Request: @green-spotlight I was wondering if you could do a Sherlock x wife! reader one? Where, instead of Mary jumping in front of Sherlock, Reader does, but she survives

Word count: No idea, but it’s long.

Warnings: (Y/N) gets shot.

A/N: HI! Long time no see. I know I always say I’ll come back and then I disappear but it’s just because I need a job and I have to look for it and bla bla bla. Anyway, here it is. This one is fresh, it’s the first fics I’ve written in months (the past ones were kept in my drafts) so I hope you like it and I hope I’m not too rusty for this.

Enjoy!

The London aquarium was quite a flabbergasting experience to anyone who visited. The big tanks filled with different fish, the blue illumination, and the distinctive smell of chlorine made it a rather peaceful place to meditate.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Aquarium will be closing in five minutes. Please make your way to the exit. Thank you.” The voice from the tannoy announced.

Sherlock ignored it and kept going onward along the blue-lit corridors, through the glass tunnels, up until an area with benches for people to sit. There, a lonely woman sat tranquilly. 

“Your office said I’d find you here,” he said. 

“This was always my favourite spot for agents to meet,” the woman replied. “We’re like them; ghostly, living in the shadows.”

She finally looked at him. 

“Predatory,” Sherlock granted.   

“Well, it depends which side you’re on.” She turned away to look into the shark thank again. “Also, we have to keep moving or we die.”

“Nice location for the final act. Couldn’t have chosen it better myself. But then I never could resist a touch of the dramatic.” Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, rejoicing in his own skin.

“I just come here to look at the fish,” the secretary said.

How dull she was, how boring. Sherlock was starting to get sick just by the mere existence of that woman. It was obvious to him what was going on, and yet there was no one else to show it off to. Where were his companions? He had texted them not longer than five minutes ago the exact location and they weren’t there just yet. 

“I knew this would happen one day,” the secretary continued. She stood up and took a few steps closer to the tank. “It’s like that old story,” she said. She turned to face him.

She was small, just small. She was not a beautiful woman and evidently never had been, she was poorly-dressed, and her whole body expressed how small she was and felt.

It was no wonder to Sherlock why she had done it. She was a nobody, always had been and always would be. She worked for a powerful, beautiful woman who was a constant reminder of how insignificant she was. Of course, she had done it.

“I am a very busy man. Would you mind cutting to the chase?” Sherlock insisted. A rush inside of him needed the whole thing to end quickly.

“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

“With good reason,” Sherlock said precisely. “Unlike you,” he thought.

“There was once a merchant in fa famous market in Baghdad…” The woman started.

Sherlock closed his eyes and lowered his head. It was that bloody story again. What was it with people liking it? Perhaps it was the fact that nobody wants to be entirely responsible for their acts and decide to call them upon fate, or just that dumb believing of superior power. In any case, Sherlock was sick of it.

“I really have never liked this story” he sentenced.

“I’m just like the merchant in the story. I thought I could outrun the inevitable. I’ve always been looking over my shoulder; always expecting to see the grim figure of…”

“Death.” A third voice completed. 

(Y/N).

The rush inside Sherlock increased its intensity. She wasn’t supposed to be there, John and Mary were but not her. 

She entered the room and stopped a couple of feet away from Sherlock’s side.

“Hello, love,” Sherlock greeted without looking at her.

“Hey,” she greeted back.

“John?” 

“On his way,” (Y/N) replied.

“Mary?” 

“On her way.” Sherlock shrugged and attempted no to look scattered. She was not supposed to be there. “Who am I looking at?”

“Let me introduce Amo.”

(Y/N) opened her eyes widely. She knew all about that time, Mary had told her just before escaping to try and fix things. 

“I can’t say I’m impressed,” (Y/N) said. Sherlock chuckled at the thought of how obvious it was, feeling good that his partner had caught it too. “So you were Amo? You were that voice on the phone?”

“Using AGRA as her private assassination unit,” Sherlock completed.

“Why did you betray them?” (Y/N) grunted. She could be too emotional sometimes. “Do you know what you caused? The people you hurt? Do you know how that ended? WHY DID YOU BETRAY THEM?”

“Why does anyone do anything?” The secretary asked, knowing well what she had done. She didn’t seem to regret a single thing.

(Y/N) was fuming, Sherlock could hear her breathing and was getting ready to stop her in case she tried to punch the secretary. 

“Let me guess,” he said in an attempt to control the room. “Selling secrets?”

“Well, it would be churlish to refuse,” the secretary admitted and Sherlock couldn’t blame her. “Worked very well for a few years. I bought a nice cottage in Cornwall on the back of it. But the ambassador in Tbilisi found out. I thought I’d had it.” She looked towards (Y/N) before returning her gaze to Sherlock. “Then she was taken hostage in that coup,” she laughed. “I couldn’t believe my luck! That bought me a little time.”

“But then you found out your boss had sent AGRA in,” Sherlock stated. He finally had an audience to show off with.

“Very handy,” the woman replied in a bitter tone. “They were always such reliable killers.”

“What you didn’t know, (Y/N), was that this one also tipped off the hostage-takers,” Sherlock explained to (Y/N). “Actually,” he said, “I don’t think Mary knows that either.”

The secretary sat back down and rested her handbag on her lap. 

“Lady Smallwood gave the order, but I sent another one to the terrorists with a nice little clue about her code name should anyone have an enquiring mind.” She was proud of her doings. “Seemed to do the trick!”

“And you thought your troubles were over.” (Y/N) was furious.

“I was tired; tired of the mess of it all,” she sighed. “I just wanted some peace, some clarity.”

(Y/N) was about to go on and punch the light out of her, but Sherlock stopped her before she had even given two steps forward.

“The hostages were killed, AGRA too…” She looked across to (Y/N), “or so I thought. My secret was safe. But apparently not. Just a little peace. That’s all your friend wanted too, wasn’t it? A family, home. Really, I understand.”

(Y/N) glanced across to Sherlock, but his gaze was fixed on the secretary who lifted her handbag as if in preparation to stand, and rests one hand on the open top of it.

“So just let me get out of here, right? Let me just walk away. I’ll vanish. I’ll go forever. What d’you say?”

“After what you did?!” (Y/N) roared furiously. She once again started walking towards the woman.

“(Y/N), no!” Sherlock yelled. That’s why he didn’t take her to her cases.

In a fluid moment, the secretary stood up, pulling a pistol from her handbag and aiming it at (Y/N), who stopped and backed away. 

(Y/N) considered her options for a second before obliging. “Okay.” She moved back to stand at the other side of Sherlock.

The secretary stopped pointing with her pistol and looked at it as if it was a toy. 

“I was never a field agent. I always thought I’d be rather good.” 

(Y/N) scoffed. She was upset and she knew they were wasting their time by trying to reason with her. She never understood why Sherlock insisted on talking to the criminals first.

“Well, you handled the operation in Tbilisi very well,” Sherlock complimented and (Y/N) rolled her eyes.

“Thanks.”

“For a secretary.” 

(Y/N) and the secretary looked at him with wide eyes. 

“What?” The woman frowned.

“Can’t have been easy all those years, sitting in the back, keeping your mouth shut when you knew you were cleverer than most of the people in the room,” he blurted out.

“I didn’t do this out of jealousy!” She defended herself.

“No?” Sherlock smirked. “Same old drudge, day in day out, never getting out there where all the excitement was. Just back to your little flat on Wigmore Street.”

The secretary gaped.

“They’ve taken up the pavement outside the Post Office there. The local clay on your shoes is very distinctive.”

The woman looked down to her dusty shoes. She looked like a rag, no wonder why he thought she was jealous.

“Yes, your little flat.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock was ready for a quickfire session to kill time and show off to the woman he married. He cocked his head and smirked as if he had already won.

“Well, on your salary it would have to be modest and you spent all the money on that cottage, didn’t you? And what are you? Widowed or divorced?” He focused in on a plain gold band on the index finger of her left hand. “Wedding ring’s at least thirty years old and you’ve moved it to another finger. That means you’re sentimentally attached to it but you’re not still married. I favour widowed, given the number of cats you shared your life with.”

(Y/N) watched the woman closely. She knew that look, that void of fear, that confidence. The woman wasn’t shaking, nor she was feeling vulnerable. No, she was starting to burn in anger. She was a crazy woman who thought she was better than anyone else, of course, she would burn if anyone told her she was anything less than that.

She hadn’t done it out of jealousy, she had done it because she could. 

“Sherlock…” (Y/N) warned.

“Two Burmese and a tortoiseshell, judging by the cat hairs on your cardigan,” Sherlock continued. “A divorcee’s more likely to look for a new partner; a widow to fill the void left by her dead husband.”

“Sherlock, don’t,” (Y/N) insisted with a louder tone.

But instead of listening, Sherlock rose his voice ad he got fully into his stride. “Pets do that, or so I’m told, and there’s clearly no-one new in your life, otherwise you wouldn’t be spending your Friday nights in an aquarium. That probably accounts for the drinking problem too: the slight tremor in your hand… The red wine stain ghosting your top lip. So yes. I say jealousy was your motive after all - to prove how good you are…”

The secretary turned to gaze at the entrance as Mycroft walked in.

“… To make up for the inadequacies of your little life.”

The secretary was still looking at the entrance. Inspector Lestrade came in followed by three uniformed police officers.

“Well, Mrs Norbury. I must admit this is unexpected,” Mycroft said, hiding away his true feelings.

“Vivian Norbury, who outsmarted them all,” Sherlock slurred, dripping in sarcasm. “All except Sherlock Holmes.”

He took a step forward, holding out his left hand. (Y/N) and the police officers behind her also stepped forward.

“There’s no way out,” he whispered.

“So it would seem,” Mrs Norbury smiled. “You’ve seen right through me, Mr Holmes.”

“It’s what I do.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Maybe I can still surprise you.”

Swiftly, she brought up the gun and aimed it at Sherlock. Everyone got defensive instantly. 

“C’mon,” Lestrade pointed at her, “be sensible.”

Sherlock held his hands out to the side. Mrs Norbury shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so.”

She fired. The bullet headed towards Sherlock who stood there unmoving. (Y/N), who had no doubt anticipated that this was going to happen, hurled herself sideways in front of him and the bullet impacted her lower chest. Blood sprayed outward and immediately there was a large bloodstain on her shirt. Crying out, she fell to the floor against a nearby bench.

“Surprise,” Mrs Norbury said, filled with spite.

(Y/N) rolled over to slump against the back of the bench, gasping in pain. As two of the police officers hurried over to Mrs Norbury to disarm her, Sherlock stared at (Y/N) in shock, then dropped to his knees to press his gloved hand against the wound. She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and whimpered. 

“Everything’s fine. It’s gonna be okay,” he whispered. “Get an ambulance!” He commanded, looking round to Mycroft.

“You are such a cock,” (Y/N) whimpered.

“I know,” Sherlock smiled sadly. “But now, dare I say it, it’s not about me.”

“What do I do now, detective?”

Sherlock started checking her frantically just as John ran in. Without asking any questions, he checked her too and laid her down on the floor. 

“It’s all right,” Sherlock kept saying, “it’s all right.”

“You can do better than that,” (Y/N) groaned and John kept track of her vitals.

“Like what?”

“Like what about you shut up next time?” Sherlock chuckled and nodded.

“Noted,” he said. “Anything else?”

“If I don’t die…” She started and Sherlock interrupted her.

“Which you won’t.”

“IF I DON’T DIE,” she insisted, “I want you to be more loving towards me.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned and John laughed. “No.”

“Oh, oh, I think I’m losing her,” John joked, “(Y/N), stay with us!”

“Okay, fine,” Sherlock agreed. “But only when we’re alone.”

“That’s not how it works,” John coughed. 

“It is how it works!” Sherlock cried.

“It’s not!” Mary laughed and kneeled down next to (Y/N), helping John to keep her stable while the ambulance arrived.

“You two are too nosey,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Loving, you must be loving at all times or I’m going to die,” (Y/N) repeated. She was falling unconscious, so John and Mary urged Sherlock to keep her awake for just a couple of minutes now.

“Okay, what else?” Sherlock asked, “What else, (Y/N)?”

“Breakfast… in bed…” She mumbled.

“I already do that!”

“For me… breakfast in bed… for me,” (Y/N) insisted.

“You are such a cock” John mocked Sherlock.

“Yes, I’ve been told that twice in the last minute.”

Mary laughed and so the paramedics got there.

-

When (Y/N) woke up, she was surrounded by people. Mrs Hudson, Molly, John, Mary, and obviously Sherlock.

“We’re so glad you’re awake.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Look at you!”

All of them, talking to her nonstop. She only nodded and smiled, not knowing who to reply to first.

Her room was filled with flowers and balloons, and the dim light of midday snuck through the window, making it warm and cosy. She didn’t feel a thing because she was doped, but she faintly knew (by what she could catch hearing at least) that she had gone to surgery. 

“I’m glad you’re awake and fine,” Sherlock said after everyone shut up.

“That’s all?” She complained.

John hit Sherlock slightly. The detective rolled his eyes and pulled out little cardboard cards from his pocket. He cleared his throat and started reading in a painfully monotone voice.

“My love, I am delighted for your recovery and I can’t wait for you to come back home to me. I’ve missed having you in my arms, smelling your hair in the morning, and just looking at your… bright, beautiful eyes every day. You are my soulmate, and the thought of losing you was so painful I knew right then and there that I… Nevermind that part, it’s bullshit,” he skipped three cards while everyone else either rolled their eyes or chuckled at him. “You are the love of my life… My best friends… Kiss, kiss, kiss… Er… The message is clear I think.”

“That’s all?” (Y/N) asked again.

Yes, she had technically forced him to date her, and then to marry her, and she had kind of manipulated him to promise her to be more loving, so she couldn’t really complain if he didn’t get it right the first twenty times, but she was the one laying on a hospital bed because he couldn’t get his head out of his own arse!

Sherlock exhaled heavily and looked around. Curious and impatient eyes were all over him, making feel terribly uncomfortable.

“The thought of losing you is unbearable, I was very anxious during your surgery and have been like that up until now that you’ve woken up,” he admitted.

“He also spent the night right here,” Mrs Hudson added. (Y/N) then noticed an unused blanket by the visitor’s sofa.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock groaned and gave (Y/N) a cheeky look. “I’m not good with words, but do know that I’d be damned if you, my wife, died.”

“How romantic!” (Y/N) smirked sarcastically. Sherlock eyed her, knowing she was just messing with him.

“I love you, I truly do.”

“And I love you,” (Y/N) said.

Sherlock then walked closer to her and kissed her softly on the lips. “Don’t ever follow me on a case, please.”

“I can’t promise you that.”

“Then don’t jump in front of me if I get shot.”

“Better you stop being a massive cock, ey?” 

“I can’t promise that.” Sherlock smiled.

-

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Holmes & Holmes: 2

“Can you tell me more about him?” She asks, “Lady Cecily’s intended I mean.” So you do. You tell her about Sir James Conan, a fine young man to be sure. Cecily is able to be more herself than you’ve ever seen her. While she is quite a few years younger than you, and you grew up in America, you’d met Lady Cecily more than enough times to know that Sir James is a good match. He doesn’t mind that she has a giving heart, one that wishes to be of service to the poor. He was quite impressed with her charcoal drawings and had kept her secret when he’d found out about them. You were truly happy to see your sister’s god-daughter so happy.

Miss Enola too looks pleased when you tell her about Sir James. You’re so engrossed with your conversation, over a proper English tea provided by Mrs. Hudson of course, that you don’t notice the door opening, not until you hear him.

“Enola?” A deep rich voice says.

“Ah, Sherlock.” She sounds slightly disappointed, “my brother,” she tells you, as he enters the doorway, sweeping his hat off of his head when he sees you. It must not be an uncommon occurrence for him to find his sister in conversation with a stranger at any hour of the day because he hardly looks surprised. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” Miss Enola says introducing you to her brother, “Sherlock, my client,” she puts the emphasis on my, “A Ms. Irene Adler.”

“Ms. Adler.” He looks alarmed, but only for a split second then he schools his emotions again. “Enola, you cannot take this case.”

“What!”

“She is, she might, you cannot.” He demands, his ears going slightly pink as he refuses to say what you know he’s implying.

“He means,” you say coolly, “I am a dangerous woman. Independent. I might put ideas into your head.” You tell her standing from the chair that you’ve been sitting in. “Mr. Holmes, I can assure you, any dangerous ideas in Miss Holmes’ head were there long before I arrived.” You tell him studying him with as impassive of an expression as possible.

“It’s getting late.” He says and you know he’s attempting to dismiss you, you arch an eyebrow at him.

“I am not afraid of the dark.” You tell him and he sighs, “besides I carry this.” You pull a six inch long hat pin from your hat. It’s thicker than a normal hat pin but when you also use it as a knife that is to be expected.

“Oh! May I?” Miss Enola asks and without looking away from her brother you pass over the weapon.

“Enola!” Mr. Holmes says sounding exasperated she ignores her older brother and the side of your mouth lifts slightly. “Ms. Adler,” he admonishes and you have to bite your cheek to keep from laughing.

“How did you get it so sturdy?” Miss Enola asks with wide eyes.

“Had it made specially, it’s not safe being a single woman in America either but this certainly helps.”

“I am insanely jealous.” The younger woman says turning the hat pin round.

“It’s yours. I have others.”

“No.” Mr. Holmes says through a clenched jaw.

“You’d rather she be defenseless?” You ask arching a brow at him, if looks could kill you’d be long dead by now.

“I rather, she be a respectable woman.”

“I certainly hope, Mr. Holmes, that you’re not implying that I’m not a respectable woman. I did, as a matter of fact, just sing for Her Majesty the Queen two nights ago.”

“You’re a singer?” Miss Enola asks sounding surprised.

“Operatic, I’ve also done some acting but singing is my real passion. Have you ever been to the opera?” When she shakes her head you give her a wide smile, “I shall send you tickets. How many? Just for the two of you?”

“We best invite our eldest brother Mycroft too.”

“I’ll have three tickets sent over.” You promise and Miss Enola beams while her brother glowers.

“Is Mr. Norton also in London?” She asks innocently.

“No, Mr. Norton is long dead.” You tell her and Mr. Holmes stalks across the room.

“I’m so sorry Ms. Adler but Enola and I have an appointment,” Mr. Holmes says plucking the hat pin from Miss Enola’s grasp and handing it back to you as he guides you with a gentle hand at the small of your back out of 221 Bakers Street. You drop the hat pin into the ground so that it sticks straight up out of the floor, then wink at Miss Enola over your shoulder as her brother guides you away. She grins cheekily back at you and you turn your attention to Mr. Holmes. You give him a soft, slow, smile.

“Careful now Mr. Holmes, or I’m going to get the impression you don’t like me.”

“That, is not the only impression I have to offer Ms. Adler.”

“Ah. You mean the rumors that I killed my husband.” You say. He doesn’t respond. “I can assure you Mr. Holmes. While I did not love the late Mr. Adler I was quite fond of him.”

“And his money.” Mr. Holmes mutters, “forgive me.” He says louder as you stand on the stoop of his home.

“You’re not incorrect, his money allowed me freedom after his death. Something not many women can do.”

“Can I hail you a cab?”

“No thank you. I’m only a few blocks away.”

“It’s not safe to travel this late, do you have no chaperone? A maid?”

“I have a chaperone.” You assure him before whistling softly through your teeth. As expected your sleek black German Shepard emerges from the bushes and sits waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs.

“This? A dog is your chaperone?” Mr. Holmes looks truly surprised, then he lets out a loud, “Ha!”

“You don’t believe that Duke can protect me?” You ask with an arched brow and he looks quite skeptically over at you. “Duke, protéger.” You tell your dog who darts up the stairs and between you and Mr. Holmes. He uses his butt to move you further from the man and when Mr. Holmes moves Duke growls. “I can assure you Mr. Holmes. I am perfectly safe.” You start down the stairs and when Duke gives another growl you roll your eyes, “Mr. Holmes do you desire to be bit?” You ask arching an eyebrow at him again.

“Of course not.” He says, his voice clipped and dare you say, irritated. You’d been warned that it might be difficult for you to read the gentleman but you’re finding it exceedingly easy.

“Then, I suggest you let me on my way and leave my dog alone.” You tell him starting down the stairs, with Duke on your heels.

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