#because HE KNEW Sherlock was just like his mother-- capable of seeing and communicating with ghosts. So he just went...

[hyaciiintho]

AU idea for Sherlock — *ahem* Brainrot.

Send me an AU and I'll tell you what my muse would be like in that AU | ✿

Sherlock had long ago accepted that he was mad ever since he was young. Impressionable child as he was, Mycroft had always insisted he ignore the childish IMAGINARY friends that he so consistently conjured up, so much so, that Sherlock learned to pretend he didn't see them.

Before they had moved from their old mansion, he had met Jon, a tenacious companion who seemed to attach himself to Sherlock more persistently than the rest. They became best friends, but after his mother's passing, Mycroft took Sherlock away from the mansion Jon inhabited, leaving Sherlock to never see him again.

Imaginary friends were supposed to follow you, weren't they?

Sherlock never once dared utter a word of the things he saw to his brother after they moved. He was, after all, supposed to be recovering from such delusions, the Holmes brothers both fearing that he was his mother's son, through and through.

Yes, all of these phantoms were but conjurings of a sick and weak mind... or were they...?

Curious over seeking the truth behind his mother's passing, it was discovered that perhaps she hadn't succumbed to a simple mental illness. A dairy left behind revealed that she shared many a similar experience as Sherlock: The many imaginary friends she thought to have had, being blamed for the doings of said imaginary friends, and reportedly speaking to thin air when she insisted someone stood beside her.

Further research proved fruitful when the discovery of a special tool that had been gifted to his mother, one left abandoned and long ago forgotten in the attic above: A camera that was said capable of capturing the images of the dead.

It was hard to deny any of it as truth.

Not when Jon suddenly came back into his life, proving that perhaps there was more to the mystery than Mycroft had let on.

Yes, it would seem that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, his mother's son.

[redhairedfeistynerd]

Slush and a Side of Toys

Part 1

A/N: I'm months behind on everything but here is my piece for @sweater-daddiesdumbdork  and @sagechanoafterdark  Winter/Holiday Festival Challenge. I chose #38 donating toys to children.

Pairing: Chris Evans x reader

Warnings: 18+, SMUT, angst, frustrated reader, swearing, alcohol

Words: 5800+

Part 2 will be up soon!!

Please like, comment and reblog. I appreciate it and thanks for reading.

All mistakes are my own

A reminder - my work is not to be reposted anywhere.

There’s a muffled humming coming from somewhere under a pile of paperwork and takeout containers on your floor. The sound is constant, piercing, and irritating. Eyes still closed, head pounding from an evening of too much wine and schmoozing, you reached down towards the sounds and ran your hands over the stack, following the vibrations of your phone. Once found, you yanked it away from it charging cord and used every ounce of energy you had, pulling the phone close to your face. Opening one eye a sliver to hide from the light, you read from the bright screen.

Hey, listen, I know we've had our differences the last few years but I think it's time we put all of it behind us. I saw Rosie the other day and asked her how you were doing but she kept it pretty vague. I hope to hear from you soon, even if it's only a text to say you’re doing okay.

Reading over the message a second time, in utter shock that he had the audacity to message you and pissed that he even dare ask your friend about how you were; you decided to turn off your phone and toss it into a pile of clothing on the floor.  

What. A. Dick.

Rolling back over into your cozy blanket cocoon, falling back asleep, temporarily pushing away any thoughts of the man from your past.

The message was all but forgotten until later that day when a familiar song came on the radio and you couldn’t help but think about how you had both downed several beers at a pub and sang it at the top of your lungs. Maybe it had been a dream earlier and the text never happened. Pulling your phone from your back pocket, hoping it was all your imagination, you indeed saw that there was a text.

The ever-so-hard to escape blue eyed man, was trying to weasel his way back into your life and you weren't having any of it. Dropping the phone into the bag sitting at your feet, getting up from the desk, shaking out a bit to ease the tension that one tiny text had accumulated.  

"Don't think about him. Don't think about him. Don't think about him," you repeated the words over and over, hoping to push all thoughts aside. In stocking feet, walking around the small hole you called your office and continued to shake it out. The calm didn’t last as long as you hoped, anger slowly creeping up and out.  

"Stupid frikkin guy!! UGH!" The sound of your disgruntled cry, shook you a bit, the frustration clearly coming out louder than expected. "All right, settle yourself down, you can't let him have this sort of pull over you," hoping the self-talk would work, you ran your hand through your hair and walked back to the desk. "Delete it, pretend that you never looked at it and it will go away."  

There was no way the struggle going on inside your head would even fathom deleting the text. Truth be told, as much as you cursed and hated the thought of him trying to slide back into your life, there wasn’t a month that went by without a thought of him crossing your mind. A song playing, a Romcom from the 90s, the pizza you both loved so much. Why couldn’t you escape him?

You shot off a quick text to Rosie, curiosity was killing you now, itching inside you, desperate to find out how the hell you had come up in conversation.

Y/N -Word on the street is that you ran into a clown I once knew; I’m curious what was said.”

Rosie: Oh no, he didn’t.

Y/N: He did and it was pathetic

Rosie: It was a super quick interaction. Both of us waiting for a coffee and being friendly. He asked about you almost right off the bat though. It almost rendered me speechless after what happened.  

Y/N - So, that’s it? What did you say? Did you tell him how fantastic my life is going and that I probably wouldn’t even remember him?

Rosie: you and I both know, that that’s a load of shit. I’ve had wine nights with you, that man-child has never left that brain of yours.  

Y/N Shut up.

Rosie: Really though, it was super quick. I said you were doing charity work and were still in the city, happy and healthy.  

Y/N- good to know. I’ll just sit here and pretend his message never happened then. Carry on as usual.  

Rosie: see you later this week?

Y/N Definitely, bye babe.

Placing your phone down on your desk, you continued opening your mail: thank you cards for volunteering, appreciation notes from parents and kids, and requests for you to help out at other groups around town. The next month would be hectic, with collecting the many donations from around the city. You had to finish training several new volunteers that would assist with wrapping, delivering, and presenting gifts to the charities and individual families that you helped support during the Winter months.  

It became a mechanical process, opening envelope after envelope, that you weren’t paying attention to the return addresses. It wasn’t until you read the first few lines that the letterhead caught your eye and did it burn.  

Blue-eyed monster strikes again via his mother.

You knew it wasn’t the case though, his mom, was offering a bursary to some of the kids you helped out and she was reaching out to you and other groups in the city to help.  

It didn’t take much to pull your mind from work once you had read the Evans name on the letter. Bits and pieces shifted in your mind; you couldn’t fight it any more today. The letter slipped to the floor and you sat back against your desk, the memories that you had been pushing away, were flooding back.

It all started innocently about three years ago, bumping into one another around town, having several acquaintances that knew each other, and a tendency to make the other smile when the lamest dad jokes were thrown around. His face was incredibly animated and you loved the way his eyebrows would jump up while he spoke, there was mischief behind them that you wanted to discover. Even a quick peek, would ease the curiosity.

You recognized that laugh from across the room of the gallery – full of heart and genuine. Turning around, you spotted Chris mingling with other attendees of the charity event. You were here to help raise money for low-income families in the community that could not afford music lessons or music therapy for their children. The profits from the art sold this evening, would help buy instruments for the school that was set to open the following month. You knew Chris had donated and you had volunteered to help teach the parents with baby's groups every second weekend. It was the least you could do, you had a bit of extra time and needed to give back to the community that helped you and your family out during your childhood.

“How did I know you would be here?”  

You must have zoned out thinking about that boisterous laugh that you didn’t see Chris walking over to you. You smiled as he leaned in wrapping one arm around you, a beer being held in his other hand. His smell was intoxicating – a mixture of orange and the woodiness of sandalwood. Would it be wrong if you pulled him closer to take a quick whiff before he pulled away?  

He took his time moving back from you, winking as his arm shifted back to his side and lifting the beer to his mouth with the other, take a long sip.

“So, you out here to buy some art?” he asked, taking another drink.

“No, not buying tonight. One of the pieces is mine, I donated it to help out.”

“You have something up for sale here?” He questioned, taking a quick spin around to quickly look at all the art hanging around the gallery. “Which one is yours?”

“Oh, I am NOT telling you that. I think I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which one is mine. You can play the role of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Now, that’s just cruel.”

“Cruel? Nah. Mysterious? Yes. Are you up for a little game of 5 questions to help you out? If you can guess which one is mine, then I guess you have bragging rights because I haven’t discussed my art with anyone here. If you don’t figure it out, then I suppose it will be a mystery forever.”

“Oh, I KNOW I’ll be able to figure this out!” Chris says loudly, clapping his hands together and popping each shoulder up and down. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

“Here’s the deal, you ask me whatever you need to to figure out which one is mine. Obviously, you can’t ask which one is mine as one of your questions. Ready?”

“Ready!” Chris said enthusiastically. He took your hand and brought you to the front of the room to observe the first of the paintings. “Let’s take a quick gander and then I’ll start. How does that sound to you?”

“Whatever you need to do, Evans.”

Chris pulled you from canvas to canvas, still holding your hand as he inspected each piece. “First question. “Did you only use paint for the one you donated?”

“NOPE, next question, Evans!”

“Okay, okay, I got this,” he bounced around on the spot and turned his head to quickly glance over the works close to him. “Shit, I guess I should have asked if what you donated was a painting, right?”

You walk a circle around Chris “Is that your question?” you ask, eyebrow raised.

His blue eyes flick quickly to yours before he says, “Ya, actually...ya. That’s what I want to know. Did you submit a painting?”

“Yes, one of my paintings is hanging somewhere in one of these giant rooms.”  

“You really don’t think that I’m capable of figuring this out, do you? Ye of little Faith,” he smirked and pulled you to the back of the dark room. “Any reason why it’s so dark back here?”

“Maybe that’s what the artist wanted?”

“Here’s question three then,” he said as he pulled you closer to him, your eyes looking into his as he asked. “Is you painting in the dark room?”

“Is that really what you want to ask me?”

Chuckling, you take hold of his hand and lead him to another section of the gallery. “I don’t want you to miss any pieces, so take a look around here before you ask number three.” He squeezed your hand and looked up, the ceiling adorned with a beautiful piece; birds in flight but as they reached the furthest wall, the began to decay, until only single feathers remained.    

“Here’s number three, ready?” He looked to his left where you were nodding your head back. “Did you mainly use your hands for this piece? I mean, instead of brushes or other tools.”  

You were silent for a moment before answering, did you want to tell him how much of yourself you had put into this piece? That what the brushes couldn’t do, you did with your hands and arms? “I did. This one needed more than brushes.”

Chris smiled at you, “feel like telling me what else you used?”

“Not a chance,” you said, grabbing a glass of white wine from the tray passing by. “You want a glass?”  

Chris held up his bottle, its content revealing that it was still half full. “I think I have a pretty good idea which one is yours, so these last two questions are going to be good.” With two large gulps, he finished up the rest of his beer. “So, what happens when I guess, do I get some sort of prize? Maybe you could paint me or something?”

“If you mean, could I dump a bucket of paint over your cocky head, then, sure!”

Chris burst out laughing, pulling you into him for a squeeze.  “I love how you make me laugh and I bet you would actually do that to me. But really, if I do guess, what happens?”

You kept your body close to his, his arm still holding you close as you responded, “what do you think would be suitable prize, Chris? Do you want me to paint something, make you a prince? Maybe something of you and Dodger? Or maybe I could paint your like one of my French girls.”

“I would love one of your pieces, but if I win this, I’d like to take you out. Is that okay with you?”

Your grip tightened around the wine glass, trying not to let it slip to the floor. It was a shock, to hear that this man, one that you had flirted with for months, was asking if you wanted to go out with him.  

“Y/N?”

“Sorry, I... I didn’t expect you to ask me that,” you answered, fidgeting with your hands out of awkwardness.

“It’s ok, you can say no! It’s all right to tell me no.”

“No. No. I’d love that. If you can guess which one is mine, I will gladly go out with you. Dinner, drinks, walk – whatever you like.”

Chris placed his empty beer on the table closest to you. “Ready for my last two questions?”

“As ready as one can be.”

“Is your piece hung on the wall as a landscape?”

“Look at you Evans, you got another one.”

Chris rubbed his hands together, his smile wide and full, clearly showing that he was on a winning streak. “Here’s number four and then I’ll go right to the painting I think, the painting I know it is. Chris walked back and forth in front of you before turning to face you with his last question. You had grabbed another glass of wine and took a sip, waiting for his winning question. “Does your piece use more than black and white? – so many of these photos, sculptures, paintings are very monotone.”

“You’re good Evans and yes, I filled my picture with the rainbow. So, take my hand and show me what the answer to this mystery is.”

His warm hand took your free one and he walked you to one of the side rooms – this room was full of colourful pieces. You could feel the heat flushing across your cheeks and a thin layer of sweat formed at your hairline. Chris stopped and turned towards the back wall and pointed to one of the paintings. “I’m pretty sure this one is yours,” he said with a half-smile. “Am I right?”

You had wished, during those few minutes he had suggested that he take you out, that he would guess which one is yours. But what were the chances with over 40 pieces around you? You tried to keep your body from slouching before you softly answered “No. That’s not mine.”

The happiness in his eyes left quickly once you responded.

“Are you going to tell me which one is yours though?” He asked you eagerly.

“No, I think I’m going to keep that secret to myself. Thanks for the fun, Evans, I should get home. Another day of charity work for me tomorrow.”

“Wait, Y/N, I’d still like to take you out though, will you let me do that, please?”

“I guess we’ll have to see what the future brings,” you replied, giving him a little wink and a squeeze to his hand, you took one last sip of your wine before heading to the coat check.

Chris watched you as you wrapped a scarf around your neck and slipped your arms into the long, wool coat.  Walking back over to him and wrapping your arms around him, it was a quick hug and he barely had an arm around you before you were stepping back. With a smile on your face, you turned and stepped out into the night. Chris watched as you turned right and glanced his way, your hand lifting up and into a quick wave. He couldn’t stop smiling and knew he had to see you again.

It didn’t take long for that to happen. You couldn’t get him out of your thoughts and dreams after the encounter at the gallery. He really was something; funny, compassionate, a hard worker, and you couldn’t deny that he was incredibly good looking.

After an event in town and a few drinks later, it was easy as pie, asking him over for dinner. He had initially thought you were pulling his leg.  

Chris couldn’t stop laughing. "Oh ya, sure you want me to come over for dinner," laughing at your request and taking a sip of his IPA.

The pink that had flushed across your cheeks when you had shyly asked him was disappearing like an ice cube in hot soup. He picked up on the change immediately and apologized profusely. "I didn't think you were serious! You are serious, right?”

"Why wouldn't I be? It's just dinner," you shrugged. “I don’t see why you would have such a dramatic response to a simple question.” There was an awkwardness now and maybe you shouldn’t have asked him to come over. “Sorry, I thought since we kind of hand a friendship blooming and I tend to invite friends over...”

He took hold of your arm and pulled you into his chest, a big smile across his face. “I'll come by; don’t you worry. Which day this week works for you? I'll be out of state after this week for a bit, so hopefully something the next few days will work for you,” he said, squeezing you a bit before he released his hold on you.  

Trying not to be awkward, you responded "This week will definitely work, tomorrow or the next day are open for me."

"Let’s go for tomorrow, okay?  Would you like me to bring anything?” Chris smiled  

“Be sure to bring the dog, he's the one I'm really inviting.”

"Well, fat chance of me coming by now, I see where your allegiances lie, " he said half closing his eyes and glaring at you in a teasing manner.

"Ok then, just drop the dog off, I'm sure he'll enjoy the feast."

Chris couldn't help laugh at the way you were carrying on with this charade. The half-smile that was currently on your face was one full of mischief and it was something that he had come to enjoy the last few times he had run into you around town. He could see a sparkle in your eyes, something that he didn’t notice before today and it was something, that he could get used to.  

“A thought crossed my mind... what exactly would have happened if I had guessed right?”

“Since that didn’t happen, I guess you’ll never know,” you said with a shrug and nudged him with your shoulder.

“You sure like to tease me.”

“What exactly am I teasing you over?”

“The opportunity to be in your presence again,” he replied, a slight blush crossing his cheeks.

Finishing up your drink, you placed the glass back on the cardboard coaster and turned to face him.  

**

“What the hell is THIS?” he asked grabbing at the green monster type thing that was hanging from a lamp in your living room

"That, is a flying frog - one of those weird ass dad gifts - he's always finding these peculiar creatures for me and I can't seem to part with them.

"It's sure ugly"

"You're ugly!” You shouted back at him and burst into the most beautiful smile he had seen cross your face.

"What are you, 12?

"Sometimes,” you replied.

Chris couldn’t help but laugh at you and pull you into a quick side hug. "You're a funny one" he feels you squeeze him back softly, a smile crossing his face at the quick interaction.

"I better go take a peek in the oven and make sure everything is baking the way it should. Make yourself cozy, I'll be right back."  You looked back to him, pointing at the couches before turning and walking down the hallway to the kitchen. Turning you head back, forgetting to offer him a drink but his long strides had brought him right behind you quickly, almost colliding with your body. He tripped up a bit and moved his hand to your hip to catch himself.

"I want to see what you're up to in here, see what the chef is cooking up.” Chris resting his chin on your shoulder to peek at what you were stirring on the stove.

“You couldn’t sit still and wait for me to come back, did you miss me that much,” you teased.

“I couldn’t stand to be apart from you for a second longer.”

“That is the cheesiest lines, Evans. Does shit like that work for you?”

“What matters is, if it’s working on you. So, is it?”

You hummed, refusing to answer the question and carried on taking care of the food in the oven. Satisfied with how everything looked, you turned the timer back on and offered Chris a drink. Agreeing on wine, you pulled a bottle from the rack, passed the stemless glasses to Chris, grabbed his hand, and lead him back into the other room. Sitting on the larger of your two couches, Chris took a place beside you, taking the bottle from your hand, opening the bottle, and pouring you a generous glass before pouring his own.  

“To friendship,” he said raising his glass

“To friendship, good food, and drinks,” you added and brought your glass to his, a quick clink, and sips were taken.  

Dinner was ready within the hour and you both continued to chat while enjoying your meal.  

“That was one of the best meals I’ve had in a long time, thank you”, complimented Chris as he wiped his mouth with the napkin when he had finished his last bite.  

The compliment brought the feeling of heat to your face and out of awkwardness you almost knocked your glass over as you reached for the wine.

“Want a refill?” You asked, holding up the second bottle of red that night. “You have good taste in wine, Mr. Evans, this wine is top notch,” you said, looking over the label of the wine he had brought with him.

Chris smirked and slid the glass to his left “I’m glad you think so, I’ll definitely have another. This should probably be the last one though, I feel like I’m overstaying my welcome.” He watched as you poured, your hair falling forward as the wine glass filled. “Cheers, thank you for the invite and many thanks for a delicious meal. You are constantly surprising me with your talents.”

“You aren’t overstaying. I’m enjoying your company and don’t want you to leave yet. Here, let me show you what I’m working on for this year’s event,” you said and pulled your phone out of your dress pocket and slid your finger across the screen. Shifting your body across the cushions toward Chris, you held the phone out towards him.  

“What is it you are putting on this year?”

“Another charity event, it’s to help out the single parents that live in the community. I try to donate as much time to charities as possible.”

“You have a heart of gold.”

“I want everyone to have a special holiday season, you do it. I see that you donate time and money to charities.”

“I have the means to help and giving back is extremely important to me.” Chris looked through a few more of the photos before placing the phone down next to him on the couch.  

Reaching over to take her phone, Chris put his hand over yours and slid closer. “I know you always think I’m joking around with you when I say how much I love seeing you smile but I’m being 100% honest. Your smile is contagious and I feel like it lights up anywhere we are. It’s a beautiful smile and its part of why I’m so attracted to you.”  

You couldn’t help but laugh at him. “Oh shush, you!”  you said pushing your hand into his chest, your smile wider than he had seen before.  Again, he put his hand over yours and pulled you to him gently with his other hand.  He brought you close, enough to hold you against him for a hug. He watched as your eyes tried to find a joke hidden in his face but you quickly realized that there was something else there. You weren’t sure who moved first as your lips met quickly enough that your teeth clacked together and you swore in pain.  

“Oh fuck, only I would ruin an almost perfect moment. I’m such an-

He pulled you to his lips again, kissing you softly and trying not to laugh at the look on your face.

“Am I a joke to you, Evans?” you asked, kissing him back on the lips.

“Oh, not at all, I didn’t want to have to explain to people we know how I broke your teeth though. I mean, I could make up some ridiculous story about it, could be fun,” he chuckled.

You couldn’t help but throw your head back and laugh, bringing yourself back up to face Chris and pull him by his shirt towards you and kissing him without any stupid errors. You could taste the wine on him, the sweetness adding to the softness of your kiss. He took the lead, pulling you closer and slipping his tongue delicately across your bottom lip before deepening the kiss.  

Your eyes opened when you hear Chris let out a soft moan, not expecting to hear such a sound from him before you could emit one. He did it again and you felt it all the way down your spine and into your soul. Your hands, still in idiot mode, found their way to his hair, and were quickly taking apart his well-coiffed hair by running your hands through it.

“How does your hair smell so damn incredible?

“How do you taste so fucking delicious?

You pulled back, staring him in the eyes “Hmm, maybe you need to taste a bit more, clean that palate of yours,” you teased.

“Are you implying...”

“Not implying, the buffet is open, sir. Dig in.”

Chris’s face went a light shade of red.

“Oh, did I catch you off guard, Casanova?”

“I mean, no... no...’ he stumbled, “OK, fine yes, yes you did.”

“Well, now that you know, let’s get back to business. All right?”

You took control, standing up, taking his hand roughly and leading him to your bedroom.  

“I want you to take off my clothing, piece by piece. I want to see it on the floor and,” you said placing her finger on his lips, “no more talking,” you ordered.

“Anything you want,” he whispered into your ear and he ran his tongue down your neck so softly, that goosebumps raised over yours arms. His hands wandered from your shoulders and down your arms, taking hold of your hands and moving them to his belt buckle.  

Looking up to him, he nodded, silently urging you. Undoing the belt and still staring into his eyes. Moving to unzip his jeans and push the button away, Chris was unzipping the back of your dress, the cool line of metal touching your back as he drew the zipper down the length of your back.  

“You have goosebumps, do I need to warm you up?

“I’m hoping you get to that. Now, what did I say about talking?”

He smirked, pushing the dress down each shoulder until it dropped to the floor. Stepping out of it, you kicked it off with one foot, tossing it towards the wall. Chris’s hands were already roaming, his hands on your hips, fingers sliding into the thin elastic of your panties. His hands slipped across your warm flesh and directly to your cheeks, grabbing each one and squeezing, and pulling you closer to him. His lips were pressed into yours, his tongue back to searching for yours as he wrapped his arms around you and brought you to your bed. Gently, he sat you on the edge and leaned into you bringing you down to the mattress.  

His kisses ran down your sternum and across the soft skin of your breasts while his hands ran across the tops, gently running his fingers over your nipples.  

“Keep doing that, keep... keep touching my breasts, Chris.”

You could feel him pressing into you, his erection, warm and pushing against your core.

His hands squeezed your left breast while he brought his mouth down to your right, taking the nipple into his mouth, gently sucking it. Running his tongue around the bud, a chill running across your arms and a moan escaping your lips.

“I need to be in you now, please, y/n,” he said, kissing up your chest.

“In the drawer, condoms are there and hurry the hell up, Evans, I’ve waited forever for it to rain and fill up the well.”

He chuckled as he crawled over you, limbs knocking yours, a soft hand slapped across his ass, as you watched him open the nightstand drawer, which got stuck in his effort to hurry. “Come on Evans, you got this,”

“A little self-talk over there to get you motivated?”  

Chris smiled as he held up the package and smiled at you before sitting on the edge of the bed to roll the condom down his hard length. He was on you again, returning quickly, his lips pressing against yours. His lips, wet and warm, pushed harder against your mouth as he pushed your legs further apart, taking himself in his hand, rubbing across your wetness and pushing halfway. The groan that escaped his mouth while his tongue continued to touch yours, sent a tingling sensation down your body.  

“Chris, please...” you started to plead and before you could continue, he finished pressing himself into you with a grunt.

��Come on baby, show me how well you can move,” he said as he licked a strip across your neck.  

Wrapping your arms around his neck and shifting your body against his, you let out a wail. Your bodies moved together, the pace quick, the sounds of your wetness echoing throughout your room.  

“Listen to the sounds we’re making, baby,” Chris panted and drove deeper into you. His body was incredibly warm against yours, the sweat making his chest glisten in what light crept in from the hallway.  

Chris slipped his hand down and his fingers met your warmth, crawling in to press against your clit. You clenched around him; a low moan escaped his mouth as he continued his movements.

“A bit more, a bit more,” you groaned, your back arching as Chris sped up. You looked up at him and reached your hand up to his face, holding on and staring into his blue eyes as you felt the tingling ball up within.  

Faster than expected and with one last swipe of his fingers, your orgasm spread out from within. Your shoulders tingled, spreading down to your fingers as you yelped out, the warmth of pleasure flowing down and across your body. Chris had shifted to move into you, helping your orgasm along as his own shuddering began. His lips were pressed into your neck, your name crossing his lips as he slowed his pace, and leaned onto one of his arms. He continued kissing up your neck and met your lips, heavy breaths escaping from both of your mouths.

“You’re incredible Y/N. Incredible.” One more kiss was pressed to your lips before Chris sat up, heading to the bathroom. You watched the light turn on and the door close behind him. You rolled to your side; a smile of satisfaction crossed your face as you closed your eyes.

Your heart jumped when you were woken by blankets being pulled half off of your naked body. It took you a few seconds to realize that a man, a very handsome man, was sleepy peacefully beside you. Turning to face his back and shimmying closer, you pulled the blanket to cover your shoulders and back. His muscular back stared at you and you couldn’t help but raise your hand to the pale skin, bringing your fingertip to his warm skin and drawing lines to connect each freckle.  

“You, know, that feels incredible, please don’t stop,” Chris asked, his words muffled into the pillows.

You continued using his back as your canvas; swans, sunrises, all the beautiful pieces of the world this man helped you see.  

Pushing back into you Chris spoke, “I’m going to be away next week, so I’m hoping I can see you again before I head out of town?”  

Your fingers drew the word yes on his shoulder in response. Chris turned over to face you, pulling you closer to him for a soft kiss. When he pulled back you couldn’t help but smile and pulled him in for something a bit more passionate.

*

Bags packed and his dog set to stay with his family, he walked by the room Scott was in. “Hey, I’m heading out, the car is almost here. Give me a hug for the road.” His younger brother stood up and embraced him, giving him a few pats on the back and wishing him well for his short trip. “Will I see you when I get back or you heading back home?”

“I’m pretty sure I’ll be around still. Mom wants me to stay in town a bit longer. You okay if I’m still free loading off of you a bit longer than planned?”

“You know you’re more than welcome to stay,” he said as his phone chimed from his pocket. “Cars here. Take care of the fam and Dodger for me.” His brother gave him a smile and Chris grabbed his coat and carry-on from the table before heading to the front of the house. Dammit, he had forgotten to remind Scott again about what they had discussed earlier that day. “Scott, make sure you get that message to Y/N, okay? This schedule change was pretty last minute.” He shut the door before he heard a response from his brother. The driver held the door open for him and collected his bags to place in the trunk. He couldn’t get you out of his mind on the way to the airport; your smile, the scent of your hair, the warmth of your naked skin pressed against his. He couldn’t wait to be next to you again.

[moodforanime]

Runaway| Sherlock×Daughter!Reader

Requested: Nope! The idea popped in my minded and I wanted to write it.

Word count: 5.4K

Warnings: This is an A/U where the apartment is spread on to the floor above, where the bedrooms and Sherlock's office is. Maybe a little angst, but nothing too big.

Summary: You hated the place you grew up in and the relationship with your father. People expected you to be smart, and you were. It was just that you wanted a better relationship with you father, which felt like it wouldn't happen. So you try to find your way and see if he cares.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The words he told you that day had the consequences of an excruciating pain. Maybe he didn't mean them to have this effect on you, but they did. Not like he cares about your feelings., you thought.

It’s been a few hours since the incident, yet his words still rang through your ears crystal clear. Sometimes, you act so stupid you make me wonder if you’re ever going to become a detective. With that attitude of yours, you’ll definitely fail any hope I had for your future. That’s what h. wanted .to make your father proud. Your deepest wish was to get even the smallest crumb of attention and emotion from your father to you, any emotion that wasn’t anger or disappointment.

He’s been sitting in his office, at his desk, ever since. He’s probably forgotten about this incident and the words he said, and occupied himself with a new case. You couldn’t say you were so lucky. Having arguments with a high-functioning sociopath who happened to be your father always ended up that way- he always returned to his office and focus on a case, forgetting about the incident within minutes, while you returned to your room and tried to bring yourself back on track, even when you felt like crying your eyes out.

You slid yourself out of your bed, walked down the stairs and walked towards the kitchen. As you passed by the living room, you heard the front door creaking. You watched how the door opened, allowing the familiar face of a man with short grey hair and a black jacket- your father’s colleague and only friend. At first, he smiled, but seeing your red cheeks and wet eyes, any spark of joy on his face disappeared, replaced by worry.

‘Y/N,’ he said, as he entered the house, closing the door slowly behind him. 'What happened?’

You’ve known each other for a few months now, and he’s seen you upset every now and then -as it turned out, you were much more capable of empathy and feeling emotions than your father-, but he’s never asked you until now. In a way, it made him feel like it wasn’t appropriate for him to ask, but he knew the feeling of being alone and far from the reach of help. If he could, he wanted to help you.

'Hello, Mr. Watson,’ you greeted as you wiped off the tears lingering in your eyes, 'Nothing out of the ordinary. I had an argument with my father, he said some things to me that might’ve hurt me a little too much and… yeah. I don’t know how to cope with it.’

John’s face hardened. He was very much aware that Sherlock was an insensitive person. It was annoying, but he never felt personally attacked by the man’s words. He was used to harsh words in the war, words all coming from his superiors and comrades, but a girl of fifteen with no obligations to the country and in a stable situation should not experience such thing. It was a family thing, he knew, but at the same time, this was the first time he’s seen you this upset by your father’s words.

'What did you father say?’ He asked.

You explained shortly what the argument was about, and you repeated the exact words your father told you. John didn’t seem to relax any bit.

'That’s terrible. Where is he now? In his office?’ You nodded. 'I’d like to talk with him about this. This is unacceptable.’

As he said that, he turned around and began walking up the stairs.

'Oh, it’s not necessary, Mr. Watson,’ you said, as he reached the middle of the stairs, 'He won’t listen.’

John turned around and shot you a confused look. ’This is about you. You’re his daughter. Of course he’ll listen.’

'Honestly, Mr. Watson, I would be surprised if he felt the smallest crumb of love or care towards me.’

The ex-soldier frowned as he walked the stairs back down. 'What do you mean?’

'He’s a sociopath, and a damn strong one. He most likely didn’t tell you about this, but my mother was killed when I was very little. She was a detective, too, but was shot three times to death by accident by my father while on a case. He mistook her for the enemy, and shot. The jury let him go under the pretext of self defense. If it wasn’t the few photos Mrs. Hudson has of my parents, I probably wouldn’t even know what my mother looks like anymore. Other than those photos and Mrs. Hudson's’ stories, I can’t say I have any kind of memory of her.’

John smiled softly. He knew very well how children were made, but Sherlock never confessed about what kind of relationship he was in when his daughter appeared and how you came into his custody while his wife was gone.

'What did Mrs. Hudson say about her?’ He asked.

You relaxed your shoulders. 'She said that my mother was incredibly sharp and intelligent, yet so caring and lovely, whatever that means. She said how it was a match made in heaven, as she’s never seen my father so happy before. He smiled whenever he was with my mother and would do anything to make her happy. She said I was a wanted child, but I think that after my mother’s death, while he would not give up on me, I was nothing but a grim reminder of his neglection in that case. I know he would never send me away, but I don’t think he cares about me in the real sense.’

A bittersweet feeling caught onto John. Sherlock smiling genuinely and dedicating himself on to making people happy? Sherlock… feeling? It was an odd idea, but not impossible. He’s lost people before. He knew the feeling. Yet… the idea of having a child that feels unloved because of an incident they couldn’t control still made him feel even more pain. John nodded lightly.

'Thank you for telling me. I’ll talk to your father, and see what we can do, okay?’

You nodded. It wasn’t okay, but you appreciated his genuine feelings of worry. It wasn’t something you got often. Knowing your father, you didn’t know how much that John’s words would affect him, but the attempt to fix something was still something you were grateful for. After multiple failed attempts, you gave up on trying to truly communicate with him.

John went upstairs as you took a glass of water from the kitchen and carried it to your room. As you passed by your father’s office, you felt a certain argument going on. You stopped walking.

'John, she’s fifteen, she gets food, she has water, a place to sleep, she has good grades, what’s the problem?’ Your father’s voice said, in a slightly angered tone.

’Communication, Sherlock. She wants a father, not someone who’s there to make sure she’s remaining alive.’

You felt how your lungs refused to get the full amount of air they normally would as something stopped in your neck, when heating the doctor’s words.

'How do you know what she needs?’ Sherlock shot back, 'You didn’t raise her, I did.’

'It’s not rocket science, Sherlock. Just try to more open with her. Be there for her. Please.’

Silence fell between the two for a few moments, before hearing your father getting up from the office chair he was sitting in with a creak.

'It’s not rocket science, huh? I certainly believe so but,’ anxiety pumped in your veins as you heard his footsteps come closer to the door. 'If she isn’t capable of doing the smallest task of doing well in school, I may as well think more seriously about how much of my genetics went onto her.’

‘Sherlock!’ John exclaimed.

Your eyebrows furrowed as you took a step away from the door. How dare he! He’s said many painful and insensitive things towards you, but this! It put all those things i the past to shame. It crossed every line and limit you put to his insults, by far. He could be ashamed of his daughter, but to the point to even wonder if you were his? You couldn’t stand and watch that. It would only get worse if you didn't do anything. 

You walked down the grey hallway and entered your bedroom. It wasn’t a big bedroom and was originally fairly modest, but after your father gave you the ok to decorate it as you wished, it became more colourful and welcoming. Various posters hanged on your wall that presented various series you loved and people you admired. 

Your father needed to learn the consequences of his actions, and you had a plan. Before you started the search for the things you needed, you took your phone and connected it to your charger, along with a powerbank. You needed a phone that would last, and a backup for when it’ll run out of battery. You looked through your room until you found the first thing you needed for your plan- a spacious, black backpack you once got from your uncle Mycroft. You don’t remember the exact context through which you got it, but you knew it was from him.

You grabbed a half empty plastic bottle you had in your room and filled it with the water that you carried to your room. You placed the bottle of water in the corner of your backpack, before proceeding to fill up half your backpack with some spare clothing. You made a quick trip to the kitchen again, from which you returned with a half-eaten sandwich wrapped in an aluminium foil you brought home that day from school. As you passed by your father’s office, the two men inside now talked much quieter and calmer, on a topic far from you. You took your wallet and put it in one of your jacket’s pockets,before eventually checking your phone’s battery. You looked at your phone’s screen, which now showed you that the battery was 80% full. Good enough, you thought. The powerbank appeared to be fully charged. You stuffed thepowerban and charger inside your backpack, before closing it, and put your phone in your jacket pocket. Taking your jacket on, you looked at the clock hanging on your wall. 8:40 PM.

Taking your current plan, your luck was that today was a Friday, which happened to be the last day before the winter break. You had two weeks to settle things with your father. If he wanted to do things his way, so would you. You threw your backpack on your back, and walked quietly down the stairs. Taking how focused your father and his partner in crime were on their current case, they probably wouldn’t notice your disappearance. Not immediately. You took your shoes on, opened the front door and left without looking back. Just as you put your hand on the apartment building’s exit door, you felt a presence creep behind you.

‘Y/N dear, where are you going this late?’

You cursed on the inside. You turned your head around and looked at the old woman with a smile.

‘I’m going to Madeleine’s house, Mrs. Hudson. We’re having a sleepover tonight.’

Madeleine was your cousin, Mycroft’s daughter. You were born a couple of months apart so it wasn’t like there was a large age gap between you two. You took a little of your fathers’ rivalry upon yourselves, but the coldness between those two didn’t stop you from forming a strong, close bond.

The woman seemed relieved when hearing your words. ‘Your father knows about this, I suppose?’

‘Of course.’

Before you could let the woman say anything else, you exited the building and began wandering the dark, wet streets of London. In truth, you didn’t know where to go. In the end, Mycroft’s house was the best place to end at. You could wander the streets for a while and then… You froze as you felt a cold hand press against your shoulder. You could only walk two streets away. Could’ve they already…? You turned your head around, ready to see your father or Mr. Watson, but it was neither. It was a woman in her early twenties with long, dark hair. Her face reminded you a lot of your own father. Odd, but it can happen. You squinted your eyes at her for a moment, as you analysed her. One thing you inherited from your father was, although seemingly weak, his observation skills. 

She was too clean to be a homeless, but she was below the average ordinary people’s life. A lower class person.The hair was brushed thoroughly, but not washed properly in two or three weeks, masked with some shampoo spray to look decent.The clothes on her wear casual and practical to keep warm, but not well kept and old looking- giving you the feeling that she wore them for along time without washing them. Low class with money problems, probably struggling to pay rent and bills.Tries to be as economical as possible.

‘Y/N?’ She asked, ‘Are you Y/N Holmes?

You nodded lightly. You made an appearance on TV and the newspapers a couple of times, so it wouldn’t be a surprise if people heard of you.

‘You’re not safe on the streets at night. Please go back home.’

You shook your head. ‘Thank you, but… please leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.’

She let go of you, allowing you to go further, minding your own business. Whoever that woman was, it was an odd conversation. She was well-meaning, you knew that, but you couldn’t go home. Not now. Not so soon.

In the meantime, it seemed like a case was one step closer to be solved in the 221b Baker Street apartment.

‘Can you ask Y/N if she’s hungry?’ Sherlock asked, as he arranged some papers on his desk. ‘I didn’t make any food, and neither did she.’

‘I’m not her father.’ John said, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock raised his head to look at the man with a blank stare. ‘You’re not. But that doesn’t mean you’re not capable of…’

‘Sherlock, just go talk with her!’ John exploded, ‘You had an argument with her. She’s upset. You can’t keep silent for forever!’

Sherlock sighed as he stood up. ‘If you insist…’

He walked to your room and felt his face wrinkle in confusion as no light passed through the crack under your door. There was no way you were asleep so early. You never went to bed before 10 PM, and it was just 10 minutes before 9. He knocked on the door.

‘Y/N? Open the door please.’

No answer came.

‘Y/N?’ Sherlock tried again. ‘I just want to know if you’re hungry.’

No answer.

‘If you don’t open the door now, I’m going to come in.’

It seemed like luck wasn’t by his side that evening. He opened the door slowly, only to be met by a dark room. He reached for the light switch and turned the lights on. No one was in the room, and various objects were scattered around the floor. Sherlock felt how his heart missed a beat. 

'Y/N! Where are you?' He yelled, as he hurried down the hall. He walked down the stairs, his eyes scanning the rooms. You weren't there either. 'John!'

It didn't take long for John to come. Hearing the man's yelling, he was already up. 

'What's wrong? Where's Y/N?' John asked, worryingly.

'I… I don't know! I thought she was in her room, goddammit!

The front door opened slowly, as Mrs. Hudson came in, looking at Sherlock questioningly.

'What's with this noise, Sherlock?' She asked, 'It's 9 PM, for God's sake!'

'I don't know where Y/N is. Have you seen her?'

The woman frowned. 'She left about 20 minutes ago, I think. She said that she went to Madeleine's house for a sleepover. I asked her if you knew about it, and she said that you did.'

For a moment, Sherlock and John made eye contact.

'Mycroft's place.' John said.

Sherlock paused, as he looked at the front door. 'She took her black shoes. The Adidas ones, for better mobility. They're more comfortable, allowing the user to walk longer distances without a discomfort. Assuming she took her new jacket,' Sherlock paused for a moment as he walked up the stairs, 'She'll be able to walk a long distance without discomfort because of the coldness or her feet.'

He entered your room, opened your wardrobe and all your drawers, followed by John and Mrs. Hudson who couldn't do anything but look at him.

'She's taken the backpack Mycroft gave her, her phone, charger and a power bank,' he said agitated as he walked around the room, looking for clues, 'She wouldn't need a power bank if she went to Mycroft's, and if that's the case, she probably didn't plan to come back anytime this evening. Empty glass, bottle… she also took a bottle of water with her and some spare clothes, so she wouldn't dehydrate and be dirty if anything happened. She probably took some food with her too.'

For a moment, Sherlock stopped from walking and talking as he thought of a conclusion. As they sat at the door, John was frozen in the shock, while Mrs. Hudson was trembling, inches away from sobbing.

'If I would've known, maybe… She didn't give any sign that there might be anything wrong.' She said.

'Of course not.' Sherlock said, calmly. 'She's a good liar. Conclusion: Y/N  ran away.'

That short sentence was enough to bring Mrs. Hudson to such emotions that made her tears fall, along with wails of pain and worry as John tried to call her down.

'This is all your fault, you know?' John said, looking at Sherlock, 'Not yours, Mrs. Hudson, it's Sherlock's. How insensitive can you be?'

'John, I-'

'She's your daughter! High functioning sociopath or not, you're supposed to love and to protect her! Did you even bother to ever ask her about how she's coping with the loss of her mother?'

'She was very young when her mother died.' Sherlock said, coldly.

'Y/N's told me how she died. Whatever happened there is not my business but please, be compassionate with her, even if it hurts. If I had a daughter, I would go through Hell and back just so she would be happy. Why don't you? Do you even know what she thinks-'

'I don't know how!' Sherlock exploded, making Mrs. Hudson stop from crying for a moment, 'She's my daughter. Do you think I'm so heartless to hate her? I can assure you, John, I loved my wife with all my heart. Y/N's all I have left of her. I could never hate her. She's my only real family.'

John's eyes widened. This man…

'Sherlock, that's beautiful.' Mrs. Hudson commented, as she wiped off her tears.

'Then why…?' John asked, his voice trailing off.

'I don't know how to communicate with her, okay? She's so different from me and so sensible that I always get the feeling that if I say anything, it might hurt her. That… bringing to the lack of communication. Then, she asks me why I don't talk to her and… I just can't. We always get in arguments, do you think I like it?'

'Just tell her. Ask her to sit down and try to word out everything.'

'If it only was that simple,'Sherlock said as he walked out of the room, 'but if we don't make a single attempt to find her, I'll never get the chance to do the impossible.'

He took his coat on and stormed out of the apartment, not waiting for his colleague. He got outside the apartment and stopped for a moment. Think, Sherlock, think. Where would Y/N go? It was already some time after 9 PM, so most places would already be closed. 

'Did you call Mycroft?' John said as he catches up to him.

'Why should I? He'll know nothing more than me.'

'He works with the police, doesn't he? He can easily send some people after her to help.'

For a moment, Sherlock considered

'I'll call my brother only we truly can't find her.'

And with that, Sherlock began to talk down the streets of London aimlessly. It was almost as if he was hoping to see you any corner. He did, in a way,  it he was aware it wouldn't be so simple.

You were smart. He didn't even know why he said those words to you that day. He didn't even know why he even consider you any less that worthy. He wished you to be like him, but as it seemed, you were in the same position he once was. Parents often wish the best for the kids, but forget what's truly best for the child itself. In that moment, he wasn't Sherlock Holmes anymore. He wasn't the famous particular detective every detective envied. At that moment, he was nothing more than a desperate fool trying to find his daughter.

Meanwhile, you were sitting in the cold on the stairs of someone's front door. What were you even doing there? You could've easily called Mycroft and go to a safe, warm space. But he'd call your dad, and he'd come to get you. You were in no mood to do that. You didn't have the energy for another argument.

'Y/N.'

The voice came to you so unexpectedly that you jumped straight up, your senses now sharp and alert. Next to you was the same woman that stopped you earlier that evening, with a curious, worried look. In that moment, you regretted not bringing any kind of weapon with you. You could've called the police, but again...

'What do you want?' You asked, 'Are you stalking me?'

'I'm not here to hurt you, so relax.'

Her words came so unexpectedly that you obeyed immediately. Although still alert, any feeling of fear and concern you felt went away, leaving you staring at the woman blankly.

'Your father is looking for you with some friend of his, and he's worried sick. He's almost on the verge of calling your uncle.'

You snorted. 'Like he'd ever do that for me. Calling my uncle and all, I mean. If he really wants, he'll find me.'

You knew that all along. Your father was a private detective, for God's sake. He's dealing with missing people every day. You didn't plan on going anywhere far or make it too complicated for him. You just wanted to give him a small surprise, like an alarm that something wasn't good with you.

'He's a smart man. If you want, I know a place where you can hide for as long as you want. It's safe from the authorities. My people know some people up there, in the government. They can pull some strings for you.'

'Your people?' You frowned.

'Well of course,' she smiled sheepishly, 'How do you think I'm still roaming around as I please? We don't have much time left, though. I need an answer now.'

It was tempting. Very tempting. But it would be only temporary, and for a short amount of time. Whoever this woman was, she gave you a good opportunity to escape. But your father knew your weak points and he'd get the information out of you with no trouble. You didn't want to do that to her.

'I don't want to put you at risk,' You told her, 'But I want to keep contact with you, if anything happens for real. How can I find you then?'

She smiled. 'Go to Baker's Hollow and ask for Eurus. They'll bring you to me.'

'Eurus. Wait… Baker's Hollow? I never heard if it.'

'You're too young to know it. It's a place downtown, where the freaks all come around. It's full of interesting people willing to do all sorts if things for you, in return for something. Anything worthy for their actions.'

You nodded. 'Thank you. I'll keep it in mind.'

For a moment, the woman looked behind you, down the dark street.

'I'll have to go now. See ya.'

'Goodbye ' You said, as you watched the woman disappear behind the street's corner. 

You turned around and began walking. The street was empty and lighted nicely by multiple street lamps spread on it. Somewhere in the distance behind you, two sets of hurried steps could be heard, approaching you rapidly.

'Y/N!'

'Y/N, stop right there this instant!' A strict yet familiar male voice yelled after you.

You sighed as you stopped walking. So they really got me fast, you thought, turning around. You raised your head, ready to face the man's wrath on you, but instead, you were pulled in an inescapable bear hug. You felt how your father rested his head on yours as you tried to process what was happening.

'God, I was so worried about you,' he mumbled.

Your father… hugging you? Telling you he was worried? The last time you remember him hugging you was when you were eight, after twisting your ankle for the first time. As for his worries, you hoped for him to be worried, but you never thought of him showing it. In your best case scenario, he'd scold you for running away,  let you off the hook and not talk to you for a week. It was nothing you expected to happen, in none of your calculations, and to put it simply, you didn’t know how to react to it. You let yourself fall prey to your instincts and did what you felt like was right- you hugged him back. 

Sherlock felt his heart beat harder than ever. His daughter was fine. You were there, with him, with all your limbs intact- wounds. He pulled out of the hug and knelt down a little to get on your level. He grabbed you by your shoulders.

'Y/N, are you hurt?'

You shook your head negatively. 

'You sure? Did you fall or-'

'I'm fine, believe me.'

Sherlock pursed his lips. 'Of course I believe you. You're my daughter.'

You smiled sheepishly. For a moment, Sherlock paused as you made eye contact with his sidekick.

'I'm sorry to put you through the trouble of looking for me, Mr. Watson.' You told him.

'Y/N, why did you go away?’ Sherlock asked,  ‘I promise I won't get mad.

You looked back at your father, with a blank stare. You wanted to tell him so badly the reasoning behind your little escape, but you didn’t know if you should. You didn’t know if he’d understand, let alone try to fix it. You were fine and alive, what would he need more from you? You were nothing but a reminder of what he once lost on a case because of his momentary inattention.

‘Go on.’ John encouraged softly, ‘Tell him. It’s okay.’

You felt your face wrinkling in overwhelming as all the emotions you suppressed through time came back to you at once. 

‘I just wanted you to look at me,’ you said as you choked on your tears, ‘‘People always tell me how much I’m like you and you always tell me things of when I’ll become a detective but you never ask me if I want to become one. You never ask me about school or how I’m doing, and I… I get the feeling like I’m a burden to you and everyone.’

‘A burden? That’s absurd!’ Your father said, incredulously. ‘Who told you these things? Did your uncle Mycroft say that?’

‘He didn’t. He never said anything like that. No one did. It’s just that sometimes, I don’t feel like your daughter, but a stupid, daily reminder that my mother died and the cause she died. Maybe if I just disappear, then-’

Your father pulled you in another hug, holding you tight as he rested his head on your shoulder. Every emotion you’ve felt until then couldn’t be suppressed anymore, leaving you to empty yourself from your sorrows through ugly sobs. You felt so weak, so useless. There, you said it all to your father, but your chest didn’t feel any lighter. The same hardness lay on your chest, restlessly tormenting you day and night.

‘You’re not a burden, Y/N,’ your father said quietly, ‘You’re anything but a burden. You never were one, and you’ll never be. When your mother died, it was very painful, but you’re not responsible for it, and I’m sorry you feel that way. I loved your mother very much, and I don’t think I’d be able to love another woman so much. It happened so long ago that without you, I might forget things. But with you, I remember everything perfectly. I remember your mother, and why I have to keep going. You’re not a burden to me, Y/N. You’re the best thing that happened to me. I don’t know where I would be without you.’

Standing behind you two, John blinked repeated as he tried to stop his eyes from stinging. As it seemed, there was much more to your problems than you let people know. Lack of parental attention was already a problem, but everything that came after it was even more serious. Sherlock's negligence could be debatable, but the things he told you were something new and unusual to the Sherlock he knew. 

John was very much aware of how much that your father cared about you- he talked about you whenever he got the chance, may it be laughing at a joke you told him or a funny story, or may it be his praising over you and your achievements, anyone who'd spend time with Sherlock would be able to tell just how much you meant to him. It was just unbelievable that Sherlock would express those feelings to you. 

As for you, you’ve never held onto your father harder. You hugged him so hard you felt your fingers hurt. He didn’t seem to mind it, though. Were those his true feelings? Then… all that time, it was just your mind playing tricks on you. You father really cared about you. He held you like that until you calmed down and didn’t cry anymore. After you calmed down, he looked at you and smiled softly as he wiped your tears with his sleeve.

‘Let’s go home, shall we?’

Sherlock paused as John gave him a pressuring look, 'What?'

John pursed his lips.

'Oh, alright, alright. John, Y/N, let's go.'

You entered the apartment you were so familiar with and took off your shoes and jacket. 

'Are you hungry, Y/N?' Your father asked as he walked through the kitchen, 'It's still eight thirty P.M., I could order some pizza.'

You smiled. 'That sounds great.'

There were people who cared about you. There were people who loved you. You felt how a burden was lifted from your chest. No matter how tough it would get, there will always be someone for you. You were loved. You mattered.

[darnedchild]

Molly Hooper - (Assistant) Reanimator : Part Four

Also on FFdotnet and Ao3

With apologies to H.P. Lovecraft - A modern retelling of Herbert West - Reanimator.  Written for the 2017 Sherlolly Halloween fest.

Part Four - Six Shots by Midnight

“Christ, Molly.  Why didn’t you tell me?”  He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling his curls into the sort of disarray she would have normally found adorable.

“What was I supposed to say?” she scoffed, followed by a quick inhale that was almost a sob.  “Oh, by the way, I had a friend in uni who discovered the secret to reanimating dead flesh. Unfortunately, the process had a rather inconvenient side effect of turning the test subjects into flesh-eating ghouls.  How, exactly, should I have tried to work that into a casual conversation, Sherlock?” Molly’s was voice growing shriller with each new word; which she seemed to realize because she clamped her lips together to hold in whatever nervous noise was trying to break free.

“I see your point.”  He slumped, his head coming to rest on the back of the chair so he could stare up at the tiled ceiling.  “That’s all of it, though.  Right?” Sherlock lifted his head at her silence. “Right, Molly?”

Her skin had, somehow, gone even paler than before.  He began to worry that she was going to be sick all over her desk.  

She winced.  “No.”

Acting purely on instinct, he slid from the chair and knelt at her feet.  He grabbed both of her hands, which were far too cold to the touch for his liking.  In his most calming voice he said, “Take a deep breath for me.  Now let it go. And another one.  In. And out.  There we go, that’s my girl.”

“Your what?”  Molly blinked, her fearful expression momentarily morphed into bewilderment.

“My . . . We’ll talk about that later.”  Now that she had regained some of her colour, Sherlock sat back on his heels.  “All right. Tell me the rest.”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The experiments stopped after the Halsey incident.  Or, more likely, Herbert had simply stopped asking for Molly’s assistance. Not that she would have given it.

Not then, at any rate.

Molly’s father’s condition continued to worsen.  Eventually the American doctor told them there was nothing more he could do.  Her father wanted to spend his last few months in his familiar family home, so the Hoopers returned to Lincolnshire.  Molly was relieved to leave Miskatonic University (and Herbert West) behind.  

After her father died, she redoubled her efforts to finish her schooling.  Her father had told her that his greatest wish had been for her to become Doctor Hooper, and while he wouldn’t be around to see it, she made sure his wish was fulfilled.  There were some who called her heartless and cold—her mother included—because she took no more than a week off when he died, just long enough to help make arrangements for and to attend his funeral, but she had a mission.  No one understood that this was her way to grieve. Her penance for not being able to save him.

Her first job after becoming a doctor was at a small medical practice in Louth.  It took months, but she eventually came out of her shell and her old personality broke free.  She made friends with the other clinic staff and Milly at the diner.

One dreary day the next spring, she pushed through the front door of the clinic, her usual friendly greeting for the young receptionist dying on her lips at the sight of Herbert West leaning against the counter.

“And there she is,” Herbert laughed.  “I was just about to leave a note for you.”

“How-how did you-Why?“ she stuttered.

He quickly interrupted her with a sharp glance at the receptionist who was watching them, obviously hoping for a juicy bit of gossip about the newest doctor.  “Surprise you?  I thought it would be more fun if I didn’t call ahead.”

Which would have been a nice trick, considering he shouldn’t have had her number. Or her address.  She’d cut off all ties to him and nearly everyone else from the States when she’d left.

“Well, I am definitely surprised.”  And it wasn’t particularly pleasant.

“I’ve a meeting this afternoon, but how about dinner tonight?  We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”  Herbert offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Over a too-large portion of Shephard’s Pie that evening, Herbert told her that he’d kept an eye on her academic progress since she’d left.  He’d even managed to read her thesis.  When he had heard that one of the partners in her practice was getting ready to retire just as he was looking to make a change and leave Arkham, Herbert decided it was clearly a matter of fate.

“I’m sorry? Are you saying you’re replacing Doctor Masters?”

“Not replacing, per se.”  He set aside his own plate of barely touched food.  “I’ll be taking over his caseload over the next month or two, on a probationary basis, to see if I’ll be a good fit in your quaint little community.”

She got the impression he was mocking either her village or her boss.  Or both.

“So, why did you leave Massachusetts?”  People didn’t just drop everything and move to Louth on a whim.

“I told you, Molly, I was ready for a change.”  

She had resolved to hop on-line as soon as she got back to her tiny cottage and look for any strange news out of Arkham over the last few months, and was relieved to see nothing of note had been reported.  

Months later, Herbert had settled into the practice with little trouble.  He was extremely competent as a doctor, but had little to no bedside manner.  There were the occasional mutterings about his abrasive nature over the reception desk.

He’d purchased a small house for a song, simply because it shared a fence with the cemetery and therefore was rumoured to be haunted.  He’d hired workmen to complete much needed repairs around the long empty home and to enlarge the small cellar into a workspace.

It took a while, but Molly eventually found herself warming toward her old friend once more, and falling into old habits.  At first it was just reminiscing about their former research (while carefully avoiding any mention of Doctor Halsey’s death and subsequent reawakening).  Then it became shared meals and looking over a few notes to try to figure out where they had gone wrong, purely a hypothetical exercise of course.  And then the odd evening down in the cellar, messing about with reagents and new formulas.

Before she knew it, Molly was pulled back in.  Rather than risk another Halsey incident, they concentrated their work on a much smaller scale, the overly abundant rat population.  Not even the entire rat.  Miraculously, Herbert’s latest serum was capable of reanimating dismembered limbs, organs, even the severed head of a particularly large rodent specimen.

“Think of it, Molly.  We could revolutionize transplant procedures.  No more wasting time waiting for a suitable organ donor to get caught in a traffic accident.  Part out a donor corpse, inject the serum, then put it all in cold storage until needed.”

His enthusiasm was infectious, but she couldn’t help but wince at his phrasing. “Part out?  You’ll need to work on your wording if you hope to ever convince the medical community to accept your work.”

Herbert rolled his eyes.  “On the whole, most of them are feeble minded sheep anyway.  Sticking to what they were taught without a thought toward innovation or advancements.”

“Be that as it may, you’ll need funding if you want to take this large scale.”  It would do him no good to alienate the people who cut the checks.

“Trust me, my dear, there will always be someone searching for the secret to immortality and willing to pay for it.”  He sighed as he stared at their latest experiment.  “There are so many variables that need to be calculated. Trials with rats won’t be enough for us to go public.  If only we had a human specimen to work with.”

Molly shook her head with a grimace.  “I am not going to help you dig up another body.  I know these people, Herbert.  I work with them, they wave to me when I walk down the main street, I talk to them at the diner.”

He sighed and agreed, a tad too quickly for her comfort.

Suddenly the doorbell echoed through the ground floor of the house and through the open door to the cellar.  They looked at each other, then up as if they thought they would be able to see through the floorboards.

“Who’s that?” Molly asked.

“Probably one of the yokels, asking if I could come ‘out to the farm and help Bessie birth a calf’, as if I were a common veterinarian.  You answer it, tell them I’m busy doing . . . anything.”  He waved her off.  Molly stuck her tongue out at his back, before trudging up the stairs.  

It wasn’t a rancher worried about his cattle.  It was one of the men who worked at city hall.  He looked nervous, and the stench of alcohol and cigarette smoke assaulted her nose as soon as she pushed the screen door open.

“Hey, Frank.”

He seemed surprised to see her.  “Uh, hello, Miss Molly.  Is, uh, Dr West here?”

Molly wondered yet again why everyone insisted on calling her by her first name when Herbert was still known as Dr West.  “He’s a bit busy at the moment.  Is there something I can help you with?”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then sharply nodded his head as if he’d come to a decision of some sort.  “You gotta come help, there’s been a-an accident.”

She immediately straightened from where she’d been leaning against the door frame.  “What happened?”

“At the pub, there was . . . He fell in the basement.  Banged his head up pretty bad.  There’s a lot of blood, ma’am.  I don’t know if he’ll make it.”

It was a widely known but unspoken secret that certain men from the village liked to gather in the basement of the pub and pummel themselves silly on a semi-regular basis.  She didn’t believe the injured man had fallen on his own, not for a minute.  

Molly hurried to the cellar door and called down to Herbert, “I need to head out, someone’s hurt.  I don’t have my bag with me, where’s yours?”

Herbert stomped up the stairs, visibly irritated at the interruption and the loss of his assistant.  “In the hall closet.  What do you mean, someone’s hurt?”

She quietly filled him in as she pulled Herbert’s medical bag from the shelf in the closet, including her suspicions that the injury was boxing related.  “Frank thinks he might not live.”

“Interesting. I suppose we’ll be the judge of that, won’t we?”  Herbert took the bag from Molly’s hands and gestured for her to precede him out the front door.  “Tell me, Frank.  Who is it who . . . fell?”

Frank led the way toward the cars parked in the short gravel drive.  “You wouldn’t know him, just a bloke who’s been hanging around the village, looking for work the last few weeks.  You’ve probably never even seen him.  Geoff bought him a few drinks, to be friendly.  You know.”

So drunk and clumsy was going to be the story the boys at the pub were going to tell, Molly thought as she settled into the front seat next to Herbert.  They followed Frank’s car into the village, although Herbert drove around to the alley behind the pub and parked there.

Frank had been right.  By the time they arrived, the drifter had stopped breathing; which was probably for the best as she could see brain matter through the fractured skull. “This wasn’t just a fall,” she whispered to Herbert as they examined the massive body of a man who was clearly used to hard manual labour.

He grunted in reply, then stood up and wiped his hands against his shirt, leaving a smear of blood against the white material.  “Frank, a word, if you please.”

She watched the two men move to a corner of the room.  The handful of other village men stood to the side, whispering to themselves.  Probably making sure they had their stories straight, she thought.

Minutes later, Herbert returned to her side and Frank crossed the room to speak with his friends.  Some of them gave her and Herbert a look, then the entire lot of them hurried up the stairs.

“What’s going on?”

“They’re going to their respective homes to pretend that none of this happened, and I have agreed that we will deal with our friend here out of the goodness of our hearts and to protect the reputations of several of those fine gentlemen.”  Herbert looked around and found a tarp, which he quickly laid down next to the body. “Help me roll him on to this.”

“I’m sorry, we’re what?” Molly questioned, even as she did as he’d asked and tried to help push the heavy body onto the tarp.

“We’re taking him back to the house.  If you remember, I was just lamenting the lack of human specimens to test our new serum on.  Ask and you shall receive.”

It took considerable effort to haul the dead weight up the stairs into the kitchen and out the back door of the pub.  Molly spent the entire drive back to Herbert’s house praying that they weren’t pulled over for a traffic stop, and that no one would ask to look in the trunk.

By the time they dragged the corpse into the house (literally dragged, because Molly was surprisingly strong for her size but the drifter had outweighed her by more than seven stone), they were both tired.  Rather than risk injuring themselves trying to get their burden down to the cellar, Herbert brought the absolutely necessary equipment up to the kitchen front hall where they had dumped the tarp wrapped drifter.  

“Shouldn’t we tie him up or something?”  Molly worried her lower lip as she stared at the large body splayed out on the floor. She still remembered Halsey and the damage he’d done before he’d been caught and contained.

“The rats were docile enough, I don’t think that’s necess-“  Herbert slowly stopped talking as Molly narrowed her eyes and glared. “I’ve got some rope in the shed.”

Unfortunately, the serum didn’t work.  They waited nearly thirty minutes, used six vials of the glowing liquid, chest compressions, everything they could think of . . . and nothing.

In all honesty, Molly was relieved that the experiment had been a failure.  The work they’d been doing in the cellar could someday save lives.  How many people died waiting on a transplant list every year?

But that, the corpse currently bound in rope and anchored to the radiator in Herbert’s sitting room . . . That had the potential to become dangerous in the blink of an eye.  

They’d worked hard to modify the serum’s formula.  None of the rodent body parts they’d managed to reanimate had shown any signs of aggression, not even the severed head.  She’d let their small successes and Herbert’s enthusiasm override her cautious nature.  Thank God no one had been forced to pay the price for their hubris this time.

Herbert sat back on his heels and grimaced.  “What is it?  What variables are we overlooking?”

“Herbert.”

He tapped his fingers against the drifter’s still chest and continued to think out loud. “How long would you say he was dead? Those buffoons had to stand around until one of them had the bright idea to summon a doctor.  Five minutes lost there, if I’m being generous.”

“Herbert.”

“Another thirty for Frank to get in his car and drive here, he wouldn’t have sped because he didn’t want the constable to have any reason to pull him over. Twenty-five for us to get to the pub. Then another-“

“Herbert!” Molly nearly shouted.  “Stop.”

“But don’t you see?  It’s the decomposition.  He’s been dead three, possibly four hours before we began.”  He hopped up and gesticulated wildly.  “The rats were all fresh, still warm when we dismembered them. No chance for decomp to set in before we injected the serum.”

Molly used an end table to slowly pull herself up.  Her muscles ached from hauling so much dead weight around.  “We can’t keep doing this.”

He frowned, looking at her as if he didn’t even recognize her, and then his expression cleared and he nodded.  “You’re right.  We’ve been coming at this from the wrong direction.”

That hadn’t been what she’d meant at all, but she was tired and they still had to figure out what to do with the dead man.  “Do I even want to know what you’re talking about?”

“We have to stop the deterioration of the brain matter.  I’m almost positive that is what has been causing the regression to primitive instincts.”

“And violent,” Molly felt the need to remind him.

He waved her off.  “The important thing is that the serum works.“

“We don’t really know that,” Molly quickly interjected.  

Herbert ignored her.  “Clearly, the next step is to find a way to slow down, or even stop, decomposition.”

That seemed like a bit of a leap, but if it meant no more cannibalistic half-zombies then Molly was all for it.  “In the meantime, what do we do with him?”  She nodded toward the body.

After a moment’s thought, Herbert gestured toward the tarp they’d abandoned when they first tied the drifter’s corpse up.  “I’ll wrap him up, you get the shovel out of the shed.”

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

“Considering what you told me earlier, that could have gone much worse,” Sherlock offered.

“Oh, no.  We’re not done.”  Molly rubbed at her forehead.  “Not even close.”

“Damn.” Sherlock stood up from the floor and took her hand.  “Let’s move to the sofa than.  I’m tired of kneeling.”

Once they were settled on the small loveseat, he put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close enough that she could tuck her head under his chin.  He thought it might be easier for her to talk if she didn’t have to look him in the eye.

“Herbert dug a shallow grave behind one of the mausoleums.  Half the village still treated the cemetery as if it were haunted so there wasn’t much chance that anyone would be wandering around the place and stumble across it.”  She took a deep breath and reached for his free hand, tucking her fingers between his. “For two days everything was fine. And then the Meynard boy went missing.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock whispered under his breath.  He felt her tense, and held her hand even tighter to show her that he wasn’t going to run off.  “Did . . . Did they find him?”

“Yeah.”  Molly’s voice broke.  She had to take a minute to compose herself.  “In the meantime, his mother couldn’t handle the stress and worry. Sherry had always been high strung and delicate.  Bad heart. She collapsed in a fit of hysteria, and Herbert happened to be the doctor on call that day.  He went out to their house, thinking that he’d be able to sedate her a bit, calm her down.  Maybe convince Ralph to drive her into the city so she could be admitted to hospital.  She had a heart attack while arguing with them both that she wasn’t leaving until they found her little boy.  Herbert couldn’t save her.”

She tilted her head up.  He could feel the brush of her eyelashes against his jaw as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  “Ralph tried to beat the crap out of him, said Herbert didn’t try hard enough. Pretty sure the only thing that saved Herbert was the constable coming by to check in with a progress report on the search.”

She sniffled, and Sherlock knew that whatever was coming was going to be bad.  Very bad.

“Gossip being what it is in a small community, I headed out to Herbert’s that evening.  I wanted to make sure he was okay.  He answered the door with a revolver in his hand. I have no idea how he managed to get his hands on one, or how long he’d had it.  He said he had thought I was Ralph, come to finish the job.  I’d barely been there twenty minutes when someone started pounding on the kitchen door, hard enough to make it shake.”

Even though he knew the answer already, he still asked, “Ralph?”

Molly made a noise that was a cross between a choke and a sob.  “I wish.  Herbert ripped open the door, revolver pointed at his visitor.  It was the drifter, hunched over low enough that his knuckles almost scraped against the broken concrete step outside the door.  I remember thinking he looked like a gorilla. And then I realized that was because he was covered in dirt and grave moss and-and viscera.  He had, hanging out of his mouth he had-“

Sherlock rubbed his cheek against the top of her head.  “Shh, it’s okay.  You don’t have to say it.”

He felt her nod. “Thank you.  Herbert emptied his revolver into it.  All six bullets.  One right in the forehead.”

“How did he explain any of it?  Surely the others had to have said something.  The men in the pub?”

“When Frank asked, Herbert told him there were cases of people being clinically dead and then waking up on the autopsy table.  The drifter must not have been truly dead when he buried him.  And when he woke up and dug himself out, the extensive brain damage from the ‘fall’ must have made him go berserk.  Frank backed off once Herbert mentioned the incident in the pub.”

Molly sighed and sniffled again.  “Ralph laid his wife and son to rest on the same day.  There wasn’t really a need for the second casket, but they buried one anyway.”

[baskingintheinsanity]

More Than Kind and Less Than Kind, Chapter Two

A/n: Wow, this chapter is much longer than the first. C’est la vie. Please send in plot ideas if you guys have any bunnies jumping around in your head. I know the adlock fam is much smaller than some of my other fandoms, but I love you guys and I love writing for this fandom because we get so little on screen. I hope you all enjoy. I love writing Sherlock and Irene. Their banter is my favourite. All I’ve got say is…beware the East Wind.

Find all my stories at https://www.fanfiction.net/u/3738156/PixieKindOfCrazy if you care.

Chapter 2:

“You do realize, at one point, you will have to leave this room?”

One would assume that this question was directed at Irene by Sherlock, hoping to avoid his blogger seeing the Woman. Incorrect.

Irene was leaning in the doorway, attempting to repress the urge to put her hand on her hip and scold the man lazing in bed.

“That poses a rather brilliant existential question, my love-if I stay in this exact spot forever, and the furnishings around me change, am I still in my bedroom?”

Irene rolled her eyes starkly, pushing off the wall in frustration and stalking away to the kitchen. She couldn’t help that her body portrayed her emotions with him sometimes. His presence had a way of stripping off her veneer without her noticing. It was rather irritating.

A few moments later, she heard the distinct sounds of his sluggish foot steps.  She was too busy making herself a cup of coffee to bother to turn around and face him.

“I feel sorry for your mother,” she remarked as she felt him enter the room, “You must have been a hellishly difficult child.”

“Hmm, I feel sorry for you actually,” he smirked, pausing a moment to simply watch the way her hands moved as she stirred the cream into her coffee.

“And why is that?” she finally turned to look at him, blinking twice as she tests her patience to indulge him just this once.

“Because,” he chuckled, a deep timber, “I was a difficult child. And I still am,” he finished, taking the mug of caffeine from her hands smoothly.

He sipped it in appreciation and held back the full smile that often wanted to break out on his face whenever he teased her, “Mmm. Quite good.”

Her stare became icy and her eyes resembled those of a feline, hunting and planning its next move.  

“Oh stop,” he mumbled, handing her the mug back and giving a quick, amused snort as he walked to the refrigerator. He opened the door, looking around for the experiment he started the day before. Where are those eyeballs??

“Excuse me?” she bantered back, “Stop what?”

“The look on your face,” he gestured vaguely to her expression, not bothering to actually look at her.

“The annoyed look? I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that may stay on my face for the majority of the time we spend together, darling.”

He grimaced at the pet name and leaned against the counter, nibbling on the biscuit he’d gotten out of the fridge John kept telling him that biscuits go in the cupboard, but he liked them better cold.

“No-the murder-plotting look. As you stated previously, you can’t kill me and hide the evidence before John gets here.”

She scoffs, “Please, I don’t have a-“

“It’s the same look you get whenever I stop moving right before you orgasm or if I wake you up before your alarm goes off. When I leave a plate out on the table after dinner-that look,” he points at her face, matter of fact, “And when you find one of my experiments on top of your bag, I can tell the murder would be quite creative. Call it what you will, but I know what you’re thinking when that look is on your face-you’re imaging creative ways to maim me.”

“Hmm. He’s learning,” she cooed and carefully pressed her body close up against his, loving to feel how his heartbeat sped up as he squirmed. She smiled up at him, fake sweetness and eyelashes, as she slid her hand expertly up the collar of his robe. His eyes flickered down to follow the movement of her hand, for once, unaware of his actions.

“However….” She breathed softly, her face tilting up towards his.

“However…?” his gaze is trapped on her lips now, smeared lipstick still there from the night previous and he wondered if she has left the same mark on him. Most likely.

She deftly grabbed the biscuit out of his hand and stepped back from his body, leaving him cold. She hopped up to sit on the kitchen table behind him and grinned. It is the only time Sherlock could remember having ever seen her resemble a child and a mischievous one at that.

“However, I’m the master.”

His expression automatically fell into Pout Number Three, as she liked to call it. Or ‘the one where Irene beats me and I don’t get to feel like the cool one.’ She forces herself not to admit that the frown looks a little bit charming on his daft face as he mutters, “Biscuit thief, more like.”

He grumbled slightly as he pulled up a chair at the island and sat next to her, picking up the newspaper whose origin of appearance had had no idea of. He hadn’t picked one up yesterday and he didn’t remember seeing Irene with one. Quite a small, unimportant detail, but it perturbed him; he hated not noticing things. She distracted him.

“Sherlock!” the two strange creatures inhabiting the flat heard a voice call out as marked, familiar footsteps approached, “You better still be in here of sound mind or I’ll be having a talk with Greg to get guards at this door,” John Watson walked into the flat quite casually, like he was still living there, and hung his coat on the rack. His back was towards them so he had yet to glimpse the woman, sitting on the kitchen table in his best friend’s dress shirt.

Sherlock smiled ever so slightly, the tiniest bit amused, and nodded at Irene. It was a silent gesture for her to hide. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want his trusted friend to know that he…kept in contact, so to speak, with the Woman.  But he had an idea in mind.

Sherlock didn’t say a word, but Irene knew that he wanted to play a game on his blogger. Their similar world-view lends the couple several advantages; the gift of silent, efficient communication is probably the most useful.

Before the good doctor could even turn around, Irene had slipped from the kitchen to hide in the bathroom alongside. She briefly wondered what Sherlock was playing at and how long it would take John to notice her signature Louis Vitton heels on the floor by Sherlock’s chair.

“Oh calm down, John. I’m perfectly capable of caring for myself. You lot seem to forget, but I am not actually an infant.”

John fixes his friend with a potent glare, “No, actually-my infant is easier to watch after. At least she doesn’t shoot up heroine when she’s upset.”

Sherlock held back the first acrid thought that came to his bitter mind- ‘that you know of’ probably wasn’t the best joke to tell a man about his daughter soon after his wife had died.

Instead, he lightly rolled his eyes and went to sit down in his chair in the living room, still reading the paper, “It was cocaine this time, actually.”

John walked further into the flat and heaved a sigh, nodding, “Of course it was. You don’t-“

“No, Watson. I don’t still have any; Lestrade made sure to confiscate every last piece of contraband I own.  Well, of the drug variety.”

John frowned slightly in response, wondering about that last remark for a split second before he cut his thought process off, “Nope. Don’t need to know the particulars. Don’t live here anymore. And I am not your babysitter, Sherlock.” “Could’ve fooled me.”

The shorter man paused, a little thrown by the change in his friend’s attitude. He seemed…less down than the night before. His tone was distinctly less pained than yesterday. Almost playful. When john looked at his eyes, he could tell the pain and guilt were still there. But there was something else. “Are you…high right now? Or perhaps a little drunk…”

“Wha-“ Sherlock scoffed and put the paper down dramatically, “I just told you that I don’t have any drugs in the flat. I know you’re not dumb, John, so maybe you’re going deaf?”

A comment that should have stung simply bounced off John’s jacket; he was too used to Sherlock’s verbal antics and deflections.

“No, you just seem….” He scanned the room for clues- something he learned from the man he was currently analyzing- and his eyes fell on a distinctive pair of high heels with red bottoms, “distracted….better, maybe. Than yesterday.” “Hmm,” Sherlock hummed neutrally, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, as he watched John’s eyes to see the gears grind in his head, “Well I am certainly not high, unfortunately. I can assure you that.”

The room is dead silent for a minute before the sound of Sherlock groan of pleasure cut through the air. Which was quite confusing for John considering Sherlock’s mouth had not opened or moved. The man looked rather bored, really.

“Sherlock??” John raised an eyebrow in a slightly disturbed, confused expression, “Was that-“

He sighed as he hears a woman’s voice cursing quietly from the hall, “No…well, not live,” he rolled his eyes as Irene walked out from the bathroom and came to stand behind him, “It was Irene’s text-tone,” he sensed her behind him and turned slightly to give her a brief, annoyed stare, “I still don’t understand how you recorded that without my knowing. Or why.”

Irene Adler laughed softly to herself in a way a woman does when a man asks a very dumb question. She moved to position herself in front of the chair, sitting on the arm of it and draping her legs across Sherlock’s lap. She smiled briefly at John, enjoying his bewilderment.

“Do use that beautiful brain, Sherl. You know you don’t notice much when I’m getting you to make those sounds.”

Sherlock’s eyes flare at her in annoyance as John’s widen in shock. “Irene…” John says her name, almost to himself, as he stares at her and tries to ascertain if she’s real or not, “I knew you weren’t dead, but-“ he blinks, stopping as something suddenly catches up with him, “Hold on, did she just call you, Sherl?”

Sherlock sighed in exasperation-he had hoped his friend wouldn’t notice that part- and reluctantly bit out, “Apparently, it’s her new method of torture. I’m trying to get her to stop.”

“Right,” he nodded to himself continually, too shocked to process all of his thoughts, “Okay…..” he stared at the previously dead woman lounging on the detective’s lap and can’t seem to accept the visual in front of him. This was worse than the time Sherlock had pretended to date what’s her name, “Why is she sitting on your lap? There is another chair.”

“She,” Irene suddenly spoke up, with a slight spike to her voice, “is sitting right here and can speak for herself, Dr. Watson. I’m in this chair because the other one is yours. Obviously.”

John froze, taken aback at the respect that she had automatically showed him, “Oh…but I’m not using it.”

“No, but you always come back to that chair. And argue with Sherlock. He needs that. If I sit there, I might eventually get in the way.”

Sherlock looked out the window and shoved the smirk he waned to let out back down into his pocket, “Plus it is easier for her to manhandle me this way.”

“Hush, you love how I handle you.”

Sherlock did not blush. He does not blush. Ever.

He may have blushed, “Woman…” he pinched the bridge of his nose, impatient with her, “Would you please refrain?”

“Of course,” she stood up gracefully and leaned over to kiss his lips- a short, surprisingly loving touch, “I have to go shortly, anyway. Business to attend to.” She headed to his room to get changed, but not before giving one last sharp remark, “The cinnamon roll in the fridge is mine and if you eat it while I’m gone, I will bake your microscope in the oven until it’s just as gooey.”

“Noted.”

-----------------

The two men sat in silence in the small, shabby living room. One casually flipped through the newspaper, pretending to be interested in it to avoid the other man’s gaze. The other man, for his part, waited until the woman had shut the door of the bedroom before he exploded on his friend.

“Sherlock!” he almost shouted, sputtering, “I can’t believe…actually I can,” he took a deep breath and shook his head, calming himself down. “Explain,” he demanded.

“What exactly do you want me to tell you? I thought the situation was self-explanatory.” Sherlock was genuinely confused.

“Don’t give me that! Until the other day, I thought she was dead! Then I have to piece together by myself that you saved her. And now she shows up in the flat. I knew you kept in touch with her occasionally, but…she’s wearing your shirt Sherlock and I know what that means.”

“I don’t think you do-“

“I’m a grown man. I know how sex works.”

Sherlock held his tongue in his cheek for a second before explaining, “She’s not wearing it because of some sexy cliché. I ripped her dress. She has nothing else to wear.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,” he nodded, pretending not to be proud of himself for that.

“That still explains nothing!” he snapped, “I’m your friend, Sherlock….this sort of stuff-major life stuff…well, I kind of thought you would tell me about it.”

He wanted to tell him not to be a girl about this, but he could sense that that would be indelicate at the moment. As Irene said, he was learning; his emotional intelligence was growing.

Sherlock groaned, unsure of how to be proceed, and feeling a slight stab of guilt. He had already caused John too much pain, “John…you are my only friend. Really,” he shrugs, “And I wasn’t hiding her. It’s not as if I don’t trust you.” “Then why did I have no idea?”

He broke, “Because I don’t know how to do it, John! It wasn’t a plan. I didn’t come up with an elaborate secret and purposely keep it from everyone. I just didn’t talk about it…about her. Because I don’t know how to. Not knowing makes me uncomfortable, you know that. So I avoid the topic. Until she shows up.”

John nodded in understanding. Sherlock really wasn’t as complicated of a man as he would have liked everyone to think. He was a brilliant mind guided by the soul of a confused child that only ever wanted adventures. Interpersonal relationships were not his forte. Most children learned to navigate their way through relationships, romantic or otherwise, as they grew up and became adults. Sherlock skipped that stage. He went straight from child to adult; the empathy, the stage that links childhood to adulthood, was thrown out in his upbringing. And the reason for that dismissal of empathy was erased, replaced by a macabre nursery rhyme.

“So…” John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, ready to listen, “Why did she show up?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, glancing to his phone before he could control the impulse.

“Ah,” John smiled, proud that Sherlock had taken his advice, “You texted her.” “Yes,” Sherlock assented, “…We talked about cake.”

John threw a disbelieving quirked brow at his former flat mate, “Is that all you talked about?”

Sherlock did not move. His body stayed still as his mind whirled, debating how much to tell John. It is still a sensitive subject for them both.

“No,” he hesitated before continuing, “Of course not.”

“Then what-“

Sherlock ran a hand over his face, rubbing his forehead in distress, “Mary. We talked about Mary.”

John’s eyes widened for a second, a little worried that Sherlock was sharing such personal details to a woman that was technically a criminal.

Sherlock shook his head, reading the thought off of John’s face, “I didn’t tell her. She already knew. I just…elaborated. On my part of the story.”

“There’s still something I don’t understand, though. Why? Why did you message her in the first place? I thought you didn’t text her back.”

Sherlock chuckled at his friend’s see-through lie, “No, you didn’t. You didn’t believe me when I said that.”

John smiled, happy to see his friend more at ease now than he had been the last couple of weeks, “No, I didn’t. You’re not as good a liar as you think.”

“I know,” he said, “I…wanted to talk to someone that I didn’t have to explain things to.”

John frowned again, offended just a tad, “Just because I’m not as intelligent as you, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t understand what you were feeling.”

“No!” he explained, “I didn’t mean it like….I’m honestly not sure how to explain this, but Irene knows what I’m thinking. You know I don’t like to voice my feelings out loud. Especially the really difficult ones. If I talk to her about everything, I don’t have to say what’s bothering me. I deflect her questions too, when she probes too deep, but she reads between the lines of my words and…she knows what I’m refusing to say.”

The way John was looking at him at that moment made Sherlock want to take back everything he just said and throw himself into a black hole. Why does everyone have to look at him like that green Christmas monster that grew a heart whenever he talks about what he feels? It’s not a conducive reaction if they’re trying to get him to open up more often.

John looked at Sherlock like he finally realized his friend was capable of real human emotion. And, admittedly, it made John feel good that there was finally something he knew more about than Sherlock.

“So you wanted to talk to her so you could feel like someone was sympathizing with you, without having to do any work?”

Sherlock glanced down at the paper again, supremely uncomfortable and uninterested in the daily news, “I guess it was just easier,” he said, “She understood. Didn’t think I was crazy, or going soft. And it helps that she doesn’t look at me like a baby learning to speak when I announce that I ,in fact, do have emotions.”

John felt a little bit bad for that part, so he gave in, “Fair point.”

---------------

The restaurant she was supposed to meet her next client at was filled with pretension. The overly ornate curtains covering the glass windows had fleur de lis carefully stitched onto them. The hand folded napkin at each place setting was an origami swan. The entire décor screamed for attention, but Irene was not intimidated. She knew how to make herself appear as if she belonged anywhere. She was the ultimate chameleon and her sleek dark blue dress was all the camouflage she would need today.

For the man she was meeting, however, she could not say the same. As she walked in, she saw him sat at one of the front tables by himself. He was meeting the dress code of the restaurant, yes. But only technically. His sport coat was a size too small-obviously borrowed from a much fitter man whom could afford fancy dress. His face was freshly shaven, but littered with tiny razor nicks, as if he didn’t groom himself often enough to know how to do so properly. The little hair he had was combed over into the only decent style he knew. As much as she hated crediting Sherlock’s ego, she had to admit that spending time around him seemed to have given her powers of observations a tune up.

The man did not fit in in this place, but he was trying hard to disguise himself. That fact put Irene off just a little bit. Usually, if a client is unkempt, they don’t ask to meet in a place like this, knowing they wouldn’t blend in. But she sat down across from the man regardless.

“Your associate said you had some information I might find useful…” she let her red-painted lips naturally curve into the sinister smirk that never failed to ensnare every one of her clients.

He swallowed and used the pristine napkin to wipe the slight sweat that had accumulated off his forehead. Nerves. Why is he so scared? She wondered as she slightly narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

“Yes,” he managed to stutter out, eyes darting from side to side once, checking if he was being watched? “And I will tell you, I swear. But I believe my associate mentioned something about your methods of compensation?”

She rolled her eyes elegantly, picking up the menu to scan it for her favourite cocktail-dealing with this man may require booze, “Recreational scolding. The rough stuff,” she flicked her eyes back up from the menu to meet his in order to gauge his reaction, “If I deem the information you give me to be valuable, then I will pay for it.”

“Wait, you mean…if I tell you first, right here, then you will…punish me?”

She sighed and nodded nonchalantly, bored, “Yes. But only if the information is worth it.”

“No!” he frowned at her, fear in his eyes, “I want a guarantee that I will be paid. This information…it isn’t safe for me to be giving.”

“Not safe for you or not safe for me?” she lifted an eyebrow curiously.

The man suddenly became serious and a cold look came into his eyes, as if a chill had invaded his bones, “Not safe for either of us.”

“Oh, I’m intrigued,” she grinned, refusing to allow this man’s fear to rub off on her, “Do explain, sir.”

“Guarantee my payment. I guarantee you it’s worth it…if you value your life.” In Irene’s line of work, threats to her life were not uncommon. She refrained from another eyeroll, “Of course I do. But how can I be sure that you aren’t simply pulling my leg?”

“I know who you are, Ms. Adler. You’re supposed to be able to tell when a man is lying to you. That’s what they say, at least. Look at my face, look in my eyes….I’m not faking.”

Irene paused, briefly admiring the hit at her ego as an attempt to persuade her. She examined the man’s expression, the thoughts behind his eyes, and something there shook her a little, “You really are scared…But, of who?”

Most people would ask ‘Of what?’, but it’s quite obvious what he is afraid of-whoever he got this information from will kill him if he relays it to her. Ergo….who?

“Someone that is very interested in you, that you better pray you never meet.” “Is that all you can give me?” She pretended to not be affected, as was her method.

“I can tell you that the man I got this information from checked himself into an asylum the next day, muttering ‘Don’t let her in.’”

“So it’s a woman that’s in control, huh? Refreshing,” she quipped, looking the man up and down for a second, “And what is this information you’re lording over me?”

The man’s face went pale, all life drained away as he looked towards the door for a second then back at her, “Leave England. She’s after you. The man I spoke of…he gave me this, stole it from one of her guards.”

As he handed over an old crumpled note, she frowned in interest, “She has body guards?”

“No…cell guards. My informant worked as a janitor at her prison.”

She took the note from him carefully, a dubious expression etched onto her face, “She’s coming to get me…from jail?”

“Oh yes, Miss. Read the note.”

The woman looked down at the faded piece of parchment in her hands as was barely able to discern ‘Irene Adler-221 B Baker Street.’

The man nodded at the aghast look that came over her face; Irene hid it well, but the fact that this crazy woman knew she would be at Sherlock’s place worried her, “She was scribbling that over and over again on the walls of her cell.”

“But this isn’t even the current address of my hotel in London.”

“No,” the man smiled, darkly amused despite himself, “But it’s where you were last, isn’t it?”

A silence fell across the table as Irene considered this pathetic, little man, and whether to trust his story. When she got up from the table, she still hadn’t decided, “This meeting is over. Consider my payment nullified.”

She drowned out the man’s indignant complaining as she walked out of the restaurant, her heart beating in her ears.

-------------

She honestly wasn’t going to concern Sherlock with this worry. She could take care of it herself; this type of thing has happened to her before. And she certainly wasn’t running from London because of a sad, horny man’s anonymous tip.

But she had gone back to 221 B, as the note had predicted she would. Her desire to be unpredictable lost to her stubbornness to admit she was afraid. She was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of tea when she received a text from an unknown number and dropped the cup to the floor, the pieces shattering as her skin went icy.

Contact: Unknown, received 2:05 p.m:

As the east wind blows to beautiful Calypso So approaches his test The sea has grown treacherous, the waves don’t love him They will give him no rest When the waters turn against, his body fully spent He might give up his quest If I wreck his ship and he still doesn’t quit Should I take the pirate’s treasure from his chest? His spoils mean nothing, his gold is rusted These things hold no value for this man But if I wreck the siren, calling to be trusted, He will swim where no one can After all, If you take a man’s heart from his breast, Really, truly, what will be left? -Much love. “Eurus…” she said the name on an exhale of breath, feeling like a ghost had entered the room and was now watching her. She had been begrudgingly worried before; no matter how used to danger you are, it’s still a little concerning. But now…

Normally once she figured out who was after her, the process became easier, but not this time. This time, knowing only terrified her. Her sources had informed her about Sherlock’s sister before, obviously. She was not someone to challenge. She had to admit, from what she had heard, Eurus was smarter than her. Smarter than Sherlock. And Irene had learned a long time ago to never challenge someone smarter than yourself. Muscles really didn’t intimidate her; they weren’t the biggest sign that a person was dangerous. The weakest, scrawniest person could burn down the entire world if they knew how. And Eurus, despite being locked up on her own personal island, had managed to make men oceans away tremble with fear. Sherlock told her that her guards’ time in her cell was always carefully monitored because she could essentially brainwash people into doing whatever she wanted.

Sherlock’s head ticked up immediately when Irene muttered the name. He took in the broken tea cup on the floor and the fear on her face as she stared at her phone. From that, it took his mind less than two seconds to realize that Irene was looking at a message from his sister. Or rather, a threat.

“Show me the phone.” His voice was modulated and in control. It was a tone that says ‘don’t argue’. Usually, his demanding anything of her would not end pleasantly for him. But Irene was in a state where all she could do was lift her arm and hold the phone out for him to take as she thought about the message, replaying it in her head.

He took the device from her, keeping the hand he took it from in his larger one, squeezing her fingers. He may not be good at vocalizing feelings, but he can express himself very well physically.

He quickly read over the text and the old lyrics that Mycroft used to sing to him, out of key, floated into his head, I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beach tree…

Sherlock’s mind jumped back to the first time he had learned what terror felt like. A picture of Redbeard flashed through his mind, first the imaginary dog, then the little boy he had lost. For a minute, he was a curly-headed child in the long grass, running to save his best friend. He remembered how the cold wind whipped his nose until it was red, how the air smelled faintly of honeysuckles from his mother’s garden. But all he could taste was the bitter tang of dread as saliva gathered in his mouth. That was when he learned that fear had a taste. He remembered looking down into the well and seeing the last light of the day reflecting against the top of the water. His friend’s triton hat floated to the surface, soggy and tired. He picked it up and sat by that well, staring at the sun going down.

Mycroft had found him still sitting there the next day, barefoot and shivering, and refusing to speak. His eyes were empty. He supposed that was why Mycroft decided to make him forget the event. And her. He had to fill his eyes again; he couldn’t grow up knowing what had happened. Mycroft knew that his little brother wouldn’t have been able to live with it.

Never again. She will not destroy someone I love again.

He came back from his reverie and felt something squeezing his heart, “Irene…” The way he said her name, with such sincerity, broke through her shock and caused her to meet his gaze, “Sherlock?”

His voice was steel as he vowed to her, and himself. “She will not take you from me.”