Pairing: Sherlock x Reader
Summary: It's taken you a while to realise. But Sherlock Holmes is a very touch starved man.
Word Count: 800
Warnings: none, just fluff and soft Sherlock
a/n: It's been a while since I've written for Sherlock and I think it’s about time I go back to my roots :)
You hadn't noticed it before now.
You hadn’t noticed when his fingers would drag across your palm when you released his hand, almost as if he were hesitant to let you go. You hadn’t noticed when his hold on you tightened and your shirt bunched in his fists each time he had his arms around you. You hadn’t noticed when his eyes softened and slid shut when your hand fondly made its way through his hair.
But now, as you lay together in the quaint living room of 221B it was clear as day. You suddenly couldn't believe you hadn't noticed it before. Sherlock Holmes was touch starved.
You had been casually lounging on the sofa when Sherlock decided to join you. Or rather, he collapsed with boredom and elected to ignore your half-hearted protests when he landed on you.
After a little adjustment and a whine of disapproval from Sherlock, you both lay side by side, pressed into the fine leather. There isn't much room but it works. And as you settle in, accepting the fact that you won't be moving until Sherlock decides to let you, your eyes become drawn to the man beside you.
He's calm and his features are relaxed, an unusual sight. You drink in every inch of him. The way his dark curls sit around his head, the rhythmic movement of his broad chest against your side, the flexing of his neck when he readjusts his head against the cushion. For a moment, you simply watch in adoration.
Your hand softly falls against his chest and slowly ventures towards his shoulder. Sherlock tenses when your careful fingers ghost over his neck. But only for a moment. Then he calms, sighing as your hand finds its way to his nape. He blinks slowly and glances down at you. He raises an inquisitive brow but the moment your fingers work their way into his hair he gives in. He leans into the touch and visibly relaxes, a quiet, almost inaudible whimper leaving his parted lips.
You spend a considerable amount of time combing your hand through his hair and watching gleefully as Sherlock unwinds beside you. When your wrist begins to ache and you pull your hand from his knotted curls, he whines. You move your hand to his cheek and gently trace it with your fingertips. A barely noticeable pink tints his pale skin and it makes you oddly proud. Slowly, you run your hand down his cheek until your fingers fall away at the sharp line of his jaw.
“Don't stop,” Sherlock says. “Please.”
So you don't. You continue to map out and explore, tracing every detail with timid fingers. Your hand once again eventually finds its way back into Sherlock's mop of hair and he sighs when you brush the dark curls away from his forehead.
“I like this,” he notes. “I like you.”
You breathe a quiet laugh and smile, your hand ghosting over Sherlock's jaw.
“I'm glad. We are dating after all so I was kind of hoping you liked me.”
“No,” SherIock says quietly, almost pouting. “What I meant is I like being here with you.” He turns his head ever so slightly to the side and his lips find your palm. He hums contently as he presses a gentle, barely-there kiss to your hand. “It's quiet, peaceful.”
Your hand brushes against the base of his neck and your grin widens when you notice the upper buttons of his shirt are undone. Just enough to put his collarbone on display. Slowly, timidly, you lean forward and leave a lazy kiss against his shoulder blade. Sherlock mewls and rests his head back against the cushion, giving you access to his neck. Though the gesture is simple it means more to you than it should. It's a sign of trust, of vulnerability.
Your lips softly ghost his neck before you begin to press soft kisses to his jaw. He leans into you and when you pull away he chases your touch, moving further down the sofa so he can bury his head into the crook of your neck. His curls tickle the end of your nose. With the advantage of the new position, you softly kiss Sherlock's temple and he melts into your side.
Minutes pass and a comfortable silence settles over you both. You can tell SherIock isn't asleep, despite the slow rise and fall of his chest. He's still awake, his hand tracing patterns against your shoulder and his nose nuzzling against your throat. You close your eyes and soak in the moment. This was Sherlock's way of displaying affection and adoration, his idea of intimacy. It was gentle, quiet, soft. It was allowing himself to be vulnerable with you.
It was simply being.
tag list: @miraclesoflove @fanfictionsilove @quentawewe @mylovelysnowflake @bakerstreethound @andreasworlsboring101 @doozywoozy @leftperfectionmoon @xxinvisiblexx @the-worst-critic @the-queer-dungeoneer @jellyfishbeansontoast @starrykitn @simp-for-scamanders @allieberries @Xhz17x @kealohilani-tepise
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A Wedding Dance
Reader x Sherlock
Summary: Set in 221B Baker Street, Sherlock and John are interrupted by Y/N as they practice for the Watson’s wedding dance. Though she’s keen to tease the pair, Y/N soon regrets it when Sherlock invites her to dance with him. The problem? She can’t dance.
And of course she’s secretly in love with the consulting detective, that’s kind of a problem too...
Oh yeah, Greg and Mary are also involved sooo we’ll see how that goes!
This is indulgent on so many levels.
Soft rays of sunshine beamed down on the London pavement as a faint melody danced lightly in the breeze. Y/N smiled at the sound of strings as she walked towards 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock must be composing she mused as she let herself into the flat. “Good morning Mrs. Hudson!” She waved as the kindly landlady peeked around the corner, feather duster in hand.
“Hello love!” She replied rushing across the hall to wrap Y/N in a tight embrace.
“Are John and Mary in?” Y/N asked as they parted.
“John is upstairs with Sherlock, Dear, but Mary said she’d pop by soon.”
“Perfect! I just thought I’d stop by to help with any last minute wedding arrangements.”
“Oh, such a lovely bridesmaid you are, Dear.” Mrs. Hudson cooed as she pinched Y/N’s cheek. “Or is it just that you wanted to see Sherlock? We all know how deeply you care for him.”
Y/N’s face filled with warmth at the suggestion.
“Ah, young love,” the landlady continued dreamily. “Why, when I first met my dearly departed husband we could hardly keep our eyes off each other, not to mention our hands. In fact-“
“Alright Mrs. Hudson, I think I’ll be going now.” Y/N interrupted quickly, very much wanting to distance herself from this conversation.
“Shall I make you a cuppa, Dear? Perhaps a nice pot of tea for you and Sherlock?”
“No thank you!” Y/N called, rushing up the stairs as she felt prominent prickles of embarrassment digging into her skin.
Truth be told, Y/N did have feelings for the detective, though she knew better than to expect any reciprocation, what with his explicit disdain for sentiment and preference for cold logic. Despite this, she still craved something more.
It had been a better part of a year since Mary first introduced her friend Y/N to the Baker Street boys. John had kindly greeted her from his seat, though Sherlock was apprehensive at first, dismissing her quickly. Over time however, he became cordial and almost keen of her visits.
No. No, not keen. Polite maybe, but certainly not keen. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Y/N thought. Imagining things. Stop getting your hopes up!
A loud banging brought Y/N out of her thoughts, and urged her to hurry up the stairs.
“John, this is a dance, not a brawl. Your movements are too rough. You’ve nearly impaled me on the ledge!”
“Oh, shove off!”
“Well, I’m only trying to-“
“Why are you so bloody tall? I can hardly-“
“John, just follow me, just-“
Y/N peeked from the doorway of the flat only to find John and Sherlock stumbling over each other in time to a waltz.
“Can I ask what the two of you are doing?” She asked with a grin.
The men parted promptly, and Y/N swore she saw Sherlock stiffen upon hearing her voice, though it may have just been her imagination.
“Well Y/N, it’s a dance. Practice for my wedding dance in fact, I’d think that would be obvious.” John huffed, out of breath.
Sherlock only scoffed, and adjusted his cuffs as he walked to the fireplace, effectively turning his back to Y/N.
“A dance? Is that what you’re calling this... routine.” Y/N taunted, teasing her friend jokingly. John had a short temper, and she could never resist getting a rise out of him. “I’m just saying that from this angle, it looked like Sherlock was the only one stepping in time with the music.”
“My god Y/N, since you’re such an expert, why don’t you dance with him?”
There was an audible silence as Y/N was caught off guard by John’s remark. Was he joking? It was just a silly comeback, surely. He couldn’t possibly be suggesting...
“Can you even dance?” John asked smiling slowly. Oh, he had her.
She paused. “Can I dance? Yeah, ‘course.”
“No you can’t.” Sherlock quipped innocently from the fireplace, back still turned.
“Sherlock,” Y/N warned.
The consulting detective ignored her as he began pacing across the room, hands together in contrition as a means of focus. “When John asked if you could dance, you responded first by repeating the question, and promptly followed with “yeah, ‘course” and while it is obvious that you meant to say “yes, of course” the combination of the sentence fragment and your repetition of the interrogative question posed are clear indicators of deception.”
Sherlock’s speech and pace quickened as he continued, clearly on a role.
“It was also clear from your hesitant reply that you were overthinking the correct response. Possibly because you didn’t want to lie, more likely because you were deliberating the implications of admitting to your lack of rhythmic mobility. And so whilst considering your prolonged pause, use of sentence fragments, and repetition of the question, it is obvious that you were lying and therefore, only fitting that-”
“Stop! That’s enough, Thank you Sherlock. As much as I appreciate being called a liar in such an ‘intellectual’ manner, your little demonstration doesn’t change a thing. I admit, I can’t dance.”
Sherlock approached Y/N and paused before her. His proximity was maddening, and she could feel her blood rush at the sight of him.
“You didn’t let me finish.” He began in a low voice. “I was going to say that therefore, it is only fitting that I ask... May I have this dance?”
He held out his hand, a small smile tugging at his lips as he locked eyes with Y/N. Her heart lurched as she smiled back.
“Oh. Er- yes!” She stammered. “I would- I would love for you to- For us to... I’d like that” she affirmed softly.
“Please,” Sherlock invited, taking Y/N’s hand in his, and leading her to the centre of the room.
“Oh, I think I’ll enjoy this.” John said as he crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway.
Y/N felt herself stiffen in Sherlock’s arms. She was vaguely aware of music playing in the background as she studied the buttons of his shirt. She didn’t dare look into his eyes. Though this was everything she’d ever wanted, she couldn’t help but panic slightly as her nerves buzzed.
The music continued as the pair stumbled across the flat. John snickered from the doorway as Y/N tripped over her own feet, and stepped on Sherlock’s shoes on every rotation.
This continued for ten embarrassing minutes before Sherlock stopped mid step. “You are an appalling dancer.” He chuckled.
“I am so sorry. I just don’t think I’m cut out for this.” Y/N sighed, still staring at his shirt buttons.
“Look at me.” Sherlock said softly, gently turning her chin up to face him. “Listen to the music, and focus on me. I will lead you, and I swear to you, I won’t let you fall.”
Y/N took a deep breath and let the music envelop her as she followed Sherlock’s movements. She studied his face intently, and felt him do the same. She focused on the intensity of his cobalt blue eyes. The eyes which in that moment gazed at her with unadulterated adoration. She examined his sharply defined features and felt her heart swell at the live art before her.
“Do you like the music?” Sherlock quipped suddenly.
“The music. I asked if you like the music which is playing.”
“Oh, yes! Bach?”
“Holmes.” He said with a smile.
A few moments passed as they both contemplated what to say. “Y/N,” Sherlock started awkwardly. “I’d like you to know that...”
“Well you see, I accept that I’ve been somewhat cross as of late-“
She only scoffed. “As of late? Do you mean to say ‘as of our first meeting?’”
“I deserve that don’t I?” He laughed. “I’d like to apologize. I can assure you that I do care for you.”
He paused deliberately. “Deeply.”
Y/N smiled as she felt a warmth course through her. “It’s mutual.”
With that, she rested her head on Sherlock’s shoulder, hiding her secret smile as they waltzed.
John watched, still grinning as Greg and Mary entered the room chatting. He waved them over and held up a finger to signal silence.
The three friends watched as the sociopath danced fluidly across the room with his “flame”.
“He can dance?” Greg whispered incredulously. “Is there anything this bastard can’t do?”
John and Mary just shared a knowing glance. “Bet you anything they’ll make it official by the New Year.” Mary said, leaning towards her fiancé. “God yes. Definitely.” He replied.
As they continued watching, they shared a gasp as they caught Sherlock gently tucking a stray wisp of hair behind Y/N’s ear.
“Christmas?” Mary whispered. “Christmas” John confirmed, not taking his eyes off the couple.
Greg snickered as he whipped out his phone to snap a photo. “the boys at the station’ll get a kick out of this”
The three friends turned to each other and grinned. It seemed like Sherlock had finally found someone to dote on.
“John, you’d better take notes because this is what I expect for our wedding dance.” The Doctor just smiled and kissed his future wife, glad that his best friend may have found the same happiness that he had with his beloved Mary.
**Psssst** if you liked this, try reading A Night at The Opera!
Okay soooo that’s it! I seriously hope you enjoyed this! Thank you sooo much for reading, and if you have any fic requests PLEASE DM me or send something to my Ask box because I’m dying for inspiration!!!
I write for Marvel, Harry Potter, Sherlock and Supernatural (all characters!)
HAVE A BRILLIANT DAY!!
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hello! may i please request Mycroft and Albert as fathers (similar to your one about Louis)? thank you and i hope you have a wonderful day/afternoon/night!! 💕
Of course! I adore when you request 💕 it makes my day! I sure hope you like it friendo! I'm guessing you meant this with the characters separate, but if you wanted it as a ship fic feel free to correct me.
Requests, as always, are OPEN.
I'm writing this instead of doing my psychology homework oof-
Mycroft Holmes and Albert Moriarty (separate) as Father's
(I swear to God it took like 30 minutes to find a fitting gif of this man-)
When it was announced you'd be having a baby, he was overjoyed. He broke his calm demeanor and started sobbing on the spot.
9 months later came a precious baby boy, whom Mycroft decided to name Thomas.
He was a rather scrawny child. More skin and bones than meat on him. But he was yours. And you both loved him.
It was nearly midnight when you awoke to your son's soft cries. But looking over to his crib next to your bedside, Mycroft was already there. Rocking him and saying sweet words.
"I know, son. Growing pains. But please hush, lest you wake her/him." He made a small pointing motion towards your shared bed, "Are you hungry? Sleepy? What do you need?"
Your son only looked up at his father's face, and smiled. Tears stopped as he beamed up at him.
And on Mycroft's face was the most loving look you'd ever seen on him.
The boy wanted to be just like him. Dressing up in his suits (which were absolutely gigantic on him), trying to style his hair the same... By the time Thomas was 8, he was essentially a mini version of your husband.
"No, Thomas. You almost got it right, however. Try again. I'm sure you'll get it."
Thomas and Mycroft were standing in front of a mirror, the little boy standing on a stool to make the situation easier.
In his little hands was a tie. As he began to put it in again, Mycroft gave a find smile.
"Very good, son. One of these days, perhaps you can accompany me to work..."
Big, beaming eyes looked up at him, "Really?"
The boy jumped in his arms.
His and yours' daughter was born on a snowy night in January. Fittingly, you both decided on the name Holly.
From the moment he first held her hand, his thumbnail being slightly smaller than her palm, he was in love.
She wasn't even a week old when Albert made sure she had a complete wardrobe, her own room, all the best baby food supplies, etc. She was pampered before she could know what that meant.
By the time she was 6, she was a daddy's girl. Through and through.
"Papa," she started, her little hand enclosed in his as they walked through Durham's streets, "What's that?" She pointed towards a fruit stall.
"Those, my little angel, are grapefruits. Would you like to try one?"
She sheepishly nodded, leaning in closer in order to not get lost in the crowd.
Upon hearing the price for a singular fruit, the poor little thing nearly fainted, "Papa, that's too much! I don't need to try it, really!"
Albert had some simply ruffled her hair, "Don't worry about it, Holly. Really. We can more than afford it. Besides, you've never tried one."
The fruit was put into his hands, and the two walked home.
She loved it, by the way.
He made sure to teach her that though they were noble, that did not mean that they were better. It just meant that they had more to share. He showed her all the things he wished his parents had.
You can bet she was loved by him. More than anything.
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Sherlock x reader? The reader is accident prone and always ends up hurt some how and Sherlock is kinda new to that (beginning of relationship?) and just like “how did you cut your finger on the bread board” “it attacked me” “…are you okay” “…yes?” “JAWN FIX HER”
Pairing: sherlock x female reader
Summary: The reader trips over and chaos ensues.
Genre: reader insert, humour, fluff
Song to listen to: everything about you by one direction
A/n: once again thanks to anon for the request! I thought this was such a cute idea. Anyways enjoy everyone ☺️
Sherlock was rushing about the flat, trying to find the cigarettes that John had hidden the previous week. He was in dire need of them; Y/N was about to come over, his new girlfriend, to help with a case. He was new to relationships and all the rules and norms that came with them. Did he just act normally as he’d usually did on cases with her? He just wanted to make sure that Y/N knew how much he appreciates her. He didn’t want to mess things up with her when it had only just begun. A loud bang from outside the flat followed by strong cursing brought a brief haven from his anxious thoughts.
‘Y/N is that you?’
Sherlock opened the door to see Y/N sat on the floor, rubbing at her bruised knee. Panic rose within him, heart racing, as he dashed over to help her up. She made a slight grimace as she regained her feet.
‘What happened? Did you trip up the stairs?’
He looked her up and down to check if there were any serious injuries as she answered:
‘The floor attacked me!’
He looked at her in confusion.
Still, he grabbed his phone from his suit pocket and typed out a quick text to John, his former flatmate. It read ‘John, we’re heading over to yours. Y/N is seriously hurt. I need you to check her over. S.H’. Quickly, he glanced around the floor outside the front door. There was nothing she could have possibly fallen over. So she tripped on air, then? As he was sending that out, he deliberately ignored a text from Lestrade about the case they were supposed to be investigating today. Fuck that. Y/N needs help. She limped on over to him.
‘Sherlock, shouldn’t we be heading out now?’
She could see the worry on his face, so she pulled him into an embrace.
‘I’m fine, don’t worry. It was just a tiny fall. Look, I’m fine!’
She withdrew from the hug and gestured to herself. Suddenly, she was swept off her feet as Sherlock picked her up bridal style. He carried her down the stairs, out to the street and informed her of the new plan for the day.
‘We’re not doing the case today. We’re going over to John’s to get you checked over.’
Y/N appreciated the gesture but tried to tell him once again that she was fine.
‘Sherlock, sweetie, I’m okay. I can walk!’
He just stared at her.
‘Y/N, you had a fall, you couldn’t possibly walk!’
In the cab to John’s house, Sherlock yet again ignored several calls from Lestrade. The case could wait but Y/N couldn’t. John opened the door, his face clearly sick with worry. However, when he saw Y/N behind Sherlock looking completely fine and with no obvious injuries, his expression turned to that of slight irritation. Of course, it was like Sherlock to exaggerate things. Y/N just looked at him with an empathetic gaze and quickly commented.
‘Sorry, Sherlock insisted we come.’
Nevertheless, they moved to John’s front room and he did a swift checkup on Y/N anyway. Sherlock kept asking so many questions throughout that John was relieved when he had finished. Y/N left the room to answer a phone call and John turned to Sherlock.
‘Why do I think you’re about to lecture me?’
John cleared his throat.
‘Because I am.’
Sherlock made to get up but John stopped him in his track, pointed for him to sit back down.
‘Jesus, Sherlock! You made me think she was about to have a heart attack or something.’
Sherlock didn’t reply, just slumped back into the couch, rubbing his eyes. John sat down next to him.
‘What’s going on with you?’
Sherlock responded softly.
‘I know she wasn’t that hurt, obviously. But for some reason, I had to make sure she was okay. Ever since we started dating, I’m worried about her all the time. And the fact that she’s accident-prone has just come to my attention.’
John looked at him in shock.
‘C’mon! You had to have noticed that she has accidents all the time. The other week she hurt herself making a cup of tea, somehow, for God’s sake!’
Sherlock frowned at John.
‘Of course, I knew that! It just didn’t that seem that important before we started dating.’
All of a sudden, John started grinning like a fool.
‘What’s that? What are you doing with your face?
Sherlock didn’t know what John had to smirk about.
‘What- smiling? I think I know what’s up with you.’
John was acting smug.
‘Care to enlighten me?’, Sherlock sarcastically responded.
John got up to tidy his equipment as he answered.
‘You’re in love. It’s normal in relationships to be worried like this. You will get used to her quirks and come to love them. Just like she will for many of yours. There’s nothing wrong with you, you’re just in love.’
Sherlock and Y/N left John’s house, finally on their way to Scotland Yard after all this time. As they were leaving, John called out to Sherlock.
‘Oh, and Sherlock? Please don’t come over here every time Y/N scrapes her knee!’
Sherlock felt oddly relieved by John’s words. He felt more prepared and he was excited for this new era of his life with Y/N. Although, he couldn’t help but be shocked when Y/N got hurt in seemingly inexplicable ways. One evening, she got an electric shock turning on the TV. And another time, she got a papercut peeling a banana! All he knew each time that she had an accident, they would cuddle on the sofa after, whilst stroking her hair.
‘What am I going to do with you, Y/N?’
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Sherlock insists that it would work better with the reader on top and after the night they’ve had, there’s no point in arguing. Or, the one where reader plays superhero for poor Greg and her beloved detective. Thanks for reading!
You hadn’t even taken your shoes off when your phone started ringing in your purse. Sighing, you dug around for it with one hand and reached for the lightswitch with the other. Work had been incredibly stressful since you were working short during flu season and everyone in London had been feeling under the weather apparently. You had told your coworkers that if they really needed you that you would come back even though you had put a solid 16 hours in. Sherlock and John had gone out for John’s bachelor party so you didn’t mind working late, and Bucky was visiting his brother in the States so all your time was truly yours. You had thought about soaking in the bath or catching up on that show you always missed, but all of those thoughts were stopped in their tracks when the ringing persisted.
“Hey, what’s up?” You tried not to sound like you’d rather chew on glass than clock one more minute into the hospital but you weren’t sure you were so convincing.
“Come get him. Please, for the love of God, come get him.” At hearing Greg’s voice, you were both relieved yet confused. Sherlock must’ve invited him last minute to celebrate with them, you didn’t remember him saying that he was coming along.
“Oh, I didn’t know you went out with the boys! Where are you guys?” It was nice to know they were all having a good time. You liked Greg and thought he was a really good friend for Sherlock and John. You had plopped down on the couch and had started pulling one of your shoes off when he said, “No, I didn’t go with them. They were brought to me. Someone called the cops on them and now I’ve got tweedle-dee and tweedle-dum arguing about the solar system and taking turns puking in my waste bin. Please, I beg of you, come get him. Matter of fact, I can bring him home. If that makes the process quicker--- I mean easier.” You heard Sherlock trying to take Greg’s phone in the background, asking to talk to you and then quickly after arguing with John once more if it was really that important he knew they orbited the sun. Greg sounded just as exhausted as you felt and you could only imagine how annoyed he was by the drunk detective that he was already annoyed with most of the time sober.
“Yeah, yeah of course I’ll come get him. I’m actually at my flat though, so if you could meet me at his place that would be awesome. I’d just need a few minutes to finish up here...” You mourned the hot bath you were never going to get to take and worked on shoving the shoe you just took off back on, “did you call Mary for John?”
“Yes, she’ll be over soon. As soon as she gets here, I’ll bring Sherlock. You’re doing the Lord’s work, thank you.” With that, he hung up and you went to your room to pack an overnight bag. You were exhausted and if you had to go all the way to Sherlock’s, it would be easier for you to crash on the couch than to try to come back home late.
By the time you got to Sherlock’s, you were dragging your feet up the stairs and you could barely keep your eyes open. You had received a text from Mary when she picked John up saying “good luck” and you wished you knew what you were walking into. You had never seen Sherlock drunk, or heard any stories of him being drunk, but you were sure he was even more eccentric than he was sober. If you weren’t so tired, you’d be jumping with joy at the experience to see Sherlock so out of character.
You went into Sherlock’s room and laid out some pajamas for him and went ahead and put a water bottle and some Advil on his nightstand because you were sure he would need it. After doing that, you changed into something more comfortable too and rummaged through his fridge to see if there was anything to eat. Thumbs, unsalted butter, and milk that shouldn’t look like blue cheese was what was on the menu and you had decided sleep for dinner sounded much more appetizing. You’d go shopping for him tomorrow.
Greg had texted that he was outside but Sherlock didn’t have his key so you made your way down the steps to meet them. Upon opening the door, Sherlock looked up at you like he hasn’t seen you in ages. He stumbled towards you and held you at arms length with a look of wonder on his face. “Finally! Y/N, I was thinking I’d die from being surrounded by total stupidity, and here you are. Ever the shining light and the beacon of hope.”
You felt the heat from his stare and turned to Greg to try and keep your composure under all his attention. “Uh.. I— thank you. For bringing him home.”
Still staring at Sherlock and shocked by his outburst, Greg met your eyes with a knowing smile. “It’s no trouble. He’s your problem now. Good luck, my dear.” He was gone in the blink of an eye, leaving you with a very drunk Sherlock Holmes and a dozen steps to climb.
“Okay,” you clapped your hands together, turning towards the door, “do you think you can get up the stairs? Or do you want me to help you?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” he started until his eyes widened like he forgot who he had been talking to. It had only been a second but he saw the look that flashed across your face. You hated when he made you feel dumb because you always tried so hard to keep up with him, and he knew that. You didn’t have a chance to react before he quickly interrupted. His previous statement was immediately followed by, “I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please help me.”
You just nodded, unsure of what made him have such a quick change of heart but you were happy he did. You hated him thinking you were dumb. In comparison to him, maybe, but you were intelligent in your own right and you did a better job of keeping up with him than most. He threw his arm around your shoulders to steady himself and allowed you to lead him carefully up the stairs. He started telling you about his night and it honestly sounded like he had a great time, and so did John. You were really happy that it all worked out even if they did end up with Greg at the end of it all.
As soon as the back of Sherlock’s legs hit his chair, he was down in a clean swoop and you took the opportunity to start untying his shoes. He seemed like he was lost in thought and was quiet for a few moments but you could tell from the way he was swaying that he was too far gone to sober up before the morning.
“I already put your clothes out for you and I’ll help you to the bathroom so you can brush your teeth. You’ll love me for that in the morning.” You smiled at him as you pulled off his loafers and moved to stand up so that you could figure out how you were going to get him out of his chair.
“Will I, though? Will I tomorrow once I’m in my right mind?” He asked, and while he didn’t say it in an ignorant tone, it sounded like Sherlock, and that was close enough.
You looked at him hoping he’d say something else. But he didn’t, and he looked back at you with a look of confusion as if he was really expecting you to answer that. It seemed like just last week he was in your bed trying to convince you that he didn’t have eyes for anyone besides you and now he’s reminding you that he’s not even sure of that. Sherlock could have you at the top of the poll and then have you kissing the ground in the same hour if he tried.
“It’s just a saying. I didn’t really mean...you know, let’s— let’s just get you to bed. It’s late and you have a date with a hangover in the morning.” You could tell he was on the verge of passing out which was good in the way of no more awkward conversations but horrible in that you’d never get him into bed as dead weight. So you pushed things along and eventually got him in bed before he was out like a light.
Draping the blanket over him, you watched as his eyes fluttered behind his lids and how his lips twitched as fell into a deeper sleep and you were sure then that you would never love anyone more. You would never understand how he didn’t realize how beautiful he made the ordinary and how easily he made everything extraordinary. Afraid that you’d turn to stone if you spent any more time staring at him, you turned off his light and made your way to the living room where the the couch had never looked more inviting. It didn’t take you long to get settled in and asleep seeing as the TV in the background ended up being the perfect thing to mask Sherlock’s drunk snores and you had never been more tired in your life.
“I thought you were staying over?”
It had only been a few hours since you had put Sherlock to bed when he found himself looking over you on the couch, wrapped up in his bedsheet.
“M’right here.” You murmured into the pillow, body still turned away from Sherlock on the couch. He was probably still drunk and you were hoping if you laid still enough he’d wander back to bed.
He didn’t respond to you, instead he continued to stand and stare with his lips pursed and brows furrowed. You had drifted back off only to be nudged awake once more.
“I won’t fit like that.” He gestured with the hand not holding the sheet to the couch, sounding exasperated like he had been explaining this to you all night. “It’ll only work if you’re on top, so get up so I can lie down first.”
You didn’t process what he said really, you just knew that if he was being persistent and you didn’t do as he asked he’d never let you go back to bed. You squinted as your eyes adjusted to the light and swung your legs off the couch, standing on stiff bones. Sherlock immediately made to get comfortable on the couch while you stood dazed and confused and he cleared his throat expectantly when he had finally got settled. He was on his back with one arm holding the sheet up between himself and the back of the couch allowing room for you to climb over and snuggle right into him.
All you could do was blink and hold his stare as he waited expectantly, still holding the sheet for you. You didn’t think he was asking you to lay with him, especially with how close you’d two be. Sure, you shared your bed before, but there was always enough room for you both to have your own space. You could tell he was getting embarrassed by your reaction, or lack there of.
“I didn’t think this would be rocket science, even for someone like you.” His nervousness was showing as he yanked his arm back down and curled into to himself like a child. You jumped into action so you wouldn’t upset him any more and shook his shoulder as you whined, partially from exhaustion and from missing the chance to sleep next to him.
“I’m tired, I’m sorry! I didn’t realize what you were asking. Come on, open up. Let me in.” You continued to shake at his shoulder until he looked back at you. He looked wrecked from drinking all night and you knew this bout of sobriety wouldn’t be as easy on him in the morning but you were sure he looked holy.
Sherlock reluctantly brought his arm up again and you wasted no time sliding under the sheet and tucking yourself under the crook of his arm. He smelled like beer and mouthwash and Sherlock and you thought you were going to go into cardiac arrest when he brought his arm back down on you, subsequently pinning you down to him. It was definitely a tight fit especially since the couch barely fit Sherlock but you had decided that if you had the opportunity to sleep with him like this every night that you would. Back pain be damned.
The steadiness of his heartbeat was already working you back to sleep. Sighing content, you let your body fully relax and sink further into him.
“You never answered my question.” He shifted next to you and kept you close to him all the same, his head leaning to rest on yours.
“Hmm?” You made an incoherent sound, your breath evening out as you fell asleep.
“My question,” he whispered more so to himself as he worked it out in his head. The feelings he found himself harboring for you were ones he had never felt before. He thought so highly of you in a way he couldn’t understand even if he wasn’t the best at expressing it. You were patient with him when he got on your last nerve and was amazed by him when other people would tell him to piss off. You were always kind and warm and made him feel human even after he spent so long separating himself from his feelings. He couldn’t stand the idea of you looking at anyone else the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t looking.
So yes, he thought. Yes, he would love you in the morning. He’d love you when you’re angry with him for putting himself at risk during a case and he’d love you when you were overly tired and petulant after he made you stay up all night to keep him company in the lab. He loved that you valued him regardless of what he offered you, and that you always showed him that even if he never reciprocated it. You were never embarrassed by him, you always tried to learn about what he was interested in, and you never doubted him even when he was wrong.
Girlfriends weren’t naturally his area... but he didn’t think he would mind if it was you. He liked being close to you and physical touch wasn’t something he had sought out often before. He found that he chased the opportunity to be near you at all times. He thought you looked lovely in scrubs and a lab coat and even lovelier in your everyday wear, even if you considered it plain. He had begun to notice the way other people stared at you when you walked by and it left him with the most unsettling feeling. But then you’d smile at him and despite himself he’d smile right back and he wondered if anything in the world mattered to you besides him. Because in those moments, nothing mattered to him besides you.
Sherlock woke up alone again the next morning with the worst headache he’d ever had. Light was shining through the curtains and he cursed the sun for rising another day as he covered his eyes and groaned. Peaking through his fingers, he saw that the Advil and water had been moved to the coffee table for him and when he reached out for it he noticed the note on the table. He sat up with one hand gingerly holding his head as he read it.
“Got called into work to help the girls. John and Mary are coming over for lunch, so text me what you want me to bring home. We can’t serve our best friends buttered thumbs for lunch. I’ll see you soon!
He held the note in his hand, contemplating what his next move would be. You were interested in him, that he knew for sure. He’d contemplated casually mentioning to everyone that you were dating, but he technically hadn’t asked you to be his girlfriend and you two had never talked about any mutual feelings. Maybe he’d kiss you when walking you to your taxi, but he knew he’d make you stay with him instead of letting you go home. Possibly tonight when you were laying in his bed he’d tell you it had to be you, it could only ever be you.
Leaning back against the couch, he rubbed at his eyes and decided he’d call John over early and he’d help him sort it out. John always helped him. Standing up was harder than it looked apparently, as Sherlock wobbled to the side and fought the urge to puke. Perhaps he should shower first, surely you wouldn’t say yes to being his if he didn’t look his best.
He remembered how he looked and acted last night and winced. On second thought, maybe you would. You had already given yourself to him for better or for worse and soon enough, he smiled, he would give you himself in return.
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Pairing: Reader x Sherlock (implied), Reader x John Watson (platonic)
Warnings: Illness, upset stomach.
Summary: You tagged along to the Baskerville case… unfortunately, your immune system wasn’t as thrilled.
Don’t throw up, Sherlock said a mere ten minutes. You cursed the consulting detective for making the joke, especially when you were so ill.
The detective had been driving, John sat in the passenger seat with a map while you were laying on the backseat, trying to keep your head on straight.
A small moan escaped when you thought about the turn of events.
“Oh, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” John asked when he heard the noise.
Opening your eyes, you stared at the ceiling of the vehicle, putting a hand to your aching head. “Did I fall asleep again?”
Not enjoying being bogged down, you made an effort to sit up. Only, it gave way for a shiver to pass through your body.
“Yeah, that’s the third time since we left London. I’m beginning to suspect food poisoning.” John replied and looked back, “Now, I mean this in a nice way but - you look awful Y/n.”
You started to dismiss his statement, “I’m fine--” when suddenly felt a horrid feeling in the pit of your stomach.
You covered your mouth. “I feel sick.”
John turned to the front of the jeep instantly and scrambled at his feet for a bag.
“Don’t throw up.” Sherlock warned.
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Sherlock!” John snapped.
Turning back around, John handed you a bag from his medical kit. You took it and, without a moment’s thought, lost your breakfast – and probably last night’s dinner.
John handed you some towels and a bottle of water after the small incident. His kindness let you fall back to sleep on the backseat.
Once you were out like a light, the doctor sent a harsh glare at the driver.
“What?” Sherlock asked when he noticed.
John chuckled incredulously as he shook his head, “You are absolutely ridiculous.”
“Y/n’s got food poisoning. Of course, they’re going to be sick.”
“Doctor John Watson. Ever the hero.” Sherlock smirked only for his friend to send back an endearing insult.
You had no idea when the car stopped at Grimpen Village until the sound of the drivers side door woke you up.
John helped you out before leaving you to wait on the side as he unloaded the bags.
You were all staying at a small hotel called ‘The Cross Keys’ from what you made out on the sign board.
John grunted as he pulled out one of the luggage bags. “Sherlock, check if Y/n’s got a temperature.”
The detective turned around with a frown. “How am I supposed to do that?” He asked, as if the task was immensely complicated.
John rolled his eyes. He honestly didn’t want to deal with his friends foolish questions.
When Sherlock realised he was being actively ignored, he figured that it would be easier to just listen to the request. He made his way over to you and gently pressed the back of his hand on your forehead. It was cold.
Sherlock frowned and tilted your head up to check your pupils. “You’ve got a fever.” He said. “Nothing life threatening.”
You stepped away from Sherlock and turned to the side. Covering your mouth while coughing violently. Your head was giving small throbs as you worked your lungs.
“Are you sure? Because my insides feel like they’re on fire.” You muttered.
Sherlock smirked and took off his scarf. “Here.” He pulled the fabric around your neck and looped it tightly to keep you warm.
It wasn’t every day that Sherlock showed compassion – maybe you should fall ill more often.
Now finished with the suitcases, John walked over noticed your new piece of clothing.
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Let’s go. The game is afoot.”
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Anything: BBC Sherlock X Reader
A/N: Woo hoo, first Sherlock imagine! Let me know what you think?
WARNING(S): Sally Donovan being an idiot
You took a deep breath and walked up to your boss’ office before tentatively knocking on the door to which Greg said, “Come in!”
Opening the door, you stepped inside and your gaze immediately fell on the tall, handsome detective with his messed-up curls framing his concentrated face.
“Sherlock,” you began in a pleading sort of tone.
“Ah, Y/N,” Sherlock greeted, “The girl is up to talking, then?”
You looked at him before sighing, “Sherlock – look, this girl’s been through a kidnapping and her brother is lying unconscious at a hospital – bloody hell, she’s just seven! Just – can you – please be gentle, just this once?”
“What her point is beneath those much-too kind words,” Greg explained, “Just anything you can do to –”
“Not be myself,” Sherlock finished monotonously.
Greg awkwardly looked at him, “Well, it can’t hurt.”
You, Sherlock, Greg, John and Donovan walked together to the room where the little girl was sitting, next to a psychiatrist.
She was staring determinedly at her knees and her tiny face looked so sad that it made you hate Moriarty, if possible, even more.
Sherlock walked closer to her and said in what he hoped was an understanding voice, “Claudette, I know you’ve been through a lot –”
There was nothing left to say. Claudette took one look at Sherlock’s face and emitted a loud, piercing, bloodcurdling scream that echoed off the walls of the isolated room.
“Okay, alright,” you placed a hand on Sherlock’s arm. He was looking perplexed.
“Sherlock – let’s just leave,” you muttered, steering him out of the room and back into Greg’s office. Minutes later, the rest of them came running in.
“Makes no sense,” John frowned.
“Poor thing’s traumatised,” Greg sighed, “Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper.”
You looked at Sherlock warily, suddenly realising that he’d not uttered a single word during the conversation, but was determinedly staring out the window.
“Hey, don’t let it get to you,” Greg joked, “I always feeling like screaming when you walk into a room. In fact, a lot of us do. Come on.”
He left the room.
You threw one last furtive glance in Sherlock’s direction.
“Okay, come on,” you said gently, “You need to get home – it’s been a long day.”
As you made to steer him out of the room, Sally spoke up.
“Brilliant work you did, finding those kids with just a footprint. Really amazing –”
“Thank you,” Sherlock curtly responded.
“ – unbelievable,” Sally finished with a cold demeanour.
“Sally,” you warningly said, “Don’t listen to her – come on, let’s go.”
Not entirely convinced, Sally glared after the detective’s retreating form.
“Sally, this is ridiculous, you hear me?!” you shouted, “Ridiculous.”
“Y/N – look at my position here!” Sally yelled, “He’s just absolutely – well, brilliant! It’s unrealistic! It’s not – it’s not right!”
“He’s different, is what you mean to say,” you snapped, “And that annoys you, does it? Because he’s not like you, or Andersen, or Greg – or even me?”
“I told you when I first saw him, I didn’t like the look of him –”
“So you’re saying he’s touched in the head?!” you yelled, “That he’s crazy?! Listen – to – me – Sally!” you pleaded, “Sherlock is not a lunatic, he’s not a fraud, and not a liar!”
“Then why did that little girl start screaming?” Sally asked.
“I – well,” you sputtered.
Sally smirked knowing you were lost for words.
“Girl of seven years of age, kidnapped a week ago, sees Sherlock and starts bellowing her head off – a man she’s never seen before,” Sally said, “Or has she?”
“Are you crazy?” you yelled, “Why would Sherlock do something like that?!”
“Sally, listen to me,” you said in a more pleading tone, “I know you don’t like him and I know he’s not a very open person. And I realise that you’ve not got much to go on about his personality apart from his cases. But listen to me, Sally – Sherlock is not a bad person. He would never do that to a kid! To anyone, for that matter! Don’t you see what Moriarty’s trying to do? He’s trying to sow doubt into the minds of whoever are closest to him and others as well!”
Sally scoffed, “Really, Y/N? You of all people bought into that bullshit about Moriarty?”
“We don’t have time for this, Y/N, Lestrade’s already approved an arrest warrant. Now, I want you to stay away from the scene – you’ll only make it worse.”
“Make it – Sally, he’s my friend!” you yelled.
“And I’m your colleague who bears a message from your employer that you will get fired if you don’t follow instructions.”
“So – he refused?” you asked in mock bedazzlement.
“What was he, some sort of private eye?” asked the superintendent.
“He was – we were,” Greg began.
“ – consulting with him, that’s what you told me,” said the superintendent, “Have you used him on any proper cases?”
“One or two, sir,” you said pleadingly.
“Or twenty or thirty,” Andersen muttered under his breath as you disbelievingly looked at him.
“What?! This – private detective, has no authorisation and you give him access to all sorts of classified information?! You’re a bloody idiot, Lestrade! Now go, fetch him in, right now!”
“Sir –” you began, “I’m not going to – arrest my own friend.”
“Safety before sentiment, L/N,” he growled, “I don’t care if he’s your boyfriend, I don’t care if you’re pregnant with his child – he’s a suspect in a case and I own this section of Scotland Yard, I can get you fired like that,” he snapped his fingers, “Clear?”
You turned faintly pink, “Y-yes sir.”
You walked into 221B Baker Street straight up to Sherlock’s living room, keeping your face as impassive as possible.
“Sherlock Holmes, I’m placing you under arrest on charges of abduction,” you monotonously recited.
Though he normally would have insulted an officer in his face and told them to sod off, Sherlock took one look at your pained expression and quietly wrapped his scarf around his neck.
You extracted a pair of handcuffs and, with enormous difficulty, placed them on his wrist.
“God, I’m so sorry Sherlock,” you whispered so quietly that nobody except him heard you, “I promise this’ll be over soon, I promise.”
“ – and on charges of being involved in several other suspected cases,” you finished.
Sherlock looked at you again before saying, “Alright.”
“What – no, it’s not alright,” John sputtered, “This is ridiculous – Y/N! Y/N come on, don’t tell me you –”
“Don’t try to interfere or I’ll arrest you too,” you told John, your voice cracking with the agony the situation was causing you. John gaped at you but spoke no more.
As Sally took over Sherlock and dragged him downstairs, the chief superintendent strolled inside, taking a brief look over his apartment.
“Dottiness, that’s what he radiates,” he muttered, “Took one look at his face and knew it. He’s a bloody lunatic.”
“Apologies, sir,” you said, beginning to lose your cool, “But Sherlock Holmes seems a perfectly sane man to all of us.”
“Is that so?” he asked in a mocking way, “We’ll see what you’ve got to say when he’s convicted for all the murders he’s done just to show off –”
Sherlock was staring determinedly at his knees when your voice made him look up.
You were running out of his flat door as if your life depended on it.
“Hand – over – this – prisoner – to me,” you panted, coming to a halt, “Chief’s orders.”
The officers looked confused but guided Sherlock to your side.
“What are you doing?” he asked you out of the corner of his mouth.
“Getting you the hell out of here,” you answered out of the corner of yours, “Right, we’ve got around five seconds before they realise something is –”
“Stop! STOP!” the chief came running outside, his face grotesquely bloody from the punch you’d aimed at him, “STOP THAT WOMAN!”
The officers seemed to realise it was wrong to hand Sherlock over to you but they were too late. You grabbed the gun sitting in your pocket and pointed it around.
“Get on your knees! Everyone! I swear, I will shoot!” you screamed like a maniac.
“Open fire –” the chief began.
“NO, JUST DO WHAT SHE SAYS!” Greg bellowed over the commotion, “WE CAN’T AFFORD SERGEANT L/N’S DEATH IN THE CURRENT CLIMATE!”
You felt an inexplicable rush of gratitude towards Greg.
Everyone reluctantly sunk to their knees.
You menacingly made to raise the gun again to get Sherlock out of there but your hand was restrained by something. You looked down in surprise to see one of Sherlock’s hands free of handcuffs due to the reason that it had been placed onto yours, cuffing you two together.
“Don’t move!” yelled Sherlock. Nobody complied.
He raised your connected hands and shot into the air as you yelped in shock.
“Don’t move or I will kill this woman!” Sherlock pointed a gun to your head. Immediately, you caught on.
“Please, don’t move!” you said in a very convincing teary voice, “I’m his – his –”
“My hostage!” Sherlock yelled helpfully.
“Yeah, okay,” you muttered to yourself.
Sherlock’s cuffed hand dragged you gently further and further away from the scene.
“Now what?” you whispered.
“Improvisation,” Sherlock responded, “Run.”
You barely had time to register it as he took off sprinting, dragging you along with him. After a few blocks, you gained a clumsy coordination and you finally stopped at a gate with no way ahead.
Sherlock tutted in annoyance and jumped over the gate.
“What – you bloody twat, I’m not jumping off of that!” you yelled.
“No time to negotiate, Y/N!” Sherlock yelled, “Move to your right, and jump! Now!”
You shook your head but police sirens were gaining on you so you had no choice. Closing your eyes and shouting a prayer to the heavens, you jumped off and landed straight into Sherlock’s arms.
Your cheeks burned in embarrassment and you walked forward, as far away as possible. When you finally reached a secluded spot, Sherlock turned to you, both of you panting.
“What – why, why did you do that?” you gasped, clutching a stitch in your side, “Now they’re going to think you’re a bloody psychopath, I had it under control!”
“You would have lost your job,” Sherlock snapped at you.
You scoffed, “I’d rather be unemployed than work at a place that’s trying to hurt my friend!”
Sherlock looked at you seriously, not blinking in the least.
“You would – you would be prepared to risk your job for me?” he clarified.
“Yes!” you yelled, “Of course I’d be prepared to risk my job for you!”
“Why?” Sherlock abruptly asked, “Nobody ever does anything without a reason, tell. Me. Why. This is – this is inhumane, this – this feeling I get around you these days – I don’t know if it’s you or me –”
“I think - it’s both of us,” you said quietly, “It’s called attraction, Sherlock. I think – I think you – you fancy me.”
“I’m beginning to think so too,” Sherlock muttered, messing up his hair, “But you didn’t answer my question. Why?”
“Sherlock.” you seriously said, “Sometimes you don’t need a reason to be nice to someone. I’d risk my life for you, Sherlock. I’d do anything for you.”
There was nothing more to be said. After staring at you in serious concentration, Sherlock inched closer to your face. You could feel his breath fanning your face and his gaze was fixed upon your lips as yours, on his. Your lips collided in a spontaneous kiss and the next moment, you were fisting his shirt and pulling him closer to you, holding on as tightly as possible.
Sure, the world was beginning to crumble around Sherlock, but that could wait.
All that mattered in that moment, was you and the feeling of your body pressed up against his on the cold winter’s night.
A/N: So do you think Sherlock is a field I should write more fanfics in?
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❦ PART. II
Fandom: Enola Holmes
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x female reader
Word count: 3K
anon said: Can I request a Sherlock x reader where she visited Enola often when Sherlock left on long cases, so they became good friends? And when Enola runs away to find her mom, she goes to stay with the reader, which Sherlock deduces and tries to get her to let him find Enola and talk to her? -&
A/N: this request was amazing and I loved every bit of it!!! I put all my inspiration in this, tried to make the personality of the character good, so I hope you like this piece, love, I did my best!! (also I’m thinking about a part 2? if you guys like it let me know, I would be delighted to write it) (had to repost guys, I'm sorry!!)
also, the tag list for this fandom is open!!!
gif credit: @henrycavilledits
❧ You knew the Holmes family was nothing like the other families that lived in the countryside. The father had died many years before. The two oldest sons had already left home, to live their lives and follow the careers they desired. On that incredibly big house, where once lived a family, there was only a mother and her youngest child left. Perhaps the fact that you yourself was considered a little off by other people, was the fact that made you become friends with them.
You lived completely alone, surrounded by books in a small house. Your life was made of studying, researching and writing texts about science. You loved it, great authors of the matter being your inspiration. You tried to learn their teachings and with luck, wanted others to learn as well. You almost couldn’t believe when one day in the middle of a sunny afternoon, Eudoria Holmes had showed up at your door and invited you to her house, where she asked you to be Enola’s science teacher. She educated her daughter not for society, but for herself, so that she could find her own path when she came to grow up. That instantly made you respect that woman and accept her offer.
Twice a week you would go to the Holmes’s house and spend hours and more hours teaching the girl. Darwin, Copernicus, Newton, Galilei. She was eager to know and you were eager to teach her. She was the first student you had that actually wanted to learn and that was amazing. Made you proud and happy, more than you could say. At the evening, Eudoria would ask you to stay for dinner. You would put lessons aside and talk and laugh together. They were like your family, the one you didn’t had.
You were always excited for the days of teaching Enola to come soon. They were your absolute favorites of the week. In the beginning of the afternoon of one of those days, you had been incredibly surprised by a knock on your front door while you gathered the books you would make the girl read and study. Frowning, because you never had visitors or received letters, you went to attend the door.
And when you opened it, you saw that your visitor was Enola herself.
“Hi, Miss (Y/L/N)” the girl smiled at you, a little forced smile that instantly made your frown grow deeper. She was wearing boy’s clothes, even a hat, and her long brown hair had been hidden inside of it. “I’m afraid today’s lesson will have to be rescheduled”
“Enola, what…” you began, confused. You had seen her dressed in boy’s clothes before around her house, that wasn’t a big deal. She did find them more comfortable, she had told you before. But the fact that she concealed her hair as if she wanted to hide it and the expression on her face, something that you couldn’t quite identify but resembled urgency, was enough for you to get anxious.
“Please, Miss (Y/L/N), can I come in? I promise I’ll explain everything you want to know” she pleaded, eyes locked on yours as she did so. The tone on her voice made you nod and take a step to the side, locking the door once she was already inside. “I had never been here. Your house is really amazing” the girl seemed overwhelmed by all the books and unfinished texts you had around, laying on tables and shelves.
“Thank you” you said, mind still running fast as you tried to understand what was happening. You walked after the girl, that had advanced until she reached the next room of your house, one who only had two couches and a table. “Enola, what is going on?” her face instantly lost the admiration she was having for your belongings. Her eyes went to the floor, and she went silent. That made you sight. “Enola, you promise you would explain. And you know you can trust me”
That seemed to make her come around, because she sighted as you had just did and sat at one of your couches. Or better, she laid down on it, placing her head over a pillow and focusing her eyes on the roof. Her hands were joined over her chest. “I came here because I wanted to hide, Miss (Y/L/N). I’m running away”
Your eyes went wide at that declaration and you sat on the other couch, realizing that would probably be a long conversation. “Enola! Think about your mother! She loves you. Your disappearance will hurt her deeply”
“No, no, I’m not running away from my mother. I’m running away to find her” the girl sat straight on the couch, eyes meeting yours again like they had before at the door. She could see the confusion in your eyes grow by each word she spoke. “My mother went missing a few days ago, Miss (Y/L/N). She didn’t say goodbye or said where she was going. She only left me clues, here and there that I’ll have to use to find her”
Worry got a hold of you, the same worry you had recognized on Enola’s eyes. Eudoria. Where would she have gone? Was she fine? Not knowing you realized, was terrible. As you thought about what Enola had just said, another question got to your mind. “If your mother is missing, who are you running away from, Enola?”
“My brothers. Sherlock and Mycroft. Well, especially Mycroft, because he wants to send me to a finishing school, that prepares young women for society” the clear disgust in her voice would have made you laugh if you weren’t so worried.
“Where will you go to find your mother, Enola? What plans do you have? Do you want me to go with you?” all questions left your mouth in such a rush, that it seemed like you had just spit out the words one after the other.
The young girl smiled kindly and got up, going to sit right next to you on the couch you were on. She grabbed your hands in hers gently and squeezed them tightly. “Thank you for offering to go with me, to support me, Miss (Y/L/N). Is more than my own brothers have done. But this is something I have to do alone, I have to be the one to find her and know why she left. And I think that the less you know, the better it will be”
Oh, that girl. You smiled while you looked at her. Eudoria had raised her to be a force of nature and had achieved that goal, brilliantly. You squeezed her hands back in affection. “When will you leave?”
“At sundown today” she said, so quickly that you realized she had already thought about everything. At least, on that phase of that 'plan' to find her dear mother. “Will walk to the train station, not the closest one but the next, and get on the first train in the morning tomorrow. In this way, I’m quite sure my brothers won’t be able to understand my intentions soon enough as to catch me”
“Very well” you passed your arms around her and hugged her tight, sighting. “Let’s get you some food for your journey, then. If you find Eudoria and she finds out I let you almost starve I’ll get in trouble”
Enola laughed as she hugged you back.
════ •⊰❂⊱• ═══════ •⊰❂⊱• ════
Enola had left at sundown of the previous day, just like she had said she would. Carrying nothing more than money her mother had left her, a bag of food you had given her and her favorite book of yours, Origin of Species, you had watched her walk away into the night alone, as her name backwards spelled.
You had spent the whole night incapable of sleeping, wondering if she was fine and if she hadn’t encountered any dangers as she travelled on foot. You worried so much but all you could do, was hope that she would stay safe and find her mother. Soon.
On the next day, you had spent the morning and the beginning of the afternoon distracted. Tried to complete some of your works, but couldn’t. Your mind would always go back to the gone girl and her well being.
You had frustratedly been trying to read the same page of one of your books for fifteen minutes, without being capable of keeping any attention on it, when for the second time in a long time, you heard knocks at the front door.
You got up instantly, leaving the book forgotten upon the closest table as you rushed to the door, already smiling at the thought at Enola had came around on her idea of going alone and was back to ask you to go with her.
When you opened the door though, you realized that it wasn’t Enola who had knocked. It had been a man. A man you had never seen before.
He was tall, it was the first thing you noticed. The fact that he had no beard, was the second. And then, details of him came rushing into your mind through your eyes. He had short, curly hair, bright eyes and memorable features. He wore a white shirt, a brown vest with small white details in it and a brown suit as well as trousers of the same color. No tie which was insula for men that well dressed.
“May I help you?” you frowned at him, holding the wooden door firmly with one of your hands. To receive the visit of men, had always made you nervous. You lived alone, after all, and the world was becoming a more violent place day by day.
“I hope so” he said, which such confidence on his voice that it actually made you raise your eyebrows at him. His eyes were fixed in you, analyzing your face with much intensity. Far more than you thought it would be appropriate. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. And I suppose you are Miss (Y/L/N), my sister’s science teacher”
You took a moment to watch him again, trying to put into your mind that the man in front of you was the Sherlock Holmes, the detective who was making a name on England, solving the most incredible and difficult cases on his own. After long seconds of silence where you only stared at each other, you cleaned your throat. “I am in fact Enola’s teacher, Mr. Holmes. How did you know?”
“I found her works, studies on great science authors. They all had writings on the borders where she constantly mentioned a desire to please and make a 'Miss (Y/L/N)' proud. It only took me a visit to one of the closest houses to ask who it was and get pointed in your house’s direction” he explained, in an impersonal tone quite fitting to a detective. He saw the incisive tone look you were giving him, filled with suspicion, and smiled slightly as he looked at his feet, before focusing his eyes back on yours. “I came here because Enola ran away from home, Miss (Y/L/N). And I think she would come here to see you if she needed help”
You sighted, looking into his eyes. You remembered Enola’s words, where she had told you Mycroft was the one who wanted to send her to a finishing school, the one who had made her run away. If that had been Mycroft Holmes at your door, you would have denied being her teacher or even knowing the girl, wanting to cut the conversation short. But that was Sherlock Holmes. Enola hadn’t expressed much anger towards him and honestly, he would for sure find out the truth on his own. He was the best detective there was in the nowadays. You tell him, would just spin faster the process and you would be able to send him away sooner.
“Come in, Mr. Holmes” you took a step aside, motioning for him to come in. He did, in slow calculated steps and once he was inside you closed the door, sighting. You expected him to say something, but he didn’t. Not at first. Instead he walked around just like Enola had done, eyes floating through the uncountable books you had, all in a complete mess over the tables, piles and more piles of them . “She was indeed here, your sister”
He turned his head to look at you, a genuine smile on his lips. “I was already certain of that” then he walked towards one of the tables, fingers running through one of works. The paper was a bit kneaded, but he didn’t seem to care. “The works you did with Enola, the amount of things she learned… they were quite impressive”
You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to contain your surprise to know you had impressed the most impressive man of all, Sherlock Holmes. You waited for him to speak again, but he didn’t, just kept on walking through the room and inspecting your things with his perceptive eyes. “I don’t know where she is, Mr. Holmes. She left many hours ago”
He placed his hands on the pockets of his trousers, turning completely to you the resemblance of his previous smile on his lips. “And I believe she didn’t tell you what were her plans?”
“No and if she had, I wouldn’t tell you” you said and went to sit on a chair, at the table he had been studying with his eyes previously.
“Mind if I take off my suit?” he asked simply. You just nodded for him to go on, not giving it much thought. He took off his brown suit in gracious movements, then placed it in one of the other empty chairs close by. “May I ask why you wouldn’t tell me my sister’s plans, Miss (Y/L/N), if you knew them?”
“Enola said your brother wants to send her to a finishing school” you replied, watching as one after the other, he folded the sleeves of his white shirt until they got close to his elbow. Unconsciously, you noticed how his muscles could be seen from under his shirt. “To try to turn such a brilliant, incredibly smart young girl into a 'lady society' would be a terrible mistake. She shouldn’t be forced to do it” at the end of that sentence, Sherlock Holmes had grabbed two books in his hands and after reading the tiles, he went to the shelves and started placing them there. “Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?”
“I am organizing your books, Miss (Y/L/N). In alphabetical order, of course. Like I’ve noticed you do after a quick inspection” he smiled at you again, placing those two in place. Then, he went to the table and grabbed a few more. “I personally agree with you. I don’t think Enola should be sent to such a place, but she is my brother’s ward. It is out of my hands” he read the titles, then turned around to return to the shelves. “I suppose you weren’t raised as a lady of society also, for you live by yourself apparently and your academic interests”
“You’re wrong” you said with a little smile taking a hold of your lips, and that made him stop organizing the books and look at you with a frown. She shouldn’t be wrong often. “I was raised to be a lady, until the point where my parents died. After that, I started to live on my own, for I had no more relatives. It gave me a chance to become who I wanted to be, instead of whom I was being carved into”
“You chose your own path” he said with a bigger smile this time and when you nodded in agreement, he returned his look at the shelves. “How did your parents die?”
“They were murdered” you tried to swallow the knot on your throat. Even though they had been controlling parents to the most when regarding your future, they were still your parents, and you loved and missed them. “The police never found out by whom”
“The police can be quite… inefficient” he turned back around with his hands already empty. “I’m really sorry”
“Thank you” you said, squeezing your lips in a thin line as old memories came to surface. Things you hadn’t you thought about in a long, long time. “If there isn’t anything else, may I escort you to the door?”
Your polite way of sending him away made him smile.
He placed the books he had just gathered back on the table, grabbed his suit and accompanied you towards the door, not bothering to dress the piece again. You opened the door and he stepped out, turning to look at you once more. His eyes were curious, interesting. Full of something you couldn’t quite identify, so mysterious as his sister’s.
“If you find Enola, don’t stop her from trying to find your mother” you told him, trying to repress the emotion in your voice. “Not knowing what happened… can be quite disturbing”
“I promise, stop her, is not my intention” he looked down at his feet once again, as if he was thinking for a brief moment, before his eyes went back to yours. “I could try to find out what happened to your parents. Who was their murderer”
“I don’t have much money, Mr. Holmes” you told him, your turn now to look down at your feet.
“I never said you would have to pay” he replied and with that your gaze snapped back up to meet his, and that made him chuckle. You couldn’t deny he looked quite beautiful when doing that. “You were there for my sister through much time and when she needed help, when I wasn’t. That is enough paying for me. Think about it, Miss (Y/L/N). After I find my sister and discover where is my mother, I am willing to take over your case. If you want me to” he nodded his head in your direction in a silent appreciation for your reception in your house and began to turn to walk away, but stopped himself in the middle of such movement. “May I know your first name?”
You smiled softly at that. “It’s (Y/N), Mr. Holmes”
“Please, call me Sherlock”
And after that, he walked away.
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Smut-tember day 23- Double penetration with Sherlock Holmes
Warnings: smut including use of butt plugs, reference to cockwarming
Gif creds to owner
“You really think you can manage both?” Sherlock smirked as you eyed up the butt plug sat, brand spanking new, in its box. Sherlock had bought this one for you off the internet; it was a rather pretty colour, dark blue with a wide flared base that would surely stimulate your perineum too. But it was also larger than the one you already had, both in length and in girth, and as you nibbled your lip, you found yourself wondering if Sherlock was right to tease.
“Shut up,” You said stubbornly. “Of course I can manage both,”
Sherlock grinned, watching as your chest rose and fell a little more quickly, as you began to perspire ever so slightly. “And are you positive you can handle one that size? Or should I get the other one out of your drawer?”
“Shut up, Sherlock,” you said, pouting. “I’ve had your cock up my arse, haven’t I?”
“Hmm… and you were shaking and crying and begging for me to fuck your arse right there on the couch when you were meant to be sitting still,” he said, undeterred by your crudeness. Usually such vulgar language would fluster him at least a little, but he was getting used to it, and he was catching on to what made you flustered.
You were silent for a moment, before looking up at him. “Is John due back soon?” You asked.
“Like that’s stopped us before,” Sherlock replied, but pushed you gently towards the bed all the same.
“There,” Sherlock said, patting your bottom. “How’s that?” Before you could open your mouth, he was already speaking: “well, it’s aroused you, certainly, you’re already spasming, and there is wetness just running down your thighs…”
“‘S good,” you mumbled, your elbows quivering from holding you up, your breath already coming in pants.
“Good? I’d say it’s more than good,” Sherlock hummed, helping you to kneel up.
“Don’t tease,” you whined, already pawing at his shirt, making him laugh.
“It’s not teasing if I’m merely observing,” Sherlock quipped, helping you remove his top, rolling his eyes as you practically ripped his belt off.
“Just fuck me, for Christ’s sake,” you pouted. When he wanted to, Sherlock Holmes could take an absolute age removing his trousers.
“I thought you were supposed to be the romantic one,” he reminded you, sitting up against the headboard as you eagerly yanked his boxers down, pumping his cock to full hardness. When you looked up at him with pure lust in your eyes, he smirked, shaking his head fondly. “Come here then. Come and ride me,”
You did not need to be told twice. Almost as soon as the words left his lips, you were hurrying to straddle him, your quick, clumsy movements making the plug shift inside you, causing a wanton moan to escape your lips. “Shh, sweetheart, we haven’t even started,” sherlock chastised, his large hands clasping your hips as you reached between you both to guide his cock into your sopping heat. With a low, needy groan you lowered yourself onto his cock, your chin tipping forwards to rest on your chest as he bottomed out beneath you. Grunting, Sherlock’s grip tightened on your hips, and he could feel you clenching around his dick even more so than normal as you squirmed and rode him. With a strained smirk, he reached around you, rolling his hips up to aid you as your thrusts turned sloppy.
With a simple movement of his hand, your vision went white as the crest of your orgasm crashed over you; he had pressed the plug just that bit more inside you, right as your grinding motion caused your clit to rub right on his pubis. With a shaking cry, you shattered around him and the toy, your body convulsing as you came, bolts of white hot pleasure rushing through your veins, only vaguely aware of Sherlock shouting through his own release.
“Fuck,” you whispered, falling forward onto his chest, whining at the sensation of his softening cock pulling out of you. Sherlock smiled dazedly, rubbing your back gently, before tapping your hip.
“Come on,” he murmured.
“No…” you whined. “Wanna stay like this…” Sherlock smiled and nodded, assuming you wanted (as you usually did after sex) some cuddles. He rubbed your bottom tenderly, before beginning to gently tug on the plug. With a disgruntled whine, you reached to grasp his wrist, and when he looked at you questioningly, you simply murmured, “leave it. ‘S nice,”
Tags: @pinkandblueblurbs @imareallygrumpyme @lazyotakujen @elenavampire21
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Dating them would include...
Even though Sherlock swore to himself to never get into a real relationship he couldn't help himself when he met you
Your relationship has its ups and downs and when you found out about his substance abuse, you set him an ultimatum to either quit the drugs or you’d break up with him
At first, he continued as he doesn’t like to be domineered over, but soon he found out he’s more addicted to you than his drugs and promised to quit them
You love to hear Sherlock play the violin, so when he notices you’re a little down he always picks it up and plays your favourite piece
Over time you have become accustomed to his quirks and know how to get his attention
When you want to spend some time with him you trick him with little puzzles to get him out of his mind palace
After you get his attention, you usually talk about recent crimes that happened in London and share theories about how things could have gone down
At the beginning of your relationship, John would be a little nervous sometimes, cautious of doing everything right
He would also be a little worried about your age gap, but as he often dates younger women, he has everything figured out
As you are someone who doesn’t take care of yourself very well, he, being a doctor, would always make sure you drink enough water and get enough sleep
You’d frequently go out together on walks through Hyde Park or aside the Thames, enjoying the quiet and nature
During the night he’d sometimes get flashbacks to his time in the Afghanistan war. When this happens, you try to comfort him, embracing him and assuring that everything is alright
You’d always be a little concerned when he goes out on a case with Sherlock, but in the end, he always comes back, and after you give him a relieved kiss you’d make him a cuppa tea tell him to tell you everything about it
Mycroft would be super worried about your security, thus using the MI5 to shadow you wherever you go
He’d be sure to treat you like a queen and take you to his favourite five-star restaurants frequently
Obviously, with him practically being the British government, he would have less time for you than you both would prefer, but he would always make sure to go on dates at least three times per week
When he comes home after a long day in the ministry, you snuggle up together on the sofa and read beside each other, enjoying a glass of red wine
Sometimes you’d get a little jealous of his assistant who gets more time with him than you, but Mycroft would make sure to prove to you that you’ll always be the only woman in his life and that he loves you unconditionally
At times he would have to leave for long trips overseas, but you’d video chat every evening. When you greet him back, he’d always bring a large bouquet of roses to at least make it a little bit up for you
Jim would be super protective of you, immediately getting jealous when a guy only dares to look at your direction
Even though he is mean to most other people, he would have a completely other personality around you, as you are his favourite person
He would make sure not to endanger you and keep him out of his business, even though you’d full want to support him with everything he does because you love him
Being super style-oriented, he’d make sure to match his suit to your dress whenever you go out, also to point out that you belong to him, and only him
At times he would have to change his location and identity, which forces you to leave your family as well, as it would endanger them to know about your whereabouts. Even though he seems to be a psychopath to others, he sees the great sacrifices you make for him and holds you in great esteem for them
He’d be the dominant part of your relationship, always teasing you, but making sure to take well care of you at all times and provide everything you could ever need
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Sherlock Holmes - Kiss Me, Mr Detective
A/N - Season 1!Sherlock, the cutie. And friends to lovers. Two of my favourite things. I do not own Sherlock Holmes, the character, the universe, the adaptations or anything: this is a work of fiction set on the BBC adaptation of Sherlock. Did I still write 8.2k words (exactly) for it? Yes. I also don’t own the song or the lyrics used within, and if you fancy it, listen to ‘Kiss Me’ by Ed Sheeran while reading.
Warnings - Bad language. Mentions of murder and drug usage. Mild angst. Smut, loss of virginity, masturbation, oral m receiving, penetration, unprotected sex, so 18+.
Summary - After a fight with John leaves Sherlock feeling particularly down, he calls on the one person who is always there to support him. Only tonight, it’s different. Feelings come to a head, exploration ensues, but is this just a one time thing? That depends on whether she stays the night...
TO SHERLOCK, it’s just another normal day, whereas to John? He’d rather not admit how regularly these awful days roll around. Sure, the case didn’t go as well as it could’ve, and Sherlock admittedly could’ve made much more of an effort to comfort John after the apparent ‘heartbreak’ he endured. He just could not understand it. Why the hell was John so emotionally responsive to a case they’d been on for less than twenty four hours which turned out to be a bust anyway?
“You are absolutely unbelievable!”
“People die every day, John. You’ve killed people, as have I. It isn’t that great a surprise.” Sherlock deadpans, picking up his teacup, raising it to his lips, drawing a long sip from the warm liquid.
“Oh, yeah, of course. The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.” John mocks. “Do you not even care that people are still dead despite the fact you solved the case?”
“They’d be dead either way,” he reiterates, “at least we got to them before they completely decomposed. Will me caring about them stop them from being dead? No, Dr Watson, it will not.”
“John!” He mimics.
John slams his hands down on the desk, shaking the wood and everything resting on it, surely sending the vibrations through the floor and notifying Mrs Hudson of their ‘domestic’ as she so likes to call them. The buffalo even begins to swing. John’s tea is long forgotten, but Sherlock’s is keeping him grounded, calm, as John waggles his fist in Sherlock’s passive, blank face.
“You-” he pauses, gulping down breath. “You are a fucking machine, I can’t even deal with you right now. How dare you be so cold hearted and untroubled by this. You’re a disgrace.”
As if he hasn’t heard that one before, Sherlock scoffs.
Placing his teacup back down with a clink, he stands, the darkness of the night, of the room, closing in on them both. Nights like these really are danger nights, any night John leaves him. That’s what's coming next, but there isn’t a thing he knows to say or do to prevent the inevitable. He’ll simply just text Her instead, she’ll keep him grounded.
“Why? Emotional context? Emotion, whether of ridicule, anger, or sorrow, whether raised at a puppet show, a funeral, or a battle, is your grandest of levellers. The man who would be always superior should be always apathetic.”
With a huff like a bull, John viciously turns on his heel, blaspheming under his breath, cursing Sherlock out. He reaches for his coat and snatches it off the stand, slamming the door open.
“MACHINE.” John screams before pulling the door shut with a great slam, seething, the coat stand still rocking in his wake.
John’s footsteps thunder down the stairs, but before he’s even gone, Sherlock’s phone is withdrawn, and he’s tapping out a message.
Can you come over? Please? SH
It wouldn’t usually bother him as much. The case didn’t phase him, at all, but John’s opinion did. It always does. But today was a particularly long day of being brutish and rude, cold and distant, his usual and true self, but John’s more and more impatient with him now.
Being called a ‘machine’ is, again, nothing unusual, but this time it stings a little more than usual, especially after his recent arrest, and a fallout with Molly. He only has one person left, right now, who doesn’t hate him. His longest friend, the one he keeps away from it all so as to not tarnish her life with his misdeeds; Y/N, the one he can always rely on.
He knows she’s arrived by the sound of his window crashing open. Crawling up the bricks, skimming the drainpipe, latching onto the ivy; it’s her usual manner of entry. She never uses the door.
Putting his cups and saucers into the sink, he makes his way through the house, opening his bedroom door to find her already sitting there on the bed, her coat hung up on the hook, her work clothes clinging to her body.
“Hey there Mr Detective, you okay?” she asks as jovially as she can muster.
The way he ambles across the room, his dressing gown floating behind him, and slumps down onto the bed, instantly tells her he’s not okay at all. She can’t help but to look upon him sympathetically, edging a smidge closer to him, until he’s prompted enough to wrap his arms around her torso, finding his rightful place tangled around her. She knows him well enough - his past, and his current life - to realise she’s the only person he’s ever felt comfortable enough around to do this with, and that brings her a certain swelling pride in her bosom, one that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock as he feels her skin heat up against his cheek.
It doesn’t take long, either, for his head to follow suit, burying into her chest. He’s always, always had a thing for her boobs, ever since they were in uni together.
That’s something so special about the two of them, he doesn’t have to say anything for her to know he’s not okay the way he does with everyone else. And naturally, he can read everything about her in a split second.
“I’m here, bud.”
Above all else, he just needs to know someone is there for him in moments like these. The world is cruel to him, and Y/N wishes more than anything that it wasn’t. Upon instinct, her hands stray, one to his back, pressing against the silk of his dressing gown, the other cradling his long neck, fingers knotting in the dark curls there.
She isn’t sure how long she stays there, simply holding him, feeling every twitch of his muscles, every breath of his against her skin, but she likes it. Of course she does, every time she likes it. Sherlock brings her an inordinate amount of comfort at the best of times, today is no exception, especially with what the day has held. Even when she’s the one comforting him, he doesn’t realise how much he helps her too.
His flat is so familiar, his bed as comfortable as her own. She knows his sock index, she’s studied his periodic table over his shoulder more times than she’d care to admit, and she even has her own toothbrush in the bathroom in case she has to pop over for an emergency freshen up. Sherlock has, and always will be, her first port of call, and that she remembers as she shifts further onto the quilted bedspread, her phone on his oak bedside locker.
His head begins to stir against her chest, his curls tickling her collarbones, small hums escaping his lips as he pushes himself up, his elegant yet trembling hands still splayed on her waist.
“I could feel your heart beating weirdly, what’s wrong?” he asks, quirking his eyebrows.
“Just the usual.” she vaguely replies.
Sherlock isn’t having it, though, and scans her a little more. “You’re still in your work clothes.”
“Great deduction. I was hoping you’d go a little deeper, though.”
“You hate wearing work clothes longer than necessary, which means you had plans straight after work, considering you finished… five hours ago? That’s your usual time for today. Counting overtime, forty five minutes, walk to your car, another ten, but your umbrella wasn’t working, round that up to an hour, leaving at 6. You arrived home, no, not home, at your boyfriend’s house for dinner. However, you’re not comfortable enough with one another yet for you to use his shower, or perhaps you are, but you elected not to, and stay in damp clothes that only had seventeen minutes to dry with the heater on in your car for the journey there. You ate dinner, Mexican, had a glass and a half of five percent wine, realised you couldn’t drive, but you didn’t particularly want to stay. Nonetheless you sat and watched the telly with him for hours, football, I can see the dreariness in your eyes. I know how much you hate it, and frankly, same. You stayed for almost all of the match, seeing as you’re now sober, but something else happened.” She lulls her head to the side, prompting him, her smile not meeting her eyes. “As soon as the match ended, he tried to make a move on you, he pressed his mouth to yours, he tried to push his hand up your skirt;” his throat bobs with a vicious gulp; despising the thought of anyone else laying a finger on her, “you swatted him away, rightfully so.”
He pauses a minute, his harsh tone of voice and his sharp face softening. He can see the vulnerability in her eyes, her walls about to crumble. This woman he appreciates so much. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
Smiling melancholically up at him, she brings her hand back to his hair, her fingers carding through the soft curls. His face buries back into her chest just as her voice offers a broken whisper, “I broke it off. I was the one who couldn’t commit this time.”
And as she lays her head on top of his, her breathing more shallow, resounding in her chest, he dwells over those very words. The way she said them, not to mention the words themselves, hold a myriad of meaning. What could she possibly-
The subtext, yes, impeccable. She’s always had a way with implications and subtext, always knowing that the likelihood of him actually picking up on it is little to none. But now, now he’s become trained to her, her way of life, her way of thinking, her way of speaking. This is too good an opportunity to miss. If she means what he thinks she means, ever hopeful, then this is completely unfamiliar territory.
Gathering all of his courage in one deep breath, he begins to pepper kisses on her skin. The faintest brush of his lips on the tops of her breasts, all that’s available to him with her shirt the way it is. He feels her heart flutter, her breathing stutter, but despite the chemical flush of her chest, he still isn’t quite sure she likes it. Not until he feels her grip on his hair increase, and he glances up to see her head thrown back. Her spine delicately arches against his hand, thrusting her chest further into his face.
His nimble fingers reach for her buttons, undoing the top two, giving him space enough to find the valley between her breasts. Lathering kisses there, licking the swells of her boobs, his tongue pulsates with the increased thrumming of her heart. The sensation is new, so unbridled, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with the stirring in his loins right about now. That unknowing is only further amplified by the sound that rips from her chest when he involuntarily bites down on the supple flesh. It couldn’t be… a moan?
Sure, he understands the chemistry of it, the reactions that occur in the synapses of the brain, the pheromones and hormones released when one is aroused, but this is all new to him. And, from his embarrassingly basic level of theory, surely that doesn’t start until some more stimulation on other parts of the body commence? Nipples, perhaps something lower down… then again, what does Sherlock know?
Of course it’s an intimate moment, the closest he’s been to a woman before, and maybe that’s why he freezes, stops, and she tugs his head up by his hair, her gentle, pleasured smile with her lips softly parted deepening the look of bewilderment painted onto his face. Her eyes are twinkling, alight with an excitement he hasn’t seen for far too long.
“What are you doing?” she whispers.
He shrugs his shoulders with a sudden force, his dressing gown falling off a little. “I don’t know. But now I feel like I read your pining words all wrong.”
She gasps, a wheezing sound, sucking the air from the room. She smacks his arm gently, muffled by his button-down and dressing gown. “I wasn’t pining! I was saying.”
“Hmm, same difference.”
Everyone must acquiesce when it comes to Sherlock Holmes. “But no, you didn’t read them wrong at all, but I know you don’t see me that way, you don’t feel things that way.”
He pauses, his beautiful plump lips pursed, fidgeting on the bed. Brushing her hair off her face reveals the pain she expressed. However, her eyes glued on his, sadness is betrayed in every line of his young, clean-shaven face. His entire bone structure is taking a nosedive.
“For you, I’ve been feeling everything from hate to love to lust, and I guess that’s how I know I want to hold you close.”
“Sherlock...” she whispers, her singular word an inflection of surprise.
Never tearing his eyes from her, his hand comes up to her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the slightly blushing skin, searching her face, with his big blue eyes, for a shred of reluctance. But, all he sees is her, so he elects to do what his heart is yelling at him to do for once, and kisses her breathless. His full lips holding hers, his one hand on her face, the other still wrapped around her back. Hers fly around his neck, clinging to him for dear life.
It doesn’t take long, their movements steadily heating, for their previously slow, intimate kiss to grow into something more, Y/N pulling herself up from the bed and making herself comfortable on Sherlock’s lap. His breath hitches in his throat, a cute little hiccupping sound escaping his lips in between embraces.
As much as he loves just this, soft caressing and gentle petting, he just knows she wants more. He does too, that much is evident from the length prodding at Y/N’s inner thigh as she moves gently on his lap. She won’t make a move, though, he’s too inexperienced, and she’s too much of a sweetheart to corrupt him, so she thinks. Ever since he first saw her, she’s been corrupting him slowly. He didn’t realise at first, but over the years, he began to understand, and now he’s in too deep.
For Y/N? It’s always been him. Every breakup she’s had, she’ll come to Sherlock’s flat, full well knowing the real reason she broke up with them, because she couldn’t commit, because she was too caught up on him.
Skimming his hands beneath her shirt, he savours the press of his hands on her bare skin, warmth seeping from her body into his, his fingers dancing along her spine. Electricity shocks her in bursts, unlike anything else, from his touch alone.
“May I take your shirt off?” he asks.
“Fuck, yes.” she groans. “May I do yours?”
“Be my guest.”
In a tangle of limbs, a few buttons pop off, and eventually, two shirts make it out the other side, tossed from the bed and into the laundry pile. Aka Sherlock’s floor. He’s like that: sock indexes, yet he won’t get a hamper. A walking contrast.
His thumbs press beneath the band of her bra, savouring the pressure of the flesh that falls into his hands, but that’s as far as he gets.
“Never undone a bra before?”
He shakes his head sheepishly. “I know the theory. Just… you always wear peculiar ones.”
“I wear relatively normal bras, and this one is certainly bog standard. Had I known you’d be undressing me Mr Detective, I’d have worn something nicer.”
“Just do it for me.” He requests, chuckling.
She unfastens her bra, and allows her breasts to spill from the cups, into Sherlock’s awaiting hands. The gasp that erupts from him sends Y/N’s brain into overdrive. He’s cupped her chest through her shirt before, buried his nose into her cleavage countless times, but never before have they had such skin on skin contact. Her lips press to his neck, shifting her closer to him. Sucking on his pressure point, she receives a similar gasp in response, only this one is more guttural, more a sound of pleasure than surprise. He’s wilting from a single kiss to his neck.
“Has no one ever given you a hickey?” She husks in his ear, her voice alone sending tremors down his spine.
“N- fuck, no.”
“I’ll make it worth it. All of this.”
“I know you will.”
She fuses her lips onto his again, savouring the faint hesitations as he grapples with his breath, eager to get some control on his mind with all that’s happening. Never did she ever think Sherlock would be here beneath her, his rough fingertips brushing over her peaked buds, and his palms dancing over her waist. Never did she think she’d hear him whisper his next words, either, not in a million years.
“More.” he pleads. “Can we do… more? Whatever that entails?”
“That depends what you want to do.”
“Get me out of these damn trousers. They're rather uncomfortable.”
She snorts lightly, a piggy like sound, the one they bonded over all those years ago. “I can feel why.”
“I imagine you want out of your work trousers, too.”
“God, yes; they’re ghastly.”
“I don’t think so.” he hums. “You look nice.”
Her cheeks begin to burn, blood rushing to colour them, betraying her true feelings, but as he tweaks her nose playfully, the little snort escapes again.
They were in the dining hall, second week of university, almost ten years ago, and Y/N was sitting with her friends, downing enough coffee to sink a ship, eating her hangover away, when her friends decided to make her laugh with tales of last night's drunken events. Unbeknownst to her, one of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century was sitting just a few seats down on the half-empty bench, watching her perceptively in his periphery. That’s when he first heard the sound. The cutest thing, and it startled him into action, beginning his deductions almost instantly. Admittedly, her student ID on the table aided him a little.
He shocked her from her haze, too, as soon as he spoke her name.
“Y/N, eighteen, jurisprudence first year, freshers week over with. You left a boyfriend back home, but you’re more sad about leaving your dog, as I would be. You don’t particularly care about law but know it’s a good undergraduate to receive anyway. Dyed hair, extrovert, killer hangover, and apparently there’s a little piggy living inside your nose. Sherlock Holmes, would you like some aspirin?”
“That’s weird; what are you, some kind of detective?” She asked, sans malice, a playful bounce to her words.
“Chemistry, going for a masters. But I do like the mystery, yes.”
“So you’re… bright. Nice to meet you, Sherlock, and it seems you know almost everything you need to know about me. But yes, I will take that aspirin, if you don’t mind. How was your weekend?”
He smiled at her, the first true smile he’d given in a long time. “It was nice, thank you.”
And thus a friendship was born, all because he heard her little piggy snort.
Her slender fingers work wonders with the fastener and zip of his suit trousers, and even manage hers too, all within the space of a few seconds, but Sherlock is reluctant to let her go, even just to get her trousers off.
“I need to sit up, just for a minute.”
“No.” Sherlock commands, insistent. “We can make this work.”
“Sure we can, but it won’t be very comfortable. Come on.”
She’s barely peeled away from him and wrestled hers off before he’s drawing her back in for a kiss, his trousers settled just above his knees.
“Sherlock,” she protests, mumbling against his lips, her hands on his heavenly, broad, muscular shoulders. “Sher!”
Her squeal at his sudden tug on her panties disappears, captured by his eager mouth. And in fact, her panties seem to disappear along with it, thanks to Sherlock’s swift movements and nimble hands. Maybe he’s had some experience to be so good at this…
“You sure you wanna go this far?”
“More sure than I’ve ever been. I need you.”
He takes a deep inhale, dropping his forehead against hers, his breathing coming out in bursts as he tries to get a grasp on the situation. “Kiss me.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice, instantly getting to work on the waistband of his boxers as his tongue lavishes her own. His hips rise briefly, just long enough for her to tug the elasticated material from around him, slipping past her, and then he kicks it into their growing pile of clothes. His length falls into her awaiting palm, and-
“Wow.” She exhales in amazement. “If I’d known you were packing this much, I’d have jumped you long ago.”
“No you wouldn’t.”
“Absolutely not, until tonight I thought you’d just laugh at me.”
He pecks her lips affectionately, “Never. You’re bloody beautiful, I’ll let you do anything to me.”
“Hmm, anything, you say?”
Stifling a chuckle against her neck, he recommences, “Maybe not anything.”
Yeah, that's definitely the right call. Still, she finds herself all but clawing at him, her breath hovering teasingly just over his lips, their noses touching, her hands clamped to his cheeks, feeling the building heat there. She must be making such a mess of his bed right about now, but for one night? It can’t matter.
This is a one time thing, it has to be. Sherlock just needs to release some tension, she just so happens to be there. Still, she can’t prevent the little glimmer of hope shining through at the possibility of this being a more-than-one-time thing. The moral compunctions of their friendship after this don’t matter anymore, because he’s leaving a fire in his wake, his delicious fingertips digging bruisingly into her bum before trailing lightly up her spine, skimming her shoulder, brushing her neck - arched for him to reach where he wants, able to mark her as his own - and finally slipping over her lips, taken obediently by her awaiting mouth. Christ, if there’s one thing she hopes for tonight, it’s that his actions never relent.
Whether it’s what he intends to happen or not, his fingers in her mouth give her an idea, one she prays he goes along with at least a little, so she pulls away. The dirty, telling smile on her face hints at what she’s about to do, lending Sherlock to shift a little more up the bed, his eyes following her every move. Hands splayed on his thighs, her small fingers gripping onto the fine hairs there, she begins to take his tip into her mouth, never once breaking eye contact with him. Yeah, this is what’ll drive him insane.
Inch by inch, she takes him into the welcoming heat of her mouth, pulling off slowly, only to go down again. She adds her tongue into the mix at some point, too, and her hand, on what she can’t reach, tickling his balls, but further than that, his mind is blank. Hot white, washed with pleasure. The sounds he emits are other worldly, so much that he has to muffle himself with his own hand; what would Mrs Hudson say? He’s always had such control over his mind and body, but this… he’s slowly losing all semblance of control, and he’s not even mad about it. What he does know is that there’s a building heat in his abdomen, a coil about to spring, and his cock is beginning to twitch. If she keeps going this incredible way, her teeth grazing him ever so gently, adding another new sensation into the mix, he’s inexorably going to finish before he can help it.
“As much as I adore your torturous ministrations, I think I need to be inside you…” He husks, his voice deep.
A smirk gracing her lips, she looks up at him through half-lidded eyes, mischief glinting in her pretty little mesmerising eyes for a second, before she hollows her cheeks and takes him wholly, allowing his length to slip partially down her throat. Her moan reverberates around him, and Sherlock begins to thrash above her, scrunching the duvet in his hands, not caring if it creases. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s creases. And being called a machine by his best friend. Right now, though, it seems as though every misstep in his day has led him here, into the welcoming heat of Y/N’s mouth, taking him so eagerly, her tongue lapping at the vein on the underside of his dick, a string of saliva remaining as she pulls away.
“I think you’ve got a couple of rounds in you, Mr Detective. Can you do that for me?”
“Y-yes.” He stammers, his head tossed back in pure ecstasy a moment later as she begins to work on the head with kitten licks. “But… can I s- fuck me, say something?”
“I plan on it.” she chuckles, “anything.”
She goes back to peppering kisses all over his member, tip to base, brushing his balls, working her way back up.
“Touch yourself f- for me.”
Her tone is more inquisitive than anything else, but upon that playfully rueful look in his lust-darkened baby blue eyes, she knows he’s going to get her back for this little display, and he’s just worked out how. It works both ways, she can prepare herself for what’s to come next while pleasuring him. And he gets to watch. It’s a win-win for him. Maybe he likes this sex thing a little more than he’s letting on.
“Are you sure you want me to? I’ll just make a mess on your sheets, Sher.”
She swallows him again, bobbing her head up and down on his length a few times while he grapples with literal reality. He’s teetering on the edge. One more move, and he’s a goner. His head is already against the wall, lolled there.
“I don’t care about the sheets, darling, I need you ready for me.”
She gulps, nods, and reaches one hand around her, skimming over her stomach, until it nestles between her thighs. She rubs her thumb over his tip, collecting the pre-come beading there, while she rubs over her throbbing pearl, pressing softly. Then, as she inches down on his cock, taking him in her mouth, she also collects the slick from between her thighs, and uses it as a lube to push a finger inside herself. Of all the times she’s touched herself, she never imagined, even in her wild Sherlock fantasies, that she’d be doing it with his dick down her throat. With every bob of her head, she scissors herself more, sinking back onto her fingers.
“I think I’m-” Sherlock begins to say, his words cut off by an utterly obscene moan splitting the air.
She hastily abandons her one post, and wraps both of her hands around his girth, working on what she can’t fit into her mouth with her increased speed, licking and suckling his head as he begins to fall apart, coming, with a scream, down her throat, his one hand clamped over his mouth, biting down harshly to silence his cries; the other buried in her hair.
His whole body falls lax, completely spent, meanwhile, Y/N savours every drop she’s been able to draw from him. He softens in her mouth, allowing her change to slip away from him, grasping a tissue from the bedside to wipe away any excess. That’s certainly something she never thought would happen…
He’s calm, though, smiling lazily through hooded eyes, his breathing regulated once more, making beckoning motions to her with his big hands. He’s placated, though, and sliding her hands into his, she’s allowed time enough to get into place, smiling softly at him, raking her fingers over his scalp in a comforting way. Even as she sits herself on his lap, she can feel him hardening beneath her ass, slowly but surely. She was right about him, he’s definitely got another round in him.
“Do you have a condom?” he asks.
“No, sweetheart, they’re in my other bag. I didn’t plan on getting any for a while… do you?”
“Not in here, that I’m aware of. John may have stashed some in my less favoured dressing gowns or socks, and he definitely has some upstairs, but I’m unawares.”
“I’m gonna sound crazy here, but do we need one?” She says hesitantly. His eyes widen, he cocks his head to the side. “I was tested after my last partner, I’m clean, and on birth control. You’re a virgin. There’s no point, is there?”
“You have a considerably good point.”
With that, energy rejuvenated a little, he wraps an arm around her body, flipping them over so he’s on top, shadowing her, looming over her, gazing down at every inch of her naked beauty.
“Take your time. I’ll be your safety.”
“I know.” he whispers, a tearful smile making its way onto her face. “Thank you.”
He needn’t say more, because she already knows why she’s being thanked. For her kindness, for making him so comfortable, for accepting the fact he’s still a virgin in his late twenties and, if he’s being honest, has no damn clue what the practicality and reality of sex is. Sure, he’s seen porn. He’s also looked at John’s laptop. But that doesn’t prepare one for when the moment comes. It’s like all of that goes out the window, and he simply remembers the first time he opened a biology textbook at secondary school, pictures of flushed organs staring back at him, desperately waiting to be relieved. That’s what his own coock is like right now, already hard again, virtually pulsating with hunger in his palm. He strokes himself a couple of times, glancing down at Y/N’s wide eyes.
“Are you okay? Can I…”
“Yes, Sherlock,” she chuckles, “whenever you’re ready.”
Now, he thinks. He rubs two digits through her folds, gathering her wetness, enamoured with the way it glistens on his fingertips. Tentatively, he brings his fingers up to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to get a taste. Eyes rolling into the back of his head, he moans. She’s better than any cup of tea he’s ever had.
His cock slaps against his lower stomach pleadingly, so he grasps it in his hand, and begins to enter her, pushing gently, feeling every flutter of her walls. Her arms fly out, hands grasping his shoulders, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake at the delicious stretch. It’s nothing like they’ve ever felt before.
“Can I move?” He asks, balls deep inside her, their pelvises flush against one another.
“Please.” She all but begs.
Before doing anything else, Sherlock hooks one strong arm around her body, malleable in his hands, and holds her chest against his. Her breasts push into his skin, her nipples gaining friction from the dusting of hair there. Her one hand cups his slender neck, the other, his sharp cheek. Their eyes meet in a fierce gaze of burning intensity, and he begins to move. Slow, calculated, sharp thrusts punctuate her core. With every heavenly stroke, he can feel the ridges in her velvet walls, squeezing around him unwittingly.
“Jesus,” she cries, her clutch increasing.
“Hmm, not quite.”
The smirk in his words is quite literally audible. He’s so cocky, so full of himself, and fuck if she can’t feel another gush of arousal coursing through her, drenching his cock. How does he manage to be so attractive when he’s so dishevelled?
“Is that good?” He asks, unsure.
She brings her legs up, skimming the clenched backs of his thighs, until they wrap around him, drawing his hips into her at a new and improved angle. Heels digging into the base of his spine, he begins to move with a new purpose, his thrusts more passionate as his breath is drained from him by her kisses, his eyes alight with a new flame.
“Oh my God, Sherlock.” She pants, pulling him in for a kiss he greedily returns.
He drives his hips deeper, squeezing his fingertips into her supple waist bruisingly. It’ll be a mark that she belonged to him once, even just for one night. That’s when he reaches that special spongy spot that makes her entire body buckle. She all but screams, pressing into him wholly.
The coil is building, ready to break. He seems to be nearing the edge, too, his member twitching inside her when he buries himself particularly deep. She’s oh so fucking close… She licks into his mouth filthily, desperately clashing her teeth with his, eager for his kisses to tide her over. Silence her. Shifting his supporting hand, he trails one dextrous finger around to circle her clit, adding the faintest pressure for a moment. She mewls as he groans into her hot skin, clawing at him, entirely at his whim. Now he knows where to press, he settled his grip back around her, and draws her in close. This time around, he bends his knees a little more to measure his movements more carefully, ensuring that he ruts up and brushes her sensitive bud with his pelvis, helped by the extra friction of his neatly trimmed pubic hair on every thrust within her, his tip just scraping her g-spot.
“I- Sherlock, please tell me you’re- oh sweet mercy- close.”
He grunts softly in her ear. “So close.”
Their lips meet tenderly, passionately, in what they acknowledge to be a final kiss, moans mixing between them, savoured by the other.
His thighs clench, her legs tighten around his waist, and finally, her sweet walls flutter, squeezing him as she reaches her climax, his not following long after, spilling inside her, painting her soft walls white, marking her.
“Y/N,” he cries in ecstasy as his orgasm reaches him.
“Sher…” she repeats, her saving grace as pleasure washes over her entirely.
Their whole bodies wind up pressed together, bound together as one, skin on skin completely, becoming one another.
He lets her down gently, unravelling his grip, unsurprised when their sweaty skin sticks together. Her long legs unfurl, splaying in a butterfly. Sherlock tumbles ungracefully away, somehow landing with a certain gangly elegance on the space of mattress beside her, his arm instinctively flying over to place on her stomach, the skin hot and flushed red. Her chest moves hastily up and down with the thrumming of her heart, while his barely shifts despite his shallow breaths, his white skin glistening in the moonlight.
“Are you okay?” He huffs, turning on his side. “You look pretty fucked out.”
His baby blue eyes train instantly on her nipples, hard in the open air. This is the first notifier, the first inkling she has to feel self conscious, so she draws the sheet up around her as best as she can. Sherlock’s not having any of it, taking a stronghold on her arms, and pulling her until she’s lying on him, naught to separate them.
“I’ve never been this close to anyone physically and y'know.” He hums tiredly. She’s never heard him sound tired before…
She smiles up at him as best she can, “Are you glad?”
He begins to hold her ever closer, squeezing her tighter, feeling every ridge of her body.
“I’m so glad that you were my first, in so many ways.”
Praise from Sherlock is a rarity, and she’ll take it as and when she can, savouring every moment, this time by holding him like a koala, her grip not wavering.
“I’m glad too, Mr Detective.”
He brushes a kiss to her cheek, “As much as I like this, we need to get you cleaned up.”
A supporting arm beneath her bum, he picks her up, and unsteadily ambles into the bathroom.
“I don’t know much about this, but I know you should probably use the toilet, should you want to avoid a UTI, so if you’d like me to leave…”
He sets her down on the loo seat, cupping his hands over his nether regions, and he hurries to grasp for things, until she puts her hand on his arm, squeezing in a conciliatory manner.
“You do remember the camping trip, don’t you? You really don’t have to leave just because I have to pee, you never did before. In fact, you frequently annoyed me with it if you had a particular point to make, steadfastly refusing to leave the bathroom after following me in there when I went to pee. Why does this change anything?”
He shrugs, dropping whatever was in his arms, “It just doesn’t feel the same now, though.”
“Ooo, and now Mr Detective feels things.” She jokes, poking at his ribs.
He recoils, chuckling with her, “Only for you.”
As Y/N washes her hand, Sherlock begins to wrangle with a floorboard, clattering about until he eventually pulls out a small lock box, from which he withdraws a packet of brand new marks-and-spencer's ladies briefs.
“Why the fuck do you have these? Anything you wanna tell me?” she asks, eyes wide.
“John’s idea. He has plenty of girls over here who frequently stay the night, simply a precautionary error.” He takes a beat, gargling with some mouthwash, “they’re clean, new, I just don’t like the idea of you in dirty underwear, and I know how reluctant you are to go without them whenever you’re not in your own bed. I stayed with you enough nights in university to know that.”
Those nights were awfully painful. She’d take the floor, he’d take the bed, and every time she’d have to wash the sheets. He’d sweat and vomit, shake and cry, plead for the pain to be over. He wouldn’t go to hospital, he wouldn’t call his brother, he’d just turn up on her doorstep, high as a kite, almost in tears, knowing he’d gone a little too far. And each time, it was a little farther.
“Thank you, Sherlock.”
She takes them from him, and begins to shimmy them up her legs, only prevented by Sherlock moving to grab a handful of her arse.
“Hmm, I like this. Fancy another round?” He smirks.
“I’m too tired, babe. Give me a bit.”
He can see the lazy smile on her face, the tiredness in her pretty eyes, so he wets a flannel, and begins to clean her up with gentle movements between tender kisses.
“How do you know how to do all of this?” She asks, inquisitive more than anything.
“Instinct, I suppose. I never read or learned about it, seeing as I never thought it would happen.”
She snaps the waistband before moving her hands to his waist, leaning up onto her toes to reach him, kissing her softly.
“Look at you now.”
After brushing their teeth in an amicable silence, their pinky fingers overlapping on the porcelain of the sink, he aids her back to the bedroom, settling her on the bed. She has things here: deodorant, toothbrush, moisturiser, and yet somehow she doesn’t have underwear, even after all these years. Perhaps that's one too many things to explain…
With superfluous extravagance, he throws her his shirt, offering her a wry wink. She finds a blush clawing its way onto her cheeks, dumbfounded. It smells like him, just like a forest glade if it was rained on by tea and cigarettes. Maybe he’ll let her keep it as a memory.
In such a short amount of time, she’s learnt that he has a very sensitive neck. Very. A single kiss there has him biting back a moan. A low one at that, considering his deep voice also drops almost an octave when he’s aroused. His nipples are almost as sensitive as his neck, and he rather likes it when she tugs on them unwittingly.
His first orgasm comes quickly, but his refractory period is astonishing, and it takes longer to achieve a second high, long enough to make her come more than once, she assumes, though her first orgasm was mind blowing enough for two. Perhaps that’s just because it’s his first time, but it’s impressive nonetheless.
What’s the point in learning all of this if, once he comes around from his post-orgasmic haze, he’ll pretend like it never happened, in typical Sherlock style?
The shirt, though a small gesture, means a lot, and her vision begins to cloud as she looks down at the black cotton.
“You mean you want me to stay?” She croaks.
Sherlock turns to her from his set of drawers, his face full of apparent obviousness, brows furrowed in that cute bewildered way.
“Of course I want you to stay.” He states, like it’s the plainest thing in the world, like it’s stupid for her to even ask. But she’s silent, and when she says nothing in response, he launches into a long winded explanation: don’t show sentiment. “I- I just mean, i-it’s midnight, I’m not having you out in London alone. You stay with me. Only if you want to as well...”
She nods eagerly, “Yes. Yeah, course I want to stay.”
He all but leaps access the room, jumping onto the bed, before planting a proper smooch on her lips, grinning down at her. He slips into his usual side of the bed, and she takes hers, rolling to look at him.
“Don’t get cold.” He warns, tucking the duvet up around her shoulders. She giggles like a child, that small snort sounding again, prompting Sherlock to press his thumb to her nose like a button. “How are you… feeling?”
“I’m fine bub, really. That bloke doesn’t matter to me at all. Bit of a scumbag if I’m honest. You’re the one I’m with, the one I wanna talk about. How are you feeling? Must’ve been a pretty big blow up with John for you to call me and be so... teary.”
He sighs, crestfallen, “He called me a machine.”
Her gasp pierces the air, her hand flying to his hair, stroking in consolation, cooing senseless reassurances to him. She’s done this innumerable times, but now it feels different, like there’s no barrier.
“He’s done it so many times that it needn’t bother me anymore, but the way he looked at me, like I was this abhorrent monster, especially after the day and the disappointing case we had, it got to me. I hate having feelings.”
“You don’t have to hide them with me, though.”
He hums gently, burying into her chest. “I know. That’s why I treasure you so dearly.”
“That means you also have to trust me, and you’re not going to like what I have to say.” His chest heaves, shifting her whole body. That’s his way of giving in. “Please just talk to John. You know that whenever he leaves, he’ll come back, and try to pretend it never happened. He needs to know you’re human and that he upset you, but also that the case upset you as well. No one’s superhuman, and once you let John in on the fact that you’re not a machine, things between you will be so much easier, because you might agree for once.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He grumbles.
He pulls her into his warmth, hooking her leg around his as he snakes his arms around her back, breathing deeply from the crook of her shoulder. She begins to pepper kisses on his salty skin, savouring the taste with every small swipe of her tongue.
“Your heart’s against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck,” he breaks off with a faint whimper when she sucks a little harder, “I’m falling for your eyes, but they don’t know me yet.”
“Of course they do,” she whispers brokenly, hoarsely, “they’ve always known you.” She swallows thickly, “Does that mean it’s a feeling you’ll forget?”
“No, I don’t think I ever can.”
The silent words that pass between them both are so special, too special to be spoken aloud. ‘Think I’m in love now.’
“Kiss me like you wanna be loved.” He begs.
And really, who is Y/N to deny him? They just stay that way a little while, revelling in their lazy kisses, until she begins to fall asleep. It isn’t the first time she’s fallen asleep in his bed, not by any means, but it’s the first time she’s fallen asleep in his arms. She isn’t mad about it.
“Settle down with me, cover me up, cuddle me in. You were made to keep my body warm.” She smiles into her words, and embeds herself into him, entirely covered by the duvet, spattered in his kisses, safe in his arms. Sherlock feels safe with her legs around him, her fingers in his curls, holding himself against her. Amicable silence is how they drift off, Peaceful.
John re-enters 221B at a respectable hour. He got a fair amount of sleep on Greg’s sofa, having no girlfriend in the picture right now, but not enough to deal with Sherlock just yet. Not before his coffee. He expects to see Sherlock sitting in the exact same spot as when he left, perhaps just with a refill of tea, his fingers still steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed yet wide awake. Instead, he arrives at a seemingly empty, considerably clean flat, with no Sherlock in sight. Perhaps the unsleeping man must actually be asleep, he thinks, so he quietens down, and toes off his shoes before wandering farther into the flat. Even if the man does piss him off extraordinary amounts, perhaps he should just check he’s okay…
He gives the bedroom door a quiet rap, listening in momentarily before pushing it open. Frankly, he’d rather have found Sherlock with a cigarette in hand and the whole flat torn to shreds for the level of surprise he gets upon reaching the bed. His first idea is to scream bloody murder, but that might annoy Mrs Hudson, and upon stepping closer, even in the sliver of daylight through the curtains, he sees the duvet riding down a little. The last thing in the world he ever thought he’d see: Sherlock in naught but boxers pressed against a half naked woman, his palm splayed on her bare thigh. Sherlock? Spooning? It seems so, his entire body pressed to this woman. John feels himself go rigid, his feet glued to the floor, his gaze unmoving from shock.
It takes his phone to buzz in his pocket to get him moving, and when he does, all he tries to do is balance precariously on his tip toes in a wry attempt to get a birds-eye view of the whole thing. He’s not disappointed, or disturbed, once he does, though, his army agility proving useful. Sherlock’s hand is holding her, fingers entwined, just next to her chest. He wonders how comfortable it is, but if they’re staying this way, it can’t be too bad. Maybe all Sherlock needed to loosen up was a good shag.
She’s wearing his shirt, too; Sherlock’s black dress shirt from the previous day. And Sherlock? He never seeps in anything less than a full set of pyjamas, he’s weird like that .
This girl begins to stir, her lips parting gently, small hums escaping. Next, her eyelids flutter, and her hair shifts on the pillow. He didn’t make any noise, did he? John was specifically careful not to, just in case. He doesn’t fancy Sherlock’s wrath just yet.
One eye opens, and she whispers, almost incoherently, “Hi John.”
How she knows his name and who he is, he’s not at all sure, because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this face in his life. The hair is familiar, and maybe, if she were more awake, he’d recognise her smile, but he’s never seen a woman in Sherlock’s company beside Molly Hooper. Speaking of…
Before he can even say anything, though, before he can ask who she is or if she wants tea or if she date-raped his roommate, she’s mumbling, and detaching her hand from Sherlock’s, rolling over. Dumbfounded, John just stands there and watches her cuddle into Sherlock’s chest, her arms wrapping around his torso like second nature. Even in his sleep, not consciously thinking about his actions, he grips her back - one hand resting just above her bum, and buries his nose into her neck.
John can’t help but smile to himself. Maybe their fight was for the best if Sherlock now has a girlfriend, someone he turned to for solace. So, he grasps for the top of the duvet and pulls it up over both of their figures, reaching their shoulders, and leaves, staring wistfully for a brief moment at the seemingly happy couple.
The weight of the duvet of what startles Sherlock, though, stirring him a little, inviting him to him against Y/N’s skin, smiling with eyes barely open. This is really nice, he thinks to himself, not waking up alone.
She smiles back blearily, and in her morning voice, whispers to him, “Kiss me Mr Detective.”
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Darling It's Cold Outside
Pairing: Sherlock x Reader
Request: I was wondering if you could write a sherlock x reader where it's a cold, snowstorm day in london, and sherlock and Y/N are holed up in 221B with the fireplace, composing and reading. cuteness ensues. - @rebel4fandom
Summary: A snowstorm falls over London and you're left trapped at 221B with Sherlock. It doesn't sound all that bad, but keeping Sherlock entertained poses as a challenge.
Word Count: 1,230
Warnings: lots of fluff, Soft Sherlock
“It's snow, Sherlock.” You said simply from the kitchen, pulling two golden slice's of toast from the toaster. “You can't will it to melt faster just because it's inconvenient.”
Sherlock was standing at the window, glaring at the snow coating the street and still falling from the grey sky. The weather had left him confined to the flat, just when Lestrade had found him an interesting case to work on. The detective inspector had sent him all the details and current evidence but it wasn't nearly as fun or interesting as a crime scene. Sherlock swore if he was trapped in the flat any longer he'd lose his mind.
He huffed and turned, dramatically slumping into his chair and damning the weather under his breath.
You smiled, covering the toast in a generous layer of Nutella. A widely unknown fact was that Sherlock Holmes had a sweet tooth. If you wanted to get his stubborn arse to eat anything, covering it in chocolate or sugar usually did the job. He'd been stressing himself out since he'd been forced to stay inside and you couldn't recall the last time you'd seen him eat anything that could be considered sustainable. So you'd resorted to this.
“Come on, Sherlock. It's not that bad.” You strolled back into the living room, setting the plate of toast down on the coffee table and taking a seat across from him. “You've got that new case to work on.”
“Solved it already?” You asked and Sherlock smirked, dramatically standing from his chair. If there was one thing Sherlock loved more than solving crimes, it was explaining how he'd done so.
“It was compelling to say the least. A unique riddle that I managed to crack by analyzing the list of components available to me-”
You fondly rolled your eyes as he started his long rant, sounding awfully pleased with himself. As he continued on and walked past your chair, you pushed the plate of toast slightly nearer to the edge of the table and Sherlock subconsciously picked up a slice, raising it to his lips.
He didn't seem to realise he was eating as he continued to walk around the room and explain the case to you. He was just finished his detailed account of the murder, about to take another bite from the chocolate-coated slice when he paused.
He pulled the toast back to glare at it before his gaze rose to catch yours. You innocently raised your eyebrows. His eyes shifted between you and the toast a few more times before he begrudgingly licked his lips.
You smirked and reclined back in your chair as Sherlock finished off the chocolate covered snack. It was always easiest to get Sherlock to eat when he was busy rambling on about something else. He didn't even realize he was doing it. It was strange but it was the only way to get him to eat when he was being to stubborn and difficult to feed himself.
He dusted the crumbs off his hands, groaning slightly as he glanced out the window. He hadn't expected the snow to be gone but he thought that maybe if he thought about it enough it would just kind of, you know, disappear. He was getting more bored by the second.
“So,” you started. “Has Lestrade mentioned any other cases? Something to keep you busy?”
Sherlock wordlessly grabbed his violin and began playing. That was a ‘no’. You shook your head and left him be, deciding to occupy yourself whilst he was busy and more importantly, quiet.
You grabbed the book you'd started reading from the cluttered desk and settled on the sofa. The flat fell into a peaceful silence, the fire crackling and Sherlock's violin being the only noise to fill the room. The subtle and occasional breaks in Sherlock's playing told you he was composing and you smiled. He composed when he couldn't think or rather when he needed to think and you always loved listening to him play. Snow was still falling outside. You found it all rather soothing.
You relaxed, enjoying the peace and quiet. For all of about twelve minutes.
The peaceful melody of the violin was abruptly ended as Sherlock quickly struck the bow across the strings and sounded a high pitched hiss from the instrument that sent shivers down your spine. You gritted your teeth and buried your nose further into your book.
Sherlock unceremoniously discarded his violin, sulking like a child. The boredom was back and at this point was near unsurvivable. He crossed the room and stepped over the coffee table to get to you. Because stepping around the furniture like anyone else would have just wasn't something Sherlock was capable of.
He didn't pay much attention to the fact that you were already fully reclined along the sofa and instead just sprawled himself out on top of you. You huffed, the air being pushed from your lungs as Sherlock made himself comfortable, like a cat with severely limited spatial awareness.
“Sherlock,” you tried but it was hopeless. He blatantly ignored you, worming his way under your arm and filling your view with dark curls.
“What are you reading?” He mumbled into your shoulder only to hum dismissively once you'd answered. You groaned and rolled your eyes but sighed in relief when Sherlock rolled off of you. He was now comfortably reclined between you and the cushions of the sofa. Finally free, you tried to stand, hoping to find some other quiet place around the flat to finish your book in peace. But a persistent arm around your waist kept you from moving.
“Sherlock,” you warned as he held you tighter, your back pressed against his chest.
“Just lay with me for a while.” Sherlock yawned, nuzzling into your shoulder. “Please.”
You would never get over just how affectionate Sherlock became behind closed doors. Not that you ever complained. You knew getting to see Sherlock so openly affectionate was a rare privilege and it wasn't one you took lightly.
“Don't let me get in the way of your book,” he added lowly. "I do find your voice so very soothing after all.”
“Fine.” You conceded and you could feel Sherlock smile against you, humming contently. He pulled you that bit closer so that his head was resting comfortably against your shoulder. He was lying a little way down the sofa to balance out the height difference and his legs were hanging over the opposite end but he didn't mind much. Or at all.
You stretched your arm out so you could continue to read your book whilst your other hand ran through Sherlock's hair and toyed with his untamed curls.
After less than a few minutes of reading aloud and combing your hand through his hair, Sherlock had dozed off, lulling to sleep against your shoulder. The case had made him restless and had kept him up most of the night. He needed the rest. He was snoring softly and his curls were falling in front of his forehead and eyes. It was truly an adorable sight.
The snow was still falling outside and the fire burning, silence had finally settled over the flat. You continued to read your book aloud in a hushed whisper, assuring that Sherlock would remain sleeping for just a little while longer.
tag list: @miraclesoflove @fanfictionsilove @mylovelysnowflake @quentawewe @bakerstreethound @andreasworlsboring101 @doozywoozy @leftperfectionmoon @xxinvisiblexx @the-worst-critic @the-queer-dungeoneer @jellyfishbeansontoast @starrykitn @Xhz17x @kealohilani-tepise @allieberries
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Not You Watson, I Meant Watson!
Watson!Reader x Sherlock
Summary: It’s been a near week since Sherlock has had a new case, and he’s positively vexed. But when John arrives with an unexpected visitor, things certainly liven up for the consulting detective.
Okay, so here’s the situation: John’s sister Y/N pops by 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock is just- smitten. Like, he’s unable to even function because he’s so into her.
Let’s see how this goes, shall we?
Requested by: Anonymous
Bored. Bored. Bored.
Sherlock lay on the worn leather couch, staring up at the ceiling as he anxiously twirled a small blade in his hand. The steady London traffic could be heard below, only fuelling his impatience.
Six days. He had gone six days without a case.
This is absolutely absurd. London is always bustling! I’m sure there’s a bloody murder that needs solving... perhaps a quaint unexplained robbery?
Sherlock’s grip on the silver blade tightened as he expertly turned it over and over again. He felt shifty, restless... bored.
“BLAST!” Sherlock roared as he sat upright and lanced the blade at the wall opposite him.
“Damn it, Sherlock!”
John stared at the sharp weapon that had impaled itself in the wall by the doorway. It had landed mere inches shy of his nose.
“You could have killed me!”
“Precisely John! I very well could have, but I didn’t.”
“Well you were bloody close!”
Sherlock sat up and gave John a condescending smile before walking proudly to the kitchen, dressing gown dragging lazily behind him.
His voice echoed sarcastically as he paced about aimlessly. “I was wondering when you’d show up. The kettle’s on.”
John closed his eyes and sighed heavily as he took in Sherlock’s ragged appearance. The consulting detective was clad in his nightclothes despite the late noon hour; loose flannel bottoms, a white cotton shirt, and his favourite navy dressing gown. His hair was unkempt and a dark shadow had appeared on his lower face. In summary, he was a mess.
Sherlock paced frantically, voice animated as he began ranting to his friend.
“Six days John, a near week since my last case!”
“One hundred and fourteen hours sans travail, and still, Lestrade can’t seem to find me anything!”
“Sherlock, If you would just listen-“ John began, calmly.
Sherlock stopped pacing abruptly, and turned briskly to face John, a frown on his face.
“Do you know what I need? Cigarettes. Do we have cigarettes?” He paused for a moment. “Or perhaps Ginger nuts... do we have any of those?”
Oh dear lord, he’s manic. John thought to himself, irritation creeping in.
“SHERLOCK!” John hollered, still standing by the flat’s entrance.
The consulting detective turned haughtily, a patronizing expression adorning his face. “Now John, there’s no need to shout.”
John gritted his teeth and spoke tersely. “Sherlock, did you forget what day it is?”
“Tuesday!” He quipped with a hum.
“It’s Sunday, actually” a voice called out from the hallway.
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the sound of the stranger’s voice. “John, you didn’t mention company.”
John closed his eyes again and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately to keep his cool. “What I’ve been trying to tell you Sherlock, is that Y/N’s finally landed in London. You were supposed to meet her today, remember?”
Sherlock stared at him blankly. “Who?”
“Y/N? Bloody hell Sherlock, I’ve been reminding you of her visit for the past month. We spoke about it just this morning!”
“I’m sorry John, you know I haven’t the time for another one of your unfortunate dates.”
The stranger finally stepped forward, gently nudging John aside.
“Good to know. Do you think you can make the time to meet his unfortunate sister instead?”
All possible retorts remained up in the air as Sherlock lost his train of thought. The woman before him was strikingly beautiful. He stood in awe, eyes skirting over her as he tried and failed to make any useful deductions. For once in his life, the great Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words. It was more than her beauty that had captivated him, it was the air of intelligence that surrounded her. The subtle certitude in her stand, the sincerity lacing her eyes. She was stunning in every aspect.
Y/N bit her lip anxiously as her brother’s flat mate stood silently, gawking at her from across the room.
He’s absolutely gorgeous she thought to herself.
The awkward silence dragged on, and Y/N began shuffling nervously, digging her nails into the flat of her palm as the man continued staring, not uttering a word. She finally met his gaze, and granted him a small albeit skeptical smile.
“Right then, introductions.” John interrupted, cocking a brow at his friend‘s odd behaviour.
“Y/N, this is-“
“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. It’s a pleasure, truly.” Sherlock stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Y/N.
“Well, I’m Y/N Watson. It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mr Holmes. John has told me so much about you.”
“I’m sure he has.”
Y/N reached her arm out and Sherlock met her halfway, grabbing hold of her hand, and shaking in greeting. His eyes met hers and for a moment, they simply studied one another.
Sherlock’s gaze lowered, focusing on Y/N’s lips. His thoughts wandered as he imagined the great multitude of fascinating topics which she might enjoy speaking of. Perhaps she enjoyed the discipline of science as much as he did... maybe she liked to read... she might even like dogs! And of course, he wondered what it might feel like to press his lips against hers, even if just for a single moment. To feel the warmth of her skin flush against his as they shared an impassioned kiss.
Y/N’s breath hitched at the contact, however amicable, of her hand being enveloped by Sherlock’s. She had been desperate to meet him for over a year now. Ever since John moved to 221B Baker Street, he had been calling his sister daily to recount his great adventures with the legendary Sherlock Holmes. Soon enough, Y/N had found herself harbouring an epic crush on the consulting detective. Though she’d never admit it, she had even started reading John’s blog just to satisfy her strange infatuation with the man in the trench coat.
John cleared his throat uncomfortably, spurring Sherlock and Y/N out of their thoughts. “Yes, well, I’m very sorry to interrupt this moment of yours, but, umm... tea?”
“No thank you John, it’s warm enough in here.”
“Y/N, it’s the dead of winter outside and Sherlock has all the windows open. It’s hardly warm.”
“Oh...” Y/N managed sheepishly. In retrospect, she realized the flat was rather brisk, though she could hardly feel the chill. She was so enraptured by Sherlock that a contented warmth had surrounded her.
“Also, I think the point’s come across, you can both end the handshake now.”
“Oh, we’re still shaking!” Y/N exclaimed, redirecting her attention to Sherlock.
“Yes,” he chuckled, “it appears we are.”
Sherlock finally let Y/N’s hand fall, and walked toward the hearth. As he stepped away, back to the Watsons, he could still feel a whisper of her touch, and subtlety flexed his hand.
John took out his mobile phone and accepted the call, but not before rolling his eyes at Sherlock and Y/N.
Could they make it any more obvious that they clearly fancy each other? He thought to himself.
“Hello? Are you sure? Yes, I’ll tell him, he’s dying for a new case. Exactly, absolutely insufferable! Okay, yes, alright. See you then. Bye, Greg.”
John ended the call and turned to Sherlock.
“It’s Lestrade. He’s got something for you. An unexplained death on Campden Hill. Apparently a man died of carbon monoxide poisoning but there’s no traces of the stuff anywhere else in his flat. All the doors were locked, and there’s no sign of forced entry. Right up your alley I’d think.”
Sherlock thought for a moment, watching John’s reflection through the mirror above the hearth.
“Excellent. Watson, will you join me?”
“Of course, isn’t that what I do, join you on cases? Y/N, maybe you could spend the day with Mrs Hudson? I’m sure she’d be happy to show you about London.”
Y/N felt a bit disappointed as she realized the boys were about to leave. She was hoping for more time with Sherlock. He was positively captivating.
John was reaching for his jacket when Sherlock suddenly stopped him.
“Apologies John, I meant your sister.”
“Come again?” John deadpanned.
“Well, Lestrade obviously needs help, so I’ll put my best man on the case... you. I already have eight possible theories myself, I’m sure you’ll manage.”
Sherlock patted John on the shoulder, then took a step towards Y/N, smiling kindly. “Have you had any good chips lately? I know a little place where they’re prepared excellently. Would you care to join me?”
“I’d like that.” She said with a laugh. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” She whispered back to her brother, giving him a quick kiss to the cheek.
With that, Sherlock laced his arm with hers, and walked out the flat, boredom long forgotten. Finally, he had found something to truly captivate his attention.
John smiled and shook his head halfheartedly at the odd pair. Of course, he was a bit put off by Sherlock’s antics, but mostly, he was glad to see his friend and sister so blatantly content.
John was just about to head out himself when a sudden observation struck him. “He’s still in his nightclothes...” He said to himself amusedly.
It was clear that Y/N Watson would be staying in London for a long while.
Voila, another fic!
Try reading Academic Reminder
If you’d like to be tagged in any of my future Sherlock fics, tell me in the comments!!
Thanks to whoever sent this request in, it was really fun to write! I had like zero ideas on how to see this through, but you can’t go wrong with a first meeting, right? It’s always a safe bet.
Okay, so I REALLY need to get started on my essay, wish me luck!!!
HAVE A BRILLIANT DAY!!!
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Hi there I noticed that no has asked you for nsfw abcs for sherlock and liam so yolo I'll be the one who does it
Of course! Hope you enjoy ☺️💕
Requests, as always, are OPEN. The one for William is in the process of being written.
NSFW Alphabet for Sherlock (yuumori)
A - Aftercare
It's chaotic, just like him. He means to be caring and sweet, but it just tends to come out wrong. The hot drink he makes you spills all over your front. The bath he runs ends up forgotten and spill onto the floor.
But when he gets it right, he gets it right. You feel loved and appreciated beyond compare.
B - Body Part
It's a tie between your breasts and your thighs. He loves to suckle on your breasts while fucking you. But he also can't get enough of your thighs. His hand knead them and leave bruises on your plush skin.
C - Cum
I personally don't think he'd have a preference. Anywhere is fine with him. In you, on you, wherever. He loves the sight of it no matter what.
D - Dirty Secret
I - no- omg-
There's too many of them. The time he jacked off in the same room as John to the thought of you. That one time he took your panties to keep after sex with you. Can't forget the time you two did it in the back of Lestrade's police carriage-
E - Experience
I don't think he cared enough to have sex with anyone before you. He's too focused on his work to even talk to his landlady, let alone meet someone. It's a miracle you two ended up together.
F - Favorite Position
All of them. He's always down to experiment (both in and out of the bedroom). Some nights are more traditional. And others, you're half bent over a chair and bracing yourself against the wall. That being said, there's a special place in his heart for the 'flat iron' position.
G - Goofy
Always. He's always cracking jokes and doing anything to make you laugh. He's been known to tickle you in the middle of it before. Serious sex isn't fun for him.
H - Hair
Immaculately clean, but unruly hair. Hasn't trimmed it in his entire life. If you really want him to, he'll shave. Otherwise, he doesn't trim it .
I - Intimacy
He tends to like it more fun than intimate, but if you need it, he's happy to give it. He's gaze into your eyes and tell you he loves you, with a hand on one of your legs.
J - Jack Off
He does it so often. He'll do it to tease and tempt you when he's in the mood. When he's bored. When he's alone. (sometimes he's not alone-)
K - Kink
Cockwarming, definitely. He'll be doing an experiment with you in his lap. A little moan escapes him every time you wiggle to get comfy. It almost always leads to sex too.
L - Location
Everywhere. What can I say? He loves variety. The floor is always a good option for him though. It makes him feel feral.
M - Motivation
It doesn't take a lot to get him going. That being said, if he's busy with a case, it's hard to get his attention in general. But if you touch yourself in front of him, it's rare he'll ignore you. A violent blush breaks out on his face, and his eyes will widen as he watches you toy with yourself.
N - NO
He can't mix work with play. Not only is it dangerous, but the thought just feels wrong to him. Plus, the streets of London can be quite filthy. He doesn't like the thought of it.
O - Oral
ADORES giving. He eats you out like a man starved. All tongue and gentle little nibbles. It's almost addicting to him.
Reviewing is fun for him too. He's one of those guys that will grab your hair and push you down to the base of his cock.
P - Pace
Fast, rough, and hard. There's been times where you're covered in bruises afterwards. His hands are gripping your waist as he pounds you into the floor. Your chest is pressed against the ground, little gasps escaping him with every thrust of his hips.
Q - Quickie
He loves them. His favorite time to have one is right after a case, with adrenaline still in his veins. He'll burst through your door and fuck you in the middle of your entry way. Youre up against the wall, his body pressed closely to yours. It lasts maybe 10 minutes before the exhaustion catches up to him, and he cums in you with a relaxed sigh.
R - Risk
He's always up for a risk! Especially some public play. The idea of someone walking in to see you two is exhilarating for him. He'd pull you closer, fuck you harder, and glare at whoever dare interrupt you two.
S - Stamina
His stamina definitely isn't short, but he can't go for more than an hour and a half tops. He doesn't take the best care of himself, and he can get exhausted fast if he's not on a case. He'll keep going until you cum, though.
T - Toy
As I said previously, he's up to experiment. He does own a toy, but it's for himself. I fully believe he's willing to try pegging if you asked him. The very thought of it gives him a wild blush. It's so cute!
U - Unfair
The teasing can last longer than the actual sex. He'll edge you for hours, leaving gentle nips against your skin. You'll be begging for his cock by the time he's done with you.
V - Volume
He's loud as hell. Miss Hudson has had to bang on the door to have you two shut up at least twice. He's moaning and panting. He cries out when he cums.
W - Wild Card
Watching his cum drip out of you is like looking at a piece of beautiful art. It's his favorite part of sex. He'll use his long fingers to push it deeper inside of you. He'll keep fingering you to have it as far inside you as he can get it. It makes him feel like he's claiming you, and he loves it.
X - X Ray
Oh dear Jesus Christ-
8' or more. It's like he's impaling you with every thrust. He's less girth, but his length far makes up for it. It curves, oddly enough, a little bit to the right.
Y - Yearning
On a case? None. No sex drive whatsoever. He doesn't want to be distracted from his work.
Off of a case? You're being fucked constantly. He'll cockwarm you while experimenting. He'll fuck you while bathing. He fucks your mouth before bedtime.
Z - ZZZ
He wants to give you proper aftercare. He really does. But he falls asleep within minutes. (he's awake and ready to go again within an hour tho. Good luck!)
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Please can you do a Sherlock x reader? Maybe the reader is very close to lestrade (childhood friend or sibling thing I don’t mind) and Sherlock doesn’t know that they know each other like that so is very protective and like “go away Gandalf” “Greg” “away” . I do hope requests are still open like they say they are and your still active.
Pairing: sherlock x reader
Summary: Sherlock gets jealous of Lestrade and the reader.
Genre: reader insert, humour
A/N: thanks anon, I really enjoyed writing this one. Hope you like it!
‘Y/N what are you doing just sitting there? C’mon the cab is here!’
Sherlock called out to his friend who was currently slumped on a nearby bench, ready to pass out. They had just spent the entire day running around and retracing the steps of a serial killer who had escaped from Pentonville. Scotland Yard enlisted the help of him and Y/N to find out where he was before he could wreak havoc. Sherlock had tracked the serial killer to a deserted warehouse in Croydon. Now it was time for them to go home after the police had come and arrested said killer. Sherlock ignored the tutting of the cab driver as Y/N replied trying to stifle a yawn.
‘It’s fine Sherlock, you take it. I’ve got someone picking me up anyway.’
Quickly, Sherlock waved the cab away and sat down next to the tired Y/N, curious about who could be picking them up. It was unusual for them; they always took a cab with him after a case. Hmm. Perhaps it could be a new boyfriend or girlfriend? They would have told him about it by now. So if not that then who?
‘Wait who is picking you up? Why the sudden change?’
Y/N straightened up and shifted to look Sherlock straight in the face, serious.
‘First: Greg is, he’ll be here any minute. Second: I’m sick of paying for the fare all the time! You may be rich but I’m not, posh-boy. You know I still haven’t forgotten the time you made the cabbie drive us all the way to Kent. Then you had the audacity to run off and I had to pay. That’s £200 I’m never gonna get back!’
Y/N genuinely grimaced recounting the memory of losing all that money. But Sherlock had only paid attention to one sentence in the many things they had just said.
Y/N just rolled their eyes.
‘Sherlock! You know who he is. I’m not going through this again.’
Seeing a car pull up on the curb, Y/N jumped up and made their way over and knocked on the driver’s window. A familiar face opened the door and got out of the car and they greeted each other. It was Lestrade. Since when were they were all friendly? Sherlock watched in interest.
‘Hey, Y/N. You know I should charge you for this. This was an hour out of my way!’
Y/N punched him playfully on the arm.
‘What?! For this appalling service! You’re ten minutes late! I thought I was gonna die out here.’
Lestrade glanced over to Sherlock, who was still frowning on the bench.
‘Oh hiya, mate. Do you want a lift back too? I’m going past Baker Street anyway.’
Sherlock rose from the bench and stared at Lestrade with suspicion.
‘Why are you picking Y/N up? I didn’t even know you were buddies… It’s fine I can take them home. Go away.’
Lestrade had no idea what had got Sherlock’s panties in a twist but he didn’t have the time or energy for it.
‘Oh, and how are you going to do that? I don’t see your car anywhere. Look mate, I don’t have time for this, I’ve got to be back at Scotland Yard within the hour.’
Y/N then joined the conversation.
‘Neither do I. C’mon, guys. I’m going out tonight and I can’t be late.’
Despite Sherlock’s grievances, he accepted Lestrade’s offer for a ride home. On the way back, he asked Y/N a question that was niggling away at his brain. How did Y/N know Lestrade? What was their relationship?
‘So how come you’re friends with Lestrade now?’
For some reason, Y/N looked offended by his statement.
‘Friends?! I wouldn’t call him that! Unfortunately for me, he’s my brother.’, Y/N sarcastically stated, grinning childishly towards Greg in the rear-view mirror.
From the front seat, Lestrade interrupted, looking back at them through the rear-view mirror.
‘Oi! You do know I am doing you a massive favour right now. I could easily chuck you out.’
Y/N just laughed at the empty threat.
‘Oh thank god for that!’
Both Y/N and Lestrade looked questionably at Sherlock.
He hadn’t realised he said that aloud.
‘What did you just say?’, Y/N asked
Sherlock smiled innocently in response.
Sherlock didn’t know how to tell Y/N that he was in love with them.
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Gun Point · Sherlock x reader
Silence was the only thing you were able to hear in the empty place, a silence that made the hairs at the back of your neck stand. You and Sherlock were hiding in a dark hallway of the museum you two were as you two were trying to catch a serial killer.
It was all well until Sherlock started to deduce the man which angered him, he took his gun out and started to shoot at you both, that's how you two ended up in the current situation.
"You just had to point out his alcoholic issues!"
You hissed at the detective who immediately covered your mouth with his hand to keep you quiet. He looked around before taking his hand off your mouth and saying in a low voice
"Well, it was obvious!"
You rolled your eyes at him, it could pass a thousand years and you wouldn't be able to understand the man in front of you.
"Yes, but not because it's 'obvious' you are going to say it out loud to a serial killer, Sherlock!"
You mirrored his voice because even if you admitted it or not, you were scared. The guy was a psychopath, who knows, he could have a list with different techniques on how to kill his victims as every crime scene you and Sherlock investigated, was committed in a different and creepy way.
The detective rolled his eyes at you before grabbing your hand and walking silently from your hiding spot.
In any other kind of situation you would blush like a tomato just by the simple act of Sherlock grabbing your hand. You loved when he did that and always wondered why he took your hand in different situations.
The detective would grab your hand while you two are walking on the streets or while you two are sitting in the back of a cab. Sometimes he would held it to drag you out of the flat and of course, to show you his experiments.
Your daydream was interrupted at the sound of gunshots not far from where you and Sherlock were standing. He put his finger over his lips, signalling you to be quiet to which you nodded and he started to walk at a fast pace through another hallway.
You two were hiding behind a pillar, the man you two were trying to capture earlier that day was now pacing near your hiding spot "(y/n), listen to me," said Sherlock in a low voice.
"You are going to run towards the emergency exit, okay? Don't look back. I'll distract him so you can get out."
You shook your head frantically, not wanting to let him alone with a serial killer on the loose. You opened your mouth to protest but he silenced you with a kiss. You were surprised to say the least but kissed him back nonetheless.
"I promise I'll be alright. I should have done that sooner."
You chuckled slightly at Sherlock's words before he peered over to the hallway where he heard the man was a moment ago. When his eyes didn't see him, Sherlock said to you
"Go, I'll see you outside."
Letting go of his hand, you ran towards the exit while Sherlock stepped out of his hiding spot, hoping that you had made it to the exit. His eyes roamed around the big gallery, he scanned a big chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the rope that held it in place was a couple of feet away from his current position but he would make it if only he took a couple of steps to the left.
"I believe I have something that is yours, Mr. Holmes."
The raspy voice of the killer echoed around the gallery as the detective froze on his spot, the only thing that rushed into his mind was that you didn't made it to the exit. Slowly, he turned around only to notice that, in fact, the man held you in front of him, a gun pointed at your temple while one of his arms held you by the neck.
Sherlock met your terrified gaze and the look of utter fear in your face would be engraved in his mind forever. Tears pooled in your eyes as you stared at Sherlock. You tried to remove the man's arm from your neck but that only made him tighten his grip on you, cutting your supply of air almost entirely.
"Let her go. She doesn't have anything to do with this. It’s me who you want."
The detective stated calmly but sternly, his face was as emotionless as ever but his eyes showed all the worry and stress he was feeling at the moment.
You could see it, you could see how he was trying to think of something to get you out of the sticky situation you were in. If only I had run faster, you thought to yourself never breaking eye contact with the man you grew to love.
"But I believe she does, don't you darling?"
He whispered in your ear and a shiver ran down your spine. A tear rolled down your cheek slowly as you thought that maybe this was the end.
Suddenly, sirens could be heard outside the museum but that didn't ease your nerves as the gun seemed to push deeper on your temple. Then, Sherlock started to walk to the left, trying to reach the pole that held the chandelier.
The man snarled, now pointing his gun at the detective who raised his hands in the air to show he wasn't armed. The grip on your neck tightened even more, not letting air into your lungs and Sherlock knew you had a couple of seconds before fainting for the lack of oxygen.
"It's me who you want." said the consulting detective "It was me who discovered your game." While he was saying this, he approached the rope more and more.
"It was me who solved your murders."
You started to see black spots, clouding your vision as your lungs screamed for air.
"It was me who caught you."
The hand that was trying to get the man's arm off your neck slipped from it as Sherlock was now standing in front of the pole, just where he wanted.
"It is me who you want to kill."
The man who was holding you was now pointing his gun back at your temple but as Sherlock said those words, he pressed a bottom, a click was heard and then, the chandelier was falling above you two.
In pure instinct, the man pushed you forwards as he tried to protect himself with his hands but failed miserably as the huge piece of decoration crashed over him.
Sherlock was quick to catch you as you were pushed, gasping for air and falling to the ground. Bringing him with you as he held you tightly against his chest.
While you were still trying to catch your breath, silent tears ran down your cheeks in pure shock.
"It's alright. It's okay now, (y/n). It's over."
The detective whispered in a surprisingly soft voice, running his fingers through your hair as you clutched his shirt in your hand, sobbing loudly.
The door of the gallery was forced open and in came Lestrade followed by five policemen. They saw the figure of none other than Sherlock Holmes kneeling on the floor with you in his arms as you cried heavily, they also saw how the chandelier was broken and destroyed and also a body underneath it.
"Check the rest of the building, I want all the footage of what happened here." ordered Lestrade and the other five officers to disappear in a hallway.
"Is she hurt, Sherlock?" asked the silver-haired man. He looked down at you and said "No, just in shock." Lestrade nodded and said "I need to ask you and (y/n) a few questions."
Sherlock glared at Lestrade before he replied "That can wait, I'm taking (y/n) back to the flat." Greg noticed the determination in his voice so he decided not to say more about it.
For the first time in his whole life, the consulting detective was scared. Not about his life but about yours, he feared he was going to lose you that night. You, the woman he loved and that he knew you loved him back. The one who has always stood for him and supported him.
He couldn't deny that he was in love with you but that night, when he thought he was going to lose, he realised how much time he wasted, with his fears and the denial of his emotions.
Sherlock stood up from the ground, carrying you in his arms effortlessly as he walked out of the gallery with you burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent that brought you comfort and the feeling of protection.
You didn't know how you arrived at the flat but you were glad you were back home. You were sitting on the couch, your knees were pressed against your chest as you had your chin over your knees. Suddenly, you felt how the couch next to you sunk in and when you turned around you noticed it was Sherlock who sat down next to you.
"How are you feeling, (y/n)?"
He asked, you could hear the worry in his voice as well as in his eyes. You were always able to see through his eyes, to tell the emotions he tried so hard to not show. they were crystal clear to you.
Was your response. A response so naive and without further explanations.
"I'm sorry... I shouldn't have told you to run." your head snapped at his direction "Sherlock, what happened back there is not your fault. Don't you dare blame it on you, you hear me? don't you dare."
You two stared into each other's eyes for a couple of seconds, maybe even minutes before the two of you embraced each other. A very much needed hug.
"I thought I was going to lose you."
You heard him whisper in your (h/c) hair and in that moment, you understood how deep Sherlock's feelings were for you.
He tightened his arms around you, afraid that if he let you go you would vanish into thin air.
"No-one... is going to harm you ever again. Not as long as I'm breathing."
You looked up at Sherlock after he said those words to you. Warm wrapped around your heart as you heard him say that to you.
"I love you, Sherlock."
Your words were so pure and genuine that a plethora of emotions washed over the detective.
"And I love you too, (y/n)."
Smiling softly at him, the both of you stayed there, tangled in each other's arms for the rest of the night, thankful for having the other by your side after a chaotic night.
Would you like to be tag in my next posts? you just have to tell me and I'll tag you in my future posts! xxx
Thanks for reading my sweet sugarcubes, I love you all and stay safe
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Don’t Take The Money
Poor reader thought it would end up being a normal Sunday but that must’ve been the mix of bleach and Pinesol fumes getting to their head. Or, the one where reader finds out they have more in common with the other woman in Sherlock’s life than they thought and Sherlock has an aneurysm at the revelation. Thanks for reading!
You were just waking up when Sherlock was moving around the bedroom trying to pack his overnight bag. You groaned at the noise of drawers being opened and hangers jostled and rolled over onto your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Sherlock? You’re leaving?”
He stopped in his tracks back towards the closet and moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to you. He looked down at you with fondness that so many people thought he was incapable of feeling and as always, it made your heart swell. Brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, you relished in his undivided attention.
“A case was brought to my attention. I won’t be gone for long, it’s a few towns over.” He insists, trying to ease your worries before they arise.
Although you’d miss him, it never did anyone any good when Sherlock was bored. He needed something to keep him occupied and you needed time to clean up the drywall shrapnel that constantly covered the couch due to the boredness. It would give you the opportunity to deep clean the flat and the idea wasn’t so bad.
“Is John going too?” Sherlock nodded. You don’t know why you asked, they always worked together.
You turned your head to kiss his palm and sat up to get out of bed. “Okay. I’ll make you breakfast before you guys leave. Nobody likes train food anyway.”
Sherlock moved to help you stand, one of the smiles he reserved just for you gracing his lips. “You take excellent care of me. But you should know, you don’t have to be useful for this to mean something to me.”
He caught you off guard, but he usually did when he read you like a book. Your whole life you’d made yourself useful and you weren’t sure if people liked you for you or for the fact that there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for them. You would do anything and everything for Sherlock and it didn’t have anything to do with being useful, honestly. You loved him dearly and you couldn’t imagine treating him like you felt anything less than that. You couldn’t help but kiss him.
“Omelettes or pancakes?”
Your shirt was soaked from washing the dishes and you smelled like a mixture of bleach and formaldehyde from scrubbing the fridge clean and removing the severed head that took up the space where your coffee creamer should be. You had done more loads of laundry than you could count, bleached the bloodstained tub from Sherlock’s latest pig quest, the entire flat smelled like Bahama breeze and you couldn’t be more content. The boys weren’t due back for a day or two so you figured you’d spend some time with Mrs. Hudson when you were done and see if you could meet up with Bucky and Greg for lunch. When you passed the kitchen on your way to your bedroom to change, you decided that this may be the only chance you ever get to clear off the dining room table. Sherlock’s science equipment had overrun it and you figured it wouldn’t hurt if you straightened it up just a bit.
You were in the midst of cleaning out Sherlock’s beakers when you heard the knock on the door. Figuring that John would have posted on his blog that they weren’t currently taking clients because they were on a case, you expected to see Mrs. Hudson and the mop she was letting you borrow. You cracked the door just enough to see who was on the other side and was surprised to see an older woman holding a plate of baked goods who wasn’t Mrs. Hudson.
“Hi... how can I help you?”
The woman in question’s eyes lit up at the sight of you and you weren’t sure why. She smiled and gestured to the platter in her hands. “Is Sherlock Holmes here?”
She must be a client, you thought. Shaking your head, you responded, “No, sorry! The boys off on a case. I’m a friend of theirs. Is there something I can help you with?”
She was looking past you into the flat and you weren’t sure what she was looking for. “Do you mind if I come in? I could really use a cup of tea. And I wanted to drop these cookies I made for Sherlock off.”
You looked at what she was holding and decided it wouldn’t really hurt to let her in, and the cookies looked amazing. Sherlock must have helped her in some way.
“Sure, come on in. Sorry about my clothes... I’ve been doing some spring cleaning.” You stepped aside and let her in. “So, are you a client of his?”
She went to place the platter on the table and you were excited that it was already worth cleaning off the table. “Not quite. I’ve known him his whole life and have loved him even longer.” She turned and smiled at you, seeing through you in a way that seemed eerily close to Sherlock.
You hummed, taking in her answer. Sherlock didn’t talk much about his friends, so you weren’t surprised that you never heard of her.
“Just a minute, I’m gonna change.”
You excused yourself to the bedroom where your phone was charging on the bed. After sending Sherlock a quick text that someone who wasn’t a client was here for him, you dug around in the closet for something clean and more appropriate.
The lady didn’t really seem like a threat and you were sure if it came down to it, you’d be able to protect yourself. You could chuck the skull on the mantle if need be, it was a hard hitter.
When you returned, she was wandering around the flat and looking at all of the pictures of you, Sherlock, and John that you’d recently framed and put out.
“You and Sherlock, you’re close, yes? Tell me about him. It’s been so long.” She was holding a picture that you took of you two in the back of a taxi. Sherlock was on his phone but you thought his hair looked extra good and the golden hour light made him look like an angel so you had to take the picture.
“Yeah, I mean. He’s a seriously great person. A brilliant detective, he’s so smart. He helps all these people for free, and he never complains if they don’t offer him anything. He hates when I tell him he’s a godsend but who else would do that? Um... he’s really funny, probably one of the funniest people I know. You just have to keep up with his humor. It can be kind of dry, but it’s there. He’s one of the most loyal people there is and he’d do anything for the people he cares about.”
It was so easy for you to speak so highly of him. It was like second nature.
“He can be stubborn sometimes, and he can be a little more blunt than he needs to be but... he’s amazing. There’s no other way to explain him, really. He’s got a light that comes from him that rivals the sun and I don’t think it could ever be dimmed.”
She turned back to you and slowly broke out into one of the biggest grins you’d ever seen someone wear. “You really love my son.”
“Your son?” You blinked, unsure of what was going on. You really started to look at the woman in front of you and you realized Sherlock had her eyes. A complete copy and paste. “Oh my God, you’re Sherlock’s mom. I never even introduced myself. I’m Y/N, a friend of-”
“You’re not his friend, dear, and I’m not blind. Old age takes a lot from you, but I could never miss the way my son shines. And you... you see it too.” She walked up to you, still holding the picture frame in her hands. “You love my son in a way that no one else has. Let me tell you all about him.”
You couldn’t stop laughing.
Sherlock’s mom had brought over tons of scrapbooks and old pictures that she had acquired over the years, and you had a feeling she knew you were here alone before she even knocked on the door. Mycroft, probably. You spent the whole day getting to know each other and taking a stroll down memory lane with her telling you all about Sherlock as a kid and how it was growing up with two geniuses as sons. She even gave you a copy of one of Sherlock’s high school pictures that you were going to cherish forever. She seemed so happy to have someone to talk to and assured you that spending time with you was the closest she had felt to Sherlock in a long time.
You insisted that she stay and let you make dinner, but she was as equally stubborn as Sherlock and ordered you takeaway as her treat. You tried to argue but she was having none of it. “My God, you scrubbed this whole flat clean. I’m not going to let you dirty your dishes. How does Chinese sound?”
Sherlock barreled up the steps with all the force he could muster in his legs and rushed in to see you, perfectly fine and all in one piece, having dinner with his mother.
“Sherlock!” You both exclaimed, his mother full of excitement and you full of worry.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, standing up from your end of the couch. “I thought you were on a case? Is everything okay?”
“I’ve been texting and calling you all day! You’re that daft that you couldn’t text back once all this time?” He’s still out of breath and he can feel his heartbeat in his ears. His tone is exasperated and you could hear the mix of anxiety and relief in his voice as he’d yet to acknowledge his mother. She seemed perfectly content to sit back and watch the situation unfold, amusement at her son’s unusual outburst gracing her features.
“My phone was dead! And then I put it on the charger and I forgot about it once your mom came, by the way!” You went to the bedroom and retrieved your phone to find a dozen missed texts and calls.
Probably just a client. SH
Are you sure it’s not a client? SH
Are they still there? SH
Call me back. SH
Y/N, I’m on a case. Call me back. SH
Is everything alright? SH
I’m boarding the train now and I’ll be there soon. Don’t worry. SH
Sherlock followed after you, still without ever acknowledging his mother, and shut the door after himself. With his palms braced against the wooden door, he tried to ease the tension out of his bones through a deep breath as he watched you check your phone. He wasn’t worried about the case at all. It was mostly solved and what little was left John could do with ease. He felt the weight of the missed calls in his stomach like lead and the three hour train ride that he couldn’t curse to defy time any quicker. He had plenty of enemies and you had virtually none, so there would be no reason to think you’d hesitate to assist anyone who came to his door, especially if it was in the name of helping him. He thought he’d walk into a crime scene and he couldn’t shake those images out of his head.
You got up from the bed and walked over to him, reaching to wrap one arm around his neck and to take his hand in yours in the other. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, and then to his chin, over his eyelids, his nose, and then lastly you met his lips, murmuring “I’m sorry” in between every kiss. He didn’t usually voice it, but you had known him long enough to know when he was upset. He relaxed into your touch as he always did and you pulled away from him long enough to pull on the ends of his scarf. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Let me help. We got takeaway for your mom and I but we can share mine. I got what you like anyway.”
He let you pull his scarf and jacket off and you were delighted to see he wasn’t really mad with you. You hang his jacket on the closet door and by the time you turn back to face him, he’s already making his way back out to the living room. Following after him, you see his mother gesturing him to come over.
“What are you doing here? I thought I told Mycroft to tell you I was away on business.” He was messing with the cuffs on his sleeves but his question was directed at his mother with unmistakable intent. She tsked at him, and you began to see even more similarities in their mannerisms.
“That’s no way to talk to your mother, William. I was spending some time with your darling partner here and I don’t even get a kiss or a hug?” She began gathering her belongings and threw her purse over her shoulder. You weren’t happy to see her go.
You did peak up at the name. “William? Your name is William?”
Sherlock groaned, ignoring you completely. You swore you could see a blush dusting his cheeks. In no time he was at the door, holding it open for his mother. “It’s getting rather late, don’t you agree? Father must be wondering where you are. Be sure to pay Mycroft a visit the next time you’re in town. I assure you, he always has time for family.”
She turned to you and blew you a kiss. “I had a great time with you today, I hope you’ll manage to bring Sherlock home more.”
Walking over to Sherlock, she paused to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, “I know you know what you could lose here. So be sure you don’t, Sherlock.”
Before she totally stepped out of the flat, she turned around one last time. “Promise me you’ll come home soon. Your father and I miss you dearly.”
“I heard you the first ten times. Goodnight and safe travels, mother.” Sherlock shut the door before his mother could get another word and your shoulders slumped.
“Hey, that was your mom! She’s really nice. We had a good day.” You started to clean up the coffee table and take the dishes into the kitchen. You couldn’t understand Sherlock’s relationship with his family but you were sure there was a lot of things you didn’t know. Still, it was nice to have a chance to bond with your (maybe one day) future family. It was then that you realized that Sherlock never said anything when his mother mentioned you being his partner. You two never really officially defined what you were, so to see him not object to an actual title made you feel all warm inside.
“No, you had a good day. I was trying to work a case and clear a man’s name while trying to figure out if I’d come home to you kidnapped or dead.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, watching you from the doorway. You looked back at him as you dropped the dishes into the sink and let out a sigh. You hated the fact that you let him down.
“I have to go back tomorrow to tie some loose ends with John. If you come with me, I have a feeling I’ll get over it a lot quicker.” His voice was quiet but full of mirth. He won’t hold this over your head, and you both know this, but if it makes him feel better you’ll follow him. You’d follow him to the ends of the Earth and off the edge if he lead you.
Sherlock pushed himself off of the doorway and walked towards the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.
“So, you’re staying home tonight?” You swung around the kitchen doorway and called out to the hall. You hadn’t even thought about Sherlock having to go back, and you couldn’t help but be excited that he would be there for you to fall asleep next to tonight.
“You didn’t expect me to make the trip back at this hour, did you? Besides, I sleep better with you and it’s obvious that I don’t focus well if you’re not around, Which is why I need you to come with me tomorrow. It seems you owe me, anyway.” Sherlock takes a step back so you can see him in the bedroom doorway, and you can feel your heart in your throat.
He’s so beautiful, you think, all alabaster skin and lean muscle. He’s pulling a t-shirt over his head and you wonder if you could manifest a photographic memory long enough to commit him to memory. Of course he notices you staring, and you almost want to mention all the times you catch him staring at you but he changes the subject and opens the blankets for you and you shut up and follow him. You follow him and you love him and you wake up in the morning at the crack of dawn to run downstairs and order coffee from the shop next door before your train leaves, being sure to get them to write “William” on the cup. Sherlock doesn’t find this funny at all, but he still lets you fall asleep on his arm on the train ride there and doesn’t complain when his arm falls asleep right along with you.
He thinks that if this is the life his mother wished for him as a child, that would be one thing he could take off of his list of things she eventually needs to answer for. Because mothers know best, and when it came to you, she could have never been more right.
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So, uh, this is my first time requesting something on your blog...so I'm a little nervous. 😶
How about Sherlock helping a reader though an anxiety attack?
I’m so glad you requested!! Thanks for working up the courage <3
I love this idea because I think he’d be great for it!! His logical and black-and-white view of emotional things is perfect for a panic attack. If you want to, you can say this is a continuation of the last two Sherlock pieces I’ve written (the same couple). Enjoy :)
They don’t happen often, but when they do, you’re thrown off for days.
You tend to be really good at hiding in your apartment when they come on, but having nosy neighbors isn’t helpful.
The nosy neighbors being John and Sherlock.
John’s seen you have a panic attack before, and he took a very medical approach, monitoring your pulse, and breathing loudly to get you back on track. You appreciated it, you really did, but you still prefer to be alone. Which is why, when you start feeling your breath shortening, and Sherlock is in the other room, you want to curl up in a ball and die.
He had come to drink tea and sit in silence, as he often did. But when your labored breathing could be heard from your sitting room, he grew concerned, and abandoned his tea.
You were on the floor, legs crossed, glassy-eyed, gasping for air.
Sherlock realized very quickly what was going on.
With a quick twirl, he seated himself directly in front of you, also cross-legged, with his knees touching yours. You didn’t respond. But Sherlock knew you were in there, and he knew your logical mind was as well.
”Y/N.” He began calmly, and he could see your eyes stutter for a moment as you registered your name.
”Y/N, I remind you that you are in your apartment. 221C Baker street. You are one floor above John and I. John is not home right now, but I am here, with you, because it is often our tradition to sit quietly in each other’s company during tea time.”
Your breath grew less erratic, and your eyebrows furrowed.
”My dear neighbor, you are having a hard time. I can only imagine that memories of war beckon you. But I need you here, now, because I am struggling on this case…”
That got to you. Sherlock knew it would. Like John, your instinct to care for others often overrode everything else, including the urge to panic.
Your eyes refocused and your breathing shallowed out. You looked at him in silence for a moment, and Sherlock watched the gears in your head turn as you realized that there was no problem, no case, that he had only removed you from your fear.
You suddenly felt very weak, and tired, so you reached out with one hand, and placed it in his knee.
He smiled, actually smiled, and placed one over yours.
”Welcome back.” He said calmly.
”Shall I make you another cup of tea?”
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Heart (Sherlock x Reader)
I'm rewatching Sherlock and am currently in S4, so obviously, I only have angst on my mind.
Summary: Your past with Moriarity comes back to haunt you, risking your relationship with Sherlock.
Warnings: Angst, this is an angsty one folks -- but I promise I'll provide fluff at the end. Sad Sherlock, sad reader, this is just sad :(
Word Count: 1,878
"What?" you breathe quietly into the phone.
"You heard me, sweetheart. Leave Sherlock and come back here, where you belong." Moriarity replies.
You shouldn't have picked up the phone.
Eh...he would've found creative ways to reach you instead.
"Jim...I can't just--" you begin to bargain, but he interrupts you.
"Oh, come on, Y/N! You can't because what? He'll be sad? Heartbroken? Absolutely devastated?" Moriarity mocks, his tone adopting an angry edge.
You don't reply, merely just gulp in an attempt to force down the lump forming in your throat, a complementary reaction to your teary eyes.
Moriarity continues, "It's all your fault Y/N, you got close, and now Sherlock will be all sad," he awes sardonically, "See this Y/N, a sad Sherlock is better than a dead Sherlock, don't you think?"
You remain quiet, taking in his words.
His threat is obvious to you: Come back or Sherlock's dead.
"Okay..." you reply quietly, your mind made up, "I'll come back; I'll break up with him, but you have to promise me, Jim, that no harm would come to him, do you hear me?"
"Oh, you're in no position to make such...requests, darling, but I'm feeling generous today so I can promise you that," he replies, his tone returning light and mocking, the way it usually is.
He ends the call, leaving you with your thoughts.
What the fuck are you supposed to do know?
The door to 221B opens loudly, Sherlock strolling in, wasting no time to inform you of today's endeavours.
"Oh, Y/N you wouldn't believe this! Triple homicide, all connected, the Yard originally believed it to be the therapist, as it was the only obvious common factor. They thought he'd finally reached his tether, but it turned out to be the garbage man, of course, it was all obvious from the s--" Sherlock rants excitedly as he takes his coat and scarf off, but halts when he notices the sombre mood the apartment is shrouded in.
He turns to look at you, sitting in your armchair, formerly John's before he'd moved with Mary. He observes you for a few moments, taking in your hunched over figure, your shaking hands that hold your head up.
Your shoulders are sagging, as if exhausted, your trembling hands indicate immense stress. He can't see your face, but he can deduce that you're crying, or at least have been in the last five minutes, based on your breathing pattern.
He moves towards you, sitting on the edge of his chair and reaches out his hands out to hold yours.
The slight worry that had begun to bloom spreads fully in his chest when he sees your teary and red-rimmed eyes, causing his breathing to stutter for a moment.
"Y/N? What's wrong?" he asks softly, careful not to press you too hard.
"I can't do this anymore Sherlock," you reply with a sniffle.
Sherlock's heart drops, his breath halting in his throat.
Surely, you don't mean--?
You pull your hands back, resting them by your sides. the simple action makes Sherlock's heart clench painfully.
"I'm not happy like this Sherlock, you must understand," you say.
"W-what do you mean? We were f-fine yesterday, Y/N, what c-changed?" Sherlock questions, stumbling over his words.
"I'm just not happy Sherlock," you reply avoiding his eyes. You take a deep breath and continue, "I want to break up."
Sherlock stands but quickly sits down again, lightheaded by what's happening.
"I--what?" he breaths as his brows furrow in confusion.
"I'm breaking up with you, Sherlock. I'm done."
You rub your hands on your trousers nervously, then stand up and move towards where your stuff laid, collecting it in your arms.
"Stop, Y/N!" Sherlock exclaims as stands and moves frantically towards you to take your purse from your hand and set it on the desk once more.
"You can't just leave like this. There has to be a reason, I know there is," he reasons, "Is it something I did? Did the guys at the Yard say something? Is it work? Can it--" he rumbles off, hoping to find an explanation for your departure in hopes of preventing it, but you cut him off.
"I don't love you anymore!" you exclaim loudly as you turn to look at him.
Your heart grows cold and heavy as if it was replaced with ice, numbing your chest with pain.
That sentence couldn't be farther from the truth.
You've never loved anyone like you love this man.
Sherlock's eyes widen, his hand still clutching your purse begins to tremble as does his lips. His eyes sting with tears, his sinuses and ears burning with pain.
Your hands itch with the urge to reach out and take his hands in yours, squeezing them softly and reassuring him it's all okay.
But you can't.
Because in your mind a sad, heartbroken, devastated Sherlock is better than a dead Sherlock.
In Sherlock's mind, there isn't much of a difference. In his mind, a life with you is no life at all.
You reach to grasp your purse strap, pulling it from his hand. Sherlock doesn't stop you, just lets you pull it from his loosened grasp quietly.
Something is wrong.
You wouldn't just leave, not like that.
You love him.
You love me.
He knows you do.
Sherlock stares at you, attempting to deduce you, but he can't.
His mind is static now, overwhelmed with the pain of no longer holding your love, and with the physical manifestation of his emotional pain. He tries to ignore the burning in his eyes, the constriction of his throat and the numbness in his chest.
Besides that, he can't even see you clearly. His eyes have gone all blurry now, his vision turning kaleidoscopic. In a futile attempt, he tries to reach out for you, take your pulse, check your temperature, anything!
It just...you can't be leaving him.
"Y/N please," he begs, not knowing what exactly for, just knowing that he needs you, thus he begs.
You turn from him, unable to handle looking at him for a moment longer without bursting into tears yourself.
Your heart weighs ten times heavier now, and you're beginning to have trouble breathing.
"I'm sorry," you murmur quietly before moving towards the door, opening and exiting immediately without sparing a second glance. You're not sure you would've been able to leave if you had.
You exit the building, stepping into the cold November air, walking towards the destination that Moriarity had texted you an hour ago, knowing a car would be waiting for you there.
Sherlock is left alone in 221B, still stood by the desk, where you were speaking moments ago, where you told him you didn't love him.
Slowly, Sherlock sinks down, sobs rising from his throat. They're raw and gruff and Sherlock can't control them, can't keep it in.
He moves his shaking hands towards his face, trying to silence the sound of his crying, but to no avail.
The sobs keep coming, louder and rougher, grating his throat and rendering it raw.
His chest heaves, and for a moment the despair is cut with panic as Sherlock thinks he's going to stop breathing.
Mrs Hudson, alerted by the loud crying sounding from the apartment above, rushes out her door and up into 221B, only to halt at the door as she takes in the sight of Sherlock laid on the floor with his back against his desk and his arms on his bent knees, his hands clutching his hair so tightly that she fears for a moment he's going to rip it all out.
"Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaims as she moves to sit beside him on the rug. She collects him into her arms and he lets her, in fact, he leans into her in seek of comfort.
He's never felt like this, never this much pain. This beats any pain he's ever felt in his life, in fact, it beats all pain he's felt in his life combined.
Sherlock, for a fleeting moment, thinks of sitting up and putting himself together, of going out a running after you, of going on with his life.
But he doesn't.
It doesn't matter anymore what he does or doesn't do.
Because you don't love him anymore.
You step out of the vehicle Moriarity had so graciously provided you, heading out into the abandoned train tracks, avoiding the tall grass that has grown in between the ties.
Moriarity stands a couple of feet ahead from where the car parked, his back towards with a pair of earphones shoved into his skull, blurring out the outside world.
As you approach him, you feel a burst of anger fill you, for a moment motivating you to run towards him and punch him in his fucking face. punch him over and over again, punch him till his face is a mush of muscle and cartilage and red. Punch him for all the shit that he's put you through, for what he's put Sherlock through.
But you refrain. You know it's not just him, you know that if anything were to happen to him his men would be springing up with the mission of finishing all of Moriarity's plans, and you also knew a lot of these plans included sherlock, more specifically hurting Sherlock.
Once you're close enough, you exclaim a slightly loud "Jim" hoping to get his attention through the incredibly loud volume of his music.
He turns around, pulling the earphones out of his ears and throwing them alongside the iPod, aside onto the train tracks.
"I'm here now, what do you want?" you question, your tone short and snappy.
A smug smile graces Jim's face. "Now, now, sweetheart, don't be taking that tone with me," he chuckles lightly. "It was all just collateral and you know it. Some heartache that time and cake will fix," he speaks in a manner of that of an old mother sharing wisdom.
"Why are you doing this?" the question escapes your lips before you can stop it, your curiosity getting the best of you. "It's been almost 2 years now, surely you still don't need me, do you, Jim?"
A broad smile fills up his face, but his eyes remain gleaming with that amused psychotic look.
"Oh, you know Y/N, I'm just keeping up on a promise," he shrugs one shoulder, giggling a little.
You furrow your brows, confusion washing over you.
Jim's smile widens, if that's even possible, and he steps closer, his breath warm against your face, making you internally cringe but you stand your ground, looking him straight in his deranged eyes.
"Oh yes, I promised I'd burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes, and oh, he's in for quite the treat!"
Before you could reply or question him further, a sharp pain emanates from your shoulder and chest. You look down, slowly registering two silver cylinders sticking from the pain sources.
Your vision turns blurry as you begin to stumble, falling to your knees as you try to rip out the darts from your body.
But it's too late now, the hand holding your body up slips, and you tumble towards the ground, falling into involuntary slumber.
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Sherlock: This is Y/N. Not my assistant. They're.... some other word.
Y/N: I'm his carer.
Sherlock: Yes, my carer. They care so I don't have too.
164 notes · View notes