Summary: Have you ever felt like you’re too far up your fandoms that you’re not really living your real life? Well, that. But more.
Word Count: 1,817
Pairings: Dean x reader, Sherlock x reader
Warnings: You’re not gonna like it. Sudden fandom changes, bit of smut which is not really smutty, lazy writing, suicidal attempt, usage of drugs and alcohol, OOC scenes.
Original A/N: Because of who I am, I like to exaggerate everything. With that being said, let me tell you that this is how I felt for many years, with multiple fandoms. I have lived a tortous life, therefore I was always seeking to live somewhere else. Almost all of my childhood and teenage years were an on-going loop between my fake life inside my fandoms and my real life. I barely remember anything now outside that make-pretend life I created for myself. Now I am living my life, in a way that I can no longer hide inside that fake life. Call it what you want. Anxiety is coming back to me, fyi, and I tried to hide there but I just can’t. This is my way of expressing it. The Girl, Interrupted theme is because I watched it yesterday after performing Lisa’s monologue at my acting class - a way of giving therapy to myself through art. Anyway, I hope you don’t read this fic. I didn’t like it at all, but I feel the need, nonetheless, to share it somewhere. To have evidence that I went through that. Probably, someone out there has too. Idk.
New A/N: I wrote this MONTHS ago, long before I got diagnosed, and I got scared of posting it because it could be too depressing. But I hate leaving drafts all alone so here goes nothing.
Have you ever confused a dream with life? Or stolen something when you have the cash? Have you ever been blue? Or thought you were moving while sitting still? Maybe I was just crazy… Maybe it was loneliness…
“Put her in restraints!” A woman yelled. “Withdraw blood… Give her five milligrams of Valium, IV”
“Turn her head so she doesn’t aspirate,” another woman advised. I felt my head being turned by a pair of terribly warm hands.
I was attacked. I had been attacked.
“You should check my hand. There’s no bones in it anymore…”
“What were you thinking?” The first woman asked.
“I was trying to save the world…” I replied, “Don’t worry, you’ll thank me later.”
Sometimes it’s hard for me to stay in one place.
“Hey,” I opened my eyes at the familiar voice. The image at first was blurry, but I could recognize the colors of their flannel shirts. My back was killing me, and my arms felt numb. “(Y/N) are you okay?”
“Yo, sweetheart! Wake up!” A rough voice called out. I could see his red flannel.
Red flannel. Dean was wearing a red flannel, and Sam had the green one. That could only mean one thing…
I looked down at my own clothes, I was wearing a brown flannel.
I smiled childishly, and my vision finally cleared. Both men were staring at me, worried. “I’m home,” is all I could say.
Dean sighed and rolled his eyes, Sam smiled back at me.
“Yes, you are,” he said, “you’re home with us. Where else would you be?”
“At a hospital or some shit,” I replied.
“We don’t do no hospitals, sweetheart,” Dean reminded me from afar.
“Did we get him? The djinn?” I inquired, with wide eyes.
“Yup,” Sam nodded.
Dean appeared back again, handing me a cold beer. It was closed. Sam took my hand and guided it to my forehead, so I could press the bottle to my forehead. I was probably wounded there too.
“We Jafar-ed the shit out of him,” Dean snorted. Sam inhaled profoundly, as an attempt to not slap his brother. “I Jas-min that we almost didn’t make it…” Dean continued, “but enough Abu me,” he giggled, “how was your daydream, sweetheart? Where’d Iago?”
“Please, stop,” Sam begged. Dean tried to argue but Sam was already looking back at me. “But do tell us where did you go?”
“I…”
“Where did you go?”
“(Y/N)” a strong light blinded me for a second. I suddenly felt something in my eyes, pulling them open. “(Y/N), we’re calling you!” The voice chanted. “Hello, Earth requires Ms (Y/N)…”
“Wha-what?” I stuttered, pulling away from the light.
The scenery had changed. I was no longer at a motel room with awful wallpaper, but instead at a very nice living room, though the wallpaper was still awful.
“Are you okay?” The man that had been calling my name asked. He kneeled in front of me.
“Are you real?” I tilted my head to the side, and he smiled tenderly.
“As real as your nose,” he said and booped my nose. His touch was soft and warm.
“What happened?”
“You fainted,” another voice answered. I looked back, only to see the familiar figure of Sherlock sitting on his desk, typing furiously on his computer. “I told you not to get too close to the evidence, but did you listen? No, why?” He gazed back, “Because ‘oh Sherlock, don’t be so stern, it’s just a flower bouquet!’ but I was right, as usual.”
“Let her breath,” Watson commanded. “We both smelled it too and nothing bad happened.”
“Yes, but so did the police officers… All male, I must remind you” Sherlock snapped. “The flowers were sent to a woman who, where is she now? Oh, yes, DEAD!”
“I don’t get it,” I interfered.
“I suspect the flowers are poisoned with some sort of chemical that only affects women, by reacting to their production of hormones.” Sherlock informed me.
“Right… And what does that have to do with your intoxication?” The female voice asked again.
I suddenly snapped back to the hospital. I was laying in a hospital bed, with lots of tubles connected to me. There was a woman in white, sitting by my side with a notepad on her lap.
“Well, obviously I’ve been affected… It’s the flowers, you see…” I spoke.
“Flowers? What flowers?” The nurse, she was a nurse, asked again.
“The poisoned flowers!”
“Do you see them now?” She inquired.
“Of course not!”
“No?”
The djinn stood behind her. “Say no,” he said with an ominous voice.
“No,” I obeyed.
The nurse looked behind her and the djinn disappeared instantly. “Are you seeing anything out of the ordinary at the moment?”
“No, why would I? I’m not crazy,”
“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were…” Dean sighed. He was sitting by my side, in bed, and was connecting his phone to the charger. “I am a little crazy too, you know?”
“Oh, yeah?” I trembled.
“Yeah,” he muttered and finally let go off his phone. He turned to look at me for a second before cuddling me. I was the small spoon, he was shirtless. “I’m crazy about you.”
“Smooth,” I replied sheepishly. I could feel the ghost of his arms around me… Ghost, because I couldn’t really feel him. He was hot, yet cold as if air was blowing over my skin.
“Are you okay?” Dean asked.
“I am.”
I wasn’t. I’m not okay.
“Good night, sweetheart,” he whispered and pecked my shoulder. Again, I felt it but not quite.
“Dean?”
“Huh?” I closed my eyes, not wanting to see what would happen after I said what I wnated to say.
“I feel like I’m still inside the djinn’s daydream,” I confessed.
Dean sat up and fixed a lose strand of hair that was falling over my eyes.
“You’re not inside a djinn’s daydream…” He said, calmly.
“How can you tell?” I asked, still not opening my eyes.
“Because djinns don’t exist, that’s why,” he said.
I finally opened my eyes. Black locks and blue eyes were all I could see for a moment.
“Djinns are mythological, and that is all…” Sherlock continued. I could hear his voice turning from Dean’s to his own. “I understand that maybe the toxins from the flowers could affect your perception of life, but there is nothing to fear. The effects will pass and you’ll be good as new.”
“I don’t feel good as new.”
“Clearly,” he grunted.
Noticing my state, he decided to go a little further from his usual behaviour. He pressed his head to my arm… I was still laying on my side, as if I was still being the small spoon.
“I will be here, by your side, as long as you let me.”
My heart fluttered, but not in love but rather in pain.
“I can’t control that.”
“The pills are having a positive effect on her now, we can get her to be conscious for a bit longer than before…” I heard a voice coming from the hall.
“What is that?” I asked. Sherlock tilted his head.
“What?” He furrowed, “I don’t hear anything.”
“Well, I do.”
I got up from bed and opened the door. At the other side of it was a hospital hall rather than Sherlock’s. All white, with blinding white lights. The nurse was talking to what I assumed was a doctor.
I felt like I would faint again.
Sherlock got up as well and dragged me back to the bed, closing the door behind us.
“You know what could help?” He smirked. “I know… Because I know you.”
He got me back in bed, facing up to the ceiling. I was about to talk, when I felt him pulling down my pijama shorts. A sigh left my lips, as I felt his tongue rubbing my clit in circles. I closed my eyes, filled with pleasure, and tried to keep it quiet so neither Mrs Hudson nor Watson could hear us.
“Come here,” I begged after a while.
I opened my eyes and saw Dean crawling up to my face. His tattoo was covered in sweat and his hair was ruffled.
“You thought I would just leave it there, sweetheart?” He flirted and, without a warning, he thrust inside me. “You feel good today… Tight, and so wet for me…”
I moaned, getting lost in his green eyes. I wanted to kiss him, but I couldn’t.
I didn’t even feel his weight over me.
I blinked.
TARDIS.
I blinked again.
Dean was looking at me, dumbfounded as he made love to me.
I shook my head and closed my eyes again, letting my body fall back into the pillows as I succumbed to the pleasure he… they were giving me. I called both of their names in between whispers until I climaxed.
I sighed and opened my eyes.
I was in my room. Darkness surrounded me. I was alone, and my fingers were still between my legs.
I wiped them quickly with the bed sheets and took my phone to googled Dean Winchester’s name, only to find out that he was not being looked at by the US government, but rather a fictional character. Not only that, but I saw pictures of him in the most intimate moments… Moments I could recall from living them with him.
I clicked on one of his pictures.
Jensen Ackles… Married.
I clicked on Sam’s.
Married.
I clicked on Castiel’s.
Married.
They were all married. Click by click I undercovered the lie I was living in.
“But what about Sher?” I thought to myself.
I googled him. Fictional character, based on the books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
There he was, my Sherlock, next to others who had also played him.
“I thought I was in a hospital,” I whispered.
“Maybe it’s just your unconscious mind asking to be treated by a professional.” Castiel’s voice spoke.
“Maybe it’s because that is where you’re going,” Sam gestured to the side of my bed. A bottle of vodka laid there empty, next to empty sets of aspirins.
“Is there an end to this?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Jim Moriarty spoke from the darkness. “But aren’t you having fun?”
“What if I die?” I insisted.
“You won’t,” Sherlock said, “you still got enough energy to call an ambulance for yourself.”
“Please do,” Watson begged softly.
I grabbed my phone and dialed the number.
“I need an ambulance…”
“We’ll see you on the other side, sweetheart.” Dean smiled with a glimpse of sadness.
“I love you, guys.”
Have you ever confused a dream with life? Or stolen something when you have the cash? Have you ever been blue? Or thought you were moving while sitting still? Maybe I was just crazy… Maybe it was loneliness… Or maybe I was just a fangirl… Interrupted.
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.”
Summary: When Euros entangles Y/N in her violent game of intellect, Sherlock must sacrifice something he never expected to care for. As he looks back upon what he will lose, he sees only the fragments of his shattered heart…
▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️
Sherrinford, High Security Prison
“If you want her out of the game, you’ll have to burn her out of it.”
“Sister, please. I beg of you… don’t.”
Sherlock Holmes stood hunched before the monitor, his tone bleeding with desperation.
“I’m afraid this is non negotiable. It’s either her heart or her life. Choose one or I’ll have no choice but to take both. Of course, the bit about her heart won’t be in the metaphorical sense, you understand.”
A red light blared throughout the room and Jim Moriarty’s jives echoed off the walls. Sherlock’s fists clenched as he looked up at Euros’ sickly smile of triumph.
“I can’t… I won’t destroy everything we’ve built…” he whispered to himself. “Not like this.”
Doctor Watson placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Your sister is insatiable and that makes her dangerous,” he said in a low voice. “There’s more at stake here than just your pride. Soldiers, remember? Maybe you should-”
“Not now John! Don’t you see? I love her!”
Sherlock blanched at his own admission. Y/N was the light of his life and he couldn’t let Euros jeopardize that.
John’s jaw clenched as he stared back with a look of sorrow. “That’s exactly why you need to do it. You need to break her heart to save her life.”
Sherlock looked down at the mobile phone in his hand. As the seconds ticked by, his beloved Y/N came closer to her demise. Euros had set an assassin after her and unless he complied with his sister’s task, Y/N would face a swift death.
He felt a million passions ricocheting in his heart. There were no more tricks up his sleeve. Sherlock had to submit to his sister’s will or face the consequences.
“I won’t lose her…” he whispered. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned to John and nodded steadily. “Soldiers.”
With shaky hands, he dialled Y/N’s number and listened to the timbre of the rings.
He closed his eyes as the world spun around him, and his mind raced in reminiscence. Sherlock could suddenly see thousands of snapshots of the beautiful life which he was about to destroy…
***
“John, I’ve told you before, I haven’t the time for your little friend. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I have a case to solve!”
The doctor sighed and rubbed at his throbbing temple. “If you would just hear her out-”
Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and walked to the door. He made a point to swing it open with great emphasis. “Forgive me,” he said to the girl with a smile that was anything but polite. “But I am very busy. If you would kindly take your leave before-“
“It was the perfume, Mr Holmes.”
Sherlock paused at the girl’s quiet declaration. “Come again?” he asked, eyes narrowed.
Y/N cleared her throat. “The perfume,” she repeated. “The victim smelled of perfume the day her body was found.”
“I’m aware. Did you have a point?”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Mrs Thewlis was allergic to Ethanol, the prime ingredient in perfume. She wouldn’t be wearing it unless someone forced her to.”
She crossed her arms as she continued on. “I asked Molly to run a toxicology test and the report came back positive. Traces of poison were found in Thewlis’ bloodstream, seemingly absorbed through her skin.”
She paused for effect. “My theory, Mr Holmes is that somebody sprayed the victim with a sort of chemical infused mist and that there was no murder weapon at the crime scene because the victim was wearing it the entire time!”
Sherlock said nothing. He simply observed the girl in curious silence before closing the door and walking towards her.
“You’re saying that somebody doused her perfume with poison?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes.”
“What’s your name?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.
“Y/N.”
“Y/N,” he repeated to himself. “Well Y/N, congratulations on cracking your first case.”
Sherlock couldn’t wrap his head around it. How could this girl have possibly picked up on something that he had missed? Normally he’d have felt a wounded pride, a violent jealousy at her intellect, but strangely enough, he felt nothing. On the contrary, Sherlock was intrigued by her sharpness. He suddenly felt a burning desire to know more about her.
Sherlock was snapped back to attention by the sound of her voice. “I’m glad that I could be of assistance. Good day, Mr Holmes.” Y/N gave a curt nod as a means of farewell and was just about to leave the flat when she felt a hand on her wrist.
She turned around and saw the consulting detective. “Please,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “Call me Sherlock. Will you stay for tea?”
***
A soft amber light streamed in through the gossamer curtains of 221B Baker Street. The delicate London breeze danced in through the window, making the thin veils flutter.
Y/N hummed softly as the quaint disturbance roused her from her sleep. She tilted her head to the side and caught a glimpse of the time. 5:45 on a Friday morning. She felt movement to her right, and was suddenly exposed to the morning chill as her blanket was yanked away.
Turning on her side, Y/N was met by Sherlock’s sleeping frame. She gave a shiver and was just about to reprimand him for hoarding the covers when something struck her.
She drew a breath at the sight of him lying next to her. His tousled hair was pressed against the pillow, soft and unruly. His bare chest heaved in slow breaths, moving up and down steadily. His face was unmarred by the stress of his waking moments. Sherlock looked comfortable and at ease.
Though she had been waking up to this same sight every morning for the past few years, Y/N felt as though she were seeing him for the very first time whenever she caught him in these quiet moments of dawn.
She reached out to touch him just to prove to herself that he was more than a perfect illusion. Her hand lingered mere inches away when Sherlock spoke, his voice heavy with sleep. “You’re awake.”
“Yes, a chill woke me. Somebody was greedy with the covers…”
He opened his eyes and grinned. “How tragic.”
With a soft groan he shifted and pulled Y/N closer, wrapping an arm around her so that she lay with her head in the crook of his arm. She sighed contentedly and grazed his skin with her fingertips. Resting her palm against his chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart.
“What are you thinking?”
Y/N paused for a moment. “I’m thinking that this might be too good to be true.”
“You’re right,” Sherlock said, propping himself up on an elbow. He looked down at Y/N and smiled. “This is much too good to be true, but I would be a fool to question it.” With his free hand, Sherlock cupped the back of Y/N’s neck and brought her close to his upturned lips. “I’ll be damned if I let anything come between us. I swear to you, I’m not going anywhere.”
Sherlock finally kissed her. As the morning rays shone through the airy curtains, Y/N took comfort in the thought that their love was infinite.
***
Gone was the music.
A familiar burning sensation prickled at the back of her eyes, but still, Y/N denied herself the tears.
She sat quietly in Sherlock’s old armchair, staring at the bullet ridden wall.
“Yoo-hoo,” called a voice from the doorway. Y/N hardly stirred as Mrs Hudson came bustling in with a tray of tea and biscuits.
“Morning’ dearie, I brought you a cuppa’! I thought you might fancy a treat,” the kindly landlady said, forcing a cheery tone.
She took a look around the room and frowned at the gathering dust and drawn curtains. “It’s a bit gloomy in here, isn’t it?”
Grief had taken its toll since Sherlock’s fall, and Y/N was a transparent reflection of it. Her eyes were bloodshot and held an emptiness to them as she reflected within the abandoned flat, lost in her memories.
“It’s fine, really,” Y/N said a weakly.
Mrs Hudson’s gaze shifted. Y/N was wearing Sherlock’s old coat. A mahogany patch stained the collar. A reminder.
“It’s been two years, love. It’s time to let go.”
A glossy trail streamed down Y/N’s cheek, but still she smiled. “He’ll be back,” she said, her voice cracking. “He promised me that he wasn’t going anywhere. If I just wait here, I’m sure-”
“He’s not coming back,” Mrs Hudson said gently.
Y/N turned away. “I told him it was too good to be true.”
Mrs Hudson smiled sympathetically. “I’ll be downstairs, love.”
Y/N grabbed hold of her chair’s armrests and squeezed. She winced as a hot trail of tears slicked her cheeks.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to have been on that rooftop. He wasn’t meant to leave her grieving.
He wasn’t supposed to be gone.
Perhaps Mrs Hudson was right. Maybe it was time to move on like John had. Y/N ran a hand through her hair and let out a shaky breath. She was just about to reach for her tea when she heard a loud crash and a scream come from downstairs.
“Mrs Hudson?” Y/N stood up in a panic and rushed downstairs, heart racing.
“Mrs Hudson!” she cried out.
Y/N found her landlady in the kitchen, shattered porcelain on the floor. “Are you alright?” she asked warily.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine. It was simply a mild shock.”
A chill ran up Y/N’s spine at the sound of that distantly familiar voice. It can’t be… she thought incredulously. Carefully, she turned her gaze upwards and noticed for the first time the man standing at the doorway.
“Hello,” he waved awkwardly.
Standing at the other end of the room was Sherlock Holmes.
Y/N stared as he shifted uncomfortably under her critical gaze. Dressed in his signature trench coat and dress pants, he looked the same as the day she had lost him.
“New coat?” she asked, stunned.
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, actually. Unlike yours, I suppose. I see you held onto the old one…” He looked to the floor. “it… well, it suits you, mind the gore.”
Y/N ignored his attempt at humour. “You’re back,” she whispered.
When he looked back at her, his eyes glistened. “How could you expect me to stay away?”
***
“You can’t be serious!”
“I swear it’s true!”
Y/N listened carefully from the hall as John, Mary, and Greg conferred in 221B. From what she could hear, they were talking about her and Sherlock. Though it had been months since they had reunited, the pangs of lost love still inflamed their passions.
“He actually said that to you? Those exact words?”
Y/N frowned at the excitement in Mary’s tone as she grilled John on something that Sherlock had allegedly told him. John laughed and Y/N peeked through the crack in the door to catch him kiss his wife lightly on the nose.
“Those exact words,” he affirmed softly. “Sherlock is thinking of proposing marriage to Y/N.”
Y/N let out a small gasp and clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her surprise. She blinked as a wave of emotions crossed through her. Marriage? Sherlock? These two words were foreign in the same sentence and she had to take a breath to contain herself.
“Bloody hell…” she heard Lestrade mutter from the flat. “Our boy’s found it,” he said softly. “He’s found his heart.”
“Keep your voice down!” John whispered sharply. “Y/N will be here any minute, and she can’t know!”
Y/N stepped back and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. She felt her heart race and couldn’t stop smiling. Sherlock Holmes, the man that she adored more than she ever imagined she could, was on the verge of proposing to her.
“Sneaking about, are we?“
Y/N gave a start when she opened her eyes and saw Sherlock standing before her, brow upturned.
She straightened herself and smiled nervously. “I was just about to head inside.”
“Is that why you’re lurking just outside the flat, plastered against the wall?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.
Y/N shrugged, not knowing what to say. Just at that moment though, Greg opened the door to meet them.
“Oi, we could hear you gabbing out here. Are you coming in or what? We’ve been expecting you.”
Sherlock peered past the Detective Inspector’s shoulder and found John and Mary grinning guiltily inside. His lips twitched in a hidden smile as he deduced what exactly was happening. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We’ll be right there.”
When Greg stepped back inside, Sherlock turned to Y/N. “You haven’t been eavesdropping on others’ conversations, have you?” he asked sweetly.
She looked at at him in feigned shock. “I would never!”
Sherlock studied her, his smile growing as he regarded the charming glint in her eyes. In that moment, he caught flashes of a future with her. Since they had met, Sherlock had reimagined his previous notions of the dullness of domesticity. Though marriage had once seemed a burden to him, Y/N had changed that, and Sherlock knew that nothing would be grander than a quaint life by her side.
“What have I done to deserve you?” he asked softly. Y/N watched as Sherlock pressed her gently against the wall, and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the crown of her head before leaning forwards and grazing the shell of her ear. “I love you,” he whispered delicately. Sherlock closed his eyes and whispered again, “I love you.”
***
Sherrinford, High Security Prison
“Hello?”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. He scanned the room, disoriented. He had felt safe for a moment, caught in remembrance, but the sterility of Sherrinford’s cell had cut through the dream.
He caught a flash of Euros frowning from the monitor and looked back to find John standing solemnly behind him. Y/N’s voice blared from hidden speakers. Nothing had changed.
“Hello?”
Sherlock drew a breath at the familiarity of the voice on the other end of the line. His task became clear once more. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gulped.
“Hello love,” he said, his tone strained.
Red lights flashed in warning and Sherlock looked up. “This isn’t a social call,” Euros said icily. “Don’t try and mitigate the blow with pet names. It’s her heart or her life Sherlock, I think I’ve made that clear.”
A pang of alarm shot through him. There was no way out.
“Sherlock, is that you?” Y/N asked from the other end of the line. “Are you alright?”
Sherlock walked to one of the cell’s walls and leaned an arm against it, seeking purchase. He thought of Euros’ hire, trigger finger itching for a clean shot.
“Sherlock?” she called again. “Can you hear me?”
Sherlock needed to burn her out of his story. "I pray you’ll forgive me…” he whispered to himself. Standing tall, he straightened his collar and detached himself from the warmth that Y/N had inspired in him throughout all their years. Sherlock Holmes became ice.
“Y/N?” he said. “I need you to listen to me.”
“I’m listening,” she said uncertainly.
Red lights flashed and Moriarity’s malarkey reigned.
“About us,” Sherlock continued, “We’ve come far.”
Y/N laughed. “You called to talk about us?What’s this-”
"Don’t interrupt,” he said curtly. “I need to fix this.”
There was a moment of silence before Y/N responded. “What are you saying?” she asked slowly.
"I mean to say that I’m ending this. Our experiment.”
“Experiment?” she scoffed.
Sherlock’s voice was brisk and steady, devoid of feeling. "Indeed. You see, our relationship was was only ever a simulation of sentiment. A psychological examination. A game of science.”
He could hear Y/N’s breath hitch and he clenched his fist in guilt. He was slowly approaching the end.
“It’s all been a rouse,” he said tensely. “ A clever experiment to test the naivety of the human mind, and you Y/N, were the ideal subject. Insecure, wide-eyed, and unduly retentive; you were foolishly loyal to a man that never cared, and it has proved your undoing.”
Sherlock waited for Y/N to hang up the phone. To curse him or yell obscenities from the receiver. He waited for her anger, silently praying she would cut him off. It was the only way Euros would spare her, and Y/N’s acrimony against him was well worth her life.
She said nothing.
Subconscious sirens hammered in his mind. Sherlock couldn’t know for sure if she had believed him. He had to push harder. “ You’re nothing more than a failed enterprise,” he said sharply. He heard his voice rise until he was sure he sounded near hysterics. “ You have nothing left to offer, so I implore you to leave me be!”
Silence dragged on until Sherlock finally heard Y/N sniff. She let out a shaky breath and spoke. “Sherlock,” she began softly. “I’m not sure what you’ve gotten yourself into, but you can’t expect me to believe a word of what you just said.”
no. no. no. no. no…
Sherlock shook his head furiously. She wasn’t supposed to be kind. She was meant to be hurt.
Y/N gave an unsettled laugh before continuing. “I love you, Sherlock,” she whispered. “I love—”
Shattered glass and silence.
Sherlock collapsed to his knees. “Y/N?” he asked gently. A shiver ran up his spine at the blackout stillness. “Y/N!” he cried out. His hands trembled in horror and bile rose in his throat. It isn’t so… he thought. it can’t be so…
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, brother.” Euros said softly.
Sherlock looked up at his sister, his eyes bloodshot.
She cocked her head to the side, feigning sympathy. “You failed,” she said simply. “Let’s move on, shall we?” The screen went dark and the cell lit up with crimson light.
Sherlock stayed abased, kneeling on the cold flooring. A damp heat trailed down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe it away. He thought of Y/N. He thought of her smile. Her laugh. Her silence.
He thought of their thousands of moments past and the finality of her fall.
I FINISHED IT! I FINALLY FINISHED IT! THIS CURSED FIC HAD BEEN TRAPPED IN MY NOTES SINCE THE SUMMER BUT I FINALLY FINISHED IT!!!!
Hey you guys!!! What’s going on??? This fic is veryheavy on the whole Molly x Sherlock ordeal back in Sherrinford, so I hope that’s something you’re into! I just thought it would be cool to write about snapshots from Sherlock and Y/N’s relationship, soooo yeah! Thanks for reading!!!!
If you’d like to be tagged in any future Sherlock fics, just tell me in the comments! (and if you’d rather not be tagged in ALL Sherlock fics, please specify; EX: Reader x Sherlock, Reader x John Watson…)
Summary: Sherlock and Y/N have known each other for years, but the promise of love threatens to jeopardize their friendship. Perhaps a dinner date will ease their worries…
Did someone say friends to lovers?
▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️
The rich scent of rosemary and cooking sherry wafted past Y/N’s nose as she and Sherlock settled into a restaurant booth. Warm candlelight cast soft shadows against the tapered walls.
It was their first date as a couple, so despite having been friends for years, there was a new expanse of unexplored emotion between them. Everything had changed, and they both could feel the effects of their delicate shift from companions to lovers. Tonight held tight reins upon their future.
Yes! Yesss!!!! Soft Sherlock content is here!!! You are feeding us well with all this fluff, my friend. I love seeing this part of Sherlock. He’s a big softie :3
Warnings: tw: mentions of suicide, light swearing.. Sherlock being Sherlock
Word count: 2.2k
A/N:I wrote two versions of this oneshot (the other one is fluffier but maybe slightly more out of character) soo if you’d like to read that one just let me know and I could post it too.. For now I hope you enjoy :)
*I do not own any Sherlock characters or gifs I may use*
Sherlock’s latest case left you entirely drained. Physically just as much as emotionally. It took Sherlock three days to figure it out, even though you’d had a feeling the moment you set foot on the crime scene. But of course he didn’t believe you.
A man was found dead in his apartment by his ex, who happened to be returning some of his old stuff. She’d of course called The Yard, who in their turn called Sherlock. And Sherlock never went anywhere without his blogger and his hacker.
So you and John followed along. You stood on the crime scene, receiving dirty looks from detective Donovan, as Sherlock circled the body. Surely there was no note, but right when you walked in, in your gut, you knew. It had to be a suicide. Sherlock seemed to be far away in his Mind Palace so you dared to ask John for his opinion. “Do you think the bloke killed himself?”
He shrugged, but didn’t get a chance to reply as Sherlock decided to speak up. “Of course he didn’t kill himself,” he snapped without even opening his eyes. “Do you ever observe anythingwith that funny little brain of yours?”
And that was only the first day. You spent the rest of the day and the remaining days running around London, following the same path the victim had in his last moments on this earth. And if you weren’t running around you were either with Molly at Barts, examining the body, or scooped up in Baker Street, unable to do anything but wait as Sherlock experimented. He was silent when he did that, as long as either John or you didn’t ‘think too loudly’.
How one could ever think too loudly was still beyond you, but you figured it’s just Sherlock being Sherlock.
This morning he made a call to The Yard and after giving a whole tirade about the clues they missed (and how incredibly little their brains must be for them to have missed them) he stated it was a suicide.
And God did it make your blood boil. You knew The Yard could do nothing without a line of reasoning, but hearing Sherlock state the thing you’d said since the beginning so matter-of-factly, especially after he discarded it so rudely when you suggested it, you just couldn’t take. Not after running after Sherlock for three days, barely getting any sleep and constantly having to suck up whatever cold remark he threw at you.
So maybe, had you been in a better state, you would’ve just shrugged it off. Smiled at John as the two of you nodded at each other in agreement, both sharing the same thought: ‘it’s just Sherlock. That’s how he is sometimes’.
Right in that instant that seems to be an impossible task for you to do. That’s why, as soon as he hangs up the phone, you speak up. “Sherlock?” You ask calmly, following him with your eyes as he takes a seat behind his microscope in the kitchen.
“Hmm,” he hums. Already adjusting the microscope to get a better view of whatever the hell he put under there for examination.
You know as soon as he enters his Mind Palace you’ll get no reply whatsoever no matter how hard you try, so you make it quick. “I told you it was a suicide from the beginning. Why didn’t you listen to me?”
“Not all of us spend so much time thinking about it. I had to consider all the possibilities.”
Your eyes go wide at his words. “What did you just say?” you growl, clenching your jaw. I mean, you were sure he probably deduced this certain thing about you the moment he first laid eyes on you. You just didn’t think he’d ever bring it up, and if he did at least not like this. This was just tactless and inappropriate, even for Sherlock.
Now, you weren’t one to just start crying on the spot. Especially not in the middle of something. You secretly suspected that that was one of the main reasons Sherlock kept you around; you didn’t show too much emotion. At least not on the outside. But you doubted he’d ever grasp a concept like that. You didn’t openly display your fear, your anger or your grief on a crime scene or during a case. At the same time your head was exploding with curse words of all kinds. Cursing the criminals, the dumbasses who thought it’d be safe to go for a walk alone in the middle of the night and sometimes just the world in general.
But the case had been closer to your heart than you’d like to admit, you were probably sleep deprived and Sherlock’s remark was just the last drop.
John had been typing away at his laptop since the three of you got back. Listening along to whatever was said without really joining in. He was probably already typing out the case for his blog, using most of his concentration for it. But as bad as Sherlock was at reading emotions, John knew when something was about to get out of hand. And as he looked up he saw something he hadn’t yet seen, nor had he thought he ever would. You standing in the middle of the room, harshly biting your bottom lip to try and hold back the tears, but you can’t stop them from welling up.
“Sherlock,” John calls. But of course there’s no response. “Sherlock!” he tries again, not about to let his best friend get off the hook this easily. “Sherlock goddamnit you get your arse over here right now,” he grumbles, glaring daggers at Sherlock as he finally enters the room.
“She’s crying,” Sherlock proclaims as he sees you, tears now, against your will, rolling down your cheeks. He looks over at John, feeling a slight panic form in his chest. “What do I do?” he asks, standing there while his eyes flick between you and John, still unsure of what to do.
John rolls his eyes, once again unable to grasp how someone so incredibly intelligent can sometimes be so clueless. “Go comfort her,” he instructs, motioning towards you with his head.
But that’s still not obvious enough for Sherlock. “How do I do that?” he inquires, not moving an inch.
“Start with hugs,” John insists, sighing.
“With what?”
“Oh my god,” John replies, shaking his head. Now unsure whether Sherlock really doesn’t know or if he’s just stalling. “Hugs, Sherlock! You know, when you pull someone close and wrap your arms around them?”
“Thanks John,” you bring out. “But it’s fine, I’m just gonna.. I’m gonna go,” you tell him, wiping away some stray tears. You don’t even glance over at Sherlock anymore before turning on your heel and walking out. Storming down the stairs and slamming the door of your apartment, 221C, shut behind you.
You plop down on your bed, head in your hands as more tears push their way through. You were well aware that Sherlock wasn’t always too good with emotions when you joined the team. That deductions really were the closest thing to feeling something for most people he met. After going on several cases, moving in in Baker Street and spending almost all of your time with the boys though, you’d hoped you would at least get something more than that. That he at least saw you as a friend. Not someone he could throw his deductions at whenever he felt like showing off.
As much as you would like to lay down and finally get some rest, you doubt you’ll be able to in your current state. Tears are still falling, though not as frequently anymore, and your thoughts are racing. So you move yourself over to the kitchen to put on the kettle and make yourself a cuppa. You stand in front of the stove, waiting for the water to boil. As you run a hand through your hair you hear a soft knock on your door. “Not now John, please,” you call out, not making any effort to go and open the door for him.
But the door opens anyways. Rolling your eyes you walk towards the noise. “I’m fine John,” you say as you do so. “Oh,” you bring out once you enter the living room and see Sherlock standing there instead, his head a little lowered. “Leave me alone.”
He looks up then. And you expect him to apologize. Whether or not he would actually mean it is different story, since John most likely told him exactly what he had to say, but he’d at least have said it. “You- uhm, have something here,” he tells you instead , motioning towards his face.
It’s a good thing that’s when the kettle starts whistling, because you don’t know what would’ve happened if it hadn’t. You turn around to walk back towards the kitchen, wiping your face before taking the kettle and pouring the boiling water in your favourite mug,
Sherlock follows you on your heel, observing you in the process. He notices your puffy eyes, the way your shoulders slump as you walk, not to mention the way you just spoke to him. It confused him at first, because he thought you were mad. But you hadn’t crossed your arms defensively in front of you, your face hadn’t turned red when you spoke to him and the vein in your neck didn’t show. All the signs he registered in his Mind Palace as anger, you didn’t display.
And then it clicked. John had known. Of course John had known. But at last Sherlock figured it out too. You were upset.
And he didn’t like it.
“I’m… sorry,” he stammers, eyes fixated on your back. He sees the muscles on your back tense up at his words and you lower your cup.
“Are you really though?” You question. You turn around, expecting Sherlock to be standing somewhere in the door opening. But as you do he seems to have gotten closer than you thought he did because you almost bump into his chest.
Just as you think he’s about to wrap his arms around you and give you a hug he takes a step back, but, after everything that happened over the course of the past few days, you’re not having it. So when Sherlock steps back, you step forward. Wrapping your arms around his waist before he can protest or stop you.
He feels a little stiff, as if he wishes he hadn’t come down to your apartment to apologize at all. Which then again, he probably does. But eventually he wraps his arms around you too. Slowly and loosely like he’s not exactly sure just what he’s doing, which he probably really doesn’t, but this is a big gesture coming from Sherlock and you appreciate it more than you care to admit.
“Yes. I am- I don’t like seeing you upset,” he simply states.
“Well what you said wasn’t very nice,” you sigh while, as awkward as he must feel, you try to enjoy the feeling of Sherlock’s arms wrapped around your shoulders. Chances are pretty high it’ll never happen again, you don’t have to make any complicated deductions to figure that out.
“Not good?” he asks in that small voice he always uses when John scolds him for not being very sensible as he pulls away from you, his arms falling to his sides. He looks almost relieved the two of you aren’t hugging anymore. Had it been anyone else looking like this after a hug you probably would’ve been offended, but this being Sherlock it just makes you smile. You try not to let Sherlock see though, you don’t want to make him any more uncomfortable than he probably already is.
“Not exactly,” you sympathize. “It’s not really something you point out about people. It’s something.. Something that can really bother someone.. Like a case that you can never solve,” you tell, trying to put it so Sherlock will understand it a little better.
And you do see him trying really hard to imagine what it must feel like, before he hesitantly nods. “That sounds frustrating,” he answers, but you’re not entirely sure he does really get it. He could also just be going easy on you. But then again either one of them was probably hard for Sherlock to do, so you let it slide.
“Yeah,” you say. “Yeah it is.” As you watch him you notice the way his eyebrows are scrunched together, his blue eyes intently watching you, and you realize he looks sad. “I’m fine, Sherlock,” you assure, smiling up at him.
“Chips?” he simply asks in response.
You frown, confused. “Chips?” you answer, not sure what he’s on about this time.
He smiles slightly, already halfway out the door as he explains. “You’re suicidal. You’re allowed chips.”
You suck in a breath, trying to grasp the sudden change of events. “I’m not-“ you stammer but Sherlock’s already back with his coat on, collar turned up as always, and handing you yours.
You put on your coat as well, following Sherlock down the stairs and out the door. Mentally preparing yourself for what’s most likely about to be a very interesting afternoon.
