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.”
Snow isn’t all too frequent of an occurrence in London, therefore, it’s always a pleasant surprise to see the streets blanketed in a thick white layer of frozen crystals especially in time for the holidays. Typically, when the once grey sky turns to a frosty white, the city slows as locals try to remember how they’re supposed to travel in such slick conditions. As for this day, travel seems to be an important requirement given the fact that most ‘sane’ people must attend family gatherings.
Sherlock stares out the frosted window of his shared flat, drawing the bow delicately across each string of his violin which lets off a smooth humming melody matching some Christmas song he doesn’t see the appeal with; however, it had gotten stuck in his head after Mrs. Hudson had requested he play it at least a four times throughout the evening.
His attention is only broken from the song when you walk to his side, reaching up on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. He’s quick to turn his head, catching your lips against his with a smile. The evening has been eventful, not that either of you’ve minded.
While Sherlock isn’t usually one to enjoy decorating for the holidays, he could never say no to you especially when you continue to insist that this Christmas is the most important one of all. Although he’ll never admit it out loud, he actually finds himself tolerating that extra twinkle brought to the flat by the Christmas lights draped over the mantle of the fireplace as well as the small Christmas tree tucked away in the corner, dressed in a mix of colored orbs, science-y tools, and police tape (guess which Sherlock put on).
Of course, neither of you spend the holiday alone. Earlier, you had been joined for Christmas dinner by Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and the Watsons with their little daughter, Rosie. Even Sherlock’s parents came by for a visit while Mycroft had simply called to wish you and his brother well for the holiday. Needless to say, the evening had been filled with plenty of laughter and joy, a wonderful fit for such a special Christmas.
“…Sherlock?” He hums in acknowledgment, too entranced by the feeling of your arms around his waist with your body pressed against his back to actually open his eyes and look at you,“ don’t you want to open your present yet?”
He had completely forgotten about that. When you first set the little blue box under the tree exactly five days ago, informing him it’s a present for him when he questioned, he insisted he didn’t need any material things as he’s simply happy being able to call you his wife for the holidays. Of course, you can be as stubborn as your husband when you want to be, arguing that you’ve already spent the time carefully wrapping it, thus it’s officially his present.
Once again, the present had been brought up by John who noticed it still under the tree when everyone began exchanging presents. Surprisingly, despite your previously expressed excitement for Sherlock to open the box, you dismissed John’s concern right away, announcing that it’s a special present for Sherlock to open on his own. Worried it might be something to do with your, well, ’intimate’ time together based on your way of wording, no one else asked any further questions and you had failed to mention the topic again yourself until now as you gaze up at the back of Sherlock’s head expectantly, chewing on your lower lip while awaiting his answer.
At last, he agrees, setting down his instrument while you happily retrieve the box from under the tree and hand it to him just as he finds his seat in his chair. His fingertips brush against the white ribbon, his eyes moving to you as you quite literally sit on the edge of your seat in front of him, your lip still caught in-between your teeth. Your eyes glow yet your body language shows that you’re nervous, although, he can’t guess why. He may be blunt and not the easiest person to shop for, but he loves you dearly and will no doubt treasure anything you gift him with.
Your behavior has admittedly gotten him curious, leading him to waste no more time removing the ribbon and wrapping paper which reveals a plain shoebox, however, judging on the weight of it, there aren’t shoes inside. Lifting the lid, Sherlock is left staring down at the only content lying amount a thin layer of navy-blue tissue.
Tapping your fingers against your leg, you sit straighter with your eyes directing to the floor,“ I…I know we haven’t really gotten the chance to discuss it much aside from little comments here and there, but…well, I personally think this is something good and I, um, I’m just hoping you’ll agree. That’s why I waited until now to have you open it. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of everyone else, j…just in case you aren’t happy with it-”
You don’t get to continue much further with your rambling, the words being muffled by Sherlock’s lips against yours. It’s a long kiss, one that makes you almost forget all about the worries you’ve been dwelling on for the last two weeks now.
Sherlock’s the one who pulls away, his hands rested against your legs as he kneels in front of you, his eyes twinkling with a noticeable uplift to his voice,“ not happy? I’m overjoyed with it! How could I not be? I’ve been dying waiting for you to finally tell me.”
“Finally tell…? Sherlock Holmes, did you already know?” You blink once getting over your daze from the kiss, your eyebrow raised with mocked annoyance which makes him roll his eyes.
“I deduced it a week and a half ago after noticing your recent case of nausea, fatigue, missed menstruation cycle, and swollen bre-” He goes to list, but you cut him off with a finger to his lips.
“-Yes, I know the common signs of pregnancy, after all, I’m going through it all firsthand…but if you knew so soon, why didn’t you say anything?”
He becomes a bit bashful at your question, taking your hand in his so that his thumb can rub against your soft skin,“ while I’m not normally wrong on my deductions, I especially didn’t want to be wrong about this one. I figured it would be best to simply keep my hopes down until you confirm it yourself…”
“Oh Sherlock…” you smile, moving your free hand to his cheek. He immediately leans into your touch,“ over three years of being together and I still forget you’re a master deducer. If I would’ve guessed you might already know, I would’ve told you sooner.”
“Firstly, deducer isn’t a word, love, and second,” you roll your eyes at his comment, but smile nonetheless especially when his lips reach yours again, his hand now pressed lightly to your stomach,“ I think you telling me now is a perfect gift for our first Christmas together as husband and wife.”
When he moves away from the kiss, he takes both of your hands in his, leading you to stand up where his arms can wrap around your waist. Knowing the movement all too well, you drape your arms over his shoulders, pecking his lips every once and a while as he sways you around, humming the melody he had been playing on his violin earlier.
It’s always a lovely sight to have a young couple dancing in their flat late on Christmas Eve, not a worry in the world as they only wish to remain in each other’s arms which is perfect shelter from the cold. It’s a type of love that words can only do so much to describe, although, one look is usually enough to understand.
Sherlock Holmes absolutely adores you, his precious Mrs. Holmes, with such a feeling having already expanded to his unborn child that you bare, making you all the more valuable to him. That alone is excellent proof that the great detective does, in fact, have a heart that can easily be burned so long as far more careful steps are taken next time around, ones more reliable than entrusting some ordinary lovesick idiot as a client. It really is a lovely sight to watch indeed.
Everything seems to go in slow motion for Sherlock which wouldn’t be a rare thing if inside his Mind Palace, but this is the real world. He puts his hand up, although, he isn’t sure if it’s to helplessly reach for the gun again or to fruitlessly block the bullet as a gunshot rings out throughout the church like thunder, shaking the walls and echoing in everyone’s ears
BANG!
Sherlock flinches at the terrible sound which is loud enough to make his ears ring and his heart skip a beat of terror. His eyes had snapped shut almost subconsciously, opening again reluctantly while half expecting to be greeted by darkness, but alas, that’s not the case.
Instead, Sherlock watches in shock as Apollo’s own features melt into the same emotion. His mouth trembles open yet the only sound to come through is one similar to a gurgled gasp as he wobbles with unstable legs until they finally give out from under him, causing him to collapse to the ground and leave Sherlock’s line of sight clear to you.
You stand mere feet away with arms raised and pointed towards where Apollo once stood, Sherlock’s gun grasped tightly in your hands. You falter once exhaling which forces you to lean against the wall for support, your expression a mix of both relief and horror at the realization of what you’ve just done.
It takes even Sherlock a moment to process the events that had unfolded within mere seconds. He spares a single glance at Apollo who lies on his stomach with barely any motion aside from the slight shaking of his body as he chokes on both his own painful breaths and bloody saliva, the wound in his chest gushing at an alarming rate.
The sight of the red liquid snaps the detective out of it, his first action being to grab the gun and stuff it in his coat pocket before sprinting over to you or tries to at least. Due to the piercing pain in his own abdomen, he only makes it a short distant before falling to his knees, having to drag himself up right at your side.
By that time, you’ve already slide down the wall, one hand placed over your mouth while the other refuses to drop the weapon within your grasp. You’re taking deep breath as if you’ve just ran a marathon, your eyes slowly filling with tears, yet your state of shock is interrupted when Sherlock immediately places his hands over your cheeks. It’s an action you return after finally dropping your weapon.
You whimper his name, your eyes searching his face as he nods, taking deep breaths himself with teary eyes,“ I…I’m here…Everything’s okay.”
He finds himself repeating those words even when your arms wrap tightly around his shoulders, pulling the two of you together as you cry into his coat. He leans back, taking you with him so that he can begin rocking you while staring up at the ceiling. Letting everything sink in, he squeezes his eyes shut, pressing dozens of kisses to your forehead with his hand entangling in your hair. At that point, the only sound within that quiet church is a combination between your muffled sobs and his own shaky breaths.
There’s a patterned beeping inside the room when you enter only to hesitate in the doorframe. Sherlock’s curls are glowing in the light of the evening sun, his eyes set outside the window in boredom. When he turns your way, you feel yourself smile softly, finally walking into the room completely while the door clicks shut behind you.
Sitting down on the empty bedspace ever so carefully, you take his hand in yours and give it a slight squeeze,“ how are you feeling?”
“Fine…You won’t believe the pain meds they have me on,” his head flops to the side dramatically, but you still catch a hint of that smirk he wears at his own comment which might’ve made you roll your eyes if not for the thought of why he’s even lying in a hospital bed in the first place.
Sherlock watches silently as you trace his knuckles with your thumb absentmindedly, a distant look in your eyes as you try to focus on the softness of his skin. Neither of you have been apart for too long, in fact, your boyfriend had put up quite the fight to ensure it. Upon arriving at the hospital, he had stubbornly refused to be wheeled off for surgery, that was, until he spotted a frantic John run through the hospital doors. Knowing you’d be safe in the company of his friend (and maybe not wanting to deal with his nagging), Sherlock had finally agreed to treatment much to your relief.
Speaking of John, the poor man had been in a panic since Lestrade first received that vague yet strict text message from Sherlock explaining to meet at some abandoned church at a very specific time; no sooner, on later. His worries had only been confirmed when arriving on scene only to be informed that Sherlock was being rushed to the hospital for a gunshot wound.
You had explained the situation to him in limit detail while sitting together in the waiting room, although, he didn’t press you to say too much, understanding by the somber look on your face alone that it’s not the time. Instead, he simply concerned himself with you and Sherlock’s current conditions, fussing over whether you’ve had your own injuries examined which, of course, the answer was ‘yes’. Sherlock wouldn’t dare let a hand be laid upon himself unless positive you’ve been properly attended to first.
“…Is John angry?” The detective finally breaks the silence between the two of you, his eyes not moving away from your hand.
“Not sure if I’d say 'angry’. He seems more worried above everything else. I think he understands the situation Apollo put you in, though. I just can’t promise you still won’t get an earful from him later,” you answer in a whisper. When the nurse had announced Sherlock’s out of surgery, John insisted you be the first to speak with him alone, thankfully realizing that the two of you have a lot to reflect on together. Besides, it isn’t as if he doesn’t live with Sherlock. He’ll have plenty of time to give him Hell later without so many witnesses around.
You move to lean back against the pillows yourself, closing your eyes as you try to think of something to say when there’s just so much that needs to be said,“…Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
You turn your head into the pillow, once again whispering the words that feel so useless compared to their actual weight,“…I’m…I’m so sorry for involving you in all this crap. I should’ve never taken a chance with Apollo back then. Neither of us would have to be here if I would’ve just denied him right at the beginning. You wouldn’t have been hurt and-”
“-Love,” you blink open your teary eyes at the feel of his warm hand against your cheek, his eyes staring back into yours,“ it could never be considered your fault that Apollo took advantage of you or your kindness and, as far as me getting shot, if I had to, I’d do this all over again if it meant keeping you safe. As I hope I’ve made very clear, I will always be your guard against danger regardless of what it entails.”
With a sniff, you nuzzle your face against him, not missing the cold tears that roll down your cheek as you bury your face against the hospital gown that lacks the same comforting scent as his normal clothing,“ I just wish I was better at doing the same for you…”
"But you already have been. I’m sure anyone could confirm something so clear…” Sherlock runs a hand through your hair, his voice trailing off which allows you to speak with muffled words.
“Back at the church-”
“-You said you’d go with Apollo willingly if he left me alive. Even when given the option of dying yourself, you didn’t hesitate to take it to keep me safe. While I can’t say I approve of the idea of you giving your life for me, I suppose I can’t complain seeing that I’m the one who walked directly into a trap prepared to give my own life if it meant buying yours more time to be saved…but that isn’t the only time where you’ve saved me.”
You look up again, meeting his half-lidded eyes which seem dazed with both admiration and possibly the pain medication in his system, although, you doubt the latter lessens the meaning behind his words,“…For most of my existence, I’ve been simply surviving, using thrills like drugs and cases to drag pass each day of boredom. Even when I’ve had John or Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, I’ve never found myself truly…living;at least in the same sense that normal people seem to…but then you came back around.
"When you began staying at Baker Street, I found myself feeling content with my existence for once. Throughout the last month, I haven’t once felt the need to turn back to my former habits and, while that might not seem like a lot of time to stay clean, it is for me; John will tell you. I’m happy simply being around you and knowing that you’re going to there when I return from a case or leave my Mind Palace. For the first time in my entire life, I feel…excited to look at the future and think of it as involving the two of us together.
”…Because of you, I think I finally understand what John meant when he said there’s a 'hidden meaning’ to life. It’s having someone by my side to love and enjoy existence with. It’s having you be mine,“ Sherlock’s speech is quiet and hesitant at times, his mind stumbling to think of the correct words to express his exact feelings.
Although he’s nervous voicing such intimate thoughts, said anxiety melts away with that smile you’re giving him. He can feel your heart beating quickly which isn’t difficult based on how close the two of you are, your chests practically pressed against each other. Your eyes glisten with tears that drip onto the pillow even when you try to quickly wipe them away.
"Ever since what happened with Apollo, I had given up on the idea of being safe let alone happy with someone. I figured I was just better off spending my life alone because how could I possibility trust and love someone else again after everything he had put me through? But I don’t feel scared anymore. If anything, I feel safer around you than I had even alone…Now, I can’t imagine spending my life any other way than being at Baker Street with you.”
Sherlock smiles, his forehead falling against yours where it rests for a moment before your lips meet at last. Your hands find their way onto his chest, careful not to hit his injury while one of his own still rest on your cheek, the other entangled in your hair. Even when pulling away, it doesn’t take long for your lips to find each other again, every kiss lasting a bit longer than the last which becomes a cycle difficult to break until the creaking of the door opening meets your ears.
“Shit, sorry-! I didn’t mean to interrupt anything- I’ll…I’ll just go back outside…” While you can’t exactly see it with your back turned, you can hear Lestrade rambling in embarrassment as he attempts to quickly backtrack out the door, bumping into something along the way before finally managing to exit.
Sherlock groans, although, the redness of his cheeks hints towards him being more embarrassed about being caught rather than annoyed at being interrupted. Despite the tint of your own cheeks, you can’t help but chuckle quietly, especially with the faint voices of Lestrade whisper-shouting at John as to why he didn’t warn him first.
“…I’m sure he needs to talk to us about what happened…We’ll have to give statements, right?” You mumble, nervously gripping onto the fabric of his hospital gown at the reminder that you will eventually have to explain what had happened today regardless of how difficult it may be.
“At some point, yes, but the Yard will just have to wait. Right now, we’re busy,” by the time you allow yourself to smirk, his lips are already back against yours which is plenty to put to rest your worries for now because so long as Sherlock Holmes is around, you’ll never have to worry about your own safety ever again.
Sherlock takes in a breath, his eyes locked with the old building that’s barely visible through the overgrown trees and weeds that fill its once beautiful garden. He stands at the rusted metal gates until his former cab has pulled back onto the street, leaving him truly alone to meet whatever fate awaits him.
The gate makes a terrible creaking sound, refusing to open all the way which forces him to slide through. Stone steps peek through slightly yellowed grass, his shoes crunching against this path littered with faded leaves.
While walking, he lets his hand run against the back of a cracked wooden bench that sits off to the side of the path. He remembers how you’d lean against him on it, pointing to random church goers and asking what he could deduce about them. A few feet away, he notices that the patch of lilies you once adored have long been overtaken by weeds and roses bushes, the latter seeming to be the only flower to survive three years of being unattended to.
Most of the once detailed stained glass windows have been shattered, likely from various storms and unruly teenagers armed with rocks. One of the dark knotty alder doors has broken off a hinge which leaves it hanging slightly to the side while its partner has been trapped open by build up debris on the inside floor.
Sherlock tightens his grip on his gun almost as if to ensure it’s still hidden away in his pocket. Although he’d like to deny it, his heart beats heavily against his chest as he pauses in that doorway and listens. He can hear birds chirping in the garden and the soft creeks of the worn-out building echoing through the darkness, but nothing else until he begins to walk again because, despite his best attempts at keeping quiet, various floorboard’s still squeak with the debris on the ground crunching under his weight. A small amount of light is offered through the broken windows, beaming down in a way that might have been beautiful if not for the circumstances. Even so, the halls are mostly covered in shadow.
Sherlock finally removes the gun from his pocket while checking the first room he comes across. Surveying the area, he sees nothing of interest. One of the ceiling beams has fallen through near the middle, letting in plenty of light which sparkles down. It’s the same room where you and Sherlock would share halves of the same donuts while snickering over the sight of Mycroft sneaking his third from the snack table.
Said room can also be seen through a small opening in the kitchen Sherlock searches next. There’s a layer of dust covering the counter he remembers you baking cookies on along side his mother and your aunt for that Christmas dinner the church held each year.
During your first year there, you had proudly showed Sherlock the ginger breadmen you had secretly made when no one else was looking. The cookies that had been torn, covered in red frosting, then outlined in white to mimic a crime scene much to his amusement. Of course, your aunt hadn’t been very amused when she found your creation in the oven, lecturing you about how ‘you’re in a church!’ and 'does this look like something you’d make in a church?!’. Nevertheless, you did it again the following year with Sherlock’s help that time.
He bits his lip, continuing to walk along the wall to the next room. It isn’t a giant church. There are only a few rooms inside with the nave being located at the end. Even though he checks each room along the way, he knows you’re in that main room; you must be. Apollo’s going for the aesthetic and what better than to have the 'bride’ at the end? He only hopes that you’re still alive. On the cab ride there, he had sent strict instructions to Lestrade on when to arrive; no sooner, no later with no lights nor sirens. All he has to do is separate Apollo from you in any means possible before then. Hopefully the Yard will be competent enough to keep you safe regardless of what happens.
BANG!
It’s a terrible sound that pierces his ears, but that’s nothing compared to the ripping pain in which shoots through Sherlock’s right side. It causes his knees to lock up, tilting his body forward only for something to hit against his back, knocking him over completely as a shadow comes around the front of him. Quickly, he moves to lift his arm and, more importantly, his gun, however, a boot stomps down on his wrist, making him hiss in pain.
You raise your head at the sound of a gunshot, your mind racing as you continue to wiggle your hands behind your back, this time more desperately than you have been ever since the second Apollo had left your side.
While he may insist that he isn’t an idiot and that he’s fully aware that you treat him like one, he completely missed that specific position you had held your hands in while being zip-tied. Moving your hands with your palms flat against each other, you make your wrists skinnier than they had been when your fists were together, allowing you to begin wiggling free from the constraints.
“Took you long enough, Holmes. I thought you’d have more urgency getting here for your girlfriend. Fuck, I was almost ready to go to Baker Street myself and just take you out there, but that wouldn’t have been as fun, would it? Not when I’ve waited so long for this!” Apollo growls with hatred lacing his every word, one foot remaining on Sherlock’s back while the other crushes his wrist under his heavy boot,“ everyone says you’re some type of genius, but it wasn’t all that hard outsmarting you! It’s because of (Y/n), right? You’re too desperate to get her back, so much so that you’re willing to walk right into a trap unprepared. It’s pathetic!”
Sherlock’s fingers twitch over the gun’s handle, attempting to inch it closer, however, Apollo notices. He kicks the weapon away before his other foot moves upwards, pushing the detective’s face against the wooden floorboards,“ at least I thought everything through when I wanted her back. I planned everything out and left nothing to chance. It hasn’t been easy, but it’ll all be worth it when I kill you because if it weren’t for you, she would’ve loved me. We could’ve been a happy normal couple, but instead you have to exist and steal her from me! Now she’ll never love me without being forced to!”
Sherlock tries to shift his body, biting back a groan of pain before opening his mouth, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything.
“Apollo!” Both men look up to you as you appear from around the corner, wobbling on your shaky legs. Your eyes are wide and teary especially when setting upon Sherlock on the ground. There’s already a pool of blood beginning to form around his side, but you don’t receive much time to fret over it. Instead, you’re left frozen in place, a chill running down your spine when Apollo lifts the gun, pointing it at you a way far too similar to that night six years ago.
There’s fury in his eyes, possibly more than there was back then,” do you finally see how pathetic he is, (Y/n)?! THIS IS YOUR HERO; THE MAN WHOSE HANDS YOU’VE PUT YOUR LIFE IN! THE MAN YOU’VE CHOSEN TO LOVE OVER ME!“
"Apollo…You don’t have to do this. I told you I’d go with you…We…We can leave together right now, and I won’t ever fight you again, just let Sherlock go-” You hold up your hands in surrender, your voice trembling as much as your body is yet you fight yourself to speak as calmly as possible.
“Don’t you get it, you fucking idiot!? THAT’S NOT THE DEAL!” Apollo cries out, shaking his head up towards the ceiling before taking in a breath of pure irritation. When he looks back to you, you can almost make out a genuine pain behind his eyes, as if, for just a split second, he actually feels bad,“ SHERLOCK HAS TO DIE! THAT’S THE DEAL! WE CAN’T HAPPEN IF HE’S LEFT ALIVE, (Y/N), AND IREFUSETO LOSE YOU AGAIN!”
You gulp, eyes drifting to Sherlock who’s watching Apollo’s every move while carefully pulling his left arm up to place his palm on the ground with his elbow held out lowly. Of course, Apollo’s so worked up and distracted, he doesn’t notice this time.
“I…I’m going to give you a choice, (Y/n)! You’ll get to choose between us once and for all!” Apollo’s lip quivers as he moves the gun from pointing at you to Sherlock’s head. Even his voice is shaky when he speaks his next words,“ US OR HIM!? Who do you want to be shot?! If I shoot him, we’ll both get to leave here happy and alive or I shoot the two of us, finishing what I started six years ago without any mistakes this time! It’ll be quick either way, so which is it?! Which way do you want to be together; alive or in death because I COULD CARE LESS ANYMORE!”
Your eyes remain on Sherlock’s blue ones, soaking up their color which you’ve always adored especially in the way that they seem to change depending on the amount of light in the room. At the moment, they appear icy blue with just a hint of green in them which glistens in the poor light of the hall. Inhaling deeply, you return your gaze to your ex, your mouth dry yet the words ever so smooth and clear,“ us. I chose us.”
Sherlock feels his heart skip a beat, his body going numb at your words, however, he remains still aside from the disconsolate shake of his head. Apollo’s reaction comes as no shock to him as the male sighs loudly, at last stepping off Sherlock’s back while running a hand through his hair, looking down at the detective with a cry,“ well, isn’t that just sweet, Holmes?! She’d died for you! This entire time she’s been running from me, but is doesn’t matter in the end! SHE’LL HAPPILY GIVE HER LIFE FOR YOU!
"But if that’s what you really want, (Y/n)! You’d rather die yourself, then fine! You remember what it feels like, right?! Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to aim better this time, then we’ll see each other on the other side, okay?! However it has to happ-ACK!” Apollo’s cut off when his legs are knocked out from underneath himself by Sherlock. The action causes his gun to fall out of his grip, bouncing against floor where Sherlock tries to take it, however, Apollo launches at him, knocking the detective back to the ground before he can succeed in his attempts.
It all happens too quickly for you, your mind barely being able to process the fact that you had just been staring down the barrel of a gun a split second ago and are now watching the man you love fight over the same weapon with the man you fear most. You feel helpless, only able to watch in horror when Apollo’s hand finally manages to wrap around the gun’s handle.
Sherlock reaches out, his fingertips barely gazing the weapon before Apollo’s feet are kicked into his chest, throwing him back. Taking full advantage of the moment, Apollo is on his feet within seconds, both hands now gripping the gun with his hair messy in front of his face and rageful eyes.
Your screams are barely heard by either man as Apollo’s finger pulls back on the trigger. Everything seems to go in slow motion for Sherlock which wouldn’t be a rare thing if in his Mind Palace, but this is the real world. He puts his hand up, although, he isn’t sure if it’s to helplessly reach for the gun again or to fruitlessly block the bullet as a gunshot rings out throughout the church like thunder, shaking the walls and echoing in everyone’s ears.
There are dozens of people surrounding you in the beautiful old church made of mossy stone yet the most interesting subject you can find to stare at is your own hands which nervously fiddle with delicate lily petals or the long blades of grass lying beneath you.
Go be social…Those were the orders your aunt had given you before shooing you off even after you had so nicely helped her to her seat. She doesn’t mean to sound rude with stern and distant simply being her leading qualities, after all, she’s that typical elderly woman who’s never had children of her own and spends her evenings sipping rosé; one shouldn’t expect hugs and soft praises from her. Regardless, you find her words to be difficult to follow. You could barely socialize with people back home. How are you to socialize with people in a country you’ve only been in for less than three weeks?
That’s why you’ve been hiding out in the church garden, your legs sprawled out on the grass as you either admire the flowers surrounding you or the cloudy blue sky above. Compared to inside, not many people are enjoying the ‘warmish’ summer weather. Aside from yourself, there’s an elderly couple sitting on a bench across the garden and two families lively chatting not far from them. One of the families consists of two sons who are honestly the only other young people you’ve seen all day. Like yourself, they both appear extremely bored, too.
The oldest seems to be at least trying to behave, nodding along with whatever the adults say then rolling his eyes once they’re not looking. The youngest, however, doesn’t hide his frustration, crossing his arms and stomping his foot like a child whenever his mother nudges him and nods in your direction. You’ve long assumed that she’s nodding at the doorway about five feet away from where you sit, possibility telling him to grab a drink or snack from inside. You don’t blame him for not doing so. The water here tastes funny, and the snacks are stale.
Sighing through your nose, you sit up with crossed legs, plucking blades of grass and tying them together in as many knots as you can before a shadow falls over you. Raising your attention, your met with the dull blue eyes on the youngest teen who stares down at you with an upmost look of annoyance and anger.
“I’m Sherlock Holmes,” he harshly spits the introduction as if someone’s forcing him to be friendly. That guess might not be too far off really. You follow his eyes when he glances over his shoulder, spotting his mother smiling his way with pride. So, she’s been trying to get him to talk to you, huh? Well, you don’t blame him for not wanting to that either.
“(Y/n)…(Y/n) (L/n),” you nod to him quietly, nervously directing your eyes back down to your lap. You expect him to walk off, after all, his mother’s turned around again so she must be satisfied with even a short interaction; there’s no further need for him to continue yet he doesn’t even flinch a muscle.
Feeling his strong gaze, you glance back up at him, your heart beginning to race. After a moment of unbearably awkward silence, you open your mouth, having mentally prepared yourself enough to ask him if he needs something, but that confidence is shattered when he speaks first in a monotone voice unlike any you’ve heard before.
“You’re American, most likely from Washington or Oregon. You moved here to live with your aunt, but you’re not happy nor comfortable with the situation. The only reason you’re here is because her husband died and your parents figured they’d send you to keep her company since she has no other family here, not to mention you best match her personality, however, you don’t feel very close to her. Having obvious social anxiety, you’ve taken to being on your own in an area of comfort which is the outdoor garden.”
You blink when he finally finishes, taking a moment to process all the information he’s thrown at you as if he read it all in the news this morning,“ h-how did you…?”
“Simple. You have a clear American accent, one belonging to a western state. I guessed Washington or Oregon because you aren’t shivering despite the cold air and your lack of jacket or long sleeve shirt, meaning you’re use to this type of weather. Comparing both factors, those two states seem to fit best.
"As for the aunt, you smell of roses and high levels of 2-nonenal which is found in people above the age of forty. Seeing that you are clearly not forty, both smells have come from living with someone older. Rose is also a popular perfume scent for elderly women. You could be staying with a grandmother, but I chose great aunt because, as I said, you’re uncomfortable around her. I saw you with an older woman earlier which isn’t cheating, it’s observing. The two of you are here together yet act distant, barely talking or touching one another which is more likely behavior towards a great aunt than one’s grandmother.
"The woman was wearing a set of wedding rings on her necklace with a visible tan mark on her left finger. She recently removed her ring and put it on the necklace with the men’s wedding ring. It would be strange to randomly start doing so unless the husband has recently died. The universe is rarely as lazy to cause coincidences such as a woman’s husband dying then her American niece moving in with her for unrelated reasons, therefore, your parents sent you here to keep her company. Going back to how uncomfortable you are around her, it wouldn’t have been a personal decision to come here. They figured you’d get on with her best because of your personality. You’re quiet while wearing modest clothing which any old-fashioned elderly woman would approve of unlike the habits of most teenage girls our age.
"Your social anxiety is most obvious. When I approached, your face became red, and your eyes began darting in different directions while your hands fidget with the grass. Despite me not even saying anything yet, you were already in a panic; clearly socially anxious,” his eyes scan you, waiting for a reaction. Unbeknownst to you, he’s internally preparing himself for outrage whether it be by you telling him to 'fuck off’ or smacking him in the face; maybe both, after all, that’s what the other kids at school do whenever he 'puts the wind in them’ by making easy deductions.
“That’s incredible!”
“Huh…?” Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to blink in confusion, his lips parting slightly when you push yourself to your feet, eyes glowing when looking up at him.
“Did you really find all that out about me by observation alone?” In complete contrast to your previously timid personality, your voice is laced with excitement as you await his answer which takes him an uncharacteristically long time to form.
“Yes, it’s easy, as I said,” stuffing his hands into his pant pockets, he turns his head to the side, fighting the urge to touch his cheeks which are suddenly feeling very warm. Why though?
“T-That’s incredible,” you repeat once again with a toothy grin,“ you must be super smart then.”
“You’d be the first to say that…Most hate it when I deduce them. They think I’m a freak,” he mumbles, his eyes narrowing at the ground. He has no idea why he just admitted such a thing to you when you’re only a stranger nor does he understand the fluttering in his stomach when he sees that soften gaze of yours from the corner of his eyes.
There’s a silence that passes, one that makes his heart race in worry that he’s made you change your opinion. Maybe you’ve thought it over and decided that yes, it’s very freakish for someone to deduce another person’s entire life story like he can. Of course, Sherlock’s only starting a long-life path of being proven wrong about you.
“So, um, could you deduce anyone? Like…What about them?” He follows your pointed finger to the elderly couple sitting on the bench, unable to hold back his smirk.
“Elementary.”
’Elementary,’ you hold onto that word, squeezing your eyes shut tightly which causes more tears to roll down your already stained cheeks. You’ve been dwelling on the memory to the point that you can see it, visualizing that exact glow in Sherlock’s eyes as he’d give deduction after deduction regardless of who you’d point to. For the first time in his entire life, he whined when his parents told him it was time to leave, only being comforted by the knowledge that you lived four blocks away and would be attending the same high school as himself.
Why didn’t you tell him back then? You should’ve kissed him after graduation, saying you’ll happily stay in London with him if he says the word. Sure, you feared rejection back then, but that fear had been nothing compared to what you’re feeling right now.
You’ve been trying your hardest to be brave for the last several hours and you’ve even been doing well enough to be proud of yourself. Despite the thumping of your heart against your chest and that awful twisting inside your stomach, you’ve been able to assess your situation while maintaining a level head that’s allowed you to keep Apollo somewhat at bay.
Observing his shifting behavior throughout your capture, you make sure to keep him talking when he’s in a 'good’ mood, discussing every topic you can that doesn’t involve Sherlock in anyway because you know mentioning the detective will only set your ex off. Luckily, he’s always been a talkative person, not seeming to realize you’re only being 'kind’ to him now so that you can buy your actual boyfriend more time to save you.
Of course, your tactic doesn’t always work wonders. At times, Apollo becomes frustrated, demanding to know what’s taking Sherlock so long as if it’s his time being wasted. During those moments, you’ve kept your mouth latched shut the same way you do whenever he decides to pass time by touching you. Instead of screaming and cursing him like you desperately want to, you keep your emotions visible only through the shivering of your body as you try to think of Sherlock even if it offers little comfort in such a situation.
You had been doing so well keeping your composer, pretending that your energy isn’t disappearing with each minute that passes, however, the last drop had evaporated when hearing Sherlock’s voice on the other side of that phone Apollo held to your ear. Every ounce of pain and fear you’ve been damning up broke loose upon even the knowledge that you’d hear his voice, tears filling your eyes the second he had spoken. It broke you.
“Shouldn’t you be happy? Your little boyfriend’s coming over for a visit. I thought that’s what you wanted?” Your teary eyes are still squeezed shut when Apollo speaks, his voice growing closer until he’s standing at your side. Your entire body tenses when he leans over, pressing a kiss to your forehead,“ don’t worry, darling. Everything will be over soon, m'kay? We’ll leave this shitty country and go back home to get married, in fact, there’s already a cabin set up just for the two of us up in the mountains; a safe place where no one will bother us ever again. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
He goes to stand straight, presumably to leave the room, however, you grab his hand, an action that makes him try to rip away, but your grasp is too tight. When he makes no further movement to fight you, you take his other hand, holding them both close as you met his eyes directly for the first time since your capture,“ let’s just go now, Apollo. I-I want to go now! It’ll take a while for Sherlock to get here. We…We can already be on a flight by the time he does and realizes. You wouldn’t have to waste your time if we leave now…Please.”
You rub your thumb against the back of his hand while biting down on your lip to prevent it from quivering. He slowly kneels, cupping your face in his hands and clearing away your tears. At first, he smiles, however, it turns into a frown the longer he studies your features,“ you know what I hate about you, (Y/n)? You always treat me like an idiot…Throughout our entire relationship, you’ve lied to me. Stupid little lies like how you care about me and have never cheated on me-”
“-I-I never lied about that. I did care for you, and I never-”
“-LET ME FINISH!” He snaps suddenly which is enough for you to finally drop his hands. There’s a pause before he sighs, his hand running through his hair,“ even now, you think you can act all sweet and innocent as if you enjoy our little talks- as if you really do want to marry me. Maybe I am an idiot because I want to believe it so badly even though I know it’s all a lie. You don’t want to run away and marry me; you only want Sherlock. You want us to leave now so that you can save him because he’s all you care about. Sherlock this and Sherlock that, BUT WHAT ABOUT ME, HUH?!ILOVE YOU! I HAVE ALWAYS LOVED YOU YET YOU CAN BARELY STAND TO LOOK AT ME EVEN BEFORE OUR RELATIONSHIP ENDED!
"Is it because I’m not as smart as him?! Holmes goes around solving crimes all day then has to get high whenever he outsmarts the world around him, but that’s the type of man that gets you off?! He couldn’t even find you on his own! I GAVE HIM OUR LOCATION! He wouldn’t have found you otherwise, yet you still think he’s sooo smart! I’ll have you know I can be smart to! I’ve been smart! All of this has been to impress you! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MUCH I’VE DONE TO GET HERE?! DO YOU KNOW THE DEALS I’VE HAD TO MAKE TO GET YOU BACK AND YET YOU’VE NEVER CARED FOR ME, ONLY HIM!”
Apollo walks behind you, forcefully grabbing your arms to bring them behind your back. You try your best to look over your shoulder, watching through your tears as he moves to tie a zip-tie around your wrists. Aware nothing good will come from fighting him when he’s in this state of anger, you keep your hands together with your fists clenched and palms down, allowing him to easily put the zip-tie on which prevents you move moving your hands from their glued position behind your back.
With that done, Apollo walks back around, grabbing a handful of your hair to force you to turn and look at him, ignoring your whimper of pain,“ it doesn’t matter anymore; not after today anyways. You’ll have to love me one way or another because I’ll be your only option. Sherlock will never intervene with us again; I’m going to make sure of that.”
“Well, if it isn’t the Great Sherlock Holmes. Funny getting to talk to you again, isn’t it? What’s it been? Almost a month? Just under one?”
Sherlock’s grip on the phone tightens, his blood running cold by that teasing tone in Apollo’s voice. John’s practically hanging off his shoulder, the optimistic side of him hoping- no, praying- that despite his friend’s stiffen appearance, he’ll put both of their worries to rest by saying you’re on the other end, assuring them you’ve somehow escaped your ex and are okay. Alas, life’s never that easy.
“Where is she?” Sherlock isn’t sure if he whispers or shouts the question which is ripped from his mouth before he can truly assess the situation. He doesn’t have time for that. He needs to know…is he already too late?
“Wow, no manners at all, and here I was thinking the whole appeal with British men is them being gentlemen-”
“-Answer the question-”
“-Or you’ll what exactly? Threaten me while enjoying a cup of tea at your flat? In that case, say whatever you want, Holmes. Don’t let me step on your moment. It’s not like I really care anyways. All I’d have to do is just hang up once I’ve heard enough of it…Oh, but I’m sure (Y/n) would be pretty disappointed then. She’s been dying to hear you voice.”
Sherlock presses his lips in a tight line, all his hostile thoughts towards Apollo being replaced by worry for you. He wonders if you’re in the room, listening from afar. If he yells loud enough, would you hear him even through the phone?
“…Why did you call me?”
He can practically see Apollo’s smirk on the other end,“ I just want to talk, that’s all. We’ve known about each other for what…? Seven years? And yet within that time we’ve never been able to have a civil conversation with each other, in fact, if I recall correctly, the first time we met face-to-face, you broke my nose. It’s always been surprising how hostile you are towards me. Sure, you don’t seem like much of a people person, but I figured I’d at least be just another face in the crowd for you. It’s because of (Y/n), isn’t it? Why do you care so much about her?”
“…She’s (Y/n). What more reason is there?” Sherlock’s eyes dart to John who’s quietly sneaking into the kitchen now, his own phone in hand. The detective concludes he’s calling Lestrade.
“I guess that’s something we can agree on then. (Y/n) is extra special, but that’s not what I meant. I want to know why you still care for her when all she does is use you? Haven’t you realized it yet, Holmes? It’s clear she only goes to you second. She left you in London then suddenly landed back in your arms once she needed you to prove her innocence at the trial. She only returned and agreed to date you because she thinks I’m going to hurt her. Notice the trend? She’s never gone to you outside of a time of need. Doesn’t that drive you mad to know she only pretends to love you so that she may gain something in return?”
“You’re wrong.”
“Oh? And why’s that?” Apollo challenges, the sound of boots clicking against a smooth surface echoing behind his voice. He’s inside somewhere, but where?
“I may not be able to tell you the exact reason why (Y/n) loves me, but I know it isn’t to use me as a tool. It’s honest affection unlike what she gave to you. She only chose you first because you asked first, and she was nice enough to give you a fair chance in winning her heart. She only rejected me after the trial because you traumatized her. She was afraid I’d do the same thing you did to her, but (Y/n)’s stronger now and she knows she can trust someone else again. That’s why she came back to me when you threated her again. She trusts I won’t let any harm befall her,” Sherlock sits down ever so slowly to the point that one would think he’s about to sit on needles. He maintains a neutral tone with Apollo, determined to keep the conversation going for as long as he can.
“Hm, maybe you’ve already forgotten this, but last time I checked, she’s with me, not you. You can’t do shit to prevent me from doing whatever I’d like with her because you don’t even know where the hell we are,” he hears Apollo stop pacing and there’s a long pause, one that dares Sherlock to respond, but his tongue’s been caught.
Finally, Apollo speaks again, a hint of a chuckle lifting his voice,“ see, it doesn’t matter who wins her heart, Holmes. It only matters who can outsmart the other…You know, I’ve always resented you during my relationship with (Y/n). I hated the way she’d talk so highly of you, favoring you over her own fiancé. My anger only grew when I saw you at her side during the trial. I’ve spent six whole years in prison thinking of different ways to get back at you for ruining my life, hoping that one could be good enough to capture the attention of such a famous detective like yourself.”
"Since you have the higher ground and are in such a talkative mood, why don’t you finally share how you did it? Your sentence wasn’t up nor were you eligible for parole yet, so how’d you get out?”
“Oh, you know…really isn’t that difficult escaping prison when your uncle’s the warden,” he practically drags out each word for a smug effect.
“Hugh Walsh-” Sherlock kicks himself over the realization, but he isn’t granted much time to dwell on it on his own.
“-Is my mom’s brother-in-law. I never had a close relationship with my dad, so you could say Uncle Hu took on the role and, of course, what uncle would let his nephew rot away in prison if he can somehow prevent it? His only request was that I come up with a good plan instead of being rash. He got me out and covered it up while I went on my merry way to get (Y/n). That’s when the game really began. Luckily for me, she took the bait when I sent her that letter, running right to her knight in shining armor and tying him back into this mess just as I had hoped.
”From there, I just had to keep an eye from afar until the right moment. I gotta say, it took longer than I imagined. You really weren’t taking any chances with her safety, taking her everywhere you go, parading her around like a show dog…Oh, but I’m sure you had fun with it. I’m sure you savored every second of your time with her especially behind closed doors, right? For the first time, she got to be yours. I guess you could say the image of you doing as you please with my fiancée was making me impatient. Fortunately, I noticed you were getting a little too comfortable. You started taking more risks with her, so I decided to take one of my own…“
When there’s another pause, Sherlock takes the bait with growing annoyance,” and what was that?“
”Glad you asked. Marvin Patel, ring a bell?“
"No.”
“God, you really are an emotionless machine…Man in his late sixties, dark hair, nice beard…heard he went missing after a night at the bar; last night particularly.”
“…The body on Abbott Lane…”
“Bingo! I needed a way to lure you away from the missus, so I asked some random drunk if he needed a ride home, killed him in a way that would stump investigators just enough to call their hero, then dumped him on the side of the road to let the show begin. While your head was turned, I simply took my chance to get (Y/n). Of course, she put up a bit of a fight, but nothing a good hit to the head can’t fix. Overall, I’d say my plan worked like a charm, wouldn’t you agree?”
“And what do you plan to do now? There must be another step considering you’ve wasted time calling me,” Sherlock hisses, his irritation with the call reaching its limit. He can hear John talking downstairs to someone signaling that Lestrade’s arrived, but what good will the Yard do if Sherlock doesn’t know anything new worth matter. Out of all the bullshit Apollo’s spewed, nothing says where you are.
“Nothing gets pass you, or should I say, most things don’t,” Apollo sighs, the sound of his boots against the ground starting up again,“ alright, you’ve got me, detective. I didn’t only call to brag, although, that’s been the best part of this conversation. Instead, I thought it would be fair to give you a fair chance. What, like (Y/n) did for me? Isn’t that what you said? It would be a shame to let our game end so easily and I’m sure poor (Y/n) is just on the edge of her seat waiting for you to find her. Can’t let her down, can we?
”I want you to listen closely because I have a few ‘conditions’ for my hint, but I’m sure you can already guess what they are. It’s the typical movie format really: come alone and don’t tell anyone where you’re going or why. If I so much as think you’ve disobeyed and have someone on your trail- and I don’t care who is it, the police or your little military friend-, I’ll finish what I started six years ago. Did you know that I originally planned on a murder suicide back then? I may not want to lose (Y/n), but if we’re going to being torn apart anyways, I’ll happily take her with me and try our chances together in a new life-“
”-I have one condition of my own,“ Sherlock interrupts, gaining Apollo’s attention.
”Really? You’re going to be a beggar in this situation?“
Sherlock’s slow with his words, picking each one carefully,” I merely want to talk to her…There’s no point in playing this game if the prize isn’t there, right?“
There’s nothing on the other end, Apollo seemingly considering the request and it’s worth. Meanwhile, Sherlock holds his breath, truly begging internally for him to take the chance. Maybe it won’t do anything to actually help the case, but he needs to hear from you even if it’s a single word.
”…S-Sherlock?“ His breath hitches at the whimper of a voice which breaks the silence at last, shaking him to his core.
"Yes, it’s me. I’m here, (Y/n),” he jumps to his feet, his body trembling as he speaks quickly, knowing Apollo can take this chance away at any moment,“ listen, I’m coming to get you, alright? There’s nothing that’ll stop me. J-Just remember everything I’ve told you, okay? We’ve gone over it before- what you do if you’re ever kidnapped. I’ll be there as soon as I can, just hang on a little longer…for me.”
”I-I love you, Sh-Sherlock…“ the last words are whispered so quietly that he can barely hear them especially over Lestrade and John’s voices as they enter the room, franticly looking over to him, but he never turns his attention away from the phone.
"I…I know…I’ll be there soon. I promise.”
He isn’t sure if you heard the last part because Apollo’s soon talking again, his voice melting away the detective’s relief,“ touching stuff, gotta say. Now unless you want to keep pushing you luck, are you ready for your hint?”
Sherlock hums, eyes focused on the floor.
“We’re somewhere I’ve dreamed of being with (Y/n) since we first fell in love. Of course, this one isn’t ideal; more of somewhere you would’ve taken her if it hadn’t been abandoned three years ago, but even with the peeling paint, I’d say it still has that traditional feel to it. If only we had (Y/n)’s lilies…Maybe you could bring her some?…You get it, Holmes?”
“…I do,” he mumbles, already having the exact place in mind.
“I’ll see you then, Holmes. (Y/n) is wishing you luck.”
That’s it. Sherlock lets his hand fall to his side with the phone still clenched in his grip, his eyes focused on the distance. He knows it’s a trap. Apollo isn’t even trying to hide it; he wants to get Sherlock alone and kill him as cliche as it is, but the detective doesn’t have much of a choice. He can’t just ignore the hint and wait for you to miraculously knock at the door safe and sound nor can he risk bringing John which could cost your life…
“Sherlock, what did he say? Where’s (Y/n)?” The doctor asks desperately, reaching for the phone in Sherlock’s hand when he doesn’t answer,“…here, Lestrade said they might be able to track the pings. We can narrow down Apollo’s location and-”
“-That won’t be necessary.”
“What…?” John raises an eyebrow not only at Sherlock’s words but the way he jerks the phone away, calmly walking past him towards the coat rack.
“Look, I know you like to do this stuff on your own, Sherlock, but this is a time sensitive case. If the suspect called you then that’s the best lead we’re going to get,” Lestrade tries to reason, both men watching in surprise as Sherlock causally puts on his coat with a shake of his head.
“It wasn’t Apollo on the phone, it was (Y/n). She said she’s managed to get away from him, but as you can imagine, the poor girl’s rather shaken up and doesn’t know her way back to the flat from downtown London, so I’ll be going to pick her up myself. She’ll have plenty of time to tell us whatever she can about Apollo, information I’ll pass over to the Yard later, however, my only priority right now is getting her home,” Sherlock explains while wrapping his scarf around his neck and giving a smile to both men, one neither believe,“ John, I’d like you to stay here and prepare some tea for when we get back. (Y/n) will need something to calm her nerves. It may also be wise to prepare a first aid kit in case she needs medical attention-”
“-Sherlock, I know you weren’t on a call with (Y/n), I’m not stupid-!” John marches forward, grabbing hold of Sherlock’s arm before he can start down the stairs, but his words are caught in his throat when his friend whips around, giving a deadly glare to the shorter man.
“-I said to stay here. We’ll be back by this afternoon,” Sherlock rips his arm from John’s grip, his words stern yet there’s something else behind them that can’t be made out. He then continues his way downstairs, calling over his shoulder,“ Greg, you can expect a call from me in the morning with any new details!”
John runs a hand through his hair while watching the door open and close, Sherlock official disappearing behind it and leaving the two men alone with more questions than answers,“…something’s wrong.”
“Yeah, no kidding…He remembered my name for once…”
The prosecution wasn’t very thrilled when they discovered Apollo had plead not guilty to charges of attempted murder, but it wasn’t until everyone heard his defense attorney’s main argument that their blood began to truly boil: you shot yourself in a failed suicide attempt and are now blaming Apollo to avoid judgement. It’s a pathetic lie meant to use the victim as a scapegoat to save Apollo’s arse from a hefty sentence, but unfortunately, it sounds pretty convincing to the jury.
One could imagine the fury your friends and family felt as they watched Apollo cry on the stand, describing the night’s events in his own words. At some points, his acting had been so good that some started to think he truly believes in the false fairytale he narrated to the courtroom.
You are the love of his life in whom he had met during your second year of college. The two of you started out as friends before beginning to date just two months into knowing each other. Convinced that you’re the one, Apollo proposed just four months into the ‘wonderful’ relationship, however, he reported issues began to arise after the engagement.
You became depressed which only got worse in the few months leading up to you suddenly calling off the engagement. Within a short timeframe, the two of you separated with you moving in with your mother and eventually blocking Apollo’s phone number when he tried calling you. Despite having broken his heart, he was still worried over his ‘mentally unstable’ ex’s safety and planned to talk to you at your work one night.
Having been told that you’d already clocked off, Apollo met with you in the back parking lot of the store, but he was met with aggression. Soon, the two of you began to argue until you suddenly pulled a gun, pointing it at your own head and threating to kill yourself right then. No matter how much he begged, you eventually pulled the trigger while sitting in the front seat of the car.
Terrified, Apollo immediately called out for help while trying to stop the blood. With no phone on his person, he was ultimately forced to run inside the store and get your coworkers to call 911. One could imagine his joy when finding out that you had survived the attack. The bullet hit the side of your skull, passing through the frontal bone and existing at the far edge of your occipital bone. Miraculously, it only grazed your brain, causing no serious damage like it would’ve if it had only been a millimeter to the side. Apollo was less enthusiastic to discover you’re blaming him for the incident, claiming that he shot you instead.
Being considered a witness himself, Sherlock isn’t allowed in the courtroom outside of his own testimonies which is possibly a good thing since it prevents him from making any inappropriate comments or gestures towards Apollo especially as he told the ridiculous story. While a foolish Mandible shook her head in worry over the defense’s evidence, Sherlock has been confident from the start in his ability to win the game, after all, he’s already discovered several holes in Apollo’s story and the evidence that 'supported’ it. To be exact, Sherlock found four main factors that play against the defense.
First of all, the timeframe is concerning. A few witnesses in the area had called police no later than ten twenty that night, reporting that they had heard a gunshot, however, your coworkers had called at exactly ten forty-two, clearly stating to the dispatcher that Apollo had onlyjust ran in about a minute or two earlier which leaves for a twenty-minute gap between the trigger being pulled and Apollo getting help. Even if Apollo claimed he was trying to stop the bleeding, twenty minutes is quite a long stretch of time to put off calling paramedics as your ex-fiancée lies dying. Anyone else in his situation would immediately get help unless they were purposely stalling.
The second flaw in the defense’s evidence is the context behind your depression. Family and friends from both parties confirmed that you had showed signs of depression during the months leading up to the shooting, however, the defense failed to explore the possible reasoning for said depression, only highlighting what it led to.
While Sherlock had only regrettable realized it afterwards, Apollo was abusive to you long before the incident, a behavior that had only got worse after the engagement. His favorite tactic to use was threating to commit suicide himselfif you ever left him, something that unfortunately guilt tripped you into staying longer than intended until you had finally managed to put your foot down by calling his bluff. Anyone would be depressed living in that situation. After returning the ring to Apollo and calling off the relationship completely, family and friends could agree that you didseem happier at that point, further securing the reasoning for your previous depression being linked only to Apollo.
The third flaw is the gun. While you had access to a handgun, the one found in your hand at the scene is not the same one, in fact, yours was found to be left untouched in the glovebox of the car. Sherlock is one of only four people who knew about the gun prior to police finding it because he’s the one who instructed you to buy it after you had vaguely mentioned being worried about Apollo. You apparently told no one about it expect for him and your parents, therefore, Apollo had no idea it existed beforehand. Instead, he left two guns at the scene, allowing for the possible question of where you would’ve gotten the second gun if yours had been in the glovebox the whole time.
The last flaw, and Sherlock’s personal favorite piece of evidence: the state of Apollo’s hands which was observed at the scene. Despite him stating various times that he had touched your wound, only his blood-soaked sleeves confirmed this. How could someone touch a gushing head wound and only get their sleeves soiled without a speck of blood to their hands? Gloves, Sherlock had confirmed. Apollo wore gloves when firing the gun which would’ve not only successfully kept his fingerprints off the weapon, but also would’ve kept any gun residue off him. After shooting you, he positioned the gun in your hands to make the scene look like a suicide had occurred. With everything set the way he liked, he threw his gloves away and waited a bit longer to get help, after all, at that point, he believed you were dead, and that all the evidence was covered up. He underestimated your strength and Sherlock’s skill.
Sherlock had been quite pleased with his findings, raving to you about it after Mandible explained the horrified look on the defense’s face when she presented the evidence to the jury word for word just as the amateur detective had instructed her to. The case was in the bag for you, or so Sherlock had thought until it came time for your own testimony. Words couldn’t describe how much his core shook with anger when he first saw that ghostly look on your face as Mandible lead you out of the courtroom. His anger was only fueled upon learning what had happened.
Ever since the day Apollo plead not guilty, you’ve been preparing yourself on what you’d have to say when the time came for you to give your own version of the story. You had rehearsed countless times with Sherlock who tried to help with whatever he could, but in the end, he could only awkwardly comfort you as you started sobbing halfway through your tale. Every time you think about that night, your mind flashes back to the image of Apollo’s empty eyes which matched the darkness of the gun barrel he pointed towards you. How could you possibly get the words out while being forced to sit in the same room as him again?
After countless practice runs, you finally felt confident enough to say what you needed to. As you took your seat in front of the entire courtroom, you made sure to keep your eyes either down or fixated on the person asking you questions. You didn’t dare look anywhere else, choosing to pretend Apollo wasn’t somewhere in the room which worked well enough. You were proud of yourself for getting through the initial story with only a few sniffs and tears. Mandible had explained that the initial story telling process is the hardest, everything after just being simple questions the defense will ask regarding the case. She had even prepped you on a few possible questions, however, there was one she didn’t predict, one that threw your whole world off its axis:
“At any point during your engagement to Mr. Timmons, were you partaking in an affair with Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”
Your heart had dropped into your stomach. Mandible never said anything about them mentioning Sherlock. She had been quick to object, demanding why your relationship with him would matter, however, with the defense being granted approval to continue with the topic, she was forced to remain silent as you answered.
“N-No,” the answer had come out as a surprised squeak on your part, your cheeks heating up in embarrassment. It felt as if the whole courtroom’s eyes were suddenly burning into you,“ Sherlock-Mr. Holmes and I are only friends. We, um…we met while I was living in London with my great aunt and we would talk a lot…we’ve always maintained a close friendship since, but nothing romantic.”
“Yes, our records show that you’ve kept frequent contact with Mr. Holmes even throughout your relationship with Mr. Timmons. Reviewing these conversations, you’ve openly discussed with Mr. Holmes that you are unhappy with Mr. Timmons and wish you could leave him. Is this correct?”
You had to nod. It was correct. You often confided in Sherlock.
“You also often discussed moving back to London. As seen in the conversation here, you state that your reasoning is to be with Mr. Holmes. Is that correct as well, Ms. (L/n)?”
“W-Well, yes, but-” You had hesitated, but nodded nonetheless. The text message they showed on the screen put the whole conversation between the two of you on display for the entire jury to see. In it, Sherlock asked why you would move back to London to which you had answered exactly 'to be with you ;)’. Of course, you didn’t intent it to have any deeper meaning. You had plenty of other reasons for moving to London, but you decided to tease your best friend. The only reason it was suspicious to move closer to him was because he happened to be a guy, that’s all.
“I will ask again Ms. (L/n). Were you having an affair with Mr. Holmes?”
It was then that you made your worse mistake of the evening. In your dazed state, you moved your eyes to the side of the attorney where they froze upon spotting Apollo. From his seat, his cold dark eye bore into you, studying your every movement and reaction. His words of that night began coming back to you, everything he said about you cheating on him with Sherlock. It didn’t matter how many times you told him the truth. To Apollo, you called off your engagement to be with Sherlock. Poisoned by jealousy, he became determined to ruin your life with Sherlock by any means possible in a typically 'if I can’t have you, no one can’ case.
“Ms. (L/n)?”
The courtroom erupted into cries when you suddenly gagged, your hand flying to your mouth as you tried to stand. Mandible was quick to assist you, running over with a bin and rubbing your back as you threw up what little you had eaten that day. Deciding that you had been through enough for the evening, the trial was put on hold, allowing you to exit the courtroom to your worried family while visibly shaking. Despite not being very verbally or emotionally expressive, Sherlock seemed to worry the most, attempting to ask you what had happened only for you to duck away from his gaze, the sick feeling coming back the second you made eye contact with him.
Needless to say, he was furious upon hearing the defense’s last resort, furious enough to want to march into that courtroom to knock all of Apollo’s teeth out. He hated the way they were using you as a scapegoat, but perhaps he hated it even more that Apollo was practically waving it in his face that he couldn’t have even been your second choice during the relationship. Truthfully, Sherlock didn’t care how he had to be with you. If you had asked, he would’ve taken on all the judgment that came with being the other man just to get a taste of what it was like to feel your love, but of course, that never happened. Unlike Sherlock, you were a good person with equally good morals. You would never play two games at once which was all the more reason that made Sherlock’s fury flare at how Apollo was trying to make you look.
Knowing it will only cause you more pain to jump over the stand and attack Apollo’s smug face, Sherlock remains on his best possible behavior just as he had promised to be when it came time for his own testimony. Just as they had done with you, the defense starts with normal questions concerning what he knows about your relationship with Apollo and how he came to find out about the shooting. Then they move onto the affair accusations. Of course, Sherlock answers truthfully. No, you two have never been romantically involved and no, he did not tell you to leave Apollo so that you could be with him instead (although he had secretly hoped you would).
“Mr. Holmes, it has been brought to our attention that you are assisting with the functions of this case. Is that correct?” While they are obviously attempting to throw him off his feet, he remains unfazed.
“Yes, I am a private detective and Ms. (L/n) has hired me to see over the details. It isn’t a crime to do your job.”
“Perhaps not,” the attorney agrees with a masked look of boredom,“ one more question before we let you go, Mr. Holmes. While you deny that there was ever anything sexual or romantic between you and Ms. (L/n), have you ever felt such feelings towards her?”
Sherlock takes in a breath, scanning the faces in the room as everyone waits for his next answer. His attention lands on Apollo who glares his way, fidgeting with the cuffs of his suit. Sherlock makes eye contact with him, matching the cold look in his eyes that screams everything he wants to do to make Apollo suffer,” yes, I have and continue to have feelings for Ms. (L/n).”
The defense looks completely offput, having to look back at his questions with slight hesitation. Clearly, he didn’t expect that answer regardless of what Apollo has told him,“ a-and you wouldn’t say those feelings have intercepted with your work on the case?”
“Of course not,” the detective rolls his eyes in annoyance,” I am a professional who keeps my personal life and work separate unlike you who are currently sleeping with the prosecutor’s assistant judging on the shade of pink on your shirt collar which matches the very shade of her lipstick.“
…Sherlock did only say he would be on his best possiblebehavior.
Sherlock has been arched forward for what most would say is an uncomfortably long time, however, he barely shifts, keeping his eyes locked on the screen of the laptop before him. He also gives little acknowledgement to the figure who peers over his shoulder quite annoyingly, watching his every movement carefully as he types.
“What are you doing now?” The silence between them is finally broken.
“I asked Mycroft to get me all the nearby security footage that would’ve been recording starting an hour before Apollo’s arrival. I don’t have any direct angles on the flat itself, but as you can see here, a silver Volkswagen fitting the description Mrs. Hudson gave can be seen turning this corner towards the flat here-” he switches the video to the next, “-before later being seen entering the frame of the cameras down the street here.”
“What about Speedy’s? Wouldn’t they have better footage to show the front of the flat?”
“Of course, I already thought of that, and the answer is ‘no’,” Sherlock growls with annoyance. Whether it’s aimed towards the stupid question, or the inconvenience of the cameras could be up for debate; perhaps it’s both,“ Speedy’s is the first place I went to get any possible footage, but apparently their cameras have been down all day.”
He quickly dismisses the thought especially when the voice says nothing more. He instead continues on with his previous point,“ regardless, if that car would’ve continued the entire way down the street, even if going under the speed limit, it would’ve passed that camera sooner than it had which means it made a stop somewhere. Seeing that it’s the only vehicle to make a stop on this block and fits Mrs. Hudson’s description, I feel confident saying it’s Apollo. Now all I have to do is just follow that license plate number and hope it brings me to his location which shouldn’t be too difficult seeing that there are cameras all over London-”
“-Assuming none of the others are down, then yes,” the voice reminds him, not fazed by how much he seems to fight glancing towards them for even a second,“ but what if he leaves London? It’s already been three hours, twenty-three minutes, and forty-five seconds. He could’ve long boarded a plane by now and, if that’s so, it would mean you’re already too late, Sherlock. You’ve already failed to save me at this point.”
Sherlock frowns, finally turning to you who stares at him with a disappointed look in your eyes. You shake your head with a trembling voice,“ you promised, Sherlock. You promised to protect me from him but look what’s happened now. You let him get to me. He could kill me at any moment and that’s if he hasn’t already. He won’t make the same mistake as last time either…Why did I ever trust you?”
“…I’m sorry,” Sherlock lowers his head against his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. Why did you trust him? No one ever puts that much trust in him. Perhaps there’s good reason for it considering you’ve now been kidnapped. You should’ve been like everyone else…You should’ve never trusted him.
“That’s your problem, Sherlock,” Mycroft shakes his head with pity, staring his little brother down from where he sits across the room, his hands folded nicely on top of his lap. He leans forward with his words,“ you fell in love with her. You let your silly feelings get in the way of your work despite how many times I’ve warned you against it. I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. You havealways been the more emotional out of the two of us-”
“-Be quiet…”
“And all for what? Temporary happiness? A hopeless dream that love will prevail over all for you two? Life isn’t some fairytale, Sherlock. You both would’ve been better off if you’d never fallen in love her to begin with-”
“-BE QUIET!” Sherlock repeats with a shout, standing up harshly.
Think…He has to think straight. He’s tried tracking the silver Volkswagen, but that isn’t working; not quick enough. It takes time to receive and review the footage. Even with the videos he currently has, it gets messy following a single car when it disappears into dense traffic, seeming to know exactly where to turn to escape and confuse cameras. Lestrade has the license plate number and has the police keeping an eye out for it, but if Apollo’s smart enough to lose a camera, he’ll avoid police attention, too.
Sherlock’s fingers dig into his hair as he tries to think despite the horrific sounds of your screams and cries echoing in his ears. It isn’t too late; it couldn’t be. Maybe there’s a certain place Apollo could’ve taken you, somewhere that is secluded yet special to the two of you? You’re from America. Could Apollo be planning to take you back there? If that’s the case, then Sherlock would need to watch flight recorders.
With Lestrade’s manhunt, Apollo wouldn’t be able to easily board just any plane, but still, people are idiots. He could easily trick someone and if he manages to leave London, the window for your survival decreases as does the chances of Sherlock ever finding you. He must find you, though. He can’t lose you for good. He couldn’t live with that-
“-Sherlock, snap out of it!” He gives a slight jump, barely able to recognize John standing in front of him, shaking his shoulders with a look of worry while Mrs. Hudson stands sniffling not far behind him,“ Sherlock? Are you alright?”
John hasn’t been gone long. Sherlock had been so focused on the laptop that he thought it would be a good time to quickly check up on Mrs. Hudson who had been off on her own since Lestrade and the other officers left. When John returned, however, he had found Sherlock crouched on the ground against the couch, his hands tearing strands of hair from his head and his breathing completely uneven. It only took a second for the trained doctor to realize his friend wasn’t in his normal Mind Palace: he was having a panic attack.
Sherlock’s first action after recovering from his dazed state is to smack John’s hands away in annoyance, not sparing a look anywhere else in the room as his mind tries to play catch up to what happened. Normally, John would’ve taken offense to the aggression, but this isn’t any normal circumstance.
“Are you alright, Sherlock?” He asks again carefully, watching worriedly as his friend tries to stand on legs that tremble under his own weight. In the end, he has to use the couch as a means of support to pull himself upright, his knuckles turning white due to the grip he has on the armrest,“ you should really sit down. You don’t look okay-”
“-OF COURSE, I’M NOT OKAY!” Sherlock snaps in a booming voice as if it’s the most insulting question he’s ever heard, although, in this moment, it truly is,“ (Y/N) IS GONE AND YOU EXPECT ME TO BE OKAY?”
“Sherlock-”
“-She’s gone, John! S-She’s gone, and I can’t think like I usually can…I should’ve already been able to find her…” Sherlock whimpers helplessly, collapsing onto the couch and looking at his friend with possibly the most broken face John has ever seen,“ why can’t I find her?!”
“Sherlock, you willfind her,” John states so like it’s a firm fact while sitting next to his friend,“ I can’t think of a single case that you haven’t solved within the time that I’ve known you and you’re not about to start now. The only difference here is this case is personal. That’s why you’re having trouble thinking straight. You just have to slow down and take this one step at a time. Lestrade’s got patrols out everywhere looking for them and Mycroft’s even enforced security at all airports so that no one can leave the country without being completely checked out first…Apollo’s not getting very far with her anytime soon.”
“…He doesn’t have to in order to hurt her.”
John goes quiet, realizing the truth behind Sherlock’s words, although, he tries to shake them off quickly,“ Apollo’s like Moriarty, don’t you think? It seems to me that he’s just been trying to get inside your head this entire time be it from that letter to the video call. That’s the same strategy Moriarty used. They trick you into loosing focus and giving them the upper hand. You can’t let Apollo win like that.”
“It’s alright to worry about (Y/n) but worrying to this extend isn’t doing anything to help her,” Mrs. Hudson nods in agreement with John’s previous words, setting a hand gently on Sherlock’s shoulder,“ you’ll figure this out, Sherlock. In the meantime, you have to trust that (Y/n) is a smart girl. I’m sure she knows what to do to buy you more time.”
Mrs. Hudson has a point. You’ve always had a knack for understanding anything involving criminal justice, after all, it’s been a passion of yours long before you even met Sherlock. While the protective side of him wants to argue, his rational reasoning can’t deny that you’re decently informed on not only criminal behavior, but also how to heighten your chances of survival. It also aids your case that the suspect in question is your ex. If anyone knows how to keep Apollo talking long enough for Sherlock to follow his trail, it’s you.
Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but the slight nod of his head gives at least some sort of hope to John and Mrs. Hudson, the latter of which later excusing herself to go make dinner for the group while John stays to further comfort Sherlock, assuring him they’ll catch Apollo.
Regardless of the support of his friends or the warm dinner Mrs. Hudson cooked, the detective still feels numb inside waiting. He barely eats anything as it is, let alone under so much stress. Luckily, no one says anything when he leaves his nearly full plate of food on the table, immediately going back to his laptop to review the footage once again in hopes that he’ll find something new with a clearer mind even if it’s unlikely.
A little after four hours in, Sherlock receives a surprising phone call from his mother. While it could’ve been a simple coincidence with terrible timing, he has other suspensions which are quickly confirmed when being met by his mother’s quivering voice hinting that she’s on the verge of tears. Seeing that you’re kidnapping hasn’t been made public through the media, Sherlock internally curses Mycroft as the source, realizing that he must’ve mentioned the current situation to their parents even though Sherlock has had yet to even tell them anything about you being back in his life.
His mother doesn’t even say 'hello’. Instead, the first words out of her mouth after a few sniffs are asking if it’s true that you’re missing and in danger. Of course, no matter how much he wants to lie to both her and himself, Sherlock can’t do so to his mother, reluctantly telling her the truth with assurance that he’s working on the case as they speak. It’s difficult to miss her mumbled sobs in the background as his father takes over the call, sounding much calmer as he has his son promise to call back if he needs anything at all, but the promise is halfhearted with Sherlock’s focus elsewhere.
When John had picked up his own phone only a half an hour later and mentioned Mycroft’s name, Sherlock listens in when the doctor asks if there’s any news, however, he curses to himself when hearing John’s disappointment that follows. The rest of the conversation merely points towards Mycroft calling to check up on his little brother’s progress and wellbeing himself. John, being his irritating self, tells him the truth of Sherlock’s 'panic attack’ earlier, but at least he has the decency to lie and say the detective’s doing 'a little’ better now that he’s wrapped up in his coat on the couch trying to enter his Mind Palace to think, his back turned to the world the betrayed him.
“Um…I don’t know if he’s in the 'talking’ mood,” Sherlock hears John say. Shortly afterwards, he ends the call, his footsteps following to the direction of his chair before he can be heard sitting down. At the same time, Sherlock’s own phone begins to ring, but having no intention of speaking to his brother, he ignores the sound as well as John asking,“ shouldn’t you answer it?”
“I’m not talking to Mycroft,” Sherlock pouts stubbornly, his voice muffled by the sound of the couch pillow he has his face pressed too close against. If Mycroft doesn’t have updates on you, then there’s no reason for the brothers to interact at the moment. Sherlock’s too busy for another lecture about feelings being a weakness.
John gives a sigh, walking over and plucking the phone off the table mere feet away from Sherlock to check who’s calling, after all, there’s always the chance of it being someone other than Mycroft especially since he’d just gotten off the phone with the older Holmes brother himself.
If the detective had been facing him, then perhaps he would’ve seen the way John’s eyes widened, but since his back’s turned, the surprise in his voice has to be enough to portray the emotion,“ S-Sherlock, it’s (Y/n)-!”
In one swift movement, Sherlock has leapt up from his sulking position to snatch his phone away from John, his wide eyes meeting with the caller ID. Sure enough, the name showcased on the glowing screen matches the one in which has filled his mind all day…it really is you.
He barely gives any thought into answering while bringing the device close to his ear. He does nothing to hide the desperate tone in his voice; desperate to hear your own voice in return,“ (Y/n), where are you-?”
“Well, if it isn’t the Great Sherlock Holmes. Funny getting to talk to you again, isn’t it? What’s it been? Almost a month? Just under one?”
No words can be said to calm Sherlock down. The detective’s face is pale beyond belief, his eyes wide with clear panic despite his efforts to hide it. He disappears into his Mind Palace for the majority of the drive, only snapping out of it long enough to either snap at John for his poor attempts of comfort or to order Lestrade to drive faster.
The inspector does his best to bite back any sour words, realizing that this is no time to argue or get offended by the man’s harshness. To be honest, he’s a bit afraid to. Never in all his years of knowing Sherlock has he seen him so visibly panicked or upset.
Lestrade still has no clue what’s going on, only that John had gotten Sherlock’s attention during his phone call which is when the latter man’s personality immediately switched like a light. Next thing anyone knew, he was running towards Lestrade’s car, shouting at the confused inspector that they need to get to Baker Street quickly. Usually, he’d assume Sherlock’s just being his normal, crazy self and not think much of it, but by that desperate look the detective had given him, saying that it concerns you, he knew something’s truly wrong.
John sits in the back seat, his phone glued to his ear as he listens to poor Mrs. Hudson’s cries and does his best to reassure her even through his own jumbled worries,” we’re heading there now…Mrs. Hudson, you have to try and calm down. Take deep breaths, alright?…I know, I know…We’re almost there…“
While no one can tell, Sherlock’s listening intensely to John’s words, trying to pick up on any clues as to what’s going on there, yet he refuses to actually ask. Deep down, he just knows…and it makes him sick to consider.
It only takes a couple of minutes to reach Baker Street, but it feels like hours to everyone in that car. Sherlock doesn’t even wait for Lestrade to properly stop the vehicle, swinging his door open and leaping out in one quick motion before bursting through the front door, John not far behind.
The first thing they find is Mrs. Hudson who sits on the stairs leading up to their flat, her head in her hands as she sobs with a violence shake in her shoulders. When seeing the boys, she reaches up, her arms and voice trembling,” S-Sherlock…they’re g-gone…h-he-“
He completely ignores her and her words, instead entrusting her to John’s care while he races up the stairs at least two steps at a time, shouting your name.
Once reaching the top step, Sherlock slams the half open door completely open, not bothering to worry about it possibly punching a hole in the wall. He puts his main focus on scanning the flat, taking note of every little detail that he can.
A fresh fire burns brightly in the fireplace, keeping the room toasty warm. The only other light inside the dark flat is the dim lamp behind his chair, a blanket pooled at the bottom of said chair with the book you’ve been reading as of lately lying page-side down on the ground beside it.
Quickly concluding that you’re nowhere in the main room, he calls your name again while turning on his heel and racing into the bedroom. Flipping on the light, he tosses the covers off the bed yet finds it empty. The closet? Empty. The bathroom? Empty. The kitchen? Empty again. He checks every single spot he could imagine someone hiding, every spot he holds onto hope of you being, and yet you’re nowhere to be seen…no one is.
Regardless, he circles aimlessly around the flat. There must be some clue to help him. Coffee has been made in the kitchen with a couple of his experiments and papers tidied up meaning you must’ve woken up not long after they left, deciding to do a little cleaning before sitting down to read until their return. One of the kitchen chairs has been knocked over, something you wouldn’t have left willing especially after recently cleaning which means something happened afterwards, giving you a reason to knock it over-
”-Sherlock!“ Lestrade appears in the doorway, catching his breath,” what the hell happened?“
”…She’s gone…“ Sherlock whispers, bringing his hands to his head as he tries to think, his nails digging into his scalp with frustration.
"What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?”
“I MEAN SHE’S NOT HERE!HE GOT TO HER!” Sherlock snaps while beginning to pace. As if suddenly realizing something very crucial, he stops and pushes pass a confused Lestrade, making his way downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat with the inspector trailing after him.
John has Mrs. Hudson sitting down on her couch where he’s given her a bag of frozen vegetables to press against her aching cheek and his jacket to wrap around her shivering shoulders. Their eyes immediately lock with Sherlock once he finally joins them.
"What happened?” There’s no greeting or words of comfort, only a stern demand that’s harsher than intended.
“I-I’m so sorry, Sherlock. I woke up to someone bangin’ on the door and thought that maybe you two had left and forgotten your keys, but w-when I opened it, that man forced himself in and demanded to know where (Y/n) was,” Mrs. Hudson whimpers, her voice rushed and eyes flooded with tears,“ I tried to lie to him, I really did. I-I told him she’s doesn’t live here and that I’d call the police if he doesn’t leave, but then he threatened me a-a-and (Y/n) came o-out-”
She stops when her sobs become too much by beginning to overlap her words. Sherlock kneels in front of her, running a gentle thumb over the purple bruise forming on her cheek. This time, his voice is much softer when speaking to her, but still stressed nevertheless,“ it’s hardly your fault, Mrs. Hudson. He must’ve been watching us to know when I left (Y/n) alone. For now, I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Don’t leave any details out.”
The landlady sniffs with a troubled shake of her head. Doing as he said, she gives as much detail as she possibly can, from what the man looked like to the colored car she had a mere second to spot parked out front.
According to Mrs. Hudson, the man had easily pushed his way through the front door, getting increasingly aggressive before finally punching her when she threated to call police. It wasn’t until you made an appearance at the top of the stairs that he abandoned all interest in the older woman, marching upstairs towards you instead. The two of you disappeared from sight but could be heard arguing which quickly took the form of threats and shouting, mostly from the man. That’s when Mrs. Hudson first tried calling John, a call that went unanswered.
The loud screams went quiet until the man came back downstairs, this time carrying you who, from what Mrs. Hudson could see, were either passed out or on the verge of it. The landlady was ready to bravely tell him to stop before noticing the gun he held, one a man of his sort wouldn’t be afraid to use, no doubt. Knowing full well the poor woman couldn’t do anything to stop him, he stepped out the front door with ease, leaving a frightened Mrs. Hudson to hurry and call the boys once again, an attempt that would finally be successful.
John rubs her back as she sniffles again, his eyes going to Sherlock with concern,“ it couldn’t have actually been Apollo, though, right? I thought you said he was in jail?”
“He was…”
Lestrade, who had been listening by the doorway and piecing together the story himself, shakes his head while pulling out his phone,“ I’m calling for backup.”
Surprisingly, Sherlock does nothing to stop him, allowing him to step into the hallway to make the call while he merely stands there frozen himself, considering all the parts of Mrs. Hudson’s account.
Apollo’s in prison. He saw him there. Maybe he hired someone to take you? It’s possible, but the description Mrs. Hudson gave of the man sounds too identical to Apollo. It’s not as if he physically visited the man in prison either. His enemy could’ve simply tricked him and been out all along, waiting patiently for the second Sherlock lets his guard down. The second he leaves you alone in the middle of the night…the second he slips up and lets you down.
Sherlock plops down next to Mrs. Hudson, his head in his hands as he takes deep breaths. He must find you. You couldn’t have gotten too far yet, but the question is how far Apollo’s planning on taking you? How much time does Sherlock have to find you and get you back before Apollo does something rash; something even the great detective wouldn’t be able to reverse?
“Sherlock…we’ll get her back, alright? Lestrade’s getting a team out here to help,” John tries to offer at least some comfort, looking over to his motionless best friend. Never has he seen Sherlock so distraught, nor did he ever think he would, yet it’s believable.
He’s seen firsthand how Sherlock’s typically cold, robotic demeanor changes for you and for you only; how much he loves you and has strived to protect you. Now you’re gone with your life in danger. Having someone you love forcibly taken away is enough to make any man crazy and Sherlock isn’t just any man. There’s no telling how he’s going to approach the issue.
Sherlock stays quiet and stationary to the point that, for a second, John begins to fear the stress of the situation has actually caused him to pass out, however, when he reaches out to tap his friend, he leaps up suddenly.
“Mrs. Hudson, you said that car was parked directly in front of the flat?”
“Y-Yes, a silver one. I didn’t see the make or anything just-”
“And you think that’s the vehicle he took to get here?” Sherlock ignores the other details she tries to give.
“I’m certain. It was gone by the time he left, and I hadn’t noticed it before.”
Sherlock gives a half-hearted nod, striding out of the room in a causal pace that worries John as do his calm words,“ then I’ve got a call to make.”
‘…He’s going to burn down London to get her back.’
You’ve tried your best to go back to sleep, aware that if you don’t, you’ll end up regretting it later in the day, but despite your efforts, you just can’t seem to succeed. Your stomach feels too twisted for sleep with even the slightest of sounds making you flinch. Once that happens, your anxiety refuses to let you rest until you’ve at least peek at the door to ensure no one’s there.
Part of you wishes Sherlock would’ve woken you up and taken you to the crime scene, too. At least then you wouldn’t be alone, yet if he did that, you may not have gotten your dream about Walsh either. You’re not sure if Sherlock knows about the connection between Apollo and Hugh, but if he doesn’t, then he should. It’s important detail, after all, one that could act as a reason for how Apollo got out of prison.
Flipping over on your stomach, you stare at the bedroom wall blankly, debating if you should text him. How would you even set that up? ‘Hey, I know you’re probably really busy, but the guy who runs the prison is Apollo’s uncle’. It might be best to simply wait for his return and tell him face-to-face, that way you know you’re not ruining an important moment. Sherlock’s waited so long for a good murder to come his way; you wouldn’t want to step on your boyfriend’s moment.
You wonder what they’re currently up to. John’s probably fighting to stay awake while listening to Sherlock complain about all the simple clues missed by the investigators, taking any chance he gets to insult their intelligence along the way. The thought makes you chuckle especially when considering the note he had left you.
His eyes must have sparkles in them right now; that spark of happiness he tries to hide from most people because they never appreciate it. You, on the other hand, adore the way his usually dull eyes will fill with that rare emotion any time he begins discussing his investigations. While you need to tell him about Walsh, you also can’t wait for him to return and tell you all about his morning just so that you can see that thrilled glow that showcases his inner child and joy.
Coming to terms with the fact that you aren’t going to get anymore sleep simply lying in bed, you reluctantly crawl out of the warm blankets into the cold bedroom air. You’re quick to dress yourself in Sherlock’s fuzzy robe before entering the rest of the pitch dark flat. On your way through, you make sure to switch on lights in the hallway, kitchen, and main room, secretly feeling as if they will protect you from anything lurking in the shadows much like you did as a child.
When feeling that things are illuminated enough, you head into the kitchen next, deciding that the boys might enjoy some coffee once they return. While you don’t think Sherlock’s much of a coffee person himself, you’ve seen John drink it often and honestly, he’ll likely be the one who needs it the most.
After locating a bag of grounds on a low shelf in the cupboard, you finally set up the coffee machine which begins to fill the pot at a dripping pace. While waiting for that the finish, you decide to do a little bit of cleaning, first starting with Sherlock’s experiments on the kitchen table then picking up the many papers in which he’s left trailing across the floor.
Peeking out the flat window, you scan the dark streets which are completely empty, at least, from what you can tell. Of course, the sun isn’t going to rise for serval hours so most people, even if awake, won’t be out wandering. You can only imagine how cold it is out there, too. Even the flat’s freezing…Perhaps you should start a nice little fire as well?
There isn’t much wood, although, there are a few pieces next to and in the fireplace with a couple of John’s old newspapers stacked lazily on top of the woodpile. It takes you far longer than expected to find a lighter considering John had confiscated most of Sherlock’s, but fortunately, you know your boyfriend keeps a small blowtorch hidden away in the top corner of the furthest left cupboard. Once climbing up to retrieve it, it only takes you about a minute or two to crumble piece after piece of newspaper then stuff them in between the wood ready to be set ablaze.
At last, the fire’s started, and the coffee’s made, allowing you to happily grab a book before sitting on Sherlock’s chair with a cozy blanket. The calming atmosphere even convinces you to turn off a few lights and be content with just that of the glowing lamp behind you along with the fireplace.
With the quiet crackling of the fire in the background, you allow yourself to curl up onto the chair, your head resting against the palm of your hand as you read. You aren’t sure how long you managed to sit there enjoying the peace before your eyelids began to feel too heavy with your thoughts slowing. You soon find yourself leaning your head back, letting the book fall shut on your lap as you finally give in to the tiredness as you had hoped you would.
…You sleepily blink your eyes open again, having sworn you just heard a muffled pounding. Assuming Sherlock and John are finally back, you listen for their voices, but can’t seem to hear anything else in your drowsy state. Too tired to get up, you decide you’d rather wait for them to come upstairs instead. In the meantime, your eyes close once more as you start to drift back to sleep. Surely your boyfriend will wake you up any second now.
“-AH!”
You jolted up, your heart racing in unknown fear. Before, you had dismissed yourself as hearing things, but that was definitely a scream, one that came from downstairs and from a woman…Mrs. Hudson!
Suddenly very awake, you jump to your feet, letting the blanket and book hit the floor as you quietly tiptoe to the door, your legs feeling heavier with each step. In denial, you keep telling yourself that you’re just hearing things and being paranoid, however, you still feel increasingly afraid the closer you step to the door.
“…Mrs. Hudson?” You crack open the door slowly, gazing down the dark staircase hoping to find no one and, if someone, Sherlock and John talking to Mrs. Hudson, but for once, it seems you’ve been paranoid for a reason.
Your blood runs cold, and you feel lightheaded as if a verge away from fainting which might not be too far from the truth seeing that you can barely stand straight on your own. Your legs wobble under your weight, forcing you to use the doorframe for support. Your whole world shakes like an earthquake, yet you’re frozen, your terror filled eyes unable to look away from the bottom of the staircase or those dark eyes that you both hate and fear so much…
“Hello again, my darling (Y/n)…”
The sirens on top of police cars illuminate nearly the entire street in blue, something that must drive the neighbors mad given the late time of night, or rather, early time of morning since the clock has only just hit the second hour of a new day.
While most investigators on scene are sluggish and even a bit annoyed that they had to switch sleep with work, Sherlock’s unbothered by such a trade. Unlike John who follows his every step while glaring daggers at the back of his head and not bothering to suppress his yawns, Sherlock can function with little to no sleep, at least, he stubbornly insists that he can. Besides, he’s been getting far more sleep as of lately thanks to you keeping him in check, so one night without it won’t kill him (just John apparently).
It’s been well over a week since Lestrade has called the detective for any help by which time Sherlock had become desperate for something to cure his boredom. The only thing that would’ve made this trip better is if you would’ve tagged along instead of John who has a tendency to complain this early, but of course, when Lestrade had called Baker Street, you were still fast asleep. Not having the will to disturb your peaceful slumber, Sherlock opted to drag the poor doctor along in your place. Lucky him.
While the detective would rather you be at his side always, this desire makes him look forward to returning home, a foreign wish compared to his usual need to sniff around crime scenes all day long. Chances are, you’re still fast sleep and will be until your typical time of waking up which is anywhere around eight to ten, giving him plenty of time to curl up next to you and get a few hours in himself; if he can get this case solved quickly of course, which shouldn’t be an issue.
A white sheet with an obvious body under it lies to the right on the sidewalk. Sherlock immediately makes his way over to it, not hesitating to pull the sheet back so that he can get a good look at what he’s dealing with.
The victim is a middle-aged man who lies on his back mostly on the sidewalk with only about a third of his body on the road. His beard is nicely trimmed while his hair is the opposite, being an uncombed mess. His clothing is nothing too expensive or poor, yet it’s littered with smudges of dirt and small tears. A large stain covers part of his lower shirt and, upon closer inspection, Sherlock can clearly smell it’s beer; a cheap brand as well.
A sizable wound covers the side of the man’s head, soaking his hair and dripping the side of his face is blood. Blood also pools under his right side from a deep stab wound he had received at some point. Judging on the dryness of the head wound’s blood compared to the blood seeping out of his side, it’s safe to say the former wound occurred first.
After lifting the shirt up, Sherlock finds several dark bruises spread around the man’s abdomen. Said bruises match a men’s size eleven boot which can be concluded by noticing that they’re near perfect prints of a boot or, at the very least, a very visible heel in some spots. A boot, not a shoe, because the thickness of the sole’s pattern is used on nonslip boots not to mention the heaviness of a boot allows for easier bruising compared to simple tennis or dress shoes.
Following the blue and purple marks downwards, Sherlock also takes note of the man’s wrists which are red with irritation as if something had been tightly wrapped around them. A wire to be exact as the marks are far to skinny and straight to be made from a rope.
John yawns from where he stands off to the side, fighting himself not to start leaning against the stone wall or else he might actually drift back to sleep again. He hopes you never doubt how important you are to Sherlock since he allowed you to stay home sleeping in a warm bed instead of being forced to stand at a freezing crime scene hours before the sun will rise.
Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t get too jealous since, anymore, Sherlock tends to bother you during the rare occasions that he seeks out any attention from another human being. While John may have been rudely awoken at one forty in the morning, chances are, you’ll be dealing with the detective’s childish habits for the rest of the day (to hell with it, he’s still going complain regardless).
“So, what do you know happened?” John asks once Lestrade approaches after finishing a conversation with another investigator. He, too, looks just as tired as any normal person would at the given hour.
“The lady in this house here called saying she had recently returned from her work shift to hear yelling outside by the street. When she looked outside her window, she saw a car drive off with the body left behind- thought it was a drunk man kicked out of his cab until noticing the blood,” Lestrade explains. He takes a long sip of his coffee while scanning the area before smirking and glancing at the detective who’s kneeling on the ground in front of them,“ no girlfriend today, Sherlock?”
“No, she’s back at the flat,” he replies simply, standing to his feet once finishing his study of the body.
“-You know I was joking, right?” Lestrade chuckles, figuring he just hadn’t picked up on the previous sarcasm in his voice.
Sherlock raises an eyebrow, finally realizing what George meant, but not that it changed his answer any,“ and I wasn’t. My girlfriend is at home sleeping.”
Lestrade stares at Sherlock for a solid minute as if he had suddenly grown two extra heads, yet to his further surprise, John confirms the shocking update,“ no really, he’s being serious. (Y/n) is his girlfriend now.”
“Since when?!”
“That’s none of your business-”
“-Since that night she accompanied us to that crime scene actually. Isn’t that right Sherlock?” John throws a smirk at the detective who grumbles in annoyance.
“His actual girlfriend…Like they’re romantically involved and everything?” John gives an amused nod at Lestrade’s dropped jaw,” My God, how’d he manage that?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at the two men as they laugh, his patience growing thin. He’d never admit it even if they notice, but there’s an embarrassed red tint to his cheeks,“ if you want to have a laugh about someone’s relationship, then I suggest it be Anderson’s. I came here to solve a murder, so if you no longer need me, I’ll be going-”
“-Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, Sherlock. (Y/n) seems like a nice girl and all, I just didn’t expect you’d actually reel her in or even be the type to…never mind,” Lestrade shakes his head with one final chuckle, although, he’s honestly happy for Sherlock despite his surprise,” you’ll have to invite me to the wedding.“
He stops Sherlock from marching away, apologize once again to get him to stay and share what he’s found out about the crime scene. Luckily, the detective lets his irritation melt away, reviewing each deductions he’d made of the body per usual. His main focus is explaining how the man had been killed elsewhere by being beaten to death, the stab wound not playing any factor in the death itself.
John’s phone begins to ring, cutting off Sherlock which earns him a glare. He quickly rejects the call and focuses on what was previous said about the body,” are you sure it plays no role at all? What if, after beating him, the killer stabbed the body to make sure he was fully dead?“
"If you would’ve taken a closer look at the body instead of focusing on my love life, you would’ve noticed he’s been dead for quite some time; longer than the stab wound has been there. His final cause of death would’ve likely been the massive head wound which has already long dried unlike the stab wound.”
John rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s sour comment before kneeling to take a closer look at the body himself. His friend is, in fact, correct. The man’s skull is cracked open, the blood nearly dried completely. He either died from the wound itself or the blood loss from it. Either way, he’s been dead for a couple of hours with the stab wound being fresh.
"Why would someone take the time to stab a dead body like that then?” Lestrade questions. Once again, John’s phone goes off. This time, he steps away from the group while sparing a glance at the caller ID and answering it.
“To throw first responders off trail.”
“Yeah, but why? What benefit would that really give them?”
“Sherlock-” John tries to interrupt, but he goes ignored.
“To delay the investigation most likely. If I hadn’t pointed it out, you lot would’ve sat here saying the man died of a stab wound, not realizing the truth until an autopsy’s performed. That would give a killer plenty of time to-”
“-SHERLOCK!” John shouts uncharacteristically, earning nearly everyone’s attention in the area.
He’s about the roll his eyes at John’s annoying behavior, however, he freezes instead once turning to face the doctor. His face is pale and eyes wide in a panic as if he had just witnessed the murder himself. Sherlock’s eyes travel from John’s stricken face to the phone screen in which he holds away from his ear, the caller ID clearly reading ‘Mrs. H’ who shouldn’t be awake at such an hour unless…
…With that, a horrible sickness sets in Sherlock’s stomach, causing the world to begin spinning around him.
Note:Not my best work but I wanted to get something out and I had half of this finished in my drafts!
Rating:12+
Word Count:0.6k
Tags: Fluff, dad!sherlock
Another night spent awake, tangled in the sheets as you savoured the pressure of Sherlock inside you, bringing you to the edge so many times you were sure you’d pass out. But you didn’t; six thirty rolled around and despite the fact that it was still pitch black both outside and in the room, you had no trouble distinguishing Sherlock’s features as he led beside you, his hand moving back and forth across your side.
AN: This is loosely based off of The Final Problem and is Sherlock x Reader. There is violence and death, so consider yourself warned. I hope you enjoy and as always feedback is appreciated.
Emotional Context. Sherlock had once been able to deny its importance, instead, governing himself with logic and reasoning. However, his connections with his friends and the people who cared about him had started to change his mind on such matters. This came with both benefits and negatives as it had opened him up to new vulnerabilities and pain, especially now. As it was during this time that he discovered that his sister was more than just a suspicion. In fact, Eurus was a secret that scared his dear brother Mycroft more than anything else.
Sherlock struggled to retrieve any memory of her. That was at least until the name “Redbeard” was brought up. He had loved Redbeard his faithful dog and childhood best friend. He couldn’t remember what had happened to him, at least not until Mycroft filled in the gaps. Since that discovery, he, his brother, and John had left to check in on Eurus’ security. Sherlock and John wanted to prove that she had left multiple times once impersonating as a girl that Sherlock met during a case, and once as John’s new therapist. Mycroft was insistent that this was impossible, so they went to settle the matter once and for all. What they were not expecting was for it all the be a trap.
They were soon captured and forced to complete trials that tested personal morality and will power all centered around Sherlock. It seems that Eurus was fascinated by her brother and wanted to better understand him. It didn’t help that she had previously formed an alliance with Moriarty and knew more about Sherlock than he did her. But that was all Mycroft’s fault now wasn’t it? The first challenge forced Sherlock to choose either John or Mycroft to shoot an innocent man in order to save his wife. Both inevitably refused and the man in a last-ditch effort took his own life in front of them. Eurus didn’t hesitate to kill the wife, questioning the three whether or not keeping their hands clean costing two lives was any better than taking one life and leaving one to survive. She then ordered Sherlock to collect the gun, which now only had one bullet, and continue.
The next trial was equally grim. Sherlock was forced to deduce which of three brothers was a murderer provided only the gun and three pictures. To add to the suspense, she presented the three brothers hanging over the ocean tied up with weights. If they dropped they would inescapably be drowned. Sherlock made the correct deduction much to everyone’s relief, but Eurus dropped all three explaining that the life of an innocent weighs no less than the life of the guilty.
The third trial was where it got personal. There was a small wooden coffin. It was nothing special about it. Sherlock quickly deduced that it was built for a woman, one with no close family, one who was sensible, one that- he was interrupted when Mycroft brought over the lid which had a mere two words on it, “Words unsaid”.
“Whatever does that mean?” John asked.
But deep down Sherlock knew and he feared what was about to happen next.
“It’s Y/n,” he replied.
“Y/n? What does she have to do with this?”
“Why quite a lot Mr. Watson, and very good Sherlock. Now then, this ought to be fun. In a moment, I am going to give her a ring. She’s alone in her apartment which is hooked up with explosions. Now then brother, you will have two minutes to get her to say the magic words. The catch? You can’t say them yourself, you can’t give her any indication that you or she is in danger. Just play your mind games like you used to,” Eurus grinned.
“What are the magic words?” Mycroft asked.
Sherlock’s face fell into a pained expression as he considered the task at hand.
“He has to get her to tell him that she loves him,” John realized.
“Yay! Now that everyone is on the same page, let’s give her a ring.” Eurus cheered, “Oh and for added fun,” she clicked on the tv showing video of you in your flat.
Sherlock studied the video feed, you looked horrible, something had clearly upset you. He could tell that you had recently been crying. As the phone rang he prayed that you would answer it. The clock seemed to loom over him as it continued to click down. He watched as you slowly retrieved yours and glanced down at the name answering it almost immediately.
1:40
“Sherlock?”
“Ah, Y/n, I-” he started.
“I ought to kill you for giving me such a scare. Baker street exploded it’s all over the news and I’ve been trying to get ahold of you ever since. Are you okay? Is John okay? What happened?”
“We’re fine, just a little accident,” Sherlock replied calmly.
“I thought you were dead, the least you could have done was sent me a text” she whimpered.
“Oh come on now, you know I’m more clever than that, besides I’ve been busy, you know how it is” he mused.
1:20
“Y/n, do you remember the phone call we had just before Reichenbach, right as Moriarty had begun his master plan?” he asked feeling rushed.
“Of course I do, I still have nightmares from that call,”
“Well, I need you to tell me what you said that day,”
“There’s no way in hell,” you replied. Sherlock was able to see how much this upset you and clenched his eyes shut feeling the pressure.
“Please Y/n, I really need to hear it,” he begged softly.
0:60
“Sherlock, is everything alright?” you asked concerned at his unprecedented demeanor.
Eurus warned her brother to remember the rules.
“Everything is fine, I just need to hear you say it,”
“Why? This better not be one of your experiments,”
“It’s not, I promise. I wouldn’t do that, not to you,”
“I don’t get the big deal,”
“Please Y/n,”
0:30
“I-I can’t”
“Why not?”
“Because you didn’t say it back,”
0:25
“If you meant it then, if there is any chance that you mean it now, please say it again,” he begged.
“Sherlock,” you pleaded
“Please Y/n, please tell me what you said that day on the phone, our last call together before the fall,” he said with such sincerity and emotion.
0:18
“You called me to tell me that everything had been a lie, that Moriarty was right. You told me that you only had one choice left. I begged you to stop, to wait until I could get to you, that together the two of us would figure something out. But you said it was too late,” you recalled tears streaming down your face.
“And then…” he prompted.
0:12
“And then I pleaded with you not to do it,”
“Why? What was your reason?”
0:08
You hesitated for a moment, “ because I cared about you,”
“That’s not what you said Y/n, what exact words did you say?” His own eyes were betraying him at this point.
0:03
“I told you that I loved you, that fake or not, I would still love you” you cried, “And you didn’t say it back.”
Just then the phone clicked off as Eurus ended the call.
Sherlock redirected his attention to Eurus’ screen, “Okay Eurus, I won. I made her say it. What now, what happens next?”
“Funny isn’t it? I don’t recall her actually saying the words ‘I love you’. She said ‘I loved you’ and ‘I would still love you’ and while close, I just don’t think that cuts it for me.”
“Wait!” Sherlock screamed launching forward as Eurus hit a button and he was forced to watch your apartment explode. All that Mycroft could manage was staring in shock as the tv quickly cut to black. John went to his friend who had sunk to the ground staring vacantly.
“You didn’t tell her before Reichenbach and now you’ll never be able to, tell me Sherlock, are all those complicated little emotions worth it? Because to me it seems that the emotional context is what destroys you. Now pull yourself together as the next challenge is even more enduring.”
She paused for a moment before adding, “take your time,” and shutting off her screen.
Sherlock rose to his feet and John and Mycroft hesitantly went towards the next door, turning back when they heard him whisper “no” before aggressively attacking the empty coffin taking out his rage and immediate grief. After annihilating it, he sat back against the wall.
Regretting that he could not properly console his friend, John forced himself over to Sherlock handing him the gun saying, “I know this is beyond difficult and you are being tortured, but you have to keep it together, we have to keep moving”
“This isn’t torture, it’s vivisection, we are experience science from the perspective of lab rats,”
“Right now, we are soldiers who just need to survive, this is not the time nor place for mourning,” John said firmly.
“Alright,” Sherlock agreed and John helped him up.
The three men continued to the next room where Sherlock was tasked with choosing whether to kill John or Mycroft. He made his decision, Eurus’ game was over, and he pointed the gun under his own chin taking a calculated risk.
When he awoke, he was alone in a small cell plastered with pictures from his childhood. He quickly called out for John and Mycroft. John answered explaining that he was in a well, but otherwise seemingly fine. There was no response from Mycroft.
Sherlock quickly figured out that he was not actually in a cell but rather in a collapsable structure outside his childhood home. Eurus tasked him with discovering the location of Redbeard and upped the stakes as she started filling the well that John was chained to the bottom of. Sherlock racked his brain trying to solve the same problem who’s solution had evaded him as a child. That was at least until in an escape attempt, John solved an important piece of the puzzle.
Redbeard was never a dog.
Sherlock suddenly remembered his childhood best friend Victor Trevor who his brain had so cleverly disguised to help preserve his psyche. With this new information, Sherlock was able to figure out the Eurus’ song corresponded to the gravestones with the weird dates. He quickly deciphered the message and went to free John who was running out of time.
Outside of the well, he discovered his sister, “I’m so sorry Eurus,” he spoke sincerely.
“You needed me and I abandoned you, I could have saved you,” he added.
“I just wanted my brother,” she replied childishly.
“I’m here now, and we can fix this, just free John, don’t make the same mistake you made with Victor,” he pleaded.
“I don’t want to quit playing the game, I don’t want you to leave me again,”
“I’m not going to leave, I’m going to save you,”
Not knowing how to respond she simply stepped back and allowed Sherlock to save his friend. He dove into action turning the water off and then retrieving a key carefully tossing down to John so that he could free his ankles. He searched for a moment to find what Eurus had used to get John down there to begin with and found some rope that he leveraged against a tree and tossed down to his friend.
It was as John was climbing over the side that the police cars and helicopters arrived. Mycroft’s people were there to collect Eurus, who went with them peacefully. Sherlock and John were both checked over by the EMT’s and given shock blankets. They were informed that Mycroft was safe and simply left back in Sherrinford. Once he regained consciousness, he his people and sent them in helicopters to take care of Eurus. But then? Who called the police?
“William Sherlock Holmes” you yelled slamming the door to Greg’s station car.
John and Sherlock had never turned around so fast in their lives. How were you here? Hadn’t they both watched your apartment go up in smoke? Or, was that merely another one of Eurus’ tricks?
“You’d better have a good explanation for-”
“I love you too,” he interrupted shocking both you and John.
“What?” you asked in disbelief.
“I said I love you too, I wanted to say it during that call two years ago, and I wanted to say it earlier today. I promise I will explain everything, and I understand if you no longer fill the same way, I’m sorry for not saying it before,” he confessed.
You stared at him in awe, taking a step closer still staring at him. You closed the remaining gap between the two of you and smoothly connected your lips with his allowing them to communicate for you. After an instant of shock, Sherlock reciprocated allowing the blanket to fall off of his shoulders as he pulled you in closer. When he pulled away, both of you were slightly dazed and smiling.
“You have a lot of explaining to do,” you whispered.
“That I do,” he answered.
From there, Greg dropped John and Sherlock off at John’s place where he happily greeted Molly and wasted no time collecting Rosie. The next day the three of you would meet up at 221B Baker Street and begin cleaning and repairing that flat as Sherlock did as promised and explained everything. After two weeks the renovations were complete and John and Rosie moved back in with Sherlock who had decided to utilize space in 221C for experiments to keep Rosie away from them both for her safety and his sanity.
You became more than a frequent visitor and eventually moved into one of the bedrooms of 221C however you spent far more time in Sherlock’s bed than in your own. You watched Rosie as the boys went out on cases and would occasionally tag in for John. Being in a relationship with Sherlock was interesting to say the least, but you wouldn’t trade a second of it.
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…)
