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.”
OHMIGOD ITS FINALLY OUT!!! This took forever to do. Way longer than I expected. This is of course mainly due to my massive lack of self-discipline. Sorry to keep you guys waiting xD
Anyways, Nirlock is An AU webcomic with the scope of merging the characters and ideas of Zootopia with the brilliant series Sherlock. It is NOT supposed to be a Sherlock remake with Zootopia-skins slapped onto the characters. What we want to do is imagine what Nick and Judy would be like if they were to take on the roles of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson!
Been watching all the Sherlock stuff lately so–voila, Sherlock AU B) Was wondering which role they’d take, and while I initially wanted Kyle to be Sherlock due to his intellect, Craig won out at the end– he tol and an asshole and has people problems lmao. And Kyle as the good doctor is sort of kinda perfect anyway?? He’d be Craig’s moral compass that kicks ass, with a simmering anger beneath an otherwise patient and friendly demeanour.
Bonus: whenever Craig makes an arrogant quip that indirectly/directly insults Kyle’s intelligence:
during the semi-hiatus i took from tumblr i became obsessed with psych (people who follow me on twitter know) and i even started writing about it. i thought it would be so funny to see how a crossover between shawn/gus and sherlock/watson would go, so i took it upon myself to make it happen. i’ve only written 6 pages of it but i’m thinking about going forward and writing more, but firstly i wanted to know if it’s actually worth it so i’m posting what i wrote on here and i hope that if ANYONE actually reads it and enjoys it, then let me know <3
(none of the characters are mine)
“Shawn Spencer. Psychic detective.” Watson shifts his glance from the open newspaper on the coffee table to Sherlock, who’s standing in the kitchen and looking like a misplaced giant, his 6 feet of flesh and bones (or just bones) still forming a comical comparison with the small-dimensioned furniture of their apartment, most of it bought by equally small-dimensioned Mrs. Hudson. “I see you’re now interested in the supernatural?”
Sherlock scoffs. “Please. You know my demon-hunting days are long past.”
Watson waits for Sherlock to develop his last statement, even though he’s not sure he actually wants to hear more of it, but his roommate’s attention seems to have been captured by the stirring sounds he’s making with the teaspoon against the glass of his mug. “What’s this doing here, then?”
Sherlock doesn’t look at him to know what he was referring to. He goes about as though Watson’s presence in the room is as dispensable as a fly on a summer day, something you dismiss with a single hand motion and move on, and sits on his usual red sofa. Watson rolls his eyes, not yet immune to Sherlock’s peculiar way of being even after almost two years of friendship, and throws the newspaper onto his lap rather angrily, to which Sherlock replies, “Hey!”
“Shawn Spencer,” Watson says, pointing at the bold black letters on the top of the page that’s facing Sherlock, the phrase PSYCHIC DETECTIVE SHAWN SPENCER SAVES THE CITY OF SANTA BARBARA FROM ANOTHER KILLING SPREE making its loud announcement above a picture of two guys proudly smiling in front of a police station. “You were reading this.”
“How observant,” Sherlock replies, rolling his eyes. “Maybe you should be the one solving the crimes and I should be the one writing about it on my blog.”
Watson exhales angrily. “Why are you avoiding this topic?”
“It’s not so much avoiding this specific topic as much as it is me avoiding you,” Sherlock stops to take a sip of his tea. “I’m busy.”
Watson rubs his left temple in an attempt to soothe the vein he’s foreseeing popping in a couple of seconds. “If you say so.”
He ends up sitting dramatically on the opposing couch. They’re both silent for a while, Watson with his eyes closed and his head resting against the cushion, Sherlock noticing the rhythm of his best friend’s chest rising and falling as he approaches, slowly, the realm of sleep.
“Alright, fine. Do you want to discuss this?” Watson opens his eyes in surprise at Sherlock’s sudden rupture of the room’s previous quietness. “I think the guy is obviously a con-man.”
Watson blinks, noticeably distressed. “What makes you so sure?”
“Oh, come on. Please don’t tell me you believe this bullshit.” Sherlock says, his sarcastic laugh creating an itch on his roommate’s skin, then places his mug on a table nearby. “You’ve believed worse, though, so I’m not exactly shocked.”
“I just asked a question. I think the guy deserves the benefit of the doubt.”
Sherlock’s expression is void of any inclination towards an agreement with Watson and giving the psychic even the tiniest bit of credibility. Crime-solving, as far as he is concerned, is an art, a study of the human brain, a test of one’s skills in terms of impulse-control and harmony of the senses, a practice no one can ever master in its entirety, and for someone to taint its name with something so low and idiot as an alleged psychic ability only makes him furious. The worst part, he thinks, is that people aren’t contesting it at all — the guy managed to make his name go from Santa Barbara to London after all, and from the looks of it, he has the entire local police department on his side.
“Oh, don’t start,” he says, a tone of annoyance dripping from the edge of his words.
“With what?” Watson asks, a little amused.
“With your whole thing,” Sherlock gestures vaguely with his hands. “You’re free to think what you choose—”
“How kind of you.”
“—but I won’t let you waste my time with arguments in his defense. He either has someone on the inside or he actually solves the crimes, but I won’t acknowledge any talent on his part if he’s doing something so stupid as hiding under the pretense of ‘communications with the supernatural’,” he does the air-quotes mockingly, “or whatever term he uses to call it.”
“Are you jealous because the spirits like him better than you do?” Watson asks, a smile of mockery slowly taking form on his lips. “I’m sure if you’re kinder to people they might just come around to talk. Y’know, if you’re a good bloke and all that.”
“You’re thinking about Santa Claus, Watson, but given that he’s not any more real than whatever powers your little Shawn Spencer claims to possess, I suppose it’s a valid assumption.”
“He has a partner. You know that, right?”
“Who? Spencer or Santa?”
“Shawn Spencer, obviously,” Watson replies. “You said you think he has someone on the inside, and he’s not alone in that picture. He works with someone.”
“Oh, but I meant inside the police department, to give him information and such. The man on the picture is his…” Sherlock sighs. “Best friend, I guess. As if they couldn’t get more embarrassing.”
Watson throws his head back in laughter and Sherlock stares blankly at him. “What?”
“Nothing! It’s just…” He puts his hand over his mouth, then itches the back of his head, still smiling. “If you think about it, they’re kind of like us.”
Sherlock’s face has an expression about it that makes him look as though he’s taken a bite out of a lemon. “What do you mean?”
Watson hasn’t stopped giggling, and Sherlock looks at him with puzzlement, expecting an answer.
“I mean, they’re two friends who solve crimes together.” Watson replies, his tone an indication of how obvious the comparison is.
“I don’t suppose you’re suggesting I’m the Spencer in this scenario?”
“Well, you’re the one who’s always going on with the ‘you see, but you don’t observe’ bullshit. I always thought you meant it literally, but perhaps you meant something more… metaphysical? Seeing like a psychic, maybe?”
Sherlock stands up abruptly. “This isn’t funny, Watson.”
Watson chuckles. “Agree to disagree.”
“You know, I’m positive I could expose that Spencer within seconds of meeting him,” Sherlock says, and starts pacing around the room like his thoughts are too fast in his mind for him to be still. “His partner, for instance—”
“I think you meant his best friend.” The smile of mischief is still there.
“Is a pharmaceutical salesman. What does this tell you?”
Watson furrows his brows in confusion. “That he has a discount on paracetamol?”
“You’re useless. Utterly, completely useless,” Sherlock replies. “How did you even manage to get a medical degree?”
“Oh, well, they just give it around these days,” Watson rests his elbows on his thighs and places his face on his hands, a Little-Mermaid-like position that weirdly fits him. “Showing up is pretty much the only requirement.”
Sherlock ignores his roommate’s response and continues, this time more to himself than as a contribution to their conversation. “Shawn Spencer’s partner having another job is an indication that their whole business isn’t as solid as they make it seem. It might be to help with the money for rent and transportation and such, but it could also be that the financial guarantee he’s seeking is preparation for the moment when Shawn is inevitably exposed for being a fake.” Sherlock stops and scans Watson for an indication of him having been convinced. “Or he just had that job before this scam started and doesn’t trust Spencer to keep it for much longer, at least not enough to make him quit.”
Watson rests his back against the cushion again. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish with this bit, make me hate the guys?”
“No, of course not. I just want to show you the other side of things, the real side. But you can choose to live in this delusion as much as you want. I mean, go ahead. Keep thinking the supernatural actually exists! I’m sure it helps you sleep at night.”
Watson rolls his eyes and angrily grabs the newspaper, which, at this point, is on the floor, having been stepped on by Sherlock at least five times, and his eyes immediately fall on the picture. The one whom he reads is Shawn is on the left, plaid shirt and cocky grin giving him the appearance of an average guy you wouldn’t be surprised to see eating chicken wings or making obscure references to movies from the 80s. His hand is up as though he’s waving to the crowd in front of him, not even a little bit worried about his unconventional methods being an easy target of judgment. He looks like he belongs there, Watson realizes, and for a second he almost wishes he knew those guys. The best friend/partner, Burton Guster, is on the right, his hand placed on his chest in a gesture that would suggest humbleness if it weren’t for his facial expression, a look about him that seems equally receptive of the recognition and praise as Shawn is. He’s wearing a buttoned shirt that’s tucked under his pants with a belt, and the two of them form such a distinct contrast to each other that Watson finds it rather amusing. He can’t help but think about the many pictures of him and Sherlock that have appeared on the newspaper over the years, and he wonders if people have analyzed them the way he’s analyzing Shawn and Guster at this moment. They can undoubtedly notice Sherlock’s arrogance and Watson’s shyness from the capture of a lens, but can they also see his excitement, Sherlock’s determination, the deep and unspoken connection the two of them share but hardly ever acknowledge? Can they understand what motivates them from within, the drive for justice, the thrill of the chase pumping in their veins?
“I think you’re being too harsh with them,” Watson says simply, putting the newspaper on the couch next to him.
“How come?” Sherlock replies. “I think I’m being perfectly adequate.”
“I don’t know,” he crosses his arms. “It’s just… Okay. Let’s suppose he is indeed faking his powers.”
Sherlock points a finger at him. “Which he totally is.”
Watson ignores him and continues, “Does that inherently mean he’s a bad person?” Sherlock stares at him, silent. “He has put a lot of bad people in jail, and no doubt has saved a lot of lives in the process… Doesn’t that give him a little bit of credit?”
Sherlock takes a deep breath. He doesn’t respond immediately; instead, he walks to the window and gazes at the street below, strangers passing by with shopping bags and dogs on leashes and briefcases on hand, the sounds of London fading away as background noise as he concentrates on details of the everyday life. He notices the mark of a ring on the girl with the dog’s finger, the dust on the shoe of the guy with the briefcase, the small tear on the shopping bag carried by the woman. He absorbs all of it in, knowing none of this information is relevant to his existence, and takes a deep breath.
He’s reminded of a babysitter he used to have back in the day. Susan Carter. She was, in theory, hired to take care of both him and Mycroft, but Sherlock’s brother, even in his youth, acted like someone older than his age, someone who could take plenty of care of himself even though he was still sleeping with a night light on and occasionally peeing his pants. Sherlock didn’t like Susan very much — he actually felt that way about pretty much everyone at that time, but with her it was especially intense because she’d spend the entire day checking in on him. He couldn’t just simply tune her out diving into the depths of his mind castle, because it was a guarantee she’d be there too, her high-pitched auntie voice asking him questions like, “Do you want some tea, Lockie?” or “Want me to read you a story?” Never mind the fact that she was merely doing her job, one which he was aware she was being paid for incredibly well (it wasn’t easy to find someone willing to accept employment in the Holmes residence those days): he wanted her out of his sacred place, expelled out of his house like a virus after an antibody attack.
His will ended up being his way, in the end. Susan decided to quit after Mycroft put laxatives in her tea one day, and all of this happened because she had entered his room, without knocking, and caught him during one of his private costume sessions. Mycroft would sometimes spend hours alone in his room doing this — one day he’d be a king from the Victorian times, ordering the toys in his room to attend to his commands, and the other he’d be Britain’s first astronaut setting foot on the moon. Sherlock was never allowed in, even though he’d usually want to, much to his own dismay, and when his nanny caught Mycroft dressed up as Shakespeare in the middle of a reenactment of his own play, Mycroft decided it was best to put matters into his own hands. Or, really, the poor lady’s digestive system, which got torn to shreds after that tea. Sherlock was glad to see her gone, but it sadly wasn’t much long before another nanny stepped in to take her post, and the others after her blended together to create one amorphous being in his mind, all identities a dense cloud of memories he, to this day, associates with despair and annoyance.
What made Susan stand out amongst them was the fact that she liked tarot cards. Sherlock always thought of it all as rather stupid and tried to avoid her “sessions” as much as possible, but sometimes she managed to catch him in the sofa, staring at the ceiling or memorizing the patterns of the paintings on the wall, and she’d say “let’s have a reading, Lockie! You’re not really doing anything much now, aren’t you?”, to which he’d have no reply. He’d sometimes run away to the garden, but other times he’d admit defeat and sit next to her on the dinner table, and she’d spread the cards and explain the meaning of every one of them, even the ones which weren’t chosen by Sherlock. Surprisingly, he’d sometimes find himself enjoying those moments, especially when Susan’s eyes would sparkle with excitement and he’d wonder if one day he’d ever feel that way about anything. She’d maneuver the cards with the utmost gentleness, like they were thin pieces of glass she could drop and break at any moment, and he’d almost let himself smile. He never would, though, because he was still a Holmes, therefore still genetically indisposed for such an act.
Sherlock later in his life learned that Susan had died not long after she quit her job as his nanny. She was murdered by an ex-boyfriend who needed some money and was leeching off of her and the tiny, almost inexistent amount she had. She was stabbed eight times in her own living room, the very same Susan who would put an extra spoonful of sugar in his afternoon tea even though his mother’s orders were of strictly one. Sherlock hated himself the day he found out. When his mother told him over the phone, bile crawled up to the back of his throat and left in it a bitter taste that lasted until the next morning. Sherlock wanted to punch someone, punch himself. The murderer had already been caught by that point, but Sherlock wanted badly to be the one who had found him, perhaps because he felt like he owed something to Susan. He couldn’t catch his own eyes in the mirror for a while after that discovery.
“I think I’m going to bed.”
Watson blinks in surprise. “It’s five in the afternoon.”
Sherlock wraps the belt of his robe on his stomach. “I am very tired.” He gives the reply as though it was an act of courtesy on his part, unneeded.
“You said you were busy about three minutes ago.”
He slumps his shoulders in a dramatic gesture like there’s a sudden weight on them he can’t bother to carry, and then straightens his posture again. “Haven’t you heard of procrastination, Watson? My being tired at this very moment doesn’t exclude my desire to sleep.”
Watson narrows his eyes, bites his lower lip. “You’re planning something.”
Sherlock fakes an appalled look. “I am going to bed. Think of that what you will.”
He starts making his way across the living room and Watson says, “Tell me what you’re thinking!”
“Ask your friend Spencer to tell you that! He’s a psychic, he’ll figure it out!” He’s halfway through the hallway by now, his screams reverberating against the walls.
“You’re forgetting your tea!”
“You can have it, it’s too sweet for me anyway!” is the reply before Sherlock closes the door and creates a vacuum in the room from the instant end of the conversation.
Watson groans in frustration. “I could kill him. And I think I could get away with it. Except he’d solve the bloody thing in the afterlife. Oh, Watson, you were such a fool, left the clues right there for everyone to see!” He mimics Sherlock’s posh way of speaking.
He picks up the mug Sherlock left on the table and takes a sip. “A perfectly good tea, also. That bastard.” Watson’s tone of voice is annoyed, but as he takes another sip, there’s a smile on his face.
Just wanted to share an illustration inspired by a fic I read recently. I’m new to fandom so I don’t know the protocol for linking to other people’s work so I won’t for now, since it was a WIP and I haven’t been able to get in touch with the author. I just thought I’d share my personal artwork based on the story and read into it what you will
