#also i painted this over an old pen sketch cause i didnt feel like drawing anything new lol

[arinmoss]

more gouache practice

[thebeethathums]

Observers - 24

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Warnings: Manic mess making and fear

You woke up with a sore throat, no doubt courtesy of the cold in your flat, and groaned, rolling over to look for John. He was gone and when you saw the time it was no surprise, like clockwork that man, always up before nine. Pulling yourself out of bed felt like the most difficult thing in the world but you managed to get yourself to your feet. You trudged down the stairs, rubbing your eyes as you came into the living room, only to jump when they found Sherlock in his chair. You snapped your head to face forward and then consciously avoided that area, slipping into the kitchen in search of John. You found him, as usual, making tea and quietly began poking at Sherlock’s science equipment on the table, you’d always been interested in the oddly colored liquids he worked with and wondered briefly what would happen if you mixed two of the vials together. John happened to look up just as you got a wicked smile on your face and picked up a vial with something blue in it, “Put that down.”   You pouted in a slightly hoarse voice, “But it’s so pretty… and it would look prettier mixed with that.” You innocently pointed to a green vial, still holding the blue one in one hand, secretly hoping something cool and/or destructive would happen, and John leveled you with a glare, “Put it down. I already have Sherlock almost blowing up the flat on a regular basis and he knows what he’s doing. I don’t need you causing trouble too.” 

You pursed your lips unhappily, putting the vial back in its place reluctantly just as Sherlock came into the doorway. Your eyes went wide and you ducked behind John as he stepped forward to pick up the vial you’d just been holding, scrutinizing it in the light. 

He turned to say something to you but you were gone, having dashed out the door while he was otherwise distracted, and John just shrugged when he gave him an inquisitive look, “If you want to know how her mind works go ask her ‘cause I haven’t the foggiest.” You were sitting in John’s chair when he came into the living room, your knees pulled up to your chest as you took deep breaths, trying to reassure yourself that it was all just a dream. He could see you tense as he came into your peripheral vision and, instead of demanding you tell him why, he sat down across from you, opting to read you instead. You looked up at him, playing the little staring game that had become common between the two of you since that first day. You didn’t try to hide anything, he would always find out in the end so it was pointless to try and do so, and let your eyes take him in, facing your fears as best you could. He could see that you were afraid and his jaw clenched when he realized it was him the feeling was directed at, he went over his actions over the past couple of days trying to find a source for your fear and, coming up with none, came to the conclusion that he must have made an appearance in your nightmare. Your subconscious was making him a threat, why? What had you seen to make someone like you, uninhibited, brave, and a little crazy, so fearful of someone who just the day before you had shown more trust in than anyone aside from John? He must have triggered something by showing you a little more attention than he normally would. This is why we always run experiments appropriately he thought to himself, if he had kissed you there was no telling what unintended effects it may have had. He was surprised when, for the first time since he’d met you, you purposefully looked away from his gaze, burying your face in your knees with a shaky sigh. That was probably more telling to him than anything else you’d done, coupled with the fact that you jumped when John placed a hand on your back as he walked in, “You ok, Squeak?” You tilted your head to look up at him, “Yeah, Johnny. Just thinking.” “The nightmare again?” You didn’t answer, tucking your head back between your knees, and he sighed, “You can stay in my room while I’m gone if you’d like.” You were up like lightning, bolting towards the door, “Thank you, but no, John. I’ll be downstairs.” He looked after you with a little frown, “Maybe I should stay…” “Why? You can hardly protect her from her mind, John.” He knew Sherlock was right but he still wanted to, he felt so helpless, he hadn’t been able to protect you before and now you were here with him and he still couldn’t. It was aggravating. He took a deep breath to let go of his frustrations, maybe some time away would do the both of you some good. He would be able to process everything that had happened and you could come to terms with the fact you no longer had to hide things. A short while later you saw him off, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek as you promised to at least try and stay out of trouble while he was gone before ducking back into your apartment. You toed some of the mess you’d made in your flat across the floor with a heavy sigh, sometimes your artistic side could be a pain as it was also the part of your personality that threw you into almost frantic fits of destruction when you were upset. You looked around. You’d pulled all your old sketchbooks from their place on one of your two large bookshelves and strewn them about, things you had tucked in them escaping to litter the floor. The corner you had set your easel up in was painfully empty as you had flattened the wooden structure and pushed it against the wall, tearing down the tarps to throw over it so you didn’t have to look at it. Your painting stool was toppled on its side and tubes of paint and brushes were tossed haphazardly on your couch and coffee table. The drafting table you used as a desk was tilted so nothing could sit on its surface and your papers, pens, pencils, and larger drawings were scattered on the floor next to it. You held your head in your hands, trying to get a hold of yourself before you destroyed something you couldn’t replace, and then sank down in your chair, feeling exhausted for some reason. Leaning back into it limply, you tried to go into your creative space to at least come up with a better way to handle your frustrations and uneasiness only to have your concentration rudely jarred as the door to your flat was flung open. You nearly toppled your chair backward as you jumped back, “Bloody hell, Sherlock! If you aren’t going to knock can’t you at least be gentle with the door?” His jaw went slightly slack as he took in the state of your flat and you got up to put the chair in between you and him, instinctively seeking a way to protect yourself. Your tone was slightly hostile as you softly asked, “Are you going to tell me what you want or do I have to guess?” “Tea,” he lied, knowing that at the moment you weren’t likely to call his bluff. Though annoyed you obliged, escaping to the kitchen with a slight sense of relief and leaving him to do what he did best, observe. If he had had any doubt as to your interest in him, it was squelched now as his eyes found not only the large sketches of him that had been stashed away on your drafting table but various drawings of him on things ranging from napkins to cardstock advertisements smattered across the floor. He stopped short of your couch when he spotted your current sketchbook on the coffee table, open to your most recent set of drawings. They were also of him but in a very different light than all the others, his face malevolent and his stance extremely threatening, and a couple had his hand raised in such a way that it was obviously going to make contact with the viewer. If Sherlock had ever felt like he had a heart, it was then as pain wrenched through his chest when he realized what you must have seen in your dream and in turn why you were avoiding him. He stepped over your mess and into the kitchen, watching you tense again as you sensed his presence before you took some deep breaths and mumbled to yourself about reality. You turned to offer him a weak grin and a cup of tea, which he accepted only to set down as he closed the gap between the two of you, trapping you between himself and the counter so you couldn’t dash away again. Your form went rigid as your brain fell back on its instincts for situations like this- you’d learned that fighting back would only cause more pain for you in the end, so you turned your cheek and steeled yourself what should come next. It never came. Instead, a hand gently wove its way into your hair, encouraging you to make eye contact with its owner, which you did, looking up at him through your lashes warily. His eyes looked pained and you tilted your head confusedly, forgetting your own potential pain in favor of wanting to stop whatever was causing his. Your fingers seemed to make their way to his sharp cheeks without your permission, taking his face in your hands as you breathed, “What’s the matter, Sherlock?” In response he brought his other hand up, causing you to flinch and pull your hands away from him as you internally cursed yourself for falling into a false sense of security. He brought his hand to your face cautiously, his touch as gentle and feather-light as he could manage as he shifted his other hand so he could cradle your cheeks, causing you to look up at him again as he said only one word, “Never.” You relaxed and he let his hands fall to his side before grabbing his tea and going back out to the living room to drop down in your chair. Standing there frozen for a few minutes, you recovered and went out to where he was to press a light kiss to his cheek as you murmured, “Thank you, Sherly.” A slight smirk crossed his face at his success and you plopped down on the floor to put everything back where it was supposed to be.