You run into the living room, rushing around hurriedly and grabbing your things.
“What’s the rush, Y/N?” John asks from his place on the couch.
“I’m going to be late,” you reply simply, racing to the kitchen to grab your purse, which you had left on the table yesterday night.
“For what?” Sherlock drawls, lounging lazily on his chair in his robe.
“My date,” you blurt out, not even thinking about the repercussions of your words.
There is a stunned silence in the flat for a few moments, both of them staring at you in shock, but you don’t notice because you’re flying about, trying to get everything together in time.
“Hold on, what?” John asks, standing up. “A date?”
“With who exactly?” Sherlock demands, leaping up and walking over to you in three long strides. He grips your arms tightly, forcing you to stop and look at him.
“Er, Alex,” you answer distractedly. “He’s an old friend from uni.”
“Are you sure he’s alright?” Sherlock presses. “He won’t hurt you?”
You roll your eyes. “He’s an old friend,” you repeat. “It’ll be fine.”
“Positive?” Sherlock continues, his eyes searching yours.
You smile at his protectiveness. “I can handle myself, Sherly. Anyways, I gotta go. I’ll see you guys later, yeah? Don’t wait up!”
“Fat chance,” Sherlock grumbles as you race out the door.
He turns to see John still staring at the space where you had occupied just two seconds ago, with a look of shock on his face. “What?”
“She’s going on a date, John,” Sherlock says slowly. “I’m sure you know what that is; after all, you’ve gone on plenty yourself.”
Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes, and collapses back on his chair. After a few long, drawn out moments, John slowly sits back down on the couch, muttering to himself about “stupid” and “hurt her” and “kill him”.
Sherlock shakes his head slightly, privately agreeing with his friend’s sentiments.
“You’ll be running back to me soon enough,” Alex predicts as you glare at him, the two of you standing in front of 221B after a disastrous date. Although you had been perfectly civil, Alex had done nothing but drop dirty jokes and sexual innuendos all throughout your conversation, until you had finally told him you had had enough and demanded to end the date early.
“Don’t hold your breath,” you snap. “Oh wait, actually, do hold your breath. You’ll be dead for an infinity number of years before I talk to you again.”
“Wouldn’t bet on it,” Alex comments, and you feel your hand itch, wanting to smack that smug look off his face.
“Oh, yes I would,” you hiss, before turning to go back into 221B.
Suddenly he grabs your arm and spins you, pulling you back to him and pinning you against his car. He leans closer, his warm breath making you shiver in disgust.
“Come on, darling,” he whispers. “Let me show you what you’re missing.”
You freeze, eyes widening as your brain flashes back to when you had seen Moriarty, how he had murmured that name of supposed affection exactly the same way. The way he had threatened everyone you loved…
In an instinctive reaction, you bring your knee up into Alex’s groin, causing him to release you and double over in pain. Immediately you punch him in the face, hearing a satisfying crunch as you did so, then follow up with a kick that snaps his head back.
You know a blow like that would cause the brain to slam into the front of the skull, so you aren’t surprised when he drops like a sack of potatoes, unconscious, his head hitting the ground with a harsh cracking sound.
You turn and run into your flat, hearing the door slam behind you as you run up the stairs. You burst into the room where Sherlock and John are both sitting, and they jump up immediately.
“Y/N? What is it?” John asks, both he and Sherlock moving forward to stand in front of you.
“The bloody idiot downstairs happened,” you hiss, shoving past them to collapse on the couch.
“What did he do?” Sherlock demands, narrowing his eyes.
“Tried to get me in bed,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “Then pretty much tried to assault me. He’s unconscious outside right now… and might have a concussion. Not sure, and don’t really care.”
You rest your head on the couch and close your eyes. “Anyways, I’m exhausted,” you continue. “You mind if I crash here for the night? I don’t feel like going upstairs.”
“No problem,” John says casually. While your eyes are closed, Sherlock and John exchange a glance, then with unspoken agreement both head for the door. You can hear both him and Sherlock moving around, but you’re not sure what they’re doing, so you open your eyes, only to see them leaving the room.
“Hey, where are you going?” you ask, straightening.
The two of them stop and look back at you, and in perfect synchronization they both say, “Out.”
You furrow your brow in confusion, but nod slowly anyways. “Er, okay, I’ll wait up for you then?”
“If you want,” Sherlock mutters distractedly.
You close your eyes again and slump back on the couch.
When John and Sherlock exit the flat, Alex is just sitting up, groaning and rubbing his head.
“Stupid chav,” he mutters, unaware that two of her best friends in the world are standing right behind him.
In a flash Sherlock grabs him by the shirt and hauls him up, slamming him against the car parked behind him, which Sherlock knew was Alex’s.
“Don’t call her that,” John barks angrily. “She’s a thousand times better than you’ll ever be.”
“Who the hell are you?” Alex asks, trying to sound tough. The effect is slightly ruined, however, by the quivering tone to his voice.
“I’m John Watson,” John introduces, giving him a cold smirk that promises bad things ahead. “And this is Sherlock Holmes. You might’ve heard of us.”
Alex’s eyes widen. “Y- you’re friends with Y/N?” he stutters, even more frightened now.
Sherlock plasters on a sickly sweet smile. “Flatmates, partners, best friends, associates. Take your pick.”
Now seriously terrified, Alex gulps, his mouth dry. “I- I didn’t know, she di- didn’t tell m-”
“Which is all the better, because now we know what you’re really like,” John interrupts. “And no one treats Y/N like that without getting hell from us.”
Alex opens his mouth, but Sherlock stops his next few words by rewarding him with a hard punch on the jaw, releasing him while he did so. Alex stumbles, clutching his face.
“Dude, you two are crazy-” he begins to say, but John quickly proceeds to shut him up with another punch.
A couple minutes later, Alex lies on the sidewalk, bruised and battered, while John and Sherlock stand beside him, looking down at him in disgust.
“Weak,” John spits, his old military self making an appearance as he glares at the man - no, boy - that had been so rude to you.
“He didn’t even attempt to fight,” Sherlock notes distastefully.
“Or flee,” a voice says from behind them. Both Sherlock and John turn around in surprise, seeing you standing by the door, leaning on it and regarding them casually.
“Y/N, h- how long have you been standing there?” John stammers nervously.
“Long enough,” you answer, managing to keep a complete straight face despite how much you want to hug them for being so protective of you.
“How much have you seen?” Sherlock questions, scrutinizing you carefully.
Your calm expression breaks into a smirk. “Pretty much everything,” you laugh, bounding towards them and giving both of them a hug in turn. John returns it happily, while Sherlock just stands there stiffly until you release him.
“You’re not mad?” John asks after you pull away.
Your returning grin answers all his questions, but you say the words anyways. “Of course not. I can never stay mad at my boys, especially after all they’ve done for me.”
Laughing, you turn and return to the flat, pausing at the door for a second. You turn your head and smile at them. “Don’t stay out too late.”
Then the door closes and you’re out of sight.
Sherlock looks over at John. “We are not ‘her boys’,” he argues defensively.
John smirks at him. “Yes we are,” he chuckles. “Oh, yes we are.”
Do not think about Sherlock teaching Rosie how to dance. Do not think about Sherlock allowing Rosie to stand on his feet as he glides her around the living room of 221B. Do not think about John walking in on them and just watching from the doorway. Do not think about John being filled with warmth and happiness at the sight of the two people he loves most in the world together. Do not think about Sherlock and Rosie realizing John is there and Rosie running into John’s arms giggling and happy because “Papa was teaching me to dance!” Do not think about Sherlock and John sharing a smile and look of love and pure contentment. Do not think about the family they’ve finally become.
Requested by anon: I
would like to request a Sherlock x reader where he has been drugged and how
he’s really cute and a little dirty towards her in front of John. Haha like
while “high”. Just super fluffy and cute and maybe a little smutty/implied
smut/ a little dirty haha. I get if you’re too busy or don’t feel like writing
it, no problem. Love you. & anon: I have a request for you (if youre still taking..?) so sherlock
and john gets drunk and sherlock starts hitting on (and gets kissy and touchy)
on reader which has been her girlfriend for months xD
Pairing: Sherlock x reader.
Word count: 2,026
Warnings: Just like in “The sign of three” this things gives a lot of twists.
A/N: Drunk Sherlock and Watson are my fave, I loved this so much!
Sherlock and John weren’t the kind of men to get drunk
every week, however and because of the stress they had been put through in
their last case, they decided to go to the bar together.
At first it was just beer and talking
and complaining, but then, someone recognized Sherlock and decided to put a
little something on his beer which, added up to what he had already drunk,
ended up turning him into a dizzy, slurry mess.
John was drunk as well, but for a
different reason: he had mixed tequila with beer.
They walked – stumbled – their way back
to Baker Street. It wasn’t even ten o’clock when that happened, so both (Y/N)
and Mrs. Hudson were up and sharing a cup of tea while the boys came back,
doing all kinds of strange noises as they walked in that called both women’s
“What are you two doing here?” Mrs.
Hudson asked as she and (Y/N) walked out to the stair case where John and
Sherlock were laying. (Y/N) couldn’t help but to laugh at the image and the
sound of her laughter caught Sherlock’s attention.
“(Y/N)!” He cheered drunkenly, “AREN’T
YOU THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BEING ON EARTH?”
“Wow, someone’s loud tonight.” She joked
and Sherlock walked to her and held her tightly against his chest.
“You are sooooo beautiful!” He slurred,
“And so hot, would you be my girlfriend?”
“I am already your girlfriend, Sherlock.” (Y/N) spoke
clamly, unable to contain the giggle that left her lips.
“I’m such a lucky man I’m jealous of myself …”
Sherlock cupped her face and started kissing her passionately, like never
before. (Y/N) tried to pull away but Sherlock’s grip was tight and it wasn’t
until he needed air that he let go off her.
“You’re so drunk!” She giggled.
“And you’re stunning.” Sherlock mumbled,
“Delightful, splendid, a Greek muse right in front of me! DATING ME!”
“Sherlock Holmes is a poet when he’s
drunk, what are the chances!” Watson spoke from behind, right before he bursted
in a dry laughter. Mrs. Hudson laughed with him and then both women dragged
Summary: You met Molly, then you met Sherlock and your bad habit of speaking your thoughts out loud put you in a little bit awkward situation
Okay, so… So much happened, I don’t even know where to start. First of all, I met Molly. She was upset as hell. She was sitting on the bench in park, crying. So I came up to her, asked what’s wrong and when she didn’t tell me, I gave her my number. And she called three days later. Apparently her kind-of-coworker was so ignorant to her, that she had to eventually call me. And she cried so much. I invited her to my flat and then she told me whole story. How they met, how she slowly fell in love and how she knew him without even talking with him that much. I listened carefully, I wanted to help her afterall. When I heard everything, I told her to… Um, in less powerfull words, I told her to get him out of her head. She said to me she couldn’t. So I just sighed and assured her, that she could come whenever she wanted.
Then I got the call from Molly. It was week after our second meeting. She wasn’t crying, but she wanted me to come. So I came where she wanted me to. She was waiting for me. When she saw me, she smiled and led me inside. She showed me her workplace and stuff I’ve always wanted to see. And then the door opened with loud bang. Short, overweight man was leading a little bit taller man. This one was blonde. I saw the bangs under his red eyes, his hair, tired face, the way he was moving and I knew. I knew I just met ex soldier. The overweight man was apparently Molly’s friend. And his blonde friend was indeed ex soldier. I never forget John Watson’s face when I told him I’ve always wanted to see a veteran. When I realised my mistake I quickly apologised and told Molly to move. Once we got to the room, unfortunately with mr Watson and Molly’s friend, I lost my breath.
That was the moment I saw Sherlock Holmes for the first time. But he didn’t notice me. He was talking just to Watson and Molly’s friend. But I was amazed by him. His dark curls was almost screaming that he didn’t care about his hair. Then his clothes was saying otherwise. He was in the suit. In the lab. And the way he was moving. Quickly, yet cautiously. He was everywhere and nowhere. His eyes looked like he could see through human’s body. He looked like he was looking directly at your soul. And the way he was talking to everyone. He wasn’t interested. He was an arogant prick. But he just didn’t care. In same moment he was just painfully honest. But I saw his small movements. He cared. He didn’t want to show he had feellings. But he cared about every person in this room. And I would be surpised if he was a smoker.
Then I realised they were looking at me. Molly and Molly’s friend with pure shock, with mouth and eyes wide open. Watson was trying not to explode, I knew it was already too much, because handsome man with microscope told him exactly the same words I did earlier. But the Holmes himself was staring at me. A little bit confused, trying to cover it up. I apologised. I was thinking out loud again. I told Molly to call me soon and I escaped as fast as possible. I was embarrased. I did it two times in one day! I should be ashamed.
Later that day I got the message. Just an adress with letters SH in the end. I ignored it. Probably my twisted brother wanted to play with me again. I called Molly to check on her. But she started babbling about me being so much like Sherlock and so different at the same time. And she was asking about me, about my life. But I didn’t want to talk about this, so I ended the call.
Two days later I was cleaning the tables in one of the bars in suburbs, when I heard loud noise from the street. My mind went red, immediately ordered me to run as fast as possible. But I was an idiot sandwich, so I grabbed the empty bottle and walked to the door. I saw the shadow. Tall man’s shadow. It was somehow familiar. And then familiar voice called my name. I was immediately frozen. Was it my crazy ex? Was it my brother? Was it someone who I told something I should?
I didn’t answer. Then the voice called my name again. And told his as well. I almost drowned in relief, but then I became suspicious. What would possibly Sherlock Holmes want from me? I came out from the bar. But I didn’t have time to ask about anything, because once I stepped out, Sherlock fell on the ground. My fear covered my mind earlier, so I didn’t notice how weak and desperate his voice was. But now I was thinking only about his health and safety.
And now I was here, in hospital, sitting next to Holmes’ bed. He was sleeping. He had buises all over his face and not only his face. The doctor let me sit here just because they couldn’t find any emergency contacts. But I didn’t mind. I asked my friend to close the bar for me, so I didn’t have any work tonight. I could stay until he wake up.
I heard low, quiet growl. My head immediately snapped up, eyes already open and neck hurting from not natural sleeping position. But I didn’t care. Sherlock Holmes was awake. I didn’t want to scare him, so I didn’t move. He growled in pain as he sat up. He ran his fingers through his hair and when he tried to rub his face, he hissed quietly. Then he looked up and scanned the room. His gaze landed on me. Then I got up.
- You are in…
- I know where I am - he cut me off. I wanted to take a step back. He seemed to be angry. - And I know why I am here. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I could foresee this. Why I could not see it coming? For Lord’s sake! I am a genius! So why…
- Um… Can you be a little bit more quiet? It’s the middle of the night - I smiled slightly, when he looked at me. He seemed to be disctracted now, his eyes was looking almost through me. And I cleared my throat. He blinked a few times and his conciousness came back.
- Yeah, right, sorry - he mumbled, still looking at me carefully. - You are… [Y/N], am I right? Molly’s friend?
- Yes, it’s me - I smiled again. He just nodded and moved his gaze on the sheets. - So… How do you feel? - I asked thoughtlessly, while I sat back on the chair.
- You exactly know how I feel - he said quietly. My eyebrows furrowed, when he looked at me with misterious look in his eyes. - And you know that I know why you know.
I leaned back, tried not to look irritated. I didn’t like it. He wanted to know ‘how’. His gaze was all over me, he tried to find out more and more about me.
- Why are you working in bar? You could be useful to police and there are few more jobs where you would be almost the best. So why bar?
I closed my eyes, exhaling loud through my nose. When I looked at him again, the same I-know-everything smile was on his face. I smiled too. Fake, but smiled.
- Listen there, you detective straight from hell. I’m not going to confess in a fucking hospital. I’m here just because I want to inform your family and to do that I have to have adress or number.
Sherlock looked at me slightly surprised.
- That’s all? I know you want to know me better…
- Don’t fatter yourself, Holmes - I sighed, running fingers through my hair. - I just wanted to take care of you since you came to my bar beaten up almost to death. That’s all. You’re interesting, I can give you that, but nothing more. Understand? - I asked with serious voice. He nodded, so I sighed with relief. We sat in silence. Holmes eventually lied down with closed eyes. And I think I fell asleep on the chair again.
When I got up in the morning, I promised myself long, hot bath. But first I had to force Holmes to give me number to at least one of his relatives. It took about half of a hour, but eventually he just sighed and asked for my phone. I gave it to him. Holmes send a message or two and gave me my phone back. Then I said ‘goodbye’ and walked out from there.
Few days later I got to bed early, because I didn’t feel well. I fell asleep pretty quickly, so I wasn’t surprised when I opened my eyes at 2am. I coughed a few times and rolled to the other side of my bed. Then I felt fear. I heard something, steps in the hallway. My brain was working harder than ever. With my eyes wide open I looked at every possible weapon in front of me. Lamp, phone, glass…
- Good morning, [Y/N] - I heard from behind me. I felt anger boiling inside of me. I sat up and turned around just to see that stupid tall men standing next to my bed.
- Holmes, what the fuck? - I hissed at him. He just looked at me with the same misterious look in his eyes as in hospital. - What are you doing here? It’s 2am, for fuck’s sake!
- What do you think about this? - he asked, handing me a leather glove. I looked at him with disbelief. We were staring at each other for good few seconds before he moved glove closer to me. - So? What do you think about this? - he asked again. I just sighed. If this was the only way to kick him out from my flat, I could do it. So I grabbed the glove and looked at it.
- Turn on the light - I mumbled looking closely at the material. Holmes did what I said. I switched something in my brain and everything what I could look at was that one glove. So I started talking. - It’s not the leather. Fake and cheap. It’s small, but streched in every possible way. Old, used often. I think it’s from man with small hands or woman with big hands. The person wose that glove is or was, had often cold hands or just didn’t want to touch anything with bare hands - I took a deep breath and looked up. That something in my brain switched back, so I could go back to be myself. - So? What was that about?
- My turn - he ignored my question and took a glove from me. - The owner had just cold hands. The lining inside. He or she could have extremely bad blood circulation, I can see the wine here…
- Okay, cut it, Sherlock - I said with serious voice. He looked at me surprised. - I don’t want to know anything more about that fucking glove. Why are you even here?
- I wanted to know what do you think…
- I think you should get the fuck out of my house or I’ll kick your ass through the window, mate - I growled at him suddenly.
- But I want you to…
- Do you have some trouble with hearing? I said get out! - I yelled. Sherlock was standing there with eyes wide open as I was yelling at him more and more. And then he moved quickly, I felt something on my face. Suddenly the world around me disappeared and I fell asleep.
I opened my eyes just to see definitely not my ceiling. I turned my head to the side and looked directly at the blonde man standing in the middle of the room. He was looking at me with pure shock. Then he turned around to look at something and then back at me. Then he moved to the side, still shocked, shaking his head.
- Sherlock, why is she here? - Watson asked with fake calm voice. I looked at Holmes who was sitting on the chair in weird way. He had knees pressed to his chest and hands in front of his face, like detectives in movies. - Sherlock. Why is Molly’s friend here? She wasn’t here when I went to sleep.
- I brought her here - Holmes mumbled, still looking into blank space in front of him. - I went to her, so she could tell me what she think about the glove we found yesterday. She started screaming at me, so I put her to sleep, but she didn’t look good, so I brought her here.
- Good Lord. You… - Watson snorted with disbelief. - You kidnapped her.
- No - Sherlock snapped right back at him, finally looking at Watson.
- Did you want to come here? Did you even know what was he doing? - Watson asked me. I shook my head, still trying to understand what the fuck was happening. - I think that means no. So, Sherlock, congratulations. You kidnapped the girl - Watson smiled sarcastically.
- I didn’t - Sherlock stood up and turned toward the window.
- Well, yes, you did - I sighed, trying to sit up.Watson was immediately next to me, asking how I feel. - Yeah, everything’s good. Thank you, mr Watson.
- The name’s John - he smiled warmly.
- Thank you, John - I smiled back. - You’re a lot nicer than him - I pointed at Sherlock, who was now looking at us with face of an innocent. I stood up, even when John tried to stop me. I cracked my knuckles and smiled at Sherlock as I came up to him. Then I hit him right in the face. He took two steps back and put his hand on his cheek. His shocked face was like the best award for me. - Maybe now you stop with breaking into girls’ homes and kidnapping them - I said with casual tone. John laughed shortly.
- But I’ll need consultations…
- What? - Watson looked at Holmes with pure terror. - You sure you’re alright?
- Yes, John, I’m sure I’m alright. I just need to talk with someone who is actually thinking sometimes - Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend and then looked back at me. - What do you think? Do you want to solve crimes with us?
- Yeah, sure, I can. But! - I raised my finger. - No more breaking into my house, no more kidnapping me and when I’m asking you a question, you’re answering and then you can talk about whatever you want. Deal?
- Okay. I think I can do that - he said with hesistation. I smiled widely and pressed finger to his nose. The terror in his eyes made me burst into laughter. I walked toward the sofa and sat on it.
- So. What about that case? - I asked them. John was even more shocked than Holmes himself, so I had to wait few seconds untill one of them start to talk. - I meant the glove case - I specified with warm smile.
- [Y/N]! He’s running toward you! Move! - I heard John’s scream from the distance. I took a deep breath. I knew that our target was fast, so I had to prepare. When he spotted me, he tried to go back, but John was right behind him. So he cursed loudly and ran straight toward me.
- Stop! For the fuck’s sake! Stop already! - I yelled, spreading my arms as wide as I could. He hesistated and then I had a chance. So I jumped at him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He stopped immediately. - Finally - I sighed, leaning my forehead against his chest.
- Now, Sherlock, we’re going back to Baker Street and you’re staying there untill you’ll fill better - John said, panting for breath. He put his hands on his knees to help himself with catching some air.
- I don’t need it. I have to slove this…
- Shut the fuck up, Holmes - I growled at him. Before I let him go, I grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly. - Before I let you go out to solve anything, I need John’s permission. Now we’re going back to our house and we’re going to lay in bed and watch movies. Understand? - I looked at him with slight anger in my eyes. He sighed and sniffed before he nodded.
- Okay - he mumbled resigned. I smiled widely and turned toward John. - Thank you.
- No problem, [Y/N]. Call me if you see something bad or disturbing. I need to go back to Mary and Rosie…
- I know. Tell Mary I’ll come when Cherry start to feel normal again - I chuckled, squeezing Sherlock’s hand tighter, when he tried to run away again.
- Don’t call me Cherry, [Y/N] - he mumbled.
- I will call you Cherry forever - I whispered and then laughed loud. - Goodbye, John! - I yelled, pulling Sherlock toward our home. - And you, my dear, you have to be more carefull. What if you catch a cold before out wedding? - I shook my head. I felt his body tensed and soon he was the one who was pulling me toward Baker Street. I smiled wider. I knew this argument would work. Now I just needed to try to talk to Molly again and if she don’t hit me again, everything will be okay.
Let us have a look at how Mycroft addresses John because there is an interesting development over the episodes, one may even call it an arc. I checked with @callie-ariane‘s transcripts and found this. (N/A = not applicable, Mycroft does not meet John or does not address him by name):
ASiP - Doctor Watson
TBB - N/A
TGG - John
ASiB - John calling Mycroft by his first name, so we can assume it is mutual
THoB - N/A
TRF - John
TEH - John (when talking to Sherlock)
TSoT - N/A
HLV - John calling Mycroft by his first name, so we can assume it is mutual
TAB - Doctor Watson in BOTH modern and Victorian scenes
TST - N/A
TLD - N/A
TFP - Doctor Watson
They start with the formal address when they first meet in ASiP, change over to a first name basis some time between ASiP and TGG, and remain like this until some time after Mycroft’s drugs bust in HLV.
From TAB onwards Mycroft addresses John as Doctor Watson until the end of TFP. This cannot be explained by it being Victorian since in the last modern scene we get Mycroft saying: “Doctor Watson? Look after him …. please?”
The most conspicuous S4 episode in this regard is TFP where Mycroft throughout addresses John as Doctor Watson, even when they are alone.
I can think of three possible explanations so far:
sloppy and inconsistent writing
a conflict/development between Mycroft and John unknown to the viewer
The switch takes place somewhere between the 221b drugs bust in HLV and TAB which equals the period of time in which a start of EMP is often assumed. I would love to hear your thoughts.
“I know where she is.” Sherlock declared, walking back down the stairs in his grandiose fashion. He didn’t expand on the declaration.
“Well, care to share with the class?” John asked, irritated at being torn away from his conversation with James by the melodramatic detective.
“With Tommy Atkins.” He stated obscurely but with a sense of finality, as if it was supposed to mean something obvious. To John and James, however, it was anything but.
“How’d you figure that out?” John wondered. He’d seen Sherlock ripping apart the room, disappointed at every empty drawer and useless secret pocket. He’d given up trying to help him after being ignored for twenty minutes.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we know where she is and who she’s with.” He stated, proudly heading outside. He was fixated on his objective of reaching Veronica.
“A Tommy, as in a common soldier. How do you know who it is, exactly?” James asked.
“She knew precisely where to leave the information for me to find. She left it for me in case she didn’t come home when she was supposed to, since she knew you’d call me and I’d find the name. It’s the person she and I both know as Tommy Atkins.” He explained quickly, turning around to face them instead of the door in exasperation.
There was pause in which Sherlock looked down with a small smile. He’d just grasped that she still trusted him, that she still believed in him, that she knew that they’d meet again.
“Now how can we get to her without a bloody cab?” Sherlock came to this realization after he had walked down the steps in front of the house, seeing that he had no quick mode of transportation.
“We have a few cars in the basement, if either of you know how to drive.” James told the others, his hands gesturing towards the door that was held ajar, behind which there was a spiralling staircase. Sherlock nodded and the three headed back into the house. They rushed down the modern-looking stairs and opened the glass door into the showroom.
There were several luxury cars; multiple Bentleys, a few Lambos, a Ferrari, an Aston Martin, and several more expensive brands. Seeing the flabbergasted looks on the men’s faces, James felt the need to justify himself.
“Whenever mother and I go on trips to the lake or to St George’s Galas, we like to go all out. Since we don’t go out often, may as well make the best of it.” He rationalized. John scoffed and Sherlock smirked. This was the life of the extremely rich.
Sherlock walked over to the car he liked most; a Rolls Royce. The Porto Cervo Wraith had an incandescent silver exterior and shades of blue, purple, slate and black lining the interior.
He stepped into the car, takong the wheel. James climbed into the back seat while John took shotgun. Sherlock started the car and took the ramp out of the house.
He drove through the front drive, and up through the private neighbourhood. All the homes had gates and tall shrubs that blocked any outsiders from seeing in the houses. It seemed to be the home of multi-million and billionaires who were hiding from the public. Veronica was apparently one of them.
They passed a private golf course as well as a beautiful lake, all in St George’s Hill. All the grass was perfectly mowed and green as emeralds. It seemed like the ideal community, especially for hiding from the world.
“So where might we be going?” James asked, reaching to touch the glowing constellation on the ceiling of the vehicle.
“I don’t know his real name, nor do I care for it. The person I know as Tommy Atkins is a dangerous man. We’re going to Berkyn Bull Manor in Berkshire.” He told them dismissively.
Sherlock knew some things that could put all of them in peril, but they were unnecessary for their knowledge. At least, it was for the time being. Sherlock’s history with the man was far too long and complex to speak, along with the fact that it was classified information.
The group drove West for half an hour until they arrived at the old abandoned manor. The red brick house was victorian in style, webs spanning the corners. It had been deserted for decades, after losing it’s original owners.
“Are you sure this is the right place, Sherlock?” John asked the designated driver.
“Absolutely.” He walked to the door, his coat flying behind him, acting as a cape in the wind.
He knocked heavily on the ancient rosewood door, the sound echoing around them. They waited for a minute, then two, and almost reached three when it swung open.
So I’m alive! I’ve had a lot of work for the last few weeks, so I’m really sorry for taking so long. I promise, my next chapter’ll be up in a week, if not less. Please send asks, submissions, dms, like, comment, whatever! Just let me know what you think!
Originally requested by @newts-fan-case: So could you do a Sherlock x Reader were she is riding his face? (Lol I’m a sinner but I ain’t sorry) like for an experiment ‘cause Sherlock thinks a person can’t get aroused just by giving pleasure to someone else, but he is wrong and yeah ;) & Anon: Hi! Can I request a smut one shot with Sherlock where he wants to try have the reader sit on his face and eat her out and she’s shy & a bit self conscious with her body and he makes sure he makes her see Stars (with a little fkuff)? Thank you! Requested by anon:
The “Experiment” was awesome! Can we have a part 2? Pleeeeeaaaaseeee & a shit load of other people.
Sherlock’s little “experiment”, his relationship with (Y/N) turned somewhat
odd. They would continue to work together and act professional during the
cases, but the tension between them was too much.
showed her a side that not a single human thought existed, or at least didn’t
want to see. He had been patient with her, loving even, making sure to make her
feel comfortable at all costs, complimenting her, being gentle and respecting
her limits… Definitely thing a real gentleman does, but not the kind of traits
one would expect from Sherlock Holmes.
was also the fact that John was sensing some change of vibes in 221B. Of
course, he figured it had something to do with Sherlock’s usual arse behaviour,
but it was weird to see (Y/N) affected by it.
was sitting on his seat, Watson was on his and (Y/N) was between them on the “victim’s
chair”. Watson had a stern, determined look on his eyes and Sherlock was calm
as usual, thinking that John was too dumb to have figured anything about him
Every married couple has a wedding nightmare story. A drunk aunt getting a little to groovy on the dance floor and needing a new hip. Rather colorful pollen from the bouquet getting on the bride’s very white dress. The violinist doesn’t show so the wedding planner plays ‘Here Comes the Bride’ on a tuba.
John and Mary Watson could top them all. The nightmares started almost from the very moment John asked the one and only Sherlock Holmes to be his best man. If you think about it, no one should have been really surprised when there was a murder attempt at the reception.
Y/N, Mary’s bridesmaid and Sherlock’s current flatmate (since John and Mary moved in together) was sat to Mary’s right, next to the maid of honor, Janine. Y/N straightened up in her seat as Sherlock stood to do his toast.
Though the young woman was incredibly happy for her friends, she had been waiting for months to hear this toast. Anytime Y/N asked the detective to practice the speech on her, she was met with a decisive ‘no.’
Y/N could see that Sherlock was concealing his nerves. Only someone with a lot of practice looking past his masked emotions could see the anxiety deep in his eyes.
The tall handsome man locked eyes with Y/N. She gave him an encouraging smile and mimed taking a deep breath. The side of Sherlock’s mouth twitched upwards a bit and he turned back to the ballroom of people before him.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Family and friends. And…um…others…”
Oh, what a night
You know, I didn’t even know her name
But I was never gonna be the same
What a lady, what a night
When Sherlock abandoned the telegrams, Y/N knew it would be quite the show. While other guests watched in confusion and slight horror, Y/N could only look to the curly haired detective with adoration.
Prompt: “I’m sure you two will be very happy together.”
Sherlock quietly turned the door handle to his flat at Baker street. Shutting it, even more carefully behind him, he shrugged his coat off, throwing it into the empty sofa.
No sign of Y/N.
He tip toed to his room- their room, now- and pushed the door open with his slender fingers.
Even in the darkness, he could faintly make out the sleeping form of Y/N on the bed.
He pressed a switch and yellow light flooded the room; bright enough to illuminate everything but not enough so to wake Y/N.
She, he observed, was wearing a blue dress. Her hair was strewn across her face but she was fast asleep, as he gathered from the slow rise and fall of her chest. Her lipstick had almost faded away; she’d been waiting for him for a while now. Her lips puckered as she sighed heavily in her sleep and turned over. The hem of her dress rode up her thigh, giving him a fair view of them and he blushed at the sight.
When he managed to take his eyes off of her, he noticed a tiny wrapped package sitting on the bedside.
The bed dipped as he climbed onto it, making Y/N jerk awake.
She sat up, as he watched, rubbing her eyes with her hands and smudging all the mascara.
“So you’re.. finally here,” she mumbled, yawning in between.
Sherlock pursed his lips. She wasn’t showing any signs of anger, maybe she wasn’t mad?
“Where were you?” Y/N asked quietly.
“With Molly. She needed some help,” Sherlock replied solemnly.
“Oh,” (Y/N) muttered.
She stood up abruptly.
He was so screwed.
(Y/N) started to look around, her eyes searching for something. She opened a drawer, sifting through the contents.
“What are you looking for?” Sherlock asked, coming to a stop behind her.
(Y/n) glanced at Sherlock momentarily, before replying, “Some respect.”
Inspite of himself, Sherlock burst into laughter. She was adorable.
“It’s not funny, Sherl.” She found her night clothes- what she really was looking for- and proceeded to go to the bathroom when Sherlock stopped her.
“You were with Molly?”
“I’m sure you two will be very happy together.”
“(Y/N) don’t say that. I am sorry I missed our date.”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. You rarely agree to go on dates and when you finally do- sigh,” (y/n) muttered as she plopped onto the bed.
Sherlock sat down beside her, tugging at her dress sleeve.
“What?” y/n asked, exasperated.
“I apologise for being a moron,” Sherlock murmured, as he slid a thumb across her cheek and cupped her face.
“I’m sorry I ruined Valentine’s day for you. We can go on a date tomorrow, if you like,” he added, gazing at her.
Y/n nodded in response, still not looking at the detective.
“You’re still upset.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“I apologise, again.”
“I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
With that, (y/n) stood up and trudged into the bathroom, leaving the dark haired detective on the bed, regretting every decision he had made that day. If only he’d left the case and come home early..
He’d have to make it up to her now, somehow. Like him, his better half was stubborn too. He sighed.
He would need someone’s help.
He picked up his phone and ringed the only person he knew he could ask for help when it came to things like this.
Requested by anon:
okay okay experiment part two is making me want to SIN SO BAD, so I’ve got request! Sherlock is investigating a case about sex workers who ended up dying, but instead of them being tied up and tortured for the murderers fun, it’s because the murderer is just hella kinky and kills his victims after. Sherlock can’t wrap his mind around kinks and asks his assistant (Y/N) to help show him???? If that makes sense??????
Pairing: Sherlock x reader
Word count: 2,424
Warnings: Smut (Bondage, unprotected, rough)
A/N: Not only is this for Sequel Friday but also because I believe we all need a smutty week-ending. ;)
Sherlock was at his seat, with his blue eyes glued to his phone. (Y/N)
was sitting at the victim’s chair, with her laptop on and doing some research.
John was at his seat, staring awkwardly at the two of them.
“So…” John spoke, “You’re fine?”
“Yes.” Sherlock and (Y/N) replied in unison.
“No tension or anything?” John continued.
“Nope.” (Y/N) popped the last syllable.
“Oh, that’s great.” John nodded.
“I don’t get why the killer would tie them.” Sherlock complained, “He
had them right there, why would he tie them? Did they try to run away?”
(Y/N) giggled and Sherlock snapped his head to look at her. With a
cocked eyebrow, he silently asked her for an explanation.
“You really don’t know what fetishes are, do you?” She inquired
“It’s a sexual fixation… What does this have to do with the killer?”
“The killer is a kinky bastard.” Watson stated and (Y/N) nodded in
“It doesn’t make any sense!” Sherlock roared, dropping his phone to the
coffee table and throwing his hand up.
“It also didn’t make any sense to you that someone could be aroused by…”
“SHUT UP!” Sherlock commanded and stormed to his room without allowing
neither (Y/N) or John to argue back.
Summary/Prompt: After the death of Sherlock’s wife, fifteen years ago, Sherlock can’t cope with a newborn daughter.
Word count: 1963
Anon asked: Hi I was wondering if I could request an imagine wherein reader is Sherlock’d daughter. Sherlock’s love interest died because of Moriarty and Sherlock’s too broken to take care of his daughter that John and Mary became her parents. Ending is the reader had the deduction skills and deducted that Sherlock is her biological father??? If it’s not too much to ask. Thank you! Xx
The scene inside 221B Baker Street at that time could only have been described as catastrophic. A tall, thin, curly haired man, tear tracks running down his face, with a needle in his arm. And a baby girl, barely a year old, screaming blue murder, alone in her crib.
Sherlock had let his guard down, for once, tried to create a family, and this is where it had gotten him. Alone, in his flat, injecting deadly substances directly into his bloodstream until the world around him started swimming and darkening, and the baby in the crib grew weak and tired from hours of fruitless screaming.
Sherlock was woken rather abruptly by a firm slap across the face, and shocked into consciousness, he shot up from his horizontal position.
“John? What’s going on?” he mumbled, pressing a cool palm to his stinging face.
“Hours, Sherlock.” John hissed, red in the face with anger. “She was alone in there for hours. Y/N is not even a year old, you can’t just leave her there like that!”
Sherlock became dimly aware of Mary, stood by the door, with Y/N on her hip, a look of fury gracing her features.
“We’re taking her.” said John firmly.
“What?” asked Sherlock with furrowed brows.
“You’re neglecting your daughter through your own sorrow, Sherlock.” said Mary. “But you have to remember, that just as you have lost a wife, she has lost a mother. And it’s not fair on her.”
With that, John and Mary left. No more words were exchanged that day, at 221B Baker Street. Y/N never went back.
*fifteen years later, present day, Y/N’s POV*
“Mary, I’m going out!” you called, shrugging on your coat which was hanging by the front door.
“Wait a sec!” Mary yelled in reply, and you sighed, tapping your fingers impatiently as she came down the hallway towards you.
“All of my homework is completed, and I ate an apple about ten minutes ago.” you assured her, before she’d even opened her mouth.
“An apple is not a meal, Y/N.”
“John said I had to eat ‘something’, he never specified a full meal.” you insisted.
“Okay, okay.” she sighed, shaking her head. “And your homework? You can’t have done it all.”
“Basic, basic priciples Mary, you should know that by now. It took me an average of six minutes and forty-three seconds for each subject.”
“You’re a smart arse, you know that, don’t you?” she smiled, wrapping her arms around you and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Be safe, and don’t be home too late.”
“I’ll be back by eleven.” you assured her, hugging back breifly. “Bye!”
With that, you were out in the cold, crisp, London air, and you breathed it in, exhilarated by the noise and the smells, the quiver of the city itself. London was your turf, you knew every alleyway and shortcut, all stored away in a huge mental map. Exploring was your way of clearing your head, deducing random strangers as you passed, telling yourself their life story, walking down sketchy side streets and narrow alleyways, avoiding those who would recognise you, from school or otherwise.
It was often on these walks that your mind wandered to your biological parents. Had you wanted to know their identities you could have done - ten minutes on the internet would have given you that answer - but you’d never felt the need. John and Mary had raised you almost from birth, and in your opinion, that made them the only parents you’d ever need.
Soon, a shouting snapped you out of your thoughts, and you quickly registered your surroundings. Baker Street, central London. And it was John’s voice that had broken you from your thoughts, you were sure of it.
“Sherlock? It’s bloody freezing out here, will you come and unlock the door please?!”
As you rounded the corner, you saw John, looking up into the open window of one of the flats. Approaching silently, you began to hear music drifting from the window, an exquisitely played violin piece.
“It’s beautiful.” you whispered once you were right behind John, and he almost jumped out of his skin.
“Jesus Christ, Y/N. What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he asked, a badly disguised urgent look in his eyes.
“Life advice, John: never become an actor. You’re shit at it.” you quipped. “Now hush, I’m listening.”
John made to open his mouth again, but you quelled him with a single look, and he fell silent. The music drifting from the window reached its crescendo, and you allowed the soft, dulcet tones to wrap around you, as if warming you from head to toes. Once the piece had finished, there was a moment of silence, before you heard the bolt on the door being slid back, though the door itself remained closed.
“Who were you shouting to up there, a second ago?” you asked John.
His eyes searched your face for a moment, before he sighed heavily, rubbing his forhead, muttering something about how Mary was going to kill him for this.
“What’s going on?” you asked, brows furrowed. “Your pulse rate has quickened and your palms are sweaty. Your hair is slightly scruffy, but superficially so - you were running your hands through it as I was distracted by the music. Simply put, you’re nervous, and suffering from internal conflict. What is happening?”
After a long, hard stare at you, he finally spoke, though quietly, and with a slight waver to his voice.
“Y/N, there’s someone in this flat whom I would like you to meet. He’s a very close friend of mine, and there’s no doubt you’ll find him… Interesting to deduce.”
Without waiting for an answer from you, he stepped quickly towards the door and pushed it open. He knew without checking that you’d follow.
The hallway into which you stepped was dimly lit, but had a homely feel to it. Walking closely behind John, you ascended a set of stairs, until you came to the door of an upstairs flat, which was open. John strode in as if he owned the place, revealing to you a tall man, with curly, brown hair, holding a violin.
“I’ve brought someone to meet you Sherlock.” said John, the waver still present in his voice. “I’m going to go down to say hello to Mrs Hudson… Y/N, if you need me, just shout. I’ll hear you.”
You nodded, barely registering what was said to you until the door clicked shut behind you, and you were left alone with this stranger.
“Bach.” you said suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Excuse me?” asked the man, without turning to face you.
“Johann Sebastian Bach, Sonata number two. In A minor, I believe. It was beautifully played.”
The man spun on his heel to face you, and your eyes flickered over his form, cementing ideas forming in your head. He placed the violin onto the desk, and held out a hand for you to shake.
“Sherlock Holmes.” he said. “And you are?”
“Y/N Watson.” you replied. “Although, and correct me if I’m wrong, would it be more factually accurate to say Y/N Holmes?”
Sherlock’s expression remained unflinching, until he sighed, very slightly and almost inaudibly.
“Indeed it would.” he agreed. “Care to tell me how you came to that conclusion?”
“Well, for starters there’s physical appearance - the frankly unmanageable curls, the uniquely coloured eyes and the bloody cheekbones. Not to mention the slim physique and practically identical body shape.” you said, raising an eyebrow in defiance.
“That could just be coincidence.” he replied.
“The universe is rarely so lazy.” you shot back.
“But there’s more, I know there is.” he insisted, the corner of his mouth twitching as if a smile was tempting. “Please, do continue.”
“Posture,” you said, “the way you hold yourself. You weren’t raised in a privileged household where those sorts of characteristics were valued, that’s clear to see from your appalling lack of taste in internal decoration and the size of the flat you’re living in, not to mention the fact that you had to share with a roommate for a number of years. No, maintaining posture comes naturally to you, as it does with me, for no particular reason other than it just feels right.”
“Good, very good. Anything else?”
“Your entire flat is baby proofed, in such a way that shows you care, or cared, deeply for a child. But there are no signs of a child living in this house, no pictures or drawings, no toys. Anyone who was that sentimentally attached to the child would at least have a picture of them in their flat, which tells me that a baby was living here, but that circumstances changed very quickly. You’ve been plagued with guilt ever since, and instead of completely forget about it, you’d keep the flat baby safe, convincing yourself that one day they would come back, and that everything would be okay.”
You finished your speech with a choked voice, failing to detach yourself from the situation. Sherlock seemed to be holding back tears - his blinking rate had increased slightly - and you reached forward tentatively to place a hand on his arm. He tensed slightly at first, but then relaxed, closing his eyes breifly.
“You’re so like me, but you have her way with people.” Sherlock smiled faintly. “She could do that as well, your mother. Just one touch and you’d feel okay again.”
You swallowed the lump in your throat and breathed deeply.
“And where is she? My… Mother?” you asked.
“Dead.” he replied eventually. “Barely four months after you were born.”
“She was kidnapped by someone called James Moriarty. It took me three days to find her, but I was too late. She was already dead.”
“That’s why you gave me up.” you whispered. “You let Mary and John take me because you were heartbroken.”
There was a moment of silence as the hand still resting on his arm slid down to his wrist, turning it over to reveal distinctive scarring patterns.
“And the drugs?” you asked, biting your lip.
“Clean for three years.” he replied.
There was silence once again in the flat, before you sighed slightly.
“I don’t know what’s meant to happen now… You left me.” you said quietly. “You left me when I needed you the most, and you never came back to get me. John and Mary are my parents, and that’s all I’ve even known.”
“I’ve never forgiven myself for that.” he retaliated. “Every single day that I went without you, having to see John every single day and knowing that he was raising my daughter. It killed me, Y/N.”
A sob escaped your lips, and Sherlock’s heart wrenched, a feeling he hadn’t experienced since he saw the body of the woman he loved, lying dead, fifteen years ago. Without knowing what overcame either of you, he opened his arms and you fell into them, sobbing your heart out, tears flowing down your face. He stroked your hair as you held onto him, a feeling of belonging so strong that it made you feel weak.
“Whatever you want, it’s up to you, Y/N. But I’m never going to let you go again.” whispered Sherlock.
Contradict my opinion if you please, but in all honesty, the best gifs from the show are the ones from The Lying Detective. There are so many different levels of the emotional spectrum in Benedict and Martin that it’s difficult not to use them.
Requested by Anon: On the way to work one morning in the torrential downpour that is London, you happen to get into a rather bad car crash. It’s not enough to kill you, but it’s enough to make Sherlock go nuts.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Hi, this is y/n. If I haven’t answered, I’m solving crimes with the worlds only Consulting Detective who also happens to be my husband. Leave a message!”
Sherlock huffed and pressed his thumb against the pound key. “Y/n, you only left for work twenty minutes ago, and judging by the fact that you haven’t answered, I’d say you’re probably back seat driving the cabbie. You’re worrying me love, pick up the phone please.”
You and Sherlock were newly weds, having been best friends since John moved into 221B several years before. You spent most of your time with the war doctor and the Detective, and before you’d realized it, you were falling in love with Sherlock Holmes.
“I-I don’t know what THIS is!” Sherlock yelled, startling you as he pounded on his heart. “Every time I look at you, my heart goes faster and my head begins to pound! I’m absolutely clueless to the stimulating response my body goes through when you enter a room-”
“You-” You swallowed the lump in your throat and stood on your tiptoes, your lips ghosting over Sherlocks as lightly as you possibly could. He easily sank into your embrace, his fingers tangling in your hair as you leaned backwards to get a better look at his eyes. “You bloody twit, you are in love with me.”
“Oh, Sherlock! Haven’t you looked down the street? There’s a car crash just another mile down the road!” Mrs Hudson chided, throwing open the window shams. The rain had let up enough to visibly see the street, and as Sherlock looked out the window, it only took him a minute to deduce that your cab was indeed one of the two that had wrecked. “Where-Where are you going?!”
“That’s my wives cab! She could be hurt! She could be-” Sherlock halted at the front door of the building, running his hands over his scruff as realization smacked him rather hard in the mouth. “She could be dead.”
Mrs. Hudson snorted indignantly as she passed him his Belstaff. “Your wife is one of the most fiery women I’ve ever met in my life. Plus she was crazy enough to marry you. I can guarantee you she’s not dead-”
But Sherlock was out the door before she could finish her sentence.
For me, just do it for me y/n. Don’t be dead.
John Watson had seen you come into the hospital when Mary was having her checkup, insisting that he know how you had obtained your injuries. Your most major problem was a broken leg from the impact of the door, but other then that you mainly had several bruises and lacerations.
“Has Sherlock shown up yet?” Mary questioned, leaning against her husbands arm as they sat in the waiting room. Both of them had demanded to be in your private room once they had reset your leg, but the doctors had only taken you into the OR twenty minutes before, and they were not finished yet. “And here he comes!”
John opened his mouth to respond but was met with a wave of security guards, all shouting commands at one another as they swarmed the nurses station. Had it not been for the dark black curls and scruff, he would have never known it was Sherlock demanding to see his wife. “I’m sorry sir, but patient records and information are confidential. I can’t disclose them to you.”
“Like you can’t! She’s my wife!” Sherlock growled, tilting his head as several of the nurses rallied behind the desk. “You slept with your boss to get you a reputation,” He moved his finger down the line and continued to point out the biggest flaws in the remaining nurses. “You do too much botox to try and please your husband, you’re far too concerned what the woman in radiology thinks, and you’re questioning your sexuality.. My God, please get a life!”
The former war doctor muttered apologies to the nurses as he drug Sherlock towards Mary, whose face became sympathetic as she motioned for him to sit beside her. “Sherlock, we saw her when she came in here. She’s banged up, but she’ll be alright. The worst of it is that she has a broken leg.”
Sherlock laughed in disbelief, pulling his phone from his pocket to show John the five text messages he’d sent you from the moment you walked out the door to the supposed time of the crash.
I love you. - SH
We need something good for dinner. The head might have contaminated the frozen chicken breasts. - SH
You, my love, are secretly wearing the red lingerie underneath your dress aren’t you? Naughty girl. -SH
Can you pick up milk on the way home? Used the rest to make coffee. - SH
P.S. There’s now eyes in said coffee. - SH
“I asked her, I asked her to bring home milk and in return, she gets into a bloody car wreck!” Sherlock exclaimed, his arms falling at his sides as Mary patted his thigh reassuringly. “How stupid is that?”
“Mr and Mrs. Watson, y/n has been moved into recovery.” All three heads shot up as the lead orthopedic surgeon stepped into sight and managed a wide smile. “The bone has been set successfully, so now we’ll cast her up when she’s awake and send her home. Is there someone we can call?”
“ME!” Sherlock deadpanned, waving his hands in front of the doctors face. “I tried to tell your nurses at the station that I’m her husband-” He lifted his gold wedding band to their line of sight and waved it back and forth out of annoyance and disregard. “But no one would believe me!”
“I believe you sir.” The doctor reassured, clasping Sherlock on the shoulder as he led him and the Watsons in the direction of your room. “Any man that’s so possessive over a woman is sure to be in love if not married to her.”
Your eyes were just beginning to flutter open at the sound of voices, the morphine in your system numbing most of the pain from your injuries. “Hello?” You called out weakly. “S-Sherlock?” John squeezed his best friends shoulder and motioned for him to step into your room, giving an encouraging nod.
“Hello love. You nearly drove me nuts by not answering your stupid phone.” He pulled up the chair beside your bed and took your bruised hand in his own, frowning as he ran his fingers over your knuckles. “I thought you were dead.”
“A car crash ending me? That’s the best you can do?” You deadpanned. Your gaze softened as you realized that he was indeed telling the truth- hence why his eyes were glassy and his breathing was eradicated; nearly on the verge of a hysterical breakdown. “Sherlock, I promise I’m fine. Just a broken leg.” You patted the open space beside you and he immediately crawled into it, careful not to dislodge any of your IV’s as his arms wrapped around your thin frame, your head now tucked beneath his chin. “I was backseating the cabbie. He was a terrible driver.”
He chuckled and buried his face in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of vanilla. “I’m not surprised. You tend to do that to all of them.” A shiver ran down your spine as his fingers wrapped around the ties on your hospital gown, ghosting over the flesh of your back. “They took your lingerie off I bought you for our wedding night. I’m quite offended.”
“Yes, because what male doctor throws away scarlet red hot lingerie?” You replied sarcastically. “Check with the personal items. My phone should be in there too.” Mary and John stepped into the room just in time to witness Sherlock carry your face in his own hands ever so gently, his lips pressing against your forehead as he began his search for your personal belongings.
He didn’t even get to leave the room.
“Uh, Sherlock?” Your tone became urgent as your pupils dilated, your focus now on the two people in your doorway. Judging by the way Sherlock regarded them as if he knew them, they weren’t strangers. Not to him anyway. “Who are the people in my doorway? I-I don’t know them. Can they leave?”
“Y/n, this is John Watson.’’ Sherlock said slowly, his expression one of confusion as he set his hand on Johns shoulder. “You met him years ago when he moved into the flat with me. You call him Hedgehog because let’s be honest, he looks like one. And he’s basically your brother. Mary? She’s his wife and she’s carrying their child. A little girl. You’ve been helping with the baby shower-”
“I don’t know you. Either of you. Can you please leave?” Your finger hovered over the call button on the side of the bed, which was sure to alert any nearby nurses or staff. “I can get you into some serious trouble if you don’t go! Leave!”
That smile. The one that always said “I have faith in who you are.”
The endless nights of being locked out of the flat when Sherlock was in his mind palace.
His war stories.
Their wedding day. The first time Sherlock had really, genuinely expressed how he felt about you despite the fact you’d been dating for well over a year.
Everything around you- the hospital room, the sheets on your bed, the rank smell of chloro septic in the air. All of it was just so bleak. The woman had started to cry as Sherlock motioned her and her husband from the room to speak to them about whatever was going on.
You obviously cared about them enough to draw her to tears. But there was the problem.