#sherlock fluff

requests: open

minors dni with 18+ content

i will not write: non-con • dub-con • phone sex

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!reader

You’d cleaned.

You’d actually cleaned.

Which, for someone who ran a tight ship on most days, meant you’d spent four hours rearranging throw pillows, restocking the refrigerator with non-alcoholic beverages, and hiding every potentially unexplainable thing in your flat, including a framed photo of Sherlock that, to your horror, had ended up on your nightstand at some point.

You shoved it in a drawer. Just in time.

The buzzer rang.

Your mother had arrived.

She came in like a gust of judgmental air: tall, elegant, trench coat crisp despite the drizzle, and smelling faintly of expensive perfume and disapproval.

“This country,” she declared immediately, brushing rain off her sleeves. “Why do you live here? It’s so gray. Have you considered Madrid, Barcelona? Or the south of France? People smile there.”

You took her coat and resisted the urge to scream. “Hello to you, too.”

“And London. Everything costs twice what it should. Honestly, you’re not twenty anymore. Why aren’t you somewhere sensible?”

“I have a good job,” you said patiently, leading her into the kitchen.

“Some remote, vague, hush-hush ‘research work’,” she sniffed. “I’m beginning to think you’ve joined a cult.”

You passed her tea. “That’s absurd.”

“Is it? You haven’t posted anything on social media in a year.”

You blinked. “I never used social media much.”

“Exactly,” she said, like that proved her point.

The plan had been simple: one polite afternoon. No surprises. No murders. No uninvited detectives.

So when your front door clicked open without warning twenty minutes later, your blood froze.

You turned slowly. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Buckingham Palace,” Sherlock said, as if that explained everything.

He breezed into the room, entirely Sherlock: coat dripping rain, scarf misaligned, eyes glinting. “A diplomat collapsed in the Green Drawing Room. Cyanide. Royal panic. I thought you’d want to see the architecture up close.”

You gestured wildly toward the kitchen. “My mother is here. I told you not to come!”

“She’ll like this one,” he said, brushing past you. “Big case. Red carpets. National security.”

"SHE THINKS I HAVE A NORMAL LIFE", you whisper-yelled after him.

Too late. She appeared in the doorway, cup of tea in hand, watching Sherlock with a narrowed gaze. Then she looked at you. Then back to him.

Her expression shifted. Subtly, but catastrophically.

“Oh,” she said. “This is why you never tell me about your personal life.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

Sherlock, unfazed, extended a hand. “Sherlock Holmes. It’s lovely to meet you.”

She shook it, eyeing him like a cross between a customs officer and a Victorian chaperone. “Holmes? Like...the Mycroft Holmes connected to the Cabinet Office?”

“Elder brother,” Sherlock replied smoothly, peeling off his gloves.

Your mother blinked. “And you? Are you a civil servant?”

Sherlock gave a faint, self-effacing smile that you had never seen before. “I do consult. Some work for the government. Some for the police. Nothing terribly glamorous.”

“She’s mentioned a consulting partner,” your mother mused. “Never by name. But you…live near here?”

“Baker Street.”

“Do your parents live in London?”

“Our family home is in Sussex. We don’t use it often.”

She tilted her head. You could practically hear her thoughts: “So...your work is sensitive, you come and go as you please, your family has money, and you’re clearly close enough that she lets you walk into her flat unannounced.”

You opened your mouth. Still nothing.

Sherlock smiled, genuinely, and turned to you.

“Shall we?”

You swallowed. “Where are we going?”

“Buckingham Palace.”

You laughed weakly. “Of course we are.”

Your mother didn’t stop smiling the entire time you were gone.

Later, when the case had been solved (mislabelled antique poison, unintentional overdose, the royal corgis completely innocent), and Sherlock had deposited you safely back at your flat, he hung around awkwardly by your bookshelf, glancing at your hands.

“You haven’t said thank you,” he said.

“I haven’t decided if I’m thankful.”

“You mother now believes I’m your long-term partner.”

“Because you let her assume that!”

“She was going to assume something,” Sherlock replied. “I chose the version that made you look discerning.”

You exhaled, rubbing your temples. “She’s already planning next Christmas. You realize that, right? She thinks I’m finally settling down.”

Sherlock looked at you.

“What?”

“Are we not together?”

You stared. “What?”

“You said she assumed we were. But…aren’t we?”

You blinked. “Sherlock. We’ve never defined anything.”

He tilted his head. “I spend most of my time with you. I bring you food. You have a toothbrush at Baker Street.”

You spluttered. “You have a key to my flat!”

“And I use it. Regularly.”

“That’s not the same as dating!”

“Then define dating.”

You opened your mouth. Paused. Closed it again.

“…Sherlock, are you seeing anyone else?”

“No. That would be inefficient.”

You looked at him long and hard. “Do you want to see other people?”

He looked slightly offended. “Do you?”

“No!”

“Then what exactly are we debating?”

You ran a hand down your face. “I don’t know! I just...there was no conversation! There was no…moment!”

“Is now the moment?”

You blinked at him.

He blinked back.

Then he stepped forward and kissed you. Just once. Direct. Crisp. Like punctuation.

You wobbled slightly.

“Well,” you muttered. “That certainly makes it harder to argue.”

Sherlock adjusted your coat collar with precise, unnecessary care. “I’ll inform your mother we’re exclusive.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Too late. She invited me to Sunday brunch.”

You groaned. “What have I done?”

He smiled.

“Something permanent, apparently.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

Sherlock did. Like a cat. Or a monarch who had, with minimal effort, conquered a small country.

You sat propped in bed beside him: sweater on, laptop closed, tea untouched, staring into the abyss of implications. Your mother thought you were in a serious, respectable relationship. Sherlock thought you were already dating. And you, like an idiot, had just let it happen.

Had you initiated this? Was it the pastries? The brushing-his-coat-off-for-him moments? The "stay over if you want" said casually, like you weren’t pining?

Sherlock stirred once, turned toward you, curled a hand beneath his pillow, and then fell back into the stillness of dreamless sleep.

You watched him for a moment, exasperated and fond in equal measure.

“Of course you sleep well,” you muttered.

The next morning, he was at your kitchen table with the newspaper folded open and a bowl of something granola-adjacent in front of him.

“Good morning, girlfriend,” he said flatly, like he was testing the word for mouth-feel.

You paused mid-step. “Don’t.”

He flipped the page. “Should I use a different term?”

“Let’s not label anything in the first twelve hours. I’m still deciding if I hallucinated all this.”

“You didn’t. I have your mother’s brunch address in my phone.”

You yanked it from his hands. “Give me that.”

“She also asked if I was planning on proposing.”

You made a wounded sound. “I was a normal person until you walked into my flat.”

He sipped his tea. “That’s demonstrably false.”

Three days passed before the next contact from your mother. She sent an email. It was suspiciously brief.

"Darling, I know I give you a hard time about your choices, but Sherlock seems like an exceptional man. I can see you’re happy. If you’d rather not do Sunday, I understand. Just send photos sometime. Mum"

Photos. Plural.

You looked at Sherlock. “We need to stage a fake date.”

He blinked. “Didn’t we do that at the palace?”

“No, no. We need something cute. Park bench. Sandwiches. One of us laughing at a pun.”

“I don’t laugh.”

“Then I’ll laugh. You’ll smirk.”

“I don’t smirk.”

“You literally smirked just now.”

The staged “date” ended up being shockingly unstaged.

Sherlock was investigating a botched kidnapping in Hyde Park, and you tagged along for what you insisted was not romantic, but he stopped midway to buy you a ridiculous iced coffee (“You said you hadn’t slept well. You don't need to faint to prove a point”) and a passerby took a candid of you sitting on the edge of a fountain, Sherlock beside you, pointing at something in your lap like it was either a clue or a rare moth.

It was your half-melted coffee. He was attempting to deduce the flavor by smell.

You didn’t laugh. You giggled, which was worse. The photo made your mother cry. Apparently she’d been worried you’d die alone in a library.

By the end of the week, it was official. Not because either of you had said anything, but because he answered a text from Lestrade with, “Can’t. With my girlfriend.”

You saw it over his shoulder.

“Wait. You told Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

“Before me?”

Sherlock blinked. “You were present when I used the term.”

“I thought we were being vague.”

He gave a helpless sort of shrug. “The definition of dating is two people agreeing to prioritize each other. I already did. I thought you had too.”

You stared at him. “Sherlock. You bought me a toothbrush. Before our first kiss.”

“You don’t like mint.”

“That’s not the point.”

That weekend, he turned up at your flat with a package.

You narrowed your eyes. “What is it?”

“A formal gift. To mark our relationship.”

You stared. “Did you…wrap this?”

He hesitated. “No.”

Inside was a leather-bound book of obscure crime scene illustrations from the 19th century, annotated by hand, by him, with observations in blue ink.

It was beautiful. Brilliant. Deranged. It might as well have been a ring.

You sat down. “Sherlock.”

“Yes?”

“This is a terrible precedent.”

He sat beside you. “I expect something equally thoughtful in return.”

You side-eyed him. “What would that even be? Human teeth?”

He looked intrigued. “Only if they’re real.”

Later, lying on your sofa, legs tangled under a shared blanket, you finally asked the question that had lingered in your chest since the night he kissed you.

“So…when did you know?”

He didn’t even look up from the book he was holding. “That I was in love with you?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

He turned a page. “You brought me tea once. During a case. I hadn’t eaten in twenty hours. You said you’d kill me yourself if I didn’t take a break.”

“That was months ago.”

“I found it endearing.”

You were quiet for a beat.

“I was going to tell you eventually,” he added.

“When?”

“When I solved the case and didn’t die. Or on your birthday. Whichever came first.”

You laughed, genuine and helpless.

Sherlock looked over at you then, soft and curious. “Are you glad it’s me?”

You met his eyes.

“Are you?”

He blinked. “Of course. There was no alternative.”

link: some of my "last year's words" :-) [12,449 words / G] ...........................................................

Sherlock and John each set out to surprise the other on December 31st, inspired to give new meaning to the phrase "ringing in the new year." But what each had imagined would be a relatively straightforward event undergoes an unexpected reversal when their backs are turned -- and each ends up with a double surprise.

“For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice.”

― T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets .............................................................................................

Chapter 10 Fluffbruary Prompt Day 13: Choice Fluffbruary Prompt Day 14: Doll Fluffbruary Prompt Day 15: Honey Fluffbruary Prompt Day 16: Horse Fluffbruary Prompt Day 17: Tactile Fluffbruary Prompt Day 18: Gradual { In which your beleagured author performs the astounding feat of stuffing six days of prompts into one chapter! (and is still at least a week behind all you other cool cats and kittens . . . 😕) } Sherlock, Shelby, Harry, and Clara have an interesting video chat, where much is learned and much lies unnoticed. Upon its conclusion, it very much appears to be the case that a certain swashbuckling consulting pirate has set sail for foreign shores. [ Read the rest here: continued at ao3. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged :-) ]

xoxoxo to the @fluffbruary honor guard for providing guidance and infectious enthusiasm in spreading fandom fluff to one and all: [prompt list]

Chapter 6 [Day 6 Prompt: Embarrassment]; Chapter 7 [Day 7 Prompt: Blue]; Chapter 8 [Days 8-11 Prompts: Shower, Kneel, Flush, Apology]; Chapter 9 [Day 12 Prompt: Blanket].

In the aftermath of John's blog post, everyone seems to have an opinion on the status of John and Sherlock's flatmating, with lyrics from My Fair Lady figuring into it, as well as the symbolism of a red chameleon in a black leather vest.

[ Read the rest here: continued at ao3. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged :-) ]

xoxoxo to the @fluffbruary honor guard for providing guidance and infectious enthusiasm in spreading fandom fluff to one and all: [prompt list]

Chapter 4 [2.4 Prompt: Camera] & Chapter 5 [2.5 Prompt: Rescue] It's Saturday, April 11th, Easter eve. John updates his blog, as he finds ways to re-connect with the world and to de-stress. Along the way he describes how his gaming has taken him in an unexpected direction, and it's Sherlock's turn to worry about whether John's adventures with the animal kingdom are a concerning barometer of his state of mind. Includes, among other assorted items: news that John has been spending time at (a) St. Bart's; a brief back-and-forth about what the point may be of playing games which have no point; an aside about an alleged cartoon crush of Sherlock's; and, mentioned in passing, the possible appearance of bunny-sponsored surprises.

[ Read the rest here: continued at ao3. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged :-) ]

xoxoxo to the @fluffbruary honor guard for providing guidance and infectious enthusiasm in spreading fandom fluff to one and all: [prompt list]

Chapter 2 [2.2 Prompt: Jam] & Chapter 3 [2.3 Prompt: Umbrella] The rest of John's day had been spent entertaining ideas for how to dissuade Sherlock from matching wits with purportedly criminally-masterminded rodents. Conclusion #1: Sherlock’s brain required respite from beating against the daily lockdown reality of being ensnared by an adversary that couldn’t be observed, logicked, or deduced into defeat.

Therefore, Conclusion #2: Said ruminating brain needed interruption, which called for a distraction. Distractions, however, were in meager supply due to the lockdown. John had nevertheless dauntlessly soldiered on with his speculating, and, as the clock had ticked over to a new day, he had become increasingly optimistic that Operation: Reel Sherlock Back In, was achievable.

[ Read the rest here: continued at ao3. Let me know if you'd like to be tagged :-) ]

xoxoxo to the @fluffbruary honor guard for providing guidance and infectious enthusiasm in spreading fandom fluff to one and all: [prompt list]