#moriarty angst

[eliasorchard]

𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 — william j. moriarty

: william james moriarty x fem!reader, angst, comfort at end

: warnings — assassination, gore, reader kills her ex-'friend'

: time has passed, the betrayal felt in your heart has softened, and yet it all comes crashing down like a house of cards when you meet your once 'dearest friend' again. her, now a corrupt noblewoman: you decide to take matters into your own hands. but what will that exactly entail?

tonight's show was a pleasant affair — after reading about the performance at the opera tonight via the papers, you just knew you had to go (and take the love of your life). and of course, william being the devoted lover that he is, how could he refuse that excited face of yours? that gleam in your eyes and that enthusiastic smile on your face?

"i hope you're not too cold, my dear." he whispers, leaning in closer to you. the two of you are in your own private box, seated on plush velvet seats and looking over at the stage where the actors perform beautifully.

you shake your head. "no, i'm not." you smile at him. "i'm feeling warm. very comfortable." you pull the coat william offered you further closer to yourself, rubbing the fabric with your fingers absentmindedly. you're more than grateful he's here with you. after what occurred with your friend all those years ago, your emotions have been on a rollercoaster since, you couldn't help it. it's followed you throughout your life, has made you distrusting of others — you name it.

but william stayed, all throughout the rough times and the difficulty you'd been experiencing. his love never faltered.

"that is good." he nods, acknowledgingly. "...look over there."

and your eyes travel forwards to the stage, a flurry of lights; now lit softly like feathers dancing in the air. and for a mere second the entire opera, previously dim, is lit with it's luminance. it was beautiful, dazzlingly bright and had everybody's lips parting. but in that split second, when the lights shone down upon the audience, that was when you saw it. saw her. the muscles in your body froze instantly.

and william could tell something was wrong, especially when he saw you go pale and how your fingers tightened around the armrests. he puts a comforting hand on your arm, "darling... are you alright? what's wrong?"

it's like you're unable to speak, your mouth refuses to open. so william takes the initiative instead, his gaze follows your own to look where your eyes are so stuck upon. he sees it, sees her. you'd talked about her before, this person who'd ruined the majority of your childhood and teenager years. he instantly becomes sympathetic, caresses your cheekbones that are sweating with the back of his fingers.

olivia. it was her — the woman who'd stolen your inheritance and destroyed your name.

"do you wish to head home?"

this woman, she had married a nobleman. both the spouses were very corrupt and treated those of lower stations than them harshly — meaning they were already on his kill list. but the assassination can wait for another time, he thought. his priority right now is getting you away from her.

you feel a droplet of sweat on the back of your neck and it frustrates you to no end. you thought you were over this, had healed from whatever scars she'd left on your heart. was it fear you felt? or anger over the fact that she was still able to command these emotions out of you? this fear?

"...i," you begin slowly.

william leans in further, prods you on carefully. "yes?"

you inhale sharply, make an effort to compose yourself and part your lips: "i... want her life, william."

"..."

now it's his time to freeze, never did he think he'd have to hear you saying that before. but he understands, this was the extent to how deeply she'd hurt you. he takes his time thinking before eventually answering. "alright," he leans in and places a kiss on your forehead. "anything you wish for."

you stir awake to the sound of fabric shuffling. with some effort, you sit up in bed. it's the middle of the night so you have to blink multiple times for your eyes to get used to the darkness that surrounds you. "mmn-.. william?"

the fabric stops shuffling for a mere second, as if to confirm that you'd called out his name. "you're awake?"

you nod your head, and wonder if he can even see with how dark it is. "you're leaving?" you don't ask where he's going, you already know the answer to that.

"yes, louis is going to groom the horses for a bit before we head out." you hear the sound of footsteps nearing you. the next thing you know, he's placed a soft kiss on your nose. he pulls back. "i'll be back soon.. wait for me in your dreams?"

you smile at that. "alright."

and just like that, as immediately as his footsteps came over, they disappear just as quickly, leaving you in the dark.

you shift to the edge of your bed once you hear him gone, you feet dangling off the edges. there's a grim expression on your face. you've already set your mind to it:

you're going to be the one to take her life. no one else.

living with william james moriarty meant being able to plan things meticulously was a given. and you, too, had picked it up. the ornate wall sconces cast long shadows as you slip through the hallway of the manor. though your breathing comes rapid and shallow, your footsteps make no sound as you steal towards the bedroom at the end of the hall.

in your clenched fist is a slender blade, the steel catching the flickering light as you progressed. too long had you carried the scars of betrayal — tonight, the debt would be repaid in full. reaching the bedroom door, you pause to steady your nerves. beyond lies the woman who ruined your life, who left you broken and destitute after ruining you.

olivia's crimes had gone unpunished for far too long under the protection of wealth and status. no more. you push the door open with a gentle creak, entering the bedroom as soundless as a wraith. moonlight streams through the windows, illuminating the four poster bed. there, tangled in silken sheets, lied olivia asleep - oblivious to her doom.

you steel yourself, approaching on light feet. you gaze down at olivia's slumbering form, at the perfectly sculpted face that had smiled so sweetly while engineering your downfall. and your hands start to shake, the knife trembling, as a storm of emotion swirls within — hatred, fear, vengeance.

no longer will you let these emotions control you, no longer will you let her control you. her death will provide you salvation and peace, you were sure of it.

yet in is in that moment that olivia stirs, eyes fluttering open to lock with your own across the bed. a gasp of shock escapes olivia's lips as recognition dawns. "you..! what are you doing here—" she breathes, starting to sit up.

but you are too swift. the blade flashes silver in the moonlight as it comes arching down towards olivia's exposed throat. there is a wet sound, a hissing gasp, and suddenly the sheets are staining crimson. olivia's body spasms once, hands grasping uselessly at the knife lodged in her neck before eventually going still. chest heaving, you stare down at the corpse, feeling.... nothing.

why was it so? why did you not feel the satisfaction you thought that you would feel? there is nothing — no relief, no catharsis, only emptiness and disgust. at yourself.

what did you do? what have you become?

a killer? your figure trembles as they look down at your now blood stained hands. reality sets in.

a floorboard creaks behind you and you whirl around, bloody blade trembling before you. "name—...?" it was james, eyes widening at the sight in front of him. he was supposed to be the one to take olivia's life tonight and yet,

william shortly makes his way up the stairs, now finished with assassinating olivia's husband. before even entering the room, he'd noticed the expression on james' face and the mentioning of your name. he should have taken this into account; constantly asking questions about the planning, who would be the one to take her life, when the plan would be set in action.. he stands silhouetted in the doorway, taking in the grim scene with hooded eyes.

"it is done, then." he says quietly. "are you.. hurt anywhere?"

"i—i didn't feel how i thought," you whisper brokenly. "there is no peace in this." you stagger away from the bed, wiping your hands on your clothes but you only succeed in spreading more gore. the blade falls from your hand and hits the marble floor with a clatter. your stomach roils and you clap a hand over your mouth, fearing you may vomit.

a heavy footfall announces william crossing the room. gently, he takes your arms to turn you towards him. instantly he's gathering you into your arms. you cry until you can no more, until your sobs have faded to weary silence in william's arms. he holds you tight to him, his chest hurts seeing you like this. it is heartbreaking seeing you like this.

pulling back to brush fallen hair from your eyes, he gazes down at you with affection "my dear, you have suffered more than any should," he murmurs. "let me ease your pain."

you try to look away, ashamed, but william's slender fingers catch your chin softly until your eyes meet once more.

"i will gladly bear the weight of your sins, (name)," william continues, "that guilt... let me take it. from this moment forth, consider olivia's death mine and mine alone. you need not dwell in pain any more."

a visible tremble courses through your body at his words. "...no, i cannot ask that of you. the crimes are mine to atone."

but william smiles gently. "you ask nothing.. i give this freely, for your light is worth far more than any life i have taken." william lifts the back of your hand to his lips in a lingering kiss that is a oath and a promise all its own.

when at last he speaks again, his voice is tender: "let me bear your sins, (name), and allow me to find what small peace i can in easing your heavy burden. say you will accept this from me, my love, and let your torment be no more."

"..." a sob catches in your throat, and all you can do is nod through very grateful tears. at last the shadows, although still heavy, feel lifted. it may still haunt you, but you know that william will be there for you all throughout it.

he will stand between you and your darkness, forever will.

just like he always has, and just like he always will.

"thank you."

© 𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍 ;; do not repost, translate or modify my works in any way or any platform. all rights reserved.

[seungsuki]

regret- how does one repent? (gn!reader) warning: mentions death, knife, overconsumption of wine note: i said i was gonna write fluff but i couldn't.. sorry :p

“care for a glass?” a voice called out, breaking through the silence that had settled like a heavy blanket.

you snapped your head to the right, your heart tightening at the sight of albert entering your shared bedroom, two glasses of wine glimmering with the candle light. the deep red liquid caught your eye, elegantly sitting in his hands 

“everyone went to sleep?”, you asked taking the offer 

“of course. hosting a tea party with so many women can be exhausting”, albert sighed 

“well, now you can just rest,” you said, giving him a light push

he sank onto the bed, complying with your request, and you settled beside him, resting your head on his shoulder. the cold wine made your lips numb, and the fatigue from the day’s events weighed heavily on your mind, blurring the edges of your thoughts.

you let out a hollow laugh, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. in your heart, you knew how far away you were from the person you used to be, but who was he to judge? he loved seeing you in your own world, and you pulled him into it. it felt like you both stopped time to just enjoy each other’s presence 

you look up to see him eye to eye. reminding him over and over how handsome he was,  a gift that you could keep for yourself. as laughter erupted once again between you, the night seemed infinite, full of potential and fleeting joy.

“slow down my beloved”, albert said, taking hold of your hand

“give me another”, you ordered 

“another?” albert repeated, disbelief painted across his features

“did i stutter?” 

“you're so weird” 

he sends a soft chuckle to himself, seeing the picture resting on his hand. another soft chuckle escaped him as he shook his head, but his laughter faded as he looked down at the mess surrounding him. your album lay scattered on the floor, its pages creased and torn, some with his face cut out.

“you’re so weird,” he voiced again, but this time his tone was laced with pain.

the wine glass slipped from his hand, shattering against the floor. the red liquid spilled out, soaking into the photographs, ruining the memories he treasured. the scent of wine mingled with the air. he brings up the picture again in front of his bloodshot eyes, tracing it one last time 

“where did we go wrong?”, he asked

not that albert was expecting a response. how could he? you couldn’t even look at him, let alone speak. he was alone in this moment, consumed by his own guilt, the weight of his sins pressing down on him like a heavy shroud.

“you did this to yourself my beloved”, albert sighed

 his voice breaking as he rested his hands on your lifeless head, which lay too still on his lap. he gently pushed a few strands of hair away from your face, his heart aching to see you like this. he removed the wedding veil, tossing it aside, where it landed on the pile of soaked photographs, a symbol of a love lost to time

“you’re so lovely in your dress”, he murmured

his words filled with admiration, albert's words did not match the regretful smile plastered on his face.he wanted to remember you as you were, radiant and full of life, not as a shadow of the woman he had adored.

“how could you have called off our wedding?” he reminded you, though you couldn’t hear him

he blamed his actions on you, believing that if only you had understood him when he revealed who he truly was behind the facade, things could have been different. but your gaze had been a mix of confusion and betrayal, hearts aching from the misunderstandings that had grown between you.

yet what happened, happened. there was no way to turn back time; the clock had tickled and moved onward. there was no time to bring you back. you were gone, and it was his fault. he was left with the consequences of his actions 

albert grabbed your hair gently, pulling your head closer to his chest. he wanted to cradle you as if that would somehow protect you from the harsh reality that lay between you. he let you lean against him, trying to ignore the knife that was still sitting on your stomach, a reminder of the wounds that had opened that night.

the white dress, now drenched with your blood and his tears. he sat there, enveloped in silence, surrounded by the echoes of what once was—a life filled with laughter and dreams. now, all that remained was a haunting reminder of a love lost too soon, the weight of his choices pressing down. he now chokes on his faith, a daunting reality of a world without you 

as he held you, he knew he did wrong but he still didn't feel sorry enough. he let out a laugh that was more of a sob, tears pooling in his eyes and blurring the edges of his vision. each drop that fell felt like a part of him shattering, a reminder that love had turned to loss in the blink of an eye.

“if i can’t have you, no one can”, albert whispers to you one last time

© seungsuki 2024-25 -- do not repost, translate, alter, etc on any platform without permission. Any characters used in my work do not belong to me, they are created by their original creator. all images are from pinterest

[toastsrambles]

thinking about john watson today.

for three years (give or take), he knew that sherlock and william were alive. and he told nobody.

he spent about three years lying to the entirety of london. the only person he told was miss hudson. he didn’t even tell mycroft or louis.

he didn’t know if they were ever coming back. how long was he prepared to lie for? when would he have reached his breaking point?

and was it worse? knowing that sherlock, his best friend, was alive but never coming back? not gone but out of reach, with nothing to be done? there’s hope, but doesn’t that make it worse? he can’t grieve because sherlock is still out there, still alive, but how could he be happy when sherlock is still gone?

sherlock is alive but it doesn’t feel like it. john is still grieving, in a way, for three long years.

[ryuusea]

sherliam week 2023 - day 1: time-loop; continuation of this au where they started as friends

thanks to sherliamweek for finally making me draw part 2 of this idea FOUR months later.

[j-eryewrites]

The Great Game (III)

Part 21 of The Arbitrary Lives of the Occupants of 221B Baker Street

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

Previous | Next

Word Count: ~10.8k

Author's Note: Tensions rise, and the threat of M continues to loom over their heads. When pulled too tight, things are bound to break.

It's almost the end. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. I finished it around midnight, so forgive any typos and whatnot. Without further ado, I present the second-to-last chapter of Arbitrary Lives.

Warnings: Supreme angst, canon typical violence, Sherlock is Sherlock (but in the worst way), mentions of death, character death, mentions of gore, firearms, language, yandere relation themes, drugging (Let me know if I missed anything)

Case after case was how it seemed to go when Sherlock, John, and Y/N were racing against the mysterious M. Every time Sherlock would solve a puzzle given to him, the pink phone would ring moments later, presenting a new one. With each chime of the telephone, Y/N found herself getting more and more anxious. M was bigger than anything they'd ever seen; worst of all, they had no clue who they were. M seemed to operate from afar, offering their advice on cases of the illegal type, allowing M the anonymity to be anyone and be anywhere. For all Y/N knew, M could be some sick person stuck in their parent's basement on the other side of the world. Even so, M seemed one step ahead and knew every step they had taken. 

Sitting upon a plush, gray, white striped couch beneath her served more comfort than she'd like to admit. Sherlock had sent her and John on another goose chase after, yet again, another call from their tormentor. While Y/N was lost in thought, petting the hairless cat on her lap, John took the lead in questioning Kenny, the brother of Connie Prince. 

The two had done as much research as they could, which turned out to be a few newspaper articles, the bizarre gossip and facts they had gathered from Mrs. Hudson, and, of course, the Wikipedia pages on Connie. Once they put all their research together, they discovered they found a plethora of ways to tell which colors suited oneself and which ones brought out the sick in one's skin tone, but not much about Connie and her brother. 

A loud and content purr vibrated from the naked cat as Y/N's hands caressed its head and neck. Upon hearing the meow, John raised his brow, trying to hide his concern. The creature sitting on Y/N's lap was not a cat. John had seen Bjørn, and Bjørn was a cat. Y/N's pet had fur and a bush-brown tail. If anything, the Prince's cat was an abomination in his mind. 

"We're devastated," Kenny Prince sighed as he carefully placed his arm on the mantle behind him, leaning ever so slightly. As John withdrew his eyes from the fur-less animal, he found his brows pinching together as Kenny Price posed. "Of course we are." Kenny waved his hand and dramatically looked to the side with a somber expression. 

To say the least, John was confused. First, there was the cat. He didn't want to give that thing another thought. Secondly was Kenny's posing. Why was Kenny posing unless he was trying to...His finger brushed against something hard, and John scolded himself. The camera. They had brought a camera. Y/N had proposed they be reporters to gain an interview with Kenny. John would be the reporter and Y/N the photographer. Kenny was posing for candid photos for their article. 

"Can I get you anything, sir?" a voice spoke from behind John. It was Raoul, Kenny's staff member.

He whirled around and replied, shaking his head. "Er, no. No, thanks."

"And what about you, miss?" Raoul asked Y/N, who absently shook her head. Her fingers were still petting the cat. 

"Raoul is my rock," Kenny admitted, still holding his position. "I don't think I could have managed. We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me."

A light pressure pushed down on John's thighs. Glancing down, he noticed the cat was no longer on Y/N's lap but his. A wave of disgust trembled through his body. With stiff fingers, he picked it up and dropped it on the other side of the couch where Y/N sat. The cat meowed in discontent, stepping back over to John. John shivered at the cat's relentless attempts and held out his arm as a barrier. 

"And–," John said, trying to continue Kenny's conversation and retain the purity of his own lap as it was reserved for Bjørn. "-and to the public, Mr. Prince."

"Oh, she was adored. I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Routemasters and turn them into princesses," Kenny continued. Meanwhile, his cat pounced over John's barrier and clung onto his lap. With a wince, John placed a hand on the cat's back. It happily purred.  "Still, it's a relief in a way to know that she's beyond this veil of tears."

"Absolutely," John muttered, hiding his grimace. He flashed Y/N a look, but she found gazing at Kenny Prince's coffee table intriguing. He frowned as concern for his friend bubbled to the surface. He could only imagine how exhausted she was. Not just physically from all the running around they have been doing lately but also as exhaustion of the emotional sort. John was not blind to Sherlock's actions, and it didn't take a fool to see that Sherlock was cold. His mind was solely occupied with M and the puzzles that he was given, which meant he didn't have much concern for others. It was not that he usually did, but with Y/N, it was different. She meant something to Sherlock.

John opened his mouth to whisper something to Y/N when he noticed Kenny's voice was absent. Right, John corrected himself. He was here about the case. The sooner he was done with this, the faster he could help both of his friends. 

"It's more common than people think," John began. "The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left un...,"  Kenny Prince plopped down between Y/N and John. The sudden jolt of the couch awoke Y/N from her daze. Her shoulder was pressed tightly against Kenny's as he leaned into John, invading his space even more than hers. "...treated..." John finished, scooting as far away from Kenny as he could. 

"I don't know what I'm going to do now," Kenny confessed, leaning even closer to John. 

"Right," John said, biting the inside of his cheek. He peered over Kenny's shoulder and saw Y/N. They shared a look that screamed discomfort, but they could do nothing as Kenny pushed them into the sides of the sofa. As Kenny continued speaking, John and Y/N's eyes held a secret conversation, mainly curses and discontent with the situation. 

"I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely....," Kenny's voice trailed off as his eyes never left John. "...but it's not the same without her." 

Before replying, John took a deep breath and stared down at his notes. "Th-that's why my paper wanted to get the, um, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?"

"No," Kenny said.  

"Right," John gulped. 

"You fire away," Kenny uttered. His longing gaze not once left John. The longer the conversation continued, the more uncomfortable Y/N felt; she could only imagine how John felt. Here was Kenny Prince, after his sister's death, flirting with John. Y/N observed Kenny staring at John, making her feel like a forgotten third wheel to a nonconsensual flirting session. She had to come to his rescue. She'd done it before with lots of her friends back home. It would be easy, so long as she could get off the couch, which's cushions were sucking her in deeper. 

Before John could ask any of his questions and Y/N could rescue him from unwanted attention, a buzzing echoed from her back pocket. Kenny turned over his shoulder to look at her as if she had interrupted a vital moment. She smiled awkwardly, shoved herself off the sofa, and answered her phone. 

"Y/N," Sherlock's voice rang over the phone.

"You know, one usually starts a call with hello," Y/N muttered. 

"Right, hello," Sherlock's voice oozed with sarcasm. 

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment. Y/N furrowed her brows. "Is there a reason you called Sherlock?"

On the other end, Sherlock struggled to find a response. He had practiced his excuse beforehand. Well, it wasn't much of an excuse, more of a warning. Even so, after hearing her voice, Sherlock had forgotten everything. He mentally reprimanded himself for falling back into his sentiment so quickly. Y/N needed to be safe, so he had to push her away. A task that only seemed to grow more impossible with each breath she took. 

John's eyes widened upon hearing Sherlock's name, and his escape was revealed to him. Shooting out of his seat, he snatched the phone from Y/N, quickly apologized, and began speaking to Sherlock. "Hi. Look, get over here quickly. I think I'm onto something," John breathed. Sherlock found himself missing Y/N's sweet voice. "You'll ne-" John was cut off by the loud footsteps barging into the room.  

Confusion plastered onto his face, and he hung up the phone. After all, there was no need to speak through a phone when Sherlock stood in the same room as him. 

"That'll be him," John said, pointing at Sherlock. Kenny Prince looked even more shaken than the consulting detective's friends were at his sudden appearance. However, the longer they pondered his arrival, the more John and Y/N realized this was normal for the great Sherlock Holmes. 

"What?" Kenny asked, looking at the unwelcome guest in his home. 

There was a calculated look on Sherlock's face before any trace of the consulting detective was washed away and replaced with a new persona. Y/N sighed as her legs lowered her body into an armchair nearby. 

"Ah, Mr. Prince, isn't it?" Sherlock took out his hand for Kenny to shake. 

"Yes," Kenny nodded, standing up to take Sherlock's hand. 

"Very good to meet you," Sherlock smiled. 

"Yes, thank you," Kenny said, still trying to figure out the situation.  

"So sorry to hear about...," Sherlock continued, but Kenny cut him off. 

Mr. Prince waved his hand, stopping Sherlock from offering false condolences about the situation. "Yes, yes, very kind."

"Shall we, er..." John cleared his throat, stepping over to Sherlock. He motioned for Sherlock to lean down before whispering in Sherlock's ear, "You were right. The bacteria got into her another way."

Sherlock couldn't help but notice the smirk that appeared on his face. "Oh yes?"

"Yes," John nodded. 

"Right. We all set?" Kenny asked, bringing his hands together. 

John, Sherlock, and Y/N frowned and watched as Kenny pointed to the camera on the sofa. Y/N grabbed it and removed the protective lens, turning it on. "Um, yes. Can you...?" she said, twirling her finger in the air, pretending to be a journalistic photographer. 

"Not too close," Kenny warned as he returned to his original stance by the mantle. "I'm raw from crying." Then he lifted his head and posed for the camera, letting Y/N take a few pictures. 

Beneath Sherlock's feet, Kenny's cat meowed. It butted its head against his dark trousers causing Sherlock to frown. He tilted his head as he peered at the cat. He wasn't sure if that's what he should call it. 

"Oh, who's this?" Sherlock wondered as he motioned to the feline. 

"Sekhmet," Kenny answered, finding a new pose for Y/N to capture. "Named after the Egyptian goddess."

"How nice! Was she Connie's?" Sherlock asked. 

"Yes," Kenny nodded, taking pride in his response. Little present from yours truly." Then John smelled it as Kenny picked up Sekhmet, and the ominous smell of disinfectant seeped from the hairless cat. John smiled as the piece clicked into place.

"Actually," John turned to Kenny, tapping Y/N on the shoulder. "I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us." 

"What?" Kenny gasped as saw Y/N place the camera strap over her shoulders and return the protective lens to its place. 

"Sherlock," John sternly stated, raising his brows to say he'd solved it. 

"What?" Sherlock frowned, trying to interpret John's signal.  

"We've got deadlines," John said, pushing his two closest friends out of Kenny Prince's living room. This left behind a puddle of confusion for Mr. Prince and his sister's cat. 

_____

Once Raoul had closed the door behind them, John erupted in cheers. Triumphantly, John raised his fist in the air and then brought it down, doing a little happy dance. Y/N smiled and giggled at the sight. 

“Yes! Ooh, yes!” John laughed. He turned to Sherlock and froze. 

One look from Sherlock swiftly ended John's parade. “You think it was the cat. It wasn't the cat,” Sherlock corrected. 

John shook his head in disbelief. “What? No, yes. Yeah, it is. It must be. It's how they got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant.” John whirled around to face Y/N, seeking backup, but found none. 

“Honestly, I have no clue what’s going on,” Y/N admitted. “I just took pictures.”

A knowing smirk crept onto Sherlock’s face. “Lovely idea, John.”

“No,” John adamantly said. “He coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet, bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have...”

“I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm,” Sherlock announced, “but it's too random and too clever for the brother.”

“He murdered his sister for her money,” John said as his smile was wiped from his face.

“Did he?” Sherlock raised a brow.

“Didn't he?” John wondered.

Sherlock shook his head. “No. It was revenge.”

“Wait,” Y/N interjected. “Revenge? Who wanted revenge? I know his sister wasn’t the nicest to him, but even so, Kenny seemed…genuine?” 

“Raoul, the houseboy,” Sherlock began explaining the case. He straightened his coat collar and stood taller, glancing down at his friends. “Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally, he had enough and fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so...”

John shook his head, still in denial. “No, wait, wait. Wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?”

“Raoul keeps a very clean house,” Sherlock noted. “You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. You smell of disinfectant now. No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's Internet records do, though. Hope we can get a cab from here.” 

Sherlock peered up and down the street. There wasn’t a cab in sight. 

“Well, we could always walk back to the station or hop on a bus-“ Y/N suggested. Then, as if by divine intervention, a cab pulled onto the street. The trio hastily hailed the cab and jumped inside.

It did not take them long to arrive at the station. Traffic was horrible on the streets, but with a hefty bribe to the cab driver, they were bursting through the door of Lestrade’s office faster than Mrs. Hudson could flick on the latest episode of her favorite soap opera. 

A wave of black trickled majestically after Sherlock as he entered the office. “Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tetanus that poisoned Connie Prince. It was botulinum toxin.” 

Lestrade sat up in his seat and sifted through the numerous papers on his desk. Finding the second autopsy report, his eyes scanned the results. His eyes widened. Sherlock was right.

“We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's repeated himself,” Sherlock said.

“So how'd he do it?” Lestrade asked.

“Botox injection,” Sherlock answered.

“Botox?” Lestrade questioned, raising his brows. After all, it was not every day that someone was murdered with Botox.

“Botox is a diluted form of botulinum,” Sherlock explained. “Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's Internet purchases. He's been bulk ordering Botox for months.” Sitting across Lestrade, Sherlock swiftly crossed his legs and dug his hand into his coat pocket. “Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose.”

“You sure about this?” Lestrade asked in confirmation.

Instead of Sherlock’s voice answering, Y/N spoke up. “He is,” Sherlock peered up at her and felt his cheeks heat up. “Connie was an avid Botox user. It was all on the blogs and magazines. No one would bat an eye at the injection sights or if Botox turned up in the autopsies.” 

Lestrade nodded his head, “All right.”

“Sherlock,” John slowly said. “How long?”

“What?” Sherlock questioned as he snapped out of his daze. 

“How long have you known?” There was hurt evident in John’s voice. 

Y/N looked between the two of them. “Wait, you’re saying you sent John and I on a goose chase?” 

Sherlock shrugged, letting John and Y/N’s confusion and hurt fly over his head. “Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake.”

“No, but Sherl... The hostage... the old woman,” John uttered. “She's been there all this time.”

“I knew I could save her,” Sherlock replied as he began to type on the small pink phone.

. “I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly; that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!“ Sherlock cheered. 

Like clockwork, the phone rang, and Sherlock answered. “Hello?”

“Help me,” the old woman whispered.

“Tell us where you are. Address,” Sherlock looked over to Lestrade, who had his team on standby. 

“He was so... His voice...,” the woman began to describe.

Sherlock’s pale blue eyes widened, and he grew pale. “No, no, no, no,” Sherlock yelled. “Tell me nothing about him. Nothing.” There was a desperation in his voice that Y/N had only heard a few times. 

Sherlock was rarely desperate unless something dangerous was happening. She recalled the terror that trembled from his chest during the night in the museum-the night Sulin died. It was the very voice he had when he clung to her after Hilton Cubitt was killed. 

Panic coursed through Y/N’s body, constricting her lungs. Sherlock was scared, and so was she. 

“He sounded so... soft-“ the caller was cut off and the horrifying sound of the dial tone screeched in Sherlock’s ear. 

Lestrade furrowed his brow and approached the stunned consulting detective. “Sherlock?” he asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“What's happened?” John questioned. 

However, Sherlock couldn’t hear any of them. The pink phone was still glued to his ear, and his blue eyes began to fill with a salty ocean. Even in the blur, he found Y/N. She stood with her hands clutching her heart, her face in pain and shock. As he sought comfort in her presence, his fears were confirmed. 

This was a game for monsters and freaks. M had made that clear. The woman over the phone was human. She cared enough to speak up. In turn, she died. She was a chess piece in a game ruled by freaks like him. M had made his move. The botulinum that killed Connie Prince wasn’t a mistake. It was a threat. M was going to take his queen. His most important player. It wasn’t a mistake that Carl Powers' shoes were found in her flat. It wasn’t a mistake. He was also killed by botulinum. Through his cloudy eyes, Sherlock saw clearly now. 

Sherlock had to remove his queen from the chessboard before M could steal her from him forever.

______

Y/N should have found comfort in the worn leather of the sofa and the creaking of the floor beneath her feet. Steam rose from her cup as the cold air of Sherlock’s flat cooled her tea. 

Mrs. Hudson had made it for her, John, and Sherlock. The brown liquid swirled in her cup, with small herbs dancing around. Mrs. Hudson always made tea for them with the secret ingredient of love. Love was precisely what Y/N needed as the television echoed the horrific news. 

“The explosion,” the reporter announced, “which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people. It is said to have been caused by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utilities company...”

“He certainly gets about,” John sighed, stirring the tiny spoon in his tea. 

“Well,” Sherlock began. “Obviously, I lost that round.” 

Y/N bit her tongue. Twelve people had died, and Sherlock was still playing the game. She fought back tears as anger boiled to the surface. Sherlock had a heart, but the more he spoke, the more she thought she’d been wrong. 

“Although technically I did solve the case. He killed the old lady because she started to describe him,” Sherlock explained. “Just once, he put himself in the firing line.”

“What d'you mean?” John asked. 

“Well, usually, he must stay above it all,” Sherlock said, thinking back to all the cases M had given him so far. “He organizes these things, but no one ever has direct contact.”

“What... like the Connie Prince murder – he-he arranged that?” John’s voice wavered. “So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?”

“Novel,” Sherlock muttered.

Y/N scoffed. “Sounds like a demented version of what you do.” Sherlock cocked his brow. “I mean, you’re a consulting detective. People come to you wanting their cases solved. Maybe he’s a consulting criminal?”

Sherlock nodded, feigning interest. “Taking his time this time,” Sherlock said as he checked the pink phone.

John cleared his throat. “Anything on the Carl Powers case?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock replied. “Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection.”

“ Have you checked outside of his class?“ Y/N proposed. John and Sherlock looked at her with confusion.

“I doubt anyone outside of Carl Powers’ class would-“ Sherlock replied.

“But what if he was a bully? I know that victims of bullying will sometimes fight back and m-“ Y/N explained.

“Bully?” John repeated.

“Yeah, I just…,” Y/N said. “I don’t want to leave any stone unturned. There was a reason Carl died, and M brought it to our attention.”  

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed before asking Lestrade to expand his search on Carl Powers' schoolmates.

“So why's he doing this, then –” John asked Sherlock. “Why is he playing this game with you? D'you think he wants to be caught?”

“I think he wants to be distracted,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head.

“I hope you'll be very happy together,” John murmured.

Sherlock frowned and stepped towards John. “Sorry, what?”

“What I think John is trying to say is that there are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual human lives...” Y/N softly spoke. “What if that was John. What if it was me?” 

Sherlock clenched his jaw and winced at her comment. He wasn’t going to let it be her. He didn’t care how many pawns he lost. So long as his queen was safe and away from the game, he’d be alright. 

“Just so I know,” John asked. “Do you care about that at all?”

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock spat. 

“No, but…,” Y/N replied.

“Then I'll continue not to make that mistake,” his voice rose, startling Y/N, and his heart broke. He didn’t want to scare her off, but he had to. This was the first step: convincing her he had no heart.

“And you find that easy, do you?” John growled, stepping up to Sherlock. Their chests puffed as they glared at each other. 

“John, Sherlock,” Y/N pleaded. “Let’s not fight, please-“

“Yes, very,” Sherlock scowled. “Is that news to you?”

“No. No,” John shook his head and stepped back, pinching his brow.”

“I've disappointed you,” Sherlock observed.

“That's good,” John mumbled, “that's a good deduction, yeah.”

“Don't make people into heroes, John,” Sherlock coldly stated. “Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.” 

John sighed. All hope he had for Sherlock fled his mind. John scolded himself for thinking Sherlock had some semblance of empathy. He was sure his and Y/N’s presence had some sort of effect on the consulting detective. Sherlock had begun to care. He’d seen it with his eyes as he rescued them from the tunnel during the Blind Banker case. There was no mistaking it. Sherlock cared for them, but his game with M made John even more concerned. With each task M gave them, John drew more and more connections. Sherlock and M were too similar, and John feared losing his best friend to the monster. 

“Excellent!” Sherlock exclaimed the moment the pink phone buzzed with their newest case.  

Despite their flaming frustration with the detective, John and Y/N crowded around the phone, peering down at the photo.

“View of the Thames. South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo,” Sherlock noted before turning to his friends. “You check the papers,” he instructed John. “I'll look online...”

“Oh, you're angry with me,” Sherlock paused, looking at John. “…so you won't help.” 

John only sighed. Of course, he was going to help. People's lives were on the line, and he was a doctor. There was no way John wouldn’t do his best to save anyone he could. Sitting on the sofa, he picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Y/N before taking a newsletter.

“Archway suicide,” Y/N read. 

Sherlock shrugged. “Ten a penny.” 

Y/N bit her lip at Sherlock’s nonchalance.

“Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington,” John repeated as he scanned the pages. “Ah. Man found on the train line, Andrew West.”

Sherlock shook his head, then slammed his computer shut. “Nothing,” he grumbled. 

Y/N and John jolted at the sound, and within an instant, Sherlock had retrieved his phone and dialed Greg’s number.

“Gary, It's me,” Sherlock announced. “Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?”

A smile crept onto Sherlock’s face upon hearing Lestrade’s words. John and Y/N needed no warning. They reluctantly got to their feet and reached for their coats. 

_____

“D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?” Lestrade asked, staring down at the drenched body on the ground.

“Must be. Odd, though...” Sherlock pulled out the pink phone. “He hasn't been in touch.”

Lestrade frowned. “But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. He tried not to notice the way Y/N shivered under her coat. He was tempted to hand her his scarf. 

“Any ideas?” Lestrade wondered. 

Sherlock tilted his head and bit his lip, counting all the ideas. “Seven... so far.”

Lestrade’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Seven?!”

Standing up from his crouch on the ground by the body, John relayed the information he had gathered. “He's dead about twenty-four hours – maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?” He asked Lestrade.

Greg shrugged. “Apparently not. Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.”

John nodded at Lestrade’s answer. “Yes, I'd agree.” Then, stepping over to Sherlock and Y/N, John continued. “There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here.”

Sherlock’s eyes followed where John had pointed out the injuries. Leaning down towards the body, he began to make his observations. “Fingertips,” Sherlock muttered quietly. Then Sherlock stood up and pulled out his phone. His feet swiftly began to trek away from the body. Greg, John, and Y/N followed along in confusion. 

“In his late thirties, I'd say, not in the best condition. He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data. But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake,” Sherlock stated. 

“What?” Lestrade asked. 

Sherlock turned towards Lestrade, with instructions readied. “We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates...”

Lestrade shook his hands and head at the same time. Quickly, he jumped in front of Sherlock, interrupting his path to the cab awaiting them. “Wait-wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you – what are you on about?”

Blue eyes rolled in annoyance, and Sherlock pocketed his phone. “It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.”

“Okay,” Lestrade calmly said. His hands returned to his side. “So what has that got to do with the stiff?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened as a grin flashed across his face. “Everything. Have you ever heard of the Golem?” He asked his companions.

“Golem?” Y/N repeated. “You mean the magical creature that-“

“No,” Sherlock said, shutting down her idea.

“It's a horror story, isn't it?” John guessed. Sherlock nodded. 

“A horror story?” Y/N wondered. “What are you saying?”

“Jewish folk story,” Sherlock explained. “A gigantic man made of clay.” 

“So I was right. Sort of…” Y/N interjected. 

“It's also the name of an assassin,” Sherlock continued. “Real name: Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world. That is his trademark style.”

“So this is a hit?” Lestrade questioned.

“Definitely,” Sherlock confidently said. “The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.”

Lestrade grimaced. “But what has this gotta do with that painting? I don't see...”

“You do see,” Sherlock hissed. “You just don't observe.”

“All right, all right, girls, calm down,” John began, but Y/N shot him a look. “Sorry, Sherlock calm down,” John corrected. “Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?”

Y/N placed her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and peered up at him. With a soft smile, she reassured him. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began. “What do we know about this corpse?” He raised a brow and looked at the three of them. “The killer's not left us with much, just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal; maybe he was going out for the night. The trousers are heavy duty. Polyester, nasty, same as the shirt, cheap. They're both too big for him. So, some kind of standard-issue uniform. Dressed for work, then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt... for a walkie-talkie.”

“Tube driver?” Lestrade guessed.

“Construction worker?” Y/N wondered.

“Security guard?” John said, throwing his guess into the air.

“More likely,” Sherlock agreed. “That'll be borne out by his backside.”

“Backside?!” Lestrade’s mouth gaped open.

“Flabby,” Sherlock noted. “You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts.”

“Why regular?” Lestrade questioned. “Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died?”

“No, no, no,” Sherlock shook his head. “The buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted; otherwise, he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off, suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognizable, some kind of institution.” 

Sticking his hand into the man’s pant pocket, Sherlock pulled out a wad of small papers. “Found this inside his trouser pockets. Sodden by the river but still recognizably...” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, awaiting a response from anyone.

“Tickets?” Y/N said after glancing at the papers. 

“Ticket stubs. He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check. The Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants as missing.” Sherlock pointed to the dead man on the ground. “Alex Woodbridge. Tonight, they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake.”

“Fantastic,” John complimented.

“Meretricious,” Sherlock mused.

“And a Happy New Year!” Greg blurted. 

Y/N raised a brow as she looked between the three men, uncertain of what inside joke was going on between them. 

“Poor sod,” John muttered, looking down at the deceased.

“I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character,” Greg said as the group picked up their pace back to where the cab awaited.

“Pointless,” Sherlock warned Greg. “You'll never find him. But I know a man who can.”

“Who?” Greg asked.

Sherlock whirled around and extended his arms out. “Me,” he proudly said before gracefully disappearing into the back of the cab. “Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?” He muttered to himself. Once John and Y/N were safely seated, Sherlock instructed the cab driver on their next destination. “Waterloo Bridge.”

“Where now? The Gallery?” John wondered.

“In a bit,” Sherlock replied.

“The Hickman's contemporary art,” Y/N questioned. “Why have they got hold of an old master?” 

“Dunno,” Sherlock admitted. “Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data...” Sherlock’s eyes gazed out the window. The car had slowed underneath a bridge. Beside the car sat a homeless woman collecting change. “Stop!” Sherlock hollered. He leaned close to the driver's ear. “You wait here. I won't be a moment.”

“Sherlock?” John called after his friend, who walked up to the woman. They exchanged words, and Sherlock deposited a hefty sum into her cup.

“What are you doing?” John asked Sherlock once he got back into the cab. 

“Investing,” Sherlock mysteriously replied. “Now we go to the Gallery.” 

As luck would have it, the gallery was only a few minutes drive away from their detour. “Have you got any cash?” Sherlock asked John. 

John sighed and paid the driver before stepping out after Sherlock. However, Sherlock pushed John back into the car, toppling into Y/N’s lap. 

“No. I need you two to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address,” Sherlock said before closing the door in John’s face.

“Okay,” John grumbled. He quickly apologized to Y/N and then the two of them departed to Alex Woodbridge’s flat. 

______

It was surprisingly easy to get into Alex Woodbridge’s apartment compared to Kenny Prince’s home. There was no need for a camera and fake personas. 

Woodbridge’s apartment was a simplistic sight. The living space gave hardly any room for John, Y/N, and Julie, Alex’s roommate, to comfortably stand without brushing shoulders with one another. 

Julie appeared to be a sweet woman with her gentle expression. She wrapped her black and white flannel around her body and led them deeper into the flat. 

“We'd been sharing about a year,” Julie explained. She turned around to look back at John and Y/N. Her frizzy, short, brown hair stuck out oddly. “Just sharing.”

“Mmm,” John hummed to reassure Julie he didn’t assume otherwise. 

Stepping into Alex’s room, Y/N peered around, John close behind. In the left corner sat the bed, still unmade. Besides, a small table held a lamp, a few empty wrappers, and books. A cloaked object sat underneath a skylight on the far right side of the room. Y/N stepped closer, her brows knitting together as she guessed what it could be. 

“Is this a telescope?” Y/N asked, looking back at Julie, who nodded. 

John raised his brows, a bit impressed. It was not every day you came across someone who owned their own telescope. Gently pulling off the sheet, John felt a soft smile growing on his lips. His mind began to recall a time when he was a boy. He had learned about the solar system and was fascinated by it, so much so that he wrote to Santa to bring him a telescope for Christmas. It never happened, but still, it was a wish from childhood, and John couldn’t help but be fond. 

“May I?” He asked, motioning to the cloth covering the telescope.

“Yeah,” Julie nodded with a sadness in her voice. 

“Sorry,” John and Y/N consoled. 

“Stargazer, was he?” John questioned, and Julie’s face lit up with a caring light. 

“God, yeah. Mad about it. It's all he ever did in his spare time,” she chuckled. “He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him. He was, er, never much of a one for hoovering.” Then Julie quickly looked away to conceal the tears that bubbled up to the surface. 

Y/N wanted to hug the woman but chose not to. Instead, she opted for her words: “Sorry for your loss.” Julie nodded in thanks. 

“What about art? Did he know anything about that?” John asked. 

“It was just a job,” Julie shrugged, “you know?” 

“Hmm. Has anyone else been around asking about Alex?” John pursed his lips in thought, bringing his hands behind his back to fiddle with his fingers. It was a habit that helped him think. 

Julie shook her head. “No…” Her voice trailed off as she realized something. “We had a break-in, though.”

“Hmm? When was that?” Y/N wondered as she peeked at the books on Alex’s bedside table. They were astronomy books of all sorts. 

“Last night. There was nothing taken,” Julie assured them. “Oh, there was a message left for Alex on the landline,” she said, trying to note anything of importance to the two of them. 

John raised his brows and strolled over to the phone beside Julie. “Who was it from?” 

“Well, I can play it for you if you like,” Julie said before turning around to enter the message box. She typed a few buttons and the phone began to whirr to life. 

Y/N and John stepped closer to hear. 

“Oh, should I speak now? Alex? Love, it's Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right. You were bloody right! Give us a call when…,” the message repeated.  

“Professor Cairns?” John mumbled, glancing up at Julie. 

Shaking her head, Julie replied. “No, no idea, sorry.”

“Mmm,” Y/N bit her lip. “Can we try and ring back?”

“Well, that's no good,” Julie replied. “I mean, I've had other calls since—sympathy ones, you know.”

John and Y/N nodded, remembering Julie’s roommate’s death. Turning to each other, they nodded. 

“Thanks again, Julie, for helping us,” Y/N thanked as the woman led John and her out of the flat. 

Julie sniffled before replying. “Anything I can do to help you catch Alex’s murderer.”

The two friends waved goodbye as the door shut. Once the click and lock of the door were heard, Y/N turned to John. 

“So,” she began. “Shall we go find Sherlock?” 

For some odd reason, John felt a slight twinge in the back of his head appear. His frustration with Sherlock was still fresh, and John was not looking to reopen the wound any time soon. Sighing, he responded, “I’m sure Sherlock will find us when he needs us.” 

Y/N chuckled in agreement. “Yeah, you’re not wrong about that. Should we go to the gallery then? Do some snooping of our own?” She wiggled her brows, which made John snicker. 

Before he could answer, the phone in his back pocket buzzed. Pulling it out, John frowned upon seeing the name, and his headache worsened. He bit back another sigh as the case Sherlock put on the back burner began to burn too hot. Mycroft was growing impatient and started to bother John about it. 

“Actually,” John said. “We’ve got another job we can work on.” 

Y/N’s face contorted with confusion. “What other-” she cut herself short. “Mycroft.” She linked her arm with John’s. “If Sherlock can have his little side-quests and detours, so can we.”

______

“He wouldn't. He just wouldn't.” The woman on the couch was inconsolable. It was not in the sense that her tears and sobs made questioning her difficult. In fact, she wasn’t crying at all. She solemnly sat on her sofa with her hands clenching tightly together. The tiny shard of sunlight peeked through her closed curtains, dimly lighting the room. While John and Y/N tried their best to sympathize and speak with her, Lucy refused to believe her boyfriend had anything to do with their case despite all the evidence against him. 

“Well, stranger things have happened,” John tried to say. 

“Westie wasn't a traitor. It's a horrible thing to say!” She glared at John as her hands turned white. 

“I'm sorry, but you must understand that's…” 

“That's what they think, isn't it, his bosses?” Lucy questioned. If someone else had watched the scene, they would have thought Lucy was interrogating John and Y/N. 

“He was a young man about to get married. He had debts…,” John softly listed off possible reasons, but Lucy was not having them. 

She defended, “Everyone's got debts, and Westie wouldn't want to clear them by selling out his country.” 

“John, can you, erm...?” Y/N sent him a look to let her give it a go. He raised his hands and let Y/N take the reins. “Lucy, we're not here to accuse Westie. We’re here for answers, and you have them. Can you tell me exactly what happened that night?”

Lucy nodded. Her shoulders relaxed, and the color returned to her hands. “We were having a night in. Just... watching a DVD. He normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was quiet. Out of the blue, he said he just had to go and see someone.”

“Do you know who?” Y/N asked. Lucy just shook her head and began to sob. Y/N peered over at John and whispered that it was time for them to leave. Any more questions and Y/N was afraid they’d leave Lucy in an even bigger puddle of tears and sorrow than she had been in before.

“I think it’s time we should go,” Y/N began to stand up. Lucy stood up and led John and Y/N back to the entrance. The cool light of the day momentarily blinded them, but their eyes quickly adjusted.   

“Oh, hi, Luce. You okay, love?” A man rolling in a bike asked. He stared at John and Y/N as they stepped out of his way. 

“Yeah,” Lucy nodded. 

“Who's this?” the biker asked. 

“John Watson. Hi,” John greeted. 

“Y/N L/N,” Y/N replied, taking the man’s hand. 

“This is my brother, Joe.” Lucy explained, “John and Y/N are trying to find out what happened to Westie, Joe.”

Joe raised his brows. “You two with the police?” 

“Uh…” John trailed off, looking over at Y/N, who hesitantly nodded. “...sort of, yeah.”

“Well,” Joe began, “tell 'em to get off their arses, will you? It's bloody ridiculous.”

John nodded. “I'll do my best. Well, er, thanks very much for your help. Again, I'm very, very sorry.”

“He didn't steal those things, Mr. Watson,” Lucy called out once John and Y/N stepped onto the street. “I knew Westie. He was a good man. He was my good man.”

Y/N waved goodbye before turning her back to Lucy. She shivered and whispered to John. “It’d be nice if she was right.”

“Yeah…” John absently agreed. “It would be.”

______

Sherlock’s scowl grew the longer he stood outside 221 B Baker Street. Soon, his left foot was tapping on the stone steps. He was growing impatient. John and Y/N sure seemed to be taking their time to arrive. 

Suddenly, a black cab rolled up to the street. It didn’t take a genius to spot the two figures inside. Sherlock jumped down the front steps and greeted the cab’s passengers. 

John stepped out first and then helped Y/N out afterward. “Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art,” John told Sherlock. 

“And?” Sherlock questioned. John furrowed his brow in response.”Is that it? No habits, hobbies, personality?”

“Sherlock, breathe. Give us a second,” Y/N blurted. Sherlock’s wide blue eyes locked onto Y/N and he felt his heart stutter, giving John ample time to appropriately respond. 

“He was an amateur astronomer.”

A light went off in Sherlock’s mind. “Hold that cab,” he instructed them before running off to a homeless woman leaning against an iron fence. 

“Spare change, sir?” She asked Sherlock. 

“Don't mind if I do,” Sherlock stuck out his hand and retrieved the small slip of paper from the woman’s hands. 

Y/N watched the interaction with curiosity. Her eyes trailed after Sherlock as he hopped into the cab. Soon, the three of them were tucked in the back seat once again. 

It wasn’t long before they walked alongside industrial buildings and inside dark alleyways. Y/N found herself stepping closer to Sherlock as they passed from the light of the street lamps into the dark. Her hand brushed against his ever so softly. For a moment, her hand was all Sherlock could think about. 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Sherlock whispered. His eyes trailing up to the twinkling stars above. 

Y/N’s eyes followed Sherlock’s. She paused before speaking. “I thought you didn’t care about stuff like that? Useless bits of information.”

Sherlock smirked, but his eyes moved down to hers, and his smile became a loving smile. “Doesn't mean I can't appreciate their beauty.” Time seemed to stand still as he gazed at Y/N under the starlight. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes trickled to her lips.  

John spoke, breaking Sherlock’s trance. “Listen, Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat. A Professor Cairns?”

“This way,” Sherlock said, leading John and Y/N deeper into the dark tunnels. 

“Nice! Nice part of town,” John sarcastically noted. “Er, any time you wanna explain.”

“Homeless network – really is indispensable,” Sherlock replied.

“Homeless network?” John questioned. 

“My eyes and ears all over the city,” Sherlock elaborated. 

“Ah, that's... clever. So you scratch their backs and...?” 

“Yes, then I disinfect myself,” Sherlock finished before taking out three lights for them and handing them out. 

“Flashlights?” Y/N wondered, turning hers on. 

John and Sherlock shared an odd expression. “What did you just call it?” John asked.

“A flashlight.”

John shook his head. “It’s a torch.”

Y/N fought back a sigh. “Yeah, torch, whatever. You know, sometimes I think you two forget I’m from America.”

Sherlock chuckled at the interaction. “Let’s go,” he said, flicking on his torch. 

The three of them entered the tunnel together. Small fires scattered between erected tents and cardboard boxes were the only light besides their own. As they whirled their lights around, Y/N stuck close to Sherlock. She felt as if she were more than three steps away from him; her lungs would constrict. 

“Sherlock! Y/N!” John’s voice hissed. The three of them spotted the tall shadow casting onto a nearby wall. 

Sherlock’s leather-gloved hand grasped Y/N’s arm.  “Come on!” Sherlock whispered as he quickly pulled her by his side, pushed her against the brick wall, and placed his hands beside her head. Sherlock leaned in close, using his body as a shield. Y/N’s nose was filled with his scent. She closed her eyes and bit her lip at the sudden intrusion in her personal space. 

“What's he doing sleeping rough?” John questioned. 

Y/N shuddered as Sherlock’s warm breath brushed against her cheeks. “Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag – much.” Sherlock removed one of his hands from beside Y/N and reached into his pocket. 

“Oh shi…” John muttered to himself as he felt up his coat. “I wish I'd…” 

 Sherlock revealed John’s gun and handed it to him. John gratefully took the weapon and readied it. 

“Don't mention it,” Sherlock said, pushing off the wall to chase after the Golem. The three of them darted down the hallway after the giant man’s figure. By the time they reached the end, they caught sight of their killer entering a small black car. The door shut, and the car revved. Then Golem was gone. 

“ No! No! No! No!” Sherlock cried, waving his fist in the air. “It'll take us weeks to find him again.” 

Beside him, Y/N and John panted, looking at the exhaust the car had left behind. 

“Actually…” Y/N interjected. “I think I know where he’s going—or at least who he’s going after.” 

John’s eyes lit up with the same thought that occupied Y/N’s. “The Professor,” he muttered. 

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

“I told you: someone left Alex Woodbridge a message,” John recalled. “There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on.”

______

A bright light crept out from underneath two large metal doors. Beyond the doors, Y/N could hear the voiceover of a film. She furrowed her brows and peered at her friends as they quietly and stealthily approached the doors. 

“Is that a–” Y/N began to ask when Sherlock cut her off. 

“Y/N, you’re staying out here.” 

Shock washed over Y/N’s face. “No, I am not staying behind.”

“No!” Sherlock hissed. “John and I will handle it. We’ll handle Golem, just stay here and-”

“And what? Look pretty? It’s just as dangerous staying out here in the dark than it is in the planetarium,” Y/N argued. She looked to John for assistance but was met with concerned eyes. “John?”

In an instant, Y/N was yanked away from the door. Sherlock’s firm hands grasped her shoulder and pulled her in close. “The Golem is dangerous and-” 

“Oh my God!” A shrill cry echoed from inside the planetarium. 

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he removed his hands from Y/N. Motioning to John, he pushed open the door. “Stay here,” he commanded Y/N before the door slammed in her face. 

Muttering an array of curses under her breath, Y/N charged in after them. Immediately, her eyes burned from the flashing lights. In the flickers of light, Y/N saw John and Sherlock dance around for any sight of Golem. The longer Y/N looked, the dizzier she felt. Her feet stumbled, and she toppled off the stage. 

“Golem!”She heard Sherlock cry. 

Y/N groaned and came to a crouch position. In the distance, she spotted a woman lying on the ground. The lights continued to flash as she crawled over to who she believed to be Professor Cairns. Behind her, John and Sherlock struggled to spot Golem. 

“..many are actually long-dead, exploded into supernovas,” the film's narrator announced before the tape began to whir. 

“I can't see him. I'll go round. I'll go!” John yelled. 

Finger dug into the carpet as Y/N pulled herself closer to the professor. Her body was trembling, and her stomach began to churn. The light blared at her, and the volume of the film increased with each second. Y/N was sure that by the end, she’d come out blind and deaf. 

“Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?” She heard Sherlock taunt the assassin.

Finally, Y/N reached Professor Cairns. Suddenly, Y/N felt very cold. Sick climbed up her throat, and sweat clung to her forehead. Images of those dead, Hilton, the woman over the phone, and Soo Lin sparked in her mind. Feeling a sudden wave of determination, Y/N sat up and placed her hands on the professor’s chest. She wasn’t about to let someone else die, not if she could help it. Then she pushed down. Her shoulders pumped up and down, holding a steady pace. Up and down. Up and down. 

“Golem!” John hollered, followed by the sound of a gun cocking. “Let him go... or I will kill you.” 

Then, muffled grunts and cries reached Y/N’s ears. Her pace halted. Frightened eyes whirled around in a desperate search for John and Sherlock. The lights flickered on, and there they were. Under the spotlight, Sherlock swiftly twirled around Golem. The horror of a man towered over Sherlock, making him appear as miniscule as an ant. Nearby lay John, who struggled to get off the ground. 

“Sherlock!” Y/N screamed as Golem’s giant hand swung at Sherlock. The force of the blow dragged Sherlock to the floor. Instantly, Golem jumped on him, placing his hands over Sherlock’s nose and mouth. 

Jumping to her feet, Y/N ran as if it was the only thing she knew how to do. With each step, her mind went blank. She had to save Sherlock, but how? If Sherlock seemed tiny compared to the Golem, she was microscopic. Launching herself onto the stage, she slammed her body into the Golem. The sheer force momentarily knocked the Golem to the ground. However, he soon found himself back on his feet. A sickening grin inched onto Golem’s face as he stepped to Sherlock and Y/N. Y/N felt herself freeze over, unable to move, breathe, or blink. Golem stalked closer. Y/N shuddered before laying herself over Sherlock. She knew she didn’t stand a chance against a trained killer, but at the very least, she could give Sherlock time. 

Sherlock’s eyes blew wide as Y/N placed herself in front of him. “No, run away,” he wanted to croak but found his voice gone. It had been choked from him, instantly stunning him. With a breathless gaze, he gazed up at her. The stars and planets zoomed overhead in a taunting manner.

Clenching her eyes shut, Y/N braced herself for Golem’s hand, but it never came. John had pounced on him, locking the assassin in a chokehold. Golem struggled to pull John off, but when he did, he disappeared–jumping off the stage and running out the door. 

Y/N didn’t open her eyes until she felt Sherlock’s gentle touch on her cheek. It took her a moment to realize they were now sitting up. The film was playing overhead. With tears, she looked at him, and her voice was stolen. She wanted to say so many things but couldn’t find the words. Sherlock’s free arm wrapped around her body, pulling her close. Carefully, Y/N tucked her head into Sherlock’s neck. She breathed him in, feeling his heartbeat on her cheek. He was alive. She was alive. 

While Y/N clung to Sherlock, he found his mind in torment. He’d almost lost her. Sherlock tried so hard to keep her safe and close because, to him, Sherlock was the safest place around. However, it was a lie. Sherlock was dangerous, and being close to him was unsafe for her. 

He knew that now. If he hadn’t dragged her from case to case, she’d be safe in her flat with her cat. If he hadn’t brought her on, she wouldn’t have seen so much death. She would be safe. She would be free to live an everyday life away from Sherlock. But Sherlock was selfish. Her presence was more potent than any drug he’d ever taken. Her lips were sweeter than any victory had been. Sherlock was greedy and wanted her to stay, to be close, and never leave. Most of all, he wanted to love her. He did love her. Sherlock loved Y/N more than anything. 

A single tear fell from the pool in Sherlock’s eyes. He loved Y/N, so he had to keep safe, even if it meant he’d never see her again. She would be safe away from him, and so she had to go. Sherlock took one last moment to be selfish as they sat holding each other. His trembling lips met the crown of her head. His nose inhaled her scent one last time. His hands enveloped her body before tearing himself away. 

_____

Moriarty. The name was whispered in Sherlock’s mind as he and John opened the door to 221B Baker Street. A bittersweet triumph latched onto their shoulders, dragging them up the stairs. They had solved the case and saved that little boy, but now they had more questions. 

Warm light wrapped around Sherlock and John as they stepped into their flat. Their eyes fell onto Y/N’s sleeping figure. Sherlock had sent her home after their fight with Golem. Despite her protests, Sherlock and John’s insistence won. Both men’s eyes softened at the sight of Y/N.Her hair cascaded over her features, vaguely concealing the red skin around her eyes. 

Sherlock took a step further into the room. The floorboard creaked beneath his feet, alerting the woman from her sleep. She shot up but then relaxed at the sight. 

“You’re back,” she whispered. “What happened? Did you-”

“We solved the case,” Sherlock coldly said. He removed his coat and scarf and tossed them onto John’s armchair. 

“Sherlock,” Y/N gently muttered. “Are you alright?”

“Just stop!” Sherlock hissed. Y/N froze, and her eyes widened with shock as Sherlock appeared in front of her. “Don’t you see nothing you do helps? You’re a liability, Y/N. I’ve known it from the moment I laid eyes on you. From the moment I found you in that cab with a gun to your head, you’ve been a liability to me.” 

A new set of tears began to pour from Y/N’s eyes, too stunned to fight back.  

“If it weren’t for your emotions getting in the way—your caring…oh, your caring. You care too much.  Just as I said before, what good does caring do when people are going to die anyway? Soo Lin,  Hilton Cubitt: They all died despite your cares. Sentiment is a weakness found on the losing side. You, Y/N, are on the losing side. The only reason you haven’t realized it was because I was there. My mind free from the poison of it all,” Sherlock took in a shaky breath. His voice grew quiet. “...or so I thought.”

Stifling a sob, Y/N pleaded with Sherlock. “So why bother keeping me around?

“I had to,” he uttered. “You are my liability! Your sentiment is contagious, and its effects are leaking onto me. You make me weak. You make me lose my mind when I am not near you. And when I am, all concepts of cunning and intelligence evade me. I become human. I fear. I feel things I have never felt before. You…you have ruined me!”

Silence filled the air. John stood against the wall and clenched his fist in fury. He had never wanted to hit Sherlock more than he did now. However, Y/N’s saddened scoff drew his attention. It was her turn to say her piece. 

“I…” Y/N took in a quick breath to steady herself. “…I think I finally understand what’s going on in that mind. You say sentiment is on the losing side, that it’s weak, that I’m weak. Well, Sherlock, you’re wrong.” 

Y/N stepped closer to Sherlock—a determined gleam reflected in her eyes. “Yes, I care about others, maybe too much, but that makes me stronger. I have people to love and who love me back. Can you say the same?” 

Sherlock stared back at her, all thoughts and words fled in her presence. 

“I doubt you can,” Y/N continued. Her words commanded the room and Sherlock’s attention. He could not ignore her. “You push everyone away and blame it all on your intellectual mind. Your brother has to pay others to ensure you’re okay because he cares about you, and you couldn't care less. John buys you milk even when he knows it’ll disappear within a day due to your insane experiments, yet you never say thank you or offer to buy it yourself. Auntie M makes you tea and occasionally helps tidy up even though she’s just your landlady, and you shoot holes into her walls. Greg brings you cases and lets you get away with many things, yet you can never get his name right. Molly lets you take body parts from Bart’s, something that could cost her her job. However, you shred her apart every chance you get.  I stand up for you when others try to break you down, and here you are, breaking me. All because I care too much. Because I care too much for you. I get it. I’m just your neighbor and assistant. That’s all I’ll ever be, even though you kissed me that night. Even though I’ve wanted you to kiss me for so long.” 

“But your intelligence? That’s not the real reason you push everyone away.” Y/N’s grew low. “You treat the people around you like shit because you’re afraid they’ll leave just like everyone else and it’ll be easier to unattach yourself from them if they were never really there in the first place. So I quit. I quit being your assistant. I quit being your neighbor. You win Sherlock. You want me gone? I’ll leave. I’ll find the first flight out of London. I’ll go back home. I’ll leave, and you’ll never have to see me again because I understand now…”

A sob broke out from Y/N. John gasped, staring between his two friends. Wiping her tears away, Y/N raised her chin up high. Her feet trekked to the open door of John and Sherlock’s flat and paused before leaving. “Goodbye, John,” she said to her friend with melancholy eyes. “Goodbye…Sherlock.” It was barely a whisper, and by the time Sherlock realized what Y/N had said, she was gone. 

____

The sound of the lock on her front door was the consolation Y/N found once she entered her apartment. Tears poured from her eyes as she collapsed against the door. She couldn’t see anything and couldn’t hear anything past her sobs, so when a warm hand pressed against her shoulder, she jumped out of her skin. 

Following the hand to its owner, she saw Jim standing above her. His eyes were soft and gentle as he lifted her to her feet and hugged her. 

Mumbling into her boyfriend’s shoulder, she asked, “How’d you get here?”

“Your aunt let me in,” he replied. “But that’s not important. What’s wrong, love?”

Y/N was too caught up in her emotions to recall her aunt was out with a friend for the evening. Instead, she caved into her boyfriend's touch and sweet words. 

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she admitted, leaning deeper into his comfort. 

Jim nodded and raised his hand to rub circles on her back. “How ‘bout after tea? I find that tea always helps soothe the mind.” He pulled back and smiled at her. 

Y/N quickly agreed, and before she knew it, she’d drunk two cups of the steaming hot liquid. Upon noticing her cup was empty again, Jim poured her another cup and urged her to drink up. Y/N swallowed it down, finding the herbs to numb her senses. After a moment's silence, Y/N found her strength returning. 

Taking a deep breath, she peered over at her boyfriend, ready to speak. “It was Sherlock. He…” Tears bubbled back up to the surface. “He…he” Y/N furrowed her brow. Her tongue seemed to stop working, and her mind was growing blank. “Sherlock,” she whispered with much difficulty.

Jim groaned. “Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.” Each time he said the detective's name, a chilling animosity grew.

“Huh?” Y/N said through the fog of her mind. She knocked her hand against something hard. The teacup fell to the floor and shattered. The deafening sound provided Y/N with some momentary clarity. When Y/N tried to stand from her seat, she discovered her legs had failed her. Instead of standing upright, she was on the floor beside the shattered cup. A groan escaped her mouth. 

“I was wondering when it’d take effect,” Jim said. Y/N dragged her head to look up at him. Confusion covered her features as she saw the grin on her boyfriend’s face. As if he sensed her gaze, Jim’s eyes turned empty. “ Oh! I love that look on your face. Utter confusion. It’s adorable. I could just…muaw!” He placed a wet kiss on her lips. The force pushed her to the ground, and the hard surface welcomed her. She felt herself growing weaker. Her breath slowed, and her eyes grew heavy. 

“You made my job a whole lot easier, and I’m very grateful for that, my dear. But I’ll have to reward you later when you wake up. I’m going to take you far away from here—away from Sherlock, John…I’m taking you away from it all.” 

With the last of her strength, her mind screamed at her. Terror filled her veins as the walls caved in on her. She whimpered.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Jim said, crouching down. His fingers brushed through her hair, luring her to sleep. “Just rest. Everything will be alright. I promise.”

_____

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_____

[yup-thats-me]

—memories• William J. Moriarty

paring: William x wife!reader summary: Hair holds memories. Something that William had said in the past. did it mean anything to his darling wife? yes. more than he could imagine. warning: hurt/comfort, manga spoiler, angsty, rapunzle-hair, like lots and lots of hair. a/n: this came to mind while doing my haircare. Enjoy.

The first thing William had looked for immediately after entering the mansion and sharing brief greetings with his dear brothers and comrades was to ask them about his wife. During his time in New York with his now close friends Billy and Sherlock Holmes for the better half of three years, he had never forgotten the treasure he left behind in London; the treasure he was forced to part from—his darling wife, Y/n; she had stayed by his side when the world had mistaken him, misunderstood all the crimes he patriotically committed; measures needed for the greater good.

Not once could he stop his tears nor the hurt that crushed his entire being when he thought how miserable Y/n was. After all, everyone believed Lord of Crime, William James Moriarty was dead.

He did not expect to see the heads of all the people in the hall droop. Some of them had sighed, and some of them could not meet his eyes.

“Where is my wife?” he had asked again, growing impatient. He had frankly believed that Y/n would have moved on by now and perhaps jumped in his embrace the moment he revealed himself to the MI6. He was more worried than disappointed.

It was Louis who spoke up. “She’s in her—your room…” but he did not finish the sentence.

And William did not need him to. Without wasting another second, he rushed up the stairs through the all familiar halls; his feet did not stop, not until he was standing outside of their room; and the scene before him broke his heart to a million pieces.

The moonlight dimly illuminated the room, as if adding life to the atmosphere. There were no sound save one—the soft humming coming from the open balcony.

William had carefully treaded his way to where Y/n was sitting with her back towards the door.. However, his feet stepped on something dark, long. Hair.

Was this Y/n’s hair? How did this get so long? Was this some kind of rope? Why would she grow out her hair? Unless…

“I like your hair, my love,” a youthful and lively Moriarty declared as he played with his wife’s lose hair. The woman blushed, hiding her face with the book she was reading.

“…then should I grow out my hair?”

The man shook his head, a loving smile on his lips. “Whatever you wish, darling,” he had pecked her lips. “Speaking of hair, I read somewhere,”

“Hair holds memories.”

The present-day Y/n asked her hair as she combed it without a care in the world. “Do you think he had a rebirth? No. Maybe he went to heaven…if it exists. He was a good man…”

William’s heart ached. Ached he could do nothing to make up for the pain he inflicted on her. Ached for he had no words to apologize with, nor the face. All he could do was call out to her, in a soft, trembling voice.

“Y/n, darling…”

 Y/n had stopped her humming and looked out at the night sky before her. “William?”

She thought she had finally lost her mind. How could you hear voices of dead people? That was nothing but her imagination. Imagination where William lived…and was before her.  

“Darling,” William called out again, now walking towards the woman.

Y/n stood up, frantically looking all around her to search for the source of the voice, when her eyes finally landed on him. There he was, standing with his arms wide open for her; like he always had.

She cautiously walked towards him, as if still making sure she was not daydreaming again. “Are you really here?” She had asked while she gently caressed his face.

Without a word, William had embraced her and held her close. So close but still not enough. It was not enough for the two. They needed more than touch, more than words. They needed more.  

Eventually, the two could not hold back anymore and cried. Cried for the hurt they felt, the hardships they went through, and the pain they suffered; but also for the immense joy they felt. Especially Y/n. How many people in this world could say they met the person they had lost to time? It was no less than a miracle. And this time she would not let go, even if the gods came asking for him.

But all of that could wait. William gently held her meter-long hair and asked, “…why?”

She had kept quiet for sometime when she at last said “…hair holds memories.”

The tears did not stop, rather they increased but William still had that gentle smile on his lips. He hugged her yet again. Slowly, he grabbed the small knife he always hid in his socks and began to cut the thick hair gently, while whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

“Now I’m here. We will make more.”

Memories.

do not steal, copy or translate my work to any other site. All belongs to yup-thats-me™ on tumblr

[shall-we-die]

╔‌‌‌‌•°🎠༄•°══════════•⊰•°༄༚

{Heartbreak}

What would cause them pain in the relationship? || How would they deal during a break-up?

╞•⊰❖⊱•═══•༻💙༺•═══•⊰❖⊱•╡

↬[Fandom]•⊰ {Moriarty the Patriot}࿐

↬[Warnings]•⊰ {Angst}࿐

☰[Main list]•⊰ ────┈┈{0057}┈─╮

╭──────┈┈┈┈┈───────╯

╰┈➤Likes/Reblogs are appreciated࿐

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↬|William|

William is a very prideful and self-reliant person, so he would try to hide any pain or discomfort he feels in order to avoid appearing weak, vulnerable, or needy. However, if something did cross a red line for him, it could cause pain in the relationship and William would likely become very argumentative, defensive, and even borderline verbally aggressive. William would handle a break up in a very cold and detached manner, even if he felt very hurt and emotional deep down.

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↬|Albert|

Albert is extremely possessive, and would likely be very jealous of anyone who interacts with his s/o, especially other men. If his s/o were to cheat on him or end the relationship, he would probably be absolutely devastated. He would likely go through a range of emotions ranging from disbelief, to sadness, anger and finally numbness. He would likely blame himself, and would do anything within his power to try and get them back, and if that fails, he would likely spiral down a self-destructive path.

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↬|Louis|

Louis is deeply terrified of being abandoned by anyone, including his beloved one. This is due to his deep-seated fear of people leaving him. He would be devastated if he is betrayed or abandoned because he is too weak, useless, or worthless to be considered worthy to be loved. Additionally, he also has a hard time accepting criticism and judgment because it only reminds him of his perceived faults and insecurities.

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↬|Sebastian|

Sebastian would feel extremely hurt if his s/o did something that caused their relationship to break down, or if they betrayed him in any way. He would want to fight anyone who dares threaten then, and he would lash out at them for even so much as breathing in their direction. As for a break-up, Sebastian would take it extremely hard. He would likely sink into a deep, long period of depression as he struggles to deal with his loss and his feelings of guilt and remorse; and if it was his fault, he'd feel even worse.

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↬|Sherlock|

If his trust were betrayed or his sense of security were threatened, he might find it quite traumatic, leading to an exaggerated fear of relationships, as well as an inability to move on and even to love again. During a breakup, he might feel completely shattered, as if the foundations of his life had been torn from beneath him. He might become isolated and unwilling to communicate his emotions with others, which would only deepen his feelings of sadness. He might shut down completely and refuse to talk about his feelings, potentially pushing his partner away through his own coldness and distance. When he is in love, he tends to act as the complete opposite of his typical, detached and distant self. Although he remains reserved and analytical, he is also more caring and even clingy, as he has found that someone who makes him feel vulnerable in a positive way. However, he sometimes feels overwhelmed by the intensity of his feelings and finds it difficult to express them in a healthier way, thus often withdrawing to his cold and detached shell during arguments and disputes, which can be frustrating for his partner as well.

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↬|John|

John's pain in the relationship could possibly stem from something completely out of his control. For example, if his s/o were to break up with him for seemingly no reason, that might cause him a lot of emotional pain. During a break-up, John would likely be very devastated and may even spiral into a depressive episode. He'd likely become very distant, both emotionally and physically. During this time it would be very important to give him space but also show that you're there for him. It would also be important to be patient with him and give him time to heal.

||[🄷eart Break]||

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     ⇆ㅤㅤ◁🄶ㅤㅤ❚❚ㅤㅤ🄸▷ㅤㅤ↻

[lazyalani]

Rewrite the Stars

Angsty tropes

It was hopeless, afterall

- yuuta, satoru, ban, nagi, sae, sherlock, zhongli, zandik, kunigami, reo

— in which they're either stuck in the past, changed, or stuck in the person in their past

No one can rewrite the stars

- suguru, zeldris, seijuro, wanderer, childe, kaeya, ciel, rin, kento, chigiri

— in which you could've been more 'but'

How can you say you'll be mine?

- satoru, meliodas, aiku, kaiser, otoya, tooru, zhongli, aomine, terushima, childe, dottore, knox

— in which you know there's still someone else, or or you just know his loyalty will never be for you

— or he just cannot be tied down

Everything keeps us apart

- undertaker, xiao, cyno, william

— in which there are dangers, and too many consequences

And I'm not the one you were meant to find

- albedo, tighnari, suna, tsukishima, karasu, kenma, kiyoomi, moran, nagi

— in which it just didn't work out

[lilies-are-azules]

Suddenly I have the urge to talk about this panel because the idea of Sherlock falling asleep while he is visiting Liam is so angst...

Everything about this panel it's just so angst, and I really need more content about Sherlock's time in NY while he waits for Liam because it couldn't have been easy for him.

[yyutsuu]

hi! your imagine was amazing, thank you so much for answering. i hope you don’t mind but may i request a mycroft x reader again but with some angst, where they have a really bad argument? they can break up or reconcile - it’s up to you!

Argument -Mycroft Holmes x GN Reader-

———

!! Angst with comfort !!

Gender Neutral reader

!! TW !! : Argument and smoking/nicotine mentions

Romantic relationship

———

Word count: 1098 words

A/n: (I have returned !!) I chose to have a happy ending, I hope you’re fine with that ! I also have no idea what the argument should be about, so I did not specify it, I hope you also do not mind that

This is serving as such a good distraction from the suffocating air in this plane 😭😭

———

It was a rainy day, both on the inside and out. You are laying on a relaxing and comfortable bed, the one that you and Mycroft shared. Usually, the two of you would be resting together, but last night was contradictive. Mycroft did not return home, he had most likely been staying in his office for the night.

You knew clearly what was the cause of this, during the night before yesterday, the two of you had an argument, not pleasant at all. “I despise you.” His words hurt like a excruciating stab wound, engraved onto your brain, haunting you.

The curtains were not open, but a faint luminescence emits still from them. The silence filling the air is harmonized by the rain, softly tapping at your window. At first, the tapping was simply background music, but now it seemed to become louder and louder, driving you to the brink of insanity as you hid under the warm blanket.

You decide to finally let go of the comforting embrace of your blanket which is as soft as a feather. You begin to sit up against the chilly bed frame. Your eyes are slightly swollen from the tears of last night mixed with the fact how you did not get the recommended amount of sleep, no, way less than that.

You simply sit there, blankly staring down the thin strips of light that had succeeded in escaped the cover of the gloomy curtains. You slowly and painfully recall the recent events, fatigue weighing down on you as you do.

It was presumptively one of the worst fights you’ve ever had with Mycroft, not psychical, but equally painful. You sat on your soft bed, rethinking the whole conversation over and over again, recalling every single tiny detail as if it only happened seconds ago.

By the time you realized you should perhaps head out for a breather, hours had passed since you sat up, the rain had died down. Getting out of bed was not difficult, you were wide awake ages ago. The very moment you step out from your blanket, the icy cold air bites at your skin.

After getting dressed and brushing your teeth you head straight outside, forgetting about breakfast entirely. It wasn’t too early in the morning, you stuff your house keys into your pocket, the sound of steady footsteps arising from your shoes. The air was particularly nice, cool and fresh, just what you needed.

The grass was damp, water droplets still resting on the emerald leaves that sprout from the earthy dirt. Every wave of sound was automatically blocked out by your ears, granting you the calmness you had wished for. The frown painted on your face, at long last, disappeared.

It was late in the evening when you finally returned home. During your stroll you had purchased some delectable food at a befitting bakery and had a cup of warm coffee.

You approach the front door to your and Mycroft’s shared house. By the amount of times you saw the door, you could tell when someone entered after you left. After you left the door, it had been unlocked from the outside and then locked from the inside. You stood there, slowly extending a hand to unlock the door, puzzled at who could and would enter.

It appeared you forgot about him, you had forgotten about Mycroft for a good couple of hours. “Mycroft…” You mutter, your memory finally refreshes as you unconsciously say his name. Your hand movements stop entirely, freezing up on the spot.

Your heart races, you don’t quite know what to do, open the door or stay out for longer? You knew deep down, the argument did not result into hate for Mycroft, you had said some pretty hurtful things too, but you just didn’t know at all what to do to fix the relationship.

You take a deep breath and place the keys into the keyhole, turning them as your ear takes in the sound of a familiar click. With your shaking hands, you turn the door handle and push the door open.

You look around and observe the room, Mycroft was most certainly present in the area, his once shiny shoes sitting near the front door accompanied with the difference in placement of a chair at the dining table proved that. After taking off your shoes and carefully placing them next to the door you walk around.

He was not in any room, not sitting on any furniture, you had searched most rooms. It was until you plopped yourself down on the couch you felt a small breeze graze your skin, it was coming from the sliding glass doors to the balcony along with a faint smell of nicotine.

You approach the balcony doors, brushing the silky curtains to the side, revealing the sight of Mycroft standing on the balcony. His back was turned to you but you could spot the smoke forming from each drag of the cigarette he made. It is without a doubt, you were not happy at all with Mycroft’s actions, he had promised he would avoid smoking a while ago, keeping his promise until now.

You slide open the glass door, Mycroft immediately puts out the cigarette on an ashtray and turns around to face you, as if nothing occurred at all a second ago. As he turns to face you, you can observe and notice that his lips are quite dry, the cigarette he had clearly wasn’t his first in a while. In addition to that there are very visible eye bags, he wasn’t getting enough sleep.

The moment the two of your eyes met, tears spill from Mycroft’s eyes, he had evidently been holding it in for quite a while. He walks towards you and holds you in a tight embrace. “Please, just allow me to do this for a while,” Mycroft whispers. You are caught off guard by this.

After some time you both head inside and make some tea. Eventually, the two of you talk about the matter and came to an agreement. Mycroft had also promised he would try his best to avoid turning to nicotine no matter what happens.

The following night was better than every other one you experienced, the two of you holding each other in an embrace while sleeping peacefully under the familiar warm blanket. The aftertaste of the argument entirely washed away. The both of you finally being able to receive sleep, the rain had begun again, but this time it was in forms of soft and calming taps on the window.

———

-yyutsuu on Tumblr and Wattpad-

!! Please refrain from reposting my work without permission !!

[fallingforunrealisticromance]

The men you meet - Sherlock x reader

A/N: I'm thinking of making this a series or at least a couple parts but i'm not sure so i figured i'd post this and see what people think. Sorry if theres any mistakes, its literally 6;30am, ive been writing all night. I'm tired.

Warnings; swearing, mentions of a knife??

Word count: 5.4k

Masterlist

****= time skip

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

Living in 221b there was never a dull moment. Whether it was sherlock shooting the walls at stupid o clock in the morning because he was, quote-on-quote “BORED”, or john ranting about how sherlock needed to stop using the fridge as a place to store body parts. Every so often you would walk in to find a rather bloody, beaten body on the floor which more often than not was paired with a dishevelled looking Sherlock. You supposed you should be afraid of him, considering the things he was capable of, but you weren’t. In fact you were utterly enamoured by him. Not that you would ever admit that out loud. But it’s true, everything about the raven-haired detective enticed you. His voice, his dry wit, his intelligence – the whole lot. That didn’t stop him getting on every one of your last nerves. Maybe that’s how you ended up in this position.

****

“Sherlock, your phone keeps going off for god’s sake would you answer it?” You groaned, your head falling back against the sofa as the detective’s text notification went off for tenth time that hour.

“I’m busy” He replied plainly, his eyes fixated on the microscope in front of him.

“One of these days I am going to throw that phone down the toilet.” You grumbled standing up to read his messages. “It’s from Greg, says he has a homicide he wants you to check out.”

“Greg?” The detective stopped what he was doing for a moment, his brow furrowed.

“Lestrade you idiot.” You rolled your eyes.

“Oh. Not important then.” Sherlock resumed his work.

“Did you not hear me? He has a homicide he wants you to check out. That’s right up your street.” You said walking over to him.

“Clearly not important enough otherwise he wouldn’t have texted me” Sherlock replied flatly, not looking at you as you rested against the desk next to him.

“Explain.”

“If it was that major, Lestrade would’ve called or barged through the door demanding for my help. You know what he’s like for theatrics. Seeing as he’s done neither of those things, it’s hardly worth my time.” Sherlock ranted with a wave of his hand.

You scoffed. “He’s one for theatrics? Jesus have you looked in the mirror recently.” Your tone caught sherlocks attention.

“What’s wrong with you today?” He asked, looking away from his work.

You shuffled slightly. “Nothing. It’s just- I don’t know.” You sighed looking down at your feet.

You did know. Your feelings for sherlock were causing more issues for you as the days went on. You were beginning to care about him, too much. Everything he did was causing you to fall more in love with him. And it hurt. Not only because you knew he wouldn’t love you back, but because he didn’t care about himself. Every day he would put his life on the line, throwing himself right into the middle of a warzone whether it be with terrorists or serial killers or whatever else, he had no regard for his own life. Whether he lived or died, it didn’t matter to him as long as he was right. But it mattered to you. Loving him resulted in a constant life of worry. The thought of him dying, it hurt your heart more than you cared to admit. As much as the detective meant to you, life before you were in love with him was a lot simpler.

“You’re lying.” Sherlock replied, snapping you from your train of thought.

“Oh well”

“It’s obvious you’re lying. The way you’re standing gives it away almost immediately. By the way you’re fidgeting with your hands I’m guessing it’s to do with someone you care about, someone you love. A friend, family member, a significant other potentially-“

“Sherlock would you just shut up?” You snapped at him.

He looked slightly shocked by your tone. Not at the fact you’d shouted, no he’d heard that plenty of times, but it was never directed at him.

“You know sometimes people like to keep things to themselves. If I wanted you to know I would’ve told you. What the hell gives you the right to deduce me and find something out I never wanted you to know. I thought as my friend you’d have a little bit more respect for my privacy.” You ranted as you grabbed your coat.

“What? y/n where are you going?” Sherlock stood up, confused by your reaction.

“Out. I need some air. Go help Lestrade.” You replied, before slamming the door.

******

You ran your fingers through your hair as you took a seat in the far corner of your favourite coffee shop, thoughts of sherlock whirling round your head. You needed to move past this silly little crush you had. It was already starting to cause tension between the pair of you and you knew if it continued either your friendship would fall apart all together, or sherlock would find out and reject you. Either way ended in you losing him. You needed a distraction, someone to take him off of your mind. But who? John was like your brother so that was off the table, Mycroft rather repulsed you instead of attract you. The thought of asking Greg out had crossed your mind, sure he was attractive enough, but you were too close as friends. Plus you knew your heart wouldn’t be in it. No you needed someone new, someone to sweep you up in a whole new world of emotion. It didn’t necessarily have to be true love, just something to occupy your mind. Slowly you started to realise how hopeless you truly were. You had no time to meet anyone new and all the men in your life weren’t enough. You sighed, looking down at your coffee.

“Excuse me? Is this seat taken?” A smooth Irish voice filled your ears.

You looked up to see a rather attractive man with slicked back black hair and a grey suit jacket on standing in front of you. You felt your stomach flutter as he smiled at you expectantly. His eyes were beautiful. He cleared his throat, still waiting for an answer. You shook your head slightly, chuckling to yourself.

“Um sorry, no its not.” You replied.

“Mind if I sit? It's pretty busy in here and they told me it would be about a half an hour wait.” He said, chuckling.

“By all means” You smiled gesturing to the seat in front of you.

He thanked you and sat down. The two of you sat in silence for a moment. He was looking towards the counter which allowed you to take in his features a little better. His jaw line was magnificently chiselled, line with a short layer of stubble. His arms looked well defined, even under the jacket. He gave off a familiar vibe even though you were certain you had never seen this man before in your life. But something about him felt, comfortable, almost.

“I’ve just realised.” His voice came, breaking you from your thoughts. “Here I am intruding on you and your coffee, and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m James.” He said holding his hand out to you.

“Hi James, I’m y/n. And you’re not intruding at all, I’ve just been sitting here wallowing in my thoughts.” You joked, internally cringing at yourself.

 However, James didn’t seem weirded out by your statement.

“Something bothering you?” He asked, looking genuinely interested.

You questioned whether or not to say anything, you had just met. In the end you figured – what’s the worst that can happen.

“I think I’m in love with my best friend. And it sucks.” You confessed with a weak smile.

James nodded, smiling slightly. “Okay. Do they not feel the same?” He asked.

“Well I haven’t told him, but no. Relationships, feelings that whole lot – not really his thing. But that’s not even the worst part.” You sighed.

James watched you, staying silent allowing you to continue.

“His job, it’s not the safest. But he helps people, which is good, but he has no regard for his life. I guess it’s just an occupational hazard to him, but watching the man I love almost die like every day of my life is fucking draining. And every time I even try to explain it to him he just gets all stroppy about how I shouldn’t care about what happens to him and that it’s his life and I can’t stop him, which I don’t want to do because I know if he stopped working that a lot of people would suffer. That doesn’t stop him infuriating me on a daily basis.” You ranted, running your fingers through your hair.

“That’s why I am here. He was just getting too much for me.” You concluded leaning back in your chair.

“That sounds really intense.” James replied.

“Yeah his job is a bit mental but like I said he helps-“

“-no no I meant you. The fact that you care so deeply about this man is honestly beautiful, but him seemingly not caring about how his actions effect you – that is intense. And in no way fair to you.” He said, looking you in the eyes.

You were slightly shocked; no one you’d talked about this had ever taken the time to see it from your perspective. But here you were sat with some random bloke in a coffee shop, feeling more seen than ever before.

“Oh…yeah I guess.” Was your response.

You mentally face palmed, what sort of response was that?!

“Americano for J M. J M?” Someone shouted over the sea of people.

James’ head whipped round as he stood to grab his drink. Part of you was sad he was leaving so soon, even if you had just met him.

“Well, I best be off. Told my colleague I’d only be gone a few minutes.” He chuckled, a warm smile spreading over him.

“I’m sorry to have kept you. It was nice meeting you James.” You replied, smiling back.

“Don’t be sorry, it was nice to meet you to y/n. See you around.”

And with that he left. A sigh escaped your lips as you rested your chin against the palm of your hand. He could’ve been just the distraction you were hoping for, but you scared him off with an overload of emotions. Whatever, you’d just need to go out to a bar or something. Even something as simple as a one-night stand would be great right about now. Just as you started to pack up your stuff to leave, the same man appeared at the edge of the table once again.

“James? Did you forget something?” You asked looking around the table.

“Um yes. Well no not exactly. I just wanted to- I know you’re into your friend- we just met so- oh god I’m making a right mess out of this.” He chuckled looking down at his hand which was still grasping the cup from earlier.

“Would you like to go to dinner?” He spat out.

You were once again rendered speechless for a moment.

“I know you said you’re in love with your friend so if you don’t want to or think it would be weird because you hardly know me then that’s fine I just think your beautiful and deserve someone who can treat you well. Not that I’m saying that has to be me but-“

“James?” You cut him off from his ramble.

He looked hopefully at you.

“I’d love to go to dinner.” You said smiling at him.

He left out a sigh of relief. “Okay, brilliant. Do you want to take my number and text me? Or I could take yours?”

“Here” You handed him your phone. “You put your number in there and I’ll take this” You said reaching for his phone. “And put mine in. That way we both can contact the other.”

You typed your number in and handed it back. You took your phone from him, laughing at the contact name

“Mr Americano?” You said glancing up at him.

“You can’t tell me it’s not accurate.” He said laughing.

“Well I’ll be looking forward to your text.” You spoke.

“I’ll see you soon y/n.” He said as he waved goodbye walking out the door.

*****

You returned to 221b in a much better mood. James had texted on the walk home and you’d arranged to go for dinner the next day at 7. You told him you’d meet him there although he did try to convince you to let him pick you up, but you didn’t want sherlock to grill him.

“y/n? Is that you?” The detectives voice called out.

You sighed before replying, preparing yourself for the inevitable conversation to come. “Yeah hi sherlock.”

He came round the corner as you slumped onto the sofa.

“Are you okay?” He asked standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

“Yeah I’m fine. I’m sorry about earlier, I was just tired and in a bad mood. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” You apologized.

“Don’t be. It’s me who should be sorry.”

Your head snapped up at his words. It wasn’t like Sherlock to say sorry.

“I shouldn’t have invaded your privacy like that. You’re my friend and I never want to make you uncomfortable. And I did. So you had every right to be angry at me.” He explained, taking a seat in his chair.

You smiled at him softly. “Thank you Sher, that means a lot. But I’m not angry anymore.” You said genuinely.

“You do appear to be in a better mood. Coffee shop must have worked its magic.” He said glancing at the to go cup still in your hand.

“Something like that.” You muttered, feeling your cheeks blush as you looked at the ground.

“You met someone?” Sherlock stated. Well it was more of a question.

You sighed. There was no point denying it, he could clearly read it in you.

“Yeah. I did. We’re going out tomorrow night.” You replied happily.

“Who’s going out tomorrow night?” John asked as he entered, taking a seat in his chair opposite sherlock.

“I am. I met someone at the coffee shop. He sat at my table, and we started talking. He asked me out and I said yes.” You had the biggest grin on your face, but you were excited.

Excited that someone asked you out, and that you actually felt some type of attraction to him. This could be more than just a distraction. You shook your head slightly at the thought. You’d just met him, there was no reason to be dreaming of a future already. Johns’ eyebrows raised at you.

“Wow.” He glanced at sherlock, who hadn’t said anything. “That’s great y/n. Will we meet him?”

You laughed. “No.”

This caught sherlocks attention. “Why not?” The boys said in unison.

You gestured at the two of them. “Have you met the pair of you? I love you both, but I really don’t need you scaring off the one guy who actually wants to take me on a date.” You picked your stuff up and headed to your room. “I’m going to sleep. See you both in the morning.”

“It’s only 8 o clock” John yelled.

“Well I’m exhausted. Goodnight” You called before closing your bedroom door.

*the next evening*

“Why can’t you come over? It would be a lot easier.” You groaned over the video call.

“Because Tom is over, and I don’t want to leave him.” Molly replied smiling.

You smiled for her. Even if her new boyfriend looked almost identical to Sherlock, you were glad she had someone.

“Okay well what do you think?” You tried to show her the whole dress but trying to fit yourself in the frame was rather awkward.

“I don’t know, dresses aren’t normally your thing are they?” She asked.

“Well no, but I haven’t been on a date in a while, so I wanted to make an effort.” You replied, straightening the skirt.

“Where’s he taking you?”

“Just a little Italian place. Never been there before but it’s near the river. I’ve walked past it like a hundred times.”

“I think you should wear the black dress.” Molly suggested. “The one you showed me at Christmas that you never wore?”

You looked at her, unsure. “Really? Do you know think it’s a bit, I don’t know, flashy?”

“Not at all. It’s perfect. Go on, put it on.” Molly beamed at you hopefully.

You thought about it for a second. “Okay fine, give me a second.” You said, earning a little clap from the screen.

You pulled the blue dress off and found the black one. You pulled it out, admiring it for a moment. It truly was a beautiful dress. It was a soft flowy material, the front falling just above the knees while the back trailed a couple inches further down. The top was in a crossed over, v line neck with two flowy straps going round the neck like a halter top. The back was open which just added to the beauty. It was scattered with sparkles that caught in the light in the most elegant way. In all honesty, you’d been looking for an excuse to wear this for a while. You slipped it on, paired with a pair of chunky black heels as well as your black dahlia necklace. You returned to your phone, so molly was able to see my outfit.

“Well?” You asked nervously.

“Oh my god!! You look gorgeous” Molly squealed.

You laughed slightly but had to agree with her. For the first time in a while, you felt truly beautiful.

“I was thinking of bringing my little black clutch and maybe doing my hair in a messy bun?” You suggested, scooping your hair up.

“Do not touch your hair.” Molly practically yelled.

You blinked, eyes wide, as you dropped your hair. “Why not?”

“Y/n your natural hair is perfect. It looks so much nicer if you leave it down.” She explained.

“But will it not look really messy?” You very rarely wore your hair down due to the fact it was naturally very curly. You always thought it looked quite shabby.

“No trust me. It looks amazing.” You sighed. You trusted her opinion, so you left it. Just then a notification popped up on your phone.

“On my way, be there in about 20 minutes. J x”

“Oh shit, I’ve got to go. He’s on his way there. Okay, thank you for everything Molls. I’ll talk to you later.” You grabbed your things before hanging up the phone.

You rushed out of your room, not even noticing the boys in the front room.

“Wow.” John’s voice came from in front of you.

Your head snapped up, finally clocking they were there. John was sat at the desk with his laptop as stood staring the wall with a bunch of newspaper clippings all over it.

“Y/n you look…wow.” John repeated, looking you up and down.

“uh thank you?” You chuckled nervously as you double checked the contents of my bag.

“I mean that in a good way of course.” He reassured.

You nodded. “Good to know.”

You pulled your jacket on and double checked your makeup in the mirror.

“Right boys, I’m off. No idea what time I’ll be home so don’t wait up.” You turned to walk out the door but walked straight into a certain detective’s chest.

“Jesus sherlock.” He stared down at you, his eyes raking over your body.

“I have to go Sher I’ll be late.” You said, hoping he’d move.

“You are utterly divine.” He muttered. Your heart jumped for a moment.

“What?” You whispered.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head slightly as if he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He moved to the side, letting you move past.

“Have a nice time. Call if you need anything.” He said, turning his back to you.

You stood there, momentarily stunned before you snapped back into reality. You walked towards the door.

“Right. Um yeah, I’ll see you later.” And with that you left the flat, still processing what Sherlock had said.

****

The date was wonderful. James was an absolute gentleman, and if you were being totally honest with yourself – you were falling for him. Since the restaurant the two of you had been out on a good few dates, each one of them making you fall further and further for him. Sherlock wasn’t pleased. You were never around anymore. Well that isn’t strictly true, considering he lives with you, and you help him on cases but in his mind you weren’t there. He felt like he never got a moment to just be with you, without the stress of a mass murderer or a kidnapping on his mind. John had noticed the change in the detective’s behaviour, which just amused him.

“Y/n, we need to go to Cornwall this weekend for a case. It’s a big one, we think Moriarty is behind it.” Sherlock said, striding into the room with john following shortly behind you.

“Hello to you too” You mumbled, adjusting your position on the sofa.

“We are leaving early tomorrow so be ready.” Sherlock continued, ignoring your comment.

“I can’t come, I have plans.” You replied casually.

“Going out with your coffee man again? That’s what like 3 times this week?” John asked, sitting down next to you.

“Yep, he’s got a whole weekend planned for us.” You smiled.

The detective froze, his back to you. The excitement in your voice was evident and Sherlock felt an intense wave of anger wash over him. He didn’t like this side of himself, and he had no idea why you being happy was provoking this reaction from him. He usually loved nothing more then when you were smiling or laughing. But he wanted to be the one making you feel that way.

“Did you not hear what I said? This case has got Moriarty written all over it. You can’t just decide not to come because of some random idiot you met at a coffee shop.” Sherlock seethed.

You frowned at him, standing to face him. “He’s not some random idiot Sherlock. He means a lot to me.” You argued.

“Well then maybe you’re an idiot too. Look cancel your plans; we need you with us.”

You laughed in his face. “I am not an idiot for falling for someone who actually gives two shits about me and treats me well. I’m sorry you don’t know what it feels like to have someone want to be around you but I’m not cancelling my plans to help you with some bullshit case so you can insult me more.” You raged.

You hadn’t meant to sound quite so harsh, but he was really winding you up. Ever since you’d started dating James he took any opportunity he could to make you feel bad about being happy and you were sick of it. You were finally getting over him and he chooses to be an arse about it. Sherlock blinked back at you, momentarily shocked by your words. The tension in the air was thick before he decided to speak again.

“Y/n, we need you. I need you there. Please” He asked, his tone a lot softer.

You sighed, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry Sherlock. I hope it goes well.” You replied before leaving the flat.

Sherlock watched as you left, unable to fully comprehend what had just happened.

“Well…that was…something.” John commented.

*****

The next day when you woke up, the boys had already left. You felt bad because you hadn’t spoken to Sherlock since the argument and now you weren’t going to see him for two days. Thoughts of him getting hurt, or something worse began to flash through your mind. You couldn’t let yesterday be the last thing you said to him. You scrambled to get your phone, finding his contact before shooting him a message. Down in Cornwall, Sherlocks phone buzzed as he was examining a body.

“John.” He instructed.

John sighed “yeah I know, give me a second”

John grabbed the phone from the detective’s coat before pulling up the message. “

Its from y/n” John said.

Sherlocks head snapped up, grabbing the phone from john.

“I didn’t mean what I said. You just know how to push every single one of my buttons Mr Holmes. Stay safe and catch me a killer. y/n xx” Sherlock grinned at the message before promptly putting the phone back in his pocket.

After a while you decided you should probably et up and start getting ready for you’re weekend away. James had told you he’d be round to collect you and 2pm and you still hadn’t packed. It was exciting that he wanted to surprise you, but without knowing where you were going – you didn’t have a clue what to pack. You stared at the wardrobe in front of you, hands on your hips as you wracked your brain on what the best choice was here. However, before you could continue our mental debate much longer your phone started ringing. Deciding to come back to your clothes later, you grabbed your phone and headed to the kitchen.

“Hey, you” You answered happily.

“Hey y/n, how are you?” James asked over the phone.

“I’m good, definitely not packing last minute I don’t know why you would even suggest that” You reply with a light chuckle.

James laughed nervously, making your brow furrow in confusion.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah…well actually no. Look I’m really sorry, but I can’t actually take you where I’d planned this weekend” He replied.

Your heart sunk a little as you placed the cup of tea you’d been making on the counter in front of you.

“Oh.” Was all you could think to say.

You had been really excited to get away with him.

“I am so sorry. But something came up at work which means I actually have to stay in London.”

You felt a twinge of annoyance at that. You’d turned down a work opportunity for him, but he couldn’t do the same for you? Not that he knew you done that but that wasn’t the point.

“But I still want to see you. I was just thinking we could do something else instead. I’d offer to let you stay over at mine, but my roommates are pretty annoying and-“

“Stay at mine” You blurted out, not really thinking.

James still was yet to meet John and Sherlock, let alone visit your shared flat. But them being in a way for the weekend presented you with a window of opportunity.

“Really?” He sounded surprised at your suggestion.

“Yeah, I mean that way you don’t have to leave London and we still get to spend the weekend together.”

“But your roommates-“

“Are away for work. They won’t be back till Monday evening at the earliest. We can have the whole place to ourselves” You said, smiling.

“Well that could not be more perfect.” He replied.

“Brilliant, ill text you the address and you can head over for 12ish if that still works?” You suggested as you headed back to your room.

“Sounds good, I have a few work calls to make but I should be done with those in time and then I’ll head straight over.”

“Okay, ill see you soon James” You said goodbye, a grin on your face.

It hadn’t been the weekend you were expecting, but it was good enough for you. It also solved your packing issue. You shoved your suitcase back in your cupboard as you began to tidy the flat, the nerves of him seeing your place for the first time finally setting in. It’ll be fine You thought. A weekend in with eh guy you were falling for, what more could you ask for?

****

It was midday Sunday when the boys were finally back in London, making their way back to their flat. Neither one had bothered to tell you they were on their way home, assuming you were out with your mystery guy.

"john I’m telling you, there was no way Moriarty wasn’t leading us astray. That whole case was way too simple. He’s misdirecting us and we were stupid enough to fall for it.” Sherlock ranted as he unlocked the door.

“That may be true Sherlock but that doesn’t get us any closer to finding out what he’s got planned. You heard what Mycroft said, nothing else has happened while we’ve been away. He may have sent us on what was essentially a wild goose chase, but he hasn’t done anything else so what now?” John replied as they made there way up the stairs.

Sherlock was about to reply as he pushed the door to his flat open, but the sight before him made the words die in his throat.

“Sherlock?” John noticed how tense his friend had become. “What’s wrong-“ He stepped around the detective to look into the apartment, his face dropping in shock.

You heard the door swing open, your head snapping round to see Sherlock staring intently at you.

“What the fuck” You muttered scrambling to get off of James’s lap. You’d been enjoying a rather heavy make out session moments before. Your face flushed red as john also caught sight of you in the compromising position.

“Why are you guys’ home already?” You asked rather frustratedly.

James didn’t say anything, but you noticed his grip on you hadn’t loosened.

“Y/n, come here.” Sherlocks voice was low, almost scarily so.

His eyes burned into you as he glared at you. You noticed the lack of colour in John’s face. Why were they being so weird?

“What? No! What the hell is wrong with the pair of you? You’re acting like you’ve never seen someone kiss before” You scoffed.

“Y/n seriously, listen to him.” John said, a hint of nerves laced in his tone.

You stared at the two of them, feeling increasingly more annoyed. Why were they being so ridiculous?

“No!! John what the hell-“

“Get over here. Now” Sherlock demanded once more.

You were about to reply when you heard a small chuckle from behind you.

“I’m not going to hurt her if that’s what you think” James said from behind you.

You noticed now the boys weren’t glaring at you, but rather him. You turned to face him, utterly lost. His face had changed, he didn’t look as kind as he had moments before. He wore a sinister smirk on his lips, his eyes gleaming with an emotion you couldn’t quite place but it unsettled you to no end.

“James? What are you talking about?”

“Let go of her wrist then” Sherlock replied, talking to him as if you weren’t even in the room.

His words made you realise just how tight James was holding onto you. You tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you. Your heart was racing, a bad feeling sinking into your bones.

“James, let go” You tried to keep your voice steady, but he noticed the way it wavered.

He chuckled ominously, meeting your slightly panicked gaze. “Would you look at that” He leant forward, so close you could feel his breath on your face.

He reached up a hand to brush some hair from your face, causing you to flinch. “She’s scared. Poor thing. Rather pathetic actually, considering how you had your tongue down my throat not too long ago” He said, his words laced with venom.

Your face flushed red in embarrassment.

“Why are you being like this James?” You asked, your voice just higher than a whisper.

“You know that’s such a boring name. James” He grimaced as he said it. “No I much prefer Jim. Or the name your little friends over there know me by. Any guesses as to what it might be pet?” He asked you with a smirk.

You sat staring at him in silence. Nothing about this situation made sense.

“Moriarty” Sherlock’s voice answered for you.

Your blood ran cold. It felt like your heart had stopped beating as you stared at the man in front of you. The man you had developed feelings for. Your reality came crashing down around you. Fear swept through you as you sat there, frozen.

He grinned wickedly at you. “Hiya love.”

Suddenly you felt the cool metal of a blade against your stomach. You heard the boys tense from behind you. Your breath caught in your throat as Moriarty just laughed.

“Now what are we going to do with you?”

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

Thoughts?? Part two??

[eliasorchard]

ALWAYS THE FOOL WITH THE SLOWEST HEART — ALBERT J. MORIARTY

📼: angst, yearning, unrequited love, complicated feelings

📼: he loves you but you've fallen for his brother instead.

📼: okay ouch </3 ty for the request, anon :)

albert will never truly finish falling in love with you.

when you ran alongside him past the old, weathered houses lining the summer fields with the afternoon air in your hair, he knew he would never stop falling in love with you. or the time you two sat, cross-legged on the carpet in the drawing room, drawing doodles of each other with bright crayons on paper that had been torn from albert's workbook..

you were etched into his heart, into his soul — he was sure he would forget his own name before forgetting yours.

and when talks of you and albert becoming engaged were brought up between your parents and his, he felt happiness so overwhelming it almost overshadowed the suffocating, negative emotions he'd feel upon merely looking around at the state of his family, at the state of britain. you shared the same sentiment too, and he was happy to see that.

"what are you giggling about?" you'd ask one summer morning when the two of you were in your preteens, having a picnic on a hilltop, protected by the shade.

was it obvious — that giddiness on his face? "i'm not sure what you're talking about." he leaned back on his palms, trying to play it cool. but he knew he was doing anything but convincing you, especially when his fingers tightened around the plaid picnic blanket you two were sitting on.

he loved you dearly, and perhaps you loved him a little too.

seasons changed and time went on, while you were enjoying breakfast with your family one morning — your father broke the news of what happened to the moriarty manor, about the fire engulfed albert's family, how albert, his adoptive brother louis and 'william' were the survivors.

you rushed to him the very next day, worried about him.

"you're sure you're fine? no injuries whatsoever?"

it was the umpteenth time you'd ask him that question, and yet his answer always remained the same: "i'm fine, (name)." a few scratches meant nothing if you were here.

the topic of engagement was dismissed, but albert didn't mind one bit. he was just happy being around you. it seemed like things were finally becoming better for him.

he introduced you to youngest brother louis soon after, his new and found family, and you were very happy for him. he, too, seemed much happier than before — much at peace. louis was a bit distant yet respectful and william, well...

he was really nice, you thought when you initially met him. he was kind, polite, gentle. he was a really good person.

years passed, and all four of you grew up.

now albert watches from the kitchen window, absentmindedly staring at you and william walking side to side in the backyard without a destination in mind.

"can you pass me the salt?"

"..." albert tears his eyes away from the two, smiling at louis. he'd insisted on helping prepare dinner because he could not afford to be alone with his thoughts, neither could his heart handle being close to you two. "yes, here it is."

the way the two of you moved together, so in sync and enamored with each other made albert's chest tighten. he'd sneak in a few stolen glances every once and then, even though it hurt him to, he couldn't help it.

meanwhile, he remain on the sidelines, the perpetual third wheel, the one who could never quite find the courage to make his move. always the fool, always the one with the heart that seemed to beat a step behind everyone else's.

he watches as william places a kiss on your forehead and how your face visibly brightens at such a simple action. a part of him wishes he could be the one to make your eyes glitter like that, to hold you in his arms like william gets to. but he knows that is nothing more than a distant dream.

william is a good man, he's everything. he knows that your heart will be completely safe with his younger brother and yet, he doesn't know whether to feel pity at himself or be happy for the two of you, happy that you found each other.

and as if knowing the turmoil albert is feeling, louis gently pats his eldest brother's shoulder. "brother.."

"it's alright." albert let out a deep, heavy sigh, and when he turns his gaze back towards louis. the youngest brother saw tears forming in albert's eyes. he also noticed a slight tremble in the wry smile that albert fought hard to maintain.

at that, louis fell silent immediately.

the wedding preparations were complete and only a few days later, you would be somebody else's entirely.

for the sake of your happiness and that of his younger brother's, he is resolved to let you go. he knows that the depth of his feelings for you will only bring him ruin, and he knows that he will let it. yet, not a single speck of his sorrow will ever burden you: he will make sure of it. this act of release will be his final, ultimate expression of love for you.

and as softly as it started and as heartbreakingly it will end:

yes, it is true. he will never truly finish falling in love with you.

© 𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍 ;; do not repost, translate or modify my works in any way or any platform. all rights reserved.

[seungsuki]

another life - time will always be an enemy (gn!reader)

warning: mention of death

note: i actually cried when i wrote this

your head lay comfortably on the lap of your blonde-haired husband, louis james moriarty. his warm fingers threaded through your hair making your heart melt. the gentle rise and fall of his chest shielded you from the agonizing fate dealt with. your eyes softened as the sight of louis holding back his tears. each drop acted as a testimony to portray his sorrowful heart. they painted your once rosy cheeks he adorned. you weakly reached out to caress his tear-streaked face, hoping to soothe his aching heart

it all started with a fever. none of you thought of it too much due to the season’s cold winds. a mere inconvenience, you described, the moriarty family was your pillar of support throughout your cold. diligent william took it upon himself to cover for your classes, while albert insisted that louis stay by your side, nursing you back to health.

the fever subsided, yet your strained voice released painful coughs. betraying your mere whispers, you suffered.  louis noticed how you grew thinner, your bubbly personality was now a faint memory replaying. confined to your bed, you had plenty of time to daydream about anything. louis became your patient listener to your rambles about anything that came into your mind whether it was about how whales sleep to what you wanted to eat when you got better 

except, you never seem to be getting better. the medicines came to no use when they were supposed to be the anchor of hope. at one point, you awoke the entire house with your cough being worse than before. you couldn’t breathe as louis got off the bed and crouched down in front of you. you covered your mouth to not wake anyone up but that came to no use. your stifle coughs echoed through the house, a signal of your despair

you heard a small knock and from the corner of your eye, the door swung open. it seemed everyone was woken up with a concerned reaction following. you wanted to reassure them, to tell them you were fine, but as you removed your hands away from your face, horror shook your body. blood stained your pale palms, a hideous confirmation of your worst fears.

you couldn’t hide it from louis. he smelt the rust-iron clinging on your fingers. he looked to his brother and you swore you could see a glint of fear in his eyes. immediately, a doctor was summoned but like the others before, he offered false hope- medicine 

this went on and on. days turned into weeks, each one disheartened the family. you met doctor after doctor and each time you were prescribed a new problem. the list grew along with louis’s frustration and sorrow. his mind couldn’t understand why you weren’t getting better. he’d done everything he could yet you were still the same 

nothing could soothe the blonde man’s heart as he gently pushed the strands of your hair away from your face. he could feel you dying and there was nothing he could do about it. even the best of the best doctors couldn’t save your life. you were just a pretty bird in a cage. your life was only as colourful as your health decides to make

the room was clouded with the smell of medicines and creams you used but what made his stomach churn was the heavy ominous odour—the smell of approaching death. louis had asked his brothers to take the time off his duties. now he sits with you resting your head on his lap every day, spending what it seems to be, your last few days. 

you looked up to your teary lover with a sad smile. you’re sorry you couldn’t be with him anymore. all those dreams you both shared, shattered before your very eyes. louis knew your time was coming soon. you didn’t feel like eating anymore. you just wanted to lie down and listen to him read stories. you didn’t even have the energy to tell him how much you’ll miss him 

the bright smiles and genuine laughs were all gone. now the only thing that could be heard was silence. the ticking clock was only acting as a reminder of how much time you both have left. your lips feel sticky but you slowly move your lips in hopes louis understands your words 

“i’m sorry i can't stay with you, love”

and then, you were gone. your eyes peacefully fluttered and you took your last breath into your eternal slumber. darkness clouded your vision and the last thing you saw was your dear husband. the afternoon sun bathed the room in a golden glow as your consciousness faded.

to louis, you appeared timeless, a serene beauty bathed in sunlight. for the first time, in what felt like an eternity, he saw a smile. not your usual sad smile, but the long-gone smile he always wanted to see again. the one he thought he had lost forever. his shaky hands cradled your face to feel you one last time, yearning to etch this final memory into his soul.

“i will find you again in another life... we will get our happy ending”

he reached out to hold your hand. he gently took off your wedding ring, almost like you would shatter if he wasn’t careful. he held it firmly in his hand before clasping his free hand with yours. he brought your lifeless hand near him and gave his last kiss. a habit he developed whenever you left for work 

“rest well my love” 

his voice cracked and he finally allowed himself to cry. for the first time, louis felt alone. his body shuddered and relaxation had taken over him. he cried louder and louder, each sob tortured his heart with a mournful symphony of loss. he felt hollow, a shell forever engulfed by the empty void he created for himself, louis james moriarty. 

© seungsuki 2024-25 -- do not repost, translate, alter, etc on any platform without permission. Any characters used in my work do not belong to me, they are created by their original creator.

[randomrandomalright]

Moriarty the Patriot but it’s a “soulmates” feel each other pain au!

[misslouder]

*⁠.⁠✧Sherliam

*⁠.⁠✧10.1k palabras | Rated: 🔞

*⁠.⁠✧En casa del enemigo, capítulo 4.

"Y en la eternidad de nuestros anhelos, jamás podría arrancarte de mi corazón. Si he de arder, que sea contigo"

[j-eryewrites]

The Great Game (I)

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

Word Count: ~12k

Previous | Next

SERIES MASTER LIST | MAIN MASTER LIST

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.” Berwick’s voice got small. 

“Go on,” Sherlock said. 

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

Sherlock winced. “Taught.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” Y/N said in a whisper. 

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

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

_____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Er... yes,” John replied. 

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

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

“Um... no,” Sherlock stated. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Deleted it?” Y/N questioned. 

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demanded. 

“John…,” Y/N called out. 

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

“Oh, sorry, love!” She chuckled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

______ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but–”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” John asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm never bored,” she replied.  

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

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

“Seems like a logical assumption,” Mycroft muttered. 

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

"But?” Mycroft encouraged. 

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

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

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

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

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

“But it is secret. And missing.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sherlock played the strings louder. 

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

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

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

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

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

_____

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

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

“Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

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

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

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

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

“No,” Lestrade corrected. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Lestrade asked. 

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

“No,” Lestrade replied. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A warning?” John asked. 

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

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

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?” Sherlock replied. 

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

“Who's this?” Sherlock demanded. 

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” John wondered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really? Sherloc–” Y/N scoffed.

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

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

“We’re coming Sherlock!”

____

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Delete it?” John questioned. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gay,” Sherlock coughed. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Bye,” Molly whispered back.

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

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

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

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

“Two and a half,” Molly corrected. 

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

“Sherlock…,” John warned. 

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

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

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

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

“His underwear?” Molly’s voice broke. 

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

_____

Bathroom. Y/N and Molly

Women building women up. 

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

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

Sniffling, Y/N wiped the latest of tears falling down her cheeks. The tiny droplets were leaving noticeable streaks down her face and her hand eagerly erased them. Less evidence for Sherlock to notice. 

Suddenly the door swung open, startling Y/N. She jumped back and instinctively turned her face away from the door. Her cheeks flushed red as she hoped her eyes weren’t as red as she thought they were. However, all signs of embarrassment fled when she heard a muffled whimper beside her. 

Correction. Bathrooms were the perfect place for women to cry together. 

Turning her head to view the addition to the bathroom, Y/N saw Molly. It took the young woman to remember her, but Y/N could recall the few times they had met before. Each time dealing with a case.  More tears crept into Y/N’s eyes as she saw Molly hunched over hiding her face with her shoulders. 

“Molly?” Y/N whispered. She stepped towards the other woman wondering if she should put her hand on Molly’s back to comfort her. She decided against it. 

Molly jolted up at the sound of her name. Her fist clenched tightly around a small sheet of paper in her hand. “Huh? Oh, Y/N. Um, sorry about…” Molly wiped her tears feeling embarrassed until she saw Y/N’s. “You too?”

Y/N nodded, wiping a few more tears away. “Are you alright,” Y/N found herself asking. 

Shaking her head, Molly glanced down. “My boyfriend is gay. He just–” A sob broke her train of thought and Molly almost collapsed to the floor if it weren’t for Y/N’s gentle hold. 

“Men suck,” Y/N muttered as she held Molly helping stand up once more. 

A light chuckle left Molly’s mouth at Y/N’s words. “They really do. Here I thought he might be nice, but he just used me to get his number to Sherlock and then he went and did his thing, you know,” Molly motioned with her hands when words no longer seemed to find her.

“When he deducted you?” Y/N finished. Molly could only nod before breaking down again. Y/N frowned. She had seen firsthand Sherlock’s deducting abilities. He never held anything back for the sake of accuracy. Oftentimes he’d forget one key factor, feelings. Y/N had yet to be on the other end of Sherlock’s observations. She was sure John had something to do with it; he was always protective of her when it came to Sherlock’s judgment. However, Molly was never spared. “I’m sorry,” Y/N whispered. 

“It’s not your fault…” Molly began but Y/N cut her off. She stood Molly up right and looked into her watery eyes. 

“No, I know it’s not, but sometimes it's nice to know you’re not alone when it comes to Sherlock.” Y/N smiled, and Molly’s eyes widened. 

“He’s made you cry?” She asked.

Y/N somberly nodded. “A lot actually.” Saying those words made more tears appear. 

Molly looked at Y/N with confusion. “But he’s…I thought he…well, he always looks like he’s…” she mumbled nervously. Raising a brow, Y/N urged Molly to continue. “Why would he make you cry when…I thought he was in love with you.”

Y/N froze. “What?” 

“It’s obvious. At least it is to everyone. Sherlock really likes you,” Molly said. Tears no longer fell from her eyes. 

Her heart jumped at Molly’s words. Sherlock. Love. Obvious. “Really? Because it doesn’t feel like that.” If anything, Y/N thought Sherlock hated her now. It was as if she could never do anything right anymore after that night in the hotel. Even her need to breath made Sherlock tense. If he was in love, he sure had a strange way of showing it. But just the idea of Sherlock being in love with her washed away all sadness. It filled Y/N with hope. 

That was the other great thing about women crying together in bathrooms, they built hope together. You never left the bathroom sadder than when you entered it. You always emerged revived. It was the power of women. Something that was the same all over the world. 

“I’m sorry,” Molly whispered, and Y/N knew Molly was saying it for the same reasons she had said it to her. They weren’t alone. 

They stood in the bathroom chatting with each other for minutes longer. Each word only gave the women back strength they thought that they had lost. Soon, they could stand on their own. Their cheeks were no longer wet, and their eyes were no longer puffy and red. They were ready to face the world once more. 

_____

“Sherlock. What did you do?” Y/N hissed as she entered the lab. Her talk to Molly only made her even more infuriated with Sherlock. 

Sherlock immediately knew what Y/N was talking about. “Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?” He smiled. 

Y/N’s eyes ticked. 

"Kinder? No, no, Sherlock. That wasn't kind,” John said. “He announced rudely to Molly her boyfriend was gay,” he explained to Y/N. 

“I know, I heard all about it in the bathroom as she was crying. Sherl–” Y/N scolded. 

“Go on, then,” Sherlock interrupted. His gaze was on John as he raised his hand to the shoes on the counter. 

“Mm?” John stared back at Sherlock confused. Y/N’s mouth hung wide open. A fly could have flown in and out and she wouldn’t have noticed. 

“You know what I do. Off you go,” Sherlock clarified now looking at the shoes. 

“No,” John shook his head. “You hurt Molly, and then interrupted Y/N. I’m not–”

“Go on,” Sherlock insisted. Y/N began to curse in the background. 

John angrily placed his hands on his hips. “I'm not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try to disseminate…”

“An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me,” Sherlock sarcastically smiled. 

“Yeah, right!”  Y/N huffed. 

“Really,” Sherlock repeated. His tone was calm and serious. 

John bit his tongue as he stared at Sherlock. “Fine,” he grumbled before moving onto the shoes. “I dunno, they're just a pair of shoes. Trainers.”

Sherlock nodded. “Good.” 

“Umm... they're in good condition. I'd say they were pretty new... except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while,” John continued. “Uh, they're very eighties – probably one of those retro designs.”

“You're in sparkling form,” Sherlock praised. It struck John’s pride just right to keep him talking and the focus off of him and Y/N. “What else?” 

“Well, they're quite big, so a man's,” John noted. His eyes glanced at Sherlock and then to Y/N as they watched him. 

“But...?”

“But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip,” John said. “Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid.”

Sherlock was beaming now. “Excellent. What else?”

“Uh... that's it," John muttered. His hand flopped to his sides as if to further express the point. 

“That's it?” Sherlock was disappointed. 

“How did I do?” John asked like he was a child being tested on the colors of the rainbow. 

“Well, John; really well,” Sherlock began. John softly smiled. “I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know…”

Y/N saw red. “If you’re so wise then Sherlock, show us what you’ve got.”

“Gladly,” Sherlock smiled at her, taking a bow with his head. “The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored. Changed the laces three... no, four times.  Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old.” 

“Twenty years?” John questioned. 

“They're not retro, they're original. Limited edition - two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine,” Sherlock explained. 

John shook his head. “But there's still mud on them. They look new.”

“Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it.” Sherlock peered at the shoes. 

“And how do you know that?” Y/N asked, stepping closer to the counter with the shoes. 

“Pollen,” Sherlock smirked. “Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind.”

“So what happened to him?” John wondered. 

“Something bad. He loved those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets…” Sherlock trailed off and his eyes bulged. “Oh.”

“What?” Y/N and John eagerly asked. 

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock whispered. 

John and Y/N looked at each other as if they had missed something. “Sorry, who?”

“Carl Powers, John,” Sherlock said. The annoyance in his voice was noticeable. 

“What is it?” Y/N found herself asking. 

“It's where I began,” Sherlock muttered. “Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid – champion swimmer – came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident. You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?”

As Sherlock relayed the story, something deep within Y/N had risen. “Carl Powers…huh.” She whispered to herself. The name felt familiar in her mouth. She couldn’t place why. 

“But you remember,” John noted. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. 

“Something fishy about it?” John asked. 

“Nobody thought so – nobody except me,” Sherlock explained. “I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers.” 

“Started young, didn't you?” John jokingly said. Sherlock ignored it. 

“The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head.”

“What?” Y/N wondered.  

“His shoes,” Sherlock said. 

“What about them?” John looked at Sherlock stare off into the distance. 

“They weren't there,” Sherlock pushed himself out of the chair and stood up. “I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes...until now.” 

Sherlock had put on his coat in an instant before moving towards Y/N. With each step he took toward her, the ache in his chest lessened. “Right. Y/N with me.” His hand reached for hers wrapping around them so tightly she wouldn’t be able to escape. He didn’t care if she was pissed at him. All he cared about was keeping her safe. She could only be safe when he was with her. His observant eyes would keep danger away. He would keep the monster from twenty-years ago far away from her. The very one who broke into her apartment. The very monster who was warning and taunting him. “John, go deal with my brother.”

John stood dazed as he watched Sherlock drag Y/N behind him. They were gone before he could give Sherlock his reply. “Uh…fine.”

_____

It wasn’t often Mycroft got visitors. Although, to be fair, all his visitors were invited, so they weren’t technically visitors. “John. How nice,” Mycroft said. It said more to be socially acceptable than from joy that John had visited. “I was hoping you wouldn't be long. How can I help you?” Again, another trivial social phrase. Mycroft knew exactly why John was here, however being the British government required such pleasantries that his brother could afford not to have. 

“Thank you. Um, well,” John looked around Mycroft’s office. It was exactly as he expected. The office was practically decorated. The walls only had two paintings, each on opposite sides to create a sense of symmetry. There were a few chairs and of course a desk. Everything else was empty space. Mycroft was a practical person, a trait sometimes shared by Sherlock (barely).  “I was wanting to... um, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans - the missile plans.”

Mycroft raised a brow up skeptically. “Did he?” 

“Yes.” John nodded before moving his eyes to look at a small notebook with questions and notes about the case. “He's investigating now. He's, er, investigating away,” John corrected. “Um, I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man.”

Leaning back into his chair, Mycroft began to answer John’s questions. “Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington programmed in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies... Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.” 

“Right. He was found at Battersea, yes?” John noted, “So he got on the train.” 

“No,” Mycroft replied. 

John looked up from his notes. The scribbling with his pen stopped. “What?” 

“He had an Oyster card…” Mycroft said. “...but it hadn't been used.” 

“Must have bought a ticket,” was John’s response and he went back to jotting down some notes. 

“There was no ticket on the body,” Mycroft corrected. 

John stopped again. “Then…”

Mycroft had grown a bit impatient. His back straightened and he leaned in the direction of where John stood. “Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea? That is the question – the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?” He smiled letting John know he knew what his brother was actually doing. 

“He-he's fine, yes. Oh, and-and it is going…” John hesitantly gulped. Despite it all he hid his nervousness well. “...very well. It's, um, you know – he's completely focused on it.”

_____

Sherlock was, in fact, not focused on it. With his thumb tucked under his chin and his pointer fingers in front of his lips, Sherlock focused on Y/N. Well, he was thinking of the case, but each thought about the case was broken up with thought of her. 

The woman in question was making tea. She had to keep her hands busy so she wouldn’t accidentally strangle Sherlock for dragging her along and giving her no explanation. Even so, she had tried talking to him about everything: the kiss, the case, their relationship, Carl Powers, and the shoes found in her apartment. Each attempt was met with silence. All Sherlock seemed to do was stare at her. She found it unnerving as his careful eyes trailed across her face and body. 

“Poison,” Sherlock muttered. 

“What?” Y/N placed the teapot on the stove. Her eyes flitted over to Sherlock who was still gazing at her. 

“Clostridium botulinum!” He exclaimed before jumping out of his seat and pranced over to her. He had begun his dance. The one Y/N hated to admit she enjoyed watching. It really was beautiful how Sherlock twirled around the room as the ideas came to him. Each step entangled with new observations from the case. “It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet! Carl Powers!” 

“Wait, are you saying he was murdered?” Y/N asked for clarification. Her eyes floated around the room finding Sherlock’s figure as he approached her. 

“Remember the shoelaces?” he smiled and she thought that this was her Sherlock. The intelligent, lively, and caring man was back. She could see it in his eyes as he looked at her. She had missed that look. She had missed his eyes on her. Once her Sherlock had returned, Y/N also felt herself return. 

“Mmm,” she nodded letting Sherlock know she was following. He was close now. Just as close as he had been when he held her after the explosion. 

“The boy suffered from eczema,” Sherlock beamed. “It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyzes the muscles and he drowns.”

Her stomach jolted at the proximity, but she longed to be closer. “What – how-how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?” 

Instinctively Sherlock’s hands found the sides of her face. His cold fingers were warmed by the heat in her cheeks. “It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it. But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet. That's why they had to go,” Sherlock whispered. His nose brushed against hers. They were so close. He could just–

“So how do we let the bomber know…” Y/N wondered. 

Sherlock licked his lips and then let his hands grow cold once more. “Get his attention…”

“Mmm-hmm,” Y/N stepped in closer just as he stepped away. The distance remained the same.

“...stop the clock,” Sherlock said. His blue eyes trailed over hers before coming to rest on her lips. The very lips he had kissed so fervently not so long ago. He could still taste her on his tongue, but it was faint. The sweet intoxicating flavor plagued his mind and he knew he was addicted. He had to have more or else he’d waste away in withdrawal for the rest of his life. 

“The killer kept the shoes all these years,” Y/N said. Her breath was heavy weighing down her lungs. The air she exhaled was exhilarating. 

“Yes. Meaning…,” Sherlock muttered. 

“He's our bomber,” she finished. 

Before they could lean in closer and ease the ache in their souls, the pink phone buzzed. 

“Well done, you,” the woman cried. “Come and get me.”

When Sherlock stepped away from Y/N, the pain in his chest grew a million times worse. “Where are you? Tell us where you are.”

_____

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