#jonny lee miller x reader

[huntingingoodwill]

miss moneypenny - part ii

masterlist

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pairing: sick boy x reader

word count: 1313

a/n: soccer. running. chips. the stuff of life. please enjoy and consider interacting :)) <3 ily kids

“Tommy, go!” Lizzy screeched as you pulled your jacket tighter around you, feeling the cold night air against your neck as you stood next to her on the elevated bleachers, looking down at the boys playing. You leaned against the tall chain link fence behind the raised seating. Simon smiled up at you, searching for your approving gaze as he scored another goal. You generously offered him a small wave and he turned back, satisfied, giving his opposition a threatening stare.

You ducked down, dissolving into giggles with Lizzy after watching Mark get nailed in the face with the ball. You were composing yourself when you heard a knock on the wall dividing the seats from the field. You turned your head, spotting Sick’s face peeking out over it, resting his forearms on the ledge.

You laughed as he waved at you, his grin wide as he puffed on his cigarette. Lizzy nudged you toward him, and you walked up, planting your hands on the ledge beside his arms.

“You’re taller than I remember, Simon.” You spoke, leaning over to look at Renton and Tommy supporting Sick Boy on their shoulders, swaying underneath his weight.

“Just wanted to see you. How’s my playing?” He flicked the cigarette away, and you saw some of its ash land on Tommy’s blonde mop.

“Violent. Phenomenal.” You laughed. The two of you gazed at each other, smiles plastered on your face.

“Can you hurry?! He’s fucking heavy!” Renton howled from below, prompting Simon’s combat boot to slam against his shoulder.

“You better get back out there.” You said.

“No, not yet. Any player knows luck is an important part of winning a game. I need something to inspire some good luck.”

“What do you suggest?”

He tapped his cheek with his finger, a mischievous smile breaking out across his face. “Good luck kiss?”

“Well, you’ll need all the help you can get.” You chuckled, rolling your eyes. You pressed your lips to his cheekbone, and he smirked, Renton and Tommy grumbling in relief as they let him off their shoulders.

He looked over his shoulder over and over again to wave at you as he walked back on the field, stopping only when Renton smacked the back of his head to force him to look ahead, resulting in a minor, vicious scuffle.

-

“Here.” Simon’s voice rumbled, handing you the grease-soaked newspaper, the warmth of the food radiating off it. The exercise made him work up an appetite, and the spectating was just as hunger-inducing for you. He plopped down next to you, wedging the ball between his knees as he ate, the smell of the food wafting toward you. You took a bite of a chip as Sick knocked his camo-clad knee against yours, listening to the loud chatter of the rest of the group behind you, who had decided to leave you two on your own.

“D’you play?” He asked, nodding at the field.

“I’ve been known to kick the ball around on occasion.” You quipped, noticing a flash of competition in his eyes. You smiled. Game on. “Probably better than you though.”

His eyebrows arched, a dangerous smile spreading across his face. He tossed the ball onto the field, pulling you up with one arm as the other held onto his food. “Prove it.”

You smirked, hands cupping your meal as you strode onto the grass with him, passing the ball with one deft kick.

“What makes you think you’re better than me, huh?” He juggled the ball, showboating a little before passing it back to you. You intercepted it, dribbling, Simon’s boots kicking up the grass as he circled you.

“I’ve watched you play, haven’t I? Besides, all that smoking, your lungs would abandon ship after 30 seconds of sprinting. ” You teased. He marched in front of you, screeching to a halt, crossing his arms as he looked at you.

“I’ve got plenty stamina.” He said, and you scoffed, placing your foot on the ball, rolling it under your heel. “Run fucking fast, too.” He bragged, and you giggled. “Honest. Wouldn’t have been able to outrun the police if I couldn’t.” He reached over to your palm, plucking a chip from your pile, a grin fixed on his face.

“The police? Didn’t realise I was playing with a criminal.”

“An uncaught criminal.”

You hummed, looking at each other, amused. You took a shot, kicking the ball through his legs and into the goal.

His mouth fell open in laughter as he hooked his arm around your waist, picking you up. “Goal!” He yelled, spinning you around. The field swam before you dizzily and you screamed with laughter, trying your hardest to avoid spilling your food.

He put you down, and you stared at each other for a moment before you tore your eyes away, turning away from him to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks.

Sick Boy sidled up next to you, looking at the crowd on the bleachers.

“I have stamina.” He mumbled, a little pouty, his voice laced with the vindication of a challenge.

“Prove it.”

The ball had rolled back toward you two, and he reared back, slamming his foot into it. You watched as it soared into the air, plummeting into Renton’s face, almost knocking him over at the impact.

You gasped, clapping your hand over your mouth to keep in the laughter as you grasped onto Sick’s arm.

“Fucker!” Mark shouted, a murderous glint in his eye. Sick Boy chuckled before hurling his food at him, the chips sailing through the air, the oily paper sticking to Renton’s scowling face. Spud howled with laughter, his laughs fading as Mark turned to glare at him.

“Go, go, go!” Simon laced his hand with yours, yanking you off the field and onto the pavement. Your food slipped from your hands, landing with a splat on the grass as you cackled, your feet pounding on the concrete below as you raced down the street, Spud behind you as Mark chased the three of you down.

You dodged pedestrians as a string of expletives slipped from Mark’s mouth, Simon’s laughter ringing out as he dragged you along, panting.

“Now this…” he huffed, chest heaving from the exertion, “is how I escaped the police.”

He whipped his head around, seeing you were approaching a particularly busy street, one that Renton could easily lose the two of you in. He noticed Mark’s eyes fixed squarely on Spud, who was running behind you, trying to avoid Renton’s wrath.

Simon skidded to the left, pulling you into a corner, behind the wall in front of a shop. He clapped his hand over your mouth, pressing you against the wall as you stayed hidden in the shadow of the awning above you. The two of you stood still as Renton and Spud ran past you, completely missing you.

Once the coast was clear he slowly removed his hand from your mouth, revealing your wide grin. The two of you laughed, still puffing. You smiled at each other, silent for an achingly long moment. You felt yourself flush at how close he was standing to you, his figure illuminated by the moonlight. You felt thankful that your face was shrouded in darkness, hoping he wouldn’t see the blush spreading over your cheeks.

“I didn’t get to finish my chips.” You whispered.

“I’ll make up for it.” He leaned in toward you, his forearm supporting him as it pushed against the wall above your head. Your eyes closed, instinctively.

“We interrupting?” Renton’s voice cut through the air. Your eyes fluttered open, a rush of embarrassment washing over you as him and Spud looked at you two, eyebrows raised with suggestive, smug expressions painted on their face. Simon moved his arm, blocking your face from them. You looked at him thankfully.

“Let’s go. I’ve gotta buy (Y/N) some chips.”

[reevesdriver]

Teach Me How to Play (NSFW)

Word count: 1531

Character(s): Sick Boy

Reader: Female reader

Warning(s): NSFW / 🔥🔥🔥 / Smut / Sex / Semi-public Sex (ish) / Age-Gap / Oral Sex 

(AN: Yes I've used the cliche “teach me to play snooker by standing behind me” trope but come on.)

Working at Simons pub was proving to be more fun than you thought. Though you didn't have many customers to begin with you were able to spend time with the owner who managed to make your nights worth wile with stories from his past as well as offering you free drinks and a place to stay. You’d managed to convince him to let you advertise his pub because after all what man wouldn’t turn down an overpriced pint just for a chance to flirt with a pretty young barmaid.

Simon was happy he hired you and praised you for helping his business grow but the one thing he didn't like was the way other men looked at you, he especially didn't like it if he caught a man trying to grope you over the bar or when you brought drinks to a table. He’d thrown more than enough people out for their behaviour and he wasn't going to stop anytime soon.

Your low-cut top and flirting with customers did nothing to appease his overprotectiveness and lustful thoughts, you’d said it was to get more tips but the occasional eye contact between the two of you made Simon think otherwise. Maybe he was reading too much into it, after all you were around 20 years younger than him so surely you had better people to be going after.

Guys your own age had made multiple advances on you but Simon was always  confused as to why you’d relentlessly turn them down. Even when they’d flash a smile as they slid a napkin with their number haphazardly scribbled on the corner in a cheap pen and a promise for the best night of your life you’d show no interest and pocket the number no doubt throwing it into the bin later on during the night after promising to text.

He showed the last customer out of the pub and locked the door behind them turning his open sign off as you pulled all the curtains closed around the building. Although Simon lived above the pub there was a spare room where he would let you sleep if it was too late or if there was bad weather since you couldn't drive and he didn't like you getting a taxi when it was late at night no matter how many times you tried to protest.

You walked around the pub picking up any used glasses and plates that had been left on the tables and brought them into the kitchen at the back washing them and putting them away to be used for tomorrows rounds. Re-entering the main room you emptied the tills of all the notes counting as you put them into stacks and poured all the change into one of the nearby jars taking them into Simons office so he could stash them away.

Speaking of Simon, he was normally retiring to his room by now or getting a drink from behind the bar but instead he paced around the snooker table with the cue in his hand as he potted balls and wiped his hands on his trousers between movements. Perching yourself on the edge of the table as he pocketed the last ball Simon rounded the corner and stood in front of you.

“You stayin’ tonight?” He asks with the familiar Scottish drawl you’d silently come to love.

“Only if you’ll let me.”

“You know I wouldn't stop you.” He replies and you smile. “Fancy a game?”

“Sure, but you’ll have to show me how to play cause I’m useless.”

After explaining the rules as simply as he could you jump off the table as Simon hands you a cue stick as he moves round the table getting ready to make the first hit. You watch with your lip tugged between your teeth as you see his arms flex under his shirt as he strikes the balls potting one before moving to pot another two.

Stepping back from the table he motions to you indicating that it’s your turn and you step up to the table looking at the different balls before attempting to line up your shot.

“You’ll end up missin if you hit it like that.” He says moving round to your side of the table. “Lemme show you.” Standing behind you he presses his chest against your back as he hands you the cue stick and shows you where to put your hands, you can't help but blush as he presses you forwards so you’re slightly bent over the table whilst he helps you line up a shot.

“Don’t be too rough with the stick, pull it back slowly and push it forwards so it’s enough to hit the ball and move it but so it’s not going to send it flying.” You followed his instructions and pulled the stick back then brought it forwards hitting the cue ball with enough force that it collides with the next ball and pots it.

“Ah see, I knew you had it in you.” Simon praises as you turn around in his grasp.

Your closeness to your boss makes it feel like he is towering over you despite him being only a couple of inches taller than you. Deciding to test the waters a little you raise on your tip toes and press a kiss to his cheek.

“Y/N.” He sighs turning his face away from you. Raising up again you decide to kiss his neck and slowly move your lips round hoping to reach his. Simon turns his face to you pressing his lips against yours roughly as he drops the cue stick on the floor opting to grab your waist instead.

Forcefully turning you round Simon pushes his hand against your back until you’re bent over the snooker table with your cheek pressed flush against the green surface. He grabs your jeans and yanks them over your arse and down your legs, you lift a foot so he can pull them completely off and chuck them off to the side.

Simon grabs a hold of your legs and pushes his face between your thighs diving his tongue towards your pussy to lap at your labia before resting the long muscle against your clit. Flicking the tip of his tongue against your bundle of nerves you grip the edge of the table for support as your knees buckle with pleasure.

“You taste fucking divine.” He moans between the strong licks at your clit.

Standing up he makes quick work at unbuttoning his belt and pants pulling his cock out and offering it a few pumps before spitting into his palm and lubing it up. Without warning he forces his cock into you refusing to let you adjust to the rigid length as he begins pounding into you. If it weren't for the massive weight of the snooker table you’re sure he could have fucked you to the other side of the room with each thrust of his hips that slapped against your rear end.

“Fuck Simon!” You moan as he grinds his hips against you. A hand makes its way from your hips and round to your throat where he grabs you roughly tugging your head back as he fucks you harder.

“You gonna cum?” He growls in your ear as his hand tightens around your throat.

“Yes!” You cry out feeling your knees start to buckle under you.

Using his free hand he snakes it round to your pussy pushing a digit against your clit as you cry out a moan. Your cunt clenches around Simons cock milking him of his cum as he pumps white ropes inside of you with every thrust.

Pulling out Simon quickly sorts his pants out before offering you some help since he could see how much you were struggling with your aching legs. He helps you out of the main room and to the room you had claimed as your second bedroom. 

Letting you sit down on the bed he kisses the top of your head. “I’m gonna go turn the lights off, get some sleep.” He says leaving the room.

You crawl into bed and under the covers as you hear Simon walking down the stairs falling asleep not long after. Once all the lights were off Simon double checks the front doors making sure that they are locked before coming back up the stairs and climbing into the bed next to you.

Although neither of you said it after that night you’d both come to an agreement that you were now more than colleagues. Simon would watch over you even more during shifts when the pub was crowded and even helped you behind the bar if you didn't need it just so that he could be closer to you.

The pub regulars noticed the relationship that had formed between you and praised him for being able to bag a much younger woman and talked about how lucky he was to have you. You continued to thank them and say you were actually the lucky one due to how much Simon had helped you since you’d met with giving you a job so you could afford your own place etc.

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Confessing feelings in a bar with Sherlock?

Sherlock Holmes was a man who was deterred by romantic entanglements. This was far from a bad thing. No, quite the opposite - he bore it on his chest, like a badge of honor. It was something he was proud of. He had accomplished something that even the most brilliant men couldn’t - make a mistake, don’t repeat it. Like the child’s fingers against a hot stove top, Sherlock was burned by love, scorched past his skin and flesh, through his bones, all the way to his heart. He was careful that he wouldn’t make that mistake again. 

Or so he thought. 

It was your demeanor. It was definitely your eyes. Usually he didn’t have trouble finding what fascinated him about a person, if there was anything to be interested by. Most weren’t - he was sure Watson would scold him for such a thought, he could almost hear her saying - you aren’t special, you aren’t different from other people, you’re just as boring. 

And he supposed she was right, though he was sometimes loathe to admit it at times. He could be just boring as others, if Marcus’s glazed eyes at his ramblings, or Watson’s rolled ones were not evidence of that. But he couldn’t to seem to think of a single thing that was boring about you. 

It was quite the contrary - he found himself trailing after you, following your hunches, and instead of others being caught in his orbit, he found himself caught in yours. And he kept waiting for himself to be flung - either by his own hand or yours. 

People tired of him. Easily. He was much too abrasive. Much too honest. Much too brash. And he knows how to be better, how to be polite, but he can’t bring himself to put up a facade, especially around you. 

But no, the time never comes - he doesn’t push you away, nor do you him. Instead, when the case ends and the killer if caught, he finds you and him at his home, pouring over more unsolved cases. The excuse you share is closing cases that this serial killer has not confessed to - to bring peace to these families. And he knows that is part of the truth, but not the whole of it. 

Otherwise, he would be alone. He wouldn’t be with you. He would be focused on the cases wholly. He wouldn’t be glancing to catch a glimpse of your face - your brows caught in wrinkled concentration, lips pursed in thought, and eyes thoroughly engrossed in the files before you. He wouldn’t be leaning over, stirring his cup of tea, sneaking glances and hoping to engrave more of your expressions. 

He had been careful. Ever so careful. 

But not careful enough. 

“I was offered a job overseas,” his spoon clinked against the side of his cup harshly, and he stared at the liquid, watching it settle, unlike his stomach, “A task force to help stop a human trafficking ring across Europe.” 

He cleared his throat. It was suddenly so dry, and he lifted the cup to his lips, paying no mind to the hot liquid pouring down his throat - no it was nothing to the pain in his head of a thousand buzzing questions he wished to ask you. 

Why? When? Where? How long? What about us? 

But instead he set his cup down and gave a wry smile, “I suppose congratulations are in order.” 

To his surprise, you did not smile nor did you frown, “Maybe,” 

He raised a single brow, “Maybe?” he repeated. 

“I don’t know if I should take it,” you admitted, a flash of your teeth against your bottom lip, “do you think it’s the right move?” 

“I would put my stock in your thoughts much more than mine,” Sherlock admitted, and your head snapped up, eyes dancing with amusement, rather than the dim lights lighting the booth above them. 

“Really?” you dared closer, and Sherlock was now overwhelmed by your scent - lavender from your hand lotion, roses from your perfume, and perhaps a hint of sandalwood - and he didn’t know what more dizzying - your scent or your lips a few centimeters from his face, “You didn’t seem to think so on the case.” 

“I always must play devil’s advocate, Keeps you on your toes, always thinking,”

You scoffed, “Always one for games,” 

“Not when it comes to you,” The words slipped from his lips before he could stop himself - loose lips sink ships, and this ship was quickly taking water. 

“What do you mean?” and he had a decision to make - one that he wasn’t very well equipped for. Was he take the leap without another thought? Or remain on ship, with far too many thoughts? “Sherlock?” 

“Don’t take the job,” he said, and you blinked. 

“What?” 

“Don’t take the job. It’s much too far of a commute,” and you wrinkle your brow, “I suppose I could take a plane over, but I don’t think Watson would appreciate my frequent absence.” 

“Sherlock-” 

“I like you,” his gaze dropping to the table, “I like you, and I’ve been afraid to admit it from the moment I’ve realized. I’ve never been good at this. My past history…hasn’t the best track record, and I only wish if you do not return my feelings that we still remain colleagues-” 

Two fingers pressed softly to his lips, stilling him, and you stared up at him, beaming, “Can I kiss you now?” 

He nodded wordlessly, his hand rising to meet your cheek, his thumb brushing against the length of it, and you leaned ever closer. 

Your lips brushed against his - chaste, asking for permission even though you already had. His lips met yours the second time, this time hard - his hands slid into your hair, while your fingers danced across his shoulders. And he relished every touch, desperately - wondering if you would disappear the moment he let go. 

“I’ve waited for this for so long,” he breathed against your lips, now bruised and kiss ruined, eyes shiny and wide, palms warm against his cheeks as you pulled him to your lips again. 

“Then don’t wait.” 

He had been careful - ever so careful - but he would no longer need to. 

Not with you. 

[companionjones]

Habits

Fandom: Elementary

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: Sherlock notices a new habit of his.

Warnings: None!

Author’s Note: Okay so here’s what’s up. During my Junior year, I would write stories in the extra spaces in my notebook. The stories only usually took up about half a page, so they’re really short. Just a heads up.

*******

    “Y/n?” Sherlock called out of no where.

    Looking up at him, you answered, “Yes?”

    He was peering down at his and your connected hands, puzzled. Sherlock raised them to examine them further. “When did I start doing this?”

    “A few days ago,” you responded, almost impartially. “It seemed to comfort you, so I didn’t say anything about it.”

    Sherlock nodded, returned you interlaced hands to their previous place at your sides, and continued about his day.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it! If you would like to read more, I have more fics over on my page. You should go check it out. Also, REQUESTS ARE OPEN. I take requests for one-shots, multi-chapters, headcannons, and preferences. No smut, please. I write for a variety of fandoms. If you’re wondering if I write for a specific fandom, please ask me. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you.<3

[make-me-imagine]

Headcanons: Being under the mistletoe with George Knightley

This same headcanon with Mr Darcy can be found here

Requested by anon

-You would walk into the room and stop in the door way, looking around at the people, wondering who to greet first

-No one would notice you, they would all be involved with their games and conversations

-But someone would clear their throat behind you, startling you

-Turning you would be greeted by a smirking George Knightley

-After greeting each other he would lean down and whisper to you “Look up”

-Doing so you would immediately blush at the realization of where you were standing

-Mr Knightley would smirk even more at your reaction before clearing his throat and telling you a small fact about the mistletoe tradition

-Wondering how you were going to get out of this situation (not that you wanted too) you tried to rack your mind for a joke or reason to leave

-But before you could Mr Knightley would lean closer again before speaking quietly to you “It would be a shame to break the tradition”

-Not knowing how to respond you only nodded lightly

-Smiling, Mr Knightly would gently take you face in his hand and press a kiss to your lips

-You would be surprised, having expected a small peck, but instead getting a more passionate longer kiss

-After pulling away he would smile at you before glancing at the others in the room, all of whom were unaware of what was happening in the doorway

-He would then take your arm in his and lead you into the room without a word

-The rest of the night would go on normally, but this time, every time you and Mr Knightley would make eye contact you would smile about the secret the two of you now shared

[cumberficsandmore-blog]

Spelling Fights

Word Count: 1,816

Authors: Deka & Ale

Warning: None, just fluffiness

Pairing: Benedict Cumberbatch x Wife!Reader

Summary: The little fight between an American and a British couple

Credits to this video for the awesome interview: https://youtu.be/eX2M6Lf8WKc

“So, the interview is tonight at eight, right?” I asked, standing behind the scenes of The Hobbit, Ben had just finished his scene as Smaug with the sensors and the tech stuff.

“Yes, but don’t get nervous. You’ll be fine” Benedict smirked, mocking me.

Oh, seriously Benny? He started the game, not knowing I was going to win again. This little game consisted in making fun of each other because of our nationalities, that cute british bastard.

“Of course I’ll be fine” I responded with my head high, I was too proud to quit now.

“But don’t forget that we’re in England. I’m worried people won’t understand what you’re saying, that’s all” He said.

“I can speak properly and I’m sure everyone will get my words, darling” I added with a british accent.

“But I can speak sexier” He winked at me.

“I’m afraid you don’t. ‘Football’, really? Soccer says almost everyone”.

“Everyone is only America? C’mon. At least I don’t say ‘math’, the right way to say it is Maths, you uncultured woman”

I was quiet for a moment, “FREEDOM” I shouted, and the fight began.

Two hours after the little chat with Benedict, we were at home having lunch before getting prepared for the interview. We looked at each other giggling, both of us knew what was going to happen, and we were prepared for the battle. At the beginning it all started as a joke, but now was a whole new rivalry. Ben was chosing a few cookies to eat and I was making some tea, it was a relaxing silence but then my dear husband started screaming.

“That is not how you make tea!” He cried out trying to sound attacked.

“Oh my God, are you serious? We’re not having that conversation again. I highly recommend you to leave the kitchen or…”.

He kissed my cheek interrupting and I smiled wildly.

“I love you, you know that? But maybe we should change tasks. Let me take care of this and you pick the cookies. Deal?”.

I sighed dramatically.

“Yes, we better”.

“Yeah, you can’t just squish the tea bag with the spoon. That’s wrong, love”

“Sorry Mr. Britishguy Sillyname”

He laughed and so did I.

Now we were waiting for someone to tell us to enter the room where the interview was held, everyone took turns, first was Richard Armitage, then Martin and Benedict and I were the last ones. As an actress I was in a lot of movies with Ben. Directors and writers had told us that we have an unique chemistry, but I didn’t appear in The Hobbit trilogy. I joined the crew as a make-up artist and helped with the script, as a big fan of Tolkien I couldn’t miss that opportunity for anything in the world.

“They’re taking a lot of time, aren’t they?” Benedict said, I couldn’t tell if he was worried or excited.

“Is there anything you know about this interview that I don’t?” I asked calmly, “you’re into something, right?”

“Me? Nah. Oh, wait, do you smell that?”.

“Smell what?”.

“Fear”.

I rolled my eyes.

“Okay Smaug the Almighty Destructor of Villages, what have you done?”

“Nothing, I swear!”

He stroked gently my waist.

“Mr. and Mrs Cumberbatch, it’s your turn” announced a blonde woman who happened to be the interviewer.

Before doing so we greeted Martin and talked with him a few seconds. Then, Benedict held the door for me to walk in, so british of him. The purest gentleman.

“Good evening, and thanks a lot for attending me, it’s an honor to have you both here”.

I smiled at her and he shaked her hand.

“My name is Meriah Doty. So, firstly, how are you today?”.

“Great, yeah. Great indeed, although it’s brass monkeys out there”.

Damn.

“It means it’s cold outside” He whispered.

I could see in his smiley face he was forcing himself not to laugh.

“You don’t say!” I answered sarcastically.

Meriah cleared her throat and started to ask Benedict some questions fans sent her via Twitter and Facebook. I was getting a bit bored but then an interesting question popped up.

“So, @CumbercookieLove34 asked: how is it to work with your wife? Is it any competition between you two?”

I crossed my arms, paying full attention now.

“Competition?”.

He pretended to be searching for an answer.

“I wouldn’t name it a competition, but he’s always insulting me. Not in a bad way, you know? But… he’s very silly most of the time, ‘cause I’m the only American in the crew, with Lee Pace of course, but he’s as glorious as Thranduil so Benedict kind of forgives him somehow” I said suddenly.

“The thing is,” Ben started, ”she can’t manage my britishness and she’s mad because she only speaks a simplified version of English” he played the victim.

“Watch your mouth Buttercup Cumberpatch” and I rolled my eyes for what seemed the 10000th time. Meriah laughed again, ”See?” I turned around to face her, “I’m so tired”.

Ben patted my back and gave me that Puppy Eye’s Look, he really knows how to do that look and make you feel guilty.

“You can’t really imagine how is living with him. Complains about the tea and when I send him a text sometimes I spell words with only an ‘O’ instead of ‘OU’ and it drives him crazy, for instance, but he truly does everything he can just to irritate me” I said releasing a sigh. Meriah laughed again, really this girl is just supposed to laugh? “But then he’s a complete sweetheart and his polite self takes control so he says sorry all the time” I chuckled.

Benedict laughs uncontrollably.

“But hey, we love each other after all, so don’t worry, we’re gonna stick together until the end” I said looking straight to the camera.

“‘Gonna’” He repeated.

“Yep” I stated marking the ‘p’.

“Well, you guys are definitely the cutest couple of all time. We’re playing a game now. I searched photos of the cast and you’re going to guess who are they just by looking at their feet” The interviewer said excitedly.

“This is gonna be so much fun” I said already laughing, oh my God, I turned into Meriah.

“So, this is the first one” she showed us a picture of a person with his face and body covered.

“Ugh, whoever that is they got some weird looking feet” I commented.

“Martin Freeman” Benedict said without thinking twice. The interviewer giggled.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, how could you… how ca… Wait what? Do you have a foot fetish for Martin? Oh my God I knew it!” I fangirled in front of camera, “just so you know, people…” (I paused to create a little of dramatism) “I ship Johnlock”.

Both Benedict and Meriah laughed so hard that I swear I heard a snort.

“That’s actually quite right. I took her to the Sherlock Set once and every time we finished a scene with strong content, like the one in the pool or when I jumped… well, you know, spoilers. The point is that she always clapped and hugged Martin and I, and I remember perfectly she said ‘You two are so shippable’. Oh, was that too long? I’m sorry I just wanted to tell the story” He giggled shyly while blushing.

“Oh, and by the way, sorry Martin, you have wonderful feet” I smiled.

“You two are so cute, guys” Meriah complimented. “So, the second one is… this!” She showed us another picture.

“Mmm… James Nesbitt?” I guessed.

“Peter Jackson” Benedict said. No hesitation.

“Yeah! Point for Benedict!” Meriah told us.

“What?! I swear this guy has a foot fetish” I tried to mask my bad loser mood.

“I’m so good at this” He said proudly.

“Okay, so this one is a bit difficult but the black and white is the key” The interviewer said revealing the photo.

It was pretty obvious that it was taken a lot of years ago.

“Mmm...”

“Richard?” Ben inquired.

“Ian McKellen!” I literally shouted, I was sure it was him.

“Correct! You’re good Y/N” Meriah greeted me.

“In your face Buttercup!” I did a short but intense party dance in the chair, “I guessed it and you didn’t!” Ben just watched me as he smiled sweetly. “Maybe the feet are overexposed”

“Yeah, I don’t know why Ian McKellen’s feet are overexposed” He said in his Sherlock kind of voice, “that was rude…”

The three of us laughed.

“The next one,” Meriah said “is this one!” She showed us a photo of two people jumping in the air.

“Mmmm…” I started thinking, “one is Benedict, I know it, but the oth…”

“Me and Jonny Lee Miller” He said quickly, “Jonny Lee Miller and I” He corrected himself.

“Amazing! And Martin Freeman corrected me because his face was plastered in Johnny Lee Miller’s…, my bad” Meriah said.

“Yeah, that’s bullshit. Who did that?” He went to grab the photo.

“I thought it was him, I found it like that on the internet” She explained. “Okay, next and last one”.

“Oh Lord” I exclaimed. Benedict stretched out in his chair and approached the lady with the photograph.

“Richard… Armitage?” He wondered, confused.

“I… don’t know…  Stephen Hunter?”

The interviewer showed us the whole picture.

“Evangeline, oh my God” Benedict covered his mouth, surprised, “Oh my God” He laughed really hard, “Fuck” He kept laughing, covering his eyes with the palm of the hand.

“Well, that" I pointed at him with my finger ”is definitely rude”

I was super tired so I decided to sit in the back of the car so I could lay down and fall asleep more easily, but instead of that, I was staring at Benedict’s side profile.

“You’re beautiful” he declared suddenly.

He kept his eyes on the road but I noticed he was grinning.

“You are beautiful too, and I love your accent” I said sternly and he smiled sweetly, “and I also love your otter face”

He tried not to laugh too much so he couldn’t get distracted.

“You have the otter face… otter face.” He tried to make a good insult and failed.

“You sure it’s me who has that face? Your cumberbitches and probably the rest of the multiverse says it’s you who owns that title, my love”

“It’s cumbercollective” He sighed and rolled his eyes, copying me.

“We all know it is and will always be cumberbitches, get over it Buttercup”

“Not gonna happen”.

“Gonna? It seems like I’m who rules the relationship”.

“You’ve always ruled the relationship”

“I’m glad you’re day by day recognizing facts. Today’s been ‘gonna’, I’m curious about what’s gonna “I laughed hard when I said that” be tomorrow”.

“Oh, shut up”

That night, as we did since the very first time we shared a bed, we slept cuddling, then in the morning our innocent little verbal war continued.

[huntingingoodwill]

miss moneypenny - part i

masterlist

fill out this form to be in my taglist :)

pairing: sick boy x reader

word count: 781

a/n: ill man. this one's short! i hc sicky is good at stats because... because. please enjoy and interact if you liked it 🥰

Tommy knocked his sneaker against yours under the table, interrupting your deep concentration in your statistics assignment. You glared at his cheeky smile, slamming your foot back into his. This prompted a full-on spar, your feet tangling with each others as you kicked each other relentlessly, holding in your giggles to avoid the withering stare of the librarian. Lizzy looked at you two, rolling her eyes with a smile.

It had been a month since you’d moved to your new school and Tommy and Lizzy instantly took you under their wing, sitting with you at meals, keeping you company at the library while you “studied”, mostly messing around in the back of the room away from the watchful, derisive eye of the librarian.

Tommy let himself be defeated, and you returned your gaze to your assignment. The work was particularly difficult that day, and the numbers swam before you. You put your head down, trying to focus until you were distracted by the appearance of a suit jacket and the glint of a belt buckle in the corner of your eye, and you felt the gaze of the wearer burn into your head.

You looked up to see two men standing before you, grinning down at you. They sparked your curiosity - you hadn’t seen them around before. One stood with his hands in his blazer pockets, dark glasses framing his face as the pinstripes of his pants swam in front of your eyes, his hair a shock of ice blonde. The other stood next to him, rubbing the back of his buzzed head, his short, bright crop top revealing a flash of skin.

You looked back up at them, almost as a challenge. You’d be lying if you said they didn’t intimidate you a little, especially the blonde, his stance oozing an unwavering confidence.

“You’re not gonna introduce your little friend to us, Tommy?” He spoke, smirking down at you, an almost vicious tone to his voice as it cut through the silence of the library, eliciting a harsh “Sh!” from the librarian. His friend laughed.

“(Y/N), Sick Boy and Rent Boy.” Tommy smiled, pointing at them respectively with the tip of his pencil.

You blinked. “Your parents must’ve hated you.” You spoke, prompting them to laugh, Sick Boy’s lip curling upward, revealing his teeth to you in his wicked, strange, endearing smile.

“Nicknames. Mark Renton and Simon David Williamson at your service. Friends call me Renton. We’re friends, I hope?” Renton teased as he slid next to Tommy, slinging his arm around his shoulders.

You raised your eyebrows. “Pending approval.” You retorted. “But since you’re at my service, approval may be given quicker if any of you happen to be good at statistics.” You spoke, pushing your assignment toward them.

Simon slid into the chair next to you, his cologne strong up close as he took the paper in his hand, lighting a cigarette. He glanced at it and plucked your pencil from your hand, scribbling the answers down at a remarkable speed as he nursed the smoke in his other hand, you looking on, completely amazed.

“Do you guys go to school with us?” You questioned.

“No. Too clever for that shite. Rents is too fuckin’ stupid.” Sick chuckled, making astonishing progress on your work as Mark flipped him off almost instinctively. You looked down at him, hunched over your paper, his mess of blonde hair hanging over it. His tongue ran over his bottom lip as he concentrated. He finished the last question with a flourish, sliding the paper back to you.

“Sick Boy, you’re my hero.” You looked up at the work admirably, running your finger over the paper, feeling the ridges in his surprisingly neat scrawl.

He beamed back at you, sliding his arm over your shoulder. Sleazebag, you thought, affectionately. You smiled at him, meeting each other’s gaze.

“Why don’t you watch your hero play footie tonight?” Renton arched an eyebrow, smirking at you two. “Tommy, you coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. I can pick you up if you’re coming, (Y/N).” Tommy offered.

You glanced at Simon. “Sure.”

“You’re not allowed to smoke in here.” The librarian nagged, prompting Simon to tear his eyes away from you.

“Sorry.” He spoke, sarcastic, his lips twisted into an overly saccharine smile. He leaned back, pulling a hardcover from the shelf and stubbing the cigarette out on it. The librarian huffed as he and Renton stood, striding toward the door.

You watched Simon’s broad shoulders disappear past the shelves, looking back down at the book. Smoke wafted up from the scorched ring that sat in the middle of the first O in Dostoyevsky.

[companionjones]

Credit

Fandom: Elementary

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: You wake up in the hospital after getting hurt on one of Sherlock Holmes’ many cases.

Warnings: Hospitals

Author’s Note: Okay so here’s what’s up. During my Junior year, I would write stories in the extra spaces in my notebook. The stories only usually took up about half a page, so they’re really short. Just a heads up.

*******

    “Thank God you’re alive,” an impartial voice sounded from beside you as you opened your eyes. You knew too well to not detect the trace of sincerity.

    The bright lights made your already existing headache worse. You shielded your squinting eyes with your arm. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. Did you figure out the case?”

    He answered, “Yes. Your help was instrumental in doing so...What is it?” he asked, truly intrigued, as you started chuckling.

    “I’m just not used to be given credit. I know it’s difficult for you. Thank you.”

    He was silent for a moment before inquiring in his usual manner, “Aren’t you going to give me credit for...I don’t know...saving your life?”

    “Thank you,” you chuckled again.

    Sherlock failed at the attempt to hide his pride found in your words.

*******

Author’s Note: Thank you for reading! Fill up that heart and reblog if you liked it! If you would like to read more, I have more fics on Elementary over on my page. You should go check it out. Also, REQUESTS ARE OPEN. I take requests for one-shots, multi-chapters, headcannons, and preferences. No smut, please. I write for a variety of fandoms. If you’re wondering if I write for a specific fandom, please ask me. Have a nice day, night, or whatever time it is for you.<3

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Sherlock Holmes / Stay (Part One)

As requested by Anon: 

Request: Staying with Sherlock after asking for help with your stalker

This one took too long, and was too long. I was too excited when I saw a Sherlock request. I was riding an Elementary high, and I still am after the latest episode. 

“I suppose you must have a very good reason for showing up on my doorstep, no less in New York,” Sherlock Holmes stepped aside, allowing your figure to pass him. “Though I had heard from my father that you had moved here from London to New York several months ago,” You brushed past him, doing your best to avoid his sharp gaze, just as you did when you walked out of his life exactly four years, seven months, and ten days ago. He attempted not to note each and everything that had changed in the nearly five years that he had gone without seeing you, but that only seemed an impossibility – already his mind was making a list: you had lost some weight, your eyes were gaunt, lips tightened in an artificial smile, and your body language was that of desperation. “And it seems that you do have a very good reason.”

You raised an eyebrow as he gestured for you to sit, and you did, in the large armchair you knew he preferred, “Should I tell you, or should I assume you already deduced it?”

“I think it would be best for you tell me yourself,” His tone softened as he noticed you squirm in your seat, clutching the hem of your skirt so tightly he could see the whites of your knuckles, “Y/N, please, what is it?”

“I have a stalker,” Your words were blurted out, as if you could hold them no longer, and nor could you hold the tears that fell from your cheeks. He rose to fetch you some tissues, funneling into energy into anything besides the urge of wanting nothing more, but to hold you. But he had to restrain himself, even as the old feelings of love and the desire to protect you kicked in, it wasn’t in either of your best interests nor would it help the situation. All the same, you stopped him in his tracks with a wave of your hand, “I’m sorry, it’s just,” your voice steadied and you forced your breathing to be even, “the last few days have been a lot.”

He nodded curtly, trying to ignore your tear stricken face, and focus on this case – your case. He crossed his arms, “When did you first learn about your stalker?”

“About a year ago,” You wrung your hands in your lap, looking up after wiping the evidence of your sobs away, “At first, it was phone calls – nothing on the line except breathing, and then someone would cut the phone. I thought it was just prank calls,” You chuckled at your own naivety, covering your mouth for a moment, “but then, it escalated to letters – sent to me every week about how much he loved me, how much he wanted me, and what he wanted to do to me.”

The words were spat out with disgust, your body practically convulsing at the thought, and his fists became much tighter, “Then he started leaving envelopes filled with my pictures on my doorstep, on my windshield, they had it mailed to me at my work, and I don’t know where they were getting them, or how they were taking them. There were even some,” Your voice wavered, and his shoulders stiffened, as he watched you struggle to even say the words “of me changing, and…of me with other men.” His anger was mounting, but his emotions were beside the point – he couldn’t allow it to cloud his judgement, but it wasn’t becoming increasingly difficult to do so. “I didn’t know how he got it, and when I called the police, they found hidden cameras placed around my apartment, and that means he had…been in there.”

And at that point Sherlock couldn’t take it, he knocked over several things off the table, much to your shock, as you jumped to your feet, and he stood there for a moment, before turning and asking the question he wanted to ask as soon as you started: “Why didn’t you ask me sooner?” You knew he was a world-class detective, you knew that he would have dropped what he was doing to help you, you knew he could catch this disgusting dredge of a human faster than anyone else and never let him see the light of day, but you didn’t know that he still –

“It was hard, Sherlock,” You approached him slowly, small footsteps now echoing through the empty brownstone, “to leave you all those years ago.”

“It didn’t seem that hard for you at the time,” He said, his gaze meeting yours, but you didn’t shy away this time, instead clasping your hands as if to stop yourself from touching him.

“Maybe not to you, but to me, it was one the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life,” You said, your words genuine, as one of your hands broke free, brushing gently against his cheek, “I didn’t want to leave you, Sherlock, but I had to, for you. And now I’m back, only because I have to.”

“For you?” He remarked, only for irony’s sake, but you shook your head, pulling something from your pocket.

“No, for him,” You handed him a picture and a report of a Detective Daniel Alvarez, of Manhattan PD, reported missing 24 hours ago when he did not show up for duty, and his meeting with his superior officer, “He was the detective assigned to my case. He’s gone missing.”

He rose a skeptical brow, as he reread the report, and it seems that his car was still at his house, along with his gun, badge, and other belongings, “Why do you think your stalker was the one who may have taken him?”

You pulled out an envelope, “This is the one he sent me yesterday before I found out Detective Alvarez was missing,” You shuffled through them, many of them were of you, just as you said, but then you stopped at one, handing it to him, but this time, it wasn’t of you – it was Alvarez, tied up and seemingly unconscious. The blood dripping down the side of his forehead was of particular concern. “and he included this,” you gave him a crudely written note, most likely written with the stalker turned kidnapper’s non-dominant hand, which stated, quite poetically – His life for yours – you will become mine, one way or another.

“How romantic.” He placed the note down carefully, before scratching his head, and reaching for his phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Marcus Bell, a detective that I work with in Major Crimes, to inform him that we’re coming in with important information about a missing police detective,” But you only snatched the phone out of his hand, ending the call with lightning speed. “we can’t do this alone, Y/N,”

“Sherlock, I would have gone to the police, but the person who took him called me, they said not to involve the police. Why else would I come to you?” You groaned, shaking your head, as your shoulders slumped, as you put his phone down, “I would never put us through this if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

“Is it really so terrible to be in my presence again?” His words were dripping with sarcasm, but that was only hide the hurt that he felt at your words.

“It isn’t,” You murmured, turning away from him, before taking your seat again, “that’s the problem.” A silence fell over the both of you, before he faced you again, taking the phone from the table you placed it on.

“If we can’t speak to Marcus, then Watson will need to informed post-haste,” he took his phone, typing away and sending a message within a second. “She should be back from her personal appointment soon enough, and we can brief her on the case, but while we wait, we must make arrangements for you to stay here.” He strode off upstairs, leaving you sitting, until he heard you jump to your feet to follow behind him.

“Stay with you?” You repeated.

“Of course,” He opened a closet door, rifling through, looking for sheets and other necessities for guests. Did he have any clothes for you to wear while you were here? “From what I’ve gathered from your account, your stalker is highly meticulous, has been emboldened by your attempts to be rid of him, and grows only more so with every passing minute you aren’t in his grasp,” He turned, armful of sheets and blankets for your room, which would be Watson’s (and Kitty’s for that matter) old quarters, “Here, you are most certainly not within his grasp, as the brownstone is secure, complete with a camera outside the only entrance, and two trained consultants, both of which who will protect you at any means, or at least one.” And he paused for a moment, spotting how you weren’t resistant to the idea – the small smile that was fighting its way onto your lips told him that you were flattered by his insistence. And he reprimanded the part of him that liked that.

There wasn’t time for any of that. Not now.

And perhaps not ever.

Sherlock only had known one love, before you. An equal in every sense of the word, and someone who made him, for the first time, feel complete. And of course, this person ended up as the head of the largest criminal syndicate, as well as his mortal enemy. However, that did not stop him from seeking what they had together in another. Watson had said, it was wrong– to compare anyone to Moriarty – as his love for her should not be replicated, as it was built on the basis of a lie, but this did not stop him from longing for the companionship and passion he had for Irene, before she was Moriarty. But Watson was right, Moriarty had made him feel things he had not felt before, but the one thing she failed to make him feel was safe, and the others were falsehoods of feelings that did not compare to the way he felt about you.

You were everything to him in a world where he couldn’t stop seeing everyone else. But you made the world around him fade from existence, and allowed him only to see him and you. A feat he thought was only possible in his most daring of fantasies. And yet, there you were, in his reality. You had met him in London, when he was attending to business with his brother and on a case, and you were merely a coincidence, someone Sherlock had run into when confirming his suspicions on a lead in a case. And by this, he meant physically, as he happened to be running after a suspect at the time. He, although usually gifted in acts of physical prowess, had miscalculated the distance of his step from a most unfortunate, and large, crack in the sidewalk, and he fell, but onto the ground, but into you. He dusted himself off, helping you to your feet, and though you were shocked, it seemed as if you took stock of the situation, glancing back at the retreating man. Sherlock knew there was no way he could catch up to him, too concerned with he had hurt you, and pulling out his cellphone to call Watson, “Miss, are you –”

Instead of speaking to him, you snatched the phone out of his hand, running to the corner, and took a picture of the plate number of the cab that the man he had been chasing had gotten into. He stared at your outstretched hand with his phone, and took it, “Well, what are you waiting for?” Your voice struck him, and he blinked twice, wondering if he was only imagining this, as it didn’t seem real.

“Your name?” It was your turn to blink.

“Y/N,” You held out your hand, and shook it, before checking the time, swearing under your breath, “I’m late. It was nice to meet you officer, I’ll send you the bill for my dry cleaning.”

“I’m actually a consultant,” And you turned to give him a grin, as he squinted at your retreating figure, “But how will I contact you?”

“I already put my number in your phone.” And he stood, watching you run off to your appointment, wondering if anyone else had simply surprised him this much in such a short time.

Although, after, you had brushed off his attempts to pay for your dry cleaning, and he instead then recommended the two of you share dinner that night. He waited for your response, fingers delicately drumming against the table he sat at, and his phone lit up with your response: Yes, that sounds lovely.

The two of your shared a few nights of romance, one that yielded many surprises, including a surprise date in Paris. And as he walked the length of the Seine with you, under the stars, he had realized that he had preoccupied himself with details of you: of how you became much more affectionate when you were excited; the way you strolled easily beside him, showing just how comfortable you were with him; and the way your face lit up when you smiled, one that made his heart practically stop (he would know, he had done it before). Instead of preoccupying himself with the world around him and the various horrors it never seemed to be short of, he found himself completely preoccupied with you. You were a distraction worth having, and one he would hope to keep around.

Alas, his luck had run short.

But you were here now, and that’s what he needed to focus on, not the past. But he glanced to you settling into the room – examining the clumsily painted bookshelf that Kitty had left behind – and wondered if anything of the past even remained still between you two. Or if he was simply a means to an end, as were most of his relationships, primal or not. Although, you were right, it was best to put that behind, and focus on the matter at hand.

You were sent off to bed, and as you sat, you couldn’t seem to get comfortable, nor could you sleep a wink. Although, you weren’t exactly afraid, oddly enough, you felt safe for the first time in a long time. You had moved from place to place for years, even changing cities, states, and countries, but your stalker always found a way to get to you. There was never a week those pictures didn’t show up. Not for a year. And now that you considered it, it was almost the anniversary, of when he first started – the year of when your life slowly disintegrated around you. And yet, at this moment you felt safe. But guilt gnawed at you at the thought of Detective Alvarez, and his family, and the fact that his capture was your fault. You had gotten too close, he had gotten too close to the case, and you put him in danger. And if anything happened to him…You sat up.

You couldn’t lay here any longer.

You wandered out to the kitchen, a familiar sight that you hadn’t seen in a long while, and to your surprise, you found Joan there, not Sherlock for once. “Hi Joan.”

Her eyes flitted up in surprise, and she moved to get up, but you waved her off, “It’s honestly way too late for greetings,” and she seemed to agree as she sat back down, and seemed to pour over some material, and as you stepped closer – it was your material, or rather your case, “Where did you –”

“Detective Bell gave us access to your records, we didn’t tell him that you were here, or anything about the case, but we needed him to give us the files, otherwise, we would have wasted more time,” Joan explained, as you sat down across from her. “I was just looking over the work Detective Alvarez did for your case, it’s exceptional.”

“Yes, he was – is, exceptional,” and Joan looked up at you, as you sighed, holding your head, as if that could keep you from breaking apart. “I just hope his work for me doesn’t get him…” you knew your exclusion of the action didn’t make it any less likely, but it was as if your words held power, and you hoped that by holding back, you could control it, but you knew that was just a false hope.

“Y/N, Alvarez knew what he was getting into, not only for your case, but as a detective, he’s in danger every day, and he willingly takes that risk,” Joan flipped a page, scanning the contents, before forcing you to hold her gaze, “Ask any other officer or detective, and they will tell you the same exact thing.” You fell silent, mulling over words, until you noticed the distinct lack of someone who often worked later than she did.

“Where’s Sherlock?” And she glanced up.

“He’s resting,” Your confusion did not get any better, as your brow furrowed further, and her mouth opened with realization, “Ah, he didn’t tell you,” and now you glimpsed at his bedroom door which was closed shut, and now worry began to set in, “You can ask himself, but it’s probably better not to,” Your eyes fell to the table again, “What is going on between you two anyway?”

Your head snapped up, “Between us? What do you mean?”

Her expression only seemed to grow more curious at your reaction, and you bit your tongue, punishing it for its looseness, “I mean, the fact that the two of you mysteriously broke up four years ago, and now it’s like nothing even happened,” She tilted her head, allowing a sigh to pass, as she leaned in closer, “Just tell me that you won’t hurt him again, because he’s my partner, and my friend. I want this to work, and I want to help you, but I can’t do my best, if I have to constantly worry about the both of you.”

And you knew she was right, as even now you felt the urge to knock on Sherlock’s door, and if she hadn’t been here, you very well may have done so, to both of your own detriments. This was why you had stayed away for so long, his pull was too strong, as Joan once had told you – he was like gravity – and you couldn’t help long for it, especially when you were so close to falling back into orbit. “I promise, I won’t do anything. More than anyone, I don’t want to hurt him, that’s why I stayed away. I thought It was best.”

Another silence, “Just be careful.”

And careful you were, for the next two days, as you made sure to never be alone with him, not a moment, as you knew the two of you shared a weakness, and it would only take a second to fall back on old habits. However, though yours and Sherlock’s relationship was no closer to advancing, the case was far from it. Sherlock and Joan had went over each detail of your case, and questioned you about every detail they had isolated about your stalker, finding one key question:

“Where did he first see you?” Joan repeated, as the three of you stood in front of the collage that Sherlock had constructed, she turned to you, “Did you ever see or do anything unusual in the week or month before the calls started?”

You wracked your mind for one instance, one moment, where you had seen or heard or done something, but nothing. The month was hectic. They had you working around the clock as you were pressed right up against a deadline they had moved up, and you barely left your office, only to get a sandwich from the carrier that came around, or to report your progress to your boss. “Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at all.”

Frustrations were high, especially after Joan went to bed, her own patience running thin as leads led to dead ends, and all three of you were collectively spinning in circles. You rose to do the same, but Sherlock stopped you, “Let’s go over that day one more time,” you opened your mouth to protest, but knew better. It would be better to get this over with than to engage in verbal sparring with him – that was akin to foreplay to him. “What did you do when you first got up?”

“I got dressed,” You recalled the morning, you were late, “I was in a rush, I had stayed up almost the whole night before after finding out the deadline was moved up.  You had changed quickly into a maroon and beige dress that you had worn three nights before, “I barely had time to brush my teeth, much less anything else,” you had raced through the offices, bumping into several people on your way to your own, “I almost knocked over a bunch of people on my way there, one almost off his feet,” He snorted, as you looked up, affronted, asking for an explanation.

“Well, you were never exactly the most elegant,” He chuckled, shaking his head, “Remember the time you practically fell into my lap when you tripped over that Baroness’s trail at that wedding we were invited to?”

“That you were invited to,” You corrected, before placing your hands on your hips, “and if I recall, we were only there to scope out the private area since a murder had taken place there a million years ago, and you wanted access, which I had managed to schmooze the security into giving us. And you weren’t exactly complaining when I did fall into your lap, mind you.”

“That’s beside the point,” He rose from his chair, heading toward his stereo.

“And what is your point?”

“That you are a complete and utter klutz,” You gaped at him, as he turned on a violinist solo, a soft melody lingered in the air, as he turned back around, a small smile on his face, as he offered you his hand, “but one that I would like to share a dance with.”

You stared at his outstretched hand, and you felt the fatigue and worry, that was weighing on you moments ago, fade, as you placed your hand in his, which he engulfed in his own – and it was as if you had never left. He twirled you around the living room, stepping in time with the song, and you could feel the closeness of him – the familiarity, the trust, and the love fall into place, and it hadn’t changed. You leaned into his chest, allowing yourself to feel this moment and not remember all the pain, of not only the last year, but of the last four. It had broken your heart to leave him, and he knew, god, you hoped he knew. And as the song swelled to its conclusion, you leaned away, but his hand tilted your face up, to look at him.

“Why did you leave?” And he didn’t allow you to look away, holding your gaze, unyielding until he got his answer, “why, Y/N?”

“You know why,” Your voice was breaking, as the song ended, and the spell seemed to have too, “It was better for both of us.”

“Was it?” he gave a chuckle, drained of all mirth, unlike the one before it, “or was it best for you?” He began to pull away, but this time, your hand clutched his forearm, keeping him in place.

“Sherlock, we wanted different things,” You breathed, allowing your fingers to brush his face, “Whenever we broached the idea of a family, you always brushed it off, what was the point of continuing this if it wasn’t going to go anywhere, Sherlock? And there’s no point in continuing it now, if nothing has changed.”

“I have changed, Y/N,” And his words stopped you in place, as he breathed them against your lips, “More than you know.”

“You sleep now,” You noted, as he hesitated, as his lips fell open to ask, “Joan didn’t tell me anything. Why would she? It’s your secret to tell.”

He seemed to grow uncomfortable, retracting physically, as he was emotionally, “It’s not exactly a secret, I just didn’t want you to think I was incapable of handling your case.”

“Sherlock, I could never think of you as incapable,” You laughed at the thought, taking his hand in your own once again, “Several other adjectives come to mind, but incapable no.”

A single eyebrow rose, “Will you share with me those adjectives sometime?”  

“How about after you share with me just how much you have changed?” And the implication was there intentionally. Your curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you longed to know how the illustrious Sherlock Holmes had changed. But you had taken the silence that followed as a rejection, shying away, “I should go to bed-”

“Not tonight,” And he stepped closer, hand against the small of your back, as his lips were only a moment away, not knowing where he ended and you began, and neither of you could seem to bring yourselves to care, “Tell me this isn’t okay, and I will let you go to your own bed.”

And you looked at his expression, up and down, seeing not only desire, but love – the same you felt in his touch now, and in his soft words, as if he was afraid he would break you in two if he pushed too hard. But you had changed too – you weren’t afraid anymore, not of him, “Take me to yours.”

And his lips cut you off, gently, and your hands found their way around his neck as they always did, and his fell in place on your waist. His touch burned, and if the two of you weren’t careful, the entire investigation would go up in flames along with it, but in the moment neither of you seemed to care.

He lifted you easily, allowing your legs to wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly close to you, torturing him with the delicious friction it allowed, and the two of you didn’t make it to the bedroom in time, as he pushed you against a wall. His lips decided to burn a trail down your neck, and you gasped, to which he chuckled against your skin, “Remember, we must be quiet, otherwise someone might hear just how eager you are,” Emphasizing his point with a nip to your neck, you bit your lip to muffle yourself, as he hummed against your neck, treating the now tender skin with care. Your fingers busied themselves with unbuttoning his shirt, allowing it to hang at his sides. Your fingers laced themselves in his hair, jerking his head back, and pulled him into another bruising kiss that would leave his bitten red. And it did, as he sighed, while your lips trailed downward, your hand went even further, reaching in between where your bodies met, causing him to jerk against you, forcing a growl from his lips.

“Now, who’s eager?” Your words were trailed with a yelp, as he carried you to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a thud.

And there, the two of you remained all night, until the streaks of golden daylight shone in the bedroom window, rousing you from your sleep. However, nothing was as golden as waking next to the man you had thought you would never see again. He was still sleeping, you noted with a grin, before checking the time – 5 AM. Plenty of time for you to get dressed, and sneak back to your room, before Joan woke up. You silently pulled on your clothes, pulling your shirt over your head, before turning back around one last time to steal a glance at the infamous Sherlock Holmes fast asleep. And until you stepped into your room, you didn’t realize how lucky he was to be still blissfully dreaming, because you had just walked into a living nightmare.

The words ‘Why him?’ were plastered over every inch of your wall, written over pictures of you and Sherlock kissing last night. Your eyes panned the room in horror, unable to process just how many pictures there were – there must have been hundreds, hundreds of pictures – of every moment you spent with him last night. You could’ve have screamed, but no sound escaped your throat - only visceral fear. As your heart galloped to a start, as you started toward the bed, and found a letter, with your name written out carefully in calligraphy.

I want you, and only you. And if you won’t have me, then I’ll have to take everyone else who is around you. Even him. He can’t escape. He won’t. Come see me where we first crashed into each other’s lives, and soon, you can be my angel that fell from heaven.

And it wasn’t the message, it wasn’t the words, nor was it even the threat that made you realize who had been torturing you this whole time. No, it was the handwriting. Now you knew who he was, but you didn’t know why. You crumpled the paper. But you were going to find out.

[writefasttalkevenfaster]

Sherlock Holmes / Mutual Admiration

Prompt: Sherlock Holmes and you are engaged through work, but end up in an experiment that Sherlock hadn’t tried in many, many years: love. 

This is gonna be a little series i work on, on the side. I just love Sherlock a lot and he’s too adorable and I need to write him b/c it makes me happy. I hope you guys enjoy! I hope even if you don’t watch the show, maybe give this a read?? I had a lot of fun with it. Or just watch Elementary. Do it. <3 

“What happened to you?” You had left your work untouched, moved several meetings around, left your A.D.A. despising your very existence after you left a dozen texts and emails asking her to take over your work for tomorrow, and left complete utter hell in your wake to come here, and all Sherlock did was blink at you, as he sat bloodied and bruised on a hospital bed. His back with angry red and purple marred against his tanned skin, his profile disfigured with scratches and cuts, and his face stuck thoroughly in his phone. He didn’t bother to look up, as he remained intent on his search. Joan whispered a hello, excusing herself to grab a cup of coffee, but more to escape the proceeding conversation

“I thought it was quite obvious,” His voice was monotone as per usual. “I was roughed up by some of Maria Gutierrez’s relatives.” You bit back a smart reply, remembering the time he was going through at the moment, deciding words were a bad choice. So instead, as he shut his phone off, you pried the device from his fingers, and placed your hands gently, splaying your fingers against his bare shoulders, pressing your forehead to his. His eyes shut, as if he was trying to avoid your stare, avoid giving you all of the secrets he had hidden away for so long in that mind of his, as if he was afraid your look would utterly break him. “You are much better at physical comfort than Watson is, she practically pushed me out the door to get to this hospital. Waste of time,” He added, eye opening to make sure she hadn’t returned, but then you couldn’t hide the fear in your eyes. “I’m fine, Y/N.”

You couldn’t seem to catch your breath, as your fingers shifted to rest upon his cheeks instead, gliding slowly over his injuries, as if he would break apart if you pressed any harder. “I was so worried. Joan called and said you got beat up and were in the hospital, I didn’t even think, I just cam-“

His lips pressed to your own, or rather, an effective method of rendering one speechless Sherlock would say, except he couldn’t, as his lips moved against your own. His emotions were present in the kiss: passion, warmth, but especially pain. And he was more than willing to use you to numb the pain, you were the only drug of choice he had been willing to subject himself to since his rehabilitation, from both drugs and romantic attachments, and you were more than willing to do it. But his lips were a moment away, as he whispered. “Why did you come?”

“I was worried, Sherlock,” You murmured, as his breath sent shivers up your spine, trying to conceal your own pants. “Joan calls me and tells me you’re in the hospital, what did you want me to do? I thought you told –”

“She only called because I hadn’t told her.” He whispered, the words were warm against your lips, but seemed to only freeze your heart to the point of shattering. “about us. She had figured you would have wanted to know.”

“Oh.” Your cheeks flushed, taking a step back, unable to meet his gaze any longer. Figures, he hadn’t wanted you here. It was just a mistake. Just like your relationship with him. You had warned yourself against falling for him, especially after you had spurned his sexual advances, but you had thought he had changed, that he had grown. And he had, but not enough. For either of you. “I should go.”

“Yes, it seems that would be best,” He replied, words mostly whisper at this point, as you gathered up your things, allowing the silence to drape around the two of you, as you stepped away from him, and the feelings tacked alongside him. “Please,” he made you pause. “don’t inform Watson of our mutual separation. I would like to be the one to tell her. I will be speaking to her presently.”

“Mutual,” You repeated, a nag of a sigh wanting to exhale from your chest, but you wouldn’t allow it. Though you were sure he noticed. “Of course. Goodbye Sherlock.”

And to think, it had all began with a stupid phone call.

“What do you know about human trafficking rings from New York to El Salvador?” You stopped in your tracks in the middle of a crowded courthouse, much to several other’s disgruntlement, as they brushed past you. “I know the line is clear in the courthouse, and it can’t possibly be the signal in my own home.”

“Who is this?” You held your head as you made your way over to a bench, and though the British accent and sheer, almost startling arrogance hadn’t given it away, his next remark sent a throbbing pain through your head, which only confirmed your suspicions.

“I suppose your apparent confusion about who I am stems from the fact that you did not enter my contact information into your mobile device when I painstakingly handed it to you to be sure that you received it. Or you could have lost or deleted it, both of which are viable options.” And you sighed, the only thing you could do when a man such as the one who decided to ring you that early morning did.

“Sherlock Holmes, I should’ve known from the first grating word left your mouth.” You murmured, half hoping he would hear, and he did, then remarking after a moment’s pause:

“Now, I’m sure you deleted that contact information,” He then quickly moved onto other matters, asking several prying questions about your time heading up a Federal Task Force for the U.S. Attorney’s office regarding human trafficking from South America. “Don’t bother denying your involvement in the task force, I know you declined to state your involvement, not wishing for the fame and cry to run for political office that would go along with it, which was, I dare I say, admirable on your part, but that doesn’t dissuade me from inquiring.”

“Holmes, I –”

“I believe I have some information you will find interesting as well, regarding several of the cases you’ve been assigned to prosecute, especially against the drug cartels and in particular, the K.K.K.” You paused in consideration, which he took as an opportunity to run his mouth yet again. “All of which will be made available to you if you meet me for dinner tonight at my place.”

His place? Ay, there’s the rub. “Your place? Holmes, if this is you trying to get me in bed, I told you –”

“I assure you, Ms. L/N, this is not an attempt at bedding you, this is merely a mutual exchange of information that will benefit us both. You made it quite clear the last time I tried to persuade you into a more physical relationship, and I would not dishonor your decision,” You weren’t going to get off this call, unless you agreed, were you? So, you did, reluctantly and right as you were about to hang up, Holmes stopped you. “And, Y/N,” dropping all pretext of formality. “my offer was one of the standing sort.” Click.

And so, you had arrived at the doorstep of Sherlock Holmes’ brownstone. You frowned at the door, as you would at the consulting detective. A brilliant, but irritating man, who had little regard for those around him, and viewed his own intellect as exceptional. And though it was, there was one type of intelligence he would never excel at: emotional. You had sat beside him when you worked a case with Scotland Yard as he broke apart a defense witness’s alibi, but reduced her to tears in the process, only for him to offer her a box of tissues and excuse himself from the room. But even so, he had saved your case, put several rapists and murderers away, and saved you the hassle of a trial. So the least you could do was accompany him to the drink he offered you, and the two of you sat, quietly discussing the case in the corner of a mostly empty bar, and though his fingers did graze you once or twice, you hadn’t thought anything of it. But then you couldn’t seem to break his gaze, though you couldn’t bear to look away, though you had done it several times over. There was something there you couldn’t quite discern, an emotion, a longing, and suddenly, as his lips brushed yours and your mind was filled with only the taste of his alcohol ridden lips, the smell of ash wood and leather, and a distinct sense of pleasure. And as he pulled away, his smile made your heart skip exactly two beats, continuing to flip and twirl, as he got to his feet, holding a hand for you to come with him. None of his brash words necessary. But you knew the end to that story, and the end was the same as the one here: Sherlock was not interested in any romantic entanglements, but you were. Simple as that.

But nothing was that simple when it came to Sherlock Holmes. You learnt that as you knocked on his door that day, to reveal several mannequins laid on the floor, one of which who’s hand was currently in his hand. “Oh good, I thought your house would be as strange as your methods are.” You brushed past him. “Looks like you aren’t the only deductionist around.”

Your eyes scanned the room, as you were careful to step over the mannequins, before settling yourself on the sofa, as he stood before you, raising an eyebrow. “You aren’t going to ask?”

You shrugged, making yourself comfortable. “I figure it has to do something with your case, if you are going to explain why bother asking?”  

“All good things…” He trailed off, before turning and walking off in the opposite direction through the foyer. When he didn’t come back, you rose to your feet, following after him. “My question to you still stands, you know, I need to know about the taskforce you were on, and what truths you fathomed from the investigation.”

“And my reply is,” You called after him, after going down a set of stairs turning the corner, “why?” You paused, as you found yourself with a set table, complete with white tablecloth, and an impressive spread for dinner set before you. “What is this?”

“My compensation for dinner, along with the information you want, of course,” He offered a smug smile, noting your shocked expression with all the subtly he could muster, before turning his head back to the pots. “I thought you might as well get something out of this trip.”

“Something besides sex, you mean?” Taking the glass of water he offered to you gratefully, as he sat at one corner of the table closer than you would have liked. His gaze was intense as he sat, tilting his head as he sipped.

“It’s funny how you keep bringing up fornication, when you are the one who doesn’t want it,” He leaned in on his elbow. “and my deduction is that you do, based on that and other evidence.” He added, making you raise your brow.

“What other evidence?”

And he moved away, as listed things: “The way you speak, you treat me like I’m odious, but you do that to conceal your emotions, a defense mechanism, you should know all about those, you are an expert in the field of psychology, after all,” You opened your mouth to retort, but he went on, placing his hand over yours. “The way you react to my touch: hesitation,” Just as the word left his mouth, your hand slipped from his. “See there? You retracted a bit too late, the thought crossed your mind, and a decision was made,” Your eyes narrowed, and he leaned in close once again, and you could almost feel the words as they came off his lips. “Ah, yes, and your eyes are of particular note,”

“Why?” And his hand came up to rest upon your cheek, and you did not shy away this time, you did not hesitate, as your fingers curled around his own, but you couldn’t find the heart in you to wrench them off.

“Because they are absolutely, without a doubt, beautiful,” He murmured, using his hand to draw his lips to your own. And you broke it a moment later, a smile playing across the same lips he had warmed with his own.

“That’s not relevant to the case at hand,” But Sherlock only shrugged, his thumb rubbing back and forth across the top of your cheekbone.

“What can I say? It got you to kiss me, didn’t it?” You laughed, before moving his hand away from you, and returning to your sitting position. He looked slightly bemused at your suddenly professional appearance, though his eyes still skimmed your now smudged lips with some satisfaction, but disappointment still ran rampant.

“This can’t happen, Sherlock, as I told you before, I don’t do this,” You gestured between him and you, “without strings. I can’t do that. And you can’t do with them.”

“But, Y/N, how do you know if you never really tried?” And you considered it.

“Because I know it wouldn’t make me happy,” You said softly, “and I’ve had too many heartbreaks do anything that did otherwise.” But he only shook his head, his tossed aside hand, coming to rest upon your cheek yet again.

“But, Y/N, what you fail to understand is, I wasn’t referring to you.”

And you slowly understood in that moment, something you were unable to accomplish in London: his methods, his idiosyncrasies, his behavior, you could grasp, but Sherlock always remained just out of reach. But right now, he wasn’t, for the first time, he was in your hands, and his were on your body, and your mouth was on his. And even after, as the two of you got down to work, his lips still pressing butterfly kisses to your shoulders, you remarked: “It’s a good thing this case is much stronger than your last,” which only led to another re-presentation of the evidence, until you proclaimed a mistrial.  

And, as you drifted off into the arms of sleep, another quite familiar lover, for the first time you thought you understood: the feeling was mutual, and finally the relationship was too.

For a time.  

“Stay,” You mumbled to him, as he shifted to move out of bed, your sleepy grasp an anchor of temptation that kept Sherlock Holmes glued to his spot. And how he longed to stay, to learn more of the sounds that could leave your lips, the new trails he had yet to make down your body, and the sensations he could elicit for the both of you. His mind already raced with the sheer, number of possibilities of what to touch, what to do, and what to feel, especially as your hand dipped under his wrinkled boxers, thumbing at the hem. “Sherlock, please?”

“I have to go, love,” He informed you rather matter of factly, trying to keep the lust at bay with the thought of the consultation at hand. Captain Gregson had only called him into consult, a curious and rare incident indeed, as he often wanted Watson nearby to deal with his so-called “tantrums,” and he hoped to sate his curiosities upon arrival. “The Captain doesn’t like to be kept waiting, particularly not by me.” Even so, his will was crumbling, as you rose from the bed, letting the covers slip off, and he was ready to sate his appetite instead, the Captain could wait, but you only kissed his cheek, hopping off the bed.

“I’ll make you breakfast then, I have a case of my own to handle this morning,” And to your obvious surprise, his hand caught you by the wrist, pulling you back onto the bed, and he was perched on top, and you weren’t displeased with his actions, especially as his lips brushed your burning skin, charting a new course down your neck. “Sherlock, what about work?”

“They can wait,” His lips nipped at your collarbone, as his fingers simultaneously traveled quite some ways lower. “This cannot.” You gasped beautifully, back arching upwards into his touch, and his ego was thoroughly stroked. And as he noted your response, filing it away for future, both proximate and long-term use. And in that moment, he paused, to take in the sight of you: your skin flushed under his touch, your smile full and grinning, and your eyes, as they fluttered open were indescribable, filled with an emotions words could not begin to approach, but one word could: love.

You were in love with him.

And that gave him pause, much longer than he could justify in this moment. “Sherlock?” He blinked, before pressing a quick peck to your lips.

“I have to go,” He pulled on his clothes, keeping his eyes fixated toward the door, unable to meet your eyes once again. This feeling, your feelings, he didn’t understand, he hadn’t felt it in a long while, and he didn’t have a clue whether he wanted to. Or if he actually could anymore. “No time for breakfast. Work is for the weary after all.” He spared you once last look, only to see your lips curl and shake your head as if he had done something endearing rather than insulting.

“I’ll see you for dinner tonight,” And he was out the door, his mind not flush with details of crimes, but details of you. Your body language, your voice, and that look. You had asked him to stay, but did it mean something more than just for the morning? If he had stayed that morning, then he would stay the next, and the next, and perhaps then, he would stay forever. Forever. Was there any word more terrifyingly existential? Would that be so terrible? That was what a relationship was, was it not? 

But the more pertinent question remained: were the feelings mutual? And for one of the first times in his life, Sherlock Holmes didn’t know the answer, but he did know this to be a fact: staying was the one thing he had never learned to do, and after that morning, he wasn’t sure he could.  

Tags: @motherbearof03, @awakedorito, @supermoonpanda, @nairobiwonders, @wheninromeopuke, @possibility221, @joanlocklives, @bitumziskastletrash, @v-mack, 

(I tagged who liked/commented my original post here, or those who were taggable <3 I’ll only be doing this for this first part, just let me know if you want me to continue tagging you in future installments!)