He secretly doesn’t mind kids; he’s not super-dad or anything, but he enjoys spending time with them when he can
His work tends to come first, so naturally he will bounce ideas off of your child regardless of age (“Sherlock, they can’t answer you. They’re six months old.” “Good. It’s better when they can’t pollute my mind with their terrible theories.”)
As he’s in his mind palace he’ll occasionally pick up your child and bounce them as he’s thinking.
He’s not much for doing the actual caring for a child. He finds it too messy. He’ll only help out if you make him.
Until you taught him, he had no idea how to change a diaper. This may sound farfetched, but this is also the man who didn’t know the earth revolved around the sun until John told him. It’s a good thing he’s a fast learner.
He catches on quickly as to the habits of your child, he knows exactly what each cry means. Despite you believing they all sound the same, he knows the difference. It unnerves you to no end how often he’s right about it.
He tries to teach them skills, but he just doesn’t have the patience for it. This is why he leaves it to you to lay most of the groundwork when it comes to walking or talking.
He doesn’t get most babies- and he doesn’t want to- but he tries very hard to understand yours. He may not often show he cares, but he does. A lot (as evidenced by the photo of them on his phone that he’ll look at once a day).
Had you ever thought of your last words? Ever tried foreseeing what could be your last breath and in what occasion? If you would be to die in an accident maybe there wouldn’t be time for you to even realize what would happen. An illness could take you out, slowly spreading and destroying you, an agonizing death, or even a fast one. Only being told you have a week, a day or hours to live. That was a question no one could answer to, not if never facing an alarming situation that would predict death.
The night had started to fall sooner and faster than usually, or so it felt like. Normally the sun would still be up, maybe it was because of the cloudy day or it had tried to warn you, like foretelling you this would be the darkest day of your life, even the last.
The ground under your laying body gave you no comfort as you shuddered. You could feel everything around you get cold, the chilly stone floor radiating and affecting everyone in the room, even the lone furnitures, creeping up your spine and taking over your whole being. Even if you had dressed warmly it wasn’t enough to keep the cold away, not anymore. A huge cut that you were covering poorly with your hands was spilling blood over your pale fingers, ruining the white shirt you had been wearing and there was no use of putting pressure on the wound, still you did so, but it didn’t stop the bleeding.
Never had you felt so alone, so distant to the object in the room you were in. Even if the big and almost completely empty room, if you would leave out the lousy decoration that contained only a dresser, a sofa and a table near the door way, it was the most eeriest place to be in. There were no windows in the said room, you couldn’t almost see, not even the moon light being able to shine upon you. The closest window was in the next room and the light that came through didn’t carry itself to your present. You could hear your breathing and your cries. You tried to stay calm and sane, but couldn’t help to start lose your hope and strength. You couldn’t keep up like this.
Your ears were ringing and your vision was blurry. You had hard time on concentrating on your surroundings and so you kept your eyes on your hands that tried desperately keep the blood inside of you, but failing miserably. You tried to keep your breathing steady, it became the only sound you could hear and not even people approaching you brought you out of your trance until he was right beside you.
He had ran at you as he saw you from the door way. You remembered him hollering for you previously, but as you had been busy you had not had the time to answer and as you collapsed, all you could do was try to keep yourself awake, your hands on your stomach.
He called for you, repeatedly, his hands supporting you. You could feel him shake, from shock. He was out of options. You knew he was able to see the wound and how much you had already lost blood. When his hands shook, dancing over your body as if he wasn’t able to see where the wound was, trying to blindly find the spot where to put pressure, you took your hands away from the wound. You wrapped your fingers softly around his wrists. His hands shaking, but not waving over you, you lift your gaze to meet his. His eyes, those wildly blue colored eyes were wide from fear, from shock, his lips apart, his mind racing.
”Sherlock…” You whispered. Your voice was weak, you had no idea how tired you already were. You could feel the taste of iron, but not wanting to ruin the moment you swallowed the blood that tried to come up your throat.
”No, don’t talk.” He said with a shaky voice, his hands finally pressing on your wound. You grunted, Sherlock’s hands pulling away at you wincing, but then pressing on you again. ”Just stay awake.” His eyes wildly gazed around as if trying to find anything to help you. Desperately he sighed when he couldn’t come up with anything. He pulled himself closer to you, his hands firmly on you.
”Sherlock,” You softly whispered. You put your hand on his, prying his hands off of you, but not forcibly, ”it’s okay.”
If you weren’t in that state, you would cry for his expression. You had never seen the consulting detective so lost and helpless. He longed for resting his hands over your stomach, but he knew you were right. There was no use for that now.
”I’m so sorry.” He cried after silence. He rested his forehead against your, pulling you to his arms and holding you in his embrace. Even his hug wasn’t enough to keep you warm, but it gave you enough on other levels. You felt calm and safe in his arms.
”I won’t make it, right?” You couldn’t help it when your voice broke. The words were so final, there was nothing you could do to stop this or save it. This would be your stop, you would cease to exist, you wouldn’t be waking up and see the sun, feel the warmth of summer.
”No.” It was all he said, but it was enough. You didn’t need him to say anything else, you knew he couldn’t say no more either. This was it.
”Don’t leave me here alone.” You cried as you looked at him as he had pulled away slightly to see your face. he promised not to, to be there till the end, which you both knew was near. He pulled you back to his embrace, you could hear him sniffle as he pressed you against himself.
It felt like hours as you lay there, but you knew it was only minutes. The pool pf blood next to you was growing and it was reflecting your time in a clock like way, the bigger it grew the less time you had.
You whimpered. You were feeling colder and colder, and Sherlock could feel it too. He leaned his lips next to your ear, you knew he was getting ready to soon be holding your lifeless body. He cried, tears leaving his eyes and going down his cheeks, some escaping to your hair. You felt Sherlock’s lips part and he whispered, with a calm voice to you words that would carry you away, that would let you go in peace.
”Just close your eyes, you’ll be alright. No one can hurt you now.” He placed a kiss on your cheek. ”You will be safe and sound.”
A/N/Summary: Because stereotypes suck, that’s why. No, really. Every time I see a fanfic about reader on her periods it’s always painful and crying and shouting. Not everyone gets to be victimized (as much at least) by their hormones and act stereotypically influenced by what’s going on in the between of their legs. of course I’m not hating on anyone who experiences those symptoms what so ever! Why would I? I mean, it hurts for me too these days, but about two years ago I never felt anything when I were on my periods. No pain, no mood swings (still no mood swings, no changes in my diet) but I know there are more girls and women who do not ’belong’ to that typical period experiencing category. So this for you girls, for them who experience their periods ’differently’.
You were cooking in the kitchen while Sherlock sat behind you, on the other side of the kitchen table. You and him and been chatting twenty minutes straight about stereotypes. You couldn’t even remember anymore how you two had ended up with this subject, but you felt happy for it. You felt like you were educating your smart ass friend by answering to his questions.
”Pink as a favorite color?” Sherlock had dig into the more ridiculous stereotypes by now as he, for a man who read science and biology hardly believed in stereotypes, had already questioned you of the ’hard ones’.
”That is more of an opinion question.” You taunted with a disappointed smirk. Sherlock hummed signaling you he had heard you, but not giving away how he felt for your statement.
Sherlock had his elbows on the table, his palms pressed together and fingers touching his chin. He was staring at you intently, his eyes blinking rarely, but it didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. You knew that look. You had seen him making it when he was hearing out his clients. If a case was interesting enough his stare would deepen, eyes wide just slightly and head tilting upwards.
”What about women riding cars?” You asked from Sherlock instead after a minute of silence. He scoffed, rolling his eyes and closing them for a long second, then frustratedly waved his hands and let them rest on the table. ”That is a stereotype that can’t be proven by biology, mostly.” He said the last word after giving it a second thought. ”Comparing women and men on driving and ending up with the solution that favors the stereotype is impossible. There are numerous studies that prove against it. Women have actually been said to be better at driving than men, known to be more considerate and less erratic than men.” He said without skipping a beat.
”I wasn’t doubting it.” You cut in to his rant.
”Good.” He said. You waited a second before coming up with another question, but Sherlock got there first as his gaze on you deepened. You knew from the look that this would be a tricky question for you to answer to. He had drawn his hands together again, giving you the look as if you were his client and he had just heard your story staring to get interesting, his eyes lit up as he went to ask his perfect question.
”Acting differently while menstruation.” He said the words carefully, but held the intimidating look on his face as if this was the question that would beat you. Of course it wasn’t a contest. Or to you it wasn’t. Okay, maybe it was, but only if you would be challenged. Sherlock of course didn’t much base his opinions on stereotypes but to facts and science so you couldn’t feel bad for what ever the real answer to these presumptions would be. You knew Sherlock would only give you answers based on truth.
”A stereotype.” You answered and expected him to go for the next, but the look that spread on his face signaled that this was far from over. His eyes went wide, then a disagreeing scowl took place on his pale face and he questioned: ”A stereotype?” You nodded your head and repeated the words after him.
”No it isn’t. Biologically women are influenced by their hormones while on their periods. It affects on their emotions and acts. I’ve seen you throw a fit repeatedly and as days go by then you becoming your peaceful and carefree self again.” Sherlock had kept an eye on you, trying to track down your behavior in an experiment bases, but your mood swings usually didn’t match with his calculations.
”You have been eating junk food three days or more in a row,-” You cut him off there and said, ”I’m on my periods, Sherlock.” He looked at you in silence a second before smiling doubtingly at you. ”No, you had your menstruation last week.” He was referring to your last weeks bad mood, how you easily got angry and would snap when approached.
”No, I didn’t. I’m on my periods right now.” You stated and put your hands on your waist. ”And like I just said, it’s a stereotype that girls act off while on periods. I may not know how the hormones work on me, but I know I’m quite the same when I’m on them.” You waited for Sherlock to say something but instead he just urged you to continue with your speech by nodding his head. ”I never feel pain or spontaneously change my diet. The only thing that might be different is that I need to use the bathroom more often on bad days.”
Sherlock gave you one last suspicious look and then asked you, ”Are you sure?” You wanted to slap him. Were you sure you were on your periods? Yes. Were you sure you were in control of your moods and acts? Definitely.
”Yes, Sherlock.” You sighed. ”Like I said, I’m not feeling any different and I am hundred precent sure I’m on my periods.”
”Interesting.” Sherlock muttered as his eyes fell on the table. You arched an eyebrow at that. Was it really? You couldn’t help but blurt out, ”Really?” His eyes lift up and he looked at you. ”Really.” He said. ”Tell me more.”
You hesitated, but then opened your mouth to ask him anyway, ”Of what?”
”Of your symptoms while on your periods.” He rushed you to educate him.
”I don’t know…” You awkwardly muttered and scratched the back of your head, leaning against the kitchen counter behind you. Sherlock questioned why not and you could feel yourself blush a bit. ”It’s not something men and women comfortably discuss about. I don’t want to gross you out.”
Sherlock stood up from his chair, the legs of the said furniture making a noise while sweeping over the wooden floor. He walked right in front of you and took a stand before you. He put his hands on each side of your face and made you look at him, his soft eyes reaching for yours and when they met you couldn’t look away.
”You would never.” And he kissed your forehead. You smirked at his statement and had to ask him was that a challenge, to which he only chuckled.
(Okay, now my thumb hurts like hell, guess I’ll need to stop writing for today…. and for some reason I feel like this sucks, ugh…)