#sherlock x you

[andsheloved]

on the subject of hearts

pairing ~ sherlock holmes x f!reader

summary ~ sherlock has a good head on his shoulders, he’s straightforward, critical, and almost painfully logical, so why have you had his mind swimming with thoughts that are anything but?

word count ~ 4.4k

warnings ~ fluff!! a bit of possessive sherlock behavior, jealousy, mycroft being annoying, mention of catcalling, old fashioned views of women in general, westminster slander (apologies!), sherlock is an emotional himbo, mention of stabbing, mention of a height difference, italicized ‘oh’, minor angst with the happiest ending!

a/n ~ alright i know i pretty much only write for marvel (+ one obi wan drabble) but i watched enola holmes and it’s safe to say i’m yearning. this one is very much for @uncle-kenobi and very much based off of our ramblings about this man, you are a wonderful human and mwauh, so i hope you enjoy this!! you deserve all the Broad Man™️ hugs and also the entire earth and i love you mwauh!! also side-note, another loki peice is almost almost finished! i just had all these very inspirational thoughts (thank you again may mwauh) and wrote this, so without further ado, i hope you all enjoy!!

Sherlock let out a soft, contemplative hum as he watched you from his armchair, slowly raising his eyes above the paper he had been reading before you so hastily scuttered into the library.

You sighed contently to yourself, almost dreamily as you carefully opened the golden-spined book he had so often seen you pull time and time again from the shelf, only to carefully place the small flower between the pages. You hadn’t been reading it recently, what was the need for a bookmark?

The thick pages then collided with a loud ‘thump’, and the sound tore him from his thoughts, while also managing to earn a hushed, frightened murmur from him. It was in that moment when you had finally turned to see him, and Sherlock briskly adjusted himself behind his paper once again as to not divulge his examination of your peculiar routine, before you made a sort of low, anxious, mumbling sound, only to rush from the room almost as quickly as you had first entered.

Every Tuesday you went out, every week without fail, at precisely 11 o’clock in the morning. All groceries usually had been bought by then, all chores usually mostly taken care of at that time, so there was never an understandable reason for why you would venture out every week. Sure, you would go out with Sherlock or John if they found themselves in need of any of your expertise on a case, maybe occasionally with Enola if she so wished to explore the city, or even on the off chance you would visit the book store in town, it would never be on a Tuesday, for some reason, Tuesday’s were special. And just as assuredly, every time you’d return, you would come back with a flower or two, quickly enclosing them between the pages of your favorite book, before running off to continue your day.

“Bellis perennis” Sherlock mumbled under his breath as he rolled the stem of the daisy between his thumb and forefinger.

“Have you ever thought that maybe she only wants to escape your insufferable droning for a few hours?” Mycroft spat, rolling his eyes as he continued his attempt to focus on the same sentence he had read at least three times now while trying to entertain his brother’s ramblings.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him as he meticulously placed the flower back in its original place, just as gently placing the book back on the shelf exactly where you had left it. “She’s stayed for this long, I doubt she’s trying to make a getaway now…” He replied, a trace of vague annoyance tangled within his humor.

“Maybe she’s visiting family? Friends? People do that, you know.” Mycroft added dryly, finally closing his book in frustration.

Sherlock tossed around the idea, you were incredibly friendly, almost to a fault on occasion. It wouldn’t surprise him if you had struck a companionship with someone during your weekly outings. But Sherlock and you were close, right? You would tell him about such things, wouldn’t you?

“Or maybe she’s met someone?” He inquired further, Mycroft’s impish, teasing grin was evident in his voice alone.

“Someone?” Sherlock replied, his voice sounding much more unsteady than he had intended.

“You know, a beau, a suitor? With all these flowers…” Mycroft mindlessly drummed his fingers on the cover of his now long-forgotten reading material, this had become much more entertaining for him. “It seems she may have found her very own paramore!” He added enthusiastically, watching Sherlock’s expression with earnest.

The sound that escaped Sherlock’s lips in response could only be labeled as something between an annoyed grumble and a sigh. “Wouldn’t she have told us of this?”

“Why would she?” His brother replied, much too smug for Sherlock’s liking. “We aren’t her family, why would she care to tell us?”

“Because we’re…” Sherlock found himself lost for words, a shocking occurrence indeed, but what was even more stupefying was the slight pang of disappointment that settled in his chest at the thought. “We’re her friends.”

“And what do you suppose that means? We’re family, and I’m sure we’ve a life of secrets kept from each other.”

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, talking with Mycroft could often be compared to holding conversation with a stone wall, though Sherlock was sure that may make for better company. “But, she lives with us.” He added sternly, though he wasn’t quite sure what he was attempting to prove to his brother.

“So do the maids.” Mycroft replied harshly, his eyes squinted, observing Sherlock’s every mannerism, waiting for even the smallest crack in his facade.

Though Sherlock never gave him the satisfaction, opting to stomp off into his room before he allowed another second to pass with Mycrofts’s incessant badgering.

Sherlock supposed it was a bit selfish of him to assume you didn’t lead a life beyond the house, beyond Mycroft and Enola and himself. It wasn’t like you had kept many secrets from him, if you even had any. You were usually so open with him, even without any deduction, it was like you would make it a point to recount your day to him, all while he silently listened. You made even the most mundane tasks about the city seem so lively, you were truly an open book, so why hadn’t you told him about this… Someone?

He settled himself with a huff in a chair situated right by his bedroom window, slowly retrieving his bow from the smooth leather casings. Just as he was about to play though, he found himself interrupted by the faint, muffled sound of your laughter. A soft smile crept onto his lips, and he called your name through the house inquisitively, you had run off so abruptly before and Sherlock found he had felt the slightest bit saddened when you hadn’t stopped to tell him about your day out. The shrill ring of a bicycle bell had him turning once again towards the window, seeing Enola ride off past you as you waved her off. You called something out to her, and though he was no expert lip reader, he was sure it was most likely something along the lines of ‘be safe’ or some other sort of good wishes. You had a way of caring so much that never ceased to astound Sherlock, because truly, what was to happen? Enola was almost too clever for her own good, proving time after time that she was much more than capable on her own, you’ve seen her fight, and win even, yet you still always wished for her safety. Sherlock thought himself competent on his own as well, you were no stranger to his skills, yet every time he found himself venturing out for a case, or even just a night out with John, you still told him, almost requesting of him, ‘be safe.’

Sherlock let out a soft hum, and began to play.

“Must you always be here?” Sherlock grumbled as he spotted Mycroft in the parlor. After a sleepless night, he was in no mood for his teasing.

“Unfortunately, yes.” Mycroft replied, finally tearing his eyes from the paper he had been reading, “You look tired.” He added, a knowing smirk making its way onto his features.

“Couldn’t sleep” Sherlock replied under his breath, grabbing a paper from the coffee table as he sat across from his brother, doing his best to ignore the not-so-quiet snicker that his response had earned.

“Good Morning,” You timidly interrupted, “Tea?”

Sherlock examined the silver tray that you carried. Three, small, floral teacups stacked on each other, with an accompanying teapot and small pitchers for sugar and cream. They had maids, kitchen staff meant for this very thing, yet you were so insistent on always doing this yourself.

“Yes, please” Sherlock smiled, making haste in clearing the coffee table of any spare papers and books so you could place the tray down, all the while, much too aware of Mycroft’s judgmental gaze that was held on him. “Thank you” He muttered, watching you carefully set the tray on the table.

“Sleep well?” You asked, your soft voice still thick with a touch of sleep.

“Very well, thank you” He replied, quickly shooting a glare at Mycroft.

You smiled in response, before stifling a yawn as you gingerly spooned some sugar into your cup.

“Busy day yesterday?” Sherlock added, his gaze glued to your features, waiting for any sign of deceit from you. Instead, he was only met with a wide-eyed, shocked expression, a slight look of panic as you tried to think of a response, you were clearly caught off guard.

You quickly nodded your head as you sipped your tea, “Not very…” You replied, your eyes now fixated on the cup you held in front of you.

Sherlock casually leaned in closer, still studying your face. “You sped off so quickly yesterday, I would’ve thought you were being followed” He chuckled, only earning a hushed ‘hmm’ in amusement from you.

The rest of the morning was spent like that, silently sipping tea surrounded by a comfortable quietness. How Sherlock longed for you to say something, to break him out of his spiraling thoughts, you had a way of calming him that even he was unable to comprehend, but this morning, he found there was no solace in your words, or lack thereof, and your short reply to his question only raised his suspicions.

After a few more moments of silence, you gently set your cup down on the tray once again. “Well, I promised I would help Enola bake today, and I’d rather her not destroy the kitchen before I get there.” You beamed, your tone had returned to normal now, the anxious expression that was written on your face before had now dissipated.

Both brothers nodded in response, Sherlock standing to follow you to the door. You turned to give him a quick smile of farewell as you left, and just as your heels left the foyer, he promptly sealed the double doors behind you.

“Well” Mycroft breathed, casually taking another sip of his tea, “She’s definitely hiding something,”

“I know” Sherlock grumbled in return, he was suddenly filled with a storm of emotions at the notion. Sure, Sherlock had kept his fair share of things from you, but it was never to hurt you, you would always find a way to discover whatever harebrained plot he had concocted in the long run anyhow. You knew him so well, and he thought he knew you just as well, apparently not.

“There’s nothing you can do, Sherlock. She has a life you know? Maybe just leave this one be?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in a silent challenge, “You know I can’t do that.”

Mycroft sighed, “I know.”

“Besides, if she truly has found… Someone,” bitterness saturated his tone as he spoke, deriving a self-assured grin from Mycroft. “And since she is my friend,” He emphasized as much as possible, “I wouldn’t want her parading around with some… Idiot.” Sherlock sneered at the very thought. He knew you were quite capable on your own, that he had never doubted, but still in many ways, you were naive. You were no stranger to the occasionally horrid ways of men, you had accompanied him and Mycroft around the city on more than one occasion, and even in the most disreputable parts of town, you still smiled softly at all the passing residents, no matter how battered or grimy, or how any of the men whistled and yelled your way, you would only let out a quiet scoff, turning to Sherlock to roll your eyes before continuing to smile. You really were too precious, and Sherlock would be damned if he allowed for anyone to take advantage of your kindness.

It was Tuesday.

One entire, torturous week had gone by with you still behaving maddeningly normal. Sherlock was almost surprised with his own ability to fight back the urge to just outright question you for seven days, though he still observed you in other ways.

You suppressed what had to be the third yawn in a row as you put away the last of the dishes into the cupboard.

“Still heading out?” Sherlock questioned, scribbling down a quick note in his journal.

You nodded your head eagerly, “Always” You smiled.

Sherlock only responded with a soft ‘hmph’. He found himself again at a loss for words as he watched your kind grin drop into a look of concentration, the sunlight streaming in from the window causing a halo of light to frame your silhouette as you slowly packed a small basket for your trip, were your hands shaking?

Scissors, a book, a sandwich, something wrapped in a small, cotton cloth, your journal. He noted, attempting to not make his snooping at your basket so obvious.

Before you would close the hinged, wicker lid though, he spotted something that glinted in the sunshine. A small, round silver thing with some sort of chain connected to its top. The shutting of the lid startled him, but he was quick to adjust his gaze on you once again, offering a faint, parting smile as you slipped on your gloves before heading out the back door.

Gloves. So clearly, they were of either an upper-middle or higher class upbringing to care for such things as a lady wearing gloves. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, at least they weren’t one of those brutes in lower Westminster.

He checked again the tallies he had made in his notebook. Six times. Six times you had yawned in a span of what? Thirty minutes? He had known you had been lacking sleep recently from how he heard your soft footsteps around the hallways at odd hours of the night, always coming to an almost-stop once you reached his doorway, only to creep past as slowly as possible. He assumed you were making an attempt as to not wake him, and always, he would use whatever energy he could muster at three in the morning to chuckle softly at your attempts that would very much prove to be useless if you found out he was also just as conscious as you at whatever ungodly hour it happened to be.

Sherlock huffed in frustration, quickly shutting his journal as his brother drifted into the kitchen.

“Anything?” Mycroft questioned.

“Nothing particularly unusual” Sherlock responded, “She has been sleeping less though, but that could be easily explainable.” He added.

“Hmm”

Sherlock didn’t miss the smirk on Mycroft's lips as he thoughtlessly drummed his fingers on the counter top.

“What?” Sherlock was almost afraid to push his brother to speak further, but as of that moment, he hadn’t had any clear ideas as to what, or rather who had been affecting you so much.

“She must be rather infatuated with this individual”

“And why would you think so?”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, his tone almost mocking, as if he was shocked that Sherlock hadn’t picked up on the fact sooner. “I refuse to believe that in all of your years, you haven’t had at least some sort of feelings other than disdain for another person?”

Sherlock had experienced fleeting desires before, yes, but they were just that, fleeting. A passing of two ships in the night, a wave hello only to be followed moments later by a farewell. As he thought back on it, other than Mycroft, Enola and John, you were really the only other person that had stuck with him so willingly. “Well, yes” He finally acknowledged.

“Certainly you must know then...”

Sherlock stayed silent.

“The panic when you confronted her about her little rendezvous, the barely sleeping, her excitability... She’s clearly in love!” Mycroft finished, much too enthusiastically for Sherlock’s liking.

Sherlock didn’t know how to feel, you were his friend, absolutely nothing more, he should be excited for you, glad even, once you settled down with this mystery man, he’d maybe finally be able to turn over the spare bedroom you had claimed when you first arrived into another study. The thought should have thrilled him, more space to think, to be alone, but he found he was only met with tangled thoughts of dread and displeasure at the notion. He wasn’t sure that he would even have the heart to alter your room at all if you really did leave. You had taken the banal space and filled it with so much life, piling every corner with small trinkets Enola would bring home for you, some you had even collected on your own, accented by the rapidly deteriorating wooden stool in the corner that threatened to collapse at any moment under the weight of your ever-growing stack of books you continuously claimed you would eventually get around to reading. Sherlock was shocked that such chaos could feel like such a comfort to him, sometimes he would even simply sit on the corner of your bed to think when he found himself commissioned for a particularly difficult case. Was it the room? Sherlock thought, placing oneself in an environment different from one’s usual accommodations has occasionally been found to be very mentally stimulating, he reasoned, or was it just you?

“Perhaps she is…” Sherlock thought out loud, a shadow of melancholy washed over him. If you truly were courting someone, he supposed it wouldn’t be long until you had moved out of the house, it would be most improper of you to be living with other men while you entertained whatever man had had the fortune of attaining your affections.

Sherlock was sure Mycroft had continued to speak, though he found no more importance in anything else he would have to say. As if in a trance, he found himself pulled to the library, thoughtlessly pulling the shimmering cover of the book you treasured so much, only to open it and find the first few pages devoid of your precious flowers. He felt his shoulders slump a little as he continued to flip through the pages, no flowers.

He slipped the novel back into its place, his fingers lingering over the spine that you had touched so many times. It was your favorite. The golden foil that was speckled across the cover and spine had grown just the slightest bit duller from use, the pages worn and slightly stained from countless days of you skimming the pages with messy hands as you cooked.

He wondered if you would take the book once you left, a selfish part of him hoped that you would leave it behind, though you were so fond of it, he doubted you would ever forget it. Maybe, if he hid it away in one of the top cabinets, behind the various flours and sugars in the kitchen, you’d be unable to find it. Sherlock let out a hushed chuckle, he was sure you’d turn the entire house over searching for it, he could imagine your lips drawn into a thin line, hands placed firmly on your hips as you meticulously scanned through the bookshelves. Maybe you’d even call on him for help, asking for him to reach the higher shelves to see if it had somehow miraculously traveled on its own, but all the while, he’d know it was tucked away, safe and sound for him to keep as a reminder of your presence.

“If I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you were as well” Mycroft interrupted

Sherlock responded with a confused ‘Hmm?’ before understanding.

Oh.

But he refused to give his brother the satisfaction of a witty reply, he wasn’t even sure he could come up with one at the moment. Instead, he stormed off into his room, and annoyingly, his brother’s presence followed him, his footsteps almost directly behind his own. Sherlock groaned as he attempted to close his door behind him, only to be stopped as Mycroft’s hand paused it from slamming. Sherlock still continued to ignore him though as he retrieved his violin with stumbling hands, he closed his eyes as he began to play, doing his best to block out Mycroft’s existence entirely.

“How many times must you play that same song?”

Sherlock finally stopped, the bow smacking the side of his thigh as he took a deep breath to steady himself before replying. “Play what, Mycroft?” His voice was strained, clearly holding himself back from saying anything more.

“Beethoven, Sherlock! You’ve been playing that same, lovesick ballad for weeks on end!”

“What do you mean.” Sherlock almost growled.

“Romance Number Two? Sherlock? I mean-”

“I like it”

The soft, enthusiastic chirp had both brother’s whipping their necks to face you.

“It’s my favorite, actually” You smiled, basket still in hand.

“You’re back early” Mycroft added harshly.

“I finished up much quicker than I had imagined” Your eyes were now trained on a particular wooden board in the flooring, shifting your weight back and forth in the doorway.

Why did you seem so nervous?

“Sherlock?”

He finally flicked his eyes up to look at you.

“Could I speak with you for a moment?”

Sherlock felt his throat go dry, a choked “Of course” was all he could manage to say to you, his thoughts too cluttered for any other response.

“I’ll leave you to it, then” Mycroft spat, closing the door swiftly behind him as he left.

Your soft smile faded, and Sherlock’s stomach dropped, no, he refused to let his emotions get the better of him. “You’ve met someone?” He muttered offhand, trying to look as casual as possible as he did.

The same panicked expression from when he had first interrogated you crept on your features again. You furrowed your brows, “What?”

“You’ve met someone.” He repeated, the statement now laced with venom and frustration

“Sherlock, I’ve-”

"The sleeplessness, your anxieties, your leaving every week, I believed we were friends, but it's apparent now you've taken me for a fool."

You inhaled a sharp gasp, your mouth opening in closing as you attempted to conjure a response.

Sherlock watched you with a self-assured smirk, he'd most certainly caught you off guard. “We should have a few boxes for you to put your things in, it would be quite improp-”

“I don’t know wh-”

“It would be best for you to leave as soon as possible." He paused, your chest rose and fell rapidly, the basket handle almost creaking at the force at which you gripped it with, but you didn't look angry with him, you looked in pain, a heartbroken expression written over your features. Sherlock was sure you would look in less agony if someone had stabbed you directly in your chest. He took a deep breath before continuing. "I’m sure Enola would be happy to assist you.” He finally finished, reluctantly raising his gaze to your own. You blinked your eyes furiously, your lip quivered as a single tear left a trail down your cheek.

“Okay.” You whispered

Sherlock had at least thought you would put up more of a fight, some sort of argument, he certainly did not expect you to fold so easily at his words.

“I, uh...” You breathed, shakily retrieving something from your basket, “I came to give this to you.” You slowly shuffled over to him, your fingertips quickly ghosting over his own as he took the cloth from you.

He gently uncovered the object, a pocket watch, the silver thing he had seen hidden away in your basket before you had left. He examined the engraved metal in his hand with a soft smile, he was filled with a burgeoning feeling of guilt at his previous words. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so harsh with you, it was your life after all? Who was he to tell you how to live it and who you lived it with?

“It- It opens...” You stammered, gesturing to his hand.

Sherlock carefully unclasped the pendant, and his eyes grew wide, it wasn’t a pocket watch at all, he met your eyes again, alternating his gaze between you and your gift as he processed it. A locket, just as shimmering on the inside as it was on the outside. The soft petals of the preserved daisy flowers embedded behind a thin pane of glass.

“I understand if it’s a bit too-”

“No, I-” Sherlock cut himself off, “It’s wonderful, thank you.”

You smiled sadly in response, “I’ve been collecting them for a while, thought I’d finally make something of them…” You added quietly

The despair was evident in your voice, it was now clear to Sherlock how much he had hurt you. “I’m sorry” He stoically replied, “But, um… Thank you” Slipping the gift into his suit pocket.

“I guess I’d better be going then.” You spoke after a beat of silence, quickly turning to leave. Though before you opened the door, you paused, your hand trembling as you grasped the doorknob. “I haven’t though, just so you know.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock seemed to be frozen in place, his mind raced as he tried to comprehend what you could be referring to.

“Met anyone. I haven’t.”

Sherlock had to stifle the gasp that threatened to spill from his lips, how could he have been so wrong about this? Mycroft was right, all signs pointed to some new infatuation, but you couldn’t possibly be lying, could you? You were always a terrible liar, it was one of the many things Sherlock had come to adore about you. So what had had you so flustered recently? “Ah…” Was all he could reply with.

“I just wanted you to know.” You sighed, “There’s no one else.”

No one else. The words rang in Sherlock’s ears as he stood dumbfounded behind you. No one else. You weren’t seeing anyone on your weekly escapes, you were only innocently collecting flowers for him.

The realization hit him so powerfully that it threatened to knock him off balance.

You had done it for him.

The sleeplessness, the anxiety, was it all for him as well? There was really only one way to find out.

Before he could give his body permission, he found himself gliding over to you, softly grasping your wrist before you could turn the doorknob. You quickly turned your head to face him, and it seemed you had stopped fighting back the tears that were on the verge of falling moments ago. Sherlock sighed your name, his hand coming up to wipe your cheek, his heart hammering in his chest as you leaned into his touch. “I’m so sorry… I just thought…” He trailed off, he wasn’t even entirely certain what he was thinking, and he scowled himself for being so reckless. Sherlock slowly inched his face closer to your own, giving you time to turn him away if you so pleased.

But you didn’t.

You only stared right back at him, the shadow of a smile gracing your lips.

So he kissed you, his lips gently molding into your own as he did. His other hand made its way around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer against his chest. He held you as if you were the most fragile thing in this world, his lids fluttering closed as you now gripped onto the collar of his jacket.

Sherlock reluctantly pulled away from you, humming softly in amusement as he watched you chase his lips before opening your eyes again.

“Just so you know,” He spoke breathlessly, “There’s never been anyone else either.”

oh goodness, i am yeARNING!!!!! i am absolutely pining for this man right now, very much thanks to my lovely may, and thank you so much for enabling (and beginning) my love for this man with our many Thoughts, you are lovely human and mwauh!!!

i hope you all enjoyed this!! i'm planning on getting back to regularly scheduled loki content very soon!!

check out my masterlist for more!!

[sillyrabbit81]

Summary: Sherlock gives you his final lesson

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Female Reader

Word Count: approx 3.5k

Warnings: Dom/sub vibes, oral sex (f receiving), innocence kink, praise kink, implied breeding kink, could be seen as dubious consent or coercion, p in v sex, loss of virginity (SORRY- forgot this in original post!) outdated views on women and sexuality.

Authors Note: I think this is the final chapter. Thank you to everyone who supported this story, your comments and reblogs have meant the world to me. Thank you also for your patience with this fic.

Thanks to @amberangel112 and @nashibirne for beta reading and suggestions and thanks to @henryobsessed for her help with previous parts.

Masterlist

Part 3

His Tuition Part 4

You awake with the sun warming your skin so intensely it stings your back. Raising your head from the pillows you blink at the brightness of the room and wonder who opened the curtains. Then you gasp at the realisation you are naked and that whoever had opened the curtains had seen you thus. Frantic and with heated cheeks you search for your nightclothes when a deep soothing voice breaks the silence.

“Do not move,” says the firm, though slightly distracted voice, “I’m not yet done with my sketch.”

That voice. Sherlock. Your husband.

You want to turn your head, to see what he is doing, but his tone leaves no room for argument. So you stay laying on your side with one leg straight, the other bent and your arms folded under the pillow your head rests against. 

“Good girl,” he hums softly. His words make your lips curl into a small smile and your cheeks heat. 

Time seems to stretch forever as you listen to his pencils scratching over the paper. Aware that his eyes are on you makes your throat feel dry. You feel so exposed; there is no doubt that he can see your bottom and you are sure he can see your soft hidden centre at the apex of your thighs. Knowing he is drawing you in such a vulnerable state makes your breathing shallow and laboured as the now familiar tightening and ache grows between your legs.You don’t know how long you lay there in silence, knowing his eyes are on you, knowing he’s studying you, knowing your private and secret skin is exposed and he’s recording it, capturing it on paper. 

Your mind wanders in the silence, though your thoughts never strayed from your husband. Last night had been eye opening, and while you had been nervous and unsure about what to expect as he slipped into the sheets next to you, his body had felt warm and his touch had been soft and soothing as he stroked your hair until you slept. And even in your slumber you couldn’t escape his influence; he had invaded your dreams last night and his voice still echoes in your mind:

My sweet young wife…

Do you have any notion of how delightfully sinful you look, my love?

I know what you need…

Child, you are most satisfactory…

Good girl…

A moan escapes your lips and you long to draw your thighs together, or to reach between your legs like he taught you to. You bite your lip and press your face deeper into the pillows, but you can’t stop the slight shifting of your hips as your body seeks friction to ease your need.

“Be still, child,” Sherlock reprimands, but his voice is gentle and you think you can detect amusement in his tone. “Your form is exquisite.”

“Thank you, Sir,” you say shyly. Heat blooms from deep in your gut and your body warms with both desire and embarrassment. You want to cover your body; you hadn’t wanted to sleep naked in the first place, but Sherlock had been insistent and you didn’t dare argue with him.

He takes a deep breath, “Did you sleep well, child?”

“Yes Sir, thank you,” you say, “And yourself?”

“Yes quite well,” he says, matter of factly, “You are an agreeable bed partner. I was going to have us in separate rooms, but perhaps I should rethink that. Done.” 

There is a noise and shuffling, the papers rustle and the chair creaks. Then the bed dips and Sherlock’s body aligns with yours. You flinch at the unexpected touch of his bare skin against yours, the heat of his warm surprisingly hairy chest against your back, and the thicket encircling his manhood as it tickles your bottom.

“Would you like that, my love?” Sherlock asks, his voice is husky and his breath tickles your ear. Gooseflesh breaks across your arms and you whine softly as he chuckles. “Would you like to spend each night in my bed?”

You lick your lips and swallow to clear your throat, “If it pleases you, Sir.”

His lips skim over your neck as he presses his nose into your skin and breathes deeply before his voice roughly vibrates in his as he exhales. 

“It does. You’re quite the exquisite creature, soft, smooth,” his hand slides over the curve of your bottom and he parts your folds with the tip of his deft finger, “swollen and wet. Always so eager for me, aren’t you, my love?”

“Sherlock,” you whine softly, “Sir… I ache.”

He hums and the short reverberation of his baritone echoes in his chest and it sends jolts of electric energy through your body. “Do you, child?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Where?” he asks, cupping your cunt, easily covering your slit with his large hand. “Here?” he suggests with amusement.

“Everywhere,” you say, petulantly, unable to stop your hips from rocking or biting back a moan as you feel his palm slide easily over you.

Sherlock chuckles softly and tsked mockingly, “My poor little wife,” the bed dips again as he moves, “so lustful and needy.”

You turn your head towards him as the weight of your husband crushes you for the first time. He’s heavy as he lays in your back, but there’s a comfort in it, and you arch your spine and lift your hips to meet him, craving more of his heat. 

He hums again, his breath licks at your neck and his lips brush your skin as he speaks, “Even barely awake, your body knows what to do. You’re so responsive, it's delightfully fascinating.”

“Sir… please…” 

“What is it you beg for my love?” he asks with a growing amusement.

“I don’t know,” you cry, frustrated. 

You feel the mattress shift beneath you as Sherlock moves again and lays his head on the pillow beside yours. His hand continues its slow exploration, tracing the path of your spine with his thumb.

“Come, child. You must recognise the feelings within you by now. Your skin is hot and fevered, your breath is rapid and shallow, your pupils are dilated,” his fingers slide swiftly over your slick centre and you moan, “and you are aroused. Tell your husband what you need.”

Shame floods you as Sherlock meets your gaze. Wanton indeed. But as you look into his blue eyes, you notice his pupils are blown wide, his breathing has quickened, perhaps he is aroused too. You shake your head, he’s a man, he’s supposed to feel those things. You aren’t supposed to like the way you’re feeling, you aren’t supposed to want to touch yourself, or him.

He brings his hand to your jaw and his thumb strokes at your cheek. “What do you need, my love?” he repeats his question. There’s a seriousness to his tone now, the gentle mocking of his earlier teasing seems to have disappeared.

“I…” you lick your lips, “I need to touch myself.”

Sherlocks lips rose into a brief smile. “Good girl,” he praises as he kisses you between your brows. You sigh with relief and move your hand between your legs but he catches your wrist, “I did not say that you could…” 

“Sir,” you whimper, “please.”

He chuckles softly, “You have not been even been fucked yet and already your cunt is a greedy, insatiable little thing. You’re so captivating…”

“Sir,” you repeat, softer and your lower lip quivers as you pout.

Sherlocks thumb caresses your lip gently and his voice lowers into a gravelly whisper, “Would you like me to kiss you?” 

His question is unexpected but not unwanted. Except for a swift brush of his lips at the ceremony, Sherlock has never indicated a desire to kiss you in any way that one expects between lovers and you would like to know how that feels. 

You nod and he brings his mouth close to yours, “I’m going to kiss you here, my love,” his fingers slide over your centre and you moan from his touch. “Such a pretty, young cunt, so wet and delicious.”

“Like… Like I did to you?” you ask hesitantly.

“Yes. You want me please me don’t you child? You want to make your husband happy? I want to make your cunt weep for me, will you be a good girl and do that for your husband?”

He’s already making his way down your belly, his tongue slipping between his teeth leaving a wet trail that turns cold in the morning air and makes you shiver. 

“Yes Sir,” you say softly and apprehensively, “Will it hurt?”

Sherlock smiles as he spreads your thighs and settles between your legs. “No, my love,” he says, “It will feel like it does when you touch yourself, only better.”

“How could anything feel better than that?” you ask in surprise.

Sherlock laughs, “You’re so charming, child. Spread your labia for me, show off your pretty cunt for your husband.”

You bite your lip at his obscenity, but you can’t stop your hips from rolling and a moan hurtle up your throat. 

“Show me,” he repeats as your trembling hand moves between your legs. You’re so wet, it's not easy to hold onto your labia, and they feel so puffy and swollen. “Oh my love, look at that,” his eyes lift to yours and you barely breathe, “your cunt is immaculate,” his lip curls into a smirk, as he runs his finger over your folds, “but it will be such a mess by the time I make you mine. I will make such a mess of you.”

You don’t know what that means, what any of it means, but the way his voice lowers and the heat in his eyes makes you want it too. You stop breathing, frozen as he continues his study of your most private place. You can’t decide how you feel, you’re scared, ashamed, curious, but most of all desperate for him to douse the blazing inferno you feel between your legs.

Sherlock groans as his fingers brush your clit and your heels dig into the mattress. Your whole being is throbbing with need and your empty core clenches with desire. His finger slides lower over your centre and he hums as he sheaths his long finger inside your heat. You gasp and your hips roll as your desperation reaches a fever pitch.

“Sir!” you cry, “I… I need…”

“Shhh, my love,” Sherlock soothes as he kisses your thigh, “I know what you need. Relax, child, this will feel good, I swear it.”

A rush of hot air blows over your clit, followed by a warm velvety roughness that makes your senses leave you completely. You become wild, untamed, desperate for more as your hips begin a most extraordinary grinding against your husband's tongue. He lays an arm across your belly, holding you still as he laps at your hidden nub and his throat rumbles with hums of pleasure.

Incoherent mumbled words spill from your lips, you beg, you cry, you blaspheme, you question how anything can feel so good and not be wicked. But this was between man and wife, it can’t be wrong can it? 

Your head thrashes against the pillow as the tension in your gut tightens and your body begins to tremble. Your thighs quake as the pressure grows tighter far more intensely than it ever felt by your own hand. You look down between your legs and see Sherlock’s fevered gaze, his colbalt eyes burn with profane zeal.You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to observe the sinful tableau a moment longer and you wish you could cover your ears so you do not hear the sound of his fingers as they pump in and out of your sopping core.

“Don’t fight it,” Sherlock mumbles into your wet skin, “I want to taste your release. Be a good girl, be a good wife and give me what I want.”

“I can’t,” you sob as sweat breaks across your brow.

“You can,” he assures you, kissing you gently on your clit, “you’re so close, I can feel it. Let go, my love. Be good for me like you always are.”

You nod, “I want to be a good wife.”

“Then give me what I want, my love.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth raises in a small smile as he buries his face into you again. His touch possesses you so completely as every muscle in your body becomes taut and the heat that brews within you becomes too much.

“Sherlock!” you call as the strained tension suddenly snaps. Contractions grip your core and as waves of bliss ride rip you apart until a euphoric warmth envelops your entire being.

You lay dazed, basking in the afterglow as Sherlocks body covers yours. You giggle at the feel of his hairy chest pressing against your breasts. The back of his fingers caress your cheek and you gasp as his lips softly brush against yours.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, “so beautiful, so pure, yet so wanton. My perfect wife.” 

He kisses you, firmly this time, as his tongue sweeps across your parted lips and slips between them. You can taste yourself as he licks at you and shame rises as you don’t shy away, instead you suck softly on his tongue. He moans into your mouth as something hard, yet silky presses at your entrance.

“What…?” 

You pull away from his kiss and feel pressure against your core. With wide eyes you stare at Sherlock as his forearm holds your shoulders down. You inhale sharply with a yelp and push him away, but his other hand holds your hips.

“Hush now, child,” he soothes, his voice hoarse with desire, “It will only hurt a moment.”

“I’m scared,” you confess with a quivering voice.

You expect him to dismiss your concerns like he always has before, but this time his brows raise in a look you can’t quite read. He opens his mouth then shuts it again, licks his lips and tries again.

“Have I not been gentle with you, my love?” Sherlock asks, “Have I not shown you patience and care? Have I not sought your pleasure as much as my own?”

“You have, Sir,” you agree.

A tear escapes your eye as you try to wrestle with your fear. Ever since you first heard about relations between married couples, you had been told that it was unpleasant, that it should be endured as best one can. But Sherlock is right, nothing so far has been horrible or intolerable. In fact, everything, even shamefully taking him into your mouth has been surprisingly pleasing.

You swallow hard, ignoring the lump in your throat as much as you can, and you ask softly, “What do I have to do?”

“Give yourself to me as promised,” he says gently, “give yourself to me as my wife and I will give myself to you as your husband.”

You nod, unsure if you can speak.

“There’s my good girl.” Sherlock removes his arm from your chest and wipes at the tears on your temples. “Don’t cry, my love. I can make it feel good, I swear it.”

He gathers your hands in one of his and holds them above your head. His fingers dig into your hip as he pins you down, and pushes his swollen head into your virginal centre.

A sweet, yet painful stretch and an overwhelming sensation of fullness washes over you. A moan grows deep in your belly and hurtles up your throat as your satiny walls yield to Sherlock’s ingress. 

“Fuck,” you hiss through clenched teeth. You squeeze your eyes shut in confusion, unable to comprehend what you were feeling. Nothing you had been told ever would have suggested that the pain would actually feel good. You open your legs wider beneath your husband and your back arches as his body meets yours.

“Look at me,” Sherlock’s groans. You open your eyes and look into his, “You were made for me, my love,” he cups the back of your head and lifts so you see where you are joined. You moan at the sight of him, of you, of the way you’re stretched obscenely around his profane sex. “Look at how well you take me, look at how good you are for me.”

You squirm beneath him, his words seem unholy, and yet they make you soar. You meet his eyes as he moves, his hips drawing back making you feel achingly empty until he fills you again and you fall back into the bed.

When he moves again, you move against him, countering his actions. “Look at you move,” Sherlock grunts, “Dear God, you fuck better than a whore.”

His words shouldn’t arouse you, yet they do and you feel yourself tightening, squeezing his cock as you approach another release.

“Your cunt is so tight and all mine,” he says thickly, breathlessly, “my own little hedonistic, virgin whore.” He drives harder, your bodies slap against each other in lewd, wet collisions.

Your body tightens and your blood burns like kerosene in your veins. You gasp for air, unable to catch your breath, unable to stop moving as you spiral out of control.

“Sherlock, I… I’m…”

���Come for me, my love,” Sherlock urges, “I’m close. I’m close to filling you with my seed. Fill you up, right here and you will give me an heir.” He presses against your belly and you cry out as the pressure becomes almost intolerable and you think you will die if you don’t get your release.

Crying out wordlessly you shatter around him. Sherlock doesn't stop as you come, but his rhythm falters as he swells within your contracting walls. You cry out in surprise as he seems to stretch you further and he lets out a guttural groan. His body tenses, his muscles bulge, and sweat drips from his brow, before he falls, exhausted and sated at your side. 

“My love,” he murmurs as his arms wrap around you, pulling you close to his chest. Despite feeling hot, covered with sweat, and feeling sticky between your legs, you want to be close to him. You press gentle kisses into his shoulder and neck, you can’t explain the urge you feel to kiss him, but he seems to enjoy the attention, humming and stroking your back in response.

The surge of affection you feel for Sherlock is a surprise. You thought you had feelings for him before, you were certainly fond of him and found him quite attractive, but the emotions you feel now make you feel as if you are falling, but you are not afraid as you know he is there to catch you as you land.

Although, you’re still confused. Nobody told you that you would feel this way, that despite the growing achiness and numbness between your legs, the loss of your maidenhood was… extraordinary. You wonder if it will always feel this good? From what your mother told you, it had never felt good for her, and suddenly her constant dourness and general crabbiness makes sense.

“What is the matter, child?” Sherlock's voice brings you back from your remunerations. He presses his thumb between your furrowed brows, seemingly wishing to soothe away the worries that caused it. You consciously relax your face for him and he removes his thumb, replacing it with a tender kiss. “You aren’t going to cry again are you? Surely it was not so terrible.”

“It was not, Sir,” you assure him, “but that is what confuses me. If it feels like that, why do women hate it so?”

Sherlock chuckles softly, “Some women don’t, but many do. It is not always the fault of the women though. In fact, it is usually the man who does not take the time to make it enjoyable and thus it can be an awfully painful experience.”

“Why don’t some men take the time?” you ask.

“Many reasons,” he answers patiently, “lack of knowledge in some cases, lack of care in others.”

“Why do you care?”

Sherlock hums, “It is far more enjoyable for me to see you writhe uncontrollable in lust than in pain, my love,” he smiles, “In the end, your pleasure is something I control, something I gave you, something I taught you. And in that respect it makes me a proud man.”

Suddenly your belly gives a low growl and you gasp in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Sir,” you say, mortified at your body's obvious display of greed.

Sherlock laughs, “It is no surprise you are hungry, child.” He lays another kiss on your forehead before he gets up and makes his way to the table where a small selection of cut fruit lay waiting. “Come. The tea has gone cold unfortunately, but I shall ring for more. You must eat, and once you do, I believe we should continue… your tuition.”

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

What Happens After Death

Sherlock x wife!reader

Others Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Sherlock comes home after faking his death and finds an extra person in his house, but they aren’t entirely unwelcome.

Warnings: Sherlock’s “death”, fluff

WC: 1.5k

Minors DNI

The streets of London were quiet as a lone man stood outside the door to a house. The gold numbers on the black door perfectly reflecting the yellow street lamps. The 221 glared at him, inviting him to come in while saying ‘keep out’ at the same time.

Sherlock sighed, cursing his own emotions as he trudged up the creaky stairs, not bothering to remain silent in case he woke Mrs. Hudson. He slowly opened the door to his flat, and was overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume. That delectable vanilla and macadamia he had always adored in secret.

Though there was another scent mixed in, almost milky, a slightly sour scent that made him wrinkle his nose. He strained his ears, trying to listen out for her breathing, creeping further into the hall, to their bedroom. Her snores were soft, as they always had been but now, there was someone else with her, another breathing pattern that couldn’t have been hers.

His fury grew. Did she move on? Was there another man in their marriage bed? Sherlock knew this anger was dangerous but she made him weak. Made him feel things he should’ve never been able to. She was always too good to him. Too forgiving. He supposed that’s what he needed, someone to stand by him, to take care of him, someone with the patience of a fucking saint.

A part of him wanted to fling open that chipped wood, to catch her in the act of sleeping in someone else’s arms. But instead, the great Sherlock Holmes slowly opened the door, as he had done thousands of times before when he crept into bed long after his lover had fallen asleep.

And there she was, her skin almost glowing in the moonlight. Her chest, where he had spent many nights worshipping, was rising and falling with her breaths, her face serene. But where he expected to see a lover laying on the fatty tissue of her breasts, was an infant, no more than a year and some months, clutching desperately to her, fussing slightly.

Y/N moved in her sleep, as if sensing the baby’s distress, placing her hand on its small back and rubbing little circles till they settled once more.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock’s mind was blank. The child was beautiful, it had her perfect s/c skin, but everything else was him. Through the astronomical odds, it was his hair on its little head, his cheekbones poking through the baby fat, his eyebrows which were currently scrunched up as they roused from sleep once more, his lips. He couldn’t breathe. They were beautiful.

Ever so carefully, his slender fingers reached out, trembling slightly, and brushed a black curl away from their face. They squirmed, the movement threatening to wake their mother. He wrapped his hands around them and lifted, immediately bringing them to his chest, quickly smoothing down the shirt that covered their onesie. London was quite cold, especially in old buildings like his. The baby whined but surprisingly settled back to sleep.

Sherlock couldn’t move. In the span of five minutes his whole world had shifted. Something inside him snapped. He didn’t realise he was crying until he felt the wetness from his tears drip down his chin. He held them closer, the heat from their skin melting the last bits of ice in his heart.

“I thought it was some kind of cruel joke that I carried him around for nine months but he looks identical to you.” Her voice broke him from his trance. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed that the dawn had broken and the small room was slowly being lit up. His wife was leaning against their headboard, eyes still swollen from sleep.

“W-what’s his name?” His voice shook with fresh tears. “William John Y/L/N-Holmes.” He chuckled. “I always hated my first name, you know that.” She rose from the bed. “Yeah but I like it and I’m the wife so what I say goes. Now come on, we need to have a talk.” Y/N took his son from his arms and laid him back down in the middle of the covers, making sure he was snug before taking her husband’s hand and leaving.

The tea in front of the pair was steaming, perfectly made as it always was. “So are you going to tell me why you led me to believe that you’ve been dead for the past two years?” Her voice was flat but not cruel, it was never cruel when she spoke to him. “I had to, it was the only way to take down Moriarty’s web.” He offered no other explanation. “And that involved faking your own death? Breaking my heart?”

“Sherlock, all I needed was one word that you were still alive. I felt like I died that day, the only thing that kept me going was that baby in there.” “I couldn’t tell you. If you weren’t mourning, then people would’ve figured it out.” The detective argued. “I cried for days, weeks. You vowed to me that you would never make me cry. You broke that promise.”

Y/N sighed and walked around the little coffee table to her husband’s chair, taking his face in her hands. “I want to punch you so bad right now for all the pain that you have caused to not only me, but to your family. Enola was destroyed, so was John. But right now I just need to kiss you.” Big blue eyes looked up at her before she bent over and, for the first time in two years, Sherlock’s lips met hers, thick arms wrapping around her soft waist and pulling her into his lap.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered against her lips, letting his forehead rest against hers. “I knew what I was getting into when we married, Sherlock. I just missed you so much.” “I’ll never leave you two again. I need to be here with you and William. I should’ve known you were pregnant. I don’t know why I didn’t.” “My love, you were never good with women’s issues.” She laughed and he realised how much he missed that sound.

“I wish there had been another way.” Hands tangled in his curls, she lathered kisses to his face, his eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to have a lot to make up to me my love. That includes letting me sleep while you deal with your son crying in the middle of the night.” Sherlock chuckled. “Anything you need.” “The best thing you can do now, is come to bed with me, and in the morning, well later this morning, you’ll talk to Enola and John to clear everything up.”

“Then let’s go to bed.” Just like so many times before, he scooped her into his arms, and carried her across the room, striding back to their bed.

William was just waking up, obviously displeased at being left alone. Sherlock’s blue eyes stared back up at him, fat tears beginning to brew behind them, bottom lip jutting out and trembling as he made slight whines at the sight of his parents. Y/N wiggled from her husband's arms in order to crawl back onto the bed, picking the baby up to comfort him.

“Take off your shirt.” “My love, if you wanted to have me, we should probably put William somewhere else.” He smirked, flashing those pearly whites. She huffed, like she was annoyed, but an amused smile betrayed her true thoughts. “He likes skin on skin.” Shuffling below the thick duvet, Williams' sleepwear was taken off and placed to the side as Sherlock pulled off his vest and white button-up, slipping in next to his family.

“Here we are.” Y/N turned her body so that Sherlock’s big hands lifted his son to his own chest, savouring his warmth, inhaling the baby smell that was still so prominent, his large nose burying in the boy’s soft curls as they settled. “Mama.” He murmured, little voice breaking the serenity of the morning. Y/N put one hand on their son’s back, stroking his soft skin while propping herself up on the other. William’s eyes shut and his breaths turned into little snores.

“Thank you.” The detective whispered. “What for love?” “For staying. For him. I never deserved this much kindness. You had every right to leave but you didn’t.” “Love makes people do crazy things, Sherl. And through all of this, I love you, more than anything.”

“I love you too.” A strong arm wrapped around her so Y/N could lay on his chest, right next to William. And right then, the world was at peace with everything Sherlock loved wrapped up safely in his arms, away from the horrors of his life. “I love you too.” He whispered once more into the morning light, falling into a restful sleep, his mind calm.

This was a better homecoming than he could have ever imagined.

Taglist

@im-a-slut-for-fluff

[classickook]

the feeling is mutual | sherlock holmes

pairing: sherlock holmes x fem!reader

summary: you've been harboring a crush on sherlock for quite some time now but are determined to keep it a secret for as long as you can. foolish of you to think he wouldn't figure it out... and maybe he’ll even return your sentiment? (based off this request by anon.)

warnings: unrequited love, pining, slight angst with fluff, kissing, like one curse word?

word count: 3.4k

a/n: i've been staring at this for way too long so i'm just gonna post it and hope for the best lol

“excuse me!” you shout after being shoved by some passerby on the sidewalk and earning a combat boot to your foot where a bruise is now undoubtedly forming already, nearly dropping your tray of coffees in the process. baker street was busy as usual: people running late for work, gray suits blurring past you; children skipping along with their colorful backpacks bouncing with each step; potential clients lining up just outside 221b and wrapping around the side of the building.

you squeeze past an arguing couple, both spewing nasty remarks that you wouldn’t dare repeat, and sneak inside. you lean against the closed door and huff out a relieved sigh, thankful to be tucked away from all the chaos.

“good morning, mrs. hudson!” you greet cheerfully, hearing an equally pleasant ‘good morning, dear!’ before climbing up the stairs with a slight limp.

221b is messy as usual—you spot a half-eaten apple, crinkled newspapers with coffee stains, a used tea bag, and old receipts that cover the main table’s surface. you shuffle inside the room, kicking aside a skull sat in the middle of the floor. the fact that it looks eerily realistic does not go unnoticed by you, and you suppress a shiver at the thought of where sherlock must have acquired one. sometimes ignorance is bliss when it comes to him.

“good morning, boys,” you announce to the room, setting down the cardboard tray of coffees—one for you, one for john, and one for sherlock, each carefully marked with their specific orders—and a small paper bag of pastries that you couldn’t pass up as you often allowed yourself a treat from time to time to assuage your sweet tooth.

john greets you from his usual armchair, chin resting in his fist as he stares at the television screen, scanning the channels for updated news stories and potential cases that your little team could get involved in.

“where’s sherlock?” you ask carefully, forcing indifference into your tone in the hopes that you don’t sound too curious or enthusiastic to see the consulting detective.

you had been harboring a crush on the consulting detective for a couple of months now, but you haven’t dared bring it up in case he doesn’t return your feelings. you highly doubt he would, or could, for that matter. he doesn’t ‘do’ relationships or sentiment, as he repeatedly claimed to you and john. he was always too focused on his work and stayed overly busy so that something so tedious as a romantic relationship had no room in his life. well, there was nothing wrong with falling in love, you thought. you had admired it ever since you were young, but now clearly wasn’t your time for love and sherlock holmes clearly wasn’t the one for you. you were destined to keep this little school girl crush of yours a secret until it extinguished like a candle snuffed out, with only a faint whisper of smoke lingering behind to indicate any sort of flame burned in the first place.

just then, sherlock appears from his bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and waltzing into the main room until he stops short when he sees you. “you’re favoring your left foot.”

“pardon?”

he steps closer, peering down at the foot in question. “there’s an outline of an outsole on the upper half of your shoe and you’re currently putting more weight on your right side than your left when normally it’s the other way around.”

“oh, right,” you say, feeling a bit flushed at being on the receiving end of sherlock’s deduction process. “just some idiot outside who wasn’t watching where he was going and stepped on my foot. it’s probably just bruised or something.”

blue eyes meet yours and you almost miss the flash of concern that cross over his features. “john,” sherlock says without turning away from you, “you’re a doctor—”

“excellent observation, mr. holmes! you know, you should look into detective work, you have a real knack for it,” john shouts from the living room.

“—take a look at her foot, won’t you?”

you unconsciously step back. “oh, no. really, i’m all right. it’s nothing,” you insist but sherlock interrupts you.

“honestly, y/n. let him take a quick look, just to make sure nothing’s broken.”

nodding, you limp into the living room, sherlock’s hand hovering behind your back for support, as you take a seat in his assigned chair. john inspects your foot, as requested, gently removing your shoe and calling for some bandages and ointment from sherlock, and soon enough, your foot is stabilized, wrapped, and returned to your shoe as if nothing ever happened.

“not to worry, y/n,” john says. “looks like it’s just a slight sprain, nothing to be too concerned about. just be sure to keep it bandaged and try not to walk on it too much. you should be fine in a week or so.” he offers you a comforting smile and pats your knee gently before standing. “i’m just going to run out real quick. mary rang,” he says, pointing to his cell phone. “be back in a bit.”

you and sherlock watch as he exits the flat, just the two of you alone now.

“does it hurt?”

your gaze drifts over to where sherlock is standing near the door. “just a little, but i’ll be fine. thank you,” you offer a genuine smile at his concern.

he nods. “all right. let me know if you need anything.” he grabs his coffee from the tray and picks up yours as well, setting it carefully on the side table next to you along with the bag of pastries.

“oh.” you remember that you’re sitting in sherlock’s armchair and begin to rise from the cushions. “you probably want to sit here—”

sherlock swiftly returns to your side, gently pushing down on your shoulders until you’re sitting comfortably back in the chair. “no, no. you need to rest, stay here as long as you like. i’ll just be over there,” he says, indicating the couch alongside the wall. “stay,” he repeats in a firm tone, leaving no room for argument.

“okay.”

he stays next to you long enough to ensure that you won’t try getting back up again, and walks over to the couch, flipping through a stack of cases lestrade had offered him the other day, but you notice out of the corner of your eye that his gaze is still on you.

two weeks later and your foot is completely healed. you’re back to feeling normal, running through london and tagging along behind john and sherlock to help with pending investigations. you’re thankful to be up and moving again as you were starting to feel a bit stir-crazy not being able to get around on your own.

john had insisted that a minor sprain wasn’t anything to be overly concerned about, but sherlock had stayed glued to your side over the past two weeks, barely letting you lift a finger so as not to disturb your foot’s healing process. why the world-famous sherlock holmes thought you changing the television channel via remote—still seated in his armchair, no less—would cause any harm to your lower extremities was beyond you. you were just pleased to be out of the flat, enjoying the fresh air and getting yourself a cup of tea down the street, an extra thermos of tea tucked under your arm to bring back to sherlock.

as you make your way up the stairs, mrs. hudson pops her head out from around the corner and stops you.

“oh, y/n! i thought i heard you come in.”

“hi, mrs. hudson,” you greet kindly when she suddenly tugs on your wrist and ushers you back down the stairs and into her small kitchen, surprisingly strong for someone her age and size. you’re pushed into one of the wooden chairs, worn cushion cast astray from the abrupt motion, before she seats herself across from you.

“now, dear,” she begins. “there’s something i’ve been meaning to tell you and i think now is the perfect time.”

“tell me what?” you question.

“i’ve noticed you’ve been spending more time around here than usual—” she holds up a hand as you start to interject. “not that i mind, of course! it’s always lovely to see your smiling face around here, but i must say that you’ve done a great deal of good for sherlock.”

“i have?”

“very much so. i think you’d be the perfect match for him, dear,” mrs. hudson says warmly. “you always keep him in check more than any of us ever could. and he seems a lot happier whenever you’re around,” she adds with a wink.

“r-really? i mean, we’re not, like, together or anything—” much to your dismay, you think to yourself.

“oh yes! it’s so rare to see that man smile, but he does it an awful lot when you stop by. makes your visits here all the more worthwhile. and if you must know…” she leans in close to you in a conspiratorial whisper, “he often talks about you.”

“sherlock talks about me?”

she pats your hand and smiles. “he sure does,” and with that, she gets up from the table and continues preparing dinner, the monotonous rhythm of chopping vegetables echoing throughout the small room.

you shakily rise to your feet, confused and overwhelmed by mrs. hudson’s admission, and numbly walk back up the stairs to sherlock’s flat. although, now you’re wondering if you should even continue your original plan of meeting him today. you’re reminded of the tea you’d picked up for him, tucked snuggly beneath your arm, exuding warmth as the familiar scent of earl grey reaches your nose.

sighing to yourself, you decide to just drop off the tea so it doesn’t go to waste, and then return to your own flat… just long enough to process this new information.

you make it halfway up the stairs when you hear sherlock’s voice inside his flat, discussing some murder case or another with john, when you lose every ounce of courage left in your body and fly back down the staircase, tea be damned.

now is not the time for you to confront sherlock about what mrs. hudson said, or even to be in the same room as him or look at him… it’s all too much. the possibility that sherlock may return your sentiment is something you don’t know how to handle. sherlock… sentiment…? there’s no way, you chide yourself. mrs. hudson must have been mistaken or maybe she was simply giving herself a laugh, seeing your reaction to hearing that your crush may like you back. how ridiculous, you think to yourself.

you decide right then and there that you most certainly will not be visiting sherlock anytime soon. maybe you’ll tell him that you’re sick and that you don’t want to risk infecting anyone—the common cold has been spreading about recently, so it wouldn’t be too unbelievable. he probably wouldn’t even notice your missing presence since he’s been so busy lately. yes, that’s what you’ll do.confident in your decision, you continue on your path before you can change your mind. shoving the front door open, you practically tumble out onto the sidewalk in your haste, when you hear a familiar voice call out your name from deep inside the apartment building. you almost allow yourself to stop and turn back, but resolutely close the door behind you and make your way down baker street.

“there’s something you’re not telling me.”

you’re shaken out of your train of thought by sherlock’s sudden question. “what are you talking about?” you ask.

mrs. hudson had asked you to stop by the market to pick up a few things for her, stating that ‘dinner would be ruined’ if she didn’t get her hands on some special ingredient or another. although, now that you’re here, standing in the middle of sherlock’s living room, you finally realize that this was just her sly attempt at getting you to fess up to sherlock. sneaky woman…

“i take pride in my skills of deduction and they haven’t failed me yet,” sherlock begins thoughtfully, “but there’s something about you that i can’t quite figure out, and frankly, it’s driving me out of my mind.” he pauses as if steeling himself for his next words. “i know i’m not the best at understanding human emotions, but i was under the impression that you have feelings for me.”

the room feels like it’s spinning as the air closes in around you. your stomach plunges to your feet and you wish you could sink right into the floor. “w-what?”

“am i wrong, y/n?”

he’s watching you closely, blue eyes swimming with questions that you’re not sure how to answer.

“i don’t know what you’re talking abo—”

“you’ve been acting different lately,” he interrupts. “you barely speak to me, i only see you occasionally in passing and you haven’t joined john and i on cases in well over a week. what’s going on?”

you feel the color drain from your face. you were hoping that your attempts at gradually distancing yourself from him—all efforts to hide the fact that you’re desperately in love with him—would go unnoticed. he’s a busy man, what with being the only consulting detective in the nation and all, certainly being in high demand at scotland yard or with individual clients sprinkled throughout the city, and you thought he would have gotten caught up in cases and other concerns that he would’ve brushed your suspicious behaviors aside. well, clearly your plans of pulling away were an utter failure and now he was expecting you to explain yourself.

you didn’t know where to look, anxious eyes flitting across the room and landing on the stupid skull sitting atop the shelf above the fireplace, recently moved from its previous spot on the floor. you had told him a million times that it gave you the creeps, but he insisted on keeping it around, if only to see you jump in shock each time he held it out to you, using it as his own form of ventriloquy.

your thoughts are interrupted as sherlock enters your peripheral, taking your hands in his and running his thumbs soothingly over your knuckles. you realize you’d been fidgeting with your fingers—a nervous habit that popped up from time to time.

sherlock pulls you toward him, actions slow and careful so as not to frighten you enough that you bolt out the door and his questions remain unanswered. “it’s all right,” he says, voice deep and warm like honey, all traces of his detective mode long gone, replaced now by concern for you. “you’ve been ignoring me,” he states gently, almost sad. “i’d like you to tell me why.”

“what? no,” you say too quickly, all attempts at nonchalance failing to the point where not even you believe the words coming out of your mouth.

he takes a step closer, eyes searching your features. “the response time of your answer indicates that you’re lying. furthermore, your blinking patterns are abnormally rapid and it appears that you can’t meet my eyes.” he leans down so that you’re at eye level with him and your heart thuds loudly in your chest at his close proximity. “i’d like to know why you’re lying to me, y/n,” he says quietly.

you swallow. “i’m not—i’m not lying.” but his gaze is so intense, so precise, that you feel trapped, like he sees you—all of you, everything you’ve been keeping hidden beneath the surface. you should’ve known better than to think that the legendary sherlock holmes would never find out about your crush on him.

his grasp on your hands tightens ever so slightly and his eyes plead with you, begging you to tell the truth… the truth that he undoubtedly knows without you having to say anything. no, it seems as though your actions over the past couple of weeks have spoken enough for you.

“please stop deluding yourself, y/n. i know that you have feelings for me,” he admits. your face feels hot and you’re suddenly wishing you could melt straight into the earth’s core. he continues as if your world wasn’t crumbling down around you, “and if you would have paid any attention over the past few months, you would have realized that your feelings did not go unreciprocated. in fact, i’m growing tired of you ignoring my advances when it’s so clear that—”

everything comes to a screeching halt. “wait a minute… what advances?”

“what do you mean ‘what advances’? i thought it was obvious that i’m trying to… what do they refer to it nowadays…” he snaps his fingers, trying to think of the word, “courting, is it? no, that’s too old-fashioned. flirting? oh, how juvenile…” sherlock continues his train of thought while you stand completely still, barely breathing as realization washes over you.

“i’ve been trying, however terribly, to court you, y/n.” he looks off to the side, deep in thought. “maybe i’ve lost my touch,” he mutters to himself.

“i-i didn’t… i had no idea. i mean, i do—i do have feelings for you. i just thought that…” you’re fumbling over your words like an idiot, face burning in embarrassment.

“thought that what?”

“huh?” you say stupidly.

“you just thought that… what?” he repeats.

“i didn’t think that you… did sentiment… and certainly not for someone like me.”

“it seems that i’ve warmed up to the idea of sentiment, thanks to a certain someone,” he says with a wink. “and by ‘someone like you,’ are you implying that i couldn’t possibly fall for you, beautiful creature that you are?”

you nod, blush rising up your cheeks.

“do you honestly believe i think so little of you?”

“well… i mean, you’re—you’re the sherlock holmes.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means that you’re you and i’m me.”

“how preposterous,” he admonishes you. “you are undoubtedly the best thing that has ever happened to me, and i do mean that in every sense of the word. ever since you knocked on my door, offering your case to us and barging into my world—thank god for that, by the way—i have been taken by you completely. so please, darling, i am pleading with you that you do not depreciate yourself like this. i am honored to have met you and i would consider it a privilege to be loved by you… if you’ll have me,” he adds timidly.

you offer him a watery smile, utterly touched at such kind words, especially coming from him. never in a million years would you have imagined this outcome, instead having thought up countless horror stories should your secret ever come out, but you certainly weren’t complaining now.

the aftershocks of his confession begin to settle and your heart clenches painfully as you become aware of something.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

sherlock’s eyes widen in shock. “what? what could you possibly be sorry for?”

“you liked me this whole time,” you say quietly. “and i had no idea.”

“that’s quite all right, my dear.” he smiles at you. “i think we were both a little slow to catch on,” he says, amusement lacing his tone.

“but—” your words are muffled as sherlock’s lips meet yours, warm hands sliding under your jaw and holding you carefully, reverently, as if he’s afraid he might break you. he tilts your head back to deepen the kiss, desire coating his tongue as it brushes across yours in gentle strokes.

a shaky exhale passes your swollen lips as he draws back marginally, eyes crinkling at the corners upon seeing you so affected. he brings your hands up to rest on his chest and you feel his heartbeat racing beneath his shirt, not unlike how yours is hammering wildly against your ribcage. “do you understand now?” he asks you, voice like rich velvet. “i love you, y/n.”

you feel a grin pull at your cheeks and you feel happy—happier than you’ve felt in a long time. “i love you, too,” you say, relief rushing over you at finally admitting the words that had been caged inside you for far too long. “i love you so much, sherlock.” his mouth descends on yours again and you can feel the smile in his kiss.

the two of you continue for who knows how long, far too wrapped up in each other to realize that john and mrs. hudson are standing just outside the door, both donning equally smug smiles at the events unfolding inside 221b.

"you owe me twenty quid," mrs. hudson whispers to john, holding out her open palm.

[daydreamtofiction]

Sublime Dexterity II // BBC Sherlock

Part One | Masterlist | Requests are Open

Summary: It’s been weeks since the night Sherlock Holmes gave you your first impromptu violin lesson, and you haven’t stopped thinking about those hands since. Now, you’re fed up of waiting for him to walk through that door again, so you decide it’s time to pay your virtuoso a visit. (Sherlock x Reader)

Word Count: 6.5K

Warnings: Smut, mild bad language, masturbation (self, giving & receiving), oral sex (giving & receiving), unprotected sex, size kink(?), bottoming out, praise, overstimulation, readers must be 18+

A/N: I received so many requests for a part two of this fic that I just can’t accredit it to one specific request. So instead I’ve accumulated all the suggestions/asks I received and put them all into this piece in some way or another. I also incorporated another request I received for a smut piece where Sherlock was especially ‘well-endowed’. So to the anon that requested that one, this piece is for you too! Secondly, I just want to say I’m so unbelievably thankful for the amount of love and positive feedback part one of Sublime Dexterity received. I honestly appreciate every single like, reblog and reply so much. It truly keeps me going and makes me so excited to share more writing with you all. So thank you, and I hope you like part two just as much.

Three hundred and thirty six hours. That's how long it had been.

You worked it out on a calculator as you sat behind the counter at work, chin on fist, struggling to think of anything else besides the looming closing time; wondering - as you had done every day for the past two weeks - if today would be the day Sherlock Holmes walked back through that door.

At first, the aloofness of his quick exit had intrigued you, excited you; the way he left you standing there without so much as a goodbye, nothing except the memory of his touch between your soaking thighs. But now, you were just plain annoyed, so frustrated that you couldn't even concentrate as you served your last customer of the day.

"Is there a returns policy on these?" he asked.

"What?" you replied, your eyes flitting over his shoulder to the door every few moments.

"Like, can I try them out in my clarinet and if I don't like them I can bring them back?"

You stared at him blankly for a moment. "It's a pack of reeds..."

"Yeah, and?"

"And you have to wet them in order to try them... with your mouth..."

"So?"

"So no, obviously you can't return something that you've soaked in your own saliva."

Your tone was a little more harsh than you'd meant it to be, but the absence of your tall, dark stranger for yet another evening had stolen every ounce of patience you had left.

You rang the customer up and waved goodbye as he trudged out the shop, packet of reeds in hand. The bell above the door rang on his way out, making you sigh in disappointment; another day, another entirely underwhelming conclusion.

You locked up and tidied around before making your way into the stock room, shutting the door behind you and leaning back against the shelves with a long, frustrated exhale. Had he really walked out that night and not given you another thought since? Simply seized the moment to show what his hands were capable of; got off on the fact that he could please you in a way no other man had ever done?

Or had this been his plan all along? To give you a taste of him, just enough to make you crave more. To leave the memory of his touch on your skin, like a bruise that wouldn't fade.

You slipped your hand down the front of your trousers and began working your fingers over the place that longed for him, throwing your head back and closing your eyes with a sigh as you remembered his deep voice in your ear, his hard length pressed against your back. You rubbed circles over your clit, letting out a soft moan as you pushed firmly against the throbbing bud, like applying pressure to a wound, though it did little to quell the ache.

You were ashamed of how many times you'd touched yourself to the thought of him. In just two weeks, you'd lay in bed almost every night and came to the memory of his fingers plunged deep inside you, his palm pressed firm to your stomach. And now, as you stood there working yourself to your own climax inside the dingy, cluttered stock room, you were sure you'd reached a new low.

You let out a moan as your orgasm rippled through you, though it paled in comparison to him, leaving you feeling flat and irritated, like a firework that failed to fully explode. You redid the button on your trousers with an annoyed huff, wondering why the hell he had to go and show you the full heights of pleasure your body was capable of. Because now, even you - who knew your body better than anyone - couldn't seem to satiate its needs.

You couldn't keep doing this, you thought as you threw on your coat and hooked your bag over your shoulder. Couldn't keep fawning over a man you barely knew, a stranger. It was a chance encounter that should remain nothing more than a memory - a wild story no one would believe even if you told them.

But even as you repeated the words in your head, there was a part of you that still didn't believe them. You wanted more. And if he wasn't willing to give you more, you needed to know why.

You punched in the code on the alarm system and stepped out into the cold London evening, burying your mouth and nose into your scarf and turning the key in the shutter. You stood waiting for it to slowly descend, glancing down the street in the direction of your flat, before turning and looking the other way; the way that would take you towards Baker Street.

"You can't," you whispered to yourself, pausing for a moment in thought. "Can you...?"

The shutter clattered against the pavement, stealing you back to reality. You crouched down and locked it in place, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath before taking off quickly down the street, refusing to look back, scared you'd change your mind.

When you arrived outside, you hovered for what felt like an eternity; climbing the steps before quickly hurrying back down, checking the address several times online to make sure you were definitely in the right place.

"For gods sake, just do it," you said sternly, forcing yourself up the steps and lifting the crooked knocker on the door.

An older woman answered the door with a kind smile, directing you upstairs without even asking your name, making you wonder just how many people came by with cases for him to solve; how many people in London had a mystery, a secret of their own.

You thanked her and climbed the stairs slowly, your heart beating heavier with every step. But as you reached the top and turned on the landing, you stopped suddenly at the sight of another man standing in the doorway of the flat. He was shorter than Sherlock, smartly dressed with greying hair combed neatly to one side.

He looked at you, then down at his watch. "It's a bit late, isn't it?"

You blinked a few times before shaking your head. "I'm sorry?"

"Is it an appointment?"

"Er, n-"

"You know, I've told him to stop making appointments for after 6pm." He walked back into the living room as he continued to speak. "I mean, I know it's not exactly a conventional job, but come on, just some semblance of normal work hours. Would that be too much to ask?" He turned around to see you still standing halfway down the landing. "Come on, you're here now, might as well sit down."

You hurried to the doorway and watched him gesture to a chair in the middle of the room, two armchairs either side of it.

"You must be John Watson," you said, walking over and sitting down. "I've read your blog, it's brilliant."

"Oh, well thank you very much."

"But I'm not here for-"

"Look, I apologise if I sound a bit snippy," he said, unintentionally cutting you off again.

"It's fine, really. I'm-"

"I'm just..." he huffed. "I was supposed to be going on a date. But now that he's arranged to meet with a client, I'm going to have to cancel, despite me reminding him about twenty times that I had other plans tonight."

"You can still go. Please go, I'm not-" You stopped speaking again. But this time, it wasn't because of John.

You sensed his presence behind you immediately, like a storm cloud after an unrelenting heatwave; dark, moody, but so unbelievably welcome. You watched John's eyes flit up to him, mouth pressed into a straight line, like he was ready to unleash hell.

"Could've told me," he said.

"Told you what?" Sherlock replied.

There was that voice again, as low and rich as you remembered. You glanced over your shoulder, taking slight pleasure in watching his face change when he saw you; his brows coming together over his eyes, jaw slackening, lips parted in shock.

"What are you doing here?" he asked quietly.

John sat up straighter. "Wait, you didn't know she was coming?"

"Why would I know she was coming?"

"Because... You... Because-" he looked at you. "You're not a client?"

"No, sorry," you said with a slight laugh. "I did try to tell you."

"Right. Well then... Who are you?"

Sherlock stepped forward quickly. "She's-"

"I'm his student," you said.

John's eyes narrowed. "Student?"

"Well, I'm hoping to be," you said, glancing up at Sherlock. "Mr Holmes gave me a very masterful violin lesson recently. I just came by to see if he'd be interested in... doing it again."

His eyes were burning into you, like the truth behind your words had lit a fire inside him. He walked around you to the black leather armchair on your right and sat down, crossing one leg over the other, his gaze never leaving you.

John stood up, gesturing towards the door. "So I can go then?"

"I'm not your keeper, John. Yes, of course you can go," Sherlock replied. "Wouldn't want to keep you from another night of riveting conversation."

He spun around and pointed at him angrily. "For the last time, Lisa is not boring."

"Sure." He gave a sarcastic smile.

John huffed, grabbing his jacket and walking out without another word.

You waited a moment, listening to his footsteps as they faded down the stairs, the sound of the front door opening and closing, until finally, there was silence. You turned to see Sherlock still looking at you, head slightly stooped, hands gripping the arms of his chair.

"This is quite stalkerish of you," he said, half-joking.

You shrugged, letting out a gentle sigh. "I suppose I got tired of waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For you to come back to the shop."

He paused for a moment, glancing up at the ceiling, as if pondering something at the back of his mind. "I don't believe I said I would come back..."

"You always come back," you whispered.

He looked over at you, a fleck of sympathy in his eyes, before clearing his throat. "Yes, well, I just haven't needed anything."

"I thought you said you liked to browse?"

He suppressed a smile, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. "I've found myself rather busy lately, haven't had the time."

"Taking clients after 6pm?" you asked with a smirk. "Yeah, Doctor Watson doesn't seem best pleased about it."

He chuckled softly to himself. "I thought it was the easiest way to stop myself."

"Stop yourself?"

"From coming back..."

"Oh." You shifted awkwardly in your seat. "Well I apologise for turning up like this then."

"No, you misunderstand me." He shook his head. "You see, I have a rather... addictive personality. So I had to keep myself busy." He paused. "Otherwise I have no doubt I would have been at that shop door every single night."

Your breath hitched. "Oh..."

You could feel your frustration dissipating, making way for relief, flattery; you could almost picture him watching the clock each day, counting down the hours until your closing time, his need for you burning like an addict craving his next fix.

"So, you want another violin lesson..." he said, fingers steepled to his mouth. Those fingers, the ones that had rubbed and stroked and curled so expertly, now pressed delicately to his lips, like a taunt.

You squeezed your thighs together, steadying your breath. "Is that something you'd be interested in?"

He shrugged. "From what I recall you were a rather fast learner. Shouldn't be too hard to teach you a few more things."

His words were dripping with their true meaning. To anyone listening in, it would have sounded innocent, perhaps even formal. But to you, it was agonising.

"Maybe I could teach you some things too," you said.

He tiled his head, glaring at you hungrily. "I'm a notoriously terrible student."

"Oh really?"

"Mm. I have a hard time... relinquishing control."

"That doesn't surprise me."

You stood up, taking off your coat and scarf and draping them over the back of your chair. You could feel his eyes on you as you walked across the room, taking his violin off the stand near the window and running your hand over it slowly.

"Come on then," you said. "Or did I come all this way for nothing?"

He dropped his head to hide a smirk before rising from his armchair, straightening out the cuffs of his shirt and running a hand through his hair. You waited with bated breath as he made his way over, the familiar scent of his cologne drifting towards you, igniting memories of his arms wrapping around you, his chest pressed against your back.

You stared up at him as he closed the distance between you, your heart pounding in anticipation, mind reeling with thoughts of what he was going to do; bring the instrument to your chin again, demand you play as he ran his hands down your body, teasing you, pushing you to the limits of desperation.

But no. Instead he reached out and gently took the violin out of your grasp, placing it back down before returning a hand to your face. You felt his fingers delicately turning your jaw up towards him, his thumb grazing over your bottom lip as his eyes assessed you carefully.

You felt a deep yearning in your core as his lips met yours. Gently at first, but quickly transforming into something more ardent. It was strange to think that this was your first kiss - his fingers had been inside you, he'd heard your moans, felt you come undone in his arms, yet somehow this felt like the most intimate thing you'd ever done.

You moaned as he parted your lips with his tongue, his hands weaving into your hair and tugging on it gently, tilting your head back, proving his desire for control. But you didn't care, in fact, you enjoyed it. You'd wasted so much time sleeping with men who seemed to stumble and wander aimlessly over the planes of your body. It was glorious to finally have someone take charge, to show you exactly what you wanted instead of staggering around in search of it.

"I fear I'm a terrible teacher too," he muttered against your lips.

"Why's that?" you replied.

"Because somehow, my hands always end up on you instead of the instrument."

You drew in a long breath and gazed up at him through heavy lashes. "Mr Holmes," you whispered, exhaling slowly. "I couldn't care less about learning the violin."

His breath quivered slightly, his jaw clenching as he tried to remain composed. "I thought that's why you came..."

The corner of your mouth lifted in amusement. You couldn't help but smile at his feigned naivety; the ease with which he pretended to have no idea what your true intentions were. But he knew. You both knew. That's why the violin was on the floor and not in your hands, why his fingers were still tangled in your hair, why you could still taste his kiss on your tongue.

"I came," you replied slowly. "Because last time, the lesson was more of a... demonstration. I wanted to try a more interactive approach, to have an opportunity to be more... hands-on."

There was a musing hum deep in the back of his throat. "I apologise if you were not satisfied with my teaching methods-"

"Oh I think it's obvious I was very satisfied." Your eyes trailed down his body. "Which is why I want more."

He looked down at you, brows heavy over his eyes, making his gaze seem darker, more intense. "You know, I don't even know your name..."

You shrugged softly. "You're Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure you can figure it out all on your own."

He breathed out a laugh, like you excited him, intrigued him, like he realised in that moment you were more than just 'the woman from the music shop', more than just an instrument he could make sing with his skilled hands.

His fists tightened in your hair as he pulled you into another kiss, backing you up to the table near the window and sitting you amongst the piles of books and papers. You fumbled for the button of your trousers, popping them open hastily and parting your thighs as his hand immediately slipped down beneath the fabric. He groaned against your lips as he drenched his fingers in your wet, hot desire, like he'd thought of nothing else but this moment for the past two weeks.

You arched your back, pushing your hips forward into his touch and clutching at the sleeves of his shirt, desperate for more friction, for the magic you knew those hands were capable of. But a glimpse of the open door from the corner of your eye made you stop.

"Do you have somewhere we can go?" you whispered breathlessly.

"Hm?"

"Somewhere we're less likely to be... walked in on?"

"No one will walk in on us," he said, planting a hand on the table as he leaned further into you.

You let out a moan as he rubbed circles over your clit, forcing yourself to speak through the pleasure. "The woman downstairs let me walk up here without even asking who I was. Someone could definitely walk in."

He pulled back and looked at you for a moment, then to the door, then back to you. "Fine, come with me."

You followed him through the kitchen and down a small hallway to his bedroom. He stepped aside, allowing you to walk in first. It was everything you thought it would be; dark, minimal, tucked away in a quiet corner of the flat. You wondered how many people, if any, he had brought back there; if the sight of a woman in his room was as alien to him as it felt for you to be there. Or if he often found himself between the sheets with other people, making them moan and gasp and writhe in pleasure.

You felt his body against your back, his hands snaking around your waist and pulling you close to him. You placed your hands over his, letting your head fall back as he kissed your neck, tracing his lips up your jaw.

"I know you said you don't like to relinquish control," you whispered, turning around to face him. "But I'm going to need you to actually let me touch you this time."

He let out a deep, wanton exhale as you brought your hand down to his crotch, gripping the outline of his hard length through the fabric of his trousers.

"After all," you said as you unbuttoned them quickly. "You've heard my moans." You lowered yourself to your knees. "I think it's only fair I get to hear yours."

He remained still as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his trousers and pulled them down along with his underwear, a soft sigh of relief escaping his parted lips as his cock sprung free from their confines. You bit your lip at the sight of it; long, thick and firm as it hung heavily from his body, sending a jolt of electricity to your core as you imagined the feeling of it inside you, the fullness, the depth it could reach.

"That's going to break me in half," you whispered, half-joking.

"You'll manage," he replied, his voice dark and authoritative, making you throb with desire.

You wrapped your fingers around his length and took a deep breath as you leaned in, flattening your tongue and dragging it up the underside from base to tip. He blew out a slow, controlled exhale, bringing his hand down to your face, his thumb caressing your cheek as he watched you part your lips and take him into your mouth.

He sucked the air in through his teeth and let out a deep groan as you began to move back and forth, your hand and your mouth sliding together, soaking him, leaving no inch of him untouched. You glanced up to see his head had fallen back, eyes closed as he continued to moan and sigh, giving in to your desire to hear his pleasure, the sound just as gratifying as you'd expected. He brought a hand to the back of your head, gently encouraging you to take him further, and you couldn't help but yield, sinking forward until you could no longer breathe.

A groan spilled out of him like honey, so rich and thick and decadent, pouring into your ears and travelling straight to your core where it dripped from you, creating a wet, hot pool between your thighs.

"Perfect technique," he whispered, struggling to stay composed by choosing his words carefully, like he was trying to hold onto whatever remnants he had left of the ruse you had both created - of this being a lesson.

You glanced up at him, holding back a gag as his length kissed the back of your throat.

"You shorten it," he muttered.

You pulled back, releasing him from your mouth, a thick rope of saliva connecting your bottom lip to the head of his cock. "What?" you replied breathlessly.

"Your name," he said, drawing his thumb across your mouth to wipe it away.

"You can't possibly think you can deduce someone's name from... this."

"Am I wrong?"

You didn't answer, instead you wrapped both hands around his slick shaft and began working it at a firm, steady pace, watching him buckle slightly, his breath hitching. You returned your mouth to him, but it only took a moment for him to pull his hips back out of your grasp.

"Tell me, am I wrong," he repeated.

"I'm not telling you anything," you said, almost annoyed that he'd interrupted you. "So I suppose you'll just have to keep working on it."

He observed you for a moment, bringing his hand back to your face, his fingers caressing your cheek and settling under your chin to tip your head up to look at him. You waited silently, on your knees at his feet like an obedient disciple gazing up at your master. He brought the same thumb he'd used to wipe away the saliva back to your mouth, grazing over your lips before pushing through them. You sucked on it softly, the ache between your legs intensifying as you remembered fantasising about this moment while watching him from behind the counter, remembered what had just been there instead of his thumb.

He slid it back out of your mouth slowly, letting his hand fall to your throat, fingers wrapping around it with a gentle squeeze. You felt him pulling you up, a silent instruction for you stand, and you obliged, stumbling to your feet as he kept his grasp.

You swallowed hard, knowing he could feel it in his palm, your pulse in his fingertips. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours, releasing your throat and letting his hands fall to the hem of your jumper. He pulled it over your head quickly, throwing it to the ground as he continued to kiss you. You followed his lead, your fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt and popping them open, one by one, as he kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the trousers and underwear that had pooled around his ankles. You slid the shirt down his arms and threw it aside, smoothing your palms over his bare chest, dragging your nails down over his ribs, his stomach.

You only realised he'd been backing you up towards the bed when you felt the mattress against the back of your legs. You fell back, breathing heavily, your skin pricking with goosebumps as he curled his fingers into the waistband of your trousers and dragged them down.

"If I remember correctly," he said. "Last time, you were quite a fan of my hands."

You let out an audible moan, the sheer memory of his touch making your stomach flutter, your nipples harden beneath your bra.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, stooping his head to lay kisses along your inner thighs.

You shivered, certain you could feel your heartbeat in your clit as it throbbed in anticipation.

"Touching you was... exquisite," he said, his lips moving closer towards your centre. "But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't wished I'd gotten to taste you too."

Another sound escaped you, a cross between a whimper and a moan, like his voice was enough to get you off alone, like you could come just from him speaking in your ear.

You lifted your hips, practically begging him to take off your underwear. But instead, he simply moved it to one side, like he was too impatient, too hungry to waste time sliding them down your legs. He ran two long fingers up and down between your folds, letting out a heavy breath, almost like a growl, when he felt how wet you were. So ready, so desperate for him. He circled them gently over your clit, his eyes flitting to you to watch your reaction; how you threw your head back and writhed in pleasure, every nerve inside that tiny bud igniting beneath his fingertips.

You gasped as he buried his face between your thighs, listening as he hummed in approval, dragging his tongue over your slit, lapping and sucking like he was revelling in finally getting to taste you, just like he'd wanted.

You closed your eyes as a string of moans began to pour from your open mouth; the feeling of him devouring you so exquisitely making your toes curl. You reached down either side of you, clutching fistfuls of duvet in your hands as your back arched off the bed, his name falling off your tongue between heavy breaths and soft desperate cries.

He left no inch of you untasted, your entrance so wet with slick and spit that you could feel it dripping from you as he pulled away, the cold air tingling against your hot, wet entrance.

The loss of warmth and friction made you whimper, lifting your head to search for him like you were scared he'd disappeared. But he hadn't disappeared. He was there, looking up at you with a slightly furrowed brow.

"You've already had an orgasm today..." he observed bluntly.

"What?" you replied breathlessly.

"Today. You've already came once today."

Your eyes widened, stunned by his deduction, unsure you even wanted to know how he'd come to that conclusion.

"Oh, yeah I... well, I-" You struggled to speak, pausing as you tried to think of something to say. But after a moment of stammering, you simply sighed. "Do you want me to be honest?"

He waited.

"I... I did it before I came here," you admitted quietly, almost embarrassed. "Got myself off... while thinking about you."

"Hm." He pondered for a moment before rising to his feet and taking a step back. "Show me."

You stared at him.

"Show me what you did," he repeated, walking away and taking a seat in a chair opposite the bed facing you.

As you lay there, legs still parted, face still flushed, you weren't sure you'd ever felt more exposed. But there was something about him that made you so willing, so compliant; he could have told you to dance and you would have got up and done it.

You reached down, your fingers slipping through the soaking mess between your thighs and pressing to your clit. You lay back and closed your eyes, rubbing circles over it, your hips rocking against the soft mattress.

"Tell me what you were thinking about," he said.

"Your hands," you whimpered as you pressed harder, sending jolts of electricity through your body. "Your fingers inside me. The feeling of you... hard... pressing against my back."

You glanced down between your legs to see him sitting opposite you in the chair, palming his hard cock as he watched you masturbate. The sight was too delicious to bear, making you throw your head back with a cry and shut your eyes again.

You quickened your pace, pulling a quick, unexpected orgasm from the depths of your core, shuddering as it burst through you, leaving you shaking, whimpering as you lay there alone.

You felt the weight of the bed shift, looking down to see him crawling up between your legs, feathering kisses as he went along your thighs, your stomach, your breasts, your neck, until he finally reached your face, leaning down to press his lips against yours. You felt his cock rub against your clit, so tender you let out a soft hiss.

"Sensitive?" He whispered.

"Mhm" you mewled, shivering as his cock caught your clit again.

"Maybe we should stop there," he said, thrusting lazily against you. "Pick back up next time..."

"So you can disappear for another two weeks?" you replied quietly - defiantly.

He fell silent, regarding you for a moment, his eyes darting over your face. "It runs in the family."

"What?"

"Your name."

You huffed in disbelief, rolling your eyes and grabbing his face in your hands. "I'm not waiting again, Sherlock."

His brow twitched, like he was suppressing his amusement; your desperation to have him inside you turning him on.

"Okay," he said simply.

He rose to his knees, allowing you a full view of his naked frame, the large member you could barely fit in your mouth now hanging inches away from your soaking entrance. Then the memory hit you, your own voice echoing in your mind from earlier: you're going to break me in half.

He gripped your thighs in his large hands and pushed them open. "Part them for me," he said. "Wider."

You did as you were told until you were splayed out before him, completely open, waiting with shallow breaths for him to enter you. He shifted forward, taking his cock in his hand and rubbing the head through your folds, drenching himself in the cocktail of slick and saliva between them.

"Jesus," you breathed, looking up at him and shaking your head. "There's no way..."

He lowered his tone, eyes fixed on you. "Trust me, you can take it."

Your voice caught in your throat. That was possibly the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to you; it made you want to take it, all of it, to let him use you completely.

He pushed the head of his cock into your entrance, making you gasp and reach up to grip his shoulders.

He remained still. "You tell me when you want more."

You steadied your breath, whispering softly. "More."

He gave a gentle thrust, pushing further into you. You felt your walls stretching, a deep, intense pressure.

"More," you repeated.

He obliged, sinking deeper, having to force his hips against the resistance of your body.

You were holding your breath, your nails digging into his shoulders. "More."

He shifted his knees slightly before sinking himself into you, burying his cock to the hilt with a deep, heavy groan.

You cried out, your mouth falling open, eyes clamping shut. You never thought it was possible to feel so full, your body so completely invaded in the most welcomed way. Your thighs began to clench around his waist but he pushed them apart gently.

"It's better to keep them wide," he said, looking down to admire the sight of his entire length completely sheathed inside you. "See," he said with another groan. "I knew you could take it."

Your stomach fluttered, his words only adding to your hot, yearning desire, making you roll your hips instinctively, letting out a loud gasp as you felt the head of his cock stroke your cervix.

"Careful," he said.

"I don't want to be careful," you whined, bringing your hands around his waist, palms splaying out over his back. "I want to still be able to feel you tomorrow."

You watched him falter, his head dropping to hide a shaking breath, a growl rumbling in his throat.

"You think I can take it," you continued. "Make me take it."

You'd said earlier that he was going to break you in half, but if you didn't know any better, you'd swear you had broken him. He could barely look at you, the desire to do as you'd asked so strong you could practically feel him forcing his hips to remain still.

He inhaled deeply, lowering himself until his chest was pressed against yours, elbows resting either side of your head. "Tell me your name."

You smiled, tilting your head back and kissing him just once. "Fuck me... and I'll think about it."

You could have sworn you saw him roll his eyes, and though you may not have known him for long, you knew it was definitely something he would do. He made it clear he liked to be in control, yet there you were, lying beneath him, denying him your name and ordering him to fuck you. It had clearly touched a nerve.

He drew his hips back, looking into your eyes with a stony resolve, before snapping them forward again, so hard it made your body shift beneath him. You gave a feeble hum, the only sound you could muster amid the shockwave rippling through your abdomen. He brought a hand down to grip your waist, holding you firmly in place as he gave another powerful rut, his cock kissing your cervix again, sending you floating between the realms of pleasure and pain.

You hadn't even realised you'd brought your thighs together again until he knelt up and pushed them apart, allowing him full access to sink right down to the root of his manhood with every pounding thrust, groaning and grunting as your walls gripped him, tightening around him like your body didn't want to let him go.

You winced, and he noticed immediately, slowing his pace and softening his force.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked breathlessly.

You shook your head, snaking your hands around his back and pulling him down to you. "No, no you're not hurting me. It's just... ah." You gasped. "You're so..."

"I know," he whispered, like he was soothing you, coddling you. "I know, darling."

You almost melted beneath him - the confidence, the unexpected 'darling', the gentle tone with which he reassured you. You never knew someone cosseting you could turn you on so much, and you weren't sure you'd ever tire of hearing that rich, strong voice babying you as he drove his cock deep into your aching centre.

"Do I feel good?" you asked, desperate to hear more.

"Perfect."

There was something about the way he praised you that took you back to the night in the shop; how he had touched you, teased you, gained so much pleasure from making you buckle in his hands. You wondered why he'd chosen you. Why of all the people in London, in the world, he'd found himself so drawn to the woman behind the counter in the music shop. Why when you'd turned up unannounced at his home, he didn't turn you away, but instead welcomed you in, worshipped your body like a gift that had been hand delivered to his door.

"Do you think you can give me one more?" he asked.

"One more?"

"Orgasm."

A shiver ran up your body and escaped your mouth in a quiet breath. You'd never been a multiple kind of person, and your second climax of the day was still ringing through you like a bell whenever his length brushed against your clit. But stranger things had happened, you thought; you'd never squirted before either, until Sherlock got his hands on you.

You nodded, feeling his arms wrap around you and lift you from the bed, rolling you over until you were straddling him, his cock still buried inside you. He was sat up, your arms draped over his shoulders as he reached around to unhook your bra, peeling it from your body and immediately laying kisses along your bare chest.

"Lean back," he said. "Just a touch."

You did as instructed, leaning against his palms which were spread over your back, holding you in place.

"That's it," he said softly. "How does that feel?"

You began to rock gently, your bodies at the perfect angle for his hard length to make contact with your G-Spot on every gyration of your hips, creating a friction that made you burn with pleasure, like a match being struck, setting you alight from the inside out.

"Good," you said with a deep, satisfied groan. "So good."

He ran his hands down your back, digging his fingers into the flesh of your hips to direct your pace, pulling you harder against him, like he was chasing you to his own completion. Your stomach began to coil, your breathing so shallow you could barely see straight, losing yourself in the feeling of his penetration, his hands clutching your body.

You reached down and wrapped your fingers around his wrists, bringing his hands up to your chest, your neck, like a silent instruction for him to grip your throat again. He obliged, caressing the soft skin of your neck, fingertips dancing over your pulse before squeezing softly.

“I love these hands,” you whimpered.

“I know you do,” he replied with a breathy moan.

“I want these hands on me forever.”

He dropped his head, curls falling over closed eyes as his composure wavered, a string of groans and incoherent words falling from his parted lips.

The familiar rush began to build. But unlike the orgasms you’d given yourself - the shivery, electric energy that burst from your clit and rippled along every nerve ending - this one was heavy, guttural, a ball of fiery, intense pleasure deep in your core.

You didn’t know how, but Sherlock could tell you were close. He brought his lips up to yours, enveloping you in a desperate open-mouthed kiss, like he was close too, but he needed you to come first. He began to meet your rhythm, thrusting into you with every buck of your hips, coaxing your climax to the surface until it finally spilled out and overwhelmed you completely.

You cried out, letting your body fall forward; chest pressed against chest, your face buried in the crook of his neck.

“That’s it,” he whispered as he held you. “Come for me.”

You were shaking, moaning against his skin, so spent you could barely feel your own limbs. He let out a soft grunt, tightening his grip on you as he gave one last deep thrust, plunging his cock as far as your body would allow and releasing himself inside you.

You’d never felt like this before; so overstimulated you could almost cry. You lifted your head, letting him cup your face in his hands and look at you. He was panting, beautiful features glistening with beads of sweat, thumb stroking your cheek to calm you down. You leaned in, kissing him gently, so thankful you hadn’t just turned around and walked home that evening.

He broke away, resting his forehead against yours before muttering a single word, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it, taking a moment for it to register in your mind.

But when it did, you gasped softly, realising that he had just whispered your name.

[starks-hero]

Cutting it close

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: A new case leads you and Sherlock to investigate an abandoned track on the London underground.

Word Count: 1,685

Warnings: none

a/n: just a little scenario I had in my head whilst rewatching the show :)

“This seems like a really bad idea,” you said with hesitancy. It was a phrase you found yourself often saying. Being in situations that were both morally and legally questionable was something you'd grown well accustomed to since taking up the adventure of being Sherlock Holmes' partner.

But even this was above what you were used to.

The tunnel was dark and a damp, musty smell hung so thickly in the air you could taste it in the back of your throat. The London underground was a prime destination during cases; although you were usually in a train, not scouring the tracks for clues.

“No trains have run on this track in years. It's perfectly safe.” Sherlock's answer was brief as he leapt down onto the tracks, standing between two rods of metal. You watched on with apprehension.

Sherlock didn't say anything, he didn't have to. In an odd, instinctual sort of way he simply knew you'd follow him. It was a mark of the undying loyalty you had towards him, and him you, that still succeed in making Sherlock's head spin. He was yet to grow used to having someone trust him so wholly.

You spared a glance down both ends of the tunnel before, with a sigh, following suit. Sherlock tossed you a flashlight, and you kept it trained at the ground before you so that you didn't trip as you walked.

Bottles littered the ground between the tracks and large, colourful slogans of graffiti-covered almost every inch of the wall. You questioned who in their right mind would willingly venture to such a place before you reminded yourself that you were in fact one of said people.

A rat scurried across your feet as it crossed the tracks.

“You know, when you said you had something planned for tonight I was thinking more along the lines of a booked table at a restaurant, or the cinema, maybe tickets to the theatre.”

“When have you ever known me to be so dull.” There was a smile in Sherlock's voice. And despite what the part of your brain still tuned into normality may have been telling you, you were honestly quite glad this was how you were spending your Friday evening. Life with Sherlock was nothing if not excitingly unpredictable.

As you both continued to venture down the track, the true enormity of the underground began to set in. It was a hidden warren of long and winding tunnels right beneath the bustling city above. It would be easy to hide just about anything down there, like throwing a needle into a haystack.

Which was precisely what Sherlock believed his current suspect to be doing. A rouge banker stealing millions of sterling and hiding his hoard in the unused tunnels of the underground like some sort of criminally inclined dragon.

Although Sherlock's theory was completely plausible, the further you progressed into the tunnel the more you doubted anyone would ever set foot there willingly.

As you passed a segment of graffiti of a very interesting depiction of a certain politician, your shoe chipped a small peddle and you heard a faint buzz as it met the track. You stopped.

Failing to notice how Sherlock continued on in front of you, you eyed the track suspiciously. You reached out your hand and placed it beside the rail, panic striking when you felt the stinging buzz of electricity kiss your skin.

“Sherlock, I thought you said this tunnel was abandoned.”

“It is, hasn't been used since the eighties.” Sherlock's response was nonchalant but the anxiety that tinged your tone caused him to stop and turn to you. “Why?”

“The track is live.”

Sherlock's brows creased as his gaze shifted between you and the rail. His lips parted to contradict you, his hours of research making him confident in his knowledge that the tunnel was no longer active.

A sudden, ear-splitting blare sounded from the opposite end of the tunnel before he got the chance. The tracks began to shake violently beside you and the squealing of fast-moving wheels against metal resounded off the walls. You clambered to your feet just as two blinding headlights came into view.

Despite the fear that engulfed you, the first almost instinctual thing you felt compelled to do was to scold Sherlock for mistaking the clearly in use tunnel for being abandoned. But you swallowed your pride.

The train's horn sounded again and you only barely heard Sherlock's command to run.

The wide gaps in the tracks, as well as the rails on either side of you, each coursing with hundreds of volts of electricity, made running no easy task. But the sound of the fast-approaching train spurred you on.

It was steadily growing closer, evident by the nearing sound of its wheels biting into the rails and the growing form of its headlights on the wall in front of you. You began to stumble and lose your footing as you ran and Sherlock wasted no time in grabbing hold of you and pushing you in front of him. He yelled something over your shoulder but the sound of the train swallowed up his words before they could reach you.

As the adrenaline began to fizzle out, you felt your vision blur. Although you didn't dare to spare a glance back, you were certain the train was seconds away. Part of you was still holding out for Sherlock to put a miraculous plan into action and save the day, just as he always did. But even Sherlock Holmes couldn't outrun a speeding train.

Your legs were growing weary, the muscles burning and threatening to give way. You could feel yourself slowing down despite how much you willed your body to keep moving. You hoped that maybe the driver had noticed you both, that he'd slammed on the breaks and that the giant hunk of steel and metal would grind to a halt before it reached you. However, the train did not slow.

The horn blared one last time and knowing the chase was over, you screwed your eyes shut.

You felt it slam into your back and you couldn't help but focus on how surprisingly soft it was for the impact of a train. A tight, secure band wrapped around your waist and just as fear gave way to confusion you were yanked off the tracks.

Sherlock had acted fast, and with not a moment to waste. He pulled you from the train's path and stuffed you into the tight alcove carved into the tunnel's wall. Sherlock was suddenly very glad he'd taken the time to memorize all the small refuges carved into the sides of the London underground's tunnels for maintenance workers.

You were pressed flush against Sherlock, his chest cushioning your front whilst the chipped bricks of the wall bit into your back. His arms engulfed you and moments later the train sped past. The side of the locomotive was mere inches from your face, a coloured blur kicking up dust and rocks as it went. The space was so dismal that one wrongly placed step to the left would land you back in its path.

The trains speed was so great you could feel the rhythmatic click of the wheels on the tracks echo in your chest.

Sherlock's hold on you was iron, his arms remaining around you as if he feared the strength of the train would sweep you out of his hold. Your hands, which had been pressed up against his chest in the haste, grabbed fistfuls of his coat. You clung to him like a young child to its mother and Sherlock to you like ivy to oak.

You kept your eyes shut. And after what felt like an eternity the last carriage passed. The tracks stilled as the train drew further away and the buzzing of electric currents soon died down.

You both stayed as you were. Your breaths came hard and fast and you gulped in air in hopes of sating the burning in your lungs. You didn't realize you were still holding onto Sherlock until he lifted his head from where he'd buried into your shoulder.

His hands loosened against your back but didn't fall away entirely. You both stood there like fools, clinging to each other until–

“I could have sworn it said this tunnel was abandoned.”

“Sherlock.” You breathed his name as a warning and he took the hint, promptly shutting up.

Your fingers, still trembling, unfurled from Sherlock's coat. You let your head fall against the wall as your breathing evened out. Although your heart continued to beat like a drum in your ears. Sherlock's hands remained on either side of your head, pressed firmly to the red bricks as he tried to steady his weak knees.

You both stood chest to chest, his eyes cloaked by the tunnel's heavy darkness and his breath warm against your cheek. Then you both started to laugh.

The utter ridiculousness of the situation merged with the adrenaline from having outrun a train left your chest feeling light. Despite standing in the London underground, surrounded by grime and dirt, you felt somewhat content next to Holmes, as if standing by his side, inches from disaster, was where you were meant to be.

A tender smile had settled on Sherlock's lips and he watched you softly as if he wanted to say something. But whatever it is he wanted to tell you, he decided against it. Perhaps because he felt you already knew.

He adjusted his coat before stepping back onto the track, now mindful of the live rails. Then he offered you his hand.

You would have been surprised by the chivalry if it weren't for the fact that Sherlock was very gentlemanly when he wanted to be.

“We should hurry. Unless we want to catch the next train,” he somewhat joked. His voice was slightly hoarse from the strenuous running. He waited till you were by his side and then, much to your delight, tightened his gloved hand around your own.

“You must admit, darling,” he said, voice light with humour. “This is far more interesting than the theatre.”

sherlock tag list: @miraclesoflove @ilovefanfictions @mylovelysnowflake @quentawewe @bakerstreethound @andreasworlsboring101 @doozywoozy @leftperfectionmoon @xxinvisiblexx @the-worst-critic @the-queer-dungeoneer @jellyfishbeansontoast @simp-for-scamanders @starryeddie @themorningsunshine @bebana-7913 @lilythemadqueen @allieberries @xhz17x @kealohilani-tepise

[spilledkauffie]

Cuddling with Them HCs

xFemale!reader // I’ve been watching Sherlock again (I’m through S2 thus far) and decided to write about it for comfort content. I don't know if anyone reads for Sherlock anymore, but writing it just made me feel so nostalgic 🖤

mini update: mid-terms are back again this week and next for me, so as usual when under stress i've only managed to write about some comfort characters, so for the next week I've got a few HC lists lined up, but then I promise I'll have some requests out!

Testing the water — having only been dating for a while (which was still a shock to John how on earth you managed), you thought it was time to up the physical attention between the two of you. You're the first to start it, and you go about it as casually as possible at first. // One time while the two of you were walking to a nearby location Sherlock wanted to investigate, you slipped your hand in his. Immediately, he glanced down, "what are you doing?" he asked calmly, continuing to walk as he looked over to you. "Holding your hand," you answered keeping your gaze ahead. Sherlock thought for a moment, "why now?" You met his gaze, "because I want to, because you're my boyfriend, because you'll just shove your hand in your pocket anyway, and. . . I like your touch." Quickly he looked ahead again, simply giving a distant "ah," with a short nod, but soon you felt his fingers tighten a little more around your hand.

↳ taking it further, to actual cuddling, you made an attempt while he was busy reading in his chair by the fire. John was out, but a box of files occupied his chair, so holding your cup of tea and looking around you asked Sherlock if you could sit down, "yes, of course, you're welcome to," he mechanically responded without even so much as a glance to you. With that you ducked under Sherlock's book, causing him to hold both his arms out as you situated yourself sideways on his lap, legs draped over the side of the chair. Resting your head against his shoulder, you kept your cup of tea near and snuggled close against him. "Is this. . . is there something you're trying to tell me?" Sherlock asked. "Nope," you answered taking a sip, "just wanted to be close to you," you look up for a moment, before closing your eyes and relaxing against him. "Oh- well, right," was all he could say with the smell of peppermint tea, your subtle perfume, and your body's warmth so close to him. After a while, he returned to reading, encompassing you in his arms, and eventually you felt him rest his chin against the side of / on top of your head.

His turn — when he starts being more physically affectionate, he's actually wonderful. Sherlock's definitely not baffled by the concept of love and the traits attributed to it, he's observed several people in love and taken note of their actions, he just usually doesn't express it in physical ways, until you. However, he finds it's like a case study, figuring out what you individually like best, and how you like to be treated romantically- more specifically: physically. // One time, without any warning, while you were looking out the window at Baker Street commenting on the weather, cup of tea in hand, Sherlock came up from behind and wrapped his arms around you. Bending a little, he nuzzled against the side of your neck, just under your ear, nose and lips grazing against your skin. You giggled his name out of surprise and tried to balance your tea again. "Ah, here, let me take that for you," he paused for a moment only to grasp your cup by the rim and set it on a stack of books. You tilted your head to give him more access, and started stroking up and down his forearms, which were resting against your stomach. After a moment he straightened up, arms still around you and said, "ohhh, so I did get it right?” Dropping your head back against his chest to look up at him, he continues, "well, I can only assume, but it got a better response than just a normal hug, so-" // "are you experimenting with me?" you ask, attempting to hide a smile. // "Of course," he shrugs, "you did with me, which peppermint tea, nice touch. And I must say you're being a most cooperate subject, but now it's my turn to figure you out." Turning yourself around in his arms, you smile, pushing up onto your tip toes, "Oh, I'm sure you will," you look up through your lashes, "you're the world's greatest detective." He chuckled, kissing your forehead, "consulting detective."

The man is touch starved — Sherlock actually loves physical attention, he's never gotten much of it, but he's 100% not opposed to it. Even the small things like you softly dragging your hand across the back of his shoulders from behind, or the way you stroke your fingertips up and down his wrist when you're waiting and holding his hand, or how before you leave or he leaves, you make sure to quickly kiss just under his jawline, often taking him by surprise. Or how when you're tired, but he's keeping you up, you'll rest your head against him and wrap your arms around his bicep. // One of his favourites is when he's working through a case in his head, and you come up behind him wrapping your arms around his frame and start nuzzling against his back. Other times you'll just walk right into him, face to his chest and hug him. // He loves the feeling of your skin against his, it's a new and quite thrilling experience, your body's warmth being so close to him. Although he might not admit it to you right away he wants you near him at every appropriate opportunity.

↳ with that, on occasion you'll pick up on his mild insecurity, since Sherlock is new to this first-hand. You find he needs assurance to actually believe that you like him in this way, such as when he asks: "so, you just like. . . being close to me?" You stare at him before answering, "yeah." // "For no other reason than. . ." his voice trails off, waiting for your answer: "well, because I love you, because your presence is comforting, it makes me feel safe and warm, and it's nice to feel wanted by someone else. I want you to know that you're wanted as well, for more than just your mind, but it's a nice bonus." You smile and bite in your lower lip. You're amazed at how quickly that flusters him as to what to say next, but you understand that he's never really had someone that just wanted to be around him for no other reason except love.

He really doesn't mind — Sherlock doesn't mind that you like to be close to him, he doesn't find it annoying at all, and only sometimes can it be distracting, but he blames himself if he's distracted, not you. Sometimes you'll ask if he wants you to leave, especially when he's in the middle of something and to somewhat of a shock he'll say "no, of course not, your company rather pleases me, gives me more of a drive-" He pauses there noticing John's smirk, ". . . you know, you're quite like a drug actually." He states, looking over to you. "I'm going to take that as a compliment," you perk your eyebrows and bite your lip smiling. "Do," Sherlock nods, gaze shifting from your eyes to your lips. // It's true that when you're around he tends to solve things quicker, usually because he just wants to show off for you. Plus when he's in the kitchen looking through his microscope and claims he's figured it out, you'll come over, either sit on his leg, or look over his shoulder through the lens to see what he's talking about, Sherlock loves both your proximity and your interest in the case.

Cozy at home — Once Sherlock is comfortable with you, and you've been dating for a good while, he's not worried about what anyone says or thinks. On occasion, when he has his hands particularly full or he’s playing the violin, you’ll sit between his knees on the ground in front of him. With that Sherlock will place his hands, pressed together, on top of your head while he thinks or he'll rest his chin on top of your head and drape his arms over your shoulders. He mutters out loud about theories he has, which makes you laugh and kiss his hand / wrist. // He’s started to hold your shoulders and give you a quick, but surprisingly passionate kiss before he heads off on an investigation without you, typically because he's way too happy about the case. When he gets excited about telling you and John the information on a case, he’s started taking your hands in his as he explains. When you just stare at him confused and trying to follow his train of thought, he kisses your forehead.

Melodramatic — when your lap or hands are busy, he gets super needy and jealous asking “what’s more important than me? What’re you doing?” If you don’t answer his fast enough, he’ll scoop whatever it was that you were doing right out of your hands and replace whatever was in your lap with himself. “I was working on something that had a deadline,” you fake a smile down at him. “Yes, well someone’s life may be on the line,” he crossed his arms over his chest. "And I will help by?" Your voice trails off. "I don't know, you're like a lucky charm it seems," he shakes his head, closing his eyes. "Thanks," you say rolling your eyes, "I think that you just want some attention," you smirk to yourself. "What a deduction," Sherlock sighs. You chuckle at his sarcasm, "but I'm right." / "Didn't say that," he quickly adds. / "Didn't have to."

After long days — after many sleepless days and running around England, Sherlock finally came back through the door. Immediately you put your book down and looked at him from one end of the couch, silently asking if he needed anything. Sherlock simply took off his coat, before making his way over to you, lying fully down, spread across the couch, he hugged you tightly around the waist and nuzzled against your stomach, before shifting to have his head in your lap, while he stared at the ceiling. // You began running your hands through his hair, softly fluffing it when you got to the tips, before starting over again. At this you noticed Sherlock close his eyes, relax, and hum a little bit. Sometimes, you’ll undo a few buttons on his shirt, and slip your hand underneath, gently massaging his chest / collarbone or ghosting your free hand up and down his neck. (You’ve found this both relaxes him and brings a hint of a smirk to his face).

Mentally tired — when he’s mentally tired, he’s the best cuddler, he’s less attentive to “collected” behaviour. Sometimes he’ll not get back until the ridiculous hours of the morning, when you’ve been asleep for hours. Sherlock will come in and slowly start mindlessly undressing to join you in bed. // “how’d the case go?” You ask, having heard him. “Cracked. Solved. Closed,” he says in a groggy voice, “details in the morning." // “It is morning, Love,” you say gently. “Hmm?. . . Afternoon then?” he slips beside you, tossing the covers over his shoulder lazily. “Do you need anything?” You ask noticing his extremely tired body language. “No,” he reaches a hand to your waist, pulling you close and breathing against your neck, sighing deeply against your skin, “not anymore.”

When John brought him back tipsy — you found out quickly that Sherlock is a handsy, needy individual when he’s tipsy or drunk, which is hilarious for anyone who knows him. After John made sure they got home and you made sure John was alright in his room, Sherlock was so clingy for the rest of the night. You stood next to the couch where he was sitting, and offered him some coffee, to which he leaned forward against your thigh and caressed your pyjama shorts, “are these new? Yes, they’re definitely new, recently bought, out with a friend. . . they're sooo soft.” Wrapping his arms around your thigh he kept you close, pressing his cheek to your hip, while you attempted to talk him into taking something for the inevitable headache he’d have. Before too long, you set down the coffee and in that moment Sherlock pulled you onto his lap, arms locking around your waist as he nuzzles against the base of your neck. However it's not long before Sherlock falls asleep, and brings you down with him. // When you wake up, Sherlock’s arms are still around you with his head resting on top of your chest. You cuddled him best you could until he woke up. With a grumble, Sherlock was up, and you were rubbing his back while he lay between your legs; he didn't complain and in fact he stayed there until John came staggering in with a fierce headache.

When he figures it out — the moment he figures out what you like, he is superior at it! // You find yourself waking up to the sensation of his hands running down your back, your leg lazily tossed over his hip, and Sherlock kissing at the side of your neck softly. // You find him wrapping you up in a hug whenever you come home from a long day. // You find he pulls you closer in bed at night, when he's home. // You find he lays his head in your lap whenever he's trying to solve a problem more often. // Doesn't mind you sitting in his lap so long as you don't mind one of his hands being up your shirt somehow, resting against your back or stomach. // You find him hugging you from behind and not letting go for a good while. || He winds up actually loving to give you physical attention, because he’s the only one in the world who can make you smile like that, giggle like that, and feel as loved as you do. He’s also the only one who gets to touch you in the way he does and you’re the only one he lets get as close to him as you are.

↳ naturally he's seen it as a case to be solved, and as usual he goes above and beyond in his discoveries, which means along the way to finding out your cuddly preferences, he's also found out your favourite / most prominent erogenous zones.

Bonus:

He gets jealous — he doesn’t admit it, but to your great shock Sherlock actually gets super jealous about other people and their physical relationship with you. Of course, John is exempt, because he trusts John, so you hugging him and being a little playful with him doesn’t bother Sherlock. It’s when you are around other people who get super friendly that he has an issue. For example, when Anderson was a little too delighted to make your acquaintance, Sherlock noticed some indicators and before Anderson could even reach for a handshake, Sherlock strategically placed himself between the two of you and made sure to keep you next to, or at the least behind him or John the entire time.

↳ when you’re hanging out with your friends he makes sure to pay attention as to how they physically interact with you, juuuust in case. For example, he can tell when / if any of your friends have underlying feelings for you just by their physically attention and mannerisms towards you. Naturally when you get back he blurts out immediately which of your friends it is. To that you just laugh and say "well, that's a shame for them," you reach your arms up around Sherlock's neck, "because last I checked, no one beats Sherlock Holmes," with a smile, you get on tiptoe to kiss him.

[ithebookhoarder]

Imagine: Your fiancé, Sherlock, coming home after a long case

(Sherlock Holmes x f!reader)

Warnings: N/A - just Enola being her usual sassy self and Sherlock being unusually soft.

Masterlist

----

Three days, ten hours, and 27 minutes.

That was how long it had been since Sherlock had last called upon you, having been dragged away on a new case. You hadn’t heard many of the details, but you’d done your best to absorb the snatches of information Sherlock had gifted you as he’d excitedly hurried about the place, gathering his coat and valise. 

He’d echoed something about a murder and vanishing corpses and intriguing flower that had been left at the scene; all rather inane details to most people, but to Sherlock it sounded like he’d been gifted the knowledge of eternal life. 

He really was adorable when he got excited so... 

This wasn’t the first time he’d been gone and you knew it wouldn’t be the last. After all, a detective of his calibre was always in high demand and people the breadth of England and beyond were in need of his assistance. 

And at least you had your work at the local school during the day to occupy you, and both Mrs Mary Watson and Enola to keep you company afterwards. 

Both were more than familiar with the joys and difficulties of your life in London, and with Sherlock, so you often took tea together. 

You also attended luncheons and other events, even accompanying Enola on the odd case or two when she required ‘a sensible person with a decent intellect’ who was willing to run with her towards the danger rather than away from it. 

“Why my brother insists on leaving you at home when you have an intellect as impressive as yours astounds me,” she’d scoff, making you smile fondly each time. “He should be taking you with him on cases - or you could come work for me.” 

“Alas, my work means I can’t go gallivanting off at the drop of a hat, so it’s not entirely his fault, but I appreciate you saying so.” 

Needless to say, your life was unusual by most of polite society’s standards and waiting for Sherlock was simply a part of it. Thankfully, patience was something you had plenty of and you were more than grateful for it.

Still, it wasn’t as if you had long left to wait. Based on past ‘outings’ and what he had told you a few days ago, he’d be arriving back in London by nightfall with John very soon, and a tale to tell of his latest brilliant escapade.

It was this promise you held him to as you sat at the window and gazed down upon the street. 

London was always rather beautiful in the dusky light of sunset, just before the street lamps were lit. 

However, the sight got infinitely better as you noticed a cab steadily drawing to a halt against the pavement, the door beginning to open before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop. 

Could it be...?

You felt yourself smiling. 

Without even seeing him, you knew it was Sherlock, a theory that was confirmed as an all too familiar figure stepped out, tipped the driver, and hurried over to knock at the front door below. 

A mere moment later and there were muffled voices echoing up from the hallway at the bottom of the stairs. 

Even without being able to make out precisely what they were saying, you could still make out Mrs Hudson’s feminine tone, very quickly accompanied by a deep baritone that you’d know anywhere. 

You never truly understood how much you missed Sherlock until he was finally home again - and tonight was no exception. 

Each step he took on the ancient wooden flooring of Baker Street made your heart beat a little faster, knowing it was carrying him closer to you, the dull thud of footsteps drowned out by the rhythmic pulsing in your chest. 

By the time the door finally opened, you were practically giddy with a rush of excitement and impatience.  

You could hardly hold yourself back as the landlady opened the door, ushering Sherlock inside, cooing all the while that it was good to have him back under her roof. 

It really was. 

With barely a pause to let the man put his case down, or even remove his coat, you quickly rose from your seat, hurling yourself towards him with a bright and relieved smile on your face. 

“Sherlock!”

“Y/N,” he chuckled. 

He was clearly taken aback by the display of affection which was good; you liked being able to catch the super sleuth off guard, and now was no exception. 

He’d most likely expected you to be at your own home, and not waiting here for him given the late hour. But with John now living away with his wife Mary, you hadn’t wanted him to return to an empty home. 

“How long have you been waiting?”

“Not terribly long, promise.”

A smile tugged at both of your lips as you savoured the feeling of holding one another close.

He smelled of cigar smoke, cologne, and the remnants of London smog. Typical for a journey such as the one he’d taken.

“You didn’t have to wait up for me. I’d have been alright by myself.” 

“Well, I can leave if you’d prefer to remain here alone-”

“Good lord, no,” he scoffed hastily. “Stay. Please.” 

He didn't have the ask twice. 

You could have stood there forever, content just to be in his arms and staring up at the man you adored with all your heart. 

As it was, your fingertips traced along the edge of his jawline, letting yourself take him all in as if trying to prove to yourself he was truly there.

You could tell by his chuckle he understood you all too well. 

“I am alright. I promise. No injuries of any sort.” However, Sherlock let you look him over quickly knowing it was the easiest way to soothe your concern. “As much as I love returning to you, there’s nothing more I love than remaining here with you.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Leaning closer, despite the slight uncomfortableness that came with a man of his height and stature, you kissed. Tenderly and quietly expressing your love for one another was one of the many sweet ways of welcoming Sherlock home. 

No matter the weather, Sherlock was always so warm; his lips more so.

“Have I told you recently how much I love you?” Sherlock whispered against your lips.

“It’s been a few days.”

“Hmm,” he kissed you once more. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

You brushed his hair out of his face to see him better in the low light.

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to sparkle - they always did when you expressed your feelings for him. For, he loved you more than any impressive case and that was saying quite a lot. 

He was also still unused to being so openly affectionate and dare you say emotional. Yet, despite his hesitancy at being intimate with someone, he seemed to relish such affection from you, especially when you were alone just the two of you. 

It was as if he had shed yet another one of his disguises, revealing the very real and authentic person beneath the deductive and theatrical bravado. 

The real Sherlock. 

The Sherlock that only you were privileged to know and love. 

Speaking of which, “So, when are you going to tell John the news?” you inquired. “It took all my efforts not to tell Mary or Enola but they’re growing suspicious. As it is, Mrs Hudson has been sworn to secrecy for now as I couldn’t exactly hide it from her.” 

“Very true, but I’ll have you know,” Sherlock kissed the engagement ring on your finger, “I told John on our way back so we best enjoy our time alone together for I fear we shall be swamped with well wishers come tomorrow.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“Hold on to that enthusiasm, darling, for when my brother hears the news.”

Oh, you truly couldn’t wait to announce yourself as the new Mrs Holmes. And if you got to make Mycroft Holmes choke on his tea in the process? Well, it was twice the pleasure. 

[annesthaeticc]

Puppy Luv | Sherlock x Fem!Reader

Puppy Luv | Sherlock x Fem!Reader

| just a good ole fluffy fic

| JUST FLUFF AND PUPPIES

| 1971 words

| While on a case, Sherlock Holmes stumbles upon a new friend. And hopefully your new friend. He brings her home and fluff ensues.

| NOTE: as i've said, the devil works hard, but i work harder. kidding. i made this for my friend cause she loves dogs and i know she love golden retrievers, cause kate bishop has a golden retriever friend. ANYWAY, i hope u enjoy this feel-good piece. comments, hearts, and REBLOGS mean the world to me.

Sherlock and John were crouched down on the floor, taking whatever they could on the corpse that was brutally murdered. The Scotland Yard team were somewhere in the cramped building, buzzing about outside the door. It was like déjà vu; Lestrade was wearing a protective gear, and John too. Said doctor was taking down notes, quietly mumbling to himself. Lestrade was by door, his arms crossed and his face looked quite aged. If the Detective Inspector was going to be honest at all, this new serial murder case ages him every day, as if another year was added to his fortysomething age.

The consulting detective was busy deducing everything from the dead man’s body. Murder wasn’t the word to describe it; it was vicious. There was blood everywhere and Sherlock figured the serial killer’s go-to weapon is an ice pick. His mind was buzzing. High-speed deductions flying through his mind. But his train of thought was broken when he heard a sound.

“Shut up.” he muttered under his breath.

“What? I didn’t say anything.” John replied, looking at him with a puzzled expression.

“What’s that noise?” he asked, suddenly standing up.

“What noise?” Lestrade butted in.

“Tell your men to keep it down, will you Detective Inspector? I can hear something…” he said, now starting to pace about in the room. Lestrade obliged and the murmurs from the other side of the door died down.

It was a very distinct sound. Quite familiar. A sound that resided somewhere in the basement of mind palace. He was sure he heard it before.

He walked around, trying to place where the sound could be coming from. When he stepped on an uneven floorboard, it squeaked and the sound started to become clear. He knelt down and pried of the loose floorboard, and there he saw the most beautiful creature he had laid his eyes on; aside from you of course.

It was a puppy.

His fur was golden and his eyes were dark. But in the little creature’s eyes, he saw fear and excitement shine through. His heart beat sped up and he gulped, not knowing what to do. Should he pick it up? Should he get the team inside and rescue the dog? When the two of them made eye contact, Sherlock decided. He was going to keep him.

“What is it?” John asked, joining him.

“It’s a, uh…” Sherlock was a loss for words.

“Oh that’s adorable. Should we get the rescue team in here?” John asked.

“No!” Sherlock answered defensively and John was taken back.

“Alright take it easy, mate.” Lestrade said, approaching him and patted his back.

Sherlock ducked down and scooped the little golden retriever carefully, nestling it in his coat-clad arms. The little puppy wasn’t aggressive at all, but it was shivering in fear. Sherlock knows it all too well. Suddenly, his memories with his beloved best friend, Redbeard, resurfaced. A dam of emotion started to burst through him as the little puppy scooted closer to him, craving his attention and affection. He masked his excitement, joy, and other emotions he can’t name, with his usual stony expression.

The two men watched the detective, a ‘what the fuck?’ expression painted on their faces.

“Come on, John.” Sherlock said, starting to walk to the exit.

“What? We’re going to leave now?”

“Yes! Come on! I’m getting in the cab with or without you.” he said, the puppy barked and Sherlock smiled.

Sherlock smiled. What the fuck is going on? John thought to himself.

“Sherlock! What about the case?” Greg’s voice boomed.

“I’ll text you details, Gary. I’ll take this little one to the shelter.” he said, his voice trailing off. John sighed and kept up with his friend.

“We’re not going to the shelter.” John said.

“Correct deduction, doctor. No, we’re going home.” Sherlock replied, giving him a small smile and cradling the puppy in his arms.

Excitement was bubbling through Sherlock when he climbed the steps to 221B, the puppy radiating the same energy as him. You weren’t sure if you heard it right. You furrowed your brow as you drank your tea, finishing the last drops. When Sherlock finally stepped in the flat, your eyes were wide as saucers and your mouth was agape. You stood there frozen against the kitchen counter when Sherlock made his way towards you, approaching you with the little golden mass in his arms. He stepped in front of you, held the little puppy in his hands, showing it to you like a little boy showing his new teddy bear. Sherlock’s grin reached his eyes, shining with mirth. He was unmistakably happy with his new friend.

“That’s uh…” you stuttered at a loss for words.

“Y/N, meet my new friend, Callie.” he said, his voice laced with enthusiasm. Callie, the little golden pup agreed with a bark and you flinched.

“Come on, you can hold her.” Sherlock suggested, holding Callie out to you.

“Oh uh, um, uh I’m going to be late, darling…” you said, moving away.

“You’re scared of dogs.” he said and let the Callie down on the ground, letting her toddle around the flat.

“Uh, yes I am.”

“Why?”

“It’s stupid.” you sighed and your eyes started to widen in alarm as Callie made her way towards you.

“Oh please, I’ll be the judge of that.” he rolled his eyes to you and smirked when Callie started to sniff the hem of your trousers.

“When I was little, my friend and I were going to the fields to play when suddenly a dog, a rabid one by the way, attacked my friend and bit her butt.” you explained.

“Oh yeah, that sounds stupid… and made up.” Sherlock chuckled and walked closer to you.

“My friend died.” you firmly said.

“Oh…” Sherlock tried to find the words to reply but nothing came up, only a smirk started to grow on his lips.

“I hate you.” you glared at him.

“No you don’t, you love me.” Sherlock hummed and held your hand.

“I’m not so sure about that right now.” you said and glanced down at the little pup, you gulped.

“Oh come on, Callie’s a good girl, she won’t hurt you. Plus, she can be our little love child…” he said, the last words fading.

“Our what?!” you exclaimed in surprise.

“Never mind that. You’re going to be late, you said?” he said planted a kiss on the corner of your mouth. He abruptly left your space after that.

“Come on, Callie, time for treats.” he said, his voice echoing through the room, Callie followed him and barked.

You watched the scene unfold; Sherlock Holmes, your boyfriend, the consulting detective with the reputation of being a cocky and know it all bastard, play and feed the little puppy like a little boy. It made your heart skip a beat to see him so happy, but there was still fear present in you. You still remember the day you ran back to your house sobbing with your friend next to you, limping and screaming in pain. With one last glance, you left the flat to go to work.

When you arrived from work that night, you saw Sherlock sitting on his seat; his fingers steepled and resting under chin. But you weren’t used to having a little puppy sleeping on his lap. Obviously in his mind palace, you let him be and quietly puttered about the flat. With a cup of tea, you sought comfort in John’s old chair and picked up your book. Every now and then you would glance at the man and his little friend, and every now and then you can’t help the frown that crossed your face.

“Stop glaring at her. It’s not her fault, Y/N.” his voice rumbled.

“I know.” you sighed defeatedly and slumped back. Deciding there’s no point in staying up since you have work early tomorrow morning, you stood up and planted a kiss on your boyfriend’s cheek and bid him goodnight. Sherlock soon followed, curling up next to you. The next morning, you found the Callie by the end of the bed, sleeping soundly.

The weeks passed in a blur. Sherlock was overjoyed with his new furry companion, however you, you were still cautious. You paid Callie little attention and it didn’t bother her that much, it was Sherlock’s attention she loves most. But she still tries. She approaches you, and brings you her treats so you’d overcome your fear.

Speaking of Sherlock’s attention to Callie, it was really obvious that he was taken by the little creature. He was really happy but he hoped that you’d be happy too with Callie, all he wants is for her girls to get along. Which was not going well. You were sitting across him, reading your journal when he broke the silence. He was peering into his microscope when he said, “You know, we both had traumatic experiences with dogs.”

“Oh?” you looked up at him, he certainly got your interest.

“I had one when I was little. Redbeard was his name and he was my best friend.” he said, still staring at the microscope.

“What happened to him?” you asked.

“He disappeared. I think he drowned, I don’t know…” he said, his voice fading.

“Oh Sherlock, I’m sorry.” you said and moved towards him, sitting next to him.

“I just try to remember the good times. There were a lot and I remember them whenever I play or whenever I’m with Callie. And I’m scared sometimes, you know? I’m afraid I might lose her just like I lost Redbeard.” he said, sentiment clear and loud in his voice.

“Maybe that’s what you need. You need to get over your fear, Y/N, and just enjoy her and make new memories with her.” he said and finally looked at you. He gave you kiss on the cheek and stood up. He left with Callie, intending to stay in the park that afternoon.

One day, Sherlock was out with John, solving a case. You were left in the flat with Callie as your companion. You planned the day ahead, starting with breakfast with cleaning your closet next. Breakfast done and kitchen cleaned, Callie followed you around the flat. You entered your shared bedroom with Sherlock with Callie behind you. You opened the closet and set on cleaning it; separating clothes that still fit you and clothes that didn’t. Callie was rolling around the pile of clothes and a laugh escaped your lips, terribly amused by her. You were busying yourself; folding your shirts when something nudged your thigh. You turn to look at Callie, a green beanie hanging off her mouth. You chuckled and grasped it, prying it off her mouth when a bright idea popped into your head. You held it and gently put it on her head. She yipped and barked and started to jump around.

Sherlock was right.

Sherlock was in the middle of explaining the case to Lestrade when his phone beeped. He halted his stream of deductions and opened his phone to see he received a message from you. Alarmed that something must be wrong, he quickly swiped it open only to reveal something unexpected.

When Sherlock arrived that night, his voice boomed through the halls of 221B. “I take it my girls are getting along splendidly?” he said when he saw you and Callie in kitchen. You were sitting on the kitchen bench, working on your laptop, with Callie sleeping on your lap, still wearing the green beanie. You beam up at him in agreement, and he planted a kiss on your head.

“I love you.” he whispered.

“No, you love our love child more.” you giggled.

“True, but I love you the most.” he replied and sat beside you. Sherlock smiled to himself, content and truly happy.

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( hope ur doing well safe !! all the love from anne <3 )

[andsheloved]

propriety

pairing ~ sherlock holmes x f!reader

word count ~ 4.9k

summary ~ sherlock was sure his heart stopped when he saw you lying in the hospital bed, all because of him. he has to take care of you. he has to. so who cares if the only way he can be in the room with you is to tell them he’s your husband. certainly not him. absolutely not.

warnings ~ vague descriptions of wounds and injury, mention of blood, mild violence, hospital descriptions, super mild language, mention of passing out and almost-unconsciousness, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED!!!! kind of?? (finally, literally always wanted to write it), sherlock goes feral, mention of crimes (murder, burglary, kidnapping, just sherlock things), probably incorrect depictions of technology (phones) for the time period (but shh its for the vibes), sherlock is YEARNING (and so am i)

a/n ~ ‘whoah madeline hold on you’ve been writing so much lately’ alright i know, i’ve just felt a random burst of inspiration + plus working on some requests has very much helped with some writers block i had been dealing with a little bit ago, but here's another bit of sherlock fluff! anyways i hope you all enjoy!! mwauh!!

Sherlock had never believed in what many called ‘near-death experiences.’ Moments in which one watched all of their life experiences flash before their eyes as they drifted in and out of consciousness.

But he was certain his heart stopped when he saw you.

Your shoulders were slumped as you hobbled over to him, limping just the slightest as you trailed your hand on a nearby wall to keep your balance. Despite your obvious pain, you held his gaze with a soft smile, still trying to keep up your appearances no matter the fact you were very clearly injured.

Sherlock gasped your name, surging forward as you stumbled over your own feet, threatening to fall before he caught you, carefully adjusting you upright. “We need to find John” He murmured, his words almost coming out slurred at the fast pace he spoke them.

“No, no I’ll be fine” You sputtered, your voice hushed.

If he wasn’t so panicked, maybe he would have paused for a moment to wonder how you had grown to care for him so much, so much so, you would lie about your own state as to not worry him any more than he already was.

Your almost-silent wince broke him from his thoughts though, and his heart broke at the sight of your always so lively eyes slowly being filled with the beginnings of tears. He began to call out for his friend as the two of you emerged from the alley you had initially been injured in. Sherlock was only met with concerned and shocked mumbles from the crowd, and frighteningly, not a single one of them came from John. He felt the spaces between his breaths become shorter as he tried to compose himself. He frantically searched the crowd, continuing to firmly place his hand on your lower back to keep you steady.

He swallowed thickly at his next thought, “We must get you to a hospital.”

He heard your quiet grumble of protest, though you did nothing to change his course as he carefully guided you through the crowd in the direction of the hospital.

Sherlock’s mind was clouded with pacing thoughts, scolding himself for even bringing you with him on something he could have easily handled himself. She could have been killed. He found his eyes had screwed shut at the thought, as if trying to push the idea entirely from his mind.

“Sherlock” You softly whispered, and he almost got whiplash at the speed at which he turned to you. There was an ever more pained expression on your face now, “Could we um, slow down… Please?”

“Of course, I’m sorry” He mumbled, a twinge of embarrassment in his tone, he was almost ashamed of himself at how he could have so quickly forgotten that you were still indeed injured and probably wouldn’t be able to simply sprint to the hospital as he was in his concerned state.

He should have left you at home.

That was all his mind kept repeating as the two men emerged from the shadowy corners of the alley.

When he turned to you, he saw how your eyes flickered to him, the slightest bit of worry written on your features, though you didn’t scutter behind him, you held your place, readying yourself as your lips drew into a thin line when the men drew closer to you two.

From that moment on it was a blur, a mess of fists and rusty pipes and grunts that even Sherlock could barely keep track of.

And then he heard you.

The soft whimper that broke through the deep rumble had a feeling blooming in his chest that he couldn’t say if he had ever felt before, a growing, seething rage that seemed to take over his entire body.

His actions weren’t calculated, he didn’t care, he knew it would be messy once he stepped away from this, but he didn’t care.

He wasn’t even sure if you were hurt, you may have just made a startled sound from the shock of being cornered, but it didn’t matter, you shouldn’t have even been in this situation in the first place.

He had to protect you.

When the men finally lay on the ground, breaths steady and eyes closed, he raised an eyebrow as he viewed his work, an appreciative hum escaping his lips.

But then he turned to see you, “Are you alright-”

And the words were lost on his tongue.

“She’s hurt. I need a doctor, now.” His voice boomed around the entryway as the nurse staff only stared back at him at first, he swallowed before continuing, his eyes quickly darting to your drooping frame, you were still holding your side, doing your best to cover the blooming crimson liquid that was now staining your gown. He knew that if he looked at you any longer, his stern expression would surely crumble, and his resolve turn to dust.

“Please” He begged, his eyes furrowing as he looked to the women for any sympathy.

That was all it took for the nurses to begin scuttering around him as he reluctantly let go of you, watching on in almost horror as they assisted you onto a nearby stretcher.

Another woman suddenly appeared before him, halting him from following after you. “I need some information from you” She almost sneered, tapping her pen impatiently on the clipboard she held.

“I’m sorry, I have to-”

“Are you her husband?” She asked, the question left Sherlock with wide eyes and even quicker than before beating heart.

“Excuse me?” He replied, doing his best in concealing the telling shake in his voice.

“Are you her husband? You can only join her if you are married or family. Which one is it?” She added nonchalantly.

Married or family? Sherlock wondered, why couldn’t friends visit? He grumbled internally as he weighed his options. Pretty much all members of the Holmes family were fairly publicly known, adding some unknown, long-lost family member to the family tree would surely raise suspicions of everyone in the hospital.

But Mrs. Holmes.

He was already seen as a private person by everyone in the press already, other than his cases and government brother, most of his life was lived in the privacy he found behind closed doors. So why would his marriage be any different? It would make sense, wouldn’t it? Surely no one would bat an eyelash at that.

“Yes,” He finally responded, his tone more confident now, “I’m her husband.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously, before mumbling a quick “Congratulations” and finally allowing him to pass.

Sherlock rushed into the sterile, white hallway, peeking into every open door to find where they had placed you. He silently muttered a curse under his breath at the woman who had stopped him earlier, if she hadn’t been so intrusive, he would have been with you by now.

He called your name as he swung himself into another room, his shoulders sagging in relief when he finally laid eyes on you.

There was a nurse standing beside your bed, quietly looking over your sleeping form before turning slowly to face him.

“Mr. Holmes-” She said, her face stoic as she walked closer to him.

“Is she alright?” He frantically interrupted, “Is she going to be alright?” Sherlock flinched away from her touch as she hesitantly pushed him into the hallway, gently closing the door behind her as Sherlock raised his gaze above the woman to look at you.

“She’s going to be fine” The woman sighed, obviously exasperated from dealing with concerned spouses and family members all day. “She just needs rest, we’ve patched her up just fine, it was really just a scratch-”

“May I see her?”

The nurse must have seen the pathetic desperation in his eyes as he spoke, and normally he would scowl himself for such outwards display of emotion, but if he were being honest with himself, he was scared, and the last thing on his mind was how he looked in the eyes of others right now.

‘It was really just a scratch’ He tried to keep repeating to himself as the woman’s words turned to thoughtless droning, ‘She’s going to be fine.’

But you shouldn’t have even been there in the first place.

“...Just needs to stay here for a few days”

What? “Stay here?” He sputtered

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, just to make sure she’s stable” The woman smiled

Sherlock supposed he should feel comforted, you’d be in a perfectly safe and sterile environment while you recovered.

But your books, He thought, they were back in the library, when you finally awakened, wouldn’t you want to read? Just to have something to pass the time?

“Is it possible for her to be...” He cleared his throat before continuing, his gaze now stuck to his shoes, “Released any sooner?”

The nurse turned her lips in a sad smile, he hated it, the unavoidable glare of her judgment, but he couldn’t bring himself to care all that much with the thought of you spending so many days and nights in confinement, alone.

“Unfortunately not, Mr. Holmes.”

“Then may I stay?” The words fell from his mouth before he could even give permission to them.

“Apologies-”

“May I stay? Please?”

She huffed in response, “Well yes, but visiting hours are over at-”

That was all he needed, immediately reaching his hand over the women’s shoulder to push the door open, not even leaving a moment of hesitation before shutting it behind him.

He sighed, finally taking in your sleeping form without any interruption.

You were so vulnerable, so fragile, he shook his head at his own actions, asking you to join him today, he scoffed, how could he have been so selfish?

You looked peaceful though, and that was all that mattered now, you were safe here, But Sherlock still despised the sight of you in these surroundings.

Though that was a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, he would be content with simply watching over you, falling asleep to the steady sound of your breathing.

“When you phoned you said it would be an emergency” Mycroft sighed, drumming his fingers on the edge of your bed, “The nurses said would be perfectly fine in a few-”

“She must come home with us” Sherlock interrupted sharply, “This isn’t any place for her.” His eyes lingered on your still sleeping form, he would hate for you to wake up now, sterile, arid walls, in a bed with a paper-thin sheet draped over you.

You deserved better. You deserved to be in a familiar place.

“I’m sure they’re taking awfully good care of her here”

Sherlock hated the condescending tone his brother took with him, had he no heart? Mycroft looked upon you with an almost ice-cold glare, the idea that anyone could look at you with anything but warmth and affection bothered him to no end.

“Maybe they should take a look at you as well, hmm?” Mycroft added, “You look like shit.”

Sherlock grumbled to himself as he stood from the chair situated in the corner across from the bed to examine his reflection in the small mirror hung on the wall. Mycroft was right. His curls were tossed haphazardly against his forehead, the beginning of dark circles shadowed under the pinkish-red hue that now surrounded his iris’. He only offered an observant ‘hm’ in response.

“But seriously, what good do you think it would be for her to come home with us? She’ll be fine here, Sherlock, now-”

“I’ll stay here then,” Sherlock said assuredly, his lips now drawn into a thin line of determination as he spoke.

“Sherlock, that is absolutely unnecessary-”

“If you won’t allow her to come home with us, I’ll stay”

Mycroft huffed an exhausted sigh, his mouth opening and closing rapidly as he tried to think of a response.

“I hope you don’t mind if I request Enola to bring a few things by then? Just some books, maybe a journal for her as well…” He thought of all the other things you would enjoy having with you when you finally awoke, maybe he would even be able to send for someone to fetch some pastries from that small, street-corner bakery you loved so much.

Sherlock watched Mycroft’s face fall slightly as he seceded, “Alright then, I doubt I would have been able to stop you from putting yourself through this anyway” He muttered, gathering his hat and cane he had placed on the small table by your bedside, “I can assume you won’t be joining me for lunch then?”

Sherlock only shook his head with a soft smile as Mycroft turned and exited the room with a huff.

He made his way around your bed to the bedside table, turning the dial of the rotary before picking up the handset, “May I speak to Enola, please…”

On only the third day of your stay, it seemed that Sherlock had successfully brought the entire contents of the home library into the small room. So far, you had only awoken for small moments of time, always offering a delicate, faint smile to him before your eyes fluttered softly closed again as the nurses checked on you.

Regardless of whether you were awake or not though, he would still read to you. It was a silly thought really, thinking you would be able to comprehend or even hear any of the words that came out of his mouth, but he continued regardless.

Maybe it was better you couldn’t hear him at all, he was sure that his face would turn as red as the cross that adorned the aprons of the hospital staff if you happened to stir awake in those quiet moments when he closed his book, and simply just spoke to you.

He wondered what you dreamt of, or if you were even dreaming at all.

He smiled when he recalled his own dream that his mind had conjured last night when his eyelids finally became too heavy to open anymore, though he would never explain the exact contents aloud, and maybe he would forget the precise details in a few days, even then, he would still fondly remember that he dreamt of you.

“Sherlock?” Your soft voice broke his thoughts, your voice was still heavy with sleep, but he could tell you were now fully awake.

Your name fell like a sigh from his lips, he was careful not to make too much noise, even when the chair he sat in threatened to severely scuff the floors at the force at which he leapt from it.

“Are you alright?” He asked frantically “How are you feeling?”

You first chuckled in response, “Good…” You hummed, almost checking if your voice was still in working order after so many days out of use.

Sherlock watched you slowly raise your right arm, and though his urge to stop you from exerting any energy was immense, he just continued to watch you as you placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

He was certain he had turned into a puddle right then, an oozing mush of emotions just from your single touch.

“I feel fine, Sherlock” You added, smiling.

Sherlock felt a surge of relief flood through him at your words, you were fine. His smile seemed to grow uncontrollably as the words continued to repeat in his mind. “I’m happy to hear that” He sputtered, almost barely able to form a sentence through his grin.

“You look tired, is everything alright?” You instantly followed up, now beginning to trace comforting circles with your hand on his shoulder.

It never ceased to amaze him, the way you still withheld your kindness after the world had sometimes treated you less than compassionately. After joining Sherlock on various cases and witnessing the world’s cruelty firsthand, even after all that he told you about all of the murders and burglaries and kidnappings, you still kept your heart.

You were injured, lying in a hospital bed, yet your first full thought, once you awoke, was to ask after him.

He didn’t deserve you.

“Everything’s fine” He chuckled, “I’ve brought you some of your books...”

He then gestured to the messy stacks of novels and poetry books that surrounded your bed, and you looked around with wide eyes, your eyebrows furrowing, “Sherlock, you didn’t-”

“But I wanted to.” He interrupted, he knew you had a habit of refusing for help, deflecting any sort of help or offer that came your way, but he longed for you to know that he wanted to do this, maybe that guilty part of him felt that he needed to, all he was sure of, though, was above all else, you deserved this, after all your kindness, he thought, it was the very least he could do.

Sherlock could see in your eyes how you wanted to argue, say how all of this fuss was unnecessary, that you would be perfectly contempt with just his company, and though he wouldn’t mind you saying that, he could tell by the sigh that slipped past your lips, you were too weary to contest.

“Have you slept at all?”

He so wished he could lie to you, but all of his previous attempts at that proved pointless when you seemed to be the only one who could read him just as well as he could others.

“Not very much, no”

He could see a flash of inquisition in your eyes as you thought for a moment, your mouth opening slightly with a hushed gasp of realization, “Have you… You haven’t stayed here all this time, have you?”

Sherlock could feel the surge of embarrassment he had anticipated when he thought of this exact scenario. He was certain at some point you would ask that, of course, you would be slightly confused as to why he was just sitting in your room, with stacks of books surrounding the both of you, but no amount of anticipation could prepare him for the flood of humiliation he felt at your question.

“Um…” There really was no use in lying to you, you had a way of always finding him out later on, one way or another. “Yes.”

Sherlock was sure being put on trial would be easier than admitting that to you, and he could do nothing to stop the blush that crawled onto his cheeks as he spoke.

You let out a soft hum, before finally responding, “You have to get some rest”

“I’m fine, really-”

“Sherlock” You raised your brows at him sternly, yet the tender smile you wore betrayed your tone.

He smiled in response, raising his arms in feigned surrender as he turned from you to sit once again in the chair he had spent so many restless nights in already.

“Sherlock?”

He turned to face you again instantly.

“You aren’t going home?” Your voice was laden with worry as you spoke

“Why would I be doing that?” Sherlock did his best in trying not to scoff affectionately at your question

“To sleep?” You sheepishly replied, “I’m perfectly fine here”

How could he explain to you, that even if you had no healing injuries, he still would seek every opportunity to be in the same room as you?

Propriety be damned.

He quickly snatched a book from the top of one of the many stacks around the room, handing it to you, “I wouldn’t want you to be alone if anyone came in to check on you”

“Sherlock, I promise-” You cut yourself off, your eyebrows furrowing as you looked at him, eyes once again filled with too much concern for Sherlock’s liking as you studied his features. “I promise, I’m fine. Now go, get some sleep in your own bed instead of that chair” You laughed, placing the book on your bedside table.

He knew you were simply being considerate, he would probably say the exact same thing to you if he were in your position, though he couldn’t help but let out a quietly frustrated grumble at your stubbornness, a trait he both admired and abhorred all at once.

“No.” He replied simply, crossing his arms over his chest as he huffed.

You chuckled lightly, suddenly lifting yourself from the bed with a groan, Sherlock found himself bounding once again to your side before you lifted a hand to stop him, he froze, like a trained puppy to your silent command, and you smiled softly, continuing to shift yourself all the way to the left side of your bed. “If you aren’t going home to sleep in your bed, then I am not letting you sleep in that chair again.”

And though Sherlock was standing still before, now he felt frozen, absolutely petrified in his place as he thought over your words. You certainly weren’t proposing what he thought you were, right?

But then you gently tapped the left side of the bed.

Sherlock couldn’t discern if his face had flushed from embarrassment or excitement, but either way, he felt the familiar warmth of mortification wash over him at his realization.

Yet, despite his own conflicting feelings, he knew he couldn’t deny you.

Even on any other day, in a place which wasn’t a hospital, on an afternoon where you weren’t injured, he was certain he wouldn’t be able to resist you either.

“Okay” Was all he managed to sputter as he slowly sat on the edge of the bed, bit by bit lowering himself onto the mattress until his large frame entirely covered the once empty side. He sat up straight, staring straight out into the room, not daring to make any sort of contact, eye contact or otherwise, with you as he settled.

He could feel your gaze on him though, your lips parting for a moment, he could tell how you were about to argue that he get actually comfortable, but after a moment, you just sighed, leaning your head back against the pillows.

“Goodnight” He could hear you mumble under your breath.

“Goodnight.”

The room was warm. It had been ever since your arrival, but as his eyes blinked open groggily as he slowly awoke, it felt too warm.

He felt a gentle weight on his chest just as the rest of his body became conscious, a blanket, perhaps? He was suddenly struck with panic at the thought of one of the staff coming in to change your sheets and seeing the two of you in this state, and in an instant, he was completely awake.

His eyes shot entirely open as he looked down on himself, and he couldn’t stop the shocked gasp that spilled from his lips.

Your arm was draped gently over his torso, hand barely wrapping around his waist while your head lay on the edge of his chest, rising and falling slightly with his breathing.

Sherlock had to actively regulate his breath, for if he didn’t, he feared that his franticness would wake you.

He screwed his eyes shut for a moment as he thought, you couldn’t have done this on purpose. This was just your unconscious need for physical touch during this stressful time for you. That was all this was.

Though as much as he tried to rationalize the situation, he still found his own mind wandering to less analytical places.

Like if you had done this on purpose.

He wondered what it would feel like to have you wrapped around him while you were still awake, talking to him about your day and asking questions about his, your fingers tracing those senseless patterns on his chest as you both laughed about something Enola had said at dinner.

Sherlock was never one for fantasies, but this was one delusion he couldn’t help but indulge.

You had a way of doing that to him.

You made it easy to dream.

To think of a life beyond all of the chaos of his current life was something he didn’t often ponder, but in moments when you quietly strolled into the library or parlor with a book, gently flipping through pages or sipping your tea, you made the large estate feel like home.

Maybe it wasn’t the house that felt like that, even when you simply walked beside him at the market, those same feelings, without fail, always seemed to stir within him.

Maybe you were his home.

“G’morning” You sighed, shifting yourself against his chest.

Sherlock was shocked at the sight, even when you gently slipped into your own consciousness, you didn’t pull away from him, grumbling a distraught apology for your actions. You just stayed as you were.

He stumbled on his own words, “G- Good morning”, he almost winced from his own lack of suavity.

Sherlock’s chest tightened as he heard your muffled laughter, “You’re cozy” You murmured, he looked down at you, seeing the faint smile that pulled the corners of your lips.

Was it the way you looked at him? Or the feeling of your weight pressed against him? Regardless, he instantly knew he could never live without this feeling again. “I love you.” The words seemed to force their way through his lips on their own accord, though Sherlock wasn’t sure he would be able to fight them from coming out regardless. He watched you for a moment, awaiting some sort of recoil or retch at his confession as you finally pulled yourself from him to sit up against the headboard.

Though your smile only grew, only a twinge of soft anxiety in your eyes, nothing like the tension that flickered in your gaze during your arrival to the hospital, it was a sort of childlike nervousness that made his heart beat even faster.

Before you could get a chance to reply, Sherlock continued, in fear that if he didn’t speak now, he would never be able to gather the nerve again to say them. “I think I always have.” He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts, “When I saw you…” He swallowed, cringing at his own mental image of you in the alley that day, “I couldn’t- I just couldn’t stop myself from thinking of what would happen if you hadn’t-” He found he couldn’t even continue, his heart almost shattering at the very notion of your absence. “I couldn’t bear the thought. And seeing you here, I’ve had time to think, how much you do truly mean to me, I know I don’t often show it, but, I love you. I have from that very moment we’d been introduced, and from every greeting afterward, I’ve loved you, and I find that I never want to stop saying hello to you.” He shyly lifted his gaze to your own again, seeing that same softly joyful, wide-eyed expression from before, “I don’t think I could only ever go back to what we were after this… I’d rather spend the rest of my nights in that horrid chair than sleep without you again.” He laughed, and just as sudden as his first confession, a new question forced all air from his lungs, “Would you marry me?”

There was a moment of silence as he stared at you, a gentle grin still on your face. He was sure he looked absolutely pathetic, his hair a mess from sleep, his eyes almost brimming with tears with the weight of his confession, but he didn’t care, he would beg on his knees in front of you if it meant you would only just give him a chance.

“Sherlock,” You sighed, your eyes lighting with a particular glimmer he had never seen before, “I’ve always loved you, I don’t think I’ve ever not loved you” You laughed, “Even when it took you this long to realize it”

He felt his shoulders drop as he let out a sigh of relief at your words, instantly surging forward to take your hand in his. “You needn’t answer now” He rushed, becoming aware how early it must have been now, he internally cursed himself for not waiting until you had entirely wakened, “I know-”

“Of course” You interrupted, “Yes, Mr. Holmes” You chuckled, “I will marry you.”

Sherlock tried to ignore the quiet sniffle that came from you, he was sure his heart would burst if he witnessed any tears coming from you.

You continued, “It would be my honor.”

“No,” Sherlock replied, “I would be mine”

It was at that moment when he finally realized how close you two were, your faces only inches from each other.

The door wasn’t locked, he thought, anyone could come in.

But what did it matter anyway, to them, you were already Mrs. Holmes.

And so he kissed you. He wasn’t even sure when he had begun imagining it, but your lips were just as soft as he had always dreamed of. His hand found its way to your cheek, his thumb wiping the stray tear that fell as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. His heart surged when he felt your one hand grip onto his vest, pulling him impossibly closer against you.

Once he reluctantly pulled away, he found himself at a loss for words, but he didn’t mind, any words worth being said had now already been spoken.

A sharp knock on the door had you both breathlessly turning, quickly adjusting yourselves and your clothing as to not raise any questions.

“Mrs. Holmes?” A woman questioned as she opened the door, her eyes almost immediately falling to the floor, obviously flustered by the state of the two of you.

You turned quickly back to him, a soft, confused look in your eyes, your head tilted in question at the woman’s title for you.

But all he could do was smile lovingly at you, almost entranced at the sound of your new, soon-to-be surname. Sometime in the future, maybe he would explain it all to you, after all, he had all the time in the world with you now.

A single chuckle left your lips as you turned again to face the woman, and for the second time that morning, the words fell from your lips.

“Yes”

oh my goodness, me wants, me wants so badly. i didn't think i'd be writing another piece for sherlock, but here we are, yearning again!! i want to thank and shoutout my lovely may,@uncle-kenobi, for your endless headcanons and inspiration for sherlock yearning hours (which is always) and i hope you all enjoyed this one!! and please let me know what you think!! as always, likes, comments, and reblogs are always always appreciated!! i hope you are all doing so very well today/tonight!! mwauh!!

want more sherlock? check out my masterlist!

[french-vanilla-in-the-clouds]

𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

Sherlock x Reader

Summary: When Eurus entangles Y/N in her violent game of intellect, Sherlock must sacrifice something he never expected to care for.  As he looks back upon what he will lose, he sees only the fragments of his shattered heart...​

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Sherrinford, High Security Prison

“If you want her out of the game, you’ll have to burn her out of it.”

“Sister, please. I beg of you... don’t.”

Sherlock Holmes stood hunched before the monitor, his tone bleeding with desperation.

“I’m afraid this is non negotiable. It’s either her heart or her life. Choose one or I’ll have no choice but to take both. Of course, the bit about her heart won’t be in the metaphorical sense, you understand.”

A red light blared throughout the room and Jim Moriarty’s jives echoed off the walls. Sherlock’s fists clenched as he looked up at Eurus’ sickly smile of triumph.

“I can’t... I won’t destroy everything we’ve built...” he whispered to himself. “Not like this.”

Doctor Watson placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Your sister is insatiable and that makes her dangerous,” he said in a low voice. “There’s more at stake here than just your pride. Soldiers, remember? Maybe you should-”

“Not now John! Don’t you see? I love her!”

Sherlock blanched at his own admission. Y/N was the light of his life and he couldn’t let Euros jeopardize that.

John’s jaw clenched as he stared back with a look of sorrow. “That’s exactly why you need to do it. You need to break her heart to save her life.”

Sherlock looked down at the mobile phone in his hand. As the seconds ticked by, his beloved Y/N came closer to her demise. Eurus had set an assassin after her and unless he complied with his sister’s task, Y/N would face a swift death.

He felt a million passions ricocheting in his heart. There were no more tricks up his sleeve. Sherlock had to submit to his sister’s will or face the consequences.

“I won’t lose her...” he whispered. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned to John and nodded steadily. “Soldiers.”

With shaky hands, he dialled Y/N’s number and listened to the timbre of the rings.

He closed his eyes as the world spun around him, and his mind raced in reminiscence. Sherlock could suddenly see thousands of snapshots of the beautiful life which he was about to destroy...

***

“John, I’ve told you before, I haven’t the time for your little friend. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I have a case to solve!”

The doctor sighed and rubbed at his throbbing temple. “If you would just hear her out-”

Sherlock stepped over the coffee table and walked to the door. He made a point to swing it open with great emphasis. “Forgive me,” he said to the girl with a smile that was anything but polite. “But I am very busy. If you would kindly take your leave before-“

“It was the perfume, Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock paused at the girl’s quiet declaration. “Come again?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

Y/N cleared her throat. “The perfume,” she repeated. “The victim smelled of perfume the day her body was found.”

“I’m aware. Did you have a point?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Mrs Thewlis was allergic to Ethanol, the prime ingredient in perfume. She wouldn’t be wearing it unless someone forced her to.”

She crossed her arms as she continued on. “I asked Molly to run a toxicology test and the report came back positive. Traces of poison were found in Thewlis’ bloodstream, seemingly absorbed through her skin.”

She paused for effect. “My theory, Mr Holmes is that somebody sprayed the victim with a sort of chemical infused mist and that there was no murder weapon at the crime scene because the victim was wearing it the entire time!”

Sherlock said nothing. He simply observed the girl in curious silence before closing the door and walking towards her.

“You’re saying that somebody doused her perfume with poison?”

“Yes, Mr Holmes.”

“What’s your name?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeated to himself. “Well Y/N, congratulations on cracking your first case.”

Sherlock couldn’t wrap his head around it. How could this girl have possibly picked up on something that he had missed? Normally he’d have felt a wounded pride, a violent jealousy at her intellect, but strangely enough, he felt nothing. On the contrary, Sherlock was intrigued by her sharpness. He suddenly felt a burning desire to know more about her.

Sherlock was snapped back to attention by the sound of her voice. “I’m glad that I could be of assistance. Good day, Mr Holmes.” Y/N gave a curt nod as a means of farewell and was just about to leave the flat when she felt a hand on her wrist.

She turned around and saw the consulting detective. “Please,” he said, extending a gloved hand. “Call me Sherlock. Will you stay for tea?”

***

A soft amber light streamed in through the gossamer curtains of 221B Baker Street. The delicate London breeze danced in through the window, making the thin veils flutter.

Y/N hummed softly as the quaint disturbance roused her from her sleep. She tilted her head to the side and caught a glimpse of the time. 5:45 on a Friday morning. She felt movement to her right, and was suddenly exposed to the morning chill as her blanket was yanked away.

Turning on her side, Y/N was met by Sherlock’s sleeping frame. She gave a shiver and was just about to reprimand him for hoarding the covers when something struck her.

She drew a breath at the sight of him lying next to her. His tousled hair was pressed against the pillow, soft and unruly. His bare chest heaved in slow breaths, moving up and down steadily. His face was unmarred by the stress of his waking moments. Sherlock looked comfortable and at ease. 

Though she had been waking up to this same sight every morning for the past few years, Y/N felt as though she were seeing him for the very first time whenever she caught him in these quiet moments of dawn.

She reached out to touch him just to prove to herself that he was more than a perfect illusion. Her hand lingered mere inches away when Sherlock spoke, his voice heavy with sleep. “You’re awake.”

“Yes, a chill woke me. Somebody was greedy with the covers...”

He opened his eyes and grinned. “How tragic.”

With a soft groan he shifted and pulled Y/N closer, wrapping an arm around her so that she lay with her head in the crook of his arm. She sighed contentedly and grazed his skin with her fingertips. Resting her palm against his chest, she felt the steady beat of his heart.

“What are you thinking?”

Y/N paused for a moment. “I’m thinking that this might be too good to be true.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock said, propping himself up on an elbow. He looked down at Y/N and smiled. “This is much too good to be true, but I would be a fool to question it.” With his free hand, Sherlock cupped the back of Y/N’s neck and brought her close to his upturned lips. “I’ll be damned if I let anything come between us. I swear to you, I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock finally kissed her. As the morning rays shone through the airy curtains, Y/N took comfort in the thought that their love was infinite.  

***

Gone was the music.

A familiar burning sensation prickled at the back of her eyes, but still, Y/N denied herself the tears.

She sat quietly in Sherlock’s old armchair, staring at the bullet ridden wall.

“Yoo-hoo,” called a voice from the doorway. Y/N hardly stirred as Mrs Hudson came bustling in with a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Morning’ dearie, I brought you a cuppa’! I thought you might fancy a treat,” the kindly landlady said, forcing a cheery tone.

She took a look around the room and frowned at the gathering dust and drawn curtains. “It’s a bit gloomy in here, isn’t it?”

Grief had taken its toll since Sherlock’s fall, and Y/N was a transparent reflection of it. Her eyes were bloodshot and held an emptiness to them as she reflected within the abandoned flat, lost in her memories.

“It’s fine, really,” Y/N said a weakly.

Mrs Hudson’s gaze shifted. Y/N was wearing Sherlock’s old coat. A mahogany patch stained the collar. A reminder.

“It’s been two years, love. It’s time to let go.”

A glossy trail streamed down Y/N’s cheek, but still she smiled. “He’ll be back,” she said, her voice cracking. “He promised me that he wasn’t going anywhere. If I just wait here, I’m sure-”

“He’s not coming back,” Mrs Hudson said gently.

Y/N turned away. “I told him it was too good to be true.”

Mrs Hudson smiled sympathetically. “I’ll be downstairs, love.”

Y/N grabbed hold of her chair’s armrests and squeezed. She winced as a hot trail of tears slicked her cheeks.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Sherlock wasn’t supposed to have been on that rooftop. He wasn’t meant to leave her grieving. 

He wasn’t supposed to be gone.

Perhaps Mrs Hudson was right. Maybe it was time to move on like John had. Y/N ran a hand through her hair and let out a shaky breath. She was just about to reach for her tea when she heard a loud crash and a scream come from downstairs.

“Mrs Hudson?” Y/N stood up in a panic and rushed downstairs, heart racing.

“Mrs Hudson!” she cried out.

Y/N found her landlady in the kitchen, shattered porcelain on the floor. “Are you alright?” she asked warily.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. It was simply a mild shock.”

A chill ran up Y/N’s spine at the sound of that distantly familiar voice. It can’t be... she thought incredulously. Carefully, she turned her gaze upwards and noticed for the first time the man standing at the doorway.

“Hello,” he waved awkwardly.

Standing at the other end of the room was Sherlock Holmes.

Y/N stared as he shifted uncomfortably under her critical gaze. Dressed in his signature trench coat and dress pants, he looked the same as the day she had lost him.

“New coat?” she asked, stunned.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes, actually. Unlike yours, I suppose. I see you held onto the old one...” He looked to the floor. “it... well, it suits you, mind the gore.”

Y/N ignored his attempt at humour. “You’re back,” she whispered.

When he looked back at her, his eyes glistened. “How could you expect me to stay away?”

***

“You can’t be serious!”

“I swear it’s true!”

Y/N listened carefully from the hall as John, Mary, and Greg conferred in 221B. From what she could hear, they were talking about her and Sherlock. Though it had been months since they had reunited, the pangs of lost love still inflamed their passions. 

“He actually said that to you? Those exact words?”

Y/N frowned at the excitement in Mary’s tone as she grilled John on something that Sherlock had allegedly told him. John laughed and Y/N peeked through the crack in the door to catch him kiss his wife lightly on the nose. 

“Those exact words,” he affirmed softly. “Sherlock is thinking of proposing marriage to Y/N.”

Y/N let out a small gasp and clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound of her surprise. She blinked as a wave of emotions crossed through her. Marriage? Sherlock? These two words were foreign in the same sentence and she had to take a breath to contain herself. 

“Bloody hell...” she heard Lestrade mutter from the flat. “Our boy’s found it,” he said softly. “He’s found his heart.” 

“Keep your voice down!” John whispered sharply. “Y/N will be here any minute, and she can’t know!”

Y/N stepped back and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. She felt her heart race and couldn’t stop smiling. Sherlock Holmes, the man that she adored more than she ever imagined she could, was on the verge of proposing to her.  

“Sneaking about, are we?"

Y/N gave a start when she opened her eyes and saw Sherlock standing before her, brow upturned. 

She straightened herself and smiled nervously. “I was just about to head inside.”

“Is that why you’re lurking just outside the flat, plastered against the wall?” Sherlock asked sarcastically. 

Y/N shrugged, not knowing what to say. Just at that moment though, Greg opened the door to meet them. 

“Oi, we could hear you gabbing out here. Are you coming in or what? We’ve been expecting you.”

Sherlock peered past the Detective Inspector’s shoulder and found John and Mary grinning guiltily inside. His lips twitched in a hidden smile as he deduced what exactly was happening. “Yes,” he said slowly. “We’ll be right there.”

When Greg stepped back inside, Sherlock turned to Y/N. “You haven’t been eavesdropping on others’ conversations, have you?” he asked sweetly.

She looked at at him in feigned shock. “I would never!” 

Sherlock studied her, his smile growing as he regarded the charming glint in her eyes. In that moment, he caught flashes of a future with her. Since they had met, Sherlock had reimagined his previous notions of the dullness of domesticity. Though marriage had once seemed a burden to him, Y/N had changed that, and Sherlock knew that nothing would be grander than a quaint life by her side. 

“What have I done to deserve you?” he asked softly. Y/N watched as Sherlock pressed her gently against the wall, and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the crown of her head before leaning forwards and grazing the shell of her ear. “I love you,” he whispered delicately. Sherlock closed his eyes and whispered again, “I love you.”

***

Sherrinford, High Security Prison

“Hello?”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. He scanned the room, disoriented. He had felt safe for a moment, caught in remembrance, but the sterility of Sherrinford’s cell had cut through the dream. 

He caught a flash of Eurus frowning from the monitor and looked back to find John standing solemnly behind him. Y/N's voice blared from hidden speakers. Nothing had changed.

“Hello?”

Sherlock drew a breath at the familiarity of the voice on the other end of the line. His task became clear once more. He pinched the bridge of his nose and gulped.

“Hello love,” he said, his tone strained. 

Red lights flashed in warning and Sherlock looked up. “This isn’t a social call,” Eurus said icily. “Don’t try and mitigate the blow with pet names. It’s her heart or her life Sherlock, I think I’ve made that clear.” 

A pang of alarm shot through him. There was no way out. 

“Sherlock, is that you?” Y/N asked from the other end of the line. “Are you alright?”

Sherlock walked to one of the cell’s walls and leaned an arm against it, seeking purchase. He thought of Eurus’ hire, trigger finger itching for a clean shot.

“Sherlock?” she called again. “Can you hear me?”

Sherlock needed to burn her out of his story. "I pray you'll forgive me..." he whispered to himself. Standing tall, he straightened his collar and detached himself from the warmth that Y/N had inspired in him throughout all their years. Sherlock Holmes became ice.  

“Y/N?” he said. “I need you to listen to me.”

"I'm listening," she said uncertainly.

Red lights flashed and Moriarity’s malarkey reigned.

"About us," Sherlock continued, "We've come far."

Y/N laughed. "You called to talk about us? What’s this-”

"Don't interrupt," he said curtly. "I need to fix this."

There was a moment of silence before Y/N responded. "What are you saying?” she asked slowly. 

"I mean to say that I'm ending this. Our experiment."

"Experiment?” she scoffed.

Sherlock's voice was brisk and steady, devoid of feeling. "Indeed. You see, our relationship was was only ever a simulation of sentiment. A psychological examination. A game of science."

He could hear Y/N’s breath hitch and he clenched his fist in guilt. He was slowly approaching the end. 

“It’s all been a rouse,” he said tensely. “ A clever experiment to test the naivety of the human mind, and you Y/N, were the ideal subject. Insecure, wide-eyed, and unduly retentive; you were foolishly loyal to a man that never cared, and it has proved your undoing.”

Sherlock waited for Y/N to hang up the phone. To curse him or yell obscenities from the receiver. He waited for her anger, silently praying she would cut him off. It was the only way Eurus would spare her, and Y/N’s acrimony against him was well worth her life.   

She said nothing.

Subconscious sirens hammered in his mind. Sherlock couldn’t know for sure if she had believed him. He had to push harder. “ You’re nothing more than a failed enterprise,” he said sharply. He heard his voice rise until he was sure he sounded manic. “ You have nothing left to offer, so I implore you to leave me be!” 

Silence dragged on until Sherlock finally heard Y/N sniff. She let out a shaky breath and spoke. “Sherlock,” she began softly. “I’m not sure what you’ve gotten yourself into, but you can’t expect me to believe a word of what you just said.”

no. no. no. no. no... 

Sherlock shook his head furiously. She wasn’t supposed to be kind. She was meant to be hurt. 

Y/N gave an unsettled laugh before continuing. “I love you, Sherlock,” she whispered. “I love---”

Shattered glass and silence. 

Sherlock collapsed to his knees. “Y/N?” he asked gently. A shiver ran up his spine at the blackout stillness. “Y/N!” he cried out. His hands trembled in horror and bile rose in his throat. It isn’t so... he thought. it can’t be so... 

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck, brother.” Eurus said softly. 

Sherlock looked up at his sister, his eyes bloodshot. 

She cocked her head to the side, feigning sympathy. “You failed,” she said simply. “Let’s move on, shall we?” The screen went dark and the cell lit up with crimson light. 

Sherlock stayed abased, kneeling on the cold flooring. A damp heat trailed down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe it away. He thought of Y/N. He thought of her smile. Her laugh. Her silence. 

He thought of their thousands of moments past and the finality of her fall. 

He kneeled in sterile reminiscence. 

▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️

*psssst!* try reading Corpses and Roses!!!

I FINISHED IT! I FINALLY FINISHED IT! THIS CURSED FIC HAD BEEN TRAPPED IN MY NOTES SINCE THE SUMMER BUT I FINALLY FINISHED IT!!!!

Hey you guys!!! What’s going on??? This fic is very heavy on the whole Molly x Sherlock ordeal back in Sherrinford, so I hope that’s something you’re into! I just thought it would be cool to write about snapshots from Sherlock and Y/N’s relationship, soooo yeah! Thanks for reading!!!!

If you’d like to be tagged in any future Sherlock fics, just tell me in the comments! (and if you’d rather not be tagged in ALL Sherlock fics, please specify; EX: Reader x Sherlock, Reader x John Watson...)

oh yeah, and visit my multi fandom taglist!!!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

HAVE A BRILLIANT DAY!!!

Tagging the wonderfully fantabulous: @twisted-monster @starryeddie @high-functioning-lokipath @the-chaotic-cow @turkisherlockian @kabubsmagga @aephereal​ @andthevillainshallrises​ @cosbloos​ @cookiemumster1​​ @eternal-silvertongued-prince​ @i-beg-your-pardon-laufeyson​ @lucywrites02  @danzalladaggers  

[okay-j-hannah]

Your Hidden Strength

BBC Sherlock : Oneshot

Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 5999

Warnings: Kidnapping/held hostage... a reigniting love for Benedict Cumberbatch. I’m obsessed with keeping writing true to character, hopefully this is accurate

DID YOU KNOW THEY TOOK SHERLOCK OFF NETFLIX - those bastards

Request: This is just from my own head 😊

A/N: Sherlock seems indifferent to the hired housekeeper, but when she goes missing his life is thrown upside down

She straightened out the chaos. She was very good at that. Making whatever disaster was in the flat a controlled chaos.

She placed a bulletin above the couch, pinning Sherlock’s papers in some kind of order. The table was decluttered, placed in dated files and hidden in a small organizer. His laptop was plugged in to charge, as he always forgot, and she tucked away yesterday’s newspaper. She had a library of boxes downstairs to hold all the newspapers as Sherlock normally required them at some point or another.

She dusted the bookshelves and vacuumed the rug so no one would trip over the bunches Sherlock normally made running around the apartment. She washed and returned the pillows he’d toss out the window in a rage. She would also treat the coffee stains and cigarette burns he’d leave behind.

She polished the skull and swept out the chimney. She replaced his old toothbrush and refilled the toilet paper under the sink. She put the bills on the counter and bought groceries. The violin was returned to its case before he could snap the bow like he did the last time a case struggled to make developments.

She convinced Sherlock to purchase a second fridge to home all of his strange experiments. She gifted him a thermometer and ph gauge for it when he did. Currently she was in the kitchen, brewing some tea and disinfecting all of his scientific equipment.

Goggles and gloves on, she sanitized beakers and petri dishes. A drying rack already held glass stirring sticks and pipets.

“Hoo hoo.” Mrs. Hudson walked in with a tin of biscuits, “These are fresh from the shop, dear.”

(Y/N) pointed towards a cookie jar, “Just place them in there, thanks.” She continued scrubbing at a bottle that previously held a handful of cow tongue.

“You’ve really outdone yourself this week, (Y/N),” Mrs. Hudson said, moving to see the coat rack adorning Sherlock’s collection of scarves and gloves. “Did you iron these?”

“Of course,” (Y/N) said, shrugging her shoulders, “It’s my job after all.”

“But they’re scarves, (Y/N),” she said with a creased brow, “You know you don’t have to do everything up here. John can help.”

(Y/N) took her gloves off and went to wipe down the microscope, “In their line of work, it’s easier to have all these mundane things taken cared of. Even John – when he’s not chasing Sherlock he’s up late at the hospital.”

“I know dear, but you’re working yourself to death.”

“I’ve given myself a certain caliber that the boys are now used to, so I must maintain that upkeep.”

There was another swing of the door, “I honestly don’t know what we’d do without you, (Y/N).”

“John!” (Y/N) said in greeting, “Sorry, covered in bleach.” She ran over and kissed his cheek in passing, “Sherlock was keeping a rather unpleasant bacteria in the fridge.”

John gave her a slightly disgusted look, “Please tell me it was in his fridge.”

She nodded, holding in a laugh, “I’ll tell you one thing – being your housekeeper has never been boring.”

“I’m just glad it isn’t me anymore. I mean, I was never their housekeeper,” Mrs. Hudson said, crossing her arms and sighing, “It’s a miracle Sherlock hasn’t scared you off yet. He can be a bit of a handful though a real sweetheart.”

John rolled his eyes, falling into his armchair, “I’ve yet to see that side of him.” He looked around, “(Y/N), where is…”

She suddenly appeared and handed him the days newspaper.

“Ah, thank you.”

“And you’ve gotten a few emails about the blog – I flagged the ones you’ll need to respond to but the others I sent information on updates and comments.”

John shook his head, “You really are remarkable, (Y/N). How do you manage it?”

(Y/N) shrugged, returning to the kitchen to finish the tea. “I enjoy it. I get to see all the amazing things you do without the danger.”

“You know we couldn’t do all those amazing things without you,” John said, ever the conscientious one. He knew she wasn’t thanked enough for all she did, especially by his flat mate.

She shook her head, pouring a cuppa, “You did long before I came along.”

Mrs. Hudson gratefully took a saucer and sipped, “I’m going to have to give you a discount on this months rent. I haven’t had to deal with a single mishap from this flat since you’ve arrived. You remember when Sherlock put those holes in my wall?”

(Y/N) smiled to herself, knowing those holes were still there behind the bulletin she put up.

“We’ll give you a big Christmas tip this year,” John turned a page of his paper.

“That’s very kind of you,” (Y/N) said sweetly, placing a cup of tea on John’s side table. Made just the way he liked it.

“I should get back to the telly, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, placing her own tea down. “My show should be on.” She walked out the door and ran into someone, “Good afternoon, Sherlock.”

The tall man came stalking into the flat, throwing his suit jacket onto the couch. He went straight for the window and stared out onto the street. He reached with his left hand and found his laptop exactly where it was always placed.

He held it in one hand and typed with the other. John wiggled his nose disconcertingly at Sherlock’s silent entry. (Y/N) made her way to move Sherlock’s jacket from the couch and to the back of his chair.

“Afternoon,” John muttered behind his paper.

Sherlock remained silent, scrolling through his laptop. (Y/N) placed a cuppa on the desk, as well as a mug of black coffee, two sugars. She sometimes couldn’t tell what he was exactly in the mood for.

He slammed the computer shut, tossing it onto the table and reaching for the coffee.

(Y/N) made a mental note – he was thinking, strained, and in need of some adrenaline from the caffeine.

“Hand me my phone, John.”

(Y/N) came behind his shoulder and slipped him the phone she kept in her pocket from cleaning his room. She removed the teacup and began to drink it herself.

Sherlock barely acknowledged her as she finally took a seat in the kitchen.

“You’ve made your move,” he muttered.

She turned towards him and smiled, sipping her drink. Sherlock was looking at the chess set that was resting behind his armchair. He pondered for a mere five seconds before replying in boredom.

“Checkmate in six.” He repositioned one of his knights as he glanced her way.

She trailed her eyes up and raised her tea to him, “We’ll see.”

“You cleaned?” He was quickly entering the kitchen, grabbing the drying beakers.

“Disinfected and ready for use,” she said confidently.

He didn’t seem to have anything to prove wrong about the work. He simply nodded and glanced at his experiment fridge.

“You’ve taken the eyes from the microwave.”

“And wrote down the observations, times, and discoloration,” she lifted a clipboard near the teapot. “Biopsies are on glass slides and next to the microscope.”

If he was impressed he didn’t say so. Though when Sherlock remained silent it was normally a good thing; as soon as he opened his mouth it was normally an insult or something to make him seem better than everyone else.

“I figured you were up all night. You take too many nicotine patches, you know.”

“It’s a four patch problem.” His hands were behind his back, voice monotoned.

She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap, “Must be serious then.”

“String of murders along west end, actors on stage taking their last bow. Each death different and strange. One strangled with blue curtains, another stabbed with a peacock feather quill, another crushed by a falling sandbag, and the last falling from the set and breaking their neck.”

“I’ve always loved going to the theatre.”

Sherlock ignored her silly retort, and it made her smile. “The connection is of course obvious.”

John piped up from the living room, “That they’re all actors?”

“That those deaths are related to theatre myths.” (Y/N) smirked but did nothing more than drink her tea.

Sherlock gave her a muted look, “Yes. They’re all related to some kind of bad luck brought about by myth and legend. Wearing blue is traditionally unlucky on stage, unless you pair it with silver. Peacock feathers were seen as possessing the evil eye and seeing them while performing would doom the production. Sandbags came from the catwalks, and they’re normally released by signal of a whistle, so whistling while performing is bad luck and could result in a fatal accident. And finally the broken neck. The theatre was performing the Shakespeare play Macbeth, which is a notoriously unlucky show – if you say the name while in rehearsal you jinx it.”

“Did someone say, ‘good luck’ instead of ‘break a leg’? Because that’s very unlucky as well.”

Sherlock looked at her with mild annoyance, “Regardless I’ve been attempting to find another connection in the past three days.” He pulled at his curly head, “And all I’ve seen is completely separate stories and separate lives. No same director, chorus, or choreographer. There weren’t any secret love affairs or major relationships between members of the cast. Even the technicians are singular and separate. The audience has to be the key but so far I haven’t found a single ticket purchased by the same person for all four shows.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out – you always do,” she said, rising from the kitchen table. “Be sure to update me. I don’t want to be unlucky going to see a show this weekend.”

“But… but it’s the performers that are being murdered.”

“Joke, Sherlock,” she mused, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to swab John’s mouth for that phone bacteria experiment.”

John choked, “What?”

“Kidding,” she laughed, “Twice in one day. I’m on a roll.” And she left the flat to spend time in her own room for a change. She shared the main floor with Mrs. Hudson, helping her with shop things from time to time.

Sherlock took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes hard. He went back for his armchair, planting himself and downing the rest of his coffee.

“You don’t give her the time of day.”

“Sorry?”

“(Y/N),” John said, “She does quite literally everything around here and you don’t so much as acknowledge it.”

Sherlock appeared genuinely confused, “What does she do again?”

“For God’s sake, Sherlock,” John folded his newspaper and put a hand to his temple. “She’s been housekeeping here for over six months.”

“Then isn’t it a sign of a good housekeeper for me not to notice change in the flat?”

John pursed his lips, “But she’s also acting as a secretary, scientist, and therapist. The least you could do is say she’s doing a good job.”

“She knows she’s doing a good job,” Sherlock retorted, “I don’t complain about it, do I?” He began to twiddle his fingers along his chair.

John noticed and attempted to remain inconspicuous, “Case running slow?”

Sherlock jutted his jaw and clacked his tongue. “It’s running fine.”

“Sure,” John put a finger to his lips, “You want to consult the police?”

“Idiots.”

He hopped up and started pacing, reaching for the mantlepiece and finding his torch right where it always was. He fiddled with the trigger, a small blue flame emitting from the tip.

“Let’s not set the curtains on fire,” John said cautiously. He tried to sit still, thinking about what Sherlock would be itching for next.

The detective paced, playing with the torch, “It doesn’t make any sense. The people… the actors… the audiences. What connects them? The profession? Not theatres or shows. Theatres. Where are they? West End. What is it about West End? It’s not that difficult to sneak into the back of a playhouse – many performers and technicians are running in and out. Someone off the street? Security cameras? Mycroft.”

“Your brother? You’re not roping him into a routine serial like this?”

“I need to see everything from the outside just as much as the inside. The first two victims smoked – perhaps in the back alleyway? Lured the killer in by accident? Who else wanders West End? Homeless network. I need something. Something… something,” Sherlock flared his torch, “Get me something!”

John sighed, “I’ve got another shift at the hospital; I can’t go with you to…”

“No, I need some and you have some. Give it to me.” He was dangerously close to setting his own hair on fire.

“Not having a breakthrough isn’t enough cause to give up, Sherlock. You’ve been doing really well.” He probably shouldn’t have mentioned that Sherlock was struggling with the case – damaging his ego. “Don’t stop now.”

Sherlock dropped his torch with a clunk to the ground. He observed John’s demeanor for a few seconds before rolling his eyes. “Perfect. You’ve given my secret stash to (Y/N).”

“What?” John scoffed, slightly unnerved, “Why would I do that?”

Sherlock went for the stairs, “Last thing you haven’t tried.”

The lanky man tromped towards the main floor, pushing into Mrs. Hudson’s apartment. The old woman was washing dishes in the sink, startled by his appearance and splashing bubbles all down her front.

Sherlock ignored her cries of accusation to rap on (Y/N)’s bedroom door. When she didn’t answer within three seconds, he yelled for her.

“(Y/N)! I know you’re in there. Flats by the door, crisps on the countertop, and your purse is open with your emergency feminine hygiene products stuffed inside, meaning you have no intention of going out tonight with…”

Her door flew open. She looked exasperated, “What is it Sherlock?”

He took a short, aggravated breath, “I need some. Get me my stash.”

She folded her arms, “No.”

Sherlock scratched the back of his head in a twitchy act of frustration. “Please.”

“If that was genuine, maybe.”

He clenched his teeth, “You know where everything is in the apartment. You then must also know that I have a complete arsenal at my disposal, most in that second fridge you forced me to buy…”

“I cleaned out that bacteria this morning.”

Sherlock paused, an almost tangible fury building in him, “I have other weapons other than biological.”

“Harpoon tucked away, scalpel kit locked up, and gun unloaded and somewhere John deems safe.”

He was almost shaking uncontrollably.

“Are you really threatening me just to get a high?” She folded her arms. “I always figured you thought higher of me.”

“Sentiment,” his voice was poisoned. “Was always your greatest weakness.”

She frowned, nodding her head. She jabbed a finger into his chest, pushing him away slightly. “Cold and calculating. Always been your greatest weakness.”

Sherlock turned away, cheek twitching from containing his next insult. (Y/N) almost sneaked a smile, seeing the restraint. He was holding back for her benefit – so he did think higher of her than he let on.

“Come on,” she pulled on his arm, urging him into her room and onto the bed. He practically flopped onto it, “Explain.”

He looked at her with a stone gaze.

“You like to talk, and I am willingly giving you the floor. Speak.”

“I’m going to the theatre – would you like to come?”

She took a deep sigh, eyeing him with barely contained disappointment. “Why me?”

“John is upset with me for some reason and won’t leave his position at the hospital. Nobody at Scotland Yard is competent enough to keep up with me. I know you are always willing to help a friend…”

“I don’t do cases, Sherlock – you know that.”

“And I know one of your premenstrual symptoms is seeking out comfort and something to feign off the loneliness…”

“Oi!”

“If you’re not going to surrender the stash, the least you can do is indulge me in some distraction.”

She watched as he slowly tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. His eyes seemed to lighten in a pleading look.

It made her sigh heavily through her nose, “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Is it working?”

“You think we’ll run across the killer?”

He stood straight, hands behind his back, “There’s always a possibility. It is the scene of the crime. We are looking for more evidence.” It was like he already knew her answer – the subtle smile on his face was very telling.

She tapped her foot, chewing the inside of her cheek. “If I’m adding detective to the list I’m going to need a pay raise.”

“I’ll buy you lunch.” He was already out her door and jogging to get his coat off the back of his armchair.

(Y/N) was in the hall, wrapping a long striped scarf around her neck, letting it taper down her front. A knitted hat with a bauble on top fit snug on her head, making her look incredibly cheerful and innocent.

Sherlock made these observations, seeing her cheeks tinted pink without them having gone out in the cold yet. Embarrassed? Flushed? Overheating?

Why would she be blushing?

“You’re sure we won’t get into any trouble?”

Sherlock led the way out to hail a cab. “All the murders took place during performance hours and seeing as it’s still daylight, I wouldn’t expect to run into anyone planning to kill at the moment. They’re well-thought crimes that don’t require the need to stick around the scene. This killer waits until the opening number.”

She sighed, feeling the notebook and pen she stashed into her pocket. “I’ve got to be back to do the wash and prep the roast.”

“What must it be like to work with such mundane things like laundry and dinner?”

He didn’t look at her as he said it, but she felt a little hitch in her chest. No matter how resilient she became to Sherlock’s jabs and infuriating habits, there were still times he could hurt her feelings.

“It’s worth it to know it helps you save people and solve all those cases.”

“Helps me?” Sherlock scoffed. “What about household chores helps me do my job?”

She refrained from lashing out, “If what I do is so utterly useless in helping you solve cases, then why am I with you now?”

“Because John can’t be.”

(Y/N), the two of them now sitting in a cab, looked out the window and remained silent. She could barely feel Sherlock eyeing her and making deductions about her shift of mood.

“I think better when I talk out loud. It attracts less attention when I have someone to speak to.”

She knew he was trying to figure out why she was suddenly upset. He was oblivious to things such as that.

“I’m glad I’m just a substitute John.”

They rode on in relative silence until Sherlock decided it was boring to try and deduce her feelings. He then rambled on about the logistics of the case, attempting to bring about some sudden revelation. (Y/N) went along with it, merely nodding and apologizing to passersby that Sherlock harassed.

They arrived at West End, (Y/N) following Sherlock as he led the scavenge for more evidence.

And, you know… that’s about all that she could remember happening.  

~~~

Sherlock awoke with a mingling sense of something being wrong. He did not believe in gut feelings without proper evidence, so he chose to ignore it. He went about his usual routine and found a few socks short in his drawer index. It made his forehead crease as he also noticed the minimal number of dress shirts in his closet.

They must all be in the wash.

He went to the bathroom, finding his shampoo almost empty and not a refill in sight. He almost slipped on the soap scum as he trudged his way out, even more upset by the fact he had to go searching for a towel as there were none hanging on the rack.

A half hour later he walked into the living room and felt something even more off-putting. An old mug of coffee sat on his side table, leaving a brown ring on the wood. His laptop was open and upon hitting a few keys he found it dead. His coat was not on the back of his armchair, and he had to actually look for it.

Clutter was obscuring the desk and piling on the bookshelves, the last two newspapers thrown onto the ground. The kitchen was a proper sight, a broken beaker shattered in the sink and dirty dishes on the table. The kettle needed cleaning and smelled of cold, sitting tea.

He couldn’t find his phone, he had to actually go to the street to get the newspaper, there wasn’t a readymade breakfast waiting for him, he couldn’t scroll on his computer, even his skull was found in John’s chair and not on the mantlepiece.

It even took him ten minutes to find his violin which he had shoved under his bed the night before for some reason.

He played it with agitated fingers. Why did it feel as though everything was hindering him that morning?

Then he looked sideways and saw the chess set below the window. He recalled the last move he made on it, the positions of the other pieces not making a countermove in response. He put his instrument down, attempting to deduce.

His foot nudged something on the ground, and he saw his torch. The one he had thrown to the floor two days previous. One and one made two. Sherlock stood straight.

(Y/N)?

It made sense; the last they spoke she mentioned doing the wash and cooking dinner. That explained his lack of clothing. The clutter and all around mess of the flat meant she hadn’t been there to clean in at least a day. She hadn’t made her next move on the chess board.

Footsteps on the stairs had him unexpectedly hopeful, but the heaviness of the step and the uneven footing told him it was John. The doctor came in tiredly, holding his lower back and blinking blearily.

Sherlock frowned, “You came upstairs.”

“Yes, I did,” John said mockingly, “You never cease to amaze me with those deductions, Sherlock.”

The detective didn’t move an inch, “I mean, you came from outside.”

“Yeah, I just took a cab over.”

“You spent the night somewhere else.” Sherlock said it like a question, but it was merely him thinking aloud. “By the state of the bags under your eyes and the stiff back, it was a couch and not a bed.”

John hobbled towards his chair, rolling the skull off and giving it a peculiar look. “Had a few too many drinks with Stanford yesterday. He offered the couch and I just passed out.” He gave a slight laugh, “Did you not notice I was gone all day again?”

Sherlock swallowed hard but he tried not to show his struggle. “Did you see (Y/N) at all?”

“No,” John said, looking around for his newspaper, “The last I saw her was Saturday when she made tea and cleaned out your fridge.”

Sherlock bowed his head in a curt nod.

John suddenly had a realization, observing the general uncleanliness around him. “And now it’s Monday and you haven’t seen her at all?”

“I’ve just noticed right before you walked in.”

“Christ, Sherlock,” John muttered, rising again, “(Y/N) is one of the most organized and pleasant people I know. She wouldn’t just skip a day of work and not let us know. It took you over a day to notice that she wasn’t around?”

Sherlock knew he ought to feel ashamed of himself and he was close to forcing himself to feel it. (Y/N) had been nothing but helpful since he first met her. He never found any sort of disappointment or qualms with her.

And he was starting to recognize the impact of having her around.

His eyes began to wander, mind working on a theory. The last they spoke was when they ventured to West End. She had been fidgety and nervous on the scene, and he did nothing to reassure her like he should have.

He didn’t buy her that lunch like he should have. He didn’t thank her for spending her afternoon with him like he should have. And he didn’t walk her home afterwards like he should have.

When did he last see her? They wandered backstage with the props and costumes and that’s when he noticed a clue. A clue that led him all the way down to Scotland Yard to solve the case in front of the detective inspector.

He didn’t remember her being there.

“I left her at the theatre,” he mumbled.

John tilted his head, listening with a growing sense of worry. “You left her?”

“The case…” Sherlock muttered, “There was a development in the case, and I had to get to Lestraude.”

“I see,” John sighed, “You know you did something similar to me when we first met. Left me at that pink woman crime scene.”

But Sherlock was suddenly running down the stairs and towards the main flat. He barged into the shop, startling Mrs. Hudson as he always did.

“Where’s (Y/N)?” He marched to her bedroom, throwing it open and pinpointing any signs that she returned to the flat after the theatre. The bed was unslept in.

“(Y/N), dear?” Mrs. Hudson said, a hand to her chest, “I haven’t seen her in a few days.” She came to the bedroom doorway. “She told me she’d take the tube up to see her family this weekend. I figured she left while I was out.”

Sherlock frowned, stalking the flat for any other evidence, “Are you absolutely sure that’s where she is?”

“I don’t know,” the landlady said, confused. “Sherlock, what’s this about? Is (Y/N) all right?”

“That’s something I’d like to know as well,” John made it down, “I’d like to know whether or not I have to knock some common sense into that blockhead of yours.”

Sherlock tried to ignore him, a familiar pang of loneliness eating at him. Common sense. Sometimes being a calculated genius was quite lonely. If he allowed himself, he could wallow in his solitude – normally he chose to shut that part of himself off.

John was trying to get his friend to feel something – feel guilty – and Sherlock knew it.

“Where else could she be?” Mrs. Hudson said with added worry.

“You were at West End,” John said accusingly.

But Sherlock held up a hand, “I caught the killer; he’s been arrested. There’s no way she fell victim.”

“Then why else would she go missing at West End?”

Sherlock recalled their last conversation again. ‘I’ve got to be back to do the wash and prep the roast.’

He eyes widened and he darted for the fridge, yanking the door open to find a raw roast sitting upon a platter on the shelf.

“Oh, she was going to make a lovely Sunday dinner with that,” Mrs. Hudson remembered, “She wanted all of us to have a sit down together.”

“Why would she visit family over the weekend when she planned to make dinner for Sunday?” Sherlock crouched so he was eyelevel with the roast.

John shifted his weight, fisting his hands at his sides, “And why has Sunday come and gone with that roast still uncooked? She’s missing, isn’t she?”

Sherlock kept his face placid, though his teeth clenched. He reached for the platter, turning it around slowly.

And on the back of the raw meat was the blank side of a polaroid stuck to the roast by means of a knife. The picture read in all caps.

“MISS ME?”

Something extinguished within Sherlock. John muttered something like “Oh, God,” behind him. Mrs. Hudson gasped.

Sherlock – Sherlock was furious. Livid. Positively feral.

He leapt to his feet, taking the polaroid with him. The frontside held the picture. One with (Y/N) tied to a post, looking terrified and tearstained. He kept the picture from Mrs. Hudson, throwing it at John as he walked out.

Yes, Sherlock was furious. Furious with himself.

But he was going to project that onto Moriarty.

“Where is she?” John called out, stumbling from the apartment after Sherlock. “God, alone with Moriarty for two days,” he whispered, “I hope she’s… she must be…”

Sherlock heard a slight ringing in his ears, frustrated at the feeling of panic that was happening quite out of his own control. His poorly contained fury was slipping through in the way his hands shook and his voice came out in a menacing growl.

“Tied to a wooden post that is obviously a beam giving support to the ceiling. In the right corner you see a window positioned at the top of the wall, so she must be in a sort of basement. In the background you can see a washer and dryer, so the basement of a house then.” He was trying to talk as quickly as his mind was going. “AH! Why are cabs deciding to be sparse now of all times?”

John was hearing the edge of Sherlock’s tone, triumphant in having him feel some kind of repercussion of his fault. But John also took pity on his friend – this was not Sherlock’s air of expertise – he couldn’t fully grasp the magnitude of what (Y/N) must be going through.

But Sherlock understood the logistics. Kidnapping, statistics, trauma – he understood the research. (Y/N) was hurt and in danger because of his negligence.

Why did he feel so strongly about her safety? Because (Y/N) was a piece of his life that he couldn’t let escape. She was one of his friends. And he had very few of those. Perhaps he should tell her that sometime.

“Behind the laundry hamper is a collection of photographs and though it’s hard to make out details, they’re obviously pictures of a family. So a family house. In the hamper on the counter you can see (Y/N)’s scarf and hat, as if she were to do the washing, that suggests possession of the machines. And finally above the cabinetry you can see a decal on the wall that says est. in 1987. The kind of decal people put in their house to remind them of meaningful dates – so what’s so meaningful of 1987? (Y/N) once told me her parents waited three years to have kids after they were married, and (Y/N) being the oldest and born in the year 1990 would mean that her parents married in 1987 – their family was established in 1987.”

Sherlock gave up finding a cab and began at a run to find the nearest underground. They’ll need the tube. John attempted to match the pace, simultaneously listening to Sherlock’s speedy explanation.

“(Y/N) did in fact visit family this weekend. Just not of her own volition.”

“When did you discuss the waiting period of her parents having kids?”

“We were discussing Anderson and his failing marriage.”

~~~

It was all a cruel joke. She was left alone in that basement as a warning. Minimal physical harm was done to her. Moriarty dangled her like a worm on a hook just for his own amusement.

He wanted to see Sherlock squirm.

And Sherlock hated that his nemesis was figuring out his attachment to (Y/N). It seemed like only a few hours before Sherlock had come to the realization himself.

They had barged into the basement, (Y/N) sobbing and choking on a gag. John ran for her while Sherlock seethed, searching for anything he could deduce.

(Y/N) stood shakily, grappling for John, who held her tightly, “I’ve got you. You’re all right. You’re safe now.”

Sherlock refrained from spitting how much of a lie that was. He rounded the entire floor, mind reeling as he growled in frustration. He stalked back and grabbed (Y/N)’s shoulders.

“Sherlock,” John reprimanded. “Leave the poor girl alone.”

The detective shook her slightly, “Where is he? When was the last you saw him? Did he tell you anything?”

“Sherlock,” John repeated, “She’s been through an ordeal…” his voice raised, “the least you can do is show some common courtesy and leave her be!”

“Get out.”

“Sorry?”

Sherlock pointed at the stone stairs, “Phone Lestraude and we’ll meet you up there.”

John was hesitant, looking towards (Y/N) for some kind of confirmation it was all right. But she was shivering, teary eyed, and silent. Another scathing look from Sherlock sent him away.

After a pause, Sherlock swallowed, sighing heavily. His grip on her shoulders never wavered, “(Y/N).” His voice had fallen incredibly gentle, and there was something about his flat expression that hinted at emotion.

“Sh-Sherlock…”

He pursed his lips at the tremble of her voice. He knew what he should do next. He’d seen plenty of similar interactions in colleagues and mass media. But he couldn’t help but feel awkward as he tried to pursue a comforting action.

It was not his first instinct. But another instinct ruled over that now. The health and protection of (Y/N).

He moved to pull her closer to him and he found that she was immediately grateful. She practically fell into his chest, holding onto the lapels of his coat. She quivered in his hold, doing her best to staunch the tears.

Bless her, he thought, she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.

“It’s all right,” he whispered deep. “I’ve got you.” He said the words because he knew they were the right things to say. But he quickly realized that he believed it too. She was safe with him.

She took a shuddering breath, sinking further as he experimentally wrapped his arms around her tightly. His brow creased as he examined the peculiar comfort he was experiencing himself.

“It was horrible, Sherlock,” she said thickly, “I was so scared.”

He closed his eyes, hushing her with a hand to her head. “It’s over now – I’m not going to let anything like that happen to you again.” He could feel his curious mind itching to begin the search for Moriarty.

But he reigned it in as (Y/N) needed him.

She strangely smiled a watery smile, pulling away. “Who knew you’d be good at hugs.”

He contorted his brow, “I’m familiar with the act of hugging. It’s easy to perform. Arms around the waist – child’s play.”

“It was nice, thank you.” She had a knowing smile on her blotchy face, as if she knew he couldn’t fake the comfort they both felt from the hug.

Now that made him feel awkward and vulnerable. “Well, then – enough of that. You ready to go home?”

“You sure you’re not going to leave me behind again?”

Sherlock clenched his gloved hands; his shoulders tensed. “I… I should apologize for that.”

She nodded slowly, still shaking but relatively rosier than before. “Make it good.”

“(Y/N)… I honestly and wholeheartedly apologize for my abhorrent behavior in abandoning you on that street. Had I known you were in any real danger I would have never… I – well, please will you come home? John is utter rubbish at cleaning up after himself and I can’t concentrate on my work without you there.”

“Without me there?” she whispered, red eyes clearly brighter.

“To housekeep.”

She snickered, her voice hoarse, “Is it me or did you just confess that I – the simple housekeeper – am a key element to you solving your cases?”

Sherlock gave her a willing smile, “Don’t go around saying that to John – he’ll think I’ve gone soft.”

“I won’t… for a pay raise.”

He let out a short laugh, “I’ll buy you lunch.”

“You better this time,” she stumbled backward in her shared laughter and found herself weak at the knees. Sherlock grasped her arm and placed it firmly through his.

“Best you stay near me until you’re sorted.”

She leaned into him as they made their way towards the increasingly louder police sirens. He may or may not have put his free hand over hers.

“Sentiment,” she said mockingly, “Was always your hidden strength.”

He sighed heavily, “You tend to bring it out in me.”

~~~

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[classickook]

you don't know him like i do | sherlock holmes

pairing: sherlock holmes x gn!reader

summary: you're sick and tired of constantly hearing insults thrown at sherlock about how he handles his emotions.

warnings: kissing, two dumb idiots in love!, (i tried to make the reader gender-neutral but please let me know if i missed anything).

word count: 1.4k

a/n: i recently started watching bbc sherlock and fell in love with the character (i know i'm like centuries late in starting the show oops) and really wanted to write something for it. ignore any inconsistencies or if the characters seem super ooc, i'm new at this lol.

you’d been at sherlock’s side for months now. ever since he solved a serial murder case that would’ve gotten you killed next, if he hadn’t figured it out just in time, you’d been practically attached to his hip ever since—helping him with cases as best you could, tidying up the flat and running quick errands, handing him his phone and reading his messages out loud to him (when he was perfectly capable of doing so himself, damn him). but you didn’t complain. in fact, you felt honored to be of any assistance to the spectacular sherlock holmes and john watson. you had fun in joining them—running through the city, chasing criminals, solving mysteries—it felt good, making yourself useful and doing something for the greater good. it was dangerous, yes, but you’d never experienced this much adventure in your life, and you couldn’t be in better company. so you were thankful to sherlock—to him saving you, and to him giving you this wonderful opportunity and friendship.

so, of course, you were irritated when others didn’t see sherlock the way you did; beyond frustrated that they hadn’t perceived his character how someone (you) who truly knew him would do so. it had taken you just under six months to develop a great friendship with sherlock, so how was it so difficult for his coworkers who had been working with him for years, relying on him for his genius to fix their problems and solve their worst cases, to appreciate him? it grated on your nerves and, frankly, you were over it.

it took one more snide remark from donovan, something about how emotionless and cold sherlock could be, that really put you over the edge. you snapped, to put it bluntly.

“he cares a great deal more than any of you will ever understand. you think he’s so cold? a machine, was it?” you ask, directing your glare at donovan. “you don’t see it, do you?” your gaze meets the others gathered in front of you—lestrade, anderson, mycroft, some familiar faces you’ve seen milling about scotland yard. you’re angry, fuming even, that nobody seems to appreciate sherlock the way you do. john, of course, and mrs. hudson and molly, sure, but it seems as though sherlock has barely a handful of people in his corner. after all he’s done, all he’s put himself through, to help those around him—solving cases, putting his life on the line, bringing forth justice—and he gets nothing in return but sneers and snide remarks.

“sure, he may process emotions differently than most of us,” you continue, “reacts in somewhat peculiar ways to the common eye, ways we may not understand. and because of this, you think he’s unlovable? unapproachable? inhuman? does that automatically give you all the right to criticize his every move and judge him regardless? i can guarantee that he cares more than any of you realize.” your cheeks feel damp and you become aware of the fact that you’re crying. normally, you would be embarrassed for being so vulnerable in such a public setting. especially your coworkers—if you can even call them that—of all people. but, truthfully, it’s about damn time someone put in any effort, show even an ounce of respect or sympathy toward sherlock. “he’s a great detective and an even better man,” you say, letting the tears flow freely. “but you just don’t realize that, do you? he is, without a doubt, the most incredible man i have ever met, and i consider it a privilege to know him. but you can’t accept that, can you? arseholes.”

john suddenly clears his throat next to you, pulling your attention toward him. he tilts his head off to the side, directing you to the tall figure standing in the corner, messy curls and popped collar making him immediately recognizable, to your dismay. you drop your head. now’s the time to feel embarrassed, you think to yourself. you never would’ve thought sherlock would walk in during your outburst and defense of his character. of course, you don’t regret it whatsoever, you meant every word you said. but for him to witness it? heat creeps up your neck and into your cheeks, and you pray that no one can tell how you’re reacting to his sudden presence, but you know it’s useless.

sherlock approaches your accusation circle, everyone quickly pulling back and making room for the consulting detective, gazes flitting from one person to the next. sherlock pays them no mind, his footsteps quick and sure, until he’s standing right in front of you. your eyes are glued to his scarf when a nimble finger tilts your chin upward, and you’re staring into sherlock’s blue gaze. oceanlike, you think. pretty.

you’re surprised when he presses his thumb to your cheek, collecting a fallen tear and staring oddly at the wetness coating his fingertip. his blue eyes are curious and inquisitive beneath furrowed brows. always the detective, you bemuse to yourself. always looking for clues. suddenly, that look disappears and he’s looking at you thoughtfully, the creases around his eyes softening. “don’t waste these on me, my dear,” he says, voice deep yet gentle.

your heart pounds beneath your ribcage at the term of endearment. it was meant to be endearing, right? you panic internally. what if you’re connecting dots that aren’t even there and jumping to conclusions, just to make an even bigger fool of yourself. certainly, at this point, everyone is sure to know how you feel about the detective. if your sudden outburst wasn’t enough, you probably have hearts in your eyes now.

a grin stretches across sherlock’s face and you know that your reaction hasn’t gone unnoticed by him. typical. can’t hide anything from the man, you think sourly.

“while i certainly appreciate you defending my character,” he begins, “there’s no need to fret and most definitely no need to cry. not over me,” he says the last bit with an ounce of remorse in his tone. your heart cracks, knowing how hard he is on himself, how judgmental he is even of his own character, let alone how others respond to his peculiarities.

his large palm rests against your cheek and then adjusts slightly, just enough to cup the back of your neck securely, intimately. you feel safe in his hands—hands that are strong enough to pull the trigger of a gun, yet gentle enough to pluck the strings of his violin.

sherlock isn’t usually handsy, per se. you start to wonder why the sudden display of—affection, is it?—when he leans forward and presses his lips to yours. his lips are slightly chapped from the brisk winter air but they’re soft and warm against yours. never in a million years, although you certainly dreamt it, would you have thought you’d be kissing sherlock holmes—the world’s best (and only) consulting detective, and your greatest friend. he’s holding you so securely, tilting your head a fraction to deepen the kiss, tongue meeting yours until you’re practically making out in a scotland yard conference room with an audience, but you couldn’t care less at this point.

sherlock pulls away and you unconsciously follow his lips with the movement, not wanting to stop just yet. god, you could kiss him for hours, you think unabashedly. you vaguely hear gagging noises coming from anderson, but you tune him out, your full focus directed at the man in front of you. the unruly curls atop his head have become even messier, if possible, and his cheeks are flushed and his ears are red. it’s so endearing to see him like this, you feel a laugh bubble up inside you.

“what?” he asks, a tinge of self-consciousness creeping into his tone, and his hands slowly fall from your neck to rest on your shoulders. “why are you laughing? normally in a situation like this, the other party wouldn’t be laughing, correct? or am i doing something wrong? i haven’t received complaints in the past, although there was this one time—”

you tug on the lapels of his jacket and pull sherlock in for another kiss, cutting off his rambling spree as his arms wrap tightly around your waist. “i like you, idiot,” you mutter against his lips.

sherlock's breath catches slightly, just barely noticeable, but then a peculiar glint reaches his eyes. “i suppose i am expected to say that i like you, too?” he teases.

you gasp in mock hurt and the two of you erupt in a fit of laughter, the air around you bubbly and light. his laughter dies down but he's still smiling at you. “i do like you,” he says, earnestly, “truly. i adore you, my dear.”

your audience had departed from the conference room just moments earlier to allow for some…privacy, with john shaking his head at you two in amusement as he closed the door on his way out. “about damn time.”

[daydreamtofiction]

(inspired by your latest reblog of loving sherlock’s hands…) could you write something where reader loves his hands and so he uses them to please her ? thank you!

Sublime Dexterity // BBC Sherlock

Summary: Sherlock notices you've been fixated on his hands, so he decides to show you exactly what they're capable of. (Sherlock x Reader)

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Smut, digital penetration, squirting, mild bad language, readers must be 18+

You'd been waiting all day for this moment; the ding of the bell above the door, the sight of your last customer walking out into the dimming London evening. You inhaled a deep, clarifying breath and exhaled through puckered lips, relieved to finally be alone, to once again be able to hear your own thoughts.

But the silence was tainted by a noise; an irritating, electronic melody playing on one of the keyboards at the back of the shop. You sighed as you stepped out from behind the counter and made your way over to them, stopping on your way to straighten out a drum kit and return a box of guitar strings back to its hook.

You stood in front of the wall of keyboards with your hands on your hips, trying to figure out which one the noise was coming from. Your eyes trailed up to the top row and you groaned as you saw the blinking light on the highest one, cursing the group of teenagers who had no doubt done it on purpose before they left. You huffed, rising to your tip toes and reaching to switch it off, your skirt riding up until it was barely skimming the tops of your thighs.

You barely ever wore skirts to work, especially not ones as short as this. It had been a spur of the moment decision as you got ready that morning; the voice on your meditation app telling you to 'do something out of your comfort zone today' as you stood in front of your open wardrobe. But you'd regretted taking the advice since the moment you got to work; having to hold it down by the hem every time you reached up to organise a shelf or leaned over a customer to demonstrate an instrument.

Now the shop was empty, and you could finally move freely without the fear of someone catching a glimpse of your underwear. So you stretched your arms as high as they could go, flicking the switch on the keyboard to turn it off, the silence that followed like a deep, calming breath.

But a familiar sound broke through the quiet; the ding of a bell and creak of a door that made you sigh and roll your eyes.

"Sorry!" you called out as you hurried around the corner. "Sorry, I was just about to close..." Your voice trailed off meekly when you laid eyes on the man standing near the entrance.

Almost everyone in London knew the name Sherlock Holmes; he was the mysterious consulting detective, the maverick, the dark genius. But you knew him as the man who always insisted on visiting the shop right before closing time. If it were anyone else, you would have found it irritating, but there was something about him; something that made you almost excited whenever he came in.

"I know," he replied calmly. "Not a problem, is it?"

"I... I suppose not." You glanced up at the clock on the wall before making your way towards the door. "You can look around while I'm clearing up. But I will have to lock you in, if that's alright? Just stops anyone else trying to come in."

He shrugged. "I've been held hostage by scarier people."

You laughed softly, unable to tell from his tone whether he was joking or not. He probably wasn't.

He watched you for a moment as you flipped the sign on the door to 'closed' before turning the heavy lock and sliding the bolt at the top. You turned around and smiled politely, gesturing for him to go ahead. He nodded in response and made his way to the violin section, as he always did, walking back and forth slowly with his hands behind his back.

"I'm a lot scarier than I look, by the way," you said, immediately scrunching your nose with regret.

He glanced over his shoulder at you, eyebrow raised.

"Y'know, you said- well, just before you said that thing about being held hostage by scarier people..."

He gave a slight smirk, eyeing you up and down. "I'm sure you're terrifying."

"Oh, I am," you replied in a gruff voice, drawing a quiet laugh from his throat.

It never ceased to amaze you how careless customers could be; there were instruments left sitting out, items put back on random shelves, a box of guitar picks knocked over and strewn across the floor. You scoffed in disbelief at the sight of a half-drank coffee cup left sitting on a £100,000 grand piano, picking it up by the edge and throwing it into the bin with a grimace.

You tidied up the rest of the shop quickly and took a seat behind the counter, resting your chin on your fist as you watched Sherlock from across the room. There was no denying the man was exquisite; tall and lean, his body a mystery beneath the shrouding of his long dark coat, scarf wrapped around the throat that rumbled with a deep, luxurious voice, dark curls and pale eyes, strong yet romantic features, angles and softness, somehow all at once.

But above everything, there was something about his hands.

They were large yet slender, his knuckles prominent beneath smooth, unblemished skin. He moved them with precision, pressing his long, elegant fingers softly to his lips as he stood deep in thought. You found your mind wandering at the sight, tilting your head and almost holding your breath as you pictured them gripping, pulling, stroking, imagined his thumb pushing through your parted lips and pressing flat against your tongue, his nails digging into your thighs.

He reached out to a violin case sitting on a display, and you watched in silence as he dragged the zip open, so slowly and carefully you could almost feel what it would be like to have him undress you. He flipped open the case and ran his palm over the velvet lining, caressing it, sending a shiver down your spine that flourished deep in your core.

You were so transfixed on his hands that you hadn't noticed he'd spoken. It wasn't until he cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes at you suspiciously that you snapped out of it, shaking your head and looking up at him quickly.

"Sorry?" you said.

"You broke up with someone recently..."

It wasn't a question. Even if it was, you weren't sure if you would have managed a reply.

He gestured to your chest. "You keep reaching for a necklace out of habit. I assume you recently stopped wearing one because you're no longer affiliated with the person who gave it to you..."

You stared at him with wide eyes. You'd read about his deductions online, but experiencing it firsthand felt like he was reading your mind, performing some kind of extremely specific, invasive magic trick.

"Y-yes. I did, actually."

He ran a hand through his hair, tugging on it slightly to keep it in place. "What happened?"

You paused. This was the most he'd ever spoken to you in all the times he'd visited, yet still you found the truth spilling out of your mouth, like you'd been dying to get it off your chest.

"I just woke up one morning, looked at him, and asked myself 'what am I doing?'" You threw your head back dramatically before leaning forward and resting your elbows on the counter. "I mean, I was with this guy for a year and couldn't think of a single thing that made it worthwhile; the chemistry was crap, the conversation was crap, don't even get me started on the sex. Let's just say I got very used to arriving by myself once he'd rolled over and gone to sleep-" You paused, stunned by your own brashness. "I'm sorry, that is... way too personal."

He dropped his head slightly, like he was resisting the urge to smile, pausing for a while before speaking quietly, almost to himself. "I've never understood why men find it so difficult to please women sexually."

Your ears pricked as you watched him run his hand along the neck of a Stradivarius, his fingers gliding smoothly over the glossy wood.

"It's not unlike playing one of these," he said. "You just need to find the right placement, pressure, tempo..."

There was a surge in your core that rippled through your stomach. You crossed one leg over the other, pressing your thighs together in an attempt to quell the sudden throb between them.

You cleared your throat. "If only all men had it down to an art form like that."

"Mm," he replied, his voice so low it was barely a rumble.

You couldn't tell if he was flirting or simply thinking out loud. A part of you wondered if he'd noticed the way you'd been looking at him, if he'd observed how you squirmed in your seat as you watched his hands move. After all, he'd deduced your breakup from a missing necklace, and your gawping had been much more obvious than that. But you were still unsure, scared to push him further.

"You come in here a lot," you said. "I would've thought you'd have everything you need by now."

"I like to... browse." His voice dipped, eyes flitting over to you, and in that moment you knew, he wasn't interested in anything that could be sold.

You swallowed hard, putting on your sweetest customer service voice. "We did actually just get this new Rosin..."

You turned to the shelf behind you and climbed on a small stepladder, reaching up and making sure to stretch as far as you could, fully aware of the view you were providing him; skirt ridden up, bare cheeks, only your thin cotton underwear covering your increasingly aching centre.

"Is it any good?" he replied in a steady, calm voice. And though you couldn't see his face, you knew his eyes were on you.

"I don't know. I don't play," you replied, turning around and stepping down with a small box in your hands. "Always wanted to but never found a good teacher." You put the Rosin on the counter. "You can have this... in exchange for a lesson?"

He looked down at it then back up to you, the slightest smirk adorning his face, before whipping off his scarf and sliding the coat off his shoulders, revealing the body you'd been so curious about; his tall, firm stature making every other man you'd been with seem like a boy in comparison.

He threw the coat and scarf aside before leaning over and picking up the Stradivarius he'd been admiring. "Come here."

"N-now?"

"Do you have somewhere else to be?"

You looked up at the clock, then back to him, taking a deep breath and picking up the Rosin as you stepped out from behind the counter.

He stood perfectly still as you walked across the shop towards him, his eyes never leaving you until you were close enough to touch.

"You'll need that," he said, gesturing to the bow on the shelf.

You picked it up, watching quietly as he took the Rosin from you and unwrapped it with nimble fingers, before placing it back in your palm and laying his hand over yours.

His grip was soft yet strong as he guided you slowly up and down the length of the bow. "You must never skip this step," he said. "One must take the time to properly lubricate a bow, otherwise the sound won't be as… satisfying."

There was a knot of desire deep in your stomach, a slick forming between your legs as he spoke. He made it sound so innocent, so formal, yet you both knew his words cast a much darker, hungrier shadow.

"Without it, you have to work much, much harder to reach the desired result," he added.

"Sounds pretty important," you replied breathlessly.

"Crucial." He tossed the Rosin aside and placed the bow in your hand. "Turn around."

You did as you were told, like an obedient little girl, pivoting on your heels until you had your back to him. He stepped up behind you, bringing his arm around to place the violin against your shoulder, cocooning you in his scent, just as decadent as he was.

"Chin on the rest," he instructed.

He positioned your fingers on the neck of the violin, bringing your other arm up to sit the bow across the strings.

"Now pull back," he said. "Slow."

You did as he said, wincing as you drew it back, creating a faint, hollow screech.

"Harder."

You exhaled, feeling yourself melting, your core nothing more than a puddle of wet, hot desire.

"Like this?" you asked, repeating the motion, smiling to yourself as a rich, smooth note poured from the strings.

"Perfect."

He moved your fingers again, pressing down on them with his own, much larger digits.

"You have nice hands," you said tentatively. "I... like them."

"I noticed."

Of course he had. You felt your cheeks flush, wondering what you must have looked like when you were practically drooling over him at the counter.

"Now switch between the two notes on every downstroke," he said.

"Yes, teacher," you muttered playfully, feeling him exhale a sigh against the back of your neck.

You moved the bow back and forth, choppily changing notes, trying your best to make it sound pleasant. But your focus was elsewhere; on the feeling of his hand keeping your elbow propped up, the other slipping down to rest gently on your waist.

You pushed your hips back slightly, almost losing your composure when you felt his rigid length against your lower back, your mind flooding with thoughts of him bending you forward and burying it inside you. You listened as he steadied his breath, and you wondered if the same thoughts had seeped into his mind too.

You drew the bow back once more, switching notes before repeating the action again.

"Good," he said, slowly trailing his hand up your side. "Keep going."

Your breathing shallowed when you felt his fingers slip under your jumper, grazing the flesh of your stomach as he moved up to your breast. He began to massage it gently, kneading and pulling, rolling your hard nipple between finger and thumb.

You breathed out a soft moan, your head falling back against his shoulder.

"Keep your chin on the rest," he said sternly, moving his attention to your other breast.

You brought your head forward again, lips parting with heavy breaths as you tried to keep playing through the pleasure. Your entire body pricked with goosebumps as he moved his hand back down over your stomach, nails tickling your skin and sending a shiver up your spine.

"You've never worn anything like this before," he said, slipping his hand beneath the hem of your skirt.

"I didn't think you paid attention to the clothes I wear," you replied, glancing over your shoulder to look up at him.

"Chinrest."

You turned back, obeying his demand and closing your eyes as you felt his fingers slide into the front of your underwear.

A sudden wave of shyness overcame you, like you were embarrassed for him to feel how wet you'd become, how utterly desperate you were for his touch. But as his fingers glided between the folds of your soaking centre, you heard a deep groan escape his lips; all the confirmation you needed to know this was exactly what he wanted.

He pressed his fingertips to your clit, rubbing circles against the aching bud and setting your nerves alight, as if it were a switch he knew exactly how to turn on.

"As I said earlier, playing a violin comes down to three things," he said. "Placement." He slid his long fingers through your wet folds and plunged two of them into you. "Pressure." He curled them, pressing against the spot that sent a shockwave through your belly. "And tempo." He began to move them back and forth, setting a sublime, steady pace.

You gasped at the overwhelming pleasure, losing function of your limbs and dropping the violin. He reached out his other hand and caught it midair, setting it down beside you without stopping.

"And when done right," he continued. "You can get it to make almost any sound you want."

You moaned desperately, right on cue, as he stroked your inner walls, his other hand splayed out flat on your lower stomach, pressing firmly against it. You had no idea what it was he did, or where on earth he'd learned it, but it was unlike anything anyone had ever done to you before. You brought one of your hands up to cup the back of his neck, gripping his arm with the other as he worked your needy centre, like putty in his large, agile hands.

You arched your back, grinding into the firm bulge beneath his trousers and eliciting a growl from his throat, making him buck his hips, the outline of his cock pressing hard against the curve of your backside.

You were not exaggerating when you said you'd spent the past year having crap sex. You'd lost count of the amount of times you faked an orgasm only to finish yourself off afterwards, or lay there frustrated and unsatisfied after your ex came inside you - too quickly and without warning. You'd almost forgotten what it was like to not pretend; to make real moans, to be so slick and needy that you couldn't stop squirming, to have someone's full, undivided attention be on you and your pleasure.

It hadn't even been five minutes and you could already see your climax looming, like the sun rising over the horizon, flooding you with warmth and light with every second that went by. You wanted to stay in this moment forever; to savour the feeling of his fingers filling you, stretching you, the heel of his hand thudding against your clit with every deep stroke. You were a violin, and he was a virtuoso, playing you with ease, pulling every moan and whimper out of your throat like a symphony.

He leaned forward, bringing his lips close to your ear. "You're going to come for me," he said quietly. "All over these fingers you love so much."

You shuddered, feeling the pleasure swell from your core, rising into your stomach until it was washing over you in heavy, intense waves.

"And you're going to do it..." he paused, before sinking his fingers to the knuckle and curling them with perfect precision. "Now."

You felt a gush of warmth as your orgasm ripped through you, and the shop filled with the sound of your desperate, mewling cries. He kept his hand firmly against your stomach, holding you up as your knees buckled, his other hand continuing to massage your throbbing walls, drawing every last drop of pleasure out of you.

How the hell did he do that? You wondered as the mind fog began to clear; he made you come on demand, left you a whimpering mess in his arms. It was only when your breathing began to steady that you noticed something else new; the warm, wet liquid dripping down your inner thighs. He'd made you squirt. You gasped softly in the realisation, turning your head to look up at him beneath heavy lids.

But as you opened your mouth to speak, the phone rang behind the counter.

"Can you give me a second?" you asked breathlessly.

He nodded, releasing you from his grasp.

You stumbled like a newborn deer across the shop, clutching the edge of the counter for balance as you picked the phone up and cleared your throat. "Stein's Music."

"Oh, you're still there?" your boss replied.

"I am." You turned your back on Sherlock and wiped your brow with the back of your hand.

"Ah okay. It's just because it's nearly 7pm and the security system says the alarms for the shop haven't been activated. I was worried you forgot to do it... again."

You rolled your eyes. "No, no I just... got caught up with some stuff. I'm leaving now, I'll set them on my way-"

You were interrupted by a sound; the bell you usually loved to hear. You turned around quickly to see the shop was empty, the door unlocked and left slightly ajar. And suddenly, it was as if it hadn't happened. If it wasn't for the mess between your thighs, the orgasm still echoing through you, you might have thought you imagined it.

You wondered if you should follow him, or maybe visit him at the address on Baker Street you'd read about in the papers. Or maybe you were better simply waiting for the next closing time, quietly hoping the tall, dark stranger would walk in to browse the violins again.

Part Two

[starks-hero]

The Key Code

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: Intelligence is nothing without a little common sense.

Word Count: 790

a/n: a short drabble based on this iconic post :)

“This is child's play.” Sherlock quipped as he knelt down infront of the keypad. You both stood in the basement of an apartment that had been cordened off as a crime scene. Yellow tape covered each of the doors and the musty smell of dampness hung in the air. Yet Sherlock seemed absoulutely exhilarated.

He rolled up his sleeves and clasped his hands together as he looked at the digital lock. “So simple explaining it would almost be a waste of time.”

“I have a feeling you're going to explain anyway,” you said, not missing the giddy smirk that appeared on Sherlock's lips. His eyes focused on the keypad before him and the deductions began.

“Simple mathematics tells us that there are a total of twenty-four possible combinations and considering the make of this particular lock and factoring in probability it's most likely a four-digit code,” Sherlock spoke so quickly you struggled to keep up. “However, like most keypads of this design, we can only assume that there is a limited number of attempts that can be made before an alarm sounds or it locks indefinitely. So the prior twenty-four combinations are useless.”

You rolled your eyes at the revelation, knowing full well that Sherlock wouldn't waste his breath on information he thought was 'useless.' Nothing he'd just said was vital to the case nor would it open the door any quicker. He just wanted to show you that he could figure it out.

In short, he was showing off.

“So, that leaves us with a four-digit code comprised of the numbers zero, seven, nine and one.”

A hint of pride caused you to smile as you caught on to what Sherlock was getting at. You felt slightly smug that you'd cracked it before the detective had voiced it out loud.

“Now, most would falsely believe the code to be 1970.”

Your smile fell.

“Statistically speaking, a majority of people when told to choose a four-digit code will naturally choose their birth year. And judging by the key pads' appearance and the fact that the maker of this brand–” Sherlock tapped the name engraved in bold capitals along the metallic bottom of the lock. “–has been out of business for over a decade I think it's fair to say that this keypad is a few years old, to say the least.” He finished simply.

You couldn't help but listen to him with amazement. Despite how often you'd witnessed Sherlock pry the truth from tiny, unnoticeable details, invisible to every other eye but his own, you still found it extraordinary. Yet you still attempted to hide your smile, not wanting to give Sherlock the gratification of impressing you once again.

“It's evident that the code is not 1970 since the first number is obviously zero.”

“Obviously,” you mimicked him sarcastically. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes. There was an odd sense of fondness in the gesture.

“Look, the number's practically been worn away. Undoubtedly due to the presence of oil on the pad of the finger when the first button was pressed. Therefore the first number must be zero.”

His ramblings and explanations slowly grew quieter as you noticed something rather important.

“Sherlock.”

“However, we can't ignore the psychological aspect–”

“Sherlock–” You tapped his shoulder.

“The code must be something memorable, something someone would not easily forget. An anniversary is unlikely, given the unliveable state of the apartment. The owner is single. So, we return to the concept of a birthday.”

“Sherlock,” you said again, this time louder. You sighed when his gaze didn't shift away from the keypad.

“So that leaves us with one possibility. It must be 0719, the 19th of July. A day of significance to the owner. Once we factor in the chance of any error we're still left with the knowledge that this is most likely the code.”

“Are you done?” You asked when he finally seemed to have finished his tangent. He turned to you with a prideful, smug grin, his hands folded behind his back. He was practically waiting for your praise.

“That was fantastic, really impressive,” you said, noticing his failed attempt at hiding his grin and the shade of pink that dusted his cheeks at your words. “But–” Sherlock watched as you reached out and pulled down on the door handle. It gave way with ease and swung wide open.

He watched you with bewilderment, his brows furrowed. You swallowed your amusement at the sight of Sherlock Holmes confused. It was almost as entertaining as the look that took hold of his expression when he glanced down and finally took notice of the green light blinking up at him.

“The light's green,” you deduced. “It's already unlocked.”

Astounding intelligence, meet common sense.

Thank you so much for reading!

Sherlock tag list: @miraclesoflove @bakerstreethound @ilovefanfictions @quentawewe @mylovelysnowflake @andreasworlsboring101 @doozywoozy @leftperfectionmoon @xxinvisiblexx @the-worst-critic @the-queer-dungeoneer @jellyfishbeansontoast @simp-for-scamanders @starrykitn @starryeddie @bebana-7913 @allieberries @xhz17x @kealohilani-tepsie

[spilledkauffie]

// Dating Sherlock HCs

xFemale!reader // okay, sorry for the disappearance— currently in a rough patch, but I am working on requests

might make a pt.2 of these

Doesn’t miss a thing — if you’ve changed something, your hair, nail polish, perfume, jean brand, earrings, phones case, literally anything he notices. He doesn’t shy away from making the observation known to you either, he just straight up tells you he’s noticed; definitely an observant boyfriend. Usually it’s in the form of a compliment such as “I think that rose is much more your scent, matches you just how I’d imagine it would,” he’ll say when you walk by, it might take you a moment, but he just looks to you until it clicks and you smile, “oh yeah, so you like the perfume?” He smiles your way before returning to his work with a “very much so, John always over does it on cologne, it’s nice to have a countering scent. Something to linger when you’re not here.” With that you give him a sweet peck on the cheek, naturally he’s confused what he did to deserve it as he was just stating facts.

Never fails to surprise — at first you thought that he might be a bit distant from you, but on the contrary he’s more open than you expected. He asks if you’d like to move into 221B pretty quickly, not only did this shock you, but it shocked John. "You- you just randomly asked her to move in?" John asks him. "Yes, although it's not quite random," Sherlock says casually, not even looking up. "And she said?" John waited. "She said yes, of course," Sherlock almost laughed at John's need to ask the question, but seeing his shocked face Sherlock elaborated, "well, if I like having her around why not have her be in the closest most accessible proximity to me," Sherlock smirked, "after all, you moved in without knowing me, she's had months to get to know me-" / "And God love her, she's still with you," John said under his breath, sitting down.

Asking him why he picked you — one night while John was out, you sat across from Sherlock, you in your comfy pajamas knees tucked in, him still dressed from the day. "Okay, you've got a question, let's have it," Sherlock suddenly states, tilting his head towards you. "I do," you smile, meeting his eyes, "why me?" / "sorry?" / "why did you pick me? Out of all the people out there, what makes me so special to date Sherlock Holmes?" You tilt your head as he looks to the fire place. You sat in silence for a long time, "you don't have any reason?" You suddenly ask. "I don't," he states, but continues, noticing your change in disposition, "that's exactly it though, I have an explanation, an answer, a reason for everything. . . except you." // "And that's supposed to make me feel better? More secure?" you drop your head questioningly. // "It should, you should be congratulated," Sherlock smiles, "I run my entire world on thought, yet with you. . . I feel. And I just feel like I should be with you, and that's why I am, I can't explain it. It's. . . just a feeling. I've never had that before."

When you compliment him on his mind — Sherlock is not used to compliments, save John at the beginning of their friendship and on occasion throughout their crime solving career. You however never fail to be amazed by his ability, especially when pointed towards actual mysteries, not just him deducing the new set of lingerie you got by your body language. Naturally you're subscribed to John's website and read every update, despite the fact that you see half of the case just by living at Baker Street. / However, your compliments always seem to mean something more to him. Maybe it's because you tend to pair them with a physical gesture (kiss on the cheek, stroke up his arm or across his back, sometimes you'll even be combing through his hair), but Sherlock loves when you compliment him.

↳ likewise, he loves to show off for you! During a case if you even suggest that the case seems pretty hard to crack, Sherlock immediately tries to solve it as fast as possible. Sometimes literally right there, after your comment a few minutes (maybe hours) Sherlock has it solved. Your interest in it is like a little motivator for him to try and impress you. Naturally, this only results in you complimenting him more, or sometimes going speechless, with a smile across your face, which Sherlock also loves.

When you compliment him physically — this is where Sherlock actually gets super flustered. For example: While Sherlock’s lying with his head in your lap and staring at the ceiling in thought, you comb your fingers through his hair calmly before stating: “you’ve got the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen in my life,” this brings Sherlock out of thought, and he just looks directly at you, “seriously they’re like nothing I’ve seen before,” you add. Sherlock clears this throat, looking here there and everywhere while nearly whispering, “probably. . . just- genes. . .” / “oh- so I ‘spose Mycroft’s got-“ / “actually that’s not true, Mycroft’s are much more dull, grayish. . .,” he quickly interrupts and corrects himself, looking back to you. With a half smile you nod, “one of a kind then.” || When you compliment his body he literally had no clue what to do, other than smile and sometimes politely add a quiet “thank you.” He’s always amazed that you have some kind of compliment for literally every part of him.

Getting used to his quirks — his nearly overdose of extra nicotine patches, his standing on / stepping over furniture, his oddities inside kitchen appliances, and his indoor revolver practice are all things you have had to get used to while dating him. Some things you've learned to just not address, like simply staying out of the kitchen and bringing snacks yourself and offering to get take out, John is also extremely thankful for your constant snack carrying, as sometimes they’ll go days without normal food or picking up groceries.

Guesses your mood — Whenever the two of you are at odds about something, usually something very basic and everyday that Sherlock doesn't see as important, you try to keep a level head best you can, remembering that Sherlock thinks a different way from just about everyone. This naturally only works to a degree, Sherlock silently observes your silence and from that he makes a guess of your mood. "You're upset," he suddenly states. "No, I'm frustrated-" / "Same thing," Sherlock quickly responds only frustrating you more. Eventually you wind up talking it out, which depending on Sherlock's mood can go one way or another. || He also guesses your other moods, such as when you come home and say "Guess what!" He'll start off with the assessment that you're clearly excited and then try his best to actually determine the "what" you're referring to. OR when you're being a little more clingy than usual, he knows you want attention and can usually tell what is causing you to want more attention than normal.

Loves when you wear his clothes — he never knew he actually liked it until you did it. || on occasion, Sherlock will wake you up at extreme hours or request you join him in the living room immediately despite your situation. So one time when he insisted on your presence, you had just gotten out of the shower and were left with nothing but his blue robe. He had been ready to break the whole case down to you, until you walked in wearing his clothes. He suddenly gets quiet as you stand there waiting, “well?” You ask. Sherlock can’t help but notice the way his robe clings to your barely dry frame, with a slit in the fabric going nearly to your hip thanks to the angle you quickly tied it on with. He swallows and looks between you and the case file, observing how low the neckline is on you. || The same situation happens when you wear his jacket, it nearly drowns you and goes to the floor, but it’s the coziest thing you’ve ever worn. So sometimes when you’re just going out to the grocery store or sent on a late night run for the boys you toss it on, instantly grabbing Sherlock’s attention.

Asks for your second opinion — you’re utterly shocked and amazed when he asks for your opinion on a case, even after he’s asked John, or when John’s not around. You figure that he’s got other people to talk to, but the one time you make an observation that went unnoticed while looking over his shoulder, Sherlock turned to you with the biggest heart-eyes you’d ever seen. Since then he’s tries so hard to subtly pull you into a case with him. “Sherlock, you’re doing it again,” you’ll look up at him when you know you don’t have free time for a case (because you’re the one who has a steady job). “I’m not doing anything,” he shrugs, “just wondering…your opinion.”

Meeting Mycroft —it was a total shock, you didn’t even know Sherlock had a brother. One day you were walking out from the bedroom, looking at your phone with furrowed eyebrows as it continued to tell you "incorrect password," so naturally you were going to ask Sherlock to figure it out. "Hey Sher-" but you pause upon looking up and seeing another figure standing in the room, while Sherlock pouted by his microscope. "Oh, sorry, I didn't know you had a guest-" you quietly said, putting a hand over your mouth. "Quite alright," Sherlock smirked, "he wasn't invited." // "Now really Sherlock this is hardly the way I wanted to meet her." // "I didn't want you to," Sherlock muttered under his breath. // "Now, don't let me interrupt," the stranger gestured you to Sherlock, but you didn't move; you weren't sure why but you were both fascinated and mildly intimidated. "Oh, I was- I just forgot my password, and needed some help, but I can see he's busy so-" // "Ah, I believe I could help you there," he smiled, tilting his head and holding a hand out for your phone. In a matter of seconds you were in and he told you your forgotten password. "Who- How did -" you stared at him, shocked, "Sherlock, he just-" // "Yes," Sherlock interrupted before you could compliment his brother. // "As to who," he stepped towards you, "Mycroft Holmes, my dear and it is a pleasure to finally meet you," he extended a hand again this time to take yours. "As to how," Sherlock strode across the room, placing himself near you, "he knows everyone's password."