#bbc sherlock one shot

[queerholmcs]

4x01

[j-eryewrites]

Stressed Out

MAIN MASTER LIST

Word Count: 1.k <

Warnings: Not really any, kind of ooc Sherlock (but who cares)

Author's Note: Finally feeling like I have time to write and that the writing gods have been in my favor. This was a fun little one-shot to write. While I'm still trying to get back into my writing groove, this one shot definitely helped get some of the dust off my creative writing brain. So, thank you @my-dear-sweet-melody for requesting this one. I hope you enjoy it!

You weren’t sure how you’d been doing it: managing the day-to-day lives of two people who also happened to be good friends of yours, assisting Sherlock with cases, seeing things you’d never thought you’d see in your lifetime (both good and bad), juggling relationships, your own well-being and health, and time to relax. Although it seemed like you had less and less time to do the things concerning yourself. You knew it wasn’t healthy, but when you were thrust into the world of Sherlock Holmes, more important things came into play.

Sherlock was the first to notice how the stress was weighing on you. It was a total shock when he casually announced your current state to John. The moment the words of concern were uttered from Sherlock’s lips, the puzzle in John’s mind had been completed. With the help of Mrs. Hudson, the two men began to conspire to make life easier for their dear friend.

At first, Sherlock’s conscious decision to wash his dishes and put them away in the correct cabinets struck you as odd. Sherlock’s mind was usually too busy for such arbitrary tasks, and such magnificent brain power couldn’t be wasted on such a thing. Then came the tidiness of his experiments. You could swear you hadn’t seen a stray finger or eyeball dissolving in vinegar for quite some time.

When you had asked Sherlock about his new behavior, he shrugged it off with some wildly strange research idea he had come up with. You tried to follow along, but your brain began to hurt after a moment, so you opted to believe him instead.

Meanwhile, John took extra care to charge his and Sherlock’s devices. He knew no matter how brilliant Sherlock was, the man seemingly ceased to forget that computers, phones, and the lot needed to be charged via a charging cord and port. On the other hand, Mrs. Hudson made the note to prepare extra tea and biscuits to save yourself the trouble of doing that for Sherlock and John.

Now, you felt no need to question John and Mrs.Hudson’s new behavior. It was in character for them to do small things like that. However, you continued to question Sherlock; he grew tired of it. Why couldn’t you see that he cared for you, too? That maybe he cared a bit more for you than he should. He was growing weary of the excuses he made to your insistent questions when all he wanted to do was throw them up and tell you the truth. Truthfully, the truth was something he insisted upon. Sherlock always found it one way or another. Yet, he could only fib when you had a new query about his altered behavior. Was it hard for you to understand that Sherlock could care? That he, too, could be human?

“Sherlock,” you called as you sat on the couch, pouring over the current case. It was usually your job to organize each thing into its Sherlockian category to save Sherlock his brain power. However, when you opened the file, it had already been done. “Did I happen to organize this in my sleep?” You raised the file and peered at him. Sherlock felt his mind conjure up the latest lie. Just before it left his mouth, he paused. He got up and marched to the window, where he began to gaze out onto the street below. He couldn’t lie anymore. He had to tell you the truth.

“I organized it,” Sherlock said.

You froze. Something was seriously wrong with the man if he was now organizing his own cases. “Sherlock, you never orga–”

“Why can’t I?” Sherlock’s voice grew tense. His eyes clenched shut, all while his back was still towards you. He wouldn’t dare look at you. He knew if he saw your eyes, he’d crumble and tell you everything, but everything was what you needed to hear. Everything was what he needed to say.

“I never said you couldn’t. It’s just,” you faltered, “…strange.”

Within a moment, Sherlock whirled around. His icy blue eyes began to thaw under your gaze. “I observed you have stressed: Your trousers falling to your hips instead of hanging snuggly on your waist, the dark circles under your eyes that only grew prominent by the day, the growing urge to sleep instead of join Mrs. Hudson for the weekly watch party of the latest soap opera,” Sherlock shut his mouth. He had said too much already; he shouldn’t say more, but his lips moved again. “I wasn’t the only one who noticed, John and Mrs. Hudson, too. We devised a plan to lessen the blow of our–my constant mess.”

As Sherlock spoke, you realized his words were only the truth. You had noticed you suddenly had more time to eat a meal, spend time with your favorite landlady, who was more like a mother, go on walks in the park with John, listen to Sherlock compose his latest piece, sleep, and live life as it should be lived. Amidst Sherlock’s rambling, you whispered, “Why?”

“Because we–because I care you for,” Sherlock choked.

Slowly, you remove yourself from the comfort of the couch cushions and find a place in front of Sherlock. You watch as Sherlock shudders from the touch of your hand on his cheek. “Thank you,” you said as a smile grew. “Thank you for caring when I forgot to take care of myself. Although…”

Sherlock frowned.

“…while I appreciate the sentiment of you organizing your own cases, John charging the computers, and Mrs. Hudson always preparing tea, I’d still like to be able to do my job. After all, the great Sherlock Holmes still needs to use his brain power to solve cases and save the day.”

Sherlock could only smile at that response for he'd give you anything you'd ask. "Of course. Of course, Y/N."

____

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_____

[rmoony12]

The urge to throw in a Sherlock BBC reference as I rewrite my Halloween oneshot...

[nahokura]

There will be a second poll, based on the answer, to choose the character or the ship :)

[lazydoodlesandfanfic]

Answer The Phone (Mycroft X Daughter!Reader) *PARENTAL

Characters: Mycroft X Daughter!Reader, Sherlock X Niece!Reader

Universe: Sherlock

Warnings: mentions of being drugged via gas (fun story, this happened to me once lol), bomb, explosion, burns, unhealthy relationship with parent

Request: Hello could you do mycroft x daughter reader. Final problem the two have really broken father and daughter relationship and they haven't express themselves and because of it sherlock is kinda the father figure of the reader. So instead of Sherlock doing the phonecall its the mycroft who did the phonecall and reader almost said 'I love you ' to mycroft but its time up and mycrift witness the explosion in reader apartment and the Holmes are broken as they heard the shrill scream coming from the reader. Its up to you if you wanna turn out to let reader died. 😊

It had been a long time since you had actually gotten along with your dad. A long time since tensions weren’t running high when in his presence, well aware that things were one thoughtless comment away from a bicker or an argument. Whether it was wanting something from one another- more affection from him, or a more agreeable personality from you- or just not agreeing on things in general. He often commented on how you were more like your uncle Sherlock, even when you were young. Back then you took it as a compliment, seeing your uncle as a genius who adored you and was by far the funnest uncle in the world, but in your pre-teens you realised he meant it as an insult.

You could never forgive him for doing that, even if he didn’t mean it, or didn’t even realise what he was saying. Everytime he said it, it made you pull away from him even more. Spend more time with the man he compared you to, the only person who seemed to actually care about you. Of course, that was until you met Mrs Hudson and then John moved in with Sherlock. Mrs Hudson kept you company when your uncle was busy and you were avoiding your dad, and she’d softly poke into your home life and your relationship with your dad and try and give advice. John thought you were Sherlock’s assistant for a short while before Sherlock corrected him, acting insulted that he thought you were ‘just an assistant’. When he met Mycroft, he immediately began to understand why you weren’t close, and tried to be a responsible adult you could turn to. In the end, when you became a legal adult, you moved to an apartment much, much closer to Sherlock than your dad, and never in the 3 years you’d had it, had your dad stepped foot inside of it. He wasn’t allowed to. 

You had a lot of feelings towards your dad from childhood to now. Anger, resentment, distrust. A disconnect you never thought and come to accept could ever be fixed. Whenever you needed support, you went to Sherlock. John. Mrs Hudson. Never him. But this time was different. 

You were currently trapped in the said apartment. The one place you were supposed to feel safe no matter what, yet here you were, eyes focussed on the bomb that had been planted in the middle of your living room, the heart of your apartment, with several wires linking to it all across the apartment like spiderwebs. Linked to every possible escape route- the windows, the fire escape, and the only door in and out. You didn’t remember what had happened- you vaguely remember an odd smell as you wet to sleep last night, and when you awoke, you found yourself laying on the floor of your living room, and sitting up and seeing the device. Whoever had done this, had been nice enough to leave your phone right beside the bomb. You didn’t call anyone or even turn the phone on for several hours, scared that it had been tampered with as well and that was also a trigger, but you grew desperate. The first person you tried to call was your dad. You didn’t get through, so then you called Sherlock, and he picked up almost immediately, and you told him what was going on. 

That was about two hours ago now. The police cars littered the streets outside, the complex and surrounding buildings completely evacuated. It was just you and this bomb within a 50 foot radius. Well, for a period of time, both Sherlock and John were on the other side of the door, asking you a billion and one questions about what you could see, and you described everything to the best of your abilities, and it was useful. One, Sherlock was able to piece together it was well made, and whoever made this was an expert and had experience with this- probably a military man, working in a bomb squad or something, and that this was purely explosive, no nails or anything to cause more damage, and due the size, the blast wouldn’t go far past the walls of your home. However, after demanding his honesty, he admitted he also had no clue how to diffuse it, or if that was even possible. It seemed too fragile, that even a light breeze could set it off. That solidified your decision to remain perfectly still within two of the wires attached to your windows, too scared to even touch the glass or move to quickly, remembering his comment on a breeze, and didn’t want to risk vibration. 

You still hadn’t been able to reach your dad. 

“John?” You had asked over the phone. The phone was often being in call between people, mostly Sherlock and John, though Mrs Hudson had called when neither were available to try and keep you calm. It was John’s turn as Sherlock was following leads. 

“Yeah? Is something happening?” John asked. 

“No it’s just… I can’t reach my dad. I keep trying to call him but he won’t pick up… I… I just want to hear his voice.” You admitted. It sounded ridiculous, childish, but you were tired, hungry, and the adrenaline had drained your energy a while ago now. “Does he know what’s happening?” You asked. He was silent on his side for a minute. 

“I don’t know, but I tell you what, I’m going to personally find him, and drag him here, and make him answer his phone, okay?” He promised, and you could hear the anger oozing over the phone, which you couldn’t help but smile at. “In the meantime, I think Sherlock is going to call you later, I think he’s onto something. Hang on, alright?” He said, before handing up. You placed the phone on the floor, carefully standing up, and with distance between yourself and the window, you peered out of it, able to see John as he dashed off towards Lestrade, telling him something, before the pair got into a car and took off presumably to go and find your dad. Looking around more, you spotted Mrs Hudson peering up. She waved when she saw you, and you waved back. With nothing else to do, you sat back down in front of the bomb, trying to examine it to the best of your ability, seeing nothing of importance, before you laid down on the floor, closing your eyes, and waiting.

You flinched when your phone rang. You flinched every time it rang, even if someone had told you just a minute prior it was coming. You reached over, picking it up and placing it to your ear, remembering what John had said. “Sherlock?” You asked. 

“How many pieces of furniture in your flat can you crawl under?” His question was far from reassuring, as you bolted up, on high alert. 

“U-Um, I don’t know, why? Do I need to hide? Take cover? What’s going on?” You panicked. 

“The wiring to the bomb is far too fragile for someone to be able to rig it from the outside after escaping. They must have either found or made another way inside, somewhere where you wouldn’t have noticed. If we can find it you can get out yourself, or we can get inside. Think. Lay on the floor and look around for anything, furniture that you can get under, or furniture light enough but large enough to cover an escape but be able to move from below. Be. Careful. Watch the wires. Call me back if you find anything, I’m on my way back.” He said before hanging up, leaving you alone with silence and overwhelming pressure. You looked at the wires around you, before trying to think of the best places for someone to hide a hatch- under the coffee table, the recliner that you knew was easy to move, your wardrobe in your room which had some crawl space underneath, and for you, the most creepy- under your bed. You quickly checked under your coffee table in front of you, of course finding nothing, because of course that would be too easy. Your recliner was across from you, so after a deep breath, you got down on the ground, and carefully crawled under the wires, spotting a wire that was too low to crawl under, and you stood and carefully stepped over it. You then carefully moved your recliner, checking underneath, and found nothing. That left your bedroom. 

Your phone rang again, and your cursed yourself, realising you left it beside the table, and you hurriedly but carefully moved back, grabbing it and answering it. “Hello? Sherlock?” 

“Y/N?” Your dad’s voice caught you off guard, and you gasped in surprised. “What’s going on? John told me to call you and said it was dire.” He asked. A relief came over you just from hearing his voice, your eyes burning as you sniffed. 

“Dad… it’s bad.” You started, getting silence on the phone. “There’s… someone put some sort of sedative gas into my flat when I went to bed and broke in- they moved me into the living room and- there’s a bomb. There’s a bomb in the living room and it’s wired up to every escape and I can’t get out and I’m scared and I don’t want to die-” You rambled to him before you heard him finally repeating your name to try and interrupt you. 

“Y/N, Y/N, breathe. Is Sherlock working on it?” He asked, that last sentence sound a little distance, and you faintly heard John confirm in the background, before he returned to the phone. “Alright. Sherlock’s working on it. What has he told you?” 

“He um… He said that he thinks there’s a secret entrance somewhere- and that’s how the person who did this escaped after rigging everything. He told me to look for it- I’m going to check in my bedroom next.” You explained to him, looking over, being relieved when you saw no wire attached to the door. 

“Is that door rigged?” 

“No. Hold on, I have to crawl under the wires.” You explained, getting back down, crawling under the wires, before reaching it the door, and holding the phone to your ear. “Okay, I’m at the door.”

“Do you feel like a secret agent?” He asked, catching you off guard. 

“What?” You asked, pausing in your plan. 

“Crawling under and over the wires. It’s like the laser lights and those agents avoiding them. You used to love those movies when you were little. You thought that was what Sherlock did in his cases.” He reminisced. A faint smile met your lips. You’d totally forgotten about that. 

“Yeah… I remember one time when I pulled out all the red thread from a jumper you had gotten me, pinning it all over the house so I could pretend to be a secret agent and then using it to make an information board… you were so mad when you came back home because the jumper was some expensive brand and I’d made the board on a wall and wrote on it and everything… sorry about that.” You told him, somehow finding the energy to chuckle pathetically. 

“Don’t apologise.” Mycroft told you. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. You were 6, you were just being a child.” He pointed out. “I’m… I’m also sorry that I didn’t answer your calls. I should have known something was wrong when you kept trying to reach me.” He apologised. You hummed, before you realised something. 

“This is the first time we’ve been able to actually talk without bickering or arguing in years.” You pointed out. You heard him sigh. 

“When this whole mess is over, I promise you we’re going to have a proper family dinner, catch up, and actually talk. No bickering. No arguing. A genuine conversation. How does that sound?” He asked. You smiled to yourself. This was the best thing that had happened all day, not like that was hard. 

“Yeah. Let’s hope the escape is in my room.” You said, remembering your task. You reached out, grabbing the handle of your bedroom door, and opening it, and pulling the door open. “Hey, you know, despite not really getting along my whole life, I want you to know that I do love-” You looked up to search your room, but the sound of a beep made your eyes focus on the bomb attached to your bedframe, this one a lot bigger, that was rigged to your bedroom door, that you had just set off.

Mycroft heard you gasp, the sound of you running, hearing you muttering repeatedly ‘no, no, no, no”, the sound of you trying to open a door before the call ended. “Y/N?” Mycroft asked. He heard nothing. He tried calling you back, and it didn’t even ring. He got an awful feeling in his stomach and he wanted to be sick, but he looked up at John who looked confused at what was happening, having not heard what he’d heard. “Get me to her flat right now.” 

By the time the pair arrived on your street, it was already blocked off and there was more than one firetruck trying to subdue the fire that was blazing where your flat used to be. Mycroft didn’t speak as he approached, seeing the sight, realising what it was exactly that he heard. He heard his daughter realise she triggered an explosive. He heard his daughter run across the one place she was meant to be safe to the front door. He heard his daughter try and open the door, and realise it was locked and she was trapped inside.

He heard his daughter die, terrified and alone. And for what? Why? Why not him, or Sherlock? He wanted to be angry, demand answers, find who did this and get revenge even if it isn’t lawful, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry right now. Only guilty. He should have spent more time with you. He should have tried harder to be a better parent to you, he should have been kinder, more understanding. He should have been there. 

“John! Mycroft!” Mycroft didn’t hear Mrs Hudson at first as she dashed over as quick as she could- she was sobbing and sniffling, clutching a handkerchief to her face as she approached. 

“Mrs Hudson, what happened?!” John asked alarmed and out of breath. 

“There was a second bomb in the bedroom, when she opened the door it set it off.” She explained. Mycroft finally looked away from the blaze to look at the woman. The call had ended only 20 minutes or so prior, and since the flat was still in fire, so there was no way to examine the scene. 

“How do you know that?” He asked her. She didn’t say anything, simply grabbing his arm and pulling him down the street, pass the firetrucks, past the police who looked defeated, and towards an ambulance. The back doors were open, and inside he was able to see two paramedics tending to someone in the bed. He felt his heart leap into his throat as he sprinted to the edge and jumped inside, able to finally see your face, an oxygen mask over your face, burns littering your body, and you were unconscious as a paramedic was placing bandaging on one of your burns. “Is she okay? Is my daughter okay?” He demanded answers, one of the paramedics looking up at him. 

“She’s suffered burns and blunt force trauma from the explosion. She was conscious when she was able to get out, but she fell unconscious, and we need to get her to the hospital now. Please sit down if you’re coming with her.” He instructed, and Mycroft followed and sat down. He turned, seeing John and Mrs Hudson stood, staring at you. 

“Please make sure Sherlock finds out who did this. They need to pay for this.” Mycroft demanded. John nodded firmly, before the doors shut, the sirens turned on and the ambulance began to move. Mycroft put his whole focus on you, making sure your chest moved up and down, looking for any sign of you waking up, and more importantly, any sign you were in pain. He only saw you breathing, and he decided for now he should be thankful for that. He didn’t know what exactly he was going to do, but he knew that somehow, someway, he was going to fix this. He was going to make everything better. He had to.

Hope you like it! If you have any questions, please send them in!

*Not my gif

TAGS: @holy-tea-cup-blog @sassy-specter @keenmarvellover @multifandomfix @sleutherclaw @otterly-fey @courtneychicken @graysonmalfoy @bellero @originalpottervengerlock @supernatural-pan @esoltis280 @lady-of-lies @lenaswritingandstuff @macbetheliza @mandywholock1980 @cdwmtjb8 @caswinchester2000 @determinedpines@huntheimpossible @automaticbakeryfreakshoe

[softestqueeen]

let the light in

pairing: sherlock holmes x reader

summary: After a particularly frustrating case, all the consulting detective needs, is closeness.

warnings: just pure teeth rotting fluff

wordcount: 904 words

a/n: just a cute little one shot with my favourite detective. the name is inspired by the song “let the light in” by Lana Del Rey, cuz I feel like it fits the vibe I was going for in the end. and now enjoy <3

His last case was one of the hardest he ever had the solve. Even though Sherlock Holmes loves the thrill of a case that really challenges him, it also frustrates him to no end if he can’t find the culprit the moment, he has all the evidence.

This case had involved multiple chases with no success, countless sleepless nights, and even more nights that he didn’t get to spend with you.

Countless nights sitting in his chair thinking, while he could hear your soft snores from down the hall.

He missed you even though he saw you every day. He saw you when you told him to eat something, when you told him to take a break, when you told him to go to sleep. But it wasn’t the same when he couldn’t really spend some quality time with you. When he couldn’t have deep conversations with you, when he couldn’t look at you, when he couldn’t hold you and really feel you.

To say he ached for you was putting it lightly.

The start of your relationship was not easy. Suddenly Sherlock had someone he really trusted. Someone who always listened to him and always cared about him. Someone who would wait and be there for him when he came home at night. Those were not things that were easy for him to get used to, especially since he had never really loved someone.

But for you he tried, and, in the end, it worked out. Still sometimes your relationship has to come second. He doesn’t like that, but he has to get his cases done, especially since he doesn’t take on that many cases anymore. He found a new thrill.

You.

When Sherlock finally entered your shared flat in the middle of the night, he didn’t expect you to be up.

But here you were, sitting in his chair, wearing on of his robes and reading what seems to be one of your way too cheesy romcoms. In the background a jazz record could be heard, one of your favourites. He couldn’t even begin to explain how relieved he was to see you.

But unfortunately, the one he thing Sherlock Holmes was horrible at asking for was the one thing he now desperately needed most.

All he wanted to do right now was hold you close and hear your voice. He wanted to really feel you with his whole being and not just feel your hand grazing his when handing him a cuppa.

He lightly knocked on the door, not wanting to startle you. You looked up from your book and immediately saw your boyfriend looking back at you. A smile now adorned your face, which caused a warm feeling to spread through the detective.

“Case solved?”, was the first question you could voice, even though a hundred more were currently going through your mind. You really hoped it was solved, because that would mean you could finally spend some time with your boyfriend again.

“Finally!”, he answered, a smile now starting to appear on his face too.

At hearing his answer, you immediately got up and hugged him for what felt like the first time in weeks, even though it could have been only a week at most.

You nuzzled into his chest while he tucked his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling the smell of your body wash. 

“Why are you still up, my love?” It was not a question of importance but more one to break the silence and to finally hear more of your voice.

“Well, I couldn’t sleep and thought I would wait up for you. I’ve missed you.” Your words made Sherlock think. These days he often considered your feelings, especially when he’s doing something that could make you mad. But he never considered that not only did he miss you, but you also missed him the same. He was not the only one deprived of your touch, you couldn’t touch him either.

He unconsciously pulled you closer while he got lost in his thoughts.

“How about we go to bed, huh?” Your voice immediately put him back to reality.

“Theres nothing, I want more right now.”, he answered truthfully. You pulled away from him and took his hand in yours, already on the way to your shared bedroom.

You were already wearing your pyjamas, only wearing one of Sherlocks dressing gowns on top of them.

While you got under the covers Sherlock took off his suit before carefully placing it on a nearby chair. He also got into his pyjamas before joining you under the covers.

He immediately took a hold of your waist before pulling you into him. You were now both laying on your sides, legs intertwined, facing each other. You had one of your hands on his chest, feeling his steady and now relaxed heartbeat, while your other hand slowly drew shapes on his back.

All the while Sherlock just held you close, happy to have you close to him again.

While holding you, he wondered how he went on with life before he met you. Before you were there for him, held him close and showed him what love felt like, or that love could feel so incredibly good. But when he kissed you now, just before you fell asleep in his arms, he knew that he doesn’t need to worry about having to live without you ever again.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed this little drabble, please consider giving me feedback and leaving some notes (likes, comments, reposts). please also consider checking out my ao3!

taglist: @silvermagnolias @milywatermelon

[duvetfawn]

A Case to Die For

- Masterlist

INTRODUCTION: The bones told stories only you could read. As an anthropologist, you were brought in to assist on a chilling case—a serial killer carving intricate patterns into the bones of his victims. It was meant to be about the work, about solving the mystery. But then you met Sherlock Holmes. Brilliant, maddening, and utterly magnetic, he challenged you at every turn. The case pulled you both into the depths of human depravity, but it was the tension between you and the detective that threatened to consume you entirely.

PAIRING: Sherlock x fem!reader

WARNINGS: This story contains SMUT (it's at the end, I put a warning before the scenes), MDNI, oral sex (both receiving), fingering, vaginal sex (different position), cursing, etc.

WORD COUNT: 5.7k

A/N: Hello people! I've had this idea for a while. As you may have guessed I enjoy writing one-shots quite a lot. Don't worry though, I'll update my main story soon. Sorry about grammar mistakes (if there are any). Enjoy your reading!

The knock at the door was brisk, almost impatient.

You glanced at the worn numbers marking the address—221B Baker Street—and adjusted the strap of your bag, the weight of the files inside pulling at your shoulder. The letter from Detective Inspector Lestrade, which had summoned you here, was crumpled in your coat pocket, and you briefly considered turning back. You weren’t sure what unnerved you more: the gruesome details of the case you’d been asked to consult on or the man you were about to meet.

The door swung open before you could knock again.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, taller than you’d expected, his lean frame emphasized by a dark suit that seemed tailored to the millimeter. His sharp cheekbones caught the light filtering in from the window behind him, and his piercing blue eyes swept over you with clinical detachment.

“Finally,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “You’re late.”

“I was told noon,” you replied, stepping into the cozy yet cluttered sitting room. The air smelled faintly of tea and books, with an undertone of something more chemical.

“It’s five past,” he said, his tone clipped as he gestured toward the couch. “Sit. Let’s get this over with.”

“Charming,” you muttered under your breath, but you complied, placing your bag beside you.

As you settled in, Sherlock was already pacing, his eyes darting over you like a scanner. He tilted his head slightly, as if piecing together a puzzle. “Forensic anthropologist. Academic background, but you’ve spent time in the field—South America, recently, given the faint traces of mosquito bites on your arms. You’re meticulous, perhaps overly so. Single—though not by choice. No pets. Late nights working have left shadows under your eyes. Addicted to caffeine. And—”

You cut him off before he could continue. “I drink tea, not coffee. And I left South America three months ago, not recently.”

Sherlock stopped mid-step, his lips twitching upward into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk.

“Impressive,” came a voice from behind you. Turning, you saw Dr. John Watson standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a warm smile on his face. “Not many people interrupt Sherlock.”

“Someone has to,” you replied, shooting a pointed look at Holmes.

John chuckled. “Well, you’ll fit in just fine here.”

“Enough pleasantries,” Sherlock interrupted, his smirk fading as quickly as it had appeared. He moved to a cluttered desk piled high with books, papers, and vials of indeterminate substances. “Lestrade claims you have insights into the carvings on the bones. Show me.”

You bristled slightly at his abrupt tone but reached into your bag, pulling out the folder containing photographs of the remains. You set it on the table, and Sherlock was on it immediately, his fingers quick and precise as he flipped through the images.

“These carvings,” you began, pointing to one of the photographs, “aren’t just random marks. They’re runic, but not purely historical. Someone’s added their own cipher to them, which is why no one’s been able to decode them yet.”

Sherlock didn’t look at you, but his lips parted slightly, and he let out a low hum of interest.

“They’re not just decorative,” you continued. “They’re instructions—or warnings. And they’re meant to mislead.”

“Fascinating,” Sherlock murmured, finally glancing up. His gaze was intense, the weight of it almost physical. “And you’ve decoded these… instructions?”

“Not yet,” you admitted. “But I’ve narrowed down the language and symbolism to something that originates from Norse mythology. Whoever is behind this knows their history but is using it to obscure their true intent.”

Sherlock straightened, his tall frame towering over you as he considered your words. Then, without warning, he turned to John. “Get the laptop. Now.”

John sighed, muttering something under his breath as he retrieved the requested item. “You could at least say please once in a while, you know.”

Sherlock ignored him, his attention already back on you. “Your methodology. Show me.”

You opened your own notebook, flipping to a page filled with notes, sketches, and translations. As you explained your process, Sherlock’s eyes darted between your notes and the photographs, his brow furrowing in concentration.

“You’re thorough,” he said finally, his voice softer than before. “Almost obsessively so.”

“I have to be,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “Lives depend on it.”

His lips twitched again, as if he were on the verge of another smirk, but he turned away abruptly, the moment passing.

Hours passed as the three of you worked. The initial stiffness between you and Sherlock began to dissolve, replaced by a grudging respect. John chimed in occasionally with practical observations, but most of the time, it was you and Sherlock, your minds sparking off one another as you dissected every detail of the case.

The bones belonged to multiple victims, all of whom had vanished under mysterious circumstances. The carvings on the remains suggested a connection to a cult, one that used ancient rituals as a cover for their crimes.

As the day wore on, the atmosphere in the room grew heavier. The implications of the case were grim, and the pressure to find the killer mounted with every passing moment.

It was well past midnight when John finally stretched and stood. “I’m calling it a night. Some of us need sleep, you know.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, then glanced at you. “Good luck keeping up with him. He’ll be at this all night.”

You smiled faintly as John left, but the tension in the room remained.

“You should go, too,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop.

“I’m staying,” you replied firmly. “This case doesn’t just affect you, Sherlock. I’m involved now, whether I like it or not.”

He glanced at you then, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Stubborn.”

You shrugged. “Dedicated.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock’s lips curved into a genuine smile. It was fleeting, but it transformed his sharp features into something softer, more human.

As the hours dragged on, the weight of exhaustion began to set in. You leaned back against the sofa, stretching your legs as Sherlock continued to pace the room, his mind clearly racing.

“Do you ever stop?” you asked, your voice tinged with amusement.

“Rarely,” he replied without missing a beat.

You watched him for a moment, noting the way his dark curls caught the dim light and the way his sharp jawline flexed as he mulled over the case. He was undeniably striking, but there was something more captivating about the way his mind worked—relentless, brilliant, and entirely singular.

“You should sleep,” he said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“So should you.”

He stopped pacing, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. “I can’t.”

The honesty in his voice surprised you. For a moment, you saw beyond the genius and arrogance to the man underneath—a man burdened by the weight of his own mind.

“Sherlock…” you began, but he shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, almost pleading.

You didn’t press further, but the moment lingered, the air between you charged with unspoken words.

The silence stretched between you and Sherlock, thick with unspoken thoughts. He returned to pacing, the sharp lines of his face etched with concentration.

You rose from the sofa, crossing to the table where the photographs of the bones lay spread out. The weight of the case had settled heavily on your shoulders. The carvings weren’t just the work of a killer—they were the work of someone meticulous, someone who enjoyed leaving a trail, daring others to follow.

“Why bones?” you murmured, half to yourself.

“What?” Sherlock’s voice cut through the room, sharp and sudden.

“Why bones?” you repeated, turning to face him. “The killer could’ve left messages in any number of ways. Why carve them into bones? It’s labor-intensive, messy, and… personal.”

Sherlock’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing as he considered your words. “Because they want us to see the victims as something more than flesh. Bones are timeless. Eternal. To them, this is art.”

The thought made your stomach churn. “So we’re dealing with an egotist. Someone who wants to be remembered.”

“Exactly.” Sherlock’s lips curved into a grim smile. He stepped closer, his movements fluid and purposeful. “And egotists always leave clues. They want to be found—eventually. It’s a game to them.”

You nodded, your mind already racing ahead. “But the runes—there’s a pattern. I don’t think they’re random.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up, a spark of excitement flickering in their depths. “Show me.”

You reached for your notebook, flipping to the page where you’d sketched out the carvings. As you explained your theory, Sherlock leaned in, his proximity making the air between you hum with tension. You could feel the heat of him, the sharpness of his gaze as he absorbed every word you said.

When you finished, he straightened, a rare look of approval crossing his face. “You’re good,” he said simply.

“Better than you expected?” you shot back, unable to resist the jab.

His lips twitched. “Much.”

Hours later, the two of you stood side by side at the kitchen counter, a map of London spread out before you. You’d identified a pattern in the runes—coordinates, perhaps, or some kind of geographical marker.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a section of the map. “The killer’s movements trace a path through these locations. They’re circling something.”

Sherlock leaned over your shoulder, his hand brushing yours as he followed your line of sight. “They’re closing in on a central point,” he murmured. “A hub. But what?”

Before you could respond, the sound of the door opening interrupted you. John stepped into the room, his expression curious.

“You two still at it?” he asked, his gaze flicking between you and Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, not looking up.

John sighed. “Of course you are. Did either of you eat? Sleep? Do anything remotely human?”

“I had tea,” you offered.

John shook his head. “Right. Well, if you need me, I’ll be in my room. Try not to burn the flat down.”

As John left, Sherlock straightened, his attention fully on the map once more. “We’re close,” he said, more to himself than to you. “I can feel it.”

It was well past three in the morning when the breakthrough came. You’d been poring over the map, exhaustion tugging at the edges of your mind, when Sherlock suddenly froze.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“What?”

He grabbed the map, pointing to a section near the Thames. “The carvings aren’t just coordinates. They’re dates. Look—each location corresponds to a disappearance, and the runes indicate the order.”

You stared at the map, your pulse quickening. “So the central point…”

“Is where the killer will strike next.”

The realization sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. But before you could react, Sherlock turned to you, his expression serious. “You’re staying here.”

You blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“It’s too dangerous,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The killer knows who you are. If you come with me, you’ll be a target.”

“And you won’t?” you shot back. “Sherlock, I’m not staying behind while you run off to confront a murderer alone.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then his shoulders slumped slightly, and he sighed. “You’re insufferable,” he muttered.

“And you’re overbearing,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

The tension between you remained thick as you prepared to leave for the central location. Sherlock was quiet, his usual sharp remarks absent as he packed a small bag with tools and evidence.

“You’re worried,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes unreadable. “I’m always worried.”

“About me?”

His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the mask he wore slipped. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The admission hung in the air, heavy and charged. You stepped closer, your heart pounding. “Sherlock…”

He didn’t move, his tall frame unnervingly still. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. “I can’t afford distractions,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“I’m not a distraction,” you said, your voice steady.

His lips curved into a faint smile, and before you could react, he closed the distance between you. His kiss was sudden and consuming, all the tension and frustration of the past days boiling over in a single, electrifying moment.

The kiss lingered for a moment—unspoken emotions breaking through the controlled veneer that Sherlock so carefully maintained. But just as quickly as it began, he pulled back, his sharp features hardening as if he’d remembered himself.

“This is a distraction,” he muttered, turning away abruptly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “A distraction?” you echoed, your voice edged with disbelief. “You kissed me, Sherlock.”

“And I shouldn’t have,” he said, his tone clipped. He grabbed the map from the table, his long fingers gripping it tightly. “The case comes first.”

You felt a flush of anger rise in your chest. “You don’t get to decide what’s important for both of us. I’m here because I want to be.”

Sherlock turned to you then, his blue eyes flashing with something you couldn’t quite place—anger, perhaps, or something deeper. “And what happens if you get hurt?” he snapped.

“I could say the same to you,” you shot back, stepping closer. “You’re not invincible, Sherlock.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there, the tension between you crackling like static electricity. But before either of you could speak again, Sherlock’s phone buzzed on the table.

He snatched it up, his expression darkening as he read the message. “Lestrade,” he said shortly. “There’s been another body.”

The air was cold and damp as you arrived at the scene, the faint mist of the Thames clinging to your skin. Lestrade met you both at the edge of a cordoned-off area, his face grim.

“Another one,” he said, nodding toward the forensics team working under a floodlight. “Same carvings. Same precision. This one was left out in the open, though—almost like they wanted us to find it.”

Sherlock pushed past him without a word, his long coat billowing behind him. You followed closely, your heart pounding as you approached the body.

The victim was laid out on the ground, their arms folded across their chest in a disturbingly serene pose. The runes were etched deep into their skin, trailing up their arms and across their torso.

“Another message,” Sherlock murmured, crouching beside the body. His fingers hovered over the carvings, his sharp eyes scanning every detail.

You knelt beside him, your stomach twisting at the sight. “It’s different,” you said, pointing to a series of symbols near the victim’s collarbone. “These weren’t on the last body.”

Sherlock tilted his head, his expression sharp. “A variation in the pattern,” he said softly. “Why?”

“Because they’re escalating,” you replied. “The killer’s becoming bolder, more confident. They’re taunting us.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Or they’re telling us exactly where to find them.”

Lestrade approached, his hands shoved into his pockets. “Anything?”

Sherlock stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the scene. “Yes. The killer is leaving breadcrumbs—and we’re about to follow them.”

Back at 221B, the two of you worked furiously to decipher the new symbols. The atmosphere in the flat was charged, the earlier tension between you and Sherlock now overshadowed by the urgency of the case.

“These markings,” Sherlock muttered, pacing the room. “They’re not just coordinates. They’re a challenge—a riddle.”

You stared at the notes spread out before you, your mind racing. “It’s a location,” you said suddenly, the pieces clicking into place. “The symbols form a map—a rough one, but it’s there.”

Sherlock stopped pacing, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. “Show me.”

You grabbed a pen, sketching out the pattern of the runes and overlaying them onto the map of London. It was crude, but the alignment was unmistakable.

“Here,” you said, pointing to a spot near the outskirts of the city. “An abandoned warehouse. It’s isolated, easy to control. If I were them, that’s where I’d be.”

Sherlock’s lips curved into a rare smile—one that sent a jolt of electricity through you. “Brilliant,” he said, his voice low and almost reverent.

Your breath caught, but you quickly pushed the moment aside. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We go,” Sherlock said simply. “And we end this.”

The warehouse loomed before you, its broken windows and rusted exterior shrouded in darkness. You could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you as you and Sherlock stepped inside, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the empty space.

“Stay close,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, your heart pounding as you followed him deeper into the building. The air was thick with the scent of damp and decay, and every creak of the floorboards set your nerves on edge.

Then, you saw it—a figure standing in the shadows, their face obscured.

“Mr. Holmes,” the figure said, their voice smooth and cold. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Sherlock stepped forward, his posture rigid. “And here I thought you’d try harder to hide.”

The figure chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “Why would I hide? This is my masterpiece, Mr. Holmes. And you’re the final audience.”

You felt Sherlock’s hand brush against yours—a silent reassurance. Your pulse quickened, but you held your ground, ready for whatever came next.

Sherlock’s hand brushed against yours again, a fleeting touch, but it steadied you. His blue eyes flicked toward you for the briefest of moments, and you nodded, understanding his unspoken command to stay close.

The figure stepped forward, their face finally illuminated by the dim light filtering through the broken windows. A man, tall and gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a glint of madness in his eyes. His hands were clasped in front of him, as if he were a host welcoming guests to a party.

“You’re braver than I expected,” the man said, his voice eerily calm. “I didn’t think you’d come here so willingly.”

Sherlock tilted his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve been practically begging for my attention. Did you think I wouldn’t come?”

The man’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing. “And you’ve brought company,” he said, his gaze shifting to you. “How… quaint.”

You stiffened under his scrutiny, but Sherlock stepped slightly in front of you, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “She’s not your concern.”

“Oh, but she is,” the man said, his smile returning. “She’s part of this now. Part of my design.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened, his hands clenching at his sides. “Your design is flawed,” he said coldly. “You think yourself a mastermind, but you’re nothing more than a petty narcissist playing with symbols you barely understand.”

The man’s smile vanished, replaced by a flicker of anger. “You don’t know me, Holmes. You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I know enough,” Sherlock replied, his voice like ice. “You carve your messages into bones because you crave permanence. You want the world to remember you, but you don’t understand what true brilliance looks like. You’re a coward hiding behind theatrics.”

The man lunged forward, his face twisted with rage. But Sherlock was faster. He moved with a precision that took your breath away, sidestepping the attack and pinning the man against the wall in one swift motion.

“You’ve made your last mistake,” Sherlock hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “This game is over.”

The man struggled, but Sherlock held him firm, his tall frame towering over the killer. You felt a surge of relief mixed with admiration as you watched him work, his sharp mind and physical prowess in perfect sync.

It wasn’t until the police arrived that the weight of the confrontation truly hit you. The man was dragged away in handcuffs, his defiance replaced by a sullen silence. Lestrade patted Sherlock on the shoulder, muttering something about a job well done, but Sherlock barely acknowledged him.

Instead, his attention was on you.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly, his piercing gaze softening as he stepped closer.

You hadn’t even noticed until he pointed it out. The adrenaline that had carried you through the night was fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in your chest.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice wavered.

“No, you’re not.”

Sherlock’s hands were on your shoulders before you could protest, his touch firm but gentle. He guided you away from the chaos, into the quiet corner of the warehouse where the shadows offered a semblance of privacy.

“You shouldn’t have been here,” he said, his voice low. “I shouldn’t have let you come.”

“I had to be here,” you replied, meeting his gaze. “You needed me.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then his hands tightened on your shoulders, and something in his expression shifted—something raw and vulnerable.

“I did need you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

The confession hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You felt your breath catch as he stepped closer, his blue eyes locked onto yours.

The first kiss had been a crack in the wall. This one was the collapse.

The warehouse was silent save for the echo of your hurried breaths. The tension in the air had reached a breaking point, and when Sherlock’s lips crashed into yours, it was like a dam breaking.

The kiss was urgent, heated, his hands coming up to cup your face with an uncharacteristic lack of control. His body pressed into yours, pinning you against the cold, dusty wall. His lips were surprisingly soft, but his movements were anything but gentle. His teeth grazed your lower lip, his tongue slipping past as he deepened the kiss, leaving no doubt about the desperation behind it.

Your hands found their way into his hair, tangling in the dark curls you’d wanted to touch far longer than you cared to admit. A low groan escaped him as you pulled him closer, the sound vibrating through you.

But just as quickly as it started, he pulled back, his breath ragged, his blue eyes dark with something primal.

“This isn’t the place,” he said, his voice strained, but his hands remained on you, his thumb brushing over your jaw as if he couldn’t quite let go.

You nodded, your chest heaving, unable to form words.

He stepped back reluctantly, running a hand through his hair as he tried to collect himself. “Come to Baker Street.”

It wasn’t a request.

You followed him outside, the cold night air doing little to cool the fire raging beneath your skin. The drive to 221B was a blur—Sherlock barely spoke, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, the tension between you palpable.

By the time you arrived, the front door was barely closed before he had you pressed against it, his lips on yours once more. This time, there was no hesitation, no restraint. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel just how affected he was.

“Upstairs,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine.

You didn’t argue, letting him guide you up the narrow staircase to his flat, every step building the anticipation to a breaking point.

Sherlock’s lips were everywhere—your neck, your jaw, your collarbone. His hands roamed with purpose, as if memorizing every curve of your body. But it wasn’t hurried. There was an uncharacteristic tenderness in his movements, a contrast to the raw hunger in his kisses.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and strained, as if he couldn’t believe the words were leaving his mouth.

The sound of him—usually so controlled and precise—undone in this moment sent a jolt of heat through you.

You let your hands roam over his chest, marveling at the lean muscle beneath his pale skin, the way his body seemed almost sculpted, yet undeniably real. He was all sharp lines and ridges, a perfect contradiction of strength and vulnerability.

“Sherlock,” you breathed, his name tumbling from your lips without thought.

He paused at the sound, his head lifting to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were blown wide with desire, yet there was something else in them too—something softer.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than I care to admit.”

Your breath caught. “And?”

His lips quirked into a small, almost shy smile—so unlike him it made your heart ache. “And now that I have you, I’m not sure I’ll ever let you go.”

The vulnerability in his words stole your breath, but before you could respond, he was on you again—his lips searing against yours as if he couldn’t stand the distance for another second.

He guided you to the bed in the corner of the flat, his hands never leaving your body. When the back of your knees hit the edge, you sank down, pulling him with you.

“Lie back,” he commanded softly, his voice like velvet.

You obeyed, your pulse racing as you reclined against the pillows. Sherlock followed, his tall frame looming over you as his hands trailed down your sides.

“You deserve to be worshiped,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your stomach. “Let me show you.”

His hands slid to your hips, and with a fluid motion, he rid you of the last barriers between you. The cool air against your skin was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body, but any nervousness you felt dissolved the moment his mouth replaced his hands.

The first touch of his lips against you sent a shockwave through your body. He worked slowly at first, his tongue tracing deliberate patterns, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you steady.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his dark curls.

He hummed in response, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through you. He was meticulous, as if solving a puzzle—reading every gasp, every shiver, adjusting his movements until he had you unraveling beneath him.

His tongue pressed harder, his pace quickening, and you couldn’t stop the moans that spilled from your lips.

“Don’t stop,” you begged, your voice breaking.

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down, his hands tightening on your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. When his fingers joined the fray, slipping inside you with a skill that left you breathless, it was too much.

Your release hit you like a tidal wave, your back arching off the bed as his name tore from your lips. 

But Sherlock didn’t stop—not until you were trembling, every nerve in your body alight.

When he finally pulled back, his lips glistened, and the smug look on his face would’ve annoyed you if you weren’t still recovering.

“Impressive,” he said, his voice laced with amusement.

You managed a weak laugh, your chest heaving. “Cocky bastard.”

He smirked, leaning down to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

As the haze of pleasure began to fade, you found yourself wanting more—needing more. You pushed against Sherlock’s chest, flipping him onto his back with a boldness that seemed to catch him off guard.

“Your turn,” you said, your voice low and teasing.

His eyes darkened, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Be my guest.”

You moved down his body, taking your time exploring every inch of him. His sharp collarbones, the defined lines of his chest, the faint trail of hair leading lower—it was all intoxicating. When you reached the waistband of his trousers, you paused, glancing up to meet his gaze.

“Off,” you demanded.

His smirk widened, but he complied, lifting his hips to help you. When he was fully exposed, your breath hitched.

“You’re staring,” he teased, echoing your earlier words.

“Shut up,” you shot back, leaning down to kiss him in a way that wiped the smirk off his face.

You started slow, letting your tongue trace along him, savoring the way his body tensed beneath you. His hands fisted in the sheets, a low groan escaping his lips.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, his voice rough.

You smiled against him, taking him deeper. His reaction was immediate—his head falling back, a string of curses spilling from his lips as you worked him with a combination of precision and fervor.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his voice strained. “If you keep that up, I won’t—”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Good,” you said, your voice laced with mischief.

He growled, his hands tangling in your hair as he pulled you back up to him.

Sherlock’s hands tightened on your hips as he hovered above you, his breathing ragged, his dark curls falling into his face. The weight of his body pinned you beneath him, his lean frame pressing into yours in a way that made your pulse race.

He slid into you in one fluid, deliberate motion, the stretch and fullness stealing your breath. A guttural moan escaped his lips, his forehead pressing against yours as he stilled, letting you adjust.

“Christ,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and strained. “You’re… incredible.”

You dug your nails into his back, urging him to move. “Sherlock, please,” you whispered, your voice trembling with need.

He didn’t make you wait. His hips began to move, a slow, torturous rhythm that left you gasping.

Each thrust was measured, precise—just enough to leave you wanting more. His lips brushed against your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “Tell me how it feels.”

“So good,” you gasped, your hands gripping his shoulders as you arched into him.

His pace quickened, each thrust deeper, harder. You could feel every inch of him, the way his body fit perfectly against yours. The sounds of skin against skin, of his low groans and your cries, filled the room.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he growled, his voice raw with desire.

You couldn’t respond, too lost in the sensation of him. His hand slid down your thigh, hooking your leg over his hip to pull you closer. The new angle sent a shockwave of pleasure through you, and you cried out, your nails raking down his back.

“More,” you begged, your voice breaking.

He obliged, shifting again, this time pulling your legs over his shoulders. The depth was overwhelming, every thrust hitting a spot that left you trembling.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and authoritative.

You opened your eyes to find his piercing blue gaze locked onto yours. The intensity of his stare was almost too much, but you couldn’t look away.

“You’re stunning like this,” he said, his tone reverent. “Completely mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver through you, and you tightened around him, pulling a sharp gasp from his lips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his control slipping.

He slowed suddenly, his movements deliberate as he leaned down to kiss you. The change in pace was almost maddening, but there was something intimate in the way he took his time, as if savoring every moment.

“I want to see all of you,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours.

Before you could respond, he pulled out, leaving you aching and empty. He flipped you onto your stomach with ease, his hands guiding your hips into the air.

“Stay like this,” he commanded, his voice dark with lust.

You shivered as his hand trailed down your back, pausing to squeeze your hips. When he entered you again, the angle was deeper, more intense, and you couldn’t stop the moan that escaped your lips.

“So good for me,” he praised, his hands gripping your hips as he set a relentless pace.

You braced yourself against the bed, each thrust sending you closer to the edge. His fingers dug into your skin, leaving marks you knew you’d feel tomorrow, but the pain only heightened the pleasure.

“Sherlock,” you moaned, your voice muffled by the pillow.

He leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back as he murmured in your ear, “You feel fucking incredible. Do you know that?”

You could only whimper in response, the words lost as he hit a spot that made your vision blur.

“I need to see your face,” he said suddenly, his voice softer but no less commanding.

He pulled out again, guiding you onto your side. He lay behind you, one hand lifting your leg as he slid back inside. The position was intimate, his chest flush against your back, his lips brushing against your shoulder.

“Touch yourself,” he murmured, his hand trailing down to guide yours.

You obeyed, your fingers finding the spot that had you spiraling. His thrusts grew slower but deeper, his lips never leaving your skin as he whispered filthy praise into your ear.

“You’re perfect,” he said, his voice a mix of reverence and need. “So fucking perfect for me.”

The intensity built again, the pace quickening as he turned you onto your back once more. His body covered yours, his weight grounding you as he drove into you with a ferocity that left you breathless.

“You’re close,” he said, his tone confident.

You nodded, unable to form coherent words.

“Let go,” he commanded, his hand slipping between your bodies to push you over the edge.

The orgasm tore through you, your body arching as you cried out his name. The waves of pleasure were overwhelming, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Sherlock followed moments later, a guttural moan escaping him as he buried himself deep inside you. 

His body tensed, his grip on your hips almost bruising as he found his release.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the room filled only with the sound of your ragged breathing.

Sherlock collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms as he buried his face in your hair. His body was warm against yours, his breath still uneven.

“You’re remarkable,” he murmured, his voice soft but sincere.

You smiled, your head resting against his chest. “So are you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and soothing. “I suppose we make a good team, then.”

“You think?” you teased, looking up at him.

His blue eyes softened, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. “I know.”

And for once, Sherlock Holmes had nothing else to say.

[multiverse-aesthetic]

Human

“We all sometimes needs some extra hands Sherlock"

“I don’t need extra hands”

“You’re human … you will ask for it sometimes”

******************************

it was a normal day at baker street , john just woke up yawning still in his pajama clothes going over to the kitchen seeing Sherlock hovering over his microscope , john eyebrows frowned in confusion

it’s 8 in the morning *what the hell he’s doing?* He thinks to himself as he goes to the coffee maker to make himself a coffee … Angelina walked out of her room wearing casual clothes , just a shirt and some leggings , she walked inside the kitchen seeing both john and Sherlock , she has been working with them for a couple of years now ..

“ good morning” she says with a light tone smiling as she sat on the kitchen table

Sherlock looked at her through his lashes not removing his eyes from the microscope , he didn’t say anything to her

John looked at Sherlock then to angelina and nodded at her saying “good morning.. want coffee?” he says holding his own mug in his hands and giving her a look means *come here*

“Yeah .. coffee sounds good” she says as she got up and went over john who whispered in a quite tone

“Wasn’t he sick?”

“Yeah .. his temperature was high”

“How is he up in this hour of the morning?”

“I really don’t know-”

“You know I can hear you” Sherlock says in a flat tone “and I’m still sick if you’re interested” he added quietly

“Then why aren’t you in bed ?” Angelina says in a hurried tone as she places her mug on the counter and going over to him and removed the microscope away

“Because I have work !” he replied in a quick tone as he brought the microscope back again to him

Sherlock being his stubborn self , she huffs quietly before speaking again

“No , get up , get rest .. it’s still early anyway , lestrad won’t come in for at least than two hours from now”

“She’s got a point Sherlock” john says quietly crossing his arms over his chest

Sherlock smarter to argue with them both , and he was really tired and probably his temperature was going high again as he felt slightly cold

“Fine!” he grumbles as he got up and went to lay down on the couch “happy now” he says sarcastically as he looked at Angelina and john

“I know how to take care of myself .. I don’t need someone to do it for me” he says in a flat tone as he covered himself with a blanket as he felt cold but he was too stubborn to admit it

Of course that didn’t slip easily from john

“You cold?” he asks in a kind tone, Sherlock shook his head and mutter a small “no” john sighs knowing that he’s being stubborn , he goes over the drawer to get a thermometer and giving it to Sherlock

Sherlock looked at it hesitantly before taking it and place it in his mouth waiting for a few seconds before john took it and stared at it his eyes winded

“Jeez Sherlock!” John says impatiently as he noticed how his temperature was high

“You could’ve said something !” he adds , Angelina soon joined seeing sherlock slightly shivering she got another blanket and place it over him tucking it under his chin , he smiles lightly at her as buried his head into the blankets

“You know I can take care of myself ” he tells john , john only sighed nodding his head

“We all sometimes needs some extra hands Sherlock" angelina says quietly

“I don’t need extra hands” he says quietly his tone is stern

“You’re human … you will ask for it sometimes” she says gently before going to the kitchen

He scoffs shaking his head , john sighs before turning to face him “she cares about you .. at least appreciate it” he says quietly

“I do that” Sherlock replies quietly

“That doesn’t seem like it” john says quietly

Angelina got back sitting next to Sherlock placing the back of her hand on his forehead , Sherlock tried to pull his face away from her touch but john shoot him a look raising his eyebrow as he nodded towards her , sherlock just stayed still n and suddenly john’s phone rang he answered it

“Yeah , yeah I’ll come by..” he says into the phone before hanging up and turning to them

“Sorry I need get this” he says quietly as he started to walk to the bedroom to change but he stopped mid-air and turned to Angelina “take care of him” he adds before disappearing to the bedroom

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he mutters “I’m not a kid”

“How are you feeling ?” she asks quietly

“It’s alright , a bit cold” he says tucking himself more into the blankets , she patted his arm before going up and spoke in a soft tone “I’ll let you rest”.

It was around 10 in the morning now and Sherlock was still asleep on the couch , Angelina was sitting on the chair reading a book , her black hair up in a bun and her black glasses are on … Sherlock opened his eyes feeling better but has a sore throat , he looks ahead seeing angel… angelina , he admires from afar

“You’re an angel” he says quietly

She looks up from the book completely taking aback “what?” She chuckles

“Your nickname .. is angel right?” He says as he sat up , she closed the book “how did you know ?” she ask curiously

“It’s quite obvious actually … angelina , angel” he says as a matter- of- fact

She chuckles biting her lip “some friends called me that actually .. close friends” she says quietly

“So am I a friend?” he asks teasingly

“You didn’t ask for the nickname , you stole it”

“No I didn’t”

“You kinda did”

“No I would say I figure it out myself” he says proudly

She just shook her head keeping in a laugh

He couldn’t help but to chuckle “actually I didn’t figure it out myself .. I found it on your facebook” he admits quietly , which is rare and he himself doesn’t know why he did it

“So you stole it” she laughs slightly

“Nahh it was hard to find your facebook” he protest shrugging his shoulder

“You could’ve just asked me” she chuckles

“I like to find out myself” he says quietly

“But it’s true” he says

“What?”

“You are an angel”

-----------------------------------

Hope you liked it ;)

My requests are always open 🤍

[bubblegumm0th]

Hello!

I’ve noticed the Hazbin fandom is lowkey dying out so I’ve decided to finally start posting and creating drabbles/one shots here!

I’m still relatively new to this app so posting may be a little weird because I’m not used to the layout, but I’m giving it a shot!

So Hazbin isn’t the only fandom I can write for!

Here are some other fandoms I’m in that I’m willing to write!

<3 Slashers/Horror movie icons

<3 Helluva boss

<3 The hobbit

<3 Star Wars

<3 Supernatural

<3 Sherlock

<3 Marvel

<3 DC

<3 Hellboy (I don’t see enough love for these movies)

<3 FNAF

<3 The last of us

<3 RWBY

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🚨For the Hazbin drabbles and everything I will NOT be writing romantic/sexual ones for Alastor. As much as I love his character, writing romantic/sexual stories for him isn’t something I’m willing to do considering how he’s canonically aro/ace. Platonic I will absolutely do!🚨

🚨I will also not be writing ones for Valentino. I genuinely get the ick from his character. If you like him good on you but I do not. His design is cool. His personality makes me want to vomit🚨

Apart from those two characters. I do have limits on what I can write topic wise

Pedophilia, Incest, Rape/Sexual assault are hard no’s. It can be mentioned for backstory stuff if you wish to request something with that. But an actual story on it will be a hard no on my part

———————————————————

X Reader stuff will always be Gender neutral because I want everyone to feel included when it comes to the stories I write!

If you have any requests and/or questions please feel free to ask! I’m always willing to answer!

[allsortzofcrap]

i feel like for the rest of my life i will be walking around totally normal and then periodically, i will be absolutely brained with a metaphorical anvil falling off the side of a building that represents the absolute bafflement i have towards modern adaptations of sherlock holmes and their treatment of irene adler. bbc's most recent adaptation in particular.

im so sorry. please repeat. she was stupid u say??? and i'm sorry, IN LOVE with him u say??????

i'm a feminist so i think women are capable of being in love and also of being stupid. they can do anything they put their minds to ofc ❤️. but this is too far even for me.

it's just that i can't understand why you would choose to write a narrative that is more mysoginistic than the source material when the source material was written in 1891.

was it intentional? did they somehow not pick up on the implications? was it random?

i can't fathom it. it keeps me awake.

[j-eryewrites]

Something You Taught Me

MAIN MASTER LIST

REQUEST PROMPT (from anonymous): Maybe a sherlock fluff where reader is sick and sherlock takes care of them? I just absolutely adore the way you write fluff :)

Thank you so much for this prompt. I love writing fluff especially when it helps me get out of a writing slump! Thank you so much for the request.

Word Count: 1. k

Warnings: Major fluff, sick-fic (mentions of symptoms, the flu, etc.), Sherlock realizes that he is in love. 

______

There was one thing that was guaranteed with the winter months. One thing that Y/N terribly hated, getting sick. It seemed to be unavoidable no matter how many vitamins they took, how healthy they ate, or how much they exercised. They always seemed to get sick. Now, if it were just the common cold, then it would not be so much of a burden. However, when Y/N got sick, they were bedridden for at least two days. 

Two never-ending days where their muscles ached too much to move. Y/N often thought if they tried to move all the bones in their body would shatter…or they’d puke. One or the other. Both are horrible options. But the worst side effect of being sick was boredom. There were only so many books they could read, or hours spent on the couch binging the latest television series before the dread set in. 

It was moments like these, that Y/N began to understand why Sherlock would do the things he did: shooting guns, creating bizarre experiments, composing new songs, chasing after criminals, solving case after case, bothering John, having tea with Mrs Hudson, and plotting out new ideas to piss off his brother. 

Y/N pondered the idea of being Sherlock for one day. Oh, the things they could do and the trouble they’d get into. Soon the thought weighed on their mind just as the weight of their bones sunk into the soft mattress below them. 

Suddenly, there was a knock. A singular knock. It was loud and clear. Then came the silence. A breath was taken before the onslaught of banging began. That knock could only belong to one person and one person only: Sherlock. 

Y/N groaned. This was the worst possible time. The sweat on their burning forehead made their hair stick. They were still wearing their pyjamas from two nights ago. Feeling a twitch in the back of their throat, Y/N quickly reached for the tissues next to them, just before a thunderous sneeze ripped through the air. 

As their nostrils cleared for the 7th time that day, Y/N realized that the banging had stopped. Instead, the sound was replaced with footsteps heading toward their room. 

Sherlock opened the door with a bang. Y/N winced at the sound. The loud noise echoed in their head. Bang. Bang. BANG. BANG! 

“Christ, Sherlock. Would you be a bit quieter? I’m …” Y/N coughed. “I’m sick.” 

Sherlock’s nose twitched and his blue eyes softened. Y/N sounded as if they were talking underwater. 

“Symptoms?” Sherlock announced. 

Y/N clutched their head in pain. 

“What are your symptoms?” Sherlock whispered. He removed his jack and hung it over the back of the bed. Then he gently sat himself down on the mattress. He was at arm's length now and slowly creeping closer. 

“No, Sherlock. Stay back. I don’t want to get you sick.” Y/N whined. 

Sherlock chuckled. “Me? Sick. Never heard of such a thing.” He placed his hand on Y/N’s forehead. His hand felt like ice against their skin. Y/N sighed at the feeling. 

“High temperature, stuffy nose, and sore throat” he muttered. “What are your other symptoms?”

Y/N brushed his hand away. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.” 

“Y/N.” Sherlock said sternly. 

“My whole body aches. It hurts to move. Hurts to do anything and…” Their voice grew quiet. 

“And?” Sherlock asked. He took their hands into his and rubbed small circles on them. 

“I’m bored,” Y/N mumbled. 

Sherlock smiled. His bright blue eyes glistened as if the sun was shining down on the rippling surface of the sea. He wiped away the stray hairs sticking to Y/N’s face before cupping their flushed cheek.

“I don’t think being bored is a symptom of anything,” Sherlock teased. “I think you have a bad case of the flu and I know just the thing to help.” 

He began to draw away from them, and Y/N reached out clasping his wrist. 

“You don’t have to help me. I can…”

“Take care of yourself. Yes, I know. You’ve told me. However, something I have come to learn is that it doesn’t hurt to let others help.” Sherlock sat back down on the mattress. He brought his forehead to Y/N’s and whispered, “Something you taught me. Let me take care of you.” 

Y/N tried to respond but the words got lost in their throat. Instead, they nodded. 

“Now, lay down and I’ll go get some soup.”

“Get soup?” Y/N asked quizzically. “Don’t you mean make soup?”

“No. I going to get soup. Mrs Hudson’s cooking abilities are far superior to mine. I’d rather not poison you with my cooking.” Sherlock joked. 

“Alright, hurry back,” Y/N whispered. 

Sherlock smiled and was out the door. 

Y/N’s head fell back on the pillow with a thunk. As they stared at the ceiling, they thought of Sherlock. Their cheeks flushed now, but for a different reason. Sherlock. Who knew the great consulting detective could be so compassionate? Y/N was sure John would love to hear about how kind Sherlock was being to them. However, before they could finish the thought, sleep took over. 

Soon Sherlock returned with a steaming bowl of soup. His hand was careful not to spill any of its contents. Y/N needed every ounce of the soup that they could get. He placed the soup on the bedside table turning to the Y/N. He smiled as he took notice of the slowness in Y/N’s breath. Sherlock looked around the room and pulled up a chair, sitting himself down in it. His eyes once again found the sleeping figure. Even in their sick state, Y/N was beautiful. Their lashes fluttered against their rosy cheeks. Their lips lay slightly parted with small sighs exhaling from their mouth. 

Sherlock would sit there until Y/N woke up. Sherlock was determined to sit by their side as the soup cooled. He would keep the boredom at bay. Just as Y/N did for him. Though, how could he ever be bored when they were around? Sherlock knew he’d never get bored being in Y/N's presence, carefully watching over them as they slept. 

A singular thought popped into Sherlock’s head. I’m in love. How could he ever be bored with someone he loved?

__________

Comment below if you’d like to be added to the Sherlock One-shot tag list.

Tag list: @bartokthealbinobat

__________

| MAIN MASTER LIST

[random-imagines-blog]

You Will See Me {Mycroft Holmes x Female!Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 4277 Summary: The last time you saw Mycroft, you had your heart broken. What happens when you’re confronted by him again? Notes: Not a happy ending.

It had been a long time since you had seen Holmes come up on your cellphone. Years, actually. You couldn’t remember the last time that one of those boys had any reason to call you. Mycroft, that bloody bastard, was off being the Queen’s hand or something like that, running the government from the inside. And then there was Sherlock, who was always in the papers for something or other, solving a case. You had nothing to do with either of their worlds anymore. And they had nothing to do with yours since the incident. There’s always a goddamn incident, isn’t there?

And yet, for some reason, you had kept both of their numbers in your phone. You haven’t texted, you haven’t called, you’ve skipped past them in your contacts multiple times without giving them thought. You were sure that Sherlock could tell you the reason why, though you couldn’t. He knew everything, especially about you. That’s what best friends did. They knew each other, they took care of one another. Although brother trumps best friend, and a brother is always on a brother’s side.

You thought about not answering Sherlock’s call. It was obviously a mistake of some sort. And if it wasn’t - bad  news, surely. Something like a funeral invitation. No, no, Sherlock would have just sent something like that in the post. He wasn’t the personal sort. Knowing that it was going to bother you until you found out that it was a butt-dial, you answered it, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. “Hello?”

“Ahh, good, so you’re not that busy then,” Sherlock said, curt as ever. No hello, no greeting, just straight to what he is deducing from you. You hated when he did that. And you hated when he was correct because it was your one day off from work this week, and you were intending to spend it doing the ever-blissful nothing at all. The most action that you had taken today was getting out of bed and moving to your sofa, turning on the telly and making yourself a nice cup of tea. “Can you join me this evening?”

“I just want to make sure that you have the right number,” You said, leaning back against your cushions. “This is y/n, not John, or whoever it is that you are ordering around at this moment. Would that be all of Scotland Yard now?”

“Yes, I’d say it’s about all,” Sherlock said, and you could imagine his face getting a little smug at the admission. He did enjoy showing off how superior his intellect was, and using it as some sort of power trip. You put up with it in the past, but you haven’t had to in quite some time. It was more annoying and irksome than you remembered. “But I did call the right person, I don’t make amateur mistakes like that. You didn’t answer my question. Can you join me this evening?” And just as you were attempting to think up some sort of excuse, he added on, “Don’t come up with a lie. You know I’ll know if you do.”

“Fine,” You groaned in a very non-adult way. If you were going to be dragged into whatever it is, you had every right to act petulant. “Yes. I can join you this evening - depending on what we are doing. I’m not a detective, and I really don’t want to see any dead bodies -”

“I know you’re not. You used to get sick at the thought of maggots, you’d never be able to handle seeing them on a corpse,” He said, so matter-of-factly.  “No bodies. Unless you are objecting to the animal kind. I was thinking dinner. Bring a guest, if you like. If you have one.”

The thought of Sherlock with a fishing pole came into your mind, wearing wellies because oh the man was fishing. You weren’t in any sort of mood to tell him that you had no boyfriend, no girlfriend, no partner of any kind. You debated on bringing a friend. Surely, Sherlock was going to be bringing John Watson with him. None of your friends would get along with Sherlock - it would be like mixing oil and vinegar together and expecting them to fuse.

“Dinner at your expense I hope?” You questioned.

“Yes,” He said, sounding annoyed for the first time in the conversation. That made you grin. That lightened up your mood a little. That irritation that you could drag out of him without getting insulted the way that everyone else did.

“Then absolutely. I’ll see you at dinner.”

--

As you attempted to pick out a dress from your closet - Sherlock had given you the address of a rather upscale place, a fancy steakhouse that was way above your budget on an ordinary day - you thought back to the last time that you had seen the Holmes boys. Years ago. Almost two decades. You were wearing a dress that was much like the one that you were picking out now - so you quickly returned it. The color red was gorgeous  but it held so many negative emotions now. And then you decided - sod it. You weren’t going to let the color be ruined just because Mycroft had hurt you when you had worn it once. None of what had happened was Sherlock’s fault, and now that he had reached out, you weren’t going to take it out on him anymore.

You stepped into the dress, then pulled it up around your figure. It fit perfectly. It highlighted what you wanted to highlight and it hid what you wanted it to hide. As you looked in the mirror, you really came to grips with the fact that you weren’t the same young, naive woman that you had been when you last were around the Holmes. Your hair might be the same color that it was then, your eyes were still the same shade, but you had a few gray hairs now, a few small wrinkles. You were a professional with a career, not a student at college. The outer differences were slight but everything inside was completely was different. You had confidence. You had experience. You had -

The trauma of being in love with Mycroft Holmes.

Nope, nope, you weren’t going to go there. You were going to smooth the dress over yourself and put on small touches of make up so that you looked like a million bucks when you walked into that restaurant. Like you belonged there. Like you were completely happy to see an old friend and there was nothing at all mortifying about this. A touch of lipstick, swipes of mascara, putting earrings on, all while trying to keep your cool, all while trying not to think about the past but about what this could mean for the future.

Shoes, check. Purse, check. A black-cab waiting outside of your flat to zoom you through the London streets towards the restaurant, check. Time to go.

No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t get Mycroft out of your head now. Sherlock had just brought it all coming back. All of the memories, all of the feelings that you had been burying for so long. Hurt always bubbles up to the surface. That’s what it does. Once a wound is reopened, the scar tissues takes even longer to make it heal. Even the passing streetlights coming on as dusk started to make the sky darker, turning it into a shade of indigo. How many evenings like this had you spent wasting your youth on a man that had been stringing you along? On one that didn’t love you?  Too many. Way too many.

You grew up with the Holmes brothers. You were the same age as Sherlock, and Mycroft was the cool, smooth older brother. You grew up across the street from them, and unlike a lot of the other children in the neighborhood, you weren’t scared off by their intellect and naturally cold demeanor. You knew from the start that there was a warmth underneath there, you just had to stick around for the ice to melt. You might not have been as smart as them, and sometimes it was difficult to catch up to a lot of what they said but you showed an eagerness to learn. They appreciated that. They started to enjoy teaching you, not just calling you an idiot for it like they did the other kids.

Instead of hopscotch and football, it was crossword puzzles and University Challenge. It was a lot of reading outside with Mycroft while waiting for Sherlock to finish his violin lessons. That’s what you always liked about Mycroft. He didn’t have to sit out here and hang out with you. Most people didn’t do that with their kid brother’s friends. But he seemed genuinely interested in what you were reading, asking questions, telling you more information than what was in the book, always amazing you with how much stayed inside of his head. Even when high school was finished with, and you moved on to a college while Mycroft went to Cambridge, he stayed in touch with you. A little too in touch.

You met up for dinner one night. You had expected him to bring his surly brother along but no, it was just the two of you, at a rather nice Italian restaurant that you had always said you wanted to go to but could never afford. The kind with real breadsticks on the table, not ones out of a box. Where the waiters had uniforms and not just a dirty t-shirt with a washed out logo on it. He treated you to dinner, and a cheeky glass of wine, and listened to - or seemed to - you talk about your annoying dormmate and the lame parties that you had been invited to go to. He eventually got around to asking you if there was anyone interesting that you were seeing on campus. You found it hard to believe that he asked something so personal. He never asked about other friends, let alone boyfriends. The question made you nearly choke on your wine. He was there with a napkin which you gladly used to blot at your mouth.

“Oh um - well, there is one bloke I’ve been talking to a little bit, his name is Kevin, he’s really nice actually. He’s studying-”

“Oh, Kevin,” Mycroft said, the snobby voice starting to take effect. Oh yes, he had that since you two were children as well. There was no getting rid of it, as annoying as it sometimes could be. “Pedestrian name. Has he ever taken you to a place like this?”

You looked around, and had to admit that no. Kevin really hadn’t taken you to a place like this. “He hasn’t taken me to a restaurant, actually,” You admitted. “We went to a party, the one that I was just telling you about. But then he went to his friends and I went to mine...”

“Doesn’t sound much like a gentleman,” Mycroft mused. “If I were to go to a party with you, though I do find the idea of a party to be degrading and below the both of us, I wouldn’t leave your side. Especially not to go and talk to the sort of people that I’m sure that he considers friends.”

You continued sipping on your wine despite the fact that you were feeling rather confused. "Are you telling me that you want me to bring you to one of the college parties? I can’t even picture it,” You laughed. “But you do have a point. His friends are definitely chavs. I try not to speak to them really but-”

“No, I’m most certainly not asking to go to one of those depraved get-togethers,” He scoffed. “What I am trying to say is that you deserve someone who is not going to walk off once there are other options of people to talk to. Why, I’ve always found conversation with you to be quite stimulating. The person that you deem as your equal, as someone worthy of being in a flirtation with, let alone a relationship, should be seeking you out at a party. That is what I’m saying.”

Was it hot in the restaurant or was it just you? “A compliment from Mycroft Holmes. I can hardly believe it,” You chuckled over your wine, holding it in front of your face. “And one involving a party no less. Well thank you, Mycroft. I appreciate it. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Will you?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “I do hope so. We’ve known each other all of these years and still keep in touch. You must know how rare that is for me. I do believe the word is ... captivated.”

That’s all it took. That’s all that it took for you to stop seeing Mycroft as just Sherlock’s brother, and as someone beguiling. The strawberry blonde hair that curled just above one eye, just short enough not to be annoying but also just long enough to get him a step away from the squeaky clean boy image that he had. You spent night after night with him, doing things that you wouldn’t regularly do. Sneaking onto the Cambridge campus for film nights, and then holding onto his arm as he walked you back to the bus stop, laughing about the historical inaccuracies. Walking past protests that were happening against Thatcher and talking about it. You sneakily pinned a ‘Down with Thatcher’ pin onto his jacket. Despite the fact that he would have realized quite early on that it was there, it wasn’t taken off until he switched jackets for the season.

Then there was that night. That dark and fateful night, as a gothic novelist might put it. Where you put your favorite red dress on, with matching rouge upon your cheeks and lipstick upon your mouth, your best pair of heels and stars in your eyes. Stars and hearts both. This was going to be the night when you were going to tell Mycroft Holmes that you had fallen in love with him. This is the night where you were going to go back to the restaurant where he first paid you those compliments that you did keep in your mind, right at the front of it, repeating those words to yourself again and again whenever you had some alone time. Touching yourself to them. Quite stimulating indeed. You were going to confess your love and he would do the same and  you would kiss, shamelessly. You would share a tiramisu dessert, noting that he quite enjoyed sweets.

That’s where the good ended. Right when you walked into the restaurant. Up until then, everything had been sublime. You even had been complimented by a couple of people on the subway. And not just leering perverted comments either. You looked lovely, you looked great, where did you get that dress, someone is going to have a good night. You were feeling it. And you had been trying to chase that confidence ever since.

“Ma’am?” The cab driver asked, bringing you out of your reverie. “We’re here.”

“Thank you,” You said, gathering yourself. You paid him with a hefty tip and then got out, and stood in front of the steakhouse. It was just Sherlock, surely. And John. And a chance to have a good meal on someone else’s dime, never anything wrong with that.

Shoulders back and stand up tall. There were workers right there at the doors who opened them with a greeting and a friendly smile which you returned. You gave your name to the host and he immediately brought you towards a table in the back. You smiled to yourself when you saw Sherlock’s messy head of curls. Some things would never change. The more that people tried to tell him to cut it, the longer he let it grew, until it annoyed only himself. The little rebel. And John, of course, whose blog you’ve perused once or twice - shorter than you imagined but pleasant nonetheless.

What did Sherlock need? He got straight to the point, or rather he did in his own sort of way. There was a lot of information being thrown at you but you remembered enough from your friendship days to sort through it and find what was important. An art piece had been stolen. He didn’t care much about art. But since you had gone to the college of the arts ... he needed your help. He wouldn’t say so upfront, but the way that he spoke made you feel like you were obligated to help him.

“It could be a homophobic attack,” You said, stroking your chin. “The artist was known to have some close male friends. Or it could have something to do with the Nazis. Everything always comes down to them but art theft - they hid so many masterpieces from the world, and some had yet to be discovered. This piece that was stolen is one of the recovered pieces. It could be some deranged supremacist trying to regain the lost collection.”

“Ahh, speaking of supremacist,” Sherlock said, his eyes now gazing above your head. A shadow had come over you, darkening your plate, your glass. You knew who it was by the silhouette.

“Apologies for being late - I didn’t wish to come,” Mycroft’s voice rang, as snobby as ever. It was such a him answer to give. You wish that you had thought of it. You were finding yourself wishing that you hadn’t come either, despite enjoying yourself a few moments prior, remembering why you and Sherlock had been friends in the first place. He walked around without greeting you, or even seeming to notice you - up until he sat across from you at the table. Whoever he might have been expecting to be sitting there, it wasn’t you, and for the first time, you saw surprise gleam across his eyes. And then - was that guilt? You could only hope so.

You were pleased to see that he had aged. That helped you a small bit. In your mind, he stayed in his early twenties, but here he was now, his hair thinning, hairline receding, wrinkles and all. It would have been better if he wasn’t still handsome despite this, but beggers can’t be choosers.

“Miss y/l/n,” Mycroft said, his voice raising as if he were asking a question more than a greeting. You decided not to respond, turning your head towards Sherlock, and bade him to continue, which he did without delay. Get him talking about a case and he can go on for hours. You attempted to enjoy your meal, all while trying your utmost not to look across from you but it was so damn hard. Seeing Mycroft hit you like a truck. It brought back all of those unpleasant memories.

--

You had walked into the restaurant, eager and ready. You thought that perhaps ... just maybe... this would be one of the best nights of your life. Mycroft, your partner, had admitted that he had been hiding something and was ready to come clean. You and your girl friends thought this meant that he was going to tell you that he loves you. You wore your best outfit, you had gotten your hair done, your make up was perfect. You were going to open your heart once he did and say those three words back.

You loved him, you loved him, you loved him. The way that he was so smooth. So debonair. So ambitious. He was going places. You were so proud of him for all of it. Every contact that he made, who he’d tell you about, getting excited like a child because he shook the hand of someone in parliament. He opened doors for you, he would ask you what you wanted at a restaurant and then order it for you, he’d send you flowers when you did well on an exam.

That wasn’t what it was at all. You were having your heart broken. Decimated. Crushed beyond recognition.

An experiment. For school. That’s what this whole thing had been. He’d been studying the psychology of romantic couples, and what better way was there to study than be a part of one himself? He proudly showed you the marks that he had gotten, the stacks of notes in case you wanted to read them over. He had only done a good job because he had a good partner. Well done. Cheerio. Claps all around.

You couldn’t breathe. You felt like you were drowning, you just wanted to flail, to kick, to pull yourself up into the air but you were also terrified of making a scene in the restaurant, of having everyone look at you and know immediately that you were nothing more than a grade, not good for anything else. Wasted time, wasted effort, wasted love.

“Excuse me,” You said, throwing your napkin down on your half-finished meal and you departed. You didn’t go to the bathroom, you walked home. All fourteen blocks. Your heels clicked and clacked against the London streets, and you hadn’t paid any attention to anyone who walked past you. You think, perhaps, someone had asked you if you were alright? But you weren’t. You just kept walking until your feet hurt, and then you took off your shoes, carried them in your hands, and kept on walking. You had dropped one. You got home with only one of them but you didn’t care. You dropped into your bed and stayed there for two full days.

Mycroft tried to call a couple of times. You kept the phone off the hook. He tried to call some of your friends, but after they had found out what had happened, they said such scathing things that he hadn’t dared to call again. A part of you was hoping that he would show up at your dorm, or at one of your classes and tell you that he knew he had made a mistake, but that was not something that a Holmes would ever do. As far as you knew, he had never showed up.

Time went on, life went on, but you never forgot the pain. You never forgot Mycroft. You tried to go on dates with other men, your friends setting you up, dating apps, people from work, but it never felt right. If they didn’t open the doors for you, or offer to order for you, it felt like you weren’t being treated quite right. If they did do those things, since there are still gentlemen left in the world, you couldn’t trust that there was some ulterior motive. That this was a study. A joke. Nothing ever got past a first date. A spinster by twenty-five.

--

You hated how much you looked at him while you were trying not to. Out of the corner of your eye, there he was. In the reflection of your knife. Of your wineglass. Every time that you heard his voice, you remembered the sweet nights, the old dates. The conversations that lasted for hours. You tried to focus on what Sherlock was saying, but it felt impossible. You were trying to overcome that feeling of drowning again. Trying to keep in control and not just walk out like you had the last time.

But when it came down to it, you were still just help in a study. Whether it was for school, or for a case, it was all the same.

When the waiter came around with the bill, you jumped at the chance to leave at an appropriate time. You went through your purse, dug out some notes, and put them onto the table. “Well, gentlemen, it has been a lovely evening.” Your voice was shaky, giving you away. You did your best to ignore that. Pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend a lot of this didn’t happen, for your own sake. “I’m glad you have been of help, and I hope all goes well.”

“So you do still love him,” Sherlock said, making all eyes at the table, including yours, turn to him. And then six were right back on you.

“P-pardon?” You asked, hoping you heard him incorrectly.

“You’re flushed, your palms are sweaty,” Sherlock started to list.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Your voice went higher once he came in-”

“Did not.”

“The complete and utter avoidance while you were still mirroring his movements,”

“We’re at a restaurant, everyone is eating here...”

“And you’ve been fidgeting for the past half hour,” Sherlock finished.

“How do you know I don’t just fidget all of the time?” You argued.

“Pardon, I forgot becoming defensive.”

You couldn’t take anymore. You finally looked right over to Mycroft. Stared into his blue-gray eyes. And then yours narrowed. “I’ll never forgive what you did to me, Mycroft Holmes. Not for any of it.”

And you stood up then. No one tried to stop you this time around. Sherlock didn’t have anything witty to say, or if he did, it blended in with the rest of the noise of the restaurant. You took your leave. You stepped out into the gloomy London evening, raised your arm and fetched yourself a cab. You got into it slowly, situating yourself, looking towards the door of the restaurant, hoping and also dreading that he might come out. That Mycroft is going to run out and apologize and grovel at your feet. No. He didn’t happen. So you gave your address to the patient cab driver and made your way home.

At least you had both shoes on this time.

[gregorovitch-adler]

Title- A Brief Case by Gregorovitch on AO3

Fandom- BBC Sherlock

Pairing- Sherlock Holmes/John Watson

Rating- E

Words- 3k

Warnings- None

Summary-

Sherlock had received a text from Lestrade and the case was fairly easy. Sherlock was talking to Lestrade on the phone but John didn't stop teasing him with his touches, until Sherlock finally gave in.

@helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @acumberlockedgirl, etc.

[mesywelch]

A Night with Sherlock Holmes

Paring: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) X Reader

Summary: Reflecting on your time with Sherlock Holmes as he plays his violin deep into the somber night leads to a few realisations.

Warnings: None

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Gracefully the sun descended down the murky blue sky, travelling with a never-ending burst of bright colour around its powerful body. As it exited the now empty canvas of the darkest shades of blue, a sense of lethargy encompassing its movements as if hanging so high above had drained all of its energy, it passed on its reign to its considerably smaller partner—the moon and its massive army of sparkly, blinking stars. The buildings of London cowered under a thick shadow of gloom, and the moon's white light miserly illuminated the occasional window or passerby. The restrictive view I was presented with of the outside world through my sharp-cornered window wasn't much to keep my attention at nightfall; when the ever-busy human race collectively packed away into their abodes, the long-winding roads of London experienced nothing but isolation from the rickety vehicles for the first time, and when the only living being garnering the spotlight of the street lights were squeaky rats.

However, I needn't worry, as I always had Sherlock to make my boring, sleepless nights worthwhile.

Unlike the rest of the population, Sherlock functioned uniquely. While the average adult might find himself occupied by a heavy load of work during the day, burdened by the clutches of financial stability, like I found myself reviewing and organising shelves upon shelves of books and archives, Sherlock never bothered with money. In fact, he conducted his job free of cost, without any expectations of receiving something in return because the immense satisfaction he experienced merely by taking part in the mind games that his job presented him with were returns enough. 

When deconstructing the sometimes complex logical reasonings, sometimes baffling — to Sherlock, trifling — emotions behind brutal crimes, one might picture chaos and panic; an urgency to not waste time for danger could be thrust upon you at any moment. Taking one look at Sherlock would certainly ruin that weirdly picturesque image.

I distinctly remember the case of the mysterious chain of supposed suicides or "Study in Pink", as our fellow companion John Watson had titled it in his blog; victims consuming the exact same pill seemingly with no reason to end their lives nor any apparent connection with each other. Clues weren't adding up, the only leads we had were dead ends, and John's features were corrupted by worry as he entered the room we occupied; he appeared as though he had seen a ghost (which later we found out was actually not a ghost but Sherlock's brother, Mycroft). The atmosphere was tense, but amidst the room existed a presence that stood in complete contrast. Sherlock — oh, Sherlock — laid horizontally inclined on his well-loved, dented couch, tightly wrapped in his blue night robe, and pale bony hands pressed together under his chin. His being emulated a sense of level-headedness, composure and cool - eyes shut, mouth slightly hung open, and body still as a statue. At the time, I admired and admittedly envied his attitude towards stressful situations that he displayed constantly. But, the passage of time taught me that I had just fallen into the illusion that he was this perfect, mystical, awe-inducing kind of being, as one might get the impression of upon first meeting him. Spending a little more time with him, however, can show you a lot of fine details that previously went undisclosed. Like the uneven furrow of his eyes-brows when he stared off into space and the off-beat tick of his fingers upon paper as he went over case reports.

How much ever Sherlock might not show it (saying it was a whole other matter), his mind was forever running miles faster than anyone could even comprehend, only visible to the naked eye through small signs of physical reactions like these. His brain was a machine, efficient and observant to the highest degree. But unfortunately, the comparison could be drawn further. He was cold and soulless, seemingly made of scratch-less metal. His words were prone to the blunt, the straightforward, and the truth. And these tendencies frequently kept contact away — if there was one thing I learnt in my time with him, it was that people loathed being presented with an honest reflection of themselves. 

Despite this, Sherlock was still undeniably human. However deep one may have to peel off the layers of his skin to come across it, there was undoubtedly pulsing flesh, hot red blood and a beating heart underneath that façade of impassiveness. And this heart, like any other creature, yearned for something Sherlock would label a major flaw in human patchwork. It yearned for passion — In whatever form it may be derived, even if he didn't realise it himself. 

For instance, as he stood staring at the same window I was gazing through moments ago, inspecting the bland atmosphere, a set empty of actors, his long fingers delicately held a bow, dragging it across the strings of his violin. With each movement, with each pull or push of the strings, he created a melody velvety smooth, and he and I bathed in its depth. The notes he played were the only trace of life in the air, for we were nothing but objects in its presence, invisible artists hiding behind the awe-inspiring art. That was the passion Sherlock allowed himself to absorb — the kind that spoke for itself and connected souls in ways no words nor actions could. At first, I used to believe that it wasn't particularly his fault if no one was around long enough to realise this, to realise how Sherlock worked. But looking back, perhaps it was Sherlock himself who didn't allow anyone to do so.

I clutched the fluffy blanket tighter around me, folding my knees towards myself in order to maximise comfort on the sofa I occupied. Memory betrayed me as I tried to recall the day's events, draping a cloud of fog over the images of what were supposed to be work, faces, and... I couldn't swat the white mist away. It always was the case during the night, more specifically when I was joined by the company of Sherlock in the living room. It was like the past blurred itself just so that the present could be ever-clear and sharp. I usually gave in, deciding to take in as much as I could of these moments that littered my life sparingly. 

The clock ticked away in the background, its repetitive beat further making me over-conscious of the now. Dragging my lidded eyes away from the monotone city sights out the window, I glanced across the extinguished fireplace, the unlit lamp sitting on top of it, the rotten, yellowing figure of Sherlock's skull right beside it — teeth gleaming under the moonlight — and then the dark kitchen. Followed the door that led past it, an imaginary image of me walking through the hallway to the room at the far end, and finally, John lying somewhat peacefully under the sheets, deep breaths echoing along the walls. 

John was never a witness to our nightly sessions. The retired soldier, traumatised by but yet incredibly drawn to the war, the battle, and the chaos, was one to surprisingly follow the average human sleep schedule. It was shocking, really, how he was never woken up by the striking sounds of Sherlock's violin despite having a keen sense for noise. But sometimes, I had the innate feeling that he intentionally ignored it. I was glad he did, though, because how much ever affection I held for the man, he was the kind of person inclined to overthink, doubt, and suspicion. These three words were perfectly apt to describe Sherlock as well, but John's were a slightly varied nuance. 

While Sherlock utilised his skill to question everything for his own benefit, John, nine times out of ten, sabotaged himself while doing so — erupting unnecessary worry and distress. A comforting, borderline pin-drop silence like the one settled in the atmosphere as Sherlock ended the piece (an untitled, self-composed one), and slid his pearl blue irises to latch onto mine would only encompass John in discomfort. The anxious aura radiated by his presence would then shatter the calm so intricately constructed by the mutual understanding between Sherlock and me. 

It sounds too dramatic, too hyperbolic, I'm well aware, but no other means could convey how meaningful these overnight hours were to me and my sanity in this dying world. I would really like it if John continued to remain oblivious to them. Or pretend oblivious, I suppose. 

Sherlock gingerly placed his violin on the couch beside him. 

"The only time I can think is when the rest of London wasn't— too occupied by sleep." He spit the word like it was poison on his tongue. "Why is that not surprising in the slightest?" 

I let his words hang in the air, pondering his question. Sherlock often found himself susceptible to the meaningless, unimportant thoughts of those around him. It was like he could hear them out loud, like he could read minds. However, such supernatural diction might be disapproved of by Sherlock. 

In his own words, 'trivial expressions depicting stress, confusion, ignorance and whatever definable emotion you can think of on people's faces are nothing but translations of inner feelings and thoughts.' And Sherlock being the ever-observant and present person he was, was even more exposed to these signals than the average person — disrupting him from continuing his original train of thought. 

He did, although, also confide in me that for people like Anderson, whose idiocy plagued the very world around them, signals weren't required to get the gist of whatever nonsense was going through the pea brain of theirs.

"I'm going to assume that I am exempt from this rest of London you speak of?" 

A side-eye; not a trace of hesitance in his voice. "Obviously." 

"Hm." 

Sherlock went back to analysing whatever he could of the scenery outside. I went back to analysing him. It was a past-time I took part in often, sometimes hours passing by before the bubble around me popped, dropping me harshly back into reality. 

It has occurred to me here and there that I may be in love with this man. 

Love. Even muttering the word under my breath felt unfamiliar to me, a person who never really cared about fleeting emotions like those. 

But it had to be love. Because surely— surely, no one spent as much time as I did picturing Sherlock and his tall frame playing the violin with such grace and care just as he was moments ago — his elegant movements like that of a lily swaying in the wind. Surely, no one understood the sensation that took over my being when his eyes settled on me with such intention and purpose, whether I was looking or not. No one endlessly wondered about what may be running through his one heck of a brain as he deduced a man's whole life story by a mark on the cuff of his shirt— God. 

God. 

Consciously thinking about Sherlock made me put into picture how much of a miracle he actually was. What I was capable of imagining had to be just a fraction of what he was capable of doing. I loved knowing that he was somewhere above all of us. I loved it. 

Sherlock was an enigma, and if it was my life purpose to try and understand him completely, I would certainly do so. Whether what I felt for Sherlock was true love (if that even existed) or a manic obsession of sorts, whether Sherlock even felt anything in return, for I never considered what his opinions of me could be, whether he was even aware of the intensity of the spell he put me under—it didn't matter— I would stick with him. 

It was only when my eyes caught the rectangular sheet of light draping over the couches, the books, the papers, and the mess of the living room, that I came to realise that it was the dawn of the new day already. 

I stood up unsteadily, cloth-covered feet coming in contact with the carpeted ground, the soft thump of the thick blanket falling behind me onto the floor. My body wobbled as I moved forward towards the window where Sherlock also stood—his position altering between the window and the sofa opposite mine throughout the night. Goosebumps instantly arose across the bare skin of my arms and legs, and I shivered. But I didn't think the physical reactions were caused by the chilly wind. 

The early spurts of yellow spread along the horizon like watercolour, rapidly claiming domain in the sky. Soon, the golden sun followed, its body obstructed by the buildings around. I squinted my eyes as I accidentally stared straight at it, but I couldn't look away—the celestial body marked the end of my shared solitude with Sherlock, but it did so mesmerisingly, glowing brightly and ejecting rays on earth, pumping life into the cement. The only sight that could beat the magnificence of the sun, unfortunately, was standing right beside me, and so I eventually found myself staring at sherlock's marble-carved face instead, a hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his pale blush pink lips as he marvelled at the sight in front of him. 

It seems as though even Sherlock, the ever-placid Sherlock himself, couldn't resist the delicious temptations of nature — the ultimate source that manifested passion within him. The kind that spoke for itself. 

As Sherlock tentatively reached out the fingertips of his hand to garner the attention of my own, slowly swinging them to give me momentary but frequent contact, I thought about how one man – and a man he only was – altered my life entirely in the span of months, making my old life seem discoloured and pointless compared to what I was blessed with now. My undefinable feelings towards Sherlock would only grow as time passed, and even if I lose him — I will try my hardest not to, in the first place — I would not mourn. Instead, I would be thankful that I got a chance to have him in my life. I would be satisfied knowing that a person like him walked the earth. 

The sun rose higher and higher, and at the distinct voice of John Watson questioning our presence out in the open at such ungodly hours, Sherlock's hand left mine. 

[binch-i-might-be]

ok so not to bbc sherlock post in the year of our lord 2023 but I've been rewatching lately, and in my procrastination as to avoid burdening myself with season 2 episode 3 The Reichenbach Fall, I rewatched the unaired pilot.

objectively speaking it's overall not as well executed as the actual Study In Pink, the acting, scoring, editing, cinematography, sets-

but I gotta say, I do prefer the overall flow of the plot? it's half an hour shorter of course, so maybe I just simply didn't have the time to get bored, but I feel like the whole Mycroft thing not being present helps SO MUCH.

can't help but feel like they could have pushed Mycroft's introduction into The Blind Banker which overall isn't a very strong episode anyway.

I also kinda liked the whole confrontation with the cabbie better in the unaired version just because Sherlock was drugged and as such at an obvious disadvantage.

I never really liked the way the cabbie's whole spiel was presented, claiming he talked the victims into willingly taking poison only to reveal he threatened them with certain death instead of a 50/50 chance, and the omission of the (fake) gun and introduction of the drugging of the victims actually makes. more sense to me?

something about him saying he'd just force the poison down Sherlock's throat if he refused to choose a pill is much more effective to me personally than just having him point a fake gun.

ok that's all for now bye✨

[pluviophi13]

BBC Sherlock

Masterlist

John

Fluff - ☁️

Angst - 💔

Platonic - 🫂

Romantic - ❤️

One Shots:

Series:

Moriarty

Fluff - ☁️

Angst - 💔

Platonic - 🫂

Romantic - ❤️

One Shots:

Series:

Mycroft

Fluff - ☁️

Angst - 💔

Platonic - 🫂

Romantic - ❤️

One Shots:

Series:

Sherlock

Fluff - ☁️

Angst - 💔

Platonic - 🫂

Romantic - ❤️

One Shots:

Series: