x fem!reader

- I’M BAAAACK w another smutty ass sherlock fic. i swear all my sherlock fics are always so long, i need to get a grip but i really enjoyed writing this one. love u xx

Sherlock's mouth was twitching and his mind was in a constant state of strained unease. The world was asking too much of him and it irritated more than anything, Mycroft was breathing down his neck with a mountain load of cases he would never even get around to looking at and sometimes Sherlock just wanted to kick someone in the teeth, feel the blood pumping through his veins in a way a lousy case couldn't satiate. He was angry, annoyed, restless and uneasy.

Sherlock put himself in that situation though, he was being a hermit hiding out in his flat and he didn't even let John come in to entertain him- Sherlock could only think of you.

This was bad. He was in demand...but he didn't know what he was demanding for…you? He didn't know how to control his emotions, he felt something heady and particularly intoxicating about you, he was almost drunk off it. You were insatiable and it piqued his interest, you were a curious little thing, always poking your nose in places it didn't belong- including just Sherlock. Sometimes he just wanted to scold you for being too daring and risky, he didn't like the idea of you putting yourself in a dangerous situation for the sake of it...but you liked the danger of it all just the way Sherlock did. He didn't like that at all, it was like you could see through him in a way no one else could.

Sherlock knew you wanted him. It was obvious by the way you would eye fuck him in socially inept situations, in a crowded room- he admired your callousness although deep down he wanted to put you in your place. His accolades made you blush, his praises made your eyes gleam slightly, you loved him complimenting your work and he knew it was a big weakness within you. Your breath halted everytime you were near him and your mouth would pry open slightly and he had to surpress the urge to close your pretty little mouth for you- it was adorable and distracting at the same time. The universe was determined to pull him next to you...or was that Sherlock himself admitting he wanted you...in more ways than one? The calculations of it didn't make any sense and it was clouding his head, he didn't know how to make any of this go away, if only he could show you instead of talk.

You were bored of his moping, you wanted him to have some fun with you on another case and it was to cheer you up more than him. You just wanted to know what he was up to, Sherlock was always up to something, in a grey area of nothing inherently bad but nothing inherently good. Although he wasn't allowing anyone to visit him, you took it upon yourself to tease him out of hiding. You didn't really care for the ramifications, you never did.

You trodded up the stairs of his flat and you open the door slightly to let yourself in. Sherlock was pacing around, messing with the multiple experiments he was conducting at the same time. He was just trying to take his mind off of you, but these little thoughts kept meandering into his head.

You. Just you.

Sherlock heard the tremble of your breath first and he could practically hear your raised eyebrow at his strange but not infrequent behaviour- it was endearing. He got up from looking at his microscope when he heard your footsteps enter, he scrambled to look at your face again and it was etched in judgement but at least it was that of endearing judgement. He felt his ego straighten up, Sherlock couldn't remember the last time his ego was shaken, he was always so sure of himself but you obviously had to fiddle with things that best be untouched. Including Sherlock's innermost desires.

‘’You've been busy.’’ You remarked with a quirked eyebrow and a small smirk.

‘’Get out, I'm still busy.’’ Sherlock said breathlessly and it made him straighten his posture, he didn't like how uncertain and certain he sounded at the same time. He definitely didn't want you to go, but like always he had to act as if he didn't care for anyone or anything...especially something as useless and pathetic as desire and sex.

God he really wanted it though. You were wearing a skirt.

He could just hike it up and easily…

You interrupted his wayward thoughts as his blank face met yours.

‘’You're not busy, you just want a distraction. Any other day conducting this many experiments would've made you lose your mind. How can you be so detail oriented when you've got so many things going at once?’’ You walked around the room, tapping on the things Sherlock wouldn't let anyone touch. He was actually thinking of an answer to your question, though.

‘’I multitask. It can challenge narrow minded people.’’ His eyes thinned as he squinted at you intently, you twirled around and you met him with a knowing flirty half smile, scoffing at his insult.

‘’So snippy, need a distraction? Got another case.’’ You offered as you walked over to him to stare into his dark cerulean eyes, Sherlock was glaring down at you as your face was near his.

‘’I'm already distracted.’’ Sherlock admitted way too hastily and it made your eyes prick up.

Sherlock Holmes? Distracted? You were half joking when you said he just wanted a distraction, but he was? Even though your eyes were widening in surprise, you couldn't help but provoke him even further. You felt incredibly special seeing him so frail.

The things you wanted him to do to you was unspeakable and you felt a heated blush creep on the back of your neck and your cheeks.

‘’Wow. I never thought I'd live to see the day.’’ You smiled at seeing his hubris crack before you.

‘’Yes. It's a novelty for me too.’’ He said plainly, trying to hide and feign his hidden desire for you.

‘’What's got you like this then?’’

‘’You.’’ Sherlock blurted, but it felt deliberate. The perfect opportunity to just finally admit with a heavy heart that he wanted you, feel the weight of his innate desire free from his broad shoulders.

‘’It's your fault.’’He muttered.

‘’My fault?’’ You repeated.

‘’Yes.’’ He breathed as his fingers fell and brushed against yours and you felt your heart halt in its beating, scoff catching in your throat.

‘’Who do you think you are?’’ Sherlock's lips were dangerously close to your ear and it made you still against him, body heat merging with one another as you slowly pressed yourself against him.

‘’Who do I think I am?’’You scoffed as you blinked up at him, being a flirt as always. ‘’What about you….Sherlock.. what do you want?’’ Your voice was low and less immediate, stretching out whatever this was as a means to revel in it.

His hands travelled to cradle your face softly, large hands feeling the skin of your cheek as his thumb grazed the soft pink flesh of your lips. Sherlock felt oblivious to the world around him when all he could see and feel was you in his palm.

‘’I want to feel you. Naked. Beneath me.’’ His words were potent, dense and you felt like you had to pinch yourself, it must be a dream. Your heart was pounding in your chest and Sherlock could feel your sweet breath fan his face, eyes fluttering a little as you registered his words.

Sherlock Holmes...having a dirty mouth...is something that felt fictitious and delicious. The man was divine, so intense and brutal when he wanted to be- exactly your type. Your mouth was dry, the functions of your tongue forgetting how to move as his stare was that of raw intensity and pure longing. Mind racing and unable to pump the breaks, you were wondering how he would be in bed as of this moment. It wasn't an infrequent thought but you never in a million years thought it to be a reality, only to be conjured in your wildest and wettest dreams. You contemplated if he would be a dom or sub. It honestly could be either, he was so damn unreadable, you didn't know what was going on in that beautiful mind of his. You were keening to find out. The posh twat always loves the divine feminine dom, maybe that's a clue. Although, the way his eyes were scorching into yours made all of your thoughts draw to a blank.

‘’Are you going to talk sweetheart or are you just going to stand there gawking at me so vacantly?’’ His fingers jutted your chin up so he could make you squirm.

Sherlock loved it when he got that bodily reaction from you, it just confirmed that it was definitely not one sided and you were thinking of the lascivious things that best left unseen.

‘’I think I'm enjoying my mindless gawk thank you.’’ You flirted but he wasn't in the mood for any of your games. He's come to love that look in your eyes, the one of need, desire, to put it so crudely- eye fucking. Sherlock grabbed you by the cheeks, his fingernails indenting into the skin of your face, you were taken aback when he finally made his intentions clear. You honestly thought this was a part of a sadistic sort of experiment, but now it was actually piecing together- he wanted you. Sherlock Holmes wanted to undress you, feel your skin, fuck you in his bed.

‘’Don't be difficult, you surely can't be after your incessant need to catch my attention. Well, consider my attention caught...I'm simply asking because it's polite. Do you want me to put you out of your misery and make you finish or not?’’

‘’So vain.’’ You muttered, chewing on your lip slightly unsure of what to say without sounding like the thirstiest person ever.

‘’Do you want me to fuck you on the stairs because right now I will.’’ Sherlock was deadly serious, he didn't care if it was uncomfortable for you, he would take you in any shape or form, pin your hands behind your back, pull your hair make your brain melt with how good he made you full but you were still staring at him blankly.

‘’For fucks sake.’’ You finally breathed out before colliding your lips to his.

Like two magnets, like a moth to a flame- you simply just couldn't resist each other. Your fingers were in his hair as your body moulded to his, Sherlock was also quite surprised with himself, he'd never let anyone touch his hair but when you tugged on his curls he let out a delectable hiss. He really liked that. He wanted you to do it again. His kiss was passionate, certain and beautifully cruel.

‘’Tell me you want me.’’ You hummed against kisses, your fingers immediately crowning from his hair to his blazer and button down. Sherlock's hands were roaming around your body as if he owned it, his insanely large palm went to your ass and squeezed tightly over the fabric of your skirt. He was feeling brazen. His fingertips toyed with the hem of that skirt he just wanted to rip off, and felt at the skin of your ass under it. You shivered into his touch, every single feeling driving a new unforgivable sensation.

‘’I'll show you. Forgive me if I'm not polite about it.’’ Sherlock had never been this desperate before, to openly obey an order was foreign to him but you could pry just about anything out of him.

Sherlock clasped your hand and quite literally dragged you to his room, you had to suck in your squeals of delight, you couldn't believe any of this was actually becoming a reality. Your reality. He fucking wanted you. He slammed his door and pinned you up against it, lip to lip. Your moan echoed through his entire body, his soul rocked at the sensation. His lips found that spot behind your ear where your pulse was hammering, Jesus your heart was beating fast. It brightened his mood and amplified his ego.

You went to shrug him of his blazer but he got there before you. Sherlock ripped off your top with his bare hands, you inhaled sharply as the cool evening air hit your torso. He quite literally tore it off, the look in his eyes were that of ash and fire. Your lip quivered and your eyebrows tensed with that one look. The fact that he was the only one that got your legs wobbly and your heart stuttering was making him so insanely happy. The reaction to his kiss allowed hiim to deduce that you've been kissed before...but not often. The thought pleased him.

Nimble fingers went to unbotton his button down. You took your sweet time with this just to be a teasing little bitch. Your eyes went doe as you gave him a look of foax sincerity and sweetness

Oh...so that's how it's going to be.

You finally discarded it and the bulk of his biceps alone could crush you, his arms, his hands, his chest were so finely crafted he was akin to that of a Greek God. Sherlock pulled you from the door frame, he sat on the edge of the bed and you were standing infront of him.

‘’Strip for me.’’

He whispered, the fated words making the atmosphere damp and heavy and you enjoyed revelling in it. The way he said it made your mouth pop open slightly.

You were more than happy to oblige with his delicious demand. Your dignity was deteriorating with every moment you spent with him. Sherlock's blue eyes darkened as your fingers went to the zipper of your skirt, your intense gaze met with his, unwavering, downright carnal. His jaw clenched when you teasingly shimmied your skirt down your long, smooth legs. Your frame was fucking remarkable. Dear Lord it looked like you were crafted by the angels in heaven above. His stare fell to your feet, he smirked when he still found you in your impossibly high heels, he wanted to feel them dig into the small of his back when he finally fucked into you.

Sherlock wanted to paw at you like a filthy animal, his inhibitions fleeing him the longer he gaped at you. You bit your lip sweetly as your fingers fell to your back as you began the slow pace of unclamping your bra. You were so deliberate and he wanted to just fuck the pettiness out of you. Sherlock watched intently as you flung it to the other side of the room to care about later, your tits fell free and he just stifled the urge to grab you right now.

He just had to remind himself: patience is a virtue.

Giggling, your fingers hooked on the lace of your underwear and shimmied it down. He let out a scoff, almost entranced and confused at how beautiful you looked. Sherlock gripped onto your waist and tugged you between his legs, his fingers pinched onto the bare skin of your hips. His lips met with your soft lower stomach and he planted a kiss there.

‘’Beautiful...’’ He exhaled as he breathed in your intoxicating scent.

‘’So you can be nice.’’ You smirked down at him.

‘’Only to you. Only. You.’’ He said deadpan, you gushed when he emphasised the word 'you.' You tucked your hair back behind your ear bashfully as the waves of anticipation began creaking back into the airwaves. You weren't sure where he was going next with this.

Sherlock's grip daren't soften, he pulled you down onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow allowing your hair to sprawl out, he thought you looked like an angel- hair casting a halo like figure in your stance. He kneeled between your sweet thighs to stare down at you, face contorted in pleasure already. He hadn't even done anything yet, it made him chuckle lowly. Mocking you condescendingly but you didn't have it in yourself to care or argue.

‘’You've been begging for it haven't you? Just admit it. It's only us. Only you and I here...together. Don't be coy now.’' Sherlock was just revelling in your desperation and it made your insides sizzle and burn, it was almost unbareable. Your lips twitched as you flushed, unable to control how your body was reacting.

Sweet. Jesus. The effect this man had on you.

‘’You're quite the distraction.’’ You said meekly, they were the only words you could muster up. Your voice wasn't a reflection of your actions though, your hands had a mind of their own, flying to his zipper and roughly undoing his pants. Sherlock caught onto your wrist to stop you in your tracks, he would be lying if he said he didn't like the direction in which you were going in. Images of you choking on his cock flashed through the forefront of his mind, his breathing became heavier. His tongue glazed his lower lip as he let out a breathless scoff.

Yeah, maybe later.

‘’Ditto.’’ He muttered.

Sherlock pinned your hands against the bed beside your head, excitement thrumming through your veins at whatever delicious torture he was bound to inflict. His fingers pinched and palmed at your tits, a broken moan fell from your lips as his long thick fingers travelled down the skin of your stomach to your glistening pussy. You threw your head back. He swiped up and down before finally inserting a finger inside of your wetness, you squirmed under him as he bent down to kiss at the crook of your neck.

‘’Fuck...Sherlock.’’ You moaned out, physically incapable of keeping it in anymore.

‘’You can take it.’’ Sherlock reassured deadpan and impassive, almost like an

You huffed as he pistoned another finger inside of you, he was delighted with how wet he got you. It was an indicator of the amount of pleasure he was drawing out of you, his ego boosted tenfold. You exhaled as he finally pulled his fingers out, in the pale moonlight his fingers glistened. Giving him a perplexed look, Sherlock wanted to rattle you even more, drag it out, surprise you.

‘’Open your mouth. See how sweet you taste.’’ He chuckled, so obviously pleased with himself.

Your eyes widened slightly at his request but his hard glare made you believe that it wasn't a request but an undeniable demand. You couldn't say no to that look, that scorching, firey look. You opened your mouth and he was beaming at the sight. He stuffed his fingers into your wet mouth, suckling on his fingers to taste at yourself. Humming against his fingers, Sherlock felt his body buzz and his cock harden. You gawked up at him through your lashes, the look of neediness etched all over your face- the cherry on top of the cake, his fingers in your mouth. He wondered what you looked like on your knees. You let his fingers go with a pop.

‘’Good girl.’’ He praised and it made an incredibly obvious blush stain your face.

Oh, you loved that.

Your mouth slanted against his, tongues dancing against tongues as you felt your heartbeat hammering against your chest. Tugging his pants down, Sherlock's cock finally sprung free. You glanced down, eyes unable to comprehend how fucking big he was. It was curved, thick and leaking. You felt yourself salivate at the sight of it.

‘’Sherlock...please.’’ You begged and he decided to give you the mercy.

He pushed himself inside of you, clinging onto him for dear life. Sherlock burrowed and nestled himself in your hair and your skin, spiralling wih the fact he got you like this- this has to be a dream of some sorts. It simply cannot be real. Fingernails digging into his shoulderblades, he hissed into your skin as he rutted in and out of you. Your moans and groans creating a symphony of euphoria. Sherlock gazed into the vast planes of your glassy eyes, he could simply get lost in them forever. Your heels dug into his back and the pain was stunning.

‘’You make me weak...pretty girl.’’ Sherlock admitted breathlessly.

The whole world stopped. It felt like it was tipping on its axis. You made Sherlock Holmes weak. You couldn't fathom the power you held, you were drunk off it and it made you moan loudly against his lips. It felt like music to his ears.

‘’Sherlock.. you're a God.’’

‘’Not quite, but almost.’’ He teased as he kept up the brutal pace.

Sherlock just kept going and going. His libido was undeniably high. His stamina unrelenting. He was lost in the sweet sounds you made, the quirk of your body with every thrust was something he committed to memory. You felt yourself spiralling out of control. The intensity increased tenfold, the intimate eye contact the driving force of it all. You couldn't hold back. You were right at the edge. Euphoria hit you like a ten ton truck, waves of pleasure like lightning down your thighs; your knees buckled under the pressure as you gushed onto him, coating him in the generous amount of wetness he so easily illicited out of you.

‘’Stunning…’' Sherlock murmured before he was cut off by a gutteral groan rumbling from the insides of his gut. He stilled as he finished inside of you, completely and utterly spent. You grabbed his face and planted a kiss on his lips, curls wild as you carded your fingers through it.

Pants covered the room. Air thick with post coital bliss.

Sherlock rolled off of you and lay beside you in attempt to regain his breath.

But you were far from done. You darted your face to the side to remark at him.

Without thinking, you impulsively clambored onto his lap and his eyes widened in surprise. Fucking hell, you were insatiable. Your lips shattered against his again, his large hands roamed the expanse of your back and goosebumps littered your skin.

Sherlock spanked your ass and it made you rip your lips away from his.

‘’Christ. So insistent aren't you?’’

#sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes smut #sherlock angst #sherlock x fem!reader #sherlock fluff #sherlock smut

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