#tlty sherlock

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years (Sherlock x Reader) - Chapter 2

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Chapter 2: Hurts Like Hell

“I loved and I loved and I lost you…and it hurts like hell…” -Fleurie (Hurts Like Hell)

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) x Watson!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k+

Warnings: MAJOR Trigger Warning in this chapter involving ideation/harmful-for-self thoughts, drug addiction, and mental health. Depictions of these scenarios also may not be accurate.

Summary: Everyone has their demons. Months after Sherlock had left you, your demons had risen to the surface. With nothing else left to lose, will you cave into the temptations flooding your brain?

It had been ten months, three weeks, five days, eight hours, and twenty minutes since the phone call. Five more minutes since the impact. Every day since then has haunted you like a nightmare that you could never wake up from. The other night, you thought you had heard his voice in the halls. You had fallen asleep watching old videos of his previous cases. Even if the content was old, you didn’t care. The magic of the media had brought him back to you in even the slightest and you were desperate enough to cling to whatever was left of him. 

You would always do your best to wander around living in your false reality for as long as possible. The voices you heard were him with a client. He was getting bored with the details and would be downstairs later to complain about their stupidity. 

“Honestly,” he’d say. “How could someone be so stupid? The answer is so obvious that even you could solve it.” 

You would then give him a look that would make him falter and backtrack.  

“No, no, no. Everyone’s stupid, don’t take it personally. I just meant that you’d—” Another glare. “Er, that Anderson would be able to solve it with one look.” 

The most difficult part was how as soon as you would allow yourself to get sucked into your little fantasy, you would need to force yourself to realise the whole situation was only in your mind. The warm feeling of having someone to talk to had faded. The flat had become a desolate and dark place once more. Sherlock was dead and you were left alone in your flat. 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

For weeks since his death, Lestrade had done his best to look the other way- to avoid the fact the younger Holmes daughter was alive. You had made him promise to keep her safe from arrest. . .for Sherlock’s sake. Yet as time went on, Elora started not trusting her own actions. You would find her in a random location, with her having no recollection over how or why she was there. As the weeks went on, scabs would appear on her arms and legs out of nowhere. It was around this point you began to be concerned about her flatmate’s safety. She didn’t want to send her away, but she couldn’t bear it if one day she woke up and was too late to stop something far more dangerous. 

Soon after her outburst, Elora had made the decision to leave Baker Street. The day the two of you had finished packing up the last few boxes for Elora’s new life, you felt as though you were staring up at the rooftop again. The world around you sounded tinny and you felt every step become more difficult. 

“You’re sure about this?” you whispered to your friend. It was one of the rare times you could remember seeing any hint of emotion etched into the younger Holmes’ facial features. There wasn’t much that could make her crack, you knew that. Sherlock’s death had hit her the worst of all and while it pained you to see her go, you were proud of her all the same. 

Elora gave you an apologetic glance as she hoisted a moving box into her arms. “I have no other choice,” she replied. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not any more than either of us have been, anyway. There’s just too many memories here.” When you opened your mouth to refute, your friend raised her hand. “It’s not just you. It’s everything. It reminds me too much of my brother and how I failed him.” She reached over to grip her flatmate’s hand. “It won’t be for long. Just until I can feel more confident that what I’m doing is actually me.” 

Tearing up, you pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m going to be waiting to help you move back home whenever you’re ready. You just call me and tell me when. I’ll be there. I promise.” 

“I‘ll be there,” you muttered tiredly to yourself nine months later. You clenched your fists into tight balls. Taking a deep breath, you took in the bitterly cold London air. “It’s been nine months.”

What neither of you had taken into account that day was just how bad Elora’s condition truly was. The longer she was away from the rest of the world, the more she began to break. The hallucinations kept coming. Whenever you would visit her, she would appear more and more distant. She did her best to keep up the interactions, but one day, the calls and text messages suddenly ceased. One night, you received a phone call. The doctors had told you something had triggered Elora, but they couldn’t pinpoint just what it was. Doctor Morrison had recommended that you refrain from visiting your friend’s new flat for a while. 

“If we don’t know what’s causing it,” he said. “We can’t help her. The only lead we have so far is. . .you.”

Months later, the nightmares started to take hold of you too. You found yourself in a cold sweat one night. Your heart raced a thousand miles per second...and you didn’t know why. A few days later, you found yourself waking up screaming a name-- his name. It was almost as if he was taking over your every thought. You saw him in the shops’ magazines and papers. You heard his music over the radio. 

It wasn’t long before it just became noise in your mind -- noise that you couldn’t drown out. You tried to quiet the voices like normal, you really did. You tried music. You slept with the television on max volume. Nothing helped. It wasn’t until you found the bottles in Elora’s room that you could press the mute button on your thoughts. Pop one, take a drink, silence after fifteen minutes. The only problem you started to face was the six hours every night wasn’t enough. 

You needed more. 

Whenever the voices even began to start, you took another pill. Just one more, became two, which turned into three. Each month, the dose got stronger and voices went quiet. You still couldn’t get enough. At this point, you were in far too deep. You didn’t even want to bother getting help. In fact, you relished in the euphoric feeling and the mind-numbing high. It was your escape and you never wanted it to end.

When the pills ran out, you headed to the first therapist you could find. Thanks to your already broken state, it hadn’t taken much for you to get another prescription. The problem was that the dosage would never be enough. You would wake in the middle of the night in pain. It wouldn’t be a normal pain— there wasn’t a part of your body that was physically in pain. Still, your insides twisted and turned as you continued with your restless sleep. What you wouldn’t give for a night of blissful nothingness; to fall asleep. . .and just not wake up. 

He had somehow worked his way into your dreams now. Most nights, it was the same horror as that day: you would be on the ground calling out to him and he’d be gone minutes later. Sometimes your brain took enjoyment in torturing and watching you suffer. It would create this fantasy world where you could finally be happy. Late nights by the fireplace, curled up in each other. Breakfast in the morning without worrying about eyeballs in the teacups. In another world, you had a family of your very own.

You were in the living room of 221B, now home to the both of you. It was a cold December evening and the fireplace crackled in front of you. To anyone else, it would have been a normal scene. But to you, it was something you could only imagined.  

“She’s beautiful,” Sherlock murmured, as he cradled the newborn bundle in his arms.  

“She has your hair and eyes,” you replied.  

“Nonsense.” A frown spread across his face. “Babies have no defining features until six months. She could just as easily have your eyes and hair.” However, a smile threatened to replace his grumpy demeanour as he stared at the bundle— his daughter. “Balance of probability suggests that she-” 

The bundle began to cry and you reached over to pull her into your lap. “Shh,” you soothed. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. We’re right here.” 

Yet, the little babe continued to cry and howl. Anything you attempted to do to soothe her failed. When you looked up to find Sherlock, you watched in horror as his figure vanished in smoke and left you staring at the reflection in the mirror. “Sherlock,” you whispered. “No.” At that moment, your daughter shrieked and cried out. In another attempt to soothe her, you plastered a fake smile and turned your attention back to the precious bundle. What you saw made your heart stop.  

In your arms, squirmed a small version of Jim Moriarty. His face dripped with blood as it morphed into a dark grin. “Tick tock,” he spat out. “The Watsons ran up the clock. The clock struck five, the Watsons cried. They couldn’t save poor Sherlock.” 

“No- no please,” you pleaded. “Just let me have them back. I just want my family back. Please.” 

“No can do,” mini-Moriarty said with a grin. “You know what you have to do to get him back. Why haven’t you done it yet?”  

You bit your lip, eyes squeezing closed as tears spilled out. “Please. I’ll do anything. Just bring them back to me, please.” 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, not the waterworks. Ordinary people like you are so predictably boring.” He stared at you as the blood dripped off of his face onto the baby blanket. “You know what you have to do. Just do it.” 

“Do it.” A feeling of something sticky ran down your forehead. When you dared press a hand to the area, you gasped in fear as felt a liquid sensation. Pulling your hand back, you saw it was covered in rich, deep red blood.  

A plume of smoke enveloped you and soon you were surrounded by the pale versions of those you loved. John grabbed your arm and started to drag you, Elora joining in soon after. “You want to join us? Do it,” they both spoke in Moriarty’s voice.  

Unsure of what else to do, you bolted until you saw the tall dark outline of a peacoat with the collar popped. “Sherlock,” you pleaded. “Help me. Save me. I need you.” 

The figure standing in front of you didn’t move. 

“Sherlock, please,” you pleaded again. “Help. I can’t do it without you.” 

Slowly, the figure turned around to face you. Sherlock’s blue-green eyes pierced into your soul as he spoke, his tone sharp as knives. “Then die. Just let go and die. There’s obviously nothing here for you anymore. Why live?” 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The day before, you had made a visit to his grave. Originally, you had planned to visit every other day, but it just became too much for you to handle. You needed to come to terms with what had happened. The only problem you were facing was that you simply couldn’t let go of the fact that he had left you forever.

As you approached the headstone, you noticed another figure standing near it. Not wanting to intrude, you silently crept closer. John was standing by the grave, eyes fixated on the metallic lettering. His fingers rested on the smooth black marble. “I was so alone, and I owe you so much,” you heard him mutter. “You brought my family back to me. Y’gave me a reason to...to want to be a better person.” You heard him sniffle and heave a heavy sigh. “Doing a real bang-up job at that right now, aren’t I? Now they’re both alone dealing with your decision while I swam out to catch my breath.”

John tapped the top of the headstone as a form of reassurance. He was attempting to collect himself, you could tell. “Okay,” he muttered. A moment later, he began to turn and make his way back toward the entrance. You were pressed against a nearby tree in order to avoid being spotted. However, he turned back to the headstone one more time. “No, please, there’s just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. And for Elora, and…” his voice broke as he continued. “Don’t. Be. Dead. Would you do that? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this.”

With a curt nod, John made his way back to the car and drove off. You were now the only person around for miles. Truth be told, you were partly grateful for it, as you weren’t sure you could do this without breaking down. However, you did wish there was someone who would try something to stop you. You knelt down by the headstone with suppressed tears. “Hey, Curly,” you tried to sound cheerful. “It’s a year tomorrow. Can you believe it?”

Your gloved fingers gently traced the gold lettering of his name on the headstone. It was cold in the early London morning air. The flowers you had brought the previous weeks had already wilted and the blood red petals were crushed. Using a trembling hand, you brushed the petals away in an attempt to clean his grave. “Always so messy,” you remarked with a dry chuckle. “Even dead you can’t help but make a mess.” You looked down at the headstone with a sad smile. “You’d be pleased to know I haven’t touched your flat. It’s as messy as ever. Don’t know how you ever knew where everything was, but you always did. You always...did.”

You reached into your coat pockets to pull out a handful of pill bottles and a small photograph. “I can’t do it anymore, Sherlock,” you whispered. “It’s just become too much. As much as I bloody hate to admit it, you really screwed me over, Sherlock Holmes. The minute you walked into my life, I should have run the other way and not looked back. But I stayed anyway.” Your head leaned forward against the cold marble and you squeezed your eyes shut again while you laughed. “You bastard. Who would have thought that I would have wanted- that I hoped... with an emotionless basket case. Wait, no. You wouldn’t like that. High-functioning sociopath.

“I just miss you so much. I can’t take waking up in the empty flat anymore. You’re gone. John is gone. Elora is holed up trying to come back. I’m...I’m falling apart. I’m drowning while I’m walking and I can’t breathe. I know I should be able to move on and stay strong. But damn it, Sherlock, I don't want to carry on like everything is fine. It just isn’t.”

You couldn’t afford to hold back the tears anymore. You let them flow and flow until you are hiccuping for air. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” you whispered as you buried the items next to the headstone. “I just can’t do it anymore. Not by myself.” Your eyes flickered over to the empty plot nearby. 

You and Elora had made the purchase of the area shortly after the funeral. The two of you had agreed he didn’t deserve to be buried like when he was alive- alone. Upon making the deposit, a deal was made that whoever would pass on first would be the one to take the spot. You just hoped Elora wouldn’t mind losing the race…

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Every step you took felt heavier and heavier the higher up you went. You felt terrible lying to Molly about the real reason you had for stopping by. It was the only way you could guarantee you wouldn’t chicken out. You needed to make sure there was nothing to hold you back. You had already mailed a letter to John and left one on the coffee table for Elora. They would be sad, but they would understand. You were sure of it. 

The door to the rooftop was much heavier than you remembered. Although, last year, you ran primarily off of the adrenaline and grief. Your whole body shook as you peered over the edge down at the ground below. People were making their way through town. Some headed back to work for a late shift, others home to their families. Their perfect little families... 

It was almost ironic you were standing on the very spot he did. Was it dramatic? Of course. However, being around Holmes' for so long would cause a desire for a flair of it in even the most logical of people. Maybe you had hoped this spot would bring you closer to him. Wasn’t there a study that indicated those who died near each other were destined to reunite? That sounded about right. Or maybe...maybe it was just sentiment.

He always mocked you for the attachment you had to sentiment. “A chemical defect,” he would call it. It could never be used to one’s advantage— only their downfall. You gave a dry chuckle to the memory. How fitting.  

“You have given me something that I can't live without, Sherlock,” you whispered after taking a deep breath. “I can’t ever forgive you for this, but hopefully I’ll get to see you again.” You took a step up onto the ledge and closed your eyes. Without opening them, you lifted your mobile to your ear. 

“You’ve reached the personal number of Sherlock Holmes,” his deep voice worked its way into your ear. “List the details of your case and I’ll contact you at my earliest convenience...or not.” 

The sound of a beep caused you to take a shaky breath, jarring you from a fantasy world your brain had escaped to for a moment. “I suppose it’s only fair for me to do this,” you whispered into the microphone. “It’s what...people do, right? Leave a note?” A sad chuckle was let out at the last part. “That’s how you did it. I know you’ll never hear this and that’s fine. I just...I just needed to hear your voice one last time.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock, but you can’t convince me otherwise of your actions. You may have been an arrogant arsehole, but you weren’t a monster. There was no way you could have created Moriarty for shits and giggles. I saw how he affected you. No man could hold up that act forever, especially not you. You may have been a jerk, but you cared. About Elora, John...hopefully me?” You brushed away a few tears. “I know there’s only a few seconds left on the machine, so I’ll make it quick.” Tears began to trickle down your face. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I believe in you, even if the rest of the world doesn’t.

“Goodbye, love,” your voice dropped down to a whisper as you hung up the phone. You cradled it in your hands for a few moments before pressing it against your heart. This was the best for all of them. All you needed to do was put your arms out and just...fall. In a matter of minutes, you would be letting gravity take its hold on your already heavy heart and free you spirit. It would all be over and you could finally be free.

You clenched the phone in your fist and took a deep breath. One foot at a time, you made your way a bit further along the ledge. You leaned a bit forward. . .

. . .a little bit more. . . 

Just one more lean and you would finally be free. As you lifted your foot over the edge, the phone in your hand began to vibrate. 

It was a call from an unknown number.

==============================

Author’s Note: Woww, what a cliffhanger, huh?! If I’m being entirely honest here, the end of this chapter hurt like hell to write (bad pun I know lol). I know it may seem stereotypical tale for a Sherlock S/O to have during the Reichenbach hiatus, but I assure you there are more reasons behind this mental state than just Sherlock (mainly relating to the upcoming backstory). On another note, Moriarty is probably one of my favorite characters to write for just because his dialogue is so much fun to write…you never know what’ll come out of that mouth of his!

As usual, if you liked the chapter, make sure to leave a like, comment, and a cheeky reblog. Not only will it help me out with sharing the story, but it also lets me know what content from me you enjoy! In the meantime, leave your theories on who the mystery number is and I'll see you next week! :D

SH Taglist: @ohchoices, @severuined

[frostandflamesthoughts]

Me knowing full well my readers are looking forward to the next chapter I post in my series: This is fine, this is great!

Me the night before each chapter scheduled to come out knowing I still have more chapters to write before next week and words won’t come from my fingers:

Anyone else experiencing writer’s paralysis? or is it just me?

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years (Sherlock x Reader) - Chapter 1

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Chapter 1: The First Few Weeks

“It feels like a tear in my heart, like a part of me missing and I just can’t feel it. I’ve tried and I’ve tried…” -Britt Nicole and NF (Can You Hold Me)

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) x Watson!Reader

Word Count: 1.8k+

Warnings: Implied suicidal thoughts and brief language

Summary: Even though the world didn’t revolve around Sherlock Holmes, your world has come to a complete stop as you struggle to cope with a loss as large as this.

The day after the funeral was a solemn one. You knew it was going to be rough, but you also knew there was nothing you could do to stop it from coming. The truth was that he died. He had died and was never coming back. You would never see his face, aside from in the papers. Never hear his voice, or his laugh (as rare as that was), again. There would be no more midnight music or late-night childish tantrums. Not even the cry of excitement that would come with the sound of police sirens nearing the street.

He had left you alone and you didn’t know what else to do but be a rock for everyone else he left behind. Elora had been quiet most of the day. Her injuries were healing nicely and the doctors said she would be able to walk within a matter of weeks. However, your friend was getting worse and you could tell. You did your best to try and strike up a conversation whenever you saw Elora, but you were merely met with silence. 

It didn’t take long for John to begin distancing himself. The transition of several miscellaneous items to a girlfriend’s soon transformed into piles of boxes and a new flat. His room slowly became an empty hall of memories that were of adventures past. The flat turned into a dust collector, untouched and unloved. 

“It’s difficult,” he admitted to you once. “Without him here it’s...difficult.” 

“And you think this is easy for me?” you dared to question him. “Do you think it’s easy for me to be able to wake up every day downstairs in the same damn flat, thinking maybe today will be different? Every day, John, I force myself to get up and recognize the fact that he’s. Not. There.” Your hands clenched into fists again, nails pressing deep into your flesh but unfortunately not drawing blood. “He’s gone and I have to wake up every morning praying that my best friend is still alive. Because I don’t know if I’ll get up one day and she’ll be gone, too.” 

“I can’t do it anymore,” John replied. “It hurts too much. I’ll come visit, I promise. I just can’t be here. Not anymore.” 

Yet, he never visited. After that day, you and Elora were left on your own to fend for yourselves. It became a more difficult challenge each passing hour. Elora’s condition was getting worse. Not only would she refuse to talk, but she refused to eat or drink. All she wanted to do was sleep in a ball and you feared she’d never wake up. A few weeks later, the hallucinations had started...

“I saw him today,” Elora said one day at breakfast with a sleepy smile.  

“Oh, did you?” you said with an amused smile. You thought it was a dream, something your friend had conjured up in her many tireless nights of sleep.  

“He came in through the window,” she replied nonchalantly. “Told me I was being an idiot. That I’m wasting my time.” Elora cut a small piece of eggs and grimaced at the lack of flavour. “He asked about you, too.” 

You raised an eyebrow at that.  

“He’s too chicken to see you. Don’t blame him, though.” Another tiny bit of food — a success. “Pretending to be dead is difficult for anyone’s mental capacity, even for Sherlock.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek in an attempt to stop yourself from lashing out. He’s not pretending, but you can’t know that now, you thought to yourself. Not when it’s helping you finally take care of yourself. Instead, you chuckled and nodded. “You tell him I miss him next time, okay?” 

Elora looked deep into your eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you?” 

A sigh as a fork clattered against the porcelain plate. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just don’t know what to believe anymore.” 

“He’s coming back.” 

You stabbed a piece of egg onto a piece of toast. It was getting harder to stop the aggravated outbursts from coming. You knew you had to be strong, but sometimes you would just...crack. “He better make it bloody quick.” 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

You tried to keep your composure every day as best as you could. However, there is only so much one human being can take. Everyone has their limits. You just need to know which buttons to push to trigger a full shutdown. The more times that button is pressed, the easier it is to break. One morning, you woke up to get a cup of tea from the kitchen. You put the kettle on, set two cups on the tray-- the nice ones for a change, a Christmas gift from Sherlock one year. Red as blood when warmed up, a sign of the impending anger whenever an eyeball ended up in the kitchen. 

Looking out the window, you found yourself humming an unfamiliar tune. It wasn’t until a few moments later that you realised what it was. It was one of his songs. He would compose between adventures. He always claimed it helped him think better. You would tease him. 

“So Mr. Emotionless mindlessly composes beautiful music in his free time…” 

“Oh, do shut up. Music has been proven to improve mental capacity.” 

“So you’re upgrading your hard drive?” 

“If I say yes, will you go away?” 

You sighed as you poured the tea into the cups, a light smile flickering across your lips as you inhaled the scent of the liquid. When living in America, it was easy to switch to coffee. Black, two sugars, and a hint of cream. However, upon arriving back home in England, you found yourself gravitating back toward bitter black tea in the mornings. It was your routine-- a taste of normalcy in an otherwise chaotic lifestyle. Carefully to avoid getting burned, you lifted the cup to your lips and sighed once again. 

Everything seemed normal that morning, except for one thing. . . 

Elora was perched on the fire escape railing, peering down at the ground below.  

In a split second, the world around you came crashing down. You didn’t hear the heartbreaking sound of the teacup as it slipped from your grip and shattered onto the linoleum floor. You didn’t even register the burning sensation of the tea as it spilled across your feet. Your body felt numb, your brain buzzing with activity and white noise. The only thing running through your mind was, not again. Please, God, not again. 

Without a second thought, you bolted out onto the fire escape and dragged Elora back into the flat. “What the bloody hell were you doing out there?” you screamed. “You could have fallen and died! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Elora, you can’t just do things like this. What would have happened if I wasn’t here? Lord, Elora, why?!”

Your friend responded with nothing more than a blank stare. Elora hadn’t said much in the past few days. Her condition was getting worse, you knew it. As much as you tried to give her space, you couldn’t help but overhear the late-night sob sessions. Many nights, you were startled by piercing screams of agony. No doubt she was having nightmares. You wished you could comfort her, but the first night you tried, Elora had flung a handful of knives near your head. 

“Elora?” you asked softly. “I need you to talk to me.”

She blinked. “He’s-” she started. “He came to visit me again. This time he told me he couldn’t come back home.” Elora blinked away the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. “He has to come back.” 

As you opened your mouth to respond, you were cut off by hysterical laughter.

“What am I talking about? Of course he’s going to come back! He wouldn’t just leave us. There’s no bloody way!” The laughter soon died down into throaty sobs. “He has to come back. He has to come home.”

Gingerly, you put a hand on her shoulder. “Elora, did you take your medication this morning?” you asked. “The one that Doctor Morrison prescribed?”

Elora made a face. “I don’t need any damn pills. I’m perfectly fine.” She glanced down at your feet. “How are you not in any pain right now?”

You took a peek at the ground and noticed the blisters that had already begun to form on your barefooted flesh. You shrugged. “Developed better pain tolerance, I suppose.” Maybe you needed to take a different approach with her. “Can you at least try the medication? It might help you sleep better tonight.”

Your flatmate’s eyes narrowed. “I sleep fine.”

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Two weeks later, you were jolted awake by the sound of glass shattering. You reached for the revolver by your bedside table (a precaution since you were kidnapped last year) and slipped on a dressing gown. As you raced out of your bedroom, you heard an ear-splitting scream, followed by another crash. “Elora!” you exclaimed. “What’s happening?” When you didn’t receive a response, you stumbled through the dark flat. Please let her be okay, you pleaded in your mind. Please don’t let me lose her, too.  

When you flicked the lights on, you looked around in horror as the flat was empty. Elora was nowhere to be seen. Another crash sounded, but it sounded farther away now. “Elora!” you shouted again, desperate for some sign that your flatmate was alive. 

Another scream. And it was coming from upstairs.

Hardly thinking, you raced out of the flat and made your way up the stairs two at a time. You kicked open the door to reveal Elora racing around the kitchen. In her hands was a bat, which she was using to shatter anything and everything she could make contact with. Vials were strewn about the table, glass shards littering the linoleum floor. There was nothing you could do but helplessly watch her slowly descend into madness. 

“Why. Did. You. Do. It?!” Elora’s voice cried out, smashing a vial containing a white powder. “Why.” 

“Why.” 

Whack.  

“Did.” 

Smash.  

“You.” 

Crash!  

“Leave?!” 

This routine continued for a few minutes before the bat was tossed aside. Instead, Elora chose to pick up a variety of papers and began shredding. The hysterical laughter made an appearance. “You think you’re so clever, do you?” Elora shrieked. You watched in horror as a newspaper clipping was ripped in half. “You think you can figure everything out before it happens.” There went one of her compositions. “Well, I bet the great Sherlock Holmes didn’t see this coming.”

You leaned against the doorframe, helpless. You wanted to be able to step in and help her. You wanted to save her. The only problem was you didn’t know how. 

Elora’s tirade stretched out for another hour of hysterical laughing and crying fits. By the time she had finally calmed down, curled against the island, the flat was a mess-- well, more of a mess than usual. You winced as you watched the glass cut into her palms as she slammed the ground in anger. That could not be comfortable. “Elora,” you tried to soothe her.

Upon hearing her name, Elora looked up, eyes wide and dark. Her voice was weak and croaky from crying, but you could hear the words she tried to say. “I am not okay.”

=========================

Author's Note: Whoo, we have liftoff here, folks. Something I wanted to focus on with this work was the power that grief has over an individual. In Many Happy Returns and The Empty Hearse, we do see how John was grieving, but I always wondered how he really moved forward with Mary. I’m hoping that I’m not falling into the typical “damsel-in-distress” trope with this story, but when characters have a strong connection, it’s difficult to just have them move on without a bit of emotional trauma. 

Remember, if you liked the story, make sure to leave a like, comment, and a reblog! Also make sure to message or ask me to join the tag-list! More chapters will be coming soon!

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years (Sherlock x Reader) - Chapter 3

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Chapter 3: How to Save a Life

"Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend somewhere alone in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up with you all night, had I known how to save a life..." -The Fray (How to Save a Life)

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) x Watson!Reader

Word Count: 2.9k+

Warnings: brief mentions of su!cidal thoughts/attempt (nothing actually shown or fully described)

Summary: As you stand on Bart's rooftop to make the biggest decision in your life, you receive a mysterious call for help. Also referred to as the one where you find out how your flatmate is handling her grief.

Back on the rooftop of St. Bart’s, everything seemed so small. The phone stuck in your fist once more and you could still see the bustling scene below. All you needed to do was jump. It would be over in a matter of seconds. It was so tempting, the whispers promising death. It would be quick, almost painless. Eternal slumber reunited with those you love, if you had faith in an afterlife. Just one. . . more. . .step. . .  

The phone suddenly buzzed in your hands, indicating a call. Checking the Caller ID, you saw it was from an unknown number. To this day, you still didn’t know what possessed you to pick up the phone. Maybe it was an act of desperation. Perhaps you were simply disillusioned by false hope it might actually be him calling you back. “Hello?” 

“Please stay on the line for an incoming transmission.” a female voice responded. 

There was a period of silence as you shifted uncomfortably in wait. Who could possibly be calling? Your answer arrived not long after, when a throat cleared and a familiar tone greeted you. 

“Ah yes, Watson the younger,” the voice of Mycroft Holmes said in your ear. “I do hope you are not planning to continue walking.” 

“What do you want, Mycroft?” you asked in a peevish tone. “I am not in the mood for games.”

“Oh, yes, I am very aware of that. I can practically feel the wave of...” Mycroft paused for a moment, allowing you to visualise his face as it morphed into a grimace. “Sentiment through the message.”

Part of you didn’t want to believe it, but somehow part of you was expecting this to happen. “Oh bloody hell, Mike. Did you seriously listen to-”

“I would like to inform you that my younger brother’s unfinished business has now unfortunately become my own. His voicemail is currently being monitored for any potential threats or updates on past cases,” he paused. “However, as. . .dramatic. . .as your adventure has been, that is not my reason for calling.”

A grunt of annoyance escaped your lips as you made a face of your own. The Holmes siblings were never ones to mind their own business. You knew that from the start. John had made sure to warn you as you had moved your boxes into the flat downstairs. However, you still wished Mycroft had had the decency to give you the privacy you believed you so righteously deserved. “What do you want?”

“It appears my dear sister is having a difficult time. Her condition is worsening. Surveillance has since reported to me she was caught in her bedroom window creating a loop with her bedsheets. I am quite certain she was not attempting to craft a new fashion piece.”

You could feel your body run cold as the blood drained from your face. No, this can’t happen, you screamed in your mind. Not her, too. You blinked to clear your thoughts before parting your lips to speak. “Is she having conversations with herself?”

“On the contrary,” the eldest Holmes replied. “She refuses to speak to anyone. It has been requested by my sister’s medical council that I make an appearance, but that would require legwork of course, so-“

“So you’re calling me to be your errand runner? Did you not hear my message correctly, as you have been oh-so-keen on keeping tabs on us?”

There was silence from the other end of the line. “She needs you,” Mycroft admitted, using your full name for once. “There’s not much I can do to save her. I provide the funds, but there is no one else she will speak to.”

"I can't- I can't be there for her, I can't fix her. A broken person can't fix another broken person."

“Then you’ll both die.” Still peering down, you witnessed a black car pull up to the front of the building. “The choice is yours, Watson. Choose wisely.”

Like hell it is. You let out a scoff. “There’s never a choice with you, Mycroft.” With that, the line disconnected and your mobile buzzed once more, signalling a text. It was an image. Enlarging the attachment, your eyes closed tightly to console yourself as you took in the horror. 

From just a glimpse, you could already see how broken your friend was. Her dark hair was mangled with knots. It had grown since the last time you had seen her. It was down to her waist at this point. Dark bags sagged underneath her cerulean blue eyes. Black and blue marks were speckled about her face. This wasn’t the woman you knew, the person you looked up to. 

“Oh, Elora,” you whispered as your grip on the mobile device grew tighter. “What have you done?” Once more, you dared to look down at the busy city streets below you and bit back a sob. You had been so close to eternal quiet. You could practically hear his voice calling out to you to join him. Tears filled your eyes and you turned your face toward the sky. “I’m sorry, love. Forever is going to have to spare a minute. There’s something I have to take care of first.”

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Your heart had dropped when you pulled up into the typically quiet street. It felt more like a prison than a place of healing. The amount of security you had needed to go through was excessive, although you wondered how much of it was Mycroft’s doing. It had only taken the press a few days to get wind of your flatmate’s new living arrangements. They flooded the condominium’s lobby ever since, each one hoping to get their hands on an exclusive with the cracked Holmes girl. 

The flat was dimly lit, even though it was early enough in the afternoon. The reinforced glass panels, though they were bolted shut, offered a beautiful view of the city skyline below. A television was rotating between channels, alternating between celebrity gossip and news. Your heart jumped into your throat when you saw a shot of him. It was the day he solved the Reichenbach painting case. You could still see the bright and blinding flashes of the paparazzi cameras as they had made their way through the streets. His hand had gripped your arm tightly as he attempted to shield the two of you with his coat. 

A deerstalker was perched atop his head, which would later become his signature style. He always hated the blasted thing. That year for Christmas, you had given him a new version of the hat, but in his favourite colour. He had harped on about how it wasn’t even a true hat for nearly an hour. The memory brought a bit of momentary happiness to you as you neared the bedroom door. 

The tin of biscuits in your grip was slowly becoming heavier. When your landlady had found out you were going to visit Elora, she had loaded up your car with a variety of sweets. You hadn’t had the heart to tell the old woman about Elora’s condition, but figured it would be a good idea to at least bring in one container. 

When you turned the knob of the bedroom door, you saw your friend curled up on the bed. Elora was so still, you started to fear she was no longer breathing. “Elora?” you called out, hating how broken your own voice sounded. Yet you received no response from the lump on the bed. “I brought some biscuits from Mrs. H. She said they were your favourite.”

A deep voice stopped you from venturing further into the room. “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” he said. For the first time, you recognized a figure who had been standing by the door. A man, late thirties. Obviously wasn’t used to detail work, given by his tan. Mainly an outside worker, you mused in your mind. He was a relatively thin individual, but you could tell he was strong. He also had two concealed firearms- one in the holster and another under his pant leg. Make that three, you thought to yourself as you noticed a bulge under his shirt sleeve. God, this is what you got by staying around Holmes for so long. What had they done to you?

“Can I not give my own friend food now?” you spit out sardonically.

“She might try to choke herself with them…” the man said, trailing off. Soft-spoken, then.  

“She’s in her bed! Like hell she’s going to be able to choke herself with food.”

“Please, she just tried to hang herself this morning. I’m afraid I can’t let you give those to her,” the man said stiffly. Oh, so he liked to call the shots. Definitely an outside worker who never had the chance to speak.  

“I’m giving her these biscuits whether you like it or not,” you snapped. “This might be your only opportunity to project authority, but you sure as hell can’t think you can boss me around when it comes to my family.”

“She is my family, as well.” 

“What are you-”

A quiet cough from behind the wall caused your attention to shift away from the idiot in uniform. “Sebastian, don’t bother,” you heard Elora’s voice say. It didn’t sound like her, though. She sounded hollow, shattered to a million pieces. She sounded like how you felt – broken. “It’s too much work.”

“You are worth it!”

You flinched at the sound of a dry laugh as it echoed off of the walls. It too sounded hollow and dull. It was as if there was no more hope of happiness. “I will never be worth it.” Elora didn’t look at you. Instead, she switched her view to that of the ceiling. “Go home. You didn’t need to come.”

I’m not going to lose you, you thought. It’s bad enough you’re going to lose me, but you are not about to lose yourself. “We both know I can’t do that,” the words got caught in your throat.

“And why not?” Elora’s gaze flashed over to where you were standing next to “Sebastian.” You could feel the holes as her eyes burned into your clothes from the glare. 

“Because you’re my friend.” You turned to the man next to you and narrowed your eyes. “Either you let me through, or I’m going to do it myself. The question I have for you is how good are your lawyers?”

Sebastian shifted uncomfortably but ultimately ended up stepping away to allow you entry into the room. 

Slowly, you crept your way into the white room. The tin of biscuits fell from your hands as you neared the bed. “Elora,” the words floated around the room with a whisper. “You know you can always talk to me.”

You watched as your friend hesitated. This wasn’t the Elora you remembered. It was a shell of a person who once was, you could see it. It was going to take a while before she was back completely. However, you could still make out the faintest light of your flatmate desperate to return. 

“I don’t want to,” Elora whispered as she curled up against the wall. “I don’t want to be here.”

“I could take you back to Baker Street, if you want?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” You watched as the tears fell down your flatmate’s face. “I don’t want to be here.”

As you reached over to gently pull Elora into a hug, she closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the ceiling. A sharp intake of air filled her lungs. Hold on, love, you pleaded. Please wait for me. It won’t be much longer.  

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

It had taken weeks for you to regain Elora’s trust. Your friend had grown fearful of anyone after creating a prison for herself within both her mind and new flat. After a few visits, you soon learned the true identity of the mysterious (and irritating) Sebastian. The two of you would meet for tea at a small cafe across the street when Elora was taking a nap after a particularly rough afternoon. It was during these talks, you heard more of their story. Sebastian was a licensed security contractor and had met Elora months earlier, before the true mental break. They had both enrolled at a program for grief counselling and coping. As they both had lost someone close to them, the pair had forged a strong connection, which eventually led to Sebastian’s moving in. Where you had failed, he had worked to provide Elora the support and encouragement she had needed to make progress. 

Sebastian shared how, at one point, Elora had allowed herself to join a program for rehabilitation. Whenever she had experienced a particularly rough day, she was injected with medications. The doctors had mentioned to him that it was merely for her depression. However, the two of you knew it was something stronger- something to contain the psychotic breakdowns. 

One day, Elora had reached out to you, which had caught you by surprise. She had wanted to take a trip to the gravesite. “I need to see him,” your friend whispered into the phone. “I think I’m ready.”

When they selected the day, you took a deep breath before climbing the stairs to his flat. There was something you needed before you could go and his room was the only place you could get it. The flat had become covered with dust, yet it still looked the same. Nothing had changed. Even after the day Elora destroyed the kitchen, you had done your best to restore the organised chaos. Their chairs hadn’t been moved. Vials of chemicals lay just as they were left. As you walked towards his bedroom, your eyes caught a glimpse of a rich mahogany. 

It was his violin. 

Unable to help yourself, you traced a finger along the instrument’s body. Eyes closed, you could still make out the beautiful compositions that once filled the building. He had played for you that day...before everything had happened.

“Play for me?” you had asked in a whisper.  

He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t protest as he moved to lift the violin. “What would you like to hear?” 

“Something. Anything?” You closed your eyes as he began to play a hypnotic melody. The few minutes flew by far too quickly and she remembered frowning in disappointment. “Why did you stop?” 

“Still a work in progress,” came the deep muttered response.  

“It sounded beautiful. You’ll need to show me how to play it once it’s done.” 

A piece of paper rubbed against your palm as you moved the violin off of his seat. You frowned and reached over to pick it up. Your eyes took in the various notations speckled about the page. It was a composition of some sort, possibly the work he was composing that night. When you glanced up at the top of the page, a light gasp escaped your lips. It was his handwriting. There was no doubt there. However, the most peculiar thing was how much of the top was scratched out. It was almost illegible to make out what he had originally intended to title the piece. What you could read, though, was unmistakably your name. Was he going to name the piece after you? 

Tears pricked at your eyes as you lifted the instrument to your chin. It didn’t feel right to be using his violin, but you needed to hear it again — feel the rise and fall of the notes in your bones. That magic couldn’t be recreated with your own instrument. You sat there for a while, extending every note with a long tug of the bow. Even when you reached the end of the notation, you couldn’t stop playing. Something had unlocked within you. You needed to do something to let the emotions out. So you did what you thought he would want: compose. 

Using a pencil, you grabbed another stack of blank sheet music and began to fill the staff with your own aches and pains. The violin screamed at times under your touch, but you didn’t care. It was as though you could feel his presence and it angered you. Sadness crashed over you like a wall being smashed to bits. Faster. Harder. Your mind was screaming at you. Now slower, draw out the pain. The bow was in your control and yours alone. It scraped against the strings like a knife slicing through butter, cutting away at your deep-seated sorrow and anger. By the time you had yanked out the final note, your heart already felt lighter. Yet, you still wanted to cry. A mangled sob ripped from your throat and you fell to the floor on your knees as you allowed yourself an opportunity to experience emotions you had long since bottled up. 

You set the violin back on the leather cushion of his chair and made your way into the bedroom a few moments later- his bedroom. There, in the closet, sat his collection of coats. Your fingertips brushed against the navy trench coat and gripped the heavy material. You heaved a deep sigh and slipped it on. It was a bit big, but you didn’t care. It smelled like him and made you feel safe. However, you knew you couldn’t fool yourself for long. This coat was meant for a Holmes’ and you happened to know just the person who was in great need of it. You shrugged off the coat and elected to wrap a simple blue scarf of his around your neck. Your arms secured the coat to your chest as you made your way back to the doorway. 

“I’m not ready to let you go,” you whispered to the empty flat. “But I know I need to. Help me be ready.”

=================================

Author's Note: *emphatic jazz hands* So you decided to venture into the flat for the first time since Sherlock went splat. Brave choice!! It would be an understatement to say I nearly started crying when I was writing this scene. It was loosely inspired by another fic I cannot remember the name/author of for the life of me, but I do remember it had to do with Sherlock teaching the reader how to play the violin. I think the music would have been the best way to connect with our sociopath, but that's just me. I'm a sucker for that trope ;)

As usual, don't forget to drop a like, reblog this work, and leave a comment! This lets me know that you want to see more of this story and gives me the motivation to keep it going. I have a rough idea how I want this story to go, but we've got a long ways to go still. 

I was also curious, when it comes to x reader fics, is it more comfortable to read gender-neutral or do you prefer a certain gendered POV? As I was editing up an upcoming chapter, I realized one topic is going to be a bit of a challenge to approach in a gender-neutral style, so I'm hoping it won't confuse/turn anyone off the fic as it only affects a short arc in the overall plot.

See you next week!

SH Taglist: @ohchoices, @severuined, @southernhippie10198

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years (Sherlock x Reader) - Prologue

Prologue: Year Zero

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) x Watson!Reader

Word Count: 1.5k+

Warnings: Reichenbach. Enough said.

Summary: Takes place from Pre-Reichenbach Fall (S02 E03) to The Final Problem (S04 E03) -- WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS! You had found the love of your life in the most unlikely companion: self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. When he was taken from you much too soon by the clever Jim Moriarty, your whole life is flipped upside down. Old habits die hard, memories of past mistakes come flooding back. What happens when it all becomes too much? Will you ever find happiness again?

Note: This story will be as close to canon as I can make it, but it mainly focuses on the lives of fan-made characters, including the reader (John’s younger sibling) and Elora Holmes (Mycroft and Sherlock’s younger sister, Eurus’ elder). Following the typical trope, the reader and Elora live in 221A — the flat just below the infamous 221B.

“What are you doing?” 

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note.” 

There was a moment of hesitation.   

“It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” 

“Sherlock, no. There has to be another way.” 

“Goodbye...darling.” 

“Sherlock!!” 

Your breath caught as you watched a figure make its way into your field of vision. It couldn’t end like this. After everything the two of you had been through, this was not how your story was supposed to end. Your heart sank to your feet as his body made contact with the concrete down below. Even though it was impossible from your location, you could practically hear the snap of his bones. 

He was gone. 

And there was nothing you could do about it. 

It was like an out-of-body experience. The scream of agony. You and John racing through the street to get to him.

“Sherlock!” you felt your voice cry out, as you neared the increasingly busy scene. People were gathering around the body- his body- taking pictures and murmuring amongst themselves.

“Is that Sherlock Holmes?” 

“He’s dead? Guess he couldn’t handle the pressure.” 

“Accepted he’s been exposed, the bugger.”  

“Riley did a bang-up job in her article. Really showed his true colours.” 

You couldn’t take it. “Shut up,” your voice spoke for you. “Shut up and step away! Let me through.” Pushing past people, you made your way to the body on the concrete, gripping his hand. 

It was cold. It was whiter than usual. It was very much lifeless. The blood pooled around him and streaked across his forehead. You lifted a trembling hand to wipe it clean and close his eyes. It would kill you to see them open. Usually, you would find yourself getting lost in the blue-ish green hues, but you couldn’t bear to take in the dead stare. 

Your brother trailed in shortly after. “Let me through,” he protested. “I’m a doctor and he’s my...he’s my friend.” You heard him clear his throat through tears. “He’s my friend. ”

You glanced up at the top of the building. You knew what awaited you up there, but you couldn’t let yourself think about it. Telling your best friend what happened would kill you even more than the sight currently in front of you. Gripping his hand tightly once again, you let the tears start to stream down your face. 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The funeral procession was small. He didn’t have many friends, but those who mattered were there. They made the time to come not because they wanted to come, but because they knew they owed it to him. To many, Sherlock Holmes was a disagreeable man. His prickly exterior made it difficult for others to get close. Alone was what he had. It was what protected him. 

He may have been strange, but if someone took the time to get to know him, they would see the truth: as much as Sherlock Holmes himself would have hated to admit it, he cared for others. Sometimes, a little too much. You knew that. Hell, you even saw it firsthand. 

Every time you would even try to get close to him, he would just shut you down. His younger sister (your best friend) told you it was because he did care, but you could never shake the feeling that you weren’t enough. Try as you might, he would never see you as you saw him. There wasn’t a chance he would want what you did, anyway. “It wasn’t his area,” he’d say. Relationships were futile. Destined to be over within a week. One could easily find the proof in her brother’s past relationships. A new woman every week. You could never keep up.

That wasn’t what you wanted, though. You wanted something real; you wanted to be able to feel something. The last time you dared give your heart away, it came with unsatisfactory results that sent you packing. You were left to start over, picking up the shattered pieces while telling yourself it was okay. 

Your thoughts drifted to Sherlock’s sister, Elora. That day, you had found her lying unconscious on the rooftop, leg covered and sticky with blood. Apparently, she had gotten shot at some point during the showdown. Ever since, Elora had never been the same. She was more closed off. Other than what was necessary, she would barely talk to anyone. When she did, it was humming and talking to herself.

John had tried to convince you to take her to the hospital, but every time you refused. On the day of his death, you made a promise to look out for Elora. Come what may, you were going to be there to support her. Even if you didn’t know how to at first. 

As the casket was gently placed in the ground, you reached over to squeeze Elora’s hand. No response. 

In an attempt to hold it together, you cleared your throat and stared at the casket. It had a rich dark mahogany exterior with gold accents-- no doubt the best Mycroft could afford. You hadn’t heard much from the eldest brother, besides for the funeral arrangement. The headstone was rather simple. Just a name, no birthdate or death date. John had questioned it in the beginning, but it just felt right. 

Why give the world more information than they need? He had done his service to it, but how did they repay him? They took his name and raked it through the mud. Any tidbit of information sent the media into a spiral. Whatever they could get their hands on, they would use to tarnish the good he’s done. He didn’t deserve that. The world needed to see what you saw; the man behind the stiff and emotionless mask. 

How you wished the coffin would be empty. You wished it was just a dream; a dream where you could just wake up and he’d be there. He’d let out some quick-witted response about how your appearance indicated you would go to bed alone or end up eating chilli. You didn’t care how berating his comments were. As long as it meant he was there - alive- you’d be happy. You just missed him .

Heaving a sigh, you were about to move your hand when you felt the sensation of a faint squeeze. “He loved you,” Elora’s faint voice said. “He didn’t show it, but he did.”

Three little words. That’s all it took to break a person. You closed your eyes to slow the tears before they came rushing out. Elora could never know, neither could John. It was a secret you’d take to both of their graves...because you knew it wasn’t true. 

John had been on the phone for a while now. Every so often, he would remove the mobile from his ear and stare up at the rooftop. The rooftop where he was standing. “Alright, stop it,” he shouted. “Stop it now!” His eyes closed for a brief moment. There was a period of silence before he glanced in your direction. “I’m not the one you want to talk to, am I?” 

Another period of silence.  

A second later, John’s phone was thrust in front of you. You gave your brother a confused look, but when you didn’t receive a response, you shrugged and lifted it to your ear. “Hello?” 

“Darling, whatever happens next,” Sherlock’s voice said in your ear, “I want you to know it’ll be okay. Just keep your eyes fixed on me,” You could hear him attempting to keep it steady. “Please, will you do this for me?” 

“Do what?” you remember asking. “What’s going on, Sherlock?” 

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” 

The mobile phone in your hand almost slipped to the ground. “Leave a no-note when?”  

“I-,” he started. You could have sworn you heard a sniffle. “I’m truly sorry. All of it was a lie. Every single thing I said since we’ve met has been a lie.”  

"What are you talking about?” 

“I’m a fake. Nothing but a fraud.” 

"Bullocks.” You clenched your hands into fists, angered by what you were hearing. “Don’t think I’ll believe any of that for one second. How else would you know about the debt?” You lowered your voice. “Or-or the scars?” 

“The internet. I used Elora’s computer to hack into your records. I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. I- I just wanted to impress you. Nobody could be that clever.” 

“No one except for you.” 

“It’s a trick, Watson,” his voice was breaking now. “ Just a magic trick.” 

You couldn’t take much more. The tears were already flowing and you didn’t bother stopping them. You couldn’t lose another person close to you. Not again. Even if he treated you like utter rubbish sometimes, you couldn’t lose him. “Sherlock, no. There has to be another way.” 

“Goodbye, darling.” 

“Sherlock!!” 

Just before the line disconnected, you detected a hesitation. He never hesitated. Then, out of nowhere, came the words you never once expected to hear. They were so faint, you still swear you only imagined them. Maybe you did. Maybe it was all in your head. However, you can still hear his deep voice whisper to you – sharing a secret only the two of you would know...  “I...I love you.” 

Then, he jumped...and left you alone all over again.

“W hat are you doing?” 

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note.” 

There was a moment of hesitation.   

“It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” 

“Sherlock, no. There has to be another way.” 

“Goodbye...darling.” 

“Sherlock!!” 

Your breath caught as you watched a figure make its way into your field of vision. It couldn’t end like this. After everything the two of you had been through, this was not how your story was supposed to end. Your heart sank to your feet as his body made contact with the concrete down below. Even though it was impossible from your location, you could practically hear the snap of his bones. 

He was gone. 

And there was nothing you could do about it. 

It was like an out-of-body experience. The scream of agony. You and John racing through the street to get to him.

“Sherlock!” you felt your voice cry out, as you neared the increasingly busy scene. People were gathering around the body- his body- taking pictures and murmuring amongst themselves.

“Is that Sherlock Holmes?” 

“He’s dead? Guess he couldn’t handle the pressure.” 

“Accepted he’s been exposed, the bugger.”  

“Riley did a bang-up job in her article. Really showed his true colours.” 

You couldn’t take it. “Shut up,” your voice spoke for you. “Shut up and step away! Let me through.” Pushing past people, you made your way to the body on the concrete, gripping his hand. 

It was cold. It was whiter than usual. It was very much lifeless. The blood pooled around him and streaked across his forehead. You lifted a trembling hand to wipe it clean and close his eyes. It would kill you to see them open. Usually, you would find yourself getting lost in the blue-ish green hues, but you couldn’t bear to take in the dead stare. 

Your brother trailed in shortly after. “Let me through,” he protested. “I’m a doctor and he’s my...he’s my friend.” You heard him clear his throat through tears. “He’s my friend. ”

You glanced up at the top of the building. You knew what awaited you up there, but you couldn’t let yourself think about it. Telling your best friend what happened would kill you even more than the sight currently in front of you. Gripping his hand tightly once again, you let the tears start to stream down your face. 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The funeral procession was small. He didn’t have many friends, but those who mattered were there. They made the time to come not because they wanted to come, but because they knew they owed it to him. To many, Sherlock Holmes was a disagreeable man. His prickly exterior made it difficult for others to get close. Alone was what he had. It was what protected him. 

He may have been strange, but if someone took the time to get to know him, they would see the truth: as much as Sherlock Holmes himself would have hated to admit it, he cared for others. Sometimes, a little too much. You knew that. Hell, you even saw it firsthand. 

Every time you would even try to get close to him, he would just shut you down. His younger sister (your best friend) told you it was because he did care, but you could never shake the feeling that you weren’t enough. Try as you might, he would never see you as you saw him. There wasn’t a chance he would want what you did, anyway. “It wasn’t his area,” he’d say. Relationships were futile. Destined to be over within a week. One could easily find the proof in her brother’s past relationships. A new woman every week. You could never keep up.

That wasn’t what you wanted, though. You wanted something real; you wanted to be able to feel something. The last time you dared give your heart away, it came with unsatisfactory results that sent you packing. You were left to start over, picking up the shattered pieces while telling yourself it was okay. 

Your thoughts drifted to Sherlock’s sister, Elora. That day, you had found her lying unconscious on the rooftop, leg covered and sticky with blood. Apparently, she had gotten shot at some point during the showdown. Ever since, Elora had never been the same. She was more closed off. Other than what was necessary, she would barely talk to anyone. When she did, it was humming and talking to herself.

John had tried to convince you to take her to the hospital, but every time you refused. On the day of his death, you made a promise to look out for Elora. Come what may, you were going to be there to support her. Even if you didn’t know how to at first. 

As the casket was gently placed in the ground, you reached over to squeeze Elora’s hand. No response. 

In an attempt to hold it together, you cleared your throat and stared at the casket. It had a rich dark mahogany exterior with gold accents-- no doubt the best Mycroft could afford. You hadn’t heard much from the eldest brother, besides for the funeral arrangement. The headstone was rather simple. Just a name, no birthdate or death date. John had questioned it in the beginning, but it just felt right. 

Why give the world more information than they need? He had done his service to it, but how did they repay him? They took his name and raked it through the mud. Any tidbit of information sent the media into a spiral. Whatever they could get their hands on, they would use to tarnish the good he’s done. He didn’t deserve that. The world needed to see what you saw; the man behind the stiff and emotionless mask. 

How you wished the coffin would be empty. You wished it was just a dream; a dream where you could just wake up and he’d be there. He’d let out some quick-witted response about how your appearance indicated you would go to bed alone or end up eating chilli. You didn’t care how berating his comments were. As long as it meant he was there - alive- you’d be happy. You just missed him .

Heaving a sigh, you were about to move your hand when you felt the sensation of a faint squeeze. “He loved you,” Elora’s faint voice said. “He didn’t show it, but he did.”

Three little words. That’s all it took to break a person. You closed your eyes to slow the tears before they came rushing out. Elora could never know, neither could John. It was a secret you’d take to both of their graves...because you knew it wasn’t true. 

John had been on the phone for a while now. Every so often, he would remove the mobile from his ear and stare up at the rooftop. The rooftop where he was standing. “Alright, stop it,” he shouted. “Stop it now!” His eyes closed for a brief moment. There was a period of silence before he glanced in your direction. “I’m not the one you want to talk to, am I?” 

Another period of silence.  

A second later, John’s phone was thrust in front of you. You gave your brother a confused look, but when you didn’t receive a response, you shrugged and lifted it to your ear. “Hello?” 

“Darling, whatever happens next,” Sherlock’s voice said in your ear, “I want you to know it’ll be okay. Just keep your eyes fixed on me,” You could hear him attempting to keep it steady. “Please, will you do this for me?” 

“Do what?” you remember asking. “What’s going on, Sherlock?” 

“This phone call – it’s, er ... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?” 

The mobile phone in your hand almost slipped to the ground. “Leave a no-note when?”  

“I-,” he started. You could have sworn you heard a sniffle. “I’m truly sorry. All of it was a lie. Every single thing I said since we’ve met has been a lie.”  

"What are you talking about?” 

“I’m a fake. Nothing but a fraud.” 

"Bullocks.” You clenched your hands into fists, angered by what you were hearing. “Don’t think I’ll believe any of that for one second. How else would you know about the debt?” You lowered your voice. “Or-or the scars?” 

“The internet. I used Elora’s computer to hack into your records. I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you. I- I just wanted to impress you. Nobody could be that clever.” 

“No one except for you.” 

“It’s a trick, Watson,” his voice was breaking now. “ Just a magic trick.” 

You couldn’t take much more. The tears were already flowing and you didn’t bother stopping them. You couldn’t lose another person close to you. Not again. Even if he treated you like utter rubbish sometimes, you couldn’t lose him. “Sherlock, no. There has to be another way.” 

“Goodbye, darling.” 

“Sherlock!!” 

Just before the line disconnected, you detected a hesitation. He never hesitated. Then, out of nowhere, came the words you never once expected to hear. They were so faint, you still swear you only imagined them. Maybe you did. Maybe it was all in your head. However, you can still hear his deep voice whisper to you – sharing a secret only the two of you would know...  “I...I love you.” 

Then, he jumped...and left you alone all over again.

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

Author's Note: Hey there, this project has been an ongoing experiment for me about a year now. The idea came to mind after long conversations with a good friend (and fellow Sherlockian) of mine when we did our first watch-through of the series. We wondered what life would be like during the hiatus between TRF and TEH (something we saw in the mini-sode on YouTube: Many Happy Returns). I do promise that all Trigger Warnings, if applicable, will be at the beginning of every chapter, as to allow for maximum comfort and enjoyment for everyone. BBC Sherlock will hold a special spot in my heart and I really hope to do the characters justice!

I also want to provide a thank you to Ariane DeVere on LiveJournal for putting up the episode transcripts for the entire Sherlock series, which has made my writing process a little bit easier to manage. Don’t forget to leave a heart, comment, and a reblog if you want to see more of this story! :)

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years (Sherlock x Reader) - Chapter 8

| | Masterlist | |

Chapter 8: Evergone

"In your hopes and dreams, in your memories, in the songs we sing, in the ones we leave. We carry on where no one is ever gone" -Christina Perri (evergone)

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) x Watson!Reader

Word Count: 3.2k+

Warnings: IMPORTANT TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of miscarriage, description of pregnancy, mentions of abusive/toxic relationship

Summary: Sitting in the park with Elora, It's time for you to finally confront and open up about just what happened to send you spiraling over the edge. But can she finally help you let go and look toward a future that seems far less dark?

Author's Note: I just want to provide a solid warning to readers, as it's been a while since the last chapter (please go back and read chapter 7 if you haven't already! -- masterlist is coming soon, I promise!): there is a description of miscarriage, although, it may not be entirely accurate. Given the current situation within the United States, I thought it was important to mention the importance of knowing your options if you are ever faced with a situation like this...and stay safe!

Just when you think you’re safest, the world crumbles beneath your feet. When Elora found you, you were perched in front of a park water fountain with a heaving chest. You had no clue how long you had been running. Hours, minutes, seconds. . .they had all just flown by without meaning. The only thing you could do was stare silently at the water flowing against the structure. It all looked so tranquil, a luxury you hadn’t been able to afford for the past year and a half. 

You heard Elora call your name again, much softer this time. When you didn’t respond, you felt the weight of something heavy against your shoulders. It was followed by a gentle touch on your arm. In the time you had known Elora Holmes, she wasn’t entirely known to be sentimental. Yet here the two of you were, sitting silently in a park, wishing you could turn back time to get someone back that meant the world to you. It should have been easy to talk to her. She was his sister, for God’s sake, and she had a right to know. You just couldn’t bring yourself to let the story fall from your lips.

 “You lost it,” your friend said after a while. 

Tears welled up in your eyes as you stared out at the water feature, motionless. 

“You lost it,” she continued, “and no one was there for you. I wasn’t there for you.” Her voice faded to a whisper. “That’s why you were on the roof.”

Warm beads of tears trickled down your cheeks, leaving cold trails against your skin in their wake. Once you broke the floodgates, there was no stopping the obnoxious sobs that ripped from your throat again. The two of you sat there as you let out all of the pain, grief, and anger you had kept hidden away for so long. 

“What happened?” Elora pressed again, gentler this time.

A hiccup escaped your lips as you wiped your nose with the back of your hand, careful not to mess up the woollen Belstaff coat. “Sometimes,” you started in a quiet and raspy voice. It was a tone you hadn’t heard from yourself in a long time and it scared you. “Sometimes there’s only so long before your past catches up with you.”

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~ 

You had been sitting in the urgent care unit for some time now, a packet of ice against your face when it first happened. The thrumming pain across your body caused you to ache in ways you hadn’t experienced since before you left America. You were confident that it had had something to do with Xavier’s reaction, but Greg had still insisted that he bring you to hospital after the attack. After everything that had transpired, he wanted you to get checked out. “You know,” he had tried to be delicate, “with the baby and all that.” 

On the car ride over, he had asked you questions about life before London. You knew he didn’t mean to push or pry, but he wanted to keep you safe. Safety was but an after-thought for you now. Sure, you were scared, also saddened, by the experiences. Your only concern was making sure you could survive long enough to bring this new life into the world. Anything else was unimportant.

Upon initial physical inspection, the nurses said everything had looked fine. Given your condition, they wanted to run some additional checks- make sure there were no other reasons for concern. While you waited, you thought about your freedom and Xavier’s promise of a less-than-happy reunion in the future. Maybe it really could be over, you thought to yourself. Maybe this is the fresh start I needed. The idea almost brought a full smile to your face. 

Later that day, you were walking along the streets of London with two pints of paint swinging in your arms. You had hoped to catch a cab, but you weren’t having much luck. During the warm summer months, it was almost impossible to hail one in the rush of tourists. After helping Greg with the case, he suggested you go home and take care of yourself. Your brilliant idea? Begin to redecorate the spare room in your flat. You had settled on a neutral cool grey tone for the walls. It was something simple which matched well with the mouldings you just had redone, courtesy of Uncle Mycroft. If you were going to be welcoming a baby into the fray, it was better to be over- than under-prepared.  

Regardless of the events earlier that day, you couldn’t prevent the small skip in your step as you went through the streets. With Moriarty dead and Xavier currently held in custody, you had a bit of relief knowing you and your growing family would be safer.  You still just wished the people you cared for the most would be there for you during that time. 

John was still radio silent. He had no idea what changes were happening in your life. In fact, you were pretty sure if you told him what had happened, there would be more blood on the pavement. Xavier wouldn’t stand a chance for his attack and Sherlock. . .even if he had been alive, he would have soon been a dead man walking. He hadn’t known about how serious the relationship between you and your private detective really was. John wasn’t a complete idiot. He had noticed Sherlock’s acceptance of your gentle touches against his arm and shoulders. One time he mentioned how he had never seen his flatmate be so open with someone, half-joking that maybe you should switch places with him in 221B.

“I’m not sure what it is,” John remarked, “but he’s quite taken with you, Pip.”

You had merely scoffed and shook your head with a shrug. “I think it’s just the Watson genes.”

“Oh, please. I’m a Watson and he hasn’t been treating me like I’m serving him tea and biscuits with the bloody Queen!”

As you crossed the street, your gaze continued to shift constantly. Life with the Holmes’ taught you to always be vigilant. With the recent encounter with your past fresh in your mind, you didn’t want to take any chances. Though scary, it was a helpful reminder that you still had enemies in the world. Sherlock and Elora Holmes were some of the most powerful and genius people in London; it was no surprise they had an enemy list the length of the abandoned London Docklands. When their battle with Moriarty took a turn for the worse, the ever-faithful Watsons were fortunate to inherit the enemies they left in their wake. 

It meant you were always on edge. Even though you knew Xavier would be locked behind bars until a trial, you got a sickening feeling in your stomach as you neared a bus stop that you weren’t entirely safe. Shadows took on minds of their own, morphing into tall frightening stalkers. Whispered voices of pedestrians in the street turned into plans to attack you when you least expected it. As you were about to step onto the bus, your heart stopped and you felt a burning sensation flood your body. You had never felt anything quite like it before; it bloomed in your stomach and shot throughout your system like lightning. A shaky cry left your lips as you sank onto the transport step.

The sympathetic voice of the nurse barely registered to you as she told you what you had already suspected. You weren’t an idiot. John was a doctor and he shared the risks of what could happen with you years ago. It had always felt like something you needed to prepare to help someone else through. But now that it was happening to you, you just felt. . .nothing. You felt hollow, as though you were living in a shell of your former self or another person’s body. For the third time in your life, you had seen the world crash down around you. 

The empty feeling inside of you sent you spinning in a downward spiral. Walking into your lonely flat to see the assembly kit of a cradle didn’t help matters, either. Everywhere you looked at Baker Street, there was some reminder of your failures. You were constantly reminded of how you were truly alone. There would be no fixing this loss. You could never bring them back. Second chances didn’t exist for you and the thought of losing your last tie to Sherlock. . .

It was all too much. You didn’t care what happened to you any more. Not long after you had received the devastating news, you had sought comfort in the form of little orange pill bottles. It was your new escape; you didn’t need to think about the problems of the world. The only concern you had was making it to see another sunrise, even though there were some days where even that felt pointless.

As you relieved the memories, Elora sat with you in front of the fountain. Her hand gently rubbed circles against your back as a form of comfort. It was rare to see a Holmes sibling express any emotion. However, given the hell you had both experienced over the last year, it was safe to say things were different now. The two of you had grown in a variety of ways. You weren’t the same people you were before his death or when you moved in together all those years ago. It was something that you were grateful for. Having been alone for so long, the presence of another person- especially someone close to him- made a world of difference. You weren’t looking for sympathy, nor did you desire any sort of pity. The comforting silence that enveloped the two of you into your own personal bubble was enough. 

“You didn’t fail him,” Elora allowed the words to leave her lips slowly after a while of people watching. Much like you, she had been lost in her own thoughts. You didn’t blame her; it was a lot of information to process. “You were trying to protect yourself. The stress must have been-”

“Don’t,” you cautioned as you caused your ex-flatmate to subconsciously flinch. Your eyes pricked with the promise of impending tears. Realising your mistake, you apologised profusely. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to be like that. It’s just. . .it’s been getting easier and easier to fall down that rabbit hole again.”

Even though you knew she didn’t mean it to be, Elora was taking you down a familiar path – one that had left you to grow distant after tragedy. Others tried to explain the causes to you. What had happened to your- to Sherlock’s- child wasn’t your fault, they said. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it. The stress from seeing Xavier created an excess in adrenaline. A chemical imbalance can be catastrophic to a foetus, especially one so young. Even with the facts and scientific evidence right in front of you, it was incredibly easy to take responsibility for what happened. It had taken some time, but after putting Elora first in your life, you started to be able to move on. Now that you needed to confront it again, the urge to fall back into old habits was becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore. 

“Hey,” Elora looked up and away from you while she removed her hand from your back. “There’s, uh, something. . .from my group- Seb and I’s group, I mean- that might be worth trying.” 

When you glanced over at her, you watched as she ruffled through a bag you didn’t recognise on her person before. She must have grabbed it after you fled like a coward. It was a worn grey leather with tears in random spaces. The buckles were dull in serious need of replacement, but out of sentiment, she hadn’t bothered to fix them – another out-of-character act. As Elora opened another flap to pull out a grey notebook, that’s when you caught sight of a singular embroidered name: Holmes. It was common for primary school students to have their names stitched on personal belongings, providing a way to end the stealing of another child’s item in class. However, given the fact that it had been decades since any of you had been in a primary classroom. . .

“Is that his?” You hadn’t meant to pry, but you couldn’t mask your curiosity for long. 

Elora went silent for a moment, gaze transfixed upon the book she had been about to hand you merely moments prior. “I found it in an old box of things from our flat,” she replied with a nod, voice as gentle as a falling feather. “I don’t know why it was still there or why I would have even thought to have kept the rubbish old thing.” A sad smile flickered across her features. “I suppose I just thought it might be nice to have. . .something. It’s been nice because now I have somewhere to carry my chemicals without Sebastian always berating me over it.”

You couldn’t stop the snort that escaped your lips. “Glad to see some things never change.”

Elora nodded again, although she barely agreed with your amusement. She slid the notebook into your lap soundlessly. “There was this exercise we needed to do in order to complete the program,” she explained. “We needed to write a letter. We could burn it if we wanted to, but it was meant to help us let things go. I think. . .it might help you. . .with everything.” 

“Oh.” At first, you weren’t sure if you should take up the offer. This wouldn’t be the first time you had written a letter. The last time you had put pen to paper, you had been contemplating a much darker task. Although, you had never written to the dead before. You reached over to slide the notebook Elora offered further into your lap. “How did you start yours?”

The younger Holmes hesitated. “I honestly can’t remember that much,” she answered with a grim smile. 

“Deleted it?”

“Uh, no. No, actually. The, uh, the memories haven’t been so. . .good recently.” Elora looked out to the group of people walking by the fountain. There was a couple with their daughter, about five. She was smiling as her parents lifted her into the air by her arms. They were happy, a feeling that was clearly elusive to you and the woman beside you. “You know I can’t even make deductions anymore?” A sad chuckle escaped her lips. “It’s all noise now. I’m just as pathetic as the rest of you ordinary lot.”

“Hey, being ordinary isn’t all that bad.”

“It is. It’s all sentiment and emotion. . .and people.” Elora made a face at that. “How did you ever manage to survive in that office? Graham is an utter idiot, Donovan is a pain in my arse, and Anderson. . .”

You smiled a bit at your friend’s reactions. “Philip isn’t entirely that bad now-”

“Oh, Philip is it? I swear if you move onto him after my brother,” Elora warned, “you truly are an idiot.”

Even though she meant no harm, you couldn’t stop the flinch. “I could never replace Sher- your brother. I really. . .I really think I loved him with all of my heart. What we had wasn’t ideal, but it was something I can’t have with anyone else.”

“That.”

You frowned and knit your eyebrows together. “What?”

“What you just said,” Elora urged. “Write that. Tell him everything.”

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~ 

My Dearest Love Sherlock,

Writing this may be the hardest thing I ever have to do. Well, that’s not entirely true, is it? That would probably be watching you be taken to the morgue, where I needed to be called in to confirm it was you. Elora couldn’t do it, seeing as she was in the hospital. John. . .I don’t understand where his mind was at. It always had to be me. Anyway, I’m getting off topic here. Why is this so hard? Because I have to say goodbye. 

Elora gave me this notebook if you’d believe it. She told me it’s time to let you go. I’ve suffered enough- we both have. It’s not fair that our story had to come to an end. But it did. I want you to know that I will always love you, though. Even if you were an arrogant arsehole who never knew when to shut up and not show off, I still loved you. No one will ever be able to replace you. Not that like, you cocky bastard. You would roll your eyes at me, but there is this void in my heart now.  You have the piece that’s missing and I don’t ever want it back. I want you to keep it – it’ll be like a part of me that only you will ever get to see. 

I’m sorry I couldn’t bring our little one into the world. I suppose, in part, this letter is for them, too. They deserve to know their parents would have loved them. Even if Daddy wouldn’t have been here, I would have done my best to make sure you were happy. You want to know the saddest part, Sherlock? Every morning I woke up, I would think about how you would have been with children. Probably atrocious, but we could have worked on that. It wouldn’t have been long before he or she had you wrapped around their chubby little fingers. When they were a bit older, maybe we could have had them in a wedding ceremony if we ever decided to make it official. A mini ring bearer or flower girl that was your duplicate. Wouldn’t that have been something?! 

But in the end, it was only a dream. That happily ever after wasn’t in the cards for us. 

I can’t change what happened. I can’t bring you back. The only thing I can do is tell you I love you and I’m sorry. Our story shouldn’t have ended this way. But it’s time to begin a new chapter. I think I deserve that much, don’t you? I’ll do what you would have wanted; I’ll be brave, I’ll be strong.

You always said sentiment was a chemical defect often found on the losing side. I guess I’m about to lose pretty hard then, hm? Maybe we both did. I’ll forever love you, my darling. I hope you rest easy. I hope we both can, actually. Thank you for making me a better person; for turning me into the person I’ve always wanted to be. 

I love you.

You signed your name with a flourish and folded the cream-coloured stationary to fit within the envelope. There was a moment’s hesitation before you decided to pick up one of the slippery sonogram images in your hand. You grabbed the pen and in your fanciest penmanship, you scrawled the words Rowan Spencer Watson-Holmes across the bottom white outline before slipping it into the envelope as well. Walking up the stairs into his flat to deliver the note was actually the easy part; the leaving proved to be much more difficult. You weren’t just leaving behind a letter, you were choosing to put a life behind you that had meant so much. Your story with Sherlock may not have had the happiest of endings, but it did create an opportunity for a new story to begin. 

You just needed to be able to have the strength to turn to the next page.

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

Author's note: My lovely little sparks!! I'm so sorry it's been so long since the last chapter. Life got super busy and I needed to play catch up on writing new chapters. I'm in the middle of editing the next chapter, but will complete it after my week-long writing hiatus. Hopefully it'll be up next Tuesday, but we may need to wait a week. So sorry to leave you in suspense...kinda.

This chapter was really bittersweet for me as we finally got to understand everything that happened for our reader over the last year or so since Sherlock "died." They're finally getting ready to move on and head into the next chapter -- maybe they'll allow themselves to find happiness with something else...or rather, someone else. *wink*

As usual, if you enjoyed this chapter, make sure to leave a comment and a reblog! Likes are nice, but it's the reblogs that really help a writer like me out. The Last Three Years is one of my least popular offerings on this blog, and I'd really like to change that. You can help me by reblogging and tagging your friends in the comments! <3

One last announcement, if you want to keep up with the latest updates on this series and any of my other works, head on over to my new sideblog -- @frostandflamesthoughts!

Until next time, lovely little sparks!

SH Taglist: @ohchoices, @severuined @southernhippie10198, @bakerstreethound

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years (Sherlock x Reader) - Chapter 7

| | Masterlist | |

Chapter 7: Anybody Else

"How could I be so dumb? I'd say, 'run,' to anybody else. [It's] easy when it's anybody else...so tell me why I stay?" -Faouzia (Anybody Else)

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) x Watson!Reader

Word Count: 3.9k+ (hopefully this makes up for the delay!)

Warnings: IMPORTANT TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of miscarriage, description of abusive/toxic relationship, non-graphic violence

Summary: Like everyone, you had some skeletons in your closet. You never thought your past would catch up with you. . .until it did. As you sit with Elora in the park, you begin to reminisce over a moment of tragedy during the faintest time of hope.

Author's Note: To preface this chapter...it's a doozy. Not going to sugarcoat it, I started writing this chapter during a really difficult time in my life and just used it as a sounding board. I've since had a change in lifestyle and am in a much better place right now, but I want to provide a warning because the character of Xavier can be a very triggering one for many readers.

“So you were pregnant?” Elora’s face contorted into a wide-eyed frown. Her left eyebrow lifted ever-so-slightly in disbelief. Her shaking hands crossed across her chest.

You felt your head bobbing up and down in silent nod. It was really the first time you were telling another soul about this secret. Well, one of many secrets. Your gaze darted about the flat, an anxious tick that allowed you to avoid making eye contact with your previous flat-mate. After what had happened, you couldn’t think about fully coming to terms with it. It only made you feel more and more like a failure each time.

“What happened?” You hated that she asked that question. It was obvious Elora already knew the answer. She just wanted to hear you say it out loud. She wanted you to break.

“I, um,” you started. “I. . .” Your breath caught in your throat. Sweat coated your palms as you began to lose your nerve. Anxiety took over your every thought and you could feel the panic course through your veins. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

The coat fell from your grasp onto the floor as you got up and bolted out the door. Elora’s voice came from behind you, calling your name. But you couldn’t go back. You just needed to clear your head. 

You needed air. 

You needed to be able to breathe. 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~ 

The truth was that you had thought you understood love years ago, back when you belonged to another. Strange as it sounded, you were a lone traveller in a distant land. The random sneers and dirty looks from passersby as you attempted to navigate through Beantown felt like daggers. A few months into your degree, you had met him: Xavier. It was clear he was studying political science. His words were always so calming. Any time you were afraid, he would be there to make things right again. When you had finally agreed to go out on a date with him, it had started almost too perfectly. He would take you to dinner, give you small gifts to show his appreciation. It was difficult at times, though, as the paparazzi seemed to find you both wherever you went in the city. 

Nevertheless, he had given you a home, a place to call your own in an ever-foreign country. He promised that no matter where you went, he would always find you and bring you back home to him. The world of fame and fortune that you had initially been able to hide from became a constant in your life. You had grown accustomed to the flashbulbs as his name became more common on the ballots. Even when he had proposed, it was sudden at a political rival’s charity hall. The simple wedding of your dreams vanished almost overnight. Instead, you were met with the lush luxuries of an expensive reception filled with people you had never even met before. 

Even the attire felt like too...much. You had to admit the lace backing of the design was gorgeous in its own right, but it wasn’t your mother’s dress. It wasn’t personal enough for you. There weren’t any personalised place cards with a specific flower attached for each of the guests. Nobody had a truly sappy and embarrassing speech about you or Xavier at the reception that would instantly make you feel like you were a part of his family. Ice sculptures littered the surrounding area, dripping onto the floor and blocking any hope of partygoers seeing the arrangements you had wanted. Hell, your own brother and sister weren’t even invited! 

When you initially approached Xavier about inviting your family, he would become defensive. He would explain how he felt uncomfortable having them there. “They wouldn’t truly understand how to interact with the guests, darling,” he coaxed. 

When you had argued against the calmly-delivered insult, Xavier had merely waved his hand. “I know, sweetheart, but this isn’t just about us. If we don’t invite Senator Jackson, I can kiss the election goodbye. We can always have another party just for them. Close friends and family. Doesn’t that sound better?”

Yet, you still couldn’t complain. It was the life almost every young person dreamt about, complete with your own personal prince. You would have felt ridiculous to turn him down after everything he had done for you. It was almost as if you had owed him even the smallest things to be happy. So you did what he wanted: you altered your appearance, limited your interactions with others, and fully became part of his social circle. She would smile for the cameras, waving when necessary. The fake persona would become a mask. You were no longer the same person you were when you arrived. 

One point, early on in your relationship with Xavier, you had managed to speak with John during his service. He had been pleasantly surprised to hear that you were engaged, even more so that you had gotten married. 

“Isn’t it a bit sudden?” he had asked. “Haven’t you just met him?” 

“I suppose,” you relented. “But he really has been amazing. I barely needed to lift a finger– all the planning was done in a few weeks. Even the tiny salad forks were chosen by someone else. And you should have seen where we went on-” 

“Yeah, that’s all well and good, Pip,” John cut you off with an old childhood nickname. “You have the fancy objects and the high-end homes. But are you…happy?” 

You had hesitated at that moment, but you weren’t sure why. “Of course.” In hindsight, you should have immediately said yes. You were practically living in paradise, why couldn’t you say yes? Something had been holding you back even then. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

There was a brief period of silent static as John paused to reply. “I’m not sure. But as your big brother, you know it’s my job to make sure you’re happy. I don’t want to hear you’re happy and find out later that you were lying to be accepted. Otherwise I’ll need to make a special trip back to teach my new brother-in-law a lesson neither of us will forget.” 

“John!” 

“I’m only saying that you really need to think about-” 

Astonished, you had hung up the phone in anger. John had called a few more times in a row afterwards, which caused Xavier to frown at the phone. “Is he calling again?” 

You gave a short nod. “Uh, yes,” you tutted out. 

He gave a short hum in response. You had known him long enough to know what certain sounds meant coming from his mouth. “I thought you just spoke with him.”

“I did.”

“ Oh. ”

Concerned, you frowned at your fiance. “What’s the matter?”

Another noncommittal noise left his lips. “It’s nothing, darling, I’m sure. It just seems a bit clingy of John. . .doesn’t it?”

To say you were surprised would have been an understatement. You just sat there in slight shock. “It wasn’t clingy of him to do,” you started. “We just had an argument-”

“Maybe he should be more considerate when he calls,” Xavier cut you off. “Surely he doesn’t expect you to pick up all the time. Especially after he got you upset. You need time to decompress.”

As brief and heated as the conversation was, the brotherly advice from John was enough to make you start questioning things. It was true there were days that you had begun to miss the person you once were. What had happened to the person who always spoke up for themselves, not giving a damn when someone tried to change your actions? Where did the early morning teacups get replaced by soap-streaked coffee mugs and rainy days? You would think back to the carefree days at your family home in the country, where you were truly happy regardless of the circumstances. You, John, and Harry didn’t have the fanciest of childhoods, but you made do. Your parents did what they could to provide for the three of you, but there were days the strain became too much. To make matters “easier,” Harry had decided to move out as soon as possible. John followed soon after, carrying on your father’s legacy within the military as you were left behind to be the baby yet again. 

Having nowhere else to go, you stayed with your parents for as long as possible. When they eventually passed on, you had promised yourself that you wouldn't stay in one place for too long. Instead, you would find someone who would give you what you needed. They would be your missing half and travel with you on incredible adventures. 

At first, Xavier had given you a chance to make good on that vow. He took you to a variety of beautiful and exotic locations, though it was mostly for him to improve his publicity. Looking back, there were so many warning signs you had missed. If you could have gone back, you wished you could shake some sense into your past self and tell them there was someone out there, but you were too late to save them.  

With Xavier, it wasn’t until after the wedding that you realised your first mistake was saying hello. As time went on, his trust with you began to fade. He had started to trap you in a house with nowhere to escape. Your mind became a prison filled with the lies he would continue to scream at you:

“You’re not good enough.” 

“You are nothing but a worthless piece of garbage.” 

"You only have me to trust... Remember that right?" 

“The world is dangerous,” he would say. “You're always going to be with me. I won't ever hurt you and I’ll make sure no one else does, either." Again and again and again he would say this; the comforting phrase would escape his lips every time after hurting you. It was an endless cycle, one you couldn't ever escape from. You had been stranded- both literally and figuratively- far from everything you used to know and completely powerless against it all. 

The first scare you ever had with Xavier had left you praying for a miracle. It had been a late night out at the library -- the only place you were able to find true peace. The smell of the leatherbound novels and the crisp pages against your fingertips fueled your curiosity as you turned to the next page. It would be your escape from the harsh reality you were forced to live with every day. You had been so entranced by the paperback world that you failed to realise the time. By the time you had arrived back at your shared home, he was waiting. . .and fuming. 

He never believed you when you assured him it was only the library. “What’s the use of going to a library?” he would exclaim. “You were somewhere else. Just tell me where and we won’t have any problems. The last thing my campaign needs is rumours about a cheating spouse.”

Then you heard the snap. 

All you wanted was a way out. You didn’t want to be exposed to your husband’s cruelty any longer. John had been involved in the war at the time with no way to reach him. You had had no other friends, a consequence of marrying so soon after university and Xavier cutting off any other outside communications. He didn’t want to risk losing you. He had staked his claim to you right from the start. You had been his and his alone. 

You had been trapped in the darkness with any hope for light at all snuffed out the instant it sparked. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

When you slipped out the door that morning, you had the worst feeling crawling up your spine. It wasn’t until you had crossed over to North Gower Street that you noticed the black vehicle creeping up behind you. You tried your best to double back, praying that you would confuse the driver. Surely, it was a coincidence. 

“There are no such things as coincidences,” Sherlock’s voice snapped in your mind. “The universe is hardly ever that lazy. Pay attention to your surroundings. Be aware .”

As you slipped onto a busy street, you heard the car door open and slam. That was your sign. Someone was most definitely following you. The paparazzi tailing you had been one thing- you could distinguish their random shutter clicks and deliberate steps into the shadows. But this? This was different. The pattern was much calmer, the footfalls of this mysterious stranger were getting closer. Even when you quickened your pace, you could still hear them behind. 

You knew you had to think fast. Glancing around, you noticed a street leading into an abandoned alley corner. The fire escape ladder had been drawn to the ground, providing a potential escape route if push came to shove. Your hand slipped into your jacket pocket to fondle the handle of the gun. If things got too out of hand, you could easily attack and claim self-defence. What else could you do? You were pregnant, for God’s sake! Yet, something in you refrained from pulling the trigger. No, you tried to console yourself. Don’t let it escalate. Just be mindful and keep yourself safe.  

The footsteps drew closer to your hiding place and suddenly ceased. Your breath caught in your throat. You knew you needed to be careful when it came to celebrating your good fortune preemptively. 

That’s when you heard the voice. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Xavier’s vaguely familiar accent dripped with an artificial sweetness. “You can come out now. You know there’s no use fighting it anymore. I’ve got you.” 

Your knees threatened to give out as you pressed your back against the brick exterior. Not him, a voice in the back of your mind screamed. This can’t be happening.  

“You have no one else to protect you,” he continued. “No brother, no police. Not even your precious detective and his adorable little sister.” You heard his footsteps draw nearer. “Let me look at you. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? I know every single thing that you do. Honey, I own you. That includes that little bundle of joy.”

You knew he was right. After your time together, there was nothing you could do that would truly take Xavier by surprise. He knew you too well. You allowed a quick prayer of strength to be muttered under your breath before your hand gripped onto the gun and you sprung from your hiding spot. “Why are you following me?” you called out, the barrel of the weapon steadily aimed at his temple. 

Xavier appeared unaffected. He took a step forward and tilted his head to the side. “The holiday’s over,” he replied in a casual tone. “It’s time to come home.”

“This is my home,” you readjusted the gun in your hand as you spoke. “I don’t have a home with you. . .not anymore. . .not ever.” 

“It’s cute you think that, doll. But we both know the only home you have is with me. Anything else is just a temporary arrangement.”

“Go to Hell , Xavier.” 

You tried to fire the gun, but he was too quick. Xavier stepped forward and bent your wrist back, away from the trigger – your only form of protection. The weapon slipped from your grip and directly into his other palm. He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval as he slipped it into his jacket pocket. 

“Hell has me on the waitlist darling, I assure you,” he replied, reaching for your wrist again. “Now, get in the car. We’re going to get your things.”

You let out a growl and swung your knee up to slam into his groyne. Xavier hissed in pain and responded by tossing you to the ground. “That was a bad move, sweetheart,” he cooed. “One that’s going to cost you.”

Just as you felt the first blow, another series of footsteps joined you in the alley. The voice of Greg Lestrade calling out your name flooded your body with relief. “Is everythin’ alright?”

Xavier sniffed and dusted off his coat as he stepped away from you. “Everything’s fine, officer. We’re simply two old friends catching up.” His eyes narrowed at you on the ground, a warning- no, a promise- of what would occur if you said otherwise. 

“Doesn’t look like it to me,” Greg crossed over and helped to guide you back to a standing position. “Care to introduce us, Sergeant Watson?” He didn’t look pleased to see this man in front of his employee; something you were relieved to hear. Greg held his hand out. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure, Mister. . .”

Almost as if by magic, Xavier slid into his political alter-ego with ease. “Xavier Managold, sir.”

“Ah, Mr. Managold,” Greg clarified. “Now, uh, how do yuh know Sargeant Watson here?”

“University-” you started, but was interrupted by Xavier saying, “we were married.”

This news took your boss by surprise. “Married?” Greg’s eyes widened as he overcame the initial shock. “I don’t recall you ever mentioning that you were married before. That would have been something I’d remember. Especially seeing as you and-”

In a panic, you cut him off. “We’ve been separated for years now, Greg.”

You were greeted with a sharp tug onto your lower forearm, bringing you into Xavier’s chest. He was attempting to stake his claim. . .this time rather publicly. “Ah, but that is ancient history,” he said in a light tone. “Couldn’t let you be the one that got away, now could I? You just need to be able to give me a second chance.”

“Some way to ask for one,” your boss muttered under his breath. 

Xavier cleared his throat. “Right, well, we’d best be off if we’re going to catch the train.” His grip on your arm tightened as he attempted to pull you off toward the car.

“Well, I don’t think that’s possible,” Greg’s facial expression echoed the same surprise as you felt in combination with the anxiety. “I need Sargent Watson’s assistance with a case. The Hartsinger murders. The bloody thing is driving us wild. We could use another set of eyes.”

You drew in a shaky breath and nodded. “Of course,” you replied, snatching the opportunity to grab your gun from Xavier’s jacket pocket. It was an action that didn’t go unseen by your boss. 

Greg motioned behind him. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll drive you. The car is just parked in the lot.”

“You see, Detective Inspector, we need to go back home,” Xavier chimed in. “We really can’t miss this flight.”

“I’m sure you can find another,” Greg replied, not being serious. “Maybe with one less ticket.” 

As you tried to make your way over to Greg, Xavier let out a low growl and promptly tugged you back into his chest. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Greg tried to reason with him. “How about we let the officer go, mate? There’s no need to escalate the situation.”

You just shook your head at the elder officer. “Greg,” you managed to choke out. “Greg, it’s fine. Just- just go.” You weren’t a stranger to this kind of conflict. Whenever Xavier needed anything from you, he would force you to stay by his side. The less leeway you had to squirm away, the chances for you to agree to his demands increased. You had caved in more times than you liked to admit. Caving into him had always been easy, like a five-year-old trying to resist a cupcake as it rested on the table. Now that you had been free of that pain- of his control- you realised that there were things in life other than people protecting you. You learned how to be her own protector.

Being freed from Xavier’s clutches, you had learned how to protect yourself. Sherlock had helped to unearth that part of you again, the fighter that never left. He reminded you that you had always had the strength within you. It was simply just buried deep down after allowing the fear to be in control for so long. Sure, it may have resulted in him taking a beating of his own for shooting a handgun at three in the morning. Yet it had helped you feel more free; you had felt more alive now than ever before. In the four years you had known him, the consulting detective had brought you back- the person you wanted to be and always were deep down. Sherlock had taken your world of bland greys and white and transformed it into an explosion of colour. You were suddenly overwhelmed by the vast amount of blues, reds, and greens that greeted you everywhere you looked. You never wanted to lose it again, even after his death. . .and you certainly weren’t going to let it happen now. 

You bent over, using your own body weight to send Xavier flying into the pavement below. He groaned in pain as he landed, but you could see the fire returning into his eyes almost instantly. This time, you wouldn’t be afraid. You would never be afraid of him again. 

That’s when he grabbed your leg and you felt the sharp pain. As your face met the concrete beneath you, you gasped and felt a warm liquid as it dripped down your lips. You wanted to fight him; truly, you did. At that moment, you wanted nothing more than to retaliate with lodging a bullet directly into his prefrontal cortex. But you were sent back in time. You felt the fear as it crept its way throughout your body. You could no longer move. Fight back, Sherlock’s voice urged in your mind. Don’t be an idiot and stand there. Fight back .  

But you couldn’t. Not for yourself, not even for your unborn child. The panic took over your body and you simply stared up at the clouds as Xavier began his attack. You didn’t feel the contact as his fist collided with your face. You couldn’t even hear the slander he was screaming in your ears. The only thing you could do was whisper tearful pleas. You begged him not to hurt or lay a finger on you. You couldn’t lose what you had. It was all you had left of him, of Sherlock. But you were helpless all over again. Maybe this is my repentance, you thought as your eyes squeezed shut, ready to accept your fate. If I suffer long enough, I’ll see him again. If that’s what it takes. . .

As you felt the weight being lifted off of you, you cracked open your eyes to see Greg pull Xavier off. “Xavier Managold,” he said, pulling your attacker’s arms behind his back, “you are under arrest for aggravated assault of a constable in the execution of their duty. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” 

Xavier glared down at you for a moment before his facial features began to soften. He wasn’t ashamed of what he had done; he was proud of it. You saw the glint in his eye as Lestrade clicked on a pair of handcuffs and began to drag him away. “This isn’t the end, sweetheart,” Xavier called over his shoulder, voice echoing within your mind. “We’ll be seeing each other again very, very soon. I can assure you that.”

======================

Author's Note: Dang. Yes, I wrote this and I'm still in shock of it. Psychotic characters are so much fun to write! We still have one more chapter of angst and pain before we start to lighten up- God knows we need it now. For those curious about Sherlock himself, you shouldn't need to wait too much longer for something more Holmes-centric. I have a few ideas in the works ;)

I'm so sorry that this chapter is super late. Between life, uni, going to see Top Gun: Maverick, and writing an upcoming multi-part series (to be posted this week!!), my schedule has been hell. We're officially all the way through my pre-written chapters from before the creation of this account. It took me a bit of time to wrap up this chaos, especially after needing to update the pronouns in most of the work. I caught a few errors recently in stuff I've already posted that I have yet to adjust, but if you ever spot something that isn't quite right...let me know (I don't bite)!

As usual, don't forget to leave a like, comment, and a reblog to let me know you want to see more of this story! Until next week, my little sparks!

SH Taglist: @ohchoices, @severuined @southernhippie10198

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years (Sherlock x Reader) - Masterlist

Summary: Takes place from Pre-Reichenbach Fall (S02 E03) to The Final Problem (S04 E03) -- WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS! You had found the love of your life in the most unlikely companion: self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. When he was taken from you much too soon by the clever Jim Moriarty, your whole life is flipped upside down. Old habits die hard, memories of past mistakes come flooding back. What happens when it all becomes too much? Will you ever find happiness again?

TW: mentions of harm (not graphic), drug and alcohol abuse, depression/anxiety, PTSD, pregnancy, miscarriage, and suggestive themes. If this fic is not for you, please block the following tag: TLTY Sherlock.

Chapters

~ Prologue (Song: 1000 Times by Sara Bareilles)

~ Chapter 1: The First Few Weeks

Taglist: @ohchoices

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years (Sherlock x Reader) - Chapter 6

| | Masterlist | |

Chapter 6: Battle Scars

"I wish I couldn't feel, I wish I couldn't love. I wish that I could stop cuz it hurts so much...these battle scars don't look like they're fading...." -Guy Sebastian and Lupe Fiasco (Battle Scars)

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) x Watson!Reader (AFAB)

Word Count: 3.3k+

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, abusive relationship

Summary: As you continued to prepare for the upcoming life changes that came with carrying Sherlock Holmes' child, you started to reflect on the moments leading up to this point...including how your relationship with the private detective really came to be.

The first few weeks after knowing hadn't been too terrible for you. By no means was it easy, having to go through it seemingly alone. You knew the pain would be worth it, though. After the nine months were up, you wouldn't be alone anymore. You would have someone to save- to protect. You had smiled to yourself one night as you envisioned just what they would look like, your child. Obviously, it would have his eyes. But would it have your hair? His personality? “Heaven help me if that happens,” you muttered to yourself. “I would be completely screwed with a miniature high-functioning sociopath running around my flat.”

At first, you had struggled with an internal battle of whether or not to reveal the big secret. If you were being honest with yourself, you were afraid of the judgement you would face with the sudden news. The two of you were never married, which was bound to get some form of disapproval. Granted, since you were both in your early to mid-thirties, a child wouldn’t be entirely unexpected. However, Sherlock had made it quite clear whilst he was alive that he was never interested in being the “settling down” type. What would he have done if he hadn’t jumped that day? You were terrified to even begin to think about those consequences. You could have always left if he was mad, you did know that much. 

It wasn’t that you were afraid of being a parent, per se. You were just afraid you wouldn’t be a good one. Your own failed relationships with others always failed in some way or another. Either they would leave you, or you would be too terrified to leave them. Ever since your return home to London, whatever the relationship was between you and the private detective had made you feel more at home than the life you had left behind. The first day you had stepped foot in the building, everything you knew was different. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He had insulted you at first, which given his occupation, should have been expected. The Holmes family observed for a living . However, while utterly brilliant with facts and figures, the siblings did lack something very important: the ability to properly read a social situation.  

“Your siblings may be from England, John,” Elora had said. Her eyes were glued to a microscope placed upon the kitchen counter. Leftover scraps of skin from what you had assumed was a ligament. “However, this one in particular is very much an American now. For instance, when have you seen an English person adopt the stupid tradition of carrying a gun everywhere.” She sniffed in disgust. “Stupid Americans.” 

Almost on instinct, your hand flew to your holster -- the only form of protection you had. “How did you-”

“Calluses on your fingers,” came the bored response from the younger Holmes. “Stain of gunpowder under your fingernails. You have a sharp eye, you're already trying to pick apart what I'm doing with this microscope and the newspaper with the chemicals. Newsflash, you won't know.” She gestured over to the pieces of luggage John had brought in. “Your suitcase is quite damaged, had it for a while. Sentimental or don't have the money. Balance of probability suggests not having the money is most likely. Bruises lace your wrist, either entirely rough sex or someone abusive. Due to your financial situation, I'm assuming it's the latter.”

There was a series of thudding footsteps behind you. “Your hair is still well kept, so the abusive split was fairly recent,” the deep voice of the consulting detective caused you to jump. “Keeping up appearances is important. Based on your reaction to my entrance, high levels of anxiety. Your nails are chewed, further proof. The medication caused increased and rapid weight loss. That explains the lack of appetite and possible anorexic behaviours. You came here for a change of scenery and for your brother.”

“That was obvious by the way the arms were held around the figure,” Elora retorted. “You’re getting slow, brother mine.” She turned her attention back to you before returning to her experiment. “He thoroughly abused you, didn’t he? The trauma’s written in your eyes.”

“That part was obvious,” Sherlock’s curt tone pierced the air. “Especially with the obvious distaste for the use of a belt. It’s either dreadfully uncomfortable against old wounds or a reminder of long nights of torture. You were an idiot for not leaving him sooner. The broken vase over your head should have been the first red flag. I suppose sentiment can cloud the judgment of the utmost ordinary of people. However, you are related to John, so it doesn’t seem that far-fetched.”

“Sherlock!” John scolded his flatmate. “Can you not keep your mouth shut for once in your life?”

It wasn’t that you had been afraid of Sherlock. He didn’t have a filter. John had warned you about that. You would occasionally hear his voice over the phone when you had arranged for transportation to England. Usually, it was just him screaming about cases with Elora or complaining about a lack of cigarettes to John in the background. Whenever that would happen, your brother would simply shake his head and say he’d need to call you back. 

You had solved a great many cases together in the first year of your moving in with the younger Holmes sibling. The Blind Banker, the Geek Interpreter. . . Before too long, you had seamlessly slipped into their team dynamic. You would have liked to think your brother’s flatmate wasn’t entirely opposed to you by then. One thing you had learned early on is how one does not interrupt the great Sherlock Holmes on a case with small talk. 

“The weather has been positively ghastly,” you remarked one day. “I don’t know how people here can stand it. It goes from sunny and clear skies to doom and gloom rain. Why, I saw on the telly this morning that-”

“Stop,” his deep voice boomed from behind the viewfinder. “Stop talking.”

“Something the matter?”

“Yes,” his eyes glanced up to meet yours ever so quickly. It sent a shiver down your spine that you elected to ignore as much as possible. “Your voice makes me aware of your existence.” 

That’s when confusion set in. “....Sorry?”

“You are forgiven.”

“No, I wasn’t saying- oh, never mind it.”

At some point- you couldn’t remember when- his cold demeanour had thawed ever so slightly. You would find yourself being welcomed in the kitchen while he worked with samples on his microscope or mixed chemical compounds at the counter. A spot would be cleared in the refrigerator for real food, instead of spare body parts. Not long after, you would find yourself spending more nights on the couch in the flat rather than your own bedroom downstairs. Your brother had begun to joke that one day you would end up moving into one of their rooms. It was a statement the two of you would always laugh off, but that was before the kidnapping. . .

You, Sherlock, and John had just returned from the museum, anxiously awaiting Elora’s return to the flat. When you heard the shaky breath from the phone speaker, you automatically knew something was wrong. The youngest Holmes’ sibling had never shown fear at all during the time you had known her. Your heartbeat was still having trouble slowing after hearing the intense countdown in your friend’s quaking tone. You had been so sure you were about to lose her. So, as you waited in the flat, you continued to pace back and forth. You counted the seconds, praying that the next number would magically summon your flatmate home. 

“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” he spat. “Mrs. Hudson is already increasing my rent for the wall. Don’t be the cause for another increase.” 

When Sherlock had suggested you go out for some air, you were quick to accept the offer. The London air pierced through your lungs, but you didn’t care. It sent chills throughout your bones and set your soul on fire. You knew you were finally home. The feeling didn’t last long, though. It was replaced with another equally cold and stinging sensation of a needle being inserted into the back of your neck. The next thing you remembered was waking up in an abandoned pool building with a parka two sizes too large...and the ticking. 

Tick. 

Tock. 

Tick. 

Tock. 

You had always hated the sound of clocks - a reminder of the constant countdown to your final breath. Each clicking noise made you flinch as you looked down at your attire. To this day, you still didn’t know why you had bothered to look. You already knew what you were up against: a suicide vest with enough C4 to level a building. This contraption had already claimed the lives of too many in its third test run. You certainly had no desire to continue the streak. 

There was a series of shrill beeps and feedback in your ear. It was the introduction of the man who would attempt to seal your fate. “Well,” the cool voice of Jim Moriarty in your ear caused you to wince. “I did want the other Watson, but I suppose this would work, too.” 

“You said you wouldn’t hurt them!” This was a far more familiar voice. Too familiar. “James, you have to let them go. Whoever you have, please, just let them GO!” 

You shut your eyes tightly. This situation could not get any worse, you thought. Could it? You shoved your fists into the deep pockets of the parka and took a deep breath. If she could only keep stalling for time, maybe Elora could do something to get you both out. Unless you could come up with a better alternative. 

 “BORED,” you loudly proclaimed, knowing it would enrage your captor. What other choice did you have, though? You were going to die regardless, so why not make things a bit more interesting? “Could you really not think of anything more original for a kidnapping? A pool. Really?”

“It’s a trap,” you heard Elora call out from another area of the pool. “Listen to me, Watson. It’s a trap for Sherlock.”

“No shit,” came your quick response. “But if it’s a trap then-” 

A creaking sounded from the hall across the room. Footsteps soon echoed off of the walls, filling you with both hope and dread. He was here. Somehow, he had found you. The only question was. . . how ?

“It’s showtimeee,” the voice of the kidnapper sing-songed in your ear. “Step into the shadows, my dear, or else your handsome knight will have quite the explosive surprise.” As you moved behind a collection of lockers, you heard Jim snicker over the earpiece. “You will do exactly as I tell you. Anything less and I will not hesitate to have my gunmen fire.”

The rest of the evening went by like a blur. You still had difficulty remembering what happened after that. The only recollection you had was the feeling of pure adrenaline as your arms wrapped around the throat of the criminal mastermind holding both you and Elora hostage. 

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty,” you hissed, “then we both go up. Wouldn’t that be the real turn-up this evening?”

The psychopath within your grip had the audacity to chuckle. “Isn’t that sweet?” he mused. “I can see why you like having them all around, Sherlock. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal.” 

If you had had just the slightest amount more of strength, you could have ended it all right then and there. What made you stop? It was the dancing red dots across his chest. 

A reminder of how you were, in fact, human... 

How you all could have still died .

“You’ve rather shown your hand there, Watson,” Moriarty practically giggled as you released your hold on him. There was a look of disgust on his face as he brushed non-existent dirt off of his attire. “ Westwood !” He flashed an emotionless smile toward the private detective. “D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?”

“Oh, let me guess,” the detective responded with a bored sigh, “I get killed?”

A sickening scowl stretched across your kidnapper’s face. “Kill you?” he almost appeared to be offended by the suggestion. “No, don’t be obvious. . . I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special .” 

You weren’t sure why, but the way he phrased his threat. . .or rather, his promise, sent a lump deep into your stomach.  

“No,” he continued. “No-no-no-no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you.” Moriarty wrinkled his nose as he took a step forward. “I’ll burn the heart out of you.”

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” Sherlock’s low voice provided an impression of calmness, but you knew he was just anxious to get his sister back. 

Another soft chuckle escaped your enemy’s lips. He turned briefly to lock eyes with yours and his lips quivered into a flash of a smirk before he returned his glance back to the pool tiles. “But we both know that’s not quite true.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The shock had slowly begun to wear off by the time you had all safely arrived back at the flat. You sat in your brother’s chair, staring intently at the crackling fire in the fireplace. You didn’t even register the sound of a tea tray being placed on the end table next to you. The gentle squeak of the leather chair as the consulting detective sat across from you merely triggered a blink. 

“That, uh,” his voice mumbled. You had never heard him sound quite so flustered before. At least, not for real. “That thing you offered to do. It was...um, good.” 

A brief wordless nod was the only response he received. Truth be told, you hadn’t even felt like doing much of anything that night. Talking seemed like a chore. The only thing you wanted to do was exist. Either that, or let the ground swallow you up whole. That night had brought about so many memories of days you never wanted to think about again. 

In true Holmes fashion, he had sensed your fear. You flinched as his hand gently came into contact with your clothed knee. It was a strange feeling. It wasn’t to say you were opposed to general human contact. It had just been so long since someone had wanted to touch you or even be anywhere near you for that matter. Yet here he was, sitting in front of you and offering an unexpected comfort. When you dared to glance up again, his stare pierced directly into yours. It was almost pleading, as though he was wanting to have a closer look inside.

You were suddenly aware of every ridge and divot with your mouth as it slowly became dry. When you noticed the great detective appeared to be expecting an answer of some sort, you tried to speak. “What?” The word barely passed through your parted lips. It sounded distant. You already had difficulty recognizing your own voice.  

“You appear to be…” he hesitated, as though unsure how to continue, “sad. Which, given your previous experiences this evening is rather unsettling. Shock and adrenaline are common side effects of kidnapping and post-traumatic stress. Your current posture and breathing patterns indicate high levels of anxiety. I suggest you set down the cup of tea before you end up burning yourself.”

“Oh.” In your sullen state, you hadn’t even noticed the shaking teacup in your dominant hand. You must have picked it up at some point, ignoring the heat of the porcelain against your skin. Carefully, you took a few sips before placing it back on the tray. “I didn’t even realise.”

“I could tell.” His hand still hadn’t moved. You almost wished it had.

. . .Almost. . .

“You know,” you tried to start a new conversation, “in the movies, when a girl is saved by a hero, she shows her affection.”

A raised eyebrow met your comment, almost as if in a silent challenge. “Oh?”

“I always hated that bloody stereotype. It’s awful. I understand the desire, but it’s not-” 

You never did have the chance to finish that statement. The next thing you knew was the feeling of his lips against yours. It was the first time he had kissed you. That moment had been the start of your wild adventure. Never in your wildest dreams did you think your story would have ended the way it did. In all fairness, you never saw the new story about ready to begin. . .

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

The woman at the counter had given you a rather disapproving look when you attempted to purchase the help manuals, but you did your best to remain strong. It wasn’t that you were too young; far from it, truthfully speaking. It was the lack of a golden band which gave you the harshest of reactions. How people could tell, you never understood. It was as though the entire world had become geniuses in the deductive arts and was a Holmes. 

It became more difficult to conceal the changes happening to your body. You couldn’t afford to keep buying new clothes for yourself. Every cent needed to go toward Elora’s previous hospital bills from the gunshot wounds (which you had taken responsibility for in an effort to provide relief to your flatmate) and the future remodel to the flat. As much as it had killed you, you found yourself snatching some outfits from his closet. 

Even after a few months attracting dust, it still smelled like him. Sure, there were the traceable remains of formaldehyde within the fabric -- a hazard of him conducting constant experiments. Yet, you could still make out the nauseating scent of tobacco from his cigarettes mixed with the artificial pine of cologne. You weren’t sure how he kept finding new packs of smokes to hide around the flat. Part of you suspected he was aided by Elora, but you had given up trying to fight it. The stench would be unbearable to the point you would kick them out a few blocks to free yourself from the smoky fumes. Now, you found yourself addicted to it being in the linens. It was a special treat you allowed yourself only every few weeks. You considered it to be a celebration, as though fooling yourself he was there for every milestone. His clothes were your protection, giving you the confidence to move forward for the both of you. . .or rather, the three of you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

One thing that you didn’t count on was how the looks of pity and disgust at the office continued on longer than you expected. Without any warning, you became an outcast once more. The news was broken, people were appalled. How could they trust someone who worked with a psychopath, much less obviously be in a relationship with one? Silence and stares would greet you as you entered the precinct daily. Communication would be limited. Speak only as much as needed -- no more, no less. 

Only Phillip seemed to understand. Try as you might to ignore him, he would always find a way to attempt to connect with you. It started with small containers of sandwiches left at your desk, then progressed to mini sticky-note apologies against your computer monitor. You knew he felt bad for what he had done. He may have been incredibly snobbish to them all, but he was human just like the rest of them. 

“I’m truly sorry,” he would repeatedly say. “He didn’t deserve an ending like that. I’m sure he’s still alive! Have you seen the report-”

“I’ve seen all the reports, Anderson,” you tersely replied. “What you’re proposing has no merit. So I ask you to stop. Just. Stop.”

You couldn’t find a way to forgive him because even though Phillip might try to repair the rift…

...he would never be able to bring him back to you.

========================

Author's Note: So I forgot to schedule the chapter yet again. Great job, me. I'm going to be totally honest here when I say I completely forgot this chapter existed. But damn, can we just get a tiny round of applause for that pool scene flashback? I reread it before posting tonight and ugh, god I love writing for Moriarty. He can be a challenge at first, but once you become a psycho writer...nothing beats that rush you get. Although, I consider myself a bit lucky with this situation thanks to a certain character we get to meet next chapter.... ;)

Anyway, like usual, if you liked this chapter, make sure to leave a comment, like, and please reblog! It really helps me out and lets me know you're truly enjoying this series! <3 Until next week, my lovely little sparks!

SH Taglist: @ohchoices, @severuined, @southernhippie10198

[frostandflamesfanfic]

The Last Three Years readers! Have no fear! i did not forget today’s chapter. I just forgot to schedule the post to go out today... Next chapter will be up in the next few hours 😀 It sets us up for a pretty big plot twist, so brace yourselves!

[frostandflamesthoughts]

current status: writing a new chapter and becoming obsessed with how madly in love Sherlock Holmes is with the reader. Like, I don’t know if you are all ready for this level of tooth-rot.

[frostandflamesfanfic]

I freaking love The Last Three Years Series!! ❤️ Could you please give some sneak peeks for the next chapter? 👀 (So excited to read the next one! 💕)

Hello you lovely little spark, you! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story!! It honestly has been one of my favorite projects to work on over the past two years (30k words and counting!). Updates are going to be a bit slow going forward, just because I need to keep adding new chapters and it's hard to get into the mindset sometimes.

As for a little sneak peek....I think I can manage that ;)

Just when you think you’re safest, the world crumbles beneath your feet. When Elora found you, you were perched in front of a park water fountain with a heaving chest. You had no clue how long you had been running. Hours, minutes, seconds. . .they had all just flown by without meaning. The only thing you could do was stare silently at the water flowing against the structure. It all looked so tranquil, a luxury you hadn’t been able to afford for the past year and a half.

[frostandflamesfanfic]

Where have I been? Oh, I’m so glad you asked. I totally haven’t been working on a request that may have inadvertently turned into a potential mini-series. Nope. Not at all. It also has nothing to do with the entire plot of MoM. Uh Uh! 😅

Because of this new piece, next chapter of The Last Three Years will be posted tomorrow instead!

See you soon, my little sparks 💙