#sherlocks daily routine is to solve cases and annoy john

[malpractisnt]

More sherlock x textposts i made instead of studying for finals

[bluebellhairpin]

Pick My Poison

Sherlock Holmes X Fem!Reader

A/N: Have I mentioned that I love Sherlock yet? - Nemo

Song: ‘Poison’ by Rita Ora

Summary: You’re a junkie, but you cannot decide what it is you’re addicted to. Until one day, after a rather particularity deadly brush with death, you find out exactly what it is. 

Masterlist  

I could have beer for breakfast,

My sanity for lunch,

Trying to get over how bad I want you so much.

Some thought he was a Psychopath. Others thought he was a stuck-up jerk. To John he was a genius, a strange and arrogant one, but genius nonetheless. He thought he was a High-Functioning  Sociopath. You thought he was normal, nothing to ogle at and nothing to worry yourself with encase he was a murderer.

As far as he was concerned, you were nothing similar to others in the world, and yet you were also nothing like him. He had trouble deducing you to begin with, finding your quirks soon after he found the first, but he held you highly for lasting as long as you did. Not to mention your peculiar ways of seeing the world.

You noticed things others didn’t. When you forgot someone’s special date, like an anniversary or birthday, you remembered what they were doing at that exact time five years ago. Or you went to a crime scene and, like during ‘A Study In Pink’, didn’t notice the fact the woman wore a wedding band but did notice the fact she had no phone and the police didn’t have one in their evidence bags.

John called it a lazy sociopathic mind. Sherlock and You called it a selective photographic memory. Once John heard what you both called it he agreed. A photographic memory was something you had, being able to recall certain scenes or notes like it was right in front of you was a trait of such a mind.

However, you had one downfall. One weakness. It was the soul reason why you worked with Sherlock and John instead of Scotland Yard.

You were, what’s commonly called, a ‘Junkie’.

Innocence of dinner,

Pour something in my cup.

Where other addicts tend to lean towards the hooks of drugs or alcohol, you were an adrenaline junkie, only of the worst kind.

The thrill of roller coasters or cliff-jumping soon wore out, they no longer seemed ‘death deifying’ enough. You felt the need for something more real. More deadly.

That’s how you came  across Sherlock.

He was running past you, trying to catch up to a cabbie, ignoring the crowd and traffic as if the only thing that mattered was catching that car. His hair was all messy, his coat was flowing behind him like some sort of form-fitting cape, and he ran with such precision that you found yourself running after him. You were, to this day, grateful you did.

But then your addiction to adrenaline turned to an addiction for death.

Anything and everything just to fill me up,

But nothing ever gets me high like this.

You found yourself wanting more murders, more, more cases to solve, more bodies to analyse, more death. You wanted, craved more and more.

Even Sherlock was a little worried for you (only a little, and he’d never admit it), since by now you’d become close enough to call each other friends.

Donovan and Anderson started sneering at you when you walked past. Your new-found addiction having made itself known when they overheard Molly worriedly talking about your latest overnight stint in the morgue.

(Morgues were the best places to study death, that's pretty damn common knowledge.)

“Not another psycho.”

“Now we’ll have two murderers being pulled onto cases by Lestrade.”

You tried ignoring it. You really did. But Anderson’s face looked so very punchable on one particular day, and you ended up walking yourself back to Baker Street after being kicked out of the building and its entirety to nurse your bleeding knuckles while Anderson nursed his broken nose.

Sherlock liked that story. He had you tell it four times while he helped patched-up your knuckles. You thought it was very nice of him.

I can hear you whisper,

And laying on the floor.

I try to stop but I keep coming back for more.

When Moriarty decided to work his way into your lives you found you did not have an addiction to death.

If you did, the thought of John or Sherlock dying would have appealed to you, but since you seemed to not, the threat of their intimate doom made your chest clench and stomach churn with dread.

It clicked pretty soon after that, while you were sitting across from Sherlock drinking a cup of something steaming hot with your eyes locked with his.

You weren't addicted to death. You were addicted to Sherlock.

That thought sent a shiver down your spine, rocking you to your core, and you had to excuse yourself to go deal with your thoughts. So you spent the next three hours wandering the streets of London to try and set your mind right again.

When you went back to 221 Baker Street, you went in to visit Mrs. Hudson. She was a little wacky, and a champ when it came to dealing with Sherlock, but she also offered some of the best advice you’d ever gotten.

“You’re one of the most dazzling, smart - and sane - person I know,” she’d said, “But you’re so much like him in that you can’t see the obvious.”

“What do you mean?” you’d asked softly, staring into the untouched cup of tea she’d given you. “I see everything.”

“And yet nothing at the same time.”

I’m a lightweight,

And I know it.

But after the first time I was falling, falling down.

You didn’t quite understand what Mrs. Hudson meant. You knew you weren’t good at remembering everything, but when you saw something that meant something you knew exactly what it was. You thought something like this was worth remembering, or recognising, but apparently not.  

After you left that night, Sherlock got John over. He didn’t know why you left, and he didn’t know why the room felt emptier after you left.

“Maybe because she’s not taking up space?” John had suggested, trying to think like Sherlock would.

“No, that’s not it. I’d know if that was it, and this isn’t it.”

“Maybe you miss her?”

“Missing her would mean I have feelings that’d attach me to her.”

“Well then, maybe you’re not as cold and heartless as you think you are.” By then John was beginning to get annoyed. Ironically, it was clear to both him and Mrs. Hudson what was going on, but the two ‘geniuses’ in their lives couldn’t see it.

You couldn’t understand why you were ‘addicted’ to Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn’t understand why he ‘missed’ you.

Eventually, though, you worked it out. After a couple long weeks of tiptoeing around each others thoughts, some erratic violin playing, and three visits from Mycroft, to be exact.

In a sweet ecstasy that you got me in,

Falling deep, I can’t sleep tonight.

And you make me feel I’m outta my mind,

But it’s alright.

Eventually you both got into a new routine. One that involved long nights, short mornings, giving John time to live a semi-normal life without chasing Sherlock on too many cases, date nights of fish and chips and ‘Crime-Crawling’ (A story for later, trust me), and having to out-smart Mycroft and out-sassing Sherlock on a daily basis.

It was like living a dream.

And you found that now, even though days still got hectic, you weren’t so much of a junkie. You weren’t harassed by Anderson and Donovan as much either. As much as Mycroft’s protective older-brother instincts kicked in telling him to scare you off, he didn’t. He saw your effect on his younger brother and decided it was for the better.

For Sherlock, you made him tolerate the world more. You were able to help him solve cases without any drugs.

For you, Sherlock was the rush you needed. He was what helped you remember, he made you a better human.

I pick my poison and its you,

Nothing could kill me like you do,

You’re going straight to my head.

As your days passed, turning from weeks to months to years, the rush never left. He never let it.

Sherlock Holmes was never boring, he never let a moment pass by as being labeled ‘dull’, and you loved it.

You loved it as much as you loved him.

And dare he ever admit it with words, he loved it as much as he loved you too.

And I’m heading straight to the edge,

I pick my poison and it’s you.

[malpractisnt]

Sherlock: If I were to tell you I’m in love with you, would you run away screaming or just accept it?

John: Well, since you’re asking, I’d say I’d accept it and then probably scream later.