#elementary imagine

Her comment made you lower your gaze, numbly. The police car drove off as you saw him through the window. His gaze still clear on you. Grimacing joyfully at his achievements. At his achievement of having deceived you.

Unable to look more at him, you turned your head away. Eyes closing to withhold your tears. Tears for how ridiculous and ashamed you felt. Ashamed that he had found a way to get close. Too close. You thought you knew him. It all started out as a helpless neighbour. Then it became familiars to friends.

He had woven a way in your life without knowing his true intentions of background. Unaware of the fact that he was out for a reckoning. Sizzling like a snake just to find a moment to strike. Countless of other women he had already kidnapped and tortured. If it wasn’t for Sherlock, you might have been next.

Wiping your cheeks, Joan moved her head up from your little movement. – “I’m alright.” – you reminded her once more. Turning around as your gaze fell upon him. Sherlock Holmes. Something unreadable in his expression.

It made Joan look between the two of you. Taking a deep breath, he approached you. Curling up a saddened smile, you readied yourself for an embrace. Arms already  opening a bit till they lowered. Struck by another reality.

Sherlock’s expression hardened as he removed his hand from his pocket. – “I can’t believe you!” – he called out, making you flutter taken back by his words. – “Have you truly become that blind by a guy? So blind that you couldn’t even deduct his intentions.” – he shouted out, waving his hand around in accusations.

“If it wasn’t for me smelling his intentions from a mile away, you’d be looking a lot less nice as you do now!” – his words firing at you like bullets. – “Sherlock.” – Joan said seeing how this was not helping right now.

Sherlock threw his hand up to her for silence. – “Well it was almost over, you know.” – Sherlock began once more. – “O-our little family unit. You, me, Joan!” – he shuddered out. Lip quivering that tiny bit as you noticed the change in his eyes. More saddened than ever. – “I know.” – you responded lowly, batting your gaze down.

Sherlock shifted the weight on his feet. – “We’re supposed to be partners!” – his words shouting at you. Blaming you for not noticing it. For not telling him. For not seeking comfort. – “I know.” – was the only response you could give him. – “I can’t believe you have been this stupid, Y/n!” – his final words making you swallow hard.

Lifting your head up with tears in your eyes. – “Yes, I have been stupid!” – you shouted back. – “I am the things you accuse me off. Stupid, blind, clueless and I should be ashamed of myself, but believe me Sherlock I am!”

Joan stared with wide eyes back at you. Then at Sherlock, seeing him tense his jaw. Trying to hide his true emotions. – “I…I can’t be around someone this clueless.” – he mumbled to himself, turning away to pinch his nose bridge. – “Don’t say that.” – Joan said touching

Sherlock by his arm, but he just shrugged her touch away. Sniffing loud, you searched your pockets, trying to withhold a sob. Sherlock turned his head curious hearing the dangling of keys. Eyes slightly widening when you held your keys up.

The keys to the apartment you shared. – “Then don’t.” – you spoke taking a step forwards. Slapping your keys in his hand. Urging him to take them. The keys nearly falling out of his hand, making him stumble to keep a hold of them before dropping to the ground.

“Y/n… please… Sherlock didn’t meant it…” – her head went with a glare at him. – “Did you Sherlock?” – keeping her glare on him to think before he speaks. – “I did.” – he responded without a second thought. Joan closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.

You knew enough, turning on your heel. Taking off in the night, leaving your once known partners alone. Joan came up to his face, making him jump out of his skin. – “You know not everything is about you, you know that right?” – she told him.

“Because congratulations Holmes, you just broke up our little family unit as you so love to call it.” – Joan left with those words, giving him something to think about. Sherlock stared a bit into the distance before following her back to the apartment.

Joan sighed loud at the scenery. Sherlock sitting in silence, staring at the dangling keys between his fingers. Your keys. – “Stop being stubborn and call her back.” – Joan told him, having enough of his contemplating. – “No…” – Sherlock muttered out, not tearing his gaze away from the keys.

It made Joan sigh even louder to let him know how ridiculous he was being. – “You are being ridiculous.” – she said, throwing a shirt at him. It made him jump up. – “I am not!” – he shouted back. Expression stern and grumpily. Having heard something he didn’t like.

With a huff, he pulled his shirt a bit more down, taking his leave. Joan rolled her eyes at him. Sherlock slowed his pace nearing your door. Touching the cuffs on his sleeve to occupy himself thoughtfully. Brows slightly furrowed, contemplating about you. Something missing ever since you left.

Clearing his throat, he moved further, going towards his room. Closing the door behind him. Pulling his chair back as he came sitting at his desk. Pulling the folder a bit closer to him. Reading the first few lines of the police report with a smile. – “Y/n would love this.” – he spoke to himself.

When he caught himself smiling, he quickly cleared his throat. Letting his smile falter. – “It was not I that got themselves manipulated.” – he scoffed out, crossing his arms. Puffing loud, he tried to make himself feel better by acting a bit cocky. That something like that would’ve never happened with him.

When the sun was setting knocked Joan at his door. – “What do you want for diner?” – she asked on the other side of the door. Sherlock got up, opening the door. – “What does Y/n want?” – he blurted out as his eyes suddenly widened. Joan quirked her brow up.

“I…I…I mean whatever you want.” – he quickly tried to recover, but Joan was already smiling. – “Just call her. You missing her is starting to get a bit annoying.” – she gave him a little shove to get it in his head. Sherlock cleared his throat. – “I…I don’t miss her.” – he responded.

“Uh-hu.” – Joan said unbelieving. – “So constantly looking at her door, beginning a conversation to her when she is not here is not missing her?” – she explained further, needing him to understand just how much he missed he. – “I..I don’t do that.” – Sherlock called out, his voice going a pitch higher.

“Your voice pitched.” – Joan pointed out. – “It… it did not.” – he deepened his voice with a little clearance. Joan rolled with her eyes, taking out her phone. – “Call her!” – making it clear to him.

Sherlock swallowed nervously when Joan shoved her phone closer to him. He shakingly accepted it. – “Be honest with her, Sherlock.” – she finished, taking her leave. Sherlock stared down at the phone before dialling your number. Waiting for your answer. “Hello Joan.” Hearing your voice made him close his eyes with a warm sigh. – “Hello Y/n.” – he spoke.

There was a silence at the other end as he knew you were caught by surprise. – “I…I’d like to see you if you allow me.” – he continued, hoping you would agree. Another pause, making him fear the worst. – “Fine…” – you agreed with soft sigh. Sherlock asked you to come to the apartment. Joan took her leave, wanting to give the two of you some privacy.

Sherlock waited patiently for you. Taking a deep breath when the door opened. Curling up a tiny smile at the sight of you. – “You wanted to see me.” – you said stepping closer to him. – “Yes… and I very much like you to listen to me.” – he began. – “Sherlock, I think I have enough of your blaming.” – you interrupted him.

“No-no-no wait, listen to me Y/n.” – he quickly jumped in, not wanting you to leave. You gestured at him to continue, crossing your arms. – “I… I know I tend to make things all about me. Speak before I think. I shouldn’t have acted that way. I should’ve comforted you instead.” – he went further, nervously fumbling with his hands.

“We both know that isn’t like you.” – you responded, turning away from him. Sherlock moved forwards, grabbing you by your elbow to keep you in place. – “I was a dick. I tend to say the wrong things whenever I don’t know how to deal with it.” – he called out, pulling you towards him. – “I’ve been wrong again, wrong. I…I’m sorry…” – he let out taking you by your other elbow as well.

Staring deeply at you. – “I…I… Joan wants me to admit that I have missed you… and to be truthful I have. I have missed you Y/n. Very much.” – you blinked surprised when he pushed a stray of hair behind your ear. – “I’m sorry…please forgive me and come back… for I can’t fantom not having you by my side.” – he breathed out letting his touch go down your cheek to your chin.

Shuddering out a breath at his touch. Sherlock took another step closer to you. – “Please… come home.” – he wanted nothing more. You curled up a smile, touching his shoulder as you brought your head closer to him. Leaving a caring kiss against his cheek. Leaning a bit back, your gaze got caught with his. His breath hot on yours. Gaze falling lower with a yearning. Sucking in a breath, you felt compelled. Before you knew it, his lips were on yours. Kissing you deeply.

Breaking the kiss off, Sherlock took a step back with a clearance of his throat. – “Not a word to Joan about this.” – he said making you laugh loud.

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

You saw Sherlock's eyes look you up and down, and you knew what had happened was playing through his mind. The killer, who you thought was working alone at the time, had suck up on you on your search of his apartment. You fought him rather brutally until Sherlock and Bell showed up to help you.

"Are you sure you should be going home? You still look a bit..." he trailed off as he motioned at you vaguely.

You let out a soft laugh. "I'm fine, just a bit bruised and sore, there's no real reason to keep me here."

Sherlock turned and walked to the window. You watched him curiously, noting how fidgety he appeared to be. "Are you alright Sherlock?"

Turning, he met your eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Closing it, he walked up to you and bounced on the balls of his feet. "I'm...frustrated. That the partner is eluding me so well. But...I'd feel much better if you'd let me take you home"

You watched him for a moment, "You don't think the partner will come after me do you?"

Sherlock looked down at his feet, before meeting your eyes again. "I don't know." You noted the seriousness in his tone.

"It would be easier if he did though, wouldn't it?" You asked, not really thinking about what you said.

Sherlock cocked his head lightly. "I'm not here in hopes of catching him, I-" he seemed to grow more flustered as he spoke. "Well, as hard as it might be to believe, I am only here to make sure you get home safely. I do not want the partner to come for you, no matter how easy that might make it to find him."

"So, you came all the way here for me?" You asked softly, knowing that Sherlock lived on the other side of the city.

He nodded once. "Yes. I did."

You couldn't ignore the swelling you seemed to feel in your chest, or the heat that rose up your neck. Not wanting him to notice, you spun around, and grabbed you bag, ignoring the soreness of your body. "Well then, I don't see why I shouldn't let you take me home."

Turning back, you handed your bag to Sherlock, which he took quickly before turning to leave. You smiled softly at the thought of him caring about you this much as you followed him.

The drive back to your apartment was filled with discussion about the case and the partner, and who they could be. You knew Sherlock was frustrated, but you could also tell there was something else bothering him.

As you got into your apartment, you watched as Sherlock quickly walked through, checking every room before he came back. "All clear?" You asked, only mildly serious.

Sherlock nodded as he looked at the locks on your doors. "You should look into getting better security, I could pick these in my sleep."

"Noted." You said softly as you watched him check your windows. "Sherlock." Not reacting, you spoke louder. "Sherlock."

Turning at the sound of your raised voice, he watched you closely as you walked up to him.

"What is bothering you so much? It's not just that you don't know who the partner is. Is it- are you...worried about me?"

"You seem surprised by the prospect."

"Well, you've not really shown this much concern for me before, at least not this noticeably."

"Yes, well..." He let out a huff of air, seemingly unsure of what to say. "I may- I may blame myself, for what happened to you."

"Why?" You asked with a concerned frown.

"I told you to check the apartment. Alone. I was not thinking of your safety as much as I should have been, and you got hurt. I will not neglect to keep you safe this time."

"So it's not that you are worried, its that you feel guilty? Sherlock we were doing our job. Getting hurt tends to happen sometimes. It wasn't your fault. None of us knew he was going to be there. I don't blame you, so you shouldn't either."

"But I do." His voice was louder as emotion became a bit more obvious in his face. His eyes paused on your cheek, where a bruise was still evident.

You felt your body freeze as he reached up, his fingers hovering over your face where the bruise was, before he moved a strand of lose hair from your face, his fingers grazing your skin softly as he did so.

Seemingly realizing what he was doing, he pulled his hand away and cleared his throat. "I will find the partner. I will."

You smiled softly, and spoke in a soft voice. "I know you will."

His eyes slowly moved to meet yours. "I wont let them hurt you again." His voice was almost a whisper.

"I believe you."

"I-" He began, but stopped, unsure if he should speak.

"What is is Sherlock?"

He crinkled his nose as he thought, before he swallowed, and met your eyes. "I find that... I have- that my...feelings towards you are changing, and have been for some time. And I'm not quite sure...what to do with them."

You took a deep breath, as you tried to steady your heart. "It's alright to feel Sherlock. And whatever you decide to do with your feelings...I'll still be here."

"And if I decide to....embrace them?" He asked softly.

"I wont reject you, if that's what you are afraid of."

He bounced lightly on his feet as he thought in silence for a moment. "I have thought for quite some time that you had feelings for me, but I wasn't positive if maybe I was just projecting."

"You weren't." You admitted.

He nodded his head as he locked his eyes with yours. Taking a step closer, you held your breath, his face not far from yours. His eyes grazed over your features, as he brought his hand up, and again, gently caressed your face. "Then I will...embrace them. I want to."

As various emotions seemed to rocket through you, you nodded your head softly, and smiled at him.

His lips quirked up a bit, as he slowly leaned forward. His lips hovered in front of yours for a moment, brushing ever so lightly, before he leaned in completely. His hand cupped the back of your head as he deepened the kiss, embracing the feelings he had once pushed away.

For the moments, the thoughts of the case, of the partner, were gone from your minds. But Sherlock's determination to keep you safe would remain, well past the closing of this case.

xx End xx

You and Sherlock have been together for a few years now. In all those years, sleep was never his priority. He’d get some rest whenever it was really necessary. You were surprised he could even sleep when he decided to. His schedule was non-existent. If you go to sleep a couple hours later or earlier than normal, you always have trouble falling asleep. But then again, Sherlock has always been special.

A few weeks ago his sleeping habits changed. He sleeps every night, most of the time he goes to bed at the same time. Sometimes he’s even asleep hours before you decide to call it a night. There’s regularity in his sleeping habits now. He always makes sure he gets eight hours a night. Honestly, you applaud his new habit, but you can’t understand why.

Sherlock wouldn’t just start sleeping regularly without a reason. He hasn’t told you the reason yet. Prodding doesn’t always help you, but you’ve been patient for weeks. If there’s something going with him you want to know. You should know. Tonight is the night you’ll confront him.

-----

When you get home, the house is quiet. The note on the kitchen table informs you that they’re out wrapping up a case. It might be a while until the get back.

You decide to get ready for bed early. Taking your laptop with you, you make yourself comfortable under the covers and play your favourite movie.

You hear Sherlock and Watson come home, but pay no mind. You’ve noticed that Sherlock turns in as soon as they get home from closing a case, meaning he’d be in your room before you know it.

The door opens and the surprised look tells you he wasn’t expecting you to be in bed already. Pushing past the surprise, he greets you with a quick kiss on the lips before running off to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

When he walks back into the room, your laptop is nowhere to be found and you’re sitting upright, leaning against the headboard. You can see his eyes scanning your body, reading your body language. When his shoulders drop and his face carries a grimace, you know that he knows you want to talk about something serious. He crawls into bed next to you and leans against the headboard as well looking straight ahead.

“I’m guessing you already know what I want to talk about,” you say softly.

“My new sleeping habits,” he answers gruffly.

You sigh. “It’s not that I don’t like you laying next to me every single night, cuddlebug.” You use his nickname in the hopes of deflating some of the tension. “But you’ve always found sleep something trivial and now you have a regular sleeping schedule. I know you which is how I know that there’s a reason. I want to know, Sherlock.”

He casts a quick look your way before taking a deep breath. “It’s PCS, Post-Concussion Syndrome. I went to a doctor a while back. It started with a simple headache that I brushed off at first, but then they became more painful. The uncharacteristically need for sleep is another symptom. It seems that some of my life choices made this happen and Shinwell’s attack was the final straw so it seems.”

You’re silent for a moment gathering your thoughts. “What else… what else contributed? How bad is it?”

His brows furrow together. “The boxing, the drugs and the countless other moments when I put myself in harm’s way. It’s bad at the moment, but I’m getting medication that’s supposed to help with the headaches and other symptoms.”

“Supposed to help? It isn’t working?” you hoarsely ask. The emotions nestling themselves on your voice.

“They’re not doing much, but I’m seeing the doctor tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you found out?” At the beginning your voice is painted with a sliver of anger, but at the end it breaks.

“I suppose I was still processing it myself and did not want to put that burden on you until I came to terms with it myself.”

“You should have told me,” you barely whisper. “We’re supposed to be in this together, Sherlock. Did you think I was just going to accept your new sleeping habits without questioning them?”

“No, you’re too clever for that,” he answers without missing a beat while he takes your hand in his.

Sherlock doesn’t like physical touch that much, it’s the reason why you call him cuddlebug. It means a lot that he’s reaching out like this. You squeeze his hand while you blink away the tears. He is always such a strong force, but now he has PCS. Something that is affecting his day to day life, his work.

“I’m still mad at you, but we should get some sleep right now. Also I’m coming with you tomorrow,” you say the last part sternly before turning off the light.

“Of course, love,” he whispers in the dark.

You both lay down on your respective sides. Just before you’re dozing off, Sherlock’s arms wind around waist and his cold hands land on your stomach.

You squeal: “Cuddlebug, your hands are ice cold!”

He chuckles and says: “That name is misleading, you know. It might give people the wrong idea.”

“Joan, I’m back!” You scream out those words as you enter through the apartment’s entrance, one of your hands holding onto a bunch of flyers and brochures while the other one closes the door behind you. “I got your text. Did Sherlock already leave for his new investigation?”

Silence follows your silence as you walk through the apartment, your feet taking you from the entrance to the living room. You shuffle the brochures in your hand a few times, your eyes trying to find a few specific ones as you walk into the kitchen.

“Hey.” You give out a smile when you notice Joan sitting at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a full cup of tea and her eyes staring at emptiness. “Did you hear me come in?”

“Hm.” She barely answers you, her hand bringing the cup of tea to her lips. “I did.”

You look back at the brochures, continuing to shuffle them. “And Sherlock?”

“Left with Marcus an hour ago.”

“Alright.” One of your hand stretches towards the chair next to hers, dragging it so you’ll have enough space to sit down. “I followed your doctor’s advice, and met with a few representatives of organizations that can give you the proper counseling. I took a few of their brochures, but I went through them, and I think two of them could be very good choices. If you wanna check them out and pick one-”

“I don’t need that.” She finally gives you a look, a stern look on her expression. “I told you; I don’t need any help.”

You look up from the brochures and quirk an eyebrow. “Joan, you were kidnapped.”

“And I came out of it without a scratch.” She gives out a hard smile as she repeats the words she heard from one of her doctors. “Remember?”

You give out a sigh, putting the brochures down on the table.

“Joan.” You reach out to take one of her hands in yours, forcing her to look into your eyes. “You’re used to be a doctor, right?”

She squints her eyes at you, confused. “Yes, and?”

“So let’s say your friend got kidnapped.” She gives out a sigh of frustration as soon as she hears those words come out of your mouth, but your hands secure her in place and push her to listen to you. “Says she’s fine, but she has a hard time leaving the apartment, avoids her friends and family, and...” You point at her with your chin. “She’s constantly on edge and annoyed by others. Now, do you think those are symptoms of...?”

You make a point to not finish your sentence, which is enough to make Joan sigh once more. “They’re stress reactions.”

“Right.” You give out a proud grin, gently shaking her hand from left to right. “And what would you recommend...?”

“Be in a safe and secure environment...” She tils her head back and forth, clearly not wanting to answer your question. “Connect with loved ones... take time to adjust back into family and work...”

“Now, let’s say your friend’s already doing that.” You slowly approach your upper body to hers, forcing her to look into your eyes. “What else could she do?”

She stares intently into your eyes, a glint of annoyance in hers. “Get resources and information about how to seek counseling.”

“Which is why I got the brochures.” You gently pat her hand before you let go, grabbing the few fliers you left on the table and showcasing them to your friend. “So... will you please take a look at them?”

She gives out a groan, her hands reaching to get the flyers. “You’re a really sweet but annoying friend, you know?”

“I know.” You give out a large grin, your eyes saddening with worry a few seconds later. “Joan, you know I’m here for you, right?”

She looks up from the brochures to look into your eyes, a small silence settling between the two of you. A few seconds pass before her lips form a genuine smile, and thus, despite the tiredness in her eyes.

“Where is Jamie?” Watson asked you calmly from across the interrogation table. Behind the mirror was Sherlock, who had been ejected from the interrogation for nearly hurting you. If you’d been returned to Jamie with bruises, Sherlock wouldn’t be safe. Jamie had no qualms about hurting him anymore, she had promised you that much. Joan was another story, Jamie would never lay a finger on Joan Watson, not until you proved yourself a more fascinating toy. 

“I’ll tell you what I told that British brat, I don’t know,” you answered Joan’s question. You were lying, but also technically you weren’t. Jamie had left your apartment in Manhattan for the penthouse in the Bronx or the country house in New Jersey. Either way, she wasn’t in the apartment the police were wrecking. “Why don’t you let me have my call and we check up on her?” 

“Y/n, without Jamie, it’s all on you. You’d let yourself be thrown in prison for her crimes?” Joan asked you. “You’ve already lied to us about your relationship with Jamie Moriarty. Help us now and maybe we’ll work out a deal for you.” 

“Have you ever been in love Dr. Watson?” you asked as you looked up at the woman interrogating you. “Because I am undoubtedly in love with Jamie. We’ve been in love for years, even before Sherlock had come into her life. The hard part about being in love with someone with Jamie’s infliction is that she can’t possibly love you, not truly. I fascinate her, but so do you, as did your partner once.” 

“What is the point of you telling me this?” Joan asked and just before you could answer, Sherlock came back into the room. “Sherlock, leave.” 

“My point is that she’s consuming. She’s consumed me, as she consumed him, and as she has begun to consume you. Get out while you still can, distance yourself from us. Let me go,” you offered. Watson and Sherlock argued in the corner and they released you. You went back to the apartment and caught a plane to Louisiana, where Jamie was waiting for you. 

“This place is awful,” Jamie complained. The heat was best described as blistering and Jamie was dressed up in a dark red three piece suit. It didn’t help that the woman was also sitting in nearly direct sunlight. “I swear it will not be this hot when we’re burning in Hell. Did you lose them?” 

“Back quite a ways. Come on, we’ve got a flight to catch back to England,” you told her. Jamie smiled and the two of you met a pilot waiting to take you out of the country. Sherlock and Watson’s detectives were still looking for you in the Northeast, so you had a clean break to leave. 

“Did you mean all those things you said earlier?” Jamie asked you, referring to the tape of the police interrogation she had heard. It did not surprise you that Jamie knew what you’d said, but it did surprise you that she hadn’t brought it up earlier. There was a hint of something sad in her voice that you’d never heard before and you didn’t like it one bit. 

“What things?” you asked her. You’d been honest with the detectives in regards to how you felt about Jamie and how you believed that she felt about you. It had worked to get your release, even if they’d only done it to try and capture you and Jamie together later. 

With your boyfriend Marcus in the hospital, you refused to leave his side, spending every waking moment by his bedside and sometimes even falling asleep there too. You had spent a few hours talking with him before he dozed off and you weren't far behind him. Still sitting in the uncomfortable chair, you'd pulled up to his bedside, you had fallen asleep, your fingers interlocked with his hand even though he was unable to move it.

You weren't sure how long you were asleep, knowing Marcus would likely leave you to rest even if he woke up as he knew how long you had been there. Normally you probably wouldn't have even woken up until a nurse came in, but the movement of his fingers made you wake up.

Falling asleep holding his hand was normal, and if he moved, it didn't usually cause you to wake up but this time it was different. You had spent every day since he ended up in the hospital bed, assuring him that he would get movement back in his hand and things would be okay but without any progress, it became harder and harder to assure him of such a thing.

Marcus had a weak smile on his face as he moved his fingers slightly against yours. Although you were half asleep, you felt great amounts of joy as you felt the movement and saw his happiness.

"Did you just... did you just move your fingers?" You asked, a childlike grin on your face.

He nodded his head. "It wasn't much. I can't move them any more than that."

Marcus twitched his fingers again, the smallest of movements but still it was something, something that you both had begun to doubt would ever happen.

"It might not be much, but it's progress," you smiled. "You remember what the doctor said, a little progress is better than nothing, it means you’re more likely to get full movement back in your hand."

He didn't look as hopeful as you, but at least he looked as though he had some hope for the future now, something he lacked beforehand.

"Maybe," he sighed.

You leaned in to press your lips to his cheek. "It's going to be okay Marcus, I know it."

"I hope that you're right," he said with a weak smile.

"I always am," you chuckled. "I'm going to go and get the doctor."

“I suppose you must have a very good reason for showing up on my doorstep, no less in New York,” Sherlock Holmes stepped aside, allowing your figure to pass him. “Though I had heard from my father that you had moved here from London to New York several months ago,” You brushed past him, doing your best to avoid his sharp gaze, just as you did when you walked out of his life exactly four years, seven months, and ten days ago. He attempted not to note each and everything that had changed in the nearly five years that he had gone without seeing you, but that only seemed an impossibility – already his mind was making a list: you had lost some weight, your eyes were gaunt, lips tightened in an artificial smile, and your body language was that of desperation. “And it seems that you do have a very good reason.”

You raised an eyebrow as he gestured for you to sit, and you did, in the large armchair you knew he preferred, “Should I tell you, or should I assume you already deduced it?”

“I think it would be best for you tell me yourself,” His tone softened as he noticed you squirm in your seat, clutching the hem of your skirt so tightly he could see the whites of your knuckles, “Y/N, please, what is it?”

“I have a stalker,” Your words were blurted out, as if you could hold them no longer, and nor could you hold the tears that fell from your cheeks. He rose to fetch you some tissues, funneling into energy into anything besides the urge of wanting nothing more, but to hold you. But he had to restrain himself, even as the old feelings of love and the desire to protect you kicked in, it wasn’t in either of your best interests nor would it help the situation. All the same, you stopped him in his tracks with a wave of your hand, “I’m sorry, it’s just,” your voice steadied and you forced your breathing to be even, “the last few days have been a lot.”

He nodded curtly, trying to ignore your tear stricken face, and focus on this case – your case. He crossed his arms, “When did you first learn about your stalker?”

“About a year ago,” You wrung your hands in your lap, looking up after wiping the evidence of your sobs away, “At first, it was phone calls – nothing on the line except breathing, and then someone would cut the phone. I thought it was just prank calls,” You chuckled at your own naivety, covering your mouth for a moment, “but then, it escalated to letters – sent to me every week about how much he loved me, how much he wanted me, and what he wanted to do to me.”

The words were spat out with disgust, your body practically convulsing at the thought, and his fists became much tighter, “Then he started leaving envelopes filled with my pictures on my doorstep, on my windshield, they had it mailed to me at my work, and I don’t know where they were getting them, or how they were taking them. There were even some,” Your voice wavered, and his shoulders stiffened, as he watched you struggle to even say the words “of me changing, and…of me with other men.” His anger was mounting, but his emotions were beside the point – he couldn’t allow it to cloud his judgement, but it wasn’t becoming increasingly difficult to do so. “I didn’t know how he got it, and when I called the police, they found hidden cameras placed around my apartment, and that means he had…been in there.”

And at that point Sherlock couldn’t take it, he knocked over several things off the table, much to your shock, as you jumped to your feet, and he stood there for a moment, before turning and asking the question he wanted to ask as soon as you started: “Why didn’t you ask me sooner?” You knew he was a world-class detective, you knew that he would have dropped what he was doing to help you, you knew he could catch this disgusting dredge of a human faster than anyone else and never let him see the light of day, but you didn’t know that he still –

“It was hard, Sherlock,” You approached him slowly, small footsteps now echoing through the empty brownstone, “to leave you all those years ago.”

“It didn’t seem that hard for you at the time,” He said, his gaze meeting yours, but you didn’t shy away this time, instead clasping your hands as if to stop yourself from touching him.

“Maybe not to you, but to me, it was one the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life,” You said, your words genuine, as one of your hands broke free, brushing gently against his cheek, “I didn’t want to leave you, Sherlock, but I had to, for you. And now I’m back, only because I have to.”

“For you?” He remarked, only for irony’s sake, but you shook your head, pulling something from your pocket.

“No, for him,” You handed him a picture and a report of a Detective Daniel Alvarez, of Manhattan PD, reported missing 24 hours ago when he did not show up for duty, and his meeting with his superior officer, “He was the detective assigned to my case. He’s gone missing.”

He rose a skeptical brow, as he reread the report, and it seems that his car was still at his house, along with his gun, badge, and other belongings, “Why do you think your stalker was the one who may have taken him?”

You pulled out an envelope, “This is the one he sent me yesterday before I found out Detective Alvarez was missing,” You shuffled through them, many of them were of you, just as you said, but then you stopped at one, handing it to him, but this time, it wasn’t of you – it was Alvarez, tied up and seemingly unconscious. The blood dripping down the side of his forehead was of particular concern. “and he included this,” you gave him a crudely written note, most likely written with the stalker turned kidnapper’s non-dominant hand, which stated, quite poetically – His life for yours – you will become mine, one way or another.

“How romantic.” He placed the note down carefully, before scratching his head, and reaching for his phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“Marcus Bell, a detective that I work with in Major Crimes, to inform him that we’re coming in with important information about a missing police detective,” But you only snatched the phone out of his hand, ending the call with lightning speed. “we can’t do this alone, Y/N,”

“Sherlock, I would have gone to the police, but the person who took him called me, they said not to involve the police. Why else would I come to you?” You groaned, shaking your head, as your shoulders slumped, as you put his phone down, “I would never put us through this if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

“Is it really so terrible to be in my presence again?” His words were dripping with sarcasm, but that was only hide the hurt that he felt at your words.

“It isn’t,” You murmured, turning away from him, before taking your seat again, “that’s the problem.” A silence fell over the both of you, before he faced you again, taking the phone from the table you placed it on.

“If we can’t speak to Marcus, then Watson will need to informed post-haste,” he took his phone, typing away and sending a message within a second. “She should be back from her personal appointment soon enough, and we can brief her on the case, but while we wait, we must make arrangements for you to stay here.” He strode off upstairs, leaving you sitting, until he heard you jump to your feet to follow behind him.

“Stay with you?” You repeated.

“Of course,” He opened a closet door, rifling through, looking for sheets and other necessities for guests. Did he have any clothes for you to wear while you were here? “From what I’ve gathered from your account, your stalker is highly meticulous, has been emboldened by your attempts to be rid of him, and grows only more so with every passing minute you aren’t in his grasp,” He turned, armful of sheets and blankets for your room, which would be Watson’s (and Kitty’s for that matter) old quarters, “Here, you are most certainly not within his grasp, as the brownstone is secure, complete with a camera outside the only entrance, and two trained consultants, both of which who will protect you at any means, or at least one.” And he paused for a moment, spotting how you weren’t resistant to the idea – the small smile that was fighting its way onto your lips told him that you were flattered by his insistence. And he reprimanded the part of him that liked that.

There wasn’t time for any of that. Not now.

And perhaps not ever.

Sherlock only had known one love, before you. An equal in every sense of the word, and someone who made him, for the first time, feel complete. And of course, this person ended up as the head of the largest criminal syndicate, as well as his mortal enemy. However, that did not stop him from seeking what they had together in another. Watson had said, it was wrong– to compare anyone to Moriarty – as his love for her should not be replicated, as it was built on the basis of a lie, but this did not stop him from longing for the companionship and passion he had for Irene, before she was Moriarty. But Watson was right, Moriarty had made him feel things he had not felt before, but the one thing she failed to make him feel was safe, and the others were falsehoods of feelings that did not compare to the way he felt about you.

You were everything to him in a world where he couldn’t stop seeing everyone else. But you made the world around him fade from existence, and allowed him only to see him and you. A feat he thought was only possible in his most daring of fantasies. And yet, there you were, in his reality. You had met him in London, when he was attending to business with his brother and on a case, and you were merely a coincidence, someone Sherlock had run into when confirming his suspicions on a lead in a case. And by this, he meant physically, as he happened to be running after a suspect at the time. He, although usually gifted in acts of physical prowess, had miscalculated the distance of his step from a most unfortunate, and large, crack in the sidewalk, and he fell, but onto the ground, but into you. He dusted himself off, helping you to your feet, and though you were shocked, it seemed as if you took stock of the situation, glancing back at the retreating man. Sherlock knew there was no way he could catch up to him, too concerned with he had hurt you, and pulling out his cellphone to call Watson, “Miss, are you –”

Instead of speaking to him, you snatched the phone out of his hand, running to the corner, and took a picture of the plate number of the cab that the man he had been chasing had gotten into. He stared at your outstretched hand with his phone, and took it, “Well, what are you waiting for?” Your voice struck him, and he blinked twice, wondering if he was only imagining this, as it didn’t seem real.

“Your name?” It was your turn to blink.

“Y/N,” You held out your hand, and shook it, before checking the time, swearing under your breath, “I’m late. It was nice to meet you officer, I’ll send you the bill for my dry cleaning.”

“I’m actually a consultant,” And you turned to give him a grin, as he squinted at your retreating figure, “But how will I contact you?”

“I already put my number in your phone.” And he stood, watching you run off to your appointment, wondering if anyone else had simply surprised him this much in such a short time.

Although, after, you had brushed off his attempts to pay for your dry cleaning, and he instead then recommended the two of you share dinner that night. He waited for your response, fingers delicately drumming against the table he sat at, and his phone lit up with your response: Yes, that sounds lovely.

The two of your shared a few nights of romance, one that yielded many surprises, including a surprise date in Paris. And as he walked the length of the Seine with you, under the stars, he had realized that he had preoccupied himself with details of you: of how you became much more affectionate when you were excited; the way you strolled easily beside him, showing just how comfortable you were with him; and the way your face lit up when you smiled, one that made his heart practically stop (he would know, he had done it before). Instead of preoccupying himself with the world around him and the various horrors it never seemed to be short of, he found himself completely preoccupied with you. You were a distraction worth having, and one he would hope to keep around.

Alas, his luck had run short.

But you were here now, and that’s what he needed to focus on, not the past. But he glanced to you settling into the room – examining the clumsily painted bookshelf that Kitty had left behind – and wondered if anything of the past even remained still between you two. Or if he was simply a means to an end, as were most of his relationships, primal or not. Although, you were right, it was best to put that behind, and focus on the matter at hand.

You were sent off to bed, and as you sat, you couldn’t seem to get comfortable, nor could you sleep a wink. Although, you weren’t exactly afraid, oddly enough, you felt safe for the first time in a long time. You had moved from place to place for years, even changing cities, states, and countries, but your stalker always found a way to get to you. There was never a week those pictures didn’t show up. Not for a year. And now that you considered it, it was almost the anniversary, of when he first started – the year of when your life slowly disintegrated around you. And yet, at this moment you felt safe. But guilt gnawed at you at the thought of Detective Alvarez, and his family, and the fact that his capture was your fault. You had gotten too close, he had gotten too close to the case, and you put him in danger. And if anything happened to him…You sat up.

You couldn’t lay here any longer.

You wandered out to the kitchen, a familiar sight that you hadn’t seen in a long while, and to your surprise, you found Joan there, not Sherlock for once. “Hi Joan.”

Her eyes flitted up in surprise, and she moved to get up, but you waved her off, “It’s honestly way too late for greetings,” and she seemed to agree as she sat back down, and seemed to pour over some material, and as you stepped closer – it was your material, or rather your case, “Where did you –”

“Detective Bell gave us access to your records, we didn’t tell him that you were here, or anything about the case, but we needed him to give us the files, otherwise, we would have wasted more time,” Joan explained, as you sat down across from her. “I was just looking over the work Detective Alvarez did for your case, it’s exceptional.”

“Yes, he was – is, exceptional,” and Joan looked up at you, as you sighed, holding your head, as if that could keep you from breaking apart. “I just hope his work for me doesn’t get him…” you knew your exclusion of the action didn’t make it any less likely, but it was as if your words held power, and you hoped that by holding back, you could control it, but you knew that was just a false hope.

“Y/N, Alvarez knew what he was getting into, not only for your case, but as a detective, he’s in danger every day, and he willingly takes that risk,” Joan flipped a page, scanning the contents, before forcing you to hold her gaze, “Ask any other officer or detective, and they will tell you the same exact thing.” You fell silent, mulling over words, until you noticed the distinct lack of someone who often worked later than she did.

“Where’s Sherlock?” And she glanced up.

“He’s resting,” Your confusion did not get any better, as your brow furrowed further, and her mouth opened with realization, “Ah, he didn’t tell you,” and now you glimpsed at his bedroom door which was closed shut, and now worry began to set in, “You can ask himself, but it’s probably better not to,” Your eyes fell to the table again, “What is going on between you two anyway?”

Your head snapped up, “Between us? What do you mean?”

Her expression only seemed to grow more curious at your reaction, and you bit your tongue, punishing it for its looseness, “I mean, the fact that the two of you mysteriously broke up four years ago, and now it’s like nothing even happened,” She tilted her head, allowing a sigh to pass, as she leaned in closer, “Just tell me that you won’t hurt him again, because he’s my partner, and my friend. I want this to work, and I want to help you, but I can’t do my best, if I have to constantly worry about the both of you.”

And you knew she was right, as even now you felt the urge to knock on Sherlock’s door, and if she hadn’t been here, you very well may have done so, to both of your own detriments. This was why you had stayed away for so long, his pull was too strong, as Joan once had told you – he was like gravity – and you couldn’t help long for it, especially when you were so close to falling back into orbit. “I promise, I won’t do anything. More than anyone, I don’t want to hurt him, that’s why I stayed away. I thought It was best.”

Another silence, “Just be careful.”

And careful you were, for the next two days, as you made sure to never be alone with him, not a moment, as you knew the two of you shared a weakness, and it would only take a second to fall back on old habits. However, though yours and Sherlock’s relationship was no closer to advancing, the case was far from it. Sherlock and Joan had went over each detail of your case, and questioned you about every detail they had isolated about your stalker, finding one key question:

“Where did he first see you?” Joan repeated, as the three of you stood in front of the collage that Sherlock had constructed, she turned to you, “Did you ever see or do anything unusual in the week or month before the calls started?”

You wracked your mind for one instance, one moment, where you had seen or heard or done something, but nothing. The month was hectic. They had you working around the clock as you were pressed right up against a deadline they had moved up, and you barely left your office, only to get a sandwich from the carrier that came around, or to report your progress to your boss. “Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing at all.”

Frustrations were high, especially after Joan went to bed, her own patience running thin as leads led to dead ends, and all three of you were collectively spinning in circles. You rose to do the same, but Sherlock stopped you, “Let’s go over that day one more time,” you opened your mouth to protest, but knew better. It would be better to get this over with than to engage in verbal sparring with him – that was akin to foreplay to him. “What did you do when you first got up?”

“I got dressed,” You recalled the morning, you were late, “I was in a rush, I had stayed up almost the whole night before after finding out the deadline was moved up.  You had changed quickly into a maroon and beige dress that you had worn three nights before, “I barely had time to brush my teeth, much less anything else,” you had raced through the offices, bumping into several people on your way to your own, “I almost knocked over a bunch of people on my way there, one almost off his feet,” He snorted, as you looked up, affronted, asking for an explanation.

“Well, you were never exactly the most elegant,” He chuckled, shaking his head, “Remember the time you practically fell into my lap when you tripped over that Baroness’s trail at that wedding we were invited to?”

“That you were invited to,” You corrected, before placing your hands on your hips, “and if I recall, we were only there to scope out the private area since a murder had taken place there a million years ago, and you wanted access, which I had managed to schmooze the security into giving us. And you weren’t exactly complaining when I did fall into your lap, mind you.”

“That’s beside the point,” He rose from his chair, heading toward his stereo.

“And what is your point?”

“That you are a complete and utter klutz,” You gaped at him, as he turned on a violinist solo, a soft melody lingered in the air, as he turned back around, a small smile on his face, as he offered you his hand, “but one that I would like to share a dance with.”

You stared at his outstretched hand, and you felt the fatigue and worry, that was weighing on you moments ago, fade, as you placed your hand in his, which he engulfed in his own – and it was as if you had never left. He twirled you around the living room, stepping in time with the song, and you could feel the closeness of him – the familiarity, the trust, and the love fall into place, and it hadn’t changed. You leaned into his chest, allowing yourself to feel this moment and not remember all the pain, of not only the last year, but of the last four. It had broken your heart to leave him, and he knew, god, you hoped he knew. And as the song swelled to its conclusion, you leaned away, but his hand tilted your face up, to look at him.

“Why did you leave?” And he didn’t allow you to look away, holding your gaze, unyielding until he got his answer, “why, Y/N?”

“You know why,” Your voice was breaking, as the song ended, and the spell seemed to have too, “It was better for both of us.”

“Was it?” he gave a chuckle, drained of all mirth, unlike the one before it, “or was it best for you?” He began to pull away, but this time, your hand clutched his forearm, keeping him in place.

“Sherlock, we wanted different things,” You breathed, allowing your fingers to brush his face, “Whenever we broached the idea of a family, you always brushed it off, what was the point of continuing this if it wasn’t going to go anywhere, Sherlock? And there’s no point in continuing it now, if nothing has changed.”

“I have changed, Y/N,” And his words stopped you in place, as he breathed them against your lips, “More than you know.”

“You sleep now,” You noted, as he hesitated, as his lips fell open to ask, “Joan didn’t tell me anything. Why would she? It’s your secret to tell.”

He seemed to grow uncomfortable, retracting physically, as he was emotionally, “It’s not exactly a secret, I just didn’t want you to think I was incapable of handling your case.”

“Sherlock, I could never think of you as incapable,” You laughed at the thought, taking his hand in your own once again, “Several other adjectives come to mind, but incapable no.”

A single eyebrow rose, “Will you share with me those adjectives sometime?”  

“How about after you share with me just how much you have changed?” And the implication was there intentionally. Your curiosity had gotten the better of you, and you longed to know how the illustrious Sherlock Holmes had changed. But you had taken the silence that followed as a rejection, shying away, “I should go to bed-”

“Not tonight,” And he stepped closer, hand against the small of your back, as his lips were only a moment away, not knowing where he ended and you began, and neither of you could seem to bring yourselves to care, “Tell me this isn’t okay, and I will let you go to your own bed.”

And you looked at his expression, up and down, seeing not only desire, but love – the same you felt in his touch now, and in his soft words, as if he was afraid he would break you in two if he pushed too hard. But you had changed too – you weren’t afraid anymore, not of him, “Take me to yours.”

And his lips cut you off, gently, and your hands found their way around his neck as they always did, and his fell in place on your waist. His touch burned, and if the two of you weren’t careful, the entire investigation would go up in flames along with it, but in the moment neither of you seemed to care.

He lifted you easily, allowing your legs to wrap around his waist, pulling him impossibly close to you, torturing him with the delicious friction it allowed, and the two of you didn’t make it to the bedroom in time, as he pushed you against a wall. His lips decided to burn a trail down your neck, and you gasped, to which he chuckled against your skin, “Remember, we must be quiet, otherwise someone might hear just how eager you are,” Emphasizing his point with a nip to your neck, you bit your lip to muffle yourself, as he hummed against your neck, treating the now tender skin with care. Your fingers busied themselves with unbuttoning his shirt, allowing it to hang at his sides. Your fingers laced themselves in his hair, jerking his head back, and pulled him into another bruising kiss that would leave his bitten red. And it did, as he sighed, while your lips trailed downward, your hand went even further, reaching in between where your bodies met, causing him to jerk against you, forcing a growl from his lips.

“Now, who’s eager?” Your words were trailed with a yelp, as he carried you to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a thud.

And there, the two of you remained all night, until the streaks of golden daylight shone in the bedroom window, rousing you from your sleep. However, nothing was as golden as waking next to the man you had thought you would never see again. He was still sleeping, you noted with a grin, before checking the time – 5 AM. Plenty of time for you to get dressed, and sneak back to your room, before Joan woke up. You silently pulled on your clothes, pulling your shirt over your head, before turning back around one last time to steal a glance at the infamous Sherlock Holmes fast asleep. And until you stepped into your room, you didn’t realize how lucky he was to be still blissfully dreaming, because you had just walked into a living nightmare.

The words ‘Why him?’ were plastered over every inch of your wall, written over pictures of you and Sherlock kissing last night. Your eyes panned the room in horror, unable to process just how many pictures there were – there must have been hundreds, hundreds of pictures – of every moment you spent with him last night. You could’ve have screamed, but no sound escaped your throat - only visceral fear. As your heart galloped to a start, as you started toward the bed, and found a letter, with your name written out carefully in calligraphy.

I want you, and only you. And if you won’t have me, then I’ll have to take everyone else who is around you. Even him. He can’t escape. He won’t. Come see me where we first crashed into each other’s lives, and soon, you can be my angel that fell from heaven.