#also it's absolutely criminal for this to have som little notes

[insomniaacs]

Last Call (part 1) - Sherlock x reader

A/N: Hello, everyone! So, this is my first time ever writing anything Sherlock related, and I've also never in my life written anything with a reader, so excuse my ordinary attempt at it... This supposedly takes place during 2x03, but I've changed some things to fit the plot, so the timing is a little bit different. Also, this is a new writing blog, so if you want to read more like this, don't hesitate to follow me!

Word count: 4252 Warnings: angst, mentions of suicide

[Part 2]

"(Y/N), are you safe?" John's voice came out like a whisper through the cellphone's speaker. He sounded tired and out of breath, and you could hear the faintest hint of a busy street on the background.

"Yes. Are you? What the hell happened?" you tried to speak calmly, but your voice cracked during the last two syllables. The clock hanging next to your dining table ticked seven past nine in the evening, distracting you the tiniest bit.

Time was of essence, you were aware.

"I can't really say much right now," rushed footsteps on the other end. He was running, you deduced, "but we're fine for now." You knew John was trying to be reassuring, but there was still a pang in your chest at the thought of him and Sherlock being on the run.

Sherlock...

"Is Sherlock there with you? Are you coming home tonight?" You asked in a rush. There was no telling how much time you had until John had to hang up or how long it would be until the next time you got to speak to each other.

Your eyes traveled to the newspaper in your hands, Sherlock and John's names printed on the first page; their photographs big and out of focus right above it. 'Brilliant detective or undercover criminal?', said the headline. What a bunch of nonsense.

"Yes, and I don't know," John said quickly, his voice disappearing so the only thing you could hear was the faint sound of the soles of their feet hitting the floor. It took him a moment to talk to you again, "I think we should probably stay away from Baker Street for a while, though. Wait for things to cool off a bit."

Yes, that made sense. As far as the police was concerned, they were fugitives. There was absolutely no reason for them to come back to the flat now. That was what the rational part of your brain was telling you.

The other more vulnerable part - the one you tended to forget most of the time - was suggesting otherwise.

"Can I talk to Sherlock?" You heard yourself ask against your better judgement. There was no use in talking to him. He was probably busy trying to figure out what to do next; assessing his mind for a way out of Moriarty's scheme. They were out on the streets and doing so would be risking their safety for a chance to talk to him, and yet you did it anyway. Something about the situation they found themselves at had your stomach turning with fear.

The line went mute for a few seconds, and for a scary, dreadful moment you thought the call had been interrupted. Then there was a fumbling noise at the other end of the line and his voice came streaming through your phone, low and deep and oh so beautiful. "Hello," Sherlock mumbled formally, and you felt like smiling. His voice was enough to lessen the panic rising on your stomach. Now all you needed was some sort of reassurance, something to help with the pain in your chest at the prospect of them not returning.

"Sherlock," you exhaled, a little more relieved; a little less on the verge of a panic attack.

"(Y/N)," he said even lower, and she could almost see the rise and fall of his chest as he heaved from the run.

"I absolutely prohibit you from dying, do you understand?" You tried to sound angry, but heard the slight waver of your voice and immediately knew he had noticed it too. "If I don't see both you and John walk through this door in one piece, I will make sure to murder you two all over again."

You heard him sigh on the other end, and kept a sob from coming out of your mouth. "I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible. You can't kill someone that's already dead," he said as a matter of fact, but you heard the smile on his lips. This was his reassurance. It was his promise, however shallow it might be. It would have to be enough.

"I'll see you soon, then," you replied, leaving no space for further discussion.

"See you," it was the last thing you heard from them in days.

...

You swallowed your tea with a painful cringe, coughing a bit afterwards. It burned your mouth and left a tingly, uncomfortable sensation on your tongue.

"Careful now, darling," Mrs. Hudson offered you a tight smile as she blew on her own cup before taking a graceful sip. Her hands were shaking slightly when she set it back on its matching saucer.

You were the only ones in 221B that morning. It was a particularly gloomy Sunday, with dark grey clouds hovering over London and no promise whatsoever of a clear sky for the rest of the week. There was a chilly wind coming from the open windows, and you got up with a screech of your chair to close it. Your eyes lingered on the empty street outside, and you didn't even realize the heavy sigh that came out of your lips.

It had been one week. They hadn't come back.

You turned away from the window forcefully. It was becoming a burden, this sick, constant worrying.

You had been trying to interpret the lack of news from the boys as a good sign. The fact that their bodies had not shown up in the papers and their names hadn't been mentioned in Scotland Yard's death certificates had to mean they were okay, hadn't it?

And yet not having anything concrete to hold onto was driving you insane. The days seemed to drag themselves into weeks. Your mind kept imagining different scenarios.

On the good days, you would daydream about a reunion. Sherlock and John would come striding through the door, their faces tired and their bodies drained, but then they'd both see you, and you'd embrace each other with the promise that they would never have to leave again.

And then there were the bad days. On those, your fantasies would turn to full blown nightmares. You'd imagine coming back to your apartment just above theirs and find their bloody bodies thrown across your living room, still and lifeless. Those were the days you stayed locked up in your room, refusing to eat or drink anything.

Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough not to disturbe you on those days, but the disapproving stares she threw your way showed just how much she was opposed to your behavior.

You couldn't help it though. There was something inside you that had crumbled the day they both left. Something tiny, almost imperceptible that lied deep beneath your skin and that had disappeared along with them. It was small and it had seemed meaningless, but its absence had caused you to collapse.

It had taken you just a few days to fall into a deep, dark state of desperation.

Oh, just how disappointed would Sherlock be if he knew how weak you had become?

"Your tea is getting cold, dear," Mrs. Hudson's voice cut through the silence like a knife cuts through someone's flesh. You hadn't been aware of the heaviness in the atmosphere around you until you looked up at her sad eyes and realized they were red from her lack of sleep.

It then occurred to you that she was definitely much stronger than she seemed.

The woman had been in this situation god knows how many times. Sherlock was never really the type of guy that left a note before he stormed off somewhere, and though John usually did exactly that, they never really had a date set to return.

Several times Mrs. Hudson had found herself completely alone, fearing for her own safety as well as theirs. She had spent several nights with bloodshot eyes and a racing heart every time the phone rang.

And you couldn't, for the life of you, comprehend how she did it.

How could she still smile despite it all? How could she find the motivation to get out of bed in the morning when she knew the possibility that they'd return was close to zero?

God, you envied her. You envied her strength and you envied her positivity.

You were never an optimistic person. There was nothing particularly awful about your childhood and adolescence, yet a lot had gone wrong in your early adulthood.

Put a few abusive boyfriends and a couple of problems with the law in the mix, and one would end up pretty beaten up.

You were lucky to have rented the flat directly above Sherlock and John's. You were lucky they had offered you the chance of a new beginning. Building a reputation took time, and you had managed to recreate one for yourself. There wasn't much need for a computer rat in the market nowadays; at least not one that also offered a good paycheck. It had to be a miracle when the boys invited you to work with them. Another miracle that you all happened to become important to one another.

John had been easy to befriend. He was kindhearted and easygoing. Conversation seemed to flow between you and him, especially when the topic of choice was your shared interest for the doctor's beloved blog.

Sherlock, however, had been a harder target. He obviously had no interest in anyone's friendship. How John had managed to sneak into his heart had been a complete mystery to you back then.

That is, until you found your way in as well.

Sherlock was good at many things, and one of them was hiding his feelings. John liked to say he sometimes thought he didn't have any, because he was not human. You knew better. To you, he was just very, very good at suppressing them.

And good God, did he do so until the very last ounce of his body couldn't bear to restrain them anymore.

He'd been angry the night everything had changed between you and him. You were trying to solve an exceptionally tricky case. There was little to no evidence to lead you, and things didn't seem to be going anywhere.

He'd lost his temper that night. Had screamed at your face until his voice became raspy and his cheeks turned a bright shade of red. You remembered having stood in front of him, too close for comfort and somehow farther then ever before. You had looked him in the eyes and had pulled him by the collar with such force that when your lips met, there was the distinctive clatter of teeth echoing in the silent room.

The kiss had been wild. There had been almost no contact between your bodies except for his rough, almost possessive grip on your jaw to bring you closer, and yet it had been brutal. There had been something animalistic about the way your mouth granted entrance to his tongue; something primal and irrational in the desperation of your mouths as your fingers turned almost white while they gripped his previously unwrinkled shirt.

You had tried to hide the hurt in your eyes when immediately after he became distant. His pupils had still been dilated and his mouth was still red and plump when he looked into the distance and seemed to finally figure something important about the case.

He'd walked straight out of the room without another word; had left you standing in the middle of it with your breath ragged and your pride hurt, and you had decided then and there to never mention it again.

It had worked out until now, but the thought of it still haunted you. His lips had never left your head, and you were afraid they never would.

Mrs. Hudson watched your every move as your eyes became distant. She knew you were thinking about the boys; thought you were probably worrying about their safety. What she didn't notice was the slight change in your posture. Sherlock certainly would have been able to see the dilation of your pupils, but Mrs. Hudson didn't so much as spare a second glance at the way your breath quickened ever so slightly, or the way you unconsciously lifted your fingers to your lips, as though they were actually tingling like they had all those months ago.

...

You were determined to make it stop.

The worrying had to stop, otherwise there wouldn't be anything left of you when they returned. And they would return.

Truth be told, you were tired of feeling useless. And for the span of a week, that was all you had been.

It had taken you some time, but you had finally comprehended that doing nothing was definitely not contributing to anything. Crying yourself to sleep or sulking on Sherlock's chair wouldn't help bring the both of them back, and however painful it might be, you had to get a move on.

Life would go on wether they came back or not, and you decided to be prepared for either one of the scenarios.

So you did the only thing you could to try to feel at peace: you grabbed your computer and you worked. You worked until your hands felt like falling off and your eyes were red and dry from staring at the blue light of the computer screen. You worked so much that at the end of the day, you couldn't bare doing anything other than falling into your bed and sleeping, feeling satisfied and grateful that you had no energy left to even think of your two missing friends. For the first time you didn't wake up in the middle of the night with the sound of a car outside or the ruffling of keys, and you didn't feel disappointed that it wasn't them at the door.

You woke up the next day feeling replenished and ready to do everything once more. It was the first day in a week that you emerged from your room for breakfast, and you were feeling proud and motivated.

Your apartment looked brighter than it had the past few days, and you wondered if it was because you had finally stopped making a total ass of yourself. You entered the living room and saw that, actually, it was because you had left the door open the night before.

With a sigh, you motioned to close it, but before you could do so, a voice from downstairs kept you glued to your spot.

"Oh, for christ's sake, Sherlock, it's eight in the bloody morning. Let me at least have some coffee."

It was John. His voice was unmistakable, it was him.

You had tried to be prepared for this moment, but the only thing you could do was stand very, very still, afraid that it would turn out to be some sort of trick from your mind. But the voice was getting closer, and soon an ashy-blonde head was coming out of the door downstairs, and the only thing you could do was throw one foot after the other until you reached the lower level and could hug the figure lingering outside.

"(Y/N)!" John yelped as he embraced you, holding you in one arm as he balanced a cup of coffee with his other hand.

"You bloody arse!" You punched his back slightly, afraid to let go. "You could have called!"

John merely laughed, releasing you and looking at your face. "I'm sorry. Our phone had a tragic end," he explained vaguely, but you didn't press the issue. Instead your feet dragged you inside the apartment.

The living room looked pretty much the same as it had before, except now there was someone other than Mrs. Hudson and you in it. Climbing the bookshelf on the farther corner of the room, Sherlock had his feet perched on two of its shelves, causing several books to fall to the floor.

He seemed to be searching for something on the top shelf, completely transfixed. His feet touched the ground with a thump as he jumped down; a green covered, heavy looking book held between his fingers.

For a moment you thought he didn't see you. His eyes were scanning the insides of the book; his mouth mumbling seemingly incoherent phrases to no one in particular. "What are you so stupefied at?" A few moments passed in silence, and it wasn't until he lifted his eyes at you that you realized he was talking to you.

You chose not to answer his question, simply marching towards him and stopping at an arms length. His face held a hard expression. It was like he was schooling his features, trying not to really show what he was feeling. He also seemed tired. Sherlock had always had a habit of staying up for nights and nights on wake, not bothering to close his eyes until he was finished with whatever he was doing. This tired looked different, though. His eyes seemed sunken into his skull, the lines of his face more prominent. The week had taken a toll on him, you could see.

A sigh that you didn't realize you were holding escaped your lips before you could contain it. Sherlock must've realized that you looked relieved when you rubbed at your face with your hands, because his face softened. He looked much less superior with the slight preoccupied frown of his eyebrows.

And that was just too much for you to be able to control yourself. Your arms wrapped around his waist on their own accord and you pressed your cheek to his chest, tightening your grip on him until there was no space left between your bodies.

You felt his sharp intake of breath rather than heard it- the fast rise of his chest that you interpreted as one of surprise. This was the most intimate kind of physical contact you two had shared ever since the kiss, and you knew it would probably be too much for him, but you couldn't find it within you to actually care. He was there in flesh and bones, and God only knew when would be the last time that would happen.

It felt like ages after that you felt him move, and if you'd surprised him before, his next movements shocked you beyond imagination. His arms that had been limp on his sides moved to hold you as well, and something in your belly stirred.

His embrace felt like a warm cup of tea in a stormy morning, or like the first rays of sun after days of clouded skies. It felt like certainty and safety altogether, and you melted into his arms until it was no longer appropriate.

Someone cleared their throat behind you.

Your arms reluctantly released Sherlock's shirt, and your turned to see John and Mrs. Hudson bearing baffled expressions on their faces. You felt the almost uncontrollable urge to laugh, but kept it to yourself as Sherlock moved toward the desk, seemingly unaffected by everything.

The room grew awfully quiet, and the only thing that could be heard was the sound of pages being turned and fingers pressing into a blackberry's keyboard. Sherlock typed furiously into his phone like there was no one in the room, and when he stopped, there was an empty expression on his face that left a dreadful feeling on your chest.

Something was wrong.

"I have to do something," he confirmed your suspicions, and you felt your heart squeeze painfully. John made to take his jacket from the hanger, but Sherlock stood up and held out a hand to stop him. "Alone."

No one said anything as he grabbed his overcoat roughly and went for the door in large steps, and no one tried to stop him as he barged out of the room and ran down the stairs.

From your place by the window you could see him getting into a cab, but found no strength to follow after him whatsoever. Instead your knees gave in and you had to seat on the nearest chair in order to keep from falling to the floor, while John simply left the apartment to stand outside on the street looking lost and distant.

"I'll go make some tea," Mrs. Hudson declared quietly, and suddenly it was only you and her again.

...

Two hours later, your phone buzzed in your pocket and you stared silently at the caller ID.

You had spent the entirety of those hours sitting on the same uncomfortable chair in front of the desk, staring absently out the window, sighing every now and then and ignoring the sad looks Mrs. Hudson was throwing your way.

It was Sherlock's name shining on the cellphone's screen.

Your first instinct was to ignore it. You were angry. God, you were bloody furious. At Sherlock, at life, at yourself... Why couldn't things be easier for once? Why did he have to be so distant?

The phone buzzed again and this time it was the worried side of you that spoke. What if he was in trouble? If you ignored this call and something happened to him, it would be entirely your fault.

The thought of losing him had your fingers swiping desperately on the green button on the screen.

"Hello?"

"(Y/N)," he said breathlessly, and the way he pronounced it made you frown.

"What's wrong? Where are you?" you asked and heard him draw a shaky breath at the other end of the line.

"I- This is going to be difficult to hear, but please let me finish before you speak," he pleaded, and you noticed the slight edge to his voice. He had said 'please'. You had never heard him say that before. "I need you to know how important you are... to me." A pang in your chest. What the fuck?

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense-"

"Ah, ah! Let me finish!" His voice came out stronger than before. He sounded desperate. "(Y/N), I'm not... I'm not who you, or John, or Mrs. Hudson think I am. The newspapers were right, I-" he trailed for a moment, and it occurred to you that whatever he wanted to say was hurting him immensely. "I'm a fake."

The phone almost fell from your hands. His voice was thick with what could only be tears, and you felt your own eyes water. "What? Sherlock, I-" your hands trembled as you spoke, "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Everything, (Y/N)! Moriarty, the deduction thing... I made it all up!" He yelled, but the sound came out muffled to your ears. Your head had started ringing. You felt like throwing up.

"No... No!" you shrieked, your vision fogged and blurry by the unshed tears. "You're delusional! I know you, Sherlock. I- you're lying!" It was the only reasonable explanation. You got up from your chair in one swift motion, the force of it sending it tumbling to the floor. "Where are you? Let me help you."

You heard him laugh humorlessly. "It doesn't matter where I am," he sighed, shaky and weak. "I need to ask you something, (Y/N). I need you to do something for me." He took a few shaky breaths, trying to control himself. He was crying, you knew it. The thought of it was scary. "I need you to keep on living. To move on." Sherlock asked and your frown deepened. He was talking nonsense. Perhaps he had been drugged? You opened John's computer in front of you and clicked on the button to locate his phone.

"Stop it, Sherlock. Where the fuck is all this coming from?" the computer beeped with a result. An icon with his initials was placed on the map indicating Bart's Hospital rooftop, and you closed the laptop with a thud before grabbing your coat. He didn't answer. "Sherlock?" Please be there. Please don't hang up.

"This is it, (Y/N)," he said after a while. "I can't run anymore, and I don't expect you to understand it." His voice was thick with tears. Yours wasn't much better.

"Taxi!" you yelled, then pressed the phone to your ear again. "Sherlock, tell me what's happening... Tell me the truth!"

He sighed. "This is a goodbye," he said, and you stopped dead in your tracks. No. No, no, no, no, no, "and an I'm sorry."

"Shut up," you sobbed. "Just shut up."

"I'm sorry for all the pain that I've caused you," he continued as if he hadn't heard you, and you pressed your free hand to your face with such force that when you opened your eyes afterwards, there were black spots in your vision. "And I'm sorry that I'm not courageous enough to say it to your face."

"Shut the fuck up, Sherlock!" You screamed, not bothering to restrain your voice in public. "You're lying! You're fucking lying, and no matter what you say, I will never believe you!" You were crying freely now, the sobs mingling with the angry words coming out of your mouth. A taxi finally pulled up in front of you and you didn't even register telling the driver the address.

You heard Sherlock exhale shakily on the other end of the line; heard his unfeeling mask slipping right out of his face as the both of you just listened to each other's painful ragged breaths.

"Goodbye, (Y/N)," was the last thing he said before the line went mute, and you had to clasp a hand over your mouth to keep from breaking down.

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