#sherlock xreaderinsert

It took longer than it should have to place his reference but you made peace with your mental rehabilitation process and the time that it would take. Professor Harding and Shelly had been victims of Moran grabbing at straws to get you to show your face or maybe they had been a final request from Moriarty but either way, it had been a good thing you didn’t know about their deaths. You had never even thought to check on news from the states, all of your focus had been on Sherlock and John and you couldn’t really predict what you would’ve done had you known that the last sniper victims were the last two people you had contact with in the states.

It still hurt but not as much as it used to when the nightmares starring them would jerk you awake and you’d spend the rest of the night or morning trying to erase the haunting images. While you were still at Mycroft’s house, Sherlock coaxed you from the vivid nightmare’s grip and you finally opened up. He thought it got into your subconscious through a conversation he and Mycroft had outside of your hospital room. He hadn’t wanted to tell you until you were fully recovered and you understood his reasoning because had done the same with the images plaguing you at night so he wouldn’t have something else to worry about. The nightmares didn’t go away completely but you did gain some kind of control over them and they became few and far between before you left for Christmas. You couldn’t recall having one since. At least not with the intensity they used to carry.

Maybe there was something about Eurus that reminded you of Shelly, maybe that’s why you had been so taken with seeing this developing theory to the end. Even if she could never get out of there, she deserved to understand and to be understood. Your theory had been sparked by the person in that cell in the first place because she wasn’t the woman you saw on the street and she wasn’t the woman you saw on the tapes at Sherrinford.

The loud creak on the middle step of the staircase alerted you both to a guest. Sherlock only paused for a second before continuing to play and you briefly wondered if he was expecting anyone because you were sure John was with Vic today. There was only one set of footsteps then the distinct tap of a cane or rather an umbrella.

You glanced at the doorway from the corner of your eye and tried to recall if it had been open when you shuffled out just before dawn. Mycroft finally stepped through the doorway, “hard at work this morning?”

You turned to him with a smile but it faded at the all-business stance along with the stiff look. “Good morning. Coffee?”

He placed his umbrella in front of him and rested both hands on the handle as his gaze blazed at Sherlock’s back. “I’ve been told you’ve been taking a guest on these regular trips to Sherrinford.”

You tried to intervene, “Mycroft.”

“This is serious!” Mycroft snapped and the violin screeched before the tense silence.

Sherlock turned from the window bringing his violin down to his side, “there’s no reason for that.”

“There’s no reason for sneaking around.”

Mycroft was angrier than he should be and you couldn’t pinpoint why. “She’s a human being. She…”

“She’s a murderer!”

“She’s family!” Sherlock spit back.

“Yes, and we’ve seen first-hand what that means to her.”

Both men were now glaring at each other and you were surprised they had kept the distance between them. Mycroft’s contempt was so deep it was difficult to see past it now. He was just a child when the whole situation was put into play and he was only working off the belief that was placed in him along with the pain and fear that he experienced. You didn’t know exactly what he and his mother discussed but you’d been around him enough to know that he still didn’t forgive Eurus and at this point, it was unlikely he ever would. But she didn’t need forgiveness, she needed understanding. She needed to be treated like a human being.

You thought of the little girl you heard on the tapes from their hours spent inside Sherrinford and how Eurus used the ruse of a phone line when she allowed the child out. The stirrings of a theory as you watched her force them through different experiments to study their reactions to each stimulus. How the cold, detached woman shot an outsider just because she was the most important person to the man who controlled her captivity for so long and the polar opposite you heard in that scared and lost tiny voice.

“You’ve tried Uncle Rudy’s way, how well did that play out?” You reeled yourself back hearing that old anger seeping through each word. You walked over to Mycroft and laid your hand on his arm, “I’m sure he thought he was doing the right thing but plenty of doctors used that excuse for decades when there was no research, they gave out the only diagnosis they had. Have you ever stopped to wonder if your sister just became what she was told for years that she was? You were told this was the only way, you were just a teenager and uncle Rudy had no idea what he was dealing with. At the time, honestly, most psychologists probably wouldn’t have either but it’s different now.”

He inspected you, “you have a theory.”

You met his gaze and wanted to convince him, you just weren’t sure of what yet. “She’s still a child, partly, she’s that little girl. Her love for Sherlock was possessive, that love could’ve been corrupted without knowing, without understanding it became an obsession, very much like a stalker. She was a highly intelligent child who wanted to play with her brother and when she didn’t gain the possession of her object of desire, she took away what she perceived as the thing holding her back from it. Instead of dealing with that obsession, with the genius who would cut into her own skin to understand the inner workings, instead of helping her understand what that was and helping her move past it or learn a healthier or better way, she was locked up. That obsession with Sherlock never paled, she only became more set on it.”

You watched him file the information without a trace of revealing his own thought on the matter, you turned and looked through the window. “Years of forced solitude is more than cruel but worse is the problem was only allowed to grow and fester. I’m sure she saw a kindred spirit in Moriarty and reached out to him because of it. They were both obsessed with Sherlock and if he shared with her his desire for Sherlock to be him, to feel what it was like… She was given just another example of her own condition that made it more normal, made her more normal.” You looked over your shoulder and met his gaze, “she will never be released but she might be able to find peace and understanding, something that, if diagnosed and treated earlier, could’ve avoided all of this. We can never know for sure but you have to give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“What do you mean she’s still… a child?”

“It’s very possible that the little sister you knew is still in there after what happened at Musgrave,” you glanced at Sherlock, “she may have fragmented, the scared little girl that couldn’t handle what she had done to her brother and the intelligent, cold hearted person you’ve been talking to for… possibly since she was sent away, maybe before. Dissociative identity, one separate from the scared little girl… with the way that Sherlock described finding her in Musgrave… and what I saw on the tapes from Sherrinford…”

“I thought you didn’t miss a thing? You’re…” He stopped short and disgust twisted his features as he looked down and away. The disgust clearly wasn’t directed at you, he was going to say you were slipping and he hated himself for it. You were at least eighty percent sure.

“You can see everything, Mycroft but you still don’t know why or how… without context, those emotions could mean too many things.”

“What?” Mycroft paled then shut down and the word Eurus used in the tapes played in your head.

You winced, “I have theories, I believe your sister may have dissociative identity disorder but that’s not enough for a diagnosis. You know my methods, you know it takes more than just a look. There are too many variables.” His jaw clenched and he looked away, “even you saw how she reacted when Sherlock turned the gun on himself in that locked room instead of shooting you. She couldn’t bare for him to be taken away from her and maybe that was the little girl grappling for control, I don’t know. Did you ever wonder if Sherrinford’s hatred for her and delight in torturing Sherlock was because he knew she loved Sherlock more than the lot of you? It’s also possible that she had fragmented even earlier and Sherrinford liked the cold hearted Eurus and tried to bring her out. Did she ever get upset when you called her Eurus or ask you to call her something else?”

His shoulders tensed and his eyes were hard when they met yours again, “and the alternative? Maybe she didn’t involve you or Will because if she wiped you off the board, he would be dead already and she wouldn’t be able to delight over his torture. You can’t underestimate her just because you always want to help the different ones especially the ones you feel have been slighted in some way.” He turned to the window, his jaw clenching and relaxing in a far too measured way.

He was right, it was something that lingered in your mind while you researched, the fact that if she truly was a psychopath instead of just one of her alters then she could play you by knowing enough of your past. The very thought had fed your doubt that had been wreaking havoc during research and at other moments. You softened your tone, “she will never be released, we won’t allow her to hurt anyone else, and she will never be able to hurt him again. Just give us a chance.”

He turned back and studied you but didn’t flash any sign of what was going on in his head.

“She spoke to her,” Sherlock added.

“What?”

“Eurus spoke to Y/n. It wasn’t much either time but I could see her thinking about what Y/n said. I’ve never seen anything on her face unless she was playing and reacting to the music.”

He turned away and looked out the window again. You glanced at Sherlock and noticed Will standing in the kitchen doorway watching Mycroft with concentration. Before you could say anything he walked across the room toward his uncle. “Will…”

Mycroft turned toward his approaching nephew then Will stopped in front of him and grasped his hand, “uncle Myk.”

Mycroft squatted down with a smile, one reserved mainly for his nephew, “you shouldn’t be bothered with this…”

Will squeezed Mycroft’s hand with both of his small ones, “every person has a story but we can’t know if we can’t listen.”

Your eyes widened and your gaze shot to Sherlock. He was already watching you, a soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He pointed at you and nodded.

“Love you, Uncle Myk.”

You tried swallowing the lump in your throat as you looked back at your son who was hugging his uncle. Mycroft’s wide gaze was on you. You realized what Will had seen that you hadn’t. Mycroft wasn’t just afraid of what she could do to Sherlock, but how she could hurt or affect Will, maybe somehow make him fear the rest of his family. The possible scenarios were endless and you couldn’t tell what exactly he feared but it directly connected to Will.

Mycroft’s mask was down and his vulnerability was almost blinding. “I wasn’t going to stop you. I just wanted to warn you and maybe… I should be there sometimes. I could make sure she wasn’t trying to manipulate you. She may not hurt Sherlock but she has no problem eliminating the rest of us. No more guests.” His glance to Will was clear, his fear palpable. Will did look enough like Sherlock at that age to cause worry, to give credence to Mycroft’s distress.

Sherlock scoffed but you nodded, never losing Mycroft’s gaze, “if you would like to. I won’t argue.” You glanced at Will, “we won’t let that happen. No one else will get hurt, not on our watch. Isn’t that right, uncle Myk?”

Will beamed up at him and Mycroft stood ruffling his hair. “Precisely.”

~~

We grow, evolve, adapt, and change. If we don’t continue on after disaster, through the trials and hardships and learn from them, if we don’t adapt and change through the stages we all go through, then we stagnate and lose what keeps us going. We can lose what makes us… us.

We are all human moving through life searching for what feels right in that time and place. We’re all sifting through the mess that life can be and deep down, most of us are seeking connections; bonds that make us thrive, that make us happy, that fill the holes of what has been broken away by past hardship. Family, friends, and lovers. Some connections don’t last, some never forge, and some are cemented forever, but all serve their purpose in the greater scheme.

All of these types of bonds can be for the best or the worst and it can take time to weed out the ones that break us even more but when we’re lucky, at least one or some of those will be a bond that not only never breaks but helps to sever the poisoned ones. Those are the connections that make us stronger, bring us joy, and truly make the worst obstacles in life bearable. When you find those connections, protect them, nurture them, and above all, enjoy them because no matter how strong you are there will come a time when you need those people to get you through the day or night or even longer.

During your darkest night when the moon is nowhere to be seen, the stars will shine even brighter. Savor the bonds that give you life and light the way home because while the fear of death is survival, the fear of life is deadly.

You stared at those last two sentences biting your bottom lip and wrinkling your nose not quite sure what was bothering you.

“Still writing?” Sherlock rubbed your shoulders and looked at your laptop screen.

You leaned back and sighed as he worked out knots you hadn’t realized were building. “I can already hear what you’re going to say.” With a dramatic flair of your hands, you continued, “all life is pathetic and futile, we reach and grasp but what is left in our hands at the end?” You tilted your head back with a smirk.

He leaned down and his lips brushed against to your ear, “yes but that was before someone changed the script. I have more than John’s stories now, I have an inner circle, a legacy, and a woman who manages to confound me even when I can least explain it.” He pressed a kiss to your neck.

You stretched your head to the side, “I’ve told you it’s something much more powerful than emotion or sentiment.” He kissed again, this time sucking slightly on that one spot that stoked something deeper, waking something primal that couldn’t be ignored.

“Sherlock Holmes, are you trying to distract me or seduce me?”

“I thought they were one in the same?” You turned your head and kissed him. His hands traveled down your arms and captured your wrists as he whispered against your mouth, “what is this power you have over me?”

“I hold nothing over you but I do have something with you.” His brows rose in a comical irritation then he spun the chair, smiling at your sharp gasp and pulled you to your feet. He took your seat and tugged you forward until you climbed onto his lap. “A connection, like a live wire, that binds us together. A force that can withstand time and separation.”

He smirked, “fanciful science fiction.” 

His fingers were painting invisible designs up your arms, the game was already on. The two of you had been playing it for years but more often and with a greater intent since your extended stay in the hospital or more likely due to the experiences just before that. “How do I still confound you and draw you in? You say you know the chemistry of love but do you truly understand?” You slipped your right hand along his neck until your fingers rested over his carotid artery. His eyes flashed delight along with the tug of a smirk. You brushed your left palm softly over the back of his hand and slowly advanced the feather light touch of your fingers up his arm. “Why does a simple touch cause your pulse to increase, your pupils to dilate?” You leaned in without losing eye contact, “it’s not that dark in here, Mr. Holmes. You should have that checked.” You winked, feeling the steadily rising pulse against your fingers matching your own.

“My body’s betraying me.”

“No, I just know how to speak its language.”

He watched you as his smile grew then he turned his head enough to glance at the computer screen, “what’s it called?”

“I was thinking A study in Connection. Or A breakdown of the psychology inside the adventures of Holmes and Watson.” He grimaced. “Yeah, I thought the connection one was better. And it’s all because of you. Not that you need any more flattery.”

“Mmm. I tend to inspire all sorts of blogs.”

“Not the book. Me.” His gaze flickered back and forth between your eyes then searched your face. You pressed your fingers to his lips before he could interrupt, “there’s something that you need… that I need you to know, something that needs to be said.” You glanced away as your plaguing thoughts of Mary’s final moments flitted through your mind; all the things she wanted to tell John and never got the chance.

Sherlock kissed your fingers and you swallowed the lump in your throat, gave him a soft smile, and moved your hand away from his mouth over to his shoulder. “After my parents, I never allowed any kind of meaningful relationship. I was petrified that I wouldn’t be able to endure that kind of loss again. For years, I went through the motions and gathered my achievements trying to fill the deep empty spaces left after their loss. I had nightmares that plagued me and some nights I went without sleep not because I was studying but because I was terrified to see what would be conjured that night. It wasn’t until you snuck into my life, you crept under my skin before I even realized it and when I finally did, I was terrified. It’s debilitating, that moment when you realize another person holds so much more than your heart in their hands. Like your very life force is at that person’s mercy whether they understand it or not.”

His eyes widened slightly yet remained focused on yours with a small pinch in his brow. “You stood me up on Christmas Eve.” Your words clearly affected him but didn’t ruin his good mood as his hands rubbed your back in a familiar soothing motion.

Heat flooded your cheeks, “yes, I did.” You dropped your gaze and leaned into him as that pull he always caused inside you tugged gently.

“I still got what I wanted. Took some time but persistence pays off.”

You chuckled with a roll of your eyes, “you got what you wanted? You weren’t really the dating type.”

“Yes, but I knew what you were.” His right hand brushed through your hair and you met his gaze. “It just took me some more time to catch up. My brain is extremely fast.”

“I didn’t really think about it until I was writing something up and thought about my time in the hospital. How you helped me through the nightmares. How you all helped me through the stress and recovery. How you, Sherlock Holmes, not only gave me a family but completely changed the course of my life.”

His eyes flicked back and forth between yours then his brow rose, “the fear of life…”

You nodded then slid your hand down to rest above his heart, “maybe I knew of it before I met you. I just couldn’t admit it.”

“So, you’re saying we were more alike than you first thought?”

“Well, I spent all my time helping others because I didn’t want to admit that I needed the help myself.” You raised your brow and he looked away but his smirk was answer enough. “Very much so. Interesting, isn’t it?”

“Less fanciful, I guess.” He pressed a chaste kiss to your lips and you followed him as he pulled back. He grinned, “I did tell you in those first meetings that there were no other men like me.”

“And here I was just thinking you reminded me of my father.” You burst out laughing at the look on his face until he pulled you back to his chest and his hand caressed your cheek.

He studied you, your skin tingled as your face warmed under his gaze and your lips parted. He leaned in, closing the space between you but his lips never met yours. You opened your eyes and the mischief sparkling in his threw you. 

“Oh, by the way, John and Rosie are waiting downstairs with Vic and Will. We had dinner reservations, remember?”

“Shit!” The haze vanished and you reached over his shoulder, clicked save document accompanied by his groan in your ear as you slapped the laptop closed. You shifted in his lap and he groaned again grabbing your hips. You grinned, “you deserved that. I can’t believe you!” His delight flickered across his face and he gripped your hips tighter anticipating another movement, “you’re such a...”

He wrapped his arms around you and stood holding tight until you got your feet on the ground. “John’s the drama queen. Probably down there whinging about us taking so long.”

“You were stalling and taking too long.” The laughter couldn’t extinguish the tingling once again climbing up your arms and heating your skin. You were far too aware of the distance between his mouth and yours and the painfully demanding ache.

“I never consider alone time with you stalling. Well, most of the time.” He leaned down, rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes. You shut your eyes and breathed him in, the mint on his breath mixing pleasantly with his aftershave and freshly pressed shirt. It was heady and his description of you being a drug completely understood in the moment. His hands expertly smoothed up your sides then slid around to your back and with just a gentle pressure, he pulled your body tight against his.

“We could be very bad for each other,” you whispered, deeply aware of how much your voice gave away.

His right hand moved up your spine while the other swooped down to your lower back slipping under your shirt. His right hand slowed as he reached the back of your neck, adding a bit of pressure to the tendon as he continued up into your hair and cradled the back of your head. You opened your eyes and met his heated gaze. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

Epilogue