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marvelfanfn2187a113 · 10 months

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The Same Page Part 5/?

So, here it is, another part! Still have no clue how long this series will go, this part took forever to write, I kinda just go whenever I have inspiration, so we’ll see.

Synopsis: Greg comes over for a visit and Mycroft notices some changes in you.

Same Page Masterlist:

You were already fast asleep on the couch, your favorite fluffy blanket draped on top of you by the time Sherlock said goodbye to John and made his way inside Mycroft’s house.

Mycroft was on one knee next to the couch, his hand absently brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead.

“Is she alright?” Sherlock approached his brother quietly, not wanting to disturb the scene in front of him.

Mycroft’s mouth twisted as he stood, removing his hand from your head.

“I think so. She really wore herself out today, I hope she didn’t make herself sick.”

“Has she ever…”

Mycroft shook his head, anticipating his brother’s question.

“She’s never run away from me. She has tried to come after me before when I tried to leave for work a few times, about a year ago. I tried to leave her with several of your…friends. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, even John. She wouldn’t have it.”

Sherlock frowned, “She’s never been particularly clingy with you before.”

Mycroft gave a slightly sardonic smile, “Yes well, there are a lot of things about her that have changed.” He sighed. “I suppose she thought that if she left me alone, the way-“ if Sherlock didn’t know better, he would’ve thought Mycroft almost chocked on the words before continuing, “the way she left you alone before—well, you know—that I would’ve done exactly what you had done. She thought she’d lose us both, I suppose.”

Sherlock stared down at you. You looked so peaceful, so unlike anything he had seen from you since he’d been back. It cut him deeply to think that you actually felt responsible for your brothers’ safety. That was his and Mycroft’s job, to look after you.

“She didn’t blame herself for-“ Sherlock didn’t even want to finish the sentence.

Mycroft turned to look at him, and Sherlock almost recoiled at the look in Mycroft’s eyes. He looked…heartbroken. Almost…vulnerable. Almost.

“Yes. She did. After she got over the shock, and the denial, that’s all she could think about for months on end. She kept asking me what I thought would’ve happened to you if she-“ Mycroft swallowed, “if she hadn’t left you alone that afternoon. If she’d let John leave and remained nearby to make sure you were alright. If she’d been more attentive to your needs, your feelings. I didn’t know what to say to her. I couldn’t tell her that you weren’t actually depressed…” Mycroft trailed off, breaking eye contact with his little brother.

Sherlock was horrified. He now understood Mycroft’s pain, his hesitance to breech this subject. A small, selfish part of Sherlock was now glad that it had been Mycroft, not himself, that had been here to deal with the tsunami of a wake that his death had left behind.

Neither brother spoke for a while. There was nothing left they wanted to say. Not about this.

A knock on the door cracked the still air, and Mycroft stiffened when you flinched awake.

“Myc…”

Mycroft rested his hand on your shoulder, “shh, it’s nothing, get some rest alright? Sherlock is here with you.”

Mycroft stood to open the door, surprised to see Lestrade standing there.

“Inspector,” he greeted cordially.

“Sherlock…shared his little secret with me earlier,” Greg said awkwardly. “I thought I would come and see how Y/N is now that…”

Mycroft nodded slightly. He didn’t quite understand the relationship you had with all of Sherlock’s friends, but he was glad you had so many people that cared about you.

“I see, unfortunately she’s resting right-“

“Greg?”

Mycroft turned to see you, wrapped up in your blanket, a slight smile gracing your lips.

Lestrade grinned back at you.

“Hey N/N, are you alright?”

Mycroft stepped back while Greg embraced you, glancing sideways when Sherlock stepped up next to him.

“I’m ok,” came your muffled reply.

No one in the room really believed you, but no one was going to speak up about it either.

“What are you doing here?” You asked Greg as he stepped further into the house and shut the door behind him.

“I’m here to see you, of course,” he smiled down at you, and Mycroft was surprised when you smiled back, albeit a bit wearily.

The smile dropped quickly however, and your eyes seemed almost haunted as you choked out your next words.

“Have you known about…”

Greg shook his head quickly, “No, no I haven’t. I found out just after John.”

Your relief made Mycroft feel uncomfortable, and more than a little guilty. He had thought this might happen, that you might form some kind of bond with the ones that had been truly deceived. He had somewhat expected it.

What he hadn’t expected was the twist in his gut that came now. What was it?

It took him a few moments to realize the true meaning of this unfamiliar feeling, and when the realization hit it was like a backhand across the face.

Jealousy. He was jealous.

But why? Why should he care about the bonds you forged with the ‘Baker Street Crowd’, as he thought of them?

The answer was simple, really, but Mycroft didn’t want to believe it.

As hard as the last two years had been, as uncomfortable as he was in his position as caretaker…

He would miss it.

He would truly miss the way you ran to him for every problem, the way that you looked at him like he was Superman, capable of solving every trouble and pain that shook your whole world.

He didn’t want that to go away. He didn’t want you to form a bond with Lestrade, or with John, heck, even with Sherlock, that would rival the one that you had with him.

He hated feeling this way, thinking this way. It was selfish. It was wrong.

But he couldn’t help it.

You had grown up so much closer to Sherlock, and he hadn’t cared for so long.

But now that he knew what it was like, to be so close to you, to be the big brother that you wanted to comfort you…

He didn’t think he could go back to the way things had been like before.

“How long can you stay?”

Your voice snapped Mycroft out of his reverie, and he had to swallow his annoyance at Lestrade’s response.

“Hey, I’m here for as long as you need me,” he turned to look at Mycroft, “as long as it’s ok with your brother.”

No. It wasn’t.

Mycroft bit back this response when he saw the pleading look on your face when you turned to him. He forced a polite,

“Yes, of course.”

Whatever you needed.

…

‘As long as you need me,’ turned out to be the rest of the afternoon, and after mere minutes of watching you and Lestrade catch up, Mycroft disappeared into his office under the excuse of getting some work done. He hated the way you seemed to be getting alone with Lestrade, especially right after you had just run away from him to be with John.

He was noticing a pattern.

You were beginning to gravitate towards the people who had shared in your pain, the people who had also been lied to. The people whose grief had been real. It was probably good for you.

But that also meant that you were gravitating away from him. The liar. The faker.

The betrayer.

Would you ever look at him the same way again? That look of complete and utter trust, the one he had slowly become dependent on over the last two years. He needed you. He needed you to need him.

He hated feeling this way.

He hated himself for it.

…

You finally told Lestrade that you would be fine if he left, once it was close to dinner time. He said his goodbyes, and finally left to join his wife for dinner, with a promise of, “I’ll see you later.”

Something about Lestrade’s visit seemed to have energized you, which made Mycroft nervous, especially after your tiring excursion with John.

So when you asked Mycroft if you could make dinner tonight, something you’d not done in over two years, he was hesitant to say the least.

“Are you sure you’re not tired? You’ve had quite a day.”

You nodded resolutely, “I’m fine. Please Mycroft?”

You were as stubborn as Sherlock when you made your mind up, and Mycroft figured he would win no brownie points with you by arguing. So he relented.

“Would you like any help?”

You shook your head firmly, “I can do it.”

…

Mycroft didn’t stray far from the kitchen, ready at a moment’s notice for you to call out to him for help.

But you didn’t.

In fact, you seemed to be completely capable, even enjoying yourself, alone in the kitchen.

Mycroft hated it.

He wanted you to get better, he really, really did, but he didn’t want that to mean that you completely pulled away from him. And he felt now like that was what was happening.

Not that he’d ever admit how he felt. Not to anyone. Even himself.

After dinner, you insisted on cleaning up, and Mycroft was truly amazed at your new energy level. He supposed that’s what he deserved for underestimating you.

After dinner and cleanup, you headed towards the stairs leading to your room.

Mycroft stepped forwards, “Are you going to bed? Would you like help?” With your lower energy level, due to your usual lack of sleep and irregular eating habits, he was shocked you were still standing, much less ready to walk up stairs.

You didn’t even meet his eye as you shook your head firmly, “I’m fine. Tell Sherlock I said goodnight. Is he going back to Baker Street?”

Mycroft was taken aback, “I—I’m not sure. Do you want him to?”

You shrugged, still not meeting Mycroft’s eye.

“He can do whatever he wants.”

You walked up the stairs without another word.

…

“I’m worried about her.”

Sherlock frowned at his older brother.

“You’re worried because she doesn’t have separation anxiety?”

Mycroft sighed, “I’m worried because of her complete change in personality. It doesn’t make sense, and it isn’t healthy.”

Sherlock shrugged. “And what she was doing before was healthy? Maybe this is a good thing, maybe it means she’s healing.”

Mycroft shook his head, “Or maybe it means she doesn’t trust us enough to tell us how she really feels..”

“That doesn’t make sense. I’ve seen her with you,” Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably, “I’ve never seen anyone trust someone as much as she does you.”

Mycroft hung his head, something that shocked Sherlock.

“That was before she knew how much I’ve lied to her.”

…

Sherlock decided to head back to Baker Street that night, despite Mycroft’s protests.

“What if she wakes up again and needs you?”

“She was fine tonight, Mycroft. You need to let her be fine.”

Though Mycroft would never admit it, that comment had stung. Was he really so desperate for his little sister’s company that he refused to let her be alright?

No, no that wasn’t it. He knew his little sister, had spent the past two years getting to know her better than she knew herself.

He wasn’t accepting this new side of you, not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew it couldn’t last. Not yet, anyway.

This kind of improvement would take time, and a lot more work than had been accomplished in the few days that Sherlock had been back.

You still needed your big brother.

And he was going to be there for you.

…

To Mycroft’s surprise, the night passed without incident, and so did the next morning. You let Mycroft cook you pancakes, but you seemed particularly silent that morning, not even asking him if Sherlock was going to be there that day.

Eventually Mycroft decided to leave you to your own devices, and he went to his office to get some work done.

A few hours went by uninterrupted, until Mycroft realized it was nearing lunchtime. He was desperate to keep you on your eating schedule, especially while this energy of yours lasted and you seemed to have no objections to food, so he shut down his work computer and left his office to find you.

He expected to find you on the couch, watching something or perhaps reading.

What he didn’t expect was to find you sitting on the floor next to the stairs, your back against the wall and your knees pulled up against your chest. He rushed to your side, and your head jerked up when you saw him standing next to you.

“Mycroft…” the croak in your voice, along with the tears sliding down your cheeks, struck Mycroft right in the gut. How long had you been sitting there like this, while he was busy not paying attention to you?

“Sweetheart…” Mycroft kneeled on the floor in front of you, tilting your head up so that you’d look at him, “what happened?”

Despite his efforts, you tilted your eyes down to avoid his gaze.

“I-I was just trying to go up to my room…but I guess my crazy day yesterday finally caught up-caught up to me because I just-just fell down and I couldn’t find-find the strength to get back up.”

Mycroft began looking you over worriedly.

“Are you ok? Are you hurt?”

You put your hand against his chest and pushed him to arms length, “Mycroft, no, it’s ok. I’m fine.”

He sighed, “Why didn’t you call for me?”

You shook your head, still desperately avoiding his searching gaze.

“I’m fine.”

Mycroft sighed again, “You’re sitting on the floor because you can’t stand.” He brushed your hair away from your face, “You know it’s ok to need help, right?”

Your lip started quivering, and you finally lifted your gaze to meet Mycroft’s. He forced himself to keep eye contact, despite nearly flinching from the look in your eyes. It wasn’t that broken-glass look he had seen so often, but you looked so…

Sad. But more than that, you looked alone.

You broke eye contact, casting your eyes towards the floor and leaning against Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I can’t need help all the time.”

Mycroft winced.

“You don’t need it all-“

“Yes I do!” You sat up suddenly, looking up at your brother. “You haven’t gone to work in-in two years, Mycroft! And don’t think I don’t notice how tired you get, I know I’ve-I’ve kept you up with my stupid nightmares.” You were crying now, and yelling, and Mycroft was at a loss for what to do. Every time he thought he had you figured out, every time he was sure you couldn’t surprise him anymore with your emotions, you peeled back another layer and he was lost again. He wished he could understand your feelings, he had tried so many times, but it just wasn’t him.

“Please don’t say that.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and even. “I chose this. I want to be here for you.”

You shook your head, “But it can’t always be like this. Sherlock’s here now, I should-“

“Should what?” Mycroft raised his voice, “should magically get better? That isn’t how it works. We all want things to go back to how they were, but these things take time. You have to be patient.” He sighed, “where did this desperation come from anyway?”

“When Greg and I were catching up…he was talking about some of the cases he’s been on recently. It made me realize…that’s what Sherlock wants to be doing. That’s what you want to be doing. Your work. You shouldn’t have to spend all your time looking after me, you-you guys have lives too. I’ve been selfish.” You looked up. “I’m sorry Mycroft. I’m trying to do better.”

Mycroft felt like he’d just swallowed glass. He tried to swallow, tried to breathe, tried to speak, all of it just left him with a scratchy lump in his throat, and nothing would work properly. You stared up at him, blinking slowly, waiting for his response.

“Don’t…” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Don’t say that. Don’t every say anything like that again, do you understand?”

You were confused, “I only meant-“

“No!” Mycroft regretted his tone when you flinched in his arms, and he softened. “No. This isn’t your fault. I know you’re trying your hardest, but I would stay home with you for the rest of my life if I thought that I could help you in any way. You are more important to me than anything, especially work. And Sherlock feels the same way, I know he does.”

You pondered this for several seconds, before meekly asking, “Are you angry with me for running away?”

Mycroft sighed, “No. I’m not. I was very worried, but I’m not angry. I know why you left.”

You sniffled, “I’m not sure I know why I left. I was angry, but…I don’t ever want to leave you like that again. Even though you-you lied…you’re by brother, and I trust you.” You smiled weakly at him, and he felt his spirits lift. “I really, really trust you. And I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, “You don’t have to apologize. But thank you.”

Mycroft slowly got to his feet, lifting you in his arms. “I think you should get some rest. You look exhausted.”

You leaned against his chest as he carried you upstairs, and when he laid you on your bed you reached out and grabbed his hand.

“Mycroft? Will you stay with me?”

Mycroft smiled down at you.

“Always.”

Taglist: @navs-bhat

@isabellavere

@chaoticglitterkitten

@peachycupotea

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casahoeva · 2 years

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Autumn Leaves - Greg Lestrade x Reader

The sight was beautiful, although the pair hadn’t fully scaled the entire hill, they could still see everything from this height. Amber specked trees stretched out below them, creating a carpet of rusty brown beneath the hill. Scatters of crimson berries littered the trees, snacked upon by curious squirrels that scurried away with their sweet treats. The brisk wind swept up a few leaves into the air, sending a shiver up your spine as you looked out at the beautiful scene.

Greg groaned as he dragged his feet behind you against the hiking trail. It felt like he’d been walking for hours, and he was already getting tired. “How long have we been walking for?” he asked with a sigh. He wasn’t as wowed by the views as you, but he’d agreed to accompany you on your hike, not wanting you to go alone.

A soft chuckle left your lips as you looked back at your lover, shaking your head. “Love, we’ve been walking for twenty minutes. Are you bored already?” He was honestly adorable, you felt so incredibly lucky to be able to call him yours.

“I’m not bored… just a little…” he searched for the word, waving his hand in annoyance when he couldn’t quite find it. “If you’re enjoying it, that’s all that matters.” he caught up to you, pressing a little kiss to your lips. It was brief, but perfect. He didn’t complain much more for the rest of the work, only smiling when the picnic site at the top came into view.

Greg’s silver hair blew a little in the wind that had seemed to have picked up speed during your hike. He placed the picnic hamper down, adjusting the food in front of him. You lingered back for a while, just watching him as he set up everything up, he looked so… content.

“Come on Y/N! I made sausage rolls!” he yelled over to you, holding the box up triumphantly. He’d nearly burnt the whole kitchen down trying to make them, so you’d better try one.

“Coming, Greg!”

Links: Archive of Our Own // Wattpad

#sherlock bbc #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock fanfic #greg lestrade #greg lestrade x reader #lestrade x reader #reader insert #x reader #fanfiction #fanfic

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thenasoneshots · 2 years

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Classroom Shippers - Lestrade x Reader

Requested?: No

Prompt: None

Reader's Relations: None

Warnings: None

Other Notes: You're a primary teacher in this

----------------

"Miss (L/n), is he your boyfriend?"

I felt my face flare up at the question from the small girl. Maybe taking a load of 11-12 year olds on a school trip alone wasn't the best idea… I bent down away from the detective inspector to her level, "No… he's not. Now did you need something?"

"But you love him though, don't you?"

Again, my face went redder than I thought was possible as I responded, "Millie, my love life is none of your concert at the moment. Please just go and have fun while we're here."

"But there's like police guys everywhere! We can't do anything, that's what I came to tell you!"

I sighed, "Alright, can you go and get everyone to come back to the bus then? We'll go to the hotel for the afternoon then."

She nodded and ran off as I took a deep breath turning back to Greg, "I'm sorry about that, but this is what I get for taking them on a school trip all on my own."

"It's kind of cute to be honest. They're just looking out for you, you know, (Y/n). Want you to be happy and all."

I smiled, "I guess you're right, so… what happened here that you had to spoil our school trip?"

"Murder case. I just hope that Sherlock doesn't appear…" Greg responded, muttering the last statement, causing me to giggle, "You know Sherlock though, he will appear. I wish you luck for when he does. I should probably go and get those kids to the hotel," I replied, before saying my goodbyes and walking off outside where I saw the kids sitting on the bus, Millie waiting outside. I smiled and walked up, "Good job, Millie. Everyone here?"

She nodded, "Yep! So… are you sure that guy isn't your boyfriend?" I just shook my head and got on the bus, her following me as I talked to the driver about where the hotel was we were staying at.

----------------

The last day we were in the centre of London for for the trip, again, somehow we managed to bump into Greg again.

"We meet again, (Y/n)."

I giggled, "Yeah. I guess we do. Another case?"

He nodded, "Yes, and unfortunately, that psychopath is already here."

I giggled, "I think you mean 'High Functioning Sociopath', Greg. You should listen to him though."

"I know, but he just makes Scotland Yard look like a bunch of idiots."

I giggled at his complaining but before I could say anything else, "Miss (L/n)!! When are we going home? Oh Hello again, Mr! Are you sure you're not Miss (L/n)'s boyfriend? This is the third day in a row we've seen you and her talking." My face flushed red and I hid behind the clipboard I had with the schedule written on as I composed myself, "Alright, We're going home now actually," I replied, checking the schedule, "To the bus!" The three boys smiled and took off, but before I could follow them, I felt a hand grab my wrist. As I turned around, Greg grabbed my upper arms and kissed me. I blinked and wrapped my arms around his neck, kissing him back.

"Are you sure he's not your boyfriend?"

I flinched back at Millie's voice and cleared my throat "Well, I gu-"

"I am," Greg interrupted me, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, leaning his head on my shoulder, "Now I guess I should let your teacher take you back."

Millie smirked and ran off as I turned around so I was now facing Greg, "Thanks for that. Now she's going to tell the whole class and I'll never hear the end of it."

He chuckled and pecked my lips, "They deserve to know that their teacher isn't single anymore. Plus otherwise they'll just get mad at you when your name changes."

I rolled my eyes and giggled, "Is this your way of proposing even though we literally just got together?"

"Well, we're childhood friends, we've known each other for so long, (Y/n), but no, not yet. Maybe in a few years."

-----------------------

"Now, to conclude our final assembly of the school year, I'd like to pass over to our Year 7 teacher, Miss (L/n)."

I smiled and took a deep breath walking up to the small mic in the school hall as the headmistress patted me on the shoulder, "Good luck."

I nodded to her as a thanks before speaking into the microphone, "Hello to you all. Now those of you in year 9, might remember that school trip we had when you were in year 7, and how you kept asking me if the guy we kept running into was my boyfriend, well, when we come back in August, I won't be 'Miss (L/n)' to any of you anymore," this caused gasps and mutters of confusion to go around the hall, "as by that time that won't be my name. I am pleased to tell you all that I am getting married over the summer!"

There were many cheers throughout the school hall as I continued with one final point, "Oh, before I forget, Millie Williamson, please can you and your parents come and see me in my classroom after the assembly."

-----------------

"What did you want to talk to me about, Miss (L/n)?" Millie asked.

I smiled and bent down to her level the best I could, placing a hand on her shoulder, "Millie, how would you like to be the flower girl at my wedding?"

Her eyes widened and filled with joy, "Really?! You want me as part of the ceremony?!"

I nodded and she looked up to her parents a pleading look on her face. Her mother sighed, "Miss (L/n), may I ask why you want Millie to be your flower girl?"

"Well, to be honest, if it wasn't for her, then I wouldn't be getting married at all. It's thanks to her constant pestering two years ago that gave me the courage to confess my feelings to Greg, my now fiancé and I want her to be there as a thank you."

"I see."

"Please, Mum, Dad? Please can I do it?!" Millie asked again, causing both her parents to sigh, "Very well, what date is the wedding, Miss (L/n)?" I smiled widely and told them the date as Millie gave me a hug.

--------------------

I smiled, snuggling into Greg's side, the two of us sitting on the sofa in the house as I admired the shiny ring on my finger.

"How was today?"

My smile widened and I leaned up kissing him, "Absolutely perfect. I wouldn't have had it any other way."

"I love you, (Y/n). So much."

"I love you too, Greg. Both of you."

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"I'm pregnant," I whispered in his ear before snuggling into his side and going to sleep.

#bbc sherlock #x reader #lestrade x reader

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lacelynpage · 10 months

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You fall asleep in an odd spot ~ Sherlock Preferences

A/N: HELLO DARLINGS!!!! I’m SO sorry its been so long. Life got really chaotic but I trying to find time to writ more. I have missed you all sooo much. I hope you enjoy what I cooked up for today. See you all again soon hopefully lol.

Sherlock:

Being with Sherlock involves a lot of late nights. When you're on a case the two of you can easily stay out till the sun starts to spill over the horizon. Exhaustion is your nearly constant companion. So it is not uncommon for you to fall asleep on the cab ride back to Bakers street. After your head is resting comfortably on his shoulder he will gently intertwine your fingers. Running his thumbs over your knuckles soothingly. It is one of the few truly tender things he does, and it means the world to you.

John:

Sleep isn't always your best friend. Most nights your body would, rather cruelly, keep you awake. Force you to think about your whole life till you spiraled into anxiety. John understood that struggle and would often stay up with you, making tea and sitting with you. It led to some of the deepest and more honest conversations. However, your bodies were still both achingly tired in the morning. So when John came to pick you up on your lunch break for a date one day after a particularly long night. He wasn't surprised to find you sound asleep on your desk. With a gentle touch he woke you up, telling your coworkers you weren't feeling well. The two of you spent the rest of the day together, cuddled up and fast asleep.

Mycroft:

Late hours were the norm in your house. Both of you commonly work odd schedules as contacts from around the world update you on various projects. On a bright Sunday morning Mycroft awoke to find you missing from the bed. Assuming you had simply gone to bed later and woken up early he walked down to the kitchen. The sight that greeted him was odd but not unfamiliar. You sat at the small breakfast table in the corner, head resting on the keyboard of your laptop. A few papers and a now very cold cup of coffee to your right. Gently, he woke you and ushered you into bed, calling Athena to cancel all morning meetings. The two of you needed some recovery time.

Greg:

It was cute really, well Greg thought it was cute at least, that you could never make it through a movie in the cinema. No matter how much you wanted to see the movie, every time you would drift off. Popcorn left to get cold in your lap as your head lulled back. While the end credits rolled he would nudge you awake with the most childish grin on his face, making you groan in frustration. He would always give you a summary on the car ride home, which you appreciated.

Moriarty:

You were not one to let your guard down easily, Jim knew that. No matter how tired you were, sleeping in public wasn't an option. However, there was one exception, the plane to Dublin. Something about flying home relaxed you, made the worries and enemies slip from your mind. Softly you rest your head on Jim's shoulder and let sleep overtake you. He would work quietly, kissing your head whenever you stirred slightly to adjust. These plane rides were often the quietest moments in your life together, you both treasured them.

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fallingforunrealisticromance · 1 year

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Hold me - Sherlock x fem!reader

Request: "Can you one with the bbc sherlock x female reader? Maybe one where sherlock is touched starved but doesn't realise it. And then he meets the reader and it's all fluffy at the end please? xx"

Warnings: None

Word Count: 2156

A/N: I'm so sorry i haven't been posting!! I've had a hectic month and not much time to write but i'm getting back to it!! If you have requested something, I'm getting round to them slowly but surely. Thank you all <33

Requests

Prompts

Masterlist

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sherlock never realised how touch starved he was. It was never really something he ever paid any attention to. In his mind, physical affection was yet another unimportant custom most normal people liked to spend their time searching for. He couldn’t be bothered with that. That was, until he met you.

*******************************************************************

“Stop talking Anderson, it lowers the IQ of the entire street.” Sherlock hissed.

You let out a small laugh as Sherlock, slammed the door in his face. John and Lestrade both turned to look at you.

“Sorry. It’s just- well he’s not wrong.” You said, shrugging your shoulders.

“I very rarely am.” Sherlock replied without looking over at you.

You rolled your eyes “Okay, no need to get all cocky Mr detective.”

You walked past him, resting your hand on the shoulder, before quickly taking removing it. “Sorry.”

Sherlocks brow furrowed. “Why are you sorry?”

“I know you don’t like people touching you.” You replied nonchalantly.

Sherlock went to speak but the words died on his tongue. So instead, he opted for a sharp nod before turning his attention back to the dead body in front of him. He had actually rather liked the feeling of your fingers running along his arm, even if it was only for a second. You were right, normally he would hate people touching him. But he found himself wishing that you would do it again, only this time leave your hand there for maybe a while longer.

“Sherlock.” John’s voice snapped the detective from his thoughts.

“Hmm?” He mumbled.

“You found anything? You’ve been crouched there for a few minutes now.”

Sherlock stood up, brushing the dirt from his coat.

“It was her husband. He killed her.” Sherlock relayed to Lestrade before promptly leaving the room.

********************************************************************

“Well. That’s one way to get home.” You said breathlessly as you rested against the wall of 221b.

“Yeah next time we have a case sherlock, can we not chase the killer through London on foot? They have cabs for a reason.” John panted, flopping down on the sofa.

“A cab would have been far too slow Watson.” You answered, smiling at him. “However, I have to agree with him sherlock, less running next time yeah?” You said to the detective who was leaning on his desk.

“Oh I don’t know, I think it adds to the fun.” Sherlock said with a tight-lipped smile.

“Did sherlock Holmes just make a joke?” John asked, staring at you in shock.

“Oh god the bloods rushed to his head” You replied jokingly. Sherlock just scoffed at the pair of you.

“Right, it’s been fun boys but I should probably be off.” You went to take a step forward without noticing your shoelace was undone.

You tripped over, falling forward expecting to crash into the hard floor beneath you. What you weren’t anticipating was sherlock catching you. His arms wrapped around your stomach as your hands clung to his arms. His heartbeat increased rapidly as you rested against him for a moment, trying to regain your footing. You stood up still clutching his arms.

“That’s embarrassing.” You laughed looking down at your shoes, seemingly unaware of sherlocks hands planted firmly just above your hips.

Sherlocks head was spinning. The feeling of your body pressed against him was something he quite enjoyed, even if it was in an awkward position.

You patted sherlocks shoulder.

“Thanks mate, that could’ve been a lot more painful.” To sherlocks disappointment, you moved out of his grasp in order to tie your shoelace.

John furrowed his brow as he noticed the hint of longing held in sherlocks gaze before it quickly faded.

“Yeah. No problem. See you later.” He said before promptly leaving to go to his room.

You watched him leave, rather confused by his rapid exit. “Did he seem a bit off to you?” You asked john.

“Yeah a bit.” He replied honestly.

“Well check up on him, make sure he’s alright yeah?” John nodded at your words. “Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow probably. Bye Watson.” And with that you left the infamous flat.

********************************************************************

Since then, sherlock found any excuse he could to have some form of contact with you. Whether it was standing that little bit closer to you in order for his arm to brush yours every so often, or letting you hold his hand if you were ever scared. Your touch provided him with a sense of comfort he never knew he’d needed.

Currently you were sat in your flat, curled up under some blankets on your sofa. There had been a lot of draining cases lately and while you wouldn’t swap your job for anything else – it really took a toll on you. You’d barely slept over the past week and when you had it had been a restless, disturbed night. Your body felt as if it was going to shut down any minute soon and you were honestly hoping it would as it might allow you to finally get a decent rest. However, as this is your life and nothing is ever that simple, your phone began to ring. Reluctantly you pulled your hands out from the bundle of warmth you had created and lifted the phone to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Y/n hi its Greg.”

You shot up. You loved Greg but he never called for a good reason, something was always wrong. You didn’t have it in you for another case right now, but that was what you were paid for. Your wellbeing would just have to wait.

“What is it this time? Please don’t tell me it’s another murder” You replied.

Lestrade chuckled stiffly. “Er no it’s not a case as such.” He fell quiet.

“Well?” You prompted. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s sherlock. He’s well I don’t really know.” Greg replied.

That did nothing to calm your nerves, if anything it set you more on edge. “

Is john with you?” You asked.

“Uh yeah, I’ll pass you to him.” You heard a small conversation before john’s voice came through the phone.

“Hi y/n”

“What’s wrong with him?” You asked, heart beating rapidly.

You knew he had issues with drugs and if tonight was a bad night, you needed to know. You cared immensely for the detective.

“Well nothing I don’t think. It’s weird, I’m pretty sure he’s gone into his ‘mind palace’ but he just keeps saying your name.” John explained.

You fell silent. Why would sherlock be saying your name in his mind palace? Actually why was he saying your name at all?

“My name?” You repeated.

“Yeah I don’t actually have a clue what’s going on, could you come over?” John asked.

“Um yeah. Yeah I’ll be on my way.” You hung up the phone before scrambling to get off of the sofa. This was really strange, but you just needed to know that he was okay.

After about 20 minutes you found yourself knocking at 221b as you’d done many times in the past, but tonight felt weird. Mrs Hudson opened the door, beaming at you.

“Oh y/n! How lovely to see you” She said pulling you in for a hug.

“Hi Mrs Hudson. I’m here for…well I don’t actually know. John asked me to come.” You explained.

“Yes sherlock’s been acting very strange tonight.” You raised your eyebrows at her. “Stranger than normal my dear. He was getting really worked up about a case earlier and he was doing his normal anticks. You know, pacing, shooting my wall, yelling at john – the normal. But he just went quiet, john said he went to his mind palace whatever that is. Apparently he keeps asking for you.” She explained.

“Yeah john said.” You replied quietly, looking up at the stairs.

“Well you better go up there dear.” She patted your back before returning to her flat.

You took a deep breath before making your way up the stairs. You weren’t sure why you were so nervous, but your hands were shaking tremendously. You pushed the door open, seeing sherlock, sat in his chair with his eyes closed.

“Hi” You said quietly. John and Lestrade greeted you. “So I’m here but what exactly am I meant to do?” You asked looking over at the detective.

“Not a clue. Just talk to him?” John suggested.

You sighed. “okay.” You made your way over to him. “Hi Sherloc-“

But before you could finish your sentence, the detective jumped up from his chair wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulled you into his body, holding you tightly. His head fell to your shoulder, burrowing it in the crook of your neck. That was the last thing you’d expected him to do. You stood wide eyed, your arms hanging either side of you. This was not like sherlock at all, not that you minded his sudden display of affection – but it worried you slightly.

“Hold me. Please.” He whispered, so only you could hear. His breath against your neck sent a shiver down your spine, your heart racing. He sounded so desperate; it almost made you cry.

“Okay.” You said softly as you wrapped your arms around his neck, slowly running your fingers through the base of his curls.

He sighed, and almost melted into your touch as you did so. You could feel his hands clutching your shirt, as if he was trying to calm himself down.

“You’re okay sherlock. I’m here, your safe.” You mumbled softly.

You had no idea what he was feeling right now, but it felt like that’s what he needed to hear. The two of you stayed there for a while, you just allowing Sherlock to do what he needed. John and Lestrade stood behind you, staring at the sight before them in utter shock. After a moment, sherlock pulled his head up to face you without releasing his hold on your waist. Your eyes scanned his own, trying to figure him out. His face was flushed red from having rested on you for so long

“Hello.” He said gently.

You smiled at him, arms still loosely around his neck.

“Hi.” You replied.

Slowly, sherlock reached a hand up to cup your face. His thumb moved gently across your cheek as he looked down at you. You were almost certain your heart was about to explode.

“Why won’t you get out of my head?” He questioned, more to himself than anyone else.

“I’m…sorry?” You offered not entirely sure what to say back.

He smiled at you.

“Don’t be. I’m more than okay with it. It’s just…strange. I’ve never craved another person before. But you.” His voice trailed off as he stared at you like you were the most precious thing to walk the earth. “You are all I think about. All the time. I want to be with you, near you. I want to touch you all the time.”

You were speechless.

“Not even necessarily in a sexual way. But just, feel you. You seem to calm me in a way nothing ever has before.”

You could feel tears threatening to fall. You weren’t sure exactly why, but just the raw emotion sherlock was willing to show you was overwhelming. In the best way possible.

“I’m glad I can help.” You voice was quiet, barely audible, but you knew he’d heard you.

“So can I-“ John’s voice interrupted.

“Get out. The pair of you.” Sherlock snapped, not even looking at them.

You laughed slightly, turning your head to face them. “I’d listen to him lads. I think I’ll be okay.”

Greg looked utterly baffled but didn’t question it.

“You do know I live here?” John said.

“Well go talk to Mrs Hudson?” You suggested, feeling sherlock becoming rather annoyed.

“Go.” He demanded.

With that, they left the flat. Sherlock gently pulled your head to look back at him. His eyes flickered down to your lips ever so slightly.

“I want to try something.” He said softly.

“Okay.” You replied, knowing exactly what he was going to do. He lowered his face to yours until you could feel his breath fanning across your lips.

“Are you sure-“

“Sherlock just kiss me.” You begged.

Without any hesitation, he crashed his lips against yours. He held your face gently as if he was scared, he would lose you while pulling you impossibly closer. His lips were soft as they melted against yours. Your heart was hammering in your chest, you were sure it would break free. Reluctantly, you pulled away to breathe, but Sherlock kept a firm grip on you as he rested his forehead against yours.

“I don’t know what this is.” He spoke softly, not wanting to ruin the moment. “But I do know, I don’t want to be apart from you. Will you stay with me?” He asked, eyes full of hope.

You grinned up at him as you ran your fingers through his hair.

“Until you order me away.” You replied happily, before leaning forward to kiss him once again.

#sherlockbbc #sherlock bbc #sherlock reader insert #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock x you #sherlock x reader #touch starved #john watson #greg lestrade #x reader #fluff #fluffy #kiss #first kiss #benedict cumberbatch #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange

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specialagentlokitty · 8 months

Text

Lestrade x Male!reader - the crime lover

Hey! Pretty please could you write about a meet cute between the reader and Lestrade, during the week leading up to Halloween so there are horror mazes and VR experiences, Halloween Parties and gatherings all over London. Lestrade gets a case at one of them and one of the witnesses is a Horror/true crime buff staff member (Reader) who catches his eye! Thanks in advance! Hope it’s the kinda request you were looking for - @the-imitation-blog 💜

Standing behind the desk, you flicked your gaze to the security cameras before looking back at the papers in front of you.

Walking to the other side of the office, you sat down on your desk as you looked through the updated contracts for the new adult only horror game sessions.

“Oi (Y/N).”

“Get lost Markus, busy.”

He scoffed a little bit and walked over, taking the papers from your hands.

“There’s some police here asking about video footage from a few days ago, you know relating to the murder from across the street.”

“Oh right, yeah send them in, also can you take those clues over to room four, they’ve been at it a while trying to escape and I feel kinda bad for them.”

Markus laughed and took the cards from your hands as he made his way back towards the door.

You turned back to what you were doing and heard the door open once again.

“I’m detective inspector Lestrade I’m here about the security footage.”

“Yeah, I’ll send Caroline in to show you, she knows how to do that.”

You pulled out your phone and texted said woman to come and help you, then sat in your chair as you began to make some notes on the contracts.

Lestrade glanced around the office, and he looked at you, watching you for a moment.

You were tall, dressed in some joggers and a baggy jumper, you looked pretty scrawny to him, probably similar to Sherlocks build in a way.

“What exactly do you do here?” He asked.

You looked up from your paperwork and you grinned a little at him.

“We offer a bit of everything, from escape rooms and VR experiences, to lectures on true crime from the past, and game nights revolving around them where the customers have to try and work together to figure out who really committed the crime.”

“Who runs those?”

You raised your hand and got up, heading to the other side of the room to get a drink, offering him a bottle of water which he took.

“I studied criminology in university, and I really enjoy reading and watching things about true crime. We only use case fifty or more years old however.”

Lestrade nodded his head and he looked around.

“Is there a possibility that somebody would try to recreate one of these events?” He asked.

You thought for a moment.

“Well, we do take the names and ID’s for everybody attending one of these sessions, and it’s strictly no photography or phones, you have to leave them with security. But I suppose if one of our customers were fascinated by one of the cases they could have taken it away for more research.”

“You let them take things?”

“No, no. We email out the tickets with the name of the event and what it would include, it’s part of the company policy so people can’t try to sue us for anything, they know what they’re getting into.”

Lestrade nodded his head, sitting opposite you when you sat down at your desk.

“We keep recordings and documents from all these events for up to three months, I can show you everything from that night if that helps you.”

“We’d have to look at everything you have from before then if that’s possible.”

You nodded your head.

“Of course, I have send it all over to you by the end of the day.”

“Thank you so much.”

You smiled at him and you carried on discussing the case with the detective, offering him all the information you possible could.

Lestrade realised that you were well versed in everything, you really were a fan of true crime because you were able to help him narrow down what events he needed to be looking for.

You have him your own alibi and proof as well, including what you could for the rest of the workers at the centre.

Caroline came inc and you let her take him through the footage while you carried on with your work.

But every so often when you walked past Lestrade would glance at you.

It wasn’t that he suspected you, they had already ruled out all of the workers, so he knew that it wasn’t you.

But your vast knowledge and your dedication to it all amazed him, and in a way he was captivated, curious and wanting to know more about you.

But once he had to footage he had to leave, and he was sure that was the last time he was going to see you.

Until that evening when you came by with a box in your hands and you set it on his desk, grinning from ear to ear at him.

You had changed from your jumper into a sleeveless hoodie, and Lestrade couldn’t help but eye up your biceps.

They were huge, considering you looked like a man without muscle he was impressed to say the least.

“I have a few more boxes for you, I’ll bring them in now.”

“Thank you so much.”

You grinned at him again and carried on bringing everything in.

“This is the last box, you can keep these until you’re ready to give them back we only keep them for reasons such as this.”

“You’ve been a huge help (Y/N), really.”

“If you need anymore help, just ask.”

Lestrade found himself talking before he thought it through.

“Maybe you can tell me more of what you know over a drink, like a coffee.” He blurted.

Laughing, you nodded your head.

“You’ve got my number, just let me know when and where.”

With that, Lestrade watched you leave, and he sat back down at his desk with his head in his hands.

He couldn’t believe he had just done that, especially while he was supposed to be working a case but something about you drew him in and he wanted to know more

#bbc Sherlock #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock imagine #bbc sherlock lestrade #bbc Sherlock x you #Lestrade #Lestrade x reader #Lestrade x you #Lestrade imagine #Greg Lestrade #greg lestrade x reader #greg Lestrade x you #greg Lestrade imagine

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phantombmoll · 1 year

Note

Hiiii 😊

Would you mind doing this one 'Kisses that mean everything to one party and nothing to the other party' for Greg lestrade x reader. Where they're detectives together and maybe nearly get caught on a stake out so he kisses her to keep thier cover but he doesn't know that she's actually in love with him?

Greg Lestrade x Reader - Executive decision

Rating; T - mild angst, heavy petting

Author note; Thank you for the request anon! Hope you like it, I had to stop myself making it all romantic! I do love romance. You've inspired me though because I also have this prompt saved to write something really angsty and heartbreaking when I'm fully back in the swing of things.

As you watched the desolate building in the distance and the figures moving around you were starting to wish that you hadn't pointed out the Delvaney brothers to Greg in the pub.

An after work pint had quickly turned into a mini stakeout. You'd told him you could report it, have Sally get someone on it. Greg was having none of it though. The Delvaney brothers had escaped arrest five times now, all either technicalities or the bank roll for high set bail. The force needed harder evidence, they needed to catch them at something with fingerprints all over it and no excuses.

There was no way you could let Greg follow them on his own. So though you were apprehensive about walking, well driving, into a fight you were both unprepared for, follow him you did.

You'd hoped for somewhere a bit busier, or somewhere with a bit more nature to it. Places like those the car wouldn't have drawn to much attention. There was no luck though, the Delvaney brothers were meeting whoever it was at the tail end of a disused industrial estate in a huge empty and crumbling building. It looked like it could have been a factory or warehouse.

"There!" In his excitement to point out a side entrance the brothers were using Greg clipped the horn. "Shit!"

You waited, holding your breath to see if the noise would draw attention. It did.

"We need to go." Greg said about to turn the key, the lights flashing and drawing more attention.

"We can't." You put a hand out to his arm to stop him. "They've seen us, if we take off it'll spook them. They'll move whatever is in there and we'll be back to square one." You watched out the windscreen as a large man began heading towards the car. You could see him cracking his knuckles.

Greg ran a hand over his face and up into his hair. For a second you were struck by just how handsome he looked slightly dishevelled. It wasn't the first time you'd thought about what Greg would look like on just waking up. In fact it wasn't even the second or the third. At some point you'd fallen head over heels for him.

"It's a lacky, they won't know us. We just need an excuse for being here." You said the man getting closer with every beat. "Driving lesson?"

"Pretty dodgy instructor bringing you up here." Greg said running a hand through his hair.

"Dogging." You laughed despite the situation but Greg was looking at you like you were a genius. "Absolutely not."

"Not dogging but here's as good a place as any for a seedy little shag in a car." Greg said, raising a brow. You couldn't deny the way your heart stuttered a little at the idea. "He won't be able to see us yet. We just need to be a bit rumpled. Maybe get in in my lap."

"No, no we can think of something else." You said looking back out the windscreen to where the man was getting closer. "Developers?"

"At this time of night?" Greg shook his head.

You sighed, in all the ways you'd thought about ending up in his lap, this wouldn't have even made the top hundred. God you hoped you wouldn't blush or flush, at least the kick up in heart rate could be put down to adrenaline if Greg even noticed it.

"Right. Executive decision." Greg said loosing his tie, undoing the top button and then running both hands through his hair to make it look tussled and messy. The sight was delicious and heat coiled deep in your belly. "Come on."

You slipped the belt off and moved to straddle him on the seat.

"You've done this before." He teased trying to ease the tension as you settled in his lap with ease.

"Where is he?" You said trying not to shift too much on his lap as your fingers came up to undo the buttons on your shirt, at least down to show casing your ample bosom. You were trying to keep your mind from wandering too, wandering to a place where you and Greg were actually getting hot and heavy in a car. Wandering to a place where the car would be steamy and the air muggy with heated passion.

You shook your glancing back towards the lacky who was about 3 foot away from the car. "This is stupid, we hardly look like we're in the midst of a passionate embrace they're going to-"

As you turned back to look at Greg his hand slid into the hair at the base of your neck and his lips were suddenly on yours. Heat spiked inside you, your hands sliding over his strong shoulders, up his neck and into his hair. The weight of him beneath you was thrilling. The idea that this was play, a ruse to stop you getting the shit beaten out of you both fell by the way side. You lost yourself in the kiss. A kiss you'd thought about, dreamed about and he was just as good as you imagined.

Greg made a noise and your hips rolled involuntarily. You should have been embarrassed but the feel of him, his hair in your hands, his lap beneath you, his chest pressed against yours completely enclosed your brain. You felt like you belonged here, wrapped in his arms.

The knock on the window brought you back to reality and you turned to see the large man who'd been coming towards the car with a sly grin on his face. You moved off Greg quickly. Embarrassment that should have been for play suddenly very real.

Greg wound the window down.

"I was going to ask what y'were doin' here pal but I think I can see." An Irish accent left the mans mouth as he gave Greg an approving seedy smile. "Look, I'm not one to stop a good time but this is private property and the boss, well, the boss thought you might be coppers, told me to move you along." He flashed a metal bar in the street light, not explicitly threatening but definitely implied.

"No, no trouble, sorry, we ah, we thought it was all just abandoned." Greg said, injecting his voice with a hint of fear. "We'll be on our way."

"About 3 miles down there's a little turning, weird desolate spot. That ain't private property and people use it all the time." The man winked.

"Thanks." Greg said starting the car. "Sorry again."

Greg wound the window up and the Irish man slapped the top of the car as it pulled away and turned around.

"Jesus that was close." Greg ran a hand through already mussed hair. You were quiet as you buttoned your shirt. "Sorry, about-" he gestured to his lips a stupid grin on his face.

You weren't sorry though, not right now when the heat of his touch was still on your skin.

"Just you said we didn't look-"

"It's fine." You said, knowing deep down that he just thought you felt awkward. Knowing that the kiss hadn't affected him the way it had you. Knowing that the memory wouldn't linger for him like it would you, knowing that his heart wouldn't ache tomorrow in the cold light of day.

#;greg lestrade #fanfic #greg lestrade x reader #light angst #x reader fics #x reader fic requests #lestrade x reader #bbc sherlock #i love him #i had to stop myself making this happy haha

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goldencherriess · 2 years

Text

Sentiment.

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Fem! Reader

Word count: 3.3k

Requested? Yes! And it was by @gaitwae (i hope you like it <;3)

Summary: Sherlock finds himself entranced by Lestrade's best friend and co-worker.

Warnings: kinda office romance, fluff

Masterlist

Sherlock Holmes was a man of pragmatism and cold truth. He could answer to any question, he could find a resolve in everything (science always played a part in this sense), but when his dear roommate and companion, John Watson, suggested that maybe the suspect was in love with the victim's wife, he felt repulsed by the idea.

"Absolutely not, John! Have you paid attention to the details, to the facts?"

John's eyebrows shot to the top of his head. "Have you?"

Scoffing, Sherlock put his hands in the coat's pockets. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. No, we're dealing with a cold murderer this time, not some love sick puppy. If he were in love, his eyes pupils would have dilated when we asked about her, but they did not. And I-'' he trailed off when he saw a familiar mop of hair appearing behind John and talking to Lestrade, a notebook in her arms.

John turned around, eyebrows still raised and he crossed his arms, a smirk finding its way on his lips. His eyes met Sherlock's again. "You were saying?"

Sherlock licked his suddenly dry lips and blinked. "I, uh-"

"Cat got your tongue, Sherlock?"

It was as if Sherlock's brain short circuited, cutting all the ties to reality. He blinked and gulped thickly. ''When in love and looking at the object of all your desires and affection, your pupils get dilated. The pulse gets increased and you feel your breath leaving you. But that's not true, that's just an illusion, it's your body reacting to hormones. It's just pure science, really.'' he said, whispering the last part and never taking his eyes off of Y/N.

She was laughing now, touching Lestrade's arm and shaking her head in amusement. And Sherlock felt his stomach twisting into something he couldn't name. He tilted his head. ''I'm right, aren't I, John?''

''I don't know, Sherlock, but it doesn't seem so to me.''

Sherlock's gaze slowly left Y/N's figure and met John's eyes. His eyebrows pinched together. ''Why do you say that?''

John's smirk never left his lips. ''Your pupils dilated.''

Sherlock nodded, a realization dawning on him. And his eyes were again on her, just drinking her in. ''They did, didn't they?''

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Y/N L/N was a woman of soft love and indulging daydreams. A pure romantic at heart, she could find meaning in every glance and smile (she did learn best from Jane Austen). But when her best friend and co-worker, Greg Lestrade, inquired about her new crush, she mumbled an excuse, blushing furiously and averting his gaze.

"Oh come on! I know you, Y/N! Been knowing you for years now. So, who is it?"

Shaking her head, Y/N replied. "No one."

Lestrade furrowed. "Then why are you blushing?"

''Why are we talking about this now? We're at a crime scene.'' she almost snapped.

Lestrade pursed lips, nodding and putting his hands in his pockets, his gaze looking in the distance at nothing particularly. And for awhile, neither of them said anything, the bustling of the forensic pathologists filling the air. Y/N fumbled with the notebook in her arms, her gaze sliding towards a certain curly haired man. They rarely talked about anything other than work, but she always found herself enticed by what he was saying. His mind worked in mysterious and interesting ways and she only wished to understand it more, to be the one overtaking his thoughts. Just like he did hers.

He met her eyes across the room and she felt her face flush. He acknowledged her with a nod of his head and she smiled his way.

''It's Sherlock, isn't it?'' voiced Lestrade besides her.

She snapped her head towards him, almost getting a whiplash. ''What?''

He just laughed. ''I'll be sending you over to him with work more often, then.''

Her laugh matched his and she smacked his arm, while shaking her head. ''You're impossible.''

''But the best!''

''At annoying me, maybe.''

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Sherlock kept coming to crime scenes with John as he usually did. And things just went as they usually did. Anderson and Donovan were insufferable as ever, making wrong assumptions and awful comments. Graham (or was it Greg?) was useless as ever and John muttered praises under his breath, as always (''That's brilliant, Sherlock!'').

Except this time he was suddenly hyperaware of her presence. She always seemed to be there, in the corner of the room silently watching him work through the mystery and fog. It clouded his mind. He blinked, trying to get rid of the incorrigible thoughts and the tightness in his chest. He cleared his throat and risked a glance at John, who had his eyebrows raised. ''Right, well, uh, I have to think about this one, really mull it over.''

He straightened his back, popping the collar of his coat. But then, he looked at her and paused in his tracks. ''Unless, Y/N has anything to add to the case.''

She seemed lost in thought because once her name was spoken, by Sherlock no less, she snapped out of it, a blush adorning her cheeks. She visibly gulped and took a step forward, hugging her notebook closer to her chest. Her eyes met his and she had to inhale just so she could breath again. He was looking at her so intensely that she felt like she was being analyzed under the microscope, as if he could read through her. As if he could take her apart, soul by soul, layer by layer.

Y/N tore her eyes away from his and flipped through her notebook, only stopping when the date of today caught her attention. ''Well, uh, I believe the victim's wedding ring is missing.''

''There wasn't any wedding ring.'' interrupted Lestrade, frowning.

She nodded. ''Exactly. If you look at her left hand, you'd find the shadow of a wedding ring. She's very tanned, she must've returned from a vacation. Somewhere warm, as there isn't any sun in London. But she never did take off her wedding ring, the white line around her finger is the proof of that.''

''She could've just lost it.'' added John thoughtfully.

Sherlock remained quiet, his gaze pinned on Y/N, attention undivided by anything else but her. He was listening in, his mind screaming at the possibilities.

Y/N shook her head. ''No. The pictures of her husband in her wallet tell me otherwise. She cared. She wouldn't just let her ring get lost. There's something else there. Someone must've taken it. Maybe our killer.''

Sherlock's eyebrow arched and his eyes lit up. ''Impressive observation, darling.'' He started smiling and he grabbed her shoulders, leaning in to kiss her on both of her cheeks. ''Thank you!'' he said in a very excited voice, much like a kid would exclaim on a the Christmas morning at the sight of presents.

And he was off, the coat fluttering behind him in waves and leaving her flustered and red in the face. His kisses on her cheeks burned her like fireworks in the sky. She touched with shaking fingertips where his lips met her skin and she slightly smiled.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

221B was quiet, John gone God knew where. The rain was splattering against the windows in loud and almost thundering drops. Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, deep in thought, his hands lanced in a prayer position. He sighed and closed his eyes, his mind going off the rails.

The squeak of the front door pulled him to the reality. His eyes snapped open and his ears perked up. Light footsteps. Not John, as he walked harshly, his feet dragging behind him (he never actually left the war behind). Probably a woman, then. But not mrs. Hudson, as she always wore heels.

Sherlock slowly got up, his eyes never wavering from the door. The creeks of the stairs. Not a client, as the footsteps didn't sound urgent.

He was now in front of the door, touching the door knob and opening it like a storm cleaning everything in its path and he was met with the surprised eyes of Y/N L/N. She was drenching and panting, the rain really wearing her down. Her hair was soaking, raindrops falling from it and down onto the carpet with splashing sounds and the clothes were sticking to her skin and hugging her curves. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to not glance down her figure out of respect and dignity.

She sneezed, eyes closing and eyelashes shining with raindrops.

''Looks like you're catching a cold.'' Sherlock said in greeting.

She nodded before sneezing again.

''Bless you.''

She shivered and her arms hugged her waist in an attempt to find some warmth. Sherlock's eyes softened, but his voice remained impassible. ''Do come in, you're soaking my carpet.''

Flustered, the words came out of her mouth in a mess, closing in on each other and flying from the tip of her tongue. ''Uh, I'm sorry, didn't mean to- I just-''

''Save your energy and stop explaining yourself, you're obviously shivering and in dire need of a hot bath. Go do that, you're my guest. I'll prepare tea and get you some clothes to change in. Then we can talk.''

He gestured her towards the bathroom, before turning his back and leaving her with a red nose and a freezing face.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

He was stirring the tea when he heard her small footsteps padding on the floor. ''Do you take your tea with milk?'' he asked without looking up. ''I usually do and-'' Sherlock lifted his head and his words died in his throat. He finally understood the concept of your breath leaving you at the sight of something beautiful. Because Y/N was beautiful, a rare landscape. An oil portrait that deserved to be admired in a museum. Almost Mona Lisa like. She was wearing one of his old sweaters, back from his university days, and some worn out pants he found in the back of the wardrobe. She was wearing his clothes. Alas they were a bit too big on her, the sleeves of the sweater falling down her hands and swallowing them whole.

''No milk for me.'' she replied in a meek and already raspy voice. The cold was catching up to her.

He blinked the awe from his eyes and handed her a cup of tea. ''Careful, it's hot. And you should take some meds.''

She thanked him by nodding her head. ''Where's John?''

''With his new girlfriend, I presume.'' Sherlock scoffed, turning around and searching through the kitchen drawers. ''He's never out his late usually. He always goes to sleep early.''

''And you don't?''

''I don't sleep when I'm on a case.''

''But you need the sleep.''

Sherlock met her gaze and flipped towards her a bottle of medicine. ''And you need to take these.'' he replied with a sarcastic smile etched on his face. But his eyes betrayed his whole cold demeanor. They were soft, almost warm. And Y/N was afraid to maintain the eye contact for too long. His eyes haunted her. She felt vulnerable under his gaze. Exposed.

She thickly gulped. "Can you start the fire? I'm still a little bit cold."

"If you take the meds."

"I will."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I mean now."

She huffed, but complied anyways. The tea burned her throat, the aroma bursting in colors on her tongue and the sweet smell tickling her nostrils.

Sherlock nodded and then entered the living room, crouching down near the fireplace. "Why are you here?"

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked once she was seated in an armchair.

Sherlock glanced towards her. Y/N was sitting in his armchair, slowly sipping her tea and looking around curiously. No one actually sat on it, besides him. He never let anyone. He inhaled and tore his gaze from her and onto the split firewood in front of him. "Do you want to?"

"No." she replied, watching him.

He got up, the fire coming alive in reds and oranges, the wood cracking. "Then stay." His eyes didn't stray from her as he took a seat in John's chair. "Why are you really here, though? We're not actually friends, so you can't say you came to visit. You were panting, so you must have run all the way here. Unless, you missed the bus. But that can't be as you live on the other side of London. And you weren't planning it, either. If you did, you would have known they announced rain later today and you would have carried an umbrella. But you didn't, so I assume this was a spur of the moment idea. Am I correct so far?"

She blinked. "Yes, but-"

"And you didn't come on behalf of work, either. You would have carried some files and you would have been all business, no play, as you usually are." He leant forward on the seat, his arms coming to rest on his knees. "So, tell me, why are you here, Y/N?"

Her cheeks reddened and she shifted in her seat, her hands gripping the tea cup. "Did you just deduce me, mister Holmes?"

His eyebrow arched, hiding under a stray curl. "Why, was I wrong?"

Y/N shook her head. "Not a bit."

A smirk bloomed on his lips. "Of course I wasn't, darling. I never am."

"You're quite narcissistic." she replied, her eyes watching him over the rim of the cup.

"I believe the correct word would be modest."

She hummed, the corner of her eyes crickling in amusement. She gently put down her cup and looked him in the eye. The fire sprayed shadows on his face, the room in a low glow. "Did you solve the case, Sherlock?"

Confusion overtook his features. "Is this why you came all the way here?"

She shrugged inocently. "I was curious. Did you?"

He nodded, the fire reflecting in his eyes and ebony hair. "Yes. You helped me. When you told me about the wedding ring, a light went off in my head. I searched through her wallet. You were right, she cared too much to lose a wedding ring, it meant a lot to her. And I think someone got jealous."

Y/N arched an eyebrow. "An affair?"

"But not on her part, though. Love is a strong motive. It makes you do crazy things." Sherlock whispered.

His gaze burned her. He searched her eyes, as if he was hoping to find something in them, and then his gaze drifted off to her lips. "I know the signs." he said.

"What signs?" Y/N replied breathless.

"Your cheeks redden every time you look at me, your pupils dilate. You think I don't notice, but I do. Every time."

She swallowed. "Is that- Is that a bad thing?"

He got up to his feet and took slow steps, only stopping when he was close enough to take her wrist. A gentle touch. Her heart almost beat out of her chest and a lump formed in her throat when Sherlock leaned in to whisper into her ear, his breath warming her skin. "I took your pulse."

Y/N fluttered her eyes shut when she felt his lips skim over her jaw before he lightly kissed her cheek. "The feeling's mutual, by the way." he said in a low whisper, his lips caressing her afire skin.

And then he was up and away, smiling genuinely at her, a sparkle in his eyes. "You should get some rest. I'll be sleeping on the couch, you take the bed."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he beat her to it. "Please, you're my guest tonight. It would be my pleasure."

Y/N nodded, getting on her feet, her eyes meeting his chest. He was wearing the purple shirt he wore last week. His figure towered over her and he gently took her hand. "My room's that way. If you need anything, tell me. Good night, darling."

And he pressed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

John found the atmosphere weird that morning. His eyebrows were scrunching and he looked at Sherlock. "You're awfully quiet." he said while he spread butter on toast.

"Am I, really?" replied Sherlock, not taking his eyes off of the newspaper he was reading.

"Yes, you are. Don't you, usually, ramble about some newfound case?"

"Usually."

"Then, what's different this time?" replied John before he bit into the toast.

The clicking of a door and the sight of a just waken up Y/N made him choke on the food. "Careful, John, you'll die if you do that again. Good morning, darling. Tea?" said Sherlock in a sweet voice.

Y/N simply smiled at him, averting her gaze from John.

"I'm sorry, I feel like I'm missing something." laughed John.

"No, John, you're just delusional." said Sherlock, while he poured tea in a cup for Y/N, who was blushing furiously under all the attention.

"Wait 'till Greg hears about this!" replied John, still smiling in awe.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Who?"

"Lestrade." said Y/N from besides him.

"I thought his name was Gavin."

"It's Greg."

"When did this happen?" interrupted John, all sparkling eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking up the newspaper once again. "Nothing happened, John."

"I'm not believing a word! This is too good-"

"Stick to blogging, John, gossiping doesn't suit you."

Offended, John gasped, turning to look at Y/N. She avoided his gaze, drinking her tea and looking at the walls around them. "Right... My bad, then." he said, sighing.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Sherlock Holmes started smiling at crime scenes. It was almost off putting, the way a genuine smile would break through at any moment. In front of a corpse, no less.

Lestrade noticed it. He also noticed the oh-so-not-subtle glances. Sherlock's eyes would slip over to Y/N and she would meet his gaze, almost shyly but smiling.

Then, the detective started asking her opinion on the cases more often and Lestrade knew. How could he not when it was all so obvious?

"You know, Sherlock, one day you're gonna steal my co-worker." he said as he approached him.

Sherlock's face remained impassible like stone. "That won't ever happen. She'll come willingly if you keep boring her. Send her on real cases, she's smart enough to solve them on her own."

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply but he was left in the dust after Sherlock spotted Y/N. "Yeah, okay..." he trailed off as he watched Y/N greet Sherlock with a blush and a shy smile.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

"Let's have lunch." said Sherlock to Y/N, meeting her eyes and standing straight. He wore his blue navy coat and a white shirt this time.

"To talk about the case? I think I found a lead and-"

"No."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "No?"

He took a step closer to her. "No. Let's have lunch to talk about ourselves."

She felt her face flush. "Oh."

Sherlock's eyes held a look of amusement and adoration and he smiled. "I believe the correct word would be yes." He lightly took her hand, his thumb caressing her skin in slow circles. "Please, do me this honour and let me take you out on a date."

Y/N smiled up at him, before standing on her tip toes to kiss his cheek. "I'd love to."

Bonus:

"I kind of set them up." said Lestrade as he and John watched the interaction between Sherlock and Y/N from afar.

"How so?"

"I stole Y/N's umbrella and then set her off home, asking her to stop by 221B in order to ask Sherlock what progress he was making in solving that case."

"Oh, Greg! That was brilliant! She spent the night there."

"Did she?"

"Yeah."

"Interesting."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

A/N: oh wow this somehow turned to be a long one. It was supposed to be around 2k words, more or less but I kinda got carried away.

I hope you enjoyed it! Every feedback is appreciated! If you'd like to be added to the tag list, just comment under this post or send me an ask!

Have a great day xx

Tag list: @bohemianrhapsody86 @andreead

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x reader #sherlock x you #Sherlock x fem! reader #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #john watson #greg lestrade #reader insert #x reader #writing #fanfic writing #my writing #masterlist #request #laura writes #fluff #office romance

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j-eryewrites · 5 months

Text

The Great Game (I)

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

Word Count: ~12k

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SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” Berwick’s voice got small.

“Go on,” Sherlock said.

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

Sherlock winced. “Taught.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” Y/N said in a whisper.

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

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

_____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Er... yes,” John replied.

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

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

“Um... no,” Sherlock stated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Deleted it?” Y/N questioned.

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demanded.

“John…,” Y/N called out.

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

“Oh, sorry, love!” She chuckled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

______

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but–”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” John asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm never bored,” she replied.

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

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

“Seems like a logical assumption,” Mycroft muttered.

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

"But?” Mycroft encouraged.

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

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

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

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

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

“But it is secret. And missing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sherlock played the strings louder.

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

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

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

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

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

_____

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

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

“Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

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

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

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

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

“No,” Lestrade corrected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Lestrade asked.

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

“No,” Lestrade replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A warning?” John asked.

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?” Sherlock replied.

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

“Who's this?” Sherlock demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” John wondered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? Sherloc–” Y/N scoffed.

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

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

“We’re coming Sherlock!”

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Delete it?” John questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gay,” Sherlock coughed.

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

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

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

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

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

“Bye,” Molly whispered back.

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

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

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

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

“Two and a half,” Molly corrected.

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

“Sherlock…,” John warned.

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

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

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

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

“His underwear?” Molly’s voice broke.

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

_____

Bathroom. Y/N and Molly

Women building women up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s made you cry?” She asked.

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

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

Y/N froze. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

_____

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

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

Y/N’s eyes ticked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, right!” Y/N huffed.

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

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

Sherlock nodded. “Good.”

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

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

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

“But...?”

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

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

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

“That's it?” Sherlock was disappointed.

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

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

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

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

“Twenty years?” John questioned.

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

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

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

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

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

“So what happened to him?” John wondered.

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

“What?” Y/N and John eagerly asked.

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

“But you remember,” John noted.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“Something fishy about it?” John asked.

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

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

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

“What?” Y/N wondered.

“His shoes,” Sherlock said.

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

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

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

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

_____

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Mycroft replied.

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

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

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

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

John stopped again. “Then…”

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

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

_____

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

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

“Poison,” Sherlock muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes. Meaning…,” Sherlock muttered.

“He's our bomber,” she finished.

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

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

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

_____

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