thedogbard

I'm an incurable writer. Original stuff, fanfics, all kinds of sh*t. I also love reading, dogs, animals in general, baking, walking, and laughing at the random stuff my brain comes up with. I also have controversial ships. Live and let live, please.

Fandoms I'm in or love: Skulduggery Pleasant, Harry Potter/Fantastic Beasts, Lockwood & Co, Dr Strange (movies), Sherlock BBC (also ACD Sherlock, Mary Russell series, and Elementary), Day of the Jackal, The Aeronauts, Little Women...and possibly more? I've read all the Riordan books...

Individual books I love (and their fandoms): Jane Eyre, Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Villette, Shirley, (or anything by the Brontes), Emily's Ghost, The Blue Castle, Knights of the Borrowed Dark trilogy, The Lost World and The Poison Belt, I Capture The Castle, Little Women, and many more I can't think of right now. Little-kid-me demands that I also add A Little Princess and Coral Island to this list...

Music I love: Roxette, Taylor Swift, Adele, Emeli Sande, Enya, Dua Lipa, and some other select songs, like Money Run Low by The Score.

Songs I can't stop listening to that might well be a part of my DNA by now: Haunted, Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince, Listen To Your Heart, Anywhere Is, Getaway Car (my no.1 spotify wrapped this year, and i'm not ashamed), I Knew You Were Trouble, Seven Wonders, The Look, This Love, Wonderland, There's Nothing Holding Me Back, Blow Your Mind, The Wind and a bunch more. If you're a Swiftie, DM me your favourites. Let's agree and argue and have fun!

I am so emotionally mature for my age that I've been told I have the soul of a pensioner. It was a compliment and I'm taking it as such.

In one country I am tall, decent-looking, and socially funny. In another I'm average-heighted, average-looking, and averagely-funny. Which is weird for my esteem and opinion of myself. Whatever.

I'm not a very ambitious person. My great dream in life is to be an author. I'm also funny, weirdly knowledgeable about niche things, and addicted to chocolate. (It's becoming a problem).

Send me asks or interact! I'll send asks or interact in return - or random asks whenever I'm bored. I love meeting new people. Whoever, whatever you are, just so long as you're not a...Think of all the worst kinds of people. If you're not one of 'em, then hang out with me.

@the-archivist-system is my beloved adopted sibling and one of my best friends 🐾 They're the only one who gets to call me Logios, because of this post!!✨️

Thank you to @dramatic1nlyf for this amazing moodboard!!!!

(right at the bottom, in uncertain small print...): if you want you can request a fic. Here's my "guideline" post.

Oh and I'm adding these posts here so I can never lose them because OHMYGOSH

AFJAFSGHHDAF THANK YOU @skeletal-spire-man-aka-overfit this literally made my YEAR

okay wait - @catastrophiccblues I'm also saving this here because it's too good to ever lose ✨️

And lastly, here are song lyrics from songs that have stuck to me like glue, arranged to tell a vaguely coherent story.

Sometimes you wonder if this fight is worthwhile

You’ve got the words to change a nation but you’re biting your tongue

Something keeps me holding on to nothing

Who can say where the road goes, where the day flows?

And you know it’s never simple, never easy

Wasn’t it beautiful, running wild till you fell asleep?

I’m only one, but not alone, my finest day is yet unknown

You go there, you're gone forever, I go there, I'll lose my way

God rest my soul, I miss who I used to be

I attend Christmas parties from outside

It’s all fun and games til somebody loses their mind

There’s no comfort in the truth, pain is all that you’ll find

I held that grudge till it tore me apart

It’s the first time, the last time, we ever met

It's no surprise I turned you in, 'cause us traitors never win

You play stupid games, you win stupid prizes

And now they’ve broken you like they’ve broken me, but a shattered glass is a lot more sharp

And if I’m on fire, you’ll be made of ashes too

I pass it and lose track of what I’m saying, cause that’s where I was when I lost it all

Always learning everything the hard way

Some say illusions are her game

Don’t you worry folks, we took out all her teeth

And nobody comes to save you now, but you got something they don't

When the violence causes silence, we must be mistaken

I remember all of the things that I thought I wanted to be

When you’re young, you just run, but you come back to what you need

So, baby, can we dance, oh, through an avalanche?

You don’t need to save me, but would you run away with me?

Cause for a moment a band of thieves in ripped up jeans got to rule the world

"Don't you see the starlight, starlight? Don't you dream impossible things?"

TW: there’s graphic descriptions of a panic attack at the end of this chapter.

Just a flash in the window I was passing

Just a frame in a movie I remember

Just the click of a heel on the pavement

Just a moment like any other moment

Just a shadow of motion in the water

Just a need to look over my shoulder

I remember your lips, I remember your eyes

And the taste of your kiss, and your graceful goodbye

Just the weight of a heart as it’s falling

Nothing more

- Amsterdam by Joan Baez

Three days later…

This will have to be very short. Consider it my note. John will get a note he can’t keep. A phone call, if I can manage it. You deserve a note you can keep. You deserve everything, but I am afraid I can’t give you that.

Strangely, I do not know what to say here. Never been the most emotionally intelligent man. You know this. But I did fairly adequately until now, I think. I flatter myself that I made a good husband. Enough of a good husband that you wanted to stay married to me; lapse of judgement on your part, perhaps. I will always be profoundly thankful for that lapse of judgement.

You are…everything.

That sounds dramatic. It isn’t. I had never expected to be romantically involved with anyone. Certainly not married. Marriage is an idea; a commercial farce, much like Valentines’ day. But being married to you was extraordinary, and I am not one to use that word lightly.

This is necessary. Moriarty has to be stopped, and the only way to do that is to allow myself to be stopped in return.

I love you. I will always love you. That sounds cliché. It sounds just as clichéd to say that you taught me how to love. Both these things are true; just as you taught me to play guitar, you taught me to love. And both are skills I value highly.

I love you.

Sherlock Holmes.

****

You stayed in London, in the end. Strange; a lifetime of wandering, and you could only settle down when there was no one left to stay anchored to. But you stayed in London because it felt like home, like where Sherlock was; like you might walk down the street and see a blue coat, or dark curls and sharp cheekbones and a familiar quirk of lips. You visited his headstone. Wept with his parents. Stayed up late and remembered things you had forgotten.

You couldn’t stay at 221b. That place was interwoven far too much with Sherlock. He had brought the magic of that place into life, and going there without him was like visiting a sad shell, a place where oxygen was too thin. Mycroft seemed to understand that. He said he would keep the flat as was, for the moment - like a museum, a memorial to a dead man who would never see it again.

For all of Mycroft’s shitty behaviour about the funeral, he did do his best after that. Rented a flat for you; told you not to concern yourself about the rent, or the fact that random people dressed smartly in black would turn up with green bags of Waitrose food.

That left you free to concern yourself with nothing. Mycroft sorted out the bureaucracy; the will; Sherlock’s possessions being left to you. You woke up in the mornings and forgot Sherlock wasn’t there. You fell asleep remembering a time before this. Two weeks and three days ago, we had a phone call. Three weeks and seven days ago he was alive. This time last year we went on a picnic.

Grief was a strange thing, then. It came at the inconvenient times. It made you ask for impossible wishes. Made you think warped thoughts, believing in universes where this hadn’t happened, searching for answers, rereading old text messages, ghosting your guitar until you picked it up and played the first song you could think of and then finally, finally, you could cry.

*

Three months later, on a night when it was raining and dark and you hadn’t talked to anyone in forty-eight hours and your throat was sore, you picked up your phone and pressed on Sherlock’s name. Looked at the last message you’d ever sent him, two days before he died, You’re such a lovable idiot.

Started typing.

Just the weight of a heart as it’s falling, nothing more

Send.

Lyrics. You probably wouldn’t remember. I sung it all the time back at college. It was a crowd favourite.

You waited. But there was nothing, of course there wasn’t. The messages didn’t bounce back, but they remained unseen.

I miss you.

You switched the phone off and lay in the silence, staring up at the grey ceiling above.

*

The book turned up on a sunny winter day, a week before Christmas. It wasn’t wrapped in Christmas paper. Didn’t look much like a gift, either; not when it was that beaten and dog-eared.

You brought it up to your nose and sniffed warily. Old ink, old paper, old.

The envelope was standard. Your address, printed, but no name. A stamp from Scotland.

They must’ve sent it to the wrong address for the wrong person, you texted Sherlock that night. A coping mechanism that therapists wouldn’t have recommended: texting your dead husband’s phone number every night, like writing in a journal. You had to scroll up for a good three minutes before you could get back to the point where there were replies.

I’m keeping it anyway. God knows I need something funny to read. It looks funny. I need a laugh. Don’t know when the last time was that I even laughed.

*

It’s Mayday. Mayday mayday mayday. Emergency calls. Help, SOS, anything. I know by now that that doesn’t work.

I mean, it’s probably Mycroft keeping this number active to do surveillance on it. Which means he probably read all of this.

Sorry Mycroft. I’m not especially sorry though.

Anyway, it’s Mayday and a random blank postcard from Venice just turned up.

I checked it for invisible ink. You would’ve been proud of me. Ab-so-lute-ly nothing. It’s a mystery and you would’ve liked it, but you’re not here and it’s just a random postcard.

That kind of thing gives me hope. Stupid hope. I’m an idiot.

Anyway, it’s on my fridge.

*

I took the rings off today. If we met for the first time you would have deduced that I had been married because of the tan lines. It’s the hottest August we’ve had in twenty years, apparently. Thanks for that, Mycroft.

(We all know you probably order the British weather around too.)

Anyway I couldn’t stand people asking me if I’m married anymore. I thought it was easier to take them off. I dug out that same necklace. You’d remember it. Silver chainlink. It’s nice. Threaded them onto it and now I hide them beneath my shirt like I’m at uni and keeping it a secret.

I remember you used to take them off and slide them onto my finger. It made me swoon every. Single. Goddamn. Time. You were such a romantic.

Hey Mycroft, if you’re reading this, it’s true. He was.

God, I hate using the past tense for you. You were the most alive person I ever met. There’s another one. ‘Were’.

I love you. That’s not past tense. I’ll always love you.

*

Sherlock’s POV

His Mind Palace was more of a fortress these days. Armoured. Protective. Hostile. There was a cannon somewhere in there. If necessary, it could destroy part of the inside where he kept his most important information; a forgetting tactic that would make sure information couldn’t be tortured out of him.

There was a room. It was quite simple; nothing too elaborate. Inside the plain white door was the lounge-room of 221b, frozen to a particular day; a winter evening, a fire crackling. John was perpetually in his armchair, laptop on his knees. There was always a woman, sitting cross-legged on the rug, propping her shoulder against the coffee table. And Sherlock could enter that room, that memory. Walk past, and lie down on the sofa. His clothes would become a purple shirt, top two buttons undone; creased trousers; bare feet; a blue dressing-robe. He would lie on the sofa, hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed. He had been in a bad mood; insufferable to all three of his housemates, and yet they were still here in the quiet of the evening, and he was thankful for that even if he could not find words for it.

He would hear her getting something. The guitar. It would have been a while since he last heard her play and he would be aware of it, waiting while she said something to John, words lost in the memory now.

(He only permitted himself this when he was tired. Very tired. Needed a reason to remember why he carried on. Why it was so, so integrally important that he had the chance to experience something like that peaceful evening again. Why he had to soldier on; carry on and on and on, so that they would be safe.)

When he was lying on the sofa, he would hear the strumming of a guitar, a few light notes. He would look at her, head turned to the side. She would notice the movement; smile at him. Her hair would be pulled lazily - and ineffectively - out of her face. She would be wearing pyjamas; soft and clean and linen; a thin cardigan draped around her. The guitar would be balanced in her lap, and he would watch her deft fingers for a few minutes, the surety with which she played the opening bars.

Then she would start singing, as he rolled his head back to stare up at the ceiling again, in a state between awareness and mind-palacing - perhaps that was why the memory was imprinted so indelibly in his mind now.

“I still dream of you, in this cold empty room

Just one thought of you, and I’m paralyzed

Oh, I was so naive, had no heart on my sleeve

Was it stolen love or paradise?

But I swear I’ll see you soon,

Near the dark side of the moon…”

Sherlock would look at her then. She would have her head down, focusing on the guitar, but when she would smile, like she could sense his eyes on her, and he would feel his lips quirk up involuntarily at that, and John would have stopped typing then, because he was listening too.

“Maybe if the world stopped turning, I’d be there to steal your heart away

But it’s not the right time cause we’re both light years

Light years away

Maybe we’re the last ones standing

Underneath the stars we’ll count the days

Staring at the same sky, but we’re both light years

Light years away-”

She would look up then, and give him a genuine smile, and he would be sitting on those same steps with her, in front of the abandoned town-hall, a memory within a memory.

“But serendipity’s not a friend to me

I want you here with me-” And he would meet her eyes then, at the uncharacteristic force in her voice.

“Such a tragedy…that I still believe

Maybe if the world stopped turning…”

*

He held the phone in the left hand, anticipating the buzz, while he stashed the gun inside his coat with the right hand. It was 11pm in London. Should be…any moment now…

Buzz.

He clicked on the new message. Read it, little square letters, in a voice he had not yet forgotten.

Anderson has a club. I only found out about it today. Greg was warning me in case he tried to recruit me.

Sherlock blinked. A…what?

Buzz.

It’s lots of your fans. People who believe in you. Now - now it’s too late.

Anyway, they have meetings. Theorise desperately about how you’re not dead. Apparently there’s a lot of evidence that you’re not. Strange cases across Europe.

Sherlock’s hand tightened around the phone until his bruised knuckles turned white and felt painful.

Guilt, Greg says. It’s just guilt. They killed you, drove you to it, and that’s what happened. Now they’re looking for a way to get rid of their own spine-crushing soul-crushing guilt. I hate them for it.

I hate them for giving me a bit of hope. Because I can’t dare to hope. I’m sitting here in bed with a hot chocolate like a normal person on their own might. Romance novel. I might even get a Yankee candle tomorrow. But I’m sitting here texting my dead husband.

I can’t afford to hope. It’s been eighteen months. I know you’re dead. I visit your grave. I talk to you.

God, I can’t stop talking to you, can I? even when there’s no reply.

I know you’re not alive.

Sherlock breathed out, an exhale on illicit time.

Buzz.

I know you’re dead. I know it for sure.

Because if you were alive, you would have come back to me. I wouldn’t be alone.

*

That night, he killed someone for the first time.

*

A hoody; jeans; battered trainers; unshaven. Not a single person even noticed him. He stood there, in the back of the gathering crowd. Far more people to attract in Waterloo station; far more experience, far more emotion, catching their attention.

He didn’t know the song; didn’t know the tune; but he knew the woman sitting with her back against an advertising screen, plucking at the guitar; he knew the thrum of his abandoned city around him, the announcements overhead, the strangeness, like dipping a dirty finger into clean warm water. One night, an agreement with Mycroft, tedious, worth all of it just for these thirty minutes.

He couldn’t see her face, and that was a good thing. If he saw her face she might see his. No one recognised him; she would recognise him because she had a gift for that. Seeing through disguises, facades, bullshit.

No microphone, no way to amplify her voice but the natural acoustics of the station; the sound carried through the open space, echoing between the arches, and elevators, and rumble of suitcase wheels.

“What am I supposed to do without you?

Is too late to pick the pieces up? To soon to let them go?”

More people were looking. Good. As they should.

“Do you feel damaged just like I do?

Your face, it makes my body ache, it won’t leave me alone

And this feels like drowning

Trouble, sleeping

Restless dreaming-”

A thrum of guitar, soft, sad, and Sherlock Holmes was told reliably that he did not have a heart; he knew then that he did, because it was hurting the way it had never hurt when he died.

“Cracks won’t fix and the scars won’t fade away

I guess I should get used to this, the left side of my bed’s an empty space

I remember, we were strangers-”

A desperate urgency, almost like a shout, and it was a call. He held onto the phone in his pocket and remembered the deal he had made with Mycroft and the snipers that he could never be sure were truly called off.

“So tell me, what’s the difference between then and now?”

Someone clapped.

“I’d rather choke on my bad decisions than just carry them to my grave

You’re in my head, always, always, always.”

Not long, Sherlock told himself. Not long now. Less than a year. They could hang on until then; or he could, and he could let her keep grieving, keep texting.

Almost fifty people were looking, stopping, listening.

“I know there’s nothing left to cling to, but I’m still calling out your name

You’re in my head, always, always, always

Always, always.”

The station rung with applause and Sherlock walked away with his palms still stinging.

*

Maybe it’s true that art heals.

He read the text as he flew back to Germany; flew away from her; and she had no idea.

I went out busking today. First time in a long while. And singing to all those people about you, I felt like…

I felt like you were there. Like you’d be holding my hand, even if I didn’t know it. Or you thought I didn’t.

I remember once, I had a nightmare. It was horrible. I can’t even remember about what now.

And you played the violin for me to soothe me back to sleep. It was your own composition. It was so gentle and tender and it felt like a hug.

You touched my forehead when you finished. You thought I was asleep. I wasn’t.

You’re in my head, Sherlock. Always.

****

Hadn’t you left the light on? It had been almost dark when you decided to go for a walk; get some chocolate from the newsagents; clear your head, stretch your legs, all those objectively healthy goals in life. Well, minus the chocolate. Though some chocolate was good for the soul occasionally.

Anyway. You were pretty sure you had left the light on. You dismissed it. A moment of madness. You can’t have. Or maybe it somehow turned itself off. Some freaky thing.

You opened the door with a faint creak and switched on the main light and saw the dead man sitting on your sofa.

He wasn’t dead.

That was the strange thing. He should have been. He should have been rotting, in a state you had never gotten to see him in because he had been buried without you there; he should have been unrecognisable, grotesque, horrific. He should not have been upright on your sofa; alert, blinking at the sudden white light flooding your clean little flat. He should not have been in his blue Belstaff and a crisp white shirt and black trousers; should not have been tilting his head at you and smiling and opening those pale lips and-

He was a ghost. The ghost of your husband was on your sofa and you had officially gone mad.

You let out a strange laugh. The bar of chocolate had slipped from your numb fingers; the door had swung closed automatically.

“You’re not real.”

Sherlock cocked his head like a confused dog. The movement made you close your eyes. It was too painful. Too familiar.

“Of course I am. Y/N? Y/N - long story short, I survived. I’m back.”

You were gasping. You hadn’t realised that you were dizzy and the world was warped and wrong and full of strange shapes, but now you realised it. You were backing away into the flat, away from him, God just get away from him, from whatever hallucination you had dreamt up because-

“Y/N-” Sherlock rose to his feet. “Starting to realise I probably should have planned this better. Wait. I’ll think of something. Just need a moment - Um - Are you going to faint?”

Your spine hit the kitchen counter. You stopped because you had to, because you weren’t a ghost, you couldn’t simply push through the counter and the sink and the walls and out and not fall, not die-

“You’re breathing too fast,” Sherlock said, and his voice was different, so familiar, it pulled through all your racing nerves like guitar strings. He began to walk over, slowly, hands held up, pale hands, not gloved, and they seemed so strangely disproportionate and your heart was hurting and you realised that if he isn’t dead you’re about to die because you just can’t breathe and-

“Y/N-”

Legs: gave way. Collapsed to the floor now. The grit and grouting of tiles under your palms, fingers curling, head down, gasping, pulling in strange breaths. Your nose was tingling like it had pins and needles. Why won’t the air do anything? It’s getting lost on its way to your lungs. You wanted out. Wanted to run away but couldn’t move without something dreadful happening - you’re not sure what yet. It felt like being on the edge of a cliff and not knowing quite where the precipice was.

In the back of your head, voices were screaming. Calm down, calm down.

He’s alive.

He can’t be alive.

You’re not real anymore.

He isn’t real.

Nothing was ever real.

You’re going to die alone in your flat with the hallucination of Sherlock Holmes.

“Y/N!” Sherlock was crouching down now, in front of you. “What do I do?” He sounded more alarmed than you were. “I’m here. I’m-” He reached out a hand, stopped before it could touch you. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t-” you gasped out. “Can’t - breathe-”

“Yes, I can see that.” His voice was surprisingly even now. “What can I do to help? Water? Can I touch you?”

You screwed your eyes tight shut against the wave of dizziness, your heart doing acrobatics, two rings on a silver chain brushing, burning hot against your skin.

“Talk. Keep talking, please keep talking, please don’t go-”

“Not going anywhere.” Sherlock took in a large steady breath. Unconsciously, you mimicked it. “Where to start? I faked my death. Obviously. It was necessary. Moriarty had snipers on you - you, John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. He was going to kill all of you unless I jumped. Shot himself in the head, too, so I couldn’t use him as leverage. I was stuck up there.”

Focus on the words, the sharp cadence, his voice, your palms on the tiles, your hair against your cheek, the glimpse of his leg and the end of his coat in your peripheral vision, he’s close enough to touch, and he’s real.

“It was necessary to do this, to keep you alive, all of you. I know I - I read the texts. I made sure you were safe. I’ve been informed by John to fuck off. Fully aware that that will be the general opinion of my acq-”

He cut himself off because you reached for him, your eyes still closed, and with your eyes closed you pulled him closer, worked your hands inside his coat and across his shirt. He let you; shuffled nearer obligingly, still hunkered awkwardly at a right-angle to you.

He was warm. You pressed your palm over his heart - it was beating. Like a heart should.

He was alive.

You exhaled roughly, messily. Calmed down by mapping his body with your hands, noting the changes, the infinitesimal differences. Thinner; a lot thinner. Somehow, bigger, too. Stronger. More muscular. When you ran your hand across his back he stiffened slightly, like it caused him pain.

Injuries.

You turned until your back was squarely against the under-sink cupboard; pulled your hands back and lifted them to his face. Traced the edge of his cheek and his jaw and felt the rough warmth of his skin and the curl of his hair, the ends crisp like they had just been cut. He tilted his head into your touch, leant forward and you felt the ghost of his breath across your wrist.

“Your breathing is almost normal now,” Sherlock murmured.

You opened your eyes. He was watching you. A different look, one you hadn’t seen before; something new. Reverent in its gentleness, blue eyes warm, like he was trying to absorb you, like you were the one that might vanish at any moment.

Your hands settled on his cheeks. “I…I don’t know if I can ever forgive you for this,” you whispered.

Sherlock ducked his gaze. Moving slowly - carefully - he brought his hand up. Reached for your throat, parted your coat and unzipped it a little. Curled his fingers over the light silver necklace you wore. Pulled it out, unclasped it, both hands sneaking around to nestle in your hair, arms manoeuvring between your own, and lifted the necklace away. You watched as he slid the two rings off. He glanced up at you; removed your left hand from his face.

“I have never stopped being married to you,” he murmured, almost to himself, and edged the rings over your finger, exquisite ghostly-delicate touches, callused fingertips too rough to be unreal.

He returned your hand formally to your lap. You let him reclasp the necklace. He leant back, delved inside his coat. Offered you something, flat on his right palm. A circular gold band.

“Please,” he said quietly. “Please forgive me. I have spent the last two years missing you.”

It’s your choice. He leaves it up to you, that choice, in that moment, to bring him back into your life.

But it isn’t a choice. It’s a heartbeat. No time to even consider it.

You take the ring and put it on his finger.

“I do,” you say.

“I do forgive you.”

AND HERE WE ARE AT THE END.

Bridges burn, I never learn

At least I did one thing right

Yeah, you know I did one thing right

Starry eyes sparking up my darkest night

You don't need to save me

But would you run away with me?

Walking with his head down

I'm the one he's walking to

So call it what you want, yeah

Call it what you want to

- Call It What You Want by Taylor Swift

You were almost asleep when your phone buzzed; once, twice, with increasing urgency. It was on silent, but vibrating against the bedside table. You put your book down and rolled over to pick it up, the too-long sleeves of Sherlock’s dressing-robe drowning your hand.

Not a phone call - a face-video. From Sherlock. You blinked and then pressed to accept it.

His face filled the screen, lit by an orangey background. From this angle, you had a superb view of his left nostril.

“Sherlock?”

“I saw the hound,” he said sharply.

But… “I thought it wasn’t-”

“It is real. I don’t know how. Just saw it. I’m…” Sherlock took a deep breath. You narrowed your eyes, suddenly realising what the slight and continual tremor of the phone meant. His hands were shaking.

“Are you okay? Is everyone okay? What happened?”

“Fine, fine, and nothing-” Sherlock shook his head, inadvertently giving you an idea of his background. He was in a bed, like you; propped up by white pillows and an ancient headboard. Still dressed, by the looks of it.

“I’m…”

“You’re what?” You’re worried. You’ve hardly ever seen Sherlock looking like this.

“I’m afraid,” he said. His voice was hostile, bitter, like he was hurling an insult at you.

You scrunched up your face and couldn’t think of words.

“It was immense,” he continued. “Red eyes, like puddles of hellfire. And it was - glowing. And ferocious.”

Ohhh-kay. You were careful to not say anything. Or even move any facial muscles.

“John said I had gotten myself worked up. That I’ve been wired. Couldn’t trust my own senses. Bloody hallucinated it.” Sherlock gave you, or the phone, or John’s phantom, a belligerent glare. “Nonsense. I’ve always been able to trust my own senses. Emotions, yes, they’re a mystery to me. But senses? I know what’s real and what is…not. And that was real, Y/N. I saw it with my own eyes.”

You pressed your lips together. Behind the anger and coldness was something else. There’s panic in the way his lip curled, in the way his teeth glinted momentarily. The phone was still shaking. You wished you could crawl through the screens and just hold him until he stopped panicking.

“Come home,” you said futilely. You knew he wouldn’t. That would be like admitting defeat, which your husband never did. Still. “Just - leave it, come home, come back.” And I’ll get to hold you.

Sherlock shook his head immediately. “Nope. Got to get the bottom of this. But…” He looked down. “I need your help.”

“You want me to come down there?” The muscles in your legs tensed like you would get out of bed there and then. Start packing. Go to him.

“No,” he said. “John. I need your help with John.”

You waited.

“I - John was being annoying. Trying to say I had imagined it because I was wired up.” Sherlock sneered. “I did a series of deductions. Can’t remember about what now. It was - I was - anyway. I told John to leave me alone. Didn’t like the way he was looking at me. He was pitying me. I don’t need his pity, Y/N - or anyone’s. Not even yours.”

“Noted.”

He didn’t say anything more.

You pieced together what he wasn’t saying. Over a decade of marriage had taught you how to do that; to fill in the blanks that Sherlock didn’t explicitly tell you. Like, right now, he was trying to tell you: he had taken it too far. Whatever he had said to John was too much.

“I said I didn’t have friends,” Sherlock admitted, his voice quieter. “Then he left. I tried to entice him back. Said he could interview Henry’s therapist - she’s a woman, the type he usually likes. A bit taller than him, with cheekbones - what. Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing. I’m being silly. Carry on.”

“Tell me.”

“I just saw - there’s been another article about you and John and,” you did quote-marks. “’Theories’.”

Sherlock snorted. “Removed myself from the vicinity before he could return. Now.” He fixed you with a look. “What do I say?”

“To John?”

“Yes. To apologise. I - What do I say. A simple apology, a mere ‘I’m sorry’, will not work here.” Sherlock sighed, tipping his head back for a moment. “I am floundering in the dark with this. With humans. Emotions. Ugh.”

“I mean…you don’t do too badly with me.”

“It’s easy with you,” Sherlock said irritably. “To not hurt you or annoy you or - And if I do, you are intelligent enough to realise it was not intended-”

“I know you,” you said simply.

His lips quirked in acknowledgement.

You thought about it. “You know one thing you said to me? One thing I never forgot?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

You adjusted your position in bed, pushing your book over a bit. “You said to me once - ‘I don’t do romantic attachments’-”

“I just have the one.” There was a smile in his eyes now.

“Yeah. And I’ve literally never forgotten it.”

“But I can’t say that to John.”

You rolled your eyes. “Obviously not, you dolt. Be a genius. Swap it to friends.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered back and forth as he considered it. You held the phone in your hands. London to Dartmoor wasn’t as far away as London and a different country. Still, you wished he was here now. Or that you were there.

He nodded, then shifted his own position, lying down in the bed, his phone tilting sideways. You gave him a smile. “Feeling better?”

“How has your day been?” he asked instead.

“Missing you, mainly. But,” you added before he could get too cocky, “Mrs Hudson prefers me as a tenant. She’s offered to kick you out and have me take out a lease instead.”

Sherlock scoffed. “How would that work? I would be there anyway.”

“Well…maybe if the roles were reversed. If I was a consulting detective-ess with a signature beanie, and you were my significant other with a passion for wandering-”

He scoffed a second time, loud enough that your phone speaker crackled with static. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

You felt a strange ache in your heart. Smiled again to dispel it. “And that’s why you’re so much more of a sweetheart than people give you credit for.”

****

John’s POV

“You’re looking for a man in his thirties or forties, British, white, just over his ideal weight, probably wearing a baseball cap.”

“How do you know he’ll be wearing a baseball cap?” Lestrade asked incredulously.

Sherlock gave him an equally incredulous look. “I could explain, or you could put the priorities of British civilians to the forefront and get on your radio and tell your irritating officers to start searching for him.” He strode off to the kitchen, checked the top of the fridge, and called over his shoulder, “Oh, he’ll be armed by the way.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, you could have said that a bit earlier!”

“Just realised it now,” Sherlock said, tapping the fridge, like that made any sort of sense. He stepped back over the prone woman’s body, edged around a forensic snapping photos, and made his way to the door.

“Now what?” John asked, following him.

Sherlock peeled off his gloves and stuffed them into his coat pockets. Anderson was coming in the front doorway, and Sherlock’s lip curled. “Firstly, we go somewhere else. Anywhere else. Wherever the IQ isn’t being drastically lowered by an idiotic face.”

John half-grimaced an apology to Anderson as Sherlock shoved past into the sunlight.

It was a nice little suburban house. The kind of house John might’ve imagined living in, one day. Maybe if he met a nice enough woman. Not that he’d had had much luck with that so far-

“Yes? Sherlock Holmes speaking. Who is this?”

Clatter.

John glanced around. Sherlock had taken a convulsive step forward and kicked a plant-pot over. Dry soil spilled over the crazy-paved driveway.

“What?” he demanded. “What?”

Lestrade, coming out of the house, blinked.

“Yes. On my way.” Sherlock hung up and looked around wildly. “Cab. I need a-”

“Mate? What’s happened?”

“CAB!” Sherlock roared. John took a step back. Some forensics by the ambulance looked over in surprise.

“What’s happened?” Lestrade asked levelly, coming down to them.

Sherlock was breathing fast. It almost reminded John of that night at Baskerville, a few weeks ago; when Sherlock had decided to be a deeply unpleasant dickhead. “It’s Y/N. I need a - She’s at Barts-” He turned, as if to stride off down the road.

Lestrade caught hold of his arm. Brave man. John wouldn’t have liked to touch Sherlock in that state. “Look, I can drive you.”

*

Sherlock was panicking. John had never seen anything quite like it. Sweating, wide-eyed, staring frantically out the windows, ripping off his scarf impatiently. He was out of the car before Lestrade had parked properly, leaving the scarf behind. John hesitated for a moment, and then unbuckled his seatbelt and chased after him.

Sherlock was already arguing with a receptionist when John burst through the double-doors to Accident & Emergency.

“I’m her emergency contact, you dimwit,” Sherlock was snarling. “Look. Next of kin. Emergency contact. Family.” He shoved his left hand under the poor woman’s face. “Where is she?”

“Sir - if you could possibly calm down a bit - It’s nothing to be worked up about-”

“Where. Is. My. Wife?”

The receptionist gave John a pleading look.

“Sherlock, calm down-”

“I am not going to calm down!” Sherlock snapped. “I don’t need to calm down! I am completely calm.” Yeah, the fact that he was pacing on the spot was a great testimony to that. “I couldn’t say the same for you, though,” he added, leaning in. The receptionist leaned back, her eyes alarmed.

“New perfume. New blouse. Top buttons undone. Dyed your hair yesterday; went to the hairdressers’ - a rare indulgence. Painted your nails yourself - you’ve done a sloppy job of it, you’d better practise.” The way Sherlock sneered that word made the receptionist flush crimson. “Couldn’t be bothered with your skirt, it’s yesterday’s one - but! Look at your shoes. Heeled, very risque tights. Who are you hoping to impress, hmm? Someone who might come in? Trying your luck at a doctor? Or a surgeon? Oh, but surgeons make terrible boyfriends, you know, they’re entirely too cold-blooded. They are rich enough to take you to good restaurants though. I have a suspicion that’s what you’re interested in. The tan-lines on your finger would suggest you have been married - or engaged - until fairly recently. I should think that when you were flirting too blatantly with whoever your special one is, your other relationship got called off, didn’t it? Shame - I suspect that was probably the best you could have done. But the grass is always greener on the other side, isn’t it? Just another blonde receptionist - how could you make yourself noticeable? Well, of course! Decorate your upper half, put on the most alluring lipstick you could dream up - keep dreaming, there’s more alluring shades out there - and hope that he comes in today. Good luck pulling him, if he has a single ounce of sense he’ll set his sights somewhere else. Meanwhile, some of us have functioning marriages and actually care about our spouses, so perhaps you could finally use your eyes for something other than picking out wealthy men and tell me where I can find my wife.”

There was a stunned silence. The receptionist was quivering with silent tears. An entire roomful of waiting people, even the little boy with a nosebleed in the corner, had gone quiet. Sherlock inhaled roughly, gave her five seconds, and then let out a hoarse scoff. “No? What a waste of humanity you are.”

He spun on his heel and stormed through another pair of double-doors, into the main part of the hospital.

The doors rebounded so violently they almost hit John’s face. He hurried after Sherlock. “Sherlock-”

“Oh, save it,” Sherlock snapped. “A bit not good? Who even cares?”

John shook his head in disbelief. Sherlock stopped in the centre of the drab corridor and turned, then turned again, his face white under the fluorescent lighting. Two nurses walking by gave him anxious looks.

“Mate-”

Sherlock shoved back past him and shouldered open a door labelled STAFF ONLY, startling a group of doctors eating their lunch.

“Where. Is. My. Wife?”

*

Reader’s POV

You heard Sherlock coming before you saw him. But it was still a bit of a shock when he burst into the little room, pale and dramatic and broody like some sort of film-star who had heart conditions.

You were sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, swinging your left leg forlornly, when Sherlock crashed into the little room and completely disregarded the nurse, with dreadlocks held back by a Pride bandanna, writing something on her computer.

“Sher-”

He was standing by you already, grabbing your head in his clammy hands, tilting it forcefully this way and that, peering into your eyes. “What happened?” he demanded. He narrowed his eyes and squinted at your right pupil. “It was-”

“Ohmygod would you please-”

“Sprained ankle, yes, clearly, due to the bandages and the fact you are under the influence of painkillers - You are not a clumsy person usually, and not especially accident-prone-”

“Sherlock-”

“The accident occurred almost an hour ago, and the hospital did not contact me immediately, so they did not feel it was life-threatening; very remiss of them, the whole point of being an emergency contact is to be contacted, they can’t decide if it’s an emergency or not, I-”

“Sherlock!” You reached up, clamping your hands over his on your head. “Will you please calm down a bit?”

Behind him, John crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.

“Why does everyone keep telling me to calm down? I don’t need to calm down. I am calm. Very calm. So calm.”

“You are acting like a rattled hen.” You shook your head, and Sherlock got the hint and let you go. He stayed standing between your legs, his eyes fixed on your face like he was trying to mind-read you.

“Please, seriously, calm down a bit. There’s nothing to be freaked out about.”

“Just a minor sprain. Nothing worrying, it happens to all of us,” the nurse said cheerfully, standing up and going over to a chart. “She can be discharged in a minute.”

“See? Exactly what she said.” You gave Sherlock a pleading look. “It was just a stupid accident. At this rate, someone is going to come along and jab you with a needle in the arse, full of sedatives, to make you calm down.”

Sherlock opened his mouth.

“And yes, you do need to calm down. I could hear you shouting something about ‘where is my wife’ from out in the corridor. You idiot,” you added affectionately, entangling your fingers in the front of his shirt. It was strange how just the presence of Sherlock Holmes, flustered and wild-eyed and trying to peer into your eyes without a torch, could make you feel better than any pharmaceutical drugs could.

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, and then leant forward and kissed your forehead. “What happened?”

“Tripped,” you said. You waited long enough to see that he wouldn’t let it go, and then rolled your eyes. “Okay, fine. I tripped down an escalator in Kings’ Cross.”

“Bloody hell,” John said.

Sherlock had stiffened. “Did anyone push you?”

“Wha-? No.”

“Are you sure? Was anyone around? Don’t answer that, it was lunchtime, there would have been.”

“Nobody pushed me. I just fucking lost my balance.”

“Did you feel strange? Light-headed?” Sherlock grabbed onto your chin again, making you look up at him.

“No,” you said again, firmly. “I was near the bottom and checking my time and I just misjudged it - I thought I was already at the bottom or something, I don’t know. It was only about a third of the way down. I’m just glad there weren’t people in front of me. It really wasn’t too bad.”

“Not going to lie, Y/N, that doesn’t sound great.” You hadn’t noticed Lestrade entering the room.

“Hey, Greg.” You gave him a faint smile, wrangling your head away from your husband’s grip for the second time. “I guess everyone knows about my humiliating accident now. Worst thing of all? They had to stop the goddamn escalator because my cardigan got caught in it.”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything.

“Don’t worry,” John said wryly. “Between you and Sherlock, I think Sherlock’s been far more humiliated. Hope you know a different way out, mate. I don’t fancy passing that poor receptionist again.”

“Poor receptionist?” You shifted your leg and instantly regretted it, wincing. “What poor receptionist?”

“Shh.” Sherlock dodged the question very effectively by suddenly wrapping his arms around you, burrowing his face against your hair. “Time to get you home.”

*

You could easily have walked with a crutch, out to Lestrade’s car. Or, just as easily, been pushed out in a wheelchair. But no, none of that was good enough for your absolutely insane husband, who had decided to carry you out.

“You are a fucking idiot,” you mumbled, waiting for the lift doors to open. You could see John and Greg’s martyred faces in the metallic reflection.

“Hmm.” Sherlock had one arm under your knees, the other behind your shoulders. “Still not convinced there wasn’t some foul play. If you were distracted, you might not have noticed, had someone pushed you. Moriarty has been very quiet lately.” The doors opened. “I need to keep you safe.”

Down the corridor; through a waiting-room; Sherlock very conspicuously did not look over at the receptionist’s desk. Greg held the double-doors open and you felt the cold air on your face. You grumbled and turned your face into Sherlock’s coat lapels.

“You’re being silly,” you mumbled. He crossed the road to Greg’s silver car; John opened the back door and got in the front.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Sherlock paused, holding you. “I have to put you down now.”

“Good.”

Between grasping onto the car door and on Sherlock, it was easy enough to slide into the back of Greg’s car; your ankle was far too tender to put any proper weight on it, but you already felt much better than you had when you first fell.

(You were profoundly grateful that you’d never had an accident when you were abroad. God knows what Sherlock would’ve done then.)

He shut the door. Got in the other side, behind Greg.

“All buckled up?”

Sherlock tried to reach for your seatbelt. You punched his arm away.

“Stop it, it’s sweet and everything, but you’re starting to annoy me now.”

He huffed, watching closely as you did up your seatbelt. Greg pulled out into the traffic. John turned the radio on.

Sherlock was still watching you narrowly.

You pretended to ignore him and then sighed and turned to him. “Alright, you idiot, will you please stop freaking out. I’m fine, I’m fine, there was no foul play, I haven’t even broken a bone, and by the sounds of it you thoroughly ruined some poor woman’s day, so-”

“Haven’t ruined her day. The man she set her sights on has erectile dysfunction; that’s going to ruin her day far worse,” Sherlock mumbled begrudgingly, but then he lifted his arm in a silent offer.

You smiled and leant against him, closing your eyes.

“What are you doing? Are you going to lose consciousness?” Sherlock was suddenly stiff with alarm. John craned around and peered at you dubiously. You stared back at him. “Do you have a concussion?”

“For. The. Love. Of. God. I’m going to elbow you in the groin. I’m resting for a moment.”

“Are you sure you don’t have a concussion? Did you hit your head? You must have. Stay awake.”

“I honestly hate you sometimes. Fine. I’ll keep my eyes wide open so you can see I’m awake and perfectly fine.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said unironically, and nuzzled your temple briefly. “Good. Stay awake.”

You wanted to hit him. Hit him or kiss him. Preferably, fall asleep on him, but that was apparently not an option right now.

Greg snorted. “No being gooey in my back seat. I can’t get that stuff out of the upholstery.”

“Shut up, Gavin.”

“John, Greg - can you imagine if I ever gave birth? They’d have to lock him up in a cleaning-supplies closet for the labour.”

“Wha-”

****

You only found the articles by chance. And once you started looking, there were an unpleasant amount of them.

You sat on a sofa in a flat in Belgium and dialled the same mobile number that Sherlock had had for all these years.

Twist. Twist. You spiralled your wedding ring around and around your finger as you waited for him to pick up.

A crackle. He had.

“-I’ve seen the articles,” you said immediately. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock Holmes Is Fake. Sherlock Holmes, Delusional Genius. Sherlock Holmes, Fake Fraud.

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” Sherlock replied evenly.

“Nothing to be-? Sherlock, it’s practically emotional abuse! Have you seen the shit they’re writing?”

“I’ve been prepared for it. Once, John warned me that the public eye would not always see me so favourably as they did in the beginning. I have been aware that this would happen.” His voice was a deep hum. You pictured him, in his armchair, quiet and settled for once - not leaping over the coffee table to inspect the wall, or darting around like a dragonfly in a Belstaff. “If I’m lucky, I will fade into obscurity once it’s all over.”

“Once what’s over?” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Is something going on that you’re not telling me?”

“Not much,” Sherlock said easily. “Moriarty got himself arrested. Made a bad slip-up. There’s going to be a court case. That’s all.”

“Oh. Is that why..I guess that’s why you’re suddenly getting more publicity?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

*

Sherlock’s POV

It wasn’t enough to deter her. Of course it wasn’t. Perhaps, naturally, she was not such a persistent person, but a decade of marriage had taught her certain things about Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, one of those things was how to manage him.

Sherlock fished the phone out of his Belstaff. Braced himself. Pressed ANSWER.

“Sherlock?” Her voice was slightly crackly, like she was walking up and down. He’d seen pictures of the flat she was staying in this week. He pictured it again; grey sofas and beige carpet and floor-to-ceiling windows. Then imagined her in it, pacing up and down restlessly.

“Hmm? Yes.”

“I want to come and see you.”

No. Absolutely not, under any circumstances. Terrible idea. Completely horrific. The children had gone missing; Moriarty had kidnapped them; the end was near. He didn’t yet know how that end would end. But it was not hard to guess; and Moriarty wasn’t afraid to use Sherlock’s nearest and dearest as pressure points. Until now he had left Sherlock’s wife alone. Perhaps he knew that if he did, the game would be over. Sherlock would be out for bloodshed and bloodshed only.

But no. She couldn’t come back to this volatile mix. A final chemical, added to the beaker, that might make the entire world explode around him.

He shook his head. “No. Can’t at the moment. I’m very busy.”

There was a dissatisfied pause. “Have you seen the goddamn news? They’re vivisecting you.”

“Doesn’t matter. Irrelevant. I have the Work.”

“I still want to come and see you.”

“You don’t have the time to - Your schedule is-”

“Sherlock.” Her voice was hard enough to cut him off. “You are the most important person in my life. You’re my husband. I can rearrange a few damn things and come and see you. I want to.”

He swallowed. “I don’t have the time for-”

“For what?”

He looked at himself in the mirror above the mantel. His face was pale. Mrs Hudson would call him peaky. John would make a flippant comment about his dramatic cheekbones.

She would just hug him.

“For marriage. For being married.”

Pauses are strange things. There is a definable difference between a pause and a silence, and both can be equally eloquent. Sherlock listened to the pause, and wondered, for the first time in a long time, what the woman holding the other end of this conversation was thinking.

The laugh was more static than sound. “You’re such a fucking liar, Sherlock.”

His own laugh was hoarse.

*

“Make sure she gets it,” Sherlock said grimly.

Mycroft’s office was such a depressing place. Black, white; the epitome of a chessboard, and the grand puppet-master who pulled the strings. Perhaps, less of a puppet-master, and more of a circus ringleader. There was something appealing about the idea of Mycroft in a clown’s outfit; he had the nose for it.

Mycroft gave him a narrow, supercilious look. “I have already assured you twice that I will.”

“You can’t tell her.” Sherlock paced to the end of the office; turned and paced back. It was almost dawn. He needed to leave; get to Barts; wait for John to find him there. “Who knows what Moriarty might have planned? It’s too dangerous. You can’t tell any of them.”

“I am well aware of the dangers, brother mine.”

Sherlock stopped. Looked at him. “But you don’t care. They’re just goldfish to you.”

Mycroft steepled his hands under his chin and gave him a faint smirk. “Caring is a disadvantage, Sherlock. I told you that many times. Not that it stopped you, of course; you have always been quite wilful, from boyhood to manhood. But rest assured, I will do everything I can, with my considerable powers, to keep your little ragtag group of important people safe.”

*

Reader’s POV

It wasn’t a number you recognised, and it was three AM. You groaned and rolled over, hating everyone and everything, until you realised that maybe it was something connected with Sherlock, and you stabbed ANSWER.

“Y/N.”

“...Mycroft?” You flicked your light on; swung your legs out of bed. “What the hell? Is Sherlock-”

“You will want to sit down for this.”

Adrenaline flushed through your body. It made you feel intense, like you had never been alive before until right now; never faced anything until this second; as if every second of heartbeats had led to this one minute when your brother-in-law was talking to you like he was standing inside a cathedral draped with black.

“I regret to inform you…Sherlock is…”

“Tell. Me.” You couldn’t recognise your own voice.

“Sherlock is dead.”

And there it was. The words you already knew, perhaps, because Mycroft never sounded like he cared. But he did now, and so did you, and God you already knew it, maybe you always knew it, and you weren’t there, and everything was a lie.

Mycroft was still speaking. “He jumped. Committed suicide. From the roof of Barts’ hospital.”

You had stood up. Now you’re sitting again, the mattress strangely bouncy against the backs of your legs. “Are you sure?”

Because he couldn’t be dead.

“Quite sure.”

“Are. You. Sure.” You gripped onto the phone with all eight fingers and two thumbs and wondered what would happen if you went back in time and pulled Sherlock away from whatever drove him to this point.

Why hadn’t you gone home.

“Yes,” Mycroft said levelly. “I am sure.”

“What happened?” If you talked about it like it was a near-miss; an overdose; a car crash - anything but something so completely fatal and irreversible - then it wasn’t real. For you, it couldn’t be. Nobody could live with half of themselves dead. If you could still draw breath, then Sherlock could too. Simple as that.

“He committed suicide,” Mycroft said again.

“That’s not the whole fucking truth and you know it.”

“No, it is not. But it is quite sensitive information, much too sensitive to be relayed over an untrustworthy phone line. I will explain more when you return to Britain. Regrettably, funeral arrangements have already been made for tomorrow morning; you will not be able to attend, but I don’t suppose you will be missing much-”

You were laughing. Horrible laughs, like the hacking sound of a monster under the bed crawling out into the light.

“You bastard. You fucking bastard. I can’t even go to my own husband’s funeral?”

“It is not an ordinary funeral.”

“You are a heartless fucker,” you said, and you knew Sherlock would have smirked at that; maybe even scoffed a laugh at the way you hung up, but you knew he wasn’t there because when you started to cry, nobody heard you and nobody held you.

There's glitter on the floor after the party…

You and me from the night before, but

Don't read the last page

But I stay when it's hard, or it's wrong, or we're making mistakes

I want your midnights

Please don't ever become a stranger

Whose laugh I could recognize anywhere

Hold on to the memories

They will hold on to you

And I will hold on to you

New Year’s Day by Taylor Swift

“And then the poor beggar asked why-”

“Even Anderson could have got it,” Sherlock sniffed, brushing past you and grabbing up his violin.

Lestrade rolled his eyes at you and you smiled back. It was the first time you’d talked this much to the detective; he was a good conversationalist, dry and funny in a way that you appreciated. You were sitting at the kitchen table with him, while John and Mrs Hudson and John’s new girlfriend - Jeanette, you thought her name was - sat in the lounge and Sherlock roamed through the flat restlessly, touching you at every opportunity.

“Merry Christmas,” you’d murmured that morning, half-asleep and scrubbing hair out of your crusty eyes. Sherlock had never been one for celebrations. He endured your trashy Christmas music - Where Do Broken Hearts Go and Fairytale of New York and, of course, Last Christmas on repeat throughout Christmas Eves - and he would get gifts for those he deemed worthy. Beyond that, he refused to acknowledge the holiday at all.

But you had never yet got him in the antlers.

“Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,” you’d taken great joy in singing to him, the first Christmas you’d been married; sometimes, on Christmases when it had been only the two of you, you would play guitar of Christmas melodies and Sherlock would join in with his violin.

Now, as he started played Merry Christmas, you resisted the urge to interrupt Greg and go find your guitar and join in.

Which was, as you quickly discovered, the last remaining minute of peace of your Christmas party.

You watched Sherlock talking; watched him hurt Molly so cruelly and attempt a clumsy apology. And then you heard that noise. The text alert you have patiently, silently, pointedly ignored for the past two weeks.

“No, it was me,” Sherlock said wearily.

“Wait, really?” Greg asked, nearly dropping his drink.

“My phone,” Sherlock ground out.

You stood up and rounded the table, going to the back counter. There’s mince pies there; you’d baked them earlier with Mrs Hudson. If ever there was a time for mince pies, it was right this second. Right. Now. To defuse the tension and give Sherlock just enough of a sugar high to stop being such an arsehole-

You picked the tray up. Turned.

“Excuse me.”

Sherlock was walking towards you, into the kitchen, holding a small red box. You didn’t recognise it.

“What - what’s up? Sherlock?”

“I said excuse me.” Sherlock walked past. You paused, holding the tray uncertainly. He didn’t look at you; kept walking; nimbly sidestepped you and into the hall and walked right past.

You froze, still holding the tray uselessly.

You weren’t a jealous person. You’d never had any reason to be. But now, watching Sherlock disappear into his room and close the door, you suddenly feel a bit hard done by. Well, actually, more than a bit.

Irene Adler has consumed almost all of his thoughts ever since he met her. You’re there like the beanbag he collapses onto at the end of a hard day. But you don’t present a challenge, do you? Not like her. You aren’t…sharp, fierce, battling him for the upper hand. You’re simply you.

Up until this very second, you had always believed that would be enough. You’d never offered him anything else apart from yourself. You’d never pretended. In all of your simple, affectionate, guitar-playing ordinariness - right from that very first meeting - you had never once pretended to be anything you weren’t. You were Sherlock’s other half. The half that kept him anchored and pulled him back to wholeness.

Your hands were cramping around the metal tray, icing sugar like snow in your peripheral vision.

“Mince pies.” You looked up as Greg gave you a warm smile, reaching across the table. “I’d love one, if they’re for sharing.”

“Yeah, a mince pie sounds brilliant,” John added.

“Please,” Molly said.

You took a deep breath and turned your back to the hallway. “Well, since you’ve all asked so nicely…”

You pretended you didn’t notice John slipping past you and down to Sherlock’s bedroom.

You pretended you didn’t mind when they returned and when Sherlock went back to his computer.

You pretended that the ghosting touch of his hand across your hip when you brought him a mince pie was enough to make up for the feelings roiling inside you.

*

Jealousy was a funny colour. Not especially green, like they said. Not black and white, either. Maybe there was something a little green in it - green and red and a sickly, vomit-like yellow. It wasn’t a smooth colour. It was pastel.

Your footsteps crunched in the snow as you crossed the frozen grass. The pond wasn’t iced over, surprisingly. You gave the bench by it an appraising glance before deciding your coat was just long enough, and waterproof enough, to deal with it. Sat down, tucking your chin into your black scarf; curling your fingers inside your pockets. They’re cold even though they’re encased in crimson woollen gloves, cheap soft things you picked up in Switzerland a few years ago. An entire world away from Sherlock’s leather ones.

You had eight weeks to spend with Sherlock, right now. Only eight. And they’re ticking away, while Irene Adler absorbed all his thoughts.

But she was interesting.

You clenched your teeth, watching your huff dissipating in the frozen air. There aren’t ducks around. It’s far too cold.

It’s strange. Between the two of you, you’re not the jealous one. Sherlock could be, a little bit. Not blatantly, except for once - when Sebastian Wilkes, Smarmer Extraordinare, had flirted with you - when you’d already been married. Sherlock had really not appreciated it. You gave the pond a twisted smile, watching the smooth surface, cold and distant like glass, silhouetting the grey sky above like shattered shards, remembering that memorable incident.

*

A Long Time Ago

You yawned, rubbing at your eyes. You’re tired. So tired. You want to crawl into bed and never wake up again. Or at least, maybe, for a month or two.

“Tired?”

You looked up just in time to see Seb Wilkes sinking onto the other end of the ancient sofa, leather squeaking under his fancy suit. He gave you a warm smile. You cannot quite return it right now; you don’t have enough watts left in your teeth for that kind of pearly whiteness.

“A bit, yeah.”

“Long night?” He tutted playfully. “You wicked girl, out all night clubbing instead of studying, hmm?”

You’d spent the night in a tree with Sherlock, listening to a family of owls. It was to do with…something. Important. And kind of fun. You picked a stray bit of moss out from under your fingernails. “Hmm, not quite.”

“Are three word sentences all I’m getting out of you today?” Seb asked teasingly. There was something about him - the broad chest, or the genuine warmth in his amused eyes - or his caramelly voice - that made girls swoon when he talked to them. He was fully aware of this. And for some reason, he always found you in a crowd. He’d asked you out four times last year and you’d turned him down each time. By the fourth time, he had realised you had a boyfriend. Since then and now, he had worked out who the boyfriend was.

Pretty much everyone knew you were dating Sherlock Holmes. The undateable prick that everyone hated.

Nobody knew you were married to him. Yet.

The thought is still new enough to be absurd. It made your lips curl up. Seb grinned back widely in response.

“Go on, go on, go on,” he said, orchestrating the movement with his hands. “Keep smiling, keep going-”

You laughed despite yourself. “Why?”

“Your smile gives me the incentive I need to keep on at my frightful load of studying.”

You blinked at him, your smile dropping. “I wonder how many times you practised that one in the mirror.”

“Enough times that I feel like an idiot.” Seb leant closer. You caught a whiff of his cologne. It was too strong. Nothing like Sherlock’s subtler one. You tried, for a second, to imagine being Seb’s girlfriend. Impossible. You would be arm-candy, a girl to exchange banter with, a girl to adore, and be adored by, and shag, and take to fancy restaurants.

You’d much rather spend your nights up a sycamore tree with Sherlock Holmes, his arm around your shoulders and leaves up your nose.

“I wonder…” Seb took a deep breath, looking at you earnestly. “Look. Y/N. You know I’ve been pretty annoying about this-”

You pulled a face at him. “Hmm, maybe a bit.”

“It’s just…” He flapped his hands like he was nervous. Maybe he was. But it was probably for show, to make himself seem endearing.

You heard that observation in Sherlock’s unimpressed voice and shook your head to yourself.

“One dinner. That’s all I’m asking. Just - one chance to convince you I’m worth another conversation. And if I’m disappointing, I’ll disappear forever with whatever dignity I have left.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You do know I have a…” You stopped, uncertain what word to use.

“But it’s Holmes.” Seb arched his eyebrows back. “Has he even told you you’re beautiful today? No? See, that’s my point exactly. He’s not the man you need in your life, Y/N. Not that I’d dare to presume, but-”

“Oh, good,” a voice rung across the empty foyer. You looked around as Sherlock strolled in, lips pressed together. “Sounds a lot like you were presuming. Wilkes.”

You looked back and forth between them as Sherlock stopped by your end of the sofa. His hands were clenched.

“Didn’t realise you’re her bodyguard,” Seb said, his tone changing.

“I protect her from boring dimwits. Rather like…” Sherlock sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “Oh, like you.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” You stood up. Seb followed your lead, straightening his suit meticulously. “Look, Seb, I’m…Just…No.”

Seb gave you a faint smile. “Your choice. All I’m saying is…If you ever wake up one morning and realise you’d rather be adored than analyzed, you’ll know where to find me.”

“Luckily,” Sherlock bit out, his hand bumping against the small of your back as he moved closer, “she will never have any incentive to think that.”

Seb gave you both a final raised-eyebrow look before sauntering out through the french windows; across a terrace and down onto rolling lawns.

You exhaled heavily. “Dear god.”

“I don’t like him,” Sherlock muttered.

You turned to face him. “Funnily enough, I got that impression…”

“He hates me.”

“He’s hated you ever since you deduced that he was shagging two girls at once.” You reached your arms up, wrapping them around his neck. “Hello, by the way. I like your hair today.” You bumped your nose against his in emphasis.

He gave a reluctant grunt. “You are beautiful. Is this something I have to say every day?”

“Nope, absolutely not. I’d get so sick and tired of hearing it every twenty-four hours. Be a bit more inventive.”

“Certainly more inventive than him,” Sherlock muttered balefully, looking past you at, presumably, the distant figure of Seb Wilkes.

“Hey.” You took a small step backward, running your fingers through the soft curls at the back of his head. “I know you’re busy being jealous, but I have a lecture in a few minutes, and…”

“Wasting time, yes, I know. You’re right.” Sherlock retrieved his arms from you and reached up to the back of your neck, fiddling with the clasp of your necklace. You tilted your head, giving him better access; he got the clasp open and pulled the necklace away. You watched as he slid the two rings off from where they had been hidden inside the folds of your plain white blouse. A gold wedding ring and an engagement ring; both new enough, hidden enough, that you felt surprised just to see them, even though they were warm from your skin.

He tipped them into his left hand; re-fastened the necklace one-handed, and then took your left hand in both his, sliding the rings carefully on, one at a time, his attention complete and intense, head bowed down over your entwined hands.

It wasn’t the first time he had done this, in the past few weeks. It never failed to make your heart skip a beat. Or several. One day you can wear the rings openly. You still won’t forget that feeling. Even right now, when, in thirty seconds, you’ll have to remove the rings and hide them away again, it’s still entirely worth it.

He ran his fingers across the back of your hand like he was attempting to memorise it, and then glanced up at you, his lips quirking like he had suddenly recognised his own jealousy and found it amusing. Maybe because you were still standing here in the foyer with him, his rings on your finger, instead of skipping gaily down the golfing-fairway lawns with Sebastian Wilkes.

“I don’t,” he murmured, bringing your hand up and grazing the rings with his lips, “do romantic attachments.”

You fought back a smile. “Oh, yeah?”

“I just do the one.”

“Damn right, Mr Holmes.” You leant forward and kissed the corner of his mouth, entwining your fingers together and squeezing. “And damn romantic, as well.”

Several people walked in; your classmates, heading upstairs for the lecture. “Now, I’ve gotta see you later.”

“Later,” Sherlock said, stepping back. You tucked your hand quickly into the pocket of your jeans, just in case someone noticed the sparkle in the dusty old foyer.

As you turned away to follow the other students, he called after you, just loud enough for you to hear over their chatter. “By the way? You are beautiful today.”

*

Now

You smiled at the memory, rubbing your rings with your finger. It hadn’t been the first - or last - time that Sebastian had attempted his flirtations. But it’d never worked. You would have long sicne forgotten about him, if not for the fact that it still peeved Sherlock so much.

You had never especially lived with your husband. Your marriage wasn’t orthodox or even ordinary, not in any true sense of the words. After university, you shared a flat for eighteen months - and it was nice, so nice, to cohabit with someone you’d already been married to for a long time. But then you travelled around the world and came back. Sherlock lived his life; you lived yours; you existed together whenever you could. That was just how you worked.

It worked.

Sometimes people had been envious that you were married so young. Like it was a step of your life that you had gotten out of the way early. When those people - if those people - saw Sherlock’s picture, they got even more jealous. They didn’t have to know anything about what he was like as a person - and they rarely did, because you had nothing to tell those kinds of people. But the moment they saw his face, they’d reel out the same old statements. He’s so fit. Look at those cheekbones. Ohmygod, those eyes… Like he’d been a prize to snag. As if you had punched above your weight with that one. Got lucky; won the lottery. And you had, you had, but not the way they meant it.

And then came the questions. Once people had gotten over the surprise that you’d been married so young - or that you were married at all - then they asked the same old idiotic questions. Do you like his eyes? Is his hair naturally that gorgeous? Does he have abs? I bet he’s a good kisser.

All kinds of shit.

And it didn’t help that because you got married so young, it didn’t even feel, most times, like you were. Sherlock was not your husband. He was your other half. You vastly preferred his family to yours: the dotty welcoming father; the warm bubbly genius mother; the stoic nasal brother with surprisingly funny dry witticisms. And most importantly, Sherlock. Your husband, Sherlock Holmes.

That was just who he was. Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes. Not yours; not your husband; or partner, or boyfriend, or anything. He was simply Sherlock, and he was a part of you the way you had thought you would always be a part of him.

But where was he now? He hadn’t noticed you leave the flat; too busy skipping breakfast and playing a melancholy bittersweet tune on his violin. He hadn’t deduced that you were quieter than normal. That you hadn’t teased him about not wearing the antlers, like you always did on Christmas evenings. Because he’d left the party. Gone early to see the body of Irene Adler.

Even when she was dead, she was still more important.

You groaned aloud. What’s fucking wrong with you? Your husband of over a decade is just like this, mercurial, fascinated by things he can’t solve, why are you even surprised?

It was just…the problem he couldn’t solve had never before been a woman. A woman who was clearly interested in him.

You thought of Christmas evening, a week before; scouring through 221b along with John and Lestrade and Mrs Watson, searching for any drugs. Mycroft calling John to tell him Sherlock was on his way. You had wanted to console Sherlock when he’d walked through the door, looking frozen, like he’d walked across a midnight London in the snow - which it turned out, he had. But you couldn’t bring yourself to. He had gone to his bedroom. You had followed him after almost an hour of sitting across the room in silence from John Watson.

You hadn’t known what to say to him. Because how could he care? Irene Adler hurt him. Whipped him, attacked him, drugged him, played games with him, harassed him and pestered him and lied to him and-

And she was a fucking gorgeous, sexy, challenging woman. Exactly the kind of person someone enigmatic and difficult and bored like Sherlock needed.

Please, you thought to yourself; pushed the thought until you felt like it was beaming across the space between you and him, like he’d have to hear it, surely he would. Please don’t ever become a stranger. Not one whose laugh I could recognise anywhere. Not you. Anyone else in the whole world but you.

You didn’t realise you were crying until you felt the warm liquid on your frozen cheeks.

You grunted, sniffed. You refused to use these gloves as a hanky. When you had got yourself under control you stood, and trekked back across the empty park, following your lonely path of footprints, wishing there were another pair, bigger, longer, intertwined alongside like fingers entwined.

*

You walked into the kitchen of 221b just in time to watch your husband throwing a man through the window.

“What the f-”

Crash.

Sherlock stuck his head out. “Just managed to miss Mrs Hudson’s bins this time. She’s strangely sentimental about them. Can’t understand why.” He shut the window and looked at you, cocking his head. “Oh, yeah, explanations.”

You had a woolly palm pressed across your mouth, tiny fibres coating your lips. You pulled it away and stared at him in disbelief. “I…just. What happened?”

“Downstairs,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the floor. “Some American thugs. Mrs Hudson was attacked. John’s with her now. Police are on their way. I’m just…” He cast a dark glare back at the window. “Restoring balance to the universe.”

“Are you okay? Were you-”

“I’m fine. Go downstairs.” Sherlock checked his watch. “Just time for one more, I think.”

He followed you through the door and back down the stairs. “One more what?”

“Oh,” he said airily, “one more time through the window.”

You opened your mouth, and then heard the faint sound of Mrs Hudson’s sobs, and shut it again, running down the last few steps and into her flat. She was sitting at her table with John, with an enormous carrot cake in front of her, with the thickest slab of icing you’d ever seen on a cake before.

“Are you okay?” you demanded. John gave you a reassuring nod and Mrs Hudson sniffled and smiled weakly. You hugged her. She was too frail for this sort of shit. You almost wanted to go back up there and help Sherlock lug the man back through the window for the however-many-th time.

“Just got a shock,” Mrs Hudson sniffed as you let go of her. “I’m being so silly, it was-”

“You’re not being silly,” you said fiercely. “Are you sure you’re okay? What happened?”

They explained it to you; you heard sirens outside, and Sherlock’s voice in the hallway, along with Lestrade and someone else you didn’t recognise. Almost an hour later, when it was dark and the three of you had eaten far too many slices of carrot cake, Sherlock let himself into the flat.

Something like relief, overwhelming relief at just the sight of him, coiled through you. Before he could do anything, you stood up and wrapped your arms around him. His coat was cold. He must’ve been standing outside.

“Mmph.” But then he relaxed, letting you pull his head down against your shoulder for a moment.

“Are you okay?” you demanded, letting him go. “Is it okay now?”

“Yup.” Sherlock rooted through Mrs Hudson’s fridge.

John stood up and took you aside while Mrs Hudson scolded Sherlock for being so careless about the phone. “Irene Adler,” he murmured, under the pretence of helping you wash the plates from eating cake.

“Yeah?” Your stomach sunk a bit. You hadn’t even removed your coat yet, from your icy walk and subsequent pond-gazing-in-the-snow activities.

“She’s not actually dead.”

You almost dropped a plate. “What?”

“Not. Dead.” John glanced back over his shoulder. Sherlock was oblivious. “I just saw her this afternoon, actually. So I don’t know it was on that slab, but - it wasn’t her.”

You looked at the back of your husband’s curly head, while Mrs Hudson berated him and shoved the last slice of cake at him simultaneously. “Does Sherlock know?”

“He does.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the warm water run over your hands, soapy suds sliding off the last plate and between your fingers. “Okay.”

*

It was New Year’s Eve. It should have felt more momentous than it did; but maybe you were too old for that. Another year; ticked off. Another year: to be done. The idea was strangely exhausting; an exhaustion in the shape of a woman with the sharpest smile you’d ever seen.

The woman.

Sherlock went to bed shortly after midnight. John stayed up, reading, a glass of whisky by his elbow. You waited until one am and then gave up the pretence, putting your book aside and stretching gingerly as you uncoiled yourself from the sofa. The echoes of Sherlock’s violin rung in your ears, all the way down the hallway and into the bedroom.

He wasn’t asleep. You were able to tell. You kept up the pretence, though; climbed into bed alongside him and pretended you were fooled by his pretence.

You lay on your back, folded your hands over your chest, and closed your eyes.

His voice pierced the almost-dark like a shard of glass through cheese.

“You’re acting strange. What is it?”

You swallowed. It didn’t even feel like it was you saying the words because they came from, and sounded, so faraway. “You know Irene’s not dead.”

“Yes. I’m aware.” Sherlock paused. You listened to his slow exhale. “Your voice is unusually pitched, suggestive of conscious or unconscious distress. You have been unable to look at me properly the entire day, asides from earlier, when you were worried about my wellbeing and forgot, or overrode your feelings of upset, long enough to hug me. You are currently keeping a careful distance, despite the fact you usually prefer physical proximity whenever possible.” He took a deep breath. “What’s wrong?”

You laughed a little bit. “I don’t know.”

“And…now you’re lying.”

You turned away, pulling the duvet roughly up and over your shoulder. “I’m just - tired.”

“It’s the woman, isn’t it.” Sherlock’s voice was entirely flat. “Irene Adler. That is the only thing it could possibly be.”

What a way to start the New Year, you thought glumly. A goddamn argument. Not that it was an argument; yet. Sherlock wasn’t usually one for huge fights. Domestic squabbles, he loved, and sometimes instigated just for the fun of it. But arguing wasn’t something the two of you had ever done much of.

Nor was lying, and yet you just lied to his face, through the dark.

You rolled back over, your eyes wide open. You could just about see the silhouette of his face. “Yes, it’s her,” you said sharply, sharper than you meant to, trying to hide the sudden wobble that you weren’t prepared for. “It’s the fact that she even is the woman.” Sherlock’s head turned on the pillow toward you. “I can’t help it,” you continued. “She’s brilliant and challenging and sexy and able to outsmart you and-”

Sherlock sat up, bedsheets jerking and sliding off you, cutting your words off more effectively than countered words could’ve. He stared down at you.

Oh shit. Tears were burning up in your eyes. He wouldn’t be able to see them, not in this light, but you barrelled on, unable to bring your hands up to wipe them away, letting them run down your cheeks like hot pathetic pinpricks of your inadequacy. Your feelings.

“And - I never felt like I needed to fit into your life, because we - we always did our separate things. But now? Now I’m thinking about how much she’d fit into your life. And - like - who am I to even try to compare to that? Or…compete with it? I’m not even in the fucking league, I’m just…the idiot who ended up somewhere she shouldn’t be.”

Crying was such a horrible, shameful, messy thing to do. Your heart felt uncomfortable, like it was revolting against you and your feelings and this entire thing.

Sherlock stayed sitting up, his hand braced on the mattress near your knee, staring down at you.

More tears ran down your cheeks.

He didn’t move.

You couldn’t see his face, or judge his body language because he was just a dim outline, curly hair and sharp jutting cheekbone, backlit by the light seeping around the curtains behind him.

You gave up the pretence and sniffed, once, loudly, harshly.

He stared at you.

“O-okay,” you mumbled at last. “Sherlock? It’s getting kind of uncomfortable now.” Just say something. Any-fucking-thing. Say you want a divorce, but just say something so I don’t feel like I’m crying in front of a robotic-slash-corpse-slash-brick-wall of a husband.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “You’re…jealous.”

You swallowed. “No! I’m…”

A pause. You both waited.

“Yeah, okay, fine. You’re right.” A bitter laugh pulled itself from behind your teeth, almost like a retch. “I’m fucking jealous.”

“Of what?”

You looked up at him in disbelief. “Didn’t we just-”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” His voice was impatient now. “I have never needed to soothe anyone’s ridiculous or irrational feelings before, and I’m not going to start now. Not even for you. This is utterly-” Sherlock shook his head. “I have no romantic or sexual interest in the woman. She is a case to be solved, someone interesting playing an intriguing game. That’s all. If I had any interest in her, I would not lie to you. I would have already told you, and taken steps to make sure everyone was on the same…page. Tedious, but necessary. When have I ever lied or been unsure of my own mind? Thus -  I do not have any interest in her. You don’t need to be jealous. I can understand why you would be, given the situation and her…behaviour. But it’s pointless. And you’re wasting your time being upset about it. Use your common-sense.”

You smiled a little bit. Why did his stupid voice and cutting tone have to be - somehow - reassuring? “I know,” you said quietly. “I just…I miss you.”

Sherlock shifted. “I’m right here.”

You nodded, finally scrubbing at your eyes. “I know. I know. I’m being-”

His hand touched your cheek, delicately, the same spot where you had just knuckled away a tear. You opened your eyes. He was closer, his face inches away, and you couldn’t quite see his face in full detail but you saw the glow of his eyes looking in yours, heard the deepness of his voice through your bones like it was your own.

“No. I’m right here.”

*

You and John met Sherlock just as he was getting out of a taxi, looking tired.

“Lestrade gave you a good ol’ what-for, then?” John asked while you unlocked the door and let them in.

“Pfft,” Sherlock muttered. He gave the two of you a searching look. “Spending an hour in the bookshop really wasn’t necessary.”

“We went to Sainsburys,” John countered.

“But before that you spent an hour in Waterstones.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Never had you down as an avid Mills and Boon reader, John, but each to their own.”

“Shurrup.”

Sherlock swung the door closed and, as John took his jacket off and turned to hang it up, gave you a quick smile. You returned it, which was apparently inspirational enough for your husband, the one and only consulting detective, to take a quick step forward and steal a kiss, his warm pale cheek against your cold flushed one.

“Saw that,” John announced.

“Marital affection, John,” Sherlock proclaimed, throwing his coat flamboyantly over the end of the staircase. “I do hope you got egg custard tart like I asked for.”

“We did, but we weren’t sure if you needed it for an experiment or-” Sherlock took off up the stairs, three at a time, and John rolled his eyes. “…or not.”

You lugged the shopping up the stairs with John, and dumped it all on the kitchen table, or propped against the chair legs. Sherlock was standing in his bedroom doorway, you noticed peripherally; standing stock-still and staring.

“Sherlock?” John asked, noticing as well.

“We have a client.”

“What?” John walked down the little hallway with you hot on his heels. “In the bedroom-?”

He stopped short in the doorway. “Ohhhh.”

You peeked over his shoulder and got an eyeful of Irene Adler, fast asleep in the bed.

*

You made tea while Irene Adler had a shower. John helped, looking like he was trying desperately not to laugh.

She hadn’t been quite what you’d expected; dressed in an enormous green sweater and with a tired expression. She didn’t look like a dominatrix.

You saw John’s lips twitching again as he reached for the sugar and had to suddenly suppress a laugh of your own. This was insane. This was actually insane.

“Biscuits…have we got any biscuits…” John opened a cupboard.

“I’m not giving her the egg custard tart,” you said immediately.

“God, no. She’d make a scene eating it,” John muttered. “Uh, right. So, we forgot biscuits. Mrs Hudson probably has some. I’ll just nip down and check.”

You switched the kettle off and idly surveyed the sink, listening to the patter of water in the bathroom and the clap of John’s shoes, vanishing down the stairs. And then Sherlock’s arm was on your shoulder and he was spinning you around, boxing you in against the counter.

“Sherlock?” you asked, just before he kissed you.

It was not a kiss that should have been happening next to a pile of sugar-cubes. Or in a kitchen. Or while a dominatrix was in the shower. Or while the scent of brewing tea pervaded everything and everyone. It was not, in short, the kind of kiss that should’ve been happening anywhere else but a film-set while dramatic violins clashed and rain poured and lightning flashed and, perhaps, a car was burning in the background on the edge of a stormy cliff.

Sherlock pulled back for air, his forehead resting against yours, hands entangled in your hair. “Stop. Thinking,” he hissed fiercely, before kissing you again.

Smouldering was not a word that normally applied to Sherlock. He was usually either grumpy or off-putting or strange or clingy or just, occasionally, normal.

Not now. Right now, you were having to fight the urge to swoon against him, because nobody should have had the right to be that romantic and swoon-worthy in a kitchen, next to a stack of butter-knives.

“I’m - not,” you whispered. “Thinking.”

He stood back enough to narrow his eyes at you. “You’re not jealous?” he murmured.

“Not right now. I mean - I wasn’t. I’m-” The shower turned off. Sherlock’s hand tightened in the loose material of your shirt. You were finding it hard to gather words and use them properly.

His lips quirked up. John’s steps; hurrying back up. “Don’t be.” Then he let you go.

*

You sat on the sofa and watched as they interacted; Sherlock and John and Irene; the crime-solving duo and the dominatrix. You noticed the way that every so often, Irene would look at you, her eagle-sharp gaze dipping to your left hand. You clocked the way that she tried hard to be physically close to Sherlock, how she used her husky voice like a weapon.

You sat on the sofa with your blanket and your drink and watched like it was the set of a soap opera, unravelling and happening in real time, right in front of you.

Sherlock’s deduction was genuinely incredible. You weren’t the only one who thought so. But at least John didn’t use quite the same words that Irene did.

“I would have you, right here, on this desk, until you begged for mercy. Twice.”

You couldn’t quite see Sherlock’s expression when he looked back at her. “Never begged for mercy in my life.”

“Twice,” she threw back.

You stretched out your legs luxuriously and thought about the fact that Sherlock really needed a haircut.

*

“Double-O-7.”

Everyone watched as he murmured it, again and again, clearly disgruntled. You chewed your lip. It had to be a coincidence. Right?

And yet - there was something. Something about the way that Irene shifted, her hands digging into the back of his borrowed dressing-robe. Something digging into your mind, but you weren’t a genius, and you didn’t have a mind palace, so you couldn’t dig it out…

Then you blinked. 007.

Like a James Bond thing.

Sherlock, standing by the mantel, whirled and looked at you like he heard your thoughts. You stared at each other, past Irene.

He broke the eye-contact; ducked his head; grabbed his violin and sat down.

“...Now what?” Irene said, after a few minutes of absolute silence.

John glanced up from his laptop. “That’s it. He’s gone into his Mind Palace.”

Irene looked around uncomfortably. “And when is he going to come out?”

“Whenever he damn well pleases,” John said, and turned back to his laptop.

You reached for your book, watching from the corner of your eye as Irene dithered before finally sinking down in the opposite armchair, tucking her legs underneath her.

A strange silence reigned for a while, broken only by the occasional plucking of violin strings as Sherlock thought. Then John stood, slamming his computer lid closed. “Right, I’m off. Want the lights on, Y/N?”

It was nearly dark and you were finding it hard to keep reading. “Yeah, please.”

“Right-o.” John switched on a few lamps. “It’s…I’ll put a fire on, as well. It’s cold.” Sherlock didn’t resurface, even as John brushed past and knelt by the fire. “Right, now. I’m heading out. Um.” He looked at Irene. “He might talk. He does that sometimes. Don’t feel flattered, it’s nothing to do with you.”

“I see,” Irene said, with a razor-sharp smile. “I’ll just have to find something that is to do with me, then. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

John gave her a level assessment for a second, then walked over to the door. “You alright, Y/N?”

“I’m fine.” You smiled. “I promise.”

You listened to his footsteps down the stairs; the front door slamming; the fire crackling. Irene got out her phone. You read on. It was the weirdest company you’d kept in a while.

You were on the final page of the final chapter of the final novel in this series when Irene suddenly turned to you with an urgent rustle of too-big dressing-gown.

“Does it bother you?”

You looked up. “Does…what bother me?”

She was unfairly beautiful, dark hair drying unbrushed by the fire, eyes light and piercing, her smile just humorous enough to make you want to smile back. “To always have to chase him. For every little ounce of affection…The woman who married Sherlock Holmes. I can see why he likes you. And that’s…” She grinned, cocking her chin a little. “That’s a compliment.”

“Thanks,” you said flatly, looking back down at your page. Firelight danced across the off-white page, tinting the black words with shadows of orange. “Not that it seems to concern you if you’re trying to tempt him into infidelity.”

“Oh, I don’t want his heart. Whatever would I do with it? It’s quite clear that I couldn’t get it, even if I tried. No, I just want him to have dinner with me, just once. You ought to learn to share your playthings, you know.” You could heard the cloying note in Irene’s voice, before it vanished abruptly. “Back to my earlier question. How do you manage it? A lifetime of marriage to someone like…that.”

You read the final line.

“I couldn’t do it. Imagine. Always chasing him for every little bit of affection. Physicality. Getting close, just for him to…put you aside.”

You closed the book and stood up, letting the blanket spool to the floor. “I don’t know,” you said. “I don’t chase him.” Sherlock’s face was serene, eyes closed, fingers curled lightly over the guitar. Irene watched you intently, raptly. They made a beautiful tableau, in that moment.

“He comes to me,” you said, and gave her a smile. “I’m off to bed. Night. Don’t be scared if he starts sleep-singing.”

*

“Irene Adler,” Sherlock said, and you looked up, your spoonful of yoghurt halfway to your mouth. It’s been a long time since you’ve heard her name. Sherlock bested her, because of course he did. He came home and fell asleep and didn’t wake up until his favourite takeaway place opened for the night. And then life continued, and you had stopped thinking about the lesbian dominatrix who had liked Sherlock so much.

“What about her?” you asked, and stuck the spoon in your mouth.

“She’s going to die.”

You froze, the spoon halfway back to the bowl. “What?”

“Going to be executed,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop. “Faraway place. Very discreet. Beheaded, as a matter of fact.”

You disentangled your legs from his under the table. He looked up then, his eyes light and sharp over the rim of the laptop’s lid.

“What. Why are you looking at me like that.”

“You can’t just…know that.”

“I do,” he said, and looked down again, tiptapping on the keyboard.

You poked his leg hard with your toe, making him glance up again, like his eyes were a pair of beautiful yo-yos. “No, I hadn’t finished speaking. I mean, you can’t just know that and not do anything.”

He blinked at you. “You mean…”

“Yeah.”

“Surely that’s-”

“I’m not jealous. I’ve got nothing to be jealous of. And I know you can do it or you wouldn’t even be telling it to me, like casual chitchat over the breakfast table, because it’s really not.”

His lips quirked up in reluctant amusement at your deductions.

“You’re going to save her,” you told him.

We were both young when I first saw youI close my eyes and the flashback starts

I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is runYou'll be the prince, and I'll be the princessBut you were everything to meI was begging you, "Please don't go"Romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feelThis love is difficult, but it's realDon't be afraid, we'll make it out of this messIt's a love story, baby, just say yesHe knelt to the ground and pulled out a ringAnd said"Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be aloneI love you, and that's all I really know”

- Love Story by Taylor Swift

Sherlock’s POV

“You alright?”

Sherlock glanced sideways at John, tapping the button on the traffic lights again and again with his index finger. It was satisfying. Like how it might be to poke Sebastian’s brain in a bucket.

“Me? Yes, fine. Why?”

“Dunno.” John shrugged. “You just seem a bit…off, that’s all. Sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” The traffic finally stopped. Sherlock stepped out briskly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Sebastian Wilkes had a crush on my wife.”

“He what? Uh, right. Right.” John nodded rapidly. Sherlock veered right on the pavement; steered around a bunch of tourists and dodged a woman with far too many clothes’ shopping bags and a STD that she hadn’t yet realised about. “So - that’s awkward then.”

“Hmm. Yes.” Sherlock wondered if she was up yet. No, she wouldn’t be. Still asleep. John had realised she was here; hadn’t seen her yet. He supposed he’d have to endure some sort of…social function dinner later. Tedious.

As was Sebastian Wilkes’s face. God, his whole face screamed tedium.

“So…when you were all at college, then?”

“Yes. He was quite persistent. Seemed to think that Y/N would prefer him once she realised he could offer her more than I could.” Sherlock glanced up at the sky. It would rain later. But just late enough that someone painting graffiti would risk doing it now than waiting for tomorrow; a busier weekend. “All he needed to do, as he thought, was give her enough incentive to go on one date with him.”

“O-oh.” He could hear the cogs in John’s brain turning. “Incentive, huh?”

“Yup. However, it was futile. We were already married by then. Not that he knew that.”

He turned left down an alley; a shortcut. Heard John spluttering as he hurried to catch up.

“You were what? Sorry, can you just repeat that? You were already married?”

He threw his friend a glance. “Yes.”

“Okay. Okay. I should’ve thought to ask this sooner. How old were you when you got married?”

Sherlock thought about it. Not that he especially needed to. “I was twenty-two. She was twenty-one.”

“Wow. Jesus, that’s young. So you’ve been married for-”

“Eight years, yes. Been together for ten.”

A grimy window on his right gave Sherlock the perfect reflection of John’s raised eyebrows of disbelief.

“Why?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Why? Why does anyone get married?”

“No, I mean - just - why so young? I’m guessing it wasn’t wedlock or something. Unless-”

“No, John, I do not have secret offspring.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Okay, well, just wondering. Because most couples that young - especially in college - would just stay together and not get married…”

“Her parents did not want her to busk for money. They felt it was demeaning to their family name,” Sherlock said briskly. “Ridiculous of them. Anyway. Only found out because her uncle happened to pass by on a visit to a university professor one day.”

“That’s-”

“Their argument was that she did not need the money. She didn’t - if she relied on their sources.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “She wanted to be independent of them.”

“Fair enough. Seems a bit drastic of them, actually. But then-”

“Then we got married,” Sherlock said simply, and turned into the square. “Come on. I need some advice.”

****

Reader’s POV

Back Then

The June sun was scorching on your bare arms. Next song, you’d attempt June Afternoon. It was pretty fitting, after all. You shifted your knee a bit - your arse was going numb, and your neck was stiff and hot even though your hair was piled up on your head. Water. More water. So much water, that was what you needed in your life.

Oh, and him.

He was on the other side of the road. You watched him cross and walk up to you.

“Didn’t I tell you everything was possible in this deja vu?” you sung up at him, with a careless scatter of guitar notes, before putting the guitar aside - a subtle dismissal to the people standing around listening to you. You’d sat for so many hours on the steps of this derelict town hall that you almost thought you should install an armchair here. Or at the very least, a beanbag.

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He looked stiff.

“Gonna sit?” You patted the space beside you with your water bottle, before unscrewing the cap.

He shook his head.

You drunk, watching him around the edges of the bottle. He was acting…suspish.

“Fine,” he said.

You swallowed. Screwed the lid back on. “Fine?”

“Fine, let’s get married.”

You almost choked. “What?”

“You can take my surname. Then you won’t be associated with your parents anymore and thus can continue busking without offending their delicate sensibilities. All it does is save some time and effort further down the line, after all.”

You stared at him. There was a cacophony of different responses writhing and screaming inside you, amongst which were Hysteria, Fainting, Tears, and Running For Your Life.

You settled for pot-luck. The first sentence to bubble up your oesophagus was:

“Are you mad?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Insanity comes with genius often enough. But no. I’m not.”

You shook your head. “I don’t have to get married to keep busking, Sherlock. Look at me right now.”

“Yes,” he said impatiently, “and this will only cause more problems with your family. They are going to do their very best to ensure you do not continue this habit. You’re shaming them. The best thing you could do is distance yourself from them entirely and as long as you are a part of the unfortunate group who wield their surname, you will find that impossible. Don’t bother telling me I’m wrong, I know I’m not.”

You sighed.

*

Clouds spread across the sky like kitchen tinfoil the next afternoon. You were a step higher than normal, spreading your legs out toward the pavement, wearing a pink jumper. You couldn’t quite believe the presence of the jumper. It was June.

You hadn’t seen your boyfriend yet today. It wasn’t especially a surprise when you saw him walking down the street, curly head just visible between a mother and her twin sons who had stopped to listen to you. But it did bring back sudden memories of your conversation yesterday.

“Just a ghost in the steam on the mirror, just a shadow of motion in the water, just the need to look over my shoulder…” You sung on determinedly, not looking at him. If you did, your voice would crack or something embarrassing like that. Especially because you could tell he was staring at you.

He waited for you to finish, and then held out his hand. “Come on. I need to talk to you.”

You smiled apologetically at the gathered people and stood up, wincing as your elbow did a funny click. Old age, you supposed. The curse of old age. Next thing you knew, you’d have a Zimmer-

You looked at Sherlock, trying to imagine him with a Zimmer, and suppressed a laugh.

He waited for you to pack up; led you down the street and down a footpath and into a little grey-and-green park with a pretence of a playground and parched yellowing grass. There were a few primary school kids on the rusting slide. An old man walking across the far side with his fox terrier. The rumble of traffic in heavy summer air.

“What is it?”

In response, he delved inside the pocket of his trousers and brought out something; opened his fist, and showed you a simple, sparkling ring on the palm of his hand.

You stared at it. Then at him. Then back at it. Then finally back at him.

His lips quirked up. “Half fancied doing it while you were singing-”

“Aww, you’re a secret romantic-”

“But it seems more prudent if not everyone knows, after all.” You listened to the sharp inhale of the man standing less than a hands’ width away from you. “Y/N - will you marry me?”

Absurd. Absolute absurdity. As if you could get married at twenty-one to a boyfriend. Like it could possibly be serious. Or last long enough. Like this boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes, with the glinting eyes of a soulmate and the innocence of a boy and the intelligence of a man, with the strangest habits and the softest touch you’ve ever encountered, the gentlest words whispered in your ear in the dark of night and an explosion of chemical beakers like dominoes just to annoy professors, guitar scars and violin strings - like it could-

Last.

Forever.

You couldn’t imagine a world without Sherlock Holmes in your life. Now, or in some faraway future.

His fingers twitched slightly, as if preparing to close over the ring like a shameful vulnerability laid raw and bare and then beheld with disgust.

“Yes,” you said. “Yes, I will.”

****

Now

You felt so much better after sleeping for a solid six hours throughout the day.

“Sebastian would have sent his kind regards if I had actually mentioned you,” Sherlock said carelessly, sitting down beside you. John plunked his plate down and sat opposite you, pouring gravy over his beef. You’d made the meal, with Mrs Hudson’s help. Apparently there’d been trouble during Sherlock and John’s day; an ASBO tag, a near arrest, something. You’d find out later.

“Did you pass on my middle finger?”

“No, haven’t had the chance yet.”

“So…” John looked up from his plate, cutting a carrot with his knife. “Where did you two get married? Was it…”

“You want to see the photo album. We don’t have one.”

“We do have one picture,” you pointed out. Then you smiled at John. “It wasn’t a big thing. We eloped.”

John almost spat gravy through his nose. “You. Eloped.”

“We were engaged for five days, and then it was Saturday. We went up to London, got married in a registrar’s office, had a very brief weekend honeymoon-”

Sherlock huffed. “It doesn’t count as a honeymoon.”

You elbowed him. “Yeah it does.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Doesn’t.”

“Does.”

“E.”

“O.”

“D,” he said, with an air of triumphant.

“Apostrophe,” you retorted gleefully, then smiled again at John, who was looking between you with his mouth half hanging open. “Sorry.”

“So…what was the, uh, honeymoon?”

“We went to an Oasis concert,” you both said in unison, in very different tones.

John blinked. “Oh. Wow. Didn’t have you down as a concert-goer, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft got us the tickets as a wedding gift,” you explained.

Sherlock’s flatmate looked like he was desperately trying to keep his braincells from exploding. “Mycroft? That’s…not what I would’ve expected.”

“What did you expect? A fish-slice? At least that would have been marginally useful at some possible point in time. It was purely to ingratiate himself with his sister-in-law, while attempting to torment me,” Sherlock grumbled dramatically.

“It was so much fun though,” you said wistfully. You remembered jumping up and down in the stands, your arm around Sherlock, screaming your lungs out. You remembered his arm around your waist when the crowd got too rowdy, pulling you in tight. You remembered the vibration of his chest against your cheek, a localised sound you heard more distinctly than all the clashing of cymbals, when he finally deigned to participate during the song you would always play on repeat, lying on your bed or his and kicking your feet in time to the guitar.

Maybe I just wanna fly, wanna live, don’t wanna die

Maybe I just wanna breathe, maybe I just wanna leave

I think you’re the same as me, we see things they’ll never see

You and I gonna live forever

You sighed, shaking yourself out of the reverie. When you reached for your glass, you saw John giving your wedding ring an incredibly sceptical look.

“We literally didn’t tell anyone,” you continued. “It was on a need-to-know basis, mostly.”

“So…no guests. Nobody?”

“Mycroft was a witness,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

“Did he tell you how we met?” you asked.

“No. I’ve been asking.”

“Pointless gossip,” Sherlock said, like it was an explanation, and stuck an entire roasted baby potato in his mouth.

“I was busking, and he was sitting on this bench opposite with a textbook. And he suddenly stood up and crossed the road, and I was like, oh great, he’s gonna give me some change because he thinks I’m good!” You laughed. John laughed sympathetically.

“Then I looked up at him and he was just…glowering at me. Which was when I realised that I was probably really disturbing his attempts at studying.”

Sherlock scoffed quietly.

“So then I was bracing myself for some belligerence,” you continued, grinning, “but instead of hurling abuse at me, he just sat down. Like, on the step next to me. Sat there while I played, and I introduced myself, and he kept coming back. Every time I was busking there, he’d be there and listen to all the songs and then sometimes we’d go to cafés afterwards. I think it was the first time that we had a picnic afterwards in the sunshine that I realised we were probably friends. Or more than friends. Or that anyway, this guy with the hair had a crush on me.”

You could tell that John was trying desperately to keep a straight face. Sherlock ate peas like he was at a funeral.

“Anyway,” you finished with a softer grin, “that’s the story of my stray cat that I accidentally picked up and who never left.”

*

It was raining the day after.

Sherlock came into the lounge looking irritable. You were curled up in a corner of the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, reading a book you’d started about three years ago and never got around to finishing. It was as good as you remembered. Or, didn’t remember. You’d completely forgotten that there was a Welsh postman living in the Australian suburbs who went on a date with a Bondi lifeguard.

“Hey.”

“Hmmph.”

“Is the case not going well?” you asked sympathetically.

“No.”

“Where’s John?”

Sherlock chucked his coat haphazardly in the direction of his armchair. “Downstairs with Mrs Hudson. He’s just found out that she’s your godmother.”

“I mean…it wasn’t exactly a dire secret.”

“Hmmph.” Sherlock shed his jacket too, and sat down on the floor, leaning sideways with his head in your lap.

“Hey,” you said again, running your fingers through his hair.

He rose up on his knees and turned so he was facing you before slumping back down, nuzzling his nose against your knee. “What are you doing this afternoon?”

You scratched behind his ears like he was a cat. “Going down to see your parents.”

“What?” He lifted his head, staring up at you incredulously. “Why?”

“Because someone has to, and you’re obviously not going to.”

He scowled. You reached out and undid the top button of his purple shirt, considered it thoughtfully, and then buttoned it up again.

“I mean, they haven’t seen me for ages.”

“They saw you at Christmas.”

“Exactly, that was a while ago!” You leant down and kissed him quickly, because you couldn’t help it. “You and Mycroft practically neglect the poor darlings, you know.”

“Less of the poor darlings,” he grumbled. “What about me? You’ve been here for one day and you’re already abandoning me.”

“Stop lisping, you idiot. I’ve been here for one day and you’ve got yourself a fancy new case. And anyway, I’ll be here to stay for a while now.”

His eyes softened at that. He rose up onto his knees again and you leant forward and wrapped your arms around his neck and breathed in the scent of his aftershave.

“Good,” he said into your hair.

****

John’s POV

Sherlock entered the room in a tuexedo and a scowl.

John blinked, looking up from his laptop. “You going out?”

“Anniversary. Restaurant. Tedious.”

“Oh, anniversary, nice. What for? Wedding, right?”

“Yes.” Sherlock checked his watch impatiently. “Ten years. I don’t see the p-”

She walked in the room, in a red dress, soft, hanging to her knees, hair deceptively loose, nails painted, wearing high heels and make-up and earrings that looked more vintage than Mrs Hudson. John blinked at her, and she gave them both shy smiles.

Sherlock had frozen, hand on his jacket cuff, thumb on his watch, staring at her. Was his - yes, it was. Sherlock was open-mouthed.

John had never seen Sherlock Holmes look at anyone like that. Like they were somehow the first beautiful thing he had ever seen, and a beautiful thing he had known his entire life.

“Yep,” he said. Sherlock didn’t even look around. “That’s why you’re celebrating it.”

*

“-but how can it have been the wife, she was-”

“Oh, can’t you see, John, she was just-”

“What. What is it.”

Sherlock had stopped short in the doorway to 221, John knocking into his back. He shoved a bit, pushing Sherlock inside enough so he could shut the front door.

Sherlock pulled off his gloves, tucked them into his coat pockets, and marched down the hallway into Mrs Hudson’s without knocking. Bewildered, John hurried after him. Please God don’t let it be anything too bad. I need my pasta-

It was Sherlock’s wife - somehow, John had never quite got around to calling her Mrs Holmes - and Mrs Hudson, sitting in armchairs. There was a guitar in the younger woman’s lap, a burnished golden chestnut colour.

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson said disapprovingly. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock, young man?”

“Stop gossiping,” Sherlock grumbled. “It’s pointless. Tedious. Stop it.”

“No,” his wife said simply, her lips twitching.

Sherlock was stumped. John coughed into his hand to hide a snicker.

“We were talking about the wedding anniversary, dear.”

“That was last week. Surely there’s more interesting things to talk about. In the last four days alone, I’ve solved fifteen murders.”

“Ten years,” Mrs Hudson said rebukingly. “That’s a long time, Sherlock.”

“Yes, isn’t it? Especially at your age,” he threw back.

“Sherlock,” his wife cut in sternly.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Mrs Hudson waved it off and stood, gesturing for John to come closer. Her voice was conspirational. “Look, I still keep a photo of them on my mantel. Weren’t they so young.”

It was set in a thick dark-wood frame, smooth and dust-free. John picked it up, bringing it closer to study it. No hint of Mycroft. An office; a table with a polite bouquet of roses in a vase. The newly-married couple standing with linked arms. The bride was wearing jeans and a white top that was sort of fancy, almost like a blouse and a bolero. And…white velvet boots with a small heel. He blinked. It was very…not traditional. Then again, why was he even surprised?

“Yeah, I fancied myself as a bit of a Western cowboy-style bride,” she said suddenly, like he could hear his thoughts. “Plus, it made me less conspicuous on the train-ride up to London than, you know, being in a veil and a train and a flimsy netted dress. Imagine trying to get that through the train doors before they shut. The panic involved. And mind the gap between the train and the platform - oh yeah, I’ll just try jump that in a corsetted dress and stiletto white heels. My dress would’ve been grubby and grey before I even left Kings’ Cross.”

They all laughed, and John studied the rest of the picture.

Sherlock was in a suit, wearing what seemed to be a grey Belstaff. He wasn’t smiling, but the sharp lines of his face were softened. And, John noticed when he studied the picture more, he was leaning into her. And she was beaming, her face slightly turned to him, like she had been smiling at him before looking at the camera.

“Weren’t they so sweet,” Mrs Hudson cooed, before her smile dropped entirely. “Now, if they had just invited me, I would have made them a nice cake.”

“I know, I know, I know. It was an unforgivable sin. And it’d have been great fun to have you there. I would say, next time, but-”

“But there’s not going to be a next time,” Sherlock finished for his wife, before abruptly sitting down on the floor and putting his head in her lap, headbutting the guitar. John glanced up from the picture and to the real counterparts. Older and different, a background of netted windows and dust-motes and Mrs Hudson’s DVD shelf. Sherlock adjusted himself slightly, leaning into her, and she smiled down at him.

It wasn’t showy, or even overly affectionate. It was simple and quiet; I see you, you’re here, I’m glad.

John looked away and gave the picture back to Mrs Hudson. “Yeah, they were young.”

“Young and in love.” She tutted wistfully. “The best combination.”

“Pfft,” Sherlock snorted scornfully. He shifted his balancing weight onto the palm of his left hand and brought his right one up to pluck at the guitar, weaving his arm between those of his wife, who had reached out to run her fingers casually through his curls.

“Oh, Sherlock, won’t you play something for us?” Mrs Hudson asked, clasping her hands together.

“You play guitar, Sherlock?” John didn’t know why he was so surprised. After all, Sherlock Bloody Holmes could play the violin better than anyone else he’d ever seen. Even if he did normally decide to display those skills at two in the morning.

“Yeah, I taught him,” his wife said, before nudging his hand off the instrument. “Stop it, I don’t know if you think that’s Drops of Jupiter or not, but rest assured, it’s…not.”

Sherlock snorted against her knee. She poked his temple. Mrs Hudson dropped her hands and beamed at them.

John cleared his throat awkwardly. It almost felt like he was intruding on a private family moment.

Sherlock lifted his head and peered up at him, blue eyes narrowed. “Why are you still standing? Sit down. Don’t go upstairs yet, unless you think you’ve worked out how the wife did it all by yourself.”

****

Reader’s POV

You were the first one off the train, and then you were running down the platform, pushing past people, bumping into rucksacks and catching scents of cologne and perfume. Cackling overhead was an announcement for a train going to Cambridge. You were off the platform, and in the station, and looking around. Too many people, too many-

It was hot. A hot sweltering day. Even the lines of orange Departures and Arrivals on the screen overhead made you feel hot. Almost everyone was wearing minimal airy clothing, or stuck in business clothes and depressed expressions.

And then there was him, standing by the centre escalators with his head dipped into the folds of his coat collar and his hands stuck deep in his pockets.

You dashed towards him, and he looked up, and you collided with a rush of relieved laughter, your arms coming around his neck for balance. You didn’t want to say hi. You wanted to say, I love you so much. He was a living breathing miracle; his curly hair between your fingers was a proof that sometimes the world can let you keep what you needed to exist.

Sherlock was hugging you back, a crushing grip, pulling you close against his body.

“Are you alright?” you demanded peremptorily.

“Yes.”

“No, but are you-”

“Yes. I’m fine.” His fingers were coiling into the back of your shirt, that’s been stuck to your spine for the past few hours.

“Because on the phone, you sounded-” Broken. Frightened, desperate, confused. You gritted your jaw, remembered the pillow-creases on your cheek and Sherlock’s rambling explanations from the other side of the world. A swimming-pool, John in a jacket rigged with bombs, a man called Moriarty, thought I was going to die, he killed so many people that I couldn’t save, just needed to hear your voice…are you alright?

Sherlock peeled himself away and put his hands on your shoulders, looking you in the eyes. “I’m fine. I promise.”

You gripped onto the back of his neck, suddenly unable to speak louder than a hoarse whisper. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“I’m glad you weren’t here.” He swallowed. “And I’m glad you’re here now.”

*

“Y/N. Y/N.”

You half-tumbled off the bed and ran down the hallway, almost knocking into the wall. “Sherlock? What is it-”

He took one look at you and rolled his eyes. “You were napping.”

“And you sounded like you’d been stabbed!” You studied him, aware of John and Mrs Hudson entering the flat behind him. Sherlock had a white sheet draped over his shoulder. “Oh good, you brought that,” you groused. “The bed isn’t the same without it.”

“Or me.”

“Don’t flirt. I’m too blasé about you now for that.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched at the corners. “Oh, I don’t quite think that’s true.” He lowered his voice, stepping closer, giving you an intense look. “Is it?”

You took a deep breath. “Who were the idiots who decided to invade the flat and take you away?”

“Important people, or so they thought. Terrible eating habits; not too posh to succumb to the charms of Dominoes’ every Friday night. And most Monday nights.” Sherlock glanced around, making sure that John and Mrs Hudson were paying attention. “Brought you something.”

“Oh, finally I get gifts, huh?”

He reached inside his coat and pulled out a sparkling ashtray; flipped it and caught it one-handed.

You stared.

John looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs Hudson breathed. “That seems very fancy!”

“You stole it,” you said. “…Didn’t you.”

“Yup.” Sherlock tossed it up again. “Look, it’s all sparkly.”

You held out your hand and he passed it. You turned it over. It was very beautiful, utterly pristine, distorting your reflection into beautiful shards of glass, tiny details staring back at you.

Sherlock took it back, put it on the kitchen table for Mrs Hudson to admire.

“Just so you know,” John began, “this does not mean you can start smoking like a chimney just because you’ve got some fancy ashtray to-”

“John, you literally took the words right out of my mouth,” you said with a grin. You leant forward to look at it again, Sherlock’s hand landing on your back, warmth seeping through the thin cotton of your shirt.

“Where’d you steal it from?”

“Buckingham  Palace.”

You gaped up at him. “You are joking.”

“Nope.”

“Are you telling me-” You whipped the sheet off his shoulder and held it, half-reverent and half-mocking - “that this bedsheet was in Buckingham Palace?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

You pulled an impressed face, holding it at arms’ length. “Wow.”

“Yeah, and don’t forget he also wore it naked,” John added.

“But that’s nothing new.”

“Stop being flippant. I need your help.” Sherlock removed the sheet and dumped it over the back of a chair, then took your arm and towed you towards the hallway. “I’m going to meet a dominatrix. I need your help with the disguise.”

“A dominatrix?” you asked, a few minutes later, star-fished the wrong way on the bed while Sherlock rooted frantically through his wardrobe.

“Yep. Got some compromising photos of some high-up person. Mycroft insists that I get them back. Tedious. Still, this woman has got most of the royal family with their hands tied behind their backs - metaphorically speaking. No doubt, literally, too, if she could. No unimpressive feat.” Sherlock punctuated his sentences with underwear thrown dramatically across the room, along with a litany of t-shirts you’d never even realised he had.

“What’s her name?”

“Irene Adler.”

“She sounds exactly like the kind of person you don’t want at your wedding.”

“Yes - she’d just gatecrash it though - ARGH!” Sherlock picked up the suit jacket he’d just been wearing and hurled it against the wall.

“What are you doing?” John called from the kitchen.

“Going into battle, John!” Sherlock grabbed an enormous green police jacket - about six sizes too big for him - from the back of the wardrobe. Damn, that thing was unexpectedly large. You wondered if it was secretly Narnia. Or maybe you were in Narnia; through the wardrobe led to the boring mundane world where men like Sherlock weren’t in your life.

“I need the right armour!” Sherlock pranced for a second in the reflective jacket before pulling it off and staring dejectedly out the window. Then he looked over at you. “Mycroft made a comment about how sex alarms me.”

You blinked. “…Does it?”

“It was a jab intended to make fun of the fact I have only ever had one sexual partner, who I had already known for many months as a friend.” Sherlock looked around for his suit jacket, saw its crumpled state, and wrinkled his nose. “And that I find the idea of a…dominatrix…utterly appalling. Personally, anyway. Fairly sure John is already developing a…crush - on her.” He found a new suit jacket and pulled it on.

You gave him an upside-down smile. “And this is why I never worry that you’ll cheat on me.”

*

You have never been so frightened as when John and a taxi-driver and Lestrade, between the three of them, dragged a barely-conscious, drooling Sherlock upstairs. You managed to keep a cool head, watching as they put him in the bed, watching John check his pulse and pull the bedsheets - a new set, now - up over him. Then he rejoined you in the hall.

You hadn’t realised you were biting your lip hard enough to make it bleed until he tutted at you and gestured to his own lip.

You hated the metallic taste, like rusty coins, and the way it coated the roof of your mouth, cloying and sharp.

“What happened to him.”

“She drugged him. A man died. Jesus…” John shook his head, breathing heavily. “He should be fine. Just needs to sleep it off.”

You peered in the doorway at your unconscious husband and felt your heart doing something horribly resemblant to a panic attack. “Are you sure he’s going to be okay?”

“Yeah. Should be fine, just needs to let it wear off…” John sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I need some tea.”

The hours ticked by. Sherlock didn’t wake up. You refused to go to sleep; and when John started giving you funny looks over the top of his computer, you explained.

“I’m going to sleep on the sofa tonight.”

“Why?” He sounded perplexed.

“To give Sherlock some space. Because he’s…He’s…” You shook your head, unable to elaborate properly. “I have to,” you settled for, and John didn’t argue with you. He stayed up too; just the glow of his laptop illuminating his tired tired face before eventually he fell asleep and the computer turned itself off.

You must have dozed off too at some point, because you’re suddenly, abruptly awoken by a shout and then a huge thud. Your head shot up from the sofa arm, giving you horrible whiplash. A light was on. John was putting a mug down hastily on the table and hurrying out of sight. You sprang off the sofa and ran down the hallway after him, stopping in Sherlock’s doorway.

“Well, I don’t suppose you remember,” John was saying, “you weren’t making a whole lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you - I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone.”

Sherlock said something, too low for you to catch.

“Where’s who?” John asked sharply.

“The woman. That woman.” At this, John turned and looked back at you, and you took another step forward, blinking. Couldn’t Sherlock even remember your name?

“What woman?”

“The woman!” Sherlock snapped. “The woowooman!”

“Oh, Irene Adler?” John put his hands on his hips. “She…got away. No one saw her. She wasn’t here, Sherlock.” You managed to catch a magnificent eyeful of your drugged husband collapsing onto the floor and attempting to crawl under the bed.

“What?” John asked, bewildered. “No. No, no.” He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, hauling him up. “No, no, no.” He grunted, hoisting Sherlock up and dumping him across the bed. “Back to bed - you’ll be fine in the morning.” He sighed. “Just…sleep.”

“Ahhhhh,” you heard Sherlock say, sounding muffled and sarcastic and like he was at a dentist, “of course I’ll be fine, I am fine, I’m absolutely fine-”

John gave you an exasperated look. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll be next door if you need me.”

Sherlock slurred something that sounded like, “Why would I need you?”

“No reason at all,” John said irritably, and shut the door.

You followed him back into the kitchen, hugging yourself. “Fucking hell,” you muttered.

“Yeah.”

“I phoned Mycroft earlier. He already knew. Um, he’s coming around tomorrow.”

“Oh, great.”

“I’ve got some choice words for him. Because my god, he should’ve warned Sherlock a bit more.”

“I’m not arguing with you.” John picked up his abandoned mug. “Fancy a cuppa?”

At that moment you heard another thud. John’s mouth opened slowly.

“I’ll deal with him this time,” you said, and went back down the hallway.

The door wouldn’t open. “Sherlock?” You nudged it. “Hey, Sherlock-”

There was a groan, and then the door opened. Sherlock was lying haphazardly on the floor, his phone lit up next to him. He peered up at you groggily.

“Hey, you okay?” you murmured, kneeling by his head. “What happ-”

“Shut the window.”

“Huh?”

“Shut. The. Window,” Sherlock snapped at you, his eyes unfocused. “That’s - that’s how she got in…”

“Who got in?” You stood up and stepped over his outstretched arm, pulling the window shut and locking it securely. “Irene Adler? Sherlock, she was-”

“Here.” He tried to sit up, and smacked his temple painfully against the edge of the bed. “Look. Door. My coat.”

You blinked at his coat, hanging on the back of the door. Come to think of it, he hadn’t been wearing it when he’d been brought home…

Sherlock was trying to stand up and failing. “Help,” he muttered begrudgingly.

“I know. I’m here.” You crouched, sliding your arm under his shoulder, and braced yourself. “Ready? One, two, three-”

He managed to stand long enough for you to turn both of you around and send him crumpling face-first on the bed again. He let out a muffled groan, and you picked up his phone. It was on a text from an unknown number.

Till the next time, Mr Holmes.

You turned the phone off; laid it on the bedside cabinet, and then pulled the sheets up over him again. “You need to sleep,” you murmured, patting his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

His eyes flickered open, muzzy in the gold lamplight. “No. Stay.”

You gave him a considering look. “I think it’s probably better if I-”

“Stay.”

You chewed your lip and thought about it. Sherlock watched you pitifully. It was that - the desperate look in his eyes - which made you sigh and relent, slumping onto the mattress beside him.

“You’re okay,” you whispered, tucking his head against you. He curled up closer, clinging to you like he could keep you there with his dead weight alone. Which, fair enough, he could. You carded your fingers through his hair and tucked your knees just above his, entangling your legs together. “You’ll be okay, I promise.”

“I know,” he mumbled against you. You kept stroking his hair until he relaxed and then relaxed more, finally falling asleep, holding onto you like you’re a lifeline, the only thing he can trust when he’s this helpless and vulnerable.

You stayed awake, staring across the room at the window you closed.

You make a vow to yourself. You’ll hurt Irene Adler for this.

So! I was NOT expecting this to be nearly thirty thousand words. In the words of Sherlock with his origami tissues: it just sort of… *spreads hands* happened.

This is season one/two, which Sherlock having this wife who kind of pops in and out of canon. I mean, more happens than that, but anyway. Requested by an anon on tumblr! I do hope you enjoy it!

Meanwhile I’m currently going through a phase of listening to Gavin James songs on repeat, so that’s why they’re littered through this mini-novel of a fic…

(I have not proof-read this. Oh well.)

Title from Timeless!

Our secret moments in a crowded room

They got no idea about me and you

Inescapable

I'm not even gonna try

Everyone thinks that they know us

But they know nothing about

All of this silence and patience

Pining and anticipation

Flashback to my mistakes, my rebounds, my earthquakes

Even in my worst lies, you saw the truth in me

And I woke up just in time, now I wake up by your side

My one and only, my lifeline.

- Dress by Taylor Swift

There was a woman sleeping in Sherlock’s armchair.

John came to a halt, acutely aware of the damp towel flung over his shoulder and the fact that he was in a dressing-gown. Had he cleaned all the shaving cream off his face? Where was Sherlock? Who the hell was this woman?

She was fairly young, drowning in an enormous dark green sweater with a crumpled white symbol that John couldn’t make out. Sleeping lightly, knees curled up and pulled under her. Napping. There was a woman napping in Sherlock’s armchair. A client?

John shook his head, opened his mouth, and Sherlock whirled through the door, fully-dressed, holding something in his left hand.

“Uh, Sherlock, a client-”

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock said. John blinked, then realised he wasn’t even talking to him. Sherlock crossed the room and tapped the woman on the head like he was tapping a hollow box.

John blinked again.

“Wake up,” Sherlock said curtly. “Stop it. You’re boring when you’re asleep, stop it.”

“No,” the woman mumbled, not moving.

Sherlock pushed past John and went into the kitchen. “Oh good, you’re talking. First sign of consciousness. Stop being a vegetable, it’s irritating. Interact with me while you can.”

“You’re so needy,” the woman said, lifting her head and rubbing her eyes. She looked tired. John frowned at her, and then turned to Sherlock, who had opened his fist over the sink.

“Are they finger bones?”

Clatter clatter clatter.

“Yup.”

“How did you get finger bones?” John shook his head. “Sherlock, you can’t just dump bones in the sink-”

“Molly gave them to me.” Sherlock flicked a sideways glance at the woman. John turned his head back to her, feeling like the umpire at a bloody tennis match. She was standing.

“Don’t let them get down the drain, right?” she said.

“Course I won’t.”

“Because even the best sink-cleaning fluid can’t burn through bones and Mrs Hudson will hate you if you break the plumbing in this incredibly ancient house.”

“I know.”

John ran his hand over his mouth, found a bit of shaving cream in the corner and was annoyed enough to finally turn to the mystery visitoress. “Sorry, who are you? Are you a client?”

Her mouth ticked up at the corner. “Um-”

“Of course she’s not, John, do use some of your deductive prowess. Granted, you don’t have much, but do try a bit, can’t you? She knows of Mrs Hudson and has an easy familiarity with me. What would that suggest about her, asides from the obvious?”

Coming from Sherlock, before John had even had his breakfast tea, this was too much. Consulting detective and genius he might be, but that didn’t give him the right to be a condescending dickhead before eleven AM. John finally removed the towel from his shoulder and turned back again. “Look, mate-”

The words died in his throat as effectively as if Sherlock had begun breakdancing in a frilly pink tutu.

Because his flatmate - his pale, posh, lonely and heartless and supercilious flatmate - was holding up his left hand, slightly dusty from ancient finger-bones.

Around his ring finger was a gleaming gold band.

John gaped.

Sherlock sighed.

John gaped.

“Sherlock?”

John gaped.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just processing the information. It might take a while.”

John gaped.

“Do we need to get smelling salts? Or, like, poke him with a finger bone-?”

John gaped.

“You can get your appalling airport perfume and spray it in his face if you need to.”

John gaped.

“That’s not very nice, Sherlock.”

John gaped.

“You know me, Y/N. I’m naught but a heartless bastard.”

Sherlock’s sudden Yorkshire accent was enough to break John out of the strange reality he had found himself in where the bachelor Sherlock Holmes had a wedding ring.

He blinked a few times, closed his mouth, blinked once more for luck, and realised that Sherlock still had the ring.

There was a faint whiff of perfume and shampoo and old fabric as the woman edged past him and into the kitchen; flicked the kettle on, took a mug from the shelf.

“Where’s the-”

“Coffee,” Sherlock said, reaching past her, his hand brushing her hip as he pulled the jar of coffee from its elusive place behind a measuring beaker. “Here.”

“You’re married,” John finally said, as the kettle built into a steaming crescendo.

They both looked around at him and spoke in unison.

“Yep.”

*

How had Sherlock married such an…an…ordinary woman? John couldn’t understand it. He simply couldn’t. Y/N Y/L/N, as she introduced herself, made herself a coffee and gave John a tea. Sherlock said something about Mrs Hudson and went downstairs. His wife sat down in his armchair, curled up again with her knees under her, cradling the hot drink to her chest, fingers interlaced. John tried not to stare at the slender golden band and sparkling engagement ring on her left ring-finger.

“I guess you must have questions.”

“A few, yeah.”

“He really didn’t tell you anything about me? Like…anything?”

She didn’t sound offended. More, just amused.

“He said he was…” John shook his head. “No. He didn’t.”

Sherlock’s footsteps thundered up the stairs just before he burst back in. “I need a shower,” he announced.

She glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling. John leaned his head around the edge of the armchair to see Sherlock’s face. He wasn’t exactly smiling. But he was looking back at her.

John cleared his throat and studied his tea.

“Am I your secret paramour, Sherlock?”

Sherlock snorted. “What gave you that impression?”

She pointed. “Your flatmate nearly had a stroke because I exist.”

“Not because you exist. Just because you happen to exist in my life as a legal spouse,” Sherlock threw over his shoulder, heading down the hallway.

She laughed, looked back at John with the laughter lingering in her face. “Okay, fire away your questions while he’s unable to make snarky comments. Quick, go for it.”

Finally, he was given permission. John waited until the shower began spitting water into the bathtub and the pipes were creaking and gurgling, and then really went for it. Hit the hardest deepest most-impossible-to-answer question, right then, first question, just putting it out there and working backwards to the easier questions like logistics.

“How?”

She grinned. “You need to elaborate.”

John gave her a level stare over his mug. “No, I don’t. He’s Sherlock Holmes. You know what I mean.”

“Alright, yeah I do. Um, I don’t know what to tell you, I guess? We just…got married, and we’ve been married for…oh, feels like an eternity now.” She shrugged. “We’ve known each other since uni. I live abroad most of the time, because I travel so much, but I come back whenever I can. I’m literally only staying for a few hours. Flew in from Australia a day early and I’m flying to Germany this afternoon. That’s why…” She gestured sheepishly. “I got up, got as far as the armchair, and literally fell asleep again.”

“Sherlock Holmes, married,” John said, shaking his head.

“You can’t believe it, can you?”

He had to be honest.

“I am finding it pretty bloody impossible to comprehend right now.”

*

Sherlock’s POV

A Few Weeks Earlier

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then.”

“Girlfriend? No.” Sherlock considered it, staring out at the street. Dear God, how could anyone chew the inside of their mouth that much? What an appalling habit. “Not really my area.”

“Alright,” John said quietly.

Why was he saying that. Like that. What did he mean. This was another of those examples of the intricacies of human emotion, wasn’t it-

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Oh. That was what he meant. Sherlock looked at him wearily.

“Which is fine by the way-”

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock said impatiently. He already knew John Watson was not a screaming homophobic. How dull-witted of the doctor to not realise that Sherlock already knew that about him. Obviously.

John smiled awkwardly. “So you’ve got a boyfrie-”

“No.”

“Right. Okay.” John gave an awkward half-laugh. “Unattached.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Thought of a face more familiar than his own. Unattached? That was…wrong.

“Like me.”

He watched his new flatmate realise what he had said and clear his throat awkwardly, not looking up or chewing his mouth for all of five seconds. “Right…”

For God’s sake. He’d better tell him just in case. He couldn’t afford any sort of a mix-up, not with the one man in London that he actually wanted to share a residence with.

“John, um…”

John looked up.

“I think you should know-”

As if in slow motion, he suddenly saw the way in which John Watson would react. The questions, the intrigue, the surprise. The tediousness.

And all of that would simply distract from the interesting case at hand.

He changed tack at lightning speed, without even losing his flow, the way that she could skip over a misplayed guitar note.

“-that I consider myself married to my work and while I am flattered by-”

John’s eyes widened. “No. No, I’m not asking - No - I’m just saying-”

Sherlock stared at him, almost amused despite himself. He wished she was here. She would find a way to defuse the tension and make everyone laugh.

“It’s all fine,” John said firmly.

“...Good,” Sherlock said, and attempted to dismiss the entire conversation from his mind.

All fine. Surely that could count for being married, too. “Thank you.”

****

John’s POV

Now

He only saw it by accident; happened to walk into the lounge, shopping bag in hand, just in time to see Sherlock slide the golden band off his finger and into the skull on the mantel.

“What,” John said, stopping, “what are you doing?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, mildly surprised. “I’ve stopped being… ‘married’ now.”

“It doesn’t work like that!” If he didn’t have eggs in the shopping bag, John would’ve thrown his hands up to the ceiling. “You’re always married once you’re married! Unless you get divorced!”

“No, I mean, Y/N has just gone to the airport - should be getting on her flight right now, actually, since boarding was delayed by five minutes - so I am simply keeping the ring safe.”

Why was Sherlock looking at him like he was the mad one?

“I’m finding this hard to comprehend,” John said with a sigh.

“You’ve only lived with me for a few weeks. There’s still quite a lot to find out.”

“I realised, yeah.”

Sherlock followed John into the kitchen, watching him unpack the groceries. “Are you…offended?”

“Am I - No. No I’m not offended.” John glanced at Sherlock’s haughty, slightly equine expression, and sighed, turning and gesticulating with a jar of pasta sauce. “You just didn’t seem the type, that’s all. And it’s quite a long-distance relationship.”

“Yes. It is.”

John threw him a glance, shoving milk into the fridge. The finger-bones were no longer in the sink, which was somehow more alarming than if they had been. “How did you meet?”

“At university.”

“She said. Also studying chemistry?”

“No.” Sherlock was staring at the windows behind John, lips quirking up at the corners. “She wasn’t.”

****

Sherlock’s POV

A Long Time Ago

The old, derelict town hall was beige bricks and a grey facade, arched windows grimy with dust. It still had a certain poetic beauty, especially in the warm autumn sunset. Sherlock sat down on the rusty bench and got out the book; glanced around. Opposite the abandoned town hall was as good a place as any for the sale of drugs. God, he needed some now. That was why he was almost half an hour earlier than the agreed time. Just some desperation that nicotine couldn’t satisfy.

His foot tapped on the pavement as he looked around. Nobody but people going home and students going out on their trite little quests. He reached for his textbook impatiently. Might as well try and read while he waited. The sunshine should have been soothing. It wasn’t. It felt itchy. Or maybe his hair needed cutting.

He tried not to think about the look on his parents’ faces if they knew how he had spent the first four weeks of life at university.

The plucked notes of a guitar pulled him away from the first black-and-white sentence in the fourth chapter of the textbook. He looked up.

Sitting opposite, on the stone steps leading up to the bricked-up front doors to the abandoned building, was a girl, playing a guitar. Oversized hoody, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, squinting. Sunlight in her eyes. Busking for money. Hmm, interesting. Doesn’t have a microphone or any way of amplifying her voice to catch people’s attention. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, peering between the cars, seeing a glimpse of the guitar. Second-hand. Bought recently. A good player. More talent than practise-

“Hey, hey, hey-hey, hey-hey,” she started singing, and Sherlock let out an annoyed groan. Oh God. Not just playing the guitar for money, but singing too. Of course. How was he supposed to even study now? He’d have to do it tomorrow instead-

A bus rumbled by, drowning her out for a second before she appeared again, tilting her head slightly, her knee jigging up and down.

“I knew when we collided, you’re the one I have decided who’s one of my kind-”

A student, too. Probably lived with other girls. He hadn’t seen her at campus. To be fair, he had been occupied. And she was not extremely remarkable. He couldn’t tell what colour her eyes were, they were too narrowed against the sharp golden sunlight.

“Just in time, I’m so glad you have a one-track mind like me, you gave my life direction…” An old man had stopped and placed some coins on the step beside her, and she strummed the guitar harder and gave him a bright grin of thanks. “A game show love connection, we can’t den-en-en-y…I’m so obsessed-”

More people were gathering now. Sherlock closed the book over his thumb and watched, curious despite himself. He had rarely seen buskers in this town before. Certainly not another student.

“The way you can cut a rug, watching you is the only drug I need, so gangsta, I’m so thug, you’re the only one I’m dreaming of…” She did a little shoulder-dance, the guitar notes changing pitch slightly. Sherlock pulled an involuntary face. Other people’s happiness often caused him to gag; it was a strange phenomenon that science had yet to explain.

“You see, I can be myself now finally, in fact, there’s nothing I can’t be - I want the world to see you’ll be with me.”

At that moment the girl lifted her head. A strand of hair had fallen loose into her face, and she looked directly across the road and noticed Sherlock staring at her.

He expected revulsion, or arrogance, or perhaps nothing.

He did not expect the smile.

She smiled, warm and secret like they were both supposed to be there, and kept singing. Her teeth glinted in the light, and he heard the higher note of her voice between the noise of two cars.

“Hey, soul sister, ain’t that Mr Mister on the radio, stereo - the way you move ain’t fair, you know…hey, soul sister, I don’t wanna miss a single thing you do tonight, hey, soul sister…”

When she finally finished the song, with a flourish, the three people who had stopped to hear it to its conclusion clapped.

Sherlock flipped open his book viciously. Still another twenty-four minutes.

Silence. Not silence, but not a guitar, not a voice. He glanced up. She was unscrewing a bottle of water; drinking.

Putting it away. He watched through his eyelashes as she did something to the guitar. Began strumming again, a very different tune.

“We were both young when I first saw you, I close my eyes and the flashback starts, I’m standing there…”

There was no point. No. Point. He would almost have gnashed his teeth together if they weren’t still sore from the last time he had done that - Sebastian had been particularly infuriating at lunch today. Slow-witted dullards.

“See you make your way through the crowd and say ‘hello’, little did I know…”

He slammed the book shut viciously, with a thud of too-thin pages and heavy hardcovers. No studying could be done with that pointless noise across the road. The traffic was thinning out and there was less of a barrier between him and the annoyance. And he couldn’t leave, either.

“Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone, I’ll be waiting, all there’s left to do is run…You’ll be the prince, I’ll be the princess, it’s a love story, baby, just say yes.”

People were gathering now. Paying more attention to her. He had to admit, she was fairly good at it. And fairly good at disturbing his entire evening. And his study-schedule-

“Romeo, save me, they’re trying to tell me how to feel, this love is difficult, but it’s real…Don’t be afraid, we’ll make it out of this mess, it’s a love story, baby, just say yes-”

Right. He’d had enough. She could do her busking somewhere else.

He stood up. Waited for a gap in the traffic so he could cross, slipping in front of a double-decker bus with the ease of someone who was more accustomed to London than his parents were aware of. Walked over, pushing past two middle-aged ladies that had stopped to listen.

She was angled slightly away, head bumping side-to-side in time with the music.

“I got tired of waiting, wondering if you were ever coming around…My faith in you was fading, when I met you on the outskirts of town, and I said-”

His shadow fell over her, and she glanced up.

“Romeo save me, I’ve been feeling so alone, I keep waiting for you but you never come…Is this in my head? I don’t know what to think-”

He opened his mouth, about to be belligerent. Tell her to find somewhere else. He had the deductions ready that would convince her, just harsh enough to make her want to leave his proximity, but not quite cruel enough to diminish her - fairly accurate - opinion and self-value of her own performance.

She smiled again.

And Sherlock Holmes did something he didn’t remember doing.

He faltered.

She didn’t expect him to hurt her. Basic naive human stupidity; they were all mostly like that. She had no reason that the words were on the tip of his tongue, the words to tear apart her evening and reduce her to sobs. He knew how to do it.

But she had no idea. In her eyes - those eyes filled with sunlight and mirth like they had an in-joke he didn’t yet know - he was a far better human than he actually was.

“He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring and said-” A furious flurry of strumming, a note of sudden warmth in her voice and smiles from the onlookers who knew the song; ‘Marry me Juliet, you’ll never have to be alone, I love you and that’s all I really know - I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress, it’s a love story baby, just say yes.”

Sherlock sat down on the step next to her, a good metre away, and waited for her to finish.

“You’re not bad.”

Amidst the praise from others, she still heard him. Flashed him a smile, stretching her arms out briefly. “Sorry.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

“I think I’m disturbing you.”

He stared at her and couldn’t think of a reply to that.

“You looked like you were trying to study,” she elaborated, pointing at his textbook. “And then I came along with my guitar and my fondness for loud songs…”

He huffed with reluctant amusement. “It’s alright. I’m just…waiting for someone.”

 “Okay.” She began strumming again. “You sticking here now like my busker’s arm candy?”

He couldn’t repress the surprised snort. She smiled to herself, bending forward over the guitar.

“I can hear better on this side.”

Her lips curved up again. “I’m Y/N,” she said.

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“This one’s sad.” She was still plucking lightly. “It should be played with a piano, but I’m not that melodramatic, to drag a grand piano out here outside a derelict building…”

He didn’t say anything. She adjusted her position, looked out at the busy high street, and began again.

“If you’re looking for the big adventure and gold is all that’s on your mind, if all you want’s someone to take your picture…” She strummed softly. “Then I won’t waste your time…See, maybe I’m too quiet for ya, you probably never noticed me…”

Sherlock watched her hands on the guitar. Not manicured. No rings. She had a small scar running across the back of her right hand.

“But if you’re too big to follow rivers, how you ever gonna find the sea? So follow me, I’ll be your river, river; I’ll do the running for ya-”

Interesting. The soft timbre of both voice and guitar had attracted more people’s attention, faster, than the flashier style of the first two songs.

“If all you want are answers to your questions and you can’t seem to find the love for free; if you’re looking for the right direction then…darling, look for me…See, I can make the load much lighter, I just need you to confide in me…”

Someone put down a five-pound note. It fluttered, like it might blow off in the wind. Without thinking, Sherlock picked up a pound coin and pinned the note down with it.

“Wherever you’re standing, I will be by your side, through the good, through the bad, I’ll never be hard to find…”

The sun was slipping down now, behind the wall of houses and shops that lined the street. There was a peculiar kind of beauty to this town, Sherlock admitted. An ancientness about it, that suffused even the Turkish barbers to his right.

She stopped the song, smiled bashfully at the praise, rolled her sleeves up more firmly. Looked at Sherlock.

“Do you play the guitar?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Violin.”

Her lips twitched. “Oh, you’re the real talent. Unless you’re snooty.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Or both,” she added with a grin. “I can’t tell yet.”

He looked down at himself. A sweatshirt; joggers, beaten-up trainers. Not the sort of clothes he wore on campus usually. He hadn’t felt like making an effort lately.

“What are you studying?” she asked.

“Why are you not singing another song.”

“Well, I’m trying to make conversation.”

“Why.” His voice was flat.

She blinked at him. “It’s…called…being friendly? Y’know, civil and stuff?”

“Oh. Boring.”

“You’re quite a grumpy guy, aren’t you? Are you doing Philosophy? I think you’d probably be more cheery if you were doing Theosophy.”

Despite himself, he couldn’t help a reluctant, amused grunt. “No.”

“Hmm. Maths? Wizard with numbers?”

“No.”

“Wizardry, full-stop?”

He gave her a look.

“Okay, fine. Uh. Um.” She crinkled her nose, idly strumming a few notes as she thought. “…Economics?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, got it.” She slapped her hand against the guitar, causing a discordant jangle. “Mad scientist.”

“What makes you assume that?”

“Your hair,” she said instantly.

“My hair.” He touched his head. Curly, slightly unbrushed, too long, but-

“You look like a troubled mad genius scientist. So? Am I right?”

“...Chemistry,” he admitted.

She grinned and threw up her hands triumphantly. “I knew it!”

“You did not,” he felt compelled to remind her. “You thought philosophy.”

“I was, like, ten-guesses-lucky! Don’t spoil my moment here, Mr Mad Hatter Guy.”

I’m not, he thought. In another universe, she was going home, crying - whether openly or internally, and he was sitting across the road with his textbook and savage glee and that itching impatience-

That impatience.

He blinked, noting its absence.

In this universe, however, he was sitting on the step next to an unknown busker and making conversation with her.

“Your posture is terrible,” he told her.

She stuck her tongue out at him; started playing again in earnest. “Right, it’s time to sing a song called The Scientist.”

He sighed and turned his face away.

“Come up to meet ya, tell you I’m sorry…You don’t know how lovely you are, I had to find you, tell ya I need you, tell you I set you apart-”

People were looking at her again. And, Sherlock noticed, at him, at the boy - no, man, he reminded himself - sitting with her, as though they were supposed to be keeping each other company.

“I was just guessing at numbers and figures - pulling the puzzles apart, questions of science, science and progress do not speak as loud as my heart…but tell me you love me, come back and haunt me, oh and I rush to the start, running in circles, chasing our tails, coming back as we are…” Her voice softened, went high.

“Nobody said it was easy, oh it’s such a shame for us to part, nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be so hard…”

****

Sherlock’s POV

Now

“I’m going to be brutally honest, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked, looked around at the drab brownness of 221b Baker Street. No longer sitting on the cold step in an October sunset, next to the girl he had just met.

He glanced over at John. “Go ahead.”

“I’m amazed anyone puts up with you enough to marry you.”

In a different universe, Sherlock had dissected her to pieces and there was not, right now, a ring in the skull on his mantel. He didn’t like that universe. It was a lonely place. He had never heard the end of Love Story; never heard River or The Scientist. He would never even remember Soul Sister because the event would have been so insignificant.

“Yes, well,” he shrugged, slightly discomfited at the idea he had just conjured up. A life without knowing the woman on the plane flying to Germany at this very minute.

John didn’t seem satisfied, gesturing to the fridge behind him, then to the kitchen table. “I mean - you know - With that - and-”

“She doesn’t need me to be perfect,” Sherlock said simply. “And nor do I need her to be.”

John blinked tentatively. “Oh, right. Because you’re both perfect to each other?”

Sherlock stared at him. What sort of a soppy drivel was-

“No,” he said impatiently. “Because we’re both bloody annoying. And that’s fine.”

****

Reader’s POV

You walked into the lounge just in time to see a person dressed like a…like the mummified corpse of a priest?…possibly? - but you were too unawake to tell - anyway, you walked into the room just in time to watch Sherlock punch them and knock them out cold into his armchair.

He straightened his jacket, turned to you with the hint of a smile, breathing heavily. “Morning. Your hair looks nice.”

It didn’t. You rolled out of the bed exactly seventeen and a half seconds ago, when you heard shouting and thuds and what sounded like someone trying to hammer a pineapple through the floor. The reality of what was happening here was actually somehow worse.

“What the fuck going on?”

Sherlock strolled into the kitchen. You ducked back through the door and in the side door, meeting him as he grabbed his phone from the counter. “I’d better phone Lestrade.”

“Who - who is that?” You stared warily at the unconscious person in Sherlock’s armchair. “And like, shouldn’t you tie his hands or som- mppfhh-” You’re cut off by the most enormous, undignified yawn.

“Oh, he’s out cold.” Sherlock glanced at you, and his eyes softened a little bit, in a way that you recognised just before he put his hand on your face and pressed a kiss to your mouth.

You pulled back in the same movement that he wrapped his arms loosely around your waist. “Are you bleeding?”

“Am I?” He blinked, probing the inside of his mouth with his tongue. He pulled a face.

“Have you lost a tooth?”

“No. Just a cut gum. Didn’t even notice.”

“You were too busy headbutting some random guy.” You peered over his shoulder. “Just how hard do you punch if he’s still out cold?”

“One of my talents.” Sherlock tried to go in for another kiss. You dodged it, bumping your nose against his instead. “Where’s John?”

“Out on a ‘grocery run’.” Sherlock flicked his fingers against your waist in quote-marks. “Should be back in about, oh, maybe fifteen or sixteen minutes. Plenty of time for Lestrade to come and pick up our delightful visitor.”

“Were…they a client?”

“Of a sorts.”

“And does John know about my arrival this time? Did I…” You narrowed your eyes, trying to fight off another yawn. “Did I even meet him last night?”

You didn’t remember much of the night before. Your muscles were still heavy, sluggish, like someone tried to batter you into a circular pizza dough with a rolling-pin and failed badly. You remembered leaving Arrivals of Gatwick Airport; finding the black taxi with the same number that Sherlock had texted you; sliding into the back, too exhausted to do anything apart from shutting the door properly. You remembered Sherlock’s cologne and the brush of his scarf as he leaned past you to pull your seatbelt on. You remembered his curt voice telling the cabbie where to go. You think you mumbled ‘hi’, but you can’t - drum-roll, please - remember.

You do remember his arms opening as the car pulled away from the curb; the orange lights slipping through the windows, the blurring lights on the dashboard, and the way you curled into him, his gloved fingers cupping your shoulder. You think you said something then, but the words are lost to you now. You only have a vague impression of murmuring against woollen coat collar just before you fell asleep, finally safe, because you’re home.

He’d jogged you awake, and got you across the pavement and through the front door and up the stairs into 221b somehow. You remembered falling into his bed and you kept falling all the way back into a deep sleep, waking up briefly when his arm wrapped around your waist, before you fell back asleep.

Until you woke up now. Sherlock had clearly been busy this morning already.

“I need a shower to wake up,” you decided, stepping backwards. Sherlock stepped with you, keeping his fingers interlaced on the small of your back. “You need to get rid of this guy because I’m not eating breakfast with him in that armchair.”

Sherlock let out a little laugh and pressed a quick kiss against the corner of your mouth before he let you go. “Alright. I’d rather John doesn’t know about this one. Too much hassle to explain, so tedious. Off you go.”

*

You heard a knock; a voice; words. More words. And then the bathroom door opened, bringing a waft of cold air in exchange for a plume of steam escaping. You blinked blearily and yourself came into focus; your own face in the steamed mirror, Sherlock’s face hovering behind you. Your hair was dripping wet onto your bare feet and you’re simply standing there, hairbrush held limply in your right hand, wrapped in the most polka-dotted towel you’ve ever seen.

“I think I just fell asleep standing up,” you said with a groan.

“Looks like it.”

“Oh God. I’m a horse.”

Sherlock snorted, his hand ghosting over your arm as he moved closer, standing behind you. He was wearing his coat and scarf. “Go back to bed.”

“That seems kind of harsh, since I just-”

“I won’t be in, anyway. Going to the bank with John.”

You blinked, twisting your head. “The bank?”

“Yup. Visiting an old friend of yours!” Sherlock’s voice lilted sarcastically.

“I don’t have friends,” you mumbled, leaning back against him. He was like a vertical pillow. You might just-

“Don’t fall asleep again,” he said sharply, jostling you. “Not in the bathroom, for God’s sake, you’re not Elvis.”

A huge laugh escaped through your sinuses. “Holy shit, Sherlock-”

“What? I do listen when you tell me things. And this man certainly thought he was your friend.”

“Man? Uh-oh.” You turned around and wrapped your arms around him, burrowing your head against his chest. He let out a displeased noise, probably because your wet hair was dripping on his shirt.

“Yes. Sebastian Wilkes.”

“Oh God,” you said again. “Seriously? Him.”

“Yes. Needs my help with something, apparently.”

“I’m going back to bed,” you decided unanimously, and stood back, dumping your hairbrush on the edge of the sink.

“Got any messages to pass on?”

You held up your middle finger as you walked through the door and grinned to yourself as he snorted.