#sherxr

[insomniaacs]

Ruined - Sherlock x reader

A/N: Omg, I'm so sorry for taking so long with this guys!! I promise I'll be more active from now on! As always, enjoy X3

Requested by anon: Hey can you pls do a fic for Sherlock x reader where the reader is having a hard time forgetting about this lover who never loved her back, could maybe Sherlock help her look past that lover in anyway idk , thankx

Word count: 2863 Warnings: none

“She still hasn’t come out?” John asked worriedly, his eyes glued to the door to the room upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head grimly. “Not even for tea,” she replied solemnly, and John sighed tiredly.

He uncrossed his legs uncomfortably only to cross them again a few seconds later. His eyes were fixated on a specific spot on the carpet underneath his feet, and his fingers were drumming the armrest of his chair rhythmically.

“Would you mind?” Sherlock’s deep voice startled him, and John looked up to see his friend and former flatmate leafing through a thick, dusty book. His eyebrows were scrunched up, and his lips were pressed in a thin line in deep concentration.

John looked at him confusedly, “What?”

“The incessant tapping, John,” Sherlock stated obviously, looking up for a brief moment before sighing in frustration and going back to his book.

John scoffed, but did what he was told anyway.

He sighed. The room was silent again except for the noise of Mrs. Hudson doing something in the kitchen. It had been like this for a week now. You’d been refusing to eat and go out, and the only thing you’d done for the past few days was lie on your bed and sleep. John wasn’t even sure when you’d last taken a shower, much less left the comfort and darkness provided by your room.

Sherlock flipped another page of his book and John couldn’t help looking at his friend with a frown.

Throughout the whole week, he’d seemed completely unfazed. He hadn’t said a word regarding the subject, and hadn’t made any attempts to seek you out or try to talk to you like both John and Mrs. Hudson had so many times.

John sighed again. “Do you really not care at all?” he asked after a while, but silence was all that followed. It wasn’t until John forcefully cleared his throat that Sherlock finally looked at him, one eyebrow raised in innocent confusion.

“Oh. You were talking to me,” he said, and it sounded more like an affirmative than a question. “I'm sorry?” John grit his teeth.

“Do. You. Not. Care?” he asked again, his patience all but lost.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, please. Drop the act,” he scoffed, “I mean, aren’t you in any way affected by what’s happened?” John clarified, but felt like he didn’t emphasise the importance of it enough. “Don't you have the slightest bit of consideration for (Y/N)? Because that seems way too harsh, Sherlock, even for you.”

The man in question looked at him for a few moments before answering. His eyes were blank, devoid from any emotion, and John was momentarily taken aback by their coldness.

“Why should it affect me?” Sherlock asked, and John had to suppress the urge to swear. “Things like that happen all the time. Honestly, John, don’t you think you’re overreacting a bit?"

That was it. He’d had enough. “Overreacting?” John repeated harshly, gripping the sides of his chair. “Over- oh my god,” he shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “(Y/N) has barely left her bed, you know? She’s been locked in her room for days, and all you can think about is this bloody ridiculous case of yours.” John practically yelled, his face reddening with rage. That seemed to do it for Sherlock, who snapped his book shut with such force that the noise echoed around the living room.

“She got dumped!” he countered in rage, standing up and tossing the book on the table beside him. “It’s not my concern how she decides to cope with it!” Sherlock yelled back and began retreating to his room, the corners of his lips turned down and his hands closed into fists.

John stood as well, looking at his back as he tried to control his breathing. “You know, Sherlock…” he said, his voice low and dangerous as opposed to the angry tone he had before. Sherlock stopped in the hallway, though he never turned to look at his friend. “Just because you can’t love, doesn’t mean other people are incapable of it as well.”

Sherlock went back to his room and hoped that John wouldn’t realise just how entirely wrong that sentence was.

...

Sherlock sighed for what was probably the fifteenth time that day.

He was lying on his back, legs facing the headboard as his head hanged upside down on the feet of his bed. The blood was rushing to his face, but he paid it no mind as he looked at a stain on the wall in front of him. It reminded him of an animal. A spider maybe…? Well, definitely something with many legs.

Sherlock cringed. He rolled over to his belly and propped his chin on the soft duvet just as the dizziness due to his previous position was beginning to feel unbearable. The spider no longer seemed like a spider. It now looked like a hand, or perhaps a tree. He’d have to further examine it in order to come to a conclusion.

The thought made him scoff.

There he was, the great Sherlock Holmes, England’s most acclaimed private detective and wall stain specialist. What a joke.

He sat on the bed. It was already mid-afternoon, which meant he’d probably stayed locked up in his room for about seven hours straight.

And Sherlock didn’t want to go back out.

For some reason, he was anxious. He’d tried distracting himself with relevant things, but when that hadn’t worked out, he’d taken solace on the irrelevant, such as observing his dirty wallpaper.

Which didn’t really matter in the end, because his thoughts always went back to one thing… You.

You were suffering. It didn’t take a genius to realise that much. Sherlock hadn’t seen you in a while, and though you—not unlike him—didn’t really have a problem with isolation, things were starting to become preoccupying.

John was right. Sherlock knew he was right and he knew he was being the biggest asshole in the whole world. He hadn’t tried to talk to you, hadn’t tried to comfort you… He hadn’t even tried to see you, and he knew his actions—or lack of actions—were probably hurting you just as much as they were hurting him.

He just couldn’t, though. Sherlock couldn’t bear the thought of seeing you cry. He couldn’t bear to even think of it, much less to think of the reason behind it—of the man who’d never loved you and had left you like this.

He couldn’t, because the truth was that Sherlock Holmes was so bloody in love with you that it hurt. He was so in love that he couldn’t think or see straight, and that absolutely terrified him.

The thing was that Sherlock was not a normal person. He didn’t think the way normal people did, didn’t see the way normal people did, and he definitely didn’t love the way normal people did.

That was perhaps why he absolutely couldn’t stand it; the way his heart squeezed every time he looked at you, or the way it broke whenever you were sad.

Sherlock got out of bed in one swift motion. He paced around his room for a few minutes, hands clasped together underneath his chin like he always did when he needed to concentrate. His chest was heavy with the weight of his thoughts when he decided that he couldn't spend another minute locked up in his room or he'd die of boredom--or worse, of anxiety.

He opened the door in a silent but violent swing and made his way barefoot towards the kitchen. The floor was cold underneath his feet, but he paid it no mind as he reached the fridge and started searching for something to eat.

Sherlock was about to reach for the milk when his hand suddenly stopped mid air. The pause was so sutil that if someone was watching him they wouldn't have had been able to tell he'd hesitated at all. And someone was in fact watching him.

"You should know better than to try to sneak past me," he said bluntly, only turning around when the bottle of milk was already opened in his hands.

You were standing near the entrance to the kitchen looking at him guiltily through your lashes, clearly frustrated with the fact that you'd been caught trying to leave the kitchen unnoticed. "Oh..." you said lamely, joining your hands behind your back and looking down so Sherlock wouldn't be able to see your face. "Sorry, I... I thought no one was home."

Sherlock tried not to grip the bottle too tightly between his fingers at the sight of you. He knew you'd never notice it, but his breathing had quickened considerably and his chest felt painfully tight. His empty hand found the way to his pocket and he remained silent as he observed you.

The two of you remained in an uncomfortable silence for far too long until you turned around and started heading back towards your bedroom. "Sorry for interrupting you," you murmured softly, and Sherlock watched you head away from him feeling like something inside him had sunk.

...

You turned around on your bed and sighed. You were facing the wall beside you, drawing patterns on its surface with the tip of your finger and trying to keep your mind clear of... well, anything.

It hurt way too much to think, and you knew you didn't actually have the strength to do so either. You were too weak. Even the short walk downstairs had taken its toll on you, and you hoped Sherlock hadn't noticed the way you had to cling to the walls and furniture in order to stand up straight and move around. There was no doubt that he had, though.

Sherlock noticed everything and knew everything, and it was infuriating most of the time. He would take one good look at you and immediately deduce everything you were trying to keep hidden, and then he would reveal it to the whole world without a second thought.

But that was the thing about Sherlock, wasn't it? He just. didn't. care. He didn't care about what anyone thought of him, or about other people's feelings, and definitely not about their problems. He took interest in them, but he couldn't care less what happened in the end.

You didn't know how he did it, but it crossed your mind that perhaps it wouldn't be so bad not to feel things so intensely, even if for a moment. Though honestly, anything would be better than what you were feeling right now. This sick anxiety and unbearable heartache that was swallowing you from inside...

Your thoughts were interrupted when a soft creaking noise came from behind you, followed by a bright stream of light. You felt someone’s eyes on your back but didn't roll over to look at the entrance of your room, instead choosing to remain exactly where you were until the light was suddenly gone with a click of the door.

You knew you weren't alone the minute the room became dark again.

"You should know better than to try to sneak into my room," you said with a humorless tone, going back to tracing patterns on the wall. There was a beat of deafening silence in which you stopped breathing, wondering wether you had imagined the noises behind you. Then, there was the sound of footsteps approaching you and stopping right about where your desk was positioned, and you heard a deep sigh that echoed around the silent room.

"You were smoking," Sherlock said, his deep voice startling you the slightest bit.

"What?"

"When I caught you walking around downstairs..." you heard him lean against the wood of your desk, “… you were smoking."

More silence.

You rolled to lie on your back, still not looking in his direction. "Please don't tell John," you asked in a small voice, pretty much confirming what he'd just said. Not that he wouldn't have been able to deduce it anyway.

"I won't tell if you don't," he said, and suddenly the room lit up again just enough for you to see the outline of his face as he tried to light a cigarette that was hanging from his lips.

Your breath was momentarily caught in your throat. None of you were supposed to smoke, but you were pretty sure John was ten times more strict about it when it came to Sherlock, given his history with addiction in the past.

Despite it all, you didn't say anything when he took a deep drag and then handed you the cigar. Instead you took it from him and inhaled the smoke as well, holding it firmly with one hand as you sat on your bed and proceeded to open the window.

It was already nighttime, and a chilly breeze ruffled the curtains as a few streetlights illuminated your room with their faint yellow glow. You handed the cigarette back to Sherlock and watched as he took another long drag, closing his eyes in sheer pleasure.

You sighed deeply. "Sherlock, why are you here?" you asked after a while, trying to decipher the emotions on his face.

"What do you think?"

It took you a moment to answer. "I honestly don't know." It was the truth. He was unpredictable, and you couldn't tell wether he was there to comfort you or simply use you in order to have a much needed smoke. "I've been trying to understand you for a long time, but I don't think I've gotten to any conclusion," you said and he let out a humorless laugh that sounded more like a deep hum.

"Try now, then," he said, and you raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Make your deductions." You looked at him mutely until he offered you the cigar again.

You took it before saying anything. "You seem anxious," you said carefully. This was dangerous territory, trying to make deductions about an expert in them. "Your hands are shaking a bit and you seem a little out of it. My guess would be it's either because of the smoking or because you're worried about me."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Go on."

"Well, if it is because of the cigar, then you're here just because you were in desperate need of a fix..." you looked up at him for confirmation, which he didn't give you. Instead, he looked straight into your eyes and raised an eyebrow.

"And if it's not?"

Your tongue darted out to wet your dry lips. "Then it would mean that-..." you hesitated. Something inside your chest tightened, "- it would mean that you care about me," you finished, and he gave you a tight smile that made you frown.

Sherlock walked towards the bed you were sitting at in three long strides, kneeling so he could properly look at you. He silently took the cigarette from you and took one last drag from it before reaching behind you and extinguishing its flames on the windowsill. His eyes bore into yours again and you couldn't help but holding your breath. What in the world was happening? Had he just admitted he had feelings for you? Your mind was reeling with a thousand different thoughts.

"(Y/N)," he called, and you realized you'd zoned out for a moment. "I'd like to say that I care about what happened, but we both know that would be a lie," he started, and you was sure something inside you broke when he said it. "I do care, however, that you're hurting," he added, and you had to breathe in relief at his words. "The fact that you're suffering bothers me to the point that I can't even look at you, so I'm sorry if my actions hurt you in any way." You opened your mouth to say something, but he interrupted you before you could. "You don't have to say anything, (Y/N). I just need you to listen to what I'm going to say right now."

"Ok..." you whispered, nodding lightly.

He looked at you intensely. "You have to take care of yourself," he said, and you thought that was the most serious you'd ever heard him. "I need you to eat and to shower and to go outside, do you understand?" You nodded, unable to mutter a response. He'd rendered you speechless. "If not for you, then do it for me." He finished, and you could only nod again. For some reason you felt like crying. Knowing that he cared had made something squeeze inside your chest, and a warmth spread throughout your body. "Can you promise me that?"

You felt your eyes water. "Yes," you said weakly, and he smiled.

"My job is done here, then," Sherlock said, and you started crying freely. "I'll leave you alone now," he took you by the jaw and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. Then he stood up and walked back towards the door like nothing had happened, leaving you alone with only your reeling thoughts to make you company.

Needless to say, you were the first one on the table for breakfast the next morning.

[Masterlist] [Request list]

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock imagine #benedict cumberbatch #benedict x reader #sherxr #ruined

[insomniaacs]

Let's have dinner - Sherlock x reader

A/N: It’s finally here! I’m sorry for the delay, but I hope you enjoy this one as much as I did writing it!

Requested by anon: May I have a Sherlock x reader. Mabey one where Irene Adler shows up and flirts with Sherlock AND the reader? Making jokes about how the three of them should have ‘dinner’. And the reader is really uncomfortable and is like. “ Aww hell no!”

Word count: 2066 Warnings: none

Sherlock was standing on the other side of the room with a pondering look on his face.

His eyes were roaming a particularly scandalous set of photos pinned to the wall of 221B, his hair the same curly mess atop his head and his shoulders broad and set as you eyed his back from your place at his chair.

It was the perfect place to observe him from. Sherlock was smart and perceptive, but it was in moments like this - when he was too entranced and intrigued by a case - that you could really allow yourself to look at him.

His hands were touching his chin in his trademark pose; palms pressed together and the tips of his fingers lightly touching the underside of his jaw.

He looked handsome under the morning light coming from the living room windows, and you smiled to yourself as your eyes went back to the book on your lap. You’d been pretending to read it for the past thirty minutes, and if Sherlock asked you what it was about you were afraid you wouldn’t be able to give him an answer.

“Doorbell,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes still fixed on the photos of naked congressmen and other famous people.

You looked up from your book with a raised eyebrow. “What?” you asked, and he merely moved his head to send you a quick sideways look.

“The doorbell is ringing,” he explained nonchalantly, taking a pen from his front pocket and scribbling something in red over one of the hanged pictures.

You snorted, rolling your eyes with a shake of your head. “No, it’s not,” you closed your book with a soft thud, standing up from your seat and running a hand through your hair.

Sherlock didn’t say anything for about thirty seconds, and he didn’t have to. Soon enough the both of you heard the distinctive sound of the doorbell ringing, and you scoffed audibly as he turned around only to send you a knowing look; his head tilted to the side and one of his eyebrows raised triumphantly. “Now it is,” he smirked and then went back to the pictures, and you sighed irritably, though you felt a small smile spread on your lips.

You returned your book back to the bookcase in your tiptoes, proceeding to the kitchen for a quick snack. Mrs. Hudson had probably already opened the door to whoever it was that was ringing, so you didn’t bother to go check. “Care for some tea?” you asked loudly so Sherlock would hear it from the other room, and considered his distant grunt as a yes as you looked for the kettle underneath the sink.

You emerged from the kitchen six minutes later balancing two teacups on both your hands. Your eyes were focused on the saucers you were holding as you walked carefully towards the table at the corner of the room. “Sherlock, do me a favor and-” you came to a halt midway, looking up to find him sitting on his chair; a woman seated right in front of him, and you immediately cleared your throat. “Oh… um, Sherlock, you didn’t tell me we had a client today…?” You looked at him expectantly, but his eyes never left the woman in front of him.

“She’s not a client,” he said raising an eyebrow, and the woman smiled wickedly. You weren’t liking where this was going…

“And who’s this?” the woman asked, her eyes roaming your face and your clothes as her smile grew.

“My girlfriend.” Sherlock said with no emotion on his face and the woman scoffed, rolling her eyes like she didn’t believe it. You didn’t know wether to be angry or offended by her reaction.

She looked at you again, more intently this time, and then let out a low laugh that you didn’t know how to interpret. “Well, this is interesting,” the woman said, her tone surprisingly excited. She looked stupefied, but in a good way, strangely. She gasped, and you realised Sherlock’s words had only finally kicked in. “Wow, a girlfriend… I’m sorry, you must think I’m so rude,” she said, her eyes narrowed as she looked you up and down. “I’m Irene. Irene Adler,” she purred, her painted lips stretching into a smirk as she offered you her hand.

“Oh,” you said, because her name had popped up in several conversations you’d had with Sherlock for the past few days. “Oh…” realisation finally hit you, and you turned around to look at the pictures splayed on the wall behind you, all of them showing one person in common. Irene Adler, a.k.a. The Woman, was sitting right there in your living room, and somehow she managed to look even better in person than through the few pictures you’d gotten a glimpse at in the past.

You set the the two cups on the table and felt Irene’s gaze on you all the while as you did so. When you shook her hand, she clung to yours a little bit longer than necessary, and you didn’t really know what to think of it.

Sherlock watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, clearing his throat audibly to catch your attention. Irene released your hand but never took her eyes off you, and you were having trouble thinking of what to say.

“Well, um… would you like some tea?” you asked, shifting awkwardly on your place.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock answered before Irene could say anything, and you looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He was paying attention to the woman in front of him with careful eyes, and for a brief moment you wondered what was the story behind the two of them.

You rubbed your hands together at the silence. “I guess I’ll leave you two alone, then…” you murmured and began to make your way to your room.

“No,” “There’s no need to,” Sherlock and Irene both said at the same time, and you halted halfway. You were feeling uncomfortable under their gaze, but you took a seat at the armrest of Sherlock’s chair anyway, watching as your boyfriend and Irene looked at each other intensely.

“Well, what do you need this time?” Sherlock asked her, getting a little more comfortable on his chair and crossing his legs.

“I thought you’d already know at this point,” Irene replied mysteriously.

Sherlock moved his hands to the armrests of his chair, his fingers brushing your back and making you feel a tingly feeling where he’d touched you. “Oh, I’m aware,” he answered simply. “I just wanted to hear you say it.” He said and Irene scoffed.

“I need you to help me disappear again,” she said after a long moment of silence, and you heard Sherlock sigh behind you.

“Yeah, sorry, that won’t be possible,” he spoke quickly, like he’d been waiting to say those words ever since she’d gotten there. Sherlock got up from his seat and went towards the bookcase. “(Y/N), would you be so kind as to escort her out, please?” He asked with the most fake display of kindness in his voice, and you glared at his back with an incredulous look on your face.

Irene didn’t seem too fazed by his reaction though, seeing as she didn’t move from her place at the chair across from you.

A few moments passed in a pregnant silence, and you looked from Sherlock to Irene expecting one of them to leave the room at any time. That never happened though as Sherlock finally chose a book of his liking, pulling it from the bookcase and turning around in one swift motion. “Oh… You’re still here,” he looked at Irene and faked surprise, sitting back on his chair and flicking the book’s pages absently.

Irene sighed. “They found me, Sherlock,” she said almost quietly, and you couldn’t help but feel like an intruder in the conversation.

Sherlock didn’t look up when he answered. “Well, what did you expect? Fancy restaurants and expensive trips through the Caribbean aren’t exactly what one would call laying low,” he infatuated the last two words, and you watched as Irene raised her brows, slightly surprised.

“So you have been keeping an eye on me.” Her smile was back on, and you felt a pang of jealousy in your chest. He hadn’t told you about that.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it ‘keeping an eye on you’. It was more like… ‘making sure you wouldn’t blow your cover’. Which you did, by the way, so what’s the point of me helping you again?” Sherlock replied harshly, finally looking up from his book. Irene looked slightly taken aback, and you saw her smile falter at the intensity of Sherlock’s stare. “I’m sorry, Miss Adler, but I’m afraid you’ve run out of free passes with me.” His tone was one of finality, but Irene still didn’t give up. She seemed to ponder over what he’d said, and then straightened her back slightly before speaking again.

“Fine,” she sighed in defeat. “What do you want in exchange?” she asked, and you thought she must be very desperate if she was willing to give Sherlock of all people something in return.

Sherlock smiled from his seat. He’d gotten her exactly where he wanted to. “A favour,” he said simply. “You’ll owe me one.”

She seemed to debate wether or not that would be a good idea - which you were sure wasn’t - but in the end nodded in defeat. “Okay. It’s a deal, then,“ Irene’s mouth was pressed into a thin line when she offered him her hand, though Sherlock didn’t shake it.

“Oh, I don’t do handshakes,” he said and you rolled your eyes beside him, standing up and offering her your hand instead.

Irene smiled in a way that couldn’t mean anything good, and you started to regret having done it in the first place. Again, she held your hand longer than it was probably appropriate, and you smiled awkwardly when she finally released it.

Sherlock had his eyebrows raised when you looked at him again, and Irene stood up at last, the smirk never leaving her face as she took a step towards you and eyed you up and down once more.

You kept very still as she examined you, and then she just tilted her head and waved goodbye, walking towards the exit with an unreadable expression. She stopped at the threshold and looked over her shoulder at you and Sherlock with a glint to her eyes. “I’ll be in touch,” she said before disappearing down the stairs.

You looked back at your boyfriend with an eyebrow raised questioningly, and he just shrugged nonchalantly as he returned to his book like nothing at all had happened.

You didn’t know what bothered you more; the fact that something had definitely happened between Irene Adler and your boyfriend or the fact that The Woman had clearly been hitting on you as well.

The two of you spent a long time in silence after that until you heard Sherlock grunt something to himself. You looked at him expectantly, and he seemed embarrassed to tell you what he was thinking, looking at his book instead of at your face and speaking very quietly. “I don’t like the way she was staring at you,” he said and you scoffed, though a small smile started spreading on your lips. It was good to see him jealous for once.

“Good,” you said, approaching his chair again but this time sitting on his lap, taking the book out of his hands and placing it somewhere in the coffee table with the already cold tea in order to put your arms around his neck. “Because she was looking at you the same way, and I did not appreciate it in the slightest,” you said defiantly, and watched as Sherlock’s mouth twitched in delight at your revelation.

You leaned in to kiss him, but before you could capture his lips both your phones buzzed in your pockets, and you looked at Sherlock confusedly before the both of you went to look at what had interrupted you.

Your cellphones lit up at the new text message, and you frowned at the words that were splayed in both your screens.

The message was from Irene Adler herself, and you didn’t know wether to laugh or feel utterly uncomfortable at what it was saying…

‘Let’s have dinner - I.A.’

[Masterlist] [Request list]

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock imagine #benedict cumberbatch #benedict x reader #irene adler #bbc sherlock #sherxr #let's have dinner

[insomniaacs]

Sick of Losing Soulmates - Sherlock x reader

A/N: Sherlock Holmes has ruined me completely and there is no denying it. Honestly, I don't even know what I'm doing anymore, because it's 11:13 in a thursday morning and I have this somewhat important exam tomorrow, yet I'm here with another request because why the fuck not, right? But anyways, drama aside, I really hope you guys enjoy this. Also, for the lovely people who have sent me requests, do not fear, I have not forgotten about you. They will be coming soon, I promise, because mind you I am not done with ruining my life just yet.

Requested by anon: sherlock x reader song fic based on sick of losing soulmates by dodie?

Word count: 2413 Warnings: angst because I'm all in for it

The apartment was silent except for the noise of the rain pouring outside.

Your hands were trembling slightly as you searched the cabinet over the kitchen sink at 221B for the first aid kit, standing on your tiptoes until the greenish metal box was finally in your hands.

The sounds of your footsteps were muffled by the carpet on the living room, but Sherlock knew you were approaching the couch he was lying on without even having to open his eyes. He knew because of the tiny, almost insignificant leap of his heart whenever you came near; the imperceptible but ever-present sensation on his stomach that indicated you were standing next to him.

Kneeling, you placed the box on the coffee table as gently as your shaking hands would allow, opening it without looking at the man in front of you; trying not to panic at the blood soaking his shirt and dripping down his arm.

He'd been hurt. Badly this time.

"So this is it, then?" Sherlock asked weakly, though his voice seemed louder than the thunders outside in contrast with the previous silence. "I get the silent treatment?" you looked at him but didn't answer, and he didn't open his eyes. He was aware there was something wrong; could tell by your sharp intakes of breath and the way you hadn't said a word ever since he'd stepped foot into that apartment, his injuries speaking more than a thousand words.

It was usually like that with you. Whenever he would go out and come back wounded - even if only slightly - you'd suddenly take on a quiet stance.

It suited you, he always thought.

You'd always been a quiet person; brought up in a quiet house with quiet hallways. Even after the two of you had met, words had been scarce. There usually wasn't any need for them, mostly because you were smart, perhaps even as smart as he was. He was used to the familiarity of it, even cherished its comfortableness sometimes, when he was in desperate need to be left alone with his thoughts.

This, however, was not a comfortable silence. It rang inside his head and screamed of worry and resentment, and for some reason it bothered Sherlock immensely. It made him want to grunt in frustration and shake you until something came out of your mouth.

Instead he only sighed tiredly, trying to control the pain on his shoulder. "(Y/N)..." he started, but never got to finish the sentence.

"Shut up," you interrupted him harshly, which made him snap his eyes open in surprise. It was perhaps the first word you'd said to him all day, and he opened his mouth to retort but you shushed him with a glare. "I don't want to talk to you right now, Sherlock," you said quietly while wetting a cotton with antiseptic. His shirt was only half-opened, so you lifted your hand to undo the rest of its buttons. His fingers covered yours before you could do anything.

"You're... angry," he stated the obvious as though realisation had only just hit him; as if it was the first time he actually put any thought to it. It probably was. "Why are you angry?" You tried not to look at him when he asked, but his eyes seemed to plead for you to do so. And Sherlock never pleaded.

The truth was you didn't know what Sherlock Holmes was to you. An acquaintance, a friend, a lover? You didn't know how to label it; didn't want to either. You'd kissed before, but there had never been any mention of love or affection between the two of you. You'd started living together after John had gotten married, but flat mates just didn't seem like an appropriate title either.

He'd been there with you through some of the worst times in your life - the orphanage; the fucking rehabilitation clinic - but somehow you still couldn't exactly place what you meant to each other.

But if there was one thing you were certain that he was to you, it was important. Too important, and it was dangerous more than it was reassuring.

"I'm sick of this." You couldn't really think of anything else to say. "I'm so sick of loosing the people that I care about," you felt the tears start to swell on your eyes and had to take a deep breath to keep them from falling. "And you, Sherlock... you of all people should know that," your words were harsh, but none of you missed the way you were gripping his hand like you were the one in pain.

"I do," Sherlock assured you with a confused look on his face, but his words were muffled by his own painful groan.

You immediately let go of his hand to focus on his wounded shoulder, trying to mask the sadness that had overcome you with a frown. It was an old injury; one that had opened during all the action he'd been through that day. "You should go to the hospital," you murmured as you pushed his shirt open and pressed the cotton pad around the edges of it, trying to clean some of the blood.

"That would be a complete waste of time," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, his eyes focused on a dirty spot on the ceiling. "Besides, I have you to take care of me, don't I?" His words had you stopping your motions for the tiniest second, but you went back to it before he could comment on it.

"You do realize that I'm going to have to stitch it?"

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow. "You're a doctor, (Y/N)," he stated obviously.

"No, I'm in med school. I'm sure there's a pretty huge gap in between." You didn't even know if it was legal to patch him up without the proper equipment and a license.

Sherlock only sighed in exasperation. "I trust you know what you're doing." I trust you, was what he'd wanted to say.

You continued cleaning the wound, and watched as he stayed very still and remained very quiet while you stitched the skin of his shoulder. There was blood on your hands and a hollow look on your eyes when you finished. "There," you said though there was no emotion to your voice, and it made Sherlock frown.

"What is going on with you today?" he looked at you from the corner of his eyes, and didn't miss the deep breath you took before you got up.

“There’re some painkillers in the coffee table,” was everything you said before entering your room and closing the door behind you.

It was only when you reached your bathroom that you allowed yourself to break.

Your eyes were watery and red when you tapped on the sink and your hands were trembling again with the prospect of losing Sherlock. He'd had his fair share of close calls in the past, and your worry only grew within each one.

You watched the water wash away Sherlock's blood from your hands, thinking that it wasn't the first time he came back home injured, and it most certainly wouldn't be the last.

...

Sherlock understood.

He understood the worrying and resentment; the feeling of hopelessness and desperation that came with almost losing someone important to him.

He'd first experienced it with John.

The doctor had been the first one to actually matter to him - his first friend - and it'd been because of him that Sherlock had gotten a glimpse at what loss really felt like.

There had been many close calls with the two of them, and it had taken him a while, but Sherlock had eventually understood what it was like to feel pain because of something that went beyond the limitations of his own body; something emotional rather than physical.

The pain he was feeling at this moment was somehow different though.

It was sharp and almost unbearable, much like the pain he'd felt at the prospect of losing John, but this one seemed to go deeper. It cut him in a different way and hurt him in a different place; somewhere dark and unknown. It was the pain at the prospect of losing you, and it was driving him insane with a panic that rose on his throat and got caught at the tip of his tongue.

Sherlock looked at you and felt the urge to throw up.

He'd seen his fair share of lifeless bodies and grotesque scenarios, but he just couldn't bare the sight of the blood dripping from your head; couldn't control the grit of his teeth and the boil of something akin to anger in the depths of his chest as he watched the life slowly drain from your face.

But most of all, Sherlock couldn't control the sickening stir of his stomach at the thought that you were dying right there on his arms, and he could do nothing but watch.

His hands itched to do something. He was desperate to be useful, but the desperation was turning into shock, and he found he couldn't so much as move a muscle. His jaw was clenched tightly and his knees were pressed to the floor; his arms holding you in a way that he'd never held anyone before.

You weren't supposed to have gotten hurt.

He'd asked for your help to solve an important case, but the aftermath had been so disastrous that Sherlock was starting to wish you never had met him at all.

The thought alone made him feel even sicker to the stomach.

Sherlock used the last of his strength to place you on the couch of 221B. He'd called an ambulance three minutes before, and had calculated how long it would take for it to be at your door. It was six on a Thursday afternoon - right in the middle of London's bloody rush hour - and Sherlock was starting to sweat just thinking that you might not make it to the hospital in time.

He wanted desperately to use his brain, but it was like all the information he'd stored in there had been removed. He looked at your rolled back eyes and checked your heartbeat only to feel the faint pulse on your wrists.

You'd received a nasty blow to the head. It was pulsating with blood and reeked with the smell of iron, and Sherlock had to remind himself to keep putting pressure to it.

"(Y/N)," his voice came out so weak that he didn't even recognise it, "you have to stay with me." He continued pressing on the wound on your head with one hand while the other went to lightly touch your fingers. They were cold and pale, and Sherlock took a deep breath before he spoke again. "Please stay with me," he begged, and for a moment all that could be heard was silence.

Then there was a groan, so faint that he thought he might have imagined it. His eyes searched your face for any indication that you'd heard him, and he allowed himself to sigh in relieve when the muscles of your forehead twitched.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out in the heat of the moment. Sherlock wanted to smack himself at the frail state he found himself in, but for some reason he kept on speaking. "I'm so sorry, (Y/N)." He was. God, he was sorry for dragging you into this life of him; sorry that he'd never said it before, only had the courage to blurt it out in your deathbed.

"This... This speech," he said the last word as if it alone disgusted him, "goes against everything that I stand for, but I'm going to do it anyway." To hell with his pride and moral code. "You have to know that I'd be nothing without you, (Y/N)," Sherlock said and thought he felt your fingers briefly brush his in return. "Remember when we met? You said you were too fucked up for mending." He remembered that day clearly. Remembered the young face of a girl that had lived eighteen years of her life in a place in which they did not want her, and that had claimed her freedom in the worst way possible. "Well guess what, I am fucked up too."

Sherlock drew in a few shaky breaths. This was harder than he'd expected. "We're not so different after all, are we?" In the end, you weren't. You were good and sweet and kindhearted, but there was something inside you that was dark; something brutal and significant that matched the violence in him, and there was no denying it.

From a distance, the ringing of sirens could be heard. It grew stronger and stronger within each second, and Sherlock allowed himself to breathe for a moment before there were sounds coming from downstairs and Mrs. Hudson was rushing in through the door followed by a group of uniformed men.

He had to let go of you reluctantly, his hand slipping from yours in a gesture that felt like a promise as much as it felt like a goodbye.

Your body fell limp onto the hospital stretcher, your head now in someone else's hands and Sherlock watched as you were ushered downstairs. He didn't dare come out of the apartment; figured his legs would betray him within the first two steps he took. He chose to look out the window instead.

The blink of red lights wasn't something foreign to him at this point. One could say it had even become a part of his life. This time though he looked at them and cursed their brightness and their striking color. He cursed the sirens that came with it and cursed its tragic meaning.

Sherlock suddenly found himself alone again. His flat was dark as he sat on the same couch you’d been lying on just a few minutes before, but even though his eyes looked forward, he saw beyond the walls surrounding him.

It would seem that Sherlock Holmes was destined to be by himself; and yet again, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it but watch as the ones he cared about were taken away from him one by one.

That was it, wasn’t it? The big game; the grand scheme of his life. Though apparently no matter how much he wanted to; how much of a genius he really was, this was a game he was destined to loose.

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#sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock imagine #benedict cumberbatch #benedict x reader #sherlock angst #bbc sherlock #sherlock one shot #sherlock fanfic #sick of losing soulmates #sherxr

[insomniaacs]

Last Call (part 2) - Sherlock x Reader

A/N: Well here it is, everyone. As requested, here's part two of Last Call. Let me know what you think, and do send me ideas of what to write next. I'm thinking of doing something with Benedict... Any thoughts?

Word count: 4352 Warnings: aaangst... so much angst

[Part 1]

There were jars of pretty white lilies placed over the mahogany table.

Someone was playing the violin behind you, and the sound of it had you flinching despite the preciseness with which Bach's Chaconne was being played. John was holding your hand with his shaky, clammy one, but you didn't return the touch. Keeping your trembling legs from giving in was taking all of your strength.

The few people that were gathered in the chapel had solemn looks to their faces. There was something unspoken in the atmosphere around them; a guilt that made it difficult to breathe and speak. You could feel it crawling up people's skins and fogging their eyes with the resentment of words unsaid. There was no longer any chance of forgiveness for any of them, and you knew it was slowly killing them inside, except perhaps not more than it was killing you.

Someone sniffed beside you, and you felt the urge to walk away.

Sherlock would have hated this. God, he would have hated it so much.

The thought caused something in your chest to squeeze painfully; that ever present ache that never subsided. It was starting to become unbearable.

You felt John slightly tighten his grip on your hand, and looked up to see that people were starting to leave the chapel.

It was time.

You walked side by side with your best friend and Mrs. Hudson. The cemetery was so quiet that you could feel the silence ringing in your ears along with the sound of a collection of feet shuffling the gravel. There was a rectangular hole in the ground not far from where you were, and you felt a desperate need to stop on your tracks; try to delay what was to come as much as possible. John pulled you by the hand though, so you had no chance but to follow after him.

You looked everywhere but to the wooden black coffin in front of you.

Someone started talking, but you barely registered their words. You concentrated on a spot of grass by the foot of the nearest tree; tried to keep your breathing even as you felt the tears blur your sight.

You had refused to wear black. The meaning behind it had been enough to make you sick to the stomach, so you had opted for bright clothes instead, if only to go against common sense.

You heard John sigh beside you. He dropped your hand and moved a step forward to touch the wooden box before it was lowered into the dirt, and you immediately felt your legs tremble at the loss of the reassuring contact. His shoulders were shaking slightly, and you felt a pang in your chest at the sight of it. You wanted to be there for him, but you just didn't know how to. You were probably a much bigger mess than he was.

Time passed in a blur after that. The casket was lowered slowly, and you watched it hit the bottom of the hole with a soft thud, similar to that of your heart. His name was on your tongue as you stood as still as you could; watched the earth cover the wood in slow, steady heaps.

Goddamn you, Sherlock, was the last thing you thought before feeling the cold path that the tears left on your cheeks. Goddamn you and your ability to make others care about you even when you never cared for anyone else.

It took fifteen minutes to fill up the hole on the ground, and in those fifteen minutes you stood in front of it, unable to look away. The tears subsided gradually, eventually coming to a stop. The ache never left your chest, though. There was no escaping it. Breathing felt like torture; feeling felt like a burden. Living had become surviving, and you wondered just how much had changed in the past few days.

The funeral was over before you could prepare yourself to leave. Instead, you stayed behind with John and Mrs. Hudson; waited for them to pay their respects and leave so you could be alone at last.

Your legs couldn't stand another minute carrying the weight of your body, so you chose to kneel. The dirt stained your overcoat and dug painfully into your knees, but you paid it no mind. Your lips started to tremble again, and you drew a shaky breath, pondering over what to say.

"I don't know what to do," you admitted weakly. The wind seemed to blow stronger, almost like a response. You shivered under its sharpness. "I have no idea what to do, Sherlock," a traitorous sob escaped your lips, bringing more wet tears in its wake. "The last time I heard from you, you asked me to move on," you said, the memory of it still vivid in your mind. That night was carved into the insides of your eyes in a way that made it impossible to close them without being reminded of the cold reality. "Well I'm sorry, but I can't do that." It was the truth. The ugly, painful truth that even if you wanted to, you wouldn't be able to forget him.

"This is so unfair..." there was a knot in tour throat that made it difficult to speak; "Why is it that you got the chance to say goodbye and I didn't?" This time you were crying freely. Everything had happened too quickly, yet you felt like you had cried too much already. "You wanted me to hear about how important I was to you, but you never gave me the chance to tell you the same," and he hand't. He'd just left, suddenly and permanently, and you didn't think you'd ever be able to overcome the hollow feeling that his absence had left in your chest. "You're too important for me to let go."

You took a deep breath. The unsaid words that had been plaguing you ever since his death were spilling like the tears from your eyes; raw and in abundance. "I love you, Sherlock," there, you said it, what had been buried inside your chest for as long as you could remember. It had been there long before he died, and you didn't think you could place the exact moment that it happened, but you had known it was there. It pulsated and ached like a wound, and even back then you'd known that it would be the cause of your ruin. Seeing how you were crumbling now only proved your suspicions.

"And I know you think- thought love was a waste of emotion," you lifted your hands to rub at your running nose, "that it is something awfully mundane and overrated, but I do. I love you." You started standing up, brushing the dirt off your legs only to keep from looking at his grave.

The wind blew cold against your cheeks and you suppressed the urge to flinch. Suddenly, the conversation you had the day he died started playing back in your head like a recorded tape. You remembered something he said and managed a humourless laugh at the thought of it.

"I'm sorry I was never courageous enough to say it to your face," you repeated, and the weight of your words seemed to settle into the back of your head like a painful reminder.

...

From a distance, Sherlock felt his eyes water.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried; couldn't remember having felt pain greater than the one he was feeling at that moment.

There was a tight smile on his face as he looked at you. Your bright clothes had given him little satisfaction, but some nonetheless. There was something clever and very (Y/N) about it, and he wished he could go to your encounter.

Sherlock had carefully calculated the impact that his supposed death would cause on the ones close to him. He had expected you and John to grieve, to be angry, to cry; had expected the both of you to resent him - was counting on it, otherwise you never would be able to move on.

But this... This he could never have anticipated.

It was true, what you said. Sherlock had always perceived love as something volatile. It was unpredictable - inconstant - and therefore not worth his time. He had always been aware that he was somehow different from other people; that his head worked differently - brilliantly. Love was unreasonable, and he had always taken pride on the fact that he seemed unaffected by it. People often assumed that he was incapable of feeling it, and he had accepted the thought with open arms.

But then what was this pain on his chest? Why did it feel like something inside him had died the minute he saw the tears shining in your eyes; heard the waver of your voice?

Those were facts. They were reason, and Sherlock knew he couldn't ignore them. If love was a disease, then he had the symptoms. If it was a virus, he was infected.

And he knew that in this case, it was terminal.

Sherlock knew as he walked out of the cemetery that something had changed. Somewhere between watching his own funeral and seeing the devastated look on your face, his chest had filled with something new.

Something that, for two years, would have to remain hidden.

Something he would have to sacrifice. For your sake and for his own.

...

Two years later

The bell rang downstairs, and you sighed audibly.

Your computer was turned on and connected to its power source and there were files spread around your dining table, occupying almost its entire surface and demanding your immediate attention. You got up nonetheless.

You couldn't stand one more minute sitting down on that chair.

Looking for a job was too hard, especially when you had been jumping from one to another for the past two years, never able to find anything worth your while.

The reason behind it was never spoken of.

You left your apartment and descended the stairs calmly. The bell rang again, but it didn't stop you from halting right in front of the wooden door of the flat directly underneath yours.

It had become an unhealthy habit of yours, to stop next to it every time you went through the hallway. It seemed almost unfair the way it still looked the same, and you knew if you went inside, you would find that same god forsaken chair in the middle of the room and the same yellow happy face painted over the wallpaper. There were still books in the bookshelves and the furniture was still in the exact same position it had been back when there were people living inside. No one had dared to move any of it, and you suspected it was only out of fear of coming inside.

John had refused to come back to Baker Street entirely. He'd packed his bags the moment you came back from the funeral with the intention to stay with his sister until he found somewhere else to live.

You had offered to let him stay upstairs with you; had begged him not to go, but his tone was one of finality.

For a moment, you had considered to do the same. The prospect of living so close to where it all happened was too painful. It was an unwanted reminder of good times that were long gone, and your biggest wish had been to just leave it all behind; not to keep any attachments to the past.

Mrs. Hudson had been the only reason that you stayed. You couldn't stand leaving her behind, and you knew she wouldn't be willing to move anywhere else. She'd lived too many memories in that place to let go of it so easily, and in that way you understood her.

So you had stayed. However painful that had been, you had stayed and you didn't plan on leaving so soon.

With a sigh, you continued your way to the entrance of the building. There was a package for you at the door, and you smiled to the mailman before closing it behind you.

"(Y/N)," Mrs. Hudson emerged from her apartment with a soft smile on her lips, "come join me for some tea later, will you?" she asked in that sweet voice that she knew you couldn't say no to, and you smiled back at her, nodding before proceeding to go back to your flat.

Once you'd made your way back upstairs, you allowed yourself to peek over the contents of the box in your hands. In it was the new hard drive you had ordered online for your computer, and you smiled in satisfaction, taking it off its packaging briefly to plug it into your laptop. It would be perfect for-

Your thoughts were interrupted by a shriek coming from downstairs, followed by a loud crash.

It was Mrs. Hudson, no doubt.

The sound had your brand new acquisition falling to the floor with a loud thud, but you barely paid it a second glance as you began rushing back towards the stairs. The thought that you might never be able to share another cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson again had your heart racing on your ribs. You couldn't loose her too.

"Mrs. Hudson!" you called, but there was no response. The door to her apartment was open, and you invited yourself in without another thought in your head. "Mrs. Hudson, are you-"

Silence.

You couldn't find your voice; couldn't seem to make your feet move. The oxygen had oozed right out of your lungs like you had received a punch to the stomach, and when you tried to inhale again, it was weak and insufficient. The air was leaving your chest and refusing to come back in.

Mrs. Hudson was standing at the back of her kitchen with a mess of broken ceramic surrounding her feet, and in front of her, standing taller than you remembered and looking more alive than he ever had was none other than Sherlock Holmes; a hesitant, almost serious look to his face.

You looked at the both of them like the world was spinning and they had grown two heads.

Sherlock watched as the color drained from your face. He watched as your breathing quickened in a way that he knew if you continued, you'd probably hyperventilate. You took a step back feeling dizzy and lightheaded, and Sherlock made to hold you up, but you flinched away from his grasp.

"What the fuck," you breathed, because your hands had touched and his had felt warm and solid against your fingers. Warm, solid, and very much alive. "What the fuck is happening," you mumbled along with other incoherent words. Your previously rational thinking process had given way to complete chaos. Your hands were shaking.

This was madness.

John had watched him jump. He'd watched Sherlock hit the pavement. You had seen his fucking body in the fucking morgue, for christ's sake.

"(Y/N)..." he spoke quietly, but his voice had your eyes widening. There was no way this was happening. It was him.

"Oh my god," you managed before a sob escaped your mouth and you had to cover your lips with your hands to suppress another one from coming out. Your eyes were already glistening with tears that you didn't even know you had anymore. You had cried so much already. For two years you had mourned his loss. You had fallen into an almost depressive state; had lost yourself in your inability to overcome this one thing - this one man - that had changed everything, and now... "Oh my god, I can't believe this is happening."

And you should have expected it. God, it was Sherlock. You knew him; knew what he was capable of. But you could never have guessed that he would be able to pull off something like this.

Suddenly you couldn't look at his face. It was filled with hurt and regret, but you kept your eyes from it. A bubbling, hot anger had started shifting in your chest, and you were afraid of what you could do because of it. Your hands tightened into fists, and you clenched you teeth painfully in a way that you could almost hear them scraping against each other. Sherlock took one step forward and you took another backwards. You couldn't look at him, you just couldn't.

Instead you turned on your heels and left. It took you seconds to reach your apartment, but those felt like hours. You entered your room with a feeling of tiredness that overcame your previous indignation. Now you just felt completely drained.

You cried until your eyes became swollen and red, and after that you lied on your bed with your head buried on your tear streaked pillow.

You were shocked and angry. You wanted to be; had to be, but there was something betraying you. That tiny, almost imperceptible thing that had crumbled the day he'd left was back. It was back with full force, and you could feel it growing inside you slowly, sending hope rushing through your veins like a drug running through your system.

You made a decision then that you were sure you were going to regret to some level, but you did it nonetheless.

When you approached Sherlock's apartment a few minutes later, you realised there was not a single speck of pain in your chest. The ache that you had felt for two years whenever you walked past his door was gone, and in its place was a slow burn at the pit of your stomach.

You opened the door without knocking. He was lying face up on the couch, and the image of it was so familiar that you felt the surge of tears threaten to fall again. Your soft whimper caught his attention, and Sherlock immediately sat on the couch and looked at you with so much emotion on his face that for a moment you thought that the man in front of you was not him.

The thought left as soon as it arrived.

Sherlock stood up slowly, as if the simplest movement would be enough to scare you. He lingered hesitantly those few feet away from you, and you felt the urge to cry and didn't suppress it, allowing the tears to stream freely and silently down your cheeks. "(Y/N)," he began again, and his voice - although low - was wavering slightly. The sound of it felt surreal to your ears, "I am so, so sorr-"

You interrupted him before he could finish. Taking three large, quick steps towards him, you threw yourself in his arms with full force. You clung to his hair and to his nape and to his clothes, and he let you. He allowed you to bury your face in the curve of his neck and to breathe in the scent of him; to hold onto him almost too tightly, like if you loosened your grip just a little, he might disappear into thin air.

You couldn't stand the thought of being apart from him, and he understood it - even returned the tightness of your embrace. His arms sneaked around your waist and he pulled you even closer, bending lower to lessen your height gap.

"I'm sorry, (Y/N)," he murmured into your hair, and you felt your shoulders start to shake with the tears. "Please forgive me," he sounded troubled and in the verge of tears as well, and you leaned back just enough to be able to see his face. His eyebrows were scrunched up in his forehead and his lips were pressed into a thin line, and you tried desperately to memorize his face. You wanted to remember him like this; sad and intense and human. So very human.

You sniffed, knowing your nose and eyes were red from crying. "What happened to your face?" It was the only thing you could manage to say that moment, because upon examining his features, you noticed his nose looked swollen and there were scratches on his cheeks.

"Ah, that," he said like he was shaken out of his thoughts, "I went to see John last night.” He looked down at his feet, guilt and regret shining in his eyes. "Things didn't go too well…” Sherlock mumbled and you laughed. It had been a long time since you last laughed, and the sound felt foreign to your ears. You lifted your hands to rub at your face. Your lashes were wet, and your cheeks red and stained with the remainder of your tears.

Sherlock looked expectantly at you when you took his hand on yours and forced him to come along with you upstairs. Your flat was dark when you arrived, but you didn't bother to turn on the lights as you had him sit on your couch, reaching in the bathroom for some gauze and antiseptic. He looked at you with raised eyebrows, but you ignored him as you wet the gauze and proceeded to apply it to his face.

You took longer than you needed to clean his bruises, and when you were finished, your hand lingered on his left cheek. It was warm under your touch, and you revelled in the feeling of it; in the flutter of your belly as you did so.

"I was so angry," you said quietly, and instead of interrupting you like you thought he would, Sherlock merely sat there and listened. Your hand was still on his face but he didn't seem to mind, so you didn't retrieve it. “The last time you called me I only felt desperate, but at the day of your funeral I was bloody furious." You caressed his face, trying not to cry at the memory of it. "I missed you so much, you know? And it hurt, Sherlock," you drew out a shaky breath, moving your hand from his cheek to his neck and then his chest. "It hurt so fucking much." You looked down as your hand came to rest upon his heart. It was beating erratically inside his ribs, and you felt like if you applied any more pressure to his skin you might be able to hold it in your hand.

Sherlock didn't seem to be able to look away from you. He felt ashamed and broken at your confession, but he just couldn't take his eyes off yours. He made to lean forward; wanted to have his face as close to yours as possible, but stopped midway.

It occurred to you that you'd never seen him look so fragile. Sherlock had always been cold and unfeeling, but today you saw his mask slip. Your heart seemed to leap inside your chest at the thought that he was allowing you of all people to see him like that. "I forgive you," you finally said after taking a deep breath, and immediately after the words slipped from your mouth, you knew they were true.

He seemed surprised by your statement, and didn't dare to move or speak or even breathe, afraid that you might take it back. "I've suffered a lot because of you, and I don't want you to ever forget the pain that you've caused me," your tone was serious and you realised he was afraid of what you were still going to say - afraid of rejection. Your next words were spoken softly, "but I forgive you, because I love you."

There. It was out.

Sherlock's heart leaped in a way that he didn't remember it having ever done in his entire life. He stilled on your couch, unable to do anything but stare at your face; your eyes, your nose, your lips.

You were the one who took the initiative. Your hand was still resting over his racing heart when you leaned forward and connected your mouths.

You had kissed him before, but this time it was different. This time, Sherlock seemed too transfixed to do anything. You touched his lips with your own and felt him release all the air he'd been holding inside his lungs in a hiss. Your hand curled around the material of his shirt at the same time that you felt him grip the back of your head, fisting your hair and bringing you closer.

The first time you'd kissed, it had been hungry and passionate. This time, it was desperate and clumsy. It was a mess of tongue and breathless moans, a reflection of the urgency to touch each other; to make up for two years of being apart.

Your free hand came to rest in the base of his neck, your fingers brushing against his prominent collarbone. You were on fire. His thumb was caressing the spot between your jaw and your neck tenderly, and his tongue was swirling around yours in a way that made you feel like your body was actually being engulfed by flames.

When he pulled away, it was to look at your eyes from up close, and he used the hand that wasn't holding your head to cover your fingers that were splayed over his shirt.

"I suppose you've given up on the absurd idea of killing me if i died, then?" he asked roughly - his face still close and his lips still touching yours every time he opened his mouth - taking you back to the conversation you'd had the week before his supposed death.

'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'd said.

You felt the laughter bubbling inside your chest before you heard it come out of your mouth.

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that, Mr. Holmes," your teeth glistened in the dark when you smiled. The hand that had been clutching his heart was covered by his own, so you moved your other one to touch the bruises on his face, if only to prove your point. "Besides, I think I'm not the only one looking forward to murdering you."

[Masterlist] [Request list]

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock imagine #bbc sherlock #sherlock one shot #sherlock holmes x reader #benedict cumberbatch #sherlock angst #sherlock fanfic #last call #sherxr

[insomniaacs]

The Game - Sherlock x reader | Harry Potter AU

A/N: So I'm really insecure about this one because good god, was it hard to write! I'm hoping this wasn't a failed attempt, and I'm dying to hear what you think (if you'd like me to write more or if I should just hide forever because it's shit) so please let me know!!

Word count: 3907 Warnings: none

Requested by anon: omg you should do a sherlock harry potter crossover!!!! like sherlock x reader but they're both ravenclaw or somethingggggg

John Watson was your one and only best friend.

He had been for as long as you could remember - back when you were still missing your two front teeth and your nickname for him was Johnny Ham; when you were still afraid of the dark and he couldn't for the life of him learn how to ride a bike - and the two of you had always been inseparable.

You'd been there for him when his mother passed away, and he had held your hand throughout the entire process of your adoption. There was basically nothing you didn't know about each other; nothing that could keep you apart. Not even wizardry had been able to end your friendship. His letter had taken longer to arrive, but you had never lost faith that Hogwarts awaited the both of you. You were destined to be by each other's side no matter the circumstance.

Being sorted into different houses hadn't seemed all that big of a deal back then. You'd always known that John was in fact brilliant. He was good and kind and brave, but on top of all that, he was clever. And all that cleverness and intellect had landed him a spot in Ravenclaw, the house of the wise. That had come as no surprise to you.

Neither of you had been too shocked by the revelation that you had been sorted into Slytherin either. There had always been a sort of sly dexterity to the way you held yourself; a poised and ingenious nature to you that qualified you as one of the snakes.

That hadn't been a problem at all. You still had classes together and you still found time to see each other during meals in the Great Hall. You could still go together to Hogsmeade or simply hang out at the spot you'd come to call your own - just outside greenhouse seven, in between the castle's tall stone wall and a curtain of growing vines.

That, however, started to change during your sixth year at Hogwarts.

N.E.W.T.s were coming up and the classes were becoming more demanding - homework had tripled on size and time became scarce. Add that to the fact that the Ravenclaw and Slytherin common rooms were pretty much opposite to each other in location and that Quidditch practices were practically overfilling your schedule, and the results were disastrous.

It was only logical for the both of you to become distant, and perfectly normal for you to seek other friends inside your own houses.

There was only one problem with the 'seeking other friends' part though, and his name was Sherlock Holmes.

You remembered perfectly the day John had introduced you to his so called friend.

It had been two weeks after the classes had started, the cold mid-September breeze keeping the students from going outside.

You'd been sitting on one of the more comfortable chairs of the Slytherin common room, your feet placed on the coffee table in front of you as you revelled in the warmth of the fireplace. It was early on a Saturday morning, and most of the students had been preparing for their visit to Hogsmeade while you were waiting for some sign of John. The both of you had been trying to hang out as much as you could, and that would be one of the first days it seemed that it would actually work.

The wall at the entrance of the common room had opened, revealing Jason Kravinsky, a fellow Slytherin. He'd stopped next to your chair and you'd looked up with a raised eyebrow. "Watson wants to see you," he'd said simply and then left, and you remembered smiling as you walked in the direction he'd come from.

To say that you had been surprised to find your best friend accompanied by a tall, dark haired boy was an understatement.

Your smile had fallen.

“I've been looking for you," John had said, but your eyes looked straight past him and into the ones of none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Well, you found me," you'd answered still looking at the tall figure behind him. Sherlock's gaze was directed to you entirely, and you realised the bastard was analysing you. His eyes had roamed your face scrutinisingly, and you had felt the urge to scoff. "Who's your, um... friend?" you had asked with a small sneer, even though you were perfectly aware of the answer to your own question.

Sherlock Holmes was an arrogant, selfish prat that had an ego larger than that of Hogwarts' entire student body. The only thing he and John could possibly have in common was their antisocial tendencies, and even that was pretty far-fetched. There was also the fact that Holmes had a tendency to get in trouble despite the fact that he was quite possibly the smartest person in the damned school. He was always arguing with teachers and creating commotions during dinner, and you were pretty sure you once saw him smoking near the entrance to the dark forest at night. He was bad news, and you knew it just by looking at his face.

"Ah, yes,” John had smiled, and something inside your chest had clenched painfully at the sight. "(Y/N), this is my friend Sherlock Holmes," he'd said, and your world had crumbled along with it.

From that moment on, your tightly closed friendship had started falling to pieces, which was what you'd always feared the most.

There was no telling how, but after that day being John's best friend started feeling like a competition.

And, boy, it would seem that Holmes really wanted to win. He was good too, you'd give him that. He was an asshole and completely insane, but somehow he'd managed to make John fall for whatever trick he was playing, and you were set to unmask him. You were a Slytherin after all; one that particularly enjoyed the thrill of the game.

And Merlin only knew that Sherlock Holmes was in for a ride.

...

"Morning, Johnny," you exclaimed cheerfully as you sat across from him at the Ravenclaw table, ignoring the indiscreet stares his housemates were giving you. Your smile disappeared at the sight of Sherlock at his side. "Holmes," you uttered in acknowledgement without looking at his face.

"(Y/L/N)," he said in the same nonchalant tone he always seemed to speak with when you were close by, not bothering to look up from the book on his hands.

"So..." John noticed the change in the environment, and you felt a pang of guilt in your chest that was gone as soon as you glanced at the look of complete disinterest in Sherlock's face. You scoffed audibly. "What are your plans for the holidays?" John asked, if only to make conversation.

It was a month before Christmas, and you had decided to stay at school for the winter break. N.E.W.T.s were coming up, and though that was the main reason why you'd decided to stay in the first place, there was a light atmosphere around the corridors and common rooms that kept you from diving into a heavy study routine. It was as if the school lit up at the prospect of Christmas, and it made it so much more bearable.

"I'm staying here," "Staying," you and Sherlock said at the same time, and the silence that followed was almost as intense as the hateful stares you were sending at one another.

"What about you, John?" you asked to break the ice.

"I'm probably going home to see my family," he answered and your smile fell. It was a bummer that you wouldn't be able to see each other during the holidays, but at least that meant he wouldn't be spending any more time with Sherlock.

Someone called John's name from the other side of the table, and he excused himself for a few minutes.

As soon as he stood up, your eyes immediately landed on the boy sitting across from you. Sherlock was looking at his book, completely ignoring your presence although you never stopped glaring, your eyes narrowed and the corners of your mouth turned into a sneer.

After a while, he couldn't ignore you any longer. "Is there a problem?" there was a hint of annoyance in his tone as he lifted his eyes to watch you.

"What's your deal, Holmes?" you asked lifting an eyebrow and he frowned. "What do you benefit from all this?" You motioned at the both of you and then to John, who stood a few feet away from you.

It was to your surprise that he scoffed instead of looking offended by your comment, rolling his eyes before looking back at you with a spark of anger in his eyes. "You think I'm here because I'm gaining something off it?" he shook his head in disbelief, and you merely crossed your arms over your chest. "Well let me tell you something, (Y/L/N)," his voice was dangerously low, and you almost flinched when he closed his book with a thud. "I don't owe you any kind of satisfaction, and what I do or don't do does not interest you."

You heard yourself scoff, shaking your head; your sneer deepening with each word he spoke. "In this case, I think it does. I worry about John, and you're about as suspicious as they come, so I highly suggest you stop playing whatever game you're playing," you threatened, leaning over the table to look more menacing.

He mimicked your actions, leaning closer until your noses were almost touching and you could see the bluish-green of his eyes better than ever before. "You want to play a game, (Y/N)?" He asked with so much roughness and coldness to his voice that you thought you actually felt a chill run through your spine. "Well, then let's play a game." You stared at each other for a few more seconds before John arrived and you both went back to your seats.

He looked between you two and couldn't help but notice the intense tension overflowing the atmosphere around you.

...

You were at the library, your feet placed on a chair beside you as you tried to concentrate on the book you were reading.

The month had gone by in a glimpse, and now, two days into Christmas break, there were almost no students roaming the corridors or even leaving their rooms. The day was perfect for sleeping, but you honestly couldn't stand being useless, so you had chosen to spend it in the almost empty library instead.

You'd been stuck at the same paragraph for about ten minutes though, and with a sigh you let your head fall back, closing your eyes momentarily.

There was the distinctive sound of a chair screeching close to you, and you opened your eyes again to find Sherlock Holmes taking a seat across from you.

Your eyebrows immediately scrunched up into a frown and you crossed your arms over your chest, still holding the book on one hand. "What are you doing?" you asked irritably, watching as he dumped his parchments on top of the table without sparing you a second glance. He never did, and it really got on your nerves.

"Sitting," he replied simply, to which you scoffed audibly. John had already left for the holidays, so there was no apparent reason for him to be there with you.

"Yes, but why here? There're literally several other empty tables right over there," you motioned around you, but he didn't answer. "Besides, I'm sure there are tons of other people for you to bother elsewhere."

"Hmm," he hummed distractedly. "I'd rather bother you," was his answer, and you sighed tiredly.

"Would it kill you to actually be polite?" you murmured, and he finally lifted his eyes.

There was a slight raise to his eyebrows when he spoke. "Do you mind?" he said motioning to the chair he was sitting on, and you snorted.

"Would it make any difference if I said I did?" It wouldn't, you knew, and he confirmed it by offering you a tight, sarcastic smile.

After that, the both of you fell into a deep silence.

Sherlock seemed transfixed by his notes, and you tried to concentrate on your book once more. It didn't work so well, because your eyes kept lifting from its pages to focus on black hair and green eyes.

"What?" he asked after a while, and you managed not to blush at the prospect of being caught staring, adverting your eyes back to your book.

"Can't concentrate," you said and immediately realised the sentence could be taken the wrong way. "I can hear you thinking," you tried to explain with an irritated hiss, looking harder at the words splayed on the page.

You heard his scoff and didn't dare look at him again until you were sure he wasn't staring back. When you did, you couldn't help but notice the almost imperceptible smirk stretching on his lips, and you felt the corners of your own mouth twitch upwards at the sight of it.

...

The following week was weird, to say the least.

Your interaction with Sherlock that day at the library had been uncharacteristically pleasant, and it hadn't been your last interaction.

Oddly, the two of you had often found yourselves at the same place at the same time, and for the first time in probably ever, that had been okay with you. His presence had stopped being a nagging inconvenience, and had started becoming somewhat normal; sometimes even welcomed. You didn't know when it'd happened, but Sherlock had become a constant in your life.

The bickering never stopped, though now it felt less aggressive and much more playful; it was like none of the words being said - harsh as they may be - were meant to attack each other, but rather for the sake of routine. Spending time with him had become normal even though John wasn't there.

You'd wake up and find Sherlock reading at the Ravenclaw table in the morning, and it had stopped being weird for you to choose to sit in front of him instead of with the Slytherins. You'd sometimes spend the afternoons in the library together too; in a comfortable silence as opposed to the ones filled with tension from before.

That day in specific though you weren't feeling like staying in the castle. It was two days before New Year's Eve and the first sunny day in weeks, and you felt like enjoying the most of it.

Sherlock was sitting on your usual table at the library, and you approached it feeling something akin to nervousness stir in your chest, but decided to ignore it as best as you could. You stopped right in front of him and placed a hand on your waist. "Care for a change of scenery?" you asked as his eyes lifted to meet yours, his reaction limited to a lift of his brows.

You motioned with your head for him to follow you, and were surprised when he did so - although reluctantly. You didn't think he would actually agree to it without a fight.

The two of you walked in silence until you reached the gardens outside, and you tried not to look sideways at the boy walking beside you. You didn't really want to see the way his hair was falling over his eyes; or the way his scarf covered his neck, but the lack of a tie left the tiniest bit of skin showing above his shirt.

Nope. Definitely did not want to see that.

You reached greenhouse seven and Sherlock turned his head to shoot you a suspicious look, his eyebrow raised in a way that made his face look almost aristocratic. "Is this your way of luring me outside to finally try to kill me?" he asked with a hint of a smirk on his lips, and you almost smiled, answering him with a shrug. "Shame. I'd have expected you to put more thought to it," he said, and you had to bite the insides of your cheeks to keep from grinning.

"Was that a compliment?" He merely shrugged in response, but the conversation was cut short as you arrived at your and John's spot.

You didn't know why you felt like bringing Sherlock there. Perhaps you were just missing John, and he was something akin to a reminder of him. Then again, perhaps you just didn't want to spend the day in the library, and the margins of the Black Lake were already crowded.

Deciding to ignore those thoughts, you picked through the vines that hid your spot, disappearing behind them as you motioned for Sherlock to follow you.

You sat on the soft grass and he followed, crossing his legs and ditching his books beside him as he settled underneath the shadows of the vines. The sun barely went through the leaves, creating dotted streaks of light that eventually hit his face and accentuated the green of his eyes.

Not that you were paying attention.

"What is this place?" he asked leaning against the stone wall behind you and you mimicked his movements, ignoring the brush of his shoulder against yours.

"John and I found it a few years ago," you answered thoughtfully, feeling his eyes on you.

You were silent for a while until he decided to speak again. "Why didn't you leave for the holidays?" It was a very personal question, and it took you aback more than you'd like to admit. Your head snapped in his direction, and he just raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not really that close to my family." You didn't know why you felt like telling the truth, but now it was out and there was no taking it back. "Adopted," you explained automatically, and he nodded once. There was a pause as the both of you looked at the sky and heard the bang of a thunder. The rain started following not long after, although it didn't reach you because of the cover of the vines. And you'd thought it would be a sunny day... "Why do you care, anyway?" you asked quietly, turning your head so that you could look at him. Your faces were much closer than you deemed appropriate, though none of you gave any indication of wanting to lean away from each other. "You hate me." Your voice came out in a coarse whisper. You suddenly lost the ability to speak, and you couldn't for the life of you understand why.

You couldn't find it within you to explain why his proximity wasn't bothering you or why you felt the urge to look at his lips. "I don't," he said so lowly - his voice so grave - that you almost didn't understand what he was saying; couldn't distinguish his words from an animalistic purr.

Your lips connected before any of you could understand what was happening. The rain had thickened and the little droplets that managed to go through the veil of leaves above you were falling over your heads but you didn't notice. Sherlock's lips were slightly wet and incredibly soft when they touched yours, and you moved in sync with him, leaning into him with the urge to feel and touch and be touched.

And he did touch you. His hand went to fist your hair, and suddenly you were grabbing his scarf in a desperate attempt to bring him closer.

His mouth opened to welcome your tongue before you even asked for entrance, and you sighed into his mouth when his hand went to grab you by the waist at the same time that you moved into your knees, the new position allowing a better angle of his mouth.

You two kissed until your lips were raw and reddish and your pupils were dark and dilated; until the rain stopped and the day evolved into evening.

Then you stood up and went your separate ways, still feeling the tingling sensation of your lips and the fast beating of your hearts; both of you knowing that what you'd done was perhaps a bit shocking and probably very wrong, but that you definitely would be doing it again.

...

John came back from the holidays in the first week of January with a slight tan and a new haircut.

He came into the Great Hall after leaving his belongings in his dorm and searched the Slytherin table for your familiar face. When he didn't find you there he went towards the Ravenclaws, and was surprised to find you sitting across from none other than Sherlock Holmes, a bright smile on your lips that looked completely out of place considering who you were with.

He approached his house's table with a suspicious look on his face, and frowned even further as he heard Sherlock laugh. He didn't remember ever having heard him laugh.

He stood right behind the black haired boy with a confused look on his face until you finally seemed to notice his presence. "Johnny!" you said excitedly, leaning over the table to wrap your arms around his shoulders in an awkward angle. "I've missed you!" you said releasing him and taking a good look at his face. "You look good, did you go to the beach?" He looked slightly taken aback for a moment.

"Uh... yeah," John answered slowly and sat down next to Sherlock on the table, looking his way as if he'd be able to give him any sort of explanation as to why the two of you were being so friendly towards each other. "Did I miss anything while I was gone?" he asked when he wasn't given an answer, and didn't miss de glance you and Sherlock exchanged before you shook your heads negatively.

"Not really," "Nope," you said at the same time and smiled at each other at the coincidence.

John looked between you two as if you'd gone completely insane, but decided to leave the matter aside.

Dinner was spent talking about random things, and contrary to what John imagined, you and Sherlock didn't so much as try to annoy each other. He left the table afterwards and tried not to think about it too much as he went upstairs to sort the contents of his luggage.

It was only when he went back to the Ravenclaw common room to look for his roommate - the place completely deserted as most of the students were preparing to go to bed - that he finally understood what was happening.

"Sherlock, what are yo- oh, holy fuck," John blurted out as soon as he found the boy in question, his hands wrapped around your waist and clinging to your clothes as you shared a heated kiss right at the entrance of the common room, your bodies so close that for a moment he thought you were one.

Then his next reaction was to laugh.

The situation was hilarious, really, and John straight up laughed at the surprised looks on your faces, shaking his head and holding his stomach.

"I knew there was something going on between you two," he said as the laughter finally died down.

You looked up at Sherlock and he glanced down at you, and you felt the urge to laugh too. "Well, shit," you said with humor, glancing at John as well before rubbing the spot behind your ear, "this is awkward..."

[Masterlist] [Request list]

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock imagine #bbc sherlock #sherlock one shot #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock fluff #benedict cumberbatch #sherlock fanfic #sherxr

[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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