#bbc sherlock fic

[classickook]

the game is on | sherlock holmes

pairing: sherlock holmes x fem!reader

summary: you have a little surprise for sherlock that turns out differently than you had originally planned.

warnings: smut (18+), kissing, lots of teasing and foreplay, oral (fem receiving), cocky!sherlock

word count: 2.2k

a/n: a few anons requested some sherlock smut so i hope this does the trick! <3

“sherlock? can you come here for a second?” you called from inside the bedroom.

an unintelligible noise rang out followed by the clanging of what you could only assume was some tools from his countless experiments, before his approaching footsteps sounded in the hallway and his head of curls popped into the crack you left open in the door. 

“you’re wearing my shirt,” he said simply. his blue eyes drank you in from head to toe: at the bare legs leading up to his deep purple shirt—your favorite—that cut off at mid-thigh with nothing else beneath; hair a loose mess around your shoulders and lips slightly swollen from where you had been biting them during his perusal. 

“excellent observation skills, detective,” you replied smoothly. “and what might you deduce from this situation?”

sherlock took a step further into his bedroom and closed the door behind him. you watched in anticipation as he slowly crossed the room to stand in front of you, peering down at the lashes fluttering across the apples of your cheeks and the teasing grin pulling at your pretty pink lips. “you are… doing laundry,” he said quietly, the deep baritone of his voice like crushed velvet sliding over your skin, causing goosebumps to prick at your arms and bare legs. “and ran out of shirts,” he continued, “so you resorted to wearing mine in the meantime?” there was a mischievous pull to his lips at the silly response, playing along with your little game. 

you tapped a finger to your chin in mock contemplation. “hmm… not quite. take another guess.”

he reached for your arms then, his hands sliding down your shoulders, cupping your elbows, playing with your fingers until he finally draped them around the back of his neck, a silent request that you hold on to him, that you touch him in some way. “are you trying to seduce me, my dear?” he whispered into your ear, lips just barely brushing against your earlobe and you shivered at the contact.

“maybe i am… is it working?” your fingers teased beneath the collar of his button-down shirt—the one that he was wearing—and felt a demanding heat take up residence between your legs. it was almost painful, the ache inside you that was just begging to be touched, to be filled by him. you wished he would just touch you already, really touch you, to release the buttons of your (his) shirt and slide the material down your shoulders for his lips to quickly follow after. you wanted his mouth and teeth and tongue on every inch of skin. “touch me,” you whispered as you neared him, breath mingling with his where the distance between your mouths gradually lessened.

the cool skin of his hand was a stark contrast against the warmth of your neck as he touched you softly, slender fingers wrapping around the base of your throat and applying the slightest amount of pressure. his thumb was positioned just under your earlobe, soaking in the incessant thrumming of your pulse where it jumped up to greet him. “it seems that it might be working for the both of us,” he answered lowly. his free hand then moved to slide along your side, rubbing at the curves hidden beneath his shirt and aching to slip inside to feel the welcoming heat of you; he ached to cup your breast in his hand and feel the pebbling of your nipple against his palm, to slide his fingers under the hem of his shirt until he met the wet heat at the apex of your smooth thighs.

“do you have any idea what i want to do to you right now?” his tone was low, barely audible, and you felt it more than heard it.

“why don’t you show me, mr. holmes,” you whispered up at him, eyes blinking demurely as you placed a kiss to the base of his throat, which just so happened to be the only place your lips could reach from your current angle. 

he moved forward—and you, backward—until the backs of your knees hit the bed frame and you sat down, your eyes dragging up his tall form to meet his piercing blue gaze. you slowly reached for the buckle of his belt, loosening it and then moving to unzip his trousers until a triangle of his black underwear was visible, before his hands jumped down to cease your movements. 

you wet your bottom lip with the tip of your tongue and watched in satisfaction as his eyes followed the action. “are you going to kiss me, mr. holmes?”

“where would you like me to kiss you?”

“surprise me.”

the only warning you received was a quick curl of his lips before he leaned over you, bending at the waist to reach your height on the bed, and placed an open-mouthed kiss beneath your ear, his tongue flicking out to lick a stripe down your throat to the space between your collarbones. 

sherlock slowly moved down to his knees to get a better angle and then nipped lightly at your chest, lips wet and warm and making you ache everywhere for him. his hands slid up your calves to your knees, then to the insides of your thighs until they were dangerously close to the place you wanted him the most. you rubbed your legs together in an effort to soothe the ache that was building the more he ghosted his fingers over you, but never really made contact. 

“please, sherlock.” your request was embarrassingly desperate, but you didn’t care at this point.

you felt the curve of his lips against your skin where they trailed down your chest, rustling the collar of his shirt that you wore until more skin became available to him. “please what, darling?”

“please,” you begged. when did this planned attempt at seduction turn on you? you were supposed to be seducing him and you were failing miserably.  “kiss me, touch me, anything.”

“i am kissing you and touching you.”

you peered down at him disapprovingly, then reached up to grab a handful of curls and forced his head back to look up at you. the glorious pale flesh of his throat was fully exposed to you now, practically glowing in the morning sunlight that peeked through the blinds, and begged to be devoured by you. “i want more,” you said lowly, “can you give me more, mr. holmes? should i show you how it’s supposed to be done?”

a shaky exhale passed his lips and mingled with your breath as you pressed a kiss to his chin, to the corner of his mouth, to his upper lip and then to the bottom, swiping your tongue there until he opened up to you and you slid inside, licking into his warm mouth and tasting cigarettes on his breath. you pulled back a fraction. “i thought you said you quit.”

his blue eyes were mostly black now, pupils blown wide as he tried to focus on you. “i did,” he said. you narrowed your eyes at him. “okay, fine. i did for a week, but you know how i get. i need a distraction, some sort of stimulus.”

“what about me?”

“what about you?”

your lips ghosted over his sharp jawline until you reached the shell of his ear. “why don’t you use me as a distraction instead, hmm?”

“i think you’re worth more than that.”

“maybe so,” you replied. “but i’d rather you use me than those things.”

sherlock gripped your chin between his thumb and index finger, his way of regaining control in your current position, and pulled you in close to slot his mouth against yours, before whispering, “then so be it.” he kissed you furiously then, and you were shocked into silence by the force with which he devoured your mouth, his palms cupping your cheeks to hold you steady with each swipe of his tongue against yours. 

the ache between your legs was throbbing now and you felt wetness coating the inside of your thighs now, thanks to your lack of underwear. “sherlock,” you breathed helplessly. “sherlock, i—”

the good detective understood your silent request as his nimble fingers flicked the buttons loose until the fabric of his shirt was now pooling at your waist. your nipples pebbled in the cool air but sherlock took care of that too, his mouth quick to latch onto one nipple as his hand toyed with the other. he flicked and sucked and nibbled lightly at your breasts, and a moan bubbled its way up your throat and slipped passed your lips where sherlock moved up to capture the sound. the elegant speed with which he maneuvered between your lips and breasts, taking his time with each yet ensuring he didn’t miss your body’s not-so-silent call for more attention was impressive, fascinating, but not at all surprising. the great sherlock holmes knew how to work your body just as he knew the ins and outs of each of his cases. 

his large hands moved down to your ribcage, clutching you there as his lips descended down your chest to nip lightly at your hipbones and then at the sensitive flesh just beneath your navel. you could practically feel the various hues of purple and pink blossom there as he bit and sucked and licked along your lower half. 

he still hadn’t kissed you or touched you where you really wanted him, and it was driving you crazy, this game of his he was playing with your body. little did the public eye know that the famous consulting detective was cruel in his teasing, submitting you to foreplay that could go on for hours with barely any thought given to his own pleasure. you could feel the obvious bulge pressing against your inner thigh where he was positioned between your legs, and you experimentally kneed at it, feeling him jolt slightly before a firm “mm-mm” was pressed into your skin, the man nonverbally scolding you for attempting to return the favor, to play with him for a bit.

“sherlock,” you said again. it seemed that was all you had been able to say; the man had rendered you practically speechless, with only the pathetic two-syllabled name passing through your bitten lips. 

you were panting now, feeling his lips moving even lower until they were just barely ghosting over your throbbing clit, but then he shifted focus again before he could make contact, instead, mouthing at the crease of your inner thigh. a helpless whimper escaped you and you honestly felt like you could cry in that moment, being teased and toyed with as sherlock offered you only a glimpse of what was to come. “this isn’t fair,” you whined. 

“what isn’t fair,” sherlock said tightly, digging his fingers into the fleshy part of your outer thighs, “is that you had me come in here…” he tugged you to the very edge of the bed then and slowly lowered his mouth just above your aching core, “to find you…” a kiss to your clit, “wearing nothing…” his eyes flicked up to yours just as his tongue delved inside, “but my shirt.” 

a scream jumped up your throat as he licked at your cunt, sucking and nipping and groaning as he went, taking his time with you but knowing that you were close to coming after all his teasing. “sherlock,” you sobbed, “you arsehole.”

he laughed against you, and the vibration of it shot straight through your core until you felt it everywhere and nearly blacked out by the sensation. he slid his tongue in and out, in and out, licking and tasting you until the familiar knot in your lower belly intensified—doubling, tripling, quadrupling in ways you had never experienced before—until it finally unraveled and your climax came crashing over you as sherlock captured your arousal on his tongue and swallowed every drop that slid from between your thighs. 

your eyes were squeezed shut as your arousal washed over you from head to toe, feeling the warmth of it in every corner of your body. you vaguely felt sherlock’s lips press a tender kiss to your belly before footsteps echoed out of the bedroom door and returned a few moments later.

once he had finished cleaning you up, with both his tongue and a warm cloth from the bathroom, sherlock rested on top of you, comfortably nestling his clothed form along your naked one and pressing soft kisses between your breasts as you twirled your fingers in his thick curls. “well,” you said hoarsely, “that’s not how i had planned this to go.”

a velvety-smooth laugh rumbled against your chest as sherlock soaked in the aftereffects of your pleasure. “it was for me.”

you leaned back slightly, the angle uncomfortable given your current positions, and peered down at him with furrowed brows. “what?”

his lips curled up in self-satisfaction, his cheeks dimpling adorably yet infuriatingly due to his little scheme.

“are you meaning to tell me that you knew this was going to happen? did you plan this somehow?”

“you think you’re so clever, darling, but i think you forgot who you married.” he raised up on his hands and knees so he could lean over you, and whispered in your ear, “i always win, mrs. holmes.”

tags: @nicoletk

[kahuunknown]

The "Normal" one - BBC Sherlock sibling fanfic

!NOTE!: Non-specified reader/insert, inspiration from SHERLOCK TV Show

~~~

The normal one

(Y/n) Holmes.

That was your name. Of course you loved your family, you held them all dear and close to your heart, but that name came with a lot of baggage and responsibility. You’d often wonder what living life normally would be like, being born under a different name. These were just thoughts however, you knew in the end, you wouldn’t change a thing.

You were smart; there was no doubt in that fact, being born a Holmes provides such natural intelligence with ease. However, you would argue that you were anything but. You were a humble, gentle and modest soul, you were adamant in arguing that both your brother’s surpassed your measly intelligence without effort. Of course, the IQ tests would prove otherwise, but they were rid from the world quickly after there creation.

Living a normal life wasn’t something you detested, rather you grew rather fond of the mundane routines people lived day-to-day, it was funny watching them fuss over little mistakes, or creating the emotion of happiness with simple gifts and pleasures. You worked as a psychologist funnily enough. You could deduce much like the rest of your siblings, and decided to apply that skill toward something complimentary.

You were a young prodigy with a psychology major at only 26 years old; you lived a very financially stable life with your own private at-home psychology firm. You were comfortable with you life within London, you enjoyed being close to your family, and so it was never an option to live anywhere else. Often as a well respected personal to the community and the police, you were requested to provide psychoanalysis on victims, suspects or even the criminals themselves. You’d get paid of course, but your real motivation was helping you middle brother with his detective cases. Sometimes even the eldest would request your help, those were rare favours however.

Your brother’s wouldn’t admit it, but they absolutely adored you, you were the baby of the family and the most normal of them all. Your parents didn’t like to pick favourites but you were always the exception. Mycroft and Sherlock treated you like a child most often, they couldn’t wrap their heads around the thought of you growing up and maturing, when they looked at you, all they could see were those innocent orbs staring right back at them. This admittedly made them overprotective, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it was restricting.

You proved your intelligence and maturity every now-and-again, but you honestly didn’t mind their dotting. It showed the world that Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were human too.

So when the two were on the way to your house, they were honestly surprised and both mortified when the Consulting Criminal Jim Moriarty of all people stepped outside of your house with a laugh and bid you farewell, hopping into a awaiting sleek black car and driving off smoothly. Sherlock and Mycroft had hidden themselves upon the sight, they weren’t stupid, but they were terrified for your safety. Did you even know the true identity of the criminal you’d invited inside?

Neither brother remembered if they’d disclosed that information to you or not, they tried they upmost hardest to give you the privacy you desired, as hard as that was. They weren’t very good at it, but they did try their best to shield you from their enemies. You were untrained in any sort of defensive arts like they were; you were utterly defenceless if someone attacked you.

Nodding to each other, once they were satisfied with the distance Moriarty’s car had driven away; they quickly made their way to your doorstep and hurriedly rang your doorbell. You needed to be warned straight away, you needed to cut your ties with the villain immediately. Your safety was compromised.

You greeted them with a kind smile as always, both brothers nearly forgot the urgency and softened upon your sweetness, but reality was quick to return to them. They ushered you to let them inside, which you calmly did so, asking if they wanted any snacks or tea. Mycroft paused and politely requested some sweets and both brothers of course agreed to some tea. You chuckled at them, reminding them to make themselves at home; they were family of course, no matter how dysfunctional. The two elder Holmes watched you like hawks as you waddled around the kitchen. It was cute that you inherited their mother’s much shorter height, leaving you struggling and whining about reaching items on the top shelf. Though your brothers were more than willing to help, they teased you often about this fact.

Returning to the living room, you gently placed down the tray with balanced drinks and sweets situated on top.

“So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” Theo chimed, cradling his own cup of tea close and bringing his legs to his chest, curling into his usual ball-like position on his single seated couch.

Sherlock was first to speak, “Well, originally we both decided to check-in on you, we hadn’t seen you in a while.”

You chuckle, “Yes, well I was having a fantastic time in New Zealand. You should visit if you have the chance, it’s beautiful country.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, completely disinterested in the idea. But he admired your simplicity.

“Like Sherlock said, that was ‘originally’.” Mycroft pressed, narrowing his eyes at the detective.

“Who was that man that left your house moments before we arrived?” Sherlock questioned, though he already knew, he wanted to see if you were aware.

You rolled your eyes at the two overbearing brothers, “That was one of my clients, of course.”

“He’s dangerous, (Y/n-“

“Jim Moriarty.” You finished, “A charming man, to say the least. The infamous consulting criminal.”

Mycroft and Sherlock frowned, this couldn’t be good.

“You know who he is.” Sherlock stated.

“Of course, I do.” You retorted, “But that’s not my business, is it? I’m a psychiatrist and psychologist; my client’s background means nothing to me. That is my work.”

“Yes, but it’s also a hazard-“

You interrupted Mycroft, “Without Moriarty confessing to future crimes in the motion, I have no legal standing. Past crimes are useless.”

“A scientific priest.” Sherlock grumbles.

“In some ways.” You agreed absentmindedly. “I’m bound by my word.”

“Then I suppose there is no use asking you to share some details.” Mycroft sighs.

“None at all.” You chirped, “Now, if you two are free this afternoon, would you care for some fish ‘n chips? It’s been a long while since we’ve talked like this.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, it was his favourite food. A Holmes delicacy in some ways, as even Sherlock was fond of the food as well. Mycroft frowned, a defeated expression forming on his face, “I suppose, I have time.” He admitted.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at your happy face, you were sweet and innocent, but boy did you now how to use that to your advantage. Those damn puppy eyes.

“Fine.” Sherlock sighed.

Suddenly a knock sounded at the polished wood of your door, you furrowed your brows in confusion, not expecting any clients or guests over at this time. Standing, you gestured for your brothers to stay put while you answered the door.

Sherlock and Mycroft tensed as Moriarty waltzed into the house, smirking at the two of them confidently. He looked more than comfortable in your home, and both the protective brothers felt their instincts flare in that instant.

“Sorry to intrude, I believe I forgot my jacket.” Jim swooned, slinging his arm over your shoulder as you rolled your eyes and led him away from your siblings and into the office/ library room, where all your clients reveals their deepest secrets and feelings. Sure enough, Moriarty returned to the front door with his suit jacket under one arm.

He seemed to be talking normally to you, joking and laughing as if he were just a mundane human male, like all the rest. It was obvious to the brothers, that you and Moriarty knew each other quite well, they didn’t like that one bit.

Jumping to his feet, Sherlock decided he’d had enough of seeing that smug face and those evil beady little eyes looking at his youngest sibling.

“Leave.” Sherlock simply ordered, holding open the door for the mastermind to exit. Jim raised an accusing eyebrow at the new emotions Sherlock provided him with, but decided to play nice and do as he was told, for now at least. He left quietly, ignoring the slam of the wooden door after him; he was far too satisfied with this new discovery to care about rude behaviour.

He was originally just curious about you, intrigued and fascinated. He didn’t even know you existed; it wasn’t until Eurus cooed about you during his visit. She was smitten by you, couldn’t stop remembering all those memories as young children, when you’d follow her around, listen to her every tale with admiration and love. She talked about you as if perhaps you were a god, a higher being that she prayed to- or a rare exotic creature like most thought fantasy. You seemed too good to be true.

Yet here he was, obsessed with it all. Obsessed with you.

The expression of your brother’s were both the same, stern beyond belief. And you sighed, anticipating the emerging argument to take place.

“This is my job.” You stated, smile vanishing with the seriousness of your tone.

Mycroft and Sherlock almost didn’t recognise you, you looked different without the aura of sweetness drifting around you like a halo. They’d never seen this side of you.

Mycroft clears his throat, “He is dangerous, (Y/n). We would be fools to-“

“Then be fools.” You hissed, “This is my job. The career I’ve strived for, and Jim Moriarty is a normal client. You will not drag me around under the guise of your ‘safety’.”

Sherlock watched you carefully, scanning your expression and body language, trying to deduce you. Yet he came up with nothing. Normally you were so open to him and Mycroft, usually it was so easy to pull you apart, dissect every emotion and activity you’d been up to for the past week or so. But you’d shut down that gate, preventing any clue to find.

But then your shoulders slumped, and suddenly everything came flooding back, he could read you like an open book once more.

Sighing you looked them both in the eye, “I propose this.” Instantly you had your brothers intrigued, “I’ll install a camera within my office. You may have access to its feed at any time, and I’ll send you both my schedule, if you so desire as well. However, due to patient-confidentiality, the audio will be wiped, you will hear nothing.”

Sherlock scowls at the idea, obviously wanting to hear the conversations you and Moriarty had, he wanted to know everything. Mycroft on the other hand was more open to the idea; he eventually gave a slow nod.

“Deal.”

“Great.” You clapped your hands together, smiling once more and instantly relieving the tenseness in your brother’s posture, “Now, how about that fish ‘n chips, eh?

In the end, perhaps you were not as normal as everyone believed.

[somethingqueerisgoingonhere]

“I don’t think I could love anyone else.”

“What?” John asked into the newly broken silence.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea from where he was leaned up against the counter, “If I lost you or something, I really don’t think I’d want anyone else.”

“Lost me? Like a dog?” John asked sarcastically, taking a sip of his own tea.

“You’ve ruined me for everyone else.”

“Oh.” John said quite stupidly.

Sherlock had the decency to look embarrassed.

“I’ve ruined you?” John asked, equally as embarrassed.

“I just, don’t want anyone else.”

John smiled, “I feel the same.”

[consultingwives]

Summary: Rosie's teacher mentions to John that he may want to pursue the option of having her evaluated for autism. Sherlock doesn't like the idea...at first.

Tags: Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Autistic Rosie Watson, Autism, Parentlock, Rosie gets evaluated for autism, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, good parenting, Accurate Facts About Autism

I haven’t written BBC Sherlock fic in literally forever but this idea got ahold of me and wouldn’t let me go until I wrote it.

[shinybearnerd]

“At Dead of Night”

Hi everyone!

This is a little ff for the BBC Sherlock fandom.

It's set a little bit before the events of the third season. So !SPOILER WARNING! if you had not seen it yet.

   Honestly, I don't know what it is. I'm tired and I wanted to exorcise my old obsession with this (wonderful) series by writing something.

It was supposed to be longer, with the reader that finds out that Sherlock is alive and that Mycroft lied to them. Let me know if you're interested in that. I'll do a part 2 if that's the case.

Anyway, I hope you like it. Let me know what you think down below!

(no use of y/n - the reader has they/them pronounce)

-Engish is not my first language. So I'm sorry if there are any mistakes-

Pair: Mycroft x reader, a few remainders of Sherlock x reader

Words: 1,5k

Genre: Fluff , a little bit of Angst

Story: Reader and Mycroft finally have some precious time alone. During this, Reader remembers and thinks about the last three years and his relationship with the Holmes brothers. About that, lately, they have the feeling that the oldest might hide something...

Dining with Mycroft is... strange. Beautiful but strange.

No. Strange is not the right word.

Upsetting, perhaps?

Disarming?

Yes. Disarming is the right word.

You were so used to the half dinners that every so often you and Sherlock indulged between one case and another that remaining seated from ordering to withdrawing the last dish destabilized you in a good way. Even if you can't help but think that with Sherlock you would have had more fun. Not that Mycroft was boring. No, it was quite the opposite.

The charm and elegance of that man had always been something that had fascinated and impressed you. It's a characteristic that could also be seen in the younger of the Holmes brothers but stood out in the movements of the older one. Like right now: he had raised his arm slightly, getting the attention of a waiter who immediately ran towards your table. Then he asked if it might be possible to have another bottle of who knows what fine wine he was craving at that moment. And all you can do is smile at him and restrain the urge you had at that moment to jump on him and make love once again. It mattered little to you if everyone saw you.

Mycroft loved to spoil you.

You came to understand it quite soon. When you pointed out that there was no need and that all that attention could embarrass you, he replied that if you wanted the world, he would have brought it to you on a tray of gold.

That statement turned you on more than you care to admit.

Next month will be the third year since you saw him die. Sometimes that horrible, heartbreaking image would come back to visit you during your nightmares. Since you've been dating Mycroft tho, things started to change.

Having someone take care of you, and granting any kind of wish was incredibly pleasant.

Not that Sherlock didn't care about what you needed. He had his way of dealing with this kind of thing. And, even late at times, your needs were met.

He was a lovable and, more than his pride would admit, forgetful idiot. Your lovable and forgetful idiot.

He has been your rock in difficult times. He was your confidant. A person you could talk to. Over time he too has opened up to your presence and you have discovered a side of Mycroft that you would not even have imagined before.

Then things started to change. And perhaps for the best.

Between one evening together and another, a kiss escaped. Then a date. And after even more time, a night of love at the man's house. The first time after Sherlock's death.

You felt awful. Disgusting.

You hated yourself because you felt like you cheated on Sherlock by sleeping with his brother. With his enemy.

In all this, however, Mycroft was always understanding. He didn't push you into doing anything. He always listened and asked if you were comfortable doing anything.

He was able to make you feel alive and loved once again. Which you didn't think was possible. Spending time with him was magical and incredibly peaceful. Maybe more than you wanted, but you need calm and serenity in your life. So everything was perfect.

Except for one thing. You had the sensation that he was hiding something from you.

As the waiter walked away from your table, Mycroft noticed your gaze on him. He smiled too, taking your hands and leaving a kiss on your skin.

     <<Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?>>

     That nickname always managed to make you blush like a teenager.

    <<Very.>>

    His smile widened. <<I'm happy.>>

He had a strange look in his eyes. Like someone who has a cross to bear.

It's not the first time you've noticed such a look. In these three years, you have noticed it several times. Particularly when he thought you were not watching him.

    <<Hard day at work?>> You ask him.

    He looks down at your hands and strokes them with his thumb. <<No more than others.>>

    <<Something wrong? I see you a little tense, love.>>

    <<I'm fine. Don't worry.>>

    <<Is there anything I can do to help you?>> You ask with a hint of maliciousness in your voice.

You give up, even if momentarily.

Mycroft could be stubborn if he wanted to and you're sure if you insisted you wouldn't get anything out of it. Might as well wait for the moment when he wants to talk.

But you know that something was up.

Mycroft's smile went from adoring to mischievous in fractions of seconds. He was about to say something when he was interrupted by two waiters. One who served you dessert and another who opened the requested bottle and poured it.

    <<What are we toasting to?>> You ask, taking your glass.

    <<To the beautiful person in front of me.>>

    You blush hard while smiling. <<Stop it! You know it bothers me!>>

    He chuckles and clinks both glasses together. <<To you, my love.>>

    <<You know what? I don't want to do anything more for you. Keep your secrets.>>

He looked at you with a beaten puppy gaze as he lowered his wine glass and opened his jacket to reach for his cell phone in the inside pocket. You see him getting white as a ghost as soon as his eyes rest on the name that appears on the screen.

Mycroft opens his mouth to tell you that your beauty was meant to be celebrated every second, when he is interrupted by his cell phone ringing.

     You were annoyed that someone was interrupting you, but you know very well that Mycroft can't help it.

    <<I'm sorry, my dear.>>

He gets up, kisses you and walks towards the exit.

You can see him through one of the vertical windows on either side of the hall. He's tense. Very tense.

He walks slowly up and down the street. He is listening to someone, trying to assess the situation. Suddenly his head snaps up. You can't see his face because of the distance, but you know that it's no good and that Mycroft must leave as soon as possible.

You thank the waiter by leaving a generous tip and get up, walking towards the lobby.

You call the waiter with a wave of your hand, asking for the bill and if it were possible to pack the two desserts to take them away.

In a few minutes, he fixed everything.

    <<Are you going away, miss?>>

    <<I'm afraid so.>>

    <<Okay. Wait here while I get your coats, please.>>

As the woman walks away, you can get a better look at your boyfriend.

His back is straight and tense. The expression is always cold and detached but the movement of his lips makes you understand that he is furious.

You are very concerned about this situation. You’ve never seen him so upset.

The receptionist's voice wakes you from your thoughts.

She moves behind you and helps you put on your coat.

    <<Thank you.>>

    <<You’re welcome, miss. Here. This is your husband's.>> She smiles as she hands you Mycroft's coat.

    <<He’s- ...Thank you. Good evening.>>

Husband...

You’ve never thought about that

As the woman opens the door to let you out you find yourself looking at your left ring finger. Smiling at the idea.

How can't you? Mycroft was perfect.

As soon as you finish the sentence, Mycroft feels weird. He doesn't know what that depends on. He just can't help but smile.

    <<Yes, I'll be right there.>>

    Your boyfriend has just ended the call when he notices your presence.

    <<I figured that the circumstance was important.>> You tell him as you hand him both the jacket and the box containing the desserts. <<And these are both yours. From how tense I see you, I know you deserve them all.>>

    <<I love you so much...>>

You both are surprised and stare blanc at each other.

It's the first time either of them has said the l-word.

A taxi appeared, parking in front of you. You share another kiss before the eldest Holmes opens the door for you, and then closes it behind you.

    You smile at him. Hug him to you and kiss him. <<I love you too.>>

    He melts under your touch.

    <<I would have liked this evening to have ended in another way...>>

    <<I think we both hoped so.>> You reply mischievously.

    Mycroft chuckles. <<That's not what I meant ... Or at least in part.

<<I have to go...>>

    <<I know.>>

    <<I'll make it up to you.>>

    <<I know that too.>> You stated as you caress his face. <<Can we talk later?>>

    <<Of course. Call me when you arrive.>>

    <<The same goes for you too, Mister.>>

You think for a long time about that "I'll make it up to you". He had an odd tone. As if he was hiding something.

He smiles at you, kisses you one more time and gives directions to the taxi driver.

As soon as the taxi starts you realize that his car has arrived, but Mycroft doesn't get on it. He waits for you to leave, waving at you from a distance. You blow him a kiss and sit up composed.

You suppress a yawn in your throat and blame it all on tiredness and your overthinking. Mycroft has always told you everything. Sure he would not hide something from you... right?

[leosficlist]

Hello everyone!!

Its been 4-5 years since I was active on this blog, but I never stopped reading Johnlock fan fictions.

Since I’ve been using my ao3 bookmarks as a hoarding ground for every fic I’ve read in that time, I thought those curations may be better appreciated on tumblr!

So stay tuned if you’re still looking to read some Johnlock tales, mostly BBC but occasionally ACD slips in there too.

❤️

[foe-of-fate]

NEED HELP FROM TUMBLR

I lost a fanfic 🥲

It was a BBC Sherlock high school AU where Sherlock and his family come to America for his moms work and he meets a young John Watson, who is a star football player and currently dating Mary. It takes place in the South, John comes out, his mother is homophobic and his father gets run over by a tractor, they live on a farm and John goes into the military at the end of it. Molly is Sherlock’s friend and a great ally, and Moriarty questions his sexuality. The title is either the name of a song or song lyrics.

If anyone knows this fic or the author please help me out. RB to spread.

[goldencherriess]

And they were roommates ™ || Student! Sherlock Holmes x Fem! Reader

Word count: 931

Pairing: Student! Sherlock Holmes x Fem! Reader

Summary: Y/N quickly discovers that being roommates with Sherlock Holmes has its own benefits.

Warnings: absolutely none, other than Sherlock being a big ol’ softie :)

Masterlist

Life as a student wasn’t all that bad. It was fun most of the time, if Y/N excluded the stress of the approaching exams. And it wasn’t dull either. Not when you had a chemistry student as a roommate who just couldn’t stop making experiments everytime he had the opportunity. Which was everyday.

Not dull, definitely not dull.

And she wouldn’t have complained if he just stayed to his side of the room. The man didn’t know what were boundaries and personal space, leaving his ustensils and the experimental subjects all over her desk and books. It was getting on her nerves.

At first she ignored it all, didn’t question the creepy eyes in the jar or the fingers in his tea. And when she tried to question him, he only replied shortly, in a curt manner:

“Project.”

She didn’t press on after that. It was obvious he had no interest in speaking with her. And she was absolutely fine with that. Just fine.

But this time though, she had enough. She couldn’t stand by and see her side of the room being devoured by his stuff. It was chaotic. And Y/N was no chaotic person, she’d rather much preferred order and neatness.

So, when he stormed in their shared flat, she deeply breathed in and stood up from her bed, leaving behind her course notes on Shakespearean literature. She could hear him rummaging through the fridge and cursing under his breath.

“Sherlock? What are you doing?”

He didn’t respond and Y/N was just timidly entering the kitchen when he slammed the fridge door.

“Ah, hello, Y/N! How is Shakespeare coming along?”

She paused.

“How did you…?”

He waved his hand, stuffing the other in the pocket of his coat. From behind, she could hear the smirk in his voice.

“Wouldn’t you like to know? The bags under your eyes and the Shakespeare books scattered on your bed gave it away. And also, your messy hair. You have been running your fingers through your hair out of stress for some time now. Plus, it’s exams season.”

Y/N stopped following him through the flat, gaping at his back.

“You guessed I was studying Shakespeare by all that?”

He snorted, turning to look at her.

“I didn’t guess, I simply observed. It’s elementary, dear Y/N.”

She blinked, shaking her head.

“Right, of course.”

Sherlock just stood there, staring at her, with his hands clasped behind his back, and smirking. She felt flustered under his gaze, small even. Y/N shifted from a foot to another, pushing her glasses further up her nose. But then she remembered why she approached him in the first place. She raised her head and met his eyes.

“You have to start cleaning around here.”

He frowned.

“Why would I do that?”

She gave him a pointed look.

“Because I’m not your housekeeper, I’m your roommate. And you’re really, really messy. I drew an invisible line, and you crossed it the moment you started making experiments on my desk!”

“Oh, did I? I thought roommates shared everything, no?”

Y/N sighed.

“Not personal space, Sherlock.”

He took a step towards her, meeting her eyes intensely.

“No?”

“No. And please, can you just keep away from me all those body parts you bring to the flat? God knows where you even take them from!”

Another step taken.

“From the lab.”

She ironically laughed, nodding her head.

“The lab, of course! What lab, Sherlock?”

Sherlock took another another step.

“Professor Strange’s lab.”

Y/N looked incredulously at him.

“You steal from your own professor?”

He took one more step, stopping right in front of her, their chests almost touching.

“As I had said before, projects.”

She drew a shaky breath in when she noticed their proximity. She felt his warm breath on her cheeks and it almost made her shudder. Sherlock’s eyes roamed her face, before they settled on her lips. He took her wrist and whispered:

“I’m deeply sorry. Please, forgive me. I won’t bother you from now on.”

Her heartbeat started to quicken when his thumb carresed the back of her wrist.

“It’s quite alright.”

He leaned forward, planting a kiss on the corner of her mouth. His lips lingered there for a few more moments, then he straightened his back.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

“Shakespeare” she breathed.

Sherlock nodded his head, a small smile on his lips.

“Indeed. Do not worry about your exams. You’ll do just fine. Rest.”

He adjusted her glasses for her and shot her a small smile. Y/N was sure she was a deep red by now. She definitely suspected that Sherlock knew what he was doing.“This man, I swear.”

And then he walked past her towards the door of the flat. His steps were rapid fire, curls and coat fluttering behind him.

“Wait, where are you going?”

She struggled to keep up with his long strides. “Damn him and his long legs.”

Sherlock looked at her from the corner of his eyes, flipping the collar of his coat up.“Fancy solving mysteries? Unless you’d like to resume studying?”

She stopped in the door, looking behind her. Her exams were just around the corner. She knew that her professor was keeping an eye on her since she almost failed the last one. On the other hand, she really needed a break.

She smiled at Sherlock.

“Got a vacancy?”

Bonus:

“You shouldn’t look in the fridge tonight.”

“Why not?”

“There may be or may not be one of those body parts from the lab.”

“Sherlock!”

“Deeply sorry, darling.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N: thank you so much for reading! This was my very first attempt of writing a Sherlock fic, so any kind of feedback is very much welcomed :)

If you’d like to be tagged in the next Sherlock fics, let me know!

P.S.: there was an Easter egg in this fic, have you spotted it? ;)

[ouat-in-spare-oom-of-rivendell]

Sherlock Masterlist (BBC)

James Moriarty

Every Little Weakness one shot

Summary: A high ranking operative in the Network is arrested and brought in for questioning. What is so special about her?

[starks-hero]

PLEASE MORE SHERLOCK ANGST I'M BEGGING

ask and you shall receive :)

The air seemed to have thinned out around you as you tried to catch your breath. You'd sunk to your knees in an attempt to gather your bearings quicker, the tarmac beneath you wet from earlier rainfall. The musky smell that clung to the alleyway made evening out your breathing an unpleasant task.

The dampness soaked into the fabric of your clothes and made you shiver with discomfort. Your knees and back ached and a bloom of burning pain persisted in your cheek. You weren't entirely certain your jaw wasn't broken.

The suspect you and Sherlock had given chase after had landed a harsh blow to the side of your face before he'd fled.

The pain was worsened by the knowledge that the whole thing could have been avoided.

When the man in question bolted from the scene of the crime, Sherlock just couldn't wait for Lestrade and his team. Rather, he saw himself far more capable of reprimanding the culprit himself. In the chase, you had both turned down an alley and one suspect suddenly turned into four. You couldn't recall much of the fight that followed. You'd held your own fairly well, up until one of the thugs grabbed a fistful of your jacket and landed a harsh blow to your jaw. Sherlock had turned his attention to you just long enough for the criminal he had a hold on to escape his grasp.

Now, both of you were left in the dust, your focus having shifted to putting yourselves back together.

Sherlock leaned against the wall to your left, the red bricks a stark contrast to the darkened shade of his coat and hair. His breathing was laboured and his jaw was tensed; the muscles in his neck contoured almost painfully. You hadn't realised he'd exerted himself so much in the brawl.

He pushed away from the wall, stumbling slightly as he did so. You stood to meet him.

“You're alright?” His gloved hand brushed against your cheek and there was an odd lack of control in the action. His hand trembled ever so slightly against your skin. “That last moron gave you quite the punch.”

“I'm fine.” You dismissed him and he nodded, despite being in no way convinced. He readjusted his coat and you didn't miss his wince as he did so. He was doubled over slightly, doing a horrible job at trying to hide just how much he was struggling to catch his breath.

“Sherlock.” You carefully grasped his arm. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, I just need to catch my breath.” He waved you off. He was cradling his side now, his hand subtly pressed against his coat. “I'm afraid we'll have to take a cab home.”

“Sherlock–”

“I'm fi–ine.” The sudden pain distorted his voice.

“Sherlock, hey hey,” You grabbed hold of him and guided him back to the wall for support. His expression was pained and his knees seemed too weakened to keep him standing. He sunk to the floor and you followed him down. “What's going on?”

“I just– I need to catch my breath.” He repeated. His temple was damp with sweat and when you pushed his curls back his skin was hot to touch.

He swallowed harshly as he tried to force a neutral expression but his pained discomfort continued to shine through. He hissed and grasped his side again.

Carefully, you gripped the hem of his coat and moved it aside. He moved to stop you but his hold on your wrist proved to be too weak to prevent you from pulling back the fabric. You were met with the horrific sight of blood staining his shirt.

“God, Sherlock–”

“I'm fine,” he said plainly.

“You're not fine!” You tore off your scarf and pressed it to his side. It proved to be of little use, the blood seeping through the fabric as if it were mere paper. A thousand thoughts flooded your mind.

Had they been armed? Did they have a gun? Oh god, had he been shot? No, no you would have heard it go off. A knife then. How long had he been hiding it?

You pulled out your phone and called Lestrade with trembling hands. The fresh blood coating your hands left red smears across the screen. The detective inspector wasn't given the chance to so much as offer a greeting when he picked up. You tried to give some semblance of an address, giving a description of the alley and reciting the last street sign you'd seen. Luckily, it proved to be enough.

When you hung up the phone, Sherlock's eyes were on you.

“Did you give Lestrade the suspect's appearance?” He asked far too nonchalantly for a man that had been stabbed. “Five foot ten, eight in shoe size, slight heterochromia in the right eye, likely works at the south docks given the scarring on his ha–hands...”

The pain in Sherlock's voice was uncomfortable to hear. Always so calm and collected, the sound of him distraught made you deeply uneasy.

“Stop talking.” You tried to keep your voice firm. “Just stay quiet and stay still.”

The blood had seeped through the scarf so thoroughly you weren't sure there was much use left of it. You shrugged off your coat and used it in its place. Your brows were furrowed, lips pulled taut in a worried frown.

“It's that bad?” Sherlock tilted his head. “This isn't how I hoped tonight would go.”

His skin had paled and was now slick with sweat. His curls were damp and his breathing was thin.

“Yeah? What did you have in mind?” You humoured him. Stay awake, Sherlock. Just stay awake.

“Not getting stabbed, to begin with.” He let his head fall back against the wall. “Then chips on the way home. Maybe I'd put up with that god awful show of yours.”

“Oh please, you've been intrigued since the last season,” you said, trying to ignore the red staining your hands.

“Or perhaps I'm just very good at pretending.” His words were teasing. “For your sake.”

“How noble.”

He smiled dully. Then his eyes closed and his head lulled forward.

“Hey, hey, eyes on me.” Your panic flared as you grasped his cheek with your free hand. “Look at me.”

His eyes opened drowsily and he smirked. “You're rather good at this, playing doctor.”

“Don't let John hear you say that,” you said in an attempt to match his playfulness in such a dire situation. “The whole doctor role is his thing.”

“What he doesn't know won't hurt him.” He was somehow even paler now, almost translucent. His next words spooked you even more than his current appearance. “For both our sakes, don't panic when I pass out.”

“You're not going to pass out,” you said defiantly. You tied the coat to his side using the bloodied scarf and he hissed at the applied pressure.

“Yes, I am. I've lost almost a liter of blood, hypovolemic shock should set in in the next minute or so.” His hand weakly tightened around your own. “But it'll be alright. Lestrade should be no more than four minutes away, three and a half if he took Fleet Street instead of Holborn Road...” He was practically gasping for breath at this point and the sliver of fear in his eyes was undeniable. “That gives us a two minute window.”

Your hands carefully cradled his cheek. He met your eyes; saddened, scared.

“Or you could stay awake. And not leave me sat here alone.”

“I'm afraid we're too late for that,” he said gently. “It's alright. You've done well... really well...”

Sherlock eyes slid close, his hand slipping from your own just as the familiar glow of red and blue lights appeared in the distance.

Sherlock tag list: @miraclesoflove @mylovelysnowflake @quentawewe @bakerstreethound @ilovefanfictions @andreasworlsboring101 @doozywoozy @leftperfectionmoon @xxinvisiblexx @the-worst-critic @the-queer-dungeoneer @jellyfishbeansontoast @starrykitn @starryeddie @bebana-7913 @themorningsunshine @evelynrosestuff @frostandflamesfanfic @ineedmorejakelockley @simp-for-scammanders @allieberries @kealohilani-tepise @xhz17x

[wickedscribbles]

Tempo, Chapter Thirteen

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x AFAB Reader (Second Person Perspective), she/her pronouns

Rating: Explicit

Tags: fluff, illness/caretaking, smut, sub Sherlock, PiV, cowgirl

Word Count: 5K

If you like what I write and can afford to do so, please consider buying me a coffee! It would be much appreciated.

New Year's Day is a quiet affair. John and Mary bring baby Rosamund to Baker Street, and Sherlock is delighted to see her with Karl Popper in tow. Your heart aches in a strange way to see him gravitate towards her, though he seems hesitant to actually hold her in any way. You and Mary are quick to assure him about the durability of children.

The night of New Year's, you'd danced with him to whatever cheesy song they'd had on the broadcast countdown, in your sock feet. You have to lean up to be able to kiss when the countdown reaches zero, and you can feel him smiling against your mouth. Fireworks echo, deafening, all over London. There is nowhere in the world that you'd rather be than in his untidy little flat, dancing to a song you don't know, letting him pitch and sway you like the sea. His lips are your guiding point, his hands the lighthouse.

And you are home.

—---------

Returning to work is the last thing you want to do. The brief respite from your regular onslaught of numbers and accounts has felt far too short, your desk even lonelier than you remember it. But you have bills to pay, a flat to return to, even if you're there as little as possible these days. You'd spent that whole week from Christmas to New Year's with Sherlock, aside from a day where he went home to visit his own parents. Your flat seems miserable in comparison, unoccupied and dull.

There's nothing lived in about it. It's just a place you come back to at the end of the day. Depressingly, it's starting to remind you of your office. With that thought in mind, you stop over at a shop after work one evening and take the time to buy some wall decorations, relieved when it makes the place feel less like a box.

Your lessons, too, are due to resume with the start of the year. Your hands needed time to heal after that moment of self-neglect. Though you'd watched Sherlock perform on your Stradivarius in wonder, he hadn't insisted that you do any of your own practice in your week together.

Unusual, you think. Perhaps that means he's going to double down on your studies after such a long break. You're not sure if you're looking forward to that or dreading it. Bit of both, maybe. You already have instructions to go over all your songs, starting with the easiest and working your way to the hardest.

At the coffee pot Wednesday morning, there's a thick murmur of conversation. At least five people are standing round, preventing you from getting to where you want to be.

That's unusual. And annoying.

"Oh, did you hear?" Michelle pipes up when she spots you lingering in the hall. "God, you're not gonna believe it – the CEO stepped down over holiday."

You feel your eyes go wide. "He – what?"

Someone else nods, eager to chip in. "Just resigned, said he wanted to 'move on to other interests'. Must be nice, eh?"

Eventually you pour your coffee, your mind buzzing. There's no way the CEO would quit. Not when he owned a company this massive. Someone would have to persuade him, threaten him, even, to do something like that.

You think of how he'd grabbed your arm, his harsh voice.

But honestly…you're glad he's gone. Maybe now you can stop holding your breath until the end of every shift. You wonder if Sherlock already knows the news – probably. He's got his finger on the pulse of so much, and –

Hold on, hold on. Did he have something to do with this? No. He couldn't have. Sherlock's a detective, he doesn't go around making threats. And even if he did, he wouldn't be able to budge someone as big as your CEO.

But his brother could.

When you return to your desk, coffee in hand, there's a blank piece of paper sticking out from under your keyboard. As you flip it over, you have to allow yourself a smile.

You're welcome, it reads. A late Christmas gift. –MH.

You decide you do like Mycroft after all. A little.

—-------

Are we still on for lessons today?

A long pause.

Can't, sorry. Case came up. Tomorrow? –SH

Alright, if you say so.

Tomorrow arrives.

Helloooooo

Mr. Brilliant Detective Man

I need you to teach me the violin or rail me senseless, whichever suits your fancy

I'm not in. Does Friday work? – SH

Your heart sinks. He's never blown you off before. And why now? Why would he wait until everything felt almost perfect between you to start this?

You tell yourself he's being honest. That there is some sort of incredible, all-consuming case he's absorbed in, because you know how he bloody well gets. Laser focused on one thing and one thing only, and at least he had the decency to tell you he wouldn't be in.

But then Friday arrives, and so do you, violin case in hand, to 221B Baker Street. There's no sign of Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson, who seems to have resumed her affair with Mr. Chatterjee. Swallowing hard, you hesitate outside the flat, stomach twisting with anxiety.

Okay, calm down, it could be a case.

Or he could be avoiding you.

…Or it could be drugs.

Shit shit shit.

When was his last screening?? You're supposed to be keeping an eye on this, supposed to be watching. In a panic, you pull up Molly Hooper's number, hoping against all hope that she answers. The line rings once, twice, three times.

"Hello?" She says at last, and you could deflate with relief.

"Hi, Molly, so sorry to bother you," you reply in a rush. "It's just, erm…do you happen to have the results of Sherlock's, you know. His screening? This week?"

"Oh, let me see…"

A brief pause. Some shuffling.

"He hasn't come in yet. He's normally in on Thursdays but he put it off. Said he'd be in by the weekend."

You thank her, saying your goodbyes.

Some tiny insatiable overpanicked part of your brain is fucking convinced he is in there right now doing a line of cocaine. It takes everything you have not to kick in the door. Instead you knock, heart in your throat, and let out a heavy breath.

Nothing. Nothing. Then, footsteps. Finally, the door opens a crack, and the face peering out at you is not what you'd expected.

He's ill. Hair untidy, face pale, eyes and nose rimmed red, ill. Looking awful and a bit grumpy to see you standing there. You’re no expert on addicts, but at a glance, he doesn’t seem like he’s been taking anything stronger than the cold medicine you can get down at Boots. Wearing pyjamas and a scruffy blue dressing gown, Sherlock looks like he’s just rolled out of bed.

"It's not Friday," Sherlock says thickly, frowning. (He even sounds awful, all raspy and hoarse.) "Told you. Now bugger off before you catch what I've got, thank you."

"Hey, wait –"

You slide your foot in to stop the door from closing.

"First off, it is Friday," you start. "Second – God, Sherlock, if you were ill why didn't you just say?"

Exasperation sinks into your tone despite your best effort. Guilt creeps over his expression, which in turn strikes the same feeling in you. Even if he’s been keeping it from you, he had a reason. You could do without him stepping around the truth, but that’s something the two of you will have to confront in your own time. There’s nothing to be done about it now that it’s happened except to acknowledge that it has and move on from there.

“I’ve told you,” he continues, though there’s no venom to his tone. “Didn’t want you coming in and catching whatever godforsaken germ’s traveling across half of London.”

“Could’ve said that.”

“Then you would’ve ended up here even sooner. The earlier in the week you came, the higher your risk of exposure.”

“You ought to have known I’d end up here regardless,” you say stubbornly. His motives are sweet but entirely unnecessary. “I’m not afraid of catching your cold, Sherlock Holmes. Now let me in the damn flat.”

With an irritated growl, he steps aside, relenting.

And – oh. The flat is clean. Not in a flux state of untidy/passable, as you’ve known it for as long as you’ve known Sherlock, but clean. Right down to the surface of the coffee table, which is missing its usual rings. All the sheet music seems to be sitting in one folder, pinned under his violin case, and there’s hardly a stray speck of dust in the place. It smells strikingly of lemon disinfectant in here, and you take in a deep lungful. I could get used to this.

“Did you hire a housekeeper?” you muse, craning your neck to peek into the kitchen. It’s sparkling. You’re fascinated.

“No,” he says shortly. “Hard to find any that wouldn’t balk at what’s being kept in the refrigerator, I’m sure.”

“So you just…cleaned. For fun.” You place a hand on your hip.

“I don’t want you to –” Sherlock clears his throat, hoarse “ – don’t want you to get ill. But the likelihood of keeping you away for longer than a week was poor. So. Tidying. It was awful. Do people really do this all the time?” He gestures, exasperated, around the place.

“They do.” You laugh a little. “And yes, I agree. It’s boring as all hell, isn’t it? Cleaning the same things over and over just so they can collect new dust. Then you die.”

“Cheerful way of putting it.”

He has his arms crossed, appraising you from across the room. From the tired, drawn expression on his face, you venture a guess that your first observation wasn’t far off the mark. Perhaps he has just rolled out of bed. Sherlock watches you with light green eyes missing some of their usual clarity.

“Are you alright?” you ask softly. Taking a few steps toward him, you’re amused but not surprised when he backs up an equal amount.

“Fine,” he responds.

“Then why are you keeping away from me? I told you I don’t care if you give me whatever disease you’ve picked up.”

He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Perhaps you ought to.”

You step forward again, and it feels somewhat like cornering a wild animal. This time, he doesn’t move, though you can see he wants to. Running a hand through already tangled curls, he only watches you, weary.

“Why?” Your tone is challenging. “What terrible plague have you been struck with, oh weary man? Tell me.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes so hard you fear they’ll get stuck in the back of his skull. “It’s a cold, you antagonist. Is it so awful of me to not want you to have one?”

“Is it so awful of me not to care?” You keep going until you’re right in front of him, gazing up at his obstinate, flushed face. “I’ve been worried about you.” Resting your fingers on his cheek, you find it warm. Sherlock closes his eyes. “And I’m just – I’m glad that this is a problem I can help you with.”

“What do you mean?” he murmurs. Then, seconds later, “Oh.”

You say nothing, uncertain if it would upset him to lay out your train of thought right here. He takes your hand in his and laces your fingers through, squeezing, meeting your glance with another guilty expression.

“I see. It was one thing to delay lessons without a given cause, but with what you know about my history of drug abuse, you grew suspicious.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“Please don’t feel the need to apologize,” Sherlock says, his voice sounding somewhat strange with its new rasp. “I should’ve just told you, as you said. Should’ve been honest.”

“Sweet of you to try and spare me, though.”

“Don’t believe anyone’s ever used that word in reference to me before,” he chuckles. “It’s a bit unnerving.”

“Mm,” you hum, burrowing your way into his dressing gown for a hug. Just like his skin, it’s incredibly warm in here, despite the bitter January chill. “Better get used to it, then.”

Sherlock sighs, defeated, wrapping his arms around you. Something deep in your chest aches just to be held like that. You were being honest when you told him you didn’t care if he gave you whatever he had – you’ve been through worse. All you’d wanted was to know if he was alright, and now that you have that confirmation, you’re okay with whatever happens next. And anyway – you have enough paid time off work that if you needed it, you could use it, should anything befall you.

“You look tired,” you tell him after a long moment. “Go back to bed.”

He gives one last protest about you staying here, but there’s almost no energy behind it. As if it’s all being done for appearance’s sake, rather than out of any real desire to keep you away. You watch him curl up under the blankets, get comfortable, and fall asleep almost at once.

Seeing Sherlock asleep is…bizarre. After so long together, you know he’s watched you sleep more times than you can count. Yet every time the situation arose, you’ve always been the first to nod off. Today, though, it seems he can’t keep his eyes open a moment longer. Atop the blankets, you lie next to him for a time, fascinated. He’s folded up on his side in a sprawl of limbs, curled in a loose ball.

His face looks so much calmer. Not burdened with the responsibility of always thinking, judging, observing. Just…at rest. At ease.

“Hey, you stubborn arse,” you whisper, reaching up to brush a loose curl out of his face. “Look at me if you can hear me.”

Nothing. He’s really, truly out of it, mouth open, face pressed to the pillow. His breath soft and deep. As you watch, he wriggles deeper into the blankets before settling with a sleepy sigh.

Okay…good.

“I’m in love with you,” you breathe, your heart thudding painfully against your chest. “As much as I wish I wasn’t. As much as I wish we could just do whatever it is you want. This casual…whatever this is. I can’t. I know I’m in love with you because I’ve been in love before, and I’m scared senseless.”

You blow out a harsh sigh, holding out one shaking hand before clenching it tight. Bracing yourself to keep going.

“Love hurts. Love’s fucking hard. It’s every bit as complicated as you already know it is, I won’t lie and say it’s all rainbows. The last time I loved someone, they…they ripped me apart. I’m still learning how to put myself back together.”

You feel your lip wobble, fighting tears, even as you’re smiling at how stupid you’re being. He’s not even awake to hear this. This little confession is all for you – to help you get this weight off your chest.

“But I want to try again, despite all that. You make me want to try again, even when there are days when you’re being strange or closed off. I don’t care. In the end you’re you and you’re worth it. I love you, and nothing’s going to change my mind. So there. That’s all.”

Thank God, he’s slept through it all. For a few minutes more, you watch him, letting the complicated volley of emotions steep in your heart and in your mind. If only you could work up the nerve to say all that to his face, to fight through the arguments he’d no doubt raise about all of it being too much to handle. Even after John and the issue being laid to rest, you feel like he’ll never try again.

Leaning down, you brush your lips to his forehead. You work carefully to extract yourself from the covers so you don’t disturb him, tiptoe from the bedroom, and close the door. Your plan is to put the kettle on, get comfortable on the sofa, and not think too much about everything you’ve just told your sleeping not-partner. If that’s even possible.

—--------

In the dark of the bedroom, after you’ve left for the kitchen, Sherlock lets out a deep breath. He presses his palms to his eyes, as if to keep all the complicated things he’s heard from circulating in his mind.

This is far worse than he thought.

—------------

It’s early evening by the time the bedroom door opens, and you’re well into a novel rooted from one of his bookshelves. Sitting cross legged on the sofa, you look up in delight to see him emerge, giving him a small smile. Though it’s been odd to spend time in the flat without him, the experience is far from unpleasant. 221B has been a place of comfort to you for some time, and the hours pass quickly.

“Well, look who's decided to join us,” you say, placing the book aside. “You hungry?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not really.”

You decide not to press him. Instead you unfold from your place, stretching a little, not realizing how stiff you’ve gone from hours staying in one spot.

“That’s alright. Mrs. Hudson dropped off some soup earlier – she knows you’ve been holed up in here ill too, you know.”

He huffs out an indignant sound at that. “Really don’t need her getting ill, now, do we?”

“That we don’t,” you agree. “All the same, she’s dropped off enough supplies to medicate a small army. And mulligatawny.”

“I’ve no doubt – the woman thinks I’m incapable of walking down the street and purchasing my own cold supplies.”

“Well, you know how mums are.”

Sherlock pads over to where you sit – still keeping a fair distance, you notice. The nap seems to have done him some good. At the very least, he looks less like he’s going to fall over at the first lapse in conversation. More alert, more like himself. You can’t help grinning as he hesitates, finally settling at the far end of the sofa, cupping his elbows in either palm. His glance grazes you, up and down, as if even eye contact is something he has to be careful with.

"How're you feeling?" You pick up your favorite mug, the one with the chip in the rim, and take a sip of water. "You look better."

"Bit better," he answers, absentminded. "Tired. Er, sore. Throaty. Annoying cold things."

Still he watches you, saying with everything except words that he'd very much like to slide over and be touching you right now. How stubborn can one man get? Or maybe it's a matter of not knowing if it would be the right thing to say. Either way, it melts your heart, and you can't bear the distance any longer.

“Oh, c’mere, love,” you say, trying and failing to keep the amusement out of your voice. “You’re not the only one who can tell when one of us wants something, you know.”

His face arranges itself into a rather unthreatening scowl. “If you get ill…”

“Then it won’t be anything new to me,” you finish, content as he crosses the distance and settles to recline across your lap. “Promise. I’m a big girl. Pinky swear on it, if that’s what you want.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

You only smile in answer, watching as he turns to get comfortable. He buries his face in the material of your jumper, closing his eyes like he missed being able to touch you so freely. One of his arms snakes its way around your waist, somewhat awkward in this position, and you lean up to help him get situated. You'd forgotten how many positions one has to contort into in the name of physical contact, when it comes to cuddling. Sometimes it's worth it, though.

He makes the smallest content sound, settled there against your stomach, and your fingers reach down to tangle in his hair. Lightly scratching at his scalp, reaching for your phone to scroll through as the minutes wear on, early evening fading into night. God, it feels so domestic it could rot your teeth. Both of you are so at ease with one another without the need to say a word, quiet and calm.

You glance down to see if he's dozed off again only to find him gazing up at you. The look on his face is one of such fierce, gentle affection that you almost forget how to breathe. How long has he been watching you like this? What is he thinking about? Sometimes you have no idea, and that's infuriating. Especially when he can read you so easily at times (yet seem clueless in others).

"Thank you," he says eventually, drawing your attention back after you break eye contact. "For checking in. For – staying. Despite the risk."

"I wouldn't let you stay here sick on your own," you reply at once. "No one deserves that."

A grin, half-hidden in your jumper. "As I keep telling you, love, I'm not dying. It's some hardy variety of London cold being passed around."

A shiver down your spine at love. Slipped so casually from his mouth, like it belongs there.

"That doesn't mean I don't want to look after you. That's what –" the word partners sticks in your throat " – friends are for. We check in on one another."

"I don't see John driving in to chuck supplies at the door of my flat," he jokes.

"No," you muse. "But then again, John doesn't shag you either, does he?"

The air changes, thickens. Sherlock swallows as he gazes up at you, and the look on his face is one of familiar, unspoken need. Even tinged pink with cold, you can tell what he wants to ask for. You've put an idea in his mind, made a suggestion, and it seems that Sherlock isn't quite sick enough to stop thinking about the last week you spent together.

You can't stop dwelling on the absence. Going back to your work, back to your regular life, had felt so much harder without having him there to touch you every day. It'd felt damn near like a honeymoon after so long spent waiting to fuck one another. Over the holiday break, you'd made up for lost time, only to spend the first week of dreary January isolated again.

"He doesn't," Sherlock says, and even in the two quiet words you can hear the change.

A pause. The two of you breathe together, your fingers still tangled in his hair, his eyes bright and begging on your own.

Then: "Please fuck me."

He says it so plainly that it takes you half a second to process the request. You would've expected some stepping around, some stammering. Though his cheeks are dark with a blush, he'd just said it. As if it's something he's been considering long before you arrived. Guess that week alone had given him plenty to think about, too.

"Sherlock…" you bite back a nervous laugh. "Are you sure? If you're ill, you should be resting, and I don't want to –"

"I'll let you do the work," he cuts in. "However you want it. Just – I've missed you, missed feeling you, and with this damned cold I haven't done a thing in ages –"

"You haven't even wanked thinking about me? Aww."

He huffs, frustrated, cheeks still pink. Your glance down tells you everything you need to know about how much he's missed you. His cock strains against the loose pyjama bottoms as much as it can, and you reach down to grab it.

"Alright," you decide, decidedly more than thrilled at the thought of being in charge. "But you have to do as I say, down to the letter. Understand?"

Sherlock is quick to nod, scrambling up into a sitting position.

"Bedroom, mister."

—---------

In what feels like seconds you find yourselves tumbling onto the blankets, the door shutting in a rush as you go. You walk him backwards, somewhat proud that he trusts you not to let him fall, confidently going where you lead. The moment he feels his legs hit the bed, he falls back, hands going to remove his shirt. You stop him with a firm tap to the wrist.

"Leave it on."

Looking somewhat surprised, he does as you say, moving back to make room as you join him on the mattress. You move to lie beside him, entwining your legs with his. He scoots back, breathing heavily, eyes focused on your mouth. This is the point where he'd have his tongue in your mouth, exploring every sensitive place, biting your lips. You can understand why he wouldn't now.

With a pang of regret, you scramble to think of what you could do instead. Eventually you settle on dipping your mouth to the hollow of his throat, delighting when you find that sensitive place behind his ear. His arms come up to wrap around you, hips arching into nothing, tracing delicate circles as you take your time to build the heat.

"Sensitive here, aren't we?" you say in his ear, and he shudders for you.

"Please keep going." His answer is small, his neck bared for you, and you can't resist.

Sliding one hand down to palm his bulge through his trousers, you comply, drinking in the ragged moan when you experiment with scraping your teeth over his neck. Your fingers sneak under his waistband, and he clings to you, trying not to make a sound, all hoarse gasps and shuddering breath.

"Sweetheart," Sherlock utters in a low whine. "Just like that."

"You're not even inside me yet, love," you tease, and his answering groan plays in your mind for the next week.

You take him out and stroke him, sucking lightly on his earlobe with every flick of your wrist. Shameless, Sherlock meets you with his hips, rising off the bed, the sound of it wet and sloppy.

Right as you hear him start to get desperate, you pull your hand away, lifting your hips to take off your trousers and pants. Sherlock stares at you like he's never wanted anything more than he's wanted this, wanted you. By the time you're astride him, you think the look of blazing desire on his face is the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen.

You rub the head of his cock around your glistening slit in slow circles, grinning when he chants your name, begging, pleading. And when you grant your mercy, spreading your folds and taking him to the hilt, you don't think the sound of his voice has ever been sweeter.

Adjusting to the sensation of having him inside you after a week away, you beam down at Sherlock, memorizing the wrecked look written across his features. As if you're holding everything he needs in the palm of your hand, if only you would move, let him have it.

You know the feeling.

"Please," he whispers, rutting his hips forward. "God, please, move, need to feel you, need to come, I – "

Raising an eyebrow, you place your palm flat against the smooth expanse of his hip.

"Need to? Oh, we're being presumptuous, aren't we?" You squeeze around him, knowing he feels it, watching his nostrils flare. "Remember who's in charge."

"You are," Sherlock's quick to answer. "You are, and you're doing remarkably. Once again I've failed to realize how well suited you'd be for a role, and I –" you've started rolling your hips in little, lazy circles, making it hard for him to think " – I'm s-sorry. You're gorgeous when you're being dominant and you have no idea how close I am to coming inside you."

"I think I do," you say wryly. "And you're so pretty when you're lying here, taking what I give you."

"You're going to make me come," he chokes out, the words a blur. "S-so close." His eyes never leave your body, glued to your breasts as they bounce and jolt with each thrust.

"That's the point, isn't it?" Devilishly, you ram your hips down faster, watching his eyes roll back in helpless bliss.

"Oh f-fuck you're going to make me come I'm right there please don't stop don't stop –"

In another flurry of urgent words and whispered warnings, he does exactly that, spilling deep inside you. He tilts his head back, back, collapsing against the pillows with a golden sound of rapture as you ride him through every wave.

When he's finally had enough, you pull off him, crossing your legs to avoid – well. The mess. Or the worst of it, anyway.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock says breathlessly. "Tomorrow, I am going to taste you until you forget what walking feels like. You phenomenal creature."

A quick thrill of arousal shoots its way into your core at that promise. You try not to let it show on your face as you wobble off the bed, leaving him there dazed with his cock out.

"I look forward to it."

—-------

When you’re all tucked away later in the hush of the bedroom, burrowed beneath his arm, you feel him lift your fingertips to his mouth. There’s something familiar about the gesture, and it reminds you of the first time he’d bent to kiss your budding calluses so long ago. It’d made your heart leap then, and so it does now, even when you’ve grown used to him touching you like this. Even when the affection comes easy now, despite his insistence that all this isn’t what you want it to be.

“Your hands are almost healed,” he murmurs, sleepy, gruff. “Why did – why did you overplay? There’s no benefit. You know that.”

You’re silent in the utter darkness, thinking of what answer you could provide.

You hurt me and I needed to take my mind off it. I couldn’t bear a moment alone with my thoughts because they all pointed back to you on the sofa when you couldn’t bloody look at me. I thought I was losing you and I panicked. It was stupid.

“I don’t know,” you say instead, the words bitter in your mouth. “I’m sorry.”

His huff of a sigh is warm on your skin. “Please don’t do it again. I don’t want you playing to the point of pain. Alright?”

“Alright.”

“Good.”

You feel him shuffle closer, pressing his lips to your temple, and a wave of affection ripples through you. Together, you succumb to sleep like that, your heads bent close, one of your arms thrown around his shoulder.

[classickook]

a study in vulnerability | sherlock holmes

part one | part two

pairing: sherlock holmes x fem!reader

summary: sherlock wants to know why you’ve been avoiding him.

warnings: angst, swearing

word count: 2.2k

a/n: i’m so sorry this is a million years late omg i hope it’s worth the wait 😭

a few months had passed since the incident between sherlock and irene, and you had done everything in your power to stay as far away from the consulting detective as possible. you couldn’t stomach the thought of bumping into the pair again; who knew what you might interrupt next. the reminder caused a wave of nausea to roil in your stomach until the acidic taste of bile burned your throat and coated your tongue.

enough!

sherlock didn’t think of you in the way you wanted and that was fine. you were over it now—really, you were. you had decided that you would just continue on without seeing him, rushing past his flat and up the stairs to yours with barely a glance at his door; the days where it was left wide open and you caught sight of him pacing back and forth were harder for you, but you pushed the creeping feelings far, far down and kept them under lock and key.

he was your neighbor, and that was all.

in the past couple of weeks, however, sherlock seemed to be loitering just outside his flat, or close enough to its threshold that he could meet your gaze as you ascended the staircase. you had tried countless times to brush past him without a word, pretending as if you were scrolling on your phone or reading through your mail, but he managed to catch your attention each and every time, much to your chagrin.

he would offer a polite greeting—a ridiculous attempt at small talk on his part—but all you could muster was a tight lipped smile and faint hi before continuing on your way.

it turned out that sherlock holmes was unable to accept your meager greeting and took it upon himself to put in more effort, which was nothing less of surprising that the seemingly robotic, closed-off, emotionless, married-to-his-work, (the list could go on) man would go to such lengths to catch your attention was something you couldn’t wrap your head around. what were you to him, and why now?

the following week began sherlock’s next level of neighborly, and downright uncharacteristic, hospitality.

“good evening, y/n,” sherlock announced to you from the top of the staircase, hands casually shoved into his trouser pockets and suit jacket nowhere to be seen.

your workbag was draped heavily over your shoulder and hindered your balance as you climbed up the steps. the soles of your feet ached from standing all day and desperately needed a proper lie-down. you moved past him as fast as your tired feet could manage with a light, “hi, sherlock.”

“good day at work today?” he continued as if you weren’t practically running for your life to get away from him. he was now propped lazily against the doorframe in a very un-sherlock fashion; you had never seen the man so uncharacteristically relaxed in all the time that you’d known him.

“it was fine, thanks,” you replied crisply, injecting a certain edge to your tone that would hint at your desperation to get away from him and up to your flat.

much to your disappointment, and surprise—wasn’t he supposed to be the most famous detective around? read the room, you begged silently—a soft smile pulled across his lips in a way that made his blue eyes sparkle in the dark hallway lighting as he offered kindly, “i made some tea. would you like a cup?”

“no, thank you.”

“have you eaten yet?”

you mentally rolled your eyes. why couldn’t he just get the fucking hint already?

“i’m not really hungry. i’ll probably just head to bed. so, if you’ll excuse me—” your additional attempt at moving away from him was rendered useless once again as he quite literally blocked your path to the next set of steps that would lead to the comfort of your flat.

your eyes widened. “sherlock—”

“y/n.”

his tone was deep yet soft, a hint of quiet pleading on his lips as he tried to meet your fleeting gaze that was looking at everything but him.

you were left staring at the wall behind him as he took a hesitant step closer, the scent of his cologne invading your senses with the close proximity: warm amber, sandalwood, and musk. the familiarity of it was a bittersweet sort of nostalgia, coating your skin and hair with its rich earthiness that you once loved but now dreaded as it settled in your lungs.

as much as you hated to admit to yourself, it reminded you of her… you wondered if the scent of him lingered on the delicate skin beneath her ear or across her pale collarbones or along the blue-green veins that lined the insides of her wrists—

you were caught in your own thoughts, the echoing silence of the hallway pounding at your eardrums in a painful rhythm. sherlock’s own silence could be felt as well, his attention now fully drawn to you. the lowering of his dark brows, the spaced-out gaze, the twitching of his fingertips against his clothed thigh signaled to you that he had slipped into detective mode as he tried to figure you out, digging into your psyche to find what lingered beneath the silence.

but you were in no mood for it today.

“i’m tired, sherlock,” you said carefully, “can i please go up to my flat?”

“you never come round anymore.” his voice was nothing but a rasp, the statement rushing through his lips as if they couldn’t be forced out fast enough.

“i’ve been busy.”

“doing what?”

you bit your lip. what were you supposed to say, that you’ve been busying trying to avoid him?

“all right,” he said, taking a cautious step back, giving you room to breathe but silently hoping you wouldn’t make a run for it again. “well, could you just stop by and say hi every once in a while?”

your brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “why?”

“because i’d like to see you.”

“you’re seeing me now.”

his lips twitched. “yes, but you don’t want me to. you won’t even look at me and i’ve been blocking your path to go upstairs.”

well, you certainly couldn’t argue with that.

“have i done something wrong?” he voiced quietly, almost afraid—vulnerable, even. when had you ever seen him in such a state, and at your expense of all things?

“...no.”

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

“i haven’t.”

you have.

“yes, you have,” he said, reiterating your silent thoughts aloud. “you never come by the flat anymore, and every time i try to make conversation, you always rush off without saying barely anything. as such,” he continued in his usual detective tone, “this causes me to believe that you’re avoiding me, which means i must have done something that upset you.”

“i’m fine, sherlock. i’ve been busy… had a lot on my mind.”

“certainly you have enough time for a cup of tea, at least. would now be all right?”

a sharp inhale. “i don’t know, i—”

“please?”

—a rush of deflated air. you couldn’t recall a time when the detective had ever uttered that word in the past year or so that you knew him.

you should just get it over with, you thought. bite the bullet, humor him for a bit, and then be on your way. you could go back to your original scheme of avoiding him and maybe this minor interaction would soothe his hurt—or whatever it was—for the time being.

“fine,” you said defeatedly, “i guess i have time for one cup.”

the look that crossed his features could only be described as immense relief, his eyes alight with childlike wonder and unashamed enthusiasm.

you readjusted the strap of your work bag and crossed the threshold, rubbing your arms self consciously at the chill settling over you at being inside his flat again. it felt familiar but changed somehow, like the worst kind of nostalgia.

“cold?”

your eyes flicked to sherlock from where he now stood waiting for you in the kitchen.

“i’m fine.”

sherlock stepped closer, noticing your slight shiver and refusal to meet his gaze. “yes, you are. here.” in his outstretched hand was one of his dressing gowns that had been lazily strewn across an armchair. you chanced a glance at him before staring over his head at the fireplace, arms crossed defensively and ignoring his offer.

he exhaled out a sharp breath, still insisting that you take the robe.

“i said i’m fine,” you muttered, hoping he would just drop it and get to preparing the damn tea so you could leave. you couldn’t stand being in his flat again with all the memories that followed, feeling like an outsider who didn’t belong.

sherlock stepped around you, the clipped heels of his leather shoes echoing throughout the otherwise silent room as the weight of your bag was lifted and replaced by the silken material of his robe, the detective gently slipping each arm into the sleeves without a word. the action was achingly sweet and so unlike him, you weren’t sure what to do or say.

why was he acting like this, desperate to see you and have you in his company again? he had never seemed to require it before your gradual disappearance from his life, so why now?

sherlock stepped away silently with a hesitant smile in your direction before wandering off to make the tea he promised you. in the meantime, you stood in the middle of the living room and took in the usual state of disarray that you had grown accustomed to: crinkled newspapers placed haphazardly along the coffee table, half-empty teacups teetering on the kitchen counter, even more bullet holes decorating the wall that could only be a result of sherlock’s ceaseless boredom. as your eyes took in every familiarity and difference, nowhere within his flat could you locate a sign that irene adler had been present.

you cleared your throat before speaking. “where is ms. adler?”

a sudden clattering could be heard from the kitchen followed by sherlock’s voice, sounding unsteady. “how do you mean?”

how could you say this without sounding jealous…? your fingers toyed with the silken tie that hung loosely at your sides. “I just… thought she would be here. weren’t the two of you”—oh, god, you were going to puke—“together?”

the clattering amplified into a full-on shattering as sherlock stumbled out of the kitchen and into the living room. “what?”

you swallowed down the bile rising in your throat. fuck, you were royally screwing this up. you should just turn around and leave, forget about the damn tea, this was a mistake—

“y/n,” sherlock began quietly, tilting his chin down to meet your wild gaze, “what do you mean? why would ms. adler and i be together?”

your eyes squeezed shut. what could you say now? no way in hell would you mention walking in on the two of them together from that awful evening. “forget i said anything, i’m sorry—”

“y/n,” he repeated, tone suddenly serious, “talk to me. why are you asking me that?”

“i just… i saw her in here—with you—and the two of you looked awfully close, i just assumed that—”

sherlock’s cool touch met either side of your jaw as he drew your attention back to him. “i’m so sorry, my dear girl,” he said vehemently. “it wasn’t anything like what you’re thinking, i swear it. she was helping me with a case and that was all.”

“the two of you looked awfully close for a case.” you hated how you sounded; it was absolutely none of your business who he spent his time with or who he dated. what gave you the right to question him like this?

you felt utterly vulnerable in that moment, paper-thin as sherlock searched your face, his brows arched in concern while the smooth stroking of his thumb across your cheek aimed to soothe your fractured thoughts.

“she is nothing to me, i promise you that. i have not been in contact with her since that evening and i have no desire to reach out to her—ever. you are who i want to spend my time with, my dear. you have no idea how useless i’ve felt without you here in the flat like before.” he expelled a shuddering breath that warmed your mouth as he said, “i’ve missed you.”

you felt the prickling of tears at the sincerity in his tone and gaze, his emotions written on his face in a way you had never seen from him before. he typically kept such private emotions to himself, or barely allowed himself to even feel such things in the first place, yet here he was, practically pouring out his heart to you by the sheer depth in his blue eyes.

“i want you here with me, y/n. i always have.”

your lower lip wobbled pathetically. “really?”

“yes.” he brushed his thumbs across the apples of your cheeks to collect the wetness there. “you’re important to me. please don’t ignore me anymore. my heart would break if you did.”

the vulnerability in his tone did not go unnoticed. you clasped your fingers around his wrist, feeling the sharp jump in his pulse as he held you carefully, reverently, as if afraid you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

you offered a watery smile up at him to which he returned in earnest, a certain brightness surging across his features. “stay with me for now?”

“of course,” you replied coyly. “you still owe me that tea.”

tags: @sherlocks-blanket @selcouthangel @singhfae @nicoletk @sherlocksgirl91 @ironstrange1991 @evelynrosestuff @french-vanilla-in-the-clouds @feral-for-strange @readingbookelf @starstruck-loner @winsteria @dadcomfort @imeternallylove @x-avantgarde-x

[kahuunknown]

The "Rebellious" one - BBC Sherlock sibling fanfic

!NOTE!: Male-reader/insert, inspiration from SHERLOCK TV Show

~~~

The rebellious one

Sherlock absolutely loved you; you were by far his favourite sibling by a long shot. You were the eldest of all your siblings, 1 year older than stuck up Mycroft and 8 elder than dear little Sherlock Holmes.

You were the troublemaker, mischievous without a doubt. You saw little reasoning behind Mummy dearest’s desires for you to become something great, like a doctor or lawyer. You hated the private piano lessons, the pointless tutoring sessions and eventually school altogether. It was easy to guess what you did, but dropping out of school was by far one of the best decisions of your life, and one of the easiest as well.

You were rebellious by nature.

Mummy and Daddy weren’t quite sure where the behaviour stemmed from as it was definitely not inherited from either of them. It was obvious to you however, the stress of being the first born, the expectation to be the most successful and therefore grand of your siblings. To be able to support yourself with ease and help your siblings if the need arises.

While you respected the ideal. You ultimately rejected the pathways your parents provided, paving a new one and building everything from nothing. It was satisfying seeing your parents reaction when you visited one Christmas dinner, they were horrified at the ink adorning your right arm. Sherlock however quite liked it, in fact he wasted no time gifting his present early, he wanted you to get his pirate sketch tattooed. And who were you to deny him?

That cute little face was irresistible normally, but with added intent and desire behind them? God, you were putty in his hands.

Together you went to a tattoo parlour, Sherlock was rambling furiously to the tattoo artist whilst the ink was being stained onto your skin, it was adorable, the passion in his story as he explained the intricacy of his design and the meaning behind it. ‘The adventures of Yellowbeard’. Sherlock called it, or something similar at least.

It didn’t quite match the other tattoo’s you’d gotten, as those were all grey-scale realistic designs, but Sherlock was adamant that colour was non-negotiable. The young Holmes was a hyper little bean as he jumped around in joy at the completion of his masterpiece. You couldn’t stop chuckling at his antics; the innocence was overloading your system.

Of course, Mum and Dad were horrified once the two of you returned, though they seemed less upset at the tattoo and more with the aspect of Sherlock in a ‘biker’s tattoo shop’ of which it was absolutely not. You weren’t an idiot, you’d made sure Sherlock was as safe as could be.

Mycroft thought you a moron the majority of your life. Growing up he strived to pass you at everything he possibly could, interestingly enough, it took much longer than expected. He thought you were just another goldfish, swimming around dumbly just like all the others. But of course, you were more than that he later realised.

You were a sponge. While you hated your mother’s insistent lessons and tutoring, you had an eidetic memory and couldn’t help but memorise absolutely everything ever taught to you. You would have been a prodigy, everything your parents ever dreamed you to be. But unfortunately for them, you had slightly different plans.

Mycroft thought he’d finally done it when he joined the British Government, there was no way you could outshine him now. Yet, despite not having achieved a high standing career, it was obvious that whenever the two of you met, who was smarter ultimately. You were the opposite of what you parents dreamed you to be, yet you were the happiest having done so. Mycroft admired that.

He’d admit that of course, you would win in physicality. Always. You loved going outside, working out, playing sports, and eating healthy. It was one of your passions, something that ultimately benefitted you quite greatly as your appearance remained younger for much longer than if you had of neglected fitness and health. Sherlock teased Mycroft relentlessly about it as well, how young and fit their elder brother looked in comparison. Of course it was playful teasing, but it was definitely something to respect.

It was only more recently that all three brothers started getting along quite nicely. Sherlock of course never thought ill of you, he just assumed you were an average idiot like John. You played the part quite well, snickering behind Sherlock back while explaining things to John, whom believed you to be his favourite of the Holmes children. You were fun to be around, the most human and emotional of all. It was refreshing to be around.

When you finally decided to reveal your hidden superpower, he was dumbfounded but also instantly relieved.

Mycroft however was a very different story. It started slowly, you invited him randomly to a gig, of which he was pleasantly surprised when he arrived to a wedding, you adorned in an unfamiliar suit standing at the stage and singing a sweet lullaby to the lucky couple. It wasn’t your usual style, sure, but you wanted to ease Mycroft into your life, and what better way to do it?

Over the years, Sherlock had subtly provided you with more tattoo designs he’d wish for you to get, all his own of course. You were still a sucker for those eyes; it seemed their affect never dimmed as the detective aged.

Eventually one day Mycroft approached you on the matter, rather shyly you’d point out as well, you were open and encouraging as he mumbled the reluctant request to add to your collection of ink with one of his own. Stating through hidden messages within his speech that he’d been feeling a little left out. Of course you were ecstatic, more than happy to agree.

It was then that Mycroft realised no matter what he’d accomplish, you always have the upper hand in the end. Not because of intelligence nor deducing skills, but because of your raw compassion and commitment to your beliefs and dreams, it was awe inspiring. Beautiful even.

Perhaps those brothers of yours might do a little rebelling of their own.

[sits-bound]

Another chonk folded and ready to punch.

[mychem1calbr0mance]

TRANS SHERLOCK BECAUSE FUCK YEAH.

you can read it on ao3 here, or you can read it here on tumblr!

Fire-Hazard Secret

Can be read as gen, pre-slash, or slash, whatever floats your boat honestly

2k+ word count

Rated Teen and up for depictions of unsafe binding and gender dysphoria (very self indulgent lmfao)

Yes, he was trans. He was certain he always had been. The term “female” never really felt right, nor did his mother calling him “my little girl.” The term "girl" felt like a sweater- a giant, itchy, sweater, that he just wanted to rip off, toss in a bin, and never wear again. He'd grown up, dreaming of being recognized for who he was, asking that people refer to him as "Sherlock" instead of the awful name he had been assigned at birth. Dreaming of being socially recognized as a boy, a man. Being referred to as "mister" or "sir". The small things like that.

He told his dear mother and father about this, who simply waved it off with a smile and said "It's merely a phase, my dear [???]. It'll pass." His parents meant well, he was quite aware of that, but those words stuck with him, long throughout his childhood. Maybe- maybe it all was just a phase.

The only one who had ever accepted him for who he was, was Victor. Oh, his dear Victor. Victor had been the first he trusted with this information, treating it like a fatal secret that would one day spark into a flame and burn down his world. You could call Victor the water in this metaphor, he'd put out the flames. Keep him safe.

At least, that was the plan.

Victor, one day, just.. stopped showing up. Disappeared. 

"Kidnapped," the police said. "Victor has been kidnapped."

Weeks turned into months as each day dragged by heavily, most days consisted of something related to Victor's sudden disappearance, whether it would be he would taken in to be questioned (there it was again- that word. The officers would refer to him as "Miss Holmes". Blegh. Made his skin crawl uncontrollably. "It's Mister Holmes." He wanted to say.), or there would be a detective out in his yard, searching for any possible clues or connections as to what happened to the young boy. His best friend. Victor. Oh God.

Hope rant out quickly. His dearest friend had vanished without a trace- and his sister kept singing the same, dumb song.

It changed him. Showed him the cruelties of the world. If Victor could be taken, who else could be taken? His brother? His sister? His beloved mother and father?

So, he shut himself away. Cut his hair. Changed his name. Changed the way he dressed. Changed himself. Changed in order to survive. He was a child, after all, and the brain adapts to change in its own ways. So, this was his brain's way of surviving, then. Hmm. Not all bad. It had its advantages. He was himself now, for better or worse.

His parents recognized how serious he was about it, correcting them whenever they would call him by his dreaded deadname. Mycroft caught on, surprisingly quick. Didn't even think about it twice, often correcting his parents whenever they used the wrong name or called him a "she" instead of "he". It made him feel warm, welcomed, and safe. Similar to how Victor Redbeard had made him feel.

Over time, he managed to force his awful deadname out of his mind palace, out of his memory. He was Sherlock Holmes. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing else. He considered throwing out his knowledge of being assigned female at birth, but he preferred to keep that knowledge. Made him feel something, a certain... certain itch in his brain. Motivated him, somehow. There weren't words for it...

There were few in the world that knew he was trans besides his siblings brother and parents. Mrs. Hudson knew, and so did Lestrade. He trusted them both enough with his fire-hazard secret, trusted that they would keep it for him, and support him. Even put out the flames if ever necessary.

The testosterone was bearable. Had it in the form of patches, and if anyone questioned, he'd say it was a nicotine patch. He preferred them to injections. Injections only reminded him of his uni days. The unbearable blur of drugs and sweat.. made him shiver just at the pure thought of it. Brought back too many memories. Threatened relapse. That's why he did this whole crime solving thing, anyway. To keep his mind clear. A natural high. Not one that needed to be forced. Those had the worst hangovers. Made it hard for his brain to work. 

Work rarely paid the bills- Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to give him a surprising discount, it was the least he could do- and he couldn't stand the idea of working a regular job. Stuck in some stupid chair at some stupid desk working for a stupid, greedy corporation for the rest of his stupid days. A flatmate was the next best thing. He didn't fancy the idea of sharing his space with a stranger, but if it gave him a place to sleep at night, he could work with it. Tolerate it, even.

John Watson, was his name. Seemed alright. Doctor. Military. Hard around the edges. Subtle anger issues- branching from his father. Ooh, his father. Best not go down that road yet.

He would do.

John was an interesting man. Heart of pure gold, with a few layers of dust. He was a good man, Sherlock could tell. He had seen some things, enough for a lifetime- yet he still craved more. Sherlock somehow understood it all, the "crazed adrenaline junkie" he was, as Donovan had so colorfully put it. Danger was hardwired into him. Always had been. Perhaps the two would get along someday.

The sudden praise he had gotten was a benefit- nobody admired his genius, or even said a word, occasionally Lestrade would clap him on the back, and tell him a job well done, but that was the closest he had ever got. Finally, someone who recognized his talents, and acted on it verbally.

He could get used to it.

John added a new.. texture to the case. Things felt alive, fresh, different. The typical routine of showing up at the crime scene was even changed. The simplest of investigations turned into thrilling adventures.

Maybe having a companion wasn't the worst thing.

His medical intelligence came in handy a great deal. Most of the cases he dealt with were more on the violent side of things -lots of murders and assaults- and it was nice to have someone there who understood things as well as he did- well, on some levels.

John didn't know his secret. No, not yet. Best to keep that under wraps for now. Never know how it'll turn out. John seemed friendly, seemed like he'd be alright with that sort of thing, but you never really know someone's true colors. Not until the paint has chipped away. 

Just give it time.

Binding was something he had never given a lot of thought. He had a fund set aside, slowly saving up for top surgery. He'd just have to live with himself until he was able to afford it. His body never really bothered him. Not in this way. He only ever binded to help make himself present better.

But now.. something had flipped in his brain. He had outgrown his previous binder, and God, he couldn't stand the sight of his chest. Made his skin crawl the same way it had crawled all those years ago, when the officers had called him "Miss." He wanted to forget it, and tried his damned hardest to forget that feeling, but it was the one thing he couldn't shake. Could never forget.

There was one solution. Didn't they keep some medical tape under the sink? In case something went wrong while on the job? Maybe.. maybe that could be a proper substitute. He had ordered a new binder- set to deliver in a week- so maybe this would have to do for now?

He turned to the side, raising his shoulders and sucking in his breath, flattening out his body, staring in the mirror to see if it helped him appear flatter.

It.. it was uncomfortable, but- it got the job done. It would do for now. The tape tugged at his skin, and itched all over.. but the flatness of his chest soothed him. Made things feel better.

The bathroom door opened, to his surprise. (Hadn't he locked it?)

"Oh! My bad, I'm sorry to..." John trailed off, his eyes trailing to the tape that was wrapped tightly around his flatmate's chest. "May I uhm, may I ask what you're doing?"

The paint began to chip away. Flames hid behind them.

Sherlock flushed, aware of his vulnerability, crossing his arms across his torso. "It's- It's nothing, John.. just.. got injured on our previous case, that's all." He lied, refusing to make eye contact with the doctor. This probably wasn't the best or safest option, he was aware of it, but it was one week- he's done worse to himself.

"Want me to.. to take a look for you, then? I could help-"

"No thank you, John. I.. I don't require any assistance."

John nodded, but remained still.

"Turn around." The doctor said softly. "Please."

No fire extinguisher in sight. No water.

But he did so anyway.

Damn the flames.

"Oh.."

Sherlock drew his arms closer to his body, still avoiding eye contact. "Are.. are you happy now?"

John took a step forward, cautiously. "Not really.."

"Why.. Why is that?" He gulped.

"This is.. incredibly unsafe. Good God, Sherlock, please tell me you haven't been.. been doing this the entire time we've known each other."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed, allowing himself to look at John. "No.. this is just a.. a temporary solution, until my new.. binder.. comes in." The word hung heavily on his tongue.

"Thank goodness. You have no idea the risks, do you?"

"Oh, I'm aware. But, it was only for a week. I've been through worse. Done worse, even.."

John frowned. "Please.. please take that off. It's not safe. I don't want you getting hurt."

"Fine. Just- just for now.. I suppose my body could use a break."

The doctor's frown faded, replaced by a light grin with his hand on the doorknob. "Thank you."

The door shut with a soft click, and it was Sherlock's turn to frown. Tearing off the tape with a wince, he tossed his shirt back on- a plain, white button up shirt- refusing to look in the mirror. He felt sick enough as it was.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he made his way towards the living area, his feet getting heavier with each step. Dreadful thoughts and scenarios filled his brain.

This was the first time he had been seen without a binder on for quite some time. Always made sure his chest looked flat before he left the house- didn't want anyone getting the wrong idea.

He found himself standing in front of the fireplace, gazing at himself. The testosterone had done its job, yes, but there were still traces of his former self lingering there. His arms were too- thin, and his face was too soft. His lips, they were... they're.. they're not right.

Gentle, short arms wrapped around his torso as a face buried itself into his back. 

"Don't." John mumbled against the fabric of his clothing. "Don't do this to yourself."

"Do what?" He rested his arms against John's. 

"Overanalyze everything.. ruin yourself.. You look fine just the way you are."

Sherlock ran his thumb over John's knuckles, leaning into the touch. "Force of habit, my apologies. Sorry for not telling you sooner. I.. I wasn't sure when would be the right time."

His flatmate shook his head, pulling the detective closer. "You don't have to apologize for things like that, I understand why. It's- It's personal. You don't owe me this information."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "So you don't.. you don't think of me any differently?" He tensed, bracing for all kinds of responses.

"Not in the slightest. You are the great Sherlock Holmes, you are you, I only admire you for how you've managed to figure yourself out. That takes great strength, which I don't doubt you have."

Sherlock turned himself around, so he was no longer facing the mirror, instead facing John. "I.. Thank you, for your.. support. This has been sudden, and I couldn't ask for a better friend."

John only hugged him tighter in response. "Of course.. I'm here if you need anything."

Sherlock smiled, reciprocating the hug and resting cheek on John's head. "I may have an idea."

His friend chuckled. "Which is?"

It turned out to be a day spent lounging on the couch in each other's arms, watching crap telly until they drifted off into a bliss, peaceful sleep.

tysm for reading mwah mwah <3

[yeehawpim]

a comic about fix-it fanfics