#Greg x female reader

[multi-fandom-imagine]

─ ★Cockwarming Gregory House, it started off with just messaging his leg. He was in pain and ever the loyal lover you are decided to help him. But then he started moaning, eyes closed head tilted back in bliss. Which then lead into you riding the man. Face pressed into his neck, fingers digging into his shoulders as he guided your hips.

Voice thick with desire, House wasted no time into telling you how good your pussy felt wrapped around his cock. You were made for him, no one else could make you feel the way you did. His finger rubbing your clit until you were seeing starts, your orgasm crashing over you in waves as he buried himself to the hilt. Cum spurting within you coating your walls, body slumped into his as he then ran your fingers down your back gently.

Which lead to where you are now, House's cock still buried deep in your cunt. Clad in nothing but his boxers as you wore one of shirts, his hand messaging your thigh as you both watched some romance movie that was on tv.

"You can sleep you know." Gaze moving away from the tv House then placed a kiss to your neck.

Letting out a yawn, you let your body sink more on his cock eliciting a moan from the man as you relaxed more into his arm. "I think i'll take you up on that offer."

"Good girl."

[thatgenericwriter]

I'm Eepy || Gregory House

Paring: Dr. Gregory House x fem! reader

Summary: House and the reader have a 4 year old child that definitely takes after her father

Warnings: Children, House, Swearing

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You took your eyes away from your kid for 10 seconds. 10 fucking seconds! And when you turned around she was no longer playing with her monster trucks by the nurse's station. You immediately start to panic, frantically searching the entire floor you're on.

Normally you wouldn't be this panic, she runs off all the time, except the last time she wandered off in the hospital she got into the drawers of a patient's room and almost took an entire bottle of pills thinking they were candy.

You collect House's fellows and make them split into teams, sending them to scour the different floors in search of your daughter. By this point, you're on the verge of a panic attack. Your daughter is missing in a giant hospital with so many ways of hurting herself, or getting kidnapped, or just leaving on her own, or---

Your hysterical train of thought is interrupted when you hear your name called out from behind you. Whipping around you find that the source of voice is none other than House. You practically sprint towards him throwing yourself into his arms.

"She's missing and I can't find her and I have everyone looking for her and she's gone and I'm an awful mother and I should have never let her out of my site and how could I---."

"Calm down!" House pushes you back slightly and leans down to be face-to-face with you. "I know where she is."

You look into his eyes before punching him in the shoulder. "Why the FUCK did you not tell me that in the first place!"

"Well I was going to but then someone got all weepy and pathetic so I didn't get the chance."

You roll your eyes at him and scoff, but then you lean back in for another hug. You feel him run his hand along your back soothingly before pulling away and turning towards the elevator.

"Come on I have Thirteen and Kutner watching her right now, but I'm not sure how long they can last around her before their feeling are hurt so bad they cast her out of my office."

You grab his hand and walk to the elevator while picturing your daughter making fun of Thirteen and Kutner. She definitely took after her father in the 'making others feel like trash for fun' category. Something you were trying to teach out of her, but someone keeps teaching her more and more curse words.

As the elevator doors open you let go of House's hand and run to his office. You throw the door open and look around for your daughter. All of the fellows have gathered at the table and give you sushing gestures before pointing behind you.

You turn around to find your daughter lounged in House's yellow chair, her eyes fighting to stay open. You quietly walk through the connecting door and crouch by your daughter's head.

"Hey pretty girl," you stroke her hair lovingly, "you know you can't run off like that. Mommy was so scared. You don't want to scare me do you?"

She groggily shakes her head no before letting out a yawn. "I'm sorry Mommy, but I'm soooooo eepy."

You shake your head with a small smile before kissing your daughter's head lightly and watch as her eyes finally close. Standing up you turn and look through the glass to see House standing there looking at you and your daughter with the most content look you've ever seen on his face.

Turning off the lights and closing the blinds you give one last look at your daughter before walking through the conjoing door and into House's awaiting arms.

"Get a room you two!" Everyone whips their head around to Chase with a furious look on their face.

"Shhhhhhhhh!"

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Author's note: i did not prof read this so if it sucks don't tell me... also I'm going to write more I swear! plz be patient with me as I get through requests!!

[zvdvdlvr]

Could you please write an imagine based on the episode where Greg House gives a lecture about the three cases and he's one of them (where we first see Stacy).

Reader is one of the students there, gives the correct answers, therefore grabs his attention and he offers a job and they end up dating

Thanks in advance!

chasing you ✩ gregory house

“What color is your pee?”

You watched House interrogate one of the few students that had been giving input on his three stories.

“Yellow,” she replied with a sharp tone.

“And what color is your blood?”

“Red.”

House nodded. “Yes. And what colors did I use to make this tea color?”

The female student stammers as she replies with “red, yellow, and brown.”

The man clicks his tongue. “And brown. How do we get the brown color?”

“Waste-“

“Thank means the kidneys are shutting down,” House cut in. “Why?”

“Could be damage done by the self injection. He has no history of trauma.

“Treatment?”

House’s rapidfire questions had rattled the woman, but she stiller answered. “Heat and rest-“

“Other possible causes?”

“Infection.”

House nodded. “Start him on antibiotics. What else?”

Silence filled the room. House looked around, expecting an answer. “Come on! What is it?”

“I-I don’t know,” the student admits. She looks away.

House sighs and walks down the steps. The paper with the tea color crumpled in his hand.

“You know, it’s hard to think with you in our faces,” starts the annoying student right up front.

“Yeah?” House scoffs. “You think it’s gonna be any easier with a real patient really dying?”

The guy looked down. Once again, silence reigned over the room as House prepared himself to speak. Until… you opened your mouth.

“The unknown factor would be muscle death.”

House looks up. Near the back of the auditorium by the window on the far left. A student House originally thought was uninterested. Sure, House had seen you around the hospital- practically every wide-eyed intern or student had met the witty man but he had never spoken to you.

Which was odd considering he took a little joy in making the interns and students squirm- especially the pretty ones. House was surprised he’d never even caught your name.

When House’s mouth opened and closed twice, you resumed carefully. “The dying muscle leaks myoglobin which is toxic to the kidneys. There’s your brown, Doctor.”

“Brilliant,” House murmured. He eyed you carefully as he went on. “MRI the leg. See what’s killing it.”

The Heath Ledger dupe spoke up again. “Why is the girl getting the MRI?”

“Because the neck skan revealed nothing and her doctor’s way more obsessive than she thinks she is.”

Heath tilted his head. “But you said the guy needed the MRI.”

“Because the mysteriously smart girl over there said muscle death. Not one of you came up with that. Not one of this guy’s doctors came up with it either,” he replied harshly. “They gave him bed rest and antibiotics- just like you guys would’ve.”

“Does he get better?” The female student from before asked.

House clicks his tongue. “No.”

“How long-“

“Three days.” He looks around the room, stalling when he made eye contact with you. “It is in the nature of medicine that you’re going to screw up. You are going to kill someone. If you can’t handle that reality, pick a new profession. Or finish medical school and teach.”

The female student from before spoke up. “It took three days for them to figure out about the muscle death?”

House shook his head. After heaving a sigh he answers “No, it took three days for the patient to suggest muscle death.”

“What caused the muscle pain?” You asked. “Was it- was it a clot?”

House nodded. “Don’t steal my thunder, young padawan. But… yes. A clotted aneurysm lead to an infarction in the patient’s leg.”

You nodded as House examined you intently as he went on. “After the surgery to remove the clot, the patient went in to wide complex tachycardia… The patient was technically dead for over a minute.”

“Do you think he was dead? Do you think those experiences were real?”

Every head in the room turned to the back. There stood James Wilson, leaning on the door. He looked knowingly at House, like he knew something everyone didn’t.

“Define real,” House shot back. “They were re experiences… What they meant- personally, I choose to believe that the white light people sometimes see, visions this patient saw… They’re all just chemical reactions that happen when the brain shuts down.”

“You ‘choose’ to believe that?” You ask curiously.

House’s eyes dart back over to you. “There’s no conclusive science. My choice has no practical relevance to my life,” he replies. As he starts to pace slowly around the front of the room, he proceeds. “I choose the outcome I find more comforting.”

“You find it comforting to believe that this is it?” Wilson asks accusingly.

House blinks. “I find it more comforting to believe that this isn’t simply a test.”

Everyone sat, listening closely to House’s every word. No other sounds could be heard despite House’s cane movement. He explained how, once the patient was put into a medically induced coma, his trusted proxy had made the decision to remove the dead muscle from his leg.

“Because of the extent of the muscle removed, the utility of the patient’s leg was severely compromised,” he told everyone slowly. “Because of the time delay in making the diagnosis, the patient continues to suffer chronic pain.” He tilted his head up to look at the crowd in front of him and then dropped his head to look at his hands.

“She had no right to do that,” piped up a different female student.

Heath Ledger look-alike scoffed. “She had the proxy.”

The woman argued back, “She knew he didn’t want the surgery!”

“Well, she saved his life,” Heath Ledger responded.

“We don’t know that,” the guy in the front row cut in. “Maybe he would’ve been fine.”

“Still, it’s the patient’s call!”

Heath Ledger shrugged. “Patient’s an idiot.”

“They usually are,” House agreed. “Do you have a buzzer? What time does this class end?”

This time, a mew voice answered House’s question. “20 minutes ago.”

For a moment, House looked at Cuddy with an unreadable expression. Then he clicked his tongue and stood up. “I’m not doing this again,” he informed Cuddy. “And this guy is not the world’s greatest dad- not even ranked. Who the hell let’s their kids play with lead based paint? That’s why he’s always sick. Find him some plastic cups and the class is all his again,” he told Cuddy, placing the yellow hand-painted mug in her hands. He started to walk out, but paused and hobbled back to point his cane directly at you. “Except you. Come with me.”

With haste, you gathered you books and writing utensils and shoved them into your bag. As you followed the limping man out of the classroom, you felt everyone’s eyes on you.

“I have a job for you if you want it,” House tell you finally, stopping in front of a door. “It’s tough, people lie to you every day, and we don’t even have decent coffee.”

You look from him to the door that reads ‘Gregory House M.D. - Head of Diagnostic Medicine’. “I have literally spoken to you three times. How do you know I won’t accept the job, wait until you trust me, and then steal all your money and leave?”

House paused. “Good question. Will you accept the job, wait until I trust you, and then steal all my money and leave?”

“Probably not,” you reply.

“Great!” House exclaims. “You’re hired.”

Over the course of the next few month, you had clicked immediately with Chase. You spoke passionately about different types of literature with Cameron, and joked with Foreman about anything and everything.

Your relationship with House was complicated to say the least. During your first official case, House insisted he followed you everywhere. You more than understood his hesitance to let you do tests completely on your own. But when he limped around, tracking you like a damn dog… you wondered why he still hadn’t trusted you enough.

To your fortune, Wilson had cornered you in the cafeteria as you were getting lunch. “We need to talk,” he had said before plopping down next to you.

You paused, looking up from your cafeteria spaghetti. “About what?”

“House.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Why?”

Wilson looked at you with an expectant expression. “Because I want to know what you said. Duh.”

“I think I’m missing something,” you told him. “What was I supposed to say to him? What was he supposed to say to me?”

Wilson dropped his silverware. “Are you serious? He didn’t- You don’t- What?”

“I’m lost here, Wilson,” you tell him.

Wilson looks around suspiciously before licking his lips. “So… you know how the medical gala is coming up?”

Nodding, you shove a forkful of noodles in your mouth. “Chase won’t shut up about seeing ‘all the hot babes in tight dresses’ or something,” you inform Wilson.

After guffawing over your imitation of Chase’s accent, he gets serious. “It’s in a week. Are you sure he hasn’t talked to you?”

You throw your hands up and sigh. “Just spit it out already, Wilson. I feel like a high schooler trying to get my friends tell me who they have a cute little crush on. Tell me or I’m gonna pop a blood vessel!”

Wilson looks away. “I can’t. I’m scared of House.”

With that, he picks up his tray and goes to leave.

“Bye bye, Willie!” You call.

James turns and glares at you before walking out of the room. You chuckle and attempt to finish your meal before your beeper will inevitably go off.

You just start chowing down on the garlic bread (read: bread with butter and garlic) when you hear the dreaded beeping. You bite off a large chunk of the bread and dump your tray before reading the ‘MY OFFICE- EMERGENCY’ that was from House.

When you finally pushed open the door, you saw House facing the window outside.

“Is our patient with the living?” You ask, taking a step towards House.

House doesn’t turn around. “I need you to go to the winter gala thing with me.”

You stiffen up. Throughout your whole body, your muscles tighten as your freeze midstep. Your face drains of blood and your heart feels like it just dropped into your stomach and was dissolved by the acid. Bile had just started rising up your esophagus when House turns.

“Don’t look so excited,” he insists sarcastically. “But seriously. Why are you looking at me like I have a tumor growing out of my eyeball?”

“No,” you mutter raspily. “Take Cameron.”

House’s eyebrows furrow as you turn on your heel and start to leave.

“Why won’t you go with me?”

You gnaw deeply at your lip as you turn. To your surprise, House was standing- watching you leave without his cane in his hand. “Go with Cameron,” you say again. “I don’t- I’m- No. Just no.”

“Y/n, why-“

You practically run out the door before Greg can even say your name. He stands by his desk, staring intently at the ground where you just stood. “Hm,” he hums. He sighs and thinks about what to say to you next.

The next three days consist of House trying and failing to speak to you. To his own surprise, you have completely stopped talking about personal matters with him and have withdrawn any of your own opinions except for facts having to do with the patient.

House had just finished off another bottle of pills when Foreman barged into the room. “What did you say?”

House blinks. “Uhh… to who? Where? When?”

“To y/n, House. What did you say to y/n?”

“I told her that I needed her to go to the winter gala with me,” House answered truthfully. “Why? Has she said anything to you?”

Foreman flops down in the chair facing House. “Do you like her?”

“Well, I hired her, didn’t I?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it, House,” Foreman snaps. “Answer me. Do you like her?”

A moment of silence fills the air. House thinks back to the first time he interacted with you- how confidently you completely the puzzle that certified doctor’s couldn’t figure out. How you had matched House’s wit on your very first day. How you- despite being babysat- had completed every test and blood swab and every challenge House had put in your way. How your face often spoke before you did, how House unconsciously searched for you in a crowd, how House looked for your input after almost anything is said, how House wants your company.

“No,” he answers. “Yes. Maybe. Why?”

Foreman looks at House like he’s stupid. “Because she likes you! How have you not figured that out?!”

“Uh, maybe because of the fact that she seemed to want to projectile vomit all over me and then sprinted out of the room? Sorry, I was too focused on the horror in her eyes to consider the fact that y/n really wants that enemies to lovers trope in real life,” House rambled.

“She thinks you’re gonna make a fool out of her, House, and I think you are too,” Foreman answers. He stares at House, searching for information he won’t get. “But… you’re less abrasive when she’s around.”

“You’re acting like she’s your precious little baby sister about to be wed to an evil ogre in the woods,” Greg mutters.

Nodding, Foreman quirked his eyebrows. “I feel like I am.”

House looks at Foreman for a long moment. “Why did you come here to tell me this?”

Eric heaves out a sigh heavy enough to know down an elephant. “Because she wants you to mean it. Y/n wants you to want her. To show her that you want her.”

“I see.”

Foreman nodded. “Don’t tell her I conversed with the enemy.”

Greg scoffed. “As if she’d voluntarily talk to me.”

Eric’s face turned sympathetic. “Just talk to her. Show her this isn’t some whim to- I don’t know, win a bet against Cuddy. Show her you feel the same.”

It was the day of the gala when House found you testing a patient’s blood. You whispered lyrics to a song Greg didn’t know as he stealthily approached you.

“Y/n.”

Your breath caught in your throat in a weird choking noise as you leapt back. “Christ, House!”

“Sorry,” House said with a very unapologetic tone. “I want to talk to you.”

“About what?” You ask plainly, looking through the low power lens of the microscope.

House leans on the table as you adjust the stage. “About… the dance. Tonight.”

You adjust the fine adjustment knob slowly, clicking your tongue unconciously. “What do you have to tell me?”

Greg looks around the lab awkwardly. He silently tried to encourage himself, mentally recalling the nights before, thinking about what to say to you. “I want to formally ask you to go to the gala with me.”

You stand at full height, facing him directly. House held his breath. He was so close to you, he thought he felt your breath on his face. “I don’t want to go. With you, Cameron, Chase, or Foreman. I don’t want to go.”

“Why?” House asked immediately.

You shake your head. “I’m-These things never go well for me House. Besides, you could just go with Cameron. I know she’s dying to go with you.”

House watches you watch him. “I don’t want to go to Cameron. I want to go with you,” he admits lowly.

“And why do you want to go with me?”

House pauses to see your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips- so fast that he almost didn’t notice. “Because I don’t like her the way I like you.’’

You swallow. “How do you like me, House?”

“Like this,” he tells you before dropping his cane and grabbing your waist. Hearing no complaints from you, Greg pulls you close to him and brings his face close to yours. At this point, House swears his vision is blurred by how fast his heart his pumping. House’s hold on your waist is possessive, protective. He hesitates, hoping you won’t reject him now.

You- thankfully- understand the words House is trying to tell you through his eyes. You carefully let your hand cup the nape of House’s neck and pull his lips down to yours. A breathless moan escapes your lips as Greg pulls you flush against him.

House’s head- for once- is silent. And his leg doesn’t seem to hurt quite so bad with your hands on his body: feeling him like he’s only dreamt about before.

And then- when you do pull back- House keeps his grip on your waist as he looks you in the eyes. “I want to go to the gala with you. If you don’t have a dress, then we can just go home.”

Your flushed lips pull into a dazed smile. “How much cleavage do you want to see?”

House groans and lets his head fall back as his eyes close. “As long as I can take it off tonight and any other day I don’t care.”

“Is that- Are you- Are you hinting at commitment? Who are you and what have you done with Gregory House?”

House guffaws sarcastically. “Careful, there. I could get you fired.”

You just laugh. “Yeah, and have the others bicker like siblings and let patients almost die thrice before diagnosing them? I don’t think so.”

“You know, you have a pretty big ego for someone who hasn’t worked here for a full year, yet,” House chides.

Scoffing, you attempt to return to the blood you were looking at before House interrupted you. “First of all, you would know about egos. Second of all, I’m good. Cuddy has spoken to me… about other positions,” you tell him vaguely.

House is taken so off guard, his arms go limp. “What?”

“Nothing I accepted,” you answer, turning back to the microscope.

House just hums. “Good.”

You murmur a quiet ‘good’ in reply. “I know how to cure this guy,” you breathe quietly. With a growing smile, you take the slide off the stage and turn off the microscope before discarding the bio-waste.

House struggled to keep up with how fast you were walking, but your kiss had definitely left him chasing you- literally and figuratively.

[ssaaaronmontgomery]

Fluffy Feb Day 28- Comfort Sex [Greg Montgomery]

Warnings: established relationship, praise kink, some dumbification, overstimulation, oral sex (both receiving), condescending Greg, p in v sex, comfort sex but make it a little kinky because February can be very tough and I know the girlies are struggling rn (I am one of the girlies)

Pairing: Greg Montgomery x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: big love to @greg-montgomery for reading it over, and inspiring me to write this, and to @doctorstethoscope for putting on this amazing event❤️ this is the first thing I’ve written for a non CM character, so please let me know what you think! Happy fluffy feb, folks. That’s a wrap

“Hi, honey!” The predictable kiss to your cheek when Greg sets his briefcase down should make you feel better, but the smile you force makes him pause. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The lie rolls off your tongue with ease. You’re fine. “How was your day?”

“It was Anderson’s last day, so Pete brought a few strippers into the office. Oh, and I finished up that divorce settlement that’s been dragging on.” Greg’s jacket comes off and he hangs it on the coat rack before moving toward the sofa. “My mother wants us to come over for dinner on Friday to discuss the charity luncheon. It’s for sick horses, or maybe women, I think; she either said ‘equestrian’ or ‘equality’, but the stripper music was really loud.”

“So a normal day, for you.” Your teasing falls a little flat, and he frowns as he sits down next to you on the sofa.

“I guess. Hey, what’s going on? Where’s that smile?” His coaxing doesn’t have the effect he’s looking for, you’re sure. Instead, your chin wobbles and you let out a huff of annoyance. “Talk to me. Come on.”

“Everyone’s just… everyone is an idiot,” you snap, catching yourself off-guard with the fury behind your words. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s just, I feel like I’m the only person at work who has a brain and knows how to use it, and I feel like I’m doing everything, and now my boss is mad at me because I’ve made a few mistakes because I’ve been doing everyone else’s job, and now we have this luncheon to worry about for your mother’s horses, and-”

“Hey.” His voice is sharp, and one hand encircles your wrist. “Just breathe. Don’t apologize to me. I want you to tell me this kind of stuff, honey, you know that. Is anything else bothering you?”

The laundry list of things that have been annoying you seems meagre when you actually have to say it out loud. “I got stuck on the way to work behind a car that didn’t use its turn signal,” you mumble. “And the diner was out of sandwiches when I went there for lunch because they didn’t make enough to last all day. It’s all dumb stuff, I’m just tired.”

“It’s not dumb. If it’s bothering you, it’s not dumb,” Greg promises. “What can I do to help? Just say the word.”

You huff again, ignoring the way his lips twitch at the sound. “I don’t know. I just feel like you and I are the only people in the world who have two brain cells to rub together, and I’m tired of it. I spend every single day thinking for everyone and fixing things they should fix, and doing things they should be doing.”

Greg puts one arm around your shoulders, pulling you in sideways. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dragging his lips against your cheek in a long kiss. “You know what I think?”

“That I should get promoted? Or at least, get in less trouble?” You grumble, allowing him to pull you close. “Good luck with that.”

“Well, yes,” he agrees after a second. “Of course. But I can’t do that. What I can do is, I can turn your pretty little brain off for a while.”

Oh. That’s not what you were expecting to hear, but it sounds nice. “I just don’t want to think,” you mumble, playing with one of the buttons on his shirt. “It’s too much.”

“I know it is, baby. Come on, it’s okay,” he soothes. One of his hands slides down your side, seamlessly unbuttoning your pants. “Can I? Let me take care of you.”

That’s the magical sentence, the key to the kingdom, and you nod in answer. Your eyes start to flutter shut when his fingers toy with the waistband of your panties, but you force yourself to keep them open so you can look at him.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs again, leaning in to line your neck with kisses. “No need to think. You’re mine, remember? And I take good care of what’s mine.”

It’s true, he does, and you can already feel yourself going fuzzy around the edges when he circles your clit with one finger. “Mm…”

You feel his smile against your skin, that self-satisfied smirk he wears whenever he turns you to putty. “That’s it. Just take it, just like that. My good girl’s already getting so wet for me, so perfect.”

Greg won’t push a finger in until you’re dripping; you know that from experience. One of his fingers keeps circling your clit, and he uses his other hand to push down your shirt and bra, giving him access to thumb at your nipple.

“I’ll, I can take it off,” you offer, already thinking about sliding off your shirt and unclasping your bra, and Greg sinks his teeth into the skin of your shoulder in warning.

“I’ll take it off when I want it off,” he promises. “Stop trying so hard. You’re mine, I’m in charge here. You’re going to get what I give you, yeah? You’ve got a safeword. If you aren’t saying it, you’re taking what you get.”

“Y-yeah.” Your breath hitches through the word when he pinches your nipple, his finger rubbing you faster with more and more pressure as the seconds pass. 

His hand moves down slightly, and he groans into your ear when he swipes a finger through your folds to discover how wet you are. “That’s it. Is this turning you on, hm? You like it when I take good care of my princess?” One finger moves back to rub at your clit, lubricated with your arousal.

When he pulls his head away from your shoulder, you bury his face in his neck. It hardly muffles your moans, or your whines of, “Gonna, I need to, please,” against his skin.

“Come for me,” he coaxes. “You don’t have to ask, it’s okay. All over my hand, just like that, go ahead.”

The permission is like a release all on its own, and you moan unabashedly into him as you come, shaking and writhing against him as you grind down onto his hand. 

His finger stays steady against you, working you through your orgasm while you whimper into his neck. When he doesn’t stop playing with your clit, you pull back with a soft groan.

“Was good,” you sigh out, and Greg kisses you sweetly without his rhythm faltering. “I’m- oh, I’m good, baby, thank you.”

“Very good,” he agrees, his voice soft and husky against your lips. “I’ve got such a good girl. You can come again, good girl, I know you can.”

“Greg…” You squirm under him, pleasure mounting quickly as your first orgasm starts to build into your second without letting you come down first. 

He shushes you, kissing your neck again as you come undone on his fingers a second time, your orgasm cresting like a soft wave. “You can take it, just like that. So wet for me, sweetheart, so perfect.” The praise kisses your ears as he kisses you again, finally, blissfully withdrawing his hand as you take a deep breath.

Several deep breaths later, you start to return to yourself. The orgasms weren’t fireworks, or mind-blowing. They were good, of course, but they washed over you in a gentle wave of pleasure rather than making you cry out or making your eyes roll back in your head.

“Ready for more?” He asks with another slow kiss, and you pull back to blink at him.

“More?” You echo, and Greg chuckles at that.

Standing up off the couch, he offers you one hand and you take it. “Yes, more,” he promises, leading you toward the bedroom. “My girl hasn’t had enough yet. I want to hear you beg.”

The bed is soft beneath you when he lays you back, skimming both hands down your eyes before slowly- painfully slowly- tugging your pants and underwear down until they hit the floor. “I want to taste you,” you mumble, and he grins.

Something about sucking him off, having the most intimate part of him under your control, never fails to drive you crazy. Some days, he comes home to find you already on your knees because you crave the taste of him so badly. Although, ever since one incident where you’d nicked the head of his dick with one of your teeth, he has a new… approach.

“You think you can take it? Already, baby, but you need to be careful,” he warns. “Remember, my good girl knows how to listen. You can unzip me.”

His zipper comes down so fast that it’s almost comical, and when he gives permission you push his pants and boxers off while he discards his shirt. 

“I want it.” Your voice is breathless as you eye his hard cock, hard enough to be standing up when he lays back on the bed.

“I know you do,” he says, his voice equal parting soothing and husky. “Okay, greedy girl. You remember what to do?”

This part always frustrates you; the way he talks like you’ve never blown him before, like you’ve never had him whining for your touch. “I know,” you huff, and he wraps one hand in your hair to steady it against the back of your head.

He continues talking like he hasn’t heard you. “First, you can grip it. Stroke nice and slow, get me ready. Stick out your tongue, that’s it. Look how fast my girl is learning.”

You’re perched between his thighs, one hand gripping his hairy leg while you take his cock in your other hand and stroke it. Nice and slow, just like he said, and when you see a bead of pre-cum your tongue slides out of your open mouth of its own volition. 

“I’m ready,” you insist, and Greg twists his hand in your hair just tight enough to hurt. “I am! I’m ready, I can do it.”

“You can do it if you can follow instructions,” he corrects you. “Tap the head on your tongue, sweetheart. Let me feel that mouth.”

“Could feel more of my mouth,” you mumble, but he ‘tsk’s at that until you follow his direction.

“Not yet, I can’t,” he sighs while he watches you, sympathetic. “Now, maybe if my greedy girl weren’t a safety hazard, we could do this however you want. But for now, you’re listening to me.”

You want to complain about that, but then he’s got his free hand steadying your jaw. “Open up more,” he murmurs, and your jaw drops obediently. “Good girl. If I feel anything other than that tongue and those pretty lips, I’m going to edge you until you cry. And we don’t want that, do we?”

He uses the hand tangled in your hair to shake your head for you. “No, we don’t.” He answers his own question, then slowly pushes into your mouth. “Just like that, good girl,” he praises. “You can stroke the rest of it, for now. You feel so good, I don’t want to finish too soon.”

Your eyes flutter shut as you listen to his instructions, bobbing your head only as much as he allows you to. Drool escapes your mouth, making the glide of your hand on his cock smoother, and you shift with excitement when you hear him sigh in pleasure.

You’re doing it. You’re being his good girl, following his instructions so perfectly, and if you could live out the rest of your days with your head between his thighs and his hands holding you in place, you surely would. It’s blissful, the familiar weight of him in your mouth, grounding you.

Time passes- how much, you can’t say- and Greg lets you get closer, take a little more of him. He even lets you suckle at his sac at one point before guiding you back up to his cock and thrusting shallowly; something he does so rarely that it feels like a reward for you when he does. He pumps into your mouth, once, twice, and you can feel him twitch against your tongue before he pulls out completely.

“Didn’t finish,” you complain, and he shuts you up by pulling you closer up on the bed with the hand in your hair and kissing you.

“I know, baby,” he soothes when you’ve broken apart, discarding your shirt and bra to the floor. “I know. But you got to taste, and now I can make my girl feel so good, can’t I?”

“Fuck me.” It’s half demand, half plea, and Greg is having none of it.

“Not yet.” He lays you back on the bed and gets between your thighs, kissing a line down your neck. When you whine with impatience, two of his fingers nudge your lips. “Suck on those, sweetheart. You can be good for a little longer.”

He’s right, you can be, so you eagerly suck the digits into your mouth as his lips caress your breasts, then your stomach, then your upper thighs while he slides down the bed. “Mm,” you protest around the fingers when you spread your legs for him, and he doesn’t immediately dive between them, instead pulling the fingers out of your mouth and tracing your nipple with saliva.

Sucking his cock has gotten you worked up again, and you’re ready for one of those mind-numbing, toe-curling orgasms that only he can give you. Luckily, he acquiesces after a long moment, wrapping his lips around your clit to suck. Hard.

His tongue pushes into you, curling and probing perfectly, and he pulls off after a minute just to murmur, “Come when you’re ready,” and then he’s back on you with fervour. When you do come, your back arches and you cry out and this time you definitely see fireworks, but he’s still not stopping. “Again,” he insists, panting into your skin as his tongue flicks against your clit and you moan.

Both of your hands are tangled in his hair by the time he pulls away, and by then you’ve got no idea how many times you’ve finished. Orgasm has blurred into orgasm, one continuous stream of pleasure that has you blinking away tears and breathing heavily when Greg comes up for air. His chin is wet, his eyes sinfully dark, and he’s still got a stupid smirk on his face, and if you could possibly come again you would probably do it just from looking at him.

“Just a few more,” he promises you, fisting his cock. It’s an angry purple, the bedsheet under him spotted with pre-cum, and you moan aloud at the idea of him enjoying eating you out so much that’s turning him on. His promise of ‘a few more’ doesn’t even register, at first. You’re drunk off the feel of his tongue, unable to form a sentence if you tried, and you need him inside you now.

“Please.” It’s a whine, and Greg grins at your needy pout while he kisses you. “Please, I need it.”

“I know you do,” he whispers. “Can you ride me? Can my princess handle that?”

You shake your head, no, you can’t handle it. Your legs are trembling and achy, you’ve come too many times, and you couldn’t move right now if you tried.

Instead of getting frustrated, Greg just chuckles while he pushes your legs back open. “No?” He teases, pressing the head of his cock against your hole. He pushes the head in slightly, then pulls it out just to hear your lewd moan at the loss. “Did I make my good girl so dumb she can’t even ride me? I’ve been so nice to you, sweetheart, and you can’t help your man out?”

Tears prick at your eyes as you nod furiously. “M sorry,” you gasp out, willing your legs to spread further for him. His thumb grazes your clit again and you flinch, overstimulated. “It’s, it’s too much, I can’t.”

“Don’t be sorry, baby.” His grin doesn’t falter as his thumb speeds up, pressing directly on the bundle of nerves until your eyes roll back and your back arches off the bed. “I’ll forgive you if you can come again, how’s that sound?”

It sounds impossible, but the way he’s giving you no reprieve is starting to make you shake under him all over again. “Can’t, I can’t, please!”

“I think you can.” He presses his cock into you again, hardly an inch. “You love it when I do this, you love being my dumb baby. You beg for it. Soak my cock, get it nice and wet so I can fuck you.”

Your whimper almost breaks the sound barrier, you swear. Greg’s thumb doesn’t slow down or break the rhythm at all when you try to squirm away, and he pins you down with one hand on your abdomen. “Please, please, please, please!”

It’s hard to tell what you’re begging for now, but he doesn’t care. His tongue pokes out in concentration, staring down at your pussy as you clench around the head of his cock. When his eyes dart up, connecting with yours, you shatter.

It’s like falling off a skyscraper, becoming a firework, a train of pleasure colliding with your body as you howl. Words escape you and your mouth falls open in a silent scream when he finally, blissfully, pushes in the rest of the way. You can’t focus on him or the way he cups your cheek or the words he mumbles, you can’t focus on anything except the slick drag of his cock inside you.

“Knew you could do it,” he pants, squeezing your jaw a little. “So pretty when you come for me, baby.”

“Greg, Greg, Greg-” You’re gasping out his name with each punctuated thrust, the only word in your brain now. You can’t even remember your own name, you’re so fuzzy.

“Did I get my girl all stupid?” He croons, grinning down at you with that sinisterly innocent smile. “Oh, I did. Look at those pretty eyes. All glazed over, not a single thought in there. You like my cock that much, princess? Hm?”

“Mhm, mm,” you moan behind closed lips, and you hear his chuckle.

“I thought so. You like it when I treat you good? When I rub that clit until you can’t breathe?” Your sharp inhale follows the sound of him spitting onto his hand, reaching down to roll circles around the swollen bud. “I know you need it, baby, you can do it.”

There are tears streaming down your face now, and you hardly know when they started. You’re too overwhelmed with pleasure, you can hardly stand it, you don’t know how much longer you can go. You don’t want to stop, that’s the only thing you know. He’s in charge, like he always tells you. He knows best, you’re his dumb baby, and you can take whatever he gives you, you can.

“That’s my good girl,” he coos when you don’t try to argue. “Just like that. I’m thinking for you, remember? You’re all mine. You’re going to let me keep playing with this pretty pussy, aren’t you?”

Swallowing a sob, you can only nod as he kisses you again. You let him invade your mouth as you grip his back, leaving scratches that are sure to burn but he only hisses in pleasure. You’re being so good that you’re almost dizzy with the thought of it, so good for him, he’s mumbling into your mouth that you’re so fucking perfect and it makes you shudder in pleasure. 

It can’t be possible for your body to come again, but it also shouldn’t be possible for one man to be so perfect, and you think that Greg can find a way to do anything. When you start to feel that familiar twist in your belly you whine, and he pulls his hand away, and you don’t know if you’re disappointed or relieved.

“Can I come?” He asks, breathless, just what you’ve been waiting for, and he places his hand on your stomach. “Right here, can I fill you up?”

The sigh of relief he lets out when you nod is orgasmic in its own right. He thrusts again, once, twice more, and then you can feel him flooding your insides like he promised, filling you up with him. “Good girl,” he gasps out as he ruts through it, crushing his lips to yours as you kiss back hazily, messily.

Instead of collapsing on the bed when he pulls out, he immediately moves back down your body and mouths at your hip. “I’m gonna clean you up,” he says, gazing up at you as his lips trail lower and he sucks a mark on your inner thigh. “One more, on my tongue. My good girl can do it.”

Truthfully, you don’t know if you can. You feel weighed down, boneless, and the idea of ever coming again sounds impossible. But you’re good for him, you’re his good girl, you’re his, so you just nod. 

“Eyes on me,” he whispers, and he keeps his gaze locked on you as- fuck, as his tongue pushes inside you and curls, lapping up the taste of himself before it can leak out of you. Greg moans against you, into you, and as soon as you can feel your arms again you place one hand in his hair. It’s damp with sweat, the locks sliding through your fingers, and when you tangle your fingers in it to keep a grip on him he only licks harder.

Your hips rock up off the bed to meet his mouth, and his nose bumps against your clit as he tries to get even closer to you. Once he’s satisfied with cleaning his cum out of you he pulls back, still holding eye contact with you, and you see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

You must have died, several orgasms ago. This must be heaven.

Greg latches back onto your clit in a frenzy, sucking hard as he rolls his tongue over the bud, and a fresh stream of tears escapes you when you sob, yanking his hair hard, chanting yes, yes, yes, and please, Greg, fuck, as you come undone on his tongue like you have so many times tonight.

His tongue laves over you as you come down, an unspoken apology to your overused pussy, and he pulls away after you whine softly. Your hands release his hair and he moves up the bed, kissing you gingerly.

This might be your favourite part; lying in his arms in the afterglow, with no need to do or say or think. “Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs once you’ve settled into him. “You did so well for me. How’s my best girl doing?”

Words haven’t returned to you yet; maybe they never will. When he wraps one arm around your shoulders, you roll over on your side to nestle your head in your favourite spot between his jaw and his collarbone and hum with contentment.

“So perfect,” he praises, and you turn your face into the crook of his neck. He loves to praise you, especially afterwards, and you both know how badly you want- no, need- to hear it, but it still gets you embarrassed sometimes. “You took me so well, sweet girl. I’m so proud of you.”

“Sorry.” Your voice is raspy, your throat dry, and your words are muffled against him. “Couldn’t ride you, Greg. ‘M sorry.”

“Hey,” he pulls back just enough to kiss the side of your head, “No apologizing. You could never let me down, angel. You’re so perfect for me, all the time.” When you relax back against him, he continues speaking, and you can hear the grin in his voice. “Honestly, after all that, I’ll be impressed if you can even walk.”

There might be a challenge in his tone, or maybe you’re just imagining it, because when you hmph indignantly he lets out a tranquil sigh and starts stroking soothing lines down your back with the hand wrapped around you. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s not find out tonight. You deserve some rest. Do you need anything else?”

After a moment, you inhale deeply. You’re surrounded by the scent and feel and voice of the man you love. The taste of him is still in your mouth, and you’ve got a perfectly-captured image in your mind’s eye of the beautiful smile he gave you before he kissed you. You’ve got everything you need, and you shake your head to tell him that.

“Alright. You’ll let me know if you need anything, okay?” He waits for you to nod. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” you mumble. You want to hear more of him, you want him to speak until his is the only voice you recognize, so you ask the only thing you can think of short of asking him to read you the dictionary. “How was your day?”

A smile pulls at his lips, and you can see it in your head when you feel his jaw shift above you. It’s that lopsided smile that always makes you want to kiss him silly, you just know it is. “It was good. It was Anderson’s last day, and we had a party. How was your day, princess?”

You sigh against his skin, relaxing into his embrace like it’s a warm cloud you could sink into and never emerge from. “It was perfect.”

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[crossingthedreams]

do better — gregory house x f!reader

a/n: I got a little carried away, per usual, and now I’m late with day 04 of the angstober challenge (still a wyp), but I plan on finishing it and posting later today. but, omg, I can’t believe I'm posting day 05 — do better on time! this is also part of @angstober‘s challenge, which I'm having a blast writing. I do love some angsty vibes. please, feel free to comment or dm me!

summary: a relationship between the boss and his employee has a million ways to go wrong. one, in particular, hurt them the most. 

word count: 2.2k

warnings: angst. House is an asshole. mentions of family death. mentions of cancer. struggles with immigration. inappropriate relationship. mentions of smut.

Let medicine be thy food. 

That's the quote, or at least you think it is. After a particularly long shift, words in English seemed to scramble together a bit, with it being your second language and all. Usually, you’re a natural, perfect, fluent speaker. There are moments, however, when understanding what your peers are saying or formulating cohesive sentences becomes a herculean task. You didn’t make yourself unintelligible, but it was a little awkward to be with a patient who clearly had no idea how globalized the world was and how many doctors in the United States were not native English speakers, and who looked at you like you had just robbed the white coat from a “proper doctor”.

Sure, dealing with people was shitty sometimes. “Doctors don’t treat people, they treat illnesses”, your boss had once said. But in your mind, people weren’t that bad. The long hours, the sleep deprivation, the lack of a social life — that was the really bad part. And there were, of course, the very short lunch breaks. 

Medicine was fun, but it had nothing on a full plate of pasta with those weird looking meatballs. What once was disgusting, now seemed appetizing as hell. Not eating once while working for the whole night could do that to a person. Medicine was not food, at least not literally.

You had taken off your sweater and your white coat a while before going to the cafeteria, where the rest of the team was. As of right now, you and Chase had spent thirty-six hours working. Cameron and Foreman had taken the long straws and gone home last night while you and the prettiest doctor around worked on some lab tests. 

That man who, right now, was not really trying to hide how he lustfully eyed you up and down, stopping on your cleavage. You didn’t blame him for looking, though. Firstly, you did spend the night working together and you mentioned that you did not have sex for the last six months, and secondly, you had nice boobs, which was both a blessing and a curse. Also, he was very much exhausted. Thinking about your coworkers in an unfashionable manner to keep awake was better than falling asleep atop of a patient during a lumbar puncture — you had done both, so you could tell, oops. 

“I’ll die if I have to do any more thinking”, the pretty doctor said, accent even more prominent, letting his head drop to the headrest of his seat behind him. 

“Yes, thinking just doesn’t come naturally to some people”, you laughingly replied, sitting down next to Foreman. He scooched over, making more room for you and your tray. There was enough pasta on your plate to feed two, not to mention the salad, the dessert, the can of Coke and the can of energy drink. 

“Damn, kid, do you not have food at home?” You eyed Foreman, a little annoyed at the comment. Why did men think they had the right to comment on women’s food choices and bodies all the damn time? “Don’t give me that look, you know that’s a lot, especially for a girl who skips lunch every other day”. 

“Not by choice” you said, taking a lot of pasta into your mouth. “Nof ba chos”, you replied, mouth full, making everyone at the table let out a tired laugh. 

It was an uneventful meal. The team was really tired, especially Chase, who almost dropped his head on his plate twice. The four of you rushed upstairs when lunch was over, after being paged by your boss. 

The man himself was pacing back and forth in the conference room, brows furrowed and looking extremely aggravated. Nothing new, then, you think, sitting down across from Cameron. 

Allison Cameron and you had been friends since med school, and getting to work together was pretty nice. Women in STEM need each other, of that you were sure. The thing is, she was in a weird place romantically, which made you feel weird about getting along with the people about whom she was confused — which hardly makes sense, but it is what it is. She had a crush on your boss for the longest time, and that didn’t work out at all. And then there was Chase, who she had slept with, but had no interest in further pursuing. 

Hanging out with Chase knowing he’d seen her naked was a little weird, but the fact they’d slept together wasn’t the problem. He liked her, and that was her problem. Your boss, well, he was everybody’s problem. 

Particularly yours, considering… you know. The one-night-that-became-every-night. The HR-nightmare. The doing-the-devil’s-tango. The seeing-each-other-scars. The kissing-and-absolutely-not-telling.

It was fairly easy sneaking around. He was inappropriate, sure, but not big on PDA. He treated you like any other dumbass employee with boobs. If anyone saw the two of you leaving the hospital together? You worked together. If you were seen going towards the same place? You’re neighbors, duh. And if anyone happened to see the two of you having breakfast together in the little café a block around his place? Well, it was a coincidence meeting him there! 

If they saw you giving him head while he tried to play the piano, well… There’s no explanation for that. 

You looked at him coming and going, and you knew his leg must be killing him. Yesterday when you left his home in the morning to pick up your stuff for the day (which turned out to be the day, the night and the next day), he was popping more pills than usual. Shit. 

“New case?”, Cameron asked, looking at the limping man with worry and care in her eyes. You liked her a lot, but she had to stop thinking about your limping man with such care. 

Sure, she liked him first. And she probably worried for him just as she would anyone else. And it was ridiculous to be annoyed at your long-time friend for caring for her boss. Still, there was a sting of jealousy that made you want to bitch-slap her. 

He finally stopped and looked at all of you. When his eyes finally met you, he looked right at your low cut top and let out a “Yowza!”. When you blushed and stood up to pick your white coat, he called your last name, and said, nonchalantly: “Nice boobs”. 

You raised a hand to pinch at the bridge of your nose as you sat down. It might seem like sexual harassment — and at first, it was a little bit —, but now it was just him being as inappropriate as always. Hiding from his feelings, keeping his distance with pathetic remarks and cold attitudes. It made you sad when you started working for him, but right now, you pinched your nose to stop you from giggling like a sixteen year old cheerleader being noticed by the boy on the football team. Or rather, the boy on the bench cursing at the stupid players.

Dr. Gregory House had a massive crush on you, and that made all the shit he did go away. 

You realized Chase started updating House on the patient you spent all night testing and monitoring. Truth is, that guy didn’t stand a chance for a normal life here on forward. At best, he had a benign hereditary chorea. Worst case scenario, it was Huntington manifesting earlier than it should, as you’d been saying from the beginning. 

“Shut up”, House said to Chase, making those blue Australian eyes widen. Poor guy, he looked beyond exhausted. “I understand how DNA testing works. I went to med school too, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was seven hundred years ago”, you let out before you could think twice. You teased House a little for being older. Scratch that, you gave him a lot of crap for being older. You just didn’t do it in front of the team, which was why they all looked at you horrified. 

Horrified, but Foreman was holding in a laugh.

The ‘old-man’ hit his cane on the desk, turning the attention back to him. “Ouch”.

You smiled, playing it off like a remark made by an exhausted overworked young woman who disliked her boss. House half-screamed some orders to all of you, even though he already knew you had clinic duty. 

The hours left to finish on the clinic were manageable, so you could finish it after you did some of the tests House asked.  

Time passed by too quickly, and as your day went by, you remembered you had to talk to Wilson as soon as possible. It wasn’t a life or death matter, but a peace of mind kind of thing. You decided to stop by his office before you It was then that you overheard something you shouldn’t have.

Well, that brought the high school memories right back. 

It was the middle of the afternoon, also known as the beginning of your third shift in a row, and you were stopping by Wilson’s office to discuss a private matter. A family member of yours had cancer, and then another one. By the time your fourth relative came down with the diagnosis, you decided to check your genetic predisposition. Although the tests came back clean, meaning you were safe for oncology purposes, you still wanted to know his opinion on how you could be even safer.

You looked cancer in the eyes many times. You didn’t want to look at it in the mirror too. 

For some godly reason, you stopped before knocking. That’s when you recognized your boss’s voice, complaining about something, per usual. 

“She’s a baby! She had never watched Grease, for crying out loud”, the voice and the footsteps made their sounds in harmony. You leaned in closer to the door, to try and listen better. 

“Well, you two barely know each other, now it’s the time to know if there’s a future in this relationship or not. And would you ever marry her?”, Wilson’s voice, and the words made you freeze. 

“Not everyone has marriage on the brain 24/7, Wilson”, House replied. Even from behind the door, you could almost hear the engines in his brain turning. “And God, no. I could never marry her. I can do better than a gullible third-world princess”.

You froze.

Of course he’d say that. Of course. Even if he didn’t mean it. 

The realization came like an electrical shock flowing through your body. You felt it, and it made the hairs on the nape of your neck rise. 

You meant nothing to him. 

As an immigrant, the feeling of never belonging is constant. You don’t belong in the place you now live, but you don’t really belong in the place you were born. 

You had felt for a fraction of a second that you could find your place here. In House's department. Perhaps, even with House. God, you were stupid. You were a device for him to finish his puzzles, and an object to finish… Well, to finish himself off. 

As you left your transe and heard the voices again, you ran as fast as you could back to the clinic, where you had a couple hours left to finish. There was something you needed to arrange with Cuddy, too. 

Hours later, you were in the department’s room reading some exams when House walked in. 

He eyed you up and down again, eyes lingering on your breasts a little longer than a boss’ eyes normally would. “So”, he took his bootle from his jacket and opened it, popping a couple of pills, “your place or mine?” 

“You suck”, you murmured, angrily, but pouting a little. He’d never admit it, but he loved seeing you a little aggravated, crossing your arms in front of your body in a way that made your already eye-catching torso irresistible. 

He smiled a little, putting the medicine back in his pocket. “No, sweetheart”, he now fully grinned, “that’s you.”

You rolled your eyes, but let your arms fall and a cold smile creeped into your face. 

“Yes, I do, actually”, you rose up from the chair and walked all the way towards him, hitting your hand towards his chest and pressing the paper you were holding against him. “I’m a full on sucker, and ass-kisser, as you like to point out. That’s why your so called mortal enemy offered me a job in New York”. 

He took the paper, blue eyes never leaving yours. 

“Consider this my two weeks notice”. It was hard to say, but it felt a little good, too. Logically, there were no downsides in this opportunity. Then, why did it hurt so much? “I guess everyone was right. I can do better”.

The double meaning was not lost on House. 

Your hand finally left his chest, and he didn’t look back as you left. 

Looking at it now, it all seems so simple. It never is, though, is it? Especially with House. And you, an intelligent, kind, talented and ambitious young woman, could definitely do better than attach yourself to a crippled, bitter, odious older man. 

You were doing better now. So, why, pray tell, why did this still hurt so much? 

[vigilante-3073]

Pretty In Pink

James Wilson x Female Reader

Summary: House is curious about Wilson's newly formed relationship with the head of the Pediatrics Department.

TW: Mentions of infidelity, questioning.

House sat in the clinic, loud music and sound effects echoing from the speaker of his Gameboy as he played his video game. A young boy sat on the examination table, kicking his scuffed up sneakers boredly as his mother stood beside him. The boy had an ear infection. It was a rather nasty case, but a treatment of antibiotics would resolve it pretty quickly.

The diagnosis was definitely not something House needed assistance with, but he had some questions for the head of Pediatrics.

Doctor L/N had been hired just over two years ago and had recently started seeing Wilson romantically. Wilson refused to give House any details about their relationship and he decided that he would find out for himself.

"What exactly are we waiting for, Doctor?" The patient's mother asked, crossing her arms as she shifted on her feet.

"A consult," House replied without looking up from his screen.

"But I thought it was just an ear infection, is it something worse?" The mother asked.

"Maybe... That's why we're waiting for the consult," House said.

A gentle knock sounded on the door before it opened and Doctor L/N stepped into the room, "Ah, Doctor L/N, how nice of you to join us," House said, tucking his Gameboy into his pocket.

"Hello, I'm Doctor L/N. What seems to be the problem?" She asked, using some hand sanitizer before making her way over to the boy and his mother.

"How was your date? Wilson was stingy with the details," House questioned.

"I don't think this is the most appropriate place to be discussing this, House," She said, sending the young boy and his mother a reassuring smile.

"Oh, don't worry about them, they're fine," House assured.

"We can talk later, House," She said, turning her attention to the young boy, "What seems to be the problem?" L/N questioned.

"Oh, he has an ear infection," House stated, "Just needs some antibiotics," He continued.

"You called me to consult on an ear infection?" Y/N asked incredulously.

"No, I wanted you to tell me about your date with Wilson," House said.

Y/N sighed, pulling her prescription pad from the pocket of her lab coat. She removed a sparkly pink pen from her pocket and wrote out an order on the script.

"I wrote you a prescription for antibiotic ear drops. You pull the earlobe up and back before putting the drops in. The ear should be kept upwards for five minutes after giving each dose," Doctor L/N said, tearing off the slip and passing it to the mother.

"Thank you so much," The woman said.

"It's my pleasure. Oh, and I have some stickers that you can pick from for being so brave today," L/N said, pulling out a variety of brightly colored stickers from her pocket and holding them out in front of the boy.

The boy smiled widely, eyes scanning the stickers before taking a superhero one, "Mom, look," He said proudly, holding up the sticker.

"Come to my office when you're done your clinic hours," Doctor L/N said softly to House.

"But you already made the trip down, it would be cruel to make a cripple travel all that way," House argued.

"You have more patients to see and I'm not helping you weasel your way out of clinic duty. Come and see me later if you want to talk," L/N smiled, making her way out of the room and closing the door.

...

House made his way through the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro on his way to L/N's office. Doctor L/N was an incredibly kind woman who was amazing with her patients, which is probably what drew Wilson to her in the first place.

But House didn't like to share his toys, especially when it was unclear who he was sharing them with.

House banged the handle of his cane on the door to her office, "Come in," She called from inside.

House opened the door and stepped into her office, "Miss me?" House asked, closing the door behind himself before making his way over.

"How was the clinic?" L/N asked without looking up from her patient file.

"Amazing, I'm saving the world one runny nose at a time," House replied sarcastically, sitting down in one of the black leather armchairs in front of her desk, "Comfy," He mused.

His eyes flickered around her office, the shelves were lined with photographs and a few pink trinkets. One corner of the room contained a variety of children's toys and craft supplies along with a small table.

The room was warm and inviting with pink items in every corner. Now that he thought about it, House had never seen the young woman wear anything other than various shades of pink.

The original tip-off to House about Wilson's new relationship with the head of the Pediatrics Department was a blush pink tie he had bought for himself.

People could be so easy to read sometimes.

House's eyes finally returned to her figure, not at all shocked to see the pale pink dress that she had been wearing underneath her lab coat.

"Big fan of pink?" House questioned rhetorically, tapping his cane on the floor in front of his chair.

L/N closed the patient file, setting her pink pen on the desktop as she looked up at him, "What can I help you with, Doctor House?" She asked.

"You and Wilson," He stated, bright blue eyes scrutinizing her from across the desk.

"We've been on six dates and there will most likely be more," L/N said.

House narrowed his eyes, "What do you like about him?" House asked.

"He is the kindest man I've ever known. He's smart, handsome and a complete gentleman. And he's devoted to his work," L/N replied.

"Do you see a future with him? Marriage? Kids?" House asked.

She smiled, "I'd like to think so, somewhere way down the road, but I can't speak for Wilson," Doctor L/N said. House nodded as he processed her reply, shifting his cane in his grasp.

"Do you have any other questions for me, Doctor House?" She asked.

"Did you know he's been unfaithful before?" He questioned, watching her facial expression closely.

"I did, yes," L/N nodded.

"But you're still with him? Most women your age would run the other way from a guy with a history of infidelity. You're young, pretty and smart. You have options... So, why settle for him?" House asked.

She huffed a laugh, "There's no settling when you care about someone, House. You take them for who they are and decide to love them anyway, faults and all," L/N said.

"Why are you answering my questions?" House asked, "You could have told me to kick rocks and avoided this altogether, but you didn't," He stated.

"You're his best friend, House. If I'm going to be a part of his life, I have to be okay with you being a part of it too," L/N said with a small smile.

House stared at her for a second, "I like you," He said.

A soft knock sounded on the door before it opened and Wilson poked his head into the office. His brow furrowed slightly in concern when he saw House sitting in front of her desk.

"Is everything okay?" Wilson asked, stepping into the room and closing the door behind himself.

"Yep, we were just having girl talk," House said, standing up from his seat and walking over to the door.

"She's all yours," House said, stepping out into the hallway and limping off in the direction of his office.

"Did he say anything I should be concerned about? Because I can easily arrange a date that is so amazing that you would be willing to forgive my awful choice in friends," Wilson said.

L/N smiled, shaking her head, "He was actually pretty sweet," She replied.

"I knew he must be sick, that doesn't sound like House at all," Wilson joked with a smile.

"He cares about you," Doctor L/N said, standing from her chair and making her way over to him.

"In his own messed up way? Yes," Wilson said, wrapping his arms around her waist when she was close enough.

L/N wrapped her arms around his neck, fingers toying with his hair, "I really like you, James," She said.

"Good, because I really like you too," Wilson replied, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. He pulled away after a moment, staring down at her lovingly.

"Do you still have time for lunch?" L/N asked, hands sliding down to adjust his pale pink tie instinctively.

"For you? I have all the time in the world," Wilson replied.

[witchygagirlwrites]

Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz x Reader/Jay Halstead x Reader

Broken Bonds Masterlist *

Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz x Reader x Jay Halstead (Gerstead x Reader)

Their Thief

Our Girl *

Headcanons

Forgive Us*

Consider Me Gone Masterlist

Greg "Mouse" Gerwitz x Reader

Back to You- Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3*

Dad's Day

Patience

What I Want

Marked

Show You*

Left Behind

Is it Love

Jay Halstead x Reader

Just Protective

That Damn Chain*

Be Mine

Real Man

Baby's First Christmas

Every Time

Little bit Older

Bitemark*

That's my Girl

Lucky Bluejay

Not Him*

Can't Cross

Kelly Severide x Reader

Mine-Pt 1* Pt 2

Second Chance*

Can't Love You Back

Confession

Fallen

Kevin Atwater x Reader

Jealous

Carry Me

Best Friend- Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3

Close Enough to Perfect

Antonio Dawson x Reader

New Start

Adam Ruzek x Reader

Hands Off

Hailey Upton x Reader

Better Choice

Multi-Character x Reader Headcanons

Them Losing You

First Christmas

Hank Voight x Reader

Let me Decide

Really

Hank's Girl

Gabby Dawson x Reader

Whose Shirt

Connor Rhodes x Reader

Can't Take it Back

Come Back

Matt Casey x Reader x Kelly Severide (Sevasey x Reader)

Fix what You Didn't Break

Headcanons

[roxineedstosleep]

You are the best Big Brother!

(James "surprised" Wilson when he sees the guardianship document stating that he is now your legal guardian)

Yandere! Big Brother Wilson:

Wilson is a person who basically thrives on his need to protect and care for people in need. A little sister who needs a lot of attention? Paradise.

Much better for him and his obsession if he's several years older than you. He'd already lost one sibling to drugs and homelessness; you were something of a scapegoat at the beginning for his unresolved emotions. Why not start over?

Now, little thing, as so many years of differences go, he's basically forced his way into being some kind of superhero for your well-being. Dad and mum are too old to take care of you now? Well, your favourite big brother just got a nice house with a guest room that's painted your favourite colour. Oh look, what a coincidence, it's located right near a good school district and his job. Isn't that wonderful?

As crazy as it sounds, House is the only person he trusts to take care of you and give you everything you need. Even though at the end of the day he feels like he's taking care of two kids and not just one.

He loves to take you to work and show how good a doctor he is in your eyes. Sure, he gets a little jealous that House wants to take some of your attention, but he knows that at the end of the day you're going to get mad at House for stealing your candy and go running after your big brother for help.

[itscatchyouintherye]

hopedrunk

A pipe breaks in your neighbor’s apartment, flooding your bedroom. House, selflessly, lets you crash on his couch.

“You’re late.” House says while writing on the whiteboard, his back to you.

“Since when do you have a concept of early and late?” You ask while you sit down, out of breath.

Leaning on his cane, he turns around and raises an eyebrow. He’s wearing a dress shirt today, blazer thrown aside, first two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbow. The arm he rests his weight on bulges and strains the fabric. His hair is also a little chaotic; apparently, he ran his fingers through it several times. His eyes are bright and pierce into you. God, he’s attractive…

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“You rarely deflect.”

“And you are shit at psychological profiles.”

“We all know that’s not true.” House replies, unimpressed.

“Saying that everybody lies does, in fact, not make you a member of the BAU.”

“Ayo!” Chase gives you a high-five.

A smile spreads on House face: “Now that’s a deep cut.”

You think that might be the end of it, but after Chase and Foreman left the room and you’re hunched over files, House says: “You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask a question. You made a statement.”

“Don’t sass me.”

Your eyes flick up: “I know you like it.”

“So?”

You sigh: “A pipe broke in my neighbor’s apartment and flooded my bedroom.”

He begins to grin widely.

“Yeah, exactly.” You go on. “I know what that sounds like.”

“Did ‘his pipe’” He makes quotation marks in the air, “burst this morning or was it late last night?”

“Her-“ You immediately realize that that makes it not one bit less suggestive.

“Nice!” House winks and offers you his hand for a high-five like Chase did earlier. “So you made her-“

“House!”

“So, you’ll ‘sleep’,” He makes quotation marks again, “at her place tonight?”

You’re very close to flipping him off when you realize what he’s asking indirectly.

“I’ll probably get a hotel room.”

“You can have my couch.”

Stunned, you find his eyes. They suggest that he’s actually serious.

“I- oh, erm.” You try to win time to not immediately blurt out an enthusiastic YES, but don’t know how to stall. “Sure, okay.” You say instead.

House nods and then says something about a new symptom that manifested itself this morning. You’re too astonished to react.

Thank fuck, Chase reenters the room and declares: “Petechial rash in reaction to the antidote. Otherwise no-“

“What?” Your voice shoots up, alarm bells going off in the back of your head as at least part of your mind is capable of doing your job.

“Petechial rash.” Chace repeats. “Otherwise, no reaction.”

“Have you taken their temperature? Just now, I mean.”

“No, why would I do that?”

Your head snaps around and you look at House, wide-eyed.

“Ice bath.” He says. “Now!”

~

House pushes the door to his apartment open and lets you enter first. Yawning, you walk past him and look around. The only reason you’re not completely losing it at the fact that you’re in House’ apartment, is that it’s two in the morning and you’re exhausted beyond belief.

You throw your bag on the ground and take your shoes off while House locks the door.

“You sure you want to take the couch?” He suddenly asks.

“What?” You turn around, irritated. “You said I could crash here. Do you want me to-“

“Had I known you would end up here, I had thrown out my couch in the morning to leave you with no choice.” He appears nonchalant and joking but clears his throat twice while he hangs up his jacket. “Now I only can offer you the bed.”

“Yeah, right.” You scoff and trudge to the living room and sink into said couch with a groan.

“Beer?” House pipes up from the kitchen.

“How do you still have energy?” You barely lift your head off the backrest to look in his direction.

“Sleepovers are exciting.”

“I cannot tell if you’re making fun of me or…I don’t know.”

“Well, after what you did with your neighbor…I wouldn’t be surprised if my pipes would be broken by the morning as well.” He wiggles his eyebrows while he limps towards you.

“House!” You shout. “I didn’t fuck my neighbor! And what are you even- What is wrong with you!?”

He sits down at the other end of the couch and offers you a bottle, showing little reaction to your outburst. You roll your eyes at him but take the bottle and say: “If I weren’t about to pass out, I would leave.”

“I heard that one before.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.” You run your hand over your face and take a big gulp of the beer.

Make no mistake, you do enjoy the banter. But it’s getting inherently difficult for you to not bluntly flirt back and see if he goes through with it or if he’s only being an ass.

“You’re very attractive when you curse.”

Your head snaps around and you stare at him, not sure if he actually said that.

“I don’t think I heard it before.” He goes on, licking his lips before taking another sip.

“Stop messing with me.”

His eyes dart over your face.

“I’m vulnerable when I’m tired.” You add.

“I heard-“

“Yeah, yeah, you heard that one before.” You sigh and get up. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“End of the hall.”

You walk up to it.

“House!” You call. “That’s the bedroom.”

“Oops.”

You open the door to the right and find the bathroom. Quickly, you slip inside, more hiding from House than anything else. With a groan, you rest your forehead against the wood. You knew he would mess with you. It’s House. However, you don’t think he realizes how badly you want to take any of his comments serious and jump him. Or he does and is consciously using it against you.

When you exit the bathroom, somewhat freshened up and ready to just get this over with and go to sleep, House is coming out of the bedroom, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. You enjoy his night-attire a little too much to immediately notice the blanket, well probably bed cover, he’s holding out towards you. His face is actually somewhat serious now, which confuses you even more.

“Thanks.” You say quietly when you finally take it.

He nods, one hand resting on the doorframe. Behind him, you see the very large, very comfortable looking bed and…don’t even think about it.

You look at each other for another long moment. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

“Night, House.” You give him a half-smile and make your way back to the living room.

You haven’t really thought about if you should just sleep in your clothes, or partially undress, or- A shirt lies on the backrest of the couch.

You look back in House’ direction, but the door to the bedroom is closed.

Stunned, you take the neatly folded, black t-shirt. It’s clearly House’. And it’s clearly for you.

You smell it. Of course, it fucking smells like him and makes you smile like an idiot.

~

You’re half asleep, huddled up under the blanket, hugging yourself, when steps in the hallway drag you back into full consciousness.

You hold your breath, listening. You expect House to simply go to the bathroom, but his steps get too loud. You freeze, doing your best to pretend you’re fast asleep and not have your heart beating in your throat as he approaches. Maybe, you think, maybe he’s going to the kitchen instead. To get water or something.

“Hey.” House’ voice is gravelly.

You don’t dare to react.

He puts his hand on your shoulder. You flinch.

“Hey.” He chuckles and you look up at him.

In the darkness of the apartment, you can just barely make out his face.

“Hm?” You’re confused as much as you are enjoying his hand on your shoulder.

“Come on.” He says softly and nods towards the bedroom.

“I-“

“It’s fine.”

That’s pretty much all it takes to convince you.

Slowly, you sit up and get to your feet. House does not take his hand away but moves it to your back instead. You let him guide you. All the way over the threshold of the bedroom and to his bed.

He lifts the blanket for you, and you crawl into the sheets. The soft fabric on your naked legs makes you remember that you’re wearing no bottoms besides your panties. Well, that’s really not what is tilting this situation towards inappropriate…

You let out a relieved sigh when you sink into the mattress, head hitting the soft pillow. It’s so much warmer, so much more comfortable, and smells so much more like House and feels so much more intimate.

And that is before he even gets into bed on the other side.

You know he’s tall, but now you, for the first time, get to witness what that translates to when he lies down in a bed. How it feels to have his weight dent the mattress. What it sounds like when he scoots closer and pulls the blanket over himself.

A little stiff, you turn to your side and try to find a comfortable position without accidentally touching House. You try to will yourself back into your sleepy state.

“Comfortable?” He asks after a minute.

“Hmh.” You hum. “Definitely more comfortable than the couch.”

“Good.”

After another pause, he speaks up again. His voice is closer now, meaning he has his head turned towards you. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”

His words hang heavy in the air. Your thoughts race without going anywhere.

“I know.” You whisper.

“No, you don’t.”

You laugh quietly. “Night, House.”

He doesn’t reply.

~

You remember a few half-conscious gestures of caring less about touching House’ arm or rolling towards his side. You do not, however, remember that he more than welcomed it.

So, it comes as quite a shock to you that you wake up with his arm around you. Actually, he is pretty much draped over and around you, face buried in the crook of your neck, lightly snoring into your ear.

It’s light out, but in the position you are in, you can barely see anything of him. You do, though, feel most of him. His warm chest, his heavy limbs, his soft skin, his scratchy beard.

You enjoy his closeness for a bit, even though it threatens to overwhelm you, to make you overthink and overanalyze.

“House.” You eventually whisper into his ear.

He inhales deeply and shifts but does not seem to really wake up.

You move your head and manage to reach his cheek. You press a kiss to it and murmur: “House.”

“Don’t want to wake up yet.” He sighs.

“Why not?”

“Nice dream…” He mumbles and shifts again, holding onto you tighter before apparently drifting off. You smile and for another minute you allow yourself to feel happy and content about this absurd situation. And maybe a little aroused.

Then you turn in his arms to get into a more comfortable position and hug him back, fearing this might be over any moment now.

You can hear his breathing pattern change and suddenly he presses kisses to the side of your neck, making you gasp.

“Now that I think about it,” His voice is raspy, “this is nice too.”

You shiver, running your hand over his arm, lightly squeezing it.

House hums and lets his hands wander too; over your sides, down to your outer thighs, back up, lightly skimming over you half-exposed ass. It makes you smile, and you huddle up closer into his arms. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head before he begins to play with your hair. You highly enjoy it and kiss his throat before sinking into his embrace, eye-lids heavy again.

You lie there for a while, House continuously caressing you and clearly basking in your closeness.

Suddenly, it occurs to you how haven’t kissed yet what you most desire: his lips. Timid, you lift your head. House shifts and gives you the room, arm around your back instead your shoulders.

When you make eye-contact, you smile. House does too, but he seems nervous. Very nervous and unsure.

“You okay?” You whisper.

“I-“ He seems to try to come up with a sarcastic reply, but the words get stuck in his throat.

Gently, and a little impatient, you rest your hand on the side of his face and pull him in. For the fraction of a second, House hesitates, but then he smashes his lips onto yours. You sigh and press your body into his. He groans and pushes his tongue into your mouth, grabbing the back of your knee to make you drape your leg over his hip.

Soon, you’re grinding against him, hands in his hair, House devouring you.

Panting, you suck on the skin below his jaw before you come back up to kiss him as deep and hard as you can. He groans loudly, flipping you over to fully lie on top of you, your leg still around him.

House yanks the blanket aside that was bunching up between your crotches and grinds down on you, making you inhale sharply when the tip of his hard dick hits your clit.

“Jesus, House…” You breathe out.

“I’ll be honest…” He murmurs, “My pipe is already about to burst.”

You snort.

“Oh god, just like in my nightmares…she laughs at me.” He adds.

Which only makes you laugh harder.

Leaning his forehead against your shoulder, he lets out a chuckle as well.

Then he trails kisses over your jaw and asks quietly: “Can I go down on you?”

You clench around nothing and are about to agree, but then say: “I always liked your hands…”

“Did you now?” He leans up to find your eyes, a smirk on his lips.

“And want to see your pretty face for a bit longer.”

House lets out a little huff.

“I’m not making fun of you.” You whisper.

He slithers his hand down your side. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” You laugh and move your legs so that he can reach your crotch easier.

“Maybe I don’t.” He agrees quietly and kisses you again while running his middle and ring finger through your audibly wet labia.

Before he can comment on it, you say: “If you make another burst pipe joke, I will fucking leave.”

“Oh, no.” He sucks on your bottom lip. “Making you wet and moan is no laughing matter.”

“Go-arrghh, shit.” Your head falls back when he pushes two fingers into you.

House tilts his wrist to massage sensitive spots deeper inside of you, making your moan and clasp his face to pull him in for messy kisses. He is quick to lean on his side to be able to fully kiss you whilst keeping his hand between your legs.

“Good?” He asks, peppering your cheek with kisses to let you breathe.

“Yeah, I- very.”

House smiles against your skin and sucks on the side of your neck. After another minute of making you writhe and roll your hips into his hand, he murmurs: “Harder or faster?”

“Faster.” You sigh, head thrown back, arms around him.

“What else? What do you need?”

“Just don’t stop.”

He finds your lips again, kissing you surprisingly softly; nudging your nose with his, spreading more kisses over your neck…and back to your mouth to greedily swallow your gasps.

“Fuck, House…” You warn, body stiffening.

“Please…please cum for me.”

You never heard his rough voice sound so needy.

With another groan, your hips lift off the mattress, and you cum around his fingers. He slows down, taking his hand away to caress your thighs while you shake, eyes pressed shut to enjoy the relief.

“You’re so pretty when you cum.” House whispers into your ear.

It sends a jolt down your spine, and you basically melt into him.

Panting, you bury your face in his chest. He rests his cheek on the top of your head and makes sure you’re fully covered by the blanket while you come down.

He’s being so sweet, it almost irritates you. Obviously, you imagined sex with House a lot. But, somehow, your phantasies never included how he would be afterwards.

“How’s your pipe?” You mumble.

It makes him chuckle: “I thought no more pipe jokes.”

“Not a joke. Serious question.”

“Painfully hard.”

You lift your head and finally look at his face again. His cheeks are flushed, and his eyes focused on you.

Holding the eye contact, you slither your hand down his body to find his dick. It is, in fact, rock-hard. House inhales sharply when you touch it.

“Aw, that bad?”

“You have no idea.”

You give it a few careful strokes, which is already enough to make House thrust his hips upwards and curse into your ear.

“Where would you like to cum?” You whisper.

His lips part. “My god.” He breathes out.

“What?”

“I’m trying really hard to neither cum nor say something stupid right now.”

“But it would feel so good, wouldn’t it?” You purr into his ear, adjusting your grip of his cock, running your thumb over the tip.

House makes a choked noise.

“It has to hurt by now, doesn’t it? You’re so fucking hard and dripping…all the penned-up tension…”

“I-“ He bites into your shoulder. “Yes, yes…”

“So, where would you like to cum?”

“It- I feel-“

You lean back to find his eyes. You can tell that he’s about to lose it and wants nothing more than to cum, but it takes him another two, three strokes until he says: “Your thighs. I always liked your thighs. God…” He groans. “Your fucking dress pants that accentuate them…How the fuck do you make dress pants slutty?”

You smile and scoot down, throwing the blanket aside, to lay fully on your back and expose your completely nude lower body to House.

He manages to move and crawl onto you, straddling one of your legs. You rake your eyes over all the naked skin you get to see. The building upper arms, his clenched fist around his cock, his scarred leg.

You put one hand on his thigh, covering the scar with your palm and use the other to pull on his balls. Rigorously, House keeps jerking himself off, his eyes darting between your face and your thighs.

Then he grunts as hot ropes of cum begin to cover your thighs, some of them reaching up to your hips.

“God, fuck…” He breathes out, eventually toppling over and sinking into the sheets next to you. You grin to yourself and turn towards him, wiping his cum off with the blanket.

House rests his arm on his forehead, eyes closed, taking deep breaths. You lean in, kissing his neck and behind his ear. It makes him hum and blindly reach for you to put his arm around you and pull you in.

“I don’t like this.” He suddenly says, voice hoarse.

“What?” Bewildered, you look at him.

“You’re too good at this.”

When you don’t reply, he turns his head to see your confused face.

“I haven’t even cum inside of you yet and I already don’t want you to ever leave this bed.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“Careerwise? Yeah. Otherwise: my refractory period is about ten to fifteen minutes.”

[spidermansleftconver]

hey guys im new to the writing community uh if your ok with shitty writing plz send me requests

love -v

[j-eryewrites]

The Great Game (I)

Part 19 of the Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221 B Baker St.

Word Count: ~12k

Previous | Next

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Warnings: Canon typical violence, explosions, injuries, angst, Mycroft is Mycroft, Sherlock is Sherlock, murder, bomb threats, kidnappings, language, mentions of serial killers and murder (let me know if I have missed anything)

Author's Note: Man, this was such a long and fun chapter to write. After all, y'all did ask for full-course meals, so I present to you this chapter! NGL there will be mistakes...but I wanted to get this out as soon as possible. Lots of fun and angsty stuff happens, and I'm warning you again, it will get worse, but it will be so good when everything comes together! I hope you enjoy! I always appreciate reblogs and comments! I love hearing from you all!!

Sherlock was busy, or at least, he was trying to be. Busy meant his mind couldn’t stop to rest and if he didn’t have time to rest then it was a guaranteed way of avoiding everything: Y/N, feelings, boredom, feelings again, and then of course Y/N. That always how his thoughts seemed to run these days, both starting and ending with Y/N. 

“Just tell me what happened, from the beginning,” Sherlock sighed. 

It was a dreary place, the prison, and exactly like anyone would imagine: Gray, cold, and dreary. Yet this prison was where Sherlock’s next case was, well, he hoped so. 

“We'd been to a bar – a nice place – and, er, I got chattin' with one of the waitresses, and Karen weren't 'appy with that, so... when we get back to the 'otel, we end up havin' a bit of a ding-dong, don't we?” The man, named Berwick, sitting across from Sherlock explains. He’s in an orange jumpsuit which makes sense since he’s in prison. From a quick glance, Sherlock can tell he’s nervous with the way his hands fidget and flail around as he narrated his story to convince Sherlock to take the case. It was an argument already bound to fail, something Sherlock knew from the moment he sat down. 

“She was always gettin' at me, sayin' I weren't a real man!” Berwick exclaimed. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes as his ears bled from the misuse of words. “Wasn't a real man,” the consulting detective corrected.  

“-What?” Berwick asked. Everything on the man’s face told Sherlock that he did not have a clue as to what he was correcting. 

“It's not "weren't", it's "wasn't", Sherlock duly noted. 

“Oh.” Berwick’s voice got small. 

“Go on,” Sherlock said. 

Berwick nodded his head. “Well, then I dunno how it happened, but suddenly there's a knife in my hands. And, you know, me old man was a butcher, so I know how to handle knives. He learned us how to cut up a beast.”

Sherlock winced. “Taught.”

“What?” Berwick asked again at Sherlock’s interruption. 

Sherlock leaned slightly forward in the cold metal seat. “Taught you how to cut up a beast.” 

A tiny vein bulged out from Berwick’s forehead as his hand motions got more frantic. “Yeah, well, then-then I done it.”

His shoulders slumped and Sherlock fell back into his chair with disappointment. “Did it.” 

Berwick shoots out of his seat and slams his hands on the table between him and the detective. “Did it! Stabbed her... over and over and over, and I looked down and she weren't…” Sherlock eyes flashed with disapproval. “...wasn't movin' no more...anymore.” 

Sherlock nodded and at least he didn’t have to correct Berwick anymore.  

Sitting back down Berwick drew his hands together to plead with Sherlock. “You've gotta help me. I dunno how it happened, but it was an accident. I swear. You've gotta help me, Mr. Holmes!” 

With a deep breath in, Sherlock stands from his seat and begins to walk away from Berwick. 

“Everyone says you're the best. Without you, I'll get hung for this!” Berwick cried. 

Sherlock’s footsteps halted and he briefly looked at his shoulder. “No, no, no, Mr. Berwick, not at all. Hanged, yes.” Then without another word, Sherlock left to try and find another case to keep him busy. It was the only thing he could do if he didn’t want to think of her at all. 

_____

A sigh escaped the young woman’s lungs. It was a full body experience: her spine sunk, her shoulders slumped, and her head fell into her hands. She hurt everywhere, but what hurt the most was her heart. 

“I don’t know what to do anymore, John.” Y/N confessed to her friend next to her. She was on the brink of tears.  

By the inflection of her voice, John could tell there was a serious disturbance in Y/N’s character. Sitting a little straighter, he placed his right hand on her back, giving it a rub. “Start from the beginning,” John said, even though he already had an idea as to what placed Y/N in that particular mood. 

“I…I’m not really sure. I thought I had it under control. We were friends and I–”

She was going on a rant. Y/N tended to do these things when expressing herself. It was as if she could never find the right words, so in her mind, as long as she kept talking, maybe the right words would just come. 

“Y/N. Breathe,” John calmly stated. He was right. She did need to breathe, and so she did. “What did Sherlock do?” John asked. He thought that maybe a more direct question would help Y/N along. 

“He–He did everything and nothing,” Y/N explained. Her fingers tightened their hold on the strands of her hair as John patiently waited. After a particularly long exhale, Y/N finally answered. “He kissed me. He kissed me, John. I kissed back, because–” She faltered. 

John finished Y/N’s thought. “You like him.” 

With glassy eyes, Y/N peered up at John. He was one of her greatest friends since she came to England. He was there for her through thick and thin. He was a friend for life. “Yeah,” Y/N muttered. 

John sensed a hesitancy in the woman. “But…?”

Y/N sat up and glanced to the side. Her eyes trailing the other visitors of the park. She watched as people played with their dogs, children ran with glee, and old women gossiped. “He pushed me away. He left me there in that room and has hardly acknowledged that I exist since we got back. John, he’s…pushing me away and I don’t know why.” 

At that moment, John wished he could see into the great detective's mind. He wished every and all secrets that had ever crossed Sherlock’s mind would now be visible to him, just so he could ease Y/N’s pain. But he couldn’t. He was sure no one would ever know what happened inside Sherlock’s mind. So instead, John said, “I’m sorry.” Sniffling, Y/N replied telling John he didn’t need to apologize, but John just shook his head. “No, you need to know that what’s happening to you isn’t fair. When I say sorry, it’s to say you aren’t alone in this. I’m here for you, Mrs. Hudson is, hell, I’m even sure Lestrade would be willing to lend a shoulder for you.”

“Thank you,” Y/N said in a whisper. 

A peaceful silence fell over the two of them. The park bench was the perfect place for them to get away from the chaos that was Sherlock. On the park bench, they could think without being criticized and feel without being judged. Both John and Y/N cared for Sherlock, but sometimes, they needed to be cared about too. They needed to not feel alone and ostracized from the brilliant mind that was their friend. 

Together they hoped that maybe one day, they could find solace in Sherlock. That one day his brain wouldn’t come in the way of his heart and soul. Maybe together, all three of them, Sherlock, John, and Y/N would never feel alone again. 

_____

Being welcomed home to the sound of gunshots wasn’t exactly what John and Y/N had planned on but expected altogether. 

“What the hell are you doing?!” John scolded Sherlock the second he reached their flat. 

There Sherlock sat in his chair. His knees rose higher than the cushion he sat on. One hand hung lazily over the side, and in the other he held a gun. Still in his pajamas from the night before, Sherlock briefly glanced over at John. “Bored,” he enunciated. 

“What?” John asked. He couldn’t hear Sherlock clearly with the last gunshot echoing in his ears. 

“Bored!” Sherlock yelled before raising his arm to fire another shot. 

“No!” John cried as he saw another whole form in the wall. 

“Bored! Bored!” Sherlock bellowed again. Each time he said the word, he took another shot at the wall of his apartment. 

“Sherlock!” Y/N yelled as the gunshot rang throughout the apartment. Then pinching the bridge of her nose, she held out her hand to Sherlock, waiting for the gun. When he reluctantly placed it in her hand, she mumbled to herself. “I thought I hid all the guns…” 

“You didn’t hide them very well, Y/N. You have a tell.” Y/N shared an exasperated look with Sherlock, who ignored her. “Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job, I'm not one of them.”

John ground his teeth together. “So, you take it out on the wall!”

“Ah,” Sherlock shrugged. “The wall had it coming.”

Feeling the peace, he received from his time with Y/N vanished, John decided to change the subject. “What about that Russian case?”

Sherlock got up from his seat and marched over to the couch before plopping down as if it was his bed. “Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.”

John fought the urge to roll his eyes as he made his way over to the fridge. “Ah, shame!” Opening the door, he continued. “Anything in? I'm starving. Oh, fu…” John muttered. 

Y/N whipped her head around to look at John. “John, what is it?” 

“It's a head. A severed head!” John felt like crying now. 

“A what?!” Y/N responded. “A head?” She walked over to the fridge and felt her stomach turn. “Oh god…Sherlock.”

“Just tea for me, thanks,” Sherlock said at the sound of his name. 

Now John rolled his eyes. “No, there's a head in the fridge!”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.  

“A bloody head!” John flipped his arms into the air and then shut the fridge door. 

“Well, where else was I supposed to put it? You don't mind, do you?” Sherlock asked. 

“Of course, he minds, Sherlock. Just look at him. Where’d you get it from anyway?” Y/N questioned. 

 Without sitting up from his lying position on the couch, Sherlock answered. “I got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.”

Muttering curses and pleas, John turned away from the fridge and found a seat in his armchair. He quickly pulled his laptop into his lap and opened it. 

“I see you've written up the taxi driver case,” Sherlock commented. 

Y/N clenched her eyes shut at the memory of that case. 

“Er... yes,” John replied. 

“A Study in Pink. Nice!” Sherlock said and John wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or a mark of disgust and disapproval. John hoped it was a compliment. 

“Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone,” John explained. “There was a lot of pink. Did you like it?”

“Um... no,” Sherlock stated. 

“Why not? I thought you'd be flattered," John said. 

“Flattered?” This irked Sherlock. Sitting up from his seat he turned to look at John. There was a flash of hurt within his eyes as he recited John’s post. "Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things." 

John was supposed to be his friend, yet he wrote something so harsh. It was something Sherlock knew well and that plagued his very being. It was the one of the reasons he had left her in that room. He had left Y/N there making his lips grow cold from wanting her. He knew he was ignorant in the ways of love. The very ways that Jim, her boyfriend, was able to give. Afterall, he was perfect, and Sherlock was not. 

“Now hang on a minute. I didn't mean that in a…” John tried to explain.

“Oh, you meant "spectacularly ignorant" in a nice way! Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister…” Sherlock barked. He was angry and hurt. He was angry at himself for kissing her. He was hurt by John. He was hurt that he couldn’t love Y/N. However, Sherlock couldn’t say that. At least not now, so he released his anger, frustration, and fury through another source.  “...or who's sleeping with who... Whether the Earth goes round the Sun…It's not important.”

John was shocked. “Not impor...?! It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?”

“Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it," Sherlock spat. 

"Deleted it?” Y/N questioned. 

“Listen. This is my hard drive,” Sherlock pointed to his mind. “And it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful... really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?”

“But it's the solar system!” John exclaimed. 

“Oh, hell! What does that matter?!” Sherlock began to rage. "So, we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots. Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world!” 

Without a word, John opened the door to the apartment and left. His footsteps seemed louder as they pounded on the wooden staircase. 

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demanded. 

“John…,” Y/N called out. 

At the sound of Y/N’s voice, John turned around. “Out. I need some air.” He saw the look of pity on her face, but he knew in her eyes there was understanding. Suddenly, he bumped into something. He quickly glanced at the source and found Mrs. Hudson. 'Scuse me, Mrs... 

“Oh, sorry, love!” She chuckled. 

“Sorry,” John apologized before heading down the rest of the stairs and out the door. 

A mix between a sigh and a groan left Y/N’s mouth as she watched John’s disappearing figure. She whipped around to Sherlock and sent him a glare before busying herself with things in the kitchen. 

Mrs. Hudson entered the room and took one look at her grand-niece and Sherlock. “Ooh-ooh! Have you two had a little domestic?” There was silence after her comment. Quickly, Mrs. Hudson changed the subject to John. “–Ooh, it's a bit nippy out there. He should have wrapped himself up a bit more.”

Sherlock huffed and bounced out of his seat before stepping to the window. His long fingers drew back the curtain to watch John cross the street below. “Look at that, Mrs. Hudson. Quiet, calm, peaceful.” Sherlock sighed. “Isn't it hateful?”

“A little quiet and calm won’t kill you, Sherlock,” Y/N hissed over her shoulder. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed on the young woman’s figure. The look wasn’t one of distaste like Mrs. Hudson was expecting. Instead, Sherlock’s blue eyes seemed to be longing for something. Mrs. Hudson softly smiled to herself. She knew that look well. Afterall, it is the very look all the young men in her romantic dramas had in their eyes when gazing upon their love interests. 

“Oh… Oh, I'm sure something'll turn up, Sherlock. A nice murder – that'll cheer you up,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

Sherlock glanced away from Y/N. “Can't come too soon,” he muttered. 

Mrs. Hudson smiled fondly at Sherlock and Y/N. Her mind began to flood with ideas on how to bring them together when she noticed new holes in her walls. “Hey. What've you done to my bloody wall?!” Sherlock’s smirk did not go unnoticed by Mrs. Hudson or Y/N. “I'm putting this on your rent, young man!”

Then, just like John had left, Mrs. Hudson returned to her flat. 

Sherlock was still standing by the window. His back was now turned to Y/N, but even so, she could still sense his ever-cocky smirk. 

“Don’t.” Y/N’s hand’s stilled as her voice pleaded. 

“Don’t?” Sherlock asked. His body now faced her. 

“Don’t,” Y/N repeated. She sent him a warning glare. 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock began to approach her. “I’m bored,” he said with a precise enunciation. 

Y/N scoffed and took a few steps closer to Sherlock. “That’s not an excuse, Sherlock.” She raised her hands in frustration before dropping them by her side. She was now standing only a few steps away from him and his captivating blue eyes. Y/N shook her head and turned away towards the window. “You’re not the on–”

There it was. A deafening roar that broke the conversation as a sudden explosion ripped through the air. The force of the blast shattered the frail windows of 221B with a thunderous crash. Shards of glass were sent flying in every direction: down onto the streets below, on the wooden floor of the apartment, and deep into the skin of Y/N and Sherlock. The two of them were thrown off their feet with such a force that sent them flying. Furniture toppled over and the walls seemed to tremble with the shockwave of the explosion. 

Alarms blared, smoke filled the arm, people screamed, at least that is what Y/N would have heard if she could hear. Her head was ringing, screaming, pounding, and bleeding all at once. She felt immense pain coursing through her body as she tried to push herself off the floor. Then there was Sherlock. He hovered above her. Y/N’s dazed eyes watched the fear in Sherlock grow. His mouth opened and closed over and over. She couldn’t hear him. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock felt powerless as the fear and vulnerability washed over him. One minute he was conversing with her and the next her they were on the floor. It was the blood he saw first. The dark red liquid spilled from where the shards of glass imbedded themselves into her skin. He crawled over to her, and said the only thing he could, her name. Sherlock said it like a prayer and a plea. Then she moved, the pain evident in her face as she tried to sit up. The sight of her moving did little to stop Sherlock from rushing to her. He pulled her in close and into the safety of his embrace. 

The tremors in the 221 B Baker Street stilled and the kicked up dust fell back down to the floor. There they would sit, Y/N and Sherlock, holding on to each other like a life line. If they were to let go, they were confident they’d both break into a thousand pieces. So, there they would sit until the sound of police sirens and ambulances came cascading down the street to the rescue. 

______ 

The scent of old leather and perfume filled John’s nose as the light of the morning flooded his senses as the curtains drew back with a sharp screech. 

“Morning!” Sarah’s voice called out cheerfully. 

John winced as he sat up. He carefully turned his head back and forth, finally discovering where his pain came from, his neck. “Oh, mor... Morning,” John groaned. 

Sarah chuckled. “See? Told you you should've gone with the lilo.”

Shaking his head in refusal, John replied, “No, no, no, it's fine. I-I slept fine. It's very kind of you.”

“Well, maybe next time I'll let you kip at the end of my bed, you know,” Sarah joked. 

Smiling John, continued on with the joke. “What about the time after that?”

Sarah rolled her eyes playfully before reaching to turn on the telly.  The news flashed onto the box-like screen and the clear voice of the anchor woman spoke out. “Experts are hailing it as the artistic find of the century. The last time…”

For a moment, the two of them focused their attention on the telly to see if there was anything newsworthy before tuning it out as the morning background noise. 

“So, d'you want some breakfast?” Sarah asked. 

John sighed before turning back to look up at Sarah. “Love some.” 

Patting her hand on John’s shoulder, Sarah began to walk away. “Yeah, well you'd better make it yourself, 'cause I'm gonna have a shower!” 

Now it was John’s turn to roll his eyes with a hint of amusement. With his neck still horrifically sore, John decided he could wait a few minutes before starting up breakfast, instead, he turned his attention back to the telly. His hand took up the remote and turned up the volume. 

“...it fetched over twenty million pounds.  This one is anticipated to do even better. Back now to our main story. There's been a massive explosion in central London. As yet, there are no reports of any casualties, and the police are unable to say if there is any suspicion of terrorist involvement.”

Suddenly a dreadfully familiar street flashed upon the screen. It was Baker street, but not the street he had left the night before. No, this street was in disarray: Broken glass, ambulances and police cars, debris, fires, the list went on and John couldn’t bear to look at the screen any longer. 

“Sarah!” John yelled. He could hear the sound of water pouring out of the shower head. 

“Police have issued an emergency number…” The television continued to play. 

“Sarah!” John yelled again. His voice now echoed throughout the apartment. 

“...for friends and relatives…” The news broadcast interrupted. 

“Sorry! I've got to run!” John said before he dashed out the door hailing a cab to Baker Street. 

____

Panic coursed through John’s veins like blood. Even so, John still remained the polite gentleman his mother raised him to be. “'Scuse me, can I get through? 'Scuse me.” 

For the aftermath of an explosion there were an awful lot of people. Some of which John believed were intrigued by the destruction as if it was some sort of entertainment. 

“Can I go through?” He asked impatiently once he reached the police line. The officer standing guard shook his head. “I live over there.” John frantically pointed to the 221 B Baker Street and the officer reluctantly let him through. 

Nodding his head to nearby officers, John weaved between the chaos finally coming to the black door. It was truly a sight for sore eyes. Immediately, John opened the door, and darted up the stairs. “Sherlock. Sherlock!” John called out to his best friend. 

There was a sharp pizzicato note. Sherlock sat unamused in his chair with an annoyed expression plastered onto his face. His violin was still in pristine condition as he plucked the strings. 

“John,” Sherlock acknowledged. His attention was elsewhere. 

“I saw it on the telly,” John said out of breath.  “Are you okay? Where’s Y/N?”

“Here…” the woman groaned. She was holding an ice pack to her head. “...and I’m alright.”

John’s brows creased at her disheveled state. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock blinked, bringing his attention to John. “Hmm? What? Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently.” He played another note of annoyance on the instrument and turned back to John's chair. John tilted his head in confusion, the chair was occupied. “I can't,” Sherlock said to the person in the chair. 

"Can't?” It was Mycroft. John would recognize that voice anywhere.  

“The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time,” Sherlock explained. His eyes narrowed as they glanced over at Y/N. “Maybe ask your spy.”

Y/N let out a defeated sigh and clenched her eyes shut. “Sherlock… for the last time–” 

“Am I wrong?” Sherlock interrupted as he lowered his violin.  His grip on the bow in his other hand tightened. “You are under my brother’s employment afterall to…spy on me.” There was a nasty tone in his voice that made John shudder. 

“What?” John asked. His eyes darted between Sherlock, Y/N, and Mycroft for an explanation. 

“John, did you know Y/N took my brother’s deal? The very one you were offered when you first moved into Baker Street?”

“No, but–”

“She’s been spying on me ever since,” Sherlock spat. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N pleaded and the sight forced Sherlock to turn his gaze away from the woman. It hurt more than he thought it would seeing her like that, but he had to. She had hurt him just as much by conspiring with his brother. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at his younger brother’s antics. “Oh, never mind this usual trivia. Sherlock, this is of national importance.”

The sound of Sherlock’s violin picked up again. “How's the diet?” He asked his brother. 

“Fine,” Mycroft said. He turned to John who was still standing in the entrance of the apartment. “Perhaps you can get through to him, John.”

“What?” John asked. 

“I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent,” Mycroft noted and he flashed a tense smile on his face.  

“If you're so keen,” Sherlock questioned, “why don't you investigate it?”

Mycroft shook his head, the smile was still present on his face, but it was anything but pleasant. “No, no, no, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time – not with the Korean elections so...well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this – it requires... legwork.” He eyed his brother’s long legs. 

A flat note rang in the air and Sherlock’s jaw tensed. “Sounds like a perfect job for Y/N.”

Y/N’s teeth dug into her lip leaving an iron taste in her mouth. “I’m getting a migraine,” she whispered. The growing ache in her mind could be from a matter of things; The recent explosion, how Sherlock had held onto her for hours after the event and now wouldn’t even look at her without disdain in his glossy blue eyes, or the increasing stress levels caused by her newly discovered feelings for the consulting detective. It all was growing too much and she felt like she’d drown in the sea of it all with no one to save her. 

“How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?” Sherlock abruptly asked his friend.  

“Sofa, Sherlock,” Mycroft corrected. “It was the sofa.”

Sherlock widened his eyes at his brother’s word. “Oh yes, of course.”

Meanwhile John was still trying to process Sherlock’s new animosity towards Y/N, the explosion, the presence of Mycroft, and how they knew he slept on the sofa. “How...? Oh, never mind.” Sherlock’s and his brother’s skills still amazed John despite the lengthy time he had known them. However, being on the receiving end of such skills wasn’t quite so delightful. 

Mycroft shuffled around in his seat and his posture began even straighter, if that was possible. His calculating eyes fell on Y/N. She had made herself small. Her legs were drawn in close to her chest and her head rested on her knees. Her eyes casted aside staring at one of the only undamaged spots on the wall. They were filled with utter misery. Mycroft felt like he should pity her, but he had better things to be worrying about than his brother’s sweetheart. It was obvious to Mycroft what his brother felt for the young woman and it wasn’t ideal. Sherlock was supposed to be free from all the trivial stuff that is accompanied by love, but it seemed no matter how hard Mycroft worked, the damned thing still snuck into his brother’s life and it appeared like he was partially to blame. Afterall, he had paid the woman to check in on Sherlock. 

“Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became... pals.” Y/N’s shoulders tensed as she continued to ice the injury on her head. “What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine,” Mycroft mentioned. 

“I'm never bored,” she replied.  

“Good! “ Mycroft beamed, this smile resembled something a bit more real. “That's good, isn't it?”  Suddenly he stood up and handed a file to John, whose hands unconsciously held onto it. “Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant,” Mycroft explained, “found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in.”

John opened the file and took a quick peek at the crime scene photos. “Jumped in front of a train?” He guessed from the gruesome scene depicted in the photos: A man lay dead with his eyes wide open next to train tracks. He shook the imagery from his brain before peeking up at Mycroft. 

“Seems like a logical assumption,” Mycroft muttered. 

John recognized that tone. It was the same one Sherlock had when he made an incorrect observation. “But...?”

"But?” Mycroft encouraged. 

“Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident,” John promptly said. It was the best response he could muster until he had something more. It was better to be vague than incorrect.  

Mycroft smiled at John’s words. “The MoD is working on a new missile defence system, the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called.” John nodded. “The plans for it were on a memory stick.” 

“That wasn't very clever,” Y/N added, the small comment brought a bit of light into her eyes. 

“It's not the only copy,” Mycroft told the woman. 

“Oh,” she apologetically said and the light was gone as fast as it came, replaced by sorrow.  

“But it is secret. And missing.”

“Top secret?” John asked, already knowing the answer. Afterall, Mycroft was the British government in person. 

“Very,” Mycroft replied. “We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you.” 

“I'd like to see you try,” Sherlock challenged. A cunning smirk grew on his face as his eyes were lit with a defiant fire. It raged on as he stared at Mycroft.  

“Think it over,” Mycroft tensely said, moving his gaze from his brother. It was not a fight he would win now, not with Sherlock still aggressive from his latest discovery. “Goodbye, John. Goodbye, Y/N. See you very soon.”

Sherlock huffed once his brother disappeared from view before he raised his bow with strict accuracy and began to loudly play the same phrase of music over and over. 

“Why'd you lie?” John had to yell over the music. “You've got nothing on – not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?” 

“Why shouldn't I?” Sherlock shrugged. He brought the bow close to his face, pretending to examine the thin horse hairs strewn together. 

“Oh! Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere,” John grumbled. “What happened between you two?” John pointed between Sherlock and Y/N. 

Sherlock just glowered in response. Y/N pinched the back of her neck letting out a defeated exhale. 

“He found out I took Mycroft’s deal to check in on him.”

“A spy. You’re a spy,” Sherlock spat. The fire in his eyes in his gaze from Mycroft’s presence diminished. John knew Sherlock was furious at his brother, not at Y/N. She was the ‘spy’ but it was Mycroft who was truly at fault in Sherlock’s mind. His blue eyes shivered as they admired Y/N. John internally smiled knowing a physical one would only gain Sherlock’s annoyance. He could see the reflection of yearning in Sherlock’s ocean eyes. They often say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and now John felt like he could truly see inside Sherlock’s soul. It was battered and bruised from the years empty from the light of sentiment. Now, with Y/N in view those bruises had faded, no longer an angry blue and purple, but a warm yellow. He was healing in her loving presence. She made him feel safe. Sherlock didn’t have to say it, John already knew. In his mind, John recalled all the times she was there for him, holding his hand or shutting down any harsh comment aimed in Sherlock’s direction. The longer Sherlock gazed at Y/N, the warm feeling in John’s heart only grew stronger. Sherlock was in love with Y/N. But Sherlock was an idiot. Love was strong but Sherlock’s lunacy appeared to be stronger.  

“No, I’m not. I’m just a messenger for a concerned brother,” Y/N replied. “And for your information I took the deal before I really even knew you. I wouldn’t even think about–” 

Sherlock played the strings louder. 

“Agh!” She groaned in frustration. Then Y/N clenched her hands into fists and raised them into the air before pushing herself off the couch. She brushed past John with a sad look in her eyes that made his heart suffocate at her predicament and in the blink of an eye the sound of her apartment door slamming shut echoed throughout the building. 

“Are you happy with yourself?” John angrily questioned Sherlock, but Sherlock ignored John’s presence. Instead, the consulting detective had discarded his violin and now occupied himself with his phone. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said over the phone. “Of course. How could I refuse?” With a click the call was over and an inferno of intrigue was lit in his blue eyes. He whipped around to face John. “ Lestrade,” Sherlock explained. “I've been summoned. Coming?”

No, John wanted to say. His anger at Sherlock’s actions and the disheartened state he consistently had been leaving Y/N as of late made him want to run and comfort her. John wanted to grab Sherlock by the collar and scold him for being so blind. He wanted to pry open Sherlock’s heart and deliver it to Y/N. He wanted them to no longer hurt. There were so many things John wanted for his two best friends. Yet John knew if he went to Y/N, Sherlock would tag along only resulting in more hurt for the two of them. It was in his nature for Sherlock to find Y/N. No matter how much the infuriatingly intelligent man wanted to deny it, he was drawn to her, seeking her out wherever he was. “If you want me to,” John defeatingly said. 

“Of course,” Sherlock replied as he flicked the collar of his coat up. “I'd be lost without my blogger and—” He didn’t finish his thought, but it didn’t take a genius to know who else he was going to say. It didn’t take cunning and wits for John to figure out that Sherlock would be lost, and is lost without her, his Y/N.  Yet here was Sherlock leading himself astray when he knew all paths would lead to her, and for once in all the time John had known Sherlock, he knew the man was truly insane. 

_____

Greg Lestrade was supposed to have the week off. He planned on taking a nice trip to visit his mother and father in the countryside and take a break from Sherlock Holmes and everything that seemed to follow the man. Greg was supposed to get some sleep for once in his life and maybe enjoy a few home-made meals instead of take-out dishes and frozen dinners. This time off seemed too good to be true, and it was. Rather than spending quality time with his elderly parents in the home of his childhood, Greg sat in his office filled to the brim with case files. The phones hadn’t stopped ringing since the explosion the other day. It was getting annoying, and now Sherlock had arrived, Greg’s workload got even bigger. 

“You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones,” Lestrade asked Sherlock. It was a rhetorical question. The strange cases were always the ones Sherlock solved for Scotland Yard. 

“Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“You've love this. That explosion... Where’s Y/N?” Lestrade peered around Sherlock and John hoping to catch sight of the third companion. He had only known the young woman for a few months, but she soon became ingrained in the chaos of it all. A slight frown appeared on his face, when he realized she was absent. She was the only glimpse of normal he could find around here, and now she was nowhere to be found. 

“Traitor,” Sherlock muttered. Lestrade sent John a questioning look to which John only shrugged. 

“Alright…anyways, that explosion–” Lestrade continued. 

“Gas leak, yes?” Sherlock phrased it more like a statement than a question. 

“No,” Lestrade corrected. 

Sherlock looked puzzled. He was hardly ever wrong. “No?”

“No. Made to look like one,” Lestrade explained. 

John’s eyes widened. “What?” He felt a pounding in his chest. It was an animosity he had never felt before, and it only grew stronger with each hit. Someone had purposefully hurt his family. His best friends. His home. 

“Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box,” Lestrade said. “A very strong box and inside it was this.” He raised up an envelope. On the well-kept paper, the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ was carefully scribed. 

“You haven't opened it?” Sherlock questioned. He eyed the envelope with intrigue. The same anger in John was a light in Sherlock.  

Lestrade shook his head. “It's addressed to you, isn't it? We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped.” 

“How reassuring!” Sherlock replied, his voice full of sarcasm. He snatched the envelope out of Greg’s hand and held it close to the light. His eyes narrowed as he observed every detail about the seemingly simple letter.  “Nice stationery. Bohemian,” he noted. 

“What?” Lestrade asked. 

“From the Czech Republic,” Sherlock specified.  “No fingerprints?”

“No,” Lestrade replied. 

Straightening up, Sherlock lowered the envelope. “She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duo fold, iridium nib.”

"She?” John repeated. His tone was full of disbelief. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said. He was a man of few words today. His mind was elsewhere. The explosion, the gas leak was purposeful. He was a target, and so was she. Y/N. He had to keep her safe. It was a foreign feeling, his mind being filled by his desire for her safety rather than the thrill of the case, and no matter how much Sherlock fought it, the desire only grew stronger. 

“Obviously!” John grunted in defeat. Without a warning, Sherlock tore the envelope open revealing the contents inside. A block of pink slipped out the envelope and sent John into a shock. “But that... That's the phone. The pink phone.”

“What, from the Study in Pink?” Lestrade wondered with eyes just as wide as John’s. 

“Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like…” Sherlock mumbled before tilting his head to face Lestrade. “The Study in Pink? You read his blog?” 

“Course I read his blog! We all do. D'you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?” Lestrade genuinely asked and a wave of vile snickers echoed throughout the office. Sherlock’s shoulder’s tensed and his hand ached for the comfort of another–Of Y/N. Sherlock wished she was there, but he couldn’t–no shouldn’t be wishing for that. Sherlock closed his eyes; everything was all too complicated.  

“It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new,” Sherlock noted once he returned his focus to the present case. 

“Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone,” John mentioned, and he looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at the device. 

“Which means your blog has a far wider readership,” Sherlock muttered, and John gulped. John was proud of his work, but knowing a criminal who meant his family harm was reading it was almost too much to bear. 

Turning on the pink device, the screen came to life and an automated voice spoke. “You have one new message.” Then five beeps followed after. 

“Is that it?” John asked after hearing the beeping.  

Sherlock frowned, but then a photo appeared on the tiny screen. “No. That's not it.”

“What the hell are we supposed to make of that?” Lestrade gasped looking at the photo. It was a room: practically pristine with everything cleaned and stored away. In all honesty, it looked like something out of a housing catalog. “An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!”

While Lestrade threw a fit, Sherlock found his voice stolen away. His lungs collapsed as his eyes scanned over the photo. This feeling was one he hadn’t felt in awhile. A feeling he hoped to never feel again. The very one that encapsulated his soul the night in the museum during the Blind Banker case. As he looked at the picture, Sherlock realized that he knew this place, yet it wasn’t the place that brought a momentary lapse in his composure. It was where the photo was. “It's a warning,” Sherlock whispered. 

“A warning?” John asked. 

“Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that,” Sherlock explained. “Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again. I know where that is. Let’s go.” With shaky hands, Sherlock pocketed the phone. 

By the time John had processed Sherlock’s words the man had already left Lestrade’s office. “H-hang on,” John called after Sherlock. “What's gonna happen again?”

When Sherlock looked back at John, there was the terror of uncertainty reflected in his eyes. Cases like these typically excited Sherlock, making John doubt the fear in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock was hardly ever scared.  Yet Sherlock’s response only confirmed John’s observations. Sherlock Holmes was terrified. 

____

“Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock bellowed the moment he returned home to Baker Street. In tow followed John. 

“Yes dear?” Sherlock felt a slight feeling of relief when Mrs. Hudson peeked her head out of her apartment. The elder woman’s eyes smiled at the young detective until she locked onto his trajectory, and she stepped out blocking his path. “No, Sherlock. She doesn’t want to talk to you–” 

Sherlock brushed her aside. “The door's open,” he announced to John.  

“Oh! Men!” Mrs. Hudson said wringing her hands in the air with frustration. She caught sight of John. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything–”

“Stupid?” John finished. “I’m way ahead of you Mrs. Hudson.” Then quickly he ran after Sherlock to Y/N’s apartment.

There was a loudly hissing sound when they entered. Bjørn was furious with the intrusion of Sherlock Holmes and so was the cat’s owner. He growled as Sherlock strolled into Y/N’s apartment like he owned the place. His strides were long and quick as he approached the closed room in the back of the flat: Y/N’s spare room.

“Christ Sherlock! What are you–” Y/N gasped as the man intruded into her home. Her patience for Sherlock was running thin. 

Sherlock stopped in his tracks at the sound of Y/N’s voice. He stood frozen ignorant of the angry cat. His eyes only saw one thing, Y/N. The fear and anxiety that had piled up on his journey back to Baker Street dissipated at the sight of her. Now that he gazed upon her, Sherlock knew he couldn’t live without her in his presence. It was if his eyes were crafted to only look at her. In this trance, Sherlock stood watching her as the confusion appeared on her face. 

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” Y/N asked. Just as her voice drew him into her spell, her words pulled him back out. 

“He's a bomber, remember," John cautioned everyone as he appeared in Y/N’s doorway. 

“Does anyone care to fill me in on anything?” Y/N looked around at the two men. None of them answered. Sherlock, now free from her spell, turned back to the spare room. He trekked over to the door and swung it open. 

It was a neatly organized room despite the cardboard boxes shoved in the corner. The walls matched those in the living room. Everything had a place, except for one thing. In the center of the room sat a pair of shoes. Shoes that hadn’t been there before. 

 “Sherlock what are you doing?”  Y/N hurried on after him. “Why are you–how’d those get there?” 

“That’s exactly my question.” Sherlock stepped away from the door and approached the shoes. He carefully took a step closer and closer until he deemed the shoes no threat. 

“They’re shoes,” John muttered. “Are they yours?” 

“Not mine. I don’t even know how they got here,” Y/N whispered. “Now do you mind explaining things to me. What about the bomber?”

Before any of them could answer Y/N, the phone in Sherlock’s pocket buzzed. He quickly retrieved it, placing it on speaker. 

“Hello,” A soft voice said followed by ragged breathing. 

“Hello?” Sherlock replied. 

“H-hello... sexy,” the voice said. There was a sniffle. The voice, whoever it belonged to began to cry.

“Who's this?” Sherlock demanded. 

A sob from the phone echoed around the room. “I've... sent you... a little puzzle... just to say hi.”

“Who's talking? Why are you crying?” Sherlock listened as the woman over the phone continued to cry. 

“I-I'm not... crying… I'm typing....and this... stupid... bitch... is reading it out.” 

Y/N gasped and raised a hand to cover her mouth. She had seen many things working with Sherlock. Being held hostage was something she knew well. It was an experience she never wished on anyone, and an experience she’d never be able to forget. John felt Y/N’s demeanor change and offered his hand as comfort. She gratefully grabbed his hand squeezing it tight as she fought off the terrors of memory. 

“The curtain rises,” Sherlock whispered as if he was connecting the dots. 

“What?” John wondered.

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing,” he responded.  

“No, what did you mean?” John urged Sherlock to answer. 

“I've been expecting this for some time,” Sherlock said. Y/N’s hand squeezed John’s tighter. The sight made Sherlock tense. 

“Twelve hours to solve... my puzzle, Sherlock” the crying woman read. “...or I'm going... to be... so naughty.” The call had ended. 

“So, who d'you suppose it was?” John was the first to speak after the concerning call. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock quizzically raised his brow up. His mind was still focused on Y/N’s hand in John’s and not his. 

John blinked. “The woman on the phone – the crying woman,” he mentioned.  

“Oh, she doesn't matter.” Sherlock waved his hand as if to brush away the anxiousness John felt for the hostage. “She's just a hostage. No lead there.” 

Y/N released John’s hand and her jaw hung open with shock. “Sherlock! John wasn't thinking about leads.”

“You're not going to be much use to her,” Sherlock shrugged. 

“Really? Sherloc–” Y/N scoffed.

“I need a lab,” Sherlock mumbled before walking out of the room with the shoes in hand. “Come on, Y/N! John!” 

Taking in a deep breath, Y/N and John shared an expressionless look. They were worried with all of this new information. What did Sherlock mean he was expecting this? What about the bomber and the shoes? There were too many questions and little to no answers to be found. With the look, an uneasy feeling made their stomachs churn. They felt sick, but there was no turning back now. A case needed to be solved. A woman’s life was on the line as well as the potential for more tragedy and destruction. 

“We’re coming Sherlock!”

____

John paced around the lab with his arms crossed over his chest. “Are-are they trying to trace it, trace the call?” 

“The bomber's too smart for that,” Sherlock boredly said before holding his hand out.  “Pass me my phone.”

“Where is it?” John asked as his eyes darted around the room looking for the small cellular device. 

“Jacket,” Sherlock replied. John’s shoulders slumped. Sherlock was wearing his jacket. Biting the inside of his cheek, John reached for Sherlock’s pocket. 

“Careful,” Sherlock cautioned without taking his eyes away from the microscope.  

John rolled his eyes as his fingers carefully brushed over Sherlock’s phone. “Text from your brother,” John announced. 

Sherlock let out a disappointed grunt. “Delete it.”

“Delete it?” John questioned. 

“Missile plans are out of the country now,” Sherlock noted. “Nothing we can do about it.” 

John huffed. “Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important.” He turned the phone around to flash Sherlock the screen. Sherlock didn’t look up from the microscope. 

“Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?” Sherlock muttered. 

“His what?” John asked. His eyes widened and he peered back at the phone. How had Sherlock known?

As if sensing John’s doubt, Sherlock began to explain. “Mycroft never texts if he can talk. Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?”

John just stared at Sherlock before reluctantly deleting the text messages. 

Immediately after the messages on Sherlock’s phone disappeared, Y/N’s phone buzzed. “Sherlock. He’s texting me now.”

Sherlock looked up from the microscope at Y/N. “Then maybe think next time before agreeing to my brother’s antics. Now shut up. I need silence.” He winced at his words upon seeing the pang of hurt in her face. He wasn’t planning on them coming out so harsh, yet they were already spoken. 

“Really?!” Y/N scoffed. All the pain in her expression vanished and was replaced with an unknown yet terrifying look. John shivered and he was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end.  “Alright then! John. I’m off to the bathroom to cool down before I murder him.” She reached for her coat, before stomping out the door. 

Once the door had clicked shut, John turned to Sherlock. “Try and remember there's a woman here who might die,” he hissed. 

“What for?” Sherlock impatiently said.  “This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?” Sherlock didn’t give John’s stunned expression any thought as the machine next to him beeped. “Ah! He exclaimed. 

Suddenly a young brunette entered the room with an adoring smile on her face. “Any luck?” Molly asked. John felt relieved at her presence. 

“Oh, yes!” Sherlock replied, his mouth still hung open waiting to say more until the door opened once more. 

It was a young man. “Oh, sorry. I didn't…” He nervously glanced around the room.

“Jim! Hi!” Molly beamed at the man. “Come in! Come in!” She waved him in and lovingly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.” She introduced. Sherlock barely spared a glance at the man. “And this is John. And thi…where’s Y/N?” Molly wondered. 

“Bathroom,” John replied before sticking out his hand for Jim to shake. “John Watson. Hi. Funny, Y/N’s boyfriend has the same name,” He commented looking between Molly and Jim. John had actually never met Jim yet, he was always too busy with work or Y/N. Not that John really minded. However, he noticed a flinch in Jim’s expression at the mention of Y/N, but it was gone before he could read further into it. 

Jim chuckled and ran his hand along the back of his neck. His dark brown eyes scanned the consulting detective who was still staring at the screen of the computer next to him. “Jim’s a common name…,” he said to John. Then Jim turned to Sherlock. “Uh Hi. So, you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly told me all about you. You on one of your cases?” He pointed a shaking hand to the objects captivating Sherlock’s attention. 

“Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance,” Molly proudly grinned as she adored her boyfriend. Her cheeks flushed a light pink. John smiled at the sight.  

“Gay,” Sherlock coughed. 

The smile on Molly’s face flattered. “Sorry, what?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock shook his head. He removed his eyes from the microscope. “Um, hey.”

“Hi.” Jim’s face flushed even redder than Molly’s. He stuck out his hand for Sherlock to shake, only knocking over one of the tools off the counter. “Sorry. Sorry!” He apologized. He twirled around placing the object back on the counter. “Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, 'bout six-ish?” He told Molly.  

“Yeah!” Molly smiled. Her eyes trailed as Jim's figure turned to leave the room. 

“'Bye.” He said to her, giving her a swift kiss on the cheek. 

“Bye,” Molly whispered back.

“It was nice to meet you,” Jim said to Sherlock and John. 

John replied for both of them. “You too.” And then Jim was gone. 

The door clicked shut “What d'you mean, gay? We're together,” Molly growled. 

“And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly.” Sherlock sarcastically said. “You've put on three pounds since I last saw you.” There was a bitterness in his voice. He hated it. He hated how Molly was happy. He hated how his name was Jim. It all reminded Sherlock of her. Y/N. He couldn’t have her because of her damned boyfriend. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N. Sherlock wanted to scream. 

“Two and a half,” Molly corrected. 

“No, three,” Sherlock stated. Molly’s jaw clenched and her eyes grew watery. 

“Sherlock…,” John warned. 

“He's not gay. Why d'you have to spoil...? He's not,’ Molly denied. All joy in her face was replaced with sadness. 

“With that level of personal grooming?” Sherlock scoffed.  

“Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair,” John said. His tone was protective as he stood up for Molly. 

“You wash your hair. There's a difference,” Sherlock noted. “No-no – tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear.”

“His underwear?” Molly’s voice broke. 

“Visible above the waistline – very visible; very particular brand. That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here…” Sherlock lifted up the bowl Jim had knocked over and there sat a small slip of paper. Jim’s number.  “...and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain.”  Sherlock tossed her the paper as a waterfall of tears fell from Molly’s face. She ran out of the room not a moment later. 

_____

Bathroom. Y/N and Molly

Women building women up. 

Cultural differences. Y/N loved discovering them as she progressed through her new life in London. But now, as she stands in front of one of the mirrors in the public bathrooms, she can say she found a cultural similarity, crying alone in the women’s bathroom. 

Y/N found herself to be releasing tears more often than she thought. It was both a terrific and terrible thing; Terrific because she could express herself without any judgment, horrible because she was doing it more. However, what was worse was because all the tears came from a single source, Sherlock. 

Sniffling, Y/N wiped the latest of tears falling down her cheeks. The tiny droplets were leaving noticeable streaks down her face and her hand eagerly erased them. Less evidence for Sherlock to notice. 

Suddenly the door swung open, startling Y/N. She jumped back and instinctively turned her face away from the door. Her cheeks flushed red as she hoped her eyes weren’t as red as she thought they were. However, all signs of embarrassment fled when she heard a muffled whimper beside her. 

Correction. Bathrooms were the perfect place for women to cry together. 

Turning her head to view the addition to the bathroom, Y/N saw Molly. It took the young woman to remember her, but Y/N could recall the few times they had met before. Each time dealing with a case.  More tears crept into Y/N’s eyes as she saw Molly hunched over hiding her face with her shoulders. 

“Molly?” Y/N whispered. She stepped towards the other woman wondering if she should put her hand on Molly’s back to comfort her. She decided against it. 

Molly jolted up at the sound of her name. Her fist clenched tightly around a small sheet of paper in her hand. “Huh? Oh, Y/N. Um, sorry about…” Molly wiped her tears feeling embarrassed until she saw Y/N’s. “You too?”

Y/N nodded, wiping a few more tears away. “Are you alright,” Y/N found herself asking. 

Shaking her head, Molly glanced down. “My boyfriend is gay. He just–” A sob broke her train of thought and Molly almost collapsed to the floor if it weren’t for Y/N’s gentle hold. 

“Men suck,” Y/N muttered as she held Molly helping stand up once more. 

A light chuckle left Molly’s mouth at Y/N’s words. “They really do. Here I thought he might be nice, but he just used me to get his number to Sherlock and then he went and did his thing, you know,” Molly motioned with her hands when words no longer seemed to find her.

“When he deducted you?” Y/N finished. Molly could only nod before breaking down again. Y/N frowned. She had seen firsthand Sherlock’s deducting abilities. He never held anything back for the sake of accuracy. Oftentimes he’d forget one key factor, feelings. Y/N had yet to be on the other end of Sherlock’s observations. She was sure John had something to do with it; he was always protective of her when it came to Sherlock’s judgment. However, Molly was never spared. “I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered. 

“It’s not your fault…” Molly began but Y/N cut her off. She stood Molly up right and looked into her watery eyes. 

“No, I know it’s not, but sometimes it's nice to know you’re not alone when it comes to Sherlock.” Y/N smiled, and Molly’s eyes widened. 

“He’s made you cry?” She asked.

Y/N somberly nodded. “A lot actually.” Saying those words made more tears appear. 

Molly looked at Y/N with confusion. “But he’s…I thought he…well, he always looks like he’s…” she mumbled nervously. Raising a brow, Y/N urged Molly to continue. “Why would he make you cry when…I thought he was in love with you.”

Y/N froze. “What?” 

“It’s obvious. At least it is to everyone. Sherlock really likes you,” Molly said. Tears no longer fell from her eyes. 

Her heart jumped at Molly’s words. Sherlock. Love. Obvious. “Really? Because it doesn’t feel like that.” If anything, Y/N thought Sherlock hated her now. It was as if she could never do anything right anymore after that night in the hotel. Even her need to breath made Sherlock tense. If he was in love, he sure had a strange way of showing it. But just the idea of Sherlock being in love with her washed away all sadness. It filled Y/N with hope. 

That was the other great thing about women crying together in bathrooms, they built hope together. You never left the bathroom sadder than when you entered it. You always emerged revived. It was the power of women. Something that was the same all over the world. 

“I’m sorry,” Molly whispered, and Y/N knew Molly was saying it for the same reasons she had said it to her. They weren’t alone. 

They stood in the bathroom chatting with each other for minutes longer. Each word only gave the women back strength they thought that they had lost. Soon, they could stand on their own. Their cheeks were no longer wet, and their eyes were no longer puffy and red. They were ready to face the world once more. 

_____

“Sherlock. What did you do?” Y/N hissed as she entered the lab. Her talk to Molly only made her even more infuriated with Sherlock. 

Sherlock immediately knew what Y/N was talking about. “Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?” He smiled. 

Y/N’s eyes ticked. 

"Kinder? No, no, Sherlock. That wasn't kind,” John said. “He announced rudely to Molly her boyfriend was gay,” he explained to Y/N. 

“I know, I heard all about it in the bathroom as she was crying. Sherl–” Y/N scolded. 

“Go on, then,” Sherlock interrupted. His gaze was on John as he raised his hand to the shoes on the counter. 

“Mm?” John stared back at Sherlock confused. Y/N’s mouth hung wide open. A fly could have flown in and out and she wouldn’t have noticed. 

“You know what I do. Off you go,” Sherlock clarified now looking at the shoes. 

“No,” John shook his head. “You hurt Molly, and then interrupted Y/N. I’m not–”

“Go on,” Sherlock insisted. Y/N began to curse in the background. 

John angrily placed his hands on his hips. “I'm not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try to disseminate…”

“An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me,” Sherlock sarcastically smiled. 

“Yeah, right!”  Y/N huffed. 

“Really,” Sherlock repeated. His tone was calm and serious. 

John bit his tongue as he stared at Sherlock. “Fine,” he grumbled before moving onto the shoes. “I dunno, they're just a pair of shoes. Trainers.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good.” 

“Umm... they're in good condition. I'd say they were pretty new... except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while,” John continued. “Uh, they're very eighties – probably one of those retro designs.”

“You're in sparkling form,” Sherlock praised. It struck John’s pride just right to keep him talking and the focus off of him and Y/N. “What else?” 

“Well, they're quite big, so a man's,” John noted. His eyes glanced at Sherlock and then to Y/N as they watched him. 

“But...?”

“But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip,” John said. “Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid.”

Sherlock was beaming now. “Excellent. What else?”

“Uh... that's it," John muttered. His hand flopped to his sides as if to further express the point. 

“That's it?” Sherlock was disappointed. 

“How did I do?” John asked like he was a child being tested on the colors of the rainbow. 

“Well, John; really well,” Sherlock began. John softly smiled. “I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know…”

Y/N saw red. “If you’re so wise then Sherlock, show us what you’ve got.”

“Gladly,” Sherlock smiled at her, taking a bow with his head. “The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored. Changed the laces three... no, four times.  Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old.” 

“Twenty years?” John questioned. 

“They're not retro, they're original. Limited edition - two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine,” Sherlock explained. 

John shook his head. “But there's still mud on them. They look new.”

“Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it.” Sherlock peered at the shoes. 

“And how do you know that?” Y/N asked, stepping closer to the counter with the shoes. 

“Pollen,” Sherlock smirked. “Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind.”

“So what happened to him?” John wondered. 

“Something bad. He loved those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets…” Sherlock trailed off and his eyes bulged. “Oh.”

“What?” Y/N and John eagerly asked. 

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock whispered. 

John and Y/N looked at each other as if they had missed something. “Sorry, who?”

“Carl Powers, John,” Sherlock said. The annoyance in his voice was noticeable. 

“What is it?” Y/N found herself asking. 

“It's where I began,” Sherlock muttered. “Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid – champion swimmer – came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?”

As Sherlock relayed the story, something deep within Y/N had risen. “Carl Powers…huh.” She whispered to herself. The name felt familiar in her mouth. She couldn’t place why. 

“But you remember,” John noted. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. 

“Something fishy about it?” John asked. 

“Nobody thought so – nobody except me,” Sherlock explained. “I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers.” 

“Started young, didn't you?” John jokingly said. Sherlock ignored it. 

“The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head.”

“What?” Y/N wondered.  

“His shoes,” Sherlock said. 

“What about them?” John looked at Sherlock stare off into the distance. 

“They weren't there,” Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair and stood up. “I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes...until now.” 

Sherlock had put on his coat in an instant before moving towards Y/N. With each step he took toward her, the ache in his chest lessened. “Right. Y/N with me.” His hand reached for hers wrapping around them so tightly she wouldn’t be able to escape. He didn’t care if she was pissed at him. All he cared about was keeping her safe. She could only be safe when he was with her. His observant eyes would keep danger away. He would keep the monster from twenty-years ago far away from her. The very one who broke into her apartment. The very monster who was warning and taunting him. “John, go deal with my brother.”

John stood dazed as he watched Sherlock drag Y/N behind him. They were gone before he could give Sherlock his reply. “Uh…fine.”

_____

It wasn’t often Mycroft got visitors. Although, to be fair, all his visitors were invited, so they weren’t technically visitors. “John. How nice,” Mycroft said. It said more to be socially acceptable than from joy that John had visited. “I was hoping you wouldn't be long. How can I help you?” Again, another trivial social phrase. Mycroft knew exactly why John was here, however being the British government required such pleasantries that his brother could afford not to have. 

“Thank you. Um, well,” John looked around Mycroft’s office. It was exactly as he expected. The office was practically decorated. The walls only had two paintings, each on opposite sides to create a sense of symmetry. There were a few chairs and of course a desk. Everything else was empty space. Mycroft was a practical person, a trait sometimes shared by Sherlock (barely).  “I was wanting to... um, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans - the missile plans.”

Mycroft raised a brow up skeptically. “Did he?” 

“Yes.” John nodded before moving his eyes to look at a small notebook with questions and notes about the case. “He's investigating now. He's, er, investigating away,” John corrected. “Um, I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man.”

Leaning back into his chair, Mycroft began to answer John’s questions. “Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington programmed in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies... Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.” 

“Right. He was found at Battersea, yes?” John noted, “So he got on the train.” 

“No,” Mycroft replied. 

John looked up from his notes. The scribbling with his pen stopped. “What?” 

“He had an Oyster card…” Mycroft said. “...but it hadn't been used.” 

“Must have bought a ticket,” was John’s response and he went back to jotting down some notes. 

“There was no ticket on the body,” Mycroft corrected. 

John stopped again. “Then…”

Mycroft had grown a bit impatient. His back straightened and he leaned in the direction of where John stood. “Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea? That is the question – the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?” He smiled letting John know he knew what his brother was actually doing. 

“He-he's fine, yes. Oh, and-and it is going…” John hesitantly gulped. Despite it all he hid his nervousness well. “...very well. It's, um, you know – he's completely focused on it.”

_____

Sherlock was, in fact, not focused on it. With his thumb tucked under his chin and his pointer fingers in front of his lips, Sherlock focused on Y/N. Well, he was thinking of the case, but each thought about the case was broken up with thought of her. 

The woman in question was making tea. She had to keep her hands busy so she wouldn’t accidentally strangle Sherlock for dragging her along and giving her no explanation. Even so, she had tried talking to him about everything: the kiss, the case, their relationship, Carl Powers, and the shoes found in her apartment. Each attempt was met with silence. All Sherlock seemed to do was stare at her. She found it unnerving as his careful eyes trailed across her face and body. 

“Poison,” Sherlock muttered. 

“What?” Y/N placed the teapot on the stove. Her eyes flitted over to Sherlock who was still gazing at her. 

“Clostridium botulinum!” He exclaimed before jumping out of his seat and pranced over to her. He had begun his dance. The one Y/N hated to admit she enjoyed watching. It really was beautiful how Sherlock twirled around the room as the ideas came to him. Each step entangled with new observations from the case. “It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet! Carl Powers!” 

“Wait, are you saying he was murdered?” Y/N asked for clarification. Her eyes floated around the room finding Sherlock’s figure as he approached her. 

“Remember the shoelaces?” he smiled and she thought that this was her Sherlock. The intelligent, lively, and caring man was back. She could see it in his eyes as he looked at her. She had missed that look. She had missed his eyes on her. Once her Sherlock had returned, Y/N also felt herself return. 

“Mmm,” she nodded letting Sherlock know she was following. He was close now. Just as close as he had been when he held her after the explosion. 

“The boy suffered from eczema,” Sherlock beamed. “It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyzes the muscles and he drowns.”

Her stomach jolted at the proximity, but she longed to be closer. “What – how-how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?” 

Instinctively Sherlock’s hands found the sides of her face. His cold fingers were warmed by the heat in her cheeks. “It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it. But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet. That's why they had to go,” Sherlock whispered. His nose brushed against hers. They were so close. He could just–

“So how do we let the bomber know…” Y/N wondered. 

Sherlock licked his lips and then let his hands grow cold once more. “Get his attention…”

“Mmm-hmm,” Y/N stepped in closer just as he stepped away. The distance remained the same.

“...stop the clock,” Sherlock said. His blue eyes trailed over hers before coming to rest on her lips. The very lips he had kissed so fervently not so long ago. He could still taste her on his tongue, but it was faint. The sweet intoxicating flavor plagued his mind and he knew he was addicted. He had to have more or else he’d waste away in withdrawal for the rest of his life. 

“The killer kept the shoes all these years,” Y/N said. Her breath was heavy weighing down her lungs. The air she exhaled was exhilarating. 

“Yes. Meaning…,” Sherlock muttered. 

“He's our bomber,” she finished. 

Before they could lean in closer and ease the ache in their souls, the pink phone buzzed. 

“Well done, you,” the woman cried. “Come and get me.”

When Sherlock stepped away from Y/N, the pain in his chest grew a million times worse. “Where are you? Tell us where you are.”

_____

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_____

[multi-fandom-imagine]

➤Dating Text Messages with the House MD Boys + Thirteen

[thatgenericwriter]

The Fake Boyfriend || Gregory House

Paring: Dr. Gregory House x fem!reader

Summary: When a creepy dude starts hitting on you in the hospital you go to the closest person for help

Warnings: catcalling and gross men

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

"Hey sexy!" You turn to look at who's getting catcalled. Not finding any women looking uncomfortable. Actually, not finding anyone around you at all. No one but a creepy dude who is actively walking closer and closer to you.

'.....oh shit!' You turn around and start walking faster to the cafeteria doors. You pray that there's somebody in there that can help you.

"Hey pretty lady! Why are you walking away from all of this?" You shudder in disgust and start walking even faster to the now approaching cafeteria doors.

You can feel him getting even closer to you. And you're practically running by the time you open the doors to the cafeteria. Quickly scanning the room you spot two men sitting at one of the tables.

Praying that this works you turn around to confront the gross man who has now made it inside the cafeteria with you.

"Please leave me alone sir. I have a boyfriend and he's sitting right over there." You tell this man while gesturing to the men behind you.

"Yeah sure you do why don't you go over there and prove it." You take a deep breath as you hoped he wouldn't ask this. But letting out a shaky exhale you turn around and walk towards the table with the two men.

You hear him walking behind you, and as you get closer you can tell that these two men are actually doctors at this hospital.

"Hey sorry I'm late honey! Traffic was crazy getting here! I hope I didn't miss all of your lunch break." You slide in next to the closest guy to you. Which happened to be a ruff looking man in a suit. And as you took a second closer look you noticed the cane that he had under the table.

You give the two men a pleading look before turning back to the catcaller beside the table. "See I told you my boyfriend was here. So now will you please leave me alone."

You can tell that the two men now understand what's happening. The guy sitting across from you sits up straighter and has a more threatening look on his face. And the man that you had sat by lazily puts his arm around you and pulls you in to him more.

"This cripple is your boyfriend? Baby girl I could please you better than this man ever could." You felt the man's arm wrap around you tighter as this creep said this.

"Are you sure about that? Because I make a killer lasagna!" The man across from you rolls his eyes at the other man's comment before turning to look at the creep.

"Sir if you do not leave my friend's girlfriend alone I will have you personally escorted out of this hospital, and then make sure that you never step foot in this hospital again." This got the creepy man to scoff and roll his eyes before making an off handed comment about you not even being hot enough to be worth all this trouble. Before turning around and leaving the cafeteria.

As soon as the door shut behind him you let out a breath of air that you have been holding in, and relax into your seat before turning and looking at the two men that just saved you.

"I am so sorry for interrupting you guys! But also thank you so much for saving me from that creep."

The friendly looking man across from you tells you that it's no problem and that they were happy to help before introducing himself to you.

"I'm Dr. James Wilson and my lovely friend over there is Dr. Gregory House." You tell them your name and before you know it you're having a pleasant conversation with them. Well mostly with Wilson with house butting in with a sarcastic quick every now and again. But a pleasant conversation nonetheless.

That is until Wilson's pager goes off. He apologizes to both of you before leaving the cafeteria briskly. But not before sending a not so subtle wink to House. And that's when you realize that House has yet to take his arm off of your shoulders.

"I should also get going. My niece should be done with her test by now and I've got to get her home." You quickly scribble your number on one of the napkins on the table with a pin from your purse before sliding it over to House.

"Here's my number just in case you want to save me from anymore creepy men." You get up, after House removes his arm from around you, and grab your bag to start leaving.

You're halfway to the door before you hear house talking from behind you. "It's true you know!"

This stops you in your tracks as you turn back around to face House. "What?" You asked bewildered.

"It's true that I make a great lasagna. How about you come over to my place tomorrow night and prove me right." You give him a little smirk before nodding your head and agreeing.

You turn around again and are almost out the cafeteria doors before you hear House talking once again. "I'll text you the deets!" You shake your head in amusement before letting the door shut fully behind you and walking to the elevator to go get your niece.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed my first house fic!

[zvdvdlvr]

Could you pretty please write an imagine being house s/o, only Wilson knows, either being under him in his team or in a different department. You guys have a kid together and get called from her preschool or babysitter and end up having to bring her to work with you and the kid exposes you?

As well as just some dad house

surprise? ✩ gregory house

You had the situation under control until Greg had decided to teach his little ducklings a lesson in thievery. To be more specific, Greg had shown up to Cuddy’s office- hoping to ‘borrow’ some classified documents about the patient Cuddy had forced them to treat- while you were in there- trying to convince Aunt Lisa to babysit for a few hours.

The first two hours had been fine with Clementine, but nearing the end of the third hour you had realized how hungry she had gotten. Clementine had been relatively quiet: playing with her dolls and practicing her spelling words for school and such, but she was slowly getting bored.

Being the head of radiology meant that you were constantly discussing and interacting with patients, staff, or other important individuals. So far, the first five patients you’ve spoken with hadn’t minded Clementine’s quiet chatter or when she tried to strike up a conversation with them. But that didn’t mean you felt comfortable with your own baby girl while you weren’t giving her your full attention.

And of course the moment you decide to see if Cuddy could take some time to watch Clem, Greg emerges.

“Lisa, please. Just thirty-“

“Daddy!” Clementine squeals, point and squirming around in your hold. “Mama! Look, it’s daddy! Hi daddy!”

You turn, expecting to see your husband alone. Instead of one person, you lock eyes with a beyond shocked Cameron, Chase, and Eric. Greg smiles awkwardly at you, trying to ignore the stares of his lackeys. “I have a meeting soon. Take Clem, Greg. Make sure she eats,” you continue on casually, letting Clementine clint happily to her dad. You thrn to Cuddy and then at Celementine again.

“Make sure to keep an eye on daddy, okay my little love?” You coo. Clementine smiles brightly at you.

“Okay, mama.”

“Don’t lose her,” you tell your husband dryly before patting him on the shoulder and walking out the door.

The three ducklings exchanged glances. In front of them, Clementine pokes Greg’s cheeks after inflated like a balloon. “I’m- I’m going to run another blood culture and make sure his calcium levels are normal,” Chase bullshits, fumbling for an excuse to leave.

“Say bye-bye to the blonde man, Clementine,” Greg tells his daughter.

Chase doesn’t know how to feel when his boss’s daughter waves her chubby little hand and says “bye-bye, blonde man”.

🫀- bonus:

When you swing by Greg’s office after work, you feel a smile pull at your tired lips. On Greg’s chair, your husband has his legs kicked up comfortably on the foot rest. Clementine sleeps silently on him with Greg’s arm wrapped protectively around her little back to prevent her from falling. The soothing chords of the piani drift from Greg’s record player, and you already regret having to wake up the two loves of your life.

[winchestergirl2]

August Reading Recs

To show some love and appreciation to all the amazing writers here on tumblr, who take the time to give us all these incredible stories (for free), allowing us to escape into these worlds. It's a short but sweet list this time. Here are all the fantastic fics I've read this month. 💖

Many of these fics and blogs are 18+ only, and NSFW please heed the author's individual fic warnings and requests regarding no minors. I am not responsible for your media consumption.

Reading Recs Masterlist

Devour

Jake Gray

"What do you see in him?" "Everything you don't." - Jake Gray Prompt Response

@thebiggerbear

Authors Summary: When you go with Jake to visit his mom, you encounter a young woman who inexplicably sets you on edge and has you sticking that much closer to the boy who has your heart.

CSI: Crime Scene Investigation

Greg Sanders

Takeout @space-helen

Authors Summary: Request: hello. i see your requests are still open and i was wondering if it will be alright if i could request a greg sanders price of writing. basically where the reader and greg have a day off work and they just spend the day at their home together, and it is full of fluff. - Anon

Supernatural

Dean Winchester

Queen of Hearts @thing-you-do-with-that-thing

The Boys

Soldier Boy

Well You Got Me There @filmologetica

[islawila]

miss ween