#watson!reader

“I’m not ‘being a Scrooge,’” your brother’s hurt bled through his tone. “And again, I’m not gay. I just don’t think you recognize how…against Christmas Sherlock really is.”

“How can anyone really be against Christmas?” You frowned as you attached the sprig of the plant to the doorframe. Leaning back slightly to admire your work, the step ladder groaned against your movements. “It’s a time for family, for light displays…for God’s sake, it’s Christmas!”

“Careful,” John’s hands reached up to your waist to steady you. “You’re going to fall and break your neck if you’re not careful. Besides, I think that is exactly why Sherlock doesn’t like Christmas. Have you met Mycroft?”

You shrugged as you took a step back down onto the messy kitchen floor. “Doesn’t he have parents, though?” you asked. “Surely he enjoys spending time with them.”

“They’re simple minded,” came a familiar deep tone from behind you. Its presence startled both you and your brother, causing John to remove his hold from your waist. Still perched against the edge of the step, you wobbled before falling backwards without warning, sending you toppling against a strong chest. 

Sherlock peered down at you with an unamused expression as his arms snaked around your waist to set you down. “Just being around them longer than twenty minutes causes my IQ to decrease significantly.” Without so much as another glance at you, he made his way over to the cabinets to grab a cup for some tea. “It’s especially worse around the holiday season. Positively dreadful time.”

You risked a glance over at John in silent question. What just happened? Your brother merely shrugged in response, shaking his head and raised his eyebrows with lips set in a tight line. Like always, it was obvious he had no clue. He lifted his own cup of tea and set off toward his chair to flip through the morning’s newspaper. 

You hadn’t been residing at Baker Street long, but you could tell this was the boys’ typical routine. Every morning, John rose early to have his breakfast and read the paper before trudging off to work. Sherlock, on the other hand, would stay up until ungodly hours playing his violin, staring at the bullet-ridden wall, or doing the Lord knows what before sleeping until noon. 

The truth was, you found your brother’s detective flatmate to be a whole mystery in his own right. He was the dark and mysterious stranger who you had only vaguely known secondhand through your brother’s stories. Seeing and interacting with him in the flesh gave you a different perspective. Sure, he drove you mad as all hell, but you couldn’t help but be enticed by his demeanor. You didn’t plan on falling for him. It was just almost attractive how he acted. His tone was sharp and to the point, he didn’t care to be bothered by trivial things. Yet underneath the harsh exterior, you knew he had a soft spot when it came to those he cared about. 

So that’s how you came about hatching the plan. It was the infamous mistletoe test, according to your coworker. If one hangs a sprig of mistletoe and stands underneath it. If the object of their affection walks by and doesn’t notice, the attraction is one sided. A kiss of the cheek assumes a platonic connection. Finally, the most obvious sign of shared attraction is a kiss on the lips. It was a stupid idea. You felt it in your bones as you stuck it up on the doorframe. But with John there, it was too late to back out. 

Besides, what could possibly happen? If Sherlock really was as opposed to Christmas as John said, there was a good chance the mistletoe wouldn’t even mean anything to him. He could just walk under the plant with no knowledge of the tradition at all. It wouldn’t be a big deal, right? You couldn’t help the pang of disappointment in your stomach at the thought. Would it really be that big of a deal?

“What the hell is this in my lab?” Sherlock’s voice cut through your thoughts and snapped your attention toward him. He was staring at the small wooden trees and garland wreath you had placed in the center of the kitchen table as though it was about to explode. You had needed to clear up the surface a bit after his constant experiments, but you had been proud of the end result.

“They’re Christmas decorations,” you started, but the private detective was quick to cut you off. 

“You have your own flat,” he spat back. “I suggest you use it and place your rubbish somewhere that matters to you, hm?”

Your whole frame stiffened as he began to pick up and shove each trinket into the box. He hardly spared you a glance while he continued through with the task. You watched as his upper lip practically curled in disgust at the garland shedding across the table, pinecones rolling out of the wrapped decoration onto the floor below. “Bloody mess,” he muttered to himself.

Like it was any better before, you wished to shout back. Instead, you merely took the box back from him and headed back downstairs to your flat without another word. As soon as the front door shut behind you, you tossed the box onto your coffee table and sunk to the floor. How could you have been that stupid? You were just trying to do something nice for your brother and his friend. You should have known it wouldn’t have ended well – John had clearly warned you. 

The next few days, you decided it may be a better idea to spend your holidays doing the things you enjoyed instead of worrying about your brother and his flatmate. So you repurposed some of Sherlock’s discarded decor within your own flat, making sure to help Mrs. Hudson with the garland on the outside banister (she was more than pleased to say the least). Things had been going well, especially after you silenced John’s incessant text check-ins with a simple, I’m fine.

Two days before Christmas, you decided to indulge yourself in a little holiday baking. The idea was to bake gingerbread, brownies, and little Christmas puddings to give out as last-minute gifts for the rest of your friends and coworkers. Molly had been hinting about a craving for gingerbread earlier that morning, so you couldn’t think of a better sign to get started. 

Donning your most festive “kiss the baker” apron, you pressed play on a Christmas radio station and got to work. You were so engrossed in your process, you hardly noticed the sound of someone knocking on your front door. It wasn’t until they knocked for the third time– at an increasingly more frantic pace– that you registered the sound and wiped your flour-coated hands on your apron before unlocking the door. 

To your surprise, Sherlock was standing outside your doorway, hands behind his back. His glassy green-blue eyes searched your face in what you could only describe as desperation. He seemed almost nervous as he cleared his throat. The private detective lifted an eyebrow before gesturing with his right hand in a silent question as to whether he could enter your flat. When you gave a small nod, he stepped inside and raised an eyebrow yet again at both your attire and surroundings.

“You haven’t been by the flat in two weeks,” Sherlock spoke after a moment, tone unreadable. 

“I’ve been…busy,” you replied, arm outstretched toward the kitchen. “You know, with simpleton Christmas celebration things.”

Sherlock stiffened at your response, eyes darting around again. “I see.”

“Why would you care how long I’ve been away anyway?”

The private detective before you cleared his throat. “John is also far less irritable when you visit the flat. I’ve counted that he has checked his mobile roughly twenty-two times this morning alone to check for any missed texts from you,” he explained. “I suppose I’ve also come to find your presence rather…tolerable. I function better with a challenge. ”

The two of you stood in an awkward silence for a moment before Sherlock parted his lips to speak again. “We’re having a small get together at Baker Street on Christmas Eve. It was John’s doing, really. I’ve been instructed to invite you to attend.”

You bit into your lower lip and gave a slow nod in return. “Right. Well, with an invitation like that, however could I possibly refuse?!”

“...I detect an element of sarcasm.”

Yeah, no shit, you thought to yourself. For a self-proclaimed genius, the man before you was fairly clueless. “What time does it start?” 

“Seven.”

You gave a small nod and began to lead him back to the door. “I’ll be there,” you said. “Now I really do need to get back to my baking before all I’m left with is ash. Goodbye, Sherlock.” 

“I suppose there is one more thing,” Sherlock mused as he stepped backwards in the doorway. He moved his hands in front of him, opening his left hand. “You left this behind at our flat the other day. I’ve only just thought to bring it round.” 

You frowned in concern as you peered into his gloved palm. Nestled inside was a small sprig of mistletoe – the same plant you had hung in the kitchen doorway, no doubt. You hadn’t thought much of it since your dramatic departure from your brother’s flat, having just assumed Sherlock would have thrown away whatever remnants of Christmas you had left behind. “You didn’t need to bring it,” you replied smoothly. “It’s inexpensive and won’t do me much good.”

Sherlock gave a silent nod, eyes now locked onto yours. “Most likely not,” he agreed. “However, there is a…tradition.” 

You watched as his gaze flickered from you, to your apron, the doorframe, the mistletoe in his hand, then back to you. Your breath hitched ever so slightly as you tried to decipher his meaning. Surely you must be mistaken. Before you had a chance to comment, Sherlock lifted the plant above your head and pressed a quick kiss upon your lips. It was soft, gentle even, but just so Sherlock. It had an air of elegance, yet was commanding enough to be orchestrated perfectly. 

When he pulled away, you needed to blink a few times to reorganize your thoughts and look at the man before you – truly look at him. He gave you a smug little smirk and stepped out into the hallway. “Might want to check your oven,” he mused as he placed a foot on the first stair and began to make his way upstairs. Suddenly, he paused and turned his head to face you. “And merry Christmas.”

You gave him a soft smile before stepping back into your own flat and shutting the door. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” you whispered to the wood and made your way back to the oven. 

Maybe that test wasn’t so strange after all.

===================

Author’s Note: Well, I meant to post this before Christmas, but I just didn’t get a chance to with my schedule. So why not make this my final fic post of 2022? Damn, that’s weird to say. I haven’t watched Sherlock in forever, but I plan to before I head back to uni for the next semester (hoping it’ll give me inspiration to get back to The Last Three Years). There’s just something about how Benedict portrays this character that makes him so fun to write. Especially around the holidays (:

Like always, if you enjoyed this fic and want to see more like it, make sure to leave a comment, tag a friend, even reblog. Likes are appreciated, but it’s interactions like these that spread the word about my works and motivate me to keep writing/posting content for you all.

Until next time, my little sparks <3

Y/N rubbed her neck, stiff from carrying the delivery, and opened the door to the flat. "John!" She called. "John, I have your things for tonight!" She could hear the shower running, so settled her bags across an armchair and marched over to the bathroom. She rapped her knuckles against the door, louder than necessary. "Did you hear me?" She yelled over the sound of running water. "Come out, John! Is this any way to treat your favourite sister?"

She smiled to herself, pleased to play the role of the annoying sibling. Finally, the water shut off. She heard movement inside, and was about to walk away when the bathroom door opened. She took a step back. Standing with a towel wrapped around his waist, and his brow quirked upwards in amusement was Sherlock.

"I'm afraid John's out at the moment," he said. There was a glint in his eye as he leaned against the doorframe.

His hair was slicked back in darkened waves. The towel dipped lowly on his hips, its navy colour a stark contrast against his skin. Y/N pursed her lips, concentrating on keeping her gaze locked above his neck. She ignored the water droplets beading his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breaths.

Her eyes betrayed her and flickered downwards. She cringed, sure that Sherlock had noticed. "I realize that now," she said, carefully.

Sherlock bit back a smile. Y/N watched as he fetched a towel and ruffled it through his hair. "I'm obligated to tell you," he said, running a hand through his curls, "that I feel rather objectified beneath your stare."

Y/N smiled at that and moved closer. Sherlock dropped his towel to the floor and caught her in his arms. "It's intimidating to be the subject of such focus," he murmured, tilting her chin up, gently. Y/N leaned forwards, parting her lips. He felt warm against her touch, his skin still damp from the shower. Sherlock trailed his lips against her jaw, and she pressed a hand to his chest, chasing more of the sensation.

The distant echo of footsteps sounded in the hallway outside. Somewhere in her haze, Y/N heard, and tensed. She jerked away from Sherlock, and pushed against his chest. He stared back, bewildered.

The front door opened and John walked through. His smile faded at the room's obvious tension. 

"Morning," he said, feigning cheer. "Have I missed something?"

Y/N glanced at Sherlock who stood straight faced, despite his earlier affection. "Not at all," she lied. "I was just dropping off your costume for tonight." She felt Sherlock's stare as she fetched the garment bag and moved to give John a quick hug.

"Sherlock!" John called over her shoulder. "We have a guest, for crying out loud, and you're practically naked in that flimsy towel!"

"Your sister is quite agreeable," Sherlock said, an edge to his tone. "I doubt she minds much." She tried to catch his eye, but he looked away.

John sighed. "I just came to fetch my wallet. I'm due for some shopping with Greg. He needs new cuff links if you can believe it. I'll see you at the gala, yeah?"John planted a quick kiss on his sister's cheek and sprinted out the door.

The flat was silent after John's departure. Y/N rubbed her arm, nervously, until Sherlock finally spoke. "Are you ashamed of me?" He asked, steadily. Y/N whipped around, appalled by the question. "That's ridiculous," she said. "Why would you ask such a thing?"

He appraised her, his stance rigid. "I don't have another explanation for your keeping our relationship a secret. For over a year, you've indulged in shadowed outings and concealed affections. Where do you propose it all ends?" Sherlock looked up to the ceiling as though it could provide him answers. When he turned back, there was fear his eyes. "Will you truly deny me the chance to love you forthrightly?"

Y/N's heart burned at the fragility of his tone. She didn’t know how to respond. "I like the safety of our secrecy," she said, quietly. She feared her vague response would puzzle him, but it didn't. It only hurt.

"I see. Then perhaps it's time to take a risk."

"What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock tugged at his towel, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He studied the threading for a moment before looking up. "I don't know," he admitted. "With you I am shattered, though in some twisted way, I find completeness in the broken pieces. When we met, I took a chance. I leant you my heart, faithful in our future. Will you not do the same for me?" He swallowed, and stepped towards his room. "Until tonight," he said, stoically.

Y/N stood frozen in place. She ached for clarity. Sherlock hadn't outrightly dumped her, but that wasn't much comfort when  considering his pain. She collected her things. The next time they met, it would be at St Barts' charity ball. Fear of commitment may have held her back, but she dreaded losing Sherlock more than anything else.

Tonight, she would fix what was undone.

***

"Still with me?" John teased, waving a hand in front of his sister's face.

Y/N flinched, torn away from her thoughts. Her cheek was pressed against the cab window as streaks of light bled from the city glow outside. The night was setting in as she and John drove to the gala venue.

"I'm fine."

John frowned. He reached for her hand, his eyes searching. "I know you. And I know when you're lying to me. I don't need Sherlock's deduction thing to tell as much."

Y/N tensed at Sherlock's name, her heart breaking a bit. John lifted his brows in surprise. "I'll be damned," he crooned. "This is about him, isn't it?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Of course it does! I knew there was something off about the two of you this morning! Has he said something? You know he doesn't mean half of what-"

"He loves me."

John frowned. He opened his mouth to say something, but held his tongue. "Pardon?"

Y/N pursed her lips. "He loves me," she repeated. "Sherlock and I have been together for a long time now, and-"

"Together?"

"Like, dating."

John nodded.

"Anyway," she continued. "He's wanted to tell you, but I've held back. I'm not sure why. I guess that I just didn't want to disappoint you." She leaned her head against his shoulder. The car thrummed as she searched for the right words. "It all feels so stupid now. I took him for granted. You'd think Mr High Fuctioning Sociopath would be the emotionally detached one, not me!"

John nudged her gently.  "You could never disappoint me. I know you'll figure it out."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Because you always do, and I give credit where credit is due. It'll work out soon enough, I'm sure of it." He smiled warmly, doting on his sister.

When the cab came to a halt, John's smile grew wider. "Look, we've reached the event hall. Best foot forwards and all that, yeah? I'll handle the fare. Why don't you take a breath outside?"

Y/N peeked out her window. A grand building stood outside, stoned and grey. She wrung her hands nervously and stepped outside. An evening breeze nipped at her skin but she was grateful for the chill. Groups of people were already stepping through the glass doors.

She looked down at herself. Black, silken gloves draped her arms, their length adding a touch of drama. Her evening gown twirled down in shocks of merlot, the sleek satin trailing to the floor. Its ruched bodice bloomed into a full skirt, with lines of delicately placed jewels. She glittered beneath the moonlight, a scarlet vision.

"You look lovely." John stepped forwards as the cab departed. He wore a classic  dinner jacket and was sporting a white mask that concealed his eyes.

"Wow, John! You actually clean up well!"

"Somehow, that sounded like an offense." He reached behind his back and held out a mask. "Also, last time I checked, this was a masquerade. You almost forgot the key accessory in the cab!"

Y/N smiled in thanks. She wrapped the mask's silk fastening around her head and checked her reflection in a parked car's window. It's black lace design complimented the darker tones of her dress, and added a sharpness to her look. Though only her eyes were hidden, she felt anonymous.

"If you're ready..." John mumbled, tiring of his sister's self reflection.

Y/N took a breath. She knew that Sherlock awaited just beyond the shining glass doors of the building. She straightened her mask and ignored the distant pounding of her heart.

"I'm ready." 

The pair entered the venue at last, and Y/N gasped in awe. Hundreds of people danced and mingled amid the golden interior. Crystal chandeliers softened the atmosphere, catching the glint of sparkling costumes. Y/N's heels clicked against the marble flooring, its shine so pronounced, that it mirrored her steps.

"I think I see them," John murmured beside her. Y/N surveyed the sea of masked guests. Her eyes trailed over sequined gowns and classic frock coats. Costumes and masks of all colours and styles danced around the room, unrecognizable and strange. Finally, she spotted three people standing by a corner of the ballroom, in the lounging area. They were Molly, Lestrade, and Sherlock.

She and John weaved through the crowds. Her blood thrummed.

"Y/N! John!" Lestrade called out. "Where have you lot been?" The detective inspector dipped a whiskey glass towards them in greeting. A mask hung loosely around his neck; he was obviously enjoying a light party buzz.

"Sorry for the wait," John gasped. His cheeks were still rosy from the crowd surf. "Traffic was hell."

Molly smiled cheerfully from behind a cream coloured mask. She sipped at a glass of wine, nearly swishing the drink onto her canary ballgown. "It's fine! Sherlock was just telling us about his latest case. It's all been terribly exciting."

Y/N finally glanced at Sherlock. Her chest prickled with anxiety. In the backdrop of the ballroom, he seemed as regal as the portrait paintings hanging along the walls. He donned a silver mask, with intricate lines weaving patterns around his eyes. A cravat necktie complimented his tailcoat suit; its deep navy distinctive against the charcoal ensemble.

"Hello Sherlock," she said. "Are you well?"

He appraised her. The blue of his irises was striking behind the mask, but his gaze was indifferent. "Very well, thanks." He sampled his glass of champagne and looked away.

Y/N nodded, hurt by the slight.

A tension fell over the group until Molly spoke up. "Sherlock, are we still on for tomorrow?" There was a lilt to her tone.

He smiled tightly. "Yes, of course. You have an autopsy scheduled at noon, isn't that so? I'd like to cross reference your findings with a witness testimony."

Molly leaned forwards and grazed her fingers along Sherlock's arm. "I was thinking that it might be nice to catch lunch afterwards. Just the two of us." She smiled sweetly and looked up at Sherlock through hooded eyes.

Y/N coughed, awkwardly. There was a staged sensuality to Molly's movements that made her uncomfortable.

"Lunch?" Sherlock inquired.

"Would you prefer dinner?" Molly giggled. "I could never pass up a late night with you." She hooked her arm through Sherlock's, beaming. 

Y/N clenched her fists at Molly's suggestions. She kept expecting for Sherlock to discreetly move away, but he didn't. Her face burned with jealousy.

"Is she coming onto him?" John whispered in his sister's ear. She nodded wordlessly.

"Shamelessly so," Lestrade chuckled. "And the ol' sod's running with it!"

Y/N glared at Sherlock until he finally acknowledged her. There was no trace of yesterday's affection in his eyes. He tilted his head to the side apatheticaly. Y/N snapped.

"Excuse me," she said through clenched teeth. She pushed past Sherlock and left the group behind. Dizzying crowds of guests swirled around her. Suddenly, the party had lost its glamour. Its elegance was galling and only tested Y/N's nerves. Masked faces blurred as tears pooled in her eyes.

She reached a distant corner of the ballroom and hurried up a staircase to the venue's second floor. It was as elaborate as the first, but vacant except for a musician's quartet playing in the corner. Y/N overlooked the balcony, taking in the sights from above. Couples still danced to champagne melodies, though many had lost their masks; a consequence of the open bar.

Her gloved hands squeaked against the railing as she recalled Sherlock's earlier behavior. He had cut her off tonight. Whatever connection they had between them died the moment she rejected him at the flat. Or perhaps it had been dying slowly every day, and she simply hadn't noticed. She pondered over the ruined relationship, guilt and jealousy clawing at her heart. She imagined Molly's hands against Sherlock's chest below, his fingers tangled in her hair. The impassioned kisses, and stolen glances...

"Care for some company?"

Y/N's back stiffened. She turned abruptly. Sherlock stood on the top step of the staircase, his leg bent as he awaited her answer.

She nodded, yes. 

He joined her by the balcony. He still wore his mask, but had undid the first three buttons of his jacket. The cravat hung loosely on either side of his chest.

Sherlock looked over the banister, his stance reflective. Y/N ignored the excited shiver running down her spine. Neither spoke for some time until the quartet strummed the notes to a new song. The mood shifted below as guests hurried to collect their partners for a waltz.

Sherlock smiled solemnly. "Moon River," he said. Y/N listened to the tune and sure enough, it was familiar. "Moon River," she affirmed, awkwardly.

Dancers moved gracefully to the melancholy tune, pressed up against the ones they loved. Sherlock swallowed and turned to Y/N. He offered out his hand tentatively. "Would you share this dance with me?"

She didn't meet his eye. "It wouldn't be right."

Sherlock smiled kindly. "Nonsense. A masquerade without dance is a masquerade not worth having. Especially where your company is concerned." He placed one hand against her hip, and the other on her shoulder. "Indulge me," he said, softly.

She accepted.

The sweet sound of strings guided them along their own dancefloor, Sherlock taking lead. He studied Y/N, his face shadowed with doubt and desire. "You look beautiful tonight," he said.

Y/N's head spun with every rotation. "Thank you," she mumbled. Her steps were rough as thoughts of Molly passed through her head. What game was Sherlock playing?

"We have much to discuss, don't we?" he mused.

Y/N kept an eye on her feet, wary of missteps. "Do you like Molly?" she asked bluntly.

"Ah, right to it then." Sherlock pursed his lips. "I'm afraid Miss Hooper has had one too many drinks tonight. She'll have a clearer mind in the morning. I assure you, I hold nothing but an amicable relation with her."

She looked up at him, searching his eyes for deceit. "Do you swear it?"

Sherlock stopped dancing and looked at Y/N seriously. His eyes gleamed in the dim lighting, dark with offense. "You should know by now that you own a part of me. Foolish as it seems, my heart is yours. Would you think so lowly of my affections to assume that I would chase another not twelve hours after our dispute?"

He winced at his cutting tone and sighed. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to snap."

Y/N smiled. "I know." She moved forwards and brushed a hand againt his cheek. "I told John about us," she whispered. "He was pleased."

His eyes lit up. "I don't understand. I thought you valued discretion in our relationship."

"I owe you an apology, Sherlock. I was afraid of having everyone know about us because I wasn't sure how things would pan out. I don't like change. It wasn't until our fight that I realized it wasn't worth losing you. You're not a secret to keep. You're everything to me, and I love you."

Sherlock reached up and undid his mask. His eyes crinkled in a smile as he studied Y/N adoringly. "You took a risk telling John," he said softly.

Y/N grinned. "And I would do it again in a heartbeat. I think Molly and Lestrade should be next to hear the news."

"No doubt Molly would be next on your list," he hummed. "Jealousy is a fickle thing. Perhaps this will put your mind at ease."

The back of Y/N's legs hit the banister as Sherlock leaned forwards and kissed her.  He felt soft against her mouth, and her knees weakened. She was trapped between him and the railing of the balcony, aware of the drop below. He found her hands and curled his fingers around them, desperate for her touch. The warm feeling of his breath was dizzying, and Y/N was struck by the proximity of it all; his lips, the music, his hands, his touch...

Sherlock pulled away, breathless. His lips were swollen. "Sorry," he gasped. "I've simply had enough of this infernal thing." He carefully undid the fastening of Y/N's mask and tossed it aside with his own. When he turned back, his eyes swept over her face, his lips turned up in awe.

She looked up at him, flustered. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Your eyes," he whispered. "I could get lost in them." Sherlock cupped her face with both hands and slid his fingers delicately over her cheeks. "I love you more than any word can say."

Y/N felt her heart lighten. She reached up and took both of Sherlock's hands in her own. Moon River played on as she leaned her head against his chest and swayed along to the lazy tune. She could hear the muted chatter of guests below, and imagined their painted faces. She gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze.

"You're worth any risk."

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Hey! Read The Campus Detective!

Okay, if you haven't heard Moon River, you NEED T0. It totally sets the mood for the fic, so here, take some ambience music, from me to you -- 🎁

Requesting Anon- This sort of diverged from what you had originally asked (I was a *bit* self indulgent), but I hope you enjoyed it anyway! 💖 Masquerades are my weakness...

If you’d like to be tagged in any future Sherlock fics, just tell me in the comments! (and if you’d rather not be tagged in ALL Sherlock fics, please specify; EX: Reader x Sherlock, Reader x John Watson...)

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

As time passed, you found solace in your brother's company, both of you trying to piece your lives together. But Sherlock's absence lingered like a ghost, an ever-present reminder of what had been lost.

Today, you sat alone in your small flat, the dim light casting shadows on the walls. You were engrossed in a book, though your mind was far from the words printed on the pages. Thoughts of Sherlock invaded your every waking moment, leaving you feeling haunted.

Suddenly, a sound interrupted the silence—a familiar sound of footsteps approaching your door. Your heart skipped a beat, and you dropped the book in your lap, your breath catching in your throat.

The door swung open, revealing the tall, slender figure of Sherlock Holmes. He stood there, his coat billowing around him, his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours. His face held a mixture of emotions, a silent apology etched upon his features.

You blinked, unable to trust your senses. "Sherlock?" you whispered, your voice barely audible.

A small, almost imperceptible smile graced his lips. "Hello, Y/n."

Your eyes widened, your heart pounding in your chest. "No, it can't be," you muttered, rising from the chair.

Sherlock took a hesitant step forward. "I know this is difficult to believe, but I assure you, I am real."

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. The pain you had bottled up for years came flooding back, overwhelming you. "That's what they all say..."

Sherlock's features furrowed, "It is me, Y/n."

"But...how?" you managed to choke out. "How can you be here? You're...you're dead."

Sherlock's gaze softened, filled with empathy. "It was a ruse, Y/n. A necessary deception to ensure our safety."

You stumbled backward, your legs giving way beneath you. The world spun around you, and you clung to the edge of a nearby table to steady yourself. "But John... John was devastated. We were all devastated."

Sherlock approached you, his voice filled with remorse. "I didn't anticipate the extent of the pain my faked death would cause. It was never my intention to hurt any of you."

Anger bubbled up inside you, mingling with the anguish. "You should have thought about that before you jumped, before you left us all behind! Before you left me!"

Sherlock's face fell, his eyes filled with regret. "I'm sorry, Y/n. I truly am. But I had to ensure the safety of everyone involved--the safety of you. The danger was too great."

Your voice trembled as you glared at him through tear-filled eyes. "You selfish bastard. Do you have any idea what we went through? What I went through?"

He reached out, his hand hovering in the air between you. "I can never truly understand the pain I caused, but I want to make it right. I want to be here for you now, if you'll let me."

Your anger faltered, giving way to confusion. "How can I trust you? How can I trust that you won't disappear again?"

Sherlock's expression was filled with sincerity. "I can't promise you that I won't get caught up in my work, but I can promise you that I will always come back. You are important to me, Y/n. Your pain matters to me. You matter to me."

Tears streamed down your face as you took a shaky breath. Part of you wanted to pull away, to shield yourself from the pain Sherlock's absence had caused. But another part, a deeper part, longed for his presence, craved the connection you had lost.

With trembling hands, you reached out and took hold of Sherlock's outstretched hand. His touch was real, his hand warm against yours. And in that moment, you allowed yourself to believe.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Okay, Sherlock. Just don't disappear again."

He squeezed your hand gently, his eyes never leaving yours. "I promise, Y/n. I won't leave you behind."

As Sherlock stood there, his presence filling the room, you realised that maybe, just maybe, you could heal from the wounds his absence had left behind. And together, you would face whatever challenges the future held, side by side.

A/N I know I said I wasn't going to post for like a month but I couldn't help myself. This idea popped into my head and I had to make it a reality.

Placement so far has been great btw. I've had Yr 7s, 9s, 11s, and 12s. The year 7s are nuts, but yeah, everyone's a little crazy.

           “Is that man of yours still acting strange?” Mary asks.

           You shrug, accepting her change in subject. Maybe this will make her feel better, to focus on something else – even if it is you and Sherlock. “He – He’s always strange.”

           “I know, but you’ve been saying he was acting especially peculiar.”

           “He was,” you shrug. “I don’t know. He – It’s a weird thing to notice, really, but he’s been playing with my fingers a lot – not in a dirty way, so stop snickering – I mean, we were just having tea last night and he was holding my hand, but massaging my fingers almost. It was nice, though, maybe I’m just not used to affection in that way. I don’t know.”

           “I think you’re not used to affection,” Mary concludes. “But that’s not a bad thing. It sounds sweet of him.”

           “It is sweet, and so is he.” You find yourself smiling before you can help it. “Stop it, you’re making me blush.” You lean over and swat her arm, which only causes more laughter to bubble out of her.

           “Sorry, sorry, I can’t help it! You’re so easy to get going. One mention of Sherlock and you’re all heart-eyes and dreamy sighs.”

           You gasp. “I am not!”

           Mary turns her head to give you a tired look. “Don’t make me ask Sherlock for proof.”

           “Shut it, you,” you glare at her. “I haven’t seen him all morning and I need you to stop making me think about what he’s going to look like in that suit.”

           “You haven’t seen him in it yet?”

           “No!” You cry. “He wouldn’t let me! The bastard.”

           Mary smiles knowingly, but doesn’t say another word.

~~~

Weddings are strange.

           Almost as strange as the way Sherlock has been fidgeting this entire time, but that’s no matter. You’re trying not to focus on the way he looks because apparently, he looks ravishing in this suit.

           But you’re at a wedding. You told him to behave himself, so you need to do the same.

           The ceremony is shorter than you thought it would be, but wonderful nonetheless. The reception afterwards is really what everyone can’t wait to get to. Mary told you that when you were still in the planning stages, and it couldn’t be any truer.

           Pictures, so many pictures.

           Immediately after the ceremony, everyone exits the church for pictures. Just some of John and Mary first, and then gradually everyone else. Sherlock and you with the bride and groom, Molly and Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, everyone else joins in. Then some of you and Sherlock alone, where you finally get to wrap yourself around his arm, comfort washing over you at the feeling.

           But that’s not the same for Sherlock because he immediately tenses.

           “Love…” You pull back, releasing your grip on his arm and settling for holding his hand. “What’s wrong?”

           “Nothing.”

           There he goes being short with you again.

           Feeling a bit dejected, you nod, letting go of his hand. You hold onto your small bouquet with both hands, gripping the stems as hard as you possibly can to keep yourself grounded. You look everywhere except Sherlock, not noticing the look on his face when he realizes the way he’s made you feel.

           He sighs. This is going to be a long day.

~~~

From pictures, John and Mary – along with you and Sherlock – stand outside the entrance to the reception hall to meet everyone as they go in. Thankfully since this is John and Mary’s wedding, you don’t do much of meeting people. Sherlock insists on standing next to John, and you stand behind Mary in the shade, wanting a small moment of peace to yourself albeit while smiling briefly to family and friends.

           David, Mary’s ex-boyfriend and good friend (apparently), is next in line and he looks more nervous than Mary was earlier.

           But you recognize him quickly enough, and you realize he has good reason to be terrified.

           “So, what exactly are my duties as usher?”

           You shake your head from the kitchen, listening to the two of them.

           “Let’s talk about Mary first.”

           Your eyes widen.

           “Sorry, what?”

           “Oh, I think you know what. You went out with her for two years.”

           “Goodness, Sherlock,” you mutter under your breath, stirring around the sugar in your tea. He knows no boundaries. He’s going to scare the poor guy half to death.

           After David scurries away, John gives Sherlock a rather pointed look before turning to look at you. All you can do is shrug.

           Eventually, though, the line ends, allowing the four of you to venture inside. John and Mary go first, Sherlock waiting by the door. You don’t give him a second glance as you breeze past him, in search of some much-needed champagne.

           Mingling has never been your strong suit, and it seems impossibly harder when Sherlock isn’t by your side.

           You see Lestrade sitting at a table by himself with a beer, though, and you decide to go and bother him. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him around.

           “Y/N,” Lestrade smiles as you sit down, clearly glad for some company. “How are you doing?”

           “Wonderful,” you reply, well aware of how sarcastic it sounds, especially when you take a long sip of champagne immediately after. “How are you?”

           “Oh, I’m alright,” he nods, sipping his beer. “Where’s Sherlock?”

           You look around, finding him easily because he’s so tall. “Over there.”

           Lestrade nods slowly, probably expecting you to say something about why Sherlock isn’t with you, but you can’t be bothered. You finish the rest of your champagne and stand to your feet, the heels killing you already.

           John spots you when you stand and waves you over, causing you to curse under your breath. All you want is to get buzzed and kick these heels off and ignore Sherlock.

           “Are you alright?” Is the first question out of your brother’s mouth, making you groan.

           “Yes, I’m alright. My feet are killing me.”

           “Take the shoes off, dear,” Mary nudges your arm. “Go put them in your room.”

           “I might.”

           The conversation dies there, John and Mary sharing a knowing look.

           Then something catches John’s attention, and he’s almost beaming. “Oh, God. Wow. He came.”

           “Is that who I think it is?” You murmur to Mary.

           She nods. Only one Major was invited to the wedding, so you’re assuming this has to be Major James Sholto. John’s old commanding officer.

           Just the way John acts confirms the assumption for you. His posture changes, his demeanor, too. He transforms instantly back into a soldier. Just like that. It’s astounding to watch.

           Sherlock moves in next to you, his arm brushing yours. Mary decides to take a sip of her wine, her body convulsing.

           “Gah, I chose this wine and it’s bloody awful.”

           “Give me that,” you giggle, yanking the glass from her hands. “Stop drinking it if it’s so revolting.”

           “So that’s Major Sholto.”

           “Yes, Sherlock,” you nearly roll your eyes. “I’m going to get these shoes off and you,” you point a finger at Mary, “don’t drink anymore wine.”

           She swats your finger away as you turn to leave, letting yourself glance at Sherlock only once as you do.

           Mary catches the look and grins from ear to ear.

           “Stop smiling.”

           “It’s my wedding day!”

           Sherlock groans as he turns away, losing sight of you completely now. He pulls out his phone and dials a number.

           “Yes. What? Sherlock.”

           “Why are you out of breath?”

           “Filing.”

           “Either I’ve caught you in a compromising position or you’ve been working out again. Favor the latter.” Sherlock grimaces at the thought of the former.

           “What do you want?”

           “I need your answer Mycroft, as a matter of urgency.”

           “Answer?”

           “Even at the eleventh hour it’s not too late, you know,” the younger Holmes trails away.

           “Oh, Lord.”

           “Cars can be ordered. Private jets commandeered.”

           “Today. It’s today, isn’t it? No, Sherlock, I will not be coming to the ‘night do’ as you so poetically put it.”

           “What a shame. Mary and John will be—”

           “Extremely delighted not to have me hanging around.”

           Sherlock sighs. “Oh, I don’t know. There should always be a spectre at the feast.”

           “So, this is it, then. The big day. I suppose I’ll be seeing a lot more of you from now on.”

           “What do you mean?”

           “It’ll be just like old times.”

           Sherlock’s eyebrows furrow. “No, I don’t understand.”

           “Oh, it’s the end of an era, isn’t it? John and Mary. Domestic bliss.”

           “No, no, no, I prefer to think of it as the beginning of a new chapter.”

           Mycroft stays silent. Knowingly silent.

           “What?” Sherlock hisses.

           “Nothing!”

           “I know that silence,” he snaps. “What?”

           “Well, I’d better let you get back to it. You have a big speech or something, don’t you?”

           “What.”

           “Cakes. Karaoke. Mingling.”

           “Mycroft!”

           “This is what people do, Sherlock, they get married. I warned you. Don’t get involved.”

           “Involved? I’m not involved.”

           “No.” Mycroft sounds entirely disbelieving.

           “John asked me to be his best man, how could I say no?”

           “So, you’re not still thinking of going through with it?”

           Sherlock clenches his jaw. He knew he never should’ve told Mycroft. It was only ammunition for him to tease.

           “Have a lovely day, and do give the happy couple my best. And good luck to you, in both respects.” Mycroft says, knowing Sherlock isn’t going to answer him.

           Sherlock ends the call without saying anything, too fed up with his brother to even see straight and too worried about you to do anything except go looking for you.

~~~ You sigh in relief when you kick your shoes off. You went back to yours and Sherlock’s shared room for the night, hoping for a small moment of peace and quiet.

           You settle yourself on the bed, leaning your head back on the pillows.

           You must’ve fallen asleep because the next thing you feel is the bed dipping beside you. You nearly jump clear off the bed, Sherlock’s arms shooting out to steady you.

           “Sorry,” he murmurs, clearly embarrassed. “What are you doing?”

           “Apparently I was napping before you scared me awake,” you chuckle, closing your eyes again. “What are you doing?”

           “Checking on you.”

           You open your eyes to look at him, smiling a little. “Thank you.”

           “Are you okay?”

           “Yes,” you breathe, turning on your side. “Are you? And don’t lie to me.”

           Sherlock nods. “I’m nervous.”

           Your eyebrows furrow. “Is it the speech?”

           “Sure.”

           “You’re going to do great,” you assure him, rubbing his arm. “I’m excited to hear it.”

           “Yes,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We better get back out there before anyone notices.”

           “Before Mary notices, you mean,” you snicker. “But alright. Help me up?”

           Sherlock takes your hands in his and helps you off the bed and to your feet. You smooth down your dress once you’re standing.

           When you look back up from your dress, you see Sherlock is already gazing at you, his eyes holding a certain fondness in them that you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. It confuses you enough, your head tilting.

           “What?”

           “Nothing,” he shakes his head, but this is different. He’s not being short with you this time. He’s speechless. “Nothing.”

           “Okay,” you chuckle, blushing under his stare. “What’s wrong?”

           “You’re beautiful.”

           Your face falls, the blush getting worse. It sounds bad, but you don’t remember the last time Sherlock said you were beautiful. It only makes this time hit you that much harder.

           “Thank you.”

           The corners of his mouth twitches as he steps closer – you didn’t think he could get any closer, but here he is, doing it anyway. He takes your hands again, running his thumbs over the back of your hands.

           “I love you.”

           Your breath hitches. “Sherlock…”

           “I know. Timing—”

           You interrupt him by pressing a kiss to his lips, giggling when a blush colors his cheeks just as red as yours.

           He blinks. “What—”

           “I love you,” you say, grinning like an idiot. “Was that good timing, Sherlock Holmes?”

You pursed your lips at him, catching his cheeks to tilt his face, “I don’t spend hours on end looking at and drawing the contents of your freezer. This face on the other hand…”

He chuckled softly as you stroked his cheekbones and then hissed when you gently pressed your fingers on either side of his nose, “Your nose is definitely broken but not out of place. Which is good.” “Obviously.” “Don’t get smart with me when I’m trying to help you, Sherlock,” you huffed, rolling your eyes as you started to wipe away the blood with the towel. There was a period of silence as he let you clean his face and then splint his nose, trying your best to make it as painless as possible through the blur, before lightly pressing the lung over it. You shifted to get up but he grabbed your hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist, mumbling, “Thank you.” Sighing as you set the lung aside for a moment, you bent to press a quick chaste kiss to his lips before resting your forehead on his, “I’m sorry my brother broke your nose. If it’s any consolation, I meant what I said… last night was fantastic.” “You have done nothing to warrant an apology, (F/n), but yes- that does ease my pain a bit,” he thrummed as his lips curled up deviously, catching yours again for something a little less chaste as he pulled your hips against him and pressed your core against his. Pulling away from the kiss, you let out a soft giggle and traced your thumb over his Cupid’s bow, “Easy there, genius. Let’s not upset John any more than we already have.” He simply smirked and did it again but this time slid his hands down back of the boxers to cup your cheeks and you involuntarily melted into him with a squeak that turned into a soft moan. You internally cursed him and gave in a little by nuzzling into his neck before resisting his advances with a chuckle, pulling away from his chest as you shook your head, “Look at you… Acting like a horny teen. Give me those naughty hands.” You pulled his hands from you and pressed the lung into one, moving it onto his nose again before murmuring, “There. That should keep the pesky things appropriately busy for a while.” He pouted slightly as you slipped off his lap to stretch your arms over your head with a yawn, immediately yelping and throwing them back down to clutch at your shoulder in pain. Sherlock tilted his head down to look at you worriedly and John appeared just in time to see it happen, frowning at you as he scolded, “That’s why you need to wear the sling, (F/n).” John seemed to have calmed considerably but Sherlock smartly slipped away to put on some clothes, leaving the two of you alone to figure things out before John had to leave. Your brother did want to talk with you but wasn’t sure how to approach it, shuffling uncomfortably while you sighed and rolled your shoulder with a grimace before catching your blurry reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. He watched your eyes go wide as you pulled at the collar of the shirt you were wearing to get a better look at all the purple splotches covering your skin, hesitantly venturing, “You okay, (F/n)?” “I just want to live my life without pain for one minute- is that too much to ask?” you grumbled, pulling your eyes away from the mirror to glare at the floor before adding, “Clearly the universe hates me.” “The universe doesn’t hate you, Squeak,” he countered as you flopped down on the couch and curled up to face the back of it. “Then why do these things keep happening to me?” you huffed dolefully and John just sort of floundered, not having expected the conversation to go in this direction on top of not having an answer to give you. When he didn’t respond you continued, curling further into yourself, “Maybe I deserve it.” “No,” he snapped firmly, “You could never deserve this, (F/n). Not ever.” “But I did run... I was stupid to think I could just slip away and start over without some sort of consequence- without some sort of punishment.” He plopped down on the couch to almost roughly pull you up and take your face in his hands, “Stop it. Punishment implies that you did something wrong and you didn’t.” You looked down towards his lap unsurely and he determinedly demanded, “Look at me.” When your eyes lifted to meet his, he repeated, “You did nothing wrong, (F/n). You had every right to leave and he had no right to do this to you. Sometimes bad things happen to good people- that’s all. You didn’t and don’t deserve any of this. Say it.” You blinked at him a couple of times, chewing at your lip, and then took a deep breath, “I didn’t deserve this.” “Good,” he praised, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he added, “Thoughts like that shouldn’t even cross your mind, Squeak… when they do you come talk to me, alright?” “Ok, Johnny,” you sighed and he demanded, “Promise me.” A small grin lit up your face as you chuckled, “I promise, John.” Letting his hands fall, he opened his mouth to broach the subject of you and Sherlock being intimate when Sherlock burst into the room, hurriedly buttoning his shirt with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He paused to remove it, announcing through the toothpaste, “Case. Go put some clothes on.” You hopped up happily but John caught your arm, glaring at Sherlock, “She still can’t see fully, Sherlock. You can’t take her.” “I’m not staying home alone again. I can see well enough and either way, I’m going outside today. Wouldn’t you prefer it to be with someone?” you countered, raising an eyebrow at your brother. A number of things ran through John’s head as he considered that, the first and foremost being a sense of relief that you and Sherlock wouldn’t be left alone in the flat to your own devices. Beyond that it got complicated, you could either be left alone at home- giving you the opportunity to leave the flat on your own and get into some sort of trouble- or you could go with Sherlock which was rather like you being alone since he was already in full focus case mode. John came to a decision, letting out a heavy sigh, “Fine but I’m coming with you.” “What? Why?” you wondered, furrowing your brow at him as Sherlock pointed out, “You have a shift at the clinic.” “I’ll call in. I don’t want you getting left behind if he starts to run off... among other things,” he offered, shooting a glare at Sherlock at the last part. The consulting detective didn’t seem to notice or care, pointing to you with his toothbrush to give the muffled exclamation, “Clothes. Now,” before turning on his heel to go back to the bathroom. You grabbed your duffle from next to the door where Mycroft had left it the day before and kicked Sherlock out of the bathroom to make yourself look presentable as he protested, “I’ve already seen you naked, (F/n).” “Say that again and that will be the last time you do. Now get out,” you snapped in annoyance, pushing him out and shutting the door in his face. John almost felt bad for Sherlock as he pulled a face at the door- almost- before letting out a satisfied chuckle at his flatmate’s misfortune. If Sherlock wanted to learn about being in a relationship then he had to experience all the less then desirable parts as well, he mused in his mind, and the detective looked slightly confused as he paced back into the main room to grab his coat and scarf. When Sherlock stalked out a moment later John sighed, calling out to you before heading after him to make sure he didn’t leave prematurely, “Squeak, he’s out the door and down the stairs already! Hurry it up!” Much like the first case you’d gone on with them, you tumbled down the stairs less than a minute later, trying to pull your shoes on while struggling with your sling. You lost your balance and went careening into the wall at the bend just as you got your first shoe over your heel, hopping down the last set of stairs while you tried to do the same with other and grumbled, “I have got to stop trying to put my shoes on while going down the stairs. I just fixed that wall from the last time…” Finally reaching John as Sherlock split out the door to call a cab, you caught his arm with the hand in the sling for balance and stuck your tongue out as you concentrated on getting your heel into your shoe with the other. “Are you alri-“ John started before you loudly exclaimed, “GOT IT!” and skipped off out the door as you called over your shoulder, “Don’t just stand there, John! Keep up!” He rolled his eyes and shook his head as he took off at a jog to get into the cab before it pulled away from the curb, gently pushing you to the other side so you didn't have a chance to sit next to Sherlock. 

“BLAST!” Sherlock roared as he sat upright and lanced the blade at the wall opposite him.

“Damn it, Sherlock!”

John stared at the sharp weapon that had impaled itself in the wall by the doorway. It had landed mere inches shy of his nose.

“You could have killed me!”

“Precisely John! I very well could have, but I didn’t.”

“Well you were bloody close!”

Sherlock sat up and gave John a condescending smile before walking proudly to the kitchen, dressing gown dragging lazily behind him.

His voice echoed sarcastically as he paced about aimlessly. “I was wondering when you’d show up. The kettle’s on.”

John closed his eyes and sighed heavily as he took in Sherlock’s ragged appearance. The consulting detective was clad in his nightclothes despite the late noon hour; loose flannel bottoms, a white cotton shirt, and his favourite navy dressing gown. His hair was unkempt and a dark shadow had appeared on his lower face. In summary, he was a mess.

Sherlock paced frantically, voice animated as he began ranting to his friend.

“Six days John, a near week since my last case!”

“Sherlock-”

“One hundred and fourteen hours sans travail, and still, Lestrade can’t seem to find me anything!”

“Sherlock, If you would just listen-“ John began, calmly.

Sherlock stopped pacing abruptly, and turned briskly to face John, a frown on his face.

“Do you know what I need? Cigarettes. Do we have cigarettes?” He paused for a moment. “Or perhaps Ginger nuts... do we have any of those?”

Oh dear lord, he’s manic. John thought to himself, irritation creeping in.

“SHERLOCK!” John hollered, still standing by the flat’s entrance.

The consulting detective turned haughtily, a patronizing expression adorning his face. “Now John, there’s no need to shout.”

John gritted his teeth and spoke tersely. “Sherlock, did you forget what day it is?”

“Tuesday!” He quipped with a hum.

“It’s Sunday, actually” a voice called out from the hallway.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed at the sound of the stranger’s voice. “John, you didn’t mention company.”

John closed his eyes again and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately to keep his cool. “What I’ve been trying to tell you Sherlock, is that Y/N’s finally landed in London. You were supposed to meet her today, remember?”

Sherlock stared at him blankly. “Who?”

“Y/N? Bloody hell Sherlock, I’ve been reminding you of her visit for the past month. We spoke about it just this morning!”

“I’m sorry John, you know I haven’t the time for another one of your unfortunate dates.”

The stranger finally stepped forward, gently nudging John aside.

“Good to know. Do you think you can make the time to meet his unfortunate sister instead?”

All possible retorts remained up in the air as Sherlock lost his train of thought. The woman before him was strikingly beautiful. He stood in awe, eyes skirting over her as he tried and failed to make any useful deductions. For once in his life, the great Sherlock Holmes was at a loss for words. It was more than her beauty that had captivated him, it was the air of intelligence that surrounded her. The subtle certitude in her stand, the sincerity lacing her eyes. She was stunning in every aspect.

Y/N bit her lip anxiously as her brother’s flat mate stood silently, gawking at her from across the room.

He’s absolutely gorgeous she thought to herself.

The awkward silence dragged on, and Y/N began shuffling nervously, digging her nails into the flat of her palm as the man continued staring, not uttering a word. She finally met his gaze, and granted him a small albeit skeptical smile.

“Right then, introductions.” John interrupted, cocking a brow at his friend‘s odd behaviour.

“Y/N, this is-“

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. It’s a pleasure, truly.” Sherlock stepped forward, closing the distance between himself and Y/N.

“Well, I’m Y/N Watson. It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mr Holmes. John has told me so much about you.”

“I’m sure he has.”

Y/N reached her arm out and Sherlock met her halfway, grabbing hold of her hand, and shaking in greeting. His eyes met hers and for a moment, they simply studied one another.

Sherlock’s gaze lowered, focusing on Y/N’s lips. His thoughts wandered as he imagined the great multitude of fascinating topics which she might enjoy speaking of. Perhaps she enjoyed the discipline of science as much as he did... maybe she liked to read... she might even like dogs! And of course, he wondered what it might feel like to press his lips against hers, even if just for a single moment. To feel the warmth of her skin flush against his as they shared an impassioned kiss.

Y/N’s breath hitched at the contact, however amicable, of her hand being enveloped by Sherlock’s. She had been desperate to meet him for over a year now. Ever since John moved to 221B Baker Street, he had been calling his sister daily to recount his great adventures with the legendary Sherlock Holmes. Soon enough, Y/N had found herself harbouring an epic crush on the consulting detective. Though she’d never admit it, she had even started reading John’s blog just to satisfy her strange infatuation with the man in the trench coat.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably, spurring Sherlock and Y/N out of their thoughts. “Yes, well, I’m very sorry to interrupt this moment of yours, but, umm... tea?”

“No thank you John, it’s warm enough in here.”

“Y/N, it’s the dead of winter outside and Sherlock has all the windows open. It’s hardly warm.”

“Oh...” Y/N managed sheepishly. In retrospect, she realized the flat was rather brisk, though she could hardly feel the chill. She was so enraptured by Sherlock that a contented warmth had surrounded her.

“Also, I think the point’s come across, you can both end the handshake now.”

“Oh, we’re still shaking!” Y/N exclaimed, redirecting her attention to Sherlock.

“Yes,” he chuckled, “it appears we are.”

Sherlock finally let Y/N’s hand fall, and walked toward the hearth. As he stepped away, back to the Watsons, he could still feel a whisper of her touch, and subtlety flexed his hand.

RING, RING!

John took out his mobile phone and accepted the call, but not before rolling his eyes at Sherlock and Y/N.

Could they make it any more obvious that they clearly fancy each other? He thought to himself.

“Hello? Are you sure? Yes, I’ll tell him, he’s dying for a new case. Exactly, absolutely insufferable! Okay, yes, alright. See you then. Bye, Greg.”

John ended the call and turned to Sherlock.

“It’s Lestrade. He’s got something for you. An unexplained death on Campden Hill. Apparently a man died of carbon monoxide poisoning but there’s no traces of the stuff anywhere else in his flat. All the doors were locked, and there’s no sign of forced entry. Right up your alley I’d think.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, watching John’s reflection through the mirror above the hearth.

“Excellent. Watson, will you join me?”

“Of course, isn’t that what I do, join you on cases? Y/N, maybe you could spend the day with Mrs Hudson? I’m sure she’d be happy to show you about London.”

Y/N felt a bit disappointed as she realized the boys were about to leave. She was hoping for more time with Sherlock. He was positively captivating.

John was reaching for his jacket when Sherlock suddenly stopped him.

“Apologies John, I meant your sister.”

“Come again?” John deadpanned.

“Well, Lestrade obviously needs help, so I’ll put my best man on the case... you. I already have eight possible theories myself, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Sherlock patted John on the shoulder, then took a step towards Y/N, smiling kindly. “Have you had any good chips lately? I know a little place where they’re prepared excellently. Would you care to join me?”

“I’d like that.” She said with a laugh. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” She whispered back to her brother, giving him a quick kiss to the cheek.

With that, Sherlock laced his arm with hers, and walked out the flat, boredom long forgotten. Finally, he had found something to truly captivate his attention.

John smiled and shook his head halfheartedly at the odd pair. Of course, he was a bit put off by Sherlock’s antics, but mostly, he was glad to see his friend and sister so blatantly content.

John was just about to head out himself when a sudden observation struck him. “He’s still in his nightclothes...” He said to himself amusedly.

It was clear that Y/N Watson would be staying in London for a long while.

▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️▪️

Voila, another fic!

Try reading Academic Reminder

If you’d like to be tagged in any of my future Sherlock fics, tell me in the comments!!

Thanks to whoever sent this request in, it was really fun to write! I had like zero ideas on how to see this through, but you can’t go wrong with a first meeting, right? It’s always a safe bet.

Okay, so I REALLY need to get started on my essay, wish me luck!!!

“Honestly,” he’d say. “How could someone be so stupid? The answer is so obvious that even you could solve it.” 

You would then give him a look that would make him falter and backtrack.  

“No, no, no. Everyone’s stupid, don’t take it personally. I just meant that you’d—” Another glare. “Er, that Anderson would be able to solve it with one look.” 

The most difficult part was how as soon as you would allow yourself to get sucked into your little fantasy, you would need to force yourself to realise the whole situation was only in your mind. The warm feeling of having someone to talk to had faded. The flat had become a desolate and dark place once more. Sherlock was dead and you were left alone in your flat. 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

For weeks since his death, Lestrade had done his best to look the other way- to avoid the fact the younger Holmes daughter was alive. You had made him promise to keep her safe from arrest. . .for Sherlock’s sake. Yet as time went on, Elora started not trusting her own actions. You would find her in a random location, with her having no recollection over how or why she was there. As the weeks went on, scabs would appear on her arms and legs out of nowhere. It was around this point you began to be concerned about her flatmate’s safety. She didn’t want to send her away, but she couldn’t bear it if one day she woke up and was too late to stop something far more dangerous. 

Soon after her outburst, Elora had made the decision to leave Baker Street. The day the two of you had finished packing up the last few boxes for Elora’s new life, you felt as though you were staring up at the rooftop again. The world around you sounded tinny and you felt every step become more difficult. 

“You’re sure about this?” you whispered to your friend. It was one of the rare times you could remember seeing any hint of emotion etched into the younger Holmes’ facial features. There wasn’t much that could make her crack, you knew that. Sherlock’s death had hit her the worst of all and while it pained you to see her go, you were proud of her all the same. 

Elora gave you an apologetic glance as she hoisted a moving box into her arms. “I have no other choice,” she replied. “I don’t want to hurt you. Not any more than either of us have been, anyway. There’s just too many memories here.” When you opened your mouth to refute, your friend raised her hand. “It’s not just you. It’s everything. It reminds me too much of my brother and how I failed him.” She reached over to grip her flatmate’s hand. “It won’t be for long. Just until I can feel more confident that what I’m doing is actually me.” 

Tearing up, you pulled her into a tight hug. “I’m going to be waiting to help you move back home whenever you’re ready. You just call me and tell me when. I’ll be there. I promise.” 

“I‘ll be there,” you muttered tiredly to yourself nine months later. You clenched your fists into tight balls. Taking a deep breath, you took in the bitterly cold London air. “It’s been nine months.”

What neither of you had taken into account that day was just how bad Elora’s condition truly was. The longer she was away from the rest of the world, the more she began to break. The hallucinations kept coming. Whenever you would visit her, she would appear more and more distant. She did her best to keep up the interactions, but one day, the calls and text messages suddenly ceased. One night, you received a phone call. The doctors had told you something had triggered Elora, but they couldn’t pinpoint just what it was. Doctor Morrison had recommended that you refrain from visiting your friend’s new flat for a while. 

“If we don’t know what’s causing it,” he said. “We can’t help her. The only lead we have so far is. . .you.”

Months later, the nightmares started to take hold of you too. You found yourself in a cold sweat one night. Your heart raced a thousand miles per second...and you didn’t know why. A few days later, you found yourself waking up screaming a name-- his name. It was almost as if he was taking over your every thought. You saw him in the shops’ magazines and papers. You heard his music over the radio. 

It wasn’t long before it just became noise in your mind -- noise that you couldn’t drown out. You tried to quiet the voices like normal, you really did. You tried music. You slept with the television on max volume. Nothing helped. It wasn’t until you found the bottles in Elora’s room that you could press the mute button on your thoughts. Pop one, take a drink, silence after fifteen minutes. The only problem you started to face was the six hours every night wasn’t enough. 

You needed more. 

Whenever the voices even began to start, you took another pill. Just one more, became two, which turned into three. Each month, the dose got stronger and voices went quiet. You still couldn’t get enough. At this point, you were in far too deep. You didn’t even want to bother getting help. In fact, you relished in the euphoric feeling and the mind-numbing high. It was your escape and you never wanted it to end.

When the pills ran out, you headed to the first therapist you could find. Thanks to your already broken state, it hadn’t taken much for you to get another prescription. The problem was that the dosage would never be enough. You would wake in the middle of the night in pain. It wouldn’t be a normal pain— there wasn’t a part of your body that was physically in pain. Still, your insides twisted and turned as you continued with your restless sleep. What you wouldn’t give for a night of blissful nothingness; to fall asleep. . .and just not wake up. 

He had somehow worked his way into your dreams now. Most nights, it was the same horror as that day: you would be on the ground calling out to him and he’d be gone minutes later. Sometimes your brain took enjoyment in torturing and watching you suffer. It would create this fantasy world where you could finally be happy. Late nights by the fireplace, curled up in each other. Breakfast in the morning without worrying about eyeballs in the teacups. In another world, you had a family of your very own.

You were in the living room of 221B, now home to the both of you. It was a cold December evening and the fireplace crackled in front of you. To anyone else, it would have been a normal scene. But to you, it was something you could only imagined.  

“She’s beautiful,” Sherlock murmured, as he cradled the newborn bundle in his arms.  

“She has your hair and eyes,” you replied.  

“Nonsense.” A frown spread across his face. “Babies have no defining features until six months. She could just as easily have your eyes and hair.” However, a smile threatened to replace his grumpy demeanour as he stared at the bundle— his daughter. “Balance of probability suggests that she-” 

The bundle began to cry and you reached over to pull her into your lap. “Shh,” you soothed. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. We’re right here.” 

Yet, the little babe continued to cry and howl. Anything you attempted to do to soothe her failed. When you looked up to find Sherlock, you watched in horror as his figure vanished in smoke and left you staring at the reflection in the mirror. “Sherlock,” you whispered. “No.” At that moment, your daughter shrieked and cried out. In another attempt to soothe her, you plastered a fake smile and turned your attention back to the precious bundle. What you saw made your heart stop.  

In your arms, squirmed a small version of Jim Moriarty. His face dripped with blood as it morphed into a dark grin. “Tick tock,” he spat out. “The Watsons ran up the clock. The clock struck five, the Watsons cried. They couldn’t save poor Sherlock.” 

“No- no please,” you pleaded. “Just let me have them back. I just want my family back. Please.” 

“No can do,” mini-Moriarty said with a grin. “You know what you have to do to get him back. Why haven’t you done it yet?”  

You bit your lip, eyes squeezing closed as tears spilled out. “Please. I’ll do anything. Just bring them back to me, please.” 

Moriarty rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, not the waterworks. Ordinary people like you are so predictably boring.” He stared at you as the blood dripped off of his face onto the baby blanket. “You know what you have to do. Just do it.” 

“Do it.” A feeling of something sticky ran down your forehead. When you dared press a hand to the area, you gasped in fear as felt a liquid sensation. Pulling your hand back, you saw it was covered in rich, deep red blood.  

A plume of smoke enveloped you and soon you were surrounded by the pale versions of those you loved. John grabbed your arm and started to drag you, Elora joining in soon after. “You want to join us? Do it,” they both spoke in Moriarty’s voice.  

Unsure of what else to do, you bolted until you saw the tall dark outline of a peacoat with the collar popped. “Sherlock,” you pleaded. “Help me. Save me. I need you.” 

The figure standing in front of you didn’t move. 

“Sherlock, please,” you pleaded again. “Help. I can’t do it without you.” 

Slowly, the figure turned around to face you. Sherlock’s blue-green eyes pierced into your soul as he spoke, his tone sharp as knives. “Then die. Just let go and die. There’s obviously nothing here for you anymore. Why live?” 

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

The day before, you had made a visit to his grave. Originally, you had planned to visit every other day, but it just became too much for you to handle. You needed to come to terms with what had happened. The only problem you were facing was that you simply couldn’t let go of the fact that he had left you forever.

As you approached the headstone, you noticed another figure standing near it. Not wanting to intrude, you silently crept closer. John was standing by the grave, eyes fixated on the metallic lettering. His fingers rested on the smooth black marble. “I was so alone, and I owe you so much,” you heard him mutter. “You brought my family back to me. Y’gave me a reason to...to want to be a better person.” You heard him sniffle and heave a heavy sigh. “Doing a real bang-up job at that right now, aren’t I? Now they’re both alone dealing with your decision while I swam out to catch my breath.”

John tapped the top of the headstone as a form of reassurance. He was attempting to collect himself, you could tell. “Okay,” he muttered. A moment later, he began to turn and make his way back toward the entrance. You were pressed against a nearby tree in order to avoid being spotted. However, he turned back to the headstone one more time. “No, please, there’s just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. And for Elora, and…” his voice broke as he continued. “Don’t. Be. Dead. Would you do that? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this.”

With a curt nod, John made his way back to the car and drove off. You were now the only person around for miles. Truth be told, you were partly grateful for it, as you weren’t sure you could do this without breaking down. However, you did wish there was someone who would try something to stop you. You knelt down by the headstone with suppressed tears. “Hey, Curly,” you tried to sound cheerful. “It’s a year tomorrow. Can you believe it?”

Your gloved fingers gently traced the gold lettering of his name on the headstone. It was cold in the early London morning air. The flowers you had brought the previous weeks had already wilted and the blood red petals were crushed. Using a trembling hand, you brushed the petals away in an attempt to clean his grave. “Always so messy,” you remarked with a dry chuckle. “Even dead you can’t help but make a mess.” You looked down at the headstone with a sad smile. “You’d be pleased to know I haven’t touched your flat. It’s as messy as ever. Don’t know how you ever knew where everything was, but you always did. You always...did.”

You reached into your coat pockets to pull out a handful of pill bottles and a small photograph. “I can’t do it anymore, Sherlock,” you whispered. “It’s just become too much. As much as I bloody hate to admit it, you really screwed me over, Sherlock Holmes. The minute you walked into my life, I should have run the other way and not looked back. But I stayed anyway.” Your head leaned forward against the cold marble and you squeezed your eyes shut again while you laughed. “You bastard. Who would have thought that I would have wanted- that I hoped... with an emotionless basket case. Wait, no. You wouldn’t like that. High-functioning sociopath.

“I just miss you so much. I can’t take waking up in the empty flat anymore. You’re gone. John is gone. Elora is holed up trying to come back. I’m...I’m falling apart. I’m drowning while I’m walking and I can’t breathe. I know I should be able to move on and stay strong. But damn it, Sherlock, I don't want to carry on like everything is fine. It just isn’t.”

You couldn’t afford to hold back the tears anymore. You let them flow and flow until you are hiccuping for air. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” you whispered as you buried the items next to the headstone. “I just can’t do it anymore. Not by myself.” Your eyes flickered over to the empty plot nearby. 

You and Elora had made the purchase of the area shortly after the funeral. The two of you had agreed he didn’t deserve to be buried like when he was alive- alone. Upon making the deposit, a deal was made that whoever would pass on first would be the one to take the spot. You just hoped Elora wouldn’t mind losing the race…

~  ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Every step you took felt heavier and heavier the higher up you went. You felt terrible lying to Molly about the real reason you had for stopping by. It was the only way you could guarantee you wouldn’t chicken out. You needed to make sure there was nothing to hold you back. You had already mailed a letter to John and left one on the coffee table for Elora. They would be sad, but they would understand. You were sure of it. 

The door to the rooftop was much heavier than you remembered. Although, last year, you ran primarily off of the adrenaline and grief. Your whole body shook as you peered over the edge down at the ground below. People were making their way through town. Some headed back to work for a late shift, others home to their families. Their perfect little families... 

It was almost ironic you were standing on the very spot he did. Was it dramatic? Of course. However, being around Holmes' for so long would cause a desire for a flair of it in even the most logical of people. Maybe you had hoped this spot would bring you closer to him. Wasn’t there a study that indicated those who died near each other were destined to reunite? That sounded about right. Or maybe...maybe it was just sentiment.

He always mocked you for the attachment you had to sentiment. “A chemical defect,” he would call it. It could never be used to one’s advantage— only their downfall. You gave a dry chuckle to the memory. How fitting.  

“You have given me something that I can't live without, Sherlock,” you whispered after taking a deep breath. “I can’t ever forgive you for this, but hopefully I’ll get to see you again.” You took a step up onto the ledge and closed your eyes. Without opening them, you lifted your mobile to your ear. 

“You’ve reached the personal number of Sherlock Holmes,” his deep voice worked its way into your ear. “List the details of your case and I’ll contact you at my earliest convenience...or not.” 

The sound of a beep caused you to take a shaky breath, jarring you from a fantasy world your brain had escaped to for a moment. “I suppose it’s only fair for me to do this,” you whispered into the microphone. “It’s what...people do, right? Leave a note?” A sad chuckle was let out at the last part. “That’s how you did it. I know you’ll never hear this and that’s fine. I just...I just needed to hear your voice one last time.

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock, but you can’t convince me otherwise of your actions. You may have been an arrogant arsehole, but you weren’t a monster. There was no way you could have created Moriarty for shits and giggles. I saw how he affected you. No man could hold up that act forever, especially not you. You may have been a jerk, but you cared. About Elora, John...hopefully me?” You brushed away a few tears. “I know there’s only a few seconds left on the machine, so I’ll make it quick.” Tears began to trickle down your face. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I believe in you, even if the rest of the world doesn’t.

“Goodbye, love,” your voice dropped down to a whisper as you hung up the phone. You cradled it in your hands for a few moments before pressing it against your heart. This was the best for all of them. All you needed to do was put your arms out and just...fall. In a matter of minutes, you would be letting gravity take its hold on your already heavy heart and free you spirit. It would all be over and you could finally be free.

You clenched the phone in your fist and took a deep breath. One foot at a time, you made your way a bit further along the ledge. You leaned a bit forward. . .

. . .a little bit more. . . 

Just one more lean and you would finally be free. As you lifted your foot over the edge, the phone in your hand began to vibrate. 

It was a call from an unknown number.

==============================

Author’s Note: Woww, what a cliffhanger, huh?! If I’m being entirely honest here, the end of this chapter hurt like hell to write (bad pun I know lol). I know it may seem stereotypical tale for a Sherlock S/O to have during the Reichenbach hiatus, but I assure you there are more reasons behind this mental state than just Sherlock (mainly relating to the upcoming backstory). On another note, Moriarty is probably one of my favorite characters to write for just because his dialogue is so much fun to write…you never know what’ll come out of that mouth of his!

As usual, if you liked the chapter, make sure to leave a like, comment, and a cheeky reblog. Not only will it help me out with sharing the story, but it also lets me know what content from me you enjoy! In the meantime, leave your theories on who the mystery number is and I'll see you next week! :D