#sherlockxreader

[jayswifewrites]

Hostage

sherlock x f!reader

You, the princess of England are being held hostage, the news reaches Sherlock and he comes to save the day but what happens when he finds out your secret….

(slightly edited)

*changes from third person to first person randomly idk man😓

warnings: smut!, choking, lots of teasing, degradation, fingering, edging, blowjob, dom!sherlock, sub!reader, riding, slight exhibition?, eating out, riding, unprotected s3x!, overstimulation ig?

word count: 3.6K

On another boring Saturday afternoon in London, Sherlock is in desperate need of an interesting case, one that preferably involves the nobility. Inspector Lestrade abruptly comes knocking at Holmes’ residence incessantly, the door gets opened by Watson.

Before Watson can even greet him, the inspector runs up the stairs to find Sherlock. Watson follows him confound but curious as to what could be so urgent. Watson runs into the room panting, “The princess…” moving his hands to his knees to catch his breath.

“What about the princess?” Sherlock inquires indifferently. Inspector Lestrade walks towards Sherlock holding a letter sealed with a stamp from the royal family. “She’s been held hostage, I was told to go directly to you and avoid informing anyone else in the Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock grabs the letter and analyses it to determine its legitimacy, after noticing the quality of the letter and acknowledging the insignia on the envelope he raises his eyebrows and opens the envelope eagerly.

The letter reads:

Dear Mr Holmes, we hope that this letter reaches you well

The king and I are currently dealing with some affairs in Paris, France. Last night we received a peculiar call from someone claiming that they are holding our dear daughter, the princess hostage. We assumed it was a fabrication until we heard the screams and pleads of the princess over the telephone. We are not able to leave the country to attend to this matter so we came to the decision to let you handle this matter.

Here are the coordinates we received: 51.509364 -0.137686

Please ensure the safety of our daughter and deal with this matter quietly so that it does not reach the newspapers and you shall be reimbursed accordingly

-The Queen of England

“Watson, what do you think? Sherlock enquires while getting up and passing the letter to him. “Well, I can tell from the envelope alone that it’s genuine.” Watson replies while analysing the paper. Sherlock walks towards the door, “Well, shall we John?” John agrees adamantly and follows Sherlock.

As they arrive at the large abandoned quaint building, the scent of burnt materials hits them immediately along with the sound of loud screams from a young woman. “Watson I need you to into hiding, and I shall signal for you when I need your assistance.” John nods and finds a discrete hiding spot that isn’t too far from the cries. Sherlock enters the derelict building soundly while observing its surroundings. He notices a torn up piece of paper on the ground and picks it up, the words are barely legible, the only word he can make out is “HELP”. He puts the paper in his pocket and continues on until he can hear a man’s voice.

He attempts to open the door and immediately breaks it down with immense force when he realises it’s locked. As the door falls to the ground he is met with a tall man with wide shoulders covered in all black clothing, holding a handgun. He notices the princess tied to the leg of a couch, tears running down her eyes, her hair messy as she starts screaming for help through the cloth covering her mouth. The large man moves closer and points his gun towards her instead of Sherlock. “You don’t look like the king or queen.” He says lowly with a thick Russian accent.

“Think of me as a representative, I was sent by them.” Sherlock casually takes a seat on the old, stained cushioned chair at the corner of the room.”Do you have the money?” The Russian man questions him. “Yes I do but we have to come to an agreement before that.” The Russian man stays silent for a second waiting to hear the terms . Sherlock moves his left leg to his right thigh and brings his right hand to his chin, “The bag is outside, as you can see, I’m sure the money will be more than enough, just leave the girl and you can run away without being apprehended.”

“So you want me to believe that you seriously came alone?” The Russian man inquires suspiciously. “You don’t have to believe me but I can tell you that I am not a part of the police force, look outside the door if you want to.”

The large man walks towards the door hesitantly and peaks outside before grabbing the back swiftly and sprinting , as he starts running Sherlock takes out a starting gun and shoots up at the roof ensuring that he doesn’t cause the ceiling to collapse. Watson hears the signal and waits at the exit of the building to capture the hostage taker.

As soon as Sherlock Holmes hears their footsteps get quiet he approaches you slowly, keeping his gaze on you. You look down feeling hot from his intense gaze. Sherlock bends down to face you directly and lifts your face to make you meet his eyes. He removes the cloth from your mouth but keeps his hands on her jaw. he brings your face close to his and whispers in your ear, “You really thought I wouldn’t know princess?”

You feel shivers down your spine as his whisper touches your ear, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You reply lowly averting your gaze while pretending to be clueless. Sherlock chuckles lowly sounding pissed off “This whole scheme.” He brings his other hand to her neck, tightening his grip slightly. You cough out, keeping quiet.

“You know if you’re going to plan a fake hostage scenario, maybe you shouldn’t make the location a building that your parents recently bought.” You remain silent from embarrassment. “You also shouldn’t leave a sample of your handwriting in the building.” Sherlock pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket, ”This is the exact same handwriting as the one in the letter.” Sherlock leans against the wall cockily “But I must say, the plan was almost foolproof, but then again I am Sherlock Holmes.” He stares into your eyes with a smug smirk. “But I am curious, what were you hoping to gain from this? I thought about it and my first conclusion was that you’re a bored princess who wanted something interesting in your life while your parents left the country.” Sherlock gets up on his feet and starts pacing the room slowly. “So you thought it would be fun to fool the greatest detective in England.”

“But now that I’m here and looking at you, I can tell what it is that you really want, your gaze says it all.” Sherlock stops pacing and walks towards you towering over your body with his hands in his pockets. “I am somewhat of an expert when it comes to body language and your eyes princess, are filled with lust when you look at me.”

You attempt to keep your face emotionless and you gulp your saliva out of fear, “I don’t know what you mean.” Shifting uncomfortably against the couch

Sherlock goes down again bringing his thumb to your lips, rubbing against them softly “You know exactly what I mean.”

You feel your heart rate increase but you don’t try to move away from his touch, instead you open your mouth unaware of what are you are trying to achieve.

Sherlock’s eyes brighten up after realising how willing you are to be under his control, “You know princess, since I am already here, I might as well give you what you want but I’ll have to punish you for your sly behaviour.” He puts his thumb on your tongue and watches you contently move your tongue around it. “I’ll give you a real reason to cry princess.”

Sherlock grabs you by the neck and brings your mouth to his, kissing you gently at first with pecks and only a slow lip movements but then it suddenly switches to a rougher kiss, he moves his lips against yours with a sudden intensity, forcing his tongue through your lips. Matching his intensity you swirl your tongue around his and feel his hand move to your collarbone, brushing it slightly before his lips move down to your neck, causing your breath to hitch from the sudden sensation. You want to bring your hands up to him but then you’re remember that they’re still constrained.

When Sherlock notices you moving your hands around in the ropes, he stops kissing down your neck and stares at you with dark eyes , “I will remove the rope when I’m satisfied with your behaviour, until then, you’re stuck my princess.” Sherlock goes back to kissing your lips and you feels his hand move up and down your thigh as he kisses you passionately. He moves his fingers to your head and plays with your hair between his fingers, the kiss intensifying as his tongue invades your mouth, exploring hungrily. He moves his hands back to your thigh but this time he squeezes it possessively before moving his hand to your inner thigh and rubbing it teasingly.

You feel your core get hotter and react to his touch involuntarily, Sherlock moves away from the kiss and moves his attention to your chest, he kisses your cleavage lightly before pulling down your ruffled top revealing your hardened nipples. Sherlock smiles at you before rubbing your nipples, when he sees the you shut your eyes from pleasure he pinches them and you suddenly moan.

Sherlock enjoying the show, groans softly making you quiver and he brings his tongue to your sensitive nipples, you bite your lip in an attempt to hold back the unholy sounds but you end up faltering when he brings his hand back up to your thigh to rub it while keeping his mouth on your nipples.

“Please Sherlock…” you mutter under your breath in desperation

“Please what, princess?” Sherlock stops touching you entirely watching as you scowl your face in desperation

“Please touch me there, I beg of you.” You plead desperately feeling abandoned without his touch

“Im not understanding , where exactly should I touch you princess, use your words.” Sherlock teases as he watches you beg for his touch.

Sherlock brings his lips to your neck to kiss you teasingly, and he abruptly starts sucking your neck to leave a mark. You moan softly from the pleasure but come to your senses when you realise what he’s trying to do, “It is going leave a mark Sherlock?” Sherlock chuckles at your panicked state, “I know, I want everyone to know what kind of girl the princess really is.”

“So are you going to tell me where you want to be touched now.” Sherlock goes back to moving his hand up and down your thigh

You nod with desperation and reply, “Please finger my hole!” You scream out with urgency

Sherlock feels a surge of thrill overcome him after making the poise princess speak so explicitly for him. “Took you long enough, darling.” You blush at the use of the pet name as Sherlock shifts his hand up, cupping your pussy and brings his fingers to your clit, rubbing and pressing the nerves, causing you to moan at the wonderful sensation. He then moves down your snatch, putting one finger in. “You’re so wet for me, you really are a slut.” He feels you tighten around his finger at his degradation. “Oh.” He feels his slacks become tighter at the way your body responds to his touch and words, thinking about how badly he wants to feel you but moves his attention back to teasing you.

Sherlock hears footsteps approaching and instead of stopping, he adds a second finger and moves faster, you start panicking when your realise that someone is approaching the room and you notice the sly look Sherlock has in eyes as he fucks you with his long fingers. You shake your head at him as he goes faster, trying to keep your moans in. Sherlock smirks at you menacingly.

When the footsteps stop before the empty doorway, Sherlock uses his other hand to rub your clit while maintaining the speed of his two fingers. “Is it okay if I enter?’ Watson asks unaware of what’s happening in the room. Sherlock adds a third finger and you moan out, “No!” Watson gets caught off guard by your response . “Is everything all right in there?’ He asks worriedly. Sherlock looks at you as he replies, “Yes everything is fine, I’m just comforting the princess so we need some time.”

The innocent Watson doesn’t suspect a thing, “Well Sherlock, the inspector is here to offer us a ride, I’m assuming you are declining.” Sherlock intensifies the movement of his fingers inside of you if it was even physically possible and you feel yourself tighten at the thought of getting caught in this position. Sherlock replies to John, “Why yes, I shall catch up with you later.’”

James Watson’s footsteps disappear after a couple of seconds and Sherlock notices how close you are so he stops touching you. “You really are a whore, I felt you tighten around my fingers when John was here, you like the idea of getting caught, don’t you?” You shake your head denying the accusation in hopes that he would let you finish. Holmes brings his hand up your neck, “Admit it princess, or else I won’t let you finish.” He threatens. You inhale deeply and reply feverishly “Yes I got turned on by the idea of being caught in a compromising position.”

“That’s right princess, don’t forget that I’m a detective , I have a sixth sense for these things.”Sherlock goes back to rubbing your clit.”I want you to finish on my tongue but when you cum, I want you to say my name okay princess?” You nod while feeling a shiver down your body as he rubs and teases you. Sherlock keeps his fingers on your clit as he puts his mouth in between your legs, slowly kissing up your inner thigh causing you to whimper “please…” in desperation.

Sherlock brings his tongue to your entrance and plunges his tongue inside your desperate hole. “You taste so good princess.” He mutters against your heat. His praise heightens your pleasure, bringing you closer to your orgasm.

Sherlock can sense that you’re close so he moves his tongue to your clit and brings his fingers to your whole, the feeling of his warm tongue on your bundle of nerves makes you shake uncontrollably and he brings his mouth back to your hole as you finish and scream his name as you grind against his face. “Fuck, Sherlock!”

Your body shudders and you feel yourself twitch around his tongue as you feel the knot in your stomach come undone. Sherlock smiles with satisfaction when he hears his name, “Atta girl.” He kisses your forehead as you recover from the intense orgasm, when you come down from the high he unties the rope binding you.

“You were such a good girl for me, so I’ll set you free.” As he releases you from the ropes, he massages your wrists softly and kisses them gently, “Does it hurt princess.” You shake your head knowing that you made sure it wasn’t tied too tightly earlier. A sense of warmth overcomes you at his sudden affection. Sherlock sits down on the couch laying his head back, placing his index finger on his temple while manspreading from being spent. He made you feel so good and you wanted to return the favour, noticing his bulge, you move in between his legs and bring your hand to the bulge, rubbing through his trousers softly.

Sherlock brings his head down and looks down at you, “You want my cock in your mouth princess?” You nod adamantly, thinking back to how many times you’ve imagined yourself doing this. Sherlock unzips his slacks and brings out his member that was larger than you expected, it was about 6,5 inches. You couldn’t help but worry about how you are supposed to fit the whole thing in your mouth, even worse fit it in your hole. Sherlock notices the fear in your eyes and tells you that he can help you.

You nod as you nervously lick the tip, you swirl your tongue around it, “Fuck, princess stop teasing.” As soon as you heard those words you move your lips down, making sure your tongue brushes against the veiny sides of his member. You manage to take all of it in your month until it hits the back of your throat. Saliva starts dripping out of your full mouth as you take more of him. He groans as he feels you take him in completely, his fingers moving in your hair. You move your head back up and feel him help you push it down again.

The sound of your wet mouth taking him in and his groans combine and you feel him grind against your mouth roughly the more it goes on. Not really minding the roughness because it made you feel like a slut that existed for his pleasure solely.

He tightens the grip on your hair, “Fuck, you little cock hungry whore, you really love having my dick in your mouth.” His degrading words turn you on and make you moan sending vibrations down his cock causing him to increase the speed of his movements and you feel him jerk in your mouth, indicating how close he is. he grabss your face in his hand, “You better swallow like a good girl, okay?”

He lets you go back to sucking him off and moves faster, you swirl your tongue around him and feel tears come out of your eyes as he pushes himself deeper down your throat. He releases a stream into the back of your throat, and you swallow the thick, salty liquid as tears fall down your face. He cups your face after finishing and wipes your tears, “I told you I’d make you cry.” He brings your face up to kiss you deeply, tasting his own release.

“Strip and then get up on the couch princess.” You submit to his command in anticipation of his next move. You stand in front him making sure to seductively remove your garments, maintaining eye contact while also moving your hands across your body. And then you sit down on the couch, waiting for your next instruction.

Sherlock takes a seat next to you on the coach and gestures for you to lie across his lap. “This is your punishment princess, all you have to do is count up to 5, if you miss a number or skip a number, you have repeat that number okay?”

You nod in agreement but your heart beats fast from fear, Sherlock brings his large hand to your ass, smack “one” you shriek while enjoying the unfamiliar sensation. Smack “two.” you moan out incoherently. Smack “thre…” your breath hitches at the sore but enjoyable feeling.

“You should see how much you’re leaking from me spanking you princess.” Sherlock chuckles incredulously.

Smack “Five.” you groan out wearingly as you become a puddle in his lap. “Five princess? I think you mean four, which means two more, that’s if you count well. Smack “Five, please stop.” you scream out. “One more princess.” smack “six.” you scream out.

“You’re such a good girl, I’ll let you rest a little and then I’m gonna fuck you so hard that the only thing you’ll be able to say is my name.”

Sherlock waits for you to recover, as you sit up on the couch, he moves upwards to face you. “I want you to ride me, I want to sense your desperation and the pent up frustration.” He pulls out his hard being member from under you and you take it in your hand and put it at your entrance.

You wince as you slowly adjust yourself to his size, making sure not to move for a while as you try to take his full length. “I’ve never felt so full.” you groan out, as you bottom out.

Sherlock smirks and asks you if you’re ready. You nod and start moving yourself up and down slowly until you find the perfect pace. Sherlock moves his head back but then you pull his head towards you to meet his lips. You move faster as the kiss deepens, feeling his cock hit places that you didn’t even know could make you feel these sensations. Your moans and the sound of your skin slapping against him fill the air.

You start grinding against him and roll your eyes back in pleasure. When Sherlock notices your facial expression he moans out “fuck, you take me so well.” You go back to the up and down movements while Sherlock kisses you all over your chest and neck.

Sherlock impatiently starts himself upwards, his thrust are incessant but don’t lose their strength.“You feels so good on my cock princess.” You start purposefully tightening yourself around him as he thrusts into you harder.

“Princess, look what you’ve done to me.” he starts whimpering in your ear as he gets closer. You feel yourself build up to your climax so your movements becomes messier, “I’m so close.” you moan out. Sherlock moves his hands to your clit and starts flicking it hastily to help you reach your orgasm first. You feel him reach your g-spot and rub your sensitive bundles at the same time and you cum so hard from the overstimulation that your vision becomes blurry and white. You mutter his name as if you’re in a trance “Sherlock, Sherlock…” As you convulse on him and become a moaning mess, Sherlock whimpers and moans and can’t help but release himself inside of your walls. The feeling of his warmth in you makes you twitch one more time.

“You were such a good girl today, it was definitely worth my time, I’ll make sure you get home safely.” You nod as you wrap your arms around him, the feeling of you naked bodies against each other making you feel closer. As you shut your eyes, you feel a coat, masked in a familiar musk scent. The feeling of a sudden forehead kissing making your heart flutter.

welp! i hope y’all enjoyed🌷, watching moriarty the patriot right now and this man is insanely fine so i had to write something😓 (first smut)

i’ll post this on ao3 edited properly when i make an account

[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

Last Updated: 2025-05-27

Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite BBC!Mycroft Holmes stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.

Legend: 〔E〕 ⇢ Erotic/Steamy | 〔F〕 ⇢ Fluff | 〔A〕 ⇢ Angst/Hurt 〔M〕 ⇢ Minor Angst/Hurt | 〔C〕 ⇢ Comfort | ♥︎ ⇢ Established Relationship | 𑁍 ⇢ Pregnancy/Children | 🚫 ⇢ Content Warning

✑ Earth Angel by lacelynpage • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: You spent the last year and a half planning your wedding and know every detail except one. Mycroft picked and then wouldn't tell you what song you would be dancing to for your first dance.

✑ Force Majeure by the-girl-next-door-writes • 〔F〕 •

Summary: Mycroft Holmes is so caught up in analyzing his own feelings that he doesn't see they could be reciprocated. Lucky for him, his little brother is an interfering shit.

✑ He Should Know What to Expect by galactic-academia • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: Lady Smallwood wants to 'have a drink' with Mycroft; he's confused, but Reader knows exactly what to do...

✑ Hold My Hand by quillsandcauldroncakes • 〔F᜶A〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: Mycroft Holmes was not known as a very compassionate man. To some, his emotionless personality is… strength, himself included in this. To others, it is viewed as insensitivity and rudeness. However, to one such woman in his life, it is nothing more than a shield to protect the ones he loves.

✑ It's Beautiful by sherlockxreader • 〔F〕 •

Summary: Rain usually means less people milling around London streets. Still, you love the rain. Seems someone else appreciates it as well.

✑ Little Smiles by marvelmymarvel • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: When life got crazy as a spy and your life was endangered, the US sent you to England to be protected and 'start over' as they would like to say. You were placed under the care of Mycroft Holmes and soon became the mystery woman to the people of England.

✑ Motivated by sherlockxreader • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Summary: Mycroft hasn't been enjoying exercising, so the reader decides to help motivate him creatively by working out with him.

✑ Pointless Jealousy by megs-mostly-past-random-fandoms • 〔A〕 •

Summary: You can't help but feel heartbroken after learning about Mycroft's *ahem* arrangement with Lady Smallwood. Mycroft makes the situation by dismissing your jealousy as a pointless emotion.

✑ Your Hand in Mind by girl-next-door-writes • 〔A〕 •

Summary: Witnessing the death of Mary Watson causes Mycroft to focus on what he feels is truly important to him.

✑ A Matter of Take Out by bakerstreethound • 〔F〕 •

✑ A Proper Date by thranduilsperkybutt • 〔F〕 •

✑ After You by thranduilsperkybutt • 〔F〕 •

✑ Because by thranduilsperkybutt • 〔F〕 •

✑ Can't Lose You by specialagentlokitty • 〔A᜶C〕 • ♥︎ •

Care

✑ Cuddles with Mummy by fandom-puff • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Deeply and Unswerving by anna-liz-fiction-blog • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Feelings by imagine-by-susu • 〔A〕 •

✑ First Date by multific • 〔F〕 •

✑ First Sight by collecting-stories • 〔F〕 •

✑ His Weakness by imagine-by-susu • 〔A〕 •

✑ I Need to Go by imagine-by-susu • 〔A〕 •

✑ Jealousy by coppercatwrites • 〔A〕 •

✑ Just a Tad Sweeter by sherlockxreader • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Late at Night by multific • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Masquerade by megs-mostly-past-random-fandoms • 〔F〕 •

✑ Midnight Mission by fandom-writers • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ My Boys by make-me-imagine • 〔F᜶C〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Never Fell Out of Love by raggedy-dxctor • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Oh Darling by lacelynpage • 〔F〕 •

✑ Pleasant Distraction by fandom-puff • 18+ • 〔E〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Precious Cargo by bewarethecrazyperson • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Prim and Proper by fandom-writers • 〔F〕 •

✑ Pub by make-me-imagine • 〔F〕 •

✑ Sherlock No! by specialagentlokitty • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ So Brilliant by lacelynpage • 〔C〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Stunning by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Surveillance by thranduilsperkybutt • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Time the Ice Man Melts, the by deerstalkersanddangerousthoughts • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Two Minutes by thranduilsperkybutt • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Visiting by fandom-puff • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Work Function by multific • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Wrong Person by anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Dating Mycroft Holmes... by lacelynpage • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Dating Mycroft Holmes... by raggedy-dxctor • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

See Also: Navigation || BBC!Mycroft Holmes Master Index

Authors: @anna-liz-fiction-blog || @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek || @bakerstreethound || @bewareofthecrazyperson || @collecting-stories || @coppercatwrites || @dragon-kazansky || @deerstalkersanddangerousthoughts || @fandom-puff || @fandom-writers || @galactic-academia || @girl-next-door-writes || @imagine-by-susu || @lacelynpage || @make-me-imagine || @marvelmymarvel || @megs-mostly-past-random-fandoms || @multific || @quillsandcauldroncakes || @raggedy-dxctor || @sherlockxreader || @specialagentlokitty || @thranduilsperkybutt ||

[imeternallylove]

Cloud Covered - S.Holmes

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warning: Graphics of violence, torture of dead and plenty of more brutality

Word: approx 3.5k

main mastetlist  | request & ask | prompts | theme song

Chapters index

Bloodbath (you are reading this) | Marionette | Invisible Strings

It's an abominable to see. 

Two victims were strewn on the floor, and one was hanging upside down. Blood is spilled as far as the eye can perceive, staining both the walls and the ceiling, creating a gruesome bloodfield scene. The odour in the air is revolting.

"My god," Sherlock hears you gasp next to him, shaken by the sight. He doesn't blame you; it's beyond anything he's ever seen, and he can easily say he's been in some gruesome crime scenes in the course of his job.

But his concerned against one another continues to be and before proceeding and allowing his own inquiry to begin, a gentle hand grips his partner's shoulder and he leans close. "Wait outside," he asserts that reassuring squeezed into your shoulder. He watches as you give a nod giving one final startled glance around his surroundings before turning around and going towards the police outside the warehouse's closed doors.

Sherlock returned his concentration to the crime scene only when you were close enough to the door, taking his first steps ahead and closer to the corpses. He crouches close the first, his sombre stare fixed on the horrified, wide-eyed look of the dead body, apprehension from his final moments on earth imprinted on his soulless eyes.

Only a few details emerge from his solitary observations: the corpses are soaked in their own blood, concealing any wounds or scars. Before handling the bodies in the mortuary, Sherlock always waits to meet them. He argues that people should look with their eyes, not their hands, because hands are awkward and untidy, and dragging their fingers across a flawless crime scene ruins so many aspects.

Many facts can be deduced by Sherlock with a single glance at a person, object, or scenario without even moving a muscle.

He takes his time studying the bodies and their ravaged faces, capturing everything in his memory and safely storing it for future use. It takes him twenty minutes in that stinky warehouse to be satisfied with his mental notes, and he turns to leave, his own feet leaving faint bloody prints behind from how dirty the floor was.

Once outside, he nods to the fellow officers, indicating that he has finished his studies and that the bodies may be taken away for further investigation before making his approach towards you, who appeared to be preoccupied in a hushed conversation with two police officers and a witness.

When they notice Sherlock's arrival, both officers leave, assuming it was time to get back to work. "How do I address you?" Sherlock asks the witness, a youngster of the same height as himself, pretty directly.

"James. McGuigan, James." The boy responds calmly, despite the fact that he, too, is visibly shaken by the circumstances.  Sherlock took note of every expression he made. "I was just telling the officers that I have no idea what happened here," he adds, casting a furtive glance towards the warehouse before returning his attention to Sherlock. "I was going for a morning jog when I saw all the blood, so I immediately called the police."

"You did well," Sherlock replies, his hands in the pockets of his long coat. He casts a glance at you, who returns his stare with a begging look to leave the location within as little time as possible. "Do you usually go for a jog around here?"

"Yes," the boy says, nodding. "It's serene in here, and there's plenty of space." I went here this morning as well, and there was no blood."

Sherlock's brow furrows slightly, allowing the witness's comments to enter. "Interesting," he says, though you groan at his uncommon habit, he speaking slowly and attentively before nodding. There's nothing else to listen to, so there's no time to waste. "I'm sure you've had enough of the cops.” Sherlock steps towards to the boy, “thank you for your time with us." He gracefully lowers his head,  hand finding your back to stroke against before departing and tugging the shorter along; which meant you. 

You take out your phone and dial your friend's number; it takes a few moments for her to answer. "Hey, Molly." You greet with large exhaustion. "Have your toys arrived?"

The mortuary room, shall be you both next stop.

"Jeff Hewlett, Vincent Mcbride, and Reynard Hall." Molly says it with her arms crossed across her chest and an uncomfortable expression on her face, as if corpses still frightened her despite years of working in a mortuary. "Vincent and Jeff are siblings, not sure how Reynard falls into the picture."

Despite hearing Molly's remarks, Sherlock remains silent, leaning over Reynard's corpse and studying. The bodies had all been cleaned of blood, and the cause was clear; they had all been shot, albeit no bullets were recovered in them or at the warehouse.

"Jeff and Vincent have been dead for a while." Molly speaks up once more, watching as he moves on to Vincent's body. "I'd guess two days. Perhaps three."

"But our witness said there was nothing in the warehouse yesterday." You ponder during where you stood against the wall, brow furrowed, looking, waiting, having never been fond of mortuary space.

“Indeed,” Sherlock straightens himself up. “Only Reynard was killed there. Whoever did it painted us a whole show to make it seem like all three murders happened at the same time, in the same place.”

You pucker up, your weary face tilting. "But why?"

"Why not?" Sherlock retorts. "Perhaps it was a warning for Reynard, showing him Jeff's corpse as a threat. He wasn't given a choice, however. The killer definitely wanted him dead as well. It was most likely a game for their own entertainment, as well as an opportunity to leave a magnificent crime scene behind with all that splattered blood."

You ponder, your mind already absence. "Bloody Hell..."

"I wouldn't use the word magnificent to describe such a bloody scene." Molly mutters, breathes deeply, and shakes her head slightly. "In any case, there's more. Check their chests."

Sherlock doesn't need to be told once more, yanking at the white sheet that covers the rest of the dead. His brows furrow and he leans in, curious.

"What on earth is it?" You ask yourself, moving closer.

"All three bodies have the letter J carved on the left side of their chest." Molly adds this as she uncovers the two more bodies, displaying the same wounds that Sherlock saw with a little magnifying glass.

"Beautiful," Sherlock thinks to himself as he walks up to examine Reynard's scar. "The murderer left his imprint... He wants everyone to know that he did it. It's another jeopardy a warning that this could be a case for a serial killer."

The proprietor of the mortuary room frowns. "You should tone down your enthusiasm for murd-"

"Collect their files and bring them to me. All three of them." Sherlock commands, straightening his back and walking towards you, his arm wrapping across your shorter shoulders to urge you along. "I need to do some research."

Things were finally getting fascinating around there.

Shouting out the route out of Sherlock's flat to take you home. "Jeff and Vincent were cousins," he recalls fast as the outcome of his momentous laboratory spills out, loud enough to alarms you, half-sleeping from the passenger seat window.

You two share a knowing, amused gaze as a bright shade of pink sweeps across your cheeks after his delicate smooch on your hairline. "The entire thing could have been a family issue, a misunderstanding- but then you have Reynard, eh? Who appears to have no connection to them. However," Sherlock says, raising his finger. "According to my research, Vincent and Jeff were in a relationship. This could be a love problem instead, but it's still strange because of the cousins."

"Ugh, please. Don't tell me it was about illicit bromance like old fashioned in 70' European," you counsel with a smile. And your comment made him snort next to you.

"This J is dropping hints, which indicates that they intend to return. But if they don't, we can rely on your brilliant cousin illicit bromance concept." You can't stop yourself from laughing. Till you realize what he implied then your smile faded: "Are you trying to say we supposed wait for someone else to die before going after this 'J' ?” Your brow furrows in bewilderment.

“Exactly.” Sherlock gives a short, innocent smile. "God! Sherlock Holmes, that’s bloody nonsense. What's we need to do is avoid the next victim, not waiting and enjoying it!" You shout out as he turns right, leaving you dumbfounded. 

Your water is just starting to boil when Sherlock asks, "-so what about steak and your fondness for wine?"

"Huh," you keep staring out the window, knowing he's only attempting to loosen you by addressing the food topic, and the only response you gave him was the muttering in rage. "Nah, I saw plenty of blood today."

"We're going to have burger for dinner," Sherlock replies hastily. "There will be no more second thoughts."

“Fries, also”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You were about going over soda when Sherlock's phone started ringing. He urged him to slow down his car and search his trousers pocket for the device. He frowned at the number as you gazed upon him doubtfully, then slid his thumb to the green button. "—Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock stared down at the body, and the body stared back to him.

"She was discovered exactly like this an hour ago." The officer from the local police department explained. "She drowned and washed up on shore, but we called you because she has the letter J carved on her. We do believe you are familiar with this."

Sherlock shut his eyes and exhaled slowly. He'd been overly confident, certain that he'd put the pieces of the puzzle together, that he'd tied all the traces together and located the real victim the murderer was looking for.

And now this - an elderly woman and she defies the men-only pattern, has no ties to any of the previous cases, and smashes Sherlock's assumptions and inferences in the blink of an eye.

And Sherlock is never, ever wrong with his predictions.

He feels your palm on his arm, a delicate tug of reassurance, of comfort, but he brushes it aside and walks to kneel over the body. You shake your head at the others, signalling that Sherlock needs a bit of solitude time.

"She used to work at a local, tiny grocery store." Sherlock claims that bending his head as he searches the body with furrowed brows for any wound other than the J sliced through her garments. There was nothing, which was not surprising given that drowning her shouldn't take much effort.

"Hold on, Greg." You paused the line and step over him, scracth your shoulder; by now it's already midnight and you're still at the crime scenes with nothing in your tiresome stomach. "You got that from just looking at her?" He sighs as he hears you ask in stupor.

"When I was younger, I used to go to her store and buy candy." He explains, possibly in a fairly harsh tone, though it was common for the frustration to crawl up on his chest and adhere to his ribcage. "She is unrelated to the other victims. She's most likely retired by now. It makes no sense."

No one says a thing. The wind from the Thames is refreshing, yet the air is dense. If Sherlock doesn't comprehend, the others obviously don’t either.

"Perhaps the connections between the victims weren't as straightforward as I would assumed." 

Curled up within your coat, you allowed the darknight breezes swirl over you, leaving your blonde hair tangled. You've known your thoughts went away into the cloud from your body since this granny bodie had a sheer string with Sherlock.

"Anytime," you say as you offer your namecard to one of the local police officers, who appears to be the lieutenant. 

Sherlock could hear your breath hitching behind him, followed by the noises of you turning around and exiting the room. He looked over his shoulder as his girl walked away, briefly wondering if the mortuary had finally become a bit too much for you to bear, before returning his gaze to the corpse.

"Mercury poisoning." Greg reinforced his thoughts, an uncomfortable expression on his face as he gripped the victim's files against his chest and watched Sherlock. "In his body, a big dose was injected. Considering the others, I'd say this was a rather clean death."

Sherlock concurred silently, his gaze fixed on the J cut right below the body's collarbone. “Name?”

"Clifford Shelton," the proprietor of the mortuary room replies, returning her gaze to the paperwork. "A kindergarten teacher, Oxford Montessori Schools."

There it was. The headache came slowly, cautiously, curling its twisted fingers around his thoughts and squeezing it.

"Do you think there's any connection to the other victims?" Sherlock questions, putting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and frowning at the gathering annoyance.

"Nothing that I can think of."

“Figured.”

Sherlock straightens up, disregarding Greg's somewhat irritated expression. Seconds passed slowly, static silence filling the air as he stared harder and harder at the corpse, as if the jigsaw pieces might fall into place on their own if he did it long enough.

"Where did Y/N go?" Molly is the one who breaks the silence, her hands moving to draw the sheet over the dead, effectively ending Sherlock's investigation.

The detective's attention slowly returns from the shrouded body to the pathologist, accepting the query before returning to the exit. "I don’t know.”

"So," Greg begins, his tone tinged with doubt and perhaps a hint of amusement. "You can't figure it out?"

"I haven't start to figured it out yet." Sherlock corrects Greg, irritated by his choice of words. He has copies of all the victims' files strewn over his desk, but the more he stares at them, the more difficult it is to think. Part of him blames Greg; honestly, the shorter's presence lowers his IQ by the second.

“Right.” He nods slowly, a kitten-like smile twisting on his lips, yet he doesn't dare to continue his tormenting.

"He was thirty-two years old, making him the second oldest victim so far, but there's still a significant age difference between him and Mrs. Madison from Thames river." They both were in your house, Sherlock muses as he leans over the papers, fists gripping the table. "In any case, it's barely significant. He was born and reared in Scotland and has no history of being linked with any of the men." He sighs and leans back against the table, his palms against his face, away from the paperwork. "I feel like there's something obvious here which I'm overlooking." 

There was a brief moment of silence before you stood up, the entrance of the door. "He should be in Oxford, it’s Tuesday and no necessary to be in London." You mutter, barely audible, before turning and heading for the bedroom instead.

Sherlock kept an eye on you, the unfamiliarity of the circumstance, along with your out-of-character actions, making you nervous. He exchanges a glance with Greg, who returns his gaze, and he suddenly feels as if there's something else he's missing that isn't related to the murders.

"Is she-"

"Is she okay? You should go ahead and ask her." Greg shrugs, maintaining his nice, casual grin, but his eyes were clearly prodding Sherlock; attempting to break past his thick mind loaded with puzzles and detective novels. "Did you happen to forget Clifford was Y/N's ex?"

Sherlock's mouth opens in surprise, then closes again.

"Thought so." Greg laughs and shakes his head slightly. "Go talk to her."

Three knocks on the door before Sherlock stepped in, turning the handle. “Y/N?”

His shorter girlfriend sat on the bed, phone lighting out on your hands, apparently doing nothing more than being lost in your own thoughts, yet a smile spreads across your lips as your gaze meets Sherlock's, albeit somewhat tiredly. "Hey, beb."

Sherlock pursed his lips, locking the door behind him; he believed Greg would busy himself in the sitting room or the kitchen (like he always did), so he stepped farther into the room. He knew about Clifford and you, but the whole serial murderer thing managed to take over his entire head, seizing its place and leaving no room for other facts.

Even those about his girlfriend.  

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks, the mattress sinking slightly as he sat next to the shorter, bony fingers searching for you to hold. He senses you relaxing only for his touch, and you shrug.

“I hate your silly question.. It has been a long time. I haven't spoken to him for years." You say, seizing the opportunity to finally express yourself now that you have the opportunity. "It's just... strange -- you know? That someone I used to know..." You trail off, words turning to ash in your tongue before you can say anything, yet there is no need for a detective to figure out the finish of this phrase this time.

Sherlock's hand squeezes yours, and your head leans on his shoulder. "Suddenly, it all feels a lot more threatening when it's about someone you know, doesn't it?" Sherlock hums, now his head resting on his woman's shoulder, lips placing a kiss to the top of your hair. "Are you scared?"

“Kinda.” You chuckled defeatistically. "Well, if something happens to us, I mean; I guess 'J' knows who we are. Mrs Madison and Clifford happen to be related to us." You breathe out with a slight smile on your face. "And I wished I'd died first because I couldn't live without your goofy face."

Sherlock's stomach clenches, and he is anxious but determined. He presses your hand once more. "Nothing is going to happen to us." He then draws you closer into his warm embrace. "Just put your trust in me."

“I always did.”

“I know.”

While his lips were connected to yours, the deadpanned blank countenance quickly covered over your agonised sorrowful appearance that you showed to him. And, despite your best efforts, you sense no peace from his embrace, at all.

To your mastermind that running back and forth in your veins, something within you shouts louder and more profoundly in the silence.

a/t: eh i did told you don’t hate me yet xD

[simestandswithtaylorswift-blog]

if I’m crying that means I am alive (henry!sherlock x reader)

 warnings: angst and my bad english.

You have never thought that Sherlock would marry with another woman. other woman besides you... it was impossible to think, but here you are standing front of him, tears in your eyes and a pain in your throat. ‘’I need to be strong’’ you said to yourself, but how can you. He was the love of your life, your childhood friend, your savior. You were going to lose him to another woman.  ‘‘Hey... you okay?’‘ he said ‘‘Well of course I am! So happy for you and for her. I’m just suprised, I never tought you were seeing another woman besides me and your maids.’‘ ‘‘Oh... That was by an accident actually. I was gone to London for a case-’’ You didn’t pay attention to his words. Just looked at his face blankly. How couldn’t he notice that you were dying inside? The greatest detective sherlock holmes. Maybe he was really bad at emphaty like others said.  ‘‘I want you to meet with her, if it is okay with you. That would be nice for her to meet my best friend, what do you say?’‘ ‘‘Sherlock...That would be nice. I’m curious about her already!’’ You sounded nice and kind. That is what a best friend does when her crush says he has a crush on other you said to yourself. ‘‘Good... Now I have to go, I need to deal with a case. See you later, princess’‘ He smirked. Princess... that was your nickname, he always called you princess. But what is a princess gonna do when her prince prefers another?  ‘‘Alright, goodbye sherlock’‘ you turned around and just walked away from him.  Little did he know you will be crying after all that dreams you dreamed about him, your future? But that’s fine, you were just a best friend after all.

[blackspoon99]

A Night at the Theater

Sherlock x Female! Reader

Halloween Special 

TW: Fighting, Near-Death Experience, Mentions of Murder 

Masterlist

A/N: This fic heavily references Macbeth, so if you are unfamiliar, here’s a link if you want a brief plot summary: https://www.shakespeare.org.uk/explore-shakespeare/shakespedia/shakespeares-plays/macbeth/?gclid=CjwKCAjw2vOLBhBPEiwAjEeK9iW79c8ZMqs_KOz0bCq1tipDrKUrHcdEree1tJ1jj42S-BJEC7k6HBoCMWsQAvD_BwE

Hands down, Halloween was your favorite holiday. You especially loved Halloween in London. The cool air, the warm drinks, and the spooky history. The moment you felt a chill in the air at the end of the blistering heat of summer, you were your truest self. Not everyone felt the way you did. Your boyfriend, Sherlock for one. Imagine trying to get Sherlock Holmes to dress up in a Halloween costume.

You walked through the door of Sherlock’s Baker Street flat, grocery bags in hand. Sherlock and his flatmate John usually couldn’t be bothered to buy food. Despite your constant reminders, Sherlock often let the fridge go empty without even noticing. Eventually, you just took it upon yourself to shop for them once a week. Struggling with the bags, you walked up the stairs and eased the door open with your shoulder.

“Hello Sherlock,” you called, walking into the kitchen. Sherlock was seated by the windows, staring intently at his laptop. His posture was slightly hunched over, and he was still wearing his pajamas. His hair was disheveled, and he had deep purple under eye circles and bloodshot eyes. Those were clear signs he’d been sitting in that exact spot for a while. You weren’t even surprised when he gave no response. You placed the heavy paper bags onto the kitchen table and moved to hang up your coat by the door.

Sherlock made no indication that he even recognized your presence. You calmly walked behind him and leaned down to kiss him gently on the cheek. He flinched slightly, startled, and looked at you over his shoulder.

“I said, hello, darling,” you repeated softly into his ear. You leaned back and smiled at him.

“Not now, I’m working,” he said, giving you a look that made your knees weak.

“When aren’t you?” you said, fake pouting. “Have you thought about what I asked you?”

“I didn’t need to think about it. I’m not going to Lestrade’s Halloween party.”

“Come on, Sherlock, he invites us every year, and besides, now that we’re… together I thought you might want to come with me this time.”

“Oh god—” he stood up from his chair, walked to the kitchen, and started going through the grocery bags. You followed him.

“Oh, but I’ve already bought our costumes,” you teased. “And you’d look so great in the policeman’s costume I found. It’s got a little hat and everything.” Sherlock side-eyed you, horrified, trying to tell if you were serious. You immediately started laughing when you saw his face. “Relax, I’m only joking. However, it wouldn’t kill you to stop in and say hello.”

Sherlock snatched an apple from the brown paper bag. “Darling, I’m afraid I disagree,” he said, inspecting it. He tossed it up in the air and caught it before taking a bite. “Besides, I already have plans for us that night.” He turned on his heel and walked straight back to his chair.

You sighed and walked back into the living room behind him. “Okay, I’m intrigued. Tell me more.” You sat yourself down across from him at the table by the window. Sherlock took another bite of his apple and tossed you a newspaper. The headline read “A Shakespearean Tragedy Come to Life: Actor Slain Mid-performance”

“Actor Harry Wells was stabbed to death with what was supposed to be a fake dagger during the assassination scene of Caesar. Several actors on stage, no one saw a thing. Killer disguised himself as a cast member and no one seemed to notice.”

“Now that’s what I call method acting.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at your wordplay. “It’s going to happen again, and I think I know where and when. In short: we’ve got a date at the theater.”

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

7:00 pm, Halloween night

Sherlock had predicted the next murder would happen during the annual masquerade performance of Macbeth on Halloween night. It was a long-held tradition at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, London’s most haunted theater and opera house. You’d always wanted to go to this event, and you were inappropriately excited about sneaking backstage.

You met Sherlock at his flat and the two of you headed over to the theater. Once you arrived in the cover of darkness, people were beginning to enter the theater through the front entrance. All of them were dressed in costume, as was tradition for the event. It sort of made you wish Sherlock would dress up with you one Halloween. Well, there was always next year. You’d wear him down eventually. Sherlock approached the ticket box.

“Two tickets listed under Holmes, please”

“Ah, yes, there you are. Holmes, party of two. Enjoy the performance.”

“Oh, we will,” he said with a smirk. You nudged him.

“Could you be any more suspicious?” You asked with a smile. He winked at you and offered his arm to escort you inside. As you walked into the main hall, you were in complete awe. Marble columns and dramatic arches lined the hallway. The lights were dimmed, and the room was filled with lit floor candelabras. You looked up towards the high ceiling and saw three-dimensional projected silver specters drifting across. “Wow,” you said in amazement. Sherlock pulled you back to reality with a gentle tug on your wrist.

“Come on, it's time,” he said and gestured towards the theater. Amongst all the activity, you and Sherlock easily slipped into a side door and made your way backstage. You crept through the labyrinth of hallways until you could hear the distant noise of the actors getting ready to perform. You leaned your head around the corner to see actors rushing around dressed in medieval costumes, each with a mask obscuring most or all of their faces. You turned back to Sherlock, and he pointed to a room across the hall labeled “Costume Storage”.

You nodded at him and quietly rushed towards the door, hoping no one would catch you. You swiftly threw open the door and Sherlock hastily shut it behind you once he’d made it in. You looked across the room and saw racks of clothing, trunks of accessories, and old stage sets all clustered together in a small, cluttered room.

“Now what?” You asked Sherlock.

“We blend in.”

You nodded, still unsure of what his plan actually could be. You browsed through the costume racks, looking for anything appropriate for a masked performance of Macbeth. You found a scarlet off-the-shoulder chemise dress and an un-boned corset belt. You threw the loose-fitting chemise over your head and secured the corset around your waist to fit the garment to your body. Now you just needed a mask. You turned to rummage through a small trunk of accessories and finally spotted a red mask to complete your costume.

You peeked over the clothing rack. Sherlock had removed his wool coat and blazer and he just wore his purple dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and his black dress pants. He wore a black mask with gold trim that obscured the top half of his face. He stood, looking in a floor-length mirror, securing a prop rapier to his right hip.

“So, this is what it takes for you to wear a Halloween costume?” you asked, emerging from behind the clothing rack.

“It’s not a costume, it’s a disguise—” He stopped abruptly when he turned to look at you. You immediately fell silent as your tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of your mouth. Even from behind the mask, you still felt the full impact of the way he was looking at you. You blushed and lifted your mask to your face. “Allow me,” Sherlock said as he moved behind you. You held the mask to your face. He slowly secured the black ribbon of the mask behind your head.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“You’re welcome,” he said, his low voice echoing in the quiet room. He finished tying the knot and slowly dropped his hand. He lingered for a moment at the nape of your neck. He then abruptly removed his hand, as if he had just become aware of what he was doing, and awkwardly cleared his throat.

You finally broke the silence “What’s the plan? This is Macbeth. There are about six murders. The killer could strike during any of them.”

“I’ve determined that the only way to catch the murderer is to watch the actors closely. I’ll be able to spot which one has the real sword and catch him before he makes it on stage.”

“So do we just wait in the wings and keep an eye out when the murder scenes are coming up?”

“More or less.”

“Well, I appreciate the honesty.”

“We shouldn’t stick together; we would draw more attention to ourselves that way. You stay to the left wings, find a corner, and watch the actors closely. I’ll be on the right wing. Tell me if you see anything out of order. If you think you spot our man, do not engage with him. Text me immediately. When it comes down to it, let me handle it.” He had genuine concern in his voice, so you reluctantly agreed.

“Okay, I will. Be careful, Sherlock.”

“You as well.”

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

You and Sherlock silently left the storage room and went your separate ways. As you made your way to the left wing, an actor raced past you, trying to make it to opening places. Much to your surprise, in all the chaos before a play, no one even noticed an unfamiliar masked woman wandering around backstage. As you walked, you felt the buzzing energy of the moment before the performance. Three women dressed as the witches walked past you, going over their lines for the iconic Act IV scene

“Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.”  

“Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

You weaved through frantic actors, crew members dressed in all black, and a very flustered woman with a headset and a clipboard. You even saw the two actors playing Macbeth and Macduff blocking out the stage combat for the final duel where Macbeth meets his end.

You finally made it to the wings and found a dark corner where you were unlikely to be noticed. You could see the entire stage across. The sound of audience chatter was audible even through the closed thick velvet curtain. You looked over to the right wing, hoping to spot Sherlock backstage. Through the shadows, you could barely make out his silhouette, watching intently and waiting.

As if on cue, the lights backstage and onstage immediately switched off and the curtain began to rise slowly. You felt a jolt of nervous energy as the audience cheered and applauded. With all the excitement, you’d almost forgotten you were there to prevent a murder.

The lights gradually went back up as the three witches walked onto the stage. They wore floor-length scarlet hoods that completely obscured their faces. Once they reached the cauldron at the center of the stage, they lifted their hoods and began the first scene.

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

You watched intently all the way through acts one through four, communicating discretely with Sherlock. Nothing had happened yet, and the tension was slowly building. You got the creeping feeling the murder would happen at the very end, at Macbeth’s end. You watched as the actors began to play out the storming of Macbeth’s castle. You watched anxiously as prop weapons clashed in a hurricane of stage fighting. You received a text from Sherlock, almost as if he sensed your nerves.

Not yet. You’ll know when it’s time.

Why was it that he never just gave you the whole explanation? Eventually, the play moved into the eighth scene of the fifth act. The moment you’d been anxiously anticipating.

MACBETH:

With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed. Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.

MACDUFF

Despair thy charm, And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee — Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripped.

The man playing Macduff raised his rapier to initiate the final duel scene. This had to be it. Why hadn’t Sherlock said anything?

Suddenly, from the right wing, Sherlock raced onto the stage and pulled the actor playing Macbeth by the back of his shirt and threw him off the stage. The actor playing Macduff cried out in a rage and attempted to strike Sherlock. He reached up and blocked it, using his prop rapier. Suddenly, Sherlock was using a prop in a real sword fight.

Sherlock blocked the man’s attacks with expertise. Among many other things, your boyfriend just happened to be a master fencer. Although everything seemed to be heading in Sherlock’s favor, your whole body was screaming at you to move, to intervene. The only thing holding you back was your promise to Sherlock not to get involved.

Your heart dropped as you watched Sherlock lose his footing as the actor threw him to the ground. You watched the masked man playing Macduff raise his rapier above his head, aiming to strike Sherlock.

Without thinking, you ran onstage towards the man and threw yourself at his back. You leapt on top of him and tried to wrestle the rapier from his hand. The man spun to the left, his arms flailing, trying to throw you off. The audience members laughed, assuming it to be a part of the production somehow.

Suddenly, he threw his upper body forward and flipped you over his head and onto the stage floor. The air left your lungs as your back made impact with the hard wood. You let out an inaudible groan of pain. You looked up and saw the man standing over you menacingly, his eyes seemingly glowing behind his mask. He once again raised his rapier over his head to strike.

Before he could follow through, Sherlock struck him over the head with the hilt of his prop. The man collapsed to the ground, his weapon landing beside you with a clang. Your chest heaved up and down as you tried to get your breathing under control. You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked up at Sherlock.

He extended his hand down to you. You took it and he pulled you to your feet and held you tightly to him. Your head spun slightly as you got your bearings. The audience cheered in amusement. You spotted who you assumed was the director shoving past audience members trying to yell over the crowd. You looked up at Sherlock with pure relief, thankful he was alright. The stage manager emerged from the wings and barked “Close the damn curtain!”. The curtain dropped abruptly from the ceiling and landed with a thud.

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

In the aftermath, it was quite difficult to explain to the theater staff why the two of you had stormed the stage mid-performance and assaulted one of the actors. Once the police had arrived and confiscated the weapon, you and Sherlock finally were relieved from answering questions.

The man had used the masked performance as an opportunity to knock out the original actor playing Macduff and take his place before the duel without anyone noticing. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock noticed. Once he came to in handcuffs, Sherlock approached him, snatched off his mask, and addressed him by name.

“James Hughes. Thrown out of the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art for dealing and using illegal drugs five years ago.” He turned to the officers “Since the end of his short prison sentence, James has been making the rounds and getting revenge on the man who reported him, and a few other classmates he chose to blame. He made his first hit last week. Harry Wells: the student who reported him to the dean.”

Hughes scowled and looked away. “They deserved it. They ruined my career and now they get to play the leading roles? The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.”

“Thespians,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“I believe you have your man, detectives.” He turned to you. “Shall we?”

You nodded him and followed him off the stage and back through the hallways. As soon as you were out of sight, he grabbed your hand to stop you. He then immediately leaned down and kissed you. After he eventually pulled away, you stood there stunned. Sherlock never opted for public displays of affection. Emphasis on the public aspect. To your confusion, he looked upset with you.

“I thought I told you not to intervene under any circumstances. You could have been killed.”

“I wasn’t going to stand idly by when you’re in trouble. I understand you’re concerned, but you can’t expect me to just sit and watch.” Sherlock frowned. “You were there to save me, and I was there to save you. That’s what we do. I’m safe as long as I’m with you.”

“In that case, I suppose the only logical way to ensure your safety is to always be by your side.”

“I can live with that.”

You strolled through the hallways and into the main hall.

“This was fun,” you started. “I will say, this was a really great date. Good luck topping this one.”

He chuckled. “It doesn’t have to be over.”

You tilted your head in confusion. Sherlock looked down to check his watch then looked back at you. “Look at that. You know, if we head over now, we could still make it to Lestrade’s party.”

You looked up at him in shock. “Did you hit your head when he knocked you over?”

“Come on, let’s make his night. Besides, we’re already in costume.” He pulled his mask out of his pocket and put it back over his face.

A huge smile stretched across your face as you reached down to hold his hand. Sherlock Holmes did have his moments.

“Really? You mean it?” you asked.

“I will admit,” he said with a smile, “This costume is really growing on me.”

“You do look quite handsome,” you agreed.

“Actually, I was talking about yours.”

Your eyes widened and you playfully pushed him away.

A/N: Hello! So sorry for the extended absence. This fic was partially inspired by my new favorite book: If We Were Villains. DW there’s no spoilers in here. Also fun fact, Benedict Cumberbatch went to the London Academy for Music and Dramatic Art so I had to put that in here. Anyways, I wish you a very spooky Halloween!

[muchgaynocrime]

Sherlock’s midlife crisis

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

rating: teen

word count: ~ 2,040 words

summary: You once were Sherlock assistant and secretly had a crush on him. One day, he visits you on his birthday out of the blue and this is just the first of many meetings... You begin to wonder why he’s visiting you and if it’s possible that he got attached to you.

a/n: this is dedicated to @sherlockeddetective​ I hope you enjoy it <3

It had been a long time since you saw him last, long enough for a normal human to forget your name or at leastr your address. But, as you had discovered quickly, Sherlock Holmes was anything but ordinary.

You wouldn’t have expected him to show up on your doorstep on your birthday though. Humans did not mean anything to him, he was a sociopath, his emotions were a mystery to everyone around him, himself included.

He waved a little, after ringing the door about a hundred times and you finally opened the door.

“I won’t take parcels for my neighbour-“, you began, but your eyes recognized the familiar face in less than a second and you stopped talking, a little flustered.

“You might want to let me in, Y/N”, Sherlock said, his face without the hint of an expression.

“Oh, oh right… Why are you here , Holmes?”, you ask, trying to imitate the neutral tone in which Sherlock had spoken to you, but definitely failing.

“If my memory is right, which it is 99,9% of all cases, today is your birthday.”

“I never told you my birthd-“, you started again but regretted it immediately. Sherlock walked past you, sat down on a chair in your kitchen and placed a small present in front of you.

How did he know your birthday? You did not want to know, it was best to not question the master detective sometimes. You, as his former assistant, knew that better than anyone.

“How’s life without me?”, he asked, smiling, but you were not quite sure if that meant anything.

You didn’t dare to try answer that question, Sherlock would know your answer already. Boring, that was what it was. But boring seemed nice to you a lot of times. Being home, reading nice books, eating chocolate, those were the best things in life, even though you missed the danger on rare occasions. The adrenaline you felt whenever Holmes was present…

But all these thoughts disappeared the second you opened his present. You had never told him that you liked chocolate, had you?

“No need to try impress me, Sherlock”, you say, staring at the chocolate in front of you.

After that, he said goodbye to you and left as quickly as he had arrived.

That was the first time you had seen him in ages. Maybe it was sentiment that had driven him here, but that seemed so unusual for a man like him.

In fact, it seemed unusual that Sherlock cared about anyone ever.

Your thoughts wandered often after that day, to him and to the reasons why he had been here. You tried to get to a conclusion, but back then, you had been too surprised to look for clues. Even if you had, it was Sherlock Holmes and he was not readable, he was not like other people….

Except that, maybe he was. He had brought you chocolate after all.

 It was difficult getting used to someone who appeared whenever the hell he wanted to and the next time he knocked on your door was just a shock as that time on your birthday.

It was Christmas.

This time, you did not greet him.

You opened the door slowly and let him in.

“So, don’t you have better things to do than be here?”, you asked him.

“Oh, you can’t be serious. There’s nothing more boring than Christmas with my family. You should know that, Y/N”

“Oh, yeah sorry. So why you’re honouring me with your presence?”, you said, hoping he would hear the deep sarcasm in your voice.

“To talk about my latest case, since John takes a long time to write the blog and doesn’t wanna listen to me”

“How’s John?”

“Oh, the usual. I have to admit, its gotten a lot more boring since he has to take care of Rosie”

The first three years after Mary’s death and after they had moved in back together, you had helped Sherlock. John had been busy teaching Rosie. Sherlock helped on the weekends, but you had noticed that he was a great detective but particularly bad with kids.

Well… Bad was not the right word, he was entertaining to them. But maybe it had not been the right decision to teach Rosie about serial killers and how to catch one. After that chaos, John had decided to not leave the two alone.

“Why aren’t you with him on Christmas?”

“I already told you, I wanna talk to you about my newest case, Y/N, do I have to tell you everything twice?”

That calmed you down a little. This was the Sherlock you knew and had started to like a lot, maybe more than you’d like to admit.

He told you about his case, about the subjects and the way he miraculously found out how it had happened.

He ended with the words: “But it was pretty boring, actually.”

This was followed by him dropping a bar of your favourite chocolate on your table.

“Boring?! There’s a serial killer in your street and not one person of Scotland Yard had any idea and… You find it boring? You’re getting old, aren’t you? It might be a midlife crisis or something”, you told him, a smile on your lips and Sherlock answered nothing, he just shook his head wildly.

“Of course not”, you added, “the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t get anything like a midlife crisis.”

Sherlock looked at you in confusion.

“I never know when you’re joking, Y/N. Either you’re madly in love with me or you don’t mean anything you say.”

You almost choked on your chocolate bar, but you have practise in not letting your feelings shine through so…

“Hmm… You might never know”, you just answered with a soft smile.

This time, Sherlock seemed a little confused as he was leaving. But that didn’t do any harm, it was only justified to make him feel like the poor people around him he confused every day. Like you.

He did not show up on your next birthday. You had to admit that you missed him at least a little. And if not him, the chocolate was delicious.

So why did he not show up this time? Maybe your doubt had been right all along, he did not care about you. This was just a mood, just some attention seeking, maybe he visited all his former assistants sometimes.

At least you were sure of this until you noticed the parcel standing in front of your door, outside in the rain.

You opened it. Five bars of your favourite sort of chocolate in front of you, and a note. The note was written in a familiar messy handwriting and had been pinned onto the parcel. You had no idea why the hell Sherlock had thought it to be a good idea to put a parcel in front of her door, while it was raining, and just leave without saying anything.

You started reading the note and froze-

“Dear Y/N,

Apologies for not visiting you on your birthday, have this chocolate. I simply just think it is easier to invite you this way instead of living through the awkwardness of telling you in person. I want to invite you to my  birthday celebration, as a reward for your loyalty and company in all these years. My birthday Is the 6th of January, be in Bakerstreet at about tea time.

SH”

Why would he do that? You had no idea but you also did not really have a choice. You couldn’t just simply say you did not have time, Sherlock would see right through that.

Since all of this had started, the presents and the surprise visits, you had started to wonder about his motivation.

Just out of nowhere, he had appeared. After a long time, after not even talking to you, not even a call or a note, he just stood in front of your door.

But there was no reason to be surprised, this was just the way Sherlock Holmes was, nothing new, was it?

Maybe it was not that surprising, maybe it was just something Sherlock liked to do when he was bored and had nothing to distract him. Still, there was a little hope left. Possibly, Sherlock Holmes needed you, possibly… Possibly he liked you?

And you would find out soon enough.

 Time passed quickly and you found yourself standing in front of 221B a few weeks later.

A little nervous, a little excited. What could Sherlock’s birthday be like? Would it involve corpses and tea and violins playing in the background? You simply couldn’t stand still and wait, again and again you looked up to the window of Sherlock’s living room and rang the door bell. The poor Mrs Hudson, you thought to yourself, but your impatience was bigger than your empathy for the owner.

You heard her usual “I’M NOT YOUR HOUSE KEEPER!” before she opened the door.

Mrs Hudson had the same warm smile on her lips as always. You hadn’t met her as often as John or Sherlock, but you definitely understood why Sherlock was so fond of this old lady. She was fierce and independent and lovable and sometimes she reminded you of yourself.

“Y/N! Lovely to see ya, Sherlock told me you’d be coming. He’s in the living room but be careful, I had to take his gun away cause he was starting to destroy the carpet out of excitement. He missed you, I’m sure” You smiled a little, not sure if you should feel flattered or uneasy.

But you decided to feel charmed, you were used to this, to this unusual man and the people that were more of a family to him than his brother.

“Oh, John’s left an hour ago by the way”, Mrs Hudson said after dropping you off in front of the flat door. That and the fact that Sherlock was alone in his flat made you doubt this situation.

 Sherlock sat on his carpet when you came in.

“Hi”, was all he said and he just stared at his seat.

“Happy Birthday, Sherlock”, you said and smiled, before sitting down next to him.

Something seemed different about him, you saw it in his eyes the moment he looked up to you.

“Thank you, Y/N. I… You must be wondering why we’re alone, since its supposed to be a celebration. I didn’t call you here for my birthday alone, its nothing special. I just… Felt the need to tell you something.”

You did not let him finish whatever speech he had planned.

“Why did you leave a note?”

“That’s what people do, leave notes”

You rolled your eyes at him.

“Why didn’t you visit me like usually? Why did you visit me in the first place? I’m sorry, but this is just confusing. I can’t read your mind, Sherlock, no matter how hard I try. Just say, what do you even want from me? I have no use for you anymore, I’m not gonna help you with cases, you don’t need me to take care of Rosie and I am in no means any smarter than you. So, why this?”

 Sherlock sighed.

“Look, Y/N, isn’t enough to like someone to visit them?”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“You what?” “I like you, Y/N, sometimes I really think you’re deaf and just forgot to tell me”

You didn’t know what to answer to that, especially because the room seemed to be spinning all around you. Was this a heart attack? Your mind went through symptoms and you didn’t seem to be going through a heart attack, but still, your heart was beating against your rip case strongly and fast enough to feel like it was going to jump out.

Sherlock Holmes liked you.

“Ugh, say something. Don’t leave me confused, Y/N. I don’t like being confused, you know that best. What are you gonna do about this?”

You didn’t answer his question but instead you planted a kiss on his cheek. This had definitely been worth all the waiting. Seeing Sherlock Holmes blush was a rare experience and you loved it.

Sherlock looked up at you, a little suspicious.

“C’mon Sherlock, take a hint.” “I guess this means you like me too?”

You nodded, smiling a little. Whatever this was, this was just the beginning and you would enjoy every second of it.

[sherlockxreader]

The Last Goodbye

Title: The Last Goodbye

Author: Nyla/Sarah

Warnings: Mentions of suicide, angst

Notes: I found fanart that was heartbreaking, and got me to wondering -- what if John hadn’t been able to go on after Sherlock jumped? So this was created. It’s not an xReader, just angsty Johnlock. Here it is below

The one thing Sherlock Holmes hadn’t counted on was how badly his death would hurt John Watson.

He had never meant to hurt John that much. In fact, his intentions had been the opposite — the only thought in his head as he prepared for his own death was Save John. Save John Watson. Don’t let Moriarty hurt him.

The funny thing was, that for all logic and rationale in the world, humans were, at their very core, emotional beings. Emotional beings controlled by things beyond logic and rationale. And for all his logic and rationale and genius, Sherlock Holmes had overlooked that one fact. The one fact that was the most important. The most important because above all, it applied to John.

John was an emotional creature, as most humans were, and above that, he was a veteran. Maybe seeing another death wasn’t exactly the best, not when it was a loved one’s, but Sherlock had no other choice. Besides, it wasn’t like it was a real death. It was faked.

But John hadn’t known that, had he?

Turns out, he couldn’t handle it.

That was Sherlock’s biggest mistake.

They said it was the same way he died. That John had gone to the same rooftop, and stepped onto the same ledge, and maybe he said sorry, too. No one knew. No one had been there to stop him. No one had known it was coming. (Sherlock should have, but the moment he needed it, his genius deserted him. Or maybe it was the pushing of emotions that caused this — really, it didn’t matter, did it?)

A passerby found his body. It was still warm.

Lestrade had been unable to believe it. First Sherlock, then John.

Except — Sherlock wasn’t dead.

This made him wish he really was, though.

He remembered Lestrade’s pale face, and then the slow, horrifying words. The greeting of a long-dead, but not quite so dead, friend. If “friend” was the right word. Then the heavy, heavy words. The grief. The shock. The guilt.

Sherlock understood.

It was his fault.

Here he stands now, at the tombstone bearing the name of the man whom he loved so deeply. No, he wouldn’t admit it, but he knew it was true. They hadn’t said those three words, but their actions had displayed the truth far better than words ever could have. The way they bantered and the way John took care of him and the way Sherlock protected John — all that made it obvious.

Now he had failed.

There were no words to say as his pale fingers brushed the top of the glossy black gravestone. The one next to his, in fact. John could have been buried in a veterans’ cemetery, but Lestrade and Mycroft had known better. Mycroft had made sure the army wouldn’t force him to be buried away from the side of the man he loved more than anything. They hadn’t been truly together in life, so it was only fair to let them rest together in death.

Until one of them wasn’t dead anymore.

Sherlock didn’t cry. It wasn’t in his nature to. He was stern, he was composed, he kept back emotions. John had shown him how to be more human, more alive.

It was only fair that he cried for John.

If anyone had looked on this scene, they would been astonished. Sherlock, the great and powerful Sherlock Holmes —

Hunched over a tombstone quietly crying.

And as he did cry, shoulders shaking ever so slightly, eyes turned red with grief, face streaked with emotion, he uttered the most heartbreaking words he’d ever spoken.

“I came back for you.”

[summersoldier-616]

First Impressions

Chapter 00/Prologue

Sherlock Holmes x Reader

word count: ~3.000 words

warnings: swearing, talk about murder, alcoholism, drug abuse, angst, sulky reader and surely some grammatical mistakes or mistranslations :)

A/N: This is actually a kind of pilot for an actual series I am starting. I am indeed fairly new to writing fanfiction and espacially this little lovely bastard but hopefully I’ll do my fair share. So please enjoy and let me know what you think.

I also wanted to say that I am in no way an expert in forensics, biology or anything similar. All facts I use are either researched or fictitious. However, I try to come as near to the truth as possible.

You found yourself in a dark room devoid of any warmth or furniture, not even a window to determine the daytime. The only light source consisted in a naked bulb which hung still; the light beaming neiter bright nor large enough to illuminate the walls or ceiling as you made your way towards the dirty light source, the floor cracking underneath your feet as you neared.

Standing close enough to touch it, you carefully reached out for the lightbulb. Holding your breath for a second you finally gave it a spin to make the bulb turn around in circles in hope to see more of the foreign room. However, nothing new came into focus as you kept staring into empty space, the spinning light source making the atmosphere even more eerie than before.

As you were about to turn away, a blinding reflection appeared for a second making you halt in your movement. Seconds went by before the action recurred, this time revealing its location. When you took a step forward the sound of breaking glass rang out, making you direct your focus downwards in an attempt to decipher the new sensation.

Picking up a small, oblong object you stepped farther out of the light cone and recognized the item without much effort as a syringe, a dirty one at that. As soon as the term fell from your lips, a low grunt rang out which in return made you turn around. You screamed in horror as a shadowy frame hang underneath the lightbulb, desperately gasping for air while his limbs had been bound.

With shaky steps you closed in on the struggling being but as you reached out, about to touch his shoulder, you felt a hand on your own.

“Ma'am, excuse me“, a soft voice accompanied by a slight shake of your shoulder awoke you from your slumber. As you opened your eyes to find yourself in another foreign environment, in a confined seat surrounded by strangers and backrests, the friendly face of a young flight attendant came into your field of vision. “Ma'am, we're about to begin our final descent. Therefore I have to ask you to fasten your seat belt“, the stewardess repeated kindly.

With a short nod you quickly fiddled with the safety belt, your brain still slightly foggy from the nap and the corresponding dream. At the sound of the fastener clicking into place the young woman in costume gave you a quick smile and then continued her check down the aisle.

As you looked out of the small airplane window and saw nothing but grey clouds, you quietly scoffed; already missing the burning hot sun of Phoenix, Arizona. After graduating from the University of Arizona – the College of Medicine in Phoenix, to be quite exact – you had started to work for the Phoenix Police Department while still participating actively in the Department of Pathology at your former place of study.

However, the work with the PHXPD was not exactly as thrilling as you would have expected. Most of your 'patients' had died by some drug related crime or the drug itself wherefore the actual pathological examination proved to be less difficult than you had hoped. So when your dreaded 30th birthday rolled around and you came to the realisation that you were heading down an impasse, the decision to alter the current course wasn't that difficult.

And that's exactly how the now 32-year old you found herself on an airplane headed to England's capital with all important belonings stuffed into two large suitcases and the letter of resignation back home on your employer's desk. However rash that decision might have seemed and no matter your family's protests, till the moment you boarded the plane almost ten hours ago you didn't doubt your decision; feeling almost encouraged by the outcry you had caused.

With a sigh you teared your eyes away from the cloudy view and redirected your attention towards the slight mess you had created before falling asleep. As your departure was at quite short notice and you didn't like to leave unfinished buisness behind, you chose to take some unsolved cases with you, including a quite unsettling case, a young gang member's corpse being found drifting through the Gila River, which had occupied your mind just before your involuntary nap.

This may not seem out of the ordinary if it wasn't for the man to die from asphyxiation. And although throughout your examination you had found multiple indications for physical abuse, neither of those were from strangulation or the like which could have led to suffocation.

However, as you took another look at the forensic report everything seemed so painfully obvious. Quickly grabbing the toxicologic report you scanned the results for a certain data and as you finally found the object of desire you had to fight the urge to smite your forehead.

You emptied the rest of your overprized gin and tonic in one gulp before rapidly typing away on your laptop, determined to finish the covering letter before deboarding as you had just solved the case in your sleep – quiet literally.

“No, listen to me“, you audibly groaned on your way to the baggage claim, the mobile phone pressed to your  ear since you had stepped out of the airplane, “Bobby, if you'd just shut your mouth for a minute, I might not have to repeat every second sentence.“

You really weren't a short-tempered person, cross your heart, simply incredibly impatient. Since early days you had been irritated by the obvious inability of your fellows to follow your trains of thoughts, always feeling pressured to slow down which in return made you even more frustrated.

However, as time went by and you grew older you found a way to at least dial it down a notch in 'emergency situations'. The initial bad habit to sometimes drink one to many became a slight addiction to more often than not being at least a bit tipsy; numbing your brain to slow down your racing mind.

“Yes, I am well aware of the time difference but as criminals never rest, lawmen shouldn't either“, you reasoned while your destination came into view, the first suitcases and carpetbags already passing by on the baggage conveyer belt. As you heard light snorring instead of an answer you shouted loudly into the speaker, “I finally understand how they murdered him!“

As soon as the sentence had left your lips, you felt countless pairs of eyes on you; some passerby even stopped in their tracks to cut you a look. Looking around you mouthed an inaudible 'What?', forcing yourself to look more confident than you actually felt, and continued your way, hopeful to now have your collocutor's attention.

“I hope this is a good one“, Bob murmured while you heard rustling in the background, he was probably leaving the bed as to not disturb his wife. As he rambled on you arrived at the baggage carousel, standing between other passengers who had already found their luggage.

“Cry me a fucking river, Bob“, you taunted absentmindedly while scanning your surroundings, quickly growing impatient as you waited for your baggage. Looking to your left you saw a small child at the hand of her mother who shot you a deadly glare; probably for swearing within earshot of her offspring that was surely too busy watching items of luggage rolling by on the baggage conveyer belt to listen to some stranger's phone call.

“Do you remember how I had a hard time understanding how someone could die by suffocation with neither external influence nor pulmonary aspiration? And yet it is so painfully obvious that it must have been too easy for me to see. The drugs, Bobby, it's his addiction!“, you explained, earning a few more irritated side glances. “So what?“, Bob asked, his voice still laced with sleep and now additionally incomprehension, “The little junky took an overdose?“

“No, no, quiet the opposite actually. His body did not only show symptoms of regular drug use, which doesn't come as a surprise considering his presumable addiction, but they also found evidence for recent drug withdrawal. That was the missing piece, Bobby, don't you understand?!“, you asked excitedly. Your question was answered by a short peroid of silence, followed by a deep-drawn sigh and a muttered, “Do me the favour and just tell me.“

If it hadn't been for the importance of the current phone conversation, you would have ended the call at this point. Explaining an officer how the cause of death was brought about was basically solving the case for him. However, as your luggage seemed to be long in coming you chose to elaborate.

“Okay, listen and listen closely. The victim showed signs of physical abuse in form of possible captivation which means that he quiet surely wasn't able to satisfy his cravings and therefore went through an involuntary withdrawal. This 'shock theraphy' probably resulted in a seizure which thereupon led to the asphyxiation and due to the lack of medical intervention his death.

I just gave the results from the toxicology a once over and all indications are that his serotonin as well as the noradrenaline level must have been extremely low which would complement my assumption about the deprivation and considering his physical condition I am confident that my presumption concerning the captivity will turn out to be true as well.

I already sent an email to my replacement in the pathology department to run another test on the victim concerning his external injuries and as soon as I arrive at the hotel I'll send you my report on the current data which I worked with. If you'll excuse me now, I still have a busy schedule ahead of me and there are only so many hours in the day.“

Without awaiting an answer you ended the call and with a smile on your face put the phone in your jeans' backpocket. However, as you realised that the conveyer belt had come to a halt without a trace of your luggage your facial features derailed. Spinning on your heel you quickly made your way to the next information while holding your handbag close in a futile attempt to slow your racing thoughts and heart.

You stared wide eyed at the middle-aged woman sitting behind the counter, wearing a sympathetic look on her face. “I am truly sorry, Miss, but it seems like your luggage wasn't on the plane. Our personnel could not find it either in the cargo area or somewhere on the way to the baggage claim“, she explained once more.

“But that is impossible“, you choked out, “All my belonings, clothes were in those two suitcases and you are telling me that you lost them? How is that even possible?“ Just as the woman was about to answer your rhethorical question, the ringing of her phone stopped her before you could, saving her from further embarrasment. While she concentrated her attention on the computer, typing away on the console, you had time to check your phone, only to realise that you had already wasted two precious hours in this maze called airport.

“Thank you, I'll inform her immediately“, the female sighed into the telephone before hanging up. Before she even managed to address you, you stood at the desk and asked hopefully, “So, you did find them? Oh, thank god. I wouldn't have known what to do without them. Where exactly can I pick-“ -  “Miss, we indeed did find your luggage. However, I must inform you that your suitcases are currently in Madrid.“ The last part was a slightly whispered answer, followed by an unsettling long pause.

“I do not expect that you have by any chance a town called Madrid in England?“, you muttered tiredly although the question sounded more like a half hearted joke which the staff member answered with a shake of her head. Suddenly you felt exhausted, tired and absolutely fed up with the whole situation. Massaging the bridge of your nose, you chose to end this conversation as quickly as possible; not like it was leading anywhere wherefore you quietly asked, “How long?“

After a quick look into her computer she informed you that it should take about three days, maximum five. At this point you just accepted your fate silently, leaving behind your phone number and e-mail address if by a fluke your luggage would arrive any sooner. The woman apologized again profoundly before releasing you by wishing you – quite ironically – a 'good day'.

On your way out, you made a quick stop at one of the airports' outpriced shops to buy some necessities. The cashier, probably a student who needed to make money on the side, shot a scornful glance at you as he scanned your purchase consisting of a fresh-perked coffee and a bottle of whiskey.

While the young man put away the cash you opened the bought liquor, opened the lid of your steaming coffee and poured some of the spirit into your caffeinated drink. As you took a sip and tasted the delightful flavor on your tongue a content sigh fell from your lips; answered by a quiet snicker from the male student.

“Listen, kid“, you warned the boy while you stored the liquor away in your purse – your only luggage at the given moment. With a quick once-over you knew that the male behind the counter had it coming; glazed over eyes due to increased production of lachrymal fluid, chapped lips and lastly a light swelling of the lymph node meant that the poor boy would be laid low with a pretty nasty flue in a few days.

A dry chuckle escaped your lips before you rummaged through your handbag, all the while lecturing, “First of, if you haven't heared of Irish Coffee, then you should probably rethink your attitude to life. Secondly, you have no idea how shitty this day has been so far.“ As you finally found what you were looking for, you tossed the item in his direction while adding with a frosty smile, “And lastly, my bad habits surely shouldn't be your greatest concern.“

Whit that you took your coffee and left the store behind with the boy looking back and forth between your departing form and the package of tissues.

You couldn't help the content sigh that fell from your lips as you finally breathed fresh air; and although it was slightly drizzling by now, the cooling effect was more than welcome as you were practically fuming with rage at this point. As you dragged your feet towards the street to hail down a taxi, your rational side managed to regain the upper hand after being too emotional for the last two hours.

Straightening your back and raking your fingers through your hair to look the least bit presentable, you whistled with your fingers to catch some taxidrivers attention. With a small smile adorning your lips as seconds later a taxi stopped you walked towards to vehicle; only to be outrun by two men, the smaller one opening the door while the taller man tipped away on his mobile phone, mumbling to himself.

“Excuse me“, you shrieked furiously, admittedly louder than you intended to but as the one holding the car door open focused his attention on you, it obviously had served the purpose. With a smile that didn't reach your eyes and a bitter sweet voice that dripped with venom you purred: “I believe that is my cab.“

While the blonde one quickly let go of the car door, wearing a guilty expression mixed with a tinge of embarrasment, his friend didn't seem to mind the inconvenience as he began to step into the taxi, not even bothering to spare you a glance. With a quick movement you banged your fist on the car roof which in return made the man stop in his tracks. “I think you failed to hear, sir“, you repeated sibilantly, “This happens to be my cab.“

As you looked angrily at the male he scanned you blatantly, only for his expression to grow even colder as he retorted monotone, “You are already late so I don't see the necessity for your rush.“ Shocked not only by his straightforwardness but the veracity of his claim as well, you failed to come up with incisive answer, only hissing a half-hearted 'You don't know the last thing about me'. Misinterpreting the retort as a challenge the dark haired man turned around, beginning to slowly stroll around all the while ignoring his friend's attempts to stop him.

“Early thirties which would explain your decision for a significant life change like – in your case – leaving Arizona; an age in which the average person decides to conduct a sort of 'life audit' to assess meaningfulness and satisfaction. The farewell must have been quiet tearful considering the residue of lachrymal fluid on your shoulder; your mother must weep easily, doesn't she?

However, considering the evident lack of luggage you either a) had it collected or b) the airline must have made a mistake which is much more likely due to your tense posture and the alcohol you mixed in your coffee; don't you think ten o'clock in the morning is a bit early to drink?

Which overall brings me to my original assessment of your lateness. After all, as an arrival you surely had an appointment for the key delivery which you must have missed by now. Therefore, it shouldn't be to much of a hastle to wait for the next vehicle and leave this taxi to us.“ His deduction concluded with a fatigued sigh from his companion.

You were taken aback. It was neither do to his perceptions and following conclusions being spot-on nor because of the obviousness he stated those facts with but the simple aspect of meeting someone who was able to talk even more than you made you speechless. As you made eye contact with the other man he gave you a compassionate smile, implying that his friend's remarks weren't anything out of the ordinary. But no matter the impressive demonstration, you weren't about to loose this fairly one-sided verbal exchange.

“Impressive“, you cooed, trying to keep your composure which proofed to be a difficult task, “Right down to the last detail, except for one minor exception.“ At these words the dark haired man stopped in his tracks, keeping his back turned to you. You couldn't fight down the smug smile that overtook your features – admittedly, you didn't try to either – as you heared his deep voice asking: “And what would that be?“

You shot his companion a knowing look and although you weren't quite sure why, his features held the same smug look present on your face as he let go of the door, stepping back onto the pavement. Stepping inside the car, you calmly answered, “That this is my cab.“ With that you shut the door while the dark haired man turned around, an unreadable expression on his face as the car drove off with the two men standing at the roadside and you sitting inside the taxi.

“Whereto, Miss?“, the taxidriver asked, a slight tinge of petulance evident in his voice. As you turned around, looking through the rear window to see the tall man standing in the same position as you had left him while his friend hailed down another cab, you answered with a smile on your face, “236 Baker Street, please.“

[aceinthehole312]

Beautiful Crimes; Sherlock

Pairing: SherlockxReader

Warnings: None!

Story type: This follows most all of the canon events, but adds reader in as a main character.

“A crime’s a crime, there’s nothing beautiful about it,” You began, moving away from Jim—no. Not Jim, at least, not the Jim you knew. This man, with predatory smirk and villainry in his eyes, that held your gaze like he owned the world. Like he owned you.

“The beauty in anything comes from an appreciation of the way it works—the way it functions on its own accord. Even in the perfect crime, there is nothing to find appreciation from, because that appreciation isn’t for the crime.” The statement resonated through the room, both men’s eyes on you as they absorbed what you said.

“There are people who appreciate a crime, I would argue. People who would find it beautiful in its own token.” The stranger in place of your boyfriend spoke, voice carefully calm as he chose every word, manipulated them to fit his purposes.

“No, they wouldn’t. People wouldn’t find it beautiful of its own accord. They’d find the planning behind it beautiful, nothing more. Nothing less. They would mistakingly call the crime itself beautiful and they would be wrong for it. It’s pure ignorance and idiocy to call a crime beautiful.” His eyes widened at you, baffled by the logic as Sherlock smirked from nearby. Your friend pushed himself up from his seat, moving to stand with you, basking in the confoundment of his nemesis.

“Precisely. I couldn’t have said it better, myself.” His hand made its way to your far shoulder, his look of pose growing as anger began to simmer in Moriarty. His eyes fell black, tendrils of frustration and rage pulling at him.

“You shouldn’t look so smug. Holmes.” His words were crisply pronounced, eyes narrowing on the detective.

“And why would that be.” He shot back, pulling you slightly closer. Suddenly, with a single snap of Jim’s fingers, little red dots flooded in through the open windows, locking on to the taller man. From his grip you could feel him stiffen, not even needing to look at him.

Jim’s hand snatched your wrist, pulling you away from Sherlock in a swift movement and into him. His hand locked on your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his eyes, madness swimming into them. Not a hint of sympathy as you frantically tried to pull yourself free.

“You, my dove, should know better than to use such a harsh tone when speaking to me.” He snarled, grip only tightening as a tear slid down your cheek.

“Let me go, you-you-you—freak!” You struggled, eventually getting yourself free and pushing him back. The word resonated in his head as he fell back, failing to catch himself as he considered the word.

Even Sherlock seemed surprised at the word choice as you latched onto him, hugging him close, blocking the sniper’s shots. Sherlock couldn’t fathom what Moriarty would possibly do, even he knew the man had grown quickly fond of you.

He snapped once more, all signs of the snipers gone from the flat, “I’ll be seeing you, Sherlock.” He spat spitefully as he stormed out of the flat.

“Are you alright?!” You hurriedly looked him over, worry seeping from you. He watched as your eyes swept over him, watching as they reached his own.

“Certainly...” After all, he had won, this round, at least.

[alyeskandragon]

The Case of the Missing Identity No. 2

Title: The Case of the Missing Identity

Pairing: Sherlock x reader (eventually)

Word Count: 1,039

Warnings: description of pictures that would be on a strip club’s IG. Not overly graphic. And mention of cigarettes.

Read No.1 to catch up

A/N: I only kind of sort of know where I’m going with this and also I have a crazy amount of projects I am working on. Another totally not mine gif.

“I-I don’t know. How can I not know?” you sat, horrified, taking drag after drag of your cigarette. He smirked lightly at you, almost sympathetically.

“I’m unsure. But I’ll take your case. I’ll find out who you are and what happened to you.” You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. A distant look overcame his features, as if remembering something that didn’t belong to that time, that place. Shaking his head slightly, his eyes focused back on you. “We shall start immediately. Turn out your pockets. Do you have any tattoos? Which person in my homeless network did you speak to?”

You tried quickly to respond to all the questions. “I, uh,” you faltered. “It was some woman. I’d know her if I saw her, but she was pretty average looking. I don’t really remember if I have any tattoos or distinguishing markings, though the second rib up on the right side feels pretty badly damaged and there is a slight burning sensation on the back of my neck. Then, I was also jumped before I met the woman. May just be from that.” You cocked your head to the side, watching him nearly fussing over you, unwrapping your scarf and removing your hat to further examine you. Come to think about it, you weren’t entirely sure you even remembered what you looked like. You suddenly felt yourself turning again into a puddle of embarrassment, this terrifically intelligent and intensly attractive man examining you (and your very possibly shabby appearance) for clues. Could he tell when your heart began to beat faster?

After a few minutes in an oddly comfortable silence, he took a step back and looked at you with wild eyes, as if the answer to everything was a forgotten word on the tip of his tongue. He had this intense desire to impress you and yet he had no idea what for. He watched as your eyes lit up in realization of a request unanswered and finally turned out the pockets of your overcoat, setting a half smashed pack of cigarettes, a matchbook, a receipt, a pocket watch, and a peppermint on the side table. You both immediately looked over the newly discovered treasures in an attempt to leave no stone unturned. The cigarettes didn’t yield much information, nor did the peppermint. However, the receipt--upon closer look for an ATM--indicated that you, or at least some version of you, had withdrawn 500 pounds. It also gave the address, but you doubted that, without your name on the receipt, you’d be able to retrieve any information further than that.

The matchbook looked fairly promising, as it was from a gentleman’s club near the location of the ATM, called Sophisticats. Naturally, that peaked both of your curiosity. Did you work there? Were you a customer there? Sherlock opened a laptop and began research, looking over photos from the club that could possibly indicate if you worked there. After a few moments, you heard Sherlock grumble. You glanced his way, the matchbook still in your hand. “The women in these photographs aren’t showing their faces.”

You smirked and rolled your eyes, “never thought I’d hear a man complain about that.” You nudged him over on the sofa so both of you could look at the pictures. Women in, what appeared to be, very expensive lingerie and skin tight dresses. Up close pictures of rear ends and bodies piled on top of each other danced across the screen.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he spoke, “yes, well, without you stripping down to your skivvies, I’d hardly think we have a basis for comparison.” You watched a small blush crawl up his neck and you suddenly felt a little giggly. “I was hoping to keep you away from potential danger, but we may just have to shop you around and ask if anyone knows you.” He sounded as if he was trying to scold you, but for some odd reason, you found yourself wanting to comfort the clearly concerned man.

Instead, you stood up and looked over the rest of the clues. The pocket watch, a little worn from use, had an inscription on the outside:

R-

My love for you is forever.

-J

You blinked rapidly, something not sitting right with you. Sherlock followed you over to where you stood and you handed the time telling device over to him. He seemed unimpressed and nearly disappointed by the discovery. You turned it over in your hands, knowing some clue was better than no clue.

“So, what shall we call me?” You asked, making light of a terribly confusing conversation. His eyes lit up slightly, studying you.

He grinned before speaking, “Rachel? Rowena? Rasputin?” You both chuckled, the air around you seeming incredibly thick. “Risk?”

You raised an eyebrow in question. Before you could respond, the woman with the hooded eyes had returned with your tea. “Mrs. Hudson, this young woman will be staying with us for a few days. Please make up a bed for her.” Sherlock refused to take his eyes off of you as he spoke.

“I’m not your housekeeper, Sherlock. And what, may I ask, is your name, dear?” She seemed annoyed, but kind. You felt yourself again searching for a name that wasn’t anywhere to be found.

“Until we find her identity, we’ll call her Risk. Please don’t mention her to anyone until we have this all sorted out. She will also require some clean clothes.” You stood there, not really knowing how to react to this entire situation, deciding to take the tea and sit back down in the dustier of the armchairs. Mrs. Hudson opened her mouth to argue, but looked at you with pity and changed her mind, nodding. After she left, you spoke, “why Risk?”

Sherlock chuckled, clearly finding this whole thing a bit more amusing than you were. “That’s what you are right now, aren’t you? You could be anyone? You could be the death of me. You are, in fact a risk.” You felt your cheeks flush slightly. He noticed it and immediately spoke up again, “you’re a risk I’m willing to take on.”

You nodded quietly and spoke, “I suppose we’re off to the club, then.”

Taglist (please just let me know if you want to be added):

@ hello-fanfiction-goodbye-grades

[generallynerdy]

Smoke (Sherlock X Reader)

Summary: Reader is Sherlock’s longtime girlfriend and one of the few people in Lestrade’s division who likes him. Sherlock and Watson take her on all their adventures, as she is the one who presents cases to them and represents them in the police force. She finds herself awaiting their return to Baker Street often, but none have ended up like this. What does she do afterward? Can she find closure?

Key: (Y/N)-your name

Today’s Playlist: Hmmm...so many options… My original inspiration was Viva la Vida, though it doesn’t quite fit (still a good song tho :3 go listen to it) as well as I Was King (ONE OK ROCK) and I Want You Here (Plumb). As always, I usually listen to the nightcore versions and those are the ones linked as they are my inspiration, but I highly encourage you to listen to the original songs, too!

Cast: YOU! Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Anderson, Mary Watson, and brief mentions of Donovan and Lestrade’s Ex-Wife

Warnings: Language? I think? Too lazy to check…. Smoking Habits, Depression (minor, nothing super serious other than brief mentions of grief and tragedy) Angst, Grief

Status: Complete (May consider prequels or a part 2 if requested and I can find the inspiration)

    “Or, or, or- hear me out on this one- a bungee cord! That would have worked! I mean-”

    It’s been almost a year to the day since his death, yet Anderson still holds hope. How? I’ve no bloody idea.

Even I lost hope a long time ago and I was quite possibly the closest to him, besides John. You’d think that being his girlfriend would dub you automatically closer to him than his best friend, but that’s not the case. John has known- knew him far longer than I did. Still, I loved him very much.

“I mean, obviously he had to have help from his brother, right? Because if not-”

    It’s been hard without him. What has? Cases, for one thing, talking to people, waking up in the morning, and how about living? How’s that for an answer? He was part of me. He was my other half. We were both clever, but I’m a sweet talker and he was...antisocial, to say the least. He was a sassy bastard and a pain in the ass while I was sneaky and persuasive. We made an interesting couple, for sure. We definitely gave my dad headaches on the regular.

    “So he had to have done that or else he would have-”

    Dad. He’s taken his death pretty hard, too, though not only for his sake. He can’t stand to see me like this. He’s started smoking again. He thinks I haven’t noticed, but I’m not that blinded by grief. I tend to notice the little things. Besides, he’s not the only one with a pack of cigarettes under his bed.     “See what I mean? That’s absolute bollocks!”

    I’ve detached from everyone. Dad and I don’t talk. I haven’t seen John in a while. He’s probably moved on at this point. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to cut ties after what happened. Mrs. Hudson checks in on me often and I take care to call her at least once a week for fear that she might come after me if I don’t. I haven’t spoken to Mum since the divorce. She never cared for me, anyway. Never wanted a kid, much less a daughter wanting to follow in her dad’s footsteps. It was kind of a blessing when she left. Donovan doesn’t dare even think of talking to me. It was all her fault after all. I doubt I’ll ever be able to forgive her. It’s a miracle I can tolerate Anderson after that. Anderson is one of the few who dares to approach me, though I’m sure he’ll stop once I give him what for.

    “What do you think? (Y/N)?” He asks, holding out his coffee in questioning.

    I turn to him with a frustrated sigh. “Stop it, Anderson. Sherlock is dead. He’s not coming back.”

    “But he-” He starts to argue with me, but I can’t take it anymore.

    I shout, “I saw him fall with my own eyes! I identified his body, Anderson! Don’t tell me for some bollocks reason that Sherlock is alive because he’s not.” I glare him down as he goes silent, glancing down at his feet. I desperately have the instinct to bring up how Sherlock’s death was partly his fault in the first place, but I don’t. He’s already expressing his guilt through coming up with theories and acting as if there’s hope, not to mention starting the fan club. “Sherlock is dead and it’s about bloody time you accepted that because he’s not coming back.” I storm off, choking back a sob.

It’s hard to accept, but I know he’s dead. There is absolutely no possible way he can be alive after that.

I go home after that, not wanting to bother with anyone for the rest of the day. I’ve left Baker Street by now and moved back in with Dad. I can’t stand living in a flat completely composed of things that remind me of Sherlock. At the same time, I can’t fully move on.

He was the first person to truly see my potential and help me to use it. He wasn’t like Dad, who refused to bring me on dangerous cases because he was so scared for my well being. No, Sherlock was the exact opposite. He wanted me to be there. He wanted my opinion and my help. He wanted to hear what I had to say. He wasn’t like Donovan or Anderson who doubted me and turned on me within milliseconds. Even when his reputation was tarnished, he was careful to make sure I was safe and that Moriarty had no idea how close I was to him. Even when it meant that we couldn’t be seen together in public, he kept me safe. I wasn’t like other people in the force. I didn’t think he was a freak. I thought he had an amazing talent that could change the world and I so desperately wanted to learn it. He was astonished by this and, after some suspicion and time spent together, started to teach me the science of deduction. I have learned a lot, though by no means have I mastered it. I only wish he could have taught me more before…

I find the door to the apartment unlocked, surprisingly, which means Dad’s home. We don’t cross paths a lot anymore. In fact, it feels like we avoid each other. I just can’t face him after all that’s happened. I’m afraid that if I do...well, there’s no avoiding it now.

I climb the stairs and enter the living room, barely glancing at Dad, who’s sitting on the couch staring at nothing with a blank look on his face. He looks up as I enter and close the door behind me. I toss the keys onto a nearby table nonchalantly and turn slowly, pausing there with my hands in my coat pockets. “Hey,” I mumble quietly, not making eye contact.

Dad mumbles a reply that I can’t hear, running a hand through his grey hair and sighing. Suddenly, he notices a pack of cigarettes peeking out of my pocket. His head snaps up, “Have you been smoking?!”

I don’t answer, glancing away and furrowing my brows in slight frustration. I don’t feel guilt. I turn back to him with a huff. “Yeah. So have you.”

His gaze softens as he takes his turn to glance away and lean back onto the couch. I’ve caught him. “Talk to anybody today?” He asks, casually slipping concern into the conversation rather than facing up to my accusation.

“Anderson,” I mutter quietly with a sigh, something Dad quickly picks up on.

“He badgering you with his theories as well?” He rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Of all people he had to-” He mutters a few incoherent thoughts as I stand there awkwardly. Then, he’s silent.

There’s a tense air filling the room quickly as neither of us wants to talk about it. We don’t want to talk about the fact that Dad had to help in the events that killed my boyfriend. We don’t want to talk about how he died. We don’t want to talk about the idea that he might be alive. We just don’t even want to bring up the topic of Sherlock.

“You can talk to me, you know.”

“Huh?” I turn suddenly to him, not sure I heard him right. He can’t mean that…

He stands and starts toward me. He looks unsure, though his eyes are full of love and hope. He stops just in front of me and continues on, knowing I heard and acknowledged what he said. “I’m worried about you.” He puts his hands on my forearms gently in a loving motion. “You don’t talk anymore, (Y/N). At least talk to me. Please?”

I’m silent as he pulls me into a tight hug. He closes his eyes and holds me close, resting his head on top of mine.

“I love you.” He whispers, “This scares me.”

I blink a few times as tears come to my eyes. I bury my head in his coat and mumble. “I miss him.” I start to sob as Dad pulls me closer and rubs my back, comforting me the only way he knows how. He understands loss, sure. I mean, he felt it with Mum. However, he doesn’t know what it’s like when someone you love with your entire being dies unexpectedly, especially not in the way that Sherlock went.

“I know.” He whispers. “I know, love. I miss him, too. We all do.”

“What will you do when you tell her, then?”

“Tell her?”

“You don’t seriously think you’ll be able to avoid her?”

“...”

“She hasn’t forgotten you, Sherlock.”

“I hope not.”

“You have to talk to her.”

“What for?”

“Don’t be so selfish, Sherlock!”

“Me? Selfish? Well, that’s just irony at it’s best, isn’t it, Mycroft?”

“Talk. To. Her.”

“She’s better off without me.”

“And why is that?”

“She won’t have anyone on her tail, won’t be constantly watched by my government official brother...I don’t know.”

“The sarcasm is overwhelming, brother mine. Despite your best efforts and ignorance, I will always keep an eye on her.”

“Then you admit you care?”

“No. I simply know that you do, though you ever refuse to act on it.”

“What do you mean you haven’t told (Y/N), yet?!” John whisper-shouts, floored by Sherlock’s admittance.

“Exactly what I say, John,” Sherlock mutters, uncomfortable speaking about this around Mary. He barely knows the woman and now she’s going to hear about his girlfriend- ex-girlfriend?

“You can’t be serious!” John is even more furious with him now.

“Completely,” Sherlock assures him.

John lets his jaw drop in anger. “You have to talk to her. She is in absolute ruin, Sherlock! She wouldn’t speak to Lestrade- her father, mind you- for a year! A year, Sherlock!”

Sherlock tilts his head ever so slightly upward, cocking an eyebrow at John. He doesn’t show it, but that statement concerns him. Surely (Y/N) would have moved on by now. Surely she’s found happiness elsewhere.

John quickly realises what Sherlock’s thought process was and leans back into his chair with an angry smirk, the token expression of a Watson’s fury. “You bloody idiot. You thought she would forget you?” He leans back onto the table, pointing his finger angrily at Sherlock. “She is worse off than when her Mum left. In fact-”

He just saw her the other day at Baker Street, meeting with Mrs. Hudson. He immediately smelled the smoke on her when he first walked in but was even more shocked when she walked out the door and started to smoke right away. She didn’t care about the consequences nor what anyone thought when they saw her smoking. She needed it. It was her coping mechanism, if you could even say she was coping at all. She hadn’t talked to John at all, which Sherlock quickly deduces was because she was envious of his relationship with Mary and his ability to move on from him. All of this shocks Sherlock. He can’t believe that she’s so hung up on him...Why?

“Because she loves you, Sherlock,” John tells him fiercely.

He rings the doorbell cautiously, taking a deep breath as he does and preparing himself. As the door creaks open, he greets her casually. “Hello.” He can barely catch a glimpse of her shock and overwhelmed emotion plastered on her face before he closes his eyes, ready for her fist to come in contact with his jaw.

To his surprise, it never comes. Instead, she wraps her arms around him in a tight hug, immediately starting to cry into his coat. Sherlock opens one eye, glancing down at her curiously before comfortably wrapping his own arms around her tightly. She doesn’t say a word at first, just holds him close as if he’ll run away if she lets go. “I thought you were dead.”

“Yes, well, a lot of people did.” Sherlock jokes lightly as (Y/N) looks up at him, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. He hates to see her cry. “Now then, stop that. You’ll get me started.”

To her shock, she sees a few glistening tears in his eyes. She stands on her toes and presses her lips to his, holding his cheek in her gentle hands. Once she releases, she leans against his chest. “I love you, Sherlock.” She knows he won’t reply. Sherlock isn’t one to say those things, especially not out loud.

He doesn’t even hesitate. He shocks even himself. His emotions overwhelm him to the point where he has to say it or else he might just die then and there. He doesn’t know what it is. It’s a feeling he’s never experienced, only heard of before. At least, he strongly believes he’s never felt it quite this way.

“I love you, too, (Y/N).” They’re frozen there for a few moments before he reverts back to his bastard self. “But really, you should stop smoking. Not exactly pleasant for physical contact.”

She giggles lightly, shaking her head. “God, I hate you.”

Note: I love the idea of Dad!Lestrade so much!! Seriously, if I ever have the opportunity, I will write with him as a dad again! There are just so many options! Anywho, hope you enjoyed my first Sherlock fic!

Requests are always open!

[imeternallylove]

Cloud Covered - S.Holmes

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warning: Graphics of violence, torture of dead and plenty of more brutality

Word: 4.6k 🥹

main mastetlist  | request & ask | prompts | theme song

Chapters index

Bloodbath | Marionette | Invisible Strings (you are reading this)

Crown Prosecution Service

"Ladies and gentlemen, the accused, Simon Finn, is guilty."

You and your fiancé sat in the prosecutor's corner, as the blonde CPS officer in a lovely pinkish blazer and skirt spoke from the record of the detective's report. The snort from your lips when the following line came from her over there.

"Jersey wasn't even his true name. And his merciless murder spree has terrorised our community. Many innocent people, including some of our brave officers from New Scotland Yard, were all targeted for no other reason than to play Simon Finn's sadistic game."

Your eyes is locked on the other building, your countenance blank. Sherlock observes you, wonders what is going on in your thoughts, but refrains from asking questions; the man who murdered people close to them has finally been imprisoned, so he assumed it is only natural for you to have a lot on your mind at the moment.

“Simon Finn has confessed to every single one of these crimes. I ask that the court consider Simon Finn’s voluntary confession for his crimes. He has spared the victims families a prolonged trial, and in doing so has demonstrated a glimmer of remorse. Therefore it is my recommendation that Simon Finn be spared the death penalty, and instead sentenced to life in prison with no possibility to parole. Thank you.”

But at last, you could find rest now.

"It's over," Sherlock mutters as the judge sentences Simon to death by lethal injection, his eyes finally locking on yours, a little smile curving on his lips. "We did it." You notice one of his steadfast hand strokes on yours, where the sparkling shine of the diamond engagement band illuminates through into your eyes.

And an outpouring of pride washes over your soon-to-be lifeline, he finally bringing you serenity; which you truly not believe in this Simon Finn’ confess at all. "We did."

Your drifting sensation and eye contact unintentionally collided with Simon's in the relieving slumber, his look strained but with a smirk as opposed of a grimace; terrified to be execution, manifesting your chest to swell. It echoed in your head, ‘he’s not the real murderer.’

The silence is thick and oppressive, vibrating within the catastrophic white walls of Simon Finn's residence. No one dares to speak, no one dares to move a finger. 

Sherlock leaned over his brother's body, his hands grasping each side of the steel surface where he lied, pallid and lifeless after being discovered with a hole in his nape, spineless. A horrific method of murder, slow and certain to be agonising.

His gaze stayed fixated on the J engraved directly beneath Mycroft's collarbone.

When Sherlock is permitted into Simon's cell, the first thing he does is tie his fist to the prisoner's jaw.

"Oh my," you hissed behind him, but it didn't stop him from throwing another punch at the man. Sherlock was furious beyond comprehension, having left the mortuary without saying anything and going directly for prison to confront Simon - Jersey - himself.

"Why?" Sherlock asks, his voice trembling and his breathing irregular. "Why was Mycroft killed? How?"

In response, Simon gives him a nasty grin, prompting Sherlock to hurl him against the wall while seizing the taller's collar. There's no way Finn could have killed Mycroft while he's only been in this prison for over two weeks, waiting to pay for all the crimes he committed here and everybody knows. "Are you the only Jersey? Is there any more? Do you have people working for you?"

"Sherlock," you call from behind them. "I'm all for you beating the crap out of him, but let's not get into trouble here, okay?"

He heard you, acknowledged your remarks, but his gaze didn't stray away from Simon, retaining a firm grip on him. Simon, on the other hand, had his gaze fixated on you, the sick grin staying on his lips, and Sherlock shook his head fiercely. "Listen to me when I'm talking to you!" He insists, but Simon's eyes is fixed on you.

"London bridge is falling down," Simon singsongs softly, prolonging the syllables, his grin becoming broader. "My lovely lady."

Sherlock lets go of his hands, gazing at you, who are looking back at him, bewilderment evident in your stare, and Sherlock makes an impatience sounds before slamming Simon to the floor.

He rushes out of the a jail cell, leaving you with Simon's distant laughter ringing in the recesses of his eardrums. You perceive Sherlock needs alone time, which is why you hold your ready-to-wreck-down body to sit facing Simon, and remaining silent for a couple minutes rendered him stand up by himself and fling his ass onto the seat. You can bet he noticed you sweating, but it wasn't because you were scared or worried, rather because you always trust what your gut tells you. 

"I can feel you’re not the real Jersey." Before he could say anything, you began with your hoarse speaking; a slight smile formed as his grin rose while his hands with handcuffs grabbed his wounded bruise that your fiancée had made. “Well, I’m gonna die a liar anyway. The dirty liars.”

You lean back and nod with caution your head dipping slightly as you murmur, an enticing grin on the bridge of your mouth as you cross the spaces between your legs. "Then who did?"

"I've got a place; it's your job to find out." Simon claims it all in one breath, which leads to your brows with a furrow significantly. “Where?”

"-It's not, uh, better if I draw you a map." He ignores what you have to say and proceeds. He looks at your notebook with a treacherous smile on his lips. "You going to draw me a treasure map?" You pat the desk twice and stifle a giggle. "No, you've got word, just say it."

Simon's gulp drops, followed by a loud whistle from the prisoner. "I just want to show myself to you, lady."

You only nod contentedly. "So, let's say you're telling the truth, I assumed it’s seems like the real Jersey promising to get you out but he left you high and dry-" your cheshire cat-like sneer on Simon's hiss voice that is so audible it pierces right through your attention span, and that's saying something.

“My dear Marney, you seems don’t know a thing.”

"And I might bring you out in the next half hour to reenact the murder scene." You say this as you stand back up, pick up your notepad and tape player, and gesture to the cops to wait for you. You pause before answering the door, shifting back to meet Simon's satirising smile. "Does that sound like a fun way to celebrate your final 20 hours before the execution?"

"Do me a favour, Y/N. And just make sure he doesn't try anything." 

"Oh, he can certainly try."

Simon overheard Greg and you conversing, but paid scant close attention to you two, not bothering to digest your words as his thoughts focused on taking a deep inhalation in with a broad smile on his face, standing in front of his own residence. He was handcuffed, where he is accompanied by the two policeman officers behind him.

It wasn't difficult; it shouldn't have been difficult, but some pieces didn't quite fit in, and Sherlock lightning-fast assumed Simon Finn was the Jersey, and if he thrust them harder than necessary, you were able to predict Sherlock might break and ruin the entire puzzle, just like he only discovered 'who did' as opposed to 'why did that.'

"Don't get any ideas." You attained for Finn's handcuffs, and he takes his attention in unambiguously, almost latching on you for a moment. He gave you the typical greeting green signal and your petite smile spread with your dead outstares. "Good to see you again, cunning."

There was nothing to toy with, because the only thing written on your serene face was the phrase 'do not try me.'

"How's it going with your bracelets?"

"Well, I can't feel my fingers if that's what you're asking." Repiled you with a voice lower, like he attempt to convinced for some of your less generous tolerance. "You gonna help me out or what?" Now he asks in a more hushed but inquiring tone, to which you merely shrug and tighten his cuffs even more. "How's that?"

"Thats so kind of you."

Simon, move away with your arms folded behind you. "So, is this where you confessed that this was your treasure map?" You grumbled, with your eyebrows barely wrinkled. He simply sends you nods, and you bring him on the inside with Greg.

As soon as you notice the stairs, which must lead to the second and third floors, an officer approaches to report you. "All things is fine. There are actually two squatter nests, but they appear to be split." You drew your lips down to him, still not sure. “Alright. Just give us five."

It was Simon's turn to stare out at the view of his own house, which was visibly tense. You gave him a quick glance before poking his leg with your foot and angling your head. "Start the tour, boss."

"Here's Jersey, using my house as a treasure trove after running." The three of you subsequently followed Simon, who was waiting for Greg to unlock the door room on the second floor, but he was handcuffed. 

"It appears that nobody has been here in years, Finn." Greg makes a remark while pacing back and forth in Simon's sitting room, his brow furrowed in concentration. Confusion can be heard in Simon's speech. "I didn't say he'd be here to greet us either."

"There are still traces of footsteps." You shrugged, swinging your hands a little as you maintained your constantly wandering. Cast your torch towards a heap of papers. "That's all the newspaper has to say about 'J,'...I'm sure he's impressed by his reputation."

“He is.”

"Well," you breathe in, stating your thoughts and ignoring - or rather, hardly hearing - Simon's inputs. "In my little hope, I didn't plan to investigate any of the evidences for the aleatory case that simply does not make sense for months, Finn."

Simon is looking at you with furrowed brows and a thoughtful, perplexed gaze. "...You want me to tell you who's Jersey?"

"That was before we ever met, actually." You explain quickly, your face screwed somewhat in irritation. "If you're just trying to fool us, I'd say your death is impending." You breathe out eventually coming to a halt.

"From what I can tell, the killer was murdering for fun, for his own amusement, carving J's and dropping clues just to form tight headache knots in detectives' skulls." 

"That's the cost of doing business; I'd make a provision." You responded, then turned your focus towards Greg. You did this for a long, pacing around Simon's room, fingertips pushing together as you leaned your face against your hands, as if it would help you think better.

Greg's phone started ringing at that point. Reminding you that you squandered those five minutes looking for your restricted blocked hints. "For God's sake. I needs take this. Y/N, are you going to-"

"We're good." You notice Greg's worried eyes, despite your assurance and a little faith in Simon, making him goes away.

"Do you still think I'm making this stuff up?" Simon questions, almost cautiously.

"Less or less, if you don't play a game on me; the real Jersey is still running around the playground..." You state, emphasising your words as irritation rises once more. "And you can't offer me any proof that you're not Jersey anyway." 

"I can get you proof," Simon grunts as he approaches you. "No. You can't." You murmur, knowing your body despised practically instantly as he began confronting you. "You are correct. Not like this, I can't."

Your sternum is flailing in wrath, and when he speaks to you in that gentle voice of his, it almost feels as if you are bound by the lies. "You're nuts. I'll remind you that you just have a few hours to be executed." 

His frowns and glances elsewhere, a pout forming in his lips as you continue to hold your gaze up to his. "Look, you're correct. He left me high and dry, dying with the accusations I didn't do. I’m sure he won't feel like his ass has caught fire if I'm still in jail, as a soon-to-be executed criminal." 

You creak in response, feeling a sense that you shouldn't be wasting time like this when you should be working on the case, but when Simon continues, your intestinal tract seems to come back to live. "But now that I'm on my own, I can entice him and serve him up on a silver platter."

"Even if you are right, I have no right in offering what you need, Finn. Didn't you forget you're on death row?"

"For crimes that I didn't commit. Did you forget?" You slumped and went silent, not realising Simon was moving approaching. "Look at me. I could knock you out in an instant. The police would buy it, and we could make it look real, but I assure you that you and your tiny Marney would be perfectly unharmed."

Your lung is shrieking incoherently, -how could Finn be cognizant of this? You know how Sherlock always noticed an insignificant illness that affected you for months and you gave him your positive pregnancy results from the test, but soon you two were busy and forgot to mention it.

The stronger the air you breathe, the sharper your intuitive sense contrasts with the beams of light from the retreating obscurity you generate...

Simon Finn has had more contact with Sherlock than anybody else. Perhaps more than you realise.

“Prisoner 75427 is requested to be returned to custody immediately.”

“This is officer 926 receiving request . Please stand by for confirmation.”

The rejection of your attempt to ignore the reality blasted forth and back over your head. You cast one final glance at Simon and decide to believe in Simon Finn. You close your eyes after unlocking Simon's shackles and grasp the handcuffs key in your palm. Simon is already liberated as a result of your decision. 

He waited for your signal in quiet and reserved until you finally looked up at him. Your answer reinforces what he already knows.

“Do it.”

You awoke at Sherlock's flat with an aching neck. Mrs Hudson stated that he has been out with Greg since the officer brought you here an hour ago while arranging for you to change clothes and be ready for teatime with her.

Teatime and the wedding plan that the elderly woman advised were both superb, although your hand couldn't remain still as you discovered Finn's literally unreliable signal on your phone.  

Don’t bother catching a cab despite the fact that it began to rain meanwhile, feeling that walking your path back home would be calming to your nerves at least slightly so. You walk out the Baker street fast, hands stuck in your coat pockets, hair starting to stick to your forehead from the small but persistent raindrops. You bumps into one or two persons on your way, all of them attempting to escape the rain or fighting against the wind that attempted to take their umbrellas, but there's not a single worry on your mind despite the fact that this case was, after all, unsolved still.

You were already more than halfway to your destination when your phone buzzed in your pocket and you clicked your tongue, thinking it was Sherlock since you had just realised he had left you in his flat and you had always failed to follow following.

Nothing could possibly have prepared you for the text. Not even from Finn, as the red dot continued to run, heading and pausing at St. Bartholomew's Hospital for several minutes.

from: unknown

let's meet up? just us two…

— J

Never did you reply to a text so fast. And then, unexpectedly, a harder grip grabs your limb and takes you across into the area between blocks around the corner of the street. You could be recognised by the scent of nicotine mingling with body odour that you've been living with for years of age; it’s Sherlock.

“What the hell are you think?” He goldsmiths his quivering hands passionately, prompting your hold to tighten even more, disregarding your broken appearance further. “I know you let Jersey go.” 

In a rage of fury, you poured your scorn and suspicion on Sherlock back to Him, struggling to breathe. "Can you just listen to me?"

"Listen to you?" His inhales are sharp, and he counterfeits a witty smile that persists on his entire face. “I did- listen to you. And that's exactly how this happened!”  

You let yourself to get carried away in an ocean of rage, not his, but yours. There's no need for you to talk to Sherlock at this point if you want to break free from his clutches and walk away with no apology for whatever you've done.

The chosen location wasn't thought to be the most strategic on Jersey's part, being one of the few open fields on the outer edges of the city where buildings had yet to be built, but it wasn't a bad option either. Although there were houses nearby, there was no one on the streets; the mild rain became heavier, and the sand and dirt beneath your shoes turned to mud as you approached closer to the centre, a careful gaze observing the surroundings.

There wasn't a single person or sound but the static sounds of the pouring rain — Until, at last, someone turned around the corner of a werehouse, feet going to the wide field where you stood.

You blinked, wondering whether the poor weather was distorting your eyesight; nevertheless, at least for today, nothing could be worse than the battle with Sherlock. But no one was deceived by the guy approaching, and your expression was filled with perplexity.

"Sherlock?" You call, unclear how he could have followed you there, and afraid of why he would.

"Hello again, love." He welcomes you quietly as always, pausing solely a few metres away, a smile forming on his lips as his head tilts. "Did you miss me?"

You are certain that you have forgotten how to breathe.

The enormous sighs, as if the sudden revelation had sapped all vitality from your body, depriving you of your confidence and left you fatigued, bewildered, conjectured, and all that you had been sleeping with and stuck lingering inside you from the beginning of this case. You're still floating in a mass of haze and don't want to accept it, although his sharp glance aren't going to allow you to do so. You fail to locate your own voice though the question you pose to him. "Why?" 

"Why not?" Sherlock hums back, lifting his arms slightly to emphasise your query and taking tiny steps closer. "I thought it would be fun. Such a young man, Sherlock who inspired by detective novels and films, was duped by his own thinking but he always solved it all. Everyone is proud of whoever is in existence and has written history; they have faith in that. Am I horribly adorable, darling?"

You shake your head in bewilderment, your throat aching near to explode. "Finn—"

"That complete moron. As screwed up as we both are." Sherlock whistled as if he were telling you an intriguing tale. "Simon did whatever I ordered him to do like a puppy eager to impress. Still extremely efficient. I basically needed to give him a name and my favourite method of murder. Isn't he a fantastic actor? Even the murderer, who actually me, and his manipulation all of you as the true murderer, he should feel honoured."

He flicked on the lighting, enabling you to spot Simon's corpse on ground covered in bloodstream, and you were certain he was murdered before you came. Sherlock tosses the body away with one of his foot as he begins to approach you. "Now I sent him back to where he belonged... quicker than on death row."

"So all this time-"

"Of course, baby." Sherlock squeaks. "It's always been me. It was me long before I produced Jersey." He continues, his smile widening as he notices the way you express yourself. "I've wanted to play a game with you ever since we met. I mean, young detective Marney, who believes 'Me' can figure out a person's history just by looking at their clothes- you're quite naïve to the actual world. You believed you had matured, but wasn't it all a façade?"

The lips of yours emerges then shuts, and you're not quivering from the thunderous downpour.

"Who do you suppose left the clues in all those murder cases we solved, love? Who do you think led us to success, to solving it so effortlessly?"

Hanging your head down, his words are like razor-sharp knife cuts, slicing your assaulted edge into parts, and you have no voice appealed to him to stop.

"It was me. I killed them and then watching you be so appreciative of me, of your incredible talents when you were, in fact, just a child fitting jigsaw pieces together." He amusement. "I must admit that I became fond of you at some point, which is why I thought it was about time I put up an encore monumental game for you. Feelings mess you up, darling. I won't be the one to fall."

"You slaughtered your friends and mine," you exhale, unsteady, your thoughts far too rapid and far too loud for someone who has just been locked in time, tossing one great fist slamming over his face. "And I broke down for months over them!"

"Of course we did," He say. Sherlock responds casually, his brows rising high in his forehead as he attracts you away. You're standing staggeringly, like if he's left a gigantic hole inside you, and you cannot stabilise yourself from being off-balance. "How could you have trusted me otherwise? You figured me out several times back there, Y/N, but you're too far away to prove it. I needed to make sure you wasn't believe that it was me till now."

Dazedly looking at the muddy ground, rendered speechless. After a little while, your body yields and you collapse to your knees, shed tears streaming down your cheeks. For so long, you let your people down since the invisible strings veiled themselves by your neglect; it was all right in front of you.

"It's going to be okay, baby." Sherlock coos once again, and despite the fact that you're no longer gazing at him, you heard the cocking of a pistol. Sherlock kneels in front of you, his free hand caressing your cheek, and his lips press against your soaked forehead. "I truly cherish you; nobody ever loves me as you do, I vow. I'll do it without making you feel anything."

Sherlock stands up again, and you still don't move, not even a twitch of a muscle.

Reality settles in, leaving you devoid of responses and options; instead, you accept it.

You lost by your trust.

The cold metal of the gun's mouth presses on the top of your head, and you sense a smirk on Sherlock's lips. "Any last words, my love?"

The tiniest shudder travels down your spine, and your eyes close.

You smile. Because he was correct; this is for the record. The victor writes history. History is littered with liars. If he lives and you die, his words is written into stone and yours is lost.

Sherlock notices the wry grin on your sorrowful face. "I wasn't pregnant; there was no trace of it. It's only my amazing talents to falsify my pregnancy test- and you're trapped-" His pistol mouths thrashed on the skin of your cheek, and you could feel lifeblood running through your pearly whites. 

"And I spent my spare for engagement to little brat for GPS monitoring." You push yourself to crack a smile only to see Sherlock's grin widen. "Indeed, she's still wearing that stupid ring. She's even come here by herself to seek out her own tomb." 

Sherlock's about to complete the greatest trick a liar ever played on history. His truth will be the truth. But that’s only if he lives, and you die.

Sherlock was incorrect in the meantime of the twinkling of an eye. And your hoarse voice demonstrates that. "You think it's just us here?"

“What?”

The death Finn then stands up and pulls the rope from the ceiling down, falling over Sherlock's. You observe his centre body becoming intertwined and these ropes hanging him up there with his scream; as soon as his pistol drops, you rise up and move away from where you entered this warehouse.

Greg and the other cops make goosesteps from everywhere, and you notice his exhausted and grateful gaze from his restless eyes, so you stroke his shoulder before disappearing into the stillness of the night.

Simon approached Greg with his stump feet by the sticky fake blood, thrilled by the sight he seen. “You talked too much Mr detective.”

closure

Strange wind blowing throughout the empty place it may be gliding to. You're standing in front of a black marble headstone, surrounded by greenery and the chirping of songbirds. The flowers are now at the foot of the monument. You stare at the beautiful black stone that just says SHERLOCK HOLMES.

Sigh, drop your head, and stand there but you moved to another black stone. You figure looks to have the name of Molly and Mycroft etched straight across your chest, as reflected in the polished marble of the headstone. You lower your head even lower and cover your eyes with one hand. Knowing that all of the corpses doesn't appear to underneath here, rather in the mortuary. Then your phone vibrates with an incoming call.

"They say he murdered himself by drowning himself with hydrochloric liquids," Greg slows down with his own gasp. "Only hydrogen chloride vapours create considerable difficulty breathing when- you know, just cleaning the restroom." 

You're now in the car, patiently absorbing his words through the phone conversation before signal the light to turning the car into Smithfield Street, and Greg continues to explain what he knows. "In his instance, continuing to breathe at such high rates may be fatal, but he had absorbed it into his body... in his own way, for several weeks in after bang up there, not just by breathing it in."

You two leave a little time of stillness, holding the call and sinking into contemplation of the whole situation that happened until you are the one who smashes it. "I'm in the mortuary now. Which room?"

Greg opens the door behind you, his strained voice in the queue just acting as if you could see his burning face, which was only fighting not to sob in front of you. You drew him into your shattered hug, and it seemed that for all the secrets of the Sherlock Holmes's, he left you two to feel grief like dying while remaining alive

“You may need some alone time here.”

Every step you take to get closer to the lifeless corpse is precisely the same as when you first met, but there is no longer any of Sherlock's façade lies.

You leaned down and pulled aside the sheet, uncovering Sherlock lying beneath it, pallid and bare, his eyes closed. Tenderly strokes his curling bangs hairline, long lashes and nose bridge, which once it always necked at your cheeks, yours.

'S.Holmes' possessions' package captures your glance from the corner of your field of vision.  You snatched it and saw your golden pen, the long-awaited souvenir for you and his first anniversary. It's been roughly four years since then. And while you were putting it back, you saw a torn paper on it, and there was Sherlock's handwriting; uncleared but still could recognizable text.

‘May we meet again, Y/N’

a/t: well me too ;_; sorry guys if the ending wasn’t what you thought 🥺🥹 murderer sherlock smell so nice to me oi and for this story ive my lovely bestie to help me created murderer stage name! its @lady-harvey ♥️ my gurl, tysm again ♥️❣️❣️now i think i need to take a little break from writing 😭 but im still here just back to manage my undone work and ill brb asap but for sure ill still online here huhu, not gonna mia in this soon hue hue

[alcoholic-muffin]

JohnxReader: P.O.’d

A/N: Heyo! I’m not quite sure why I keep making these, but here’s another one!

BythewayMaryisn'tJohn'swifeinthisbutisaveryclosefriendofJohn'spleasedon'tbemad.

Enjoy!

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You had just moved to London on the fly. It had always been your dream, so when you had the chance, you took it without hesitation. However, you had no job, no place to stay, little money, and now you had pneumonia. You decided to go to the doctor quickly so you continue your job and apartment search.

You had quickly paid the cabby (you were learning London slang) that had driven you to the doctor's office with the little cash you had left. You sighed, wishing that you could find a job soon. When you went inside, you went up to the clerk's desk. The woman sitting there had a name tag on that said her name was Amelia. She was wearing a low cut red blouse and a mini skirt. Looking to impress, most likely her boss. She's also unhappily married, judging by the state of her ring and the fact of what she was wearing. She woke up late because her hair was still untidy, but had laid out the outfit the night before. No one throws that sort of thing on in the morning. You averted your attention to what the woman was saying.

"Hello. Have you made an appointment?" Amelia asked cheerfully.

You sniffed. "Uh, yeah. I called on the phone earlier. I put my name down as-" you stopped for a terrible coughing fit. "Sorry. I put my name down as (Y/L/N)."

Amelia looked through her list quickly. "You're just on time, Miss (Y/L/N). I'll lead you in myself." You nodded only slight because your head throbbed every time you moved it too fast. "Here you are." the clerk said, holding the door open for you.

You walked into the small office and sat on the bed thing that they have you sit on. "Thank-you," you said quickly.

"Uh-huh. The doctor will be in shortly."

You waited for about three minutes until a short man with greying hair and a small mustache came in. He looked tired and angry but was kind of cute. Although, he could stand to lose the aging mustache. But besides that, he reminded you of an angry hedgehog. He didn't even look at you before going over to the box of rubber gloves. "Good morning, Miss (Y/L/N). My name is Dr. Watson." You were about to ask how he knew your last name, but then you remembered he was a doctor. Dr. Watson put on his glove, clearly showing his middle finger making you chuckle softly. The doctor looked over at you with his eyebrows furrowed.

"Is something funny?" Dr. Watson asked.

You smiled nervously and sniffed. "No, it's just you're a bit P.O.'d, aren't you, Dr. John Hamish Watson?

Dr. Watson's eyebrows shot up. "Sorry?"

"Well, it's obvious that you're angry about something that's happened recently or at someone who has made you mad. Possibly both. You came in here with rage and annoyance written all over your face. Also, you put on your rubber gloves, clearly showing the middle finger, which leans toward the fact that you're mad at someone, not something. But what could anger a steely military man? Maybe it's-" You stopped, realizing you had just said and looked at the floor as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. "I'm sorry. I'll stop now."

John Watson's mouth twitched upwards. "No, tell me how you solved it."

Your head shot back up to look at the doctor. "Well, the way you walked was so uniform but natural. As if you had trained to did it your whole life. Only people of the military do it in that sort of way. You were an army doctor, yes?" Dr. Watson nodded. "It's obvious from the fact that you work here. I could also double check your military badge hung up proudly on your wall. To know your name, all I had to do was look right next to the military badge at your framed MD certificate from St. Bartholemew's hos-" You stopped for a loud sneezing fit. John snapped out of his gaze to go help you and get you some tissues. "Thank you."

"I'd better do my job, then," John said, smiling slightly. He asked you to tell him a few of your symptoms and do a couple of things for him like cough and tell him how I felt. It took only ten minutes until he told you that you did, indeed, have walking pneumonia and you should just get some rest and call in sick at work.

You sighed at the results. "That's what I was afraid of..."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"Well, Dr. Watson-"

"Just John, please."

You paused. "Um, ok. Well, John, I just moved here, you see. I don't really have a job. I've been searching for one for quite some time. You wouldn't happen to know of a job opening, would you?"

"Well, I do," John said. "But I'm not sure if you'd want it."

You perked up. "Really? What is it? I'm honestly ready to take almost anything at this point."

"There's a cafe called Speedy's and it just got an opening. I know the owner and I'm sure I could put in a good word if you wanted to go to dinner with me after you're feeling better."

You paused, feeling butterflies rise in your stomach. What? This man wanted to go on a date with you? Even after you probably creeped him out with the observations and knowing almost everything about him?

Apparently, your hesitation sent the wrong message to John because his hopeful hedgehog face turned to one of disappointment and embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"I'd love to," you replied quickly. "Just, um, here. You got a pen?" John quickly supplied you with a pen as you gently took his arm and carefully wrote your number down on it. "Call me in a couple of days. I'll let you know how I'm fee-" you suddenly ruined the moment by having a huge fit of coughs. John tried to comfort you, but it's hard to comfort a person when they sound like they're coughing their guts out. "Sorry. Just...call me, okay?"

John smiled. "I'll be sure to do that."

I got up to leave, but before I did I turned to John and said, "I certainly hope that you're not P.O.'d at your flatmate anymore, John." And then I left looking to getting better for my date with Dr. John Hamish Watson.

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A/N: Kinda short, but whatever...

HOPE YOU ENJOYED!

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!

[blackspoon99]

The Empty Hearse Pt. 1

Sherlock x Female! Reader

TW: minor Violence, Mentions of suicide and mental illness, Spoilers if you haven’t seen season 3!

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

A/N: This is a reader insert of season 3 of BBC Sherlock. If you haven’t seen season 3, I would definitely skip this series because it wouldn’t make sense and there are definitely going to be some spoliers!

Saturday - 8:37 pm

“Take it outside! Not in my shop!” The café owner yelled while pulling John off Sherlock and into the street. John walked a few feet away, pacing and trying to control his anger. Mary sympathetically handed Sherlock some napkins. He leaned his head back and tried to get his nosebleed under control.

“I don’t understand. I’ve said I’m sorry, isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

Mary laughed to herself “Gosh, you don’t know anything about human nature, do you?”

“Hmmm Nature? No. Human? No.” He said with an ironic smile.

John walked back over to talk to Sherlock “I’m going to take Mary home. I’ve had enough of you for the night. Have you seen y/n?”

“Not yet. Do you think the fake mustache was too much? I’d bet y/n would like it.”

John scoffed to himself. “Oh god, Sherlock. What is it going to take for you to realize this isn’t a joke? Don’t you dare do whatever this was to y/n. She hasn’t been the same. You–” He paused and clenched his fists by his sides. Mary put a hand on his shoulder. “You- were not here Sherlock. You didn’t see what it was like. What she was like.” He closed his eyes and turned away. “No, I can’t do this. All I have to say Sherlock is be nice, be kind. For her.” John hailed down a cab while Mary stayed behind.

“I’ll talk him round.”

“You will?”

“Oh yeah,” She said with a smile before following John to the cab.

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Sunday - 10:16 am

The next morning, Sherlock slowly approached the apartment. He was most excited for your reaction. John was still furious with him, but he’d come around. Mary had promised. Sherlock liked her already. You would be over the moon when he came back into your life. Everything would go back to the way it was in time: you, John, and him. Together again in Baker Street.

He walked into the living room. He didn’t see you. Mycroft said you were to come here to pick up a book. He thought it was oddly fitting that your first meeting would be back in Baker Street. It didn’t seem like you were there. Perhaps Mycroft’s surveillance had gone downhill. Sherlock was about to leave when you emerged from John’s old bedroom, holding a book in one hand. You stared down at it, walking over to the bookcases by the fireplace. Sherlock anxiously waited for you to see him standing in the doorway. How happy you would be. He would finally see your face again, hold you in his arms. He’d have you back. You turned to leave and finally, you noticed him.

You let out a startled breath, but you didn’t even look surprised. You just looked sad. Sherlock was silent with anticipation as he waited for you to react. Your face was almost glazed over. Something was wrong. You suddenly dropped the book to the carpet. Sherlock watched as you turned away and with shaky hands, dialed a number on your mobile.

“H-hello? Michelle? I’m sorry to be calling, I know I stopped seeing you a few months ago… it’s just that I-I can see him again. I thought they’d stopped, but he’s back and you said I should call if I…”

His stomach dropped at the realization that you didn’t think he was really there. That’s why you didn’t seem surprised to see him. Sherlock watched as tears formed in your eyes as your voice quivered and stammered on the phone with your ex-therapist. John had said his so-called death had been hard on you, but he hadn’t expected this. You hesitantly looked over your shoulder at him before quickly turning your head back to your phone.

“No, he’s like he was when he was alive this time. It’s not like– you know– when I used to see him there on the pavement.”

Sherlock could feel his heart break a little as you cowered from him near the fireplace. His instincts were screaming at him to say something, to walk towards you, but he was paralyzed. Sherlock stood there for a moment until he realized you were wrapping up your call. He slowly and as quietly as possible backed out of the flat and down the stairs.

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You hung up the phone and slowly turned around. The image of Sherlock was gone from the door. You sighed in relief, leaned against the wall, and slid to the floor. You tried to take a deep breath, but you felt sick to your stomach. You tasted salt and became aware of the tears streaking down your cheeks. You were certain you were over this, that you were strong enough not to feel this way anymore, not to see him everywhere. Maybe it was too soon to come back to Baker Street. Then again, it had been 2 years.

Or maybe this is just the way it had to be from now on. You’d go about your business, feel your wounds begin to close but no matter how close you’d think you were getting to healing, no matter what you do, you’d always be just one moment away from falling apart all over again. You figured you should take your therapist’s advice and call John.

You went to pick up the book when you could have sworn you heard the creak of a floorboard on the stairs followed by the sound of the front door closing. Hallucinations don’t make noise. A hot flash ran through you. Your body moved before you could even think. You clambered over to the window, tripping over a loose pile of books. You flung open the dusty curtains and frantically looked out the window. You immediately scanned the crowd on the street below. Just down the block, you spotted a head of curly black hair and a long wool coat.

You snatched up your coat and ran down the stairs, not even bothering to put it on. You threw open the front door just in time to see him turn the corner. You started running, pushing past tourists and pedestrians. The cold air felt like it was burning through your lungs as you sprinted down the sidewalk. Tears were now steadily pouring from your eyes, blurring your vision. You finally rounded the corner and spotted him again.

“Sherlock Holmes!” You yelled, your voice strained and breaking. Sherlock turned around just as you reached him. Still unsure if it was just your mind tormenting you once again, you hesitantly reached for his hand. The moment your ice-cold hand felt a leather glove, a real hand, beneath its touch, you let out a choked gasp. The realization was quickly replaced with blind rage. Without thinking, you raised your hand and slapped him across the face as hard as you could. He barely flinched from the impact and looked at you with pure pain in his eyes.

“How could you!?” You screamed, tears uncontrollably pouring down your face. You threw half-hearted punches at his chest. He reached out and gently grabbed your forearms, trying to stop you.

“Y/n I’m so sorry”

“How could you?” You repeated over and over, fighting him. “How could you? How could you? How could you?” Eventually, the rage faded, and you leaned into him and just sobbed “I needed you” You said weakly.

“I know, y/n. I know. I’m so sorry” He said, wrapping his arms around your shivering body.

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A/N: Part 1 of god knows how many. This story will take us through season 3 and end with his last vow. Just getting back into writing and I will try my best to upload the parts semi regularly! 

[deducingfangirlsofhell]

How Do We Fall in Love?

Pairing: SherlockxReader/MoriartyxReader (Idek, man.)

Warnings: Mentions of sex, gun threats, mentions of criminal past (it is the Sherlock fandom, this should be no surprise). Maybe light cursing, I don't remember.

A/N: I AM SO SORRY MY LOVELIES. I've been SUPER busy, and just haven't had time to post anything. I am so so so sorry.

________________________________________

Sherlock's heart sped so fast, he could hear the fear coursing through his veins. A screeching so loud, he swore everyone within a four kilometer radius could hear. The words repeated over and over, what appeared to be a simple little comment on his blog became an omen of everything that could've possibly gone wrong.

Lovely girl you've got, But can she stand her own flames? Fires can be very dangerous... ~JMx

He'd replied eight times over, attempting to get more clues. His head was spinning, trying to solve the clue at the bottom of the recent picture of you and him. Something John had posted on Sherlock's blog in his place, and it may've given you you away to Moriarty. The name sent chills down his spine. What used to be a fun challenge had turned into his own personal hell.

And now the devil had the woman who mattered most to him, and all the clues in the world couldn't help him, because his mind refused to process. John, Mycroft, Lestrade- everyone was trying to help, but to no true avail. Moriarty still had you...

Then a call came in- no, less of a call, more of a clue, one so simple, even George could figure it out. But before anyone else could evaluate it, Sherlock had sneaked off, hurrying to the same place he'd faced the Black Lotus General- only to be met with another clue, this time leading to an abandoned flat on the outskirts of London. He huffed as he climbed the stairs, feeling like his lungs may burst at any moment from the over use, but he could still see the image of your glittering eyes burned into his mind.

----

Jim tilted your head towards him as you both waited, away from the window that you could see your "knight in shining armor" come to "rescue you". His thumb grazed along your jaw, lifting until his eyes burned into yours.

"Problem, my little desert rose?" He purred, eyes dead save for a twinkle of insanity, and a smirk so dangerous it could kill you without a touch.

"None, sir." You answered appropriately, but the way he grabbed your wrist immediately told you that your little lie hadn't gone unnoticed. Your eyes snapped shut at the immediate, but bearable pain. Despite his cold exterior, you both knew Jim would never actually hurt you, but his threats were never to be taken lightly.

Just because he wouldn't hurt you, didn't mean he would have any problem leaving you for the dogs...

"I just- is it necessary that I be here, sir?" You kept it polite as possible, allowing your eyes to open again, being met with a quizzical stare. That's right, you thought, he doesn't understand complex emotions... You stared back, trying to hide what you could behind a blank mask. From this short distance, you could feel his breath fanning over your lips, like it'd done many times before. Though, usually, it came with a sleepless night, and marks left for the next day, claiming what was his.

"Remind me, pet," Great, now he was upset, "Why're we here?" He took a step forward despite there being no room, forcing you to move back, and repeatedly did so, until your back hit the wall of your old flat.

"To bring down Sherlock Holmes." You muttered shakily, feeling very contrasting emotions from his close proximity, the combination making you dizzy and nauseous. Your hand hit the wall with a gathered force of his anger and something underlying that wasn't quite as clear.

"Now, wouldn't we want him to see his little sweet, sweet love betraying him, pet?" He hissed out each word, face inches from yours as his plan ricocheted in your head.

"I put you onto the playing field to make Sherlock Holmes fall for the girl of his dreams- not the other way around." Your breath hitched in your throat, head shaking as much as possible. You didn't know what you felt for Sherlock, or perhaps it was simply nothing, and you just felt the need to protect the one person who'd ever cared for you- but you definitely would overlook it for your life.

"It's not like that- Jim, you know me, and it's not like that. I know the plan, and-" He already seemed to be calming some, though his eyes still showed rage inside, "I would never betray you like that." Sadly, it was true. Jim had protected you when you made the biggest mistake of your life- from both the government and any criminal organizations out to kill you. Six years, and he'd given you everything you could ever need, at the simple cost of working for him. He never had you do much, and never pushed you into anything you were uncomfortable with, and hey- the door was always open, if you'd ever do choose death over him.

But that's the thing about Jim Moriarty. He is death, in his own sense, just in much prettier packaging. He twists your mind, until nothing exists but him, and he always gets what he wants, and always makes it seem like that's what you wanted, all along. And you'd caught on to the game early on- never cared to stop it, but then again, if you did, then you'd be boring like everyone else.

He smirked the slightest bit, fingers brushing against your cheek like rose petals in the wind, "Oh, my little desert blossom..." he leaned closer like he would kiss you, "I'll believe it when I see it. Choose Holmes, and you've only got yourself to blame for your untimely demise." He said it the same way he would words of endearment, the sickly feeling seeping into you, but his tone drawing you closer.

"You're a double edged sword, you know that?" You muttered, somewhat wishing you could betray James- even the slightest bit. You couldn't care less about your protection. It's just that your sense of loyalty rested with the consulting criminal, and you could never give that up. His lips brushed against yours just as the door opened downstairs, and you fought down the temptation to tell Sherlock to just stay put.

But as Jim's lips fully encased yours, not a sound left your mouth. Footsteps echoed up the stairs, and still, you were engulfed by the madman. Infatuated.

The door to the old flat building was kicked open, the ancient lock flying off the door. You heard the gun before you saw it..

Click, "Let. Her. Go." He demanded, as if you hadn't just been kissing the criminal a second ago. Your eyes went wide as Jim pulled away, smirking with a demented glint in his eyes. The same one that sliced down into your very core, ripping anyone in its path to shreds.

"Oh, Sherlock... tsk... tsk... tsk..." The gun stayed trained on Jim, and every second ticked down, ringing in your ears. You looked between the two, staying next to the wall, unsure if you were even allowed to say anything, or if it'd mess up Jim's plan. Jim circled around Sherlock, the gun lowering slightly the moment he was away from you. Soon he was in front of you, again, eyes lit up with knowing that Sherlock was absolutely clueless. Jim held his hand out to you, more of an offering than a demand. Cocky bastard. He knew you'd choose him.

"Let's let our fair blossom decide, hm?" You wished you could say you even considered choosing Sherlock for a split second, but then again, that'd be pointless. The moment you left Jim's side, you'd be dead... Your hand reached out for Jim's, not a hesitation in the motion.

"Y/n, I know who you are." Sherlock said flatly, your head snapping to him, hand drawing back. Jim's eyes went black at the reaction, oh so tempted to just snatch your hand.

"I can help you- protect you. You don't need him!" Sherlock insisted, stepping closer, and offering out his hand. His eyes sparkled with desperation, genuinely wanting you to come with him. He didn't want to beat Moriarty, or use you for his own agendas. He just wanted to protect you... and that was enough. Your hand shook, uncertainty spreading through you. You had never left Jim's side- never questioned him. You'd let him use you until you ran dry, because... that's all you'd ever known. But here was Sherlock... and he genuinely cared for you..

Could he protect you? Could he, really?

[sherlockxreader]

Now and Always

Title: Now and Always

Summary: Valentine’s Day once again. The bane of your existence. Can Sherlock make this day one to remember, or will your disdain for the holiday win out? Author: Maddy @laterthantherabbit Words: 1865 Characters/Relationships: Sherlock x reader Warnings: none

Request: Hi! Hope you're well :). Can I request a Sherlock x Reader fic where Sherlock tries to make the reader see that Valentine's Day isn't so bad after all. (Reader hates Valentine's Day). Thank you :). @lokisgloriouspurpose9

Author’s Notes: So this is late. I am so so so sorry @lokisgloriouspurpose9 . It took me some time to figure this one out but i am really happy with the outcome and, duh duh duhhhh… there very well may be a part 2 to this!!! I hope you all enjoy this one! Thanks lovelies!

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“He wants to go on a date, Mary. A date.” You spoke to Mary through the phone, wine glass in your hand and lights dimmed in your home in the building across from 221B. You sat in your overly plush chair and huffed loudly.

“Isn’t that the point of being in a relationship?” She laughed at the absurdity of your melancholy. Yes, you had been on dates before but this one was pushing your buttons.

“No, no way. You’re making a mistake. I don’t do Valentine’s Day.”

“Come on, it’s Valentine’s Day! Everyone does Valentine’s Day!”

“Not me. The flowers, the chocolate,” You shivered in your seat, “Ugh, it’s all horrid and just a scheme of the capitalists to take our money.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Am not.” You sipped your wine and looked out the window. The slush of rain and snow flurried around the pane and the sky had begun to darken in the twilight, matching the forlorn features on your face a little too perfect for your liking. You took an overly large gulp of your wine.

“Are too and you know it. Anyways, I think it would be nice if you gave it a go. John organised for us to go to this fancy restaurant on Valentine's day tomorrow - said he had to book it in six months ago! Thing is, I don’t know what to wear. Help a girl out?” Your response of an over exaggerated and lasting groan did not help your persuade Mary of your Valentine’s day loathing at all. “Oh come on, please? I could really use some help, can you be over soon?”

“Fine, give me a second to change.” You hung up on Mary’s squeals of delight and slouched in your chair before standing with a lazy flourish, finishing off your glass as you reached your bedroom. Donning a warmer pair of tights, knit sweater and coat, hat, gloves and scarf, you left the building locked and hailed a cab. The light coming from 221B and the figures in the window going unnoticed by you.

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“Okay, she’s gone. Do you have everything John?”

“Everything meaning a single rose and box? Yes, I have everything. I don’t see why I had to be dragged into this. She’s your girlfriend.”

“Oh don’t be so grumpy. It’s nearly Valentine’s Day!” Ever since being with you, John couldn’t understand Sherlock’s new outlook on life. Before, leaving a rose and present in someone’s room would have meant a homicide to him. Now, romance is all it could lead to. “We have to go now, Mary will only be able to keep Y/N away for about an hour.”

“Fine, get going.” He followed the flamboyant man out into the cold of February and across the road. He had to admit though, Sherlock’s plan was utterly romantic. Using his key to open the flat, Sherlock waltzed in and set up the tiny speaker he had brought into the corner of the bookshelf you had on the wall. John settled the present and rose on the coffee table and took away your empty mug into the kitchen, tidying up the place slightly. He heard a soft violin float through the room, seeing Sherlock had connected his phone to the speaker and had played your favourite of his compositions. Everything seemed to be in order. “Okay, what now?”

“Now, you leave.” The blood rushed to John’s face, and not just because of the bitter cold outside.

“What the hell? I set a present down on the table and that’s all? Why couldn’t you do that?”

“I had the speaker, obviously.”

“Oh yeah, so obvious!” He pinched the bridge of his nose to quell his anger, breathing deeply. “I’m going back then. You good here?”

“Of course. Goodbye John.” Sherlock waved his hand in his direction as he went to the window, watching the snow just as you had done no less than fifteen minutes ago. John waved over his shoulder and shut the door quietly, leaving Sherlock alone.

God, he hoped this would work.

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You grumbled to yourself as you left the warmth of the cab and left the fare and a hefty tip to the driver, after all, the weather was a pain to drive in as you remembered of your near death experiences driving through snow. You shook your head and gathered your keys in your hand, mumbling profanities under your breath when you had to remove one of your gloves in order to actually use the keys. This mumbling turned to full speech when you accidentally locked the door instead of opening it. Hang on. You looked out the corner of your eye to the night sky in contemplation, looking down to the lock shortly after. I locked this when I left. Why is it opened? You stepped back slightly to look up at the building's windows, seeing that, though your curtains were drawn, light was peeking through the cracks. You smiled slightly, knowing just who was in your flat.

After successfully unlocking the door and shrugging off the snow and outer layers, you carried your coat up the stairs into your flat. The sight didn’t take your breath away. Lights dimmed, soft violin music playing and Sherlock standing in the middle, two glasses of red in his hands and a present and rose sitting delicately behind him. It was so cliche.

“God Sherlock what are you-”

“I can’t see my partner on a particularly miserable February day?”

“You can, just as you should know by now that this partner, though appreciative of the wine, does not do Valentines Day.” You plucked one glass out of his hand and took a gulp of the bittersweet liquid, it warming your bone-chilled body slightly. You felt it settle in your gut as you hung your coat and removed your socks and other glove, leaving them in a pile in the laundry room.

“But it’s not even Valentine’s Day yet, this doesn’t count!”

“The two weeks leading to V-Day always count. But thank you.” You returned to the living room and walked swiftly to his side, pecking his cheek and taking another, though smaller, sip from your glass. “This wine is really good.”

He rolled his eyes and sat on the couch, taking a drink of his own and grimacing. “I should hope so, it’s the one you liked from the Christmas party. Though I don't know how you can like it. It’s horrid.” He swirled the burgundy beverage with a frown as you sat beside him, curling into his side and stealing his warmth.

“You just don’t have good taste.” He huffed and leaned forward to rest the glass on the coffee table, right beside the offending white and red wrapped gift. He picked it up silently and came back to your side, fiddling with the rectangle in his free hands. You eyed it and brought your glass to your lips. How could such a small thing be so infuriating?

“Oh stop with the glaring.”

“I’m not glaring. I’m just… wary.”

“Of a present?”

“A Valentine’s Day present.” You put your drained glass beside Sherlock’s and rested against the back of the couch, your arms crossed in defiance. Your cheeks were speckled with a rosy blush. He placed the thing into your lap, the box barely the size of a football. He seemed nervous and similarly crossed his arms. From the way you had both moved, you were practically cross-legged on the couch facing one another.

“Here.”

“I’m not sure I should.”

“Oh for the- just open it please.” Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance yet his mouth was quirked, knowing something more than you. It irritated you to no end. Slowly, you picked up the gift and removed the red bow, rolling your eyes. Peeling away the tape and white paper revealed a bland box. You looked up to Sherlock with an unimpressed expression. He motioned his hands for you to continue and he bit his lip. Your nerves grew at this display of anxiety. What the hell could get him this nervous? With shaking hands, you lifted the lid of the box and was inside made tears come to your eyes.

You lifted out an intricate device of glass and some sort of sleek, smokey matter. Turning it in your hands made it sparkle in the dim light and its shape became apparent once you turned it around some more. It was a heart; an anatomically correct heart crafted of glass and more glass as it had turned out. The two sides had been melded together as if the sides bled into one another. The aorta looped around the top and inscribed in the curve were three simple words: Now and Always

You felt the tears fall down your cheeks as you looked back to Sherlock. “What… Sherlock I-”

“Do you like it?” His earnestly made your lip quiver as you gently placed the glasswork back into the box and set it on the table.

“I do but I can’t accept it.”

“What? Why?” You saw that his eyes had turned glassy and you grabbed his hands in yours quickly, rubbing them comfortingly.

“No, no! I mean, I have nothing to give you, and it looks like it was really expensive. I don’t do this as you know and it really is beautiful but what should I give you in return? Nothing I can think of is good enough and-” Your rant stopped as you heard Sherlock begin to laugh. He took one of his hands back to wipe away the stray tears from his face and as he laughed, he brought you into his chest and hugged you tightly, his chuckling making vibrations tickle your skin.

“That’s it? Darling, you don’t have to get me anything. Did you not see what my gift was?” You nodded your head into his chest, saying it was a heart. He kissed the top of your head and pushed you away so he could take the gift into his hands. He took it out of the box and twisted it delicately in his hands. “Yes it’s a heart; my heart more precisely, and it belongs,” He took one of your hands in his and turned it palm up, resting the heart on top, “In your hands.” Your tears returned and you cradled the glasswork, with lips quivering and eyesight blurry. He wiped them away and tilted your head up by your chin. “Now and always.”

The kiss was sweet and brief yet displayed all the affection Sherlock held for you. You smiled through it and cried as well, the emotional atmosphere of the moment making it hard not too. He laughed alongside you as you dried them away, the heart sitting proudly in the centre of the coffee table. Once the tears were gone, you were holding each other both looking at the tendrils of glass moulding into one another.

“Happy Valentine’s Day Y/N.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“So I can do this again next year?”

“Not a chance.” He looked down at you quizzically and a little hurt, until you kissed his jaw, a smirk and deviousness upon your lips.

“Next year, it’s my turn.”