#sherlock angst

[classickook]

a study in vulnerability | sherlock holmes

part one | part two

pairing: sherlock holmes x fem!reader

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

warnings: angst, swearing

word count: 2.2k

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

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

enough!

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

he was your neighbor, and that was all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“no, thank you.”

“have you eaten yet?”

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

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

your eyes widened. “sherlock—”

“y/n.”

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

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

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

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

but you were in no mood for it today.

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

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

“i’ve been busy.”

“doing what?”

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

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

your brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “why?”

“because i’d like to see you.”

“you’re seeing me now.”

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

well, you certainly couldn’t argue with that.

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

“...no.”

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

“i haven’t.”

you have.

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

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

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

a sharp inhale. “i don’t know, i—”

“please?”

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

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

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

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

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

“cold?”

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

“i’m fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your lower lip wobbled pathetically. “really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

[j-eryewrites]

The Dancing Men (Final)

Part 18 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

MAIN MASTER LIST | SERIES MASTER LIST

Previous | Next

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings: Guns, violence, descriptions of violence and crime scenes, gore, canon typical violence and shenanigans, Sherlock is Sherlock, crime, breaking and entering, mentions of stalking and yandere themes.

Author's Note: Finally, it's out. Yay! I really hope you enjoy it! Also thank you so much for your patience with me!!

Good News and Bad News. That’s how it always seemed to go in Sherlock’s line of work. Good news: Sherlock had cracked the code; This finely crafted lingo of dancing men turned into words and cohesive phrases. Now that the code had been broken, the case was soon close to an end. Bad News: The last phrase of code was an ominous one. The contorted drawings spoke of one thing and one thing only, death. Hilton Cubitt was going to die. The man behind the code was going to kill Cubitt. 

Now once bad news came Sherlock’s way, more bad news tended to follow. The first wave of bad news came in the form of Sherlock's lack of car keys. John had them in his possession and John was asleep in another room with the door locked. As a consequence of the late hour, Hilton was not answering his phone. That was the second wave of bad news. Now came the third wave. This bad news took form in the shape of ignorant police men. 

“No! You aren’t listening. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a consulting detective, and my client is going to be killed. Hilton Cubitt. That’s his name. Lives on–” Sherlock barked. His voice thundered about the shared room. His feet walked him back and forth about the room adding to the noise that jolted Y/N awake. 

“Sherlock?” Y/N hoarsely said as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. 

Sherlock barely glanced Y/N’s way. His frustration with the oblivious, obtuse, bird-brained officer over the phone. A man’s life was at stake and as a fallout so were the lives of a mother and child. 

“You’re awake. Get John!” Sherlock told Y/N before turning back to the phone. “A man and his family are in danger. Someone will die and worse may happen if you do not listen to me!” Sherlock reprimanded the officer over the phone. 

Worry began to overcome the weariness in Y/N body. Why did she need to get John? Hilton was in trouble? His family? “Sherlock?” Y/N said with concern. 

Again, Sherlock paid Y/N no mind, all of his efforts were going into convincing the officer to send someone out to the Cubitt home. 

Sitting up from the bed, Y/N approached Sherlock’s disoriented figure. His intellect fighting with idiocy, for the sole purpose of pride and correctness was one thing, but with the cost of a man’s and quite possibly his family's life on the line in the battle of intellect was another thing. 

Carefully, Y/N placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It was only a hand, but it lent the man a beacon of light to ground himself to. Sherlock’s chaotic pace stilled as some peace crept into his mind. He wasn’t alone. 

Tension filled the air as Sherlock’s jaw tightened and Y/N’s grip on Sherlock’s shoulder tightened. Sherlock turned his head away from the phone to glance over at her. “John,” Sherlock harshly whispered. Y/N tilted her head in confusion. “John has the keys!” Y/N’s eyes widened as she understood what Sherlock was asking her. 

Immediately, Y/N withdrew her hand from Sherlock’s side and ran out of the room to bang on John’s door. Like the beating of a drum, Y/N pounded on the door over and over again until the door creaked open, and a groggy John came up to the door. 

She didn’t give John the chance to say anything before she dragged him back to her and Sherlock’s room with a look of panic on her face. Once the door was shut, John was now privy to the conversation. It did not take long for John’s face to mirror the concern and horror on Y/N’s face.  

Words were said. Seconds passed, yet they felt like years, as Sherlock crushed his fingers around the phone. The officer had hung up, but not before telling him he was a wanker who had a few too many drinks at the pub. 

It was silent. John’s eyes were wide as the dumbfounded expression grew on his face. Y/N brows clenched together in a worried expression as she watched Sherlock. He was as still as the surface of a lake in the early morning with not a ripple in sight. His mouth was close, his eyes neutral as he stared at the distance. The only sign of life in Sherlock was the whitening skin of his hand as his grip constricted his phone more and more. 

“He’s dead,” Sherlock whispered. 

John and Y/N shared a distressed look with each other. Yes, a man would now be dead. His family was put in danger, but what scared John and Y/N the most was their friend. He looked broken. Defeated. Sherlock had lost clients before, but never like this–never in a battle with ignorance. 

Y/N gave a comforting squeeze to Sherlock’s shoulder. He wasn’t alone, yet Sherlock couldn’t help but feel trapped in the empty halls of his mind.

_____

The car ride up to the Cubitt household was a solemn one. Everything seemed paralyzed: the streetlights flickered on and off and not a soul was outside. John didn’t enjoy the view outside, but the solemn view was better than the view of Sherlock’s stone-cold face with his blue eyes filled with anguish. 

A sickening feeling stirred in each of their stomachs the closer they got to the Cubitt home. As the familiar roads twisted and turned the insides of their stomachs sloshed around. Y/N felt like she was going to be sick. 

As they reached the street where the Cubitt home was, a new feeling grew from the sorrow in the consulting detective gut–fury. Where once was a yellow warmth from the streetlights, there was now the blaringly cold, red and blue lights from police cars. 

The cab came to a halt and the three of them climbed out onto the street in front of the Cubitt home. Police were everywhere. Some carrying their cameras taking photos of everything they deemed important and others whispering amongst themselves about who knows what. 

Y/N gulped at the scene and found herself reaching for Sherlock’s concealed hand. She needed the comfort, to know that she was not alone. The moment her fingers brushed past his, Y/N’s hand was enveloped by Sherlock’s warmth. It seemed that he too needed to know he wasn’t alone.  

“This is a closed crime scene–” An officer approached the three of them with his thick fingers spreading apart to stop them from moving even further. 

Something snapped in Sherlock at the officer’s gesture and his grip on Y/N’s hand tightened. “Nothing you could do would stop me from entering the scene. I am Sherlock Holmes–” 

“Ah!” The man’s eyes flashed with recognition. “I suppose you’re the detectives from England,” the officer said in the most nonchalant voice possible. “The one who called last night?”

Before Sherlock could implode and before her finger lost all feeling, Y/N stepped forward. “We are. We were hired by the Cubitt family and know more about this case than you idiots who ignored our concerns last night. Now a man is dead.” A silent fury was coming through Y/N’s voice as she spoke.

“Excuse me miss. That’s not at all–” the officer tried to redeem himself and the Clifden police department, and was doing so poorly. 

Y/N took in a deep breath before slightly raising her voice. “No, I'll stop you there. Where’s your Chief Inspector? I–we demand to see him.”

“Right, miss,” the officer paused, looking between the three of them. “The Chief Inspector wanted to see you anyway. This way.” Then the officer turned around and walked away expecting them to follow. 

Through the crime scene they traveled; What once was a cozy family home, with only happy memories is now an empty casket with no family to be found. 

“Where’s Elise and–” Y/N questioned the officer. 

“Save your questions for the Inspector,” the officer replied. 

Y/N scoffed and felt Sherlock’s hold on her hands tighten again. She glanced up at his stern figure and saw that his jaw was tightly clenched. He looked as if he wanted to strangle the man and add another body to the crime scene. She tugged his hand towards her direction causing Sherlock’s gaze to fall on her. 

“It’s alright,” she whispered as she began to rub her thumb across his knuckles. 

“These the English Detectives?” A husky voice boomed. 

“Yes, sir,” the officer said before leaning in to whisper something into the other man’s ear. Once the message had been relayed, the officer excused himself. 

The new man didn’t take long to introduce himself. His hair was an auburn shade with gray strands speckled amongst his head. Matching his hair on his head, was a patchy beard with adorning sideburns and hazel green eyes that appeared more brown than green.

 “My name’s Martin. Inspector Martin of the Clifden Constabulary.” He extended out his hand waiting for someone to shake it. No one did. Awkwardly, Martin put away his hand and cleared his throat. 

“It’s a terrible business,” said Martin “They were both shot, Mr. Hilton Cubitt and his wife. She shot him and then herself—so the neighbors say. He’s dead and she’s in the hospital. Not to mention their daughter’s gone missing. I can only assume the worst.” 

“What do you mean their daughter’s gone?” John asked. 

“Well…we’re not quite sure. All we knew that the child was missing when we arrived. Mr. Hilton was dead, and Elise was wounded,” the Inspector explained. 

Y/N’s face paled. This case turned out worse than she thought it’d be. First, the death of their client, the injury of his wife, and the missing presence of Hilton’s daughter. 

“Mr…” the Inspector asked. 

“Holmes.”

“Right, Mr. Holmes, if you don’t mind me asking, the crime was only committed at three in the morning. How did you know the incident would happen?”

This question irked Sherlock, but nevertheless he answered it. “I anticipated it. I called the Clifden police in the hope of preventing it,” Sherlock said as every part of him oozed contempt for the inspector. 

The Inspector’s face paled slightly as he cleared his throat, realizing his mistake. “Then you must have important insider knowledge that we need for the case.” 

“We only have the dancing men,” John said. 

The Inspector only looked puzzled at John’s answer. Before the Inspector could open his mouth to respond, Sherlock stepped forward. His blue eyes bore a warning to the Inspector. 

“In order for me to help you and your insolent police force, I need one thing and one thing only…” Sherlock’s voice was cold. The Inspector nervously gulped. “Access to the crime scene and all knowledge you have gathered from it.”

“Done,” Inspector Martin said with a shaky voice. “Although I must apologize on behalf of my staff. It would benefit us all if you worked with us.”

Sherlock made an expression with his eyes as if to say, “You don’t think?”

Despite all the hesitancy and nervousness that the Inspector previously displayed, he seemed to understand what he needed to accomplish next: He promptly showed the consulting detective and company to the crime scene and provided Sherlock with the space he needed to observe. 

They were in the Hilton’s master bedroom. It wasn’t a room that they had previously seen before. It was a well decorated room, and one could tell it was a safe haven of sorts for its late occupants with the memories hanging on the wall and the sentimental works of crayon art. The bed sheets and throw pillows were the same scarlet red. A shade that mimicked the pool of liquid underneath the body in the middle of the room. 

Hilton lay on the floor with a hole in his chest right where his heart should have been beating. He was shot. His death was quick and painless. At least that’s what John had gathered looking at the body. The information would have been of the sort that would be used to comfort those living, but not Sherlock. It didn’t matter how Hilton had died, he was dead, and it was a death that could have been prevented. As he examined the body, John found it extremely hard to look at Hilton’s face. Thoughts of “if” were running through John’s brain as he looked at Hilton’s lifeless body: If he had just woken up earlier, if he and Sherlock took the room with two beds, if Y/N had the keys. Hilton’s eyes were still open, frozen in the instant of his death. John was sure if he looked close enough, he’d see what Hilton saw when he died. 

Meanwhile, Y/N occupied herself with the rest of the room. Her eyes refused to look at the body of the man she knew had been alive hours earlier. She wouldn’t–couldn’t let herself grieve. Hilton’s daughter was missing and that was her priority. As she walked about the room, Y/N’s mind pondered the words of the Inspector. He had believed Elise did it. He concluded that Elise shot her husband and then herself in the stomach. A shot that would have been fatal in most cases, but it seemed fate was merciful. The bullet had only skimmed her vital organs. 

Despite all the evidence pointing to the Inspector’s conclusion, Y/N knew that he was wrong. She believed it with every fiber of her being. 

Sherlock, on the other hand, pushed every ounce of feeling that boiled to the surface. This case was like any other, except that it wasn’t. He’d visited crime scenes before and that’s all they were–crimes. Crimes were built like puzzles: you’d have all the pieces–the facts, and then connect them together to see the truth. That’s all they were supposed to be, facts, yet now the facts were stories. They were smiles. They were fears. They were alive, well, not anymore. 

“Inspector?” Sherlock called out. The Inspector appeared in the doorway. “Has the body been moved?” 

“We haven’t moved anything except for Elise,” Inspector Martin explained. “We couldn’t leave her lying wounded on the floor.” 

Sherlock nodded his head as his mind placed Elise’s figure into the crime scene.  “Has anything been touched? Any evidence removed from the room?” Sherlock asked. 

The Inspector shook his head. “We’ve only had time to take photos of the scene before you arrived.  Oh, that reminds me, there are footprints.”

Sherlock turned around to face the Inspector. “Footprints?” 

“Yes, footprints by the window.” The Inspector pointed his fingers towards the window that hung open in the early morning air. Strange, thought Sherlock; Most people tended to keep their windows closed in the colder months. Then Sherlock quickly stepped closer to get a better view. There were indeed footprints underneath the window: dirt and grime still wet, from what Sherlock observed was the rain, was imprinted into the rug. Raising his brow, Sherlock peered outside the open window and looked down.

Pulling back from the view outside, Sherlock nodded and shoved his hands into his pockets before making his way around the room. He needed to find the puzzle pieces: the body, the gun, disturbed bed sheets, open window in the middle of November, footprints by the window, missing child, wife hospitalized with her haunted past, and the dancing men. 

Y/N watched Sherlock as he moved about the room as if he was in a dance. His feet were placed meticulously on the floor as he traced the steps in his mind. It was amazing to watch Sherlock work. Just from the look in his eyes, she knew the wheels in his brain were turning. Each image his eyes produced would be remembered. Each thought would be cataloged along with the evidence in his mind palace. It was a forlorn sense of beauty watching Sherlock. 

As the dance continued, Y/N noticed Sherlock pullout his phone. His fingers grazed the surface of the screen, quickly typing something before placing the device back into his pocket. 

“There was a third person,” Sherlock announced. 

Inspector Martin’s look of perpetual confusion grew. “What do you mean there was a third person?” It was almost a scoff. The noise continued to chip away at Sherlock’s patience. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the Inspector. “The footprints. Both inside the room and in the flower bed beneath the window.” Inspector Martin, cautiously meandered to the window to see, and indeed there were matching footprints in the flower bed below. 

“How did you even see it?” Inspector Martin asked in awe at the new evidence. 

Rolling his eyes Sherlock answered, “Because I looked for it.” John and Y/N held back a snicker. “Hilton–the body is barefooted,” Sherlock continued. “Elise Cubitt’s feet are too small to fit the ones underneath the window. Therefore–”

“Another person,” John finished. 

The Inspector glanced between Sherlock and John before clearing his throat. “Do you have any clue as to who?” 

Sherlock looked at John and Y/N. “No clue. But I believe that more evidence can be found in other rooms of the house. Where’s the child’s room?”

The Inspector was startled by Sherlock’s new demand but showed him and the others to the daughter’s room. 

A light pink and floral wallpaper lined the walls of the room. It was a delicate design that reminded Y/N of a magical forest you’d only see in fairytales. On the far side of the room there were two windows, one of which hung open with the latch undone. In between the windows lay a tiny oak bed that would fit a small child. The sheets were a snow-like white with numerous stuffed animals and toys on top. As Sherlock, John, and Y/N stepped further into the room, they noticed the set of drawers that lie open and disturbed. Clothes were scattered on the neighboring floor: dainty socks, dresses, shirts, trousers, t-shirts, jumpers, and even some shoes. 

The evidence in front of Y/N pointed to only one thing. “Sherlock–did he…”

“Not now, Y/N” Sherlock hushed. It wasn’t a dismissal of any sorts, but more a request for silence that Sherlock’s magnificent mind needed if he was to solve the case. 

Peering outside the open window, Sherlock observed, once again, the very same footprints found in Hilton’s room and in the flowerbed. In the blink of an eye, Sherlock darted out of the room and weaved between the officers on the scene to find himself outside.

By the time John, Y/N and unfortunately, Inspector Martin had caught up to him, Sherlock’s theory had been proven correct. The footprints outside the daughter’s window were deeper than the ones in the flower bed outside Hilton’s room. The culprit kidnapped Cubitt's daughter, causing a deeper impression in the dirt when he exited out the window. 

“Sherlock, what are you doing in the mud–” John began. 

“The daughter was kidnapped,” Sherlock stated as he got out of his crouched position on the ground. 

Y/N felt sick to her stomach as her fears were confirmed. Sherlock continued, “The foot impressions here are deeper than those in the flower bed underneath Hilton’s bedroom. The daughter’s room was in disarray as if the culprit was searching for clothes and other necessary things to care for the daughter. Then he made his escape with the materials and child in hand.” 

“Why?” Y/N muttered under her breath. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to supply Y/N with his theory, but Inspector Martin cut him off with his imprudent questioning. “Who do you suspect?” Martin asked again. 

Sherlock turned away from the Inspector and began to march to the rental car. “I don’t have a clue.” Then Sherlock looked over his shoulder and called, “John. Y/N.” 

Together the three of them left Inspector Martin dumbfounded standing in the garden with a completely new case and so many questions in his mind. 

_____

A wave of confusion befell John and Y/N as they sat in the rental car. It was a lie. Sherlock had lied to the Inspector. If they had learned anything from the consulting detective, it was how to catch a lie. Even so, Sherlock didn’t even try to conceal the fact that he withheld information from Inspector Martin. The man in question sat in the passenger's seat directing John as they drove along the winding roads of the Irish countryside. 

After a moment of silence from the trio, John released a vocalized sigh before turning his friend seated beside him. “Why’d you lie?”

Sherlock returned the sigh and that was an answer enough. John pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“They’re the police, Sherlock. You can’t just lie to them,” John muttered.  

“I can and did,” Sherlock said. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N hissed. He looked at her with expectant eyes. “You know who did it. Don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded. His eyes briefly scanned the cab’s surroundings as the car drove away from the Cubitt home to a destination only Sherlock knew; Although the destination was hardly a concern for the other passengers in the car. 

“How–how did you know?” Y/N asked. 

“I feel like I owe you both an explanation,” Sherlock began.

John let out a sarcastic chuckle. “An explanation would be nice. Also, where the hell am I driving to?”

“A place called Eldridge's Farm.”

“Right, exactly. Eldridge's Farm. How could I not have known?” John grumbled to himself. 

“John,” Y/N hissed. 

John glanced back at Y/N as he responded. “Sorry, it’s just–”

“I know and I get it. We are all feeling on edge, guilty, responsible, you name it. We are all together in this, but right now, we need Sherlock to answer some questions for us,” Y/N pleaded. John nodded in agreement and returned his sight to the road. 

“There are rules that every ‘secret’ code follows,” Sherlock explained. “From the first dancing men message, it was hard to decipher anything, but I was positive that one symbol stood for the letter E.”

“Why E?” John questioned.

“E is the most common letter in the English language, so it's expected that a small message would contain at least a few E’s. There were fifteen symbols in the first message and four of them were the same, so I made the reasonable conclusion that they must stand for E.”

“Huh, makes sense,” Y/N commented, her eyes filled with intrigue as Sherlock continued to reply to their questions. 

“But for the other symbols, I had to wait for the next messages in order to find their alphabet counterparts. Then it was a simple matter of using the next few common letters: T,A,O,I,N,S,H,R,D, and L. In the second message, there was one word that consisted of two E’s. Then I tried a few different words until I found one that fit.”

“So, then you knew what those symbols were? So, you could solve more words?” Y/N asked. 

Sherlock nodded. “Exactly. As I was going through this tedious process, it occurred to me that Elise’s name would be present in the message. With those letters discovered I continued my search until I was able to decode the first message: AM HERE ABE SLANEY.” Sherlock looked back at Y/N to gauge her reaction. His eyes were wide open as if he expected a specific answer from her. 

Y/N only responded with a confused look. “What? Am I supposed to know who that is?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to his original direction. “Abe Slaney is an American. The name ‘Abe’ is an American contraction of the name Abraham. This also factors in Elise’s mysterious past in the United States.”

“Sherlock,” Y/N chuckled. “Just because I’m American doesn’t mean that I know every American. The country is huge! It’s bigger than the United Kingdom.” Y/N had to bite her lip as Sherlock mumbled angrily under his breath, for someone quite smart he could be clueless. 

“Since the man is American, I called a frie–a colleague for more information and–” Sherlock was cut off by John. 

“You called your brother. Mycroft.” It wasn’t a question but more of a conclusion. 

Sherlock took in a deep breath through his nose. “It was my brother. That’s besides the fact, Abe Slaney is a gangster from Chicago and one of the most dangerous criminals there.” 

A silence fell over the car as John and Y/N consumed the information Sherlock had just given them. Soon a tapping was heard as John began to fiddle with the car’s steering wheel. 

“Eldridge's Farm. That’s where he’s at. Abe Slaney. We're driving right into the hands of a murderer and kidnapper.”

“We are driving to Eldridge's Farm; Abe does not reside there.”

Sherlock’s words did little to ease John. “You lied to the Inspector; you could be lying to me…” John mumbled under his breath. 

Y/N adjusted her sitting position and leaned forward so her head was between John and Sherlock. “Just tell me we won’t be doing anything illegal. I don’t want John nabbed by the cops again.” 

John shivered remembering what happened while they were solving the Blind Banker case. ”Yeah, I second that. Sherlock, no illegal stuff.” 

Sherlock did not give them an answer. 

_____ It was very much an action that would and could be considered illegal in a court of law. 

“You want me to do what?!” John gasped. 

“Break into the house,” Sherlock replied. “It’s easy. Break the glass and unlock the door.” John groaned. “You served in the military, John. This should be easy for you.” 

“Sherlock! If I remember correctly, breaking into someone’s home is a crime,” Y/N reprimanded.

“You’d be correct,” Sherlock agreed. 

Y/N raised her brows waiting for Sherlock to continue. At the very least, she wanted an explanation as to why they were breaking into a home. It was an explanation that did not come. 

“John, you don’t have to do this,” Y/N said as she approached John by the door. 

“No–I can. Sherlock! Why can’t you do it?” John questioned the curly headed detective. 

“My coat is not thick enough. If I broke the window the glass would cut into my skin and–” The sound of glass shattering stopped Sherlock further explaining further. 

“I did it,” Y/N muttered as she swung the door open. 

For a moment John and Sherlock shared the same look of bewilderment on their faces. 

“What?” Y/N looked back at them. “If anyone asks, it's because I’m American. It’s in my blood–I’m being sarcastic, just let’s go.” Then she entered Eldridge's Farmhouse. 

A quick expression of pride flashed on Sherlock’s face as he watched Y/N enter the home. Then he and John followed after her. 

“What exactly are we looking for?” Y/N asked as her eyes peered around the dark room. It was in the early hours of the morning where there was barely enough light illuminating through the windows. Y/N contemplated using the flashlight on her phone, before deciding against using such a bright light in a home that she broke into. 

“Elise and Hilton Cubitt’s daughter,” Sherlock stated. 

John and Y/N froze and turned to look at Sherlock’s dark figure. 

“You said Abe wasn’t going to be here!” John harshly whispered. “Sherlock!”

“I said Abe did not reside here. Eldridge's Farm is a BnB. Abe is a guest,” Sherlock clarified. 

John furrowed his brows and placed his hands on his hips as he muttered a few curses. 

“Hey, let’s focus more on finding the kid, calling the police, and getting out of here before a gangster from Chicago wakes up with intruders in his BnB!” Y/N quietly suggested. 

“John, take the rooms to the left. Y/N and I will take the rooms to the right,” Sherlock instructed. 

John grumbled a bit before sneaking his way to the room on the left side of the home, leaving Sherlock and Y/N alone in the dark. 

There was something so tranquil about standing in the living room of a home in which you were intruders. Though, Sherlock determined it was not that different from the frequent guests coming and going as they went about their travels. It was quiet and a small breeze snuck through the cracks in the glass causing a few goosebumps to creep onto his forearms. The other tiny bumps along his skin were from her. It was the only reason. They were alone. It was dark and he could feel her presence standing near him. He could hear the air pass through her lungs as it energized her existence. As they stood there, his mind thought of one thing; That night when he should have gone after her and molded his lips to her. It was that night he should have told her that just like the air in her lungs, her presence gave life to his universe. Sherlock cursed himself. This was the worst of times; he shouldn’t be thinking abou–

“Sherlock? Are you coming?” Y/N whispered. 

Suddenly, a bright light cascaded the room. Sherlock and Y/N briefly clenched their eyes shut before reorienting themselves. 

“I wouldn’t go anywhere if I were you.”

Under any other circumstance, Y/N would have been overjoyed to hear someone else speak like her. There was only so much of “you sound like a movie star” that she could handle. However, there was the context that the man who was speaking was a gangster with a gun to John’s head. Immediately Y/N froze in place as from the corner of her eye she saw Sherlock take a small step in front of her. 

“Abe Slaney,” Sherlock addressed the man. He had dirty blonde hair and dull blue eyes. He stood a few inches taller than John, but his height was still significantly smaller than that of Sherlock’s. However, everything about Abe screamed ‘threat’. 

“So,you know who I am. Bravo,” Abe said sarcastically. 

“You killed Hilton Cubitt,” Sherlock noted. 

“Again. Congratulations on figuring that out–”

“But Elise…” Sherlock continued as he chose his words carefully. 

Abe’s grip around John tightened. “What about her?”

“You killed her too.”

At this suggestion, Abe’s face paled. “What? I didn’t kill her–she!” Worry began to set in Abe’s face. “Elise…”

“Then what about the daughter?” Sherlock continued. 

Abe squeezed his eyes shut. The light reflected off the tears trickling down his face. “I LOVED HER!” Abe bellowed as he pointed the gun in Y/N and Sherlock’s direction. Y/N gasped and grabbed hold of Sherlock's arm as he placed himself farther in front of her. Sherlock’s clear gaze never faltered. 

Then a sob escaped Abe’s mouth. “I could have never hurt her. When I say that a man could never love another woman like I love her, I would be saying the absolute truth. She was mine until that–” Abe’s voice grew sour, “until Hilton took her away from me. I was only taking back what was mine!” 

“She was married, Abe.” 

Abe's sad expression grew into a sneer. “Until death do us part, right? That’s how it goes? But when I killed him, Elise, she tried to fight me. She had her–that man’s gun and was going to shoot me. I–” Abe began to cry again. The weapon found its resting place back on John’s head. “The gun. She–”

“So, you killed her,” Sherlock finished. 

“NO! No, I–she was still alive when I left. I called the police. She’s alive. She has to be.” 

John winced in pain as Abe constricted his airways. “Sherlock,” John groaned. “Maybe don’t anger the man with the gun to your friend’s head.”

Sherlock’s eyes briefly flashed with worry at John’s condition before continuing his interrogation. “Their daughter.” 

“She’s not his daughter. She’s–She looks so much like Elise,” Abe explained. 

“So, you thought, since you killed Elise, that you’d take her daughter instead?” Sherlock inquired. 

“I DIDN’T KILL ELISE!” 

“Sherlock!” Y/N whimpered as John flailed around in Abe’s arms. 

“Tell me about the code. Why the dancing men?”

Abe seemed to calm down with the change in subjects. “Elise’s father. He’s the boss. He wrote the code, so we could work in secret. Elise never liked that business, so when he came, she ran away. She was mine. We're supposed to be married. That kid was supposed to be mine, but she left me. I told her that I would find her again and I did.” 

As Abe relayed his story to them, Y/N couldn’t help but a prickling of fear spread all over her body. Abe was obsessed. He called it love, but he was possessed by Elise. The poor woman only wanted to get away. She wanted to be safe, and she was with Hilton. He never asked about her past. He never asked her to relive that horror and trauma, but Abe had found them and destroyed her peace. With how Abe acted, Y/N was beginning to fear the worst. He was a stalker, kidnapper, and murderer. Who knew what else he was willing to do at this point? It was all about Elise. All of his motives were for her. 

Y/N’s eyes widened as she came to a realization. Cautiously, she loosened her grip on Sherlock’s arm and stepped out from behind him. “Abe,” Y/N said softly and with as much gentleness and care she could muster, she continued to address him. “I can tell you really loved Elise.” Abe nodded. “Good. Now, think about what Else would want you to do. Would Elise really want you to take her daughter back to the business she hated?” 

Y/N could see the wheels turning in Abe’s head as he listened to her words. “No, she wouldn’t–” 

“See. Abe, can I tell you a secret?” Y/N waited for Abe nod. “The greatest act of love is letting the person you love go. If you love Elise as much as you say you do, then you need to let her go. You need to let her daughter go.” 

Abe’s face contorted as he fought with Y/N’s words. Sherlock could only watch as Y/N pleaded with Abe. She was beautiful. The panic in her eyes as it blended with the gentleness of her soul. He couldn’t take his eyes away, and for a moment Sherlock thought he never would be able to. She was magical–no that wasn’t the right word. Y/N was intelligent in a way Sherlock could never be and it was breathtaking. 

Slowly, the gun fell from John’s head and Abe let John go. Soon after the man collapsed to the ground in distraught. In his obsession, maybe he really did love Elise. It didn’t take long for Y/N to find Cubitt's daughter. The young girl really did bear a resemblance to her mother; a mother who was recovering from her life saving surgery in the hospital. 

Abe Slaney didn’t struggle as Inspector Martin placed dull handcuffs around his wrists. He kept his head down and his mouth shut as they led him out to the car. Just as the police opened the door to the guarded backseat of the patrol car, Abe snapped his head up as if he just remembered something. In a loud voice, he called out to Sherlock. 

“M says hello,” then the door was shut and Abe was gone. 

_____

Normally, once a case was over, the trio would call it a day and return to their lives at 221B Baker Street; However this was not a normal case. Elise was released from the hospital a week after her incident and a funeral for Hilton was held a few days afterward. Normally, Sherlock never attended funerals. The dead were dead and that was all he needed to know, but this wasn’t a normal funeral. 

They stood in the back. John, Y/N, and Sherlock, in that order, stood with their heads hung low. Each of them shared a sense of guilt as all the questions of ‘if’ from before filled their heads. Even if they didn’t pull the trigger, it felt like they helped aim. 

The service was nice. There was a lot of sentiment and a lot of condolences for Elise and her daughter. Y/N made sure to bring flowers to leave on Hilton’s grave, but once the flowers were placed, the three of them excused themselves. To them it felt like they were imposters imposing on the grief of a family, and not the heroes they were painted out to be. 

Not a word was said once, Y/N and Sherlock got back to their hotel room. The two kept to themselves as they prepared for their journey home. Y/N busied herself with packing, so long as her hands were busy she wouldn’t be able to think. Sherlock, on the other hand, had already packed and was forced to sit with his silence. Instead, he sat on his bed and his eyes were placed in the direction of the window, but Sherlock wasn’t looking at the view. He was trapped in his own mind. All the emotions and fears burst to the surface of his mind. Sherlock was forced to feel and he felt alone. 

It was the stillness that caught Y/N’s attention. Sherlock wasn’t really one to sit still in silence unless it was for a case, but even then there was much going on around him. After a few moments, the worry began to set in. Y/N left all thought of packing behind as she approached Sherlock’s bed. 

The scene in front of Y/N broke her heart. Sherlock’s lips were shaking as his eyes glossed over, yet not a sound was coming from him. Slowly, Y/N kneeled in front of Sherlock with one hand coming out rest on his hand and the other on his cheek. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N whispered as she feigned a comforting smile. “Sherlock.” His pupils dilated as they refocused on her. “I’m here.” Y/N took a deep breath. “You are not alone…It is not your fault.” Her eyes darted between him before she leaned in and entangled him in a hug. It was the best way to prove to him he was not alone. 

Sherlock devoured the warmth that came from Y/N’s body as he buried his head in the crook of her neck. Y/N was there with him. He wasn’t alone. He was in her arms and it felt like that was where he was always meant to be. In her arms, he was safe. In her arms, he was home. At that moment, Sherlock only thought of one thing. He didn’t think about Hilton. He didn’t think about the failure of a case. He didn’t think about Elise or Abe. At that moment, he knew he was in love. Sherlock loved Y/N.  

Pulling away from the hug, he bore into her marvelous eyes and saw the world. With each breath his gaze fell downwards until he saw her lips. The very lips he should have kissed all those days ago. At that moment, he didn’t care if she had a boyfriend. Sherlock didn’t care if she was his employee, a friend, and his neighbor. The only thing Sherlock cared about was tasting her lips and sharing a breath with her. He knew if he didn’t kiss her then, that every breath he took, every sip of water, and every wink of sleep would never be enough to sustain him. So he did. Sherlock brushed his lips against hers and decided that he wanted it all. With a desperation he never existed, Sherlock kissed Y/N and she kissed back. As Sherlock kissed and ignored his lung’s pleas for air, a voice echoed in his mind. 

“The greatest act of love is letting the person you love go.” 

All of a sudden, Sherlock remembered. Y/N had a boyfriend, she was happy and he was perfect. Sherlock was not, everyone was saying so. She was his assistant, his neighbor, and friend. She was practically Mrs.Hudson’s granddaughter. She was everything he couldn’t–shouldn’t have. 

The room felt colder as he pushed her away. He left her in the room as his legs retreated to the streets of Clifden. His shoes clacked across the sidewalks as his mind came to one conclusion: he was alone. 

______

Previous | Next

Author's note: after 117,809 words they finally kiss. I know, I'm all for the angst, but I promise that it will all be worth it. Please just hang in there. Also, thanks for reading and if you could show your support by commenting or reposting that would be amazing!! Great Game is up next!

Comment below if you would like to be added to the tag list!

Tag list: @bartokthealbinobat @biggerthancalli13 @themartiansdaughter @sunsumonner @silversword7000 @starlightaurorab @melody7 @astudyinlaura @sherlockstrangewolf @neroarrow83  @khaleesihavilliard @agentxx92 @yourleastfavoriteguyinthechair @afigisnotalwaysafruit @selcouthangel

#bbc sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes #sherlock bbc #john watson #i am sherlocked #reader insert #sherlock x you #fanfic #sherlock angst #love confessions #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc!sherlock #female reader #x reader #reader #doctor john waston #the dancing men #crime #solve the case #sherlock fanfic #sherlock fandom #sherlockbbc #american!reader #Clifden Ireland #Sherlock has emotions #Sherlock gives in #sherlock x yn #use of y/n

[a-cup-of-earl-grey-please]

Beg For Forgiveness (BBC Sherlock x Fem!Reader)

Word count: 2,436 words

Pairing: BBC Sherlock x Fem!Reader

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

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

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

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

Knock, knock.

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it really you?” You cut him off. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mug cracked and so did your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[futureplayboibunnie]

Hello! I really luv your work so maybe could you do more smutty sherlock stuff? Maybe dom!sherlock and a reader with a praise kink?

‘Distraction’

Sherlock x fem!reader

- I’M BAAAACK w another smutty ass sherlock fic. i swear all my sherlock fics are always so long, i need to get a grip but i really enjoyed writing this one. love u xx

Sherlock's mouth was twitching and his mind was in a constant state of strained unease. The world was asking too much of him and it irritated more than anything, Mycroft was breathing down his neck with a mountain load of cases he would never even get around to looking at and sometimes Sherlock just wanted to kick someone in the teeth, feel the blood pumping through his veins in a way a lousy case couldn't satiate. He was angry, annoyed, restless and uneasy.

Sherlock put himself in that situation though, he was being a hermit hiding out in his flat and he didn't even let John come in to entertain him- Sherlock could only think of you.

This was bad. He was in demand...but he didn't know what he was demanding for…you? He didn't know how to control his emotions, he felt something heady and particularly intoxicating about you, he was almost drunk off it. You were insatiable and it piqued his interest, you were a curious little thing, always poking your nose in places it didn't belong- including just Sherlock. Sometimes he just wanted to scold you for being too daring and risky, he didn't like the idea of you putting yourself in a dangerous situation for the sake of it...but you liked the danger of it all just the way Sherlock did. He didn't like that at all, it was like you could see through him in a way no one else could.

Sherlock knew you wanted him. It was obvious by the way you would eye fuck him in socially inept situations, in a crowded room- he admired your callousness although deep down he wanted to put you in your place. His accolades made you blush, his praises made your eyes gleam slightly, you loved him complimenting your work and he knew it was a big weakness within you. Your breath halted everytime you were near him and your mouth would pry open slightly and he had to surpress the urge to close your pretty little mouth for you- it was adorable and distracting at the same time. The universe was determined to pull him next to you...or was that Sherlock himself admitting he wanted you...in more ways than one? The calculations of it didn't make any sense and it was clouding his head, he didn't know how to make any of this go away, if only he could show you instead of talk.

You were bored of his moping, you wanted him to have some fun with you on another case and it was to cheer you up more than him. You just wanted to know what he was up to, Sherlock was always up to something, in a grey area of nothing inherently bad but nothing inherently good. Although he wasn't allowing anyone to visit him, you took it upon yourself to tease him out of hiding. You didn't really care for the ramifications, you never did.

You trodded up the stairs of his flat and you open the door slightly to let yourself in. Sherlock was pacing around, messing with the multiple experiments he was conducting at the same time. He was just trying to take his mind off of you, but these little thoughts kept meandering into his head.

You. Just you.

Sherlock heard the tremble of your breath first and he could practically hear your raised eyebrow at his strange but not infrequent behaviour- it was endearing. He got up from looking at his microscope when he heard your footsteps enter, he scrambled to look at your face again and it was etched in judgement but at least it was that of endearing judgement. He felt his ego straighten up, Sherlock couldn't remember the last time his ego was shaken, he was always so sure of himself but you obviously had to fiddle with things that best be untouched. Including Sherlock's innermost desires.

‘’You've been busy.’’ You remarked with a quirked eyebrow and a small smirk.

‘’Get out, I'm still busy.’’ Sherlock said breathlessly and it made him straighten his posture, he didn't like how uncertain and certain he sounded at the same time. He definitely didn't want you to go, but like always he had to act as if he didn't care for anyone or anything...especially something as useless and pathetic as desire and sex.

God he really wanted it though. You were wearing a skirt.

He could just hike it up and easily…

You interrupted his wayward thoughts as his blank face met yours.

‘’You're not busy, you just want a distraction. Any other day conducting this many experiments would've made you lose your mind. How can you be so detail oriented when you've got so many things going at once?’’ You walked around the room, tapping on the things Sherlock wouldn't let anyone touch. He was actually thinking of an answer to your question, though.

‘’I multitask. It can challenge narrow minded people.’’ His eyes thinned as he squinted at you intently, you twirled around and you met him with a knowing flirty half smile, scoffing at his insult.

‘’So snippy, need a distraction? Got another case.’’ You offered as you walked over to him to stare into his dark cerulean eyes, Sherlock was glaring down at you as your face was near his.

‘’I'm already distracted.’’ Sherlock admitted way too hastily and it made your eyes prick up.

Sherlock Holmes? Distracted? You were half joking when you said he just wanted a distraction, but he was? Even though your eyes were widening in surprise, you couldn't help but provoke him even further. You felt incredibly special seeing him so frail.

The things you wanted him to do to you was unspeakable and you felt a heated blush creep on the back of your neck and your cheeks.

‘’Wow. I never thought I'd live to see the day.’’ You smiled at seeing his hubris crack before you.

‘’Yes. It's a novelty for me too.’’ He said plainly, trying to hide and feign his hidden desire for you.

‘’What's got you like this then?’’

‘’You.’’ Sherlock blurted, but it felt deliberate. The perfect opportunity to just finally admit with a heavy heart that he wanted you, feel the weight of his innate desire free from his broad shoulders.

‘’It's your fault.’’He muttered.

‘’My fault?’’ You repeated.

‘’Yes.’’ He breathed as his fingers fell and brushed against yours and you felt your heart halt in its beating, scoff catching in your throat.

‘’Who do you think you are?’’ Sherlock's lips were dangerously close to your ear and it made you still against him, body heat merging with one another as you slowly pressed yourself against him.

‘’Who do I think I am?’’You scoffed as you blinked up at him, being a flirt as always. ‘’What about you….Sherlock.. what do you want?’’ Your voice was low and less immediate, stretching out whatever this was as a means to revel in it.

His hands travelled to cradle your face softly, large hands feeling the skin of your cheek as his thumb grazed the soft pink flesh of your lips. Sherlock felt oblivious to the world around him when all he could see and feel was you in his palm.

‘’I want to feel you. Naked. Beneath me.’’ His words were potent, dense and you felt like you had to pinch yourself, it must be a dream. Your heart was pounding in your chest and Sherlock could feel your sweet breath fan his face, eyes fluttering a little as you registered his words.

Sherlock Holmes...having a dirty mouth...is something that felt fictitious and delicious. The man was divine, so intense and brutal when he wanted to be- exactly your type. Your mouth was dry, the functions of your tongue forgetting how to move as his stare was that of raw intensity and pure longing. Mind racing and unable to pump the breaks, you were wondering how he would be in bed as of this moment. It wasn't an infrequent thought but you never in a million years thought it to be a reality, only to be conjured in your wildest and wettest dreams. You contemplated if he would be a dom or sub. It honestly could be either, he was so damn unreadable, you didn't know what was going on in that beautiful mind of his. You were keening to find out. The posh twat always loves the divine feminine dom, maybe that's a clue. Although, the way his eyes were scorching into yours made all of your thoughts draw to a blank.

‘’Are you going to talk sweetheart or are you just going to stand there gawking at me so vacantly?’’ His fingers jutted your chin up so he could make you squirm.

Sherlock loved it when he got that bodily reaction from you, it just confirmed that it was definitely not one sided and you were thinking of the lascivious things that best left unseen.

‘’I think I'm enjoying my mindless gawk thank you.’’ You flirted but he wasn't in the mood for any of your games. He's come to love that look in your eyes, the one of need, desire, to put it so crudely- eye fucking. Sherlock grabbed you by the cheeks, his fingernails indenting into the skin of your face, you were taken aback when he finally made his intentions clear. You honestly thought this was a part of a sadistic sort of experiment, but now it was actually piecing together- he wanted you. Sherlock Holmes wanted to undress you, feel your skin, fuck you in his bed.

‘’Don't be difficult, you surely can't be after your incessant need to catch my attention. Well, consider my attention caught...I'm simply asking because it's polite. Do you want me to put you out of your misery and make you finish or not?’’

‘’So vain.’’ You muttered, chewing on your lip slightly unsure of what to say without sounding like the thirstiest person ever.

‘’Do you want me to fuck you on the stairs because right now I will.’’ Sherlock was deadly serious, he didn't care if it was uncomfortable for you, he would take you in any shape or form, pin your hands behind your back, pull your hair make your brain melt with how good he made you full but you were still staring at him blankly.

‘’For fucks sake.’’ You finally breathed out before colliding your lips to his.

Like two magnets, like a moth to a flame- you simply just couldn't resist each other. Your fingers were in his hair as your body moulded to his, Sherlock was also quite surprised with himself, he'd never let anyone touch his hair but when you tugged on his curls he let out a delectable hiss. He really liked that. He wanted you to do it again. His kiss was passionate, certain and beautifully cruel.

‘’Tell me you want me.’’ You hummed against kisses, your fingers immediately crowning from his hair to his blazer and button down. Sherlock's hands were roaming around your body as if he owned it, his insanely large palm went to your ass and squeezed tightly over the fabric of your skirt. He was feeling brazen. His fingertips toyed with the hem of that skirt he just wanted to rip off, and felt at the skin of your ass under it. You shivered into his touch, every single feeling driving a new unforgivable sensation.

‘’I'll show you. Forgive me if I'm not polite about it.’’ Sherlock had never been this desperate before, to openly obey an order was foreign to him but you could pry just about anything out of him.

Sherlock clasped your hand and quite literally dragged you to his room, you had to suck in your squeals of delight, you couldn't believe any of this was actually becoming a reality. Your reality. He fucking wanted you. He slammed his door and pinned you up against it, lip to lip. Your moan echoed through his entire body, his soul rocked at the sensation. His lips found that spot behind your ear where your pulse was hammering, Jesus your heart was beating fast. It brightened his mood and amplified his ego.

You went to shrug him of his blazer but he got there before you. Sherlock ripped off your top with his bare hands, you inhaled sharply as the cool evening air hit your torso. He quite literally tore it off, the look in his eyes were that of ash and fire. Your lip quivered and your eyebrows tensed with that one look. The fact that he was the only one that got your legs wobbly and your heart stuttering was making him so insanely happy. The reaction to his kiss allowed hiim to deduce that you've been kissed before...but not often. The thought pleased him.

Nimble fingers went to unbotton his button down. You took your sweet time with this just to be a teasing little bitch. Your eyes went doe as you gave him a look of foax sincerity and sweetness

Oh...so that's how it's going to be.

You finally discarded it and the bulk of his biceps alone could crush you, his arms, his hands, his chest were so finely crafted he was akin to that of a Greek God. Sherlock pulled you from the door frame, he sat on the edge of the bed and you were standing infront of him.

‘’Strip for me.’’

He whispered, the fated words making the atmosphere damp and heavy and you enjoyed revelling in it. The way he said it made your mouth pop open slightly.

You were more than happy to oblige with his delicious demand. Your dignity was deteriorating with every moment you spent with him. Sherlock's blue eyes darkened as your fingers went to the zipper of your skirt, your intense gaze met with his, unwavering, downright carnal. His jaw clenched when you teasingly shimmied your skirt down your long, smooth legs. Your frame was fucking remarkable. Dear Lord it looked like you were crafted by the angels in heaven above. His stare fell to your feet, he smirked when he still found you in your impossibly high heels, he wanted to feel them dig into the small of his back when he finally fucked into you.

Sherlock wanted to paw at you like a filthy animal, his inhibitions fleeing him the longer he gaped at you. You bit your lip sweetly as your fingers fell to your back as you began the slow pace of unclamping your bra. You were so deliberate and he wanted to just fuck the pettiness out of you. Sherlock watched intently as you flung it to the other side of the room to care about later, your tits fell free and he just stifled the urge to grab you right now.

He just had to remind himself: patience is a virtue.

Giggling, your fingers hooked on the lace of your underwear and shimmied it down. He let out a scoff, almost entranced and confused at how beautiful you looked. Sherlock gripped onto your waist and tugged you between his legs, his fingers pinched onto the bare skin of your hips. His lips met with your soft lower stomach and he planted a kiss there.

‘’Beautiful...’’ He exhaled as he breathed in your intoxicating scent.

‘’So you can be nice.’’ You smirked down at him.

‘’Only to you. Only. You.’’ He said deadpan, you gushed when he emphasised the word 'you.' You tucked your hair back behind your ear bashfully as the waves of anticipation began creaking back into the airwaves. You weren't sure where he was going next with this.

Sherlock's grip daren't soften, he pulled you down onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow allowing your hair to sprawl out, he thought you looked like an angel- hair casting a halo like figure in your stance. He kneeled between your sweet thighs to stare down at you, face contorted in pleasure already. He hadn't even done anything yet, it made him chuckle lowly. Mocking you condescendingly but you didn't have it in yourself to care or argue.

‘’You've been begging for it haven't you? Just admit it. It's only us. Only you and I here...together. Don't be coy now.’' Sherlock was just revelling in your desperation and it made your insides sizzle and burn, it was almost unbareable. Your lips twitched as you flushed, unable to control how your body was reacting.

Sweet. Jesus. The effect this man had on you.

‘’You're quite the distraction.’’ You said meekly, they were the only words you could muster up. Your voice wasn't a reflection of your actions though, your hands had a mind of their own, flying to his zipper and roughly undoing his pants. Sherlock caught onto your wrist to stop you in your tracks, he would be lying if he said he didn't like the direction in which you were going in. Images of you choking on his cock flashed through the forefront of his mind, his breathing became heavier. His tongue glazed his lower lip as he let out a breathless scoff.

Yeah, maybe later.

‘’Ditto.’’ He muttered.

Sherlock pinned your hands against the bed beside your head, excitement thrumming through your veins at whatever delicious torture he was bound to inflict. His fingers pinched and palmed at your tits, a broken moan fell from your lips as his long thick fingers travelled down the skin of your stomach to your glistening pussy. You threw your head back. He swiped up and down before finally inserting a finger inside of your wetness, you squirmed under him as he bent down to kiss at the crook of your neck.

‘’Fuck...Sherlock.’’ You moaned out, physically incapable of keeping it in anymore.

‘’You can take it.’’ Sherlock reassured deadpan and impassive, almost like an

You huffed as he pistoned another finger inside of you, he was delighted with how wet he got you. It was an indicator of the amount of pleasure he was drawing out of you, his ego boosted tenfold. You exhaled as he finally pulled his fingers out, in the pale moonlight his fingers glistened. Giving him a perplexed look, Sherlock wanted to rattle you even more, drag it out, surprise you.

‘’Open your mouth. See how sweet you taste.’’ He chuckled, so obviously pleased with himself.

Your eyes widened slightly at his request but his hard glare made you believe that it wasn't a request but an undeniable demand. You couldn't say no to that look, that scorching, firey look. You opened your mouth and he was beaming at the sight. He stuffed his fingers into your wet mouth, suckling on his fingers to taste at yourself. Humming against his fingers, Sherlock felt his body buzz and his cock harden. You gawked up at him through your lashes, the look of neediness etched all over your face- the cherry on top of the cake, his fingers in your mouth. He wondered what you looked like on your knees. You let his fingers go with a pop.

‘’Good girl.’’ He praised and it made an incredibly obvious blush stain your face.

Oh, you loved that.

Your mouth slanted against his, tongues dancing against tongues as you felt your heartbeat hammering against your chest. Tugging his pants down, Sherlock's cock finally sprung free. You glanced down, eyes unable to comprehend how fucking big he was. It was curved, thick and leaking. You felt yourself salivate at the sight of it.

‘’Sherlock...please.’’ You begged and he decided to give you the mercy.

He pushed himself inside of you, clinging onto him for dear life. Sherlock burrowed and nestled himself in your hair and your skin, spiralling wih the fact he got you like this- this has to be a dream of some sorts. It simply cannot be real. Fingernails digging into his shoulderblades, he hissed into your skin as he rutted in and out of you. Your moans and groans creating a symphony of euphoria. Sherlock gazed into the vast planes of your glassy eyes, he could simply get lost in them forever. Your heels dug into his back and the pain was stunning.

‘’You make me weak...pretty girl.’’ Sherlock admitted breathlessly.

The whole world stopped. It felt like it was tipping on its axis. You made Sherlock Holmes weak. You couldn't fathom the power you held, you were drunk off it and it made you moan loudly against his lips. It felt like music to his ears.

‘’Sherlock.. you're a God.’’

‘’Not quite, but almost.’’ He teased as he kept up the brutal pace.

Sherlock just kept going and going. His libido was undeniably high. His stamina unrelenting. He was lost in the sweet sounds you made, the quirk of your body with every thrust was something he committed to memory. You felt yourself spiralling out of control. The intensity increased tenfold, the intimate eye contact the driving force of it all. You couldn't hold back. You were right at the edge. Euphoria hit you like a ten ton truck, waves of pleasure like lightning down your thighs; your knees buckled under the pressure as you gushed onto him, coating him in the generous amount of wetness he so easily illicited out of you.

‘’Stunning…’' Sherlock murmured before he was cut off by a gutteral groan rumbling from the insides of his gut. He stilled as he finished inside of you, completely and utterly spent. You grabbed his face and planted a kiss on his lips, curls wild as you carded your fingers through it.

Pants covered the room. Air thick with post coital bliss.

Sherlock rolled off of you and lay beside you in attempt to regain his breath.

But you were far from done. You darted your face to the side to remark at him.

Without thinking, you impulsively clambored onto his lap and his eyes widened in surprise. Fucking hell, you were insatiable. Your lips shattered against his again, his large hands roamed the expanse of your back and goosebumps littered your skin.

Sherlock spanked your ass and it made you rip your lips away from his.

‘’Christ. So insistent aren't you?’’

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

[stupidthoughtsinwriting]

B. Cumberbatch Company Collection

Mr. Cumberbatch's character fic log

Sherlock Holmes

Series and Collection

Oneshots and short stuffs

Spiraling -After an accident during a case, a hostage situation leaves you in a coma for a week. During that week in the hospital, things are going horribly in Baker Street

Stephen Strange

Series and Collection

She used to be mine -Coming from a wedding of a friend, Stephen reflects on that one relationship that was once his everything and how he fucked that up. It just so happens that everything would come back...

Oneshots and short stuffs

#sherlock #doctor strange #sherlock holmes #stephen strange #bbc sherlock #marvel #sherlock imagine #sherlock fandom #bbc sherlock imagine #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #sherlock angst #sherlock fanfic #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock x reader #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x you #sherlockbbc #sherlock bbc #john watson #stephen strange x you #doctor stephen strange #dr stephen strange #stephen strange angst #stephen strange fanfiction #stephen strange imagine #stephen strange x reader

[strangelockd]

His Eternal Home Pt.1

Pairing: Sherlock x FemReader

Summary: You and Sherlock have been together for a handful of months. Hes been working on a case non stop, so much so that he continually but unknowingly ignores the reader. Little does he know, shes finally had enough…

Warnings: Non really. Its just pure emotions

A/N: This will be a two part story based off of a request. Ill post part 2 ASAP. If you like the song check out my Sherlock Playlist. A big thank you to @lady-harvey, @vickie-mcmuffin & my sister for proofreading ❤️ Ive never written pure sad before so I hope you like it.

Dating the worlds only consulting detective had its many perks. One of them was always the impressive attention to detail that Sherlock would give at his career. Not only just that, but how he would even notice a new shade of lipstick you wore. Or the time you got a new hairstyle and he was the first to say anything positive about it. Memories flooded back to the feeling of his hands running lovingly through your hair; It was the small gestures of admiration you loved about him most of all. You grew to love his craft along with learning how to balance the more unsavory habits that seemed to follow.

One of the things you disliked above all else was how Sherlock would at times just flat-out ignore you. It wasn’t uncommon to find Sherlock quiet for days on end lost in thought. You wished for a moment that he would let you in; to have the desire and feeling of home with your special someone. The times when he would relax on the couch and just hold you; he really did feel like home to you. In those fleeting moments, it truly did feel like Sherlock was your safe haven. More and more lately you began to question deep down if he really felt the same towards you. The potential answer scared you nearly to death; not for fear of being alone. But the fear of you not being safe haven in return. Nevertheless, you stayed by his side in support.

Of course, you knew deep down he wasn’t doing all this to be cruel or vindictive. He loved you deeply, you were sure he did. It had only been a handful of months since you started dating and you didn’t expect an ‘I love you’ right off the bat. But fate had a whole different plan; for you, it was practically love at first sight. How could you forget the first time you saw the great and handsome Sherlock Holmes? The way he wore that perfect dark purple shirt that fit his lean frame just right. The way his blue eyes sparkled in the light with that gorgeous crooked smile when he knew the right answer. Not only that, he was tall and an overall knockout, and he choose you to be his girlfriend after all.

It didn’t come as a surprise at all to find Sherlock still pacing back and forth refusing to sit down. It was your first night off in days and all you wanted was to have some quality time with your man. Shutting the door with your foot you balanced the takeout food in both hands. “Sherlock Im back,” you called, hearing no reply. Knowing he was home, you scoffed setting the bags down on the table and seeing him right where he was before you left. Palms pressed against his mouth, peering out the window still lost in thought. The world around him was completely shut out as your voice echoed louder suddenly breaking his concentration. His head raised at your response snapping him back to reality.

“Sherlock, please come and join me for dinner. I brought your favorite Italian food from down the street,” sorting out the boxes, Sherlock slowly made his way over giving you a small peck on the cheek. Taking his place across from you, he took out his phone and started flicking through the news columns stating flatly. “so what have you been up to these past couple of days? This looks amazing by the way,” your eyebrows raised in shock at the question as he went back to his phone. How could he forget my lessons, I've told him so many times. Tears welled in your eyes as you finished off your plate before taking it to the sink. Your back tensed as you shot your head up, “because Lestrade thinks we can have this case solved by the end of the month if we can properly locate the murders next–“

“Sherlock…we need to talk,” cutting him off with your voice barely above a whisper. Sherlock's head perked up, eyeing you curiously as he sat his fork and knife down. Tucking his phone into his breast pocket, you heard him release a small sigh. “Sure no problem y/n,” he gestured with his hand for you to sit next to him. Glancing over, you could see panic behind his calm stoic demeanor. He didn’t have the heart to look you in the eyes. Taking his hand you leaned in closer, “Sherlock please look at me,” feeling his thumb twitch, he turned to meet your gaze, “you know I love you, I always have. But I’m noticing you are never mentally present with me anymore. I’ve told you many times about what I’ve been up to and you can’t even remember that because of this stupid case in Dartford. All I’m asking is for one night that’s ours, Sherlock. And besides, it wouldn’t kill you to take a night off anyways…” you trailed off with nothing more to say, eyeing the mahogany table afraid to look up.

Sherlock took a deep breath measuring his words carefully, “I do listen to you y/n, you know I’m trying,” bringing his free hand on top of yours cupping it gently, “And my work is important to me it’s…everything to me.”

You stood up, placing a hand on your chest exclaiming in frustration, “But I’m here too Sherlock! I always have been! The least you could do is make an honest sacrifice for me. Is it too much to ask of you to remember stuff about my life!” Wiping the tears from your eyes Sherlock stood up. His voice was laced with frustration, “But you knew what you got into with me! I just need to solve this case! If you can’t accept that y/n then-” Taking a seat in his favorite chair, he pulled out a cigarette lighting it with a match. Matching his tone, you stood up crossing your arms in disbelief at what you just heard, “then I can just what. Sherlock.” Tears welling in your eyes. In all your time together Sherlock never raised his voice to you. He always kept his temper, but something in this made him snap. The thought of a routine being broken….

“Then you can just leave y/n,” he spoke dryly, taking a drag of his cigarette. Flicking the ash to the floor, you grabbed all your stuff as fast as you could. Fighting off the pain and anger as best as you can. As you gathered the last of your things you wiped a tear from your cheek taking one last look at the man who was once your home. Grabbing the door handle Sherlock shot up snuffing out the cigarette turning towards you pleading softly.

“Y/n, wait. Please don’t leave,” he gingerly stepped closer extending his hand out, “I didn’t. I-I didn’t mean it,” eyeing you with hope, you shot him a look that could cut through the strongest man. But it was too late to apologize... Gathering all your courage, you turned the handle refusing to look back. Taking every ounce of strength you muttered, “Goodbye Sherlock,” closing the door you waited till it was all clear before the tears turned into sobbing. You’ve never felt rejection this bad before. Shaking it off you continued down Bakerstreet as Sherlock was finally left alone with his thoughts. Gripping the doorframe he finally collapsed his shoulders releasing a sob, what have I done….For he just made the biggest human error in his lifetime.

To Be Continued…

[MASTERLIST] [SHERLOCK SPOTIFY] [SPOTIFY]

[JOIN MY TAGLIST]

@withalittlehoney @deepbatched @bakerstreethound @thealleydog @sassenach-on-the-rocks @blxckdragonfly @asherloki @pinkthick @stewardofningishzida @cumbrbatchbenedict @geeky-politics-46 @lokidokieokie @strangesgirls @silversword7000 @newavenger @icytrickster17 @lucimorningst4r @lady-harvey @evelyn-kingsley @battledress @budugu @kentucky-criedfricken @hunterofshadows04 @km-ffluv @datauthorress @azu21 @cemak @sobeautifullyobsessed @aphroditesdilemma @huxs-waifu @moonlover-tobefree @strangesslut @butchers-girl @dino-fart @meeom @strangesthirdeye @vickie-mcmuffin

#doctor strange #benedict cumberbatch #because benedict cumberbatch #sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock x y/n #sherlock angst #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes fluff #sherlock holmes x you #Spotify

[imeternallylove]

Cloud Covered - S.Holmes

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warning: Graphics of violence, torture of dead and plenty of more brutality

Word: approx 3.5k

main mastetlist  | request & ask | prompts | theme song

Chapters index

Bloodbath (you are reading this) | Marionette | Invisible Strings

It's an abominable to see. 

Two victims were strewn on the floor, and one was hanging upside down. Blood is spilled as far as the eye can perceive, staining both the walls and the ceiling, creating a gruesome bloodfield scene. The odour in the air is revolting.

"My god," Sherlock hears you gasp next to him, shaken by the sight. He doesn't blame you; it's beyond anything he's ever seen, and he can easily say he's been in some gruesome crime scenes in the course of his job.

But his concerned against one another continues to be and before proceeding and allowing his own inquiry to begin, a gentle hand grips his partner's shoulder and he leans close. "Wait outside," he asserts that reassuring squeezed into your shoulder. He watches as you give a nod giving one final startled glance around his surroundings before turning around and going towards the police outside the warehouse's closed doors.

Sherlock returned his concentration to the crime scene only when you were close enough to the door, taking his first steps ahead and closer to the corpses. He crouches close the first, his sombre stare fixed on the horrified, wide-eyed look of the dead body, apprehension from his final moments on earth imprinted on his soulless eyes.

Only a few details emerge from his solitary observations: the corpses are soaked in their own blood, concealing any wounds or scars. Before handling the bodies in the mortuary, Sherlock always waits to meet them. He argues that people should look with their eyes, not their hands, because hands are awkward and untidy, and dragging their fingers across a flawless crime scene ruins so many aspects.

Many facts can be deduced by Sherlock with a single glance at a person, object, or scenario without even moving a muscle.

He takes his time studying the bodies and their ravaged faces, capturing everything in his memory and safely storing it for future use. It takes him twenty minutes in that stinky warehouse to be satisfied with his mental notes, and he turns to leave, his own feet leaving faint bloody prints behind from how dirty the floor was.

Once outside, he nods to the fellow officers, indicating that he has finished his studies and that the bodies may be taken away for further investigation before making his approach towards you, who appeared to be preoccupied in a hushed conversation with two police officers and a witness.

When they notice Sherlock's arrival, both officers leave, assuming it was time to get back to work. "How do I address you?" Sherlock asks the witness, a youngster of the same height as himself, pretty directly.

"James. McGuigan, James." The boy responds calmly, despite the fact that he, too, is visibly shaken by the circumstances.  Sherlock took note of every expression he made. "I was just telling the officers that I have no idea what happened here," he adds, casting a furtive glance towards the warehouse before returning his attention to Sherlock. "I was going for a morning jog when I saw all the blood, so I immediately called the police."

"You did well," Sherlock replies, his hands in the pockets of his long coat. He casts a glance at you, who returns his stare with a begging look to leave the location within as little time as possible. "Do you usually go for a jog around here?"

"Yes," the boy says, nodding. "It's serene in here, and there's plenty of space." I went here this morning as well, and there was no blood."

Sherlock's brow furrows slightly, allowing the witness's comments to enter. "Interesting," he says, though you groan at his uncommon habit, he speaking slowly and attentively before nodding. There's nothing else to listen to, so there's no time to waste. "I'm sure you've had enough of the cops.” Sherlock steps towards to the boy, “thank you for your time with us." He gracefully lowers his head,  hand finding your back to stroke against before departing and tugging the shorter along; which meant you. 

You take out your phone and dial your friend's number; it takes a few moments for her to answer. "Hey, Molly." You greet with large exhaustion. "Have your toys arrived?"

The mortuary room, shall be you both next stop.

"Jeff Hewlett, Vincent Mcbride, and Reynard Hall." Molly says it with her arms crossed across her chest and an uncomfortable expression on her face, as if corpses still frightened her despite years of working in a mortuary. "Vincent and Jeff are siblings, not sure how Reynard falls into the picture."

Despite hearing Molly's remarks, Sherlock remains silent, leaning over Reynard's corpse and studying. The bodies had all been cleaned of blood, and the cause was clear; they had all been shot, albeit no bullets were recovered in them or at the warehouse.

"Jeff and Vincent have been dead for a while." Molly speaks up once more, watching as he moves on to Vincent's body. "I'd guess two days. Perhaps three."

"But our witness said there was nothing in the warehouse yesterday." You ponder during where you stood against the wall, brow furrowed, looking, waiting, having never been fond of mortuary space.

“Indeed,” Sherlock straightens himself up. “Only Reynard was killed there. Whoever did it painted us a whole show to make it seem like all three murders happened at the same time, in the same place.”

You pucker up, your weary face tilting. "But why?"

"Why not?" Sherlock retorts. "Perhaps it was a warning for Reynard, showing him Jeff's corpse as a threat. He wasn't given a choice, however. The killer definitely wanted him dead as well. It was most likely a game for their own entertainment, as well as an opportunity to leave a magnificent crime scene behind with all that splattered blood."

You ponder, your mind already absence. "Bloody Hell..."

"I wouldn't use the word magnificent to describe such a bloody scene." Molly mutters, breathes deeply, and shakes her head slightly. "In any case, there's more. Check their chests."

Sherlock doesn't need to be told once more, yanking at the white sheet that covers the rest of the dead. His brows furrow and he leans in, curious.

"What on earth is it?" You ask yourself, moving closer.

"All three bodies have the letter J carved on the left side of their chest." Molly adds this as she uncovers the two more bodies, displaying the same wounds that Sherlock saw with a little magnifying glass.

"Beautiful," Sherlock thinks to himself as he walks up to examine Reynard's scar. "The murderer left his imprint... He wants everyone to know that he did it. It's another jeopardy a warning that this could be a case for a serial killer."

The proprietor of the mortuary room frowns. "You should tone down your enthusiasm for murd-"

"Collect their files and bring them to me. All three of them." Sherlock commands, straightening his back and walking towards you, his arm wrapping across your shorter shoulders to urge you along. "I need to do some research."

Things were finally getting fascinating around there.

Shouting out the route out of Sherlock's flat to take you home. "Jeff and Vincent were cousins," he recalls fast as the outcome of his momentous laboratory spills out, loud enough to alarms you, half-sleeping from the passenger seat window.

You two share a knowing, amused gaze as a bright shade of pink sweeps across your cheeks after his delicate smooch on your hairline. "The entire thing could have been a family issue, a misunderstanding- but then you have Reynard, eh? Who appears to have no connection to them. However," Sherlock says, raising his finger. "According to my research, Vincent and Jeff were in a relationship. This could be a love problem instead, but it's still strange because of the cousins."

"Ugh, please. Don't tell me it was about illicit bromance like old fashioned in 70' European," you counsel with a smile. And your comment made him snort next to you.

"This J is dropping hints, which indicates that they intend to return. But if they don't, we can rely on your brilliant cousin illicit bromance concept." You can't stop yourself from laughing. Till you realize what he implied then your smile faded: "Are you trying to say we supposed wait for someone else to die before going after this 'J' ?” Your brow furrows in bewilderment.

“Exactly.” Sherlock gives a short, innocent smile. "God! Sherlock Holmes, that’s bloody nonsense. What's we need to do is avoid the next victim, not waiting and enjoying it!" You shout out as he turns right, leaving you dumbfounded. 

Your water is just starting to boil when Sherlock asks, "-so what about steak and your fondness for wine?"

"Huh," you keep staring out the window, knowing he's only attempting to loosen you by addressing the food topic, and the only response you gave him was the muttering in rage. "Nah, I saw plenty of blood today."

"We're going to have burger for dinner," Sherlock replies hastily. "There will be no more second thoughts."

“Fries, also”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You were about going over soda when Sherlock's phone started ringing. He urged him to slow down his car and search his trousers pocket for the device. He frowned at the number as you gazed upon him doubtfully, then slid his thumb to the green button. "—Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock stared down at the body, and the body stared back to him.

"She was discovered exactly like this an hour ago." The officer from the local police department explained. "She drowned and washed up on shore, but we called you because she has the letter J carved on her. We do believe you are familiar with this."

Sherlock shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. He'd been overly confident, certain that he'd put the pieces of the puzzle together, that he'd tied all the traces together and located the real victim the murderer was looking for.

And now this - an elderly woman and she defies the men-only pattern, has no ties to any of the previous cases, and smashes Sherlock's assumptions and inferences in the blink of an eye.

And Sherlock is never, ever wrong with his predictions.

He feels your palm on his arm, a delicate tug of reassurance, of comfort, but he brushes it aside and walks to kneel over the body. You shake your head at the others, signalling that Sherlock needs a bit of solitude time.

"She used to work at a local, tiny grocery store." Sherlock claims that bending his head as he searches the body with furrowed brows for any wound other than the J sliced through her garments. There was nothing, which was not surprising given that drowning her shouldn't take much effort.

"Hold on, Greg." You paused the line and step over him, scracth your shoulder; by now it's already midnight and you're still at the crime scenes with nothing in your tiresome stomach. "You got that from just looking at her?" He sighs as he hears you ask in stupor.

"When I was younger, I used to go to her store and buy candy." He explains, possibly in a fairly harsh tone, though it was common for the frustration to crawl up on his chest and adhere to his ribcage. "She is unrelated to the other victims. She's most likely retired by now. It makes no sense."

No one says a thing. The wind from the Thames is refreshing, yet the air is dense. If Sherlock doesn't comprehend, the others obviously don’t either.

"Perhaps the connections between the victims weren't as straightforward as I would assumed." 

Curled up within your coat, you allowed the darknight breezes swirl over you, leaving your blonde hair tangled. You've known your thoughts went away into the cloud from your body since this granny bodie had a sheer string with Sherlock.

"Anytime," you say as you offer your namecard to one of the local police officers, who appears to be the lieutenant. 

Sherlock could hear your breath hitching behind him, followed by the noises of you turning around and exiting the room. He looked over his shoulder as his girl walked away, briefly wondering if the mortuary had finally become a bit too much for you to bear, before returning his gaze to the corpse.

"Mercury poisoning." Greg reinforced his thoughts, an uncomfortable expression on his face as he gripped the victim's files against his chest and watched Sherlock. "In his body, a big dose was injected. Considering the others, I'd say this was a rather clean death."

Sherlock concurred silently, his gaze fixed on the J cut right below the body's collarbone. “Name?”

"Clifford Shelton," the proprietor of the mortuary room replies, returning her gaze to the paperwork. "A kindergarten teacher, Oxford Montessori Schools."

There it was. The headache came slowly, cautiously, curling its twisted fingers around his thoughts and squeezing it.

"Do you think there's any connection to the other victims?" Sherlock questions, putting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and frowning at the gathering annoyance.

"Nothing that I can think of."

“Figured.”

Sherlock straightens up, disregarding Greg's somewhat irritated expression. Seconds passed slowly, static silence filling the air as he stared harder and harder at the corpse, as if the jigsaw pieces might fall into place on their own if he did it long enough.

"Where did Y/N go?" Molly is the one who breaks the silence, her hands moving to draw the sheet over the dead, effectively ending Sherlock's investigation.

The detective's attention slowly returns from the shrouded body to the pathologist, accepting the query before returning to the exit. "I don’t know.”

"So," Greg begins, his tone tinged with doubt and perhaps a hint of amusement. "You can't figure it out?"

"I haven't start to figured it out yet." Sherlock corrects Greg, irritated by his choice of words. He has copies of all the victims' files strewn over his desk, but the more he stares at them, the more difficult it is to think. Part of him blames Greg; honestly, the shorter's presence lowers his IQ by the second.

“Right.” He nods slowly, a kitten-like smile twisting on his lips, yet he doesn't dare to continue his tormenting.

"He was thirty-two years old, making him the second oldest victim so far, but there's still a significant age difference between him and Mrs. Madison from Thames river." They both were in your house, Sherlock muses as he leans over the papers, fists gripping the table. "In any case, it's barely significant. He was born and reared in Scotland and has no history of being linked with any of the men." He sighs and leans back against the table, his palms against his face, away from the paperwork. "I feel like there's something obvious here which I'm overlooking." 

There was a brief moment of silence before you stood up, the entrance of the door. "He should be in Oxford, it’s Tuesday and no necessary to be in London." You mutter, barely audible, before turning and heading for the bedroom instead.

Sherlock kept an eye on you, the unfamiliarity of the circumstance, along with your out-of-character actions, making you nervous. He exchanges a glance with Greg, who returns his gaze, and he suddenly feels as if there's something else he's missing that isn't related to the murders.

"Is she-"

"Is she okay? You should go ahead and ask her." Greg shrugs, maintaining his nice, casual grin, but his eyes were clearly prodding Sherlock; attempting to break past his thick mind loaded with puzzles and detective novels. "Did you happen to forget Clifford was Y/N's ex?"

Sherlock's mouth opens in surprise, then closes again.

"Thought so." Greg laughs and shakes his head slightly. "Go talk to her."

Three knocks on the door before Sherlock stepped in, turning the handle. “Y/N?”

His shorter girlfriend sat on the bed, phone lighting out on your hands, apparently doing nothing more than being lost in your own thoughts, yet a smile spreads across your lips as your gaze meets Sherlock's, albeit somewhat tiredly. "Hey, beb."

Sherlock pursed his lips, locking the door behind him; he believed Greg would busy himself in the sitting room or the kitchen (like he always did), so he stepped farther into the room. He knew about Clifford and you, but the whole serial murderer thing managed to take over his entire head, seizing its place and leaving no room for other facts.

Even those about his girlfriend.  

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, the mattress sinking slightly as he sat next to the shorter, bony fingers searching for you to hold. He senses you relaxing only for his touch, and you shrug.

“I hate your silly question.. It has been a long time. I haven't spoken to him for years." You say, seizing the opportunity to finally express yourself now that you have the opportunity. "It's just... strange -- you know? That someone I used to know..." You trail off, words turning to ash in your tongue before you can say anything, yet there is no need for a detective to figure out the finish of this phrase this time.

Sherlock's hand squeezes yours, and your head leans on his shoulder. "Suddenly, it all feels a lot more threatening when it's about someone you know, doesn't it?" Sherlock hums, now his head resting on his woman's shoulder, lips placing a kiss to the top of your hair. "Are you scared?"

“Kinda.” You chuckled defeatistically. "Well, if something happens to us, I mean; I guess 'J' knows who we are. Mrs Madison and Clifford happen to be related to us." You breathe out with a slight smile on your face. "And I wished I'd died first because I couldn't live without your goofy face."

Sherlock's stomach clenches, and he is anxious but determined. He presses your hand once more. "Nothing is going to happen to us." He then draws you closer into his warm embrace. "Just put your trust in me."

“I always did.”

“I know.”

While his lips were connected to yours, the deadpanned blank countenance quickly covered over your agonised sorrowful appearance that you showed to him. And, despite your best efforts, you sense no peace from his embrace, at all.

To your mastermind that running back and forth in your veins, something within you shouts louder and more profoundly in the silence.

a/t: eh i did told you don’t hate me yet xD

#Sherlock #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #sherlock imagine #sherlock x reader #sherlockxreader #Sherlock Holmes x Reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x you #sherlock bbc #sherlock holmes imagines #bbc sherlock imagine #bbc sherlock x reader smut #sherlock fanfic #sherlock angst #bbc sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes

[sherlocks-blanket]

Seeing your ghost

Sherlock Holmes x reader

A/N: First of all! A big thanks towards @classickook who pretty much beta read it! Also relationship is pretty much for interpretation if it's romantic or platonic.

Words: 1,8k

Warnings: Heavy angst, major character death,drug abuse,overdose, open ending

You groggily opened your eyes and were met with only darkness. You tried to adjust your eyes to see in the pitch black, but saw nothing. First you thought that you were in the trunk of a car, but the cold fresh air from London caused a shiver to run through your body.

So your conclusion was that you were somewhere outside.

You remembered that two men knocked you out and put you in a black car. You knew that Mycroft was someone who would send a black car if he ever tried to talk to you to get through to his brother, Sherlock. He knew you were someone who Sherlock would listen to… well, sometimes, at least.

But this…

This wasn’t Mycroft’s doing. It was someone else…

‘Sherlock,’ you thought. Maybe you could…

No. You couldn’t go for your phone because, of course, those bastards had to bind your wrists with rope.

“Great,” you sighed, trying to scan your surroundings with your now dark-adjusted eyes. You couldn’t really sit up or turn with how crowded the space was.

It was different kinds of materials that you were surrounded by, from wood pieces to hay to old furniture parts. Everything was good for burning…

As if your last thoughts could be heart, it became true when you felt an aura of heat start to warm up your shivering form, followed by a wave of smoke coming through.

You started to cough as you breathed in the deadly gas.

As the rush of adrenaline pumped through your veins, hearing your heart beating through you ears, you tried to wriggle yourself out of the ropes when the panic settled into your system.

You cried out for anyone to help, hoping someone would hear you and save you before the fire could lay its hands on you, or worse, before the smoke could knock you unconscious.

***

“Move! MOVE!” Sherlock yelled, pushing people aside to get through the crowd that was surrounding a bonfire and reach his target.

The target was a burning spot where you were buried underneath.

Sherlock had received a mysterious text message on his phone with words that didn’t have any meaning. If anyone else had seen it, they would’ve ignored it, thinking it was some king of random spam; but with Sherlock… being the famous detective that he was saw the hint in it.

-Save Y/N

 

Sherlock shouted your name, hoping you would respond as he pushed the burning objects away from the pile.

The crowd was frozen in their spots and only watched in horror when Sherlock dragged your body from the fire.

“I’m a doctor! Let me through!” John called inside the mob of people, which still stood petrified towards the scene in front of them. After he got through, he rushed directly to his friend’s side and knelt down to examine you.

“Sherlock…”

The detective felt some unease as he faced John when his name was mentioned. Sherlock saw the grim expression on the doctor’s face only to get the dreadful answer he was afraid of hearing. He saw the confirmation in John who just shook his head and glanced to the ground.

Not believing any of it, he took your wrist to only come to the same conclusion.

That you were dead…

***

Blue lights illuminated the area when the police arrived along with an ambulance that didn’t matter anymore since you had passed away.

The place was full of police officers interrogating the witnesses along with paramedics who checked on everyone. One of them dropped a blanket over Sherlock’s shoulders, but no complaints came from him. The detective just sat, his face expressionless. Most people would just see an emotionless machine from the outside, but on the inside was a black void consuming him. He just couldn’t comprehend that he just lost someone from the few people who were very dear to him.

His blue eyes caught a person who transferred the black body bag with your body inside to a car and then closing the doors shut. Moments later, the vehicle took off and drove away from his sight, and now you were truly ripped away from him…

***

Days passed like seconds after your passing, and Sherlock did everything to distract himself. He took every case, even some he deemed unworthy of his attention, only to solve the in a matter of seconds. The detective overworked himself just to calm his racing mind, but in the end, even his body needed some rest and John would oftentimes find him passed out in front of his laptop with his face on the keyboard. John would then wake him up, telling him that he should go to bed, but Sherlock declined and continued to work until the cycle would repeat…

It worsened further after the funeral. He wouldn’t leave his room some days, skipped meals more often, and then the unbelievable: he stopped taking any cases.

John, Mrs. Hudson, and everyone else were clueless as to how they could help the grieving detective.

The door of the flat opened as the veteran entered the living area to find his friend sitting on his armchair, two fingers on his temple and eyes fixed on the fireplace in front of him. The warm colors of the flames lit up his face in a beautiful orange glow, but also showed what miserable shape the detective was in: prominent dark circles formed under his eyes from lack of sleep, his cheekbones were more noticeable, and a stubble grazed his chin. 

John noticed a tray with some food Mrs. Hudson had most likely brought up, along with some tea, but everything was neglected and cold by now.

“Leave…” Sherlock muttered without looking up.

“Look, I… I know Y/N’s passing is hard for you, but do you not want to find the person who was responsible for this?”

Their eyes met the moment John mentioned your name, and thinking that Sherlock had given up on finding your killer struck a sensitive nerve in the detective, which the army doctor never thought Sherlock would have done.

“You really think I didn’t try to find the murderer?”

Offended by the statement, Sherlock stood up from his position and walked passed John in haste with him following with quick steps. “Don’t’ you dare to—”

John held his breath as he stormed into Sherlock’s bedroom to find his wall full of notes lined with different colored strings on a map. It explained why he hadn’t left his room some days or why he didn’t take any more cases; he tried hard to solve this personal case just to find out who killed you.

“It was a test, but the outcome…”

“So you mean that it was an accident?” John interrupted, his eyebrows quirked up in confusion.

Sherlock shook his head, pointing at a note on the wall. “Why would someone give me a hint and a location inside a dubious text message, which I needed to decipher? Do you not see it? They wanted me to find Y/N! But…”

“But you think the outcome should’ve been with Y/N being alive… so technically, it was an ‘accident’,” the doctor finished the sentence, the last word ending in a different tone than the rest. John slowly started to understand what Sherlock had tried to imply.

“They tried to draw a reaction from me, but the purpose for what is still left unknown…” the detective voiced his thoughts in a whisper. His eyes scanned over every note he had pinned on the wall but couldn’t find the answer he was looking for. Another rare occurrence that the famous detective Sherlock Holmes was stuck on this case. It frustrated him that the murderer was still out there living their life while yours had been ripped away from you. But for what gain?

Just as John opened his mouth to voice out his current thought on the matter, Sherlock pushed him out and sealed himself inside his bedroom as he did over the past several days. A sigh left the veteran’s lips as he stood locked out from his friend again.

“Just so you know… if you need help or anything, I’m here for you.”

Sherlock heard John step away from the door as the silence filled his space again.

***

No one thought that he would reach this point again—not even Sherlock—as the needle stuck in his skin, injecting himself with any drug he could dig out from a hiding spot inside his bedroom, hidden away from curious gazes.

He needed it for altering his brain to increase his thought process and to numb his emotions that people called pain, but he never thought he would get the outcome of a shadow seen out of the corner of his eyes.

No one should be able to get in except…

The detective faced the window, which was closed along with the curtains that lit up the dim room. When his eyes went to the corner where he saw the shadow before, he was met with your eyes.

“Y/N?” he breathed out, his gaze open wide in shock. “No… it can’t be.”

You smiled at him, not saying anything as you slowly strutted toward him, trying to reach out for his face.

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “You’re dead. You’re dead!” he repeatedly murmured, opening his eyes again to see that you were gone. He scanned his surroundings to see if you were hiding, but no… you weren’t there anymore.

The detective dropped down to his bed, burying his face in his hands.

What just happened? Had his mind tried to comfort him or hurt him more? Was that what people called a breaking point, or was he going insane?

But, in the end, he was human like everyone else, and your death was proof of that as tear after tear streamed down his face.

Solving the case was stored in the back of his mind, his hands shaking as he reached for the syringe again. If he needed the drugs to see you, then so be it. He increased the dosage, hoping it would last longer. A sigh of relief left his lips as the needle pierced his skin.

Now he only needed to wait…

***

Mrs. Hudson was the first to noticed that the detective talked to himself. She dismissed it at first as rambling about something, even thinking that he babbled about an old case, which she wished for instead. But as it happened more often, it sounded like he was talking to someone, and the moment your name was said, the landlady started to worry, thinking the worst. She then called for John to investigate, the two of them hoping he didn’t relapse…

John broke down the bedroom door to find Sherlock lying on his bed surrounded by empty syringes. A gasp was heard from Mrs. Hudson at the state the detective was in from her position beside John.

“Sherlock!” the doctor called and rushed to his friend’s side to check on him.

His face was pale as a sheet, his gaze focused on a random spot, but his lips were surprisingly pulled into a smile like he saw something pleasant, unlike the two of them standing there.

Sherlock saw your ghost grasping his hand.

#sherlock x reader #sherlock #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock bbc #sherlock x you #sherlock x y/n #bbc sherlock #sherlock fanfic #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes angst #sherlock angst #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock imagine #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock holmes fanfiction

[french-vanilla-in-the-clouds]

𝐑𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐲𝐦𝐞

𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Sherlock and Y/N have known each other for years, but the promise of love threatens to jeopardize their friendship. Perhaps a dinner date will ease their worries...

Did somebody say friends to lovers?

────────⊳⋆⊲────────

The rich scent of rosemary and cooking sherry wafted past Y/N's nose as she and Sherlock settled into a restaurant booth. Warm candlelight cast soft shadows against the tapered walls.

It was their first date as a couple, so despite having been friends for years, there was a new expanse of unexplored emotion between them. Everything had changed, and they both could feel the effects of their delicate shift from companions to lovers. Tonight held tight reins upon their future.

The pair sat in comfortable silence for a long while, thinking of what to say. Y/N eyed the waiters traveling with trays of steaming plates. "It smells divine," she sighed, happily. Sherlock slipped off his gloves and smiled. His eyes sparkled with subtle admiration. "Indeed. On the topic of divinity, I must say that you're an absolute vision, tonight."

"You don't need to say things like that."

His eyes traveled up her body and rested on her face. An intense gaze studied her anxious smile. "I find myself in a position to dissent," He said, carefully.

Y/N decided to drop the subject. All night, compliments had been rolling off Sherlock's tongue as delicately as the notes from his compositions. She had never known him to be so vocal in commendation, so found the new change intimidating.

Y/N perused her menu, aware of Sherlock's drawn attention. She could sense the gears in his head turning with every passing moment. She loved him, but feared that if he peered too closely, he would reject her. She worried that his gift of deduction might be the eventual undoing of their relationship.

She peered up and bit her lip.

"Sherlock, you're staring."

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on Y/N's. He leaned over the table, with his hands clasped before his chin. "Yes darling, you're very apt. I am staring. Problem?"

"You're making me uncomfortable. Stop it."

"I'm disinclined to follow through with that. Forgive me love, if perfection guides my eye."

Y/N slid down against her seat, and tensed. She turned away, her chest prickling from nerves. Surely, he was teasing. She wished so badly for Sherlock's approval, and hated the thought of disappointing him. Perhaps they should have stayed friends...

"You're afraid."

She looked up with wide eyes, still frozen in thought. Sherlock smiled back, kindly. He picked up a fork from the table and gave it a twirl, prodding its twines, nonchalantly. "You're afraid," he repeated. "Don't worry. I see your fear only because it's a reflection of my own."

Y/N quirked a brow in question. He lowered the fork, slowly. A perpetual grin tugged at his lips, so unlike the tight frown he wore on cases. "You doubt my affections," Sherlock explained. "Somewhere in the back of your mind, you believe my intentions to be disingenuous, and my scrutiny, stark."

"I don't blame you, really," he continued. "For some time, I felt the same way. I imagined your interest in me would be short-lived and fleeting. It wasn't until I saw you tonight, that I looked beyond my own reservations and found trust in you." He let out a breathy laugh, and his eyes crinkled bashfully. "You have a presence that I can't explain. A softness I don't understand. I fear, I've fallen for you more than I anticipated..." Sherlock coughed lightly to hide his stammer before reaching for a sip of wine.

Y/N's heart warmed at his declaration. All this time, she worried that she wouldn't be enough, not knowing that he shared her anxiety. "It seems to me, you're a detective of great heart as well as brain," she said. "Who would have thought you'd be so sentimental?"

Sherlock made a sound of dissent from behind his wine glass. "I resent that," he sputtered through a laugh. "Though I suppose your words hold a ring of truth. I love you."

The candles seemed to burn brighter in that moment. The earthy scent of restaurant herbs sang, and the city lights gleamed past the window. Y/N noticed all these things when Sherlock leaned over the dining booth and kissed her. She felt the slight tremble of his hand as he caressed her cheek. His lips moved carefully, a subtle hesitance guiding him. Y/N arched forwards, affirming her own affections. Assured by her motion, Sherlock deepened the kiss, smiling against her lips.

He pulled back, sending their wine glasses crashing. He grimaced at the spilled drink and retreated to his end of the booth. "Well," he started breathily. "That was... The kiss, I mean... It was very..."

Y/N studied the heat rising in his cheeks as he wiped a finger across his bottom lip. "It was good," she finished for him. "It was very good."

Sherlock met her eyes and gave her a loopy grin. "Yes. I couldn't have said it better myself." He glanced down at the ruined table and chuckled. "I hope you weren't hungry. By the looks of the waiting staff, I'd say we have about thirty seconds before we're escorted out of here..."

Y/N's eyes flashed towards the servers. One of them was speeding over to their table. Sherlock stood up quickly and held out a hand to her. "May I?" He asked. She accepted the gesture and was whisked up to her feet. Without warning, Sherlock pulled her close and stole another kiss. "I could get used to that," he mused. "But for now... Run!"

Y/N gripped his hand tightly, allowing him to guide her out the door. Restaurant staff cursed behind them, but they had already reached the London pavement outside, laughing as they sped off.

There was nothing holding them back.

────────⊳⋆⊲────────

Maybe read Arraignment?

Heyyyy!!!! Okay, soo I’ll be posting a fic daily this month--- AND I’LL BE POSTING ALL THE REQUESTS, THANKS SO MUCH FOR WAITING!!!! 

*sorry if my grammar is off!!!*

Visit my multi fandom taglist!!!

Tagging my sweets:  @twisted-monster @starryeddie @high-functioning-lokipath @the-chaotic-cow @turkisherlockian @kabubsmagga @aephereal ​ @andthevillainshallrises ​ @baby-bloos ​ @cookiemumster1 ​​ @eternal-silvertongued-prince ​ @bogginsreadings ​  @i-beg-your-pardon-laufeyson ​ @lucywrites02   @danzalladaggers @lumosouls

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

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

[classickook]

let’s have dinner | sherlock holmes

part one | part two

pairing: sherlock holmes x fem!reader

summary: as sherlock’s neighbor and friend, you’ve spent quite a bit of time with the detective and developed feelings for him. unfortunately for you, however, his heart belongs to another. (based off this request by anon.)

warnings: angst, unrequited love, jealous + sad reader, no dialogue

word count: 1.0k

a/n: not sure if i like how this turned out, but i hope it’s as sad and angsty as you wanted, anon!

the familiar moan of sherlock’s text alert sounded again, the lewd exclamation breaking the otherwise silent environment of 221b baker street. it got on your nerves, to say the least. you wished he would just change it already; it was obscene and embarrassing for everyone within hearing range, and, of course, the fact that it was the sound of another woman’s pleasure attached to sherlock’s person at all times felt like a stone had taken permanent residence in the pit of your stomach.

you briefly glanced at the phone screen where it had been carelessly tossed onto the coffee table as sherlock went about some gruesome experiment in the kitchen that had to do with human fingers, of all things. you grimaced at the thought before directing your attention to the woman’s message:

let’s have dinner.

the same message that she always seemed to send to sherlock from what you had heard in passing.

maybe it was a code of sorts, a secret phrase between the pair that only they knew, though you had a sinking feeling that she meant just that: “let’s have dinner.”

she was asking him out to dinner—again.

you were jealous, yes, and you hoped it wasn’t obvious, but it seemed as though nothing escaped the famous consulting detective’s notice. he had never mentioned anything to you about it, however, and for that, you were eternally grateful. you couldn’t stand the idea of him confronting you about your feelings for him.

you were sure he had plenty of eligible candidates just begging for his attention—practically lined up along baker street on most days, actually, each claiming they had potential cases for him only to expose their true intention once they got a foot in the door. of course, most of the crowd possessed similar crushes on the man, though he never gave anyone the time of day. whether he was aware of their sentiments or not, he never took it upon himself to flirt back or request a date with anyone who had shown any interest in him. even molly hooper had been snuffed, poor girl. you knew how much she idolized the man, it was blatantly obvious with how she looked at him and spoke to him, well, everyone aside from sherlock, it seemed. the man was practically blind to love in all its entirety, never taking the time of day for molly or you or who knew who else, that is, until irene adler came into the picture.

you were shelock and john’s neighbor in the flat just above them, frequently visiting the pair if only for something to do. they were certainly the most interesting people you had ever come across, and they always offered you a sense of camaraderie and belonging, something to break up the loneliness of your otherwise dreary life. sure, you couldn’t exactly offer much help in any of their cases, but it was still fun to be included, to be acknowledged and spoken to at the very least.

you had lived a relatively normal, dull, and lonely life. no friends, no family in the area; a boring job with not-so-friendly coworkers. so, to have this little pocket of friendship to look forward to every day was just what you needed. you finally felt like you were part of something bigger than just yourself, like you didn’t have to be cursed to live out your days alone. it was a refreshing change, and you certainly wouldn’t find anyone more thrilling and entertaining than the sherlock holmes. not everyone could say they were neighbors and friends with the famous detective.

maybe you could start up your own blog like john, or write a book about their adventures. surely, someone would be intrigued to learn more about their day-to-day lives. you certainly would be if you weren’t exposed to it on a daily basis. you considered yourself awfully lucky to be in such a position, having a roof over your head and hot meals on the table and friendships to share it all with among the other tenants.

it was nice, really nice—up until sherlock and irene became acquainted with one another. once she came into the picture, it was like you no longer existed, like your presence over the past year while living at 221b baker street was merely a figment of your imagination.

you didn’t blame sherlock for falling for the woman with all the secrets, not in the least. she was alluring and intelligent, fiercely confident and stunning in an almost otherworldly fashion; anyone would be crazy not fall for her, so you understood—truly, you did—but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

one morning, you dropped by sherlock’s flat only to find irene seated on the arm of his chair, one lithe arm draped across his shoulders as the other traced patterns along his chest, fingers toying with the buttons of his deep purple shirt—your favorite one, actually.

your footsteps faltered as you crossed the threshold, breath caught in your throat and jealousy festering in your stomach like a disease upon seeing the pair so comfortable, so intimate with each other in a way that you would never have with him.

honestly, you had never really imagined sherlock would ever be in that sort of relationship with another, always claiming that he was far too busy with cases—“married to his work,” he had said—for something as distracting as an intimate relationship. but it seemed he had finally found ‘the one,’ and she wasn’t you and would never be you.

god, you felt so stupid. why did you ever think the famous sherlock holmes would like you of all people. you were a nobody, you didn’t matter, not like irene adler did.

it all made sense that they would end up together, after all, the pair possessed similar levels of intellect—always challenging each other and eliciting a spark of interest, like a game of sorts—of which you clearly lacked and oftentimes found yourself out of the loop when sherlock quickly jumped from one thought to the next, expecting both you and john to catch up.

you envied them, plain and simple. you envied something you could never have with the one person who would never be yours.

so, you did what any logical girl caught in a one-sided tragedy would do: you swallowed down your disappointment, turned around, and made your way back up the stairs to the cold emptiness of your flat.

maybe you weren’t cut out for this whole love thing anyway.

#bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock fic #bbc sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes fic #sherlock holmes fanfic #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes x y/n #sherlock angst #sherlock fic #sherlock fanfic #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock x reader #sherlock x you #sherlock x y/n #requested

[beneathashadytree]

hi! i saw that your requests were open and i was wondering if you’d write a yuumori piece?

i’m thinking either for william and/or sherlock where it takes place after the 3 years skip and they come back to find that their wife has a baby/toddler and has gotten really close with their brother. They think that she moved on from them and married their brother and had a kid with him and get all huffy and jealous and sad. And it doesn’t help that the kid looks exactly like their brother (and them too but they’re too sad/grieving for their marriage to notice)

what ACTUALLY happened was that Y/N found out she was pregnant after they had “died” and louis/mycroft decided to act as a makeshift father and “husband figure” for Y/N and the baby (though everything is strictly platonic between louis/mycroft and Y/N) cause living as a single mom back then would’ve been hard and they also want to be there for their niece/nephew. and Y/N always told their kid stories and stuff about their real father and it’s just some real sad angst turned into sweet family reunion fluff? thanks! ❤️

REUNITED - SHERLOCK HOLMES X READER

Warnings : this is set after the timeskip, Sherlock is kind of an asshole at certain points, accusations of infidelity, this is not proofread as usual, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns!

Genre : heavy angst to fluff whewww

Word count : 2.2K words (not sorry)

Additional notes : I really don’t know where to start. I’m so sorry it took me a ridiculously long time to get to this, but as soon as I finished my finals, I contracted COVID 🥹 Actually I’m still sick as we speak, but hopefully this wasn’t too effed up🫠 Thank you for requesting, and I hope you enjoy this, because I absolutely adored writing it!

Requests : Are open! Check the rules over here.

Want to support me financially? Here’s my CashApp!

Masterlist

Sherlock Holmes was a million things. Stubborn, obstinate, headstrong, and absolutely bullheaded? Certainly. Inquisitive, deeply thinking, and brimming with a curiosity that could never be sated? Definitely. Ultimately kind-hearted at times, rather drawn to souls with soft corners to their jagged personalities, and unconditionally loving when he allowed himself the luxury of affection? Unquestionably.

He was all those things and more, and he thought he knew himself pretty damn well—but he certainly hadn’t expected to think himself a fool. At times foolish; yes, but not a blundering idiot that misplaced his trust in others. Never that. But then again, what else would he call himself, with the sight that stood in front of him?

Unless his eyesight had turned drastically poor and he wasn’t seeing things right, there was his wife, seated next to the head of the table, looking so sweet that it sent his heart barreling in his chest. Any blooming adoration was dampened, however, by the fact that she’d left her dinner plate to coo at a little child at her side, napkin dabbing at the squirming toddler’s chin, and the fact that the seat at the head of the table was occupied by none other than Mycroft, who’d sported a few more lines to his face than he’d last recalled he had.

It took them mere seconds to notice his presence, and for the sound of utensils clanging as they dropped to register amidst the pang of betrayal and utter heartbreak that resounded in him.

“Sherly?” came her quivering voice, disbelief tinging the nickname that had once brought immeasurable joy into his life, and now only left a sour taste in his mouth. He couldn’t bear to meet her eyes, instead swiveling his head around and watching his older brother, whose shocked expression mirrored hers.

Instead of addressing any obvious elephant in the room, all Mycroft asked was, “How’d you get in?” to which Sherlock pulled out a key from his back pocket.

“Not quite diligent of you, brother, leaving the key under the potted plant by the windowsill,” try as he might, he couldn’t fight the bitterness out of his voice, and all he could do was attempt to look at anything else but the apparently happy couple that had hurriedly stood up, abandoning their half-eaten red flannel hash and peas.

A rather horrible decision, really, since his eyes landed on the toddler who’d currently cocked his head curiously at the stranger he was. And the first sickening thought that entered his mind was how utterly identical the little kid was to his older brother. The same narrow dark eyes, the same tousled bluish hair, and even the same finely drawn lips—there was no doubt remaining in Sherlock’s mind that this child was his nephew.

A chuckle came from behind him, “First time seeing your brother in three years after you were presumed dead, and the first words out of your mouth are an admonition? You’ve certainly grown up.”

“Yes, well, I hope my arrival hasn’t put a damper on your lovely date night,” came his curt reply, though he tried to force a half-smile on his face afterwards as a sort of compensation, “I see you’ve been faring well,” the man turned to briefly face his lover—well, ex-lover now he supposed, “The both of you. And the little boy. Certainly hadn’t thought I’d be made an uncle so young.”

It was all Sherlock could do to prevent himself from clawing at his chest, the sharp pain climbing up his throat and stinging every nerve he had, urging him to burst into horrible, absolutely ugly tears that he was currently just barely holding back. He had to feign at least some dignity and nonchalance.

At that, the woman he’d once thought he knew furrowed her eyebrows.

“Uncle? Sherly—“

“Please, Mrs. Holmes,” his voice held a certain finality as he held his hand up, and he somehow managed to swallow past the lump in his throat, “I would rather not have this conversation in front of him. Or at all, for that matter.”

And though every part of him begged to clutch at her arms and swoop her into his, the ebony-haired man turned to look the other way despite her slightly-hurt look, leaving her to gently speak to the confused-looking child in a low voice and pick him up as she walked off into another room. He refused to even think of sneaking a look at her fingers and wondering if the ring Mycroft must’ve bought her was any better than the one he’d barely managed to save up for.

Mycroft. Of course it had to be Mycroft, he bitterly thought to himself, as said man stiffly guided him to the sitting room, Mycroft whom he’d never managed to and never will best. Mycroft, with his much tidier hair, deeper set eyes, calmer visage, and regal features. Mycroft, with his unmatched maturity that somehow fit perfectly with his occasional smiles that he’d always trusted in. Mycroft, with his massive build and unwavering loyalty that his own apparent-fickleness could never compare to. Mycroft, who’d always (unknowingly) charmed ladies and gentlemen alike at the times he himself could only ever strike annoyance in others.

Mycroft, who’d always been so prim and promer—of course he’d never measure up to him. He’d never quite been enough; he really should’ve known better than to trust the insurmountable love that had blinded him—

“Sherlock, I think there’s been a… misunderstanding of sorts.”

“Rather charming child he is, isn’t he?” the faux cheer in his voice as he interrupted his older brother couldn’t fool anyone as he studied the baby pictures on the fireplace, “Your son takes after you quite a bit.”

Mycroft sighed, crossing his legs, “It really isn’t that—“

“Better hope he’d have a bit more loyalty and faithfulness than his father, though,” he hummed, though the look on his face could only be described as utterly miserable, “Never quite liked chaps who were too full of themselves and went and backstabbed their friends and families.”

“Oh, honestly,” exasperation seeped through the man’s words as he attempted to get a word in edgewise, “Pull your head out of your dramatic arse and listen to me.”

If not for anything else, Sherlock was stunned into silence by the older man’s uncharacteristic foul language. Sharp eyes found his, and though the bitterness still clutched at his heart and heartbreak still clouded his vision, he clenched his fists as he could only see earnestness in his eyes.

“He’s yours,” Mycroft slowly said, letting the words sink in, “You’re the father.”

Silence enveloped them, and the air was thick with an inexplicable sort of tension. No words were spoken, as Sherlock’s face turned expressionless as the gears in his head set to work.

“That’s not possible,” he scoffed, his tone snarky, “She wasn’t pregnant before… before it happened.”

“That’s what we thought, didn’t we?” a soft sigh came from behind him, and he whipped around to see the woman he’d once embraced so hard he’d had no idea where he ended and she began, standing at the doorway with her arms folded, “Barely a month after you disappeared, I went to see a doctor for my repeated dizzy spells, only to have him confirm that I was with child. Just two months along.”

With careful strides, she took a seat by the fireplace, regarding the way Sherlock’s features began to contort into a look of offended fury.

“So, you decided to just go ahead and court my wife because I was presumed dead?” he rolled his eyes, once again turning away from the familiar gentle face that stirred up all the memories of nightly embraces and warm words whispered, “Ex-wife, it seems. Have you been comfortable playing the role of doting husband and father, Mycroft?”

“You know damn well he’d never do that, Sherlock,” she finally snapped, quickly making her way over to his side and cornering him on the couch, arms resting at both sides of his head, “Mycroft saved us from a world of misery. He protected both my reputation as a widow, and our son’s happiness. So he could grow up surrounded by the sort of love only a father figure could give.”

“I’m not quite sure you’ve noticed, but that’s the definition of playing father and husband,” Sherlock’s eyes were burning, and he knew that the cause wasn’t just the anger bubbling inside of him, but the tears that he held back, “With the actual father and first husband gone, he’d finally step in.”

“What did you expect me to do, leave them out on the streets so that the ‘Ton could dig into their flesh?” Mycroft’s interruption was scathing, but not untrue, and his harsh scowl let up as he spoke again, “I made it clear to him from the start that I was a concerned uncle, nothing more, nothing less. I wanted to be there for my nephew.”

“And I’d never let a day pass without telling him about how wonderful and brilliant his papa was—is,” she corrected herself, a sad look settling in her eyes as she did, “Even when I was all alone in bed with nothing to keep me company but the baby’s kicks against my belly, I spoke to him and told him of how lucky I’d been to have found you,” she paused, swallowing thickly, and he could feel his heart thudding in his chest at the sight of her looking so beautiful and yet so heartbreakingly distraught, “How sorry I was that he’d probably never get the chance to meet the incredible man you are.”

“Sherly,” his brother’s voice was soft once again, and the gentleness in it had him nearly gasping for breath, trying to blink back his tears as he met his eyes, “I would’ve never forgiven myself if I’d left them to fend for their own. I owed that much to you.”

Harshly gulping, Sherlock unclenched his fists, knuckles a little sore, “And… there’s nothing going on between the two of you?”

Fervently shaking her head, the woman he thought to be the most wondrous in the world cupped his cheeks in hers. Under any other circumstances, perhaps he’d have felt embarrassed of such a display of affection in front of Mycroft, but he currently could only let himself lean into the touch he’d gone three achingly long years without.

“Never had, and never will,” she firmly replied, “I was too busy mourning to ever think of anyone else. I knew I’d only ever have eyes for you, come what may.”

“I’ve never laid eyes upon her in a way a brother wouldn’t,” Mycroft insisted, driving the point home clear, his large, calloused hand resting on his younger brother’s shoulder reassuringly, “And we’ve slept in entirely different wings the whole time.”

“B-but, he looks so much like you,” Sherlock weakly protested, looking up at the man whose expression seemed annoyed at the remark.

“How you could be so bright and yet so painstakingly thick at the same time is beyond me,” he muttered under his breath, walking away as he said something about this being outside his area of expertise, at the same time his beloved chuckled lightly, her laugh fanning the flames that were being rekindled in his heart—or rather, the ones that had never died.

With her dazzling smile, her fingers brushed his cheeks, which he only now realized had grown damp, and her voice was filled with amusement as her eyes brimmed with a fondness he’d so desperately missed.

“Silly,” she breathed out, “I think you’ve forgotten how uncannily similar you and Mycroft always had looked, especially as kids.”

Sniffling, Sherlock tried his best to weakly make a joke, “Not exactly the most reassuring thing to say.”

“Why not?” she looked genuinely confused as she delicately wiped his falling tears away; the tears he could no longer be bothered to hold back when the emotional turmoil had gotten the best of him and tugged forth every feeling he’d tried to silence.

With a watery half-laugh, he explained, “Well, what if you found him just as dashing?”

“You’re not the sharpest tool in the shed, now, are you?” still cradling his warm skin like one would to an invaluable treasure, she hesitated for a second before lowering herself onto his lap, the new proximity causing Sherlock’s breath to hitch in his throat like a teenager’s would.

Arching his brow (despite knowing he looked anything but intimidating at the moment), he quipped, “Twice in a row I’ve had my intelligence insulted.”

“Well, only an idiot would think I’d ever think of comparing the man who has me so smitten with anyone else,” her hands slowly traced down a path to the back of his neck, hooking around the corded muscle, and he could see his longing and lovesick reflection in her eyes, “No matter how alike you might look, I’ll always see the world of a difference between you and him.”

He cautiously leaned in, hope bursting at the seams under his skin; hope that all was in fact not lost, hope that he could still grasp her between his fingers and not have her slip away. “A good difference, I’d wager?”

And now that they were so close he could retrace every single dot and line he’d almost but not quite forgotten, he could see the glint of gold deep down her neckline; the metallic hue of the wedding ring he’d labored so hard to afford hooked on a thin chain around their neck and hidden underneath her clothes.

If she saw the tears dripping down his face, she made no comment on it, instead murmuring against his lips, “The best kind.”

Taglist: @sherlockscumslut @lilias-highlights @thispersoniscrazy

#imagine #oneshot #fluff #anime #domestic #angst #angst to fluff #sherlock holmes #sherlock #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes oneshot #sherlock oneshot #sherlock holmes fluff #sherlock holmes angst #sherlock fluff #sherlock angst #yuukoku no moriarty #moriarty the patriot #ynm #ynm sherlock #yuukoku no moriarty sherlock #moriarty the patriot sherlock #ynm sherlock holmes #yuukoku no moriarty sherlock holmes #moriarty the patriot sherlock holmes #mycroft holmes #mycroft #ynm mycroft

[futureplayboibunnie]

‘Angel’

Sherlock x fem!reader

-tehehehe. this one has been sitting in my drafts for ages but i know how thirsty y’all are for more smutty sherlock fics so here u goooo. this one is a lil angsty too. you know the drill. enjoyyy xx

You didn't want to stroke Sherlock's ego to admit you felt special- so you simply didn't. For a reason still unattained, he'd continue his openly obnoxious hubris and unexplainable nature by asking you to travel away with him. Sherlock was insistent it was for a case, he needed your inexplicable prowess when it comes to interacting with other humans- something he hadn't really learned to get down pat yet, he disguised it as needing another detective on the case but it did raise your eyebrow when John wasn't the first person he came to.

Did that make you special in his eyes too?

You didn't know. You didn't care. It was difficult to differentiate.

Now you were in a hotel room with Sherlock fucking Holmes, expensive and paid for with Mycroft's blood money. At least the room had two beds but it was connected through a shared kitchenette, so you'd have to interact with him in such a comfortable state eventually. The case was closed, this was the last night you had here with him and you didn't like that it went by quickly, too quickly. Time slipped through your fingers like grains of sand seeping like tears during a breakdown. You were panicking and you hated yourself for it, you were just like Sherlock Holmes in the way that you never let anyone get close.

But he was.

And you didn't like it.

Sherlock utlised this time he spent with you to find out who you really were, to understand how it was so difficult to pry any information out of you - there were some fairly easy things to spot when he conducted his initial deduction of you, assessing the equation of you in his analytic mind. You were isolated. Intelligent when you wanted to be. Bold. A risk taker. Expressionless. Good at retaining a blank face. Awful in relationships. Attractive. Strangely magentic. He didn't like not understanding why he was drawn to someone in a way, was it because he felt as if you were akin to him? Leading the same life of risk taking in order to absolve the…loneliness?

It irked him.

Who were you? It felt like he was looking for something else under this hard shell you had.

It was cloudy grey, dark, aphotic. Crepuscular in the rayless shared space of the kitchen. You shouldn't be awake, not this late- but if you went to bed then it would be tomorrow...the day of your departure. Not being able to find another opportunity to be this close to him, ever. It would be too long winded to go about understanding why you felt this strange swelling bloom inside your body when you thought of Sherlock but all you knew is that you felt miffed by it. You didn't want to feel any type of way torwards him. Was satiating your need to be cured of this ailment for better or for worse? Staring out into this hell casted abyss, you just pondered upon these thoughts that plagued your head- amplified only by these last few days you spent with him. You sat at the dining table, trying to bridle the inane nature of your conviction. Attempting to sleep was out of the question, your last endeavour proved to be fruitfuless.

Is this what feeling...helpless feels like?

Sherlock noticed that he didn't hear those fated footsteps to your room, it's because you weren't even in bed- you were wilting alone, sitting at the dining table moping.

He was just like you though, wondering how to drag this out...make you stay so he could work you out. He hadn't gotten anywhere, you needed to give him a little bit of direction, some oversight- you were impossible to solve. Probably blinded by his own unwillingness to get to the heart of it all: he had to remember he didn't have one.

He wandered out of his room, padding aimlessly to find you; he didn't even get changed out of his own clothes, he just discarded of his blazer jacket.

Sherlock observed you as he entered your air, cool breezy blue thinning at the sight of you all but illuminated by the pale moonlight hitting every single picturesque feature. He knew that beauty was merely a construct created by childhood impressions and representations but you were undeniably entreating, tempting, engaging. You were right in front of his eyes, too real to be considered a measly construct. So incredible in your stance. He was in boundless awe of you, his face would never express it though.

Sherlock gazed at you as he went to get a glass of water from the sink, an excuse to be out here talking to you; but Lord was he entranced by your body, your skin. You had never showed it off so freely before, you worse a short silk nightdress with thin straps that kept falling off of your shoulders; you insessantly kept dragging them back up and he had to surpress the urge to just keep the straps down...or better yet just peel the annoying fabric off of you. He had to shake his head of the laviscious thoughts swirling, it was crowding his brain and he had to be free of it.

‘’Last night here.’’ You stated impassively, unsure of why you were running your mouth to the man that filters others words like it was second instinct.

‘’I doubt you've missed London already.’’ Sherlock replied, a slight judgement in his cadence.

‘’No.’’ You swivelled your head to look him in the eye, voice low and face hard.

All you could see was Sherlock, so confident it was a natural prospect- standing there hollowed eyed as he rolled up the sleeves to his button down, you don't think you'd ever seen him do that before. Get himself messy. Your gaze was brutal yet expressionless, it was an impossible combination and he was too preoccupied to get into it now. For once, Sherlock didn't know what to say. The silence in the room was fattening up with every moment that passed.

‘’Why am I here Sherlock?’’ You asked him sincerely, inquisitively, eyes slightly tensing with every word.

He took a beat before he responded. ‘’Because I don't who you are. And I'm no where near close to figuring it out.’’

‘’You can't see what's right in front of you?’’ You tilted your head.

‘’No. I can't. Give faith to me.’’ Sherlock's eyes daren't waver from yours as he implored you to make him understand.

You paused for a moment, hoping your mouth, brain and heart will all catch up but they never did. Severely fucked didn't cover the half of it.

‘’What do you think of me now?’’ You asked softly, breath warm and frigid. You looked candid and earnest and Sherlock didn't know how to start on this impossible question.

How could he? He stood stoic as he stilled at your interrogation.

Sherlock watched your lips part as you tried to suck your exhales back in, your mouth was distracting him- losing focus with every millisecond and he felt his inhibitions leave him like the fast colours of the wind.

‘’I think you being here in front of me right now makes me feel destitute and defenseless.’’

‘’Good.’’ You stated simply, covertly proud of yourself- denying him the privilege of seeing you surprised, you didn't want to be predictable like everyone else.

‘’Good?’’ Sherlock was taken aback by your response. You thought it was a good thing to get him all teeming? He was practically losing his mind over you and you thought it was good?

It wasn't. His mind was his sanctuary, his palace, his temple and you were wrecking his entire worldview. Sherlock was irritated by your carefree exchange, your sheer untroubled attitude provoked him and part of his consciousness was begging to grab you and fuck you over the table to never even think of dismissing him like that again.

‘’You're delicate Sherlock, don't let me be the one to break you. Especially when we've only got one night left here. It's not worth it….is it?’’ Your voice was like velvet, smooth and slow like honey.

Sherlock creased his brow as you looked down upon him once more, he detested it and he felt his insides jump and churn at your disposition.

Sherlock? Breakable? Absolutely not. He wanted to show you, feel your skin and feel you shatter beneath him. Is it worth it? It'll end badly but he was too drunk off of you to jump into the events of the future and it's consequences. You were worth it. Yes. You were.

After letting the words settle into the air for a while, you got up with a sharp exhale and started trodding off back into your room. ‘’Goodnight.’’ You mumbled as you brushed passed him but Sherlock couldn't let you leave. He caught onto your arm with heavy lidded eyes and watched your face harden into a motionless blank, you gasped as he tugged you flush into him and to your surprise you let him. Shamelessly.

‘’It is. It is worth it. I haven't figured you out yet and I will. But for now, all I know is that you're a siren, hellbent on trying to disarm me and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to take you. Right here. Right now.’’ Sherlock grunted as he leaned into your ear, his intonation alone sent a shiver through you and it echoed through your insides.

He was gruffer than you initially thought. Eyes bottomless and dim, a pit you could find yourself getting lost in over and over again. But this was the last night.

‘’Sherlock, I'm afraid you might be…shatterable and I don't want to be soft.’’ You warned him with a deviant look on your face.

He wanted to see what it looked like when he made you feel so good you drew blood from his back.

Sherlock had never had anyone questioning his durability before- it was… refreshing. A unique change of pace. His fingers danced on the outskirts of your neck as they slowly threaded through your hair, you let out a shaky breath as he cradled your head- his grasp tight.

‘’I never am.’’ He muttered as he captured your lips with his.

Kissing him was just brutal and magical, a brawl between mouths and the break of the bubbling tension that seemed to go on forever. He tasted...untouched. You felt so damn special, and only now you were willing to admit it. Sherlock's tongue delved into your mouth, exploring, seeking, probing for an inch- to step further into your psyche by feeling you physically. A million questions fell through his mind.

What the fuck was he thinking?

Why does it feel so wrong?

But feel so damn good?

Who were you?

Why were you making him feel so helpless?

So fucking beautiful...so fucking bewitching. It'll be his inevitable undoing. The cause of his violent destruction. You bit his lip and tugged it back before breathing out, thoughts running rampant at the speed of sound as his hold didn't loosen.

‘’Tell me you want me and I'll get on my knees for you. I just need to hear you say it.’’ Your eyes were glistening and dark, wicked and unforgiving- timeless and imploring him to say what you needed to hear, you didn't care if it was real or not.

All he did was just stare at you vacantly...yet intently. Thumb travelling to the smooth skin of your cheek and lower lip, brushing the magic that danced on your lips away in the process, making this dream all too real.

‘’Baby, you don't have to do that. You’ll get a taste of how much I want you. ’’ Sherlock cooed sincerely, face dipping to the column on your neck and your jaw, peppering soft kisses as a means of reassurance. Part of him wanted to make such slow sweet love to you, in a way a normal, banal, disgusting couple would do but you were so eager and ready to go- you didn't want him to be soft.

‘’Let me just feel you. I want to feel you. I think I've been torturing myself over it. Please.’’

You stared at him momentarily before your mouth devoured his again, your fingers carding through the tufts of soft black curls as tongues twisted together beautifully.

Sherlock started walking you to the dining table again, grabbing you by the waist and sitting you down on it as he stood inbetween your legs. You were almost embarrassed by the way you were pulsating and soaked already. Sherlock's curious and insatiable hands travelled the expanse of your back, smoothing out the silk that covered you and teased the straps of the babydoll too. He liked you in silk, it flattered you perfectly.

Sherlock's free hand outlined and palmed at your thighs, they were soft in the areas he didn't leave goosebumps- he smirked into your kiss at the idea he affected you so. You grasped his head so he could nip and suck at the high point of your tits, near your heart.

‘’I think I fancy you.’’ You breathed, tongue flinging out words you wouldn't be able to take back, already salivating at the prospect that he wants to fuck you.

The whole idea made Sherlock stop in his tracks, the sentence was jarring and so comforting- he somehow thought it was all in his head but you saying those words brought him to a halt. Oh, darling. If only you knew how bad you would both be for each other. Two entirely closed off people, so emotionally distant and incapable of being in a relationship. To provide further evidence, the first thing he caught about you was that every single relationship you had you would always be bad at it.

‘’Don't drool.’’ He demanded coldly, completely ignoring your admission of honesty. He'll deal with it later even though it commanded his emotions in the present.

Sherlock peeled the fabric off of you, pleased to find your bare and naked body beneath it. You perched yourself back as you watched him fawn over you, his large hands palming at your tits and travelling to the dip of your waist. He perked up to your incessant squirming when his head bent down and dipped to your heat, Lord you smelled so inviting.

You tried to bite back the moans he illicited out of you when he started kissing your skin, he was so close in the area you needed him to be but he was obviously enjoying drawing it out for you- almost as if he didn't want it to end. When his lithe muscle finally reached home, you were sure you saw stars as he ate you out like a man starved of a meal. Like a lion at any form of meat. He loved the way your back arched and the way you tugged onto his hair that much harder.

‘’Sherlock…You...I- I've wanted you so bad, it's clouded my clear thinking.’’ You admitted in a fucked out haze, his tongue making you feel so good it made you delve into all of your dirty secrets of him. You were afraid that you would admit that the night previous you fucked yourself with your fingers playing make pretend that it was him. Now it was really happening.

Sherlock stopped his ministrations and peered up at you, his lips glazed with your wetness, those blue eyes a light cast in the darkness. He was rather excited and that was apparent by the way his lips found yours again.

‘’You taste. So. Fucking. Sweet.’’ He grunted between rough kisses, so hard on your soft flesh you were sure he would draw blood if he would be so careless.

The idea piqued at you. Sherlock...careless. One day that'll happen. And you'll be right there when it does.

You tasted yourself off his tongue and you hated that he was right, all of these flavours coming together to form a patterned myraid. Sherlock swallowed your moans, those lewd noises he could never be able to phase or drown out, his need for you amplified tenfold.

He pushed you back down roughly before unzipping his pants and tugging his impossibly hard cock, you waited in expressionless awe your mouth open agape like a fool as you waited for him to just fuck the melancholy and mopiness out of you. Sherlock gazed at you intently, fixed on every jerk your body made when he stroked himself at the sight of you- his teeth sunk into his bottom lip when his brows furrowed.

He aligned himself with your glistening pussy with a kiss between the valley of your tits to your collarbone, you lifted his head up so you could take him in through all of his glory and when he pushed himself in you...it was as if it was only you and him left in the world.

It felt delectable. The push and pull. The strain. The delayed gratification. He slid in and out of you so easily, your bodies merging together as one as he set a brutal pace that only a person with a libido like him could create. You couldn't help but gawk up at him dumbly, what could you say? He got you all bendy and incoherent. All inarticulate and tongue tied.

‘’What is it baby? Can't think properly already?’’ Sherlock scrutinised but you couldn't care less- all you could think about was his constant pet names. He called you baby twice now, it made an unfamiliar feeling swell in your chest. You bit his lip again at his insult.

‘’Don't be so righteous. You can't figure me out, remember?’’You flirted and you were pleased to find that you caught him out.

‘’How proper of you.’’ He said gruffly, obviously annoyed that he still had to solve this puzzle of you, like a never ending equation that just couldn't be ammended. You felt your brain turn into mush and your body whirr as he just kept up his never ending torture: so fast, so good, so painful...perfect. Stretching you out entirely to accomodate his massive size, but he got you so wet it was an ease. Sherlock sensed the thrumming of your heart, it's pace kicking into a noticeable overdrive as sweat dripped down your body and pants encompassed the dim room. You were feeling shameful at the idea that he could make you cum this quickly and at this point you were sure anything else could set you off

You were proven to be right.

‘’Angel...’’ Sherlock cooed at you and the use of another pet name made you spiral into an endless pit of oblivion.

Your scream caught in your throat, so you let out a strangled cry for mercy instead as you came undone around him. Lungs caving as you gushed whatever energy you had left onto him, hands clawing at his back to make him realise the fate he set within you.

You came so hard around him Sherlock was struggling to fuck you through your orgasm; Christ, how long have you went without a fuck? How long has it been since you actually came? He didn't have it in him to figure out the logistics, all he was concerned with was how he felt the coil within him break. Sherlock let out a gutteral groan as he finished inside of you, completely and utterly spent and tweaked by how tired you got him; he pulled out of you and rolled himself off of you to lie beside you. Breathing heavy and laboured, like you'd just ran a marathon.

‘’Is this the part where we forget this ever happened?’’ You questioned him in an all too serious tone that Sherlock didn't like.

‘’Is that what you think?’’

‘’Am I an experiment, Sherlock?’’ You asked with no sense of humour playing at your words, not annoyed either just rational.

Sherlock stayed in a moment of brief silence, scared of not being able to say the right thing for once. He never really cared about it…until now.

‘’Answer the question.’’ Your tone was flatlined.

‘’No.’’ He stated plainly.

‘’I think I'm falling in love with you.’’

Sherlock was dumbfounded, he turned his head so he could stare at you after you said those words you would never be able to take back. You were falling for him? As he was for you? Blinded by nothing but cold relations to see that the warmth was right here all along...he frowned. He was afraid that he would disappoint you like all of the other relationships you had been in, he detested the idea of being banded in that same category. He was better. He wanted to be better. For you. You deserved to feel wanted. Was that worth his sanity though? Sherlock swivelled and grabbed your face to make you look him in the eyes, he stroked your cheek as a form of tenderness. Your eyes were guileless and the reaction you drew out of him was pitiful.

‘’You're so...inconceivable. When I look at you, I see heaven incarnate and I don't think I'm going to be able to live up to your expectations.’’ Sherlock said under his breath, thumb grazing your lips as he stared at them parting.

‘’I think you’ve finally figured me out.’’

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

[stupidthoughtsinwriting]

Spiraling (Sherlock Holmes)

Hi, this is just a thought I've concocted. I honestly dont know what it is. I dont know if anybody will enjoy it, i hope they do but i already expect disappointment. Pardon my writing as i am still new to this. there was still a bit left after this but i didnt know how to run through it so just posted this but maybe ill finish that one once ive thought it through

Summary: After an accident during a case, a hostage situation leaves you in a coma for a week. During that week in the hospital, things are going horribly in Baker Street

‘Ohh Sherlock darling that’s beautiful, though I haven’t heard it before. Dare I ask who wrote that’ I asked Sherlock as he played the unfamiliar song. It was odd that I was unfamiliar with the beautiful tune as Sherlock has played plenty and more melodies than I can count, all of which I was familiar with, however that was new. I knew that he likes to compose as it helps him think but this was different, so I assumed was he’s playing another great’s piece. His melodies were always a bit solemn, deep and intense but this was lively, light and dare I say romantic.

‘Me’ he said flatly as he continued to play. Shocked as I was, I remained quiet as he carried on fiddling with his violin. Apparently, the shock was evident in my face as a smirked crossed his. I shrugged it off and listened until he finished the number. He was focused on the violin when he started to play but now his gaze was held on me. I gave him a soft smile which caused his features to soften into a smile of its own.

After a little while he finished and set the instrument on his chair, eyes still fixed on me. The grin I’ve plastered on grew wider as he walks over to me, hand in offering. I accepted and rose from my seat as he led the way to an open area. He moved to face me, a hand that belonged to him crept up to my waist and the hand he held in his was raised. Confused of his actions, I went along with it and raised my free arm to his shoulder, having an inkling where this was going. Guessing correctly, we moved around the living area, dancing as much we could in the small, confined space. Having known the dance as the same one done at John’s wedding; I was pleased to not have forgotten the steps.

As we continued waltzing, I asked ‘what has you all cheery?’

‘What has you so inquisitive’ he countered

‘Fair enough, though what had transpired to get you to write such a beautiful melody’

‘Nothing just got bored, so I composed. I was just very fortunate enough to have a great model and inspiration.’ He smiled as I beamed at the realization of what he meant. I was sat all day reading -a rather fascinating book might I add- on John’s chair as the boys finished up on a case. He’d come in around just after noon, bored of having been done with the previous case and not being on one currently. I greeted him when he walked in and went to the kitchen to fix up some tea. When I returned, giving one of the two mugs to him -a kiss on the head as a thank you-, I returned to finishing my book.  

We continued dancing around the flat for a little while, nothing but the silent music and the rustling of our feet was heard. I laid my head on his shoulder at some point, happy and content of where I was and what I was doing. His voice broke the silence as we went for one last round.

‘Darling, can you do me a favour?’ he asked, voice a bit changed from the one he used earlier but I thought nothing of it.

‘Sure love, what is it?’

‘Wake up. Don’t leave me. Please come back to me’ His voice was now pleading and serious.

I raised my head as I said ‘What are you talking about, I’m right…’ I paused as his body and hold were loosening and disappearing ‘…here’ I continued with my sentence as I raised my hands to hold Sherlocks face. Everything had started to disappear in black. The flat and slowly his body.  

‘Please come back, I can’t lose you, I need you please’ were his final words as he disappeared, slipping through my fingers, into the darkness. Nothing but a spotlight overhead of me. I put down my hands from where they were clutching on to his face, looking around into nothing but darkness.

…

‘Ey, how’s she doing?’ Greg asked John as he walked into the hospital room. It was quiet, nothing but the steady beeping of the heart monitor, breathing of the people in the room and the rain pattering on the window. John was sat at the chair at the end of the bed where you laid, nearly dozing off but was aroused by Lestrade breaking the silence of the room. Mycroft, unnoticed yet by the DI was stood at the dark corner beside the door. He was staring at your unmoving body, wondering how such a fierce, smart, brave and strong woman could ever lay looking so fragile.

‘Same as yesterday’ John replied with a yawn. The lot of them have been juggling staying here with you, looking after Sherlock and taking care of Rosie. John and Molly’s focus were taking care of Rosie, while Mrs. Hudson looked after Sherlock somewhat. She’d inform their little group of what’s been happening with him, keeping tabs of his activities and mayhem in the flat but the woman could only do so much. Greg checked up on him from time to time, more often than John and Molly but it was no use. What greeted them was a mess that was once the great Detective Sherlock Holmes. No one could get through to him but you. Even Mycroft tried, but he knew that what his brother needed, and the lack of it resulted into relapsing back to old habits.

John went straight here after Molly came to take care of Rosie. He was absolutely knackered. Rosie couldn’t sleep through the night which kept him up as well. He’s been living off of pots of coffee the past week with barely enough sleep. He’d nod off at times when it was his watch and the others would let him.

Mycroft came to check on you from time to time and occasionally kept watch of you as well. He knew that when you woke up and found him fully rested, not having bothered with helping the others, you’d have his head.

Now it seems the boys are all here at once. Greg came to relieve John of his duties to get some rest and inform him of the situation with the younger of the Holmes brothers, still unaware that the older was in the room.

‘Just got a message from Mrs. Hudson about our boy, it isn’t good.’ Greg announces, drawing Mycroft to rub his temples and John to release a sigh. Ever since the accident, Sherlock has only visited you once. The lot of em guessed he couldn’t bear to see you that way so for the past week, he’s been holed up in Baker Street.

‘Christ, what the bloody hell has he done now’ John said exasperated. He was exhausted. Before Greg could respond, another did.

‘You wouldn’t want to know’ Mycroft breathed out. Lestrade’s head snaped to the corner of the room, where the voice originated. Mycroft walked to the centre of the room, down the foot of your bed. Greg’s eyes followed, still startled by the unseen fellow.

‘What are you doing here’ he asked Holmes.

‘I could ask you the same thing’ the eldest Holmes retorted.

‘It’s my shift with y/n’

‘Well there’s no need, you lot look like rubbish’

‘Gee Myc, thanks’ John interrupted.

‘As I was saying,’ he continued, glaring at Watson ‘You lot should get some rest. If y/n finds you’ve been staying here with her, tired and looking like rubbish, she’d have my head.’

‘She’d already be livid by us just not leaving her alone’ John chuckled

‘Ohh wait till she sees Sherlock, she’d be in flames carving us up’ Lestrade groaned with a snicker, rubbing his head at the thought.

‘She already is’ said an unknown voice. A voice they were familiar with but haven’t heard in a while.

All three heads snapped towards the bed. There they found a woman shifting in the bed, trying to sit up, groaning as a pang of pain shot up her shoulder and stomach. Her eye’s fluttering, adjusting to the light and scene in front of her. John quickly stood up from where he was sat as all three men went to check on y/n.

‘Call the nurses and her doctor’ John ordered to anyone in the room, mainly the two lads he was in conversation with and Lestrade followed, rushing from the room to get your attendants.

‘Hey there, sleeping beauty, stop moving around, your going to pop your stitches. Do you remem…’ John fretted as he started examining you, but got cut off.

‘Oh shut it John, I’m fine. Yes I remember what happened. I got shot. Last thing I remember was staring at a barrel of a gun. My name is Y/N Y/L/N, I’m presuming I’m in the hospital. I’m also presuming Elizabeth is still the queen of England now leave me alone.’ She growled and the former army doctor backed away as her doctor came in with a few others, some nurses followed by Lestrade.

‘Ahh, it seems our VIP has awoken’ the doctor said.

‘VIP!’ She took another once over the room, seeing it is rather posh than a normal one, but her focus was on the three blokes taking a laugh at what her reaction was to be when she woke, before she shot her gaze to Mycroft who is to the right of her bed ‘Mycroft Holmes you moved me to a VIP room!’ she fumed as the government official backed away.

‘Okay Ms. Y/L/N please calm down. If you don’t mind, I will perform an examination to check your abilities.’ The doctor mused as he slowly and carefully approached the bed. He asked for permission to lift up your gown to examine the wound on your stomach. You waved him off and he began asking questions.

‘Ughh, John repeat’ you grumbled, already having answered the question before John could even ask.

‘She’s fine, she answered the questions before I could even ask.’ John explained to the doctor who nodded. He asked to uncover your shoulder, as he covered your stomach, to examine the wound on your there. Complying, he examined your arm. After the examination of the wounds, he checked your mobility and reflexes, lifting up your arms and etcetera. Finished with the inspection, he explained what happened to you medically. Apparently, the shot had you fall backward, in which you hit you head very hard -that explained the headaches-. You got shot at four times, three bullet hit you. One just a graze, one a flesh wound on the shoulder and the last on the edge of your stomach. It hit no vital organs but did graze the stomach. They took you to surgery and came out with minimal complications. They left you in a medically induced coma for a day to get the swelling on your head down. You haven’t woken up till now. You nodded every so often until he left, leaving you in the room with the boys and a nurse checking up on your vitals.

Running your uninjured hand to your hair, which was full of knots and a tangled mess, you sighed. You had pads stuck on your shoulder, stomach and arm, covering the holes and grazes on each area. The doctor said it was a miracle that you haven’t sustained much damage. He said miracle, you thought those were the odds of your predicament. ‘It could have been worse’ he said, that you believed. ‘You were lucky’ he added, you didn’t believe in luck.

‘Did anybody else get hurt?’ You asked, eyes closed, leaning back on the bed.

‘No, everyone’s fine, the hostages weren’t harmed, just… you’ John hesitated as he knew the lot of them were threading on thin waters.

‘How bad is it’ You asked, looking at Greg. He knew what you were talking about, he’d be stupider than you thought if he didn’t. He realized you must have heard his news about your lover. He doesn’t respond immediately, hesitating. Just from that you knew it was bad.

‘Bad’ he replied anxiously

‘Be more specific’ you sneered, ticked off from the lack of detail

‘He’s using’ John said plainly. ‘He is, isn’t he?’

‘Yes’ both Mycroft and Greg replied.

‘Fuck’ you breathed out, unintentionally ran you hand through your hair again, pissed to be greeted with a tangled mess. You look at John. He looked tired, bags and dark circles under his eyes, he looks like rubbish.

‘How long was I out again’ you asked, having ignored the doctor most of the time during his explanation, you let that little information slip.

‘A week’ John answered. You nodded as a thought crossed you.

‘Where’s, who’s with Rosie?’ you asked, concern over who’s with your god daughter. John smiled at your concern over his offspring.

‘She’s fine, she’s with Molly.’ he explained. You let out a breath, wincing a bit at the movement. You were given a PCA pump to help you control your pain, you pressed the button to add a dosage, not to much to get you fucked high but enough so the pain was manageable.

‘Speaking of, I should inform her and Mrs. Hudson that you’re awake.’ he said pulling out his phone.

‘Wait. Where are my things’ you asked so to get your own phone. The nurse’s head picked up and she gave you a plastic bag full of your belongings. You greeted her thanks as she continued on scribbling on her clip board.

‘John, could you get me anything to eat, I’m starving’ you asked your friend. He gave you a soft smile and nodded, glad that you had an appetite, he headed out to the canteen. Your gaze moved on to Mycroft who was sat on a chair near the window.

‘You, get me a less fancy room please. I do not want to be treated as if I’m royalty.’ he opened his mouth to object, but you cut him off. ‘Please’ you begged, which caused his resolve to break and agree. Not many could order around the Holmes boys, you were just one of the few that could. He left the room with his cane in tow, shutting the door. The nurse was about to leave as well but you called her over before she could.

‘Hi, could you please get me an AMA to sign and please be discreet.’ you told her gently but the intent an order. She looked at you for a second before nodding quickly and rushing out to get the document. You knew very well you could just leave without signing a damn thing but you didn’t want to cause a problem with the hospital, so this is just a courtesy.

‘What the are you doing’ Lestrade asked you as you ripped open the bag full of your stuff.

‘Did you guys get me anything to change?’ you said as you riffled through the bag looking for your phone.

‘Yah um sure.’ He went over to the closet and took a bag from a shelve. ‘Molly went to your flat while you were in surgery.’ He explained putting the bag on the bed. Having found your phone, you opened the bag he had given you and took out a change of clothes. You grabbed a clean pair of knickers, your denim jeans, a white shirt and a blue cardigan from the bag as you told Greg to close the curtains and look away. He followed as you gently put on your underwear and jeans. Taking a deep breath, you pressed the button of the PCA pump to administer a bit more, scratch that, a lot more of morphine a few more times before pulling the needle out. You grimaced and threw the needle away. The nurse happens to have chosen that moment to come in and see what you were doing. She came to help you and pulled a plaster from one of the many drawers of medical equipment next to the machines. Greg who was still looking at the window asked what was happening.

‘Nothing just… did Molly happen to bring me any shoes’

‘Uhh yeah, bottom of the bag’ he replied.

‘Okay’ you say as the nurse helps you with your bra and shirt. You carefully put your arm through the hole of the shirt and rummaged through the bag of your items for a hair tie, your hair was killing you. Having found one, you attempted to tie your hair but a pang of pain shot your shoulder and stomach, mild but it was still there. The nurse having noticed this took the hair tie from you and tied your hair up in a bun. You were so very grateful for her at that moment.

‘Greg you can turn around now.’ Following your orders, he turned to see you fully clothed, a nurse tying up your hair.

‘What the bloody hell are you doing’ he exclaimed as he walked over to face you.

‘You are taking me to Baker Street.’ You say flatly as you reached for the clip board of forms.

‘I am not’ He handed it to you, and you asked for a pen.

‘You are’ you said sternly, leaving no room for argument.

With a sigh, he found one in his coat and handed it to you. You quickly scribbled and signed the discharge papers before handing them to the nurse, who was removing the rest of the wires attached to you.

‘Can you find me a wheelchair’ you asked Lestrade who fully knew it was an order and not a request. Grumbling he followed and left the room leaving you with the nurse. You pulled the shoes from the bag, threw the plastic bag of bloody garments in and zipped it shut. Slipping on the trainers carefully, you stood up fully from the bed and walked around with the help of the nurse, to wake up your legs from its week rest. Your clothes hung loose and big as you’ve lost a bit of weight during your hibernation. As you walk around the room, your leg starts to get a bit more feeling. The morphine was relieving most of your pain but that didn’t mean there still wasn’t some left.

Lestrade came in with a wheelchair as you’ve just slipped on the cardigan. You took a seat from the chair and asked for you bag to be placed on your lap. You thank the nurse, asking for her name as you were going to send her a gift basket or something as a thank you for getting you out of the hospital. She bided you with instructions and precautions with wounds, which you told her to tell John when he got back from the cafeteria. A thought occurred and you also asked her for a favour of giving John a few of the pain meds -morphine really- when he returned and maybe a suture kit, she nodded questionably. You thanked her one more time before asking Lestrade to wheel you to his car and head to Baker Street. You made a mental note of giving that nurse a very good thank you basket for all the things she’s done for you.

…

As Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, a tray of tea and biscuits in hand, she heard the ramblings of her tenant. From what she can tell, he was reciting Shakespeare. As she slowly opened the kitchen door -finding it much safer than the main one directly opening to the flat-, she’d find her kitchen a mess. Her table filled with beakers, a microscope, tubes and whatnot with a bunch of other experiments in different bins. Her counters and cabinets filled with the same thing, with an added touch of pinned and hanging files and photographs. The floors ridded with stacked piles of papers and boxes. She just managed to squeeze in her tray of tea and biscuits on the table, before being startled by a gunshot. She jumped and headed to the living room where the shots originated, checking on the lad she treated like a son. As she finally managed to weave her way to the living space, she was greeted by another shot, one her wall had to suffer.

She found Sherlock shouting and waving a revolver, as he rounded the flat like a mad man.

‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility: But when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger; ' he recited loudly, pacing around the flat, pointing the gun at pictures that hang on strings and objects he found no longer useful, before shooting a picture pinned on the wall.

Startled from the shots fired and getting quite scared of Sherlocks erratic behaviour -though she’s somewhat used to this-, she rushes out the flat and down the stairs. She was going to ring up John or Lestrade to inform them of the increase in violence in the detective’s behaviour. More shots followed at her decent down the stairs when the front door slammed open revealing a y/h/c head of hair she knew belonged to the only person who could help the bloke who live in the flat she just rushed out on.

…

As the car got closer to 221 Baker Street, a clear sound of a bullet wrang through the block. A sound I know a bit too well from a recent experience. I flew out of the vehicle before Greg could even stop the car, pain searing through my body at the force of my movements. A faint ‘Eyy’ was heard coming from Greg but again faint as I was rushing to the front door.

‘STAY THERE’ I shouted back. The slanted knocker flew at the force of the door being slammed open. That was going to leave a dent on the partition, but I didn’t care.

‘Y/N!’ Mrs. Hudson was descending the stairs but was frozen in place at my arrival. I quickly sped up the stairs, past the landlady as pain wrecked through my body. ‘NOBODY COME UP HERE’ I shouted again, my throat getting sore even from the minimal exchange of words. I slow my steps as I get to the closed door of the flat, a booming voice heard from this side of the door. I slowly and very carefully open the door, not wanting to startle and get sent to the hospital with another bullet wound.

‘On, on, you noblest English. Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! Fathers that, like so many Alexanders, have in these parts from morn till even fought and sheathed their swords for lack of argument’

‘Sherlock’ I said softly, announcing my arrival in between his rant. As I entered, I find chaos with the man I found to love in the centre of it all. What once was a somewhat organized flat, morphed as if a tornado passed through. Papers and pictures cloud and scattered on any available space. Strings hang at odd places. Bullet holes and pictures fill the walls, shattered pieces of glass crowd the floor along with knocked over furniture. It’s a mess.

You look up at Sherlock after scanning the room. Focusing on the detective, you take in his ragged and worn appearance. His curly head of hair, a greasy mess, sticking out at odd places. A heavy stubble has grown from the lack of shaving the past week. His features, primarily his jaw and cheekbones sharp from the scarce to none amount of food consumed. His skin, sickly pale as mine from when I woke up just less than an hour ago. His clothes hung loose on his body, the navy robe wrapped around him, fluttering as it followed his movement. He looks worse than me at the moment.

‘Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, and teach them how to war.’

He’s ranting, no reciting Henry the Fifth at the top of his lungs, waving the revolver around as he paced the flat, pulling at the papers stuck on the mirror, kicking anything his foot touched. Still in the midst of this chaos, what stood out to me were his eyes. Rounded by dark circles, sunken deep. However, behind those blue changing orbs, were emotions. I was always rather good at reading him, but his eyes always gave me the confirmation of my suspicions. Now what hid behind those beautiful cerulean blue orbs was guilt, worry and anger. I know that Sherlock cares for me and he has told me himself that he loves me, but I never knew that my absence would ever have this affect on him. Come to think of it, we’ve gone through far worse incidents but on the other hand he was always the one on that deep end. I never thought and always assumed that nobody cared enough for me to care if I was ever injured or dead. How wrong am I.

With a sigh, I whispered ‘Oh Sherlock what have you done’. I gulped before finding my voice to speak out again. I don’t think he knows of my presence yet as he’s still quite dramatically delivering the scene.

‘And you, good yeoman, whose limbs were made in England, show us here the mettle of your pasture.’

‘Sherlock’ I spoke up, receiving no response nor acknowledgement in return.

‘Let us swear That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not; For there is none of you so mean and base, that hath not noble lustre in your eyes’

‘Sherlock’ I say louder, hoping to break through his train of thought.

 ‘I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit, and upon this charge cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!’ He finished loudly before sending steady shots at a picture pinned to the wall behind the couch, causing me to duck with a whimper, my hand flying to my stomach. I definitely popped a few stiches.

‘SHERLOCK’ I screamed, only to have the colt pointed at me again. Having a bit of a deja vu as the last thing I remember before waking up this noon was staring a barrel of a gun. Quite used to this from my previous job and years running around with the boys, I’m fairly tired of it. I raise my hands as a faint of innocence, hoping once again to save another trip to the hospital.

‘Sherlock’ I repeated softly, wincing as I slowly stand. A wave of recognization flashes through him and he wavers slightly. Taking the opportunity, quickly taking a step closer -ignoring the throbbing pain coursing through me-, I smack the hand that wields the gun upwards, causing his grip to falter and ultimately letting go of the gun. I quickly snatch the revolver mid-air with my other hand, a tight grip on the handle, holding it far away from him, taking a few steps back.

A bit fazed from recent actions, Sherlock remains frozen, possibly shocked from my presence. I on the other hand go to remove the bullets from the cylinder but find it empty, before place the firearm on the coffee table that was pushed to the side. I wince again when I stand up straight after bending to place the gun carefully on the table. I turn back to him, his stare boring a hole through me. I say his name in a soft tone once more as I slowly walk back over to him. A foot remains, the distance being the only barrier keeping us apart.

I see him looking over every inch of me, deliberating if I was a hallucination from his drugged high or really standing in front of him. He’s deducing every little detail on me after being deprived of my appearance the week. Greg told me while we were in the car that he’s only come to see me once during my stay at the hospital.

I say his name again and close the distance, sparing him the torture I’m sure he’s come up with trying to push through the intoxication. I place my palm on his cheek, caressing the sharp jawline as is eyes flutter to a close. He melts under my fingertips and leans into the hand. A bit of my heart chips and withers away, the sight of him, he looks tired, exhausted.

‘Ohh darling what happened to you’ I whisper.

My other arm goes to rub his back but instead decides to scream in pain. Sherlock feeling the wince, opens his eyes and draws back, terrified at the thought of him hurting me. With a deep breath, I try close the distance again, yet he moves away.

‘I’m fine.’ I gave him my best smile and fill the space keeping us apart. My good arm wraps around him. He hesitates but wraps his arms around me before breaking down. No one has anyone seen Sherlock Holmes break down. No one even knows if he’s ever had a break down, possibly besides his family. Mycroft told me of his emotional youth. Yes, he was traumatized after Redbeard but as far as I was told he never broke down. Not like this.

His head drops and hides at the crook of my neck, hugging me in a tight embrace, not enough to hurt much but there were still bits of it, the morphine dosage I took evidently wasn’t enough or the hospital have bloody horrible pain meds, I choose to believe in the latter. I resulted to bending my other arm caress his back, moving the good one to his hair as I kissed his head. He then sobbed, soaking up the fabric of my garments before collapsing. I eased him down the messy floor carefully -a bit more for my sake than his-, letting out a shush as he sobbed. I grimaced a bit a few times, letting out a small hiss that was thankfully barely audible due to his snivelling. Sitting at the back of my legs, I held the man I would, without second thought give my life for if it came to it. The man that has managed to capture my heart without realizing it. The man many have called heartless but had the biggest of them all.

‘it’s okay darling, let it out’ I whispered to his ear.

I held him for a long while. Rubbing his back, caressing his hair, ignoring the pain of my wounds, consoling and murmuring words of comfort into his ear. At some point the tears stopped, left with sniffles before ending up with his slow and steady breathing down my neck. He fell asleep. I smile, he was finally getting some rest and I was happy with that. Considering the state he was in I doubt at the possibility of him getting any sleep. I kissed the side of his face that was still tucked on my shoulder. He nuzzled himself closer and his never faltering grip on my ribs tightened a bit.

With my good hand, I reached to my back pocket, grabbing my phone to send a text to the boys. At some point during the wall getting packed with bullets and me consoling Sherlock, I heard the taxi pull up at front, the sound of the front door opening and the unmistakable voice that belonged to John. He had attempted to go up, but Mrs. Hudson stopped him, the same thing she did to Lestrade and the same thing she did to Mike after John had asked.

I sent a text to John You can come up now. A minute later, the stairs rumbled at the footfalls of the men rushing to flat. I looked at the open door and saw all three – or two as Mike is taking his time waiting for the two to pass- dashing to check up on us. I sent a glare at them for their loud behaviour as they stepped to 221b. I shushed them and they apologized quietly.

‘Help me get him to bed please.’ I said in a nicer tone as I’ve realized I haven’t exactly been the kindest, ordering them around. Of course that’s what I was still doing but it was better to ask or demand in a kinder tone. Greg came up to us and I kissed Sherlocks temples one more time before slowly releasing his grip on me. He stirred but I managed to lull him back to his slumber. With the help of John, they carried the detective to his room and carefully -instructed by me after sending a glare- laid him on the bed. I haven’t bothered to stand up yet so when Mycroft came up to me and offered his hand, I accepted, wincing and grimacing when ache and agony shot at different part of my body. He helped me stand up steady after wobbling my steps, the numbing of sitting on the back my legs and not being fully recovered from its week rest nearly sends me tumbling on shards of glass.

‘I should be very mad at you’ he said.

‘And I cared if you were mad because…’ you retorted with a smirk. You looked past the kitchen to the bedroom just as the Lestrade popped his head out and walked back to the living room.

‘Fuck, my bag’s still in your car now isn’t it’. I sighed, exhausted from the days crusade. Before I could even attempt to move toward the door or ask someone to get it, Lestrade is already out the door. A smile creeps up my lips and I move to the kitchen, followed closely behind by Mycroft. I find a tray of tea and biscuits -no doubt left by Mrs. Hudson-. The teas gone a bit cold, but I didn’t care and take a sip of it. I’m parched and starving so I take one of the biscuits and stuff my mouth. I turn around to see Mycroft give me a disapproving look before the kitchen door opens and the landlady comes in.

‘Hello dear, its good to see you’ she greets to me with a half hug.

‘Nice to see you too Mrs. Hudson.’ I smiled pulling apart.

‘John had this with him when he came in but left it down at my flat when he got your text.’ She waved around Johns medical bag. Speaking of, he walks into the kitchen where the party seems to be as I stuff my face in biscuits and cold tea. Mrs. Hudson noticing this, scolds me and says she’ll make a new batch for the whole lot of us. Me and John say ‘thank you’ in unison and she leaves the flat.

‘What are we doing here?’ John looks at Mike who ignores him then turn to me.

‘I was going to the bedroom, but I saw these’ waving to the tray ‘and I’m starving’ reply taking a sip of the tea.

‘Yeah, speaking of, the food is still in the bag’ he nods to his bag which I’m guessing has hospital food in it.

‘Hospital food? Bleck no thanks, I’m fine with these’ gesturing to the tray again as I go take another sip of the tea to clear my throat.

‘For goodness sake enough of that’ John frustratingly releases the cup of my grip and I glare at him. He weirdly doesn’t like me drinking cold tea.

‘Eyy I wasn’t done with that’ I pout but he ignores me. He give me a once over and gesture to my stomach.

‘Your bleeding’ he say and I look down to see a red spot on my shirt.

‘Oh really, I didn’t notice’ I counter sarcastically as he picks up his bag and looks for his equipment.

‘Do it in the bedroom just’ I sigh, I’m really exhausted. I turn to Mycroft who is looking around at files attached to the strings. ‘Mike thank you for your help, please stay until Mrs. Hudson comes back with the tea then you want you can go’ I announce but get interrupted by Greg, who’s in the living room ‘In here’ I say and open my mouth to continue but get interrupted again. ‘Ey, isn’t that the shooter at the school’ He asks, pointing his thumb at the living room. Confused and intrigued, I limp on back to the living room followed by my posse, to see his pointing at the bullet ridded wall, a picture of the shooter indeed there but with a bullet hole or holes on the face. That’s what Sherlocks been shooting at. Christ.

‘Yeah, that’s him’ I sigh and continue on what I was previously saying. ‘Greg you can leave the bag anywhere, I’ll fix it later. Stay until after Mrs. Hudson’s tea then leave. Thank you for your help really.’ I smile and finally head to the bedroom, John at the heels.

As I enter the room, I find Sherlock sound asleep in the bed, on his back. The boys haven’t bothered with the sheets, so I cover him up with a blanket. I sit down carefully on the bed with the help of John, wincing every once and a while because of the pain. I lift my feet up to the bed gently, trying not to disturb my stomach anymore as he pulls out a suture kit and painkillers. I then turn to Sherlock, fix his head on pillow and stroke his head of curls, a bit greasy. I take a deep, knowing what I have to do, that I must check but its daunting. I exhale and get on with it, grabbing his arm and pulling up his sleeves. Fuck. His arm is riddled with needle scars. Too much to even count. Fuck. I look over at John who’s also staring. He’s getting angry just looking at it, so with a sigh, I cover up his arm again and gently place it back on his side. Looking back at John, he’s still staring at the arm.

‘Hey’ snapping him out of his thoughts. He looks me in the eyes, livid at how his friend is treating himself. I lift up my shirt and he diverts his gaze to my side, peeling off the pads and checking on the wound. He’s awfully silent as he puts on a pair of gloves and opens the suture kit. He remembers the painkillers though, so he covers the wound back up temporarily and gets a syringe he’s laid out and sticks it to the bottle.

‘They had horrible pain killers’ I try fill the quiet room with humour, but the hospital did have horrible meds. His features soften when he looks at me, tapping the syringe as I remove the sleeve of the cardigan. He finds a vain before sticking the needle in to give me some relief.

‘Those are good. They the one the nurse gave you?’ I ask. He nods as he goes back to the hole on my stomach. He stitches me up after sticking another needle around the area to numb it -a whole lot better than before because I can’t even feel the wound-. He’s pulling rather aggressively on the needle and while I can’t feel it, I don’t appreciate his way of releasing his anger on my skin.

‘John, If you are to keep doing that, I’m kicking you out.’ He glances back up at me and he mutters an apology before continuing his work, gently this time.

‘I’ll make him pee in a jar, just let him sleep.’ I say glancing back at Sherlock. He just looks exhausted, I’m exhausted but I want nothing more than to hold him in my arms and run my fingers through his curls but if I do that now he’ll wrap himself around me and I don’t think John would appreciate getting interrupted from his work.

‘This is worse than Mary’ I merely murmured, barely audible but it seems John heard. I run a hand up my face, leaning back, letting out a breath as John looks from me to Sherlock.

‘It could have been much more worse if you didn’t wake up’ he looks back down to finish the sutures as I look at him. He’s right of course, he always is with these things.

‘That’s it? I expected a lecture, or you be mad about me leaving the hospital.’

‘Oh, I am mad, just there’s no point of it is there when you don’t give a damn and will do what ever the hell you want anyway’ he ties of the last stitch and grabs some gauze to cover. My lips curl up into a grin knowing he is once again right about that. I hold the gauze as he tapes it up before putting another bandage just in case. He finishes and starts to clean up his things. 

‘Thank you, John. I’m really really grateful for all that you’ve done. All the things everybody’s done.’ I beam.

‘That’s it? I expected a lecture or you livid’ he humours, repeating what I said just moments before with his own twist.

‘Oh, I am. But I get it, I would have done the same with you lot, but It’s done and just thank you.’ I admit, though I still want to be cross, I get it. They care.

‘He needs you; you know. More than you know. He lost it after you didn’t wake up when they took you off the meds for the coma. You’ve somewhat replaced his high from the drugs with your own and the probable thought and loss of it just scared him, so he resorted back to the old habit.’ He explained. I take in his deduction of his best mate with the only thought bearing through the surface is that he right. The Sherlock I know now is very different from the one I met all those years ago. That hard robotic exterior now has a beating heart. He cares more than he will want to admit but he really does.

I look at mop head beside me and beam. Since John is done with tending to my wounds, I roll my shirt back down and finally let the sleeping detective wrap himself around me. He does as soon as I placed a hand on his cheek, he rolls over to my side, draping an arm over my ribs and pulling me close like he’s always done, enveloping my side with his warmth, his head snuggling and hiding itself on the crook of my neck.

I’ve spent years thinking nobody gave a damn about me. Thinking no one cares if I was dead or not. Never have I ever been more pleased to be proven wrong. All those years alone, holed up, thinking I served no purpose to this world, ready to lose what I thought was a useless life only to be brought up the wide and bright opening and end of the cornucopia. I have friends, who will stay at my bedside just to make sure I wasn’t alone when I wake up from a gunshot. A god daughter, who’s laugh brightens up the darkest shadows cast upon us, who’s lost enough people in her few years in this rock. And a partner, fiancée, who’s meant more to me and evidently, I to him than more than we both ever thought possible. We’d be lost without each other, there’s enough evidence to prove it.

I gaze back at John, eyes getting a bit droopy, I’m surprised my mind has been making long hard thoughts. He’s just standing there, staring. Creepy admittedly, but also lovingly. Sentimental, possibly thinking of Mary.

‘Hey’ I say softly, breaking him out of his thoughts. ‘Go home. Sleep. Stay if you want tea from Mrs. Hudson but go home afterwards. Take the two if they’re still here. I’m going to sleep, just give Rosie a kiss for me and make everyone get some rest. Thank you again for staying with me at the hospital. Leave the mess, I’ll get it sorted.’ I instruct before a yawn escapes me. He looks back at the detective snuggled up at my side.

‘I’ll take care of him, don’t worry.’

‘And who taking care of you, he’s not the only one I’m worried about at the moment.’

‘I’ve got you lot now don’t I. I’ll phone you if I need anything. Right now, I just want to shut my eyes for a bit.’ I give him droopy smile, sleep really wanting to overcome my body. He bids his last warnings to take caution with my wounds and I wave him goodbye and goodnight. He nods and leaves the room, while I nestle myself better in the detective. His grip tightens and he nuzzles himself closer to my neck as I slowly drift off.

#sherlock #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes #sherlock holmes imagine #sherlock angst #bbc sherlock imagine #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock fanfic

[hqmargo]

something in mycroft eyes tells me this isn’t the first time he’s seen sherlock in that position :,)

#sherlock holmes #sherlockbbc #john watson #johnlock #sherlock #mycroft holmes #angst #sherlock angst #holmes brothers #family

[imeternallylove]

Cloud Covered - S.Holmes

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warning: Graphics of violence, torture of dead and plenty of more brutality

Word: 4.6k 🥹

main mastetlist  | request & ask | prompts | theme song

Chapters index

Bloodbath | Marionette | Invisible Strings (you are reading this)

Crown Prosecution Service

"Ladies and gentlemen, the accused, Simon Finn, is guilty."

You and your fiancé sat in the prosecutor's corner, as the blonde CPS officer in a lovely pinkish blazer and skirt spoke from the record of the detective's report. The snort from your lips when the following line came from her over there.

"Jersey wasn't even his true name. And his merciless murder spree has terrorised our community. Many innocent people, including some of our brave officers from New Scotland Yard, were all targeted for no other reason than to play Simon Finn's sadistic game."

Your eyes is locked on the other building, your countenance blank. Sherlock observes you, wonders what is going on in your thoughts, but refrains from asking questions; the man who murdered people close to them has finally been imprisoned, so he assumed it is only natural for you to have a lot on your mind at the moment.

“Simon Finn has confessed to every single one of these crimes. I ask that the court consider Simon Finn’s voluntary confession for his crimes. He has spared the victims families a prolonged trial, and in doing so has demonstrated a glimmer of remorse. Therefore it is my recommendation that Simon Finn be spared the death penalty, and instead sentenced to life in prison with no possibility to parole. Thank you.”

But at last, you could find rest now.

"It's over," Sherlock mutters as the judge sentences Simon to death by lethal injection, his eyes finally locking on yours, a little smile curving on his lips. "We did it." You notice one of his steadfast hand strokes on yours, where the sparkling shine of the diamond engagement band illuminates through into your eyes.

And an outpouring of pride washes over your soon-to-be lifeline, he finally bringing you serenity; which you truly not believe in this Simon Finn’ confess at all. "We did."

Your drifting sensation and eye contact unintentionally collided with Simon's in the relieving slumber, his look strained but with a smirk as opposed of a grimace; terrified to be execution, manifesting your chest to swell. It echoed in your head, ‘he’s not the real murderer.’

The silence is thick and oppressive, vibrating within the catastrophic white walls of Simon Finn's residence. No one dares to speak, no one dares to move a finger. 

Sherlock leaned over his brother's body, his hands grasping each side of the steel surface where he lied, pallid and lifeless after being discovered with a hole in his nape, spineless. A horrific method of murder, slow and certain to be agonising.

His gaze stayed fixated on the J engraved directly beneath Mycroft's collarbone.

When Sherlock is permitted into Simon's cell, the first thing he does is tie his fist to the prisoner's jaw.

"Oh my," you hissed behind him, but it didn't stop him from throwing another punch at the man. Sherlock was furious beyond comprehension, having left the mortuary without saying anything and going directly for prison to confront Simon - Jersey - himself.

"Why?" Sherlock asks, his voice trembling and his breathing irregular. "Why was Mycroft killed? How?"

In response, Simon gives him a nasty grin, prompting Sherlock to hurl him against the wall while seizing the taller's collar. There's no way Finn could have killed Mycroft while he's only been in this prison for over two weeks, waiting to pay for all the crimes he committed here and everybody knows. "Are you the only Jersey? Is there any more? Do you have people working for you?"

"Sherlock," you call from behind them. "I'm all for you beating the crap out of him, but let's not get into trouble here, okay?"

He heard you, acknowledged your remarks, but his gaze didn't stray away from Simon, retaining a firm grip on him. Simon, on the other hand, had his gaze fixated on you, the sick grin staying on his lips, and Sherlock shook his head fiercely. "Listen to me when I'm talking to you!" He insists, but Simon's eyes is fixed on you.

"London bridge is falling down," Simon singsongs softly, prolonging the syllables, his grin becoming broader. "My lovely lady."

Sherlock lets go of his hands, gazing at you, who are looking back at him, bewilderment evident in your stare, and Sherlock makes an impatience sounds before slamming Simon to the floor.

He rushes out of the a jail cell, leaving you with Simon's distant laughter ringing in the recesses of his eardrums. You perceive Sherlock needs alone time, which is why you hold your ready-to-wreck-down body to sit facing Simon, and remaining silent for a couple minutes rendered him stand up by himself and fling his ass onto the seat. You can bet he noticed you sweating, but it wasn't because you were scared or worried, rather because you always trust what your gut tells you. 

"I can feel you’re not the real Jersey." Before he could say anything, you began with your hoarse speaking; a slight smile formed as his grin rose while his hands with handcuffs grabbed his wounded bruise that your fiancée had made. “Well, I’m gonna die a liar anyway. The dirty liars.”

You lean back and nod with caution your head dipping slightly as you murmur, an enticing grin on the bridge of your mouth as you cross the spaces between your legs. "Then who did?"

"I've got a place; it's your job to find out." Simon claims it all in one breath, which leads to your brows with a furrow significantly. “Where?”

"-It's not, uh, better if I draw you a map." He ignores what you have to say and proceeds. He looks at your notebook with a treacherous smile on his lips. "You going to draw me a treasure map?" You pat the desk twice and stifle a giggle. "No, you've got word, just say it."

Simon's gulp drops, followed by a loud whistle from the prisoner. "I just want to show myself to you, lady."

You only nod contentedly. "So, let's say you're telling the truth, I assumed it’s seems like the real Jersey promising to get you out but he left you high and dry-" your cheshire cat-like sneer on Simon's hiss voice that is so audible it pierces right through your attention span, and that's saying something.

“My dear Marney, you seems don’t know a thing.”

"And I might bring you out in the next half hour to reenact the murder scene." You say this as you stand back up, pick up your notepad and tape player, and gesture to the cops to wait for you. You pause before answering the door, shifting back to meet Simon's satirising smile. "Does that sound like a fun way to celebrate your final 20 hours before the execution?"

"Do me a favour, Y/N. And just make sure he doesn't try anything." 

"Oh, he can certainly try."

Simon overheard Greg and you conversing, but paid scant close attention to you two, not bothering to digest your words as his thoughts focused on taking a deep inhalation in with a broad smile on his face, standing in front of his own residence. He was handcuffed, where he is accompanied by the two policeman officers behind him.

It wasn't difficult; it shouldn't have been difficult, but some pieces didn't quite fit in, and Sherlock lightning-fast assumed Simon Finn was the Jersey, and if he thrust them harder than necessary, you were able to predict Sherlock might break and ruin the entire puzzle, just like he only discovered 'who did' as opposed to 'why did that.'

"Don't get any ideas." You attained for Finn's handcuffs, and he takes his attention in unambiguously, almost latching on you for a moment. He gave you the typical greeting green signal and your petite smile spread with your dead outstares. "Good to see you again, cunning."

There was nothing to toy with, because the only thing written on your serene face was the phrase 'do not try me.'

"How's it going with your bracelets?"

"Well, I can't feel my fingers if that's what you're asking." Repiled you with a voice lower, like he attempt to convinced for some of your less generous tolerance. "You gonna help me out or what?" Now he asks in a more hushed but inquiring tone, to which you merely shrug and tighten his cuffs even more. "How's that?"

"Thats so kind of you."

Simon, move away with your arms folded behind you. "So, is this where you confessed that this was your treasure map?" You grumbled, with your eyebrows barely wrinkled. He simply sends you nods, and you bring him on the inside with Greg.

As soon as you notice the stairs, which must lead to the second and third floors, an officer approaches to report you. "All things is fine. There are actually two squatter nests, but they appear to be split." You drew your lips down to him, still not sure. “Alright. Just give us five."

It was Simon's turn to stare out at the view of his own house, which was visibly tense. You gave him a quick glance before poking his leg with your foot and angling your head. "Start the tour, boss."

"Here's Jersey, using my house as a treasure trove after running." The three of you subsequently followed Simon, who was waiting for Greg to unlock the door room on the second floor, but he was handcuffed. 

"It appears that nobody has been here in years, Finn." Greg makes a remark while pacing back and forth in Simon's sitting room, his brow furrowed in concentration. Confusion can be heard in Simon's speech. "I didn't say he'd be here to greet us either."

"There are still traces of footsteps." You shrugged, swinging your hands a little as you maintained your constantly wandering. Cast your torch towards a heap of papers. "That's all the newspaper has to say about 'J,'...I'm sure he's impressed by his reputation."

“He is.”

"Well," you breathe in, stating your thoughts and ignoring - or rather, hardly hearing - Simon's inputs. "In my little hope, I didn't plan to investigate any of the evidences for the aleatory case that simply does not make sense for months, Finn."

Simon is looking at you with furrowed brows and a thoughtful, perplexed gaze. "...You want me to tell you who's Jersey?"

"That was before we ever met, actually." You explain quickly, your face screwed somewhat in irritation. "If you're just trying to fool us, I'd say your death is impending." You breathe out eventually coming to a halt.

"From what I can tell, the killer was murdering for fun, for his own amusement, carving J's and dropping clues just to form tight headache knots in detectives' skulls." 

"That's the cost of doing business; I'd make a provision." You responded, then turned your focus towards Greg. You did this for a long, pacing around Simon's room, fingertips pushing together as you leaned your face against your hands, as if it would help you think better.

Greg's phone started ringing at that point. Reminding you that you squandered those five minutes looking for your restricted blocked hints. "For God's sake. I needs take this. Y/N, are you going to-"

"We're good." You notice Greg's worried eyes, despite your assurance and a little faith in Simon, making him goes away.

"Do you still think I'm making this stuff up?" Simon questions, almost cautiously.

"Less or less, if you don't play a game on me; the real Jersey is still running around the playground..." You state, emphasising your words as irritation rises once more. "And you can't offer me any proof that you're not Jersey anyway." 

"I can get you proof," Simon grunts as he approaches you. "No. You can't." You murmur, knowing your body despised practically instantly as he began confronting you. "You are correct. Not like this, I can't."

Your sternum is flailing in wrath, and when he speaks to you in that gentle voice of his, it almost feels as if you are bound by the lies. "You're nuts. I'll remind you that you just have a few hours to be executed." 

His frowns and glances elsewhere, a pout forming in his lips as you continue to hold your gaze up to his. "Look, you're correct. He left me high and dry, dying with the accusations I didn't do. I’m sure he won't feel like his ass has caught fire if I'm still in jail, as a soon-to-be executed criminal." 

You creak in response, feeling a sense that you shouldn't be wasting time like this when you should be working on the case, but when Simon continues, your intestinal tract seems to come back to live. "But now that I'm on my own, I can entice him and serve him up on a silver platter."

"Even if you are right, I have no right in offering what you need, Finn. Didn't you forget you're on death row?"

"For crimes that I didn't commit. Did you forget?" You slumped and went silent, not realising Simon was moving approaching. "Look at me. I could knock you out in an instant. The police would buy it, and we could make it look real, but I assure you that you and your tiny Marney would be perfectly unharmed."

Your lung is shrieking incoherently, -how could Finn be cognizant of this? You know how Sherlock always noticed an insignificant illness that affected you for months and you gave him your positive pregnancy results from the test, but soon you two were busy and forgot to mention it.

The stronger the air you breathe, the sharper your intuitive sense contrasts with the beams of light from the retreating obscurity you generate...

Simon Finn has had more contact with Sherlock than anybody else. Perhaps more than you realise.

“Prisoner 75427 is requested to be returned to custody immediately.”

“This is officer 926 receiving request . Please stand by for confirmation.”

The rejection of your attempt to ignore the reality blasted forth and back over your head. You cast one final glance at Simon and decide to believe in Simon Finn. You close your eyes after unlocking Simon's shackles and grasp the handcuffs key in your palm. Simon is already liberated as a result of your decision. 

He waited for your signal in quiet and reserved until you finally looked up at him. Your answer reinforces what he already knows.

“Do it.”

You awoke at Sherlock's flat with an aching neck. Mrs Hudson stated that he has been out with Greg since the officer brought you here an hour ago while arranging for you to change clothes and be ready for teatime with her.

Teatime and the wedding plan that the elderly woman advised were both superb, although your hand couldn't remain still as you discovered Finn's literally unreliable signal on your phone.  

Don’t bother catching a cab despite the fact that it began to rain meanwhile, feeling that walking your path back home would be calming to your nerves at least slightly so. You walk out the Baker street fast, hands stuck in your coat pockets, hair starting to stick to your forehead from the small but persistent raindrops. You bumps into one or two persons on your way, all of them attempting to escape the rain or fighting against the wind that attempted to take their umbrellas, but there's not a single worry on your mind despite the fact that this case was, after all, unsolved still.

You were already more than halfway to your destination when your phone buzzed in your pocket and you clicked your tongue, thinking it was Sherlock since you had just realised he had left you in his flat and you had always failed to follow following.

Nothing could possibly have prepared you for the text. Not even from Finn, as the red dot continued to run, heading and pausing at St. Bartholomew's Hospital for several minutes.

from: unknown

let's meet up? just us two…

— J

Never did you reply to a text so fast. And then, unexpectedly, a harder grip grabs your limb and takes you across into the area between blocks around the corner of the street. You could be recognised by the scent of nicotine mingling with body odour that you've been living with for years of age; it’s Sherlock.

“What the hell are you think?” He goldsmiths his quivering hands passionately, prompting your hold to tighten even more, disregarding your broken appearance further. “I know you let Jersey go.” 

In a rage of fury, you poured your scorn and suspicion on Sherlock back to Him, struggling to breathe. "Can you just listen to me?"

"Listen to you?" His inhales are sharp, and he counterfeits a witty smile that persists on his entire face. “I did- listen to you. And that's exactly how this happened!”  

You let yourself to get carried away in an ocean of rage, not his, but yours. There's no need for you to talk to Sherlock at this point if you want to break free from his clutches and walk away with no apology for whatever you've done.

The chosen location wasn't thought to be the most strategic on Jersey's part, being one of the few open fields on the outer edges of the city where buildings had yet to be built, but it wasn't a bad option either. Although there were houses nearby, there was no one on the streets; the mild rain became heavier, and the sand and dirt beneath your shoes turned to mud as you approached closer to the centre, a careful gaze observing the surroundings.

There wasn't a single person or sound but the static sounds of the pouring rain — Until, at last, someone turned around the corner of a werehouse, feet going to the wide field where you stood.

You blinked, wondering whether the poor weather was distorting your eyesight; nevertheless, at least for today, nothing could be worse than the battle with Sherlock. But no one was deceived by the guy approaching, and your expression was filled with perplexity.

"Sherlock?" You call, unclear how he could have followed you there, and afraid of why he would.

"Hello again, love." He welcomes you quietly as always, pausing solely a few metres away, a smile forming on his lips as his head tilts. "Did you miss me?"

You are certain that you have forgotten how to breathe.

The enormous sighs, as if the sudden revelation had sapped all vitality from your body, depriving you of your confidence and left you fatigued, bewildered, conjectured, and all that you had been sleeping with and stuck lingering inside you from the beginning of this case. You're still floating in a mass of haze and don't want to accept it, although his sharp glance aren't going to allow you to do so. You fail to locate your own voice though the question you pose to him. "Why?" 

"Why not?" Sherlock hums back, lifting his arms slightly to emphasise your query and taking tiny steps closer. "I thought it would be fun. Such a young man, Sherlock who inspired by detective novels and films, was duped by his own thinking but he always solved it all. Everyone is proud of whoever is in existence and has written history; they have faith in that. Am I horribly adorable, darling?"

You shake your head in bewilderment, your throat aching near to explode. "Finn—"

"That complete moron. As screwed up as we both are." Sherlock whistled as if he were telling you an intriguing tale. "Simon did whatever I ordered him to do like a puppy eager to impress. Still extremely efficient. I basically needed to give him a name and my favourite method of murder. Isn't he a fantastic actor? Even the murderer, who actually me, and his manipulation all of you as the true murderer, he should feel honoured."

He flicked on the lighting, enabling you to spot Simon's corpse on ground covered in bloodstream, and you were certain he was murdered before you came. Sherlock tosses the body away with one of his foot as he begins to approach you. "Now I sent him back to where he belonged... quicker than on death row."

"So all this time-"

"Of course, baby." Sherlock squeaks. "It's always been me. It was me long before I produced Jersey." He continues, his smile widening as he notices the way you express yourself. "I've wanted to play a game with you ever since we met. I mean, young detective Marney, who believes 'Me' can figure out a person's history just by looking at their clothes- you're quite naïve to the actual world. You believed you had matured, but wasn't it all a façade?"

The lips of yours emerges then shuts, and you're not quivering from the thunderous downpour.

"Who do you suppose left the clues in all those murder cases we solved, love? Who do you think led us to success, to solving it so effortlessly?"

Hanging your head down, his words are like razor-sharp knife cuts, slicing your assaulted edge into parts, and you have no voice appealed to him to stop.

"It was me. I killed them and then watching you be so appreciative of me, of your incredible talents when you were, in fact, just a child fitting jigsaw pieces together." He amusement. "I must admit that I became fond of you at some point, which is why I thought it was about time I put up an encore monumental game for you. Feelings mess you up, darling. I won't be the one to fall."

"You slaughtered your friends and mine," you exhale, unsteady, your thoughts far too rapid and far too loud for someone who has just been locked in time, tossing one great fist slamming over his face. "And I broke down for months over them!"

"Of course we did," He say. Sherlock responds casually, his brows rising high in his forehead as he attracts you away. You're standing staggeringly, like if he's left a gigantic hole inside you, and you cannot stabilise yourself from being off-balance. "How could you have trusted me otherwise? You figured me out several times back there, Y/N, but you're too far away to prove it. I needed to make sure you wasn't believe that it was me till now."

Dazedly looking at the muddy ground, rendered speechless. After a little while, your body yields and you collapse to your knees, shed tears streaming down your cheeks. For so long, you let your people down since the invisible strings veiled themselves by your neglect; it was all right in front of you.

"It's going to be okay, baby." Sherlock coos once again, and despite the fact that you're no longer gazing at him, you heard the cocking of a pistol. Sherlock kneels in front of you, his free hand caressing your cheek, and his lips press against your soaked forehead. "I truly cherish you; nobody ever loves me as you do, I vow. I'll do it without making you feel anything."

Sherlock stands up again, and you still don't move, not even a twitch of a muscle.

Reality settles in, leaving you devoid of responses and options; instead, you accept it.

You lost by your trust.

The cold metal of the gun's mouth presses on the top of your head, and you sense a smirk on Sherlock's lips. "Any last words, my love?"

The tiniest shudder travels down your spine, and your eyes close.

You smile. Because he was correct; this is for the record. The victor writes history. History is littered with liars. If he lives and you die, his words is written into stone and yours is lost.

Sherlock notices the wry grin on your sorrowful face. "I wasn't pregnant; there was no trace of it. It's only my amazing talents to falsify my pregnancy test- and you're trapped-" His pistol mouths thrashed on the skin of your cheek, and you could feel lifeblood running through your pearly whites. 

"And I spent my spare for engagement to little brat for GPS monitoring." You push yourself to crack a smile only to see Sherlock's grin widen. "Indeed, she's still wearing that stupid ring. She's even come here by herself to seek out her own tomb." 

Sherlock's about to complete the greatest trick a liar ever played on history. His truth will be the truth. But that’s only if he lives, and you die.

Sherlock was incorrect in the meantime of the twinkling of an eye. And your hoarse voice demonstrates that. "You think it's just us here?"

“What?”

The death Finn then stands up and pulls the rope from the ceiling down, falling over Sherlock's. You observe his centre body becoming intertwined and these ropes hanging him up there with his scream; as soon as his pistol drops, you rise up and move away from where you entered this warehouse.

Greg and the other cops make goosesteps from everywhere, and you notice his exhausted and grateful gaze from his restless eyes, so you stroke his shoulder before disappearing into the stillness of the night.

Simon approached Greg with his stump feet by the sticky fake blood, thrilled by the sight he seen. “You talked too much Mr detective.”

closure

Strange wind blowing throughout the empty place it may be gliding to. You're standing in front of a black marble headstone, surrounded by greenery and the chirping of songbirds. The flowers are now at the foot of the monument. You stare at the beautiful black stone that just says SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Sigh, drop your head, and stand there but you moved to another black stone. You figure looks to have the name of Molly and Mycroft etched straight across your chest, as reflected in the polished marble of the headstone. You lower your head even lower and cover your eyes with one hand. Knowing that all of the corpses doesn't appear to underneath here, rather in the mortuary. Then your phone vibrates with an incoming call.

"They say he murdered himself by drowning himself with hydrochloric liquids," Greg slows down with his own gasp. "Only hydrogen chloride vapours create considerable difficulty breathing when- you know, just cleaning the restroom." 

You're now in the car, patiently absorbing his words through the phone conversation before signal the light to turning the car into Smithfield Street, and Greg continues to explain what he knows. "In his instance, continuing to breathe at such high rates may be fatal, but he had absorbed it into his body... in his own way, for several weeks in after bang up there, not just by breathing it in."

You two leave a little time of stillness, holding the call and sinking into contemplation of the whole situation that happened until you are the one who smashes it. "I'm in the mortuary now. Which room?"

Greg opens the door behind you, his strained voice in the queue just acting as if you could see his burning face, which was only fighting not to sob in front of you. You drew him into your shattered hug, and it seemed that for all the secrets of the Sherlock Holmes's, he left you two to feel grief like dying while remaining alive

“You may need some alone time here.”

Every step you take to get closer to the lifeless corpse is precisely the same as when you first met, but there is no longer any of Sherlock's façade lies.

You leaned down and pulled aside the sheet, uncovering Sherlock lying beneath it, pallid and bare, his eyes closed. Tenderly strokes his curling bangs hairline, long lashes and nose bridge, which once it always necked at your cheeks, yours.

'S.Holmes' possessions' package captures your glance from the corner of your field of vision.  You snatched it and saw your golden pen, the long-awaited souvenir for you and his first anniversary. It's been roughly four years since then. And while you were putting it back, you saw a torn paper on it, and there was Sherlock's handwriting; uncleared but still could recognizable text.

‘May we meet again, Y/N’

a/t: well me too ;_; sorry guys if the ending wasn’t what you thought 🥺🥹 murderer sherlock smell so nice to me oi and for this story ive my lovely bestie to help me created murderer stage name! its @lady-harvey ♥️ my gurl, tysm again ♥️❣️❣️now i think i need to take a little break from writing 😭 but im still here just back to manage my undone work and ill brb asap but for sure ill still online here huhu, not gonna mia in this soon hue hue

#Sherlock #bbc sherlock #bbc sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock x you #sherlock imagine #sherlock x reader #sherlockxreader #Sherlock Holmes x Reader #sherlock holmes x you #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x you #sherlock bbc #sherlock holmes imagines #bbc sherlock imagine #bbc sherlock x reader smut #sherlock fanfic #sherlock angst #bbc sherlock holmes x you #sherlock holmes

[annesthaeticc]

Personal | Sherlock x Fem!Reader

Personal | Sherlock x Fem!Reader

| a song fic, kinda ; Personal by The Vamps and Maggie Lindemann (listen to the song here, watch the music video here)

| lil bit of angst, fluff, teen!Sherlock and teen!YN

| 2137 words

| He's sick and tired of being just friends. Sherlock finally lets you know what he truly feels for you on your special night.

| NOTE : been a long time since i wrote a sherlock fic, and this request had been in my inbox for a while now. anon, i'm so sorry it took so long. (i hope it was worth the wait) i finally had the inspiration to write this when i came home from a friend's 20th birthday party, a bit drunk. comments, hearts, reblogs make me really happy, so pls do!!

Sherlock carefully tread on the gravelly footpath, his every step heard throughout the empty street. As he neared your house, he could hear the muffled bass and see the dancing, colored lights. He was once again invited to your birthday, as he is every year. He intentionally cleared his schedule for the week for your party, promising to make it up to you. The two of you had been busy with your own busy lives; university does that. But he never missed a birthday party of yours, as much as he detests it.

He hates parties. It’s full of people. Full of laughing, happy people.

But if it’s yours, he’d never miss it for the world. He was always present, ever since your 5th birthday party. And now, it’s your 20th, and he had every intention to attend more parties of yours, even if it’s your 50th.

As he stepped on your house’ laneway, he grasped his gift tightly, and absentmindedly fiddled with the purple ribbon he so delicately wrapped around the box. He sucked in a breath, and withdrew it, he saw his breath fade away like smoke in the chilly air.

I could do this. He reassured himself.

So, he walked towards your house, stepped up and knocked on your door. James, one of your childhood friends, opened the door and grinned at him.

“Sherlock!” James exclaimed and opened his arms; Sherlock awkwardly stepped in and accepted the hug. James ushered him in and guided him through the throng of people.

“She was worried you couldn’t make it.” James said through the music.

“She’s worried for nothing, mum insisted I dress up for tonight.” Sherlock sighed and followed James, squeezing himself amongst the people.

“You look fine. As always.” James smiled and pointed towards the kitchen where you were standing. It was true, Sherlock, of all your childhood friends, had the best sense of style. His build was made for a fashion magazine and he commands the room with just his charisma and confidence.

“Have I missed the cake?” Sherlock asked.

“Nope, she was waiting for you. You always had the honor to bring out the cake, we’re not breaking tradition.” James chuckled and nodded at him. Sherlock made his way towards you, his eyes burning and his heart beating madly when he saw you and your new beau.

As much as he loves you, he hates your choice of men. He hates your ignorance to the fact that he is actually in love with you. He’s unbelievably and irrevocably in love with you, for years now, and until now, you still fail to notice it. Sherlock has no clue how he could feel something so strong, something so deep for you. He tried to find answers to questions why and how, and by now, he’s given up on it. He simply just loves you.

He's not one to voice out his sentiments, but he’s dangerously close to doing so. He’s had enough years of pining. He’s had enough of comforting your broken heart due to your taste in boyfriends. He’s had enough of watching you from the shadows, afraid to say the rhythm of his heart.

And tonight, might just be the night because your new boyfriend is showing signs of red flags and Sherlock doubts you have a clear sense of mind to dump the guy.

Sherlock approached you, unbothered if you were still talking to your boyfriend. From the corner of your eye, you saw him make his way to you; his unmistakable and iconic mess of curls, his crisp white shirt topped with his navy jumper, and his bright blue eyes. You turned to him and excused yourself from Vance, your new friend, and giddily ran towards him.

In instinct, Sherlock opened his arms and hugged you. You were the only privileged one to receive his special warm hug, and he hoped you knew that. That you were the only one, the only special one.

“I missed you.” you breathed against his neck. It was true, you missed him dearly and from that moment on, you promised yourself that you’d enjoy the rest of the night. Sherlock was now here, with you, and there’s no point in being a party pooper.

“I missed you too.” Sherlock whispered. He hesitantly drew away from your embrace and pulled out his present to you.

“You shouldn’t have!” you gasped as you wrapped your hands around his gift.

“And what? Miss on tradition? Plus, I doubt you’d hate this one.” Sherlock said, trying to hide his smile.

“I never hate your presents.”

“You actually do, especially the one I got for your 16th.” he smirked and it earned a heart laugh from you.

“Oh yeah, that one’s terrible.” you said and swore to open his present after the party. He nodded and agreed it would be best that way.

“So, should we bring out the cake?” Sherlock asked. You nodded and guided him to the refrigerator where the cake was chilling. He insisted you stay in the main circle and gather around your guests as he prepared the candles.

When he walked in the kitchen, everyone was there; some of your childhood playmates like him: Connor, Bradley, Jana, Layla, James, and Maggie, and some new faces probably from your uni.

Sherlock commenced the singing, and everyone followed, singing and clapping to the tune. With the cake in his hands, he stood next to you and placed the cake in front of you. He silently sang, his voice blending amongst the chorus, and intently watched you.

Your eyes bright, the glow of the candles reflecting in your dark irises. Your lips, shyly grinning. Age treated you well as grew beautifully into a young, elegant woman. Sherlock was in awe whilst his mind played the flashbacks of your past birthdays, in each celebration, you get undeniably pretty and in every year that passes, you become his definition of beauty. Your eyes, your lips, and your heart and your mind.

He was pulled out of his reverie when everyone stopped singing, and the room went silent as you closed your eyes and made your wish. With a smile, you blew out the flames of the candle, and everyone cheered, happy to celebrate another year with you. He registered your movements and felt a swift punch in his gut when you embraced the man next to you, Vance, before finally hugging him. You drew Sherlock in, rather tightly. And silently wished it was just the two of you. When you both pulled away from the hug, Sherlock smiled at you and wished you a happy birthday.

“I’m happy now, now that you’re here,” you admitted, your tongue slipping but you caught yourself before you could say more.

“I’ll always be here.” Sherlock reassured you and squeezed your hand.

But the moment was broken when Vance announced you should cut the cake. You hesitatingly parted from Sherlock’s close presence and urged everyone to get their own plates so you could serve them. With you occupied entertaining your guests with laughter and cake, Sherlock unsuspectingly slipped out of the room, and finally left your house.

He marched out and exhaled the breath he was holding in, slightly relieved to be finally away from the riff raff. Just as he was nearing the end of your house’ laneway, he heard his name being called and he mustered all his strength to face you.

“You haven’t had cake.” you said.

“It’s fine,” he replied and turned back.

“You didn’t say goodbye.”

“Why would I?” Sherlock replied. His anger started to simmer because your voice sounded so innocent in his ears, he was angry at your inability to read and follow the trail of clues he’s leaving. He’s sick and tired of playing around, pretending he didn’t feel anything for you, when in truth; it’s maddening, this pent of torrent of sentiment reserved, made, and felt only for you.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” you asked warily and walked towards him.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong is that guy, is a mass of red flags. Don’t come near me when you’ve got your heart broken all over again, Y/N. Because I'm tired of it.” Sherlock seethed, pointing at the window, hoping, hell— praying, you understand what he’s saying.

Personally, I think you’d be better with somebody like me, Sherlock thought.

“Vance and I are just friends, Sherlock.”

“Just like you and I, just friends, isn't it?” he spat the word friends as if it was full of venom, poison of the worst kind.

“Sherlock, you're so much more of a friend to me, please…” you begged, your eyes now brimming with tears.

“Am I? Am I so much more of a friend to you Y/N? Then tell me why can’t you see, why can’t you feel, what I feel for you?”

“Sherlock I—”

“I’m in love with you, Y/N.” Sherlock said, his voice dripping with sincerity. He watched his breath floating in the air, and the words slipping out of his mouth. He felt a great weight leave his shoulders, and his heartbeat thunder against his ribcage. He bowed his head, and slowly turned, hoping to leave freely right after his hasty admission.

You, however, were taken aback at how he said it. Could it be out of jealousy? Could it be the mere fact that he is in love with you? Who knows? All you know is that you feel the same.

To say you were scared is an understatement, you were a coward to not let him know. Your mind was always clouded with the doubt that you might shock him with your admission and scare the shit out of him, and eventually break your friendship. It's the last thing you want. And so, you suffered in silence, and daydreamed about being together for a long time. But now, he’s said it, he made the first move, and you’ve never felt emboldened to admit that you feel just the same.

Unaware, your eyes started to sting with tears that started to free flow and your lips curved into a smile. All you could do was look at him, frozen in place.

“I, I apologize for making you cry, it is still your birthday after all. Please forgive me, Y/N. Here—” Sherlock said, and walked the short distance between you. He fished a handkerchief from his pocket and moved to wipe the tears from your face. Delicately, as if you were made of glass, he banished away your tears, staining his white hanky.

He cradled your face in his hands, which were warm against the cold air, and you closed your eyes, relishing the gentle contact. You pulled him closer to you, in an effort to feel his warmth, to feel him. When you opened your eyes, you saw his bright blue gaze burning you. It was a flame ignited of love and hope, it was safe and secure, a flame that burned brightly, strongly, yet tender.

“Sherlock…” you breathed his name and held on to his hand.

“Y/N.”

“I’m in love with you too.” you said in great confidence, utterly happy to have your feelings known.

“Is he really just a friend?” he asked after a beat, his voice vibrating against your skin.

“He is.” you offered him a small smile.

“Good, because I’m going to seal this with a kiss.” Sherlock said. The two of you broke into smiles before he leaned in. He dipped his head low, and you stood up to meet his lips. When your mouths touched for the first time, you gently hummed against his lips. His next kiss was more confident and you responded in kind, together you shared the same passion, the same kind of love that ran through your veins.

“I’ll definitely pass up on the cake.” his voice rumbled against your chest and you stole a kiss.

“Why?” you curiously asked.

“Cause your lips are much more delicious, much softer than the chiffon…” he said and that earned a giggle from you.

“Are you flirting with me, Sherlock Holmes?” you exhaled, if a little breathy.

“I am, is it working?”

“You’re a romantic. C’mon let’s get back inside.” you said and held on to his hand. It felt natural, it felt perfect.

“What? Can’t we just stay here?”

“And what, leave my guests? No. Plus I’m freezing.”

“Fine, give me one more kiss, just to help me get through the night.” Sherlock smirked and pointed at his lips.

You obliged and giggled, playfully pushing him away once he tried to deepen the kiss. When you separated and linked your hands together, you realized you just had your birthday wish come true, and couldn’t wait to spend another year with him, but this time, you’d get through the year together, holding hands.

[ MASTERLIST ] [ JOIN MY TAGLIST ] [ BUY ME A KO-FI ]

TAGLIST : @migurin @damiensoda @inas-thing @peachywoong @ruevz @sammiisnthere @srapalestina @winchestersgirl222 @taramaria @alexag-barnes @sleutherclaw @will0wfairy @vexedvalerie @lovecleastrange @evelynrosestuff @azu21 @getlostsquidward @bubu890 @strangefilms @ice-ksk @my-beel @doctorswitch @tuitiononlivings @winchaser1990 @swds @spencerreidslittleslut @sherlockstrangewolf @ittlebadariell

( hello you lovely!! just a little tip; watch the music vid of the song cause it's heavily inspired by it + u get to imagine sherlock dancing u around like that on ur birthday! anyway, i hope ur staying well and safe! sending u all the love, anne <3)

#sherlock x reader #sherlock x fem!reader #sherlock x you #sherlock x y/n #sherlock x oc #sherlock bbc #bbc sherlock #sherlock holmes #sherlock #sherlock fanfic #sherlock holmes fanfiction #sherlock holmes fanfic #sherlock fandom #fanfiction #sherlock angst #sherlock fluff #sherlock smut #sherlock holmes smut #sherlock holmes fluff #sherlock holmes angst #benedict cumberbatch #benedict cumberbatch fanfiction