Sometimes you questioned why you couldn’t have dated someone more ordinary.
You were especially questioning this now and you, John and Sherlock were being held hostage by Sherlock’s forgotten and psychotic sister, on a secret prison that Mycroft Holmes had so tenderly described as the epitome of hell. You didn’t know what was worse, the fact that no one knew you were missing and even if they did figure it out, they’d no idea on how to find you, or the fact that you were at the mercy of Eurus who was revealed to have an alliance with Jim Moriarty.
Sherlock had tried to assure you that everything would be okay. He would find a way out, he always did. But you could see through his fake smile and hopeful words. You knew that he was just as anxious as you were.
You were going to sarcastically ask about his brilliant plan when a voice filled the room.
“Hello? Is anybody there? I’m stuck on a plane. Everyone’s asleep. Please help me,” a small child’s voice filled the speakers.
“Hi, can you hear me? I’m here. I can help you, just tell me your name,” Sherlock answered softly.
“Mommy told me not to tell my name to strangers,” she replied, fear evident in her voice.
“Oh, that’s alright. I’ll just tell you mine then. I’m Sherlock and my friends and I are here to help you,”
“I’m scared,” she informed.
“It’s okay, I’m-” he started before the call clicked off.
Eurus spoke up, “That’s better.”
Sherlock snapped, “Put her back on, let me help her.”
“Not so fast brother mine, you have to play along if you want phone privileges,”
“Play along?” you asked.
“Yes, I have developed a series of tasks for the three of you to complete. Each one testing your morality and character. And believe me when I say that time is of the essence,”
The three of you had no choice, not when lives were at stake. You proceeded into the room the Eurus had revealed.
First, Sherlock was made to choose between you or John to kill an innocent man. The incentive? If you did not, his wife would be killed. John protested, but Eurus reminded him that your only chance for survival was to play along. Sherlock took the gun from the hatch and thought it over briefly before handing the gun to John. His logic is that John was a soldier, he had killed before and was better equipped to handle the emotional kickback of it. John nodded in agreement as the man pleaded with him to do it. John asked him if he wanted to pray, and assured him that he was doing a truly honorable thing.
He aimed the gun and prepared to shoot, but at the end of the day he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. So the man took the gun from him and waved it around frantically before shooting himself, hoping that would be enough, but either way he wouldn’t have to watch his wife die. You looked away and John cursed. Sherlock waited, curious about what his sister’s next move would be.
Eurus was bored by the reaction and didn’t hesitate to shoot the wife
“Why? Why’d you do that?” John demanded.
“You didn’t follow the rules. The condition of her survival was that you or Y/n had to shoot her husband. You chose to save your conscience and now the blood of two people is on your hands,” Eurus answered.
“Now then, off you go to the next room, and Sherlock collect the gun, you will need it later on” she said as one of the doors opened.
“On the table you will find a file with three pictures. One of the men murdered someone with the gun that is hanging up. Figure out who the murderer is and condemn him to his fate,” Eurus instructed.
“Oh and to add some suspense-” she said clicking on the tv in the room that contained a video of Moriarty making ticking noises.
“Okay,” Sherlock muttered before taking in every aspect of the photos, quickly eliminating one of the three brothers.
Eurus then spoke up, “At this point I would like to add some emotional context.” She then opened the blinds to show the three brothers each chained to chairs over the side of the ocean. “You have one minute Sherlock.”
“John, tell me everything that you can about this gun,” Sherlock ordered.
John listed off facts and that was when Sherlock realized who the killer was. Everyone was relieved when Eurus revealed that he had correctly chosen. She then forced him to condemn the man to his fate. Sherlock struggled momentarily, then remembered the little girl and the plane, easing his conscience with what he had to do next. He said the words and condemned the man to his death, but instead of dropping him, Eurus proceeded to drop the two innocent men.
Sherlock protested and she responded by dropping the guilty man as well. “You see Sherlock a life does not weigh more considering guilt or innocence,”
“Fine, whatever, I played along Eurus, now let me speak to the little girl,” Sherlock requested.
“Fair enough,”
“Hello? Can you hear me?” Sherlock questioned.
“Yes, I can, you went away,”
“I’m sorry about that, can you tell me where you are?”
“I-I don’t know”
“What about the plane? Is it big or small?“
“It’s big,”
“Okay, now, just do me a favor and look out the window. Is it day time or night time?”
“It’s nighttime,”
“What can you see? Is there land or water?”
“There’s water, with lights in the distance,”
“Very good, now are you sure that there is no one to help you? Have you really really checked?”
“Yes, everyone’s asleep,”
Before he could continue, the call clicked off, and Eurus spoke, “Okay you three off to the next one, it’s time for John and Y/n to have a turn.”
A door opened and as the three of you walked through you saw a small table with six glasses on it and a bottle in the middle.
“What is this?” John asked.
“It’s spin the bottle with higher stakes,” Eurus replied.
“And what are the rules?” you asked.
“You and John take turns spinning from the bottle, drinking from the glasses. One of them is poisoned. Also, Sherlock is not allowed to touch any of them. If you refuse, he dies. If he intervenes you both will die,”
“So we’re basically playing roulette,” John realized.
“Yes, but we have no choice, I’ll go first,” you answered, taking a step forward and spinning the bottle. You hesitated to take the glass it landed on and downed the contents reluctantly. Sherlock and John looked at you with concern.
“I think I’m fine,” you said, smiling fakely.
John stepped up next and spun the bottle, repeating the process, and also coming out seemingly fine.
You stepped up again, knowing that there was now a 25% chance that you would receive the poison.
“Sherlock, I-”
“No talking, just spin the bottle,” Eurus interrupted.
But one look at Sherlock told you that he knew and that he loved you too. You spun the bottle and emptied the glass, not feeling any different.
“I’m fine,”
John spun the bottle, and downed the contents of the glass.
“I’m okay,” he spoke.
There were now only two left. You could feel Sherlock’s anxiety as you picked up the glass, a fifty fifty shot of it being the one that had been poisoned. You closed your eyes and paused for a moment before downing it. The realization that you were fine came with little relief.
John’s expression went blank when he realized what this meant.
“That-That’s okay. We’ve had a good run. Sherlock, you were the best man I’ve ever-” he started but was cut short as he saw you reach across the table and grab the glass downing it without a second thought.
“What? Why would you do that?” he yelled.
“You have a daughter. And Eurus don’t you dare retaliate because I followed the rules, and vagueness always falls to the side of the informed,”
“Remarkable Y/n, you’ve proven your loyalty,” Eurus said.
Sherlock came to your side and pulled you into a hug both waiting for the worse. Then he realized that for something that was ingestable and rapid-acting, you’d already be dead.
“So, none of the drinks were poisoned? Otherwise, she’d already been dead,” he deducted
“On the contrary, dear brother mine, all of the glasses were poisoned. It’s slow-acting, and the only way to get the antidote is to finish the trials and come find me. Even then, they might not make it.”
“Wait,” you said as Sherlock and John were already to the next door.
“We played along, let Sherlock speak to the girl on the plane,” you spoke.
“Fine, fair is fair, you have another two minutes,”
“Hello, is anyone there?” the girl asked through the phone fear even more present in her voice. You could easily tell she’d been crying.
“I’m here again,” Sherlock replied.
“Why did you leave me? Why do you always leave?”
“I don’t want to, but we haven’t got much time. I need you to go to the front of the plane-”
“Where the driver is?”
“Yes, where the driver is, very good,”
“Are you in the front of the plane?”
“I am, it’s very loud and there are a lot of buttons,”
“Do you see the radio? Like a walkie talkie? Can you hear anyone talking to you?”
“No, there I don’t see one,”
“Okay look out the window, tell me what you can see now,”
“The lights, they’re getting bigger,” she said before letting out a short scream.
“What? What happened?”
“The whole plane, it’s shaking,”
“That’s just turbulence,”
“I’m scared,” she whimpered.
“I know you are, but I’m here and I’m going to help you,” Sherlock reassured.
The call clicked off again and the three of you had no choice but to proceed to the next room. Your mind was racing with the realization of what you just did. You were going to die. Even with Sherlock being Sherlock, you couldn’t expect him to be able to save you. Not this time.
“Hey sis, don’t mean to complain, but this one is empty. What happened? Did you run out of ideas?” Sherlock asked.
“Not at all Sherlock, it’s time to pull out that gun I had you grab earlier. You have one bullet and one choice to make, John or Y/n. Only two of you proceed from here. You have to choose one or the other, lover or friend. And remember you are limited on time, between the poison and the plane in the sky” She gleamed.
“Okay, alright then. Thank you Sherlock, for everything. Make sure that the quote on my gravestone isn’t something stupid. And no flowers.” you said taking a step towards Sherlock.
“What are you doing?” John demanded.
“I’m making his choice simple. You are a doctor who saves lives, and you have a daughter. Sherlock will learn to love again, but he cannot orphan a child,” you explained voice wavering ever so slightly.
“You can’t-” John started as you turned back towards Sherlock.
“Now then, you can not blame yourself, this isn’t your fault. And no turning to drugs, a promise is still a promise whether or not I’m here to hold you to it. Just make it quick. I love you,” you said, turning your back to him trying to make it easier for him. You really hoped that he wasn’t going to make it any harder than it needed to be.
Sherlock raised the gun, he needed to think.
“Sherlock, you can’t actually be serious. You can’t do this,” John pleaded from the side.
“Jim Moriarty said you would make this choice,” Eurus said as she watched the scene unfold before her.
A single tear rolled down your cheek as you waited. Sherlock’s face changed and John watched, fearful of what was about to happen, just as Sherlock lowered the gun.
“What are you doing? They’ll both die if you don’t shoot her,” Eurus shouted.
“Not on my watch,” he muttered.
You turned around just in time to see him placing the gun under his own chin.
“No, no, Sherlock you can’t,” Eurus complained.
“10” Sherlock started,
“9”
“8”
“Sherlock,” you warned
“7”
“6”
“You don’t know about Redbeard yet,”
“5”
“Sherlock, stop it at once!” Eurus called as she sent darts into the room.
“4” Sherlock whispered, focus draining.
“3”
“2”
But then darkness consumed him completely.
When he awoke, he was confused on where he was. His mind completely blank for a moment before allowing him to remember. He scanned his surroundings. He was in another cell, this one was much smaller and the walls were covered in pictures of him from childhood to the present. He was thinking through an escape plan when he was interrupted.
“Sherlock? Are you there?” the little girl on the plane called out.
“Yes, I’m here,” he answered.
“You said you would help me and you went away,”
“I’m sorry, I got cut off. But I’m here now,”
“Why don’t grownups tell the truth?”
“I am telling the truth, I promise, you can trust me,” he said trying to calm her.
“You were gone for such a long time, where did you go?”
“I’m honestly not quite sure. Do you know how long I was gone?”
“No, I don’t”
“Are you still in the front of the plane?” he asked
“No, it was scary.”
“Well I need you to be super brave and go back to the front of the plane,”
“I’m going,”
“Are you there?” he asked.
He heard a gasp and then John answered, “Yes, I’m here,”
“John? Are you okay? Where are you? Is Y/n there?” Sherlock questioned.
“I’ve just woken up, but I think I’m okay, and Y/n’s with me, she’s still asleep. Where are you?”
“I’m in another cell and I’ve spoke to the girl on the plane again, she says we’ve been out for a long time,”
“She’s still up there?”
“Yeah, the plane will keep flying til it runs out of fuel. Now, tell me everything you can about where you are,”
“It’s dark, cold, the walls are rough, stone I think,”
“What are you standing on?”
“Also stone I think, there are like 2 feet of water and chains, Sherlock my feet are chained,” he replied.
“Okay, that’s alright I’ll find you. Focus on Y/n, see if you can wake her. Also be aware that between the weight difference and the amount consumed she is going to be affected by the poison significantly sooner than you. I can’t know the specifics without knowing what it was or how much the dose was, but it’s very important that you keep her lucid for as long as possible,”
“I will,” he said moving to your side, stepping on something. “Sherlock, there is something else in here,” he added.
“What?”
“Bones,”
“What kind of bones?”
“I can’t tell, but they’re small,”
Then the realization hit him, “Redbeard…”
“Who is Redbeard?” the little girl chimned in.
“Oh, hello again, did you make it to the front of the plane?”
“Yes, but I still can’t wake the driver up,”
“That’s okay, what can you see now?”
“I can see a city and a big wheel,”
“Okay, that just means that you and I get to drive this plane together, just you and me,” Sherlock explained.
“Look again for the radio, it should be in reach of the pilot,”
“I still don’t see it,”
“That’s alright, keep looking, we have plenty of time,”
“My ears hurt,”
“Does the city look like it is getting closer?”
“Yes, a little bit,”
“Alright, that means that you’re nearly home,” he said, beginning to feel helpless.
“Sherlock,” John spoke, “We’re in a well. Y/n and I are in the bottom of a well,”
‘There aren’t any wells in the prison, and why is there a draft?’ Sherlock thought. Then he figured it out and pushed one of the walls out to reveal that it was a trick and he was really back at his childhood home.
This is when Eurus chimed in, explaining his final task.
Meanwhile:
“Come on Y/n, wake up,” John urged as he was checking your pulse.
“John?” you asked groggily.
“Yes, I’m right here.” he smiled, taking your hand.
“Where are we?” you asked, trying to stand.
“We’re at the bottom of the well. Now take it easy,”
“Where’s Sherlock? Is he okay?” you asked, realizing the severity of the situation.
“He’s fine and he’s coming to help us,” John reassured.
“That’s good,” you replied lightly, feeling the exhaustion of the day taking its toll.
John noticed your shift in demeanor, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” you yawned.
“Seriously Y/n, tell me how you are really feeling,” he prompted.
“It doesn’t matter, it’s not like we can do anything about it,”
“Humor me,” John insisted.
“Well obviously I’m tired, wet, and cold. My head hurts, but everything else is kind of numb,” you replied unaware that Sherlock heard every word.
“Check her breathing and keep her talking,” Sherlock ordered lowly, before turning his focus back to Eurus. She told him to discover the truth about Redbeard, solve the puzzle, and save his friends. She then began to sing the song from their childhood.
“Eurus I went through that song, every line. Every word. There was a beach tree out on the grounds and I dug and dug and dug, and there was nothing. No one,”
“It was a clever little puzzle wasn’t it Sherlock? I think it’s time to up the stakes.”
“Sherlock!” John called out, “The….filling….water”
“John! Are you okay? You’re breaking up.” Sherlock asked to receive no response.
The comm was failing, and you and John tried your best to move away from the water.
“Eurus, I don’t understand, what am I missing?” Sherlock pleaded.
“Hello? The plane, it’s tilting!” the little girl screamed into Sherlock’s ear.
“The bones….Y/n…..they aren’t dog….they’re human…..hear me?” John’s voice came through in pieces, but it was enough for Sherlock to figure it out.
“Finally Sherlock, it took you long enough. Dad was allergic to dogs, so no matter how much you begged we could never have one. Redbeard. Wasn’t. A. Dog.” Eurus revealed.
And then Sherlock remembered. He remembered his young friend with red hair, Victor Trevor, who he called Redbeard when they would play pirates. He remembered how he went missing. He remember searching for him and trying to reason with his sister to tell him what she did.
“You and Victor were inseparable. You always played pirates, but I wanted to play too,” Eurus recalled.
“You killed him, you killed my best friend” Sherlock realized brokenly.
“I never had a best friend, I had no one. No one to play with. And soon, you will have no one too,” she replied falling back into song.
“Okay fine, let’s play,” he said intently, dashing out of the room and towards the gravestones with the funny dates realizing that they were the key to the puzzle. He worked to complete the cipher and crack the code once and for all. He was finally going to solve his first case.
Meanwhile:
The water was now at chest level and still rising. You were struggling more and more to maintain your grasp on consciousness. Only registering bits and peaces of what John was saying. Your mind was foggy, adrenaline being the only thing aiding it.
John came to your side, checking your pulse again, as it became harder and harder for you to focus.
‘John….Sherlock…..Eurus….The Girl…..Sherlock….The Plane…’ your mind was struggling, but then you put the pieces together.
“You-you have to tell Sherlock,” you said taking John’s arm and staring at him as if the fate of the world relied on it.
“Y/n you’re fine, you can tell him yourself when we get out of here,” John replied with a fake calmness to his tone.
“No, the plane, you have to tell him about the plane,” you urged.
“What about the plane?” John questioned.
“It’s not real, it’s all in her mind,” you explained, “Please John you have to tell him. It might save him.”
With that, you felt a rush of dizziness and sort of stumbled forward into John who had to reposition himself in order to keep you both upright.
“Okay, hang on Y/n, I’ll tell him. Just stay with me,” John promised.
“Sherlock?” he called out,
He shook the ear piece trying to get it to work. “Sherlock?” he repeated.
“John! Are you okay?”
“Yes, but the water is getting higher and we’re running out of time, where are you?”
“I’m solving the song,”
“Is that strictly necessary?”
“Yes, it’s the key to all of this. How’s Y/n?”
“Not good, but she wanted me to tell you that the plane isn’t real,”
“What? How does she know?” Sherlock asked.
John turned to you to ask for your explanation and noticed with dismay that your eyes were closed.
“Y/n? Y/n you have to wake up!” John demanded.
Sherlock becoming overwhelmed, elected to take the comm out of his ear. He needed to think. He focused on the song and the dates and figured it out:
“I am lost. Help me, brother, Save my life. Before my doom. I am lost. Without your love. Save my soul. Seek my room.”
And without a second’s hesitation, he sprinted to Eurus’ room. As he entered the building he could hear the girl on the plane again and it made sense now, you were right.
“We’re going to crash!” she screamed.
“I think it’s time you told me your real name,” Sherlock huffed.
“I told you, I can’t tell me name to strangers,”
“But I’m not a stranger am I? I’m your brother” he said as he opened the door to Eurus’ room to find her sitting in the middle of the floor, tears running down her cheeks.
“I’m here Eurus” he said as he carefully tried to approach her.
“You’re playing with me Sherlock, we’re playing the game.” she smiled, eyes still closed.
“Yes, we are playing a game. I get it now. The song was never a set of directions,” he spoke softly.
“I’m in the plane, I’m going to crash, but this time you’re going to save me” she said fearfully.
“Look how brilliant you are, your mind has created a perfect metaphor. You are high above us all alone in the sky and you understand everything except how to land. While I am just an idiot on the ground. But I can help you land, I can bring you home,” he said softly sitting in front of her.
“No, no you can’t it’s too late,” she cried.
“It’s not too late,” he assured her.
“Every time I close my eyes I’m on the plane and lost. Lost in the sky and no one can hear me,”
“Open your eyes,” he whispered, taking her hands, “I’m here and you’re not lost anymore”.
As she looked at him, he saw for the first time how much of a child she still was. There was so much fear in her eyes. “You just took a wrong turn last time, this time get it right. Just tell me how to save my friends,” he pleaded.
Meanwhile:
John tried unsuccessfully to wake you up. He was forced to support your weight completely which was becoming harder and harder to do. The water was now at the bottom of his neck and he knew that time was running out. He was starting to give up hope when the water stopped.
“Sherlock!’” he yelled hoping that his friend was nearby.
“John! Help is here, Scotland yard, they’re getting rope and bolt cutters. Y/n - Is she still breathing?” Sherlock asked, fearful of the answer.
“She’s-I can’t tell. I’m holding her up and don’t want to move her,” he explained.
“I have the antidote, Eurus gave it to me before they took her away,” Sherlock said.
Moments later multiple officers came back. The tossed down a harness for John to wrap around you so that he could move freely. As soon as your weight was supported, he checked your pulse and breathing.
“Sherlock,” he called up.
“Yes John?”
“She’s still breathing,”
Sherlock was filled with relief. Everything after that happened quickly. The team lowered some bolt cutters down and John was able to sever the chain. They then worked together to pull you out of the well. You were immediately taken to the ambulance and Sherlock injected you with what he had calculated as the needed amount of the antidote. Due to the beginning signs of hypothermia along with the unconsciousness, the EMT’s decided that it was best to take you to the hospital.
Sherlock debated momentarily whether to join you or to wait for John. He decided to stay and wait for his best friend. Pulling him tightly into his arms as he exited the well. Sherlock wasted no time administering the antidote and then sat with John as another EMT gave him an on-site work up.
“She was right you know, the plane wasn’t real” Sherlock said.
“Really?” John asked as they began to walk away from it all.
“Nope, just a metaphor,”
“What happens now?”
“Now, my sister will go back to prison. My brother will make sure she is taken care of after facing the wrath of my parents. You go home and see your daughter, holding her just a little tighter than normal. I go to the hospital to see my girlfriend, and if she is okay, take her back to her apartment where we will spend the night. Tomorrow, we will all meet at Baker Street and clean up the mess from the explosion, putting our lives back together again,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.
“Do you really think that it’ll be that easy?” John asked, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as they got in a cab.
“Of course not,” Sherlock smiled and John rolled his eyes.
The rest of the car ride was comfortably silent, both of the men were replaying the events of the day in their heads, considering how close they had come to losing everything. Sherlock’s mind drifted to his sister. He wondered if this had all been avoidable, if only he had been there for her sooner. He also wondered that if his mind was capable of covering up Victor Trevor, what other truths had it spared him? But mostly, his mind focused on you, he hoped that you were okay.
As the cab stopped, John had asked Sherlock to call with an update as soon as he knew anything. As much as he wanted to go and see you himself, Sherlock was right that he really needed to spend some quality time with his daughter. On the way to the hospital, Sherlock was caught off guard as the driver’s phone rang. The cabbie picked it up spoke for a moment before handing it to Sherlock, “it’s for you,”
“Hello Brother Mine,” he said knowing that only Mycroft would have the resources to pull this off.
“Sherlock, I’m so sorry, are you okay?” he asked.
Mycroft had been away on official government business which is why the three of you had chosen now to go see Eurus in the first place. He must have received word from one of the boys at Scotland yard what had happened.
“I’m fine, had quite the run in with our little sister,” Sherlock answered.
“I heard. Any news on Y/n yet?” he asked sincerely.
“I’ve just arrived at the hospital. I need to give the cabbie his phone back. Impressive by the way. I’ll call you soon,” Sherlock replied.
“Sherlock?” Mycroft called out.
“Hmm?”
“I truly am sorry,”
“I know”
And he did. His brother was only ever trying to do what he thought was in his best interest. Sherlock may not have entirely agreed with his methods, but never doubted that his heart was in the right place. He pulled out his wallet and generously tipped the cabbie before heading inside and asking the nurses station as to your whereabouts and condition. She informed him that she would have to check with a doctor and asked him to be seated in the waiting room.
He sat down and waited as patiently as he could muster. He wanted, no, he *needed* to see you and to hold you. The few minutes it took the nurse to return felt like an eternity to everyone’s favorite consulting detective. In that time his brain was being particularly cruel and reminding him of all of the things that could be wrong. For instance, you could have been unconscious longer than he anticipated, he might have calculated the wrong amount of antidote, you might have neural deficits, you might- before Sherlock could continue torturing himself, the nurse reappeared. She informed him that you were awake and practically ready to be discharged, just waiting for a confirmation from the doctor. She gave him your room number and pointed him in the right direction before excusing herself to do more work.
His face lifted into a smile as he opened your door. You were already sitting on the side of the bed in some scrubs (since your clothes were soaking wet). And just as you saw Sherlock, the phone rang and you answered it, signaling for him to wait a second.
“I forgive you,” you said without missing a beat.
There was a pause as the other person spoke.
“Of course I knew it was you, Mycroft. Who else would manage to call me before Sherlock could even get into the room,”
-another pause-
“As I am sure you already know, I am fine, as are your brother and John. And I was serious, I don’t blame you and while I know it is a mue point to tell you not to blame yourself, I do feel that it it necessary to remind you that-”
-a briefer pause-
“Of course not, I-”
-pause-
“Goodnight Mycroft, try to get some sleep,” you finished before hanging up the phone and turning to Sherlock with a smile.
“Your brother is something else,” you said as you motioned for Sherlock to sit next to you.
“That he is,” Sherlock agreed, wrapping his arm around you, “how are you feeling?”
“As well as can be expected considering the circumstances,” you answered.
“That’s acceptable,” he said, pulling you in tighter.
“How are you doing?”
“Why are you asking me? I’m not the one who was poisoned and nearly drowned.”
“No, you’re just the one who had to face a secret sister, multiple deeply unsettling moral dilemmas, confront childhood trauma, watch his girlfriend and best friend almost die, twice, among other things. So I’ll ask again, how are you doing?
“As well as can be expected considering the circumstances” he said repeating your earlier answer.
“I love you,” you said wishing that you could undo the day and spare Sherlock from it entirely. You leaned back into his embrace taking in the comfort of knowing that even if you couldn’t change the past, you could be there for him moving forward.
“I love you too,” he replied, thankful that you were okay and thankful that it all was over.
The two of you continued to sit like that just quietly taking in each others’ presence. It would take twenty minutes for you to be officially discharged and another twenty to arrive at your apartment at which time you elected to shower and head to bed.
As you fell asleep in Sherlock’s arms, his mind was still trying to wind down. He sincerely hoped that you would be okay. He, you, and John had been through a lot. He knew that he would be fine, and that John was better equipped to compartmentalize his emotions after his time in the military. You, on the other hand, were a wild card. He had never been around you when you went through anything traumatizing, and had no idea how you were going to react. He promised himself that no matter what, he would be there for you. Eventually, he was able to fall asleep, his mind somewhat eased.
The next day as Sherlock predicted, the two of you would meet up with John at Baker Street to begin repairing and cleaning the flat. Mycroft had stopped by briefly to provide each out you with new cell phones and explained that he would be paying for the repairs as well as for your medical bills. He also informed that Eurus was back in a newly secured prison and he was leaving to go speak to his parents as Sherlock requested. He apologized again for everything and then left. You, John, and Sherlock bid him well and then continued to clean up. After a while, the three of you went downstairs and collected Rosie from Mrs. Hudson and go out for dinner.
You looked between the four of you as Sherlock was explaining something brilliant and John was listening intently, looking away occasionally to make sure his daughter was doing okay. A smile found its way to your face as you realized that this was your family. No matter how bad things got, nights like these made everything worth it. This. This is why you would never elect to date anyone more ordinary, even if it would be the death of you.
This is part one of a two part Sherlock x Reader imagine. It is full of angst and definitely something different. Fair warning it contains possible triggers involving a kidnapping. For more of my writing click here. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy the emotional rollercoaster that is this fic.
The first time that Sherlock was semi-aware of himself, his mind was uncomprehending and imperceptive, which was a first. He was striving against everything to regain control and wake himself but instead, he found an unnerving nothingness. It was as if his mind was entirely blank. The second ‘awakening’, after an unknown amount of time, was not much different. Sherlock struggled to regain clarity, but was seemingly unequipped to do anything about it. His mind moved so slowly, that it might as well not have been moving at all. His sense of awareness and limited charge over consciousness once again faded.
“Sherlock? Sherlock are you okay? Wake up. Please wake up,” a voice pleaded.
But while it resonated as familiar, Sherlock simply could not connect the voice with a name or face. His mind was still moving too slow, at least now though he was aware of this fact. Something was wrong, very wrong. Sherlock was by all accounts locked out of his mind palace. He couldn’t remember anything or really register his surroundings. Something was interfering with the chemistry of his brain and prohibiting him from ‘Sherlocking’. He knew that it was likely some new hybrid of a sedative and a brain dampener. But how he knew that and what that meant, were completely lost on him.
“It’s no use,” another voice, this one raising a red flag with Sherlock for some unknown reason, beamed.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” the homely voice quipped.
“I already have though, haven’t I? Maybe if you weren’t so ordinary you’d understand that,” the villainous voice challenged.
Sherlock knew that voice, but who was it? And why couldn’t he wake up or remember anything?
“I may be ordinary, but at least I’m not a coward,” the first voice spat back.
“I am not a coward,” the man growled.
“Then why won’t you fight fair?” the girl questioned boldly. After waiting for an answer she added, “It’s because you know you wouldn’t stand a chance. You might be clever, but one on one, without your precious minions, your cheap tricks, and threats, you are nothing more than that, clever. And even on his worst day, Sherlock is more than you’ll ever be. And you know that, otherwise you wouldn’t be going through such great lengths to constrain him.”
“You have too much faith in him and that will be your downfall. I will show you, don’t worry,” he promised.
Sherlock could hear a door being closed. He knew both of those voices. He knew that something was very wrong, but he couldn’t sort it out. His mind was slowly beginning to function again, but it was agonizing for Sherlock to be cognizant of his deficits. He pushed himself to remember, to wake, to do something, but it was all happening in its own time.
He heard the door opening again, this time noting that there was no sound of it being unlocked. This must mean… it meant that…. Ugh! Why couldn’t he just think!
“What are you doing?” the girl’s voice asked, he could hear her physically struggling. “Where are you taking me?” she questioned, fear evident in her voice. “Stop, no, please don’t do this,” she pleaded, being forced out of the room.
Okay, so the girl. She was someone that he knew. His instincts told him that she was someone very dear to him. She was in danger. The two of them were captured by the man with the weird Irish accent. That man was the one holding them here. She knew him, so he and she had met him before. The door wasn’t locked which meant that they were bound. Otherwise, she would have been able to escape. As he was regaining more and more of his memory and brain power, he decided to redirect his attention.
He could not force himself to wake up, which meant he was most likely still sedated. His senses were very limited. His brain was foggy, but becoming less and less so. He was able to access his memories concerning his family and childhood, feeling somewhat reassured that Mycroft would have his people searching for him. He forced himself farther into his mind palace. He was going through places and people, starting to piece his life together until he saw a door for 221B. He tried to open the door, but it was locked. He had never been locked out of his own mind palace before. Some part of him knew that “unlocking” this door was the key to everything he needed to know about the girl, the man, and their current arrangement. But he had absolutely no idea how to accomplish that task.
He resigned himself to focusing instead on regaining consciousness. He tried to start small, focusing on his breathing and then trying to move his fingers or toes. He just needed to reclaim control over his movements and then he’d be able to force himself awake.
Before he could make any progress, he heard the door open again. Someone, presumably a male carrying something substantial, based on breathing and time in between steps, had entered. The thing that he had been carrying was dropped roughly and then Sherlock had heard a click and the rustling of chains. Something was being hoisted up.
As the man left, Sherlock realized his mistake. It was not something being hoisted up, but rather someone. He speculated that it was his mystery girl. She was obviously unconscious and worse for wear. He felt an instinctual urge to make sure she was okay but was unable to act on it. He tried to focus, but it was becoming harder and harder as the exertion and exhaustion of fighting the drugs had taken over.
When he regained awareness, he was frustrated to realize he was still unconscious, though it was less and less present. He wondered how long this had been going on. Surely, someone had noticed and would come for him. He then remembered that he was not alone in this. However, as he listened to his surroundings it did seem that he was alone in the room again. He wondered how long the girl had been gone for this time. He hoped that she was okay. She was strong, that is what he loved about her.
Wait-
He loved her. He knew that now, it was consuming. She wasn’t just some girl that he knew. She was someone he loved. He needed to wake up, to remember, to protect her. He ran through the entire conversation he had heard between her and the man replaying it word by word.
“Maybe if you weren’t so ordinary you’d understand that” the man had said.
Ordinary. That word. It stuck out, but why?
“Aren’t ordinary people so adorable?”
“You’re ordinary. You’re on the side of the angels.”
“And now I’ve got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out your ordinary just like all of them.”
“She is nothing Sherlock, she is ordinary, just another plaything for you to impress.”
Sherlock heard the pieces of conversations playing in the man’s voice. He was so close to remembering him and his name. It was there, he could feel it. Now he had a new goal. He replayed every word that the girl had said, hoping to spark a similar reaction, but it didn’t work.
The door opened, and this time there were three people who entered. One, the girl, was being chained up again, involuntarily whimpering. Her injuries were worse now, she was obviously being tortured. The man who had restrained her left the room leaving one other in the room.
“Aw look at him, isn’t he adorable when he’s sleeping, brain wearing away to nothing,” the irish man spoke.
“Leave him alone,” the girl tried.
“I really don’t think it is him you should worry about,” he said moving closer towards her. Sherlock heard her struggling away from him, “funny, all that blood really brings out your eyes.”
“What is that you really want?” she asked, her tough facade starting to falter.
“This. Exactly this. I want to watch your hope fade until you beg me to end you. I want to burn the heart out of Sherlock. Turning the hero into the villain. It’s as simple as that,” he informed leaving the room, calling out “I’m looking forward to our next little session, Y/n.”
And that was it. That was what Sherlock needed to unlock the door of his mind palace. And then it all came back to him. Mrs. Hudson, John, Moriarty, Lestrade, his cases, his violin, his flat, and above all else you. Y/f/n Y/l/n. His brilliant, kind-hearted, resilient, beautiful, girlfriend. The two of you were walking home from a date when you were both attacked and captured. He didn’t know how long ago that was now, but surely everyone was searching for you.
With that, he had full control of his mind, and he slowly brought himself back to consciousness, fighting the sedative. He managed to maneuver his arm to pull out the IV. He forced his eyes open, wincing at the harsh light. He laid still for a moment, allowing his body to process what it needed to do. As much as his mind was restored, physically he would still be affected. He worked on moving his muscles to speed up his circulation.
“Sherlock?” you all but whispered. You wanted to believe that you were seeing him move but knew that it very well could be your mind playing tricks on you. Tears streamed down your face.
But then he looked at you, and as your eyes met any doubt you had faded away.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, struggling to conceal his own emotion as he took in your form. You were chained up in nothing but a bra and your shorts. There were deep cuts littering your bruised and shaking body. You likely had multiple fractured if not broken ribs. You were held up by your wrists which were raw and also bleeding. Your hair was damp which led him to believe that waterboarding or forced intermittent drowning was involved. Beyond that, he could tell that you hadn’t slept, ate, or drank anything.
“How long have we been here?” he forced himself to ask.
“I think three days, it’s kind of hard to tell,” you answered.
“And do you have any idea where we are?”
“Not really, just that there are two levels and we never leave the basement.”
“Okay, okay, that’s fine,” Sherlock muttered, already starting to plan an escape.
“Sherlock? Are you okay?”
“Me? I should be asking you that,” he said forcing himself to sit up, groaning slightly at the numbness.
“It looks a lot worse than it is, I’m just glad you’re awake,” you tried to smile.
“I’m going to get us out of here,” Sherlock promised.
“Take your time,” you tried to joke. But the laugh turned into coughing which was extremely painful.
“Just try to conserve your energy,” he said trying to hide the worry in his voice.
“I love you,” you whispered, allowing the exhaustion to take over, knowing that you were safe now.
Hi guys! This mini-series is based off an episode of criminal minds called ‘Amplification’. You can find more of my writing on my Masterlist here.
Working alongside Sherlock and John had put you in numerous compromising and even dangerous situations. It was not a rare occurrence to find yourself in harm’s way, but that never discouraged you. The way you had always viewed it was that John and Sherlock had gotten on fine before you, and they would continue in that fashion if for some reason you were incapacitated. Furthermore, you felt that there was no nobler way to die than saving/protecting the lives of others, especially those you cared about. This mindset of yours never faltered, even during “The Case of the Killer Lightbulbs” as John named it on his blog.
You were at the market when you got the call informing you to stop what you were doing and go outside where a car would be waiting for you. You were used to it by now, Mycroft was known to be the dramatic type. The ride was long and you wondered what the nature if thus case would be: Murder? Blackmail? Theft? National Security? Or, was it just Mycroft trying to get information on his little brother again? Whatever your thought process was during that car ride, it did not prepare you for what was coming next.
You were taken to Scotland yard which was swarming with various officials from detectives, to the military, to the CDC. You were led through to a room where Mycroft, John, and Sherlock sat.
“Okay, you may go now, shut the door on the way out,” Mycroft said to your escort.
As she did, he passed a folder to you, Sherlock, and John and began debriefing, “Yesterday 24 people checked into local area hospitals, all of them with the same symptoms, all of them had been at the same park around 4 pm yesterday. Now at just after 8 am, 14 of the 24 are dead. Lung failure and black legions among a myriad of other symptoms.”
“Anthrax?” John asked.
“Anthrax doesn’t kill this fast,” you replied.
“Unless it has been genetically altered,” Sherlock surmised, “What do we know about this strain?”
“The spores are weaponized, reduced to a spiral ideal that attacks deep in the lungs. They are both odorless and invisible. The normal antidote is not effective against this strain,” Mycroft explained.
“Why exactly are we here?” John asked.
“We believe that this was a trial run, but don’t know what for. An outbreak in London would be detrimental, so we’ve called you lot in,” Mycroft replied, “You have full access to any resources you deem necessary,” he added handed you special badges, “Finally, here is Cipro, we don’t know if it’s effective against this strain, but it’s worth a shot. I wish you the best of luck.”
You, Sherlock, and John downed the pills and were left alone in the office as Mycroft had to step out.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” you said, still trying to get your head around the idea.
“It isn’t the first time, and most definitely won’t be the last,” Sherlock replied.
“So, where do we even start?” John asked.
Over the next two days, the three of you visited the hospital and spoke with remaining victims, analyzed the strain in the lab, located a second but smaller attack that happened weeks ago but only affected 4 people, and started to narrow in on a suspect list. You also created a list of possible targets, however it was too large to do any good. The three of you had come to realize that you were looking for someone with a significant background concerning biological agents. You knew that the person you were looking for most likely was in cohorts with the military or CDC and had a relation with the bookstore that was the target of the first attack. It wasn’t long before Sherlock had discovered who was behind it all.
This led you and Sherlock along with a team from the CDC to the home of Alfred Wilson to further investigate. John was at the hospital lending his medical assistance. And Mycroft and his men went to Wilson’s workplace and other known frequented locations. You and Sherlock stood outside as you waited for the all-clear.
“While they are doing that we should probably take a look around,” Sherlock decided.
The two of you walked towards the back of the house looking for anything out of the ordinary. Sherlock was distracted by a phone call from Mycroft explaining that the lab was clean and Wilson was still MIA. Sherlock turned to inform you of this news but realized that you had wandered off.
“Y/n?” he called and looked for you. He found the path that you must have followed. “Y/n,” he called again. He saw the shack and darted towards it, “Y/n!”
That is when you came into his line of vision, “Sherlock get back! Get back, get out of here!” you shouted frantically locking the door.
“Y/n? What are you doing? I don’t-” he started, but then he saw the broken container of white powder and the ventilation system. This was where Wilson had developed and even tested the strains. And you had already been exposed, which meant that if the Cipros was ineffective as it most likely would be against this mutated strain, you had less than 24 hours.
He called Mycroft who got the necessary people there. They wanted to get you out and to the hospital as soon as possible, that was not your plan though.
“Y/n, the CDC is here, they are preparing to extract you,” Sherlock explained through the phone.
“There’s no point, I’ve already been infected, I might as well work to solve the case,” you argued.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mycroft interjected.
“Sherlock, take me off of speakerphone,” you ordered.
“Alright, tell me what you see,” Sherlock humored you.
“Alright, well first off Dr. Wilson is dead, so we can rule him out. There are two workspaces and two sets of handwriting on the papers. So he either had a partner or protege,” you paused as a fit of coughing took over, “I’ve read through everything in here, the cure isn’t here. But maybe they can take the spores and reverse engineer them.”
“Okay, Y/n. Is there anything else that sticks out to you?” he asked.
You were going to continue but the coughing took over again. You hung up the phone to spare Sherlock. By the time you caught your breath John was entering in an orange hazmat suit.
“Orange is not your color,” you joked, “On a serious note how are the patients at the hospital?”
“Right now, let’s focus on you,” he redirected, “how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” you replied.
“Are you sure? I could give you something to ease the pain,” he explained.
“I’m fine and I don’t want to take any narcotics,” you snapped.
“Okay, no narcotics, got it,” he confirmed, “how can I help?” he asked.
“I read through all of the papers and none of them talk about the cure, but I think that it has to be in here somewhere. Probably hidden considering that Dr. Wilson was a former military scientist. He was paranoid and most likely tried to protect the cure from his partner. So look for something innocuous, something that you wouldn’t expect,” you explained, starting to feel slightly light-headed. That is when your phone rang again.
“Yes Sherlock?” you answered.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“That is irrelevant, why’d you call?”
“Mycroft said that Wilson’s co-workers were unaware of him having a partner. Is there anything else you can tell me about him?”
You went over to the desk again scanning for what you missed. It was like it was on the tip of your tongue, but your brain was too foggy to see it.
“Just list off everything that is on their desks,” Sherlock said wishing that he was in there with you.
“Wait, I’ve got it,” you replied, “Dr. Wilson was a professor. He has syllabi and a framed picture of him teaching. I even read a paper that he graded, or so I thought. He wouldn’t let just anyone into his lab but clearly,” you started before being interrupted by a wave of painful coughing, “he valued himself as an educator. What if the second desk wasn’t a partner, but a student? And the paper, it was formatted like a thesis. See if Mycroft can crossmatch the list of Wilson’s students and/or students at the university that Wilson taught at with past employees or customers of the bookstore.”
“Okay, will do,” he said hanging up.
“Y/n, you did good, now we need to get you to the hospital,” John tried.
“Okay,” you conceded knowing that there wasn’t anything else you could do there. A couple of CDC workers came and took you to a decontamination shower that they had set up, with John close behind.
“John, go help Sherlock,” you instructed.
“I’m gonna stay here and see you off to the hospital,” he insisted.
“I am about to be stripped down and bathed, my pride can’t take the thought of you witnessing that. Besides the way I see it, you can either stay here and watch me die or go out and prevent it from happening.”
“If you’re sure,” John replied, feeling torn.
“Go on,” you reassured him.
———————
Tags: @fanfictionsilove @delightfulheartdream
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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…
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Sherrinford, High Security Prison
“If you want her out of the game, you’ll have to burn her out of it.”
“Sister, please. I beg of you… don’t.”
Sherlock Holmes stood hunched before the monitor, his tone bleeding with desperation.
“I’m afraid this is non negotiable. It’s either her heart or her life. Choose one or I’ll have no choice but to take both. Of course, the bit about her heart won’t be in the metaphorical sense, you understand.”
A red light blared throughout the room and Jim Moriarty’s jives echoed off the walls. Sherlock’s fists clenched as he looked up at Euros’ sickly smile of triumph.
“I can’t… I won’t destroy everything we’ve built…” he whispered to himself. “Not like this.”
Doctor Watson placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Your sister is insatiable and that makes her dangerous,” he said in a low voice. “There’s more at stake here than just your pride. Soldiers, remember? Maybe you should-”
“Not now John! Don’t you see? I love her!”
Sherlock blanched at his own admission. Y/N was the light of his life and he couldn’t let Euros jeopardize that.
John’s jaw clenched as he stared back with a look of sorrow. “That’s exactly why you need to do it. You need to break her heart to save her life.”
Sherlock looked down at the mobile phone in his hand. As the seconds ticked by, his beloved Y/N came closer to her demise. Euros had set an assassin after her and unless he complied with his sister’s task, Y/N would face a swift death.
He felt a million passions ricocheting in his heart. There were no more tricks up his sleeve. Sherlock had to submit to his sister’s will or face the consequences.
“I won’t lose her…” he whispered. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned to John and nodded steadily. “Soldiers.”
With shaky hands, he dialled Y/N’s number and listened to the timbre of the rings.
He closed his eyes as the world spun around him, and his mind raced in reminiscence. Sherlock could suddenly see thousands of snapshots of the beautiful life which he was about to destroy…
***
“John, I’ve told you before, I haven’t the time for your little friend. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I have a case to solve!”
The doctor sighed and rubbed at his throbbing temple. “If you would just hear her out-”
Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and walked to the door. He made a point to swing it open with great emphasis. “Forgive me,” he said to the girl with a smile that was anything but polite. “But I am very busy. If you would kindly take your leave before-“
“It was the perfume, Mr Holmes.”
Sherlock paused at the girl’s quiet declaration. “Come again?” he asked, eyes narrowed.
Y/N cleared her throat. “The perfume,” she repeated. “The victim smelled of perfume the day her body was found.”
“I’m aware. Did you have a point?”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Mrs Thewlis was allergic to Ethanol, the prime ingredient in perfume. She wouldn’t be wearing it unless someone forced her to.”
She crossed her arms as she continued on. “I asked Molly to run a toxicology test and the report came back positive. Traces of poison were found in Thewlis’ bloodstream, seemingly absorbed through her skin.”
She paused for effect. “My theory, Mr Holmes is that somebody sprayed the victim with a sort of chemical infused mist and that there was no murder weapon at the crime scene because the victim was wearing it the entire time!”
Sherlock said nothing. He simply observed the girl in curious silence before closing the door and walking towards her.
“You’re saying that somebody doused her perfume with poison?”
“Yes, Mr Holmes.”
“What’s your name?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.
“Y/N.”
“Y/N,” he repeated to himself. “Well Y/N, congratulations on cracking your first case.”
Sherlock couldn’t wrap his head around it. How could this girl have possibly picked up on something that he had missed? Normally he’d have felt a wounded pride, a violent jealousy at her intellect, but strangely enough, he felt nothing. On the contrary, Sherlock was intrigued by her sharpness. He suddenly felt a burning desire to know more about her.
Sherlock was snapped back to attention by the sound of her voice. “I’m glad that I could be of assistance. Good day, Mr Holmes.” Y/N gave a curt nod as a means of farewell and was just about to leave the flat when she felt a hand on her wrist.
She turned around and saw the consulting detective. “Please,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “Call me Sherlock. Will you stay for tea?”
***
A soft amber light streamed in through the gossamer curtains of 221B Baker Street. The delicate London breeze danced in through the window, making the thin veils flutter.
Y/N hummed softly as the quaint disturbance roused her from her sleep. She tilted her head to the side and caught a glimpse of the time. 5:45 on a Friday morning. She felt movement to her right, and was suddenly exposed to the morning chill as her blanket was yanked away.
Turning on her side, Y/N was met by Sherlock’s sleeping frame. She gave a shiver and was just about to reprimand him for hoarding the covers when something struck her.
She drew a breath at the sight of him lying next to her. His tousled hair was pressed against the pillow, soft and unruly. His bare chest heaved in slow breaths, moving up and down steadily. His face was unmarred by the stress of his waking moments. Sherlock looked comfortable and at ease.
Though she had been waking up to this same sight every morning for the past few years, Y/N felt as though she were seeing him for the very first time whenever she caught him in these quiet moments of dawn.
She reached out to touch him just to prove to herself that he was more than a perfect illusion. Her hand lingered mere inches away when Sherlock spoke, his voice heavy with sleep. “You’re awake.”
“Yes, a chill woke me. Somebody was greedy with the covers…”
He opened his eyes and grinned. “How tragic.”
With a soft groan he shifted and pulled Y/N closer, wrapping an arm around her so that she lay with her head in the crook of his arm. She sighed contentedly and grazed his skin with her fingertips. Resting her palm against his chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart.
“What are you thinking?”
Y/N paused for a moment. “I’m thinking that this might be too good to be true.”
“You’re right,” Sherlock said, propping himself up on an elbow. He looked down at Y/N and smiled. “This is much too good to be true, but I would be a fool to question it.” With his free hand, Sherlock cupped the back of Y/N’s neck and brought her close to his upturned lips. “I’ll be damned if I let anything come between us. I swear to you, I’m not going anywhere.”
Sherlock finally kissed her. As the morning rays shone through the airy curtains, Y/N took comfort in the thought that their love was infinite.
***
Gone was the music.
A familiar burning sensation prickled at the back of her eyes, but still, Y/N denied herself the tears.
She sat quietly in Sherlock’s old armchair, staring at the bullet ridden wall.
“Yoo-hoo,” called a voice from the doorway. Y/N hardly stirred as Mrs Hudson came bustling in with a tray of tea and biscuits.
“Morning’ dearie, I brought you a cuppa’! I thought you might fancy a treat,” the kindly landlady said, forcing a cheery tone.
She took a look around the room and frowned at the gathering dust and drawn curtains. “It’s a bit gloomy in here, isn’t it?”
Grief had taken its toll since Sherlock’s fall, and Y/N was a transparent reflection of it. Her eyes were bloodshot and held an emptiness to them as she reflected within the abandoned flat, lost in her memories.
“It’s fine, really,” Y/N said a weakly.
Mrs Hudson’s gaze shifted. Y/N was wearing Sherlock’s old coat. A mahogany patch stained the collar. A reminder.
“It’s been two years, love. It’s time to let go.”
A glossy trail streamed down Y/N’s cheek, but still she smiled. “He’ll be back,” she said, her voice cracking. “He promised me that he wasn’t going anywhere. If I just wait here, I’m sure-”
“He’s not coming back,” Mrs Hudson said gently.
Y/N turned away. “I told him it was too good to be true.”
Mrs Hudson smiled sympathetically. “I’ll be downstairs, love.”
Y/N grabbed hold of her chair’s armrests and squeezed. She winced as a hot trail of tears slicked her cheeks.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to have been on that rooftop. He wasn’t meant to leave her grieving.
He wasn’t supposed to be gone.
Perhaps Mrs Hudson was right. Maybe it was time to move on like John had. Y/N ran a hand through her hair and let out a shaky breath. She was just about to reach for her tea when she heard a loud crash and a scream come from downstairs.
“Mrs Hudson?” Y/N stood up in a panic and rushed downstairs, heart racing.
“Mrs Hudson!” she cried out.
Y/N found her landlady in the kitchen, shattered porcelain on the floor. “Are you alright?” she asked warily.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine. It was simply a mild shock.”
A chill ran up Y/N’s spine at the sound of that distantly familiar voice. It can’t be… she thought incredulously. Carefully, she turned her gaze upwards and noticed for the first time the man standing at the doorway.
“Hello,” he waved awkwardly.
Standing at the other end of the room was Sherlock Holmes.
Y/N stared as he shifted uncomfortably under her critical gaze. Dressed in his signature trench coat and dress pants, he looked the same as the day she had lost him.
“New coat?” she asked, stunned.
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, actually. Unlike yours, I suppose. I see you held onto the old one…” He looked to the floor. “it… well, it suits you, mind the gore.”
Y/N ignored his attempt at humour. “You’re back,” she whispered.
When he looked back at her, his eyes glistened. “How could you expect me to stay away?”
***
“You can’t be serious!”
“I swear it’s true!”
Y/N listened carefully from the hall as John, Mary, and Greg conferred in 221B. From what she could hear, they were talking about her and Sherlock. Though it had been months since they had reunited, the pangs of lost love still inflamed their passions.
“He actually said that to you? Those exact words?”
Y/N frowned at the excitement in Mary’s tone as she grilled John on something that Sherlock had allegedly told him. John laughed and Y/N peeked through the crack in the door to catch him kiss his wife lightly on the nose.
“Those exact words,” he affirmed softly. “Sherlock is thinking of proposing marriage to Y/N.”
Y/N let out a small gasp and clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her surprise. She blinked as a wave of emotions crossed through her. Marriage? Sherlock? These two words were foreign in the same sentence and she had to take a breath to contain herself.
“Bloody hell…” she heard Lestrade mutter from the flat. “Our boy’s found it,” he said softly. “He’s found his heart.”
“Keep your voice down!” John whispered sharply. “Y/N will be here any minute, and she can’t know!”
Y/N stepped back and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. She felt her heart race and couldn’t stop smiling. Sherlock Holmes, the man that she adored more than she ever imagined she could, was on the verge of proposing to her.
“Sneaking about, are we?“
Y/N gave a start when she opened her eyes and saw Sherlock standing before her, brow upturned.
She straightened herself and smiled nervously. “I was just about to head inside.”
“Is that why you’re lurking just outside the flat, plastered against the wall?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.
Y/N shrugged, not knowing what to say. Just at that moment though, Greg opened the door to meet them.
“Oi, we could hear you gabbing out here. Are you coming in or what? We’ve been expecting you.”
Sherlock peered past the Detective Inspector’s shoulder and found John and Mary grinning guiltily inside. His lips twitched in a hidden smile as he deduced what exactly was happening. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We’ll be right there.”
When Greg stepped back inside, Sherlock turned to Y/N. “You haven’t been eavesdropping on others’ conversations, have you?” he asked sweetly.
She looked at at him in feigned shock. “I would never!”
Sherlock studied her, his smile growing as he regarded the charming glint in her eyes. In that moment, he caught flashes of a future with her. Since they had met, Sherlock had reimagined his previous notions of the dullness of domesticity. Though marriage had once seemed a burden to him, Y/N had changed that, and Sherlock knew that nothing would be grander than a quaint life by her side.
“What have I done to deserve you?” he asked softly. Y/N watched as Sherlock pressed her gently against the wall, and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the crown of her head before leaning forwards and grazing the shell of her ear. “I love you,” he whispered delicately. Sherlock closed his eyes and whispered again, “I love you.”
***
Sherrinford, High Security Prison
“Hello?”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. He scanned the room, disoriented. He had felt safe for a moment, caught in remembrance, but the sterility of Sherrinford’s cell had cut through the dream.
He caught a flash of Euros frowning from the monitor and looked back to find John standing solemnly behind him. Y/N’s voice blared from hidden speakers. Nothing had changed.
“Hello?”
Sherlock drew a breath at the familiarity of the voice on the other end of the line. His task became clear once more. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gulped.
“Hello love,” he said, his tone strained.
Red lights flashed in warning and Sherlock looked up. “This isn’t a social call,” Euros said icily. “Don’t try and mitigate the blow with pet names. It’s her heart or her life Sherlock, I think I’ve made that clear.”
A pang of alarm shot through him. There was no way out.
“Sherlock, is that you?” Y/N asked from the other end of the line. “Are you alright?”
Sherlock walked to one of the cell’s walls and leaned an arm against it, seeking purchase. He thought of Euros’ hire, trigger finger itching for a clean shot.
“Sherlock?” she called again. “Can you hear me?”
Sherlock needed to burn her out of his story. "I pray you’ll forgive me…” he whispered to himself. Standing tall, he straightened his collar and detached himself from the warmth that Y/N had inspired in him throughout all their years. Sherlock Holmes became ice.
“Y/N?” he said. “I need you to listen to me.”
“I’m listening,” she said uncertainly.
Red lights flashed and Moriarity’s malarkey reigned.
“About us,” Sherlock continued, “We’ve come far.”
Y/N laughed. “You called to talk about us?What’s this-”
"Don’t interrupt,” he said curtly. “I need to fix this.”
There was a moment of silence before Y/N responded. “What are you saying?” she asked slowly.
"I mean to say that I’m ending this. Our experiment.”
“Experiment?” she scoffed.
Sherlock’s voice was brisk and steady, devoid of feeling. "Indeed. You see, our relationship was was only ever a simulation of sentiment. A psychological examination. A game of science.”
He could hear Y/N’s breath hitch and he clenched his fist in guilt. He was slowly approaching the end.
“It’s all been a rouse,” he said tensely. “ A clever experiment to test the naivety of the human mind, and you Y/N, were the ideal subject. Insecure, wide-eyed, and unduly retentive; you were foolishly loyal to a man that never cared, and it has proved your undoing.”
Sherlock waited for Y/N to hang up the phone. To curse him or yell obscenities from the receiver. He waited for her anger, silently praying she would cut him off. It was the only way Euros would spare her, and Y/N’s acrimony against him was well worth her life.
She said nothing.
Subconscious sirens hammered in his mind. Sherlock couldn’t know for sure if she had believed him. He had to push harder. “ You’re nothing more than a failed enterprise,” he said sharply. He heard his voice rise until he was sure he sounded near hysterics. “ You have nothing left to offer, so I implore you to leave me be!”
Silence dragged on until Sherlock finally heard Y/N sniff. She let out a shaky breath and spoke. “Sherlock,” she began softly. “I’m not sure what you’ve gotten yourself into, but you can’t expect me to believe a word of what you just said.”
no. no. no. no. no…
Sherlock shook his head furiously. She wasn’t supposed to be kind. She was meant to be hurt.
Y/N gave an unsettled laugh before continuing. “I love you, Sherlock,” she whispered. “I love—”
Shattered glass and silence.
Sherlock collapsed to his knees. “Y/N?” he asked gently. A shiver ran up his spine at the blackout stillness. “Y/N!” he cried out. His hands trembled in horror and bile rose in his throat. It isn’t so… he thought. it can’t be so…
“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, brother.” Euros said softly.
Sherlock looked up at his sister, his eyes bloodshot.
She cocked her head to the side, feigning sympathy. “You failed,” she said simply. “Let’s move on, shall we?” The screen went dark and the cell lit up with crimson light.
Sherlock stayed abased, kneeling on the cold flooring. A damp heat trailed down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe it away. He thought of Y/N. He thought of her smile. Her laugh. Her silence.
He thought of their thousands of moments past and the finality of her fall.
I FINISHED IT! I FINALLY FINISHED IT! THIS CURSED FIC HAD BEEN TRAPPED IN MY NOTES SINCE THE SUMMER BUT I FINALLY FINISHED IT!!!!
Hey you guys!!! What’s going on??? This fic is veryheavy on the whole Molly x Sherlock ordeal back in Sherrinford, so I hope that’s something you’re into! I just thought it would be cool to write about snapshots from Sherlock and Y/N’s relationship, soooo yeah! Thanks for reading!!!!
If you’d like to be tagged in any future Sherlock fics, just tell me in the comments! (and if you’d rather not be tagged in ALL Sherlock fics, please specify; EX: Reader x Sherlock, Reader x John Watson…)
Summary: When Sherlock blows off his Valentine’s plans with Y/N, she’s just about ready to give up on their relationship and move on. It isn’t until she receives a text from the consulting detective that she decides to hold off on the impulse and give him one last chance.
Will Sherlock Holmes have enough heart to save the day?
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“Good morning, John!”
Doctor Watson looked up from his spot at the kitchen table and smiled. “Good morning, Y/N,” he said kindly. “Big day?”
She looked down at herself and shrugged. “Something like that.”
It was the morning of February fourteenth in London, and the city was buzzing with lovesick couples rushing about for last minute gifts and tokens. Y/N had stopped by 221B Baker Street to visit Sherlock for the occasion.
It was their first Valentine’s Day as a couple and she couldn’t wait to celebrate it with the man that she loved. She had dressed in her finest clothes and picked up a platter of muffins from the café next door.
“JOHN! HAVE YOU SEEN MY HEART ANYWHERE?” a voice called out from down the hall.
John and Y/N turned their heads as Sherlock entered the room, dressed in a suit and his signature coat and scarf.
“Have I seen your heart?” John asked slowly.
Sherlock tossed his scarf on the table, narrowly missing the platter of treats that Y/N had placed down earlier. “Yes, heart! You’re a doctor for goodness sake! You know, the thing that pumps blood, and-”
John took a breath and rubbed his temples, gingerly. “Yes. I’m well aware of what a heart is as well as its physiological function, but I don’t understand the context of your question!”
“It’s imperative that I find the organ before noon!” Sherlock scowled. He threw his hands up in the air and pushed past Y/N, not bothering to say hello. “Mrs Hudson!” he cried out, disappearing out the door once more.
Y/N sighed and perched on the edge of the kitchen counter. She should have seen this coming. Sherlock was always so preoccupied with his work that he often forgot about her.
John smiled at her sympathetically. “It’s fitting that he look for a heart today of all days,” he said.
Y/N nodded and crossed her arms. “Most would argue that he hasn’t got one.”
“You don’t mean that,” John said, reaching for a muffin.
Y/N swatted his hand away. “I really don’t,” she admitted. “I think he has the biggest heart out of all of us. He’s just a bit unconventional in how he shows it.”
Before John could respond, his mobile buzzed. He checked the notification and frowned. “You’re not going to like this,” he said.
Y/N pursed her lips and motioned for him to carry on.
“It’s Sherlock,” John continued, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “He’s left for the police station on a homicide case. He just messaged me to meet him there.”
Y/N let out a groan. Today was supposed to be special. She had planned for them to spend Valentine’s together and instead, Sherlock had run off to bond with a corpse and a killer.
“That’s fine, John,” she said. “I’ll just head home then.”
Doctor Watson nodded, then stood up and gave one last meaningful glance at the muffins which Y/N had brought for Sherlock. She leaned forwards and pushed the platter closer to him. “Be my guest,” she said, defeated.
John smiled sheepishly, snagged a muffin, and rushed out the door, waving goodbye behind his shoulder.
Y/N winced when the door locked behind him. It seemed like she would be spending Valentine’s Day on her own.
***
Y/N surfed through the channels of her telly, her grip on the remote tightening with every romcom and couple’s programming that flashed by. She had waited the entire day for Sherlock to contact her, but the sky had since darkened and she had yet to hear a word from his end.
She was just about to head to bed when her mobile buzzed.
Baker Street
Will you come?
S.H.
Y/N pursed her lips at the hesitance in Sherlock’s text. Usually, his messages were orders, not suggestions. He knew that he had done wrong, she was sure of it. She took a breath and typed back a response.
I’m not sure if I can.
Y/N waited a moment before receiving a reply.
Please?
S.H.
Please…That was all it took for her to fall for the consulting detective all over again. The entire day, she had been thinking of ending their relationship for good. Shifting back to the safety of an unlikely friendship. But with only a few texts, she knew that she couldn’t. Sherlock Holmes might have been the coarsest man in London, but he was hers.
I’ll be there.
Though she hated to admit it, Y/N was excited to see the consulting detective. Not wasting another minute, she grabbed her coat and raced out the door of her flat.
***
Sherlock tapped his foot nervously and checked his watch for the third time. Y/N was late. He gripped a fresh bunch of roses in his hand and winced when a thorn nicked his skin.
“It’s your own fault, you know,” John murmured from behind a newspaper.
Sherlock turned to his flatmate and scowled. “Though I appreciate your remark John, perhaps you can keep all further comments to yourself!”
The Doctor tossed his paper onto the table by his armchair and leaned forwards, eyes on Sherlock. “The poor girl has been waiting the whole day,” he said slowly. “The only reason you even invited her back to the flat is because I reminded you that today was Valentine’s Day.”
Sherlock held John’s gaze for a moment before finally looking downwards. “You’re right,” he said softly. “I’m a fool.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and tossed the flowers to the floor, kicking them away with contempt. “I’ve lost her,” he lamented, walking towards the window. “How could I have been so careless?”
“I find myself asking the same question most days. About you being careless, that is.”
Sherlock turned around and saw Y/N leaning against the flat’s doorway, a tight smile on her face.
“You came,” he said breathlessly.
“I almost didn’t,” she admitted.
Sherlock felt a pang of guilt course through him. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”
Y/N approached him, her arms crossed. When he leaned forwards to kiss her, she gave him her cheek.
“I suppose I deserve that,” he muttered, shooting a glare at John when he heard the Doctor chortle at the snub.
“You really do,” Y/N scoffed. She studied Sherlock, taking in his crisp suit and windblown hair. “Why am I here?” she asked. “You were too busy to see me for all of the fourteenth, but suddenly decided to ask me over in the dead of night?”
Sherlock shifted on his feet, not quite knowing what to say. “I’ve done wrong,” he said finally. He took Y/N’s hand in his own and looked her directly in the eyes. “And I’m not just talking about today.”
She quirked a brow, waiting for him to continue.
“I’ve always put you second,” he said. “I cast you to the sidelines in place of my work, and I’m sorry.” He put a hand on her cheek, his eyes flicking down towards her lips. “Truly, I’m sorry.”
Y/N smiled and kissed him lightly. “I forgive you,” she whispered. In truth, she had already decided to let it go. Though his behavior did hurt her sometimes, she knew that in the grander scheme of things, Sherlock was doing the city a service by solving the mysteries that nobody else could.
“Oh yes, before I forget!” Sherlock blurted out, bending down on a knee. “These are for you!” Y/N watched as he picked up a grungy bunch of flowers from the floor, the petals curled and limp.
Sherlock’s face lit up as he presented the offering to her. His eyes crinkled from his wide smile and glinted proudly. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” he said. “I picked these myself.”
“He really did,” John affirmed. “They’re roses from the garden patch where the victim was found buried earlier today.”
Y/N accepted the flowers carefully. “They’re lovely,” she said hesitantly. When she glanced back up at Sherlock, she couldn’t help but beam at the pleased expression on his face.
He winked at her then offered out his arm, gesturing for her to grab hold of him. “I may have failed you earlier today, but I plan on fixing that,” he said. “How would you like to join me on a stroll about the city?”
Y/N gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “I don’t know Sherlock, you have a lot to make up for,” she teased.
He leaned forwards and kissed her. When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead against her own and grinned. “Then we have no time to waste,” he whispered.
As Valentine’s day drew to a close, Sherlock Holmes and Y/N began their adventure, leaving Baker Street in one another’s arms.
I don’t think Sherlock would be the best Valentine’s date :)
If you’d like to be tagged in any future Sherlock fics, just tell me in the comments! (and if you’d rather not be tagged in ALL Sherlock fics, please specify; EX: Reader x Sherlock, Reader x John Watson…)
Summary: Sherlock has always had bad ideas… but this one is just ridiculous. After a spider bite renders the consulting detective unconscious, Y/N has to deal with her partner’s carelessness.
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“I don’t think this is a good idea…”
Sherlock turned to Y/N and grinned. “Well, it’s not the worst, either. How else will we substantiate the accused’s defence?”
“Allow me to rephrase,” Y/N began tensely. “This is by far the most ludicrous idea that you’ve ever had! And that’s saying a lot for you, Sherlock Holmes!”
“It’s perfectly sane,” he assured. “Even so, ludicrosity is the essence of methodical study!”
Sherlock and Y/N stood in St Bartholomew’s Hospital laboratory as they investigated their latest case which John had already dubbed ‘The Spider’s Web’. A woman, accused of killing her neighbour denied the charge, pleading innocent after an alleged spider bite incapacitated her throughout the thirty minutes in which the murder was surmised to have occurred.
Now, Sherlock and Y/N hovered over an illuminated examination table, where the case’s greatest piece of evidence awaited testing… the spider.
Y/N looked down at the arachnid crawling in the mason jar and cringed. “What are you trying to prove here, Sherlock?” she asked. “That you’re a reckless investigator with an unhealthy disregard for his own safety? We already know that!”
Sherlock looked up at her and quirked a brow, unimpressed. “If the spider bites me, and I blackout for a half hour, we’ll be able to prove the accused’s story. If I’m completely unaffected, we’ll know she’s lying and the Crown prosecutor can present my findings in court. Really Y/N, keep up.”
“Couldn’t we just ask Molly to run a toxicology test?”
“I like to be thorough,” Sherlock shrugged.
“You like to be showy is what you mean…” Y/N mumbled to herself.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Sherlock gave one last pointed look before pulling out a pocket watch and handing it to Y/N. “The moment I show any signs of wooziness or sickness after the bite, I need you to start taking time. Thirty minutes, Y/N. Remember that.”
“Sherlock, this is so dangerous!”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “I’ve done my research and gone through the preliminary analyses. I am absolutely convinced that nothing will happen. The accused is clearly lying, I know that to be a fact!”
“What if something does happen?” Y/N pressed.
“I’m never wrong,” Sherlock insisted. “At worst, It’ll be a small nip. I’m sure of it.”
Y/N rubbed a hand down her face and sighed in defeat. “Alright Sherlock. If you’re sure.”
“I’m positive.”
Y/N gestured towards the waiting spider and looked at Sherlock deliberately. “Go ahead,” she invited.
He made a move towards the mason jar but stopped short. “No kiss for good luck?” he inquired.
“I thought you said that nothing would happen.”
“Well yes, but it would be nice.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes and Sherlock stifled a laugh. “No, you’re right,” he said. “You’ll owe me a kiss after I prove you wrong, and show you that this experiment is completely safe. The accused is guilty and her story is nothing more than a rouse.”
Flashing Y/N a self-assured grin, Sherlock carefully shrugged off his coat and rolled up the sleeve of his dress shirt. Y/N watched as he lifted the mason jar to eye’s length and squinted at the small creature inside. “It’s nothing more than a common house spider,” he said surely. “It could hardly incapacitate a fly, let alone the likes of me.” He lifted his other arm and dipped the jar above it, gently forcing the spider out. “Do your worst, old friend,” he whispered to the arachnid.
Y/N clasped onto the pocket watch tightly as the spider crawled the length of Sherlock’s arm. “Why isn’t it biting you?” she whispered. “I don’t suppose it’s agitated,” Sherlock whispered back.
Y/N tapped her foot, growing impatient. “Perhaps you should agitate it.” she said snidely.
“You’re beginning to agitate me, Y/N,” he retorted. “Perhaps you’ll have the same effect on the spider.”
Y/N smacked his arm playfully, giving him a jolt. It was there that the spider decided to bite.
“Ouch!” he cried sharply. “That’s curious. I wasn’t expecting such a sting.”
Y/N bit her lip and watched as Sherlock shooed the spider back into the mason jar. He was uncharacteristically quiet as he did so.
They waited a few minutes, but there was no obvious reaction. “How long has passed since the bite?” Sherlock finally asked. Y/N checked the time. “Five minutes and thirty seconds.”
He smirked. “Now you see darling,” he began smugly. “I told you that nothing would happen. As the world’s greatest consulting detective, I’m too apt for mistakes! In fact…”
Sherlock hadn’t finished his thought when his speech slurred and he stumbled back a step.
“Sherlock?” Y/N called warily. His knees buckled and Y/N reached out an arm to catch his tall frame. “Perhaps it wasn’t a simple house spider…” he mumbled. She wrapped her arms around him and gently lowered him to the floor.
“Oh no,” Sherlock moaned jaggedly. “Y/N, this can’t be happening! What have I done? All my life, I- I—”
Y/N dropped to her knees and held his head against her chest. “What is it, Sherlock? Does it hurt badly?”
“No,” he said weakly, his eyelids fluttering. “It’s much worse than physical pain, I’m afraid.”
Y/N felt a wave of panic course through her. “Don’t tell me it’s lethal!” she cried out. “Is this going to kill you? Are you going to die?”
“Not lethal,” he affirmed faintly. “I just can’t believe I was wrong. I’m never wrong…”
With that, the consulting detective closed his eyes. Y/N stared down at him incredulously as he began to snore softly. It wasn’t the spider’s venom that he was worried about. It was the fact that he had made a mistake!
Y/N rolled her eyes at his ego. “You’re an idiot,” she said, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “But you’re mine, I suppose.” With the unconscious consulting detective resting on her lap, Y/N reached for her mobile and dialed John’s number.
“Doctor Watson here.”
“Hello John,” Y/N began. “Are you still near St Bart’s?”
“Yes, of course. Sherlock told me to stay on standby, though I’m not quite sure why.”
“It seems he’s a bit lethargic… knocked out cold, really.”
“Is he wounded?” John asked anxiously.
Y/N spared a glance at Sherlock and smiled at his unruly curls. “Yes John, he’s been wounded. Though it’s not what you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s mostly an injury to his pride.”
John sighed on the other end of the line. “I think I understand. Stupid experiment gone wrong?” he asked causally.
“Does he conduct any other kind?” Y/N replied with a laugh.
“On my way.”
Y/N tucked her phone away and looked at Sherlock still lying on her lap. “The wounded detective,” she mused. “This could have been easily avoided.” She watched his deep breaths and though she wanted to be annoyed at his stubbornness, she couldn’t find it in herself to reprimand him. It was as she had said before. Sherlock Holmes may have been careless, pompous, and snide; but he was hers.
“I know you can’t hear me,” Y/N teased. “But I think the accused is innocent…”
Sherlock’s light snoring was his only reply, and Y/N giggled. “Sweet dreams,” she whispered. “Is it too late to tell you not to let the bedbugs bite?”
This was a weird one I’ll admit, and it was scarring. Just writing this fic made me itchy and yeah-no. I really hate spiders. Ack, I’m actually cringing… WHY DID I DO THIS TO MYSELF??? Okay, now I’m genuinely scared, I’m checking every corner of my room just in case…
Oh, as for the title… arraignment and araña, get it???? Okay, no direct relation BUT law and spiders are kind of the theme for the fic sooo…
***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…)
“Greg Lestrade, I’m astonished at you. You know that Sherlock’s behaviour was dreadful, and yet you take his part! I suppose you’ll be saying next thing that he oughtn’t to be punished at all!”
“Well, no — not exactly,” said Greg uneasily. “I know he ought to be punished a little. But don’t be too hard on him, Mycroft. Remember, he hasn’t ever had anyone to teach him right. You’re — you’re going to give him something to eat, aren’t you?”
“When did you ever hear of me starving people into good behaviour?” demanded Mycroft indignantly.
“I seem to recall you refusing to allow me to put a certain something in my mouth, the last time you were cross with me,” Greg teased.
“Hush! The boy might hear you! How can you talk so, when there’s a child in the house?”
Tags under the cut — please let me know if you’d like me to tag or untag you
Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
Sherlock came running in presently, his face sparkling with the delight of his orchard rovings; but, abashed at finding himself in the unexpected presence of a stranger, he halted confusedly inside the door. He certainly was an odd-looking little creature in the new dress Greg had bought him, below which his thin legs seemed ungracefully long. The wind had ruffled his hatless hair into over-brilliant disorder; it had never looked wilder than at that moment.
“Well, they didn’t pick you for your looks, that’s sure and certain,” was Sally Donovan’s emphatic comment.
Sally was one of those delightful and popular people who pride themselves on speaking their mind without fear or favour.
“She’s terribly skinny and homely, Mycroft. Come here, child, and let me have a look at you. Lawful heart, did anyone ever see such wild, unruly curly hair!”
Tags under the cut — please let me know if you’d like me to tag or untag you
Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
“I’d love to call you Uncle Mycroft,” said Sherlock wistfully. “I’ve never had an uncle or any relation at all — not even a grandmother. It would make me feel as if I really belonged to you. Can’t I call you Uncle Mycroft?”
“No. I’m not your uncle and I don’t believe in calling people names that don’t belong to them.”
“But we could imagine you were my uncle.”
“I couldn’t,” said Mycroft grimly.
Tags under the cut — please let me know if you’d like me to tag or untag you
Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
Mycroft retreated to the kitchen, set the candle firmly on the table, and glared at Greg.
“Greg Lestrade, it’s about time somebody adopted that child and taught him something. He’s next door to a perfect heathen. Will you believe that he never said a prayer in his life till tonight? He’ll have to go to Sunday School just as soon as I can get some suitable clothes made for him.”
“Girl’s clothes,” Greg reminded him. “And we’ll have to get used to calling him her.”
“I foresee that we shall have our hands full.”
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“Greg Lestrade, I believe that child has bewitched you! I can see as plain as plain that you want to keep him.”
“Well, he’s an interesting little thing,” persisted Greg. “You should have heard him talk coming from the station.”
“Oh, he can talk fast enough. I noticed that at once. It’s nothing in his favour, though. I don’t like children who have so much to say. I don’t want a boy, and if I did he isn’t the style I’d pick out. There’s something odd about him. No, he’s got to be dispatched straightaway back to where he came from, and exchanged for a girl.”
“We could hire a girl from the village to help with the housework.”
“We’ve discussed this, Greg. We cannot afford to have some local girl carrying tales back to the village about how many beds have — or have not — been slept in. That last one we hired was too inquisitive by half. No, an orphan girl is what we need. Someone who is completely dependent on us, and so won’t talk out of turn. Someone with no connections on the island, so even if she does venture to say anything, there will be no one to pay her any heed.”
“It’s just as you say, of course, Mycroft,” said Greg rising. “I’m going to bed.”
To bed went Greg. And to bed Mycroft followed him, frowning most resolutely.
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“Call you Sherlock?” repeated Mycroft. “Is that your name?”
“It’sone of my names.”
“What is your full name?”
“William Sherlock Scott,” reluctantly faltered forth the owner of that name. “But — oh, please do call me Sherlock. It can’t matter much to you what you call me, if I’m only going to be here a little while, can it? And William is such a boring name.”
“Nonsense!” said the unsympathetic Mycroft. “William is a good, plain, sensible name. You’ve no need to be ashamed of it.”
“Oh, I’m not ashamed of it,” explained Sherlock, “only I like Sherlock better. And it is my real name, only it comes in the middle. Please call me Sherlock.”
Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
Over a year went by before Sherlock’s hair grew long enough for him to look like a proper girl once more. It didn’t affect anything other than his vanity, though. Of course no one in Avonlea ever suspected him of being a boy. How would such an idea have entered anyone’s head? For a boy to go about wearing girls’ clothes was unheard of and unimaginable; therefore, the good folks of Avonlea did not imagine it. Any lack of femininity in Sherlock’s behaviour was put down to being raised by a couple of bachelors. As for his looks, well, if he kept on growing taller without growing any curvier, he must simply be a late bloomer.
Though Sherlock might be short on curves, he was never short on imagination — or trouble. He did his best to share the former with his friends, often unintentionally sharing the latter in the process.
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Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
“There’s so much to learn at school,” said Sherlock enthusiastically. “And I love writing compositions. Mostly Miss Hudson lets us choose our own subjects; but next week we are to write a composition on some remarkable person. It’s hard to choose among so many remarkable people who have lived. Mustn’t it be splendid to be remarkable and have compositions written about you after you’re dead?
“Oh, I would dearly love to be remarkable. I think when I grow up I’ll be a chemist, and perform brilliant experiments — or maybe I’ll be a detective, and solve the most baffling crimes. That would be very remarkable, wouldn’t it?”
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Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
“Although you can’t walk well enough to go back to school yet, Sherlock, I suppose we must have the new teacher up to tea someday soon,” said Mycroft reflectively. “She’s been almost everywhere but here. Let me see. Next Wednesday would be a good time to have her. But don’t say a word to Greg about it, for if he knew she was coming he’d find some excuse to be away that day. He’s going to worry that a lady school teacher will want to marry him.”
“I’ll be as secret as the dead,” assured Sherlock. “But oh, Mycroft, will you let me make a cake for the occasion? I’d love to do something for Miss Hudson, and you know I can make a pretty good cake by this time.”
Do you recognize a young Una Stubbs in the photo above as Miss Hudson?
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Mycroft was out in the orchard picking a panful of summer apples when he saw Mr. Hooper coming over the log bridge and up the slope, with Mrs. Hooper beside him and a whole procession of children trailing after him. In his arms he carried Sherlock, whose head lay limply against his shoulder.
At that moment, Mycroft had a revelation. In the sudden stab of fear that pierced his very heart, he realised what Sherlock had come to mean to him. He would have admitted that he liked Sherlock — nay, that he was very fond of Sherlock. But now Mycroft knew, as he hurried wildly down the slope, that Sherlock was dearer to him than anything else on earth, save Greg himself.
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Aunt Martha, thin, prim, and rigid, was knitting fiercely by the fire, her wrath quite unappeased and her eyes snapping through her gold-rimmed glasses. She wheeled around in her chair, expecting to see Molly, and beheld a white-faced child whose great eyes were brimmed up with a mixture of desperate courage and shrinking terror.
“Who are you?” she demanded, without ceremony.
“I’m Sherlock of Green Gables,” said the small visitor tremulously, clasping his hands with his characteristic gesture, “and I’ve come to confess, if you please.”
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Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
“My opinion is that you ought to let Sherlock go,” said Greg.
“Impossible,” retorted Mycroft. “We can’t allow him to sleep in a bed with a girl!”
“They’re just children. I’m sure Sherlock would never dream of doing anything inappropriate.”
“He’s done something inappropriate every single day since he arrived at Green Gables.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do,” conceded Mycroft. “And I agree with you, as far as that goes. But still, Greg, it’s too much of a risk. What if Molly — or, God forbid, Mrs. Hooper — discovers he’s a boy?”
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“Mrs. Donovan says Canada is going to the dogs,” said Sherlock. “She says if women were allowed to vote we would soon see a blessed change. Is that true, Greg?”
“It might be. Women can be pretty clever.”
“Did you ever court a woman, Greg?”
“Well… no, I never did,” said Greg, who had certainly never thought of such a thing in his whole existence.
Sherlock reflected with his chin in his hands.
“Courting must be rather interesting, don’t you think, Greg? Irene Adler says when she grows up she’s going to have ever so many beaus on the string and have them all crazy about her; but I think that would be too exciting. I’d rather have just one in his right mind.”
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Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
Sherlock flung himself into his studies heart and soul, determined not to be outdone in any class by John Watson. The rivalry between them was soon apparent; it was entirely good-natured on John’s side; but it is much to be feared that the same thing cannot be said of Sherlock, who had certainly an unpraiseworthy tenacity for holding grudges. He was as intense in his hatreds as in his loves. He would not stoop to admit that he meant to rival John in schoolwork, because that would have been to acknowledge his existence, which Sherlock persistently ignored; but the rivalry was there, and honours fluctuated between them.
Now John was head of the spelling class; now Sherlock, with a toss of his wild curls, spelled him down. One morning John had all his sums done correctly and had his name written on the blackboard on the roll of honour; the next morning Sherlock, having wrestled wildly with decimals the entire evening before, would be first. One awful day they were tied, and their names were written up together. It was almost as bad as a ‘Take Notice’ and Sherlock’s mortification was as evident as John’s satisfaction.
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Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, confirmed bachelors who have recently moved to Avonlea, decide to adopt an orphan girl to help with the housework, rather than hiring someone local, who might be tempted to carry tales back to the village about how many beds were — or were not — slept in. However, the hand of fate steps in to deliver them a boy, instead. Since Sherlock could just as easily be a girl’s name, they decide to keep the child, and pass him off as a girl. Little do they know just how much trouble — and joy — Sherlock will bring into their lives.
Molly whispered to Sherlock, “That’s John Watson sitting right across the aisle from you, Sherlock. Just look at him and see if you don’t think he’s handsome.”
Sherlock looked accordingly. He had a good chance to do so, for the said John Watson was absorbed in stealthily pinning the long braid of Janine Hawkins, who sat in front of him, to the back of her seat. Presently Janine started up to take a sum to the master; she fell back into her seat with a little shriek, believing that her hair was pulled out by the roots. Everybody looked at her, and Mr. Anderson glared so sternly that Janine began to cry. John had whisked the pin out of sight and was studying his history with the soberest face in the world; but when the commotion subsided he looked at Sherlock and winked with inexpressible drollery.
“I think John Watson is handsome,” confided Sherlock to Molly, “but I think he’s very bold. It isn’t good manners to wink at a stranger.”
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