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topsyturvy-turtely · 2 months

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scarred from within

a/n: turtely is hurting so obviously one of my bois needs to hurt too.

a/n2.0: i am sorry.

✗✘✗✘✗✘✗✗✘✗✘✗✘✗✘✗✘✗✘✗✘✗✘✗✘✗✘✗✘✗

laying in bed. tears streaming down his cheekbones, into his ears. he hated that feeling of salt drops coming out of him and finding their way back into his body. as if they wanted to crawl back inside. as if his feelings wanted to bury themselves somewhere deep inside, where they couldn't be accessed anymore.

he hated that feeling, but he let it happen. he couldn't bring himself to care enough about his stupid tears in his poor ears to wipe them away.

feeling another tear breaking its way outside, just to hide in his hair again, sherlock thought of him. of all the sweet niceties. of appreciating words, of soft touches. the words never saying enough, the touches never lasting long enough.

his chest hurt and he thought it was ridiculous. heartache? because of an emotion? what a not-at-all-sociopathic thing to have.

and yet. here he was. aching with heartbreak.

hating mary for marrying the love of his life. hating the love of his life for having a different love of his life. love of your life - what does that even mean? sherlock sighed. he knew exactly what it meant to him: that he wanted to do everything with john. he wanted to solve crimes, and run through half of london, knowing he was right behind him. he wanted to talk with john - he always managed to bring the too many, too big, too fast thoughts into some kind of order with his simplicity. but it meant so much more to him than that. it meant that the thought of john was the only thing that kept him alive during his time in serbia. one whiplash - his imaginary john running towards him. second whiplash - john yelling his name. a third whiplash - a hand on his cheek. a fourth - imaginary john telling him to hold on. a fifth - telling him to be strong. a sixth - so he can come home to him. a seventh whiplash - so he can fix him. john would fix him, when he got home. he'd mend his wounded skin, his broken ego, his weakened mind.

that is what he believed in.

he never thought john would hit him too. he never realised his life scrambled the second he stepped over that rooftop. into the nothingness. and fell. he never realised that the mat underneath would not actually save him.

his heart had cracked back then. when he was laying on the concrete - blood all over his face, stinging his eyes, sticking in his hair - but it was john's voice, so weak, so hurt that cracked that thing in his chest. back then he thought "it is for the best. i am doing this for you. i'll come back for you and we'll be okay."

but it wasn't for the best. he had come back for john. and they were not okay.

and for the first time in his life sherlock realised what people meant when they said their heart was broken. there was no way it could ever heal from this.

sherlock felt this with such devastating certainty, it pricked new tears from his eyes. and it felt like those tears were sandpaper, scraping traces of sorrow into his face.

he almost laughed- it sounded and felt like a sob. ironic: he once thought his back was scarred, broken his skin apart, but he was still whole inside, because of john. now he felt broken from within... and his face... was scarred by tears. because of john.

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a/n: i'll write this with capital letters some time and upload it on ao3. rn this felt like it needed to be written without them.

tag list! (tell me if you wanna be added or removed please 💚) @justanobsessedpan @helloliriels @catlock-holmes @fluffbyday-smutbynight @inevitably-johnlocked @hisfavouritejumper @rhasima @forfucksakejohn @ohlooktheresabee @turbulenttrouble @so-youre-unattached-like-me @totallysilvergirl @peanitbear @train-mossman @loki-lock @smulderscobie @timberva @grace-in-the-wilderness @chinike @jawnn-watson @whatnext2020 @escapingthereality @missdeliadili @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown @7-percent @speedymoviesbyscience @astudyin221b @francj15 @ladylindaaa @we-r-loonies @mxster-jocale @sherlockcorner @noahspector @our-stars-graveside @jobooksncoffee @baker-street-blog @macgyvershe @myladylyssa @battledress @a-victorian-girl @dreamerofthemeadow @oetkb12 @ohnoesnotagain @mutedsilence @jawnscoffee @raenchaosandcozyadashofmurder @lisbeth-kk @quickslvxrr @compact-and-beautiful

#writing is a coping mechanism #it's fine i'm fine #turtely writes #heartbreak #sherlock!whump #johnlock #bbc sherlock #sherlock #john watson #sherlock holmes #angst

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littlefreya · 1 year

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Danse Macabre

Summary: She cannot tell who she is anymore, nor where she is. All that she knows is that Sherlock is not the man he pretends to be and that every night he comes to her bedroom to feast on the delights of her body...

Pairing: Vampire!Sherlock Holmes x Virgin OFC (no mentions of body type or ethnicity)

Word count: 2.2K

Warnings: 18+, Dark, horror, dubious consent, sex, supernatural themes, I guess we can say monster sex? Mentions of blood, hinted Stockholm Syndrome, loss of virginity, metaphors, obsession, hinted hypnosis, bites, vampire sex, mind manipulation.

A/N: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or Enola Holmes. Many thanks to my angels: @agniavateira for beta'ing my work and supporting me, and to @notabronte for giving me feedback and encouraging me to post. Please reblog and leave a comment if you enjoyed it. 🖤

Danse Macabre 🕯️

How long has it been; a month? A year? An eternity?

Time swayed differently in Mister Holmes’ mansion — if it moved at all.

The nights seemed endless, and the days… she couldn’t remember the last time she was awake during daytime. Perhaps this was a nightmare, or maybe it was the cold tentacles of death that pulled her into an abyss; but then, if the dead couldn’t feel pain then why did his kisses hurt?

It was in the bawls of midnight when Sherlock stalked into her bedroom— his jaw stern, cheekbones sharp and strikingly distinguished by the flame of a single candle held in his hand. Hunger filled his careless face, and his eyes flickered brightly like glowing orbs of ice.

Unable to scream or move, she watched him behind the ghostly veils of her bed. Hot wax dribbled down his fingers—little white tears of sorrow that she wished she herself could cry, but Sherlock had not only drained her of such force but by some enchantment, coaxed her to submit to his sacrilegious desire

“Undress,” he demanded from the doorway where he stood, shrouded by the crimson haze of the poorly lit corridor. Whatever was behind him, she could never see, the width of his bulky figure blocked the path like a monster from a children’s tale.

‘Monsters are real, Momma. They look like men in tailored vests and shiny leather shoes.’

Her fingers trembled, hands stiff and heavy. Yet she did what she was told without question, allowing the straps of her nightdress to fall down her shoulders the way a dying leaf falls from a branch.

Eyes a shade colder than ice, his glare fell to her breasts, and his chest puffed with a rumbling growl. Slowly he stalked forward, treading like a spider on its web. The tips of his fingers turned black as if dipped in poison whilst his nails grew long and sharp at every step.

“The duvet. Set it aside.”

His voice was the rumble of an inching thunder, an echo inside her head that made her bones rattle. Whenever he spoke, it felt as if invisible strings wrapped around her wrists and persuaded her limbs to do as he commanded. Even when her soul begged her to give a sliver of resistance, her hands still lifted to obey this dark ventriloquist and pushed the blanket away.

The stem of Sherlock’s throat clenched at the delicious splendour: bare, youthful skin, so tight and so supple. A thing that should have never been touched, should have never been spoiled and yet he yearned for nothing but to leave his marks at the depth of her soul.

The scent that emanated from the flesh between her thighs elicited a guttural groan from his chapped lips. In his throat pulled the ghastly hunger. Setting the candle on the wardrobe, he stalked toward the bed, his shadow metastasizing and devouring every shred of light that dared enter the chamber.

Both the mattress and her heart sank once he placed a knee on the bed and began to crawl between her parted legs, slowly and predatorily, dragging himself closer to her heat. Black, sharpened nails graze their way up her inner thighs, admiring the pureness of the forever-young flesh.

Encased in a glass coffin, his young ward would forever be protected from famine, disease, and time; and what was Sherlock if not a warden fulfilling his duty?

‘A monster! God, please! There is a monster in my bed!’

If only she could scream, if only God hadn’t abandoned her. Instead, all she could do was shiver, her heart giving no sound as Sherlock forced himself between her thighs. One razor-sharp fingernail traced the plumpness of her breast, tenderly circling and caressing the nipple.

“Mine,” he growled and slipped his nail down the valley of her torso, casually tugging the remains of her gown to expose her pure mound. Red glinted on those piercing shards that replaced his eyes—red like a flicker of fire from a match. “Look at me,” he demanded, though there was no need for him to ask.

That same gaze that possessed her had sliced through the tendrils of her mind.

Nodding, she lifted her gaze to meet his, her lips parting in a quiet plea as the ghastly, pointed talon made careful strokes amidst the swollen petals to collect the honeyed dew that gathered at the seams of her untouched cunt.

“My poor little dove, it’s so lonely in there…” he keened, attempting to slide his long monstrous finger inside of her. But her maidenhood, still obstinate to protect her from the vile urges of men, forbade him access.

Foolish.

What strength did her flesh have against such a sinister entity if even iron locks and carved religious figures couldn’t keep him away? Huffing with scorn, he drew an icy fingertip around the outlines of her slit, further spreading the sinful wetness across the seams of her cunt.

She mewled, despite herself, her waist moving in a smooth tidal sway.

Sherlock could never tire of this, not of the terror in her eyes whenever she saw him at her bedroom door nor the moans she emitted as he traced her engorged flesh with a finger or his tongue. But what he favoured above all was the sensation of his cock as it tore through her seal and those heavenly pained cries that eventually turned into the moans of a whore.

What a great fortune it was that they had an eternity of this dance.

Hovering above his prey, he propped his knees between her legs, the fabric of his trousers brushing against her inner thighs as he lowered his weight upon her. If there was any air in her lungs, she would have let out a shuddering breath; but what came instead was a silent gasp, and only her lips quivered as she prepared herself for the familiar twinge of his invasion.

Reaching for his groin, he freed his hardened cock and stroked a hand across its length before nudging the heart-shaped crown at the gates of her purity. Not yet pushing in, he teased himself up and down her narrow slit, treating her the way a lover treats his delicate mistress— the way a cat toys with a mouse.

Lips swollen and tingling, she whimpered, her yet-empty hole twitching as if heeding a primal call. How could she fear and need him at the same time? Did she loathe herself so much that she wanted him to defile her? Tears began to rim her eyes, and from quivering lips, she whispered, “please…”

Letting out a low rumbling chuckle, he lowered his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead before whispering in her ear, “You, my ward, are such a mystery…”

Her mouth opened to speak but a scream followed instead. One unceremonious thrust and he sunk into her lush depth, his girthy cock devouring the sweetness of virginal flesh. Indifferent to her pain, he pushed further and deeper past her folds until every inch of him was buried within.

Cries and squeals sputtered from her mouth—the monster had tore her innocence, the pain had seared, and in pathetic pleas for mercy, she slapped against his bare chest and tried to shove him away. But Sherlock knew no mercy, for truly he was a beast, not just by the breadth of his shoulders and untypically muscular figure, but by his blunt absence of elegance and heartless mien. Giving her no moment to adjust, he had already began to pump himself inside of her now-defiled cunt.

Such a mask of virtue did her warden wear; to the world, a perfect, eloquent gentleman. But behind closed doors, lurked a sick, sinister man who only wished to desecrate this tender maiden in this dark sacrament.

Over and over, he pulled away only to plunge into her again, each thrust harder than the last, each thrust ending with the slap of his sack against her cunt. And the moans that came from him - had the most debauched resonance, as if she was a long anticipated feast to a voracious man.

Unable to meet his vigour, her walls whined a protest and squeezed around him in a futile battle to drive him out; yet for Sherlock, this tightness was nothing less than an aphrodisiac. If any, her insubordination did nothing but provoke the ungodly creature within him. Reaching a clawed hand to her chin, his fingers pressed into the hollow of her cheeks, forcing her to stare directly into his bright-red eyes as he began to fuck her in a punishing pace.

“I am already inside you, little dove. There is nothing that can be done,” he rasped while his hips continuously snapped into hers, every second rut bringing her closer to surrender as friction drew that which she so religiously wanted to resist.

“Give in to me, and I will give you pleasure like no other.”

His words were but a spell. Briefly, unbidden, a spark inside her womb ignited, giving life to ecstatic flames that cascaded through her canal. While a part of her wanted to stay pure and deny this vicious man, an unbearable ache for his return struck her every time he pulled out from her slit. In mindless despair to hold him close, she had finally caved in and wrapped her legs around his waist to hold him near.

Triumphant grunts rumbled in his throat. Appeased by her surrender to his whims, he lifted his upper torso, his taut abs flexing as he rose to hover above her. With his hand still around her jaw, he pressed her deeper into the mattress while pummeling her cunt.

“Make us whole…” he begged, his voice a husky—almost pitiful—groan.

“Make us whole again.”

Depraved as an animal, he ravaged her with the selfish degenerate intent of a man yearning to impregnate his mate. Though this union could result in nothing of that sort, still she thrashed against him in an archaic frenzy, her screams unfurling into the night as her body became enslaved to the same foolish wanton. Soon her trenches began to tighten around him in demand of his seed, and the whispering embers that smouldered in her womb had suddenly imploded into a wave of molten fire that scorched through her completely.

It was in that moment when her cunt devoured him completely, when he felt her heat gush and hug around his shaft so longingly that his eyes glowed bright red, and his fangs flashed sharply before her dazed eyes. Even though she had seen this play out numerous, endless times, she couldn’t help but gasp as he lowered his mouth to her neck and drank her pleasure-tainted blood.

Eyes staring into the ceiling with shock, she trembled like a thing that was about to be shattered. The waves of her ecstasy ebbed away as Sherlock stole from whatever maw of force she had left. Black mists began to waft around her, blurring her sight and pulling her down below. And suddenly, she was limp and heavy at the same time while a cold, strange tingle jittered through her veins.

‘Death…’ she smiled with her eyes half-shut, ‘Oh, finally… Release me!’

Just then, a secondary implosion spasmed through her core and caused her entire body to jitter with delight as the sensation elicited from his bite was an unlikely aphrodisiac. Mouth agape in a silent cry, she threw her head back and stared through the open window while the monster inside her continued to feast on her throat.

The moon—it was covered in blood, painting the room in a crimson shade.

Lost in this trance, Sherlock hummed; the blood of a newly deflowered virgin was sweeter than ambrosia; after decades and aeons of searching, he could sense the wind on his skin, feel the thrum in his veins and abruptly… in a moment passing, he felt a rumble in his chest as his heart pumped once again.

‘Make us whole.’

‘Make me whole.’

‘Make me feel alive again.’

Losing his control entirely, he thrusted into her with a few last powerful strokes and then finally lifted his head with a savage-like shout while his thick elixir overflowed her womb. Cum seeped around his cock at the same manner of the blood that trickled down his square chin.

He licked the corner of his lip, eyes red and sated, peering down at his prey.

“Oh, my sweet little flower,” he murmured and carefully lowered his head to kiss her. She returned the kiss, uncertain if by choice, little did she care now. Her body still tingled and the taste of her own blood had an odd sweetness to it that had made her thirsty. Once he broke from her lips, she suckled them dry.

Like petals plucked from a rose, she laid raw beneath him. Not dead. Not yet. Not ever. She no longer remembered her life before him, no longer remembered who she was. All she knew was that when she would wake the next day, it would be night again.

And he would return to claim her, again.

His fellow companions warned him of such abomination; it was dangerous to drink from his own kind, or so they claimed. It poisoned the mind and the body according to the myths, but whether it was true or not, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care.

No matter the fashion, he came every night, drank from her veins, deflowered her and left.

And every night, she woke up a virgin again, clueless as to who and what she was.

But Sherlock knew the one and only true answer.

She was his.

For all eternity.

#henry cavill #enola holmes #enola holmes 2 #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x reader #henry cavill x reader #sherlock holmes x ofc #henry cavill fanfiction

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lisbeth-kk · 4 months

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Sherlock fandom.

Differences

John’s always thought that both Holmes brothers were inclined to strive towards perfection. He’s wrong, of course. As Sherlock so often informs him, John’s an idiot. By now, John doesn’t find it as insulting as he did in the beginning of their acquaintanceship. Sherlock uses the word more like an endearment these days, truth be told.

“So, what’s your perception on perfection compared to Mycroft’s then?” John asks, his voice a bit slurred from the mulled wine he’s had his fair share of.

Sherlock rolls his eyes automatically when his brother’s name is mentioned, but they have a soft expression. He leans back in his chair, his right foot dangling in front of the table.

Totally relaxed, John thinks.

“Well, Mycroft is, as you know, a pompous arse and has an obsession when it comes to symmetry. I’m sure it’s a name for it, a diagnosis of sort,” Sherlock smirks.

John chuckles and sips his warm brew. He nudges Sherlock’s foot, beckoning him to continue. Sherlock goes still, his eyes fixed on where John’s foot rests against his own. Had John been sober, he’d probably withdrawn his foot, but now he lets it stay.

“Sherlock? You alright?” John inquires softly.

John’s voice seems to get Sherlock out of his daze, and he continues talking, and lets his toes stroke against John’s foot. An electrical jolt runs up John’s leg and sets as numerous sparkles in his stomach, Sherlock’s deep voice adding to the sensation.

“As you know, I am able to appreciate beauty, but to me symmetry is boring. I need something else to keep me interested. Quite the opposite of what my brother prefers; imperfection is what I find fascinating.”

John basks in Sherlock’s proximity but is acutely aware of his words and frowns.

“What?” Sherlock asks with narrowed eyes.

“You can’t stand imperfection, Sherlock! That sign with the miss-spelling last month, for instance, or any typos…”

Sherlock interrupts him, waving his hands dismissively, sitting up in his chair leaning closer to John. John misses the warmth from Sherlock’s foot, but Sherlock’s gaze makes John’s neck heat.

“I’m not speaking of that type of flaws, John. It’s imperfection in nature, architecture, art, music, but most of all in people that fascinates me to no end. And those who are able to surprise me on a regular basis…”

Sherlock trails off focusing his eyes on John’s lips, which makes the heat on John’s neck creep up to his face.

“What about those people?” John whispers unable to divert his eyes from Sherlock’s perfect lips.

“Their imperfection and not to mention their adeptness to surprise even me, is nothing but life altering. A thing I find myself unable to live without,” Sherlock murmurs.

When Sherlock’s hand cups John’s face, John closes his eyes and leans into the touch which sends a tingling sensation through his entire body.

“To me you are perfect with all your imperfections,” Sherlock whispers.

John sighs, opens his eyes and reaches out to touch Sherlock’s face, stroking his thumb over a perfect chiselled cheekbone. Their eyes meet and both move at the same time, and finally their lips meet. The position is strenuous, and Sherlock isn’t close enough, so John does the only sensible thing and breaks the kiss, much to Sherlock’s disquiet.

“Come here,” John murmurs, pulling on Sherlock’s sleeve.

Being a genius, Sherlock understands only seconds later and climbs into John’s chair, straddling John’s thighs, cradling his face and finally lowering his head to claim John’s lips once more.

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @safedistancefrombeingsmart @phoenix27884 @raina-at @gregorovitchworld @topsyturvy-turtely @sabsi221b @helloliriels @peanitbear

#flash fiction friday #sherlock fandom #sherlock #john watson #johnlock #sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock #FFF233 #imperfect sign

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urthebees-knees · 3 months

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ok so in the last few sherlock adaptations there’s always a main character who has amazing cheekbones, ofc in bbc sherlock it was sherlock, in elementary it was joan (queen), and now in sherlock & co there must be a cheekbone holder.

it is my contention this is Mariana and in this essay I will

#mariana ametxazurra #i love her!!!#she’s such a great character and is hilarious whenever she has lines #sherlock & co #sherlock and co #i hope we get more about her!!!#bc she’s awesome.#Mariana haters just are scarred from bbc Sherlock’s bad writing of women #already she’s much better written than most of the women in all of bbc sherlock #not to compare them #but it highlights that Sherlock adaptations can have great and strong female characters!!#I just love sherlock and co sm

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consultjohnwatson · 2 years

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Sherlock is so cute and hot at the same time :(((

I know, it’s really unfair.

#those posh cheekbones #turned up collar #john watson replies #sherlock #bbc sherlock

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chriscalledmesweetie · 4 months

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The Murder of Sir Emory J. Amat by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

A Sherlock Holmes mystery, as recounted by Dr. John H. Watson.

Can you follow the clues to deduce whodunnit?

Chapter 3: The Man Who Kept Bees

I was busily exterminating dandelion roots when a shout of warning sounded from close by and thousands of tiny missiles whizzed past my ears. It was a swarm of bees!

I looked up in alarm. Over the wall, to my left, there appeared a face, with high cheekbones, curly dark hair, cupid’s-bow lips, and bright sea-foam eyes. It was our mysterious neighbour, Mr. Holmes.

“I keep bees,” he said, by way of greeting. “Does that bother you?”

I raised an eyebrow in reply.

“New neighbors should know the worst of each other,” Holmes said.

He then launched into fluent explanation. There was quite a bit about the importance of bees, the natural behaviour of swarms, the segregation of the queen, and the art of beekeeping, but I must confess I found myself more focused on his striking looks and the resonant tone of his voice than on his actual words.

I hoped that Harry was correct in her assessment of his disinterest in the fairer sex, and certain implied corollaries.

@totallysilvergirl @bluebellofbakerstreet @sarahthecoat @helloliriels @daisyfairy1 @imnova @kittenmadnessandtea @marta-bee @whodwantmeasaflatmate @iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant @jobooksncoffee @peanitbear @bakingsherlycakes @missdeliadili @inevitably-johnlocked

#sherlock #johnlock #case fic #my fic

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ao3feed-johnlock · 1 year

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read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/iGKS5fX

by cheekbonesofbenny

John made out with Sherlock on his stag do, now he’s torn between his wife and his best friend.

Words: 1133, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Sherlock (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Morstan

Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mary Morstan/John Watson

Additional Tags: Affairs, Gay Sex, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Oral Sex, Making Out, Cheating

April 01, 2023 at 07:53PM

#AO3 works tagged 'Sherlock Holmes/John Watson'#ao3feed #fanfic #johnlock #sherlock/john cheekbones

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freckles-things · 1 year

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Stolen Love // BBC Sherlock

Summary: Not having seen your boyfriend for some days, you head over to his flat with Chinese take away and left with a broken heart. [Happy ending]

Requested by: @talialea05 (I hope it is what you had in mind)

Pairing: BBC Sherlock x fem!reader

Warnings: broken heart, complicated relationships, subject of cheating, swearing

---

Sherlock and Y/N had been dating for a few months now. Both of you hadn’t really been looking for a relationship, especially Sherlock, but here you were. Sherlock had struggled with his feelings at first, not being used to being ruled by emotions. He too had accepted it in the end, and he had to admit that he enjoyed being with you quite a lot. John also repeatedly told him, both of you really, that the relationship had changed Sherlock for the better. Not that he needed changing, in your opinion. Yes, he was direct and brash and downright rude sometimes, but never intentionally cruel. He cared about people and justice and could be gentle and soft if he wanted to be.

Your relationship so far had consisted of ups and downs, just like any other one. At the moment you definitely were in a down-phase. You hadn’t seen Sherlock in days, and he had neither answered your calls nor your texts. You had texted John, who told you that they currently were working on a demanding and top-secret case brought to them by Mycroft. There had been a few times when Sherlock had been so focused on a case that he had forgotten you during the day. Back then, he had at least texted you a few times a day, whenever there was a short lull in his work, letting you know that he was still busy, and he had paid attention to make sure that you would see each other every other day. Yes, those dates had often consisted of you helping with the case or relaxing at Baker Street while Sherlock was sifting through evidence trying to connect clues, but that had been more than alright with you. You had often spent the evenings on the couch reading or telling Sherlock about the newest things happening in your life, him listening and commenting while he was jotting things down or looking things up. You had been content, you knew what kind of man he was before you had entered a relationship with him. You didn’t expect him to change. And you didn’t want him to. You enjoyed watching him work far too much for that.

Now, after nearly a week, you yearned to see him, even if it was just for a few minutes. You had texted John, asking if there were at the flat, which he confirmed. Buying some dinner at the Chinese restaurant you three preferred, you were looking forward to having dinner with both of them. Even if Sherlock would be preoccupied, John never failed to entertain you with his sarcastic comments.

Finally reaching 221 Baker Street, you knocked on the door waiting for Mrs. Hudson to answer you, which she did promptly. She hugged you, as always, and commented on how good it was to see you again. After a quick chat you made your way upstairs to Sherlock’s flat. You opened the door not bothering to knock, taking a few steps into the flat before freezing.

Sherlock and John weren’t alone. A woman was sitting in Sherlock’s armchair. She was gorgeous, almost flawless and seemed to be quite content in the situation. What caught your attention though, was the fact that she was wearing Sherlock’s robe. And if anything, Sherlock was quite peculiar over his robe. Even you weren’t allowed to wear it. That woman was currently wrapped up in it. Your mind drew a blank trying to explain the situation. Maybe she’d been drenched in something? But even then, they had towels and could have lent her a shirt and a pair of pants.

You put down the takeaway and took a few more steps towards the living room, listening to the conversation they were currently having.

“Well handsome, I’m not sure that plan will work. They might be too dazzled by those cheekbones”, the woman said lowly, leaning forward so her cleavage was on full display. You noticed Sherlock shifting slightly, crossing his legs.

“The likelihood of that happening is ridiculously low. We might as well go on with the current plan, as you well know.” His voice was the same as always, not betraying a single emotion. The woman hummed in agreement.

“You know, Mr. Holmes. I always liked detective stories. And detectives.” By now she was leaning even farther towards Sherlock, her hand wandering over the ankle of the crossed over leg, caressing further up his leg. You really didn’t want to see this and most of all you didn’t want to see how your boyfriend didn’t interfere with another woman touching him.

“Consulting Detective. The only one in the world.” You could clearly hear the pride in his voice. Was he trying to impress her?

“Let’s have dinner”, she stated. Even John had noticed that she was flirting and seemingly didn’t seem to care either since he didn’t interject and only made an amused comment over Sherlock’s eating habits.

You felt your stomach drop, taking a few clumsy steps back from the scene in front of you. How neither of them noticed you presence eluded you, but drove home the point of how enraptured your usual very attentive boyfriend was by the woman sitting opposite him. If the woman was part of the important case, it was no wonder that Sherlock hadn’t answered you. She was beautiful, direct, and intelligent and Sherlock was clearly taken by her.

Well then, the relationship wasn’t in a down-phase anymore. It was over. You turned around without announcing your presence, making your way out of the flat and back onto the street, stomping to the next tube station to get home. You felt numb and tried to concentrate on anything but the recent events. If there was one thing that you really didn’t need, it was a breakdown on the tube. Only once the door to your flat closed behind you, did you feel the tears gathering in your eyes and streaming down your face. You had known that Sherlock would sooner or later grow bored of you. He was brilliant, a force to be reckoned with and you were, well, ordinary. You couldn’t always keep up with his thoughts or his logic and preferred a quieter style of life. Of course you would grow to be a bother to him at some point. You just had hoped that this would happen later rather than sooner. And you had hoped that he would have had the decency to end your relationship properly instead of just ignoring you until you got the point.

Growing angry, you fished your phone out of your pocket and sending exactly one text before blocking Sherlock’s number: We’re done. Enjoy dinner.

---

It had taken Sherlock three days to realize that he wasn’t as unaffected by your massage as he had thought.

At first, he hadn’t understood what you meant and ignored the message. That was until both he and John accompanied The Woman to the door, and he spotted the bag of takeaway standing by the door to the living room. You must have been here. How had he not noticed you coming in? Now that he knew, he could smell the heady scent of your perfume lingering in the air. John looked equally surprised when he noticed the food. After The Woman had disappeared, he tried to contact you, but immediately got the message that your number wasn’t available.

“She must have seen Irene flirt with you, Sherlock. And you didn’t quite gave off the impression of being averse to it”, John commented once he understood the situation.

“Flirting?”, Sherlock questioned confusedly. John shook his head and smiled at his cluelessness.

“Quite obviously, Sherlock. I’ve never seen anyone flirt so openly. So, what are you going to do about Y/N?”

“Nothing”, he shrugged. It must have been obvious to you that he hadn’t reciprocated her flirting – at least that was what Sherlock though. And if you couldn’t trust him, then so be it. He had better things to do than to chase after a jealous woman.

“Nothing? Sherlock, you can’t let that poor girl wander around, thinking that you were flirting with other women behind her back.”

“Well, she should know better and trust me.”

“You can be an utter bastard sometimes; do you know that? That girl hasn’t heard from you in a week and comes here with dinner just to see another woman flirting with you. Of course she comes to the wrong conclusion. Look, Sherlock, both of you have bloomed in your relationship. You can’t just let that slip away.” John had grown frustrated by his friend’s blasé attitude. He knew that the two of you hadn’t said it yet, but it had been clear for anybody that the two of you were head over heels in love with each other. He didn’t understand how Sherlock could just let this slip past his grasp.

“I don’t have the time to chase after jealous women, John”, was Sherlock’s clipped response before he disappeared into his bedroom. He didn’t need you after all. He had survived years without a single relationship, so why should he bother. It didn’t make a difference, right?

Well, it did. He had caught himself talking to you on a few different occasions, without you being there. Thankfully, John had been away in those instances, otherwise he wouldn’t have heard the end of it. The one time he had wanted to make tea on his own, and yes, he was perfectly capable of that, the only tea he could find was your favourite. He hadn’t even known that they had it at the flat. Walking the streets of London, every flower shop suddenly seemed to display your favourites and the cake you loved, and would always buy a slice of if you ever saw it, was advertised everywhere. His thoughts were more and more occupied with you, to the point where he couldn’t properly focus on his cases. It was ridiculous, really. He didn’t understand why he was this affected by the situation. Even Gavin had noticed that something was off and had ordered him to rest for a few days before coming back for new cases.

It took him another two days until he decided to try and text you, asking you to talk. The message didn’t go through. So, you had still blocked him. He wasn’t quite sure how to interpret that. Did you want him to reach out so he could try to explain, or did you want to be left alone? He could admit that he wanted to try and tell you what had really happened. A chance to explain the situation you had observed. He had never been good with his feelings, he didn’t always understand them, but after a week and a few not-so-subtle hints from John, he could admit that he missed you. That it hurt that you weren’t there with him. He needed to talk with you. And if he couldn’t reach out like this, then he would have to go and find you.

---

You had spent the last week crying and feeling sorry for yourself. You had predictably heard nothing from Sherlock. Ignoring the voice in your head that reminded you that you had blocked him, you went in search of some chocolate. You were sure that he could reach you if he really wanted to. Wallowing in self pity wasn’t a solution though. You had given yourself the week to cry and be sad about it, all with the clear intention that this would be it and that you would be over him afterwards. Too bad that your heart didn’t quite agree with the plan. No matter how much you wanted to deny it, you couldn’t. You loved Sherlock and your broken heart wouldn’t just go away because you wanted it to. You wanted Sherlock too, but you simply weren’t going to get what you wanted to have.

Grabbing your chocolate and your freshly brewed coffee, you made your way to the living room. Once you had stepped over the threshold, you froze. There was a very familiar figure sitting on your sofa.

“How the fuck did you get in here?” you asked in absolute surprise before you remembered the current situation between you.

“Get out, Sherlock. I don’t want to see you.” You set your things down on the table and waited expectantly for him to move without looking at him. He didn’t though.

“You should change your locks. They were way too easy to pick, didn’t even take me 30 seconds”, his voice sounded the same as always. The deep baritone not giving anything away.

“Get out.” You repeated yourself. How could he even sit there calmly, as if nothing had happened?

“I thought we could talk, Y/N”

“Well, you thought wrong. And now get the hell out of my flat, Sherlock.” He still didn’t budge. How dare he break into your home and then refuse to leave. The audacity made you fume, and you took a deep breath. Exploding at him wouldn’t solve anything.

“Y/N, don’t be unreasonable”, ha admonished. Well, that did it.

“Unreasonable? Who the bloody hell do you think you are to invade my home like this and then disregard my wishes? You’re an arrogant bastard, Sherlock. Leave me alone!” He still didn’t react, which made your anger grow. He was just sitting there and blinking at you. Well, only one solution left then. Without saying anything else you turned around and slipped into your shoes which were standing in the hallway, moving to grab your jacket. You felt absolutely foolish leaving your own flat, but if he wouldn’t leave then you had to. You were just about to grab your keys when a large hand grabbed your wrist.

“Don’t leave, Y/N. Please, let me explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain, Sherlock”, your voice sounded utterly defeated, and you felt Sherlock shift behind you at the sound of it.

“Please, Y/N. Just give me five minutes.” Maybe it was the fact that he had said please two times in a row, a word which he usually never used, or maybe your exhaustion won, but you agreed. Winding your wrist out of his grasp, you moved back to the living room, taking a seat in the armchair and waited until Sherlock had followed.

“Five minutes”, you agreed, waiting for him to begin his explanation while studiously avoiding to look at him or his general direction.

“I didn’t realise she was flirting with me, Y/N.” You couldn’t help the scoff that escaped your lips. That was an utterly ridiculous excuse. Did he honestly expect you to believe that?

“I realise that it sounds like a lame excuse. But I really didn’t notice until John explained it to me. I… I have no experience with relationships. No one ever stuck around long enough for that, none ever has accepted me enough to want to be in a relationship with me. John explained how it must have looked. Me not answering your texts and then the situation with Irene. I swear that there is nothing between us. I didn’t accept her dinner invitation. I never do.” So, obviously there had been more than one invitation. You didn’t know how to feel about this revelation. How long had he worked on the case for that to be possible?

You didn’t quite look at him while saying your piece. There was no response from Sherlock, which made you swallow hard. Taking a deep breath, you prepared to lay your feelings bare in the hopes to get your closure.

“She was flirting with you, Sherlock. She had her hands all over you, touching you and inviting you for dinner. You didn’t say anything, even John didn’t say anything about it. You didn’t even tell me that you were working a case. I got to know that from John. And when I come over with the intention of making your evening a little easier by bringing food, you’re not only sitting across a woman that shamelessly flirts with you, but she was also wearing your bathrobe. The one even I am not allowed to touch because you’ve got some weird attachment to it. What was I supposed to think, Sherlock? You don’t just let other people touch you like that if you’re not interested. And I’ve never seen you letting anyone touch you voluntarily except for John and Mrs. H.“

“I’m not stupid, Sherlock. I knew that one day, sooner or later, you would lose interest in me. You’re brilliant and extraordinary and no one really can keep up with you, least of all I. Why would you be interested in some ordinary person? And that’s alright. I was prepared for that. But I expected you to be honest and to not just string me along for entertainment or some sick form of amusement”, your voice was quiet and wobbled precariously as you tried to hold back your tears.

This however got a response out of the consulting detective. He closed the distance between you with two large steps, kneeling on the floor in front of you and gently grasping your hands before you could even blink. His large hands encased yours and kept on holding them when you tried to wiggle them free.

“Are you sure? I would understand if you’d prefer her over me. She’s beautiful and intelligent.” His well-protected heart broke at your words. How could you think that he would ever want anyone else if he could have you. You were perfect to him. Exactly what he needed and wanted, and he would never give you up.

“Love, I would never do that. If anything, the last week has shown me how much I need you in my life. I missed you, Y/N. I couldn’t think and everything reminded me of you. I don’t want to lose you. I realize that my reaction to Irene Adler wasn’t the best and that I hurt your feelings with the way I behaved. I promise that I will try to do better. My understanding of emotions is minuscule at best, and I cannot promise that I’ll never make a mistake again. But I don’t want Irene Adler. How could I, when I have you in my life?”, he said in the softest voice you’d ever heard from him. He searched for your eyes, and you met them for a split second. It was enough to see the regret on his face and the earnestness with which he promised to do better. It wasn’t quite enough yet.

“I don’t want anyone but you, Y/N. I didn’t answer your texts because I didn’t realise you weren’t there. I talked to you every evening, running through the case. And I didn't give my bathrobe to her, John did. I asked her to put on something else, but John warned me that she would just not wear anything at all. And I didn't want that. And the last week I caught myself talking to you as well, but there was no answer because you weren’t there. I missed the chatter while I was going through the evidence. Graham even sent me home because I couldn’t focus on the case. You make me a better person, Y/N. And I realised that I can’t live without you anymore. You're kind and always see the good in people. Wherever you are, you bring sunshine. And you are more intelligent than you realize, love. Your input on my cases has helped me a great deal and I can’t imagine anyone else I would rather discuss a case with.”

His warm hands framed your face, gently tilting it up a little. Your eyes met and you were mesmerized by the emotions swimming in his usually cold gaze. There were dark shadows under his eyes that proved that he hadn’t slept well in the past few days, despite not having any cases.

“You are beautiful, love. Inside and out. And it pains me that you don’t see it yourself. I will spend the rest of my life proving it if you will have me.” You slowly leaned your forehead against his broad chest, your shoulders drooping in defeat. How on earth were you supposed to resist that man? Maybe your reaction had been a little harsh and you should have waited for an explanation. It might have saved you both from a week full of heartache.

“I’m sorry, too. I might have overreacted when I saw you together and should have given you a chance to explain. I should have trusted you. Maybe we could talk about boundaries and what we expect of each other some time, so we can be on the same page? Will you forgive me?” You practically whispered your words, but you were sure Sherlock picked them up with no effort.

His strong arms wrapped themselves around your back, pulling you even closer to him. His face buried itself against your neck, and soft lips pressed a slow kiss against your jaw.

“Only if you’ll forgive one stupid, self-absorbed detective as well.” His words forced a wet laugh out off you, your hands grabbing onto the front of his coat and taking a deep breath of his well-known scent.

“I don’t think I could stay mad at you, even if I wanted to. I do love you far too much for that.” Once the words had left your mouth, you froze. Neither of you had said the words until now and you hadn’t intended to let them slip out.

Sherlock’s hand moved up to the back of your head, gently moving it so he could see your face again.

“I’m glad to know we’re of one mind then, love”, he whispered against your lips, before closing the small distance between you. You closed your eyes, the stress of the last week lifting off your shoulders as Sherlock kissed you gently.

You stayed in his arms for hours, not wanting to let go. Sherlock didn’t fare any better, pressing your body against his, his mind finally at ease when he felt your weight settle against him. Both of you would undoubtedly make mistakes again, just like everyone else did. But with a relationship built on trust and communication, you would overcome those as well.

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