#mute sherlock

[doctor-mccoys-sanity]

what did you do growing up if it wasn’t reading Soulmate AUs where people had the first words the other person said to them marked on their body but one of them was mute so the other thought they didn’t have a soulmate?

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hey Steph! I hope you are having a wonderful holiday season!

The holidays always put me in a Sherlock kind of mood and I was looking for a specific fic. And now I have a far fetched request.

I was thinking recently about a fic I read years ago in which Sherlock developed aphasia. Great fic where he works with a speech therapist and John and they come up with ways to help him communicate. I loved the fic and was wanting to read it again.

Through some research I found that it's Synthesis by LapOtter on AO3. So normally, that would be the end of it. But here's where the far fetched comes in.

Turns out the author deleted all their works. There is, thankfully, a podfic that still exists (bless you consulting_smartass). But I was hoping to read it. I found no luck on the way back machine. Is there any chance one of your wonderful Lovelys saved a copy of the fic anywhere?

I hope you and your Lovelys and your Nonnys are having a fantastic holiday season!

Hi Lovely!!

Happy holidays to you as well, Lovely, and I hope both Christmas and New Year's went well for you!!! :D

I've actually had a similar ask in the past, and I was given the WebArchive link for the fic, so you can grab it from there!

[Podfic] Synthesis by consulting_smartass [WEBARCHIVE LINK for STORY] (E, 4h,59m,42s, 15 Ch. || Aphasia, Brain Injury, Mute Sherlock, Podfic, First Time, Angst, Hopeful Ending) – syn·the·sis [sin-thuh-sis] /ˈsɪnθəsɪs/ noun, plural syn·the·ses. 1. the combining of the constituent elements of separate material or abstract entities into a single or unified entity ( opposed to analysis, ) the separating of any material or abstract entity into its constituent elements. 2. a complex whole formed by combining.a·pha·sia [uh-fey-zhuh] /əˈfeɪʒə/ noun. 1. the loss of a previously held ability to speak or understand spoken or written language, due to disease or injury of the brain.

=====

It is very sad to see the fic gone, because I would have loved to have the ePub of it for my iBooks, but I respect if the author had their reasons to delete it <3

If you need a tutorial for downloading webarchive fics, you can check out this post here. If you want to convert it to ePubs, you can do it on Google docs, BUT most e-readers support PDFs.

And just as a disclaimer to all, PLEASE do not repost the story anywhere!!

[chapollynh]

An excuse to draw my favorite characters? Of course I'll take it, thank you very much.

[benoits-neckerchieves]

Wow Daniel Craig really does bring someone from James Bond into every Knives Out movie

[lisbeth-kk]

Serenity After the Turmoil

TW: domestic violence, nightmares. (not graphic)

Sherlock fandom

The nightmares have been constant companions from early childhood. Back then it had mostly to do with monsters under the bed, which later was traded for more violent ones. It didn’t help matters that my parents quarrelled loudly either. I still remember the first time I heard my father slap my mother. It made me nauseous, scared and angry. I wanted to get out of bed to make him stop, but I was only ten and so much smaller than him.

At uni, I got a respite from the nightmares. The most violent my dreams got, was reliving rugby matches. 

In Afghanistan, I didn’t dream at all. At least I never remembered anything when I woke. Too tired and exhausted from stitching up patients and keeping my body fit with a strict exercise regime.

It was when I got back to London that my real nightmares began. They were mostly related to the war, but particularly nasty episodes from my parents’ fighting interfered occasionally. 

Waking up from these dreams, did nothing to ease my agony. I had thought that surrounding myself with bright coloured pictures and photos would be a good idea. To make my brain see sense. To realise where I was. To calm me. I was an idiot.

***

The first time I had a nightmare at Baker Street, I apparently cried out loud, because Sherlock was kneeling beside my bed when I opened my eyes.

“You’re safe, John. Home. At Baker Street,” he said quietly.

His voice instantly calmed me before my self-conscious made itself heard. I blushed, tried to assure him I was fine. That he didn’t have to check on me.

“Alright,” he said and squeezed my shoulder before he went downstairs.

Moments later he started to play his violin even if it was 2 am. 

“Thank you,” I whispered as tears run down my cheeks.

***

The next time it happened, my sub-consciousness must’ve been at play, because I only whimpered slightly when I woke. No sound was heard from downstairs.

Normally, it took me forever to calm down, and I didn’t want to wake Sherlock by descending to the kitchen to make tea at this hour. I opened my eyes and looked around the room. It was held in muted colours, which I realised had a much more soothing effect than my brightly coloured bedsit.

I didn’t know if it was Mrs. Hudson who’d been in charge of choosing everything, but I thought it might be. My room was quite similar to the rest of the flat when it came to colours and furniture. The only splash of colour was the smiley face in the living room.

To my surprise I heard Sherlock start to play downstairs. Had he heard me, or was he unable to sleep himself? He had warned me that he played the violin at odd hours. I lay still for a while and listened to him play. They were all soothing melodies, nothing harsh like the things he used to play whenever Mycroft visited, or he was unable to solve a puzzle.

I debated with myself. Should I go down there to keep him company? To tell him how soothing it was to hear him play like this. How thankful I was for everything. How safe I felt, despite the toxic environment he created with some of his experiments, not to mention the body parts I found all over the place. Would he appreciate that, or just scoff at me and call me an idiot?

“Only one way to find out, Watson. Into battle,” I told myself and went downstairs.

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

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @raina-at

@helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear

@bs2sjh @meetinginsamarra @221beloved @jolieblack @phoenix27884

@ninasnakie @friday411 @a-victorian-girl

[nightislandnoveltymug]

sometimes i think about how all my formative niche fandoms have, one by one, been adapted into huge tv series that majorly departed from the source material and suddenly catapulted the story into the mainstream (and generated mountains of discourse) - first sherlock holmes, then good omens, and then fuckin vc of all the things 😂 like an extremely particular low-level curse

[charcubed]

lol twitter is in another “hating on bbc sherlock” phase it seems. meanwhile I am in my little corner writing thousands of words of analysis which I learned how to do as a (past and current) bbc sherlock fan which feels ironic at the moment

[sniffanimal]

AFFIRMATIONS

There is no shame in taking a few tries to get it right

Everyone struggles with fine motor skills from time to time

I can do fine motor activities

I can locate a port and plug in a cable

I can plug my phone in on the first try

I can plug my phone in while sober

BBC Sherlock does not exist

I can do hard things

this post got too popular so I'm sniffering it and muting notifs!

[ssa-dado]

The Hotch apartment we deserved, in a reality where the CM team recognized he’s a human being with taste and actually put effort into his living space

(Pictures absolutely taken by me, definitely not from Pinterest)

Now, to make this more accurate, just mentally replace every picture with either a painting of a boat (the man loves his boats, boats are his autistic obsession - no shame, Aaron, they’re very cool) or his family photos.

Unfortunately, the kitchen and bathrooms here either looked like they came straight out of a cheap Home Depot catalog or were stolen from Rossi’s mansion - I did my best. That said, I know for a fact the man has a sink with a ton of storage underneath, packed with all his hair products especially my curly hair stuff and my huge-ass diffuser

Anyway, the defining features here are dark wood, high contrast in the living spaces (please ignore the offensively cheap ceiling lamps in the sixth pic), and most likely a more muted, moody atmosphere in the private areas. Traditional decor mixed with modern accent touches (my personal rule is that if he chooses to go modern, it has to be designer). A mix-and-match approach that prioritizes both practicality and aesthetics (no shit Sherlock.)

(And yes, I know he has the comfiest couch in the world. Not just because he’s a serial couch napper, but also because I don’t own a couch, so at the very least, I want him to be happy.)

And lastly… Hotch absolutely seems like the type of man with a creaky bedframe. The kind of creaky where, if you… train for the triathlon there, the bed frame drowns out everything else - way more than the sound of skin-on-skin or any... uhm... vocal performances. But hey, that’s just my theory.

[a-victorian-girl]

Ooooohhh i loved the way you use the prompt, sweetie!! I loved the fic 🥰

Blue, Pink and Orange

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

TW: referenced suicide and drug use

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was the colours that made his life hard to bear, that really made it obvious that something was missing. They lacked vibrancy; muted hues with no saturation, no brightness, no excitement.

He’d noticed the lack of colours at a young age. Things that excited those his age failed to bring even a smile to his face. Interests, hobbies, the latest music, movies, clothing styles. All had no effect. He had tried to act like they did, to mimic their responses and actions to certain stimuli. But it never quite worked, and they soon saw through his performance. He wasn’t very old at all when he was first called a ‘freak’ and cast out to the periphery.

He existed there for a while, sad that he was so different. That he couldn’t enjoy the same things that everyone else did. As he grew older, he decided to own his eccentricities, played on them, made them more obvious. Purposefully alienating people was far better than being cast out. At least it was his choice, or so he told himself.

He was sixteen when he first saw the colours himself. When he first experienced life in vivid technicolour. The effect was brief but long enough to make him realise that the colours were, in fact, there. He just needed a little chemical help to see them. Ten years of his life passed in a haze of euphoria intermingled with dullness. The highs made the lows almost unbearable and, more than once, he had attempted to end it all at the top, with bright light and vibrancy all around him. But he had never succeeded. He had always been ‘saved’ against his will. Forced to endure the desaturated tedium of the world.

Then, one day, as the colours were fading from the previous high, they brightened again—slightly, almost imperceptibly. The crime scene tape was vivid, bright blue and white. The lights flashed like argon over the houses and buildings. He stumbled through and saw everything the police seemed to have missed. Shouting his way across the tape, he yelled what he could see, and for a moment, the world was bright. They didn’t listen at first, and he spent the rest of his come down in a cell. But then they did.

A deal was struck. Crime scenes and contacts at New Scotland Yard in return for sobriety. He took a few days to think about this. Could be stand to only have excitement every now and again? He knew that the drugs were killing him. He’d already survived endocarditis, just, and wasn’t keen to go through that again. The looks of sadness that had replaced disappointment on his parents and brother’s faces were also hard to bear. So he accepted.

At first, the time between cases was almost impossible to endure. More than once, he had put on his coat to go out and score when his contact at NSY would call and ask for his help. Before too long, he was called more and more, the intervening dullness getting shorter and easier to cope with. The highs were not as bright, but they lasted longer. The colours stayed with him for several hours post case resolution. Life was okay. It was enough, he reasoned, as the memories of brightness haunted his sleeping hours.

Sherlock had reconciled himself to a life of half-colours, slightly muted with occasional flashes of brightness when in limped John Watson. At once, the colours sprang to life, and the green paint on the microscope slide seemed to glow. Turning once again to look at Mike Stamford’s unassuming friend, he knew.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The next twenty-four hours were a blinding sea of colour, all surrounding a sea of neon pink. As he stepped away from the ambulance, the bright orange of the shock blanket around his shoulders, Sherlock smiled.

For @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt #256 - Muted Colours

@lisbeth-kk @totallysilvergirl @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl

[badkdramatakes]

I need to make a list because I can’t believe it. In this episode alone Sae-on:

- Caught his wife clearly on a phone she does not own and instead of doing math, he does algebra and determines she’s talking to everybody but him

- Then caught his falling wife

- Begged her to talk to him

- Put her little coat back on her so she will be warm

- Hears 406 was in the building and might be someone close to him, runs to Hee-joo (doesn’t suspect her just scared for her safety)

- Stayed up late maladaptive daydreaming about a scenario where he begs her to tell him all her secrets

- Distracted by her at work

-Drafts and redrafts a 3 word text message so he can sound sincere

- Heard his colleague talking shit about him and interpreted it as the colleague having a good enough relationship that he can ask relationship advice

- Asks for that advice

- buys Hee-joo a suit

- Sees a pretty dress immediately thinks it will look good on Hee-joo

- Hee-joo says it wouldn’t look good on her and he gets upset

- Buys Hee-Jo a different pretty dress that he also personally picked out

- Promises her he’s getting rid of her bad habit

- almost gets hit by a car, doesn’t care all he remembers is that his wife spoke

- Begs his wife to speak again

- Picks an inexpensive diner for his wife to take him because he doesn’t want her to spend her money (He’s obviously big dog)

- Sees a message of hearts from another man and turns into Sherlock Holmes.

- Goes with his wife to check out his “competition”

- Has a dogfight with this man

- figures out why his wife is mute (doesn’t know if it’s true and probably will pretend to be dumb about it for 3 more episodes)

- begins learning sign language and the first thing he wants to know is how to tell his wife that he is in love with her (he wants to tell her welcome but same thing)

- Uses the sign language he just learned at the table with her even though she can hear him say congratulations

- finds out the person on the phone might be his wife

- Slow as ever he does one more test after God sent in 3000 signs.

- gets drunk because he’s sad it might be her

- drunkingly sleeps in his car even though a killer is on the loose trying to KILL him

- There is a kiss here but that not Sae-on’s work Hee-joo is up to her own bag of foolishness this episode too omg

[inevitably-johnlocked]

This is a weird and very specific ask my lovely. Do you or your readers know of any fics where Sherlock is gagged. Not for sexual reasons. Would probably be as part of a kidnapping. Or possibly for an experiment. Sherlock’s powers of speech are so much part of him I’m interested to read something where that is taken away. I should say I have already checked out your kidnapping lists. Very many thanks

Hey Nonny!

Oh, hmm. I feel like he was gagged in a few of the Kidnapping fics I have on these lists:

Kidnapping, Hostage, & Stalking

Kidnapping, Hostage & Stalking Pt. 2

Kidnapping, Hostage & Stalking Pt. 3

Kidnapping, Hostage & Stalking Pt. 4

... But I can't recall immediate which fics they are. Also, I have some interesting Deaf Sherlock / Mute Sherlock fics which he doesn't talk much in, which is not exactly what you're looking for but I like the approach authors take for Sherlock not using his voice!

Anyone have a fic they can suggest? As I said, I KNOW I have read a few when Sherlock gets kidnapped but I can't recall which ones they are!

[incognit0slut]

Right Kind of Wrong (18)

She never thought she’d be involved in a murder investigation and encounter her one-night-stand again, the awkward guy who isn’t exactly that good in bed—Or is he? Offended by the sentiment, Spencer is determined to prove her wrong… But as he gets tangled with the beautiful stranger, he realizes there is more to her than what meets the eye.

Part Summary: Spencer and Y/n resolve their feelings. wc: 3k A/n: You have no idea how happy I am being able to write fluff after seventeen parts. SEVENTEEN. Only happiness from now on (which isn't much because sadly there are two parts left)

Other parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17

THE FIRST THING she became aware of was the constant noise ringing in her ears. The soft hum of the room greeted her as she slowly drifted into consciousness. Feeling slightly disoriented, she blinked her eyes open, adjusting to the muted light filtering through the half-closed curtains as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings.

Hospital. She was in a hospital. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air as a sudden wave of panic threatened to engulf her, but then a gentle, calm voice cut through her confusion. Her gaze shifted to the side, and relief washed over her as she spotted Spencer sitting on a nearby chair, engrossed in the book he was holding.

For a moment, she observed him—the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the strands of hair that fell across his forehead, and the intensity in his eyes as they traced the words. His soft-spoken tone was soothing, and after a moment of listening to him, she realized he was reading the book aloud for her.

"...and with that, Sherlock Holmes deduced the mystery, much to the amazement of Dr. Watson," his voice filled the room, and she couldn't help but smile faintly at the choice of literature. She shifted in the bed, and the quiet rustle of sheets prompted him to look up from his book.

"Hey," he greeted softly, placing the book on the bedside table. "You're awake."

She responded with a nod, accompanied by a small, appreciative smile. "Sherlock Holmes, huh?"

"I found a copy in the waiting room. Someone must've left it," he explained. "Thought I'd borrow it before giving it to Lost and Found."

Her gaze lingered on the tired lines across his features. "And you decided to read when you could have slept?"

"I wanted to be here when you woke up again."

A soft smile adorned her face but her brows twisted into a frown as she registered his words. "Again?"

"You've been in and out of consciousness." He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. "The doctor said it's common among patients suffering from dehydration."

Her frown deepened, and the weight of the situation began to sink in as she processed his words. Her fingers unconsciously traced the edge of the thin hospital blanket for comfort.

"Is Eric..."

"He's injured, although not fatally. My shot wasn't aimed for anywhere vital," he explained, shifting his chair closer. "But he's in custody. You're safe now."

Relief washed over her, but a flicker of fear remained in her eyes. "I don't remember much after what happened."

"That's understandable," he said gently. "Your body and mind went through a lot. It might take some time to process everything."

She managed a weak nod and her eyes traced the outlines of the IV line snaking into her arm. "How long have I been here?"

Spencer glanced at the clock on the wall, his brows furrowing slightly. "About a day."

"A day," she repeated, the concept feeling both distant and immediate. The realization settled in and a pause hung in the air before her gaze shifted to him again, seeking clarification. "As in twenty-four hours?"

His face twisted into a frown, uncertainty clouding his features. "...yes?" he replied, unsure where she was going with this.

"And I've been sleeping for most of the time?"

"Well... yes."

"And you? How much have you slept?" When she was met with silence, her expression softened as her eyes took in his weariness. "Why are you still awake, Spencer?"

He sighed, a conflicted expression crossing his face. "I just... I didn't want to leave your side."

She studied him, her eyes tracing the lines of exhaustion that clung to his face. Deep lines etched across his forehead and the shadows underneath his eyes spoke volumes about everything he endured. The fading bruises, the slouch in his shoulders, and the tousled strands of his hair all painted a picture of someone who had weathered more than their fair share.

It was evident that even the hospital room had taken its toll on him, and the subtle change into a fresh shirt was his small attempt to regain a pretense of normalcy. But who was she to judge? Here she was, lying on the bed, all weak and worn out. She couldn't deny that she, too, must be presenting a less-than-picture-perfect image.

With a gentle sigh, Spencer eased into the chair beside her bed. "How are you feeling?"

She took a moment, assessing the sensations in her weakened body. The dull ache in her limbs, the lingering throbbing in her head.

"Like I've been hit by a truck," she finally responded with a smile, trying to ease the tension. But his head suddenly seemed to be elsewhere. He absentmindedly nodded, and it was clear to her that something was on his mind.

"Hey," she spoke softly. "What's wrong?"

He looked up, meeting her eyes, and she waited for his response. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally found the courage to speak.

"I'm sorry."

Confusion clouded her eyes. "For what?"

"For... everything." He let out a sigh. "For hurting you, for not being there when you needed help, for not realizing what was happening sooner. For not seeing the signs."

She shook her head. "You can't blame yourself. You were there when it mattered, and you saved me."

"But I should've protected you from the start," he insisted, his eyes searching hers for understanding. "I should've stayed with you—"

"It's not your fault. Don't apologize for something that he did."

"But I could've prevented it from happening if I didn't leave your house in the first place."

She studied him for a moment before letting out a sigh. "Look, if you're going to keep on apologizing, might as well do it in comfort." She shifted over on the bed, making room between them. "Come here."

His gaze flickered between her and the mattress. "I'm not sure that's allowed."

"What? Do hospitals have a policy against sharing a bed with visitors?"

"Well, technically—"

"Spencer," she interjected. "Just lie down with me. Please."

He hesitated for a moment, but after a brief internal debate, he relented, deciding that being close to her trumped any hospital regulations. Slowly, he settled onto the bed, careful not to disturb any wires or machines. But then she suddenly sat up and Spencer frowned. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Outstretch your arm."

"What?"

"Outstretch your arm," she repeated.

He followed her instructions, and she laid back down, resting on his arm. As she nestled against his side, he couldn't ignore the warmth that spread through him. He simply looked at her, his expression a mix of curiosity and amusement when she kept pressing herself against him. His hand instinctively fell on her waist. "What exactly are you up to?"

"Testing a theory. I read somewhere that lying on someone's arm can regulate their heartbeat and help with stress. And given your guilt-ridden apology, it seems you could use a bit of stress relief." She then settled a hand over his chest. "But it doesn't seem like it's working, your heart is beating really fast."

He felt a blush creeping up his cheeks as her fingers traced gentle circles over his chest, the warmth of her touch sending ripples through him. "Well, you're lying unexpectedly close to me, I wasn't exactly prepared for that."

She laughed softly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "Just... try to relax. You've been through a lot too. You don't have to hold yourself together for my sake."

He slowly nodded, letting himself sink into the moment with her. The rhythmic rise and fall of her chest against his side, the gentle pressure of her hand over his heart. But guilt still rippled through him when he studied the weariness in her eyes, or the IV line sticking into her arm, or the bandage wrapped around her hand. He hated seeing her so weak that he couldn't help but blurt out another apology.

"I really am sorry."

She shifted slightly, turning to look at him. "I know you are."

"I wish I could have done more to protect you," he continued.

She reached up, tenderly brushing a strand of hair from his face. "You did what you could with the information you had. No one could have expected what happened."

He sighed, and she continued to trace gentle lines across his face as they fell into a comfortable silence. But much to her dismay, it didn't last long when he suddenly interrupted their moment. "I... I have another apology."

She was the one who let out a sigh this time. "What is it now?"

"I..." he hesitated, searching for the right words as his eyes wandered around every corner of the room but on her. "I-I want to apologize for being rough on you that day when we... when we—you know."

She raised an eyebrow, amused at where this conversation was heading. "You mean when we had sex?"

He nodded and diverted his gaze away from her, looking slightly embarrassed. She laughed and cupped his face, forcing him to look back in her direction. "Why are you suddenly so embarrassed?"

His cheeks flushed a shade of pink as he met her gaze. "I'm not used to discussing these things so openly, especially when I feel like I mishandled the situation."

Her laughter softened into a warm smile. "Spencer, we were both in a difficult place that day, I wouldn't say you mishandled anything." She leveled her gaze on him. "I trusted you. I knew you weren't going to hurt me, which you didn't, and I can assure you that I enjoyed the sex very, very much."

"But I-I tied you," he insisted. "I used handcuffs on you. Handcuffs."

"Well, did it ever occur to you that I liked being tied? That I like it when you're in control?"

He studied her, and let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding when he fully registered she was being serious. "You do?"

She chuckled at his wide-eyed expression. "Yes, Spencer, I do. I thought it was very obvious." She gave him a smile, fingers tracing soothing patterns on his cheek. "But if it makes you feel any better, we can come up with a safe word."

"What's a safe word?"

His brows furrowed in confusion, prompting her to burst into laughter. She couldn't help but find his innocence endearing.

"It's something you say to stop or slow down during sex, especially if things get uncomfortable or overwhelming," she explained, her laughter subsiding.

"Oh," Spencer said, a hint of realization dawning on his face. "That makes sense."

She nodded, still smiling. "So the next time we explore our sexual needs, we can use our safe word."

There was a pause before he murmured, "Next time?"

Her smile faltered at his question. "Do you not want a next time?"

Noticing her sudden withdrawal, he placed a hand behind her, pulling her closer to him. "I want there to be a next time," he confirmed and sighed in relief when he felt her relaxing again. "You know, I just want to spend more time with you in general."

Her smile returned, warmed by the sincerity in his words. "Yeah?"

He nodded. "I want to take you to dinner."

"Dinner sounds lovely."

"And take you out on a date."

Her smile widened. "What kind of date do you have in mind?"

"Well, I was thinking of the museum. Or maybe the library." Then his eyes lit up with a hint of excitement. "There's also this planetarium I've always wanted to visit. Did you know that the planetarium nearby has one of the most advanced digital projection systems? It's supposedly a state-of-the-art projector that can simulate the night sky with incredible accuracy."

A genuine smile graced her lips. The excitement in his voice brought a sense of relief to her. It wasn't just a reaction to his enthusiasm about their planned date, but also the subtle transformation in his demeanor. He seemed more relaxed.

"That sounds amazing." And just because she couldn't stop herself from flustering him, she added, "But the real question is, will there be sex in this future date?"

Spencer's reaction was immediate, his face flushing with embarrassment. "Stop teasing me."

"I'm serious," she laughed, thoroughly enjoying his momentary discomfort. "I want to know what I'll be expecting."

He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. "I guess... If you want to, then yes."

"Of course, I do, but I want to hear it from you." She grinned when he gave her a pointed look. "Spencer, you've given me more orgasms than I can count, why is it so hard for you to say the word sex?"

Spencer shook his head, attempting to brush off the embarrassment that lingered. "You're unbelievable." 

Despite his attempt to resist, there was a subtle twinkle in his eyes that betrayed the amusement he couldn't fully conceal. A reluctant smile stretched across his lips, and he finally conceded, "Yes, Y/n, we will have sexual intercourse in the future."

She laughed, the sound echoing in the room. "How romantic."

Her teasing expression softened into a warm smile, and Spencer couldn't help but be captivated by the warmth in her eyes. Feeling a surge of affection, he gently pulled her closer. There was a subtle shift in the air. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, she nestled into his embrace. But it was hard to fully linger in his arms when her IV line seemed to be getting in their way.

"Hold on, I think I have to turn around," she said, her fingers tracing the thin tubing connected to the IV. Spencer released his hold. "I should probably get off the bed."

"Don't you dare," she threatened, and turned to the other direction gracefully, adjusting herself without much difficulty. Once settled, she pressed her back against his chest and he instinctively wrapped his arms around her again.

"Better?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.

She nodded, a contented smile on her face. "So much better."

Spencer held her a little tighter, and somehow, his hand found its way to hers, softly intertwining their fingers. He held on to her as if he didn't want to let go, as if the simple act of holding her hand offered a sense of grounding in the aftermath of everything that had happened. And with a contented sigh, she leaned back into him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest. She reveled in the moment because life had taken them through twists and turns, and yet, here they were—finding solace in each other's company. The warmth of his hold enveloped her like a protective shield, and for a fleeting moment, the worries that had weighed on her seemed to dissipate.

Gratitude swelled within her—a deep, heartfelt acknowledgment of this moment, of being alive, and of the shared embrace that grounded her to the present. 

"Hey, Spence?"

"Hmm?"

Her fingers gently traced over his hand, still intertwined with hers, savoring the connection that seemed to defy the odds. "Thank you for staying with me."

She felt a reassuring squeeze from his hand.

"I'm here for as long as you need me."

"Don't you think this is a little too much?"

Garcia threw Morgan a glare as they walked down the hospital corridor, her heels echoing in the narrowed space. Her eyes then shifted to the balloons in her hand, the container of freshly baked cookies she made in the other hand, and the bouquet of beautifully arranged flowers dangling from Morgan's arms.

"She deserves a warm welcome after what she's been through," she countered. "And it's my first time meeting her in person, I can't come empty-handed. That's so unlike me."

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, sure, but we're just visiting. It's not a party."

Garcia huffed. "I believe in spreading happiness wherever I go. And besides, who wouldn't want flowers, balloons, and delicious cookies after being stuck in a hospital bed?" She looked over to the rows of the door down the hallway. "What room did Reid say she was in?"

Morgan glanced down the corridor lined with identical-looking doors. "Room 108."

Garcia led the way, her heels clicking purposefully as she cradled the balloons and cookies with a determined air. Morgan followed, still holding the bouquet, and couldn't help but shake his head at Garcia's unwavering commitment. As they approached the door, she paused to adjust her cookies and then knocked lightly on the door, only to be met with silence.

She turned to Morgan. "Do you think she's asleep?"

"I don't know." He pulled out his phone and tried to dial Spencer's number, only to be met with a constant line of ringing. "He's not answering."

"I think we should just go in."

Morgan hesitated for a moment, then nodded in agreement. Garcia took a deep breath and gently pushed the door open, stepping inside. The room beyond was dimly lit, with the curtains drawn, followed by the soft hum of medical equipment filling the air. It seemed like an ordinary hospital room, but what seemed out of place was the sight before them.

Because Spencer lay on the bed with her, both peacefully sleeping.

"Oh my god," Garcia gushed, stepping further into the room. “Oh my god.”

Morgan couldn't help but wear a surprised smile. "Well, that explains why he wasn't answering his phone."

Garcia carefully placed the balloons at the foot of the bed and Morgan followed behind her, setting the bouquet on the bedside table. She then motioned for him to place the container of cookies there as well before she held her hands together, watching the scene before them. "This is like a scene straight out of a romance movie."

Unable to contain her excitement, she took out her phone and snapped a discreet photo of them. Morgan shot her a disapproving look, but she just waved her hand dismissively and whispered, "It's for the memories."

"Come on," he insisted, grabbing onto her arm. "Let's leave these two to rest."

"One more picture!"

Garcia's voice echoed in the room, and Spencer stirred in his sleep. Morgan and Garcia stilled for a moment, holding their breath. They waited for another second, and thankfully, the couple seemed to be too deep in slumber to hear the commotion in the room.

Morgan gave Garcia a pointed look. "That's enough, Garcia. Let's go."

"Give me a minute,” she lingered. “Let me take one last video."

Morgan shook his head. He took her phone out of her grasp, ignoring her protest, and finally dragged her out of the room—leaving the two lovebirds behind.

>> NEXT PART

a/n: that last scene is kind of a bonus, I just thought it was cute

.

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[lazydoodlesandfanfic]

Keeping Quiet (Sherlock & Mycroft X Deaf!Brother!Reader) *PLATONIC

Characters: Sherlock & Mycroft X Deaf!Brother!Reader

Universe: Sherlock

Warnings: Severe bullying, injuries, turf burn, mention of violence

Request: Hi, can I request?, a Holmes brother fic, where reader is their youngest brother who is in high school/university getting bullied bc their disability(mute/deaf) and how their deal with that situation, I kinda want reader to be a ball of sunshine who always smile but are sad inside and although they can see through his smile, they struggle to find a way to help them. 🥺

Your life from the get go has always been a little harder than other kids your age. For one, you were the youngest Holmes, which wasn’t necessarily a problem, though when you were born your eldest brother had already graduated university, and your other brother was a teenager not far from leaving school. With their own unique personalities, they struggled to connect you immediately, and you didn’t see them much as a young child. However, since starting Secondary school, they had become a bit more involved, especially since you had moved in with your eldest brother so you could attend a good school that was closer to him, however, you were still mostly by yourself, especially since how work driven both your brother’s were. Oh yeah, and the other thing that made your life a little harder- you were deaf. 

A silent world was all you had known since birth, and because of that, you didn’t have to adjust to any change, instead you just learned to do things differently, like when trying to cross a road on a corner, you’d look at those around you to see if they were going to cross, knowing that if the road was clear and they didn’t move, they could hear a car coming. You never had speech therapy growing up, and since when growing up your parents and brothers always communicated with you with sign language, you never used your voice. To you, your hands were your voice, and the thing in your throat that let you make noises was only for dire emergencies to get immediate attention. 

Right now, you were convinced this wasn’t an emergency, but you had the overwhelming urge to just scream as hard as you can. You wanted so badly to be heard, but feared backlash, either from your peers of your issues being perceived as fake or not nowhere near as bad as you felt they were, or backlash from the people who were making you feel like this. 

You’d just gotten home from school, and you entered as quietly as you could, closing the door briskly and looking around, not sure if Mycroft was home, and you didn’t want to see him right now. You closed the front door, looking at the empty coat hook where you’d usually place your coat, except you didn’t have it with you, so instead you just kicked off your shoes and tried to head to your bedroom with your school bag. However, for obvious reasons, you hadn’t heard Mycroft and Sherlock bickering in the other room, or that they had promptly stopped when the front door shut loudly from how quickly you had shut, followed by your footsteps through the house at an accelerated rate to your bedroom, and the noise of your door being shut just as quickly as the front door. The two brothers stood in silence, staring in the direction of the noises before turning to face each other. “Something’s wrong.” Sherlock spoke up. 

“I’m aware of that.” Mycroft scoffed, before they began to walk to go up the stairs. Sherlock stopped at the bottom though, though Mycroft continued up. Sherlock checked the entrance of the house, noticing your lack of coat, either meaning you were still wearing it or didn’t have it, and the droplets of water on the floor, as well as your school shoes being shiny and darker than usual, told him it was the latter. It hadn’t rained in the last hour. He finally followed after Myrcoft, who was already trying your door, though it was locked. He turned to Sherlock, and Sherlock’s eyes followed the wet droplet stains in the carpet to your door. “He’s locked himself inside.” Mycroft pointed out.

“Give me your credit card.” Sherlock demanded. Mycroft went into his back pocket, grabbing his wallet and going through it to hand him a card, before Sherlock shoved him out of the way, sliding the card through the door, pushing the lock out, and when it clicked open, he turned the handle opened the door enough to stick his hand in, reaching for the light switch, flicking the lights on and off in your room to get your attention. He didn’t get a reaction from you. No multiple knocks to signify he could enter, and not a singular knock for him not to come in. He waited another moment, before looking at Mycroft who at this point looked worried, fist pressed to his mouth. Sherlock opened the door further.

They didn’t see you when they first stepped into the room, but Sherlock noticed your school bag- wet through, soaking the carpet, dirty, the zip busted, a strap broken, several school books looking ready to fall out after being crammed in that were soggy and ruined. With that, he knew where you were- the small bathroom attached to your room. He walked to the shut door, trying the door, finding this one unlocked, and he slowly stepped in, looking down and to the side, seeing you sat on the floor, legs pulled to your chest, head resting on your knees. 

“Mycroft, go make tea.” Sherlock said monotone, not taking his eyes away from you. Mcroft, who had noticed your bag and was trying to find anything to salvage, stood up straight, processing the situation, before turning and leaving the room. Sherlock slowly entered the bathroom, kneeling down before sitting on the floor beside you, carefully reaching out, lightly tugging on your soaked and dirty school jumper to get your attention. You peeked up, making eye contact, your eyes red and as wet as your uniform. Sherlock didn’t need to ask what happened, and you didn’t need him going on a revenge campaign in your honour, at least not yet. Instead, he signed ‘I’ll run you a hot bath, and you get undressed. Are you hurt?” You sniffed, signing a yes, before you started to take off your jumper, pulling it over your head, and Sherlock’s eyes immediately took notice of the wet white material that had stains of red on your arms, and as he looked closer, he saw your hands, and presumably your forearms as well were scraped up and red raw. Sherlock took your jumper from you, standing up, before signing to you again. “Drop them just outside the door when you’re done.” He said, turning to the bath, plugging the drain, and turning on the taps, before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.

Mycroft arrived shortly after with a tray, cup of tea and snacks as well, placing it on your bedside table. “What happened?” Mycroft asked. 

“He’s been bullied. I’m not sure what happened, maybe he tried to bring up what was happening or tried to stand up for himself, but it escalated outside of school- his uniform needs to be cleaned and died- where’s your first aid, he’s scraped up as well.” Sherlock listed. Mycroft’s mouth open and closed repeatedly, before he spoke. 

“I-I didn’t know.” He stuttered. “He never… he never told me he was having issues at school. I had no idea.” He explained, and Sherlock frowned. 

“I didn’t know either.” Sherlock added. It wasn’t a lot to say, but it made Mycroft feel so much better. If Sherlock didn’t notice something was wrong until now, then there was practically no way for Mycroft to see either. You hid it, and you hid it well. You hid it from the best. 

“I’ll call the school administration and organise a meeting with them. I’ll find out who did this.” Mycroft decided, reaching out and taking the jumper from Sherlock. “I’ll also get the first aid” he commented, turning and leaving the room again. Sherlock stood in your room, not moving, and he waited until he heard the bath water turn off, the door open, your clothes hit the floor and the door shut again before he turned and went and grabbed the clothes, taking them to be washed with your jumper. Sherlock heard Mycroft on the other side of the house, yelling on the phone about repercussions, demanding a meeting tomorrow, even if it’s the weekend, before his voice became louder, him walking into the same room with Sherlock, wordlessly giving him the first aid before leaving again to continue his argument, and Sherlock headed back upstairs to your room. 

He peeked into your room, seeing you had gotten out, dried off and dressed into your pyjamas, sitting on the edge of your bed. He flashed the lights again to get your attention before stepping in, coming and sitting down on your bedside, carefully taking your hands, rolling up the sleeves to properly see the scrapes and turf burn, which made him wince, imagining the pain in the bath, even though you didn’t make a peep. You didn’t make sound despite the pain, and that really, really bothered him. He wordlessly cleaned them and bandaged them, before signing to you “Are you hurt anywhere else?” You nodded, crawling deeper into the bed so your legs were rested on it, and Sherlock pulled your pant legs up to your knees, seeing even more turf burns, and he copied what he did with your hands, pulling the legs back down when he was done, before he pushed the medical equipment away from him, and waited in front of you till you looked at him. “Why didn’t you tell us?” He signed to you, speaking the words along with it. All he got was a shrug, which Sherlock was not going to accept. “Did they threaten you?” He added. You looked away, before finally signing. 

“It wasn’t too bad. I could handle it, I didn’t want to worry you. But I think someone else reported what they saw and they thought it was me.” You explained to him. 

“So if it wasn’t reported, you hadn’t planned to tell us?” Sherlock questioned. 

“It wasn’t a big deal.” You signed, clearly frustrated, which was paralleled by Sherlock. 

“Well it is now. We’re your brothers, your family. If something bothers you, you tell us, even if you’re annoyed at the way light reflects through a window, or how they’ve changed the packaging on a product in the shops, you tell us. Even if you think it’s harmless or not a big deal, we’d rather you told us about little things instead of hiding things until they become huge things. This is huge now, and we’re going to deal with it.” His signing firm and almost exaggerated. You’d never seen someone yell via sign language, yet here Sherlock was, somehow finding a way to do it, and it was pretty effective. 

“Okay. I’m sorry.” You quickly apologised to try and calm him down, which seemed to work. 

“How long has this been going on? How many of them are there, and what are their names? Tell me everything.” 

A few minutes later, Mycroft finally got off the phone, pacing for a minute to plan his next actions- deciding if he needed to call someone else, or go and check on you, but then Sherlock came into the room, and handed him a piece of paper, with names, examples of what each person did and their role in the attack, and how long it had been going on with a short timeline of other incidents. “I trust this is enough to start with?” Sherlock asked, watching as Mycroft skimmed over it. 

“This has been going on since he started secondary school?” Mycroft questioned, Sherlock briskly nodded, before tapping the paper to make him focus again. “Yes. This is enough. I’ll locate their parents and addresses, gather more information, I’ll have people look into CCTV to see if we can catch any footage of them following, chasing or… attacking him.” Mycroft explained, folding the paper up, before tucking it into his pocket. “How is he?” 

“He’s going to be sore for a while, keep an eye on his injuries- maybe take him to the doctor just to have it on record. He’s not very talkative at the moment, but we really need to get him to start talking to us more about things happening to him. If he’s ever quiet around you, try and engage him and ask about what he’s thinking about, get him out of the habit of keeping everything locked up. Leave the addresses to me. I’ll personally make sure they get the letters about the police investigation when you have it ready.” Sherlock said, walking to the entrance of the house, Mycroft followed him, watching his younger brother grab his coat, swing it around him and put it on. 

“Sherlock, do not threaten them- it’ll not be good for the investigation.” 

“I have no intention of threatening children, Mycroft. But I will make sure the point is put across that those parents have done an awful job and that they shouldn’t have messed with Y/N.” Sherlock promised, before promptly leaving. Mycroft huffed after the door shut, glancing up the stairs, before deciding to make a fresh hot drink for you to get started with a conversation with you.

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

*Not my gif

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[kathlare]

because i liked a boy

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Lando returns home after spending some time playing padel, only to find Amelie in a fragile state.

Wordcount: 1.5 k

Warnings: use of alcohol, panic attack

full masterlist // request over here!

Janaury 12th, 2021 - Merida, Mexico

Lando had barely stepped through the front door of the Pérez family home when he noticed the tension in the air. The usual warmth of the house—the sounds of laughter, the scent of home-cooked meals—felt muted, strained. Something was wrong.

He had spent the last few hours playing padel with Jack, a rare moment of normalcy in the chaos of sneaking around with Amelie and dealing with the unrelenting eyes of the public. But the second he walked in, he could see it in their faces—Victoria, Elias, Callum. Concern, worry, something unsaid weighing down on them.

He set his racket down and frowned. —Where’s Amelie?—

Callum exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. —She didn’t want to come down for dinner.—

That wasn’t unusual. Amelie had always had moments where she withdrew from everyone, but Lando could see something else behind Callum’s words. There was an edge to them, a frustration laced with worry.

—She okay?—

Victoria’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Elias shifted uncomfortably.

—She barely ate today,— Victoria said softly. —We tried, but she just locked herself in her room.—

Lando felt his stomach tighten. He knew what that meant. He had seen the patterns, the way she fell into them when the weight of the world pressed down too hard on her. The hate, the rumors—it had only been a few days, and already, it was crushing her.

—I'll take her dinner up,— Lando said, already reaching for the plate on the counter.

—Lando,— Callum started, his voice warning.

—I got it,— he cut him off, balancing the plate in one hand as he made his way upstairs.

The hallway was dark, the only light coming from underneath Amelie’s bedroom door. He knocked gently, waiting for an answer, but there was nothing. No shuffling, no annoyed sigh, no sarcastic remark telling him to fuck off.

Something was wrong.

—Ames?— he called, his voice softer now.

Still nothing.

His hand found the doorknob, hesitating for only a second before pushing it open.

And then he saw her.

Curled up on the bed, hair a tangled mess, her face buried in her knees. Her shoulders shook with quiet sobs, and the sight of her like that, so small, so broken, made something inside him crack wide open.

—Amelie,— he breathed, setting the plate down on her nightstand before kneeling beside the bed.

She flinched at the sound of his voice, but she didn’t lift her head.

—Go away.— Her voice was hoarse, raw from crying.

Lando ignored her. He climbed onto the bed, wrapping his arms around her without hesitation. She was stiff at first, but then she melted against him, fists clutching his shirt like he was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

—I hate them,— she choked out against his chest. —I hate all of them. They don’t even fucking know me, Lando.—

—I know,— he murmured, pressing his cheek against the top of her head.

—I just liked a boy. I just fucking liked a boy, and now everyone acts like I killed someone. I didn’t do anything wrong!—

Lando tightened his hold on her, feeling the way her body trembled.

—I know, Ames.—

Her breathing was uneven, her words slurred slightly, and that’s when he smelled it—the sharp sting of alcohol. His jaw clenched.

—Amelie, have you been drinking?— Lando asked, pulling back just enough to see her face.

Her eyes were glassy, her cheeks flushed. She let out a breathy, bitter laugh. —No shit, Sherlock.—

Lando sighed, glancing at the half-empty bottle of tequila beside her on the bed. Without thinking, he reached for it, but Amelie was quicker. She snatched it up, cradling it to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her together.

—Amelie, give me the bottle.— His voice was firm, but gentle.

—No.— She shook her head furiously, squeezing her eyes shut. —It makes it quieter.—

Lando swallowed the lump in his throat. He had seen her upset before, seen her frustrated, angry, exhausted. But this? This was something else. This was broken.

—Please, just let me have this.— Her voice cracked, and that was all it took for Lando to carefully pry the bottle from her grasp.

She let out a small, wounded sound, but she didn’t fight him. Instead, she buried her face in her hands, her body trembling violently.

—It’s not fair, Lan,— she whispered, voice thick with tears. —It was fine before. Everything was fine. Why did it have to change? Why do they hate me so much?—

Lando set the bottle on the floor, then cupped her face in his hands, forcing her to look at him. —Because people are fucking stupid, Amelie. And they believe whatever bullshit they want to believe.—

Her bottom lip wobbled. —But I didn’t do anything wrong.—

—I know you didn’t.—

—I just liked a boy.— Her voice broke again, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. —That’s all I fucking did. And now I’m a whore? A homewrecker? I’m getting death threats, Lando. Real fucking threats. And for what? For what?—

Lando exhaled sharply, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t have anything that could take her pain away.

—Ames…— he started, but she wasn’t done.

—I can’t breathe, Lan.— She clutched at her chest, fingers digging into the fabric of her oversized hoodie. —It’s like they’re all pressing down on me, and I can’t fucking breathe.—

Panic flashed in her eyes, and Lando reacted immediately. He took her hands in his, pressing them to his own chest. —Hey, hey, look at me.— His voice was steady, unwavering. —Breathe with me, okay? Just like this.—

He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. Amelie tried to follow, but her breaths were still ragged, uneven.

—I can’t... I can’t...—

—Yes, you can.— He squeezed her hands. —You’re okay. I’ve got you.—

Her breathing eventually slowed, but her tears didn’t stop. She slumped forward, resting her forehead against his shoulder. —I don’t want to be me anymore.—

Lando’s entire body went rigid. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his lips against the side of her head. —Don’t say that.—

—It’s true.— Her voice was so small, so fucking broken. —I don’t want to be Amelie anymore. It hurts too much.—

Lando didn’t know what to say, how to fix this. All he could do was hold her. So he did. He held her as tightly as he could, as if he could physically keep her from unraveling.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were her quiet, shuddering breaths and the occasional sniffle. Lando felt her relax slightly in his hold, but the weight of her words still sat heavy in his chest. He hated this. Hated seeing her like this, hated knowing that nothing he said would make it better.

And then she shifted, her fingers gripping onto his hoodie again as she whispered, —Promise me you’ll never leave me.—

Lando froze.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving him momentarily breathless. He hadn’t realized until that exact moment how much he needed to hear them, how much he wanted to promise her everything, even if it terrified him. Even if he wasn’t sure he knew what the future would hold.

He pulled her tighter against him, his chin resting on the top of her head, feeling the weight of her pain settle into his own bones.

—Amelie,— he whispered softly, his voice unsteady but full of raw emotion. —I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever. I swear to you, I won’t leave you. I’m here, I’m always gonna be here.—

She let out a soft sob, her fingers trembling as they dug deeper into his hoodie. Her breath hitched, but there was something in his words that calmed her, if only for a second.

—You promise?— she whispered again, her voice barely audible, thick with desperation.

—Yeah, I promise, Ames. I swear it.—

She finally pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him with tear-streaked cheeks and red eyes. Her lip quivered as she searched his face for any sign of doubt. But all she found was sincerity. A promise that he didn’t take lightly.

—Even though I’m a mess?— Her voice was fragile, like she was waiting for him to reject her, for him to take back his words.

—Especially because you’re a mess.— Lando said with a soft smile, brushing away some of her tears with his thumb. —I’ll always be here for you, Amelie. No matter what. Even when it’s ugly, even when it’s too much. I’m not going anywhere. You can’t get rid of me that easily.—

Her body sagged in relief, and Lando knew she was exhausted. He glanced at the tequila bottle again, jaw clenching. She needed to get out of these clothes, get in the shower, sleep.

—Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.—

She didn’t argue when he helped her to her feet, though she was unsteady, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her upright. He guided her to the bathroom, flicking on the light. Amelie winced at the brightness, groaning.

—Too bright,— she mumbled.

—You’ll survive.—

She let him help her pull off her hoodie, revealing the old band tee underneath. Lando hesitated, not sure how much help she wanted, but Amelie just lifted her arms, silently asking him to help her out of it. His chest tightened as he caught sight of her collarbones, too sharp, too visible.

She had lost weight.

Lando swallowed back the lump in his throat, reaching for the shower handle. He adjusted the temperature before turning back to her. —Can you stand?—

Amelie nodded weakly.

—I’ll be right here, okay? Just get in.—

She didn’t argue. She stepped into the shower, and as soon as the warm water hit her skin, she sagged against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor.

Lando stayed close, sitting on the closed toilet lid, listening to the sound of her quiet sniffles. He clenched his fists, feeling so fucking helpless.

After a while, Amelie’s crying stopped. The only sound was the steady stream of water.

—Lando?—

—Yeah?—

—You’re still here.—

—Of course I am.—

She was silent for a long moment before whispering, —Thank you.—

Lando exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face.

When she finally stepped out, he wrapped her in a towel, drying her off gently before helping her into one of his hoodies and a pair of sweatpants.

By the time they made it back to her bed, she was already half-asleep, exhaustion weighing her down.

Lando tucked her in, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. He watched her for a moment, his chest aching.

How could people be so cruel? How could they hurt the person he cared about most in the world?

He slid under the covers beside her, pulling her close. She curled into him instantly, as if she had been waiting for it.

—I meant what I said, Ames,— he murmured against her hair. —I’m not leaving. Ever.—

She didn’t respond, but her fingers curled around his shirt, holding on.

And Lando knew, no matter what happened, he wasn’t letting go.

[faggotry-fandom-fanfic]

Evening Cuddles

Summary: Sherlock helps his friend fall asleep.

Ship: Sherlock Holmes x masc!reader Word Count: 1070

🔸The reader uses he/him pronouns and is called a man, and the relationship between him and Sherlock is inherently queer.🔸

A/N: It's just fluff based on pure vibes. I wrote it a while ago, rediscovered it recently and rewrote it today! The reader is implied to be Sherlock's roommate. I think/hope he's racially/ethnically ambiguous. Also, the reader is described as taller than Sherlock, but somehow, Sherlock is able to lift him up without any issues?? 😭I don't know, and I don't care to be honest. It's pure vibes, no common sense.

“[Y/N], are you even listening to me? [Y/N]?” Sherlock sighed, irritated at the lack of response from his companion.

Holmes shifted his position to look at the man sitting beside the window.

“[Y/N]?”

When the Detective, once again, didn’t get a response, his frustration went from “mildly annoyed” to “extremely irritated”. It wasn’t exactly in his friend’s character to ignore his pleading for attention. So Sherlock did what any reasonable adult would do in the given situation.

“OUCH!” [H/C]-haired man screamed out when the shoe hit him in the arm. “GOD DAMN YOU, YOU BASTARD!” [Y/N] slurred while rubbing the painful spot. “You’re worse than a five-year-old!”

“I was talking about something important. Something you promised to help with,” Holmes pointed out while walking up to his friend.

The taller man sighed and fell back on the soft pillows. His head was pounding, and his body felt like it was about to perish to dust any second. He was tired, and for some reason, he couldn’t verbalise it to his friend. Building sentences felt like a marathon. His brain refused to use English, forcing him to fight with his sluggish mind just to construct the easiest sentences.

“I know. I’m sorry.” [Y/N] finally mumbled, more or less, towards the dark-haired man beside him.

Sherlock just shook his head and kneeled in front of [Y/N], taking his hands and squeezing them in an attempt to provide some comfort.

“What’s on your mind? You hadn’t been yourself for the past week.”

[Y/N] ignored the question and just silently brought one of the detective's hands to cup his cheek. Silently absorbing the pleasant sensation of Sherlock’s rough fingers brushing against his cheekbones and warmth radiating from his palm. [Y/N] would never admit this, but sometimes he’d kill for more moments like this. Moments filled with silence and gentleness that were almost impossible to find in their life. Sherlock had this almost magical ability to become soft and gentle if he noticed that it was needed, but he never was great at recognising the needs of people around him.

“Just tired. Incredibly tired…” [Y/N] finally muttered while closing his eyes and hiding his face in Holmes’ hand.

“If you want to, we could take a little vacation. We’d stop taking cases for a while. Mycroft has a mansion in the mountains. Maybe fresh air will make you feel better, hm…?” Sherlock spoke softly, seeing how his friend was almost falling asleep in front of him.

“Mhm…”

Only now, when his face was mere inches away from his friend, could he see the mark that overworking left on a usually radiant face. [Y/N]’s skin was an unhealthy, muted colour as if he was made of wax. Dark circles painting his under-eye looked scarily similar to bruises. His hair was tangled and messy, framed his equally messy face, dirty with dust and dirt after a long day of working and running around London, searching for a case that’d satisfy Sherlock’s hunger for mental stimulation. It was frightening to see his friend like this – a shadow of himself. A ghost.

Sherlock’s face twisted with guilt, the awareness that he led to one of his dearest friends being so incredibly worn out that he wasn’t even able to form coherent sentences. He’s been whining about the lack of good mysteries for weeks now, and after a while, [Y/N] just wanted to help him and see him happy.

“You know what you need? A good sleep.” Holmes muttered, talking more to himself than to, already half-asleep, friend.

Sherlock stood up and carefully picked up [Y/N] from the settee. [H/C]-haired man himself, was already so exhausted that he didn’t protest. The only thing that he did was snuggle into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

One of the many advantages of living in a small flat was that every room was close. So only after about a dozen steps were they already in [Y/N]'s bedroom. Holmes carefully placed his friend among his pillows and blankets and covered him with the woven coverlet. [Y/N] grunted, with upset painted across his face when he felt Sherlock’s hands leaving him.

“Don’t go…” he softly pleaded, grabbing Holmes by the sleeve.

Sherlock turned around only to be met with soft [E/C] eyes looking at him longingly, half-covered by eyelids. How could he deny his friend’s innocent request?

“If I’m not to go, what do you want me to do?” The detective asked with slight amusement in his voice.

“Lay with me… I don’t want to be alone…”.

[Y/N] looked like he was close to begging Sherlock to stay with him. Looking at his friend with such sorrow, as if the thought of Holmes leaving his side caused him physical pain. Sherlock felt his cheeks growing hotter while his knees became a bit softer.

Dear god.

“Alright, move over, so I’ll have a place to lay down…”.

[H/C]-haired man eagerly shifted, lifting the blanket, inviting the detective.

He’s just tired. He’s just exhausted and lonesome.

Sherlock tried to reason with himself while lying beside [Y/N]. But it was hard to logically explain how hot his face felt and how happy his friend looked while cuddling up to his side, a lazy smile spread across his handsome face. Fuck, his friend was just shamelessly cuddling with him. Making all kinds of “I feel good” noises, some sounding almost like purring. It was strange. So strange, almost wrong. But he’d lie if he said he didn’t like it. After a few moments, he relaxed and embraced the man lying beside him.

Fuck, shit, fuck.

Holmes tried to take a couple of deep breaths to calm himself down. His nostrils instantly filled with the eccentric mix of scents of old books, dust, chocolate and paraffin oil. The unmistakable smell of his friend. If he wasn’t freaking out already, Holmes would probably panic. He knew it was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

But he smelled so good.

And his hands were so pleasant to the touch.

His breathing was so calm.

And he was so close.

It’d be a sin to not savour this moment as long as possible.

Sherlock was finally fully relaxed. He held his friend tight, relishing the smell, the feel, and the sounds [Y/N] would make. He was just so peaceful. So sweet. After a while, Holmes himself drifted to sleep. Happy and relaxed. Embraced by another man.