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j-eryewrites · 2 years ago

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The Dancing Men (I)

Part 15 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

Word Count: 6.5k (back to normal-sized chapters)

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Warnings: Sherlock is Sherlock, descriptions of violence and gore, Sherlock is absolutely in love with the reader, slow burn finally working its magic.

Author’s Notes: You know how Benoit Blanc is horrific at Among Us even though he’s a detective, I say the same logic applies to Sherlock. At least that’s my headcanon. I also mixed a request into this chapter XD

John was quite enjoying how the evening was turning out. He sat smugly in his chair across from Sherlock whose face was stuck in a perpetual frown. It wasn’t every day John could say he had the upper hand on Sherlock.

What started out as a simple game of Cluedo, or “Clue” as Y/N had put it, now became an obsession for Sherlock. John chuckled at the sight of his friend. He would have never expected the great Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective to be reduced to nothing over a simple mystery game.

“Professor Plum. The revolver. In the study,” Sherlock muttered.

“Is that your final answer?” John asked. He raised a brow quizzically. Of course, he knew the answer. He had guessed it after the third round but had been so kind as to not tell Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at John. “Positive.” Each letter was enunciated perfectly as it fell from Sherlock’s voice. He was getting on edge, John noted as he motioned to the envelope in the middle of the board game.

Sherlock lunged at the cards and as he flipped them over, a cry of outrage left his mouth. “That’s not possible. Professor Plum. The revolver. In the study. Not Ms. Peacock with the rope in the kitchen!” He yelled.

“Sherlock, it’s only a game!” John laughed earning another glare from Sherlock.

“No, John. It’s not just a game.” Sherlock’s voice was oozing with frustration. He ran his hands through his curly hair and gripped it tightly. He sucked in, an attempt at a deep breath. “Onemoreround.”

“What?” John asked. He leaned forward in concern. Sherlock really was getting worked up over a game.

“One. More. Game. John. But this time–” Sherlock said. “We do it my way.”

“Sherlock that’s not how–”

That’s how John ended up on the floor of his flat. His face got quite comfortable with the ground as Sherlock paced around the room. Watching Sherlock navigate the flat was like watching a child attempt to dance. His steps were jerky and stiff as he ducked, jumped, and twirled around the room. His hand pointed out following along the clues the game has so far revealed. Suddenly, Sherlock dipped out of John’s narrow viewing field. However, he was eager to continue watching his friend obsess over Cluedo.

“Don’t move.” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherloc–”

“Don’t. Move.”

John sighed in defeat. This was going to be a long night. John’s only thought of consolidation was that at least Y/N would be enjoying it. He heard the music she played through the floorboards as she got ready for her date with Jim that night. It was a nice tune, not something John would listen to willingly, but something to keep him distracted as he played the murder victim. He even found himself humming along before Sherlock declared dead bodies don’t hum and threatened to silence his friend with duct tape.

It wasn’t long before the boredom reached John. While seeing Sherlock fret over a silly game was hilarious, being glued to the floor was not. The wooden floor was uneven in some areas and John could swear something sticking into his side. He tried to re-adjust only to earn another harsh threat from Sherlock.

Soon John found himself dozing off; a result of the faint music from below and Sherlock’s muffled footsteps. John would have fallen into a deep sleep if it were not for Sherlock’s sudden outburst.

“I’ve got it!” Sherlock shouted.

John peered up at Sherlock and snickered at the sight. Sherlock looked like a crazed man. His hair stuck out in all sorts of ways, and his shirt was wrinkled and untucked. There were even a few buttons left open. His robe swayed at his sides and he ducked under the numerous amounts of red thread tied around the room. Oh, did John forget to mention the redecorating the flat had gone through?

Not only had Sherlock forced John to play dead, but had also conjured the different murder weapons as stated by the game, took the character cards, and some red thread, and placed them in their respective rooms. Those rooms of course were adapted to be the very rooms of their flat. Connecting each weapon, character, room, and, well, John, were red threads. Where Sherlock had found the insane amount of red thread he did not know, however, what John did know was that Y/N was going to have a fit seeing the state of the flat.

“Hit me,” John said. Sherlock raised his brow in an interesting manner. One that scared John. “No, don’t actually hit me. Just–” John could swear he saw Sherlock’s demeanour fall. “What’s the verdict?”

“John Watson, my dear friend, was found dead in the study at 6.49 in the evening. The suspects are as follows–”

“Can I get up?”

“No.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Suspects are as follows: Ms. Peacock, Ms. Scarlet, Dr. Orchid, Rev. Greene, Professor Plum, and Colonel Mustard. When each suspect was interrogated, I came to find–”

John groaned. Sherlock was conducting a case. A case for a game. “Get to it!” John yelled.

“Dead bodies don’t speak, John,” hissed Sherlock.

“Sherlock…” John said warningly.

“Fine.” Sherlock walked into his room and emerged with a wrench in hand. It was large and very clearly a real wrench. John grumbled to himself. This was entirely his fault. He had indulged Sherlock too much and now he was going to be murdered over a game of Cluedo. Though, thought John, Y/N would have his back and make sure that Sherlock would pay tenfold. Now that, John was okay with it. “What you didn’t realize, John, is that your old lover Dr. Orchid would be in attendance tonight. She was jealous of you and your success in your career. When she had the chance she cornered you in the ballroom for one final dance with death. A dance that you did not walk away from.” Sherlock raised the wrench above John’s body. “With a wrench, she had found underneath the kitchen sink, she beat you to death.” Sherlock made a few gruesome sounds to what he thought a dying man would make.

“Alright, I get it. I died–”

“Your body was beaten to a pulp. Blood, brains, and bone fragments mixed together like a–”

“Sherlock, I get it!” John yelled. He would have given Sherlock more of an earful if it weren’t for the clearing of a throat. John looked quizzically at Sherlock. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. Neither of them had made the sound.

There it was again. It came from a man noted Sherlock. He could tell from the pitch. It was too low for a woman to produce. Sherlock also noted that it came from the doorway. Slowly the detective and his friend peered over to the entryway. In the doorway stood a man in his late twenties. He wore a dark-coloured polo shirt and a nice pair of trousers. There was no wrinkle in sight. His hair was slicked back with gel in a stylish manner and he flashed a nervous grin.

The man, whoever he was, was unsure of the scene before him. In fact, he was almost sure that he was about to witness a murder if it were for the ramblings of John; who had to explain the scenario. Finding out that they were playing a game of Cluedo didn’t help ease the man’s suspicion.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asked. His face bore no sign of emotion as he eyed the man in front of him. From just his watch, Sherlock could tell he came from wealth. The golden ring on his finger meant he was married and the fact that it was polished let Sherlock know it was well-loved: a happy marriage. Sherlock noted next was the man’s choice of outerwear. The jacket he so carefully held in his hand was much too thin for the weather London had been receiving the past few days. This led Sherlock to his final conclusion, the man was from out of town, even more so, from out of the country.

A deduction that was proven accurate the moment the man answered Sherlock’s question.

“The name’s Hilton Cubitt.” He introduced himself with an Irish accent and was quick to follow with a hand ready for Sherlock to shake, who quite literally left him hanging. “I assume that your Mr. Holmes?”

“Speaking.”

“Grand.” Hilton smiled in relief. “The whole fake murder thing makes sense now,” he joked.

John let out an uneasy chuckle. “Yeah…what are you here for Hilton?” He cleared his throat and once again realized his position on the floor. It took a moment and some tripping over the scatter thread for John to stand up. He could have sworn Sherlock was displeased to have his “dead body” removed.

“It’d be just easier to show than to…tell,” Hilton clarified. Then he reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small slip of paper. Now this intrigued Sherlock, so he quickly snatched it out of Hilton's hands.

Sherlock’s head tilted to the side with curiosity. A smile grew on his face. John took the peer over Sherlock’s shoulder at the sheet of paper.

“That’s a child’s drawing,” John muttered and he was confident in his deduction. Upon the sheet of paper were small stick figures. Each figure is in a different position, almost like steps to a dance.

“That your idea?” Sherlock. “Honestly, John after all this time I would have thought you’d have a more intelligent answer.”

John elbowed Sherlock in his side. “You’re just still upset after I beat you in six rounds of Cluedo.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and turned away from his friend. “Then I suggest we get the opinion of another. Someone who is unbiased.”

Immediately, John shook his head. “No, Sherlock. She’s getting ready for a date. You can’t–”

But it was too late. Sherlock had already vacated the flat with the code in hand. John’s mouth hung agape before he asked Hilton for a moment and darted down the stairs after Sherlock.

_______

Y/N quietly hummed along to the song playing on the stereo. She loved to hum or sing. It was one of the things that made her human and to know that she was alive. The feeling of her throat tickled as she mimicked the melody as best she could. One of her favourite feelings besides that of rain dancing across her skin or hugs from those she loved. The way they’d hold each other close in an embrace. It didn’t matter who the hug was from; her parents, Mrs. Hudson, John, Jim, and even Sherlock. There was even some part of her that preferred Sherlock’s stiff but calming embrace to anyone else’s.

Now that she came to think of it, Y/N had been thinking more and more about Sherlock. She attributed the thoughts and feelings to all the events that had transpired in the past few months. Case after case. Danger after danger. It would only make sense she’d need to find comfort in someone who understood. She only really could find comfort in someone who was there. Of course, she had considered talking to Jim, but he’d just worry. He was great like that. He’d worry as a good boyfriend should, but then would just tell her to leave. Just like he did when she told him about the reason she refused to take cabs.

“If it’s dangerous, then leave. Darling, just leave. Come work for me. Somewhere safe.” Those words, Jim’s words echoed in her head. She didn’t want to leave. She loved working with John and Sherlock. She loved helping others. She loved feeling like she was making a difference in the world. Something she doubted she could do working for Jim and his consulting company. Additionally, working for your boyfriend was weird. It felt like a commitment that would soon turn into an obligation. An obligation that would force her to stay, but Jim wouldn’t do that. He was the perfect gentleman. He probably just wanted to keep Y/N safe. Anyone would do that.

Suddenly the door flung open. Only one person would ever just barge into her flat like that. Y/N sighed. She’d have to get the door hinges replaced with the force Sherlock used to swing the door open.

“To what do I owe the pleasure,” She sarcastically questioned. Her tone was an attempt to hide that she was really happy he barged in. A tone that hid she’d be willing to replace her door hinges so long as he kept coming, but it came out harsher than she expected. Something she realized when she saw Sherlock’s dazed state.

“I’m sor—just…” She cleared her throat. “You alright? Clue going well?”

As she said it, she realized Sherlock was more dishevelled than she had ever seen. Was his hair always this curly and out of place? Then Y/N thought of how much she would like to run her finger through his hair. It looked soft, so she imagined it like that. As soft as clouds, or those unbelievably fuzzy blankets you couldn’t help but just run a hand over at the markets.

“You look–,” Stunning. Breathtaking. Like she’d rival Aphrodite’s beauty. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Sorry, what did you ask me?”

“Uh…just…clue? How’s it going?” She repeated.

Sherlock gulped. “...Great. And you?”

“I’m doing okay,” She said softly. Why had her voice gotten so quiet?

Sherlock nodded and looked around the room. His eyes darted frantically over the photos on the wall, then to the array of cat toys around her flat. Right, she had a cat. He could ask about that.

“Your cat?” Sherlock muttered.

“Bjørn? Erm… he’s with Mrs. Hudson right now. She spoils him rotten,” She chuckled. Then Y/N began to fiddle with her hands.

Something Sherlock knew to be a nervous habit. “You alright?” He asked again.

Y/N laughed again. “Are you sure you’re fine Sherlock? That’s the second time you’ve asked me that question.”

“Right, I mean-” His voice faltered as she stepped up to him. Her hand now rested on his forehead. She peered up at him. She was so close that Sherlock could see his face reflected in her eyes. They were gorgeous. He never knew so many colours could appear in a singular shade.

“You’re burning up, and your face it’s all red,” She muttered, finally lowering her hand. “You’ve got to tell Joh–”

“Sherlock, I told you to leave her al–” John began to reprimand his friend before shutting his mouth abruptly. He had thought Sherlock frazzled at a simple children’s game was something, but the sight before him was even better.

Sherlock stood in front of Y/N. Nothing too out of the ordinary. However, what John seemed to notice was the state of shock Sherlock seemed to be in. His mouth hung slightly open and his lips frozen in thought trying to find words to say. His cheeks have flushed a shade of red that John had only seen in cartoons. On top of it all, John could swear there were even hearts forming in Sherlock’s eyes as he gazed at Y/N.

John chuckled slightly and wished he had taken a picture. His laugh and presence seemed to have shaken Sherlock from his trance.

“You look nice,” John complimented Y/N.

She smiled softly and looked down at her dress. It was a brilliant shade of blue. She ran her hands over the material straightening it out. “Thanks,” Y/N muttered.

“John, I think Sherlock’s getting sick. His face is flushed and I think he has a fev–”

“I’m perfectly fine, Y/N,” Sherlock blurted.

John snickered. “Now that you say it, Y/N, Sherlock does look a little feverish.”

“I’m not sick,” Sherlock stated.

“Lovesick,” John coughed. Sherlock sent John a death glare upon hearing the words, but it seemed as if Y/N hadn’t noticed. It took John a moment to notice the confusion on Y/N's face. He quickly looked to Sherlock to see if the man who came charging into her flat was going to do any explaining, but he seemed to be occupied with gazing at Y/N.

“We need your opinion on something,” John said. He strolled up next to Sherlock and nudged his shoulder. This seemed to get Sherlock back in working condition.

“Right. Look at this,” Sherlock instructed. He handed Y/N the paper Hilton had given them moments prior.

The expression of confusion grew on her face. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“That’s for you to decide,” Sherlock explained.

She looked up from the paper and eyed Sherlock carefully. “Right. You know, I really do have to go can’t I just–”

“No!” Sherlock cleared his throat. “No, just…quickly what do you think it is?”

Y/N glanced down at the paper once more. The hesitance was clear in her voice as she said “A child’s picture? Like one a kid draws.”

John cheered in triumph. “Told you.”

Sherlock sneered at John. “Clearly both you and Y/N are lacking in some–”

But Sherlock did not get to finish for Y/N’s phone began to ring. “That’ll be Jim. Go to go.” She took a few steps outside the door before quickly turning on her heel. “Can you close the door behind you?” Her voice was directed more towards John than Sherlock.

John nodded and wished her a good time. Even Sherlock flashed a smile to her as she left, but it was soon replaced with a scowl.

John giggled at the sight. “When are you going to admit that you like her?”

“We have a client waiting, John,” Sherlock said.

“Change the subject all you’d like, but still does not change the fact that you fancy her,” John replied.

Sherlock didn’t even bother to reply to John as he left Y/N’s flat and embarked back up the stairs.

______

“What do think?” Hilton asked John and Sherlock.

The three of them now sat down in the flat: John in his chair, Sherlock on his ‘throne’, and Hilton Cubitt on the sofa next to the empty Cluedo game box. The way they were situated made Hilton feel like he was being interviewed.

“Of what?” Sherlock asked. His eyes came to focus on Hilton.

“The code,” Hilton uttered. “I read on your blog,” his voice grew sheepish, “of a case you recently solved involving a code. I thought you might be able to help me.”

John furrowed his brows. What case could– ”The Blind Banker?”

Hilton nodded. “Excellent storytelling might I add.”

John smiled and thanked Hilton. Sherlock looked between Hilton and John before clearing his throat just loud enough to end the conversation. John and Hilton’s gaze whipped to Sherlock. John’s expression was annoyed while Hilton’s was embarrassed.

“It’s rather curious. At first glance it’s a childish prank, so why do you say that it’s a code?” Sherlock questioned. He sent John a ‘don’t-give-me-that-look-he’s-here-for-a-case-and-not-to-fan-girl-you’ look.

“My wife,” Hilton said.

Suddenly a quizzical expression appeared on Sherlock’s face. “How does your wife let you know that it’s a code? Did she tell you?”

“In a way she did,” Hilton replied. “One evening she saw the drawing and was frightened to death. When I asked her about it, she said that it was nothing, but I could see the terror in her eyes. Not just some childish prank would scare my wife like that. That’s why I came to you hoping you might help me.

Sherlock looked at the paper once more. His pointer finger ran over the images. This was all very strange. Strange was exactly what Sherlock was looking for. One might even say that Sherlock’s middle name was strange. “Alright. Now, I need to know everything in detail.”

Hilton nodded. He was quick to adjust his sitting position into something more comfortable. “Now, I’m not much of a storyteller…Just ask me anything that I don’t make clear.” He cleared his throat and fumbled with the fabric of his trousers. “I’ll start at my marriage four years ago. Now, I’m not rich in any way, but my family, well, there’s no better-known family in Norfolk than the Cubitts. Anyways, I went to America about four years ago.”

“Where?” Sherlock asked. “Details.”

“New York. It was there I met Elsie Patrick. I fell in love and quickly married her. Came back home to Norfolk after that. Many people’d say that it was too fast for such a thing, but you don’t know Elsie. She was upfront about everything. Kept giving me the chance to get out of it if I wanted to. I remember she said, when I proposed to her, that she had relations with the not-so-agreeable sort. A past that she wanted to forget. She asked that I never asked her about her painful past. I agreed. Of course I did! It didn’t matter to me who she was before I met her. All that mattered was if she’d be with me the rest of my life.”

Sherlock sat in his chair, hands under his chin, eyes out of focus, his ears taking in all the information Hilton was providing, and his mind in deep thought. Something John knew not to disrupt.

“What about the code?” John asked.

“Well,” Hilton glanced down the floor. His voice changed from one of light and love to one of seriousness. “About a month ago, Elsie received a letter from America.”

“How did you know that it was from America?” Sherlock questioned.

“I saw the postage. Stamp and all. But when she saw it, her face turned white. Like she saw a ghost. Moments later, she read the letter and then tossed it into the fire. I didn’t ask her about it, but she was scared of Mr. Holmes. I knew she’d come and talk to me when she was ready.” Hilton turned to John, “But about the code. About a week later from the letter, must have been Tuesday last week–I found the figures drawn on a window sill. I thought it must have been our daughter.”

“Daughter?” John wondered.

The seriousness faded from Hilton’s face at the mention of his daughter. “Yes, she’s three and a half. Loves to draw!” Then he reached into his pockets and pulled out his wallet. Inside was an image of a young girl and woman, who John assumed was his wife. Hilton made quick work of displaying the photo for John and Sherlock to see. “One of the greatest things that happened to me, my girl. But if you give her a crayon, she’d decorate the whole house!”

Once again, Sherlock cleared his throat. Hilton immediately put away the photo he cherished. “Right,” Hilton continued, “well I washed the drawings away. Later that night, I mentioned them to Elsie who had the same look on her face when she opened the letter. She asked me to show her the drawings if I found any more before washing them away. And I didn’t find another until a few days ago. She saw the drawings and collapsed with fear. I knew something was wrong so I came to you. The police wouldn’t believe me. Mr. Holmes. I’m not rich, but I would do anything to protect my wife and daughter.”

“Don’t you think you should ask your wife to tell you?” John asked. It was a reasonable question and John got the sense that all would be well if Hilton only had the courage to ask.

Hilton shakes his head. “A promise is a promise. I won’t force her to tell me anything she doesn’t want me to.” He glanced down at the golden band on his ring finger and softly smiled.

“I’ll help you,” Sherlock announced.

A wave of relief washed over Hilton. “Thank you, Mr. Hol–”

“Have you heard of any strangers being seen in your neighbourhood?” Sherlock asked.

“No,” Hilton replied.

“Norfolk. A quiet place right? A new face would be news,” Sherlock questioned.

John peered at his friend. How would Sherlock know about the environment place in Ireland, but not be able to win a single round of Cluedo?

“In my neighbourhood, yes, but we have several farmers who take in lodgers. Along with the occasional tourist.”

Sherlock nodded his head slowly, his mind taking note of the information Hilton had provided him. “These drawings obviously have meaning, something I may be able to solve, so long as they aren’t just arbitrary drawings. However, this image is not enough. Do you have any more images of the code?”

“No, but I’ll be returning home soon. Tomorrow’s my flight back,” Hilton explained.

John’s eyes widened at the statement. Hilton really would do anything for his family if he’d just fly to London just to see Sherlock.

“I suggest you keep an eye out for such drawings and document them,” Sherlock suggested. “If and when you do find them send them to me as soon as possible. That is all I can do until I have more of the code to study.”

“Right,” Hilton said. His face flashed with an expression of disappointment. “Well, here’s my business card. It’s got my email and number if you need to contact me.”

John looked at the white business card Hilton had stuck out for either Sherlock or him to take. A business card was a smart idea. He made a mental note to possibly ask Y/N to make some for Sherlock. It would really make these cases much more efficient.

After noting that neither man in front of him was going to take the card from his hands, Hilton placed it on the coffee table in front of him. “Well, there…um,” He looked to John.

“Right! You’ll be needing our number and email as well…?” John replied.

Hilton nodded. “That would be great. It’s not the easiest to fly to London on a whim.”

“You flew on a whim?” Sherlock asked.

“Of course not, had a purpose…thank you again. I’ll be sure to send you any more of that code I find,” Hilton explained. Then he politely excused himself from 221B heading back to his hotel to prepare for his journey home.

The moment Hilton Cubitt had left the flat, Sherlock did not waste a moment in asking John for his phone.

“Why can’t you use your phone?”

“I need to call someone about the case,” Sherlock replied as if that was an adequate answer.

“I’m aware Sherlock but can’t you use your phone?”

“No, they won’t answer if it’s me,” Sherlock muttered. He stuck out his hand for John to place his phone into.

John peered at his friend. “Who wouldn’t answer if it was you?” John asked.

“None of your concern,” Sherlock clarified. “Phone.”

“Cause the only people I can think of are Mycroft, Greg, and…No, Sherlock,” John stated.

“It’s important. Hilton mentioned his wife is from America, who better to ask about the case than her,” Sherlock argued.

“Just because she is American does not mean she’s going to know everyone who’s ever set foot in the country let alone known about the case,” John refuted.

Sherlock huffed. “John. Phone.”

“No. She is on a date, Sherlock! She followed your rules. You gave her the night off. You must respect that,” John scolded Sherlock. “Just like Cluedo, you can’t change the rules of the game just because you aren’t winning. Which by the way,” John stomped over the tiny envelope that held the answer to the game. “You lost once again. It was Miss Scarlet with the dagger in the Billard room.”

In a fury, he tossed the cards at Sherlock’s face and stormed off to his room. The loud slamming of John’s door echoed throughout 221B. Sherlock picked up the cards from the floor and clutched them in his hand. He clenched his teeth together and crinkled the cards within his hand.

It was a stupid game. A stupid game Y/N had thought he might have fun playing. A stupid game that followed no logic. A stupid game that Sherlock lost over and over again. What was he doing wrong? Wasn’t wanting the prize–wasn’t wanting to win enough? Nothing was making sense anymore. Clues weren’t leading to anything. Y/N couldn’t see she was making it all worse. She plagued his thoughts. Thoughts that were never meant for anything other than logic. Y/N wasn’t logical. John had pointed that out to him long ago. Nothing about the way she smiled or how she laughed at a comment he uttered to Anderson made sense. So why did her gentle hand on his forehead or how she asked if he was well, feel so right? The thought of her in that dress singing to herself was all he ever needed. It wasn’t logical how Sherlock would throw away any thought of sanity just to be hers. This wasn’t Sherlock. Sherlock was logical and followed the rules of intelligence. Sherlock wasn’t swayed by emotion. Sherlock didn’t lose.

He retrieved the paper depicting the code. This here was logical. A code. A worried husband. A case. The cases were logical. Sherlock followed logic. What hadn’t occurred to him was how late he sat in his chair staring at the drawings. His eyes were strained from observing the stick figures for the hundredth time. He was committing them to memory: The width of the circles that were used as heads, the direction each figure was facing, the poses of each stick figure, and the material they were drawn with. The sun had long since set below the horizon and Baker Street had gone quiet. Sherlock ignored how heavy his body felt. His eyelids were begging to close. But when they did, he thought of her and she wasn’t logical. Instead, he kept them open and looked at the drawings once more.

_________

Y/N’s feet were aching when she finally reached the comforting black door of 221B Baker Street. She lovingly brought a hand to the raised number 221B and remember when she saw them for the first time. It was the first time she walked into her home. Y/N wasn’t afraid to admit that her home was Baker Street and that she shared her home with those she loved most. John and his sweet demeanour, Mrs. Hudson and her soap operas, Sherlock and his gross experiments, and Bjørn and his demon-like screech. This was home.

She made quick work of finding her keys, opening the door, and stepping into the warmth and comfort of 221B Baker Street. The entryway was dimly lit and the light, Y/N observed, came from Sherlock’s flat. His door was wide open allowing the light from the room to seep out into the hallway. That only meant one thing. Sherlock was awake.

Y/N took in a tired breath and dismayed her want to crawl into her bed with Bjørn tucked under her arm and fall asleep. She trudged up the stairs as quietly as she could before appearing in Sherlock’s doorway.

He sat peacefully. His sapphire blue eyes glowed in the dark as he stared out the window. His legs were crossed comfortably in his seat and in his hand he clutched a paper tightly.

“What are you doing up so late?” Y/N asked.

She watched as Sherlock froze the moment he heard her words. He turned away from the window and gazed at her.

“Could ask you the same thing. How was your date?” He replied.

“You won’t get off that easy,” Y/N chuckled. “You need to sleep, Sherlock.”

“I will…how was the date?” He asked again.

Y/N sighed softly before hanging up her coat and removing her heels. She forgot why she even wore them in the first place. They always made her feet hurt for days afterwards. She was soon to find a seat on the sofa.

“It was nice. It was some charity event. Had a nice dinner and danced a little bit. Nothing too crazy.” She began to fiddle with the hem of her dress. It was satin. The soft material was smooth against her fingers. Then she laid back on the sofa, her head bumped into the box for Cluedo. She muttered a subtle “ow,” before taking notice of the room.

“You’ve redecorated.” She noted. Her eyes caught sight of the red thread, the rope on the coffee table, and the game cards taped to the walls. “Must have been a fun game by the looks of it.”

“You’d have to ask John. I lost every round.” Sherlock confessed.

Y/N gasped. “Sherlock Holmes lost every round of Cluedo? Is it solving mysteries and murders your forte?” She said it with such humour, Sherlock let it slide.

Sherlock playfully rolled his eyes, “The game doesn’t follow logic, so of course John won.”

Then she giggled. Just the sound of her laugh alone drew Sherlock out of his sorrow. He couldn’t help the chuckle that left his mouth. He had always heard of laughing being contagious but only really believed it when he met her.

It took only a moment for them to settle down. The fuel to their laughter was long gone. Y/N tucked her feet in close to her body as goosebumps appeared on her arms. The tiny bumps were the body's way of keeping heat, at least that’s what Sherlock told her as he offered her a blanket. One she gladly took.

“He asked me to move in with him,” Y/N whispered. She wasn’t sure why she was telling Sherlock this. Maybe it was because Sherlock felt most like home. She didn’t want to leave her home.

Sherlock tensed at her words. “...What did you say?”

Y/N rubbed the back of her neck. “Jim, he asked me to move in with him. Said I’d think about it, but I’m leaning towards no. After all, what would you and John do without me?”

“You don’t–” Sherlock sighed. “You can move in with him if you want.” Immediately he wanted to hurl. What was he saying? Seeing her leave? He shook his head. No, this was logical. Her moving is logical. Who was kidding, it was the worst thing possible. Who would he have to bother when he was bored? Who would care about him when he no longer cared? He’d have John, but he wasn’t Y/N.

Y/N shook her head. “Not just…I don’t want to move just because of you and John. Baker Street is my home. I–I could never leave,” Y/N confessed. “Plus, I think Jim asked me because he was worried. He found John’s blog and read about the Blind Banker incident. Doesn’t want me to get hurt chasing after you, but it’s my job and I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”

She wasn’t going to leave. This eased Sherlock’s mind and beating heart, but then he felt guilty. Her boyfriend was right, she was hurt because of the case. “He’s right, you know. It’s dangerous.”

“I know what I signed up for Sherlock,” Y/N hissed. “Sorry, just…it’s too perfect.”

Sherlock frowned. “What’s too perfect?”

Y/N realized her mistake. Her face flushed and her voice grew quiet. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if it’s bothering you,” Sherlock stated. He leaned forward in his chair and placed a hand over hers.

Y/N smiled softly at the gesture. “He’s too perfect. Our relationship. Everything,” Y/N groaned. She didn’t notice how Sherlock winced.

“Jim, he’s smart, kind, handsome, and ever the gentleman. He knows exactly what I want. Never fails to take me on an amazing date, likes my favourite foods, and has read the same books I have. He’s perfect. Exactly what I want. Which sounds crazy, but he–it doesn’t feel real. By now I’d think I’d actually know him. He hasn’t really told me what does for work…”

“What does he do?” Sherlock asked.

“He consults business, but that’s all he’s told me. I don’t know his favourite colour, where he’s from, or anything. It’s all about me, but he’s…he’s perfect,” Y/N sighed. “It doesn’t make sense. Nobody’s perfect…I don’t know what to do, Sherlock,” She confessed. “You don’t just break up with somebody because they’re perfect. It doesn’t help that he wants to take me away. On a trip or something…I don’t know. Just…nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing is what it seems. I fear you’ve corrupted me, Sherlock.”

He chuckled. “I’ve corrupted you?”

“Yeah. You’ve made me think. To observe, to not trust anything at first glance. Now nothing is ever what it seems,” Y/N admitted with a smile on her face.

Sherlock smiled back. “And that’s good?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah. You’re great–It’s great.”

“I’m glad,” said Sherlock.

“So am I. It just makes everything that much more complicated.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock replied.

Y/N hummed in response. She took Sherlock’s hands within her own and Sherlock could swear his heart did a backflip off a cliff. She peered at his hands carefully. Her thumbs lovingly ran over his knuckles. Sherlock felt as if his skin was on fire. It burned to have her hold his hands. The hands were delicate things used for almost everything Sherlock did. To burn them was to render him useless and that’s what she did. Sherlock was rendered useless in the best way possible.

“You should really get some sleep, Sherlock.”

“Ah, but I have a case that needs working on. A code to solve.”

“Sherlock,” Y/N warned.

“I’ll tell you all about it. A client, Hilton Cubitt walked in while John and I were playing Cluedo and —”

“Sherlock,” Y/N interrupted. “You can tell me all about it tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow,” Sherlock stated. He tilted his head towards the clock behind him.

“You know what I mean. We both need sleep. You more than anyone,” Y/N said. Sherlock opened his mouth to refute her statement when she cut him off. “Even the great Sherlock Holmes needs to sleep. If not for yourself, then for me.”

Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to refuse her. He wouldn’t be able to refuse her anything. He nodded and watched as she removed her hands from his.

In her tiredness, Y/N drew away from Sherlock. She stood up from her seat, picked up her shoes and coat, and went downstairs to her flat where she crawled downstairs into her bed and fell asleep. At least that’s what she told herself she would do all. Just then she leaned in close. She blamed it on the fog her mind was in. Nothing was ever what it seemed to be anymore. Her lips brushed against Sherlock’s forehead, her hands resting in his hair as she brushed it away from his face.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” she whispered against his skin. Just like she said she would, she left Sherlock in his chair. Her coat in shoes was in her arms as she descended the stairs.

Now, if things were logical, Sherlock wouldn’t have let her pull away. He would grasp her wrists and hold her close. He would have whispered to her that she missed. Then he would have placed his lips on hers. He would have kissed her if things were logical. But nothing was anymore. Not when Y/N was with him.

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