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.”
Characters: Sherlock x Reader, John Watson x Reader (platonic)
Warning: None.
Summary:Sherlock could be a little difficult. You were about to learn just how much when he comes down with an illness.
Sherlock had been looking miserable over the course of the day and you had suggested a small nap. He threw a fit and made you endure a lecture about why the solution was insulting until finally storming into his room and giving in to his body’s demands.
That was in the morning. It was mid-afternoon when you were sitting on Sherlock’s seat in the living room after work when the man finally emerged.
“For someone who considers naps to be ‘for babies’, you sure slept like one.” You poked and looked up from the newspaper in your hands, eyes going wide. “Wow, you actually look worse.”
Sure enough, the detective had sauntered out of bed still donning his robes, eyes watery, hair dishevelled while sniffling. Then when he spoke, his voice sounded nasally - clearly the signs were obvious to everyone but him.
“You look worse.” He repeated and then darted towards the front door.
Shooting out of the seat, you followed Sherlock.
He wasn’t supposed to be working!
The detective opened the creaky panel, paused and backtracked. Whirling around (making himself slightly woozy in the process) he walked back to his desk and threw papers about, mumbling about a ‘break in the case’.
He marched over and took you by the shoulders.
“He wasn’t hated by the press. He was hated by the mailman!” He let go and wobbled a little as he looked for his coat - which was folded on the mantelpiece.
“And you were hated by your immune system.” You muttered and moved over to the doorway. “Sherlock, you can’t go out half-dressed and infectious.”
The man had somehow put on his coat while breathing through a stuffy nose and thought he was fit to wander around London in such a state.
“Watch me.” He challenged from the middle of the room.
You grabbed the coat rack that was standing to the left, thankful that only a singular blue scarf was hanging on it, and pulled in front to stop Sherlock from moving forward.
“Don’t you take another step.”
In true Sherlock-fashion, the man indeed attempted to advance but was prod with the end of his own furniture - like some kind of animal. “Y/n, you’re being ridiculous. I’m… achoo!”
The sneeze had you smirking with the confirmation that you were right but the detective rolled his eyes.
“One sneeze doesn’t mean anything.”
You reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone while maintaining a strong grip on the coat rack in case Sherlock tried to wrestle it out of your hold.
“What are you-? Y/n-“
Pressing a button, you put the device to your ear until there was a voice on the other end.
“Hey, I need you at Baker Street…”
“Is that John?” Sherlock asked but was ignored.
“How quickly can you get here? Perfect. Thanks.”
Putting the phone away, you met Sherlock’s glare on the far end of the stick. His eyes were sullen, nose tinted red, and light beads of sweat were showing on his forehead.
“Are you happy now? John’s not going to let me out of the flat for a week now.” Sherlock complained, very annoyed.
“You’re not supposed to leave the flat until you’re better.”
Footsteps trod up the creaky boards as you held your defence. Mrs Hudson popped her head through the open door and saw the odd situation for the day.
“Yoo-hoo. I heard raised voices - what are you doing with the coat rack, dear?” She wondered innocently.
“Good, Mrs Hudson. I need you to knock your elbow into Y/n’s third rib.”
The instruction from Sherlock made the older woman frown. “What’s this?”
You quirked your brow at the man, “Don’t mind him, Mrs Hudson. He’s just running a bit hot. I think a lovely bowl of your homestyle soup will calm him down nicely.”
The landlady wasn’t the housekeeper but she made the most wonderful meals when someone came down with a cold. Nodding excitably at the request, Mrs Hudson turned around and returned to her kitchen to prepare the dish.
You refocused on the detective and tilt your head in the direction of the couch.
“Lay down.”
Sherlock leaned forward. “Make me.”
In one swift motion, you poked the man to his surprise. Sherlock’s muscles were already aching so the action wasn’t one that he wanted to continue and he finally conceded. The detective marched over to the sofa and plopped himself onto it heavily, letting out a small exhale of relief.
“You’re such a child sometimes.” You mumbled while setting the rack down. Crossing the room, you picked up a box of tissues and set them on the table within Sherlock’s reach. You moved over and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead, it was much warmer than it should have been.
“You have a temperature.”
Sherlock shuffled a little to lean over the edge and let out a series of coughs. You instantly moved back to avoid catching anything.
“It’s just the human body trying to regulate it back to normal.” He said, voice hoarse and almost admirable. He composed himself and laid back down with a small sniffle.
“I know how temperature regulation works, Sherlock.” You crossed the room to the kitchen and filled a glass of water before bringing it over to the man. “But if you don’t treat it now, you’ll be bedridden for weeks.”
The door at the base of stairs opened up, inviting a light gust of air and the brief sounds of London traffic. A low voice greeted the lady in downstairs. John had finally made it which meant that Sherlock couldn’t win his argument to leave.
As you placed the glass beside the tissues, John announced his entrance with a knock. You smiled and Sherlock pouted.
“I’m fine. Y/n’s just overreacting.”
Shaking his head, John had expected this behaviour from his friend and stepped into the flat.
“From the way you sound and the way you look, I think I was right to be called.”
You shot Sherlock a ‘told you so’ smirk to which he rolled his eyes. Turning to John, you walked over to hug him. “Thanks for coming so quickly. He was just starting to get difficult.”
“You stabbed me with the coat rack - achoo!”
John wasn’t the least bit concerned with Sherlock’s dramatic response. After the embrace, he conducted some quick checks on the consulting detective and confirmed the diagnosis that the man was had indeed caught a cold. You and John both agreed that it was because he had gotten soaked in the early morning rain the previous week to chase down a lead.
From the temperature that Sherlock had developed, John prescribed some medicine to aid his recovery knowing that if he got too bored from being sick, he’d shoot at the walls again.
He handed you a slip of paper, “I’ll call Lestrade to let him know that Sherlock’s out of action for a while. The back of it has the name of a good chemist.”
Nodding, you glanced at the words on both sides and stored the paper away into your pocket. You thanked the doctor once more as Mrs Hudson wandered inside and placed a tray on the table with two bowls of steaming hot soup.
“Here you are - my remedy to cure the chills.” She said brightly.
Sherlock shivered and pulled his robe a little tighter. “It’s just flavoured hot water.”
Thankfully, the woman barely noticed and looked at John. “I’ve packed some for you and Mary to take home.”
“That’s excellent, thank you Mrs Hudson.”
The landlady left and John stepped in the same direction before pausing, pointing in the direction of the sick detective.
“Look, call me at any time if he starts being an even more obnoxious version of himself.” He said.
You nodded and gave him another grateful hug. “I will, thank you.”
With some extra well wishes, John finally left 221b with the promise to visit in a few days.
Sighing, you realised that the flat had been scented with Mrs Hudson’s soup and your stomach made a low growl. Turning, you noticed that the bowls were still untouched. You stepped over to Sherlock and sat on the edge of the table.
“Come on, you need to eat something.”
“I don’t need it.” Sherlock grumbled.
“Fine.” You shrugged and picked up one humming in content as it warmed your hands. Then you took up a spoon and took a taste, complimenting in detail the landlady’s craft.
The creaminess of the tomatoes, the faint hint of thyme, the mouth-watering taste of…
Sherlock slowly sat up, an unamused glare on his face as he grabbed his own bowl of soup - clearly exhausted of listening to you describe the ingredients.
At first, he took a mouthful just to prove the point that he was eating… then the flavours danced tangoed with his taste buds and the man couldn’t help but let out a blissful hum.
You focused on your own bowl and smiled. “Good, right?”
Sherlock glanced at you briefly and swallowed his pride with the soup.
“It’s alright.” He admitted.
And for the next few minutes, you both sat in silence filling stomachs with the warm meal. You cast the occasional glance at the detective to monitor his illness but often found that his eyes would get lost in a thought that was no doubt tied to the theory of the mailman.
“You know, if you keep sitting so close to me you’ll catch my cold.”
As it turned out, he was referencing the way you had absentmindedly touched his forehead again. Pulling your hand back, you let out a small sigh and set down the empty bowl.
“Maybe.” You leaned back a little. “Besides, if I do catch it, I can easily infect Donovan after that snarky comment she gave me yesterday about my desk organisation.”
Sherlock shrugged as he sipped on the last of his soup. “Well…”
“I’ll poke you with the coat rack if you attempt to finish that comment.”
Sherlock began to chuckle until his coughing fit returned. For someone who was always on the move, you low-key enjoyed seeing Sherlock’s vulnerability. He was so human in the moment.
Smiling at him, you stood up. “You should get some sleep.”
Making your way over to the kitchen cabinet, you bent down and pulled out a light blanket. Instead of heading back the way you entered, you opened up the second door that led into the foyer and stared at the back of a familiar head of curls.
Sherlock had leapt to his feet the moment you were gone and was trying to sneak himself out. He succeeded the silent closing of the door until he turned around and saw his audience.
You pointed over his shoulder, a stern expression on your face.
“Back inside or the coat rack will be the least of your problems.”
He grumbled about it but you managed to get him inside. Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out the little paper that John had given you earlier.
On one side, there was a list of medicine. On the reverse, there was no name of a pharmacy/chemist but a little word of advice:
I’ll drop by tomorrow morning with the items. P.s. if you blink, he’ll run.
Requested by @newts-fan-case: So could you do a Sherlock x Reader were she is riding his face? (Lol I’m a sinner but I ain’t sorry) like for an experiment ‘cause Sherlock thinks a person can’t get aroused just by giving pleasure to someone else, but he is wrong and yeah ;) & Anon: Hi! Can I request a smut one shot with Sherlock where he wants to try have the reader sit on his face and eat her out and she’s shy & a bit self conscious with her body and he makes sure he makes her see Stars (with a little fkuff)? Thank you!
Summary: ^^ That.
Pairing: Sherlock x reader.
Word count: 2,055
Warnings: Smut - face riding - and self-consciousness (just a little bit).
A/N: God bless the sinners.
Enjoy!
“It just can’t be… It’s impossible…” Sherlock mumbled as he walked upstairs.
“What’s impossible?” (Y/N) inquired without looking up.
“Sherlock thinks a person can’t get aroused by giving pleasure to another.” Watson explained tiredly.
“Why would anyone get arousedif they’re not receiving the proper stimulation?” The consultant detective exclaimed.
“Because…” Watson sighed heavily, “I won’t explain it to you again. You have to live it to get it.”
Sherlock groaned and stormed to his room. John shared an annoyed glance with (Y/N) and left.
She was impressed that none of them asked why she was there, but then again, both knew she was very concerned about their current case, so maybe it wasn’t that weird. Therefore, she kept doing her research – in Sherlock’s computer – until he went out of his room.
“What are you doing here?” He inquired.
“Case.” She replied nonchalantly.
“Good.” He gulped and stood there awkwardly.
“Do you want me to leave?” She asked, still not looking up at him.
“No.” He said, “Actually I…”
“You…”
“I want to do an experiment and I think you’ll be a great help.” He spoke quickly. If she didn’t know better, she would’ve sworn he was nervous.
“Sure, what is it? Head exploding? Eye-ball tea tasting?”
“No, none of that.” He interrupted. (Y/N) was ignoring him – she was too focused on the computer’s screen – which made it a lot harder for him to ask what he needed to ask.
“Then what is it?” She asked once more.
“It’s… Complicated.” She sighed heavily and looked at him for a second.
“Everything with you is complicated; I think I got used to it already.” And with that she turned to the computer again.
Sherlock took a deep breath before blurting out his request. “I need you to ride my face.”
Can anyone tag or send me some Sherlock x reader stuff (fluff or smut) cause I feel like I have read all of it that’s out there even though I’m sure I have not. A series would be wonderful!!!
