I Will Personally Put You In This Morgue! (Sherlock)
Request: Sherlock x reader. The reader has a prosthetic leg. Anderson calls her a freak
Warning(s): prosthetic leg (obviously, if that even is a warning), slight language, insults
Word Count: 1,589 (geez)
Reader Gender: Female (if this was supposed to be male/nonbinary PLEASE TELL ME AND I WILL FIX IT)
Authors Note: SO SO SO SORRY ON HOW LATE THIS IS! I’ve had a lot of schoolwork and I’ve been out, but here it is. It was also a little challenging to write so I hope I did it correctly. I hope you like this, anon. :) Personally I can’t stand Anderson so I love this.
Another Authors Note: This takes place in “The Great Game” (s1e3) for reference. I tried to get it as close as possible, but I did have to change it up some for the request. :)
“He’s not gay! Why do you have to spoil-he’s not!”
That’s what I hear as I step into the room. I see Molly standing at the end of a table. Sherlock is at the other end looking into a microscope, with John behind him. I had been outside of the building talking to Lestrade about the case, when John texted me, telling me to come in. Apparently, he had done that so that he would not be alone when this argument went down. Really, I had to walk all the way down here for this?
“With that level of personal grooming?” Sherlock says, snorting. It comes off as a question, but I know he doesn’t mean it that way. He looks up from the microscope, and glances at me. His hand moves to gesture toward an empty chair, and I accept gratefully. I hope I’m not blushing too much at him helping me.
“Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?” John asks, “I put product in my hair.” I giggle at how offended he looks.
“You wash your hair,” Sherlock responds, “there’s a difference.” He turns to Molly. “No,no - tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear.”
“His underwear?” Molly looks dumbfounded, raising her eyebrows as she speaks. I look at him too, wondering where he’s going with this.
”Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand,” He says, leaning toward the Petri dishes. He pulls out a slip of paper, then says:
“That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish her…and I’d say you’d better break it off now and save yourself the pain.” Damn. At least he’s thorough. Molly runs out of the room, and I turn to Sherlock.
“Charming,” I say, rolling my eyes. Even though they’re blunt, I think it’s amazing how he is able to make his deductions. But, people get hurt sometimes. He looks over his shoulder at me.
“Isn’t it kinder to save her the time?” He asks, and I shake my head. He shrugs and looks over to John. He points to the shoes, the actual case itself.
“Off you go,” he says to John. The man looks surprised, but picks up the shoes to attempt to get as much information as possible. Sherlock gets up, walks over, and sits down next to me.
“I still don’t quite understand how you manage to walk so well on that leg,” he says. His voice is slow, as if he’s trying not to offend me. Strange, I think, with others he wouldn’t care. I look over at him and shrug.
“I’ve gotten used to it,” I say as I place my hand on the prosthetic. As I do, my mind goes back to the accident. Riding in the taxi, when another car runs into the side. My leg pinned, people trying to get me out, but I couldn’t. The pain, the excruciating pain all in my leg. When people finally got me out and got me to the hospital, only to be told I’d have to lose my leg. The grief that followed.
A hand on my shoulder brings me back to reality. I look to see Sherlock looking at me. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I swear I saw concern all over his face. As I start to say something, the door opens. In walks Lestrade and the rest of the team, including the irritating Anderson.
“Find anything?” Lestrade asks. He looks at John, but we all know the question is for any of us. Sherlock jumps up and walks to John.
“Tell me what you’ve found, doctor,” Sherlock says. John starts rattling off different things to do with the shoes. I get up to go look at the Petri dish still under the microscope’s eye. As I walk over, I can feel eyes on me. People always look at me strangely, due to the way I walk, so it doesn’t faze me much. I sit down at the microscope and look into it, only for someone pull on my wrist. I look over, annoyed at being drawn away from the case, and see Anderson.
Stupid prick. I roll my eyes and pull my arm out of his grasp. When I head for the microscope, he pulls it away from me. Reaching to grab it, I step off of the stool. Thanks to my prosthetic, however, I lose my balance and have to grab onto the counter to stay upright. He smirks at me, then gets up in my face.
“You’re pathetic, Y/N,” he sneers, “and a freak. You can’t do anything on your own. You think you’re smart but you’re as smart as a rock. Why don’t you do us a favor and hobble out of here, and let the professionals handle this?”
I sit there, shocked into silence. The words cut through me like razors, and I fight back tears.
Then, I hear a calm, but deadly voice.
“John, take Y/N out please,” Sherlock says. “Everyone else out, except for Anderson.” I see Lestrade start to protest, but after seeing the look in his eyes, stays quiet. John walks over to me, and offers his arm. I accept, and he doesn’t complain when I put a lot of weight on him. He knows what Anderson said, and he understands that it hurt. Once we get out, I head to a bench. I sit down and put my face in my hands. Don’t cry, don’t cry. Then, I jump as I feel an arm around me.
“Sorry,” John moves his arm. I shake my head.
“It’s okay, just wasn’t expecting it,” I respond, “some comfort would be nice at the moment, actually.” He puts his arm back around me, and I lean in. Then, the yelling starts.
“ANDERSON, YOU INCOMPETENT, UNINTELLIGENT, IMBECILE! YOU CALL HER PATHETIC, YET YOU PAY WOMEN TO SPEND TIME WITH YOU! ALSO, DON’T YOU DARE SAY SHE CAN’T DO ANYTHING ON HER OWN!” There’s a pause, and I hear a fist connect with a stomach repeatedly. “YOU CANNOT EVEN MAKE A SANDWICH WITHOUT HELP! AND YOU WANT TO QUESTION HER INTELLIGENCE? SHE HAS MORE INTELLIGENCE IN HALF A BRAIN CELL THAN YOU WILL EVER HAVE!” Another pause. Someone is probably getting punched again. “ANDERSON, YOU ARE THE MOST WORTHLESS SCUM ON THE PLANET, CALLING THIS ASTOUNDING GIRL A FREAK! IF YOU EVER TRY TO TEAR HER DOWN AGAIN, I WILL PERSONALLY PUT YOU IN THIS MORGUE!”
I stare in disbelief at John. His eyes are wide, and he stands up. I realize then that my face has gotten hot. I stand up, being careful this time as to not lose my footing. Lestrade comes over to me, and places a hand on my back to guide me to the door of the room. He leans down towards my ear.
“Just so you know, this means Sherlock likes you,” he whispers. I look at him, not knowing what to say. He sighs, then whispers:
“That means you should ask him to dinner, then.”
I open my mouth but once again say nothing, being met with a smirk by John. He knew this entire time, I think. We walk back into the morgue to see Anderson on the floor, unconscious. There’s blood on his face, from being hit by Sherlock. I look over at where he is sitting. I see something different in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before. John goes to him and whispers something to Sherlock. After, he motions for everyone to leave. As I start to walk out, John puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Not you,” he says, smiling softly. He leaves, and I turn back to Sherlock. He looks back at me, then at his hands. They’re covered in blood. I walk to a sink in the corner of the morgue, and wet a cloth. Sitting down next to him, I put the cloth over his knuckles and hold it. He looks at me.
“Thank you, Y/N,” he says quietly. I smile a little.
“No, thank you, Sherlock,” I reply, “for defending me. You didn’t have to.”
“That pig deserved every bit of it,” he responds quickly. “Besides, you should never have to hear all of those lies.” I feel my face heat up again.
“Lestrade said I should buy you dinner to thank you,” I proceed cautiously.
“That would be lovely,” he says. I look at him to say something else, then notice that I’m only a few inches away from his face. Sherlock sees it the same time I do, and I know he can tell what I’m thinking. Yet, I’m still surprised when he leans in. I close my eyes, and our lips meet. The kiss is light, as if he’s afraid he will scare me off. Yet, there’s so much there, the sense that he deeply cares for me, but in a different form than how he cares for John.
When we pull away, we sit there for a moment. Then, Sherlock starts to smile, and I start to laugh a little. He takes the cloth and throws it across the room. Instead of an arm, he offers his hand to me. I take it, and we walk over Anderson and out of the room. As we step out of the building, all I can think is, I can’t believe I just kissed Sherlock in a morgue, and my leg didn’t get in the way.
On my own, I’d have to say What You Needed. It was intensely personal and I poured a lot of my heart and soul into it.
34: a scene/paragraph you wrote that you’re proud of
The final scene in Young Gods was one of the things I’m most proud of having written, because it was the capstone of a pretty incredible experience. I’ll give you the last paragraph (and a box of tissues as well):
The accounts of those who were present at Lexa’s passing tell us that it happened in the spring, in her own bed, surrounded by those who loved her. As her son Aden tells it, she bade farewell to her children and grandchildren before turning to Klark kom Skaikru, for whom the flame of her love had never wavered. Her last act was to brush away the tears on Clarke’s face, and her final words were to her beloved mate:
“Don’t worry, Clarke. Death is not the end. We will meet again.”