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[awritesfanfics]

The Return

Hello! Back from a very long hiatus. Sorry to those who actually still read what I write; school this year has kicked my ass. Big time. And I just got some very very disappointing news from my schools, so that has me down. But what better way to get all my emotions out than to write, right? Recently back on my Sherlock bullshit so here’s a nice Sherlock x Reader fic! Hope you enjoy and as always requests are always welcome!

Spoiler alert: this is somewhere after the Reichenbach Fall, after ‘someone’ jumps but pretend the other ‘someone’ doesn’t shoot himself

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 2,689

Warnings: Violence, language

Mentions (this is new! any other character mentioned in the story will show up here!): Sherlock, Moriarty, Lestrade, (Mycroft? a little?)

———————————————————————————————————–

The light stung your eyes. A headache pounded against your skull, begging to release the pressure built up inside. A night out wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered, but it may have been what the therapist had in mind. Even though all the alcohol in the world wasn’t able to clear the memories that clawed their way through your mind: the memories of your American agent past. The best thing to happen to you was a bullet to the skull during a mission in Russia. That lead to the pronunciation of your death, and therefore your permanent removal from the foreign intelligence program. You were mixed up with some English agents at the time, who managed to fly you into London where you found the company of similar individuals. A new name, a new life, a new beginning. But the memories, the scars across your mind, the stains of murder and American secrets still plastered themselves across the most visible parts of your psyche.

The night out was a cover, albeit a terrible one. You caught wind of a small Russian group’s who claimed to have meddled in the American elections, and they decided to rendezvous with a local intelligence at a bar outside of London. You showed up, got drunk, and kicked ass, effectively. Four agents would be dead by the morning, and the fifth was in a coma with a broken spine. But they slipped something in one of your (many) drinks, and knocked you out before you could get rid of the fifth completely. One of Sherlock’s homeless network found you, after the bartender kicked you out, and phoned John, who picked you up and took you back to the flat.

“The pub, really?”

“What are you talking about.” It wasn’t a question; you knew what was coming.

“Are you kidding me? My homeless network found you on the streets screaming about Russ-” he went quiet, realization spreading across his face. “You didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, filling a cup of water from the tap and sitting down.

“That whole time you spent away in America, it was about this, wasn’t it? You got involved with the investigation of the American election. You found out too much before you got shot - that’s why you got shot - but you just couldn’t go on without sharing the information.” he shook his head. “You went back, to finish the investigation, didn’t you?”

You crossed your arms and looked away. He turned away from you, you could tell his blood was beginning to boil. “You went to America, a place that you were heavily involved in government intelligence work until your “death,” and you went back?” He scoffed.

“You need to relax, Sherlock, I’m a big girl. I handled it. Twice, actually.”

“You lied to me!” He screamed whipping around.

“Excuse me?” You stood up.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed, do you understand that? Just because you wanted to prove how clever you are!”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock, not from you, of all fucking people, no. Don’t you play this game with me.” You hissed, your voice low.

“I’m not playing anymore.” He countered.

“You fucking hypocrite. Mr high and mighty, what, you’re a saint now? Don’t even try to lecture me about “proving how clever I am”. I can’t even begin to count the times you almost killed yourself, or someone else, because you needed to show off!”

He scoffed.

“And let me guess now you’re too clever to do something you were told not to do? Too clever to make a mistake in your life? Too clever to tell a lie to avoid the problems that’d come with the truth? I’m not sure, but I think I know a few people who would disagree with that!” You looked straight into his eyes, your face inches from his.

“I did it to protect them! What you did was completely ridiculous! You could’ve gotten yourself killed, and you could’ve compromised the security of the United States government, do you understand that?!” He grabbed you by the shoulders.

You smacked them away. “I know who I am, I know what I’m capable of! I didn’t tell you because I didn’t need to! I don’t need your permission, and I don’t need to be babysat!” You spat. “And I wasn’t trying to prove how clever I was, I was trying to help the fucking country!”

You’ve never seen him more angry. Had you not known him, you’d think he was about to kill you. His breathing was heavy, his eyes wide and his face twisted in fury. You felt his muscles tense. Suddenly, his expression turned to one of confusion. He looked to the side of your head, then to the window. He swung you around, pinning you against the wall.

“What-” you tried to push him off angrily.

“Vatican cameos.” He whispered.

You pulled the gun from the sling in your hip and didn’t say another word. You looked around, eyes wide and alert.

A shatter of glass, the impact. Sherlock fell to the floor.

“No!” You cried. You tried to process what had just happened. “Sherlock, sherlock, can you hear me?”

A second bullet flew through the window, striking your side. You felt the impact, but didn’t feel the pain. Your heart was pounding, your adrenaline skyrocketed. Sherlock wasn’t speaking, but he was conscious. Your dragged him into the bathroom, the closest room in the flat without windows, where you tore off his shirt to reveal the bullet wound. It ripped through his right shoulder, travelling six inches into his back and exiting. You found the box of tampons you kept at the flat and pushed one into the entrance and one in the exit to plug the bleeding. You took a wadded up washcloth and applied pressure, wrapping awkwardly with an ace bandage. It wasn’t pretty, or nearly enough, but it would keep him alive. You called lestrade.

“Greg,” he answered. It sounded as if he had food in his mouth.

Your breathing was labored. “Lestrade, Sherlock’s been shot.”

“What? What happened?”

“We’re at the flat I have - I have something of a trauma bandage on him, but it tore through his shoulder, I don’t know what’s going to happen, please. It was a sniper, I don’t know - I don’t know who or where they were. You have to be safe too.”

“Help is on the way just keep pressure on that wound! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you lied. You pulled your shirt up to reveal the blood flowing from your side. It was dark red. Not an artery. That was good. No exit wound. Also good. “Please just hurry.” You hung up to the phone and took another tampon and another piece of ace bandage, plugging the entrance hole and wrapping it around yourself. Then you returned pressure to Sherlock’s shoulder. You pulled him up into your lap as you laid on the floor, blood staining the white tile around you. You kept your gun loaded and in hand, ready for the sniper to show his face.

Within minutes the door was broken down. Armed officers entered with paramedics, followed by Lestrade. You lowered your gun and took a deep breath. They collected Sherlock as Lestrade helped you to your feet. You swayed a bit, clutching your side.

“You alright?” he asked, helping to stabilize you.

“Yea, yea I’m fine, just stiff, from sitting there.”

“Right. Well, there was no sign of the shooter. Still got men looking but I wouldn’t keep my hopes up, given the circumstances.”

You nodded, and followed him down the stairs. You took a seat in the ambulance with Sherlock, clutching his hand.

At the hospital, you followed the EMT’s as they rushed him into the ER. Suddenly, you fell to the ground. Your skin flushed.

“My God,” Lestrade fell to your side. “I didn’t know you were shot too!”

Nurses rushed over to you, pulling you onto a bed before taking you into an ER as well. You blacked out as you watched Sherlock disappear down the hallway.

-

As you came to, you found yourself in a dark room. You pulled up your papery gown and felt the sterile dressing of a proper bandage taped to your side. You went under and got patched up already. A small note stuck to your side table drew your attention.

“Room 221. B. Operating theater.”

A wicked smiley face grinned across the bottom of the note. Luckily, Lestrade brought your coat into the room for when you woke up, and you still had your gun inside the pocket. You took it with you, hiding it as best you could as you took a walk into the hall. None of the nurses were around, but that was probably planned. You found your way to room 221B. It was the operating theater, facing the room in which Sherlock laid, cut open, surrounded by doctors trying to put his shattered shoulder blade back together. A man stood beside the glass, watching the doctors work.

“Fitting, isn’t it? The room number. I planned that, you know.” Moriarty grinned as he turned to you. “Do put the gun down, please, I’m not in the mood for dying right now.”

Your gaze was unwavering, your finger resting on the trigger. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the glass. “I have one too you know,” he said as he pulled a gun from his pocket. “Or, at least Sherlock did. Sorry about that, again.” He tilted his head to Sherlock. “That wasn’t meant for him. It was meant for you! Collateral damage, I’m afraid, he got in the way. But it seemed to work out fine because we got to you anyway. That’s the problem with you.” He walked towards you. “You’d be the best spy, the best shot, hell you’d even be the best doctor I’d have ever seen, what, with your skill set?” You lowered the gun, listening. “I know you. I’ve been following you. You do great work, really, I know a good murder when I see one and let me tell you,” he whistled. “You impress me. Thought about hiring you for a couple of my jobs but you have ‘morals.’ What a waste. Whatever you want to be, you’d excel, if you were like the rest of them. But you’re not like the rest of them, the other spies, the other assassins. You’ve got emotions.” He went back to Sherlock. “No one else did. They had families but it was just for show. We killed their wives, or husbands-” He paused to look at you, then down at Sherlock’s handgun. “or kids. They didn’t even bat an eye they just scurried away from us to save themselves because they didn’t care. But not you. You cared a little too much for the wrong person.  Funny, people like you don’t usually fall for people like Sherlock.” he looked back at the window, laughing. “And look! Seems like he “fell” for you too!”

You pulled your gun on him again, and without skipping a beat, he followed suit.

“Uh uh ah,” he shook his head. “I’d be more careful if I were you.” He whispered, “I have eyes everywhere.”

A nurse in the operating room dropped a small syringe from his sleeve, exposing it. You lowered the gun, and he slipped the syringe back up his arm, out of sight.

“There. Isn’t this nicer? It’s safer, I think. Guns are just so violent.” He spun it in his fingers. “Too much to clean up. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

“Then why’d you hire a sniper to camp outside our flat?”

“Because it wasn’t me behind the trigger.”

“Does that put your mind at ease then? You’re still the one ordering the kill. You’ve still got blood on your hands, the blood of the innocent. God isn’t that easy to fool.”

“You, my dear, are far from innocent,” he hissed. “You’ve gotten too comfortable, with your lifestyle. You’re in my way.”

“No, you’re in mine.” You aimed the gun, and he raised his hand.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Why not?” Your voice was slow, your words calculated.

“Because every advance you make on me, another one of your people go down. I’ll start with the nurses.” He tucked in his thumb. A bullet. Down. “Still don’t believe me? Here, I’ll do it again.” His pointer finger. Another bullet. Another nurse. The doctors looked on in horror. They grasped at the doors, trying to claw their way out, but they were trapped.

“You stop coming at me, (Y/N), and I’ll stop shooting them.”

You put the gun down again. Angry tears stung at your eyes.

“Good,” he said, lowering his hand. “I do hate killing people, you know. But it’s often the only way to get someone to listen.

“What do you want?” you cried.

“I told you what I want I want you out of my way.”

Without thinking, you pouncing on him, like a crazed animal. You rained on him a flurry of punches, effectively battering his face. Your gun sat just beyond your reach, so you took the fight to it. You pressed your knee against his throat, reached for the gun, and aimed it at his face, three inches away from his nose.

“No, no no no,” Moriarty whined. “I knew it, I knew emotions would - would get the best of you.” His breathing became labored. “You’re so predictable, so agonizingly normal.

“Emotion. Is not. A. Weakness,” you growled, firing a bullet into his left subclavian artery. You didn’t want to kill him; he wasn’t lucky enough for that. You needed him immobile. He’d pass out before long due to blood loss, but hopefully it was calculated well enough that he would be able to pull through, in time for questioning, and for capturing. The nurses and doctors who remained huddled in the corner of the room. Seeing you, one stepped forward, pager held tightly in a shaky hand. You took it, and read the message displayed.

SNIPER HANDLED. DEAL W NURSE. -MH

You looked around, and shot the man with the syringe before he could take another step. Then you rushed to Sherlock’s bedside. He was still unconscious, and his vitals were suddenly dropping.

“I know this is a lot to ask after what just happened, but I need you to help him.” You asked. Without hesitation, the doctors gathered back around him.

“Can you guarantee the safety of the rest of my team?” The doctor stepped forward, her eyes full of fear, but determined.

“Yes.”

She nodded, and returned to him, barking orders at her staff as if nothing had ever happened. Tears began to fill your eyes as you watched the heart rate monitor flat line.

“Sherlock?! Sherlock!” You fell at his side, grasping his limp hand as nurses surrounded you, trying to help him. Lestrade rushed in with his team. He pulled you away, your face twisting in anguish as the nurses filled in the gap you left, blocking your view. He sat you in the hall and held you for a while. Tears still rushed down your face. 

-

You don’t even remember falling asleep, but you remember waking up in your hospital bed, beside Sherlock’s. 

Your heart began to race. You glanced at his vitals monitor, and everything seemed to be fine. He was still sleeping, but that didn’t stop you from hopping out of your bed and rushing to his. You were careful to avoid his shoulder, which was now carefully cleaned and wrapped. You crawled into bed beside him, and rested your head on his chest. Slowly, and ever so gently, his arm wrapped around you, and pulled you in closer. 

You let out a small laugh before wrapping your arm across his chest, and burying your head closer into him. 

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. 

“Thank you,” you replied, closing your eyes.

“I didn’t even say what for.”

“Consider it blanketing. You’ve got a clean slate, Sherlock Holmes.”

[awritesfanfics]

Reblog if you are a fic writer who welcomes moodboards, playlists, remixes, art and any other type of gift based on your stories.

Psh duh who wouldn’t

[awritesfanfics]

100 Followers!!

Hey I just got my 100th follower!! I wanna give a big thank you to everyone, it means so so much to me that you like my writing!!! If you have any requests, or just wanna chat I'm always here!! Just shoot me a message!!! :)

[awritesfanfics]

Not Your Fight Pt. 2

Hey! here’s part 1!

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: 1,235

Warnings: Violence, Injury, Cursing

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“Friday, get me visual on the rubble. Anyone left?”

“My sensors indicate one person. Female.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he hovered over the ruins.

“Hey, did you see a girl, young, long curly hair in there?” Peter began asking around frantically, praying that he'd find you among the crowd.

“She went back to check if anyone was left, she was the last one,” a woman answered.

“No, no no no, no no come on (Y/N),” he panicked. “Wanda! Wanda over here! I need your help lifting the rubble, (Y/N)’s trapped in there and we have to find her!!”

Rhodes worked to put out the fire as Tony scanned the rubble for any sign of you.

He lifted his hand to shoot a hole in the base of the emergency stairwell to get access to you.

“Tony, stop! Any blow to the base could cause a collapse. Any shifting of the rocks could prove fatal. You can't shoot your way out of this one,” Friday warned.

Wanda began peeling back the layers of broken concrete that covered the ground.

“I see something!” He yelled.

A scraped hand draped itself over the remains of the twisted stairwell railing. Peter raced over, tripping as he ran across the uneven surface. He fell to his knees by your side.

“Wanda!!” He cried. She carefully lifted the rubble from your back.

“Ch-check vitals… please… (Y/N) come on, please, some, someone call an ambulance!” His hands shook as he brushed the hair and dust from your face. Tony landed by his side.

“Friday. Vitals.”

“Heartbeat detected. Multiple broken bones, possible fractured skull, smoke and dust inhalation from the collapse. Emergency medical is on the way, but Tony, this doesn't look too good.”

Peter ignored him. He came with you to the hospital, never leaving your side. He held your hand the whole way, and watched as they rushed you into the ER. He stood outside the room, watching them work frantically to bring you back to life.

-

Tony joined him.

“There was no reason for you to bring her here! She can't handle this kind of thing.”

“Well clearly, neither can you!” He countered, skipping the small talk.

“She's just a kid!”

“You're just a kid!

“But I have powers! I have strength and speed and, and flexibility, and… and what does she have? Huh? A fractured skull, broken ribs...” His voice cracked. “She may never be able to run again, Tony. You know how important that was to her?”

“Yea well, she'll just have to learn another hobby to de-stress.”

“Yea? You should start taking your own advice, maybe pick up knitting, instead of coming up with all these “internships” to lure in kids that look up to you, just to have them give up everything they care about so you can prove a point to somebody.” Peter tore his earpiece out and tossed it at Tony's feet. He blinked tears out of his eyes as he pushed past him and left the hallway. He found a seat in the waiting room, took a deep breath, and broke down. He buried his face in his hands as Wanda took a seat next to him.

“Tony… he doesn't have the best way with words, does he?” she put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “She’ll make it through this.”

“But what next? She's not gonna wanna stop after this. I know her. She's just like…”

“Just like you? Just like all the rest of the Avengers, who won't give up the fight for what they believe in? Sounds like she’ll fit right in.”

“But, she's not supposed to fit in. She can't handle this. She could get, she could've, I mean, what if she didn't make it out of there? What if I didn't find her?” His voice cracked. “I can't- I can't lose her. She has so much to live for. This wasn't her fight.”

“This was nobody's fight. This was Tony's fight against himself. None of us should have been involved in the first place, but we were. And nothing can change that, but now we have to move forward.”

“Excuse me, are you the family of (Y/N) (Y/L/N)?” A nurse came out carrying a clipboard.

“Yes,” Wanda answered, standing. She nudged Peter out of his seat.

“She's being airlifted back to the US for treatment. As of right now, she's in stable condition. Frankly, I'm surprised she pulled through at all.”

“Will she ever be able to walk again?” Peter questioned. “She was uh, on varsity track.”

“That's another story. As of right now, she faces possible paralysis in both legs. It's too early to tell, but with injuries like this, it isn't common for patients to regain that feeling in their legs. If we're lucky, she'll just be wheelchair-bound after this.”

Peter’s world slowed to a stop. The nurse continued to talk with wanda, but he didn't hear them. The only thing left running through his mind was you.

“Peter?” Wanda stood over him, breaking his focus.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Go where?”

“Home, to New York.”

-

You spent the next 2 weeks in intensive care, alone save the few nurses that pattered around you periodically to check your vitals. You were flooded with cards and flowers from your friends and distant family, but you didn’t get anything from Tony; you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little surprised. You figured he’d at least send a card or something. But the worst part of the whole thing was not being able to see anyone. The doctors kept you isolated to prevent you from getting too excited. They didn’t feel that you were strong enough to handle it yet. But the two-week quarantine was  finally over today, and instead you began rigorous physical therapy to get your strength back.

The nurses wheeled you down to the therapy room, a large open space filled with various sets of weights and fitness machines.

“So where do I start?” You asked, overwhelmed by the options.

“We actually have a special brace for you, to help you walk again. It’ll speed up the healing process by weeks, and it’s your best bet for gaining the full range of mobility back in your legs. And it was donated to you, so there’s no charge for it.”

You wheeled yourself over to the case it was in. You noticed a small yellow envelope stuck to the side with your name on it. A Get-Well-Soon card.

“How’s this for workers comp? - Tony”

You rolled your eyes as the nurse helped you suit up. “Mr. Stark also sent something else to ensure a speedy recovery,” the nurse said, smiling. She helped you to your feet and guided your hands to a set of bars on either side of you so you could support yourself.

You cocked your head. Your heart stopped as you felt a tap on your shoulder from behind.

“Peter!” Without hesitation, you threw your arms around him, losing your balance. But he was right there to catch you. You struggled to gain your footing back on your own, but with Peter, you steadied yourself, and eventually stood straight up again. He flashed a proud smile as you began to take small, shaky steps towards him.

“Rehab’s gonna be hard, alright? But I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

[awritesfanfics]

Not Your Fight Pt. 1

Here’s one of my longer fics, probably gonna split it in two parts (yep) bc I ramble so so much but that’s because I need to connect things, and that means describing more settings and explaining more actions and ahhh if you don’t like when I do this let me know!! But I think it just adds to the story :)

So I wrote this after watching Homecoming but a lot of it is based back in civil war, if you have homecoming-centered requests just let me knoww!!

(part 1 is basically just a bunch of filler tbh, a link to pt 2 is at the bottom!)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Word Count: (im sorry im on mobile and I cant deal w this formatting rn, it's around 2,000 words thanks)

Warnings: Violence, Cursing

Tags:  @yourgayonlinemom

———————————————————————————————————–Ding

“Notre Dame.”

“Correct.”

Ding

“Tel Aviv.”

“Correct.”

Ding

“Luncheon of the boating party.”

“Okay, how? Can I ask how? Because there’s actually no way for you to know this stuff.” Flash sat back in his chair in disbelief.

“Are you being serious? Or are you just jealous that i beat your time again? Because I can do this all day, I don’t have a problem,” you challenged, leaning closer. Michelle giggled.

“She had to have studied the answers before, even I didn’t know half that stuff! Me, not knowing something.”

“Excuse me, isn’t that why I’m on this team? Because I’m smart? And if everyone knew the same things, we wouldn’t get anywhere,” you snapped. “By the way, if you haven’t noticed by now, there are -” you counted the people in the room out loud. “- 7 other people here that are valuable members of the decathlon team. Maybe if you stopped kissing your own ass so much you would notice them.”

Michelle almost fell out of her chair. Flash was too shocked to even respond.

“Woah, okay I think that’s a good place to stop for the day,” Mr. Harrington said, finally intervening. “Same time tomorrow. Don’t forget permission slips.”

“Yea, call me if he ever comes up for air.” You nodded towards flash. “I’d love to introduce him to everyone on the team.” You stood, tossed your backpack over your left shoulder, and picked up your books from the table.

“Thank you, Miss (Y/L/N), that’s enough. See you tomorrow.”

You nodded and smiled at him, then at Flash, who was still recovering on the other side of the room. You could hear Michelle and Liz picking at him as you turned to leave.

Peter collected his things and sprinted over to catch up with you.

“Where the hell did all of that come from?!” He laughed.

“What do you mean? I’ve never liked flash. He’s always been full of himself, I couldn’t take it anymore.”

He looked at you and shook his head, giggling.

“Oh, hey, that reminds me!” You stopped and turned to face him. “I got a call about the Stark Internship, I think I’m in! They want me to go in for an interview in a few hours,” you squealed.

He cocked his head slightly, and seemed to hesitate. You took the question right from his lips.

“Don’t worry, Spidey, I’m not going to steal your thunder as the new friendly neighborhood superhero. From what I read, it sounds like it’s just a logistics position,” you shrugged. “Somewhere in the background.”

“No, no I’m not worried about that. It’s just, things can get pretty intense out there. Gotta be ready for anything.”

“I think I can handle it.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“So um, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Or, tonight, if you’ll be there too.”

“Yea, maybe, I’ll see what happens. See ya.”

You smiled, but as he walked away your smile disappeared.

What isn’t he telling me about this? Why is he so worried? Your mind reeled with unasked questions. You never considered yourself a fighter, but you could hold your own against everyone that’s come after you in the past. You were a teenage girl from Queens, you had to learn to defend yourself at a young age. And you certainly had the brains for anything Tony stark wanted to throw at you.

I’ll be fine. I have to stop overthinking this. Just gotta get through the interview.

As you stepped outside the gym, a tired looking man in a clean cut suit standing in front of a black Escalade greeted you.

“Good afternoon Miss (Y/L/N).” The man held open the door for you.

“Good afternoon. I don’t believe we’ve met, formally. You are?” You offered your hand for a handshake, but he ignored it.

“I was sent by Mr. Stark to bring you to work. You start today.” He looked at his watch. “Well, in a few hours.”

“Work? I was under the impression that it was just a job interview. I don’t have the right outfit, I mean, these are just my school clothes. And my mom, I told her-”

“Well, there’s been a change of plans. Everything you need is right in the back seat.”

You stuck your head in to check. A women’s two-piece suit hung on hangers by the other door, a silver suitcase rested below the seat, and a microphone earpiece sat on top of your passport, which was placed carefully on the back seat.

“How did you get all this stuff? Is that suit for me?” Your phone started vibrating, and you excused yourself to take the call. “Hello?”

“Hey (Y/N), it’s Tony, yea plans for the uhh, whatever, the thing we had later-”

“The interview?”

“Right, the interview, yea plans have changed. I sent Happy over there with your stuff, your mom packed it for you, such a nice woman. Hope your ready for some on the job training today.”

“Yea, I mean-”

He hung up. You took a deep breath and put your phone back in your pocket.

“So you’re Happy?”

“Yes, but if we wait any longer, I’ll be Impatient. We’re on a schedule, let’s go.”

With a nudge, you got into the back seat and shut the door behind you. “Am I supposed to change into this right now?”

“No, you can change in the plane.” He answered.

Plane? Where the hell am I going?

-

You watched out the window the entire flight. In the small bathroom you got changed into the perfectly-tailored navy suit. The material was strong, but breathable. You could move around very well in it, but you could tell it was resistant to some degree of tearing.  You slipped the earpiece into your ear and looked at yourself in the mirror.

Oh God, you said to yourself. This is really happening. Holy shit.

As the plane landed you could finally tell where you were. Germany, at the Leipzig/Halle airport. Happy led you through an airfield, with passenger jets and shipping containers waiting to be piloted into the tall hangars that stood scattered nearby. You took an elevator up to the observation tower of one of the hangars.

“This is amazing.” You stepped out of the elevator, taking everything in. Happy clicked the ‘door close’ button behind you. “Wait! What’s my job?”

“Make yourself at home, find something to do.”

You looked around. No one even noticed you’d walked in. You figured you’d start by introducing yourself. Maybe they’d have been expecting you.

“Hi! My name is-”

“Tall decaf, extra cream, no sugar.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not an intern, I’m-”

“I get it. You’re an ‘executive assistant’ or something, right?”

“No, I was hired by Mr. Stark to-”

“Look, I know you mean well, but we have work to do. Please,” he handed you $5 and shooed you away.

“Excuse me, sir, but Tony Stark personally sent for me-”

The man turned around and rolled his eyes. “We didn’t get any word from a ‘Tony Stark’. I don’t know why you’re here, and frankly, I don’t want anything to do with you anymore. So I’d you could just get the coffee orders from everyone else and be on your way sweetheart, I’d appreciate it.”

Suddenly, you took him by the neck and slammed his face on the desk next to you. He fell to the floor, groaning, and in shock.

“I got my associates degree in bioelectrical engineering freshman year of high school. I was sent here to do a job. I’m not here to buy your coffee, ‘sweetheart,’” You said, tucking the $5 bill back into his pocket and smoothing out your blazer.

All eyes were on you now. You still had no idea what you were meant to do, but you went along with it anyway.

Fake it till you make it, right?

You took a seat at an empty desk overlooking the airfield.

A voice came in through the loudspeakers.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Well, I’m not your captain, officially, my friend (Y/N) here is. Wave to the people (Y/N). So as you’ve figured out by now, she will be in charge of every move you make for the rest of- you know you’ll be able to figure out when it’s over. So yea, just listen to her, fasten your seat belts, and get ready for a bumpy ride.”

You nodded matter-of-factly.

Tony’s voice came through on your personal mic next.

“You ready for this?”

“Well I don’t exactly know what ‘this’ is,” you whispered.

“We need you in air traffic control. Keep an eye out for anything that might get us killed. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Fair enough.”

A different voice now boomed over the loudspeaker in German, followed by a blaring siren.

“What do I do? They’re evacuating the airport,” you asked.

“You speak German now to? That’s so cool.”

“Yea my grandma- look, now’s not the time. What do I do?”

“Tell them they have to watch to make sure everyone is out safely.”

You repeated the message to the group. “We must continue our day as we normally would, and keep an eye out for the unauthorized use of ballistic missiles and report it to me.”

A small panic arose. “There is nothing to be worried about. Just monitor the use. If anything gets out of hand, we simply intervene. Back to work.”

You sat down and tuned your earpiece to pick up Tony’s conversation. In the distance, you could see people walking towards each other. He was arguing with Steve. You watched as more of the Avengers joined them, picking sides, before they split into two groups and fanned out.

“It’s showtime. You ready up there?” He asked.

“Copy.”

You watched as Tony and Rhodes countered Clint’s arrows, Wanda’s bursts of light, and Steve’s shield. More than half the fight was airborne. You navigated the battlefield for Tony, Natasha, Peter, warning them of every blow, counterattack, and predictable outcome of their individual physical matches. You watched as the flyers took to the air, with Tony circling the tower you occupied.

“Tony, you got a bandit on your six. I’m turning him into a glider.” You heard Rhodes over the earpiece. You watched as both Iron soldiers sandwiched the observation tower, with Falcon and 17 civilians caught in the crosshairs.

“Stop! Stop stop stop! There are civilians in this control tower, I repeat, civilians in the control tower!!” Your trembling voice echoed across the sound waves. “Abort strike, abor-”

The missile misfired at the last second, crashing into the side of the hangar and taking out the elevator shaft. Suddenly, the channel went silent. A fire began to spread around the sight of the impact. Within minutes, the whole tower would collapse in flames.

Both sides froze, unsure of what to do.

“Wait wait wait, what was that?” Peter stuck his head up from behind a shipping crate and turned to Tony.

“Tony, who was that?! Karen, get me a visual on that hangar. How many people are in there?”

“17. Records of past voice analysis data indicates that the voice that called out for a ceasefire belonged to a Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Shit!” He yelled, sending his fist into the nearby shipping crate. “Tony! You brought her here?!”

“This isn’t your fight, kid. Stay here.”

But it was too late. Peter shot webbing onto the nose of a 747 and swung, then caught the nose of another, and another. The building was up ahead, a fire just beginning to break out near the site of the explosion. People working on the ground gathered around the exit, eagerly watching the entrance for more survivors.

The people in the tower began to panic again, this time for good reason. You knew you had to get the group under control, or no one would make it out.

“Everything is going to be fine. We all just have to keep walking. File into the staircase. There is a doorway right at the bottom. Once we get through it, you’ll be able to see the exit, and you can run, but I ask you to please not run here,” you ordered calmly. It took all the strength in your body to keep your voice steady. “If we start running in here, someone may trip or get hurt. The exit is very close, and you’ll all be fine, I promise.” You cracked a worried smile as you ushered the group down the remainder of the narrow stairwell. You pushed the doors and held one side open for the workers. With the light of the exit door in view, they fell into a dead sprint, as if they were racing not the time before the fire engulfed the hanger, but each other.

“If everyone out? Can anyone tell me if everyone got out?”

No answer. You took a deep breath and looked up the stairwell.

I can’t risk it. You shook your head and pushed away from the door, skipping steps as you sped back up to the fourth-story office space.  

The once bustling room was now filled with emergency lights and smoke. You stayed low, calling out for any remaining workers before turning to leave. One final visual sweep of the floor settled your nerves; you were the only one left. Suddenly, you started to hear the loud creaking of twisting metal. The floor shook beneath you and began to tilt. The observation tower was falling.

You threw yourself down as many stairs as you could manage before the tower hit the ground.

The closer I am to the ground, maybe the closer I am to a solid foundation. 

Within an instant, the entire building was leveled.

-

Part 2!

[awritesfanfics]

Hell to Paint Pt. 2

part 2! here’s part 1!

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 1,563

Warning: Violence, Blood, Gore, Cursing

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In a sudden flash of dim light, the heavy hood was ripped off your head. You sat in a small room, chained tightly to a metal chair. Your head bobbed weakly back and forth as you tried to collect your senses. A calloused hand grabbed a chunk of your damp hair and pulled your head up to face his cocked fist.

“Where is it?!” The man yelled.

“Where is what?”

He slapped you across the face with the back of his hand.

“Don’t play dumb you bitch!” He spat. “I know you’re working with the detective, and he knows where the stolen Rembrandt is. Getting him to talk is nearly impossible, so it’s your turn. Tell me where it is!”

Out of nowhere, a solid fist struck you directly in the center of your face, throwing your head back against your neck and nearly sending the chair tumbling over. You were in such a state of shock that you didn’t realize the pain.

“I don’t... I swear I...” Another hit to the chest, a smack against the head, a kick to the shin. You tasted the blood in the air before you tasted it on your lips. You knew he wouldn’t listen, but you were telling the truth: Sherlock barely talked about that case. He didn’t like theft cases very much, but Mycroft forced him to look into it. You genuinely had no idea where it was.

“I can’t remember!” You screamed out between blows. He finally let up, just long enough for you to take a deep breath before wrapping his hand around your neck.

“I will find out where the painting is,” he growled, his thick German accent hanging in the air around you like smoke from a cigarette. He let go of you and walked out of the room, his heavy footsteps disappearing down a long hallway.

You gently let your eyes close. You were terrified that the assault wasn’t over, but you needed to collect yourself. Slowly, you began to feel the pain. A rhythmic throbbing overcame your entire body. You couldn’t keep it in anymore. Tears fell steadily down your face, the salinity mixing with the metallic sting of the blood. Swollen cuts riddled your once smooth complexion, and you couldn’t see out of one eye. You inhaled sharply and winced; it felt like you had at least two broken ribs, but you weren’t certain.

Suddenly, you heard rapid footsteps approaching. The man that had interrogated you appeared in the doorway, a .45 clutched tightly in his hand. He looked furious, and you were surprised he didn’t blow your head off at that moment. He put the gun to your temple and wrapped his other hand around your mouth.

More footsteps approached. You could tell that it was more than one person this time. You couldn’t help but imagine that it was Sherlock and John, and to your disbelief, it actually was. You let out a small squeal as they appeared in the doorway, but at the same moment, the man pushed the gun harder against your temple.

“Make one move and I’ll blow her fucking brains out!” He yelled. Sherlock and John exchanged a nervous glance.

“We don’t want any trouble...” Sherlock took a step forward.

The man cocked the gun and aimed it at Sherlock, stopping him in his tracks, then aimed it back at your head. “I’ll paint her all over these fucking walls! Tell me where the painting is!”

In a flash of sparks, John had pulled out his own gun and fired at the lights. The man panicked, firing into the darkness. John’s steady aim sent two more shots into the mans chest, dropping him.

“(Y/N)?!” Sherlock called. You could hear his horrified heartbeat from across the room. John turned on the flashlight on his phone and rushed to your side. He felt your diminishing pulse as your heart struggled to pump blood around your battered body.

“Hey, look at me, we’re going to get you out of here, all right?” John patted your leg as a reassurance, but his small smile dissolved into a grave expression as he glanced down. Your captor had fired his gun in a panic when the lights went out. Luckily, the bullet missed your head, but John didn’t know if it missed your femoral artery.

“If that bullet hit her femoral artery, she’ll die in about 5 minutes. Give me your scarf, now!”

Without question, Sherlock obeyed. John wrapped it tightly around your leg and handed the ends to Sherlock as he searched the room for something to removed your chain restraints. A key hanging from your attackers belt removed the padlock that kept the two ends of chain together. Without the support, you slumped forward. Sherlock caught you, and with John’s help he gently pulled you out of the chair and into his lap.

You started to nod off. Sherlock pulled tightly on the makeshift tourniquet as you rested your head on his chest. You didn’t hear what John said, but with a swift motion, you were cradled in Sherlock’s arms. He glanced down at you constantly as he responded to something else John said.

“Hold on, please, you have to hold on,” he whispered through clenched teeth. You nodded weakly as the two scrambled to keep pressure on the bullet wound as they raced through the hallways of the old building.

Lestrade was there outside within minutes, and a group of EMT’s raced to your side. They gently helped lower you onto a gurney and wheel you into an ambulance. You let your eyes begin to shut again as the sirens began to wail and the ambulance sped down the street.

-

“Oh there she is! Thank God!”

“See? Told you she’d pull through.”

“Yea, shes too stubborn to be killed over something like that. Her subconscious wouldn’t let her,” Molly giggled and sighed, relieved.

Through one bruised eye you looked out at the world. Molly and John sat at your bedside, smiles stretching widely across their faces.

“Good morning. You don’t know how glad we are that you’re okay.”

You reached over for the remote to help prop you up in bed, but your bruised arms were stiff and sore. “I wouldn’t exactly say ‘okay,’” you mumbled. You allowed yourself to break a smile through bloody, cracked lips, though. “Where is...”

“Mrs. Hudson stayed back with Rosie, but she’ll probably visit later. And Sherlock is in the lobby. Says he’d rather be in alone.” Molly answered.

“Would you mind, if we just talked for a little, him and me?” You asked quietly. You knew Sherlock. He’d find some insane way to connect the dots and blame himself for the whole mess. You had to find a way to convince him otherwise.

“No problem.” Molly gave your hand a gentle squeeze as John ushered her out the door. Slowly, Sherlock walked in, carrying a bouquet with a large “Get Well Soon!” banner stuck right in the middle.

“I don’t understand the whole flowers-for-the-sick thing, most of the time the person you get them for either can’t take care of them or doesn’t want to, and they die anyway.” He avoided your glance. He always acted this way when he gets nervous.

“Better them than me,” you piped. He didn’t respond. “Can we talk about this?”

“What’s there to talk about there’s nothing to talk about, what do you want to talk about?”

“I just want to make sure you know this isn’t your fault.”

“Of course I know, why would you even say that yes I know I didn’t put a bullet in your leg or beat you to a bloody pulp-”

“Will you come here, please?” You shot a glance at the seat closest to your bed and waited. Almost bashfully he took the seat, but he still avoided your gaze. “This is not your fault.”

This time, he said nothing.

“Sherlock, do you understand?” You reached out a shaky hand to meet his, but he pulled away.

“Of course it’s my fault! If I hadn’t made you stay late and do that report, then you would have gone home with Molly and if you did then you wouldn’t have had to walk home in the rain and-”

“If I wasn’t this sore I would hit you. You better watch out when I actually get the good painkillers in my system.” You grabbed for his hand again, this time he let you take it. “If you’re going to blame yourself for everything that happens to me, then...” You scanned the room for something to say. His eyes finally met yours. “Then I don’t know what to do. Because I would not trade a single thing that has happened in my life since I met you. Not even this. If I never met you, I would have probably still be home in my tiny flat, day-drinking the unemployment away with four cats. I would probably have fewer scars, but honestly, you’ve given me a reason to keep going. To make something out of my life. So yea, maybe you did cause this somehow. But that’s okay. I’m okay, and it’s okay.”

His eyes welled with tears as he gave your hand a small squeeze.

“But if I nearly died for a painting that you’re trying to hide, Sherlock Holmes, there will be hell to pay.”

[awritesfanfics]

Hell to Paint Pt. 1

Request: Could you write a Sherlock 2 parter where the reader is kidnapped and beaten badly but Sherlock comes, saves her and takes care of her after the event?

(off topic but i started getting a lot of attention on Return of the Hounds and im lowkey freaking out i love that you all went through all that trouble to find my fic it seriously made me so happy you have no idea!!)

so anyway heres a request i got a little while ago, sorry it took so long, i havent been on tumblr in forever so i just saw it like 2 days ago

im starting to do warnings now because i really dont want to surprise you with things that may bother some readers. i mean i obviously want to surprise you and make you want to hear more of the story but if someone doesnt like reading about violence i dont want them to have to!

((um really dont know how i feel about the title tbh but its fine!!))

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 955

Warning: Violence, Blood, Gore, Cursing

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The rain rushed down the windows in the hallway of Bart’s where you stood outside the morgue, with Molly by your side. 

“Can’t believe I forgot my damn umbrella. I knew it was going to rain, my hip was throbbing the whole day,” you said from behind a cup of cold black coffee. 

“You sure you can’t leave now? We can share my umbrella, and you can always just come over to my flat for the night.” Molly offered as she zipped up her coat and pulled her hood over her head. 

“Thank you, but yea, I have to stay. I really gotta finish up this report, Sherlock needs it as soon as possible and if I make him wait he’ll literally keep me up all night until I get it for him.”

Molly laughed and shook her head. “No really! I’m serious! He’s done it before,” you giggled, taking another sip of coffee. “Well, be careful getting home. I can lock up here.” 

She handed you the keys. “Call me when you’re done, okay? It doesn’t matter what time, I just want to know you’re alright, you know, and that you’ve figured everything out, got it all sorted, that kind of thing.”

You nodded. “Thanks again Mol, I will.”

You walked back into the room as Molly left down the hall. You opened the laptop back up and sat between it and the cold body resting on the table next to you. 

You finished your coffee and your report at the same time. You emailed it to Sherlock and gently closed your laptop, setting it aside. You checked the time. It was after 2 in the morning, and you felt bad about waiting so long to call Molly. You were about to turn on your phone to send her a text, updating her with the information that you were ready to leave, but you decided you’d just call her when you got back. You yawned, turned off the lights, and locked up, noticing the rain still pouring down outside. You sighed, and accepted the fact that you’d be walking home in the terrible weather, as it was nearly impossible to find a cab at the moment. 

The rain clouded your vision and drowned out the sounds of the world around you, but you still couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being followed. Your hand fumbled for the phone in your pocket, and you shielded it from the rain as you quickly dialed Molly’s number. as it rang, you quickly glanced over your shoulder and prayed that you were alone. Your heart dropped as your eyes met a tall, hooded figure that trailed you about 15 feet back. 

Your pace quickened, and began to panic as the phone nearly rang out.

“Hello?” 

Finally, an answer. A drowsy Molly Hooper sat on the other line, yawning.

“Hey! Just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way home now, didn’t get back yet, but I’m hopefully almost there. This weather is insane! It’s been raining this hard since I went into work. I hope it lets up by this weekend, since we got plans to go away to see the Vatican cameos-”

“What? Are you okay?” You heard the worry rise up in her voice. “Where are you?”

“Just walking home now, the usual way.” You tried to steady your voice.

“I’ll get Sherlock to track your phone’s location, stay where you are and-”

Through the rain you saw a small alley: that was your chance. 

“That’s not an option.”

You broke into a sprint as you turned the corner, but your pursuer followed, matching your change in speed. 

“Vatican cameos!” You yelled. You ended the call but kept your phone in your pocket so someone could track you. A sudden click of a silenced pistol, a sharp pain splitting through your leg, and you were down. Your body hit the ground with surprising force, and as you tried to lift yourself up, a swift kick to the chest kept you down. You gasped for air, coughing violently as the figure wrapped a hood over your head. The smell of chloroform permeated the air, and you couldn’t stay awake.

-

“Molly?”

“Oh thank God, I’m so sorry it’s late but you need to help me! I tried calling Sherlock but he wouldn't answer,” 

John shot Sherlock a disapproving glance as he let Molly in.

“What’s going on?” 

“It’s (Y/N), I told her to call me when she got home because I know she had to stay late, but she just called me and said she was walking home, then she said Vatican cameos and the phone cut out.” She began to cry. “John, there’s something really, really wrong, you and Sherlock need to go and find her.”

Sherlock dropped the beaker he was working with, sending shards of glass across the kitchen floor. He ignored the mistake and ran over to Molly, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“Did she say where she was? Who was following her? Did she tell you anything about what was around her?!” His voice was frantic.

“I asked her to stay where she was but she said it wasn’t an option. She might have her location on her phone, and I know the way she walks home from work, but that’s it.”

He ran to his laptop and pulled up a map. With fingers shaking, it took him a few rapid tries to type out your name and number, but he found you. A small blip flashed on the screen, in transit to a location miles from Bart’s. Sherlock grabbed the laptop as John took the keys to Mrs. Hudson’s Aston Martin, and the pair raced through the door. 

part 2!

[awritesfanfics]

I BEG OF YOU TAG ME IN EVERYTHING YOU WRITE I HAVE NEVER SEEN SUCH TALENT

I'm actually crying this is the best message I've ever gotten

[awritesfanfics]

Writing Prompt #1

Person A returns from a long walk, both them and their dog sprayed by a skunk. Person B refuses to let them inside because of the smell, and instead (reluctantly) takes on the responsibility of cleaning them both up outside. Bonus points if they don't know each other.

[awritesfanfics]

Accidents Happen

I don’t know if you’re still around and able to do fic requests? Sorry if you’re too busy! In case you’re able to - could I request a Camsten one where Cameron’s new reckless approach to life gets him pretty banged up on a fieldwork mission. And then promptly tries to tell everyone he’s fine and Kirsten has to go around making him take it easy and take the pain meds and don’t do that, Cameron, you’re making it worse etc? So basically Kirsten discovering how to mother hen.

So I got this request forever ago, and I keep seeing pictures from season three (!!!!!!) so here’s a little stitchers fic from an awesome request!

Pairing: Camsten

Word Count: 1,007

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“I’m telling you Maggie, it was just an accident!” Cameron whined from a hospital bed.

“Fracturing three ribs, dislocating your shoulder blade, and puncturing a lung by falling through the roof of an abandoned factory is not an accident!” she hissed. He rolled his eyes at her. “This is why I don’t want you doing field work! We can’t afford something serious happening to you; you’re one of the most important members of the team.”

“Maggie, I’m fine.” She wasn’t convinced. She cocked an eyebrow and narrowed her eyes.

“This time, yes, you escaped with a few cuts and scrapes, maybe. But will you be so lucky next time?” He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. “I will not let you find out. As of right now, I’m confiscating your badge and revoking the few field work privileges you had. I don’t expect this to do anything since you managed to get yourself into this situation with barely any privileges to begin with. Consider yourself grounded.” He frowned like a 14 year old who’s mom just told him “no more videos games until all your homework is done”. Maggie stood up from her chair and made her way to the door, grabbing at Kirsten on the way out. “Keep an eye on him. I’ll be checking in. I expect you both to comply.”

Kirsten gave a curt nod and followed Maggie out the door. Cameron gave her a hopeless glance.

“Orders are orders, right?” she smiled. “See you at your place.”

Cameron’s apartment was decorated with furniture pieces that closer resembled modern art than couches and coffee tables, sharp edges and all. Nothing fit to take care of a broken scientist stumbling around laced with opioids. That’s where Kirsten came in. Forced by Maggie but not opposed to the idea, her job was to keep Cameron from further hurting himself, or sneaking out to do unauthorized field work. Maggie was most worried about the latter.

“You’re getting released from the hospital today! Yayy!” Kirsten said, a half dozen balloons in one hand, a bag of Cameron’s street clothes in the other. His drowsy eyes greeted her, and a weak smile responded. She tossed the bag on the foot of the bed and left him alone to change. She leaned on the wall beside the door and waited for him to emerge. Quicker than she’d expected, he was dressed and ready to leave, holding the batch of balloons and empty chevron tote bag that held his clothes. His eyes remained tired as he stepped into the light of the hallway, and he reached for Kirsten’s arm to steady himself. She rested her hand on his and led him out to the parking lot, where Camille and Linus were waiting with a car.

“Hey buddy, how’re you holding up?” Camille asked with a smile. Cameron noticed a half-drunk cup of iced coffee in the cupholder and downed it like he hadn’t had something to drink in months.

“Just fine,” He groaned as he dropped his head onto the window. Within seconds he was out like a light.

“The meds make him a little groggy,” stated Kirsten, as she bunched up a hoody to cushion his head. Camille and Linus nodded as they drove towards Kirsten’s home.

“We’re here,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt. She glanced over at Cameron, who slept like a baby.

“Cameron?” She whispered in a soft, sing-song voice. She shook his shoulder until he woke up, dry drool running down his chin and hair stuck to his face.

“Where are we? Your house?” He asked, groggily.

“Yup. Let’s get you inside,”

“You can sleep all day if you want but you can’t get any more drool in my back seat.” Linus said, frowning.

He stepped out and stretched, taking in a deep breath of fresh air and yawning.

“Camille is gonna stay with Linus for a while while you heal up, so you can take her room. I have it all ready.”

He nodded and staggered down the hallway. Kirsten used this opportunity to make some sandwiches and soup, the perfect medicine for a few broken bones.

She walked into the room to see Cameron asleep. Again. She left the try next to him and was about to shut the door when a text alert rang out on her phone.

“Is that Maggie?” He shot straight up, with opposition from his cracked ribs.

“Uh, yea..” Kirsten said, unsure exactly of what just happened. “Just checking up on you.”

“No new cases?”

“Nothing for you to do. Now you have to take your medicine and get rest, not worry about anything the stitch lab is doing.”

“You’re not actually going through with this, are you? Come on, I’ll be back on my feet in a few days, if even that long. Don’t worry about me, I can handle it.”

Kirsten gave an unconvinced look.

“I’m serious! It’s just a dislocated shoulder,”

“And a punctured lung, and three broken ribs.” He stared her down, but she returned the glance, her stern gaze unwavering.

He cracked. “Alight! Fine! I’ll stay here.”

"You don’t have a choice!” she laughed back. He opened his mouth to protest, but it was futile. “Oh, time for your medicine.” She said, notified by an alarm on her phone.

“Medicine? I have a dislocated shoulder”

“and-”

“And a punctured lung, and three broken ribs.” He mocked.

“You wouldn’t even be able to talk right now if you weren’t on half the things they prescribed you.” She handed him two horse pills and a glass of water.

He chased the giant pills with the glass of water, handing it back to her. “Need anything else?” She asked, clicking on the TV for him.

“I could use some company,” He said shyly, unsure of her reaction. She smiled, and took a seat next to him, careful to avoid his injuries.

“Thanks, mother hen.”

She rested her head on his good shoulder, and they both fell asleep to the quiet drone of the television.

[awritesfanfics]

Unbroken

This is honestly one of my shortest fics, and it’s probably one of the fastest I’ve ever written. Hope you guys like it, and i hope it all formatted the right way since i posted it on mobile! This is honestly one of my shortest fics, and it’s probably one of the fastest I’ve ever written. Hope you guys like it, and i hope it all formatted the right way since i posted it on mobile!

Requests open!!

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word count: 1,722

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“You’re kidding, right?”

“What?”

“You don’t honestly expect me to go through with this, do you?”

“Of course I do, that’s why I asked you! If I wanted someone to bail on me I would have asked one of John’s girlfriends.”

You could feel him roll his eyes from the kitchen.

“Sherlock, this is suicide!” You insisted.

“Well it wouldn’t be if you listened to anything I just said about the inhalation and concentration of noxious gasses!”

“I have no idea how to control my lung intake-” you said, throwing charts in his face. “-or my ‘net gas exchange rate.’” You furrowed your brow. “And I sure as hell can’t control the concentration of gas entering my bloodstream!” You read off the journal he typed out for you and threw it at him. “I’d rather spend my Saturday alive, at the pub, thank you very much!”

He collected the papers and tossed them on the table.

“Of course you would. You’re boring, like everyone else!” He threw his hands on his hips and walked away.

“That wasn’t what you were saying last night,” you snickered, taking a seat on the couch.

He turned red and rolled his eyes. “Then find me a different case!” He yelled, changing the subject.

“I’m not your secretary! Find your own damn case! Have John find you a case!”

“Why is this so difficult for you?”

“Why is it so difficult for you?” You countered. “Everything we find is ‘too boring’ for the great Sherlock Holmes, so why don’t you find one yourself?!” You started to get annoyed.

“Because any sort of bias from the media will screw up the entire case. I need it raw, from simple minds like you and John.”

“Enough!” You yelled. “I mean it. We do all this work for you, John and I, and you never give us any recognition for it! Maybe if you did anything besides congratulating yourself on your own clever deductions, you would know how hard we work! We’re not dull animals for you to push around.”

“Those stupid little feelings of yours. That’s what got you tangled up with us in the first place, wasn’t it? And we see how well that worked out for everyone,” he said. “You think we need you here to help solve cases but we did it without you before. Right now, with all those pesky emotions running around in your head, you’re the broken link, the crack in the lens. We don’t need your help, we need to fix you,” he snarled.

“You have this obsession with “fixing” people, but you can’t fix me! I’m not broken!” You yelled. “This is me, don’t you understand? Every horrible, awful, emotional part. That is me and I can’t. Be. Fixed!” You spat, your face inches from his. “You, of all people, Sherlock Holmes, don’t get to call me broken.” You weren’t aware of the tears racing down your hot cheeks until after everything went silent.

He opened his mouth the speak again, but you stopped him.

“I don’t want to hear it,” you hissed, extending your hand to keep him away.

You threw your purse over your shoulder and left, slamming the door behind you. You didn’t even put on your coat as you disappeared into the blinding whiteness of the snow covered night.

You flagged down a cab and got in, your voice breaking as you told the driver your address.

You rode to Sherlock’s flat nearly every single day. You knew every possible route to and from, and the amount of time it took using each. This trip took much longer. You checked the map on your phone, and noticed that you were nowhere near your flat. Anxiety rose up within you. You opened up your messages and clicked on Sherlock’s name, then changed your mind.

“Send help. Armed. GPS on. Don’t respond.” You sent the text to John instead, not yet ready for help from Sherlock.

You planted your phone under the seat for John to track. A second later, the man pulled off the road into a vacant parking lot. He turned to you, pulling his gun out and aiming it at you.

“Make one wrong move, and I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

You gave a slight nod and waited for further instruction. He opened the door for you and pulled you out, pushing you in front of him and leading you into an abandoned building. Two armed guards stood in front of the doorway. The driver led you down a long hallway, taking a sudden sharp turn into a dim room. He flicked the lights on and threw you into the middle of the room, aiming the gun at your chest. You threw your hands up in surrender, your heart rate accelerating.

“What do you know about Sherlock Holmes?” He pressed.

“What?”

“Don’t act dumb,” He cocked the weapon and thrust it towards you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I know he’s a detective, that’s it! I asked him for help on a-”

He didn’t buy it. “We’ve been studying him for months. Almost every day we’ve seen you enter the office and home address of Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street. Explain yourself.”

In a panic, you smacked his wrists at all the wrong angles, snapping them and sending the gun tumbling from his grip. He was clearly surprised, and hesitated before making his next move. This split second of pause was what separated the boys from the women. His surprise met your fear and adrenaline: a battle he wouldn’t win. You jabbed at his face with your fists and fingertips. Blinded, he couldn’t guard from your next attack, which was a swift kick to the groin. It took him down, and you jumped on top of him, raining down a flurry of punches on his face. When he drew a pocketknife, you tumbled off, reaching for the gun that tumbled away moments before. Without thinking, you picked it up, firing two shots into his chest. As suddenly as it had started, it was over. The unknown driver lay cold and battered on the hard concrete floor. On unsteady legs, you stood, trembling. You held the gun in your shaking hand, breathing heavily. Blood speckled your outfit and covered your knuckles and fingers. Suddenly, two sets of heavy footfalls echoed through the long hallway. You aimed the gun at the doorway, uncertain if you’d even hit your mark if it advanced toward you.

Sherlock and John ran into the room, panting. They looked at you, then the body, then back at you.

Tears filled your eyes as you shook your head in disbelief. You slowly lowered the gun. Sherlock walked up to you cautiously, taking it from your hands and passing it back John.

Realization set in. “I don’t know, I didn’t mean for this, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen you have to believe me,” your voice faded into sobs. “You… have to, you have to, please.”

He pulled you in tightly, as if to block out everything that just happened. “Shh, it’s okay now, it’s all okay now.” He gently rocked you back and forth, resting his chin on your head.

“You were right,” You sniveled. “I am broken. I’m a mess. You were right. I just murdered someone.” You pulled away from him, crossing your arms and glancing back down at the driver. You put your hand over your mouth to keep yourself from crying.

Sherlock grabbed you by the shoulders and turned you to face him. You couldn’t match his gaze.

“You are not broken. What I said before, I was angry at myself. I was angry for no good reason and I took it out on you. I couldn’t admit to myself that I didn’t know what to do. I was wrong. About you, about everything. I put your life in danger because I was a moron. And I can’t go back and change it but believe me I will never make that mistake again.”

You looked up at him. “I just want this all to be over.” You wrapped your arms around him and put your head on his chest. He did the same, letting out a sigh of relief.

You were interrupted by the sound of hammering footsteps approaching the room. You shot him a scared glance, and he nudged you behind him, taking your hand. He stood tall, bracing himself, his heart pounding.

To your relief, it was Lestrade, followed by Sally and a small team of officers. John called it in and stepped out to give the two of you time alone.

Sherlock dropped his guard, stepping aside to reveal your bloodied hands.

Lestrade gave a small nod, and Sally wrapped a shock blanket over your shoulders as she ushered you out of the building. You glanced back at Sherlock as you went, who stood next to Greg and explained the events of the night.

The rest of the night was a blur. You hadn’t eaten anything, and it took a fair amount of coaxing from Sherlock to put yourself into the shower to wash the blood from your skin.

When you got in, he collected your stained clothes to wash them. Mrs. Hudson intervened, insisting that she would take care of them as he had enough to worry about. He thanked her, and used his time instead to find you something comfortable to sleep in. He found an old pair of sweatpants and a faded band shirt, laying them outside the bathroom door.

After a while, you emerged, wet hair still wrapped in a towel. You walked into the bedroom, where Sherlock sat Skyping Lestrade. As soon as you walked in, he shut laptop and put it aside, sitting up.

“Do you want anything to eat? Do you need me to get anything for you?”

You simply shook your head and crawled under the covers, pulling the towel off your head and tossing it on the floor. He turned the bedside light off and laid back, cautiously placing his arm around you. You turned into him, burying your head close to his chest.

For the first time the entire night, you felt okay. You were okay with being broken, as long as you had him to help you put the pieces back together.

[awritesfanfics]

I really enjoy your writing!

This literally made my entire week omg thank you so much!!! ❤❤❤❤😙😙

[awritesfanfics]

The Return of the Hounds Pt. 2

Part two! If you have any requests for Sherlock fics please let me know!!

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 3,122

Part 1

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You opened your eyes. The two were gone. With the coast clear, you sat up, kicked your legs over, crinkled your toes, and stood, your bare feet nearly sticking to the freezing floor. Achy and weak, you shook, clutching the drip stand with white knuckles to regain your balance. Before you left the room, you searched for anything that could be used for a weapon to defend yourself from whatever the hell was going on. A small drawer revealed an assortment of scalpels. You picked up the one with the largest blade and tucked in your tight fist, ready to fight. You limped through the halls until you came across a closet marked “RESTRICTED: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”. You knocked before you realized it was ajar, and left unattended. You looked around, slipped in, and shut it behind you.

- The two followed the sound of the gunshot into the ICU as they expected. The heart rate monitors beeped for unconscious victims. A puddle of blood was smeared on the floor. A body was dragged 3 yards, then abandoned.

John gagged as Sherlock searched the body for any clues. Anything to tell him what the hell was going on. In the left shirt pocket, he felt something stiff. It was a small printed x-ray. He lifted it to the dim light to revelation the sharp outline of a sickly, decaying brain. A warning. His blood ran cold. He had to get to you before this happened again. He and John followed the signs along the walls to any room that might shed some light on the disease. Before they did, they stopped in the room they had left you in. The door was shut and locked, but Sherlock kicked it in. His eyes searched the empty room, but there was no sign of you. Sherlock looked hopelessly at John, who tried to take a step back and think logically. “Well she was barefoot, wasn't she? Footprints?” He suggested. Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Yes…” he said quietly. He dropped to the ground, scrutinizing the painstakingly clean floor for the disruption caused by your small footfalls. Finally! He saw them. The staggering, dizzy, bare footprints that dotted the room and led the pair out into the hallway.

- Computers filled the walls in front of you. A virtual control room. A screen was open to a search engine. You sat at the desk behind the projector, covered in research papers and exam results, envelopes marked classified and restricted, x-rays and MRIs. You saw a box of slides and CDs. One rested on top with the title “CS Pitch T6.” You took it out of the case and put it into the laptop. It flashed over the screen. A movie clicker with a title the same, and a well-dressed blond man smiling on screen. “Hello.” He started. “I'm Culverton Smith. Many may recognize me for the innumerable philanthropic contributions I've made in my home country of England, and now, I'm ready to stake my claim of the American dream. I'm bringing my wealth and charity to you, the great people of America, and all you have to do is welcome me with open arms, and an open mind.” His crooked smile churned your stomach, and his lack of sincerity was transparent to you. An abrupt voice in the video cut off your train of thought. “Alright, cut! That was good, Mr. Smith, we can probably move on from there.” A crewmember combed his hair back into place, and another brought him a script. “Now you're explaining the study.” You fumbled through the box for the films from the study. Aha! You tossed them into the projector and started the slideshow as the clip continued to play. You followed along with the video, flipping through dozens of aged x-rays and brain scans, each more damaged than the last. Captions came after each photo. You skimmed them, reading lightly. It was enough to get the idea. A group of scientists researched the effects of a gas that makes its victims “incredibly susceptible to suggestion” as a form of biochemical warfare. The project was abandoned after many of its subjects turned inexplicably violent, resulting in horrifying homicides. You sat in front of the projector, enthralled. You noticed the same unsettling man from the videos in the last few slides, followed by a study from just the past year. The medicine promised to clear the mind, remove memories from the past few hours, depending on the dosage, and even block new memories from being formed. It failed the clinical level of approval, but the next slide promised tweaks and more tests. You were glued to the projector as the door suddenly flew open. You jumped up out of the chair, swaying slightly due to the speed, and pulled out the scalpel, ready to face your attacker. You faced the two men who were in your room before, who were just as surprised to see you as you  were. They put their hands up in defense, but they both seemed more relieved than frightened. You dropped your attack posture, placed the scalpel on the desk and fell back into the chair, attempting to hide your weakness. “Now,” you began slowly.  “I don't know, much. I mean, I don't remember anything from the past-,” you thought carefully. “Oh god,” you said, defeated. “Few years, I guess? But I think that's the point. I think I'm a part of this study.” You pointed at the screens. “And, I don't know who either of you are, but I have a feeling you know me. And I'm not sure I trust you completely, but I'm ready to help you figure this out, if you'll have me.” The two looked at each other and nodded. You focused on the taller of the two. His blue eyes were pained and fatigued. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days. But there was something familiar about them, you just couldn't put your finger on it. It was comforting, in a way. You cleared your throat. “So um, well, I found all of this. Someone tried to create a chemical, that-“ “Made its users incredibly susceptible to suggestion. The HOUND project.” Interrupted Sherlock. You nodded. “Right. But it didn't work out because-“ “The subjects turned homicidal. Uncontrollable.” “Yes. How'd you know?” “The case. The Hounds of Baskerville case.” “Case? Are you a detective? Is that why you're here?” He clenched his jaw. “So what does the study have to do with memory?” John interjected. “Well, some bloke from the UK came over and brought the study back, you know, funded it and stuff. It got rejected a second time by the US Federal standards of medicine whatever, but he promised in this video-“ You rewound the CD and played it. “-that he'd keep testing until it worked. He's bloody determined, I'll give him that.” Sherlock and John were glued to the screen. The video played out and the men stood back, exchanging a glance.

“So,” you asked quietly, waiting for the men to respond. “Know him?” You asked.

“I know exactly who he is,” the tall one replied. “Friend of yours?” You asked “Something like that,” he said. He explained the story of how he very nearly died under the “care” of Culverton Smith a little under 3 years ago. “It was right before we met.” John busied himself with searching the files for anything to reverse the effects of the medicine as Sherlock took a seat next to you.

“What was I like? I mean, I know who I am, I know who I was at University, and at my first job, and even in my own flat, but then it just stops. I can't remember who either of you are. You, feel familiar, but I just can't remember.” His eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away. “You,” he started, his voice shaky. “You were involved in a hit and run. The case seemed simple enough, just find the car that hit you and get on with it. But it wasn't. We visited you in hospital, and you snuck out with us. Said you “needed to find the bastard that hit you and take care of him yourself.” You stayed with us on the case for two weeks. And we found the driver. And you-“ he laughed. “You took care of him yourself. By hitting him with your car.” “Oh god, what happened?” “He's fine, just stayed in hospital for a few weeks. But then you kept coming back to the flat. You helped with dozens of cases that I couldn't solve myself. You were,” he sighed. “Mine.” His voice cracked. “You were,  we were…” “Oh god…” you sighed quietly. “I'm so sorry.” You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours. He scanned your eyes for any sign of your next move, but he never could have anticipated what you did next. You did the only thing you could think of in a situation like this. You threw your arms around him and pulled yourself close to his chest. He paused for a minute, then did the exact same. You didn't know who he was, but you knew a broken person when you saw one. “I want to remember,” you whispered to him. “I really do.” His grip tightened, and he rested his head on yours. Suddenly, a sharp pain erupted on the side of your head. You kicked back, sending the wheeled chair rolling backwards. You clutched your head with both hands as you cried out. “John, what the hell is happening?!” Sherlock yelled, stopping the chair. John darted over, peeling your hands away to examine your head. You were shaking and screaming, horrible, blood curdling screams that sent Sherlock into an even deeper panic than before. A drop of blood rolled from your ear as you carried on, the pain spreading to your forehead. “This doesn't make any sense; all the studies say that the patients only showed these symptoms when continuously fed the chemical and she…” Sherlock looked at the drip feed. The bag was marked saline, but he would have bet his life on the idea that that was what was killing you. He tore it from your arm and threw the stand across the room. You continued to whimper as the two picked you up and rushed you to a nearby exam room. They nearly dropped you when greeted by the face seated in the corner of the room. “Good evening gentlemen. I would address your friend there, but it'd be a bit of a waste, don't you think? Poor thing doesn't have much time left.” “What do you want?” Sherlock hissed. He stood up and walked towards you, leaning in close to Sherlock. Culverton’s acrid breath puffed in his face as he spoke. “Did I accidentally give you the serum too? Do you not remember who I am? I'm a serial killer! I want to kill you, Mr. Holmes! For good this time. But the thing with you is you don't think you have feelings or friends. But you do. You have so few, that’s your problem. That's why it hurts so much to lose them. You like to think you have fewer feelings than everyone else, but it's not true. You just divide them up amongst fewer people. I want her to suffer, because it makes you suffer. You'd give your life any day, hell, you'd even take it yourself! But I want you to watch her dissolve. Then I want to kill you. Then obviously, I'll save her. No point in wasting two lives when one will suffice.” He pulled up your head by your hair. White foam dribbled down your chin, your eyes were shut, but you still breathed, your heart still struggled to beat. “I'll save her for later.” He dropped your head back down. “That's why I know you won't kill me. Because I'm the only one who knows how to save her. I'm the only one who can guarantee her safety.” “And that's why I know you won't kill me.” He leaned over to john. “Because what will happen to you and Sherlock if you kill the one person who has control of his little bloodhound? I'll be dead, but then you'll watch her wither away in agonizing pain, fits of seizures, possibly choking on her own vomit, oh it's gruesome, but the list goes on and on. That'll put a damper on the relationship won't it!” “You're right,” You murmured under your breath. “What?” He swung around, genuinely surprised. “They won't kill you.” You strained yourself to simply lift your head up. “I will.” “No!” Sherlock screamed, attempting to hold you back. Using the last bit of strength you had left, you hurled yourself at him, slitting his throat with the scalpel before collapsing onto the floor beside him. His eyes were wide with terror as the life drained swiftly out of them.

Within minutes, Culverton Smith was dead. Your breathing became shallow and ragged as the two picked you up gently and placed you on the bed. “I don't want to die.” You laughed lightly with tears in your eyes. “But if I do, at least I'll be the last.” “You are not going to die, you're not.” “Mind palace!” John yelled. He slammed his eyes shut and locked himself in. His hands flew in front of his face, pushing and pulling imaginary scraps of information from the air. “Blood!” He yelled. “The serum was injected through her bloodstream. You gave her a tranquilizer, which slowed her heart and slowed the spreading of it. Clean blood should help it out of her system.” “And where are we gonna get clean blood on such short notice?” Sherlock rolled up his sleeve. John shook his head. “You sure this is going to work?” It has to. “Well what's your blood type? Are you two even compatible?” “My blood type doesn't matter. She’s AB+.” John sighed and got to work, collecting the tools to create his own transfusion machine. It had to work. “We need to take some blood out of her first.” John said, placing on needle in her left arm. It dripped into a small container that sat on the floor. He waited. Your fingers grew cold, your lips dimming. That was his cue. He placed a second needle in her other arm, and a third in Sherlock’s. “You sure you're okay with this? You're not exactly the poster child for clean blood.” He nodded to the fading scars on Sherlock’s arms, a stark reminder of his drug laden past. “I wouldn't be doing this unless I knew I was 100% clean. I have been for 4 years.” He sat beside you, watching you carefully. Softly, you wrapped your hand around his, and squeezed before nodding off.

- You rolled over and opened your eyes. It was morning, but it wasn't the next morning. Four days passed before you finally woke up, to the relief of your nurse. She set down your breakfast and checked your charts. “Good morning honey,” she said softly. “Where am I?” You asked. Your body ached, your head throbbed. But you could finally remember. “Where's Sherlock Holmes?” You yelled, interrupting your nurses description of the past night's events. “He popped out for just a minute, I think. I could grab him if you'd like?” You nodded quickly as she stepped out of the room, smiling. You fidgeted with your blanket as your heart began to race. Growing anxious, you pushed off your covers and stood. You could feel rapid footsteps approaching. Sherlock suddenly appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide. Tears welled in your eyes. “Oh Sherlock.” You cried. You're memories of the night before were foggy, but you felt so overcome with emotion when you saw him. A relieved smile ripped across his face as he ran towards you, scooping you up and wrapping his arms tightly around you. You pressed your head against his chest as he pulled you in closer, resting his head on yours. When you finally pulled away, your wide, teary eyes smile greeted him. Your nurse interrupted, gently helping you back into bed. Sherlock sat beside you, explaining the events of the entire night. “So that's why I couldn't, well, can't remember anything? TD-12?” “Used in low doses in surgeries, but can be overdosed very easily. Which leads to muscle degeneration, headaches, and death.” “You'll be in rehab for a month or two sweetie,” your nurse piped as she entered the room with your lunch and medications. “Two more months in America? Sherlock, it's very nice here, but I've been here for one week and I barely survived.” You were joking, but in all honesty the only place you wanted to be for the next two months was curled up with a hot cup of tea in 221B Baker Street, solving crimes with Sherlock Holmes. “I'll see what we can do.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a familiar number. “Mycroft, I need a favor,” he started, disappearing out the door to finish the call. Days passed, and as promised, you were on one of the first flights back home, courtesy of the British Secret Service. The private flight provided pull out beds, room enough for two. Unlike the flight in, you now had no problem consciously resting your head and sleeping away the trip on Sherlock’s shoulder. He had the same idea. John helped you with rehab once you returned back home. It was fairly easy; the serum wasn't in your body for long enough to cause lasting damage. Mrs. Hudson brought you a daily cup of tea after your sessions. “Without this, you'd be in rehab for three more weeks love, I'll put money on it.” She giggled.

-

“Boring!” “Are you kidding me? Double homicide, triple suicide, one suspect, who couldn’t possibly have done it? This is as good as it gets!” You contested. “There's nothing else? Are you kidding?” “Wait,” you stopped, straightening. You put your cup down and adjusted the computer in your lap. “Amnesia virus eradicated in US, last afflicted patients see new hope in blood transfusions,” you read, smiling at Sherlock, who stood above you. He wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you in, giving a tight squeeze before returning to his throwing stars. “Oh no,” you said as you read more into the article. “Virus spreads to 4 other countries.” You took a sip of your tea, and closed out if the article. “Not our division.” Sherlock laughed, and sent one final star through the middle of the fluorescent smiley face spray painted onto the damask wallpaper.

[awritesfanfics]

Return of the Hounds Pt. 1

I’ve literally been so busy I started this right after I watch TFP and I haven’t been able to finish it until like now. So here it is, I just had to get it off my chest. Part 1 of 2!

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 2,632

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“Boring!”

“You haven't even let me finish!” “It's twins. Solved it last night while you were at the pub.” “But it's never twins, you said it yourself it's never twins!” “Well this time it is.” He ripped the knives out of the wallpaper and returned to start over. “Well that's it then.” You said, defeated. “What?” He whipped around, unconsciously aiming a dagger at you. You threw your hands up in front of your face and grimaced. You wanted to believe he wouldn't throw it at you, but with Sherlock you could never be sure. He looked confused at your reaction until he followed your line of sight. “Sorry,” he said, lowering the weapon. “What do you mean that's it then? You're trying to tell me you can't find a case? In all of London there's nothing for me?” “I'm not your secretary,” you said narrowing your eyes. “But no, nothing left that you want. We've been here for three days, Sherlock. I've read through everything.” “Three days? No, no it can't- oh, that's why John brought the paper in.” “Paper comes on Tuesday though? We've been at it since Wednesday.” “He only brings it in if it's been out there for more than 56 hours. He doesn't even realize but OCD is a very efficient time keeper.” You shook off his deduction. Not important. “So you want me to look outside of London then?” “What? Yes, yes anywhere, look in the bloody- “ “States? Oh, wow, there's plenty to keep you busy here.” The US crime news page seemed to go on forever. Hate crimes seemed to saturate the list, but those were obvious. Sherlock needed a challenge if you wanted to keep him out of your hair for a while.

“Here's one. Has to deal with the president.” He threw a knife at the wall and groaned. “No no, he's an idiot. Next!” Crack. A second knife splintered the wall. “Doctors puzzled at rare amnesia cases?” You searched the article. “Here it is again. 4 dead in connection with unknown amnesia virus.” “Patients manic in their last moments, extensive internal bleeding.” “Amnesia virus contained to one-“  you laughed and shook your head. “What?” He asked, skimming the article from over your shoulder. “Did the press ever get hold of what happened at Baskerville?” You turned to look at him. “No, Mycroft kept it quiet, no one knew.” “So no one found out that it was finished? That anyone found out what was happening?” He cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “Amnesia virus contained to one Indiana hospital. Liberty hospital on lockdown after outbreak of unknown disease take 5 lives, infects 9 more.” Sherlock smiled. “Perfect!” He stabbed the third knife into the arm of your chair, slicing the woven sleeve of your sweater. “We need to get you a damn case, I don't have many sweaters left and I'm not risking losing an arm.” “What exactly has he been doing?” John leaned in and asked quietly, to not disturb the working genius. “I like to think he's been packing, but it doesn't take 13,000 steps in a 50 foot flat to pack for a trip to America. You ready then?” He nodded, glancing over at the luggage by the door.

“I'll grab mine.” “Yea, cab should be ready soon.” He glanced down at his watch. “We're going to be late, Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in there?” He walked out with a small day bag and his face buried in his cell phone, nearly walking right into John. “What have you been doing in there?” Mrs. Hudson said frowning. “Sounded like you were running a marathon. Gonna wear a hole in my rug if you don't get a change of scenery.” A smile snuck onto her lips as Sherlock gave her a tight squeeze goodbye. She gave you a hug as you collected your luggage. “Keep him safe, will you dear?” “I'll try my best,” You giggled as you walked out of the flat. You loaded your luggage into the cab and squeezed in beside Sherlock. “Heathrow, please.” Once you boarded your flight, you settled in. You decided confidently that'd you'd try to take a nap, after sitting through not one, but three of the documentaries provided by the airline. There were seven hours left on the flight; maybe there'd be something better on later. You put in your headphones and, thankfully, started dozing off right away. Your head bobbed gently against the back of your chair, your breathing slowed, and your music drowned out the roaring of the engines. Light turbulence nudged you awake. You brought your watch close to your tired eyes to read the time. 3 hours left. “I slept for 4 hours? On a plane? Well I was surprisingly comfortable…” Your cheeks turned red. You must've rested your head on Sherlock’s shoulder without knowing. You wanted to move softly, so he didn't notice anything, but when you tried, you felt pressure holding you down. His breathing was soft. He must've fallen asleep on you, too. The cabin was dark, the music played softly in your ears. You were the most comfortable you've been in years, and you fell back to sleep. Sherlock stirred gently as the plane began its descent. You followed suit, clearing your throat and turning your head to the open window to your right. Your eyes squinted as you greeted the bright blue sky and the growing buildings below. “So how exactly are we going to get into this hospital to get the information we need?” John asked, munching on an order of French fries. “I mean, it's on lockdown, we can’t exactly just walk in.” “Well, the story did say the only people who seemed to get infected were those prone to seizures, didn't it? They thought it had something to do with the medicine.” Sherlock nodded, cocking his head. “Don't panic.” You whispered to the two. Suddenly, you froze. Your eyes seemed to gloss over as you locked your muscles and threw yourself from your chair. You seized on the floor, voluntary spasms shaking your entire body. Sherlock and John followed along beautifully. “Oh my god, oh my God!” John yelled as Sherlock called an ambulance. “Is anyone here a doctor, my God what the hell is happening to her?!” He exclaimed, drawing the attention of at least two dozen onlookers. A woman rushed to your side. “I'm a doctor. Everyone stand back. She needs space and air. She's having a seizure. No one touch her. Do you know her?” “Yes, yes she's my best friend. She's never done this before!” The woman held him back. “She’s fine, she'll be fine, you friend is calling an ambulance. We just have to wait until then.” The EMTs arrived quicker than anticipated. By then, you were fine, but John insisted on them taking you in anyway, since the fit was “totally out of the blue, unpredicted, and terrifying if it were to happen again.” They agreed, and loaded you into the ambulance. “Where are we going? Which hospital?” You asked “weakly”. “Miami Valley, mam.” “Why not Liberty Regional?” “Well, that’s about 45 minutes away.” “Huh. Good to know.” You sat up in the gurney and gave a swift kick, sending the EMT flying back. “Sherlock, the driver!” You ordered. “Get some scrubs on, Doctor Watson. We have a long ride ahead of us.” Sherlock sent the driver tumbling out of the cabin and took his place. You pulled up a map to Liberty Regional for him and sped off.

“Well that didn't go exactly as I planned. When was the last time you didn't pull the doctor card?” He shrugged. “All worked out though.”

Sherlock whipped through the ambulance dock, opening the back doors to help lower you out. “You can't be here, the whole place is on lockdown.” A nurse tried to shoo you away. “Your higher up seemed to tell us different.” John said sternly. “I called it in already. Said to take a look at her.” The woman was convinced. “She's had a seizure. She’s alright, just had a bit of a fright. First one, you know how that goes.” “If she's scared about that, she'll be petrified once she gets the bill.” The nurse laughed as she brought you in, taking you through the almost completely deserted halls. “Where is everyone?” You asked. Well, not to worry you, but there's been an outbreak of something, so we haven't been accepting new patients. In the process of evacuating them actually. It's contained to a few rooms, though. You'll be fine.” She wheeled you into a dim room and helped you onto the bed. “A doctor will be right in to talk to you. You shouldn't be here for too long.” As promised, a doctor and nurse, both masked walked in with a drip feed and clipboard, shutting the door behind him. The bag was labeled ‘SALINE 1.2 mg dos’. “Hello.” He said quietly from behind the mask. “I apologize, for this. I’d much rather be face to face-“ he said, moving uncomfortably close you “-but as you must’ve heard, there’s been a sort of outbreak here. We’re working very hard to keep everyone safe and prevent his from spreading.” Your blood ran cold. It was Culverton Smith. You hid your accent as best as you could to prevent any possibility of him catching on to your plan.

“Not doing too well of a job though are you? I heard it spread to what, 9 people now?”

He became noticeably agitated. He didn’t expect your response. That just meant he had to work quicker. He laughed it off. “That’s not exactly my area.”

“Well who’s is it? No one knows what caused it, so who’s in charge of it? Neurology? Virology? The janitors?” You cursed yourself in your mind. You’re slipping. You just couldn’t help it. You laughed to help lighten the tension, and he followed suit.

“So what I hear is, you've had a seizure?” He was anxious to change the subject. You nodded. “It was my first one, ever. No one in my family has them either.”

He motioned for a nurse to hook you up to the IV. You started to panic.

“Is this really necessary? I thought I’d just be coming in for a consultation, a checkup.”

“Oh no, sorry. You’ll need to stay overnight, maybe for about a week. We need to conduct some follow-up tests, you know, make sure you’re not infected.”

Your heart raced.

“You read the news, didn’t you? “Strange amnesia virus infects seizure patients.” This hospital isn’t accepting new patients. So how exactly did you get in here? Well by faking a seizure of course! You wanted to find out the cause, so you could help find a cure, didn’t you? Well, relax. I’ll tell you my little secret.” He dropped the mask and the fake accent. “Oh, I am sorry though, this saline that’s flooding your system right now, isn’t saline. It’s a memory inhibitor. Blocks new ones, kind of dissolves old ones too I’m afraid. Take notes, you won’t be able to remember any of this in the morning, if you even live that long.” He laughed again, standing up. “Well, this is lovely, but I’ve got another patient to tend to. And try not to scratch at the IV, leaves a nasty scar.” He returned the mask to his face, and he and the nurse disappeared out the door.

You looked around the room, your memory fading. Anxiety rose up within you, but you couldn’t remember why. You glanced down at your arm, the small needle stuck in your vein.

The IV. The IV. The IV. Those words reverberated in your mind, but you just couldn’t remember why.

Suddenly, Sherlock and John busted through the door, shutting it quietly and locking it behind them.

They were frantic, flying over to your side and bombarding you with questions about why you had an IV in, what the doctor said, and what was going on.

“Wait,” you quieted them, bringing your hands to your temples.

Sherlock and John shared a panicked glance before you decided.

“He said it was something to do with... Agh! I can't remember, it was something with seizure patients, but we knew that already!  uh…”

“I can't remember!” You cried. Your eyes frantically searched the familiar faces for a shred of a memory, something to remind you what was Culverton’s plan. Sherlock grabbed you by the shoulders and met your eyes, following them around the room.

“Can you remember anything?” He pressed, his face twisting in fear of the unthinkable.

You shook your head, then suddenly stopped. your eyes seemed to gloss over for a second, fixated on a distant point in the hallway. You came to, and pulled away from his grip, wiping your eyes and studying the men in front of you. “What are you talking about? Remember anything about what?” You replied, dryly.

The color drained from Sherlock’s face. He swallowed hard. His worst fear had come true. First it was Mary. Now you. He promised he'd keep you safe on any case the two of you went on. And now you were hours before dying, and there was nothing he could do about it without giving in to the one man Sherlock feared.

John stepped in, pushing Sherlock aside. “Yes, Ms. (Y/N), is it? Doctor Watson.” He shook your hand. “You have been sent here because of an accident you had.” He picked up a blank clipboard that rested at the bottom of your bed. “You fell off a ladder and hit your head? That could be the reason why you don't remember, blunt force trauma could lead to unconsciousness, memory loss. It's all very common and nothing to be worried about.” A look of relief crossed your face. “Let's just get a quick look at that. Would you mind leaning forward for me?” You obeyed, sitting up and leaning over. He brushed the hair off your shoulder and stabbed a syringe into your arm.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?! Who are you?! I'm going to call… security, and you'll… you'll be…. arrested… and lose…” Your shoulders fell limp and your head bobbed forward as you lost consciousness. Sherlock rushed to you, but John held him back.

“She'll be fine. Just a tranquilizer. It'll slow her heart rate, keep her in one spot for a while. But we have to work quickly.”

Sherlock nodded, backing away. A call rang in on the landline on the bedside table. With a deep breath, John answered.

“Hello?” He said, clearing his throat. He handed it over. An unsteady hand took it, greeted by a wicked laugh on the other end.

“What the hell is this?” Sherlock yelled through gritted teeth.

“Just a little game of mine. I heard you like games, Mr. Holmes.” His mind was clouded, but still useful. The accent was American, but fake. Crooked teeth interrupted the flow of speech. An echo, a beeping, a heart rate monitor.

Two heart rate monitors.

Three.

Seven.

The ICU.

A second voice piped up inaudibly in the background

“Oh, I'm afraid I have to go, Mr. Holmes. Someone needs my care.”

The distinct loading of a gun. A terrified plea. A single shot. A dull thump. John turned in the direction of the noise down the hall.

“Come get me, Mr. Holmes, before I win the game.” The laugh resumed before cancelling the call. Sherlock tore the phone from the table in audible frustration, shattering it against the far wall.

He turned and saw John, focused like a bloodhound on a scent, waiting for a command. “This way.” He urged.

The pair raced towards the sound, slamming the door behind them.

Part 2

[awritesfanfics]

Prior Engagement Pt. 3

final part of Prior Engagement! amazed that i finished this series. if you have any requests please let me know!! hope you enjoyed it! Sorry I can’t tag part 2, I posted it while I was on vacation and I’m on mobile now!

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1,167

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The wail of a mourning mother jarred you from your sleep. You’d woken up in the emergency room; the patient two rooms down wasn’t as lucky. Sat at a chair beside your bed was Wanda, who was quietly shuffling a deck of cards.

“Good morning,” she smiled. “Or-” she looked at the clock, which read 2:13 am. “No, yea good morning.”

“Morning. How did the mission go, with the man?”

“Steve found him, after he sent Bucky after you. Said he didn’t put up much of a struggle, which is never a good sign. But he should be locked away now. You don’t have to worry about any of that. Mariah was fine.”

You nodded. “What about-”

“Bucky hasn’t shown. Tony, Natasha, and Steve went to look for him. They said they’d text me if they found him. We don’t know if he can forgive himself for this. He almost killed you.”

You swallowed hard. You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if Bucky never came back because he was too scared to hurt you again. “Let me know if you hear anything, okay?”

She nodded and went back to shuffling her cards.

“You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, you know.”

“I know. But it’s nice here. Relatively quiet. And I wanted to make sure you were okay.” You smiled. Wanda was such a calming presence. Since it seemed that there was nothing else to do, you laid your head back and closed your eyes.

You slept through the entire next day according to the calendar your nurse put up. You looked at the clock.

3:58 am.

The hospital seemed completely vacant. No one was with you this time, and you couldn’t say you weren’t scared when you heard footsteps walking down the hallway. You pretended to be asleep when you they hesitated outside your room. Through squinted eyes you saw his long hair and large physique, but as soon as you saw his eyes you knew. His expression was pained, and his head hung low on his shoulders. This wasn’t the winter soldier. This was Bucky. “Bucky?”

He quickly turned away, walking out of eye shot.

“I know you’re out there. Please come in here. Bucky.” You sounded like a pet owner reprimanding their dog for chewing up the couch.

No response. You rolled your eyes and kicked your legs over the side of the bed. Your bruises still ached, and the cut in your side wasn’t completely closed yet, but you couldn’t just sit in bed while Bucky was 10 feet away from you. You grabbed your IV stand for support and started walking towards the doorway. You nearly fell backwards as he jumped in front of you.

“Hey! You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

You wrapped your sore arms around him without hesitation. He cautiously did the same, careful to avoid as many of the injuries as possible.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” you whispered, relieved.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he said with the opposite tone.

“Will you stop blaming yourself for this? Please?”

“But it was my fault. There’s no one else to blame.”

“Zemo! It was him who was controlling you, he’s to blame! He did this to me!” you whined, desperate to change his mind.

“Was it Zemo that found you? Was it him throwing you around the room? Did Zemo take the knife and stab you in the side? I did! And I can never forgive myself for that! I can’t-” his voice broke. “I can’t hurt you like that again. What if it happens again, and you can’t get me out of it? Am I supposed to just walk away from something like that?”

“So is that it? You’re just going to destroy yourself every single day over this?”

His eyes fell to the ground, tears welling up in them. You’d seen that face before. It was the face he made when he was about to break down, when he was barely holding it together.

“When was the last time you got sleep?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged.

“Will you stay with me? Just for the night, if nothing else. You-” You sighed, measuring your words. “You can leave tomorrow, just… You need sleep.” He gave a slight nod, you gave a small smile. He laid back and you crawled in next to him, bringing the small blanket up to your chest. You reached for his hand, and you were surprised when he let you take it. You were even more surprised when he turned to you, carefully cradling your face in his hand, and kissed you. It felt so good to be in his arms again, to feel him, like when you first met. He seemed to like it too, because when he pulled away, you saw him smile for the first time in days.

“Does this mean you’re staying?” You asked hopefully.

The smile disappeared from his face, and he didn’t respond. You rested your head on his chest and gently swirled small circles on his hand with your thumb.

You didn’t know who fell asleep first, but you knew who woke up first. The small hospital bed was half empty. It seemed a lot bigger when there was just one person in it. You ended up staying in that small bed for two more weeks. The avengers came to visit every so often; Wanda played cards, Natasha complained about Tony, Thor brought balloons. No Bucky.

Steve took you home on your last day. “Can we actually stop by the tower? I think I left something there when I went over the other night.” He agreed, and offered to wait in the car when you got there.

As you stepped out of the quiet elevator, you heard it. You knew he’d be at that piano bench, tapping out classical melodies all day. He didn’t see you as you walked in. The apartment had been cleaned up, and you couldn’t see the ring box above the piano anymore. A quick glance around revealed it, stuck under the couch, overlooked by all but you. You picked it up and opened it. The beautiful ring was still there, just like when you first saw it.

“Yes,” you said out loud.

He stopped and turned to you, standing.

“I mean, if it’s for me. I saw it the other day. Right above the piano. I figured no one else spent enough time around there to try to hide a ring box behind their sheet music.” You saw him shift on his feet.

“It got you out of it, almost immediately. I’ve never seen that before. And, I know you can’t forgive yourself, but, please know that I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault.” You walked over to him and placed the box on the keys.

He picked it up and flipped it open, examining the glimmering surface.

“If you don’t ask, then I will,” you giggled.

He cracked a smile and got down on one knee.

[awritesfanfics]

Prior Engagement Pt. 2

part 2 of 3 of prior Engagement! please dont kill me for the russian, i dont speak it, no one i know speaks it, so i used google translate! if you can correct it, definitely let me know!! enjoy!

Part 1

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1,114

Warnings: Gore

————————————————————————————————————–

The entire apartment reeked of blood. It seemed to bury itself into every possible porous fiber in the vicinity. It was enough to make even the toughest stomachs twist. The team, nicknamed ‘Echo’, quietly made its way around Eliza’s seemingly vacant apartment. They noticed the body of the young woman, sat at a chair, head dropped onto her arms, which was clearly the source of the blood. An unfinished note laid in front of her, with a pen positioned to seem as if it rolled out of her hands. Wanda insisted on cleaning her up, taking care of the body with the care and respect she deserved, but Tony stopped her.

“This looks as convincing as it has to. It’ll be best to leave it as is, as horrifying that may be.” He clearly shared the same thought she did; thinking of the disgusting crimes committed made him want to vomit more than the blood did.

The team split up. Tony took the bedrooms, Wanda looked around the main rooms and kitchen, Bucky was left floating around. The apartment was bigger than they’d expected. There were more places to hide than it seemed, and after Team Mike radioed over that Mariah hadn’t noticed anything suspicious at her apartment (she was having a party) they were convinced Zemo was still around Eliza’s.

Suddenly, from behind a curtain, he jumped on Bucky, throwing a chloroform soaked rag in his face before dragging him onto the fire escape.

The chemical was just concentrated enough to make him groggy. It kept him awake while Zemo read off the Russian words used to snap Bucky, to send him back into the Winter Soldier mindset he tried so hard to rid himself of. He couldn’t protest with the rag held over his mouth, and without a problem, his mind was wiped within seconds.

“не привлекают к себе внимание. получить девушку. делать все, что требуется.” (“Don’t draw attention to yourself. Get the girl. Do whatever it takes.”) he ordered. The Winter Soldier nodded, and with the stealth of a ninja, he hopped down from the fire escape and took off, jumping from rooftop to rooftop with surprising agility. It didn’t take him long to reach the tower.

He made quick work of the reinforced glass door, and the shattering was enough to wake you up from your light sleep. You were on high alert. You grabbed the knife from below the pillow and ducked behind the couch. You carefully peered out when you heard footsteps approach the room. You relaxed at the sight of Bucky in the doorway.

“Bucky, my God you scared me.” Your heart dropped when you noticed he didn’t have a similar reaction. His eyes were like daggers as he sized you up from across the room, carefully planning his attack. The man in front of you was no longer Bucky. It was the Winter Soldier, a machine on a mission.

You shifted the knife in your hand and quietly prayed to yourself, hoping that he’d remember you before anything happened.

“Bucky, stop. It’s me, (Y/N). You know me.” Your words seemed to fall on deaf ears. He advanced toward you, his metal arm ready to strike.

You blocked the first blow, and managed to deliver a flurry of punches back at him. He countered, hammering his metal fist into your arms that were supposed to protect you. You kicked your leg into his chest, temporarily knocking him off balance, but he anticipated the next strike, and he caught your ankle. With one swift movement, he twisted it, flipping you over. You landed on your back and struggled to catch your breath; the wind had been knocked clean out of you. Despite this, you grasped the knife tightly, and held it defensively as you got to your feet. Without hesitation, he lunged at you, throwing his entire weight into your small body. This time, the knife flew from your hand as you slammed against the coffee table, cracking your head against the solid wood. You became dizzy and disoriented, and you felt warm blood trickle down the back of your neck. Bucky grabbed the knife and walked toward you, twirling it carefully in his fingers. You stood on shaking legs and squared up as best you could in your current state. A wicked grin split across his face when he saw you, bruised and battered, refuse to step down from the fight. He sliced at your forearm as you tried to land a punch, and you fell back in agony as the white hot pain spread across your entire limb. As you tried to stand again, he slashed through your thin shirt into your side. He wrapped his metallic fingers around your neck and lifted you up against the side of the piano. His fist met your cheek until the only thing you could taste was blood. You knew this was going to be the end. Through swollen lips, you did your best to get what might be your final words out.

“Bucky…please…”

No reaction.

You had one idea left, and you didn’t even know if it was going to work. As quickly as the cut muscle in your arm would move, you grabbed the ring box from behind you. With painful force, Bucky pinned your arm down, but you finally got a reaction from him. Cautiously, he reached for the case. Your vision started fading as he lifted the top and studied the ornate ring. He loosened his grip on you as his eyes darted from your bloodied face to the ring.

It was as if a light had gone on.

The box tumbled to the floor as a look of horror and disbelief twisted his face. He threw his hands to his head and backed away from you. He started shaking, his breathing became ragged. It looked like he was hyperventilating or having a panic attack, but you couldn’t tell. You lost a lot of blood, and you had to strain yourself to keep your eyes open. You lifted your hand slightly to get Bucky’s attention, now that he remembered. He turned to you but refused to get any closer for fear of hurting you again.

“No, no no no no,” He stared at you as if you were made of paper; delicate, fragile, and with one breath you could be gone.“Oh my god this is all my fault! I should have listened to you, I didn’t mean, I never thought he’d use me against…” his voice trailed off.

You watched as he frantically tried to control his shaking fingers long enough to call the team back to the building.

You passed out before they arrived.

[awritesfanfics]

Prior Engagement Pt. 1

so I haven’t posted in like months bc I’ve been so stressed but now it’s summer I finally have time to write! here’s a 3 part fic, don’t worry though I know I’ve never finished my other fics with more than one part before but now I made sure I wrote it all at once and then posted it, so you’re good.

if you have any requests please send them! I’ll be on vacation soon and I’d love to have something to write!!

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Word count: 2,173

Warnings: Gore

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You were exhausted. That’s about all you remember. Your boss had you working overtime for the past two weeks with no extra pay. It was unfair, but you could barely afford rent to begin with; had you spoken out, you’d be out of a job and out of luck.

The rain did little to perk you up. It ran down your shoulders and drenched your clothes down to your tank top. Your sneakers were soaked from walking to your friend’s apartment through the flooding sidewalks, and you felt the water squish between your toes as you stepped. The wind made it even worse; it was a summer night, but you were chilled to the bone. You silently cursed your friend for making you walk all the way to her house in the poor weather, but you kept your mouth shut. She wasn’t doing very well lately, and you were the closest friend she had. It was your job to cheer her up.

You tried to get the spare keys she’d given you out of your purse without the rain destroying everything inside. After fumbling around old candy wrappers and crumpled up $1-dollar bills, you found them, but as you put them to the door, you noticed it was cracked open. Your first reaction was confusion; Eliza never left the door open like that. You felt a lump settle in your throat.

Did someone break in? No one else has a key… maybe she just forgot to close it all the way.

Cautiously, you pushed it open the rest of the way and took a step in. Nothing seemed out of place; the TV and radio were still there, her iPad still on the coffee table next to her mother’s gold necklace. Everything seemed was as she left it, except for the rug. Eliza had terrible OCD. You knew how much she absolutely hated when the rug was out of place, and something as small as it being off center was enough to indicate something was wrong. You pushed it back to normal with your foot and quietly stepped down the hall. The sickening smell of metal seemed to permeate the entire apartment, and you felt as if you were going to vomit. An unfamiliar voice cut through you like a knife as you reached the kitchen, where the smell was strongest.

“You’re a little late, sweetheart.” The words, coated in a thick Sokovian accent, seemed to slither out of the man’s mouth.

Before him, the body of your best friend laid on the table, blood dripping steadily into a puddle on the floor.

Your legs nearly gave out beneath you. You wanted to scream, but your body wouldn’t let you. It was if you were being suffocated. You held your hand over your mouth as you began to sob, frozen in place.

“Now, don’t be like that,” he cooed. “You know this was the only way to get you to listen to me. I take no pleasure in this, truly. You know me, I hate getting my hands dirty. Take a seat, please, and we can get started.” With a bloody knife he motioned to the empty chair across from him. He rolled his eyes when you didn’t move.

“Anyway…” he sighed, grabbing a towel to wipe the weapon clean. “Let’s talk about your connection with a certain group of individuals. The Avengers.”

You flinched. You’d been a part of the Avengers team for 3 years, ever since you met Steve and Natasha in a bar in downtown Manhattan. You needed a job, and after pulling some strings, they got you a position with Maria Hill at SHIELD. You figured you’d been targeted because of the information you were trusted with, being Maria’s second-in-command. The man noticed the hiccup in your already poor composure.

“Ahh, I see I’ve hit a nerve.” he smiled. “Tell me what you know about a certain, James Barnes. I’m sure you have plenty of access to a that kind of information.” He waited for you to crack.

He was right, you did know a lot about Bucky. Right down to the way he likes his eggs in the morning. But even if you did want to tell him, you wouldn’t be able to choke out the words.

“Oh now, don’t be like that,” he frowned. “Then poor Eliza would have died in vain. She would’ve been gone soon enough though, sorry to say. I even found this note she was in the middle of writing, saved me a lot of effort.” His eyes narrowed as you stood, sobbing silently into your hand. “Why don’t you go outside, collect yourself.” He stepped over to you, backing you into the doorway. “I’ll get this place cleaned up, and then maybe we can have a nice little talk, see what you know. You don’t have to come back, if this is too much to stomach for you. But I think-” he pulled a small note card from his pocket. “-Mariah, on 56th and 10th, would appreciate your return. You wouldn’t want her missing her wedding, now would you?”

You fell backwards out the doorway into the pouring rain, your hands barely catching the railing as you tumbled down the steps. You looked at him with horrified eyes as he slowly shut the door on you.

Your legs fought back as you tried to stand. They shook uncontrollably as you took off to the one place you knew that could help you.

You flashed down sidewalks and through alleys, past bars and taxis full of people desperate to get out of the weather. After 7 blocks of running, you finally reached the building. It was a sleek, modern building, like every other office space in New York. Stark Towers usually didn’t get many walk ins, but this was an emergency. You banged on the doors, only to be greeted by JARVIS on the intercom.

“(Y/N)? What’s the matter?”

“Please!!” you wailed, banging your fists on the doors. “Please help me! I don’t know where else to go you have to help me!!” You felt like you were going to break the glass that held you from going in.

Your shouting caught the attention of Natasha before anyone else. She saw your face, twisted in agony, and ran to the door, throwing it open. You collapsed into her arms as she tried to figure out what was going on.

“He killed her… h-he just… she was already but… it wasn’t… and all over the floor there was so much blood… I-I couldn’t breathe it smelled so… and he wanted to know…” you were in hysterics and out of breath. She brushed the hair from your face and looked at you, searching your face for answers.

“(Y/N), hey, (Y/N) slow down, slow down, you’re alright now,” she whispered. “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes, we’ll talk about it with everyone, okay?” Shaking, you nodded. She took your arm and helped you up into her room, where she laid out clothes for you. A pair of sweatpants, and a button up, courtesy of Bucky, that made its way into Natasha’s laundry basket. You quickly got changed, and she took you up to where the rest of the team was hanging out, enjoying the night.

“Bucky,” she said above the music. He was arguing with Sam over something stupid when she caught his attention.

“(Y/N)? What are you doing here? Why are you wearing- what’s wrong?” He put his beer down and took a step toward you as you raced into his arms, throwing yourself into his warm embrace. His muscular arms held you steady as you shook, and you started crying into his shoulder. He took you carefully to the couch and sat down, letting you rest your body for the first time all week. He gently ran his fingers through your wet hair and placed a cautious hand on your shoulder. He mouthed “What happened?” to Natasha as the team looked on, horrified and confused.

“You have to tell us, so we can help you,” he started. You sat up, and he placed a hand on your cheek, brushing away the steady stream of tears that fell from your eyes.

“He killed her… an- and he wants to use you… he tried to get… information from me.. a-about you… he threatened to… to kill her too…” Words spilled from your lips. You couldn’t steady yourself enough to form coherent sentences, no matter how hard you tried.

“Who killed who, (Y/N)?” Bucky asked.

“I-I don’t know who he was… I went to Eliza’s apartment because I got a text from her, and when I went in, a man was standing over her body with a knife. Blood was everywhere… Then he said he wanted to talk about my involvement with you. He asked about you, Bucky. And then he said if I didn’t go back, he’d kill Mariah too. I don’t know what to do, you have to help me!” You fell back into his arms and sobbed. He hugged you tighter and kissed your forehead; anything to help you calm down.

Tony took the initiative and assembled a team to check Eliza’s apartment, to see if the man was still there. The rest were to lock down Mariah’s apartment and keep her safe.

“He was about your height, Clint. He had a round face, kind of? And, a thick accent, like Wanda,” you said when Steve asked you to describe him. “I don’t know, it was all a blur.”

The team exchanged glances. They knew exactly who you were talking about. Zemo was determined to tear the Avengers in half, from the inside out, ever since his family had been killed in Sokovia. Steve thought they’d taken care of him when they handed him over to Secretary Ross. According to your description, that wasn’t the case.

“Bucky, you’ll join us. Since he wants you, we’ll have to watch out,” Tony said.

He nodded and made a move you get up. You protested, grabbing onto his shirt with shaking hands.

“No, please! He’s gonna try to kill you, you can’t go out there!” Your pleading eyes filled with tears. As he stood, he took your hands in his and kissed them. You wrapped your arms around him, and he did the same.

“Please, please be careful. I… I can’t lose someone else.” He planted a long kiss on your forehead and rested his head on yours.

“I’ll be fine. I swear, I’ll come back before the morning, okay? You need sleep. I’ll wake you up when I get back,” he reassured you. Wanda brought you a blanket and tried to make you comfortable on the couch. She slipped a knife under your pillow in case you needed it. Bucky gave you one last kiss before leaving.

You tried to fight the fact that it was nearly midnight and you hadn’t gotten enough sleep in the entire past week. You kicked the blanket off and slowly padded around the room to try to calm your nerves. You walked to the grand piano and sat at the bench, gently tapping out a soft 9-note melody. It was all you ever bothered to learn. But Bucky loved playing the piano, more than you’d expected when you first met him. You loved it when he played for you, and you did your best to perfect the short melody he tried to teach you. As you tapped the keys, you tried to follow along with the sheet music. A small black box caught your attention; you couldn’t remember ever seeing it there before. You pushed the books leaned against it away and grabbed it, curious. It was a ring box, upon further inspection, covered in a smooth layer of velvet. You couldn’t help but imagine it was meant for you, since Bucky was the only one you ever saw play the piano. How romantic it would have been to have been proposed to as he played your favorite songs on the piano.

You knew it was wrong, but you convinced yourself that it could have been for anyone, so it didn’t hurt if you opened it. It was breathtaking, and you were mad at yourself for spoiling it, whether it was meant for you or not. The marquis cut diamond was set in beautiful 14 kt white gold, with two brilliant blue sapphires on the sides. The designs around the jewels were so intricate that you were surprised they were even possible. After marveling at the ring for more than enough time, you carefully placed it back in the box, and pushed the box back between the books, as if nothing had ever happened.

Despite the excitement of the ring, you couldn’t fight the exhaustion anymore. You crawled back under the blanket on the couch as your heavy eyelids drooped over your tired eyes. You gave a small prayer that the avengers get back safely, and then finally gave in, letting the cool darkness quietly envelope the room.