#sherlock x teen!reader

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter Twenty-Five

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Twenty-Five: Clever One

Summary: (Y/N) wakes up alone and has to face their greatest fear.

            (Y/N)’s eyes opened blearily. They were trapped…somewhere. The room was stone, cold and dark. (Y/N) shivered. Despite the cool stone, their body felt on fire. Their heartbeat was like a racehorse. Their vision was blurry, and every blink felt like an eternity.

            Their gaze slid to their arm as they finally registered a slight press. An IV was in their vein. It snaked into the walls, and it dripped a strange substance into them, a little more each moment (each moment that felt like an hour).

            (Y/N) was drugged. They were high and spiraling, and they were still being drugged. (Y/N)’s heart seized up. They were being forcibly overdosed.

            (Y/N) sobbed, and their eyes fluttered shut. Anxiety gripped them as easily as the drugs. They slipped into a helpless panic as their lungs constricted. Their voice left them. They couldn’t even move to try to calm themself with any movements.

            They were going to die, too high to think, losing their mind, all alone in a stone prison, no hope.

            They were going to die…

l

            “Hello?”

            Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked. He lay facedown on a table in dark room lit by a window high in the ceiling. The moon shone in from above.

            “Hello, are you still there?” The little girl was calling out for help, lonely and afraid.

            “Yes. Yeah, no, I’m still here.” Sherlock raised his head, groaning. The lingering effects of the tranquilizer made him feel drowsy and sluggish. “I’m here.”

            “You went away,” said the girl. “You said you’d help me, and you went away.”

            “Yes, I know,” said Sherlock. “Well, I’m sorry about that. We must have got cut off. How long was I away?”

            “Hours. Hours and hours,” said the girl, sobbing. “Why don’t grown-ups tell the truth.”

            “No, I…I am telling the truth,” said Sherlock. “You can trust me.”

            “Where did you go?” asked the girl.

            “I’m not completely sure,” said Sherlock, looking around himself. John wasn’t there. Mycroft wasn’t there. (Y/N) wasn’t there. His panic mounted. That could only mean they were in danger. He cleared his throat and tried to focus. “Um, now, I’ll tell you what,” he said, trying to comfort the girl at the same time. There was so much he had to do and so little he could. “You’ve got to be really, really brave for me. Can you go to the front of the plane? Can you do that?”

            He rolled off the table and found a lantern sitting beside it. He picked it up, turned it on, and approached the walls of his cell. He found pictures as a child taped on them, and Sherlock furrowed his brow.

            “You mean where the driver is?” said the girl.

            “Yes,” said Sherlock.

            “Okay. I’m going,” said the girl.

            Sherlock tapped his earpiece over and over and spoke. “Please, please, tell me you’re there.”

            “Yeah, I’m here,” said John.

            “(Y/N)?” said Sherlock. “(Y/N)?” He swallowed. Come on, come on. Come on, (Y/N). Be there. Be there for me. He needed them alive.

l

            (Y/N)?

            The voice felt like it came from underwater. (Y/N) blinked and opened their eyes.

            “(Y/N)?”

            Stronger. Right in their ear.

            Dad!

            “D…” The word fell away on their tongue, their entire being freezing and refusing to let out a word.

            They swallowed. “Da…”

            “You’re there,” said Sherlock, breathing a sigh of relief as he heard the sluggish attempt at speaking. “Just hum, (Y/N). Just do what you can.” He closed his eyes and thanked the world that (Y/N) was alive.

            (Y/N) hummed, the sound reverberating in their head. But Sherlock knew they were there. He knew they were alive.

            Maybe they had a chance.

            “Where are you? John, describe it,” said Sherlock.

            “I don’t know, I’ve just woken up,” said John. “Where are you?”

            “I’m in another cell. I just spoke to the girl on the plane again,” said Sherlock. “We’ve been out for hours.”

            “What, she still up there?” said John.

            “Yes. The plane will keep flying until it’s out of fuel,” said Sherlock. “Is Mycroft with you?”

            “I have no idea,” said John. “I can hardly see anything.”

            “(Y/N), do you know where you are?” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) hummed low. No.

            “Is Mycroft with you?”

            No.

            “Are you alright?”

            No.

            Sherlock sucked in a breath. “Were you hurt?”

            (Y/N) paused. They weren’t sure how to answer.

            Sherlock understood. “Do you have a physical wound?”

            No.

            Sherlock closed his eyes and hated the next question he had to ask. “Are you drugged?”

            Yes.

            “Oh, god,” said John.

            “Okay. Okay.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “I’m coming. Alright? I’ll figure out a way to you. You’re going to be okay. John, tell me you’re alright.”

            “Yeah, I’m fine, just stuck,” said John.

            “Tell me anything you can about where you are.” Sherlock paced. “(Y/N), I need you to try to breathe. When you can speak again, tell me anything you can.”

            “The walls are rough, stone I think,” said John.

            “What are you standing on?” said Sherlock.

            “Stone, I think,” said John.

            “(Y/N), is that similar?” said Sherlock.

            Yes, hummed (Y/N). They blinked as the world blurred. They could feel the voices fading again.

            “But listen, there’s about two feet of water,” said John. “Chains. Yeah, my feet are chained up. I can feel…something.”

            The words echoed in their head, and (Y/N) furiously tried to grab hold of them and stay with their family. It was their only way to keep sane.

            “Bones, Sherlock,” said John. “There are bones in here.”

            “What kind of Bones?” Sherlock knelt in his own cell and picked up a small bowl.

            “Uh, I don’t know. Small,” said John.

            Sherlock looked at bowl, which read “Redbeard.”

            “Redbeard,” whispered Sherlock.

            The word bounced around (Y/N)’s head. Their eyes closed. “…d…” Their mouth couldn’t form the words. They were out again.

l

            Sherlock took a deep breath as the girl spoke to him, seeing a river and a city in front of her. There was a possibility to save her.

            “Sherlock,” said John. “I’m in a well. That’s where I am. I’m in the bottom of a well.”

            “Why would there be a well in Sherrinford?” said Sherlock. “Why is there a draught?” He paused. “Walls don’t contract after you’ve painted them. Not real ones.” He pushed the wall down, and it fell back. He stood in a field looking at an old, run-down building. “I’m home. Musgrave Hall.”

            “Me and Jim Moriarty, we got on like a house on fire, which reminded me of home.” Eurus’s voice finally appeared.

            “Yeah. It’s just an old building, don’t care. The plane. Tell me about the plane, now,” said Sherlock. “And tell me where (Y/N) is.”

            “Sweet Jim. He was only interested in being alive to make a new generation for his little empire,” said Eurus. “But he enjoyed the idea of making trouble when he was dead.”

            “Yep, still not interested. The plane! (Y/N)!” said Sherlock, walking towards the house.

            “You knew he’d take his revenge. His revenge, apparently, is me,” said Eurus.

            “Eurus, let me speak to the little girl on the plane, tell me where (Y/N) is, and I’ll play any game you like,” said Sherlock.

            “First, find Redbeard,” said Eurus.

            Sherlock stepped into the hall, and a screen turned on to show Eurus.

            “I’m letting the water in now. And the drugs are already going. You don’t want me to drown another one of your pets, do you? At long last, Sherlock Holmes, it’s time to solve the Musgrave Ritual. Your very first case,” said Eurus. “And then I’ll give you a new song for (Y/N) Holmes.” Sherlock tensed. “Let’s reminder you of the first, though.”

            “I that am lost, oh who will find me?” She began to sing.

            “Sherlock!” shouted John through the earpiece.

            “Deep down below the old beech tree, help, succor me now. The east winds blow.”

            Sherlock broke into the next room and could see a screen showing John being pelted with water as the well filled.

            “John. John?” said Sherlock. “Can you hear me?! John?!” Nothing. He swallowed. “(Y/N)? (Y/N)?” Nothing. He was losing everyone, everything.

            “Help me! Help me, please!” shouted the little girl.

            “Sherlock,” said John.

            “John?” said Sherlock in relief.

            “Yeah, it’s flooding,” said John, coughing as water tried to get into his mouth. “The well is flooding.”

            “Try as long as possible not to drown,” said Sherlock desperately. “I’m going to find you! I am finding you! I’m finding you and (Y/N)!” He had to. He had to.

            “Well, hurry up, please, I don’t have long!” responded John.

            “(Y/N)? (Y/N)!” shouted Sherlock, needing a response.

            “It’s leaning over!” shouted the girl. “The whole plane!”

            “(Y/N)!” shouted Sherlock desperately, falling to his knees.

            “Oh, who will find me?” sang Eurus.

            “(Y/N)!” Sherlock sobbed, putting his head in his hands.

l

A few minutes ago…

            (Y/N)’s eyes opened. They lay on their back, a cave all around them. Darkness stretched into the infinite distance. They could see clearly. They were in their mind, dying and losing all sense and order just like in reality.

            “Uh-oh, someone’s in trouble again.”

            (Y/N) was paralyzed as Moriarty leaned over them, grinning down at them.

            “Can’t move. Can’t talk. Can’t even think.” Moriarty laughed with a wild grin. “Even worse this time around. I guess this is your weakness—someone who’s smarter than you.”

            (Y/N) whimpered as they tried to speak.

            Moriarty pouted and crouched to look down at them. “Kind of makes me wish I was still alive to really see you fail. I mean, if you weren’t going to be a good child and do as I said, you might as well really lose.” He smirked. “And what better to make you lose than your mind?” He punctuated it by tapping their forehead. “Now we’ll really by like father and child.”

            “Sh…” (Y/N) forced the sound out, focusing on all their anger.

            “Not even final words.” Moriarty sighed. “In the end, a dumb disappointment.”

            “Sher…” (Y/N) swallowed. “Sher…lock.” Their eyes burned.

            “Sherlock?” Moriarty grinned. “He’s not coming for you. He’s running around like a chicken with its head cut off. He can’t solve the final problem. He’s not smart enough.” He laughed. “And he’s too distracted by you! You’re going to die because he cares.” Moriarty pouted. “How sweet. It brings me to tears.” He gripped their face, and the tears collecting in their eyes rolled down their cheeks. He grinned maniacally.

            His touch burned, and (Y/N) gazed at him, pushing all their fury into their eyes as if they could burn him with a look.

            “Sherlock…mmm….my,” said (Y/N). They squeezed their eyes shut. “Mmmy…Dad!” They shouted the word.

            The cavern around them rumbled, and the top cracked. A sliver of light spilled in. Moriarty let go of their face in surprise.

            “My dad,” gasped (Y/N) as their rage got their focus to return. Their mind had more clarity, and as their mind focused, their chest expanded. Their words returned. “Sherlock’s my dad.” Vines grabbed Moriarty and held him back.

            Their limbs tingled, but they forced themself to sit up. “So…if he can’t save me…” (Y/N) pushed themself to their feet. “I’ll save him myself.” They looked at Moriarty. “Because I can do it.” They raised their chin as the ground rumbled and the ceiling split up to show stormy skies above them. They weren’t out of the dark yet, but they had some control.

            (Y/N) looked back at Moriarty. “And it doesn’t matter how many times you haunt me. How many times you try to scare me.” They narrowed their eyes. “I don’t need to be afraid of you.” They lifted their chin. “Because you’re just a memory. You can’t hurt me.” They smirked, snakelike. “And I always win.” Moriarty glared at them, and (Y/N) leaned towards him. “Do you know why? Because I’m the clever one.”

            Vines crept up around Moriarty, turning him to a hill, and (Y/N) looked up at the sky. They closed their eyes.

            I’m the clever one.

Taglist:

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@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

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@forever1313

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@roo024

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@jaguarthecat

[panic-in-the-multiverse]

Being Sherlock Holmes protege/child

Pairings: Sherlock Holmes x teen!reader (slight John Watson x teen!reader, slight Greg Lestrade x teen!reader)

Imagine: Sherlock taking a liking to you and decides that he wants you as his protege

Warnings: mention of struggling with school idk what else

A/N so as always my works are gn!reader so that anyone can read them and idk this idea just came to me might write and actual fic about it (sorry if it might be messy, haven’t reread it after I wrote it)

I love Sherlock <3 that’s it that’s my actual comment

So you somehow caught Sherlock’s attention weather it be that you are smart as him or not doesn’t really matter, you caught his attention

It was at a crime scene in which you helped Lestrade a lot in the case until he contacted Sherlock, when Sherlock got there he noticed how you helped him get to the answer, or more like you knew the answer which turned out to be correct. Having known much about this crime and the people involved helped you a lot to solve it.

Sherlock who as usual tried to deduce everyone tried to deduce you and noticed that he couldn’t, or he got it all wrong, it made him more curious about you

So Sherlock decided out of nowhere that he liked you, he saw potential in you and wanted to take you in, so that’s what he did

If you were an orphan he got accepted to foster you, but if you aren’t then he needed your parents approval, which he got (with a bit of help from Lestrade and Mycroft)

The first week living with Sherlock was filled with him trying to figure out things about you. In doing that he did actually notice all your bad habits.

He noticed how you were stressed about school a lot, how you struggled with school, which he thought weird as outside of school you were damn smart but as soon as it came to school all went to shit

So he started (without himself knowing) slowly to help you with your school work, he’d say random facts that you would actually need to your assignments in which you wrote down. He helped you a lot that way and when he noticed he still continued, because he noticed you never asked for help. You were a lot less stressed over school because of his help.

After a few weeks he started to notice how you would make sure that he took care of himself but you wouldn’t take care of yourself, so he started to tell you to eat something, to drink, to sleep, like you always told him

The first case he took you to was the first time you ever saw Sherlock get “scolded” though neither you or Sherlock took any mind to Lestrade telling him of for bringing a teenager to a crime scene, you wanted to be there to help so what was the problem?

Let’s not forget that both you and Sherlock are greatly annoyed by Anderson and Donovan because if anyone where to ask the two of you then they are both bloody idiots who doesn’t know a shit, and they do call you both names in which are not to your liking

Changing topic a bit Sherlock always wants to hear what you have to say about a crime scene

Everyone getting worried by your antics of throwing yourself in danger most of the time to help Sherlock who is in trouble

Mycroft actually liking you, hence why he protected you as much as he tries to protect Sherlock

This was all before John, but when John came into the picture everyone started to notice how much Sherlock had influenced you and they didn’t quite know if it was good or bad

John noticed how he now had to take care of two children in which one was a teenager and one an actual adult, but both acted as children and neither could take care of themselves

Stealing Sherlock coat whenever you miss him

“John I can’t find it” Sherlock yelled out lowly as not to wake you as he knew you were asleep

John walked into the living room with a mug of tea in his hand as he yawned tiredly, it was way to early for this “What are you looking for”

“My coat!” John heard the panic start to seep through Sherlock at the mention of his coat being gone.

“Why are you whispering”

“Y/N is asleep, I don’t want to wake them”

John who knew that you did in fact steal Sherlock’s coats from time to time sighed at those words. John took a sip of his tea before he walked over to your door opening it to show Sherlock your sleeping form.

That’s when Sherlock saw his coat draped around your body, the very same coat he had been looking for. You were cuddled up inside it the warmth keeping you warm as well as the familiar smell of Sherlock in which had comforted you into sleep helping with your previous worried state.

John had left the door leaving only Sherlock who stared at you. He sighed, closed the door and went and got another coat from his room. He’d let you have his favorite coat for now. Unknowingly to him a soft small smile had etched itself onto his lips as he thought about the fact that you felt safe around him, after all that’s why you took his coat.

He gave you a coat that looked like his after that

Neither you or Sherlock would ever admit it but you did see him as a sort of father figure and he saw you as his child in some sort of way

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

The Same Page part 2

Here it is! Did anyone ask for it? Not really, but I wanted to write it anyway. Enjoy!

Same Page Masterlist:

Warnings: ANGST

No words were exchanged between the Holmes’ brothers as they waited for you to wake up. They had nothing to say. All that occupied their minds currently was you, and words weren’t needed to discuss the condition you were in.

Bad things often go without saying.

Sherlock wasn’t used to looking to Mycroft for answers or help, but the moment you started to stir, his eyes turned to his big brother’s with an almost panicked expression. After all, he didn’t know how to take care of you in your current condition, and Mycroft had spent two years doing it.

“Mycroft?” Your voice was thick with sleep, and your muffled tone had an air of confusion to it as Sherlock felt you squeeze his arm.

“Hello Y/N,” Mycroft answered before Sherlock could correct you. “I’m here.”

“I had another one,” you whimpered. “Sher…he…was there. I didn’t want to wake up. It was so real.”

“I know it was, honey. Open your eyes.” Mycroft told you hesitantly.

You slowly pushed yourself into a sitting position, rubbing your eyes and blinking them open slowly. When your eyes landed on Sherlock’s, your mouth dropped open slightly, and you reached both of your hands out and gripped onto him.

“It was real?” You breathed, tears brimming in your eyes. Your eyes flitted over to Mycroft to make sure he was there, before whipping back to Sherlock, as though you were afraid he would disappear if you looked away too long.

“It’s real. I’m back, N/N.”

Mycroft watched his siblings silently. He hadn’t heard Sherlock call you by your nickname since you were around three. He also wasn’t used to seeing Sherlock allow you to hug him like you were now, and he couldn’t even remember the last time Sherlock reciprocated the affection.

But then again, over the last two years he had seen many sides to his siblings that he wasn’t used to, most of them for the worse. It was nice to see the better for a change.

“Why did you leave me?” Your frail body was shaking with sobs as you gripped onto your big brother as though he was the only thing holding you to the world.

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft could swear that Sherlock’s eyes were glistening as he held you tightly to him. “I’m so sorry. I’m here now, I’m here.”

You pulled away slightly from Sherlock, your fingers still clamped onto his shirt, and Mycroft’s heart leapt into his throat when your eyes turned to him. He knew that look all too well. Your lip was quivering, and your wide eyes held a fragility that he would never get used to, like a glass mid-way through shattering. You looked at him like he was the only thing in the world holding you together. The only thing you could trust. The only one who could fix you.

But he didn’t know how to fix you. He didn’t know how to pick up the pieces that were so broken, it was as if you had fallen with Sherlock.

“Awake?” You were holding your breath, every bit of sanity left in you reliant on the words that would come out of your oldest brother.

“Yes, yes you’re awake sweetheart.”

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief when your attention turned back to Sherlock.

Your eyes studied him carefully, as though you were waiting for him to shatter into a million pieces in front of you.

After an agonizing silence, Sherlock spoke. “Moriarty’s men were watching you. If you didn’t react as though I was dead, they would’ve killed you, and me, and-“

“Stop.” Your voice was louder than usual, stronger. “I don’t care why.”

Sherlock swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. “Are you angry?” He was trying to find some emotion in you, anything to give him hope that his little sister was somewhere in this broken figure in his arms.

“No.” You blinked. “Yes…maybe.” Your shaking body seemed to collapse into his arms. “Not now, I don’t think. I can’t now, I just want you here.”

Sherlock held your near-limp form closely, breathing a sigh of relief. He knew there would be plenty of anger to go around later, from you, from Mrs Hudson, certainly from John. But for now you were just relieved to have your big brother back, and Sherlock would enjoy it while it lasted.

He wasn’t sure how long all of you stayed like that, suspended in a strange sense of contentment.

Mycroft was the one to break the silence, looking at his watch and leaning in to speak softly to his little sister.

“Y/N, it’s getting late. You should try to get something to eat and drink.”

“Not hungry.” You mumbled into Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock twisted, pulling you away from him despite your soft cry of protest.

“Mycroft is right.” Mycroft barely resisted the strong urge to gloat at this statement from his little brother. “I’ll come with you, I promise.”

Sherlock wasn’t used to agreeing with Mycroft, but they had both promised to stay on the same page when it came to you, and he certainly wanted you to eat.

You slowly slipped off the bed, your fingers never once loosening their grip on Sherlock’s now-wrinkled shirt. He didn’t complain, simply following you off the bed and keeping one arm around your shoulders.

Your eyes turned to Mycroft and you nodded your consent at his proposal.

“Do you feel strong enough for the stairs?”

You took a hesitant step forward, and Sherlock felt you lurch, unbalanced on your feet. He tightened his grip on your shoulders, effectively holding you up as you shook your head in answer to Mycroft’s question.

“Would you like me to help you downstairs?” Mycroft asked gently, opening his arms to allow you access.

Sherlock watched his siblings’ little exchange, trying to suspend his feelings of disbelief. Mycroft spoke to you so gently, asking you about every next step he took. His confidence spoke of a familiarity to this situation, and Sherlock wondered how many times Mycroft had had to help you through the smallest of daily tasks.

You seemed torn for a moment, your eyes going back and forth between Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock struggled to understand your hesitation, before he came to the most logical conclusion.

Your familiarity with Mycroft’s help in all tasks was tempting and comforting, but you couldn’t bring yourself to release your hold on Sherlock.

Mycroft seemed to read your train of thought as well.

“It’s alright, we can both help you. Would that be alright?”

In answer, you removed one hand from Sherlock’s shirt and gripped onto Mycroft’s outstretched arm. Mycroft smiled softly at you, and together the Holmes’ brothers held you up as you walked down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Mycroft lifted you onto a stool at his kitchen counter, and Sherlock dutifully remained by your side so that you could keep your grip on him.

Sherlock felt like an intruder on some intimate moment every time that Mycroft spoke to you, so gentle and reassuring was his tone.

“Would you like to pick out your dinner?”

A nod. Sherlock wasn’t used to seeing you silent for so long.

“Alright, good. What would you like?”

In answer, you held up an M in sign language, and Mycroft smiled at you.

“Mac and cheese, I’ll be right back.”

After Mycroft had disappeared into the kitchen, a strange silence fell over the two youngest Holmes. You didn’t seem comfortable enough to speak, and Sherlock couldn’t seem to find anything to say.

You tugged on Sherlock’s arm, and he looked down to watch you lay his hand on your lap and play with his fingers between your own. He smiled. You used to do that a lot as a little girl, whenever he was nearby and you were incredibly bored with the “grown up conversation” around you.

“I missed you.” Sherlock whispered. You looked at him with an unreadable expression before turning your attention back on your intertwined hands.

Sherlock sighed. How was he supposed to talk to you? He had had a hard enough time with that before all this. You were the only Holmes sibling that seemed to take after your parents, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft at a loss when it came to finding common interests with you.

Mycroft seemed to have settled into a role in the last two years as caregiver, but this was all so new for Sherlock that he didn’t know where he fit in.

Not long after, Mycroft returned with a steaming bowl that he placed in front of you. You hesitated, unwilling to release your grip on Sherlock. Mycroft leaned down to better look into your eyes.

“It’s alright, you can let go. He won’t go anywhere, I promise.”

Hesitantly, hands shaking, you released your grip on your big brother in exchange for a grip on the fork in front of you.

“Good girl,” Mycroft smiled faintly.

You ate in silence, and after a short time you pushed the bowl away from you, eliciting a slight frown from Mycroft.

“Y/N, please eat some more.”

You shook your head, not daring to look Mycroft in the eye as he let out a frustrated sigh. He nudged Sherlock out of the way and stood fully in front of you, gently tilting your chin up to force you to look at him.

“Please, for me?”

You took two or three more bites before pushing the bowl away and shaking your head. Mycroft sighed and, to Sherlock’s surprise, pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

“It’s alright, that’s enough. Thank you.”

“Sherlock.” It was the first word Sherlock had heard you speak in over two hours, and Mycroft responded instantly, stepping away from you to allow Sherlock to get closer.

Sherlock stepped forward and allowed you to once again fall into his arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he had held you this much in a single day.

For the first time since he had caught sight of you in Mycroft’s cameras, Sherlock’s mind drifted to other things.

John. John still didn’t know that he was alive, and Sherlock was itching to tell him. He communicated this to Mycroft by simply mouthing ‘John’ over your shoulder. Mycroft’s face took on a resolute, almost solemn expression, and he placed a hand on your shoulder, pulling you away from Sherlock.

“Sweetheart, Sherlock needs to leave for a couple of hours, alright?”

Your reaction was about as Sherlock had expected.

Your entire body went rigid, and you twisted instantly out of Mycroft’s grasp, gripping onto Sherlock’s arms with all of your strength.

“No, no don’t go!” Your wails struck Sherlock to his core, but he knew he couldn’t just stay by your side forever.

“I have to tell John, Y/N. He still doesn’t know,” he attempted to reason with you, but your cries didn’t stop, neither did your grip loosen.”

“Don’t leave, stay, you have to stay!”

“Hey, look at me, alright?” Sherlock pulled his wristwatch off and placed it into your hands. “See? I’ll be back by 9:30, ok? I promise I will, I promise.”

These reassurances were also to no effect.

“Don’t go, Sherlock don’t!”

Sherlock looked to Mycroft for help, something both men found uncomfortable. Mycroft took your small hands in his, and pried you away from Sherlock, not even flinching as you fought him with all your strength.

“No, Sherlock no!”

Sherlock felt that there was no choice now but to turn his back and leave.

“Sherlock, don’t leave me!”

He would never admit to anyone, even himself, that those were tears dripping down his cheeks as your cries echoed behind him.

[loganwritesprobably]

Fic Requests

And to finish up that mass posting of my fics, a note that

I am taking requests

I always take requests, they help keep me on the ball and give me ideas for what to be posting

All the information is below the cut, if you wanna see examples of my work, the first tag has most of my fics under it and my account is here

You can send your request via my ask box, or you can comment on any fic on my account

Fandoms I'll write for

One Piece

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BBC Sherlock

MCU

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Types of fics I'll write

Angst

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Major character death

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Any, really

I'll write for any pairing, I'm happy to write x readers too (they're some of my favourites)

You can request any specific details, give any prompts, be as specific or as vague as you like!

If you tell me your AO3, I can gift the work to you

If you send the ask without anon, I can tag you on tumblr when it's posted

You're more than welcome to stay entirely anonymous

[fandom-oneshots-etc]

Requests are OPEN🎉

Dear All,

Requests are now OPEN! Please feel free to send in your requests. I have listed the characters that I write for below the ‘keep reading’ line. A few things to remember:

I do NOT write ships like Buddie etc. I only write Reader-Inserts.

I only write for characters mentioned in the list as well as any that have been added under the Additional Characters sections on my Masterlist.

I have not yet written SMUT fics, but I am not opposed to doing so.

I do not currently have an uploading schedule, but I will try to get any requests done ASAP.

That’s all there is to say, so feel free to request!

Thanks,

Emily xoxo

Complete Character Masterlist

9-1-1

Eddie Diaz

Evan Buckley

9-1-1 LONE STAR

Carlos Reyes

Judd Ryder

TK Strand

AVENGERS

Bucky Barnes

Loki Laufeyson

Peter Parker

Steve Rogers

Thor Odinson

Tony Stark

BRASSIC

Vinnie O'Neil

CASTLE

Javier Esposito

Kevin Ryan

Richard Castle

CHICAGO FIRE

Kelly Severide

Matt Casey

CHICAGO PD

Antonio Dawson

Jay Halstead

CHRONICLES OF NARNIA

Edmund Pevensie

Peter Pevensie

Prince Caspian

CRIMINAL MINDS

Aaron Hotchner

Derek Morgan

Spencer Reid

FATE THE WINX SAGA

Riven

Sky

FRIENDS

Joey Tribbiani

HARRY POTTER

Draco Malfoy

Fred Weasley

George Weasley

Harry Potter

Ron Weasley

James Potter

Remus Lupin

Sirius Black

HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL

Troy Bolton

LETHAL WEAPON

Martin Riggs

OUTERBANKS

JJ Maybank

John B. Routledge

Rafe Cameron

Topper Thornton

RIVERDALE

Archie Andrews

FP Jones

Jughead Jones

Reggie Mantle

Sweet Pea

RIZZOLI & ISLES

Frankie Rizzoli

SHAMELESS

Carl Gallagher

Kevin Ball

Lip Gallagher

SHERLOCK

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

SONS OF ANARCHY

Chibs Telford

Happy Lowman

Jax Teller

Juice Ortiz

Opie Winston

Tig Trager

SUPERNATURAL

Castiel

Crowley

Dean Winchester

Sam Winchester

TEEN WOLF

Derek Hale

Stiles Stilinski

THE ORIGINALS

Elijah Mikaelson

Klaus Mikaelson

Kol Mikaelson

THE VAMPIRE DIARIES

Damon Salvatore

Jeremy Gilbert

Matt Donovan

Stefan Salvatore

Tyler Lockwood

TWILIGHT

Carlisle Cullen

Edward Cullen

Emmett Cullen

Jacob Black

Jasper Hale

Paul Lahote

Seth Clearwater

YOUTUBERS

Colby Brock

[iliketothinkimawriter]

Hi Everyone! I'm Quinley and I wanna be a writer some day. My brain is a constant stream of fandoms and sometimes I cant make a story of it, so one-shots.

This will probably be a mismatch of one-shots and stories and requests.

If you have an idea that you don't want to write, ask me I'll try to write it for you.

Fandoms include: Marvel, Once Upon a Time, Hamilton(musical), BBC Sherlock and occasionally the Flash.

I hope the universe treats you well🥰

[za-vandal]

So I'm back from the dead, yippee! Now here's a word dump of how I wanna bang a big bad evil guy.

Sub! Villain X Hero Reader (male aligned, but no gendered terms used)

Not grammar checked, Smut at the end<3

Mean Villain, who was a monster of the hero's own creation. Perhaps the hero was a friend he fought with, an ex lover, or just rivals that went too far. But they both know there's no turning back when they meet again at a battle field.

Mean Villain who enjoys annoying and pissing off the hero. A habit that carried over the years from whatever past they had. He just loved seeing the hero so riled up, so mean and angry and how the hero's muscles would tense from the taunts.

Mean Villain, who tried to get the upper hand every time he fought the hero by doing surprise attacks, usually ending up getting thrown and pushed against the wall because the hero literally just swings them to the nearest surface they can and pins them down.

Mean Villain who enjoyed it a little too much, having to bite the hero so he could squirm away, hoping to whatever god that exists the hero didn't see how red his face was. He spent an embarrassing amount of time to spend that energy on his hard-on and accidentally moaned the Hero's name, accidentally moaning it too much.

Mean Villain not noticing that the hero had bugged him, a voice recorder was on his villain outfit just laying on the floor

Mean Villain, hiding his emotions as best as he could, wondering why the hero looked so flustered when they met again.

Confused villain who doesn't understand why this is happening. He has never had thoughts this horrendous about the hero. How the hero's hand could slide against his pecs so nicely, and squeeze his chest while the hero's fingers plunged deep inside.

Confused villain who wakes up hard like a freaking teen and gets so embarrassed that whatever evil plan of the day gets cancelled. His lackeys were so confused why their boss was throwing darts at a picture of the hero while mumbling how about how hot he was.

"Think boss lost it." "No shit Sherlock, but at least we have an off day".

*cues to unholy screeching and shouting, where the villain complains about the hero's body being too big and stuttering once he thinks about what else would be big*

Confused villain who found the hero ending patrol one day, and the hero looked so pissed while getting ready to fight. The villain accidentally complements the hero, leaving the two of them absolutely mortified. The villain ran with the hero chasing after him, trying to get answers.

Confused villain, who accidentally entered a rival villain's territory. Taken by surprise and captured, locked in a warehouse without his suit, wearing whatever rags were prepared by the henchman. Terrified about the fact that the territory he was in was of a hostile competitor, someone who would kill the villain if given the chance.

Confused villain who blacked out. Tied to a chair and beaten all over, they might be strong but this was on another level... He could hear a loud crash as his vision faded and his mind went numb, he pleads to whatever higher power that existed that we would be saved.

Recovering Villain, sleeping so prettily on the hero's bed.. he woke himself up when he fell onto the floor, the hero was quick to check on him, leaning down so close that their lips were almost touching.

Recovering villain who said "fuck it, we ball" and kisses the hero first, while the hero deepens the kiss to the surprise of the villain, who whimpered as the hero started squeezing his body like how he would in his dreams.

Pretty villain thrown back onto the bed, wearing an oversized sweater of the hero and looking so cute~ He writhes his body as the hero touches him so delicately, kissing all the little places where his healed injuries were, worshipping this tattered, broken body so softly.

Pretty villain who cries as the hero picked up the pace, he could feel the hero's fingers so deep inside him, cute little huffs coming from his mouth as he tries to hide his place with the hero's pillow.

Pretty villain, whose body gets folded into a mating press as the hero slipped into him. His pretty little hole was squeezing down so nicely, his face with tears streaming down was just angelic. The hero's constant murmurs of encouragement makes the villain cry even more. It was so gentle, so deep, so good~

Pretty villain who moans so loud, moving his hips just so the hero could reach deeper, getting off to the fact that he likes being pampered and praised. His eyes rolling up as he could feel the hero's hand on his dick, preventing him from coming over and over.

Pretty villain who lost count how many times he's come, how many positions they were in, just laying on the bed with his thighs on the hero's shoulder. The villain couldn't mumble out a single coherent sentence, but he fills the air with short breaths and pleads. Blurting out about how big and deep the hero was, how he wanted to get filled up so nicely.

Pretty villain who wakes up next to the hero cuddling him, as he starts to annoy the hero again, asking to be pampered. Something's just never change.

[lorarri]

★ . . . 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 , 𝐋𝐇𝟒𝟒

summary , being forced to go to a gp was not something on Y/N's 2023 bingo card but who knows maybe she will create a friendships that could help her thought this tough time

pairing , step dad! lewis hamilton x fem! young teen! reader

pervious part | series masterlist | main masterlist | f1 masterlist | lewis hamilton masterlist | next part

MOTHER Lewis has got us VIP tickets to the Australian gp Isn't that exciting!

Y/N but I have an archery comp on that weekend

MOTHER dw about it I've pulled you from the comp you can do the next

Y/N are you fucking kidding me you pulled me from a comp to go watch you boyfriend's race what the fuck?!?!?!

MOTHER language young lady first of all he my fiance and he is gonna be your step father soon

Y/N he is not gonna be my anything as far as I'm concerned and the only way I am going is if you drag me there kicking and screaming so fuck you

MINJI babe where is u at?

Y/N @ the Aussie Gp 💀 ... girl don't u remember me telling you guys about this 🙄

HANNI We do but your mom just called asking if we knew where you were 😭😭

Y/N wtf would you guys know where I am 😐

DANIELLE cuz aparently she can't find you and she thinks you are trying to catch a flight out of the country to avoid spending time with her and lewis 🫣

Y/N tf is this bitch on? I would never put that much effort into her let that be know first and for most 😝 second of all I'm hanging out with Max and Daniel 😌 so dw I'm not trynna skip town 😔

HAERIN Max and Daniel? as in like Red Bull's drivers Max and Daniel as in like Mad Max 😡 and big dick Danny ric 🤠

Y/N ew 🤢🤢🤮🤮 never say that again 🚫 but yes that would be them 👍

MINJI ... proof or it never happened 👀

Y/N

happy now?

HANNI okay but how did you even meet?

Y/N walked off to have a smoke and ran into them and started talking

DANIELLE ain't your mom gonna be pissed though?

Y/N why?

HAERIN cuz your created a better bond with Max and Daniel then what you have with Lewis

Y/N tbh I don't really fucking care Lewis seems like an alright guy ngl but I don't like how my mother is forcing me to spend time with him it's awkward and weird escpially since my dad is refusing to answer my calls or texts and everytime a ask my mother about it she says "maybe he is busy sweetheart" and "well look at it this way it will be the perfect opportunity to bond with Lewis" so yeah I have 0 shits to give rn anyway I need to go time for the race max says I can watch in the red bull garage

NANA (EX WIFE) my plan isn't working I thought by forcing you to stay away Y/N and Lewis could bond but I think she hates him more now

JUNHO (EX HUSBAND) no shit sherlock btw I'm coming to pick Y/N up this weekend she staying at my house till she has to go back to school

NANA (EX WIFE) is that bitch gonna be there?

JUNHO (EX HUSBAND) yes my girlfriend is going to be there and I am going to show you the correct way of introducing your kid to your new partner and that starts by telling them the truth about why you marriage ended in the first place and since you refuse to tell her I will read

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 6

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 6k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You go full Charlie Kelly and start to put all the pieces together. Stiles knows more than he lets on, but for some reason you trust him anyway. 

A/N: check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Taglist: @eaterof-concrete, @m30wk1ttycat

You played and replayed the video at least a hundred times, over and over again, examining every poorly shot, grainy frame until your eyes burned. You were frantic—a rabbit, picking her den apart, ripping her fur out, searching for all the minute flaws and misplaced straw; a girl, chewing her cheek bloody, tearing at her tights, desperately looking for some kind of explanation that wouldn’t completely shatter her fragile grasp on reality. 

It would be one thing if it was just the video. You could easily rationalize the video away; you’d seen enough fan-made edits of Buffy and Twilight to know that amateur editors were hardly amateurs anymore—but it wasn’t just the video. It was the video, and the gutted video clerk, and the mangled bus driver, and the severed woman with wolf fibers found her butchered corpse—all interconnected by one very furry, clawed, fanged… thing. 

Rolling onto your back, you scrubbed at your eyes, fingers cruel and violent in their attempt to scour away images of blood, and death, and monsters. There had to be an explanation. A rational explanation. Your gaze reflexively drifted towards the charm bundle on your windowsill, propped up against a few of your favorite novels.

The books were old, spines creased and splitting at the corners from little fingers and a lot of love. They were your mom’s before they were yours; you read them together under the covers whenever it rained. For a long time, you kept them hidden away under your bed with all the other things that might crumble your brittle will, but the yellowing pages steeped in memories didn’t seem so haunting anymore. You were already halfway through the stack, consuming the faded ink like a fiend in the night. It was odd; there wasn’t much that had changed since now and then. Really, only one thing. It made sense, you supposed after some thought. Your childhood favorites: Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, the Hercule Poirot novels, they were exactly the kind of thing a sheriff’s son would appreciate.

The largest book in the pile was your complete collection of Sherlock Holmes. You chewed on your lip, eyes tracing the elegant swoops and swirls illuminated on the spine. Words curled along your brainstem in time with the loops, breaking through the buzzing in your mind with quiet British flourish: When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Your nose scrunched, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. Surely, you hadn’t eliminated all logical explanations yet. Surely. 

The metallic embellishments glinted at you, taunting you with their unmistakable presence and insistent reminder of your evening’s unavoidable ending. There was only one place to go for the improbable, after all; you just had to get past your pride and everything you believed to be true. 

Before you could finish putting on your shoes, your dad found his way into your room. He lingered on the border of the black cherry floor. His stance was awkward, unsure of his footing, and you froze with your shoelace in hand. After a moment of stilted silence, he cleared his throat and loosened his tie from its chafing Windsor knot, “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out later than usual.”

Nodding, you tied your laces into neat bows and pulled the wrinkles in your tights straight, “Parent Teacher Conferences, right?”

“Mhm,” he paused and attempted a smile. The edges were stiff, as if his mouth had forgotten the movement, at least when directed at you, “Should I be worried?”

It was his attempt at a joke; you knew that. You still felt a flutter of anxiety. Despite Stiles’s reassurances, you weren't so cavalier about breaking the rules. “All A’s,” you finally said, quietly to your feet. 

Your dad gave you a real smile; smaller than his previous attempt at playfulness, but this one was your favorite. He was proud. It’d been a long time since he’d looked at you with anything other than grief and unease. “That’s my girl.” He rapped his knuckles against your door frame and said, “There’s takeout money on the table. Don’t stay out too long; there’s a—”

“Curfew, I know.” You slung your bag over your shoulder and fiddled with the strap, “I’ll be back soon.”

He didn’t ask you where you were going. He never did. You weren't sure what that said about your relationship, but you didn’t want to think about it any longer than you had to. There were far more pressing things to dwell on.

Maggie was in her kitchen when you opened the door to her house. It was cozy, small; she'd inherited it from her mother when she passed years ago. There were still signs of her 70s nostalgia all over every room. The shag carpet was horrendous, but you kind of liked the color. The muted green almost looked like a bed of moss, like something out of a fairytale.  You had your own key; you’d had one since you were old enough to be a latchkey kid—even though you were never really on your own for long. There was always someone around to help you with your homework, bake you brownies without getting shell in the batter, read you stories about far away places and imaginary worlds. You’d had a wonderful childhood until it ended; some people weren’t that lucky. You knew that you were fortunate to have twelve years of Rockwellian bliss; it was more than a lot of people got. Knowing, however, still didn’t make the after any easier. 

“Want a scone?” Maggie’s head was buried in the oven, steam curling around her shoulders. She emerged with a tray of browned lumps in pink oven-mitted hands, “They're slightly burnt, but it’s not my fault. My timer betrayed me.”

You didn’t reply. You chewed on your lip and studied the plants hanging from the ceiling. The Angelica was in full bloom, little clusters of white fuzzy fireworks. The roots were supposed to ward off evil. You would’ve scoffed at the thought a week ago. Now, there was a lingering ‘what if’ you couldn’t shake. 

You sighed quietly, the exhaustion rattling through your chest, and trailed your gaze to the next plant. Skullcaps were your favorite, not because they were supposed to induce visions, obviously; you liked the blossoms. The fluted periwinkle petals certainly looked magical. You picked a flower from the lowest stem and rolled it between your fingers, “You really believe in this shit, right?” You looked up from your hands and studied Maggie’s face carefully, “It’s not all a scam?”

The anticipated gasp carried through the kitchen, followed by the clang of a plonked baking sheet, “I resent the very implication.”

“I’m serious.” You stared at Maggie’s back, watching for any tell-tale signs of tension or rigidity, “Do you really believe that witches are real and wolfsbane can kill werewolves?”

“I will not be abused in my own home,” there was a lilt in Maggie’s voice, a flippancy that usually made your lips twitch into a smile, but Maggie's hand trembled and sent the scone on the edge of her spatula to the floor. Maggie dropped to her knees and scooped the crumbling pieces into a pile with desperate hands, oddly frantic for something as silly as a dropped pastry. 

You squatted next to her and rested your hands over Maggie’s until they stilled. “Mags,” you were quiet, gentle in your sweeping, but Maggie didn’t seem soothed by the clean floor. 

Maggie’s chin lifted, but her eyes zeroed in on the tip of your nose instead of your eyes. “Babe.”

You gripped your knees, clinging to the caps with ragged nails and flexed knuckles, like your bones were the only solid thing left in the room. “Can you be serious for once in your life, please.” Your tongue went heavy, adhering to the floor of your mouth, effectively sealing everything else you couldn’t bring yourself to say: Please, I think I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how much longer I can white-knuckle it.  

Maggie turned towards the counter carelessly, and her pinky brushed against the cookie sheet. She let out a sharp hiss through her teeth and shook her hand in the air. “Why does it matter?” Her words were muffled through the blistering finger in her mouth, “People buy what they want to buy.”

Your empathy was thinning and so was your patience. Your teeth gnashed, and you winced when your tongue got in the way. “I don’t give a shit about your delusional customers. You know what I mean.”

“See, ‘delusional,’” Maggie stuffed a scone into her mouth even though it was still steaming. Her eyes watered as she struggled to swallow the wad of blueberry and oatmeal lodged against the roof of her mouth. “Why are we even talking about this?” she said thickly, throat clogged with congealed crumbs and something skittish in her eyes. She bent over the sink and turned the water to cold; you weren't entirely sure if she was soothing the burns on her tongue or simply avoiding eye contact.

“There’s something happening here,” your voice trembled, much to your disdain, and you were further horrified by the stinging in your tear ducts, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Maggie’s head whipped towards you, wetting her hair and splattering her lenses with water droplets that dripped onto her nose, “You don’t have to do anything. That’s not your job.” She clutched your shoulders with desperate fingers, digging into your scapulae until it hurt, “Your job is to go to school, get good grades, and live happily ever after.”

You shook off her hands and wiped your nose against your shoulder, “Why won’t you just give me a straight answer?” 

“Well, I am bi–”

“Maggie,” you struggled for words until there was only one left on your tongue, “please.”

A blank expression fell over her face, and then Maggie seemed to sink through the floor even though she was still standing. “Did you read the book?”

You could barely hear her. Your nose shriveled towards your brows, “What book?”

Her eyes shined with something; you couldn’t quite define it. There was a glimmer of remorse, but you couldn’t make out the rest. “‘Beacon Hills’ Bloodlines’.”

For a moment, you were too confused to be frustrated, “Not really.”

Confusion became bewilderment when Maggie left the kitchen without a word. She returned with a thick book; though, book wasn’t quite accurate. It was really a stack of pulp parchment barely held together with a piece of threaded twine. It looked older than the Bloodline’s journal; you could see a few pages sticking out from the others, and the spine was in desperate need of re-stitching. You reluctantly took the pages from Maggie’s hands after she shook it in your face a couple times. 

Maggie was quiet when she finally spoke, “Read the journal.” She nodded towards the new book, “That too.”

You frowned at the cover and held it out in front of you like it was contaminated. “Why are you being so weird about this? Just tell me.”

Maggie looked at you, and the most peculiar sensation rolled down your spine. Maggie's eyes were so present, like a shotgun blast, like a meteor shower. Her voice wasn’t even close to loud, but it was just as piercing as her stare, “I made a promise; I have to keep at least part of it.”

Your forehead creased, “Wha...that’s even weirder. Are you fuckin’ Gandalf? Just say it.” 

“Trust me,” Maggie’s gaze shifted to the floor, and you almost melted with relief, “there are some things that you’re better off not knowing.”

“Great. Thanks, Obi-Wan,” you rolled your eyes and crammed the bound parchment into your bag, “I’ll figure it out myself.”

A cool hand cupped your cheek before you could leave. You grudgingly met Maggie’s gaze, adjusting your grip on the strap of your bag.  

Maggie held onto your shoulders, a breath away from shaking you. “Promise me, you won’t do anything stupid.”

You grimaced, “I–” A flash in Maggie’s eyes dried all the words on your tongue.

“Promise.”

“Promise,” you mumbled.

Maggie finally let you leave, and your feet felt heavier than they did when you walked into Maggie’s apartment. Your bag was heavier, so perhaps it wasn’t all an illusion. The guilt, however, was certainly playing a part in your sagging shoulders. You chewed on a thumbnail and slipped into the comfort of denial. It didn’t count as a broken promise if you didn’t really know what you were promising.

Your dad was still gone when you got home, and you were relieved. Solitude was your only comfort with all this dread chilling your blood. You weren't good with the unpredictable, not anymore. You tried to study it, the way you did with dead languages and theoretical physics, but the methodology wasn't clear. You just wished, for once, you were as scary as people believed. 

There was one thing you could do—or rather two. One was on your desk, and the other was at the bottom of your bag. 

You started with the journal, and your hair quickly became a nuisance. Every time you bowed your head to get a better look at the messy scrawl, wispy strands obscured your vision. You tied your hair back and nibbled on your lip, struggling to determine if a smudged loop was an ‘a’ or an ‘o.’ They didn’t have computers in the 1800s, you knew that, but it wouldn’t have killed Maggie’s great-great-great-grandmother to quill with a little less ink. Neat cursive was hardly as taxing as cholera. 

The pain at the base of your skull was unbearable by the time you made it through half of the entries. Your impatience was rapidly fraying, with yourself and with the lack of insight. Maybe, this was all an elaborate stall—or maybe Maggie really didn’t know anything. 

You flopped back against your pillows and starfished your limbs across your bed until all your joints and muscles unkinked. “Fuck me.” Your eyes flicked down your legs, and you glowered at the journal. It was goading you, opened to the middle and sprawled across your thighs, staring at you and all your incompetence. 

Your thumbs dug a trench in your skull as you tried to rub the throbbing out of your temples.

One more page. You could read one more page. 

You flipped the page, careful with the crumbling corner. The parchment was cluttered with names and arrows; there were a few illustrations too, sketched portraits of the people memorialized on paper. It was inked chaos, but only one word stood out to you. In a large curling script, Hale was spread all over the complicated family tree. You gnawed on your lip and bent your head closer to the small description at the top of the page: The Hale pack founded Beacon Hills in 1856, saving the town from desolation with their wealth. The pack has several branches, extending across the state. They continue to be a prevalent force in their world. 

The bloodlines were difficult to follow with all the different branches and untimely deaths. As far as you could tell, the line was documented all the way to 2002. There were a few different sets of handwriting; the style changed every few decades or so, and you flipped to the end of the family line just to check for Maggie’s chicken scratch. You didn’t find her handwriting, but you did notice something familiar on the last line. Derek Hale. 

You knew, of course, that Derek would likely be included, but your breath hitched when your finger traced over the notation inscribed next to almost every single one of his family members’ names: Deceased: Arson. Laura Hale was still alive on the tree, and the thought of documenting her death—of giving her an end date —it stole all the air from your lungs. 

Your eyes burned, and you quickly flipped back to the start of the Hale bloodline. A few dozen county death records later, the burning in your corneas was due to the strain of one too many computer searches. Still painful, but you much preferred blue light sting to the threat of tears. You focused on it, on the ache; it was so much quieter than all the thoughts fighting you for their turn. They were so loud, a million ravenous locusts buzzing, feasting on your ear canal. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, what they were trying to tell you—what they wanted you to believe. 

Derek Hale couldn’t be a werewolf because that would mean werewolves were real, and if werewolves were real, how many other monsters were lurking in the dark? How many creatures from Maggie’s stories were waiting for someone to separate from the herd, biding their time until they could sink their teeth into human flesh?

There was only so much you could find online and in Maggie’s books. Certain secrets had yet to be written. 

It was disturbingly easy to find out where Stiles lived. The receptionist at the Sheriff’s station was all too happy to give you his address when you gave her your name. You finally stumbled upon the one perk of being an infamous, pathetic half-orphan: blind faith. 

His house was smaller than yours, and you were jealous. All the empty space just made the silence worse, you found. You could see a few spots where the paint was peeling when you got closer, and you smiled at the shoddy patch work. You wondered who tried to fix it. You hoped it was Stiles; you could see the paint in his hair, maybe smeared across his cheek from an ill-advised attempt to scratch his nose. It was adorable. 

You knocked on the door and clutched Maggie’s books tighter to your chest. You’d expected Stiles to answer the door, but he didn’t. You didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to you that someone else would be home until Sheriff Stilinski opened the door, but you felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. The Sheriff looked just as surprised to see you; at least, he had an actual reason. 

“Oh.” You blinked and devolved into a monosyllabic moron, “Hi.” 

Obviously, you knew Stiles was Sheriff Stilinski’s son, but for some reason the idea of them occupying the same place at the same time was dumbfounding. YOur mind couldn’t make sense of it. There was the Sheriff in one box, with all your grief, all your pain, and then there was Stiles. You didn’t fully know what was in his box, but you knew it was good. 

“Hey, kid,” Sheriff Stilinski smiled through his confusion, “you okay? Did something—”

“I’mheretoseeStiles,” all your words were smooshed together in one big exhale. 

The Sheriff looked even more confused for a moment, and then he gave you a little conspiratorial grin. “He’s up in his room. Go ahead.” 

You nodded absently and followed him inside. You stopped thinking about the hefty pile of books in your arms when you noticed the slight limp in Sheriff Stilinski’s step. “Are you okay?” 

The Sheriff followed your gaze and waved his hand, “It’s nothing. Barely a scratch.” 

You hesitated at the foot of the stairs, looking for blood or something equally horrific. He had no reason to lie to you, but you’d gotten used to the worst case scenario. “You sure?”

The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened with his smile, “You sound like my son.”

You mouth ticked up slightly, “That’s not an answer.”

Sheriff Stilinski had a nice laugh, you thought. You grinned as his head shook with another rumbling chuckle. “Now you really sound like my son. I hope he hasn’t driven crazy too.”

“Eh,” you shrugged a little and smiled, “he’s alright.” Your voice dropped a little, like you were telling a secret, “More than, actually. He’s…good.”

The Sheriff looked surprised briefly, a spasm of disbelief, and then all the muscles in his face seemed to melt with fondness. “He is,” his voice was a bit gravelly when he spoke, like it got lodged halfway up his throat. He loved his son; it was obvious. You wondered if your dad ever looked like that when talked about you. You wondered if he even talked about you at all. 

“Not a lot of people are,” you said quietly, looking down at your sneakers. The white wasn’t even white anymore. They were graying from years of stepping on your own feet, kicking car doors closed, tripping over asphalt. You weren't the kind of girl who could keep shoes clean; that was one thing about you that hadn’t changed. Sometimes, it felt like everything else had, and none of it was for the better. 

Sheriff Stilinski waited until you looked up, and then he smiled at you, almost as fondly as before. “You are.”

You were overwhelmed with feeling, so close to an emotion you couldn’t name, but you knew you’d felt it before. Once upon a time, when parents were parents, and children were children. 

The Sheriff rested his hand on your shoulder and squeezed. You were tipping into tearful, and you’d never been so grateful to hear Stiles’s voice. 

“Dad, who’s—” Stiles stopped at the top of the stairs and stared at the two of you. His jaw dangled, and it didn’t snap shut until his dad snorted. Stiles’s eye twitched, and you could see the reboot loading behind his eyes. You wholly understood the sentiment.

His brain regained function, and apparently all he could come up with was, “Hey.”

You grinned to yourself, a small secret smile at his predicament, and your hand cocked in a little wave, “Hey.”

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat, “I’ll—I’m going to get something to eat.” Neither of you looked at him; you were too busy playing a strange staring contest with equally stupid looks on your faces.  

Stiles recovered from his stupor once you were alone. His face settled into something bitter, stony at all the edges, irritation tucked into the creases. It was hardly the face you expected to see when you finally paid him a surprise visit. 

Your brow curved, and you tried not to shrink in on yourself. “You look pissed.”

Stiles snorted and drummed his fingers against the railing, “Yeah, well, you’re in a perpetual state of pissiness, so we’ve all got problems.” You must have crumpled this time, at least a little bit, because his scowl thawed and his hands fell limply by his sides. “Sorry. That’s not—displaced aggression, it’s my sweet spot.”

You shrugged and smiled slightly, a little stiff, a lot amused, “You’re not exactly wrong.”

“Still.” 

You played another game of eye-contact chicken, and Stiles scratched the back of his rapidly flushing neck. Your hair, still damp from the light drizzle, fell in front of your face as you tilted your head towards the stairs, “So, you gonna invite me up, or…”

He nodded a little too quickly and definitely too fervently, “Yeah, sorry. I’m just—”

“Pissed?” you smirked and adjusted your grip on your books, trekking up the stairs. Stiles narrowed his eyes at you, but he was smiling. He had a nice smile; it was big, loose—unrestrained in a way a lot of people were afraid to be. It was the kind of smile you couldn’t help but return.

Stiles let out a profound sigh and shook his head, “It’s all Scott’s fault.” You shot him a dubious look as he pushed his bedroom door open for you. He shrugged, “If I only tell it with carefully selected parts of the story, it’s all his fault.”

Your mouth twitched. Your smile was small, but it peeled back a good deal of the person you thought you should be. So much so, there was a little you peeking underneath. “We can pretend it is. Just for today.”

Stiles’s throat bobbed with his swallow, and when he smiled back at you, slowly, fleetingly, but ever-so sweetly, you finally realized you were awkwardly standing in the middle of his room. Like an idiot. 

His room was exactly what you expected, and that was…you didn’t realize that you knew him well enough to expect plaid bedding and posters of cringey emo bands that were heavily featured on most of your playlists. 

His desk was cluttered with various books and papers, stacked with no apparent rhyme or reason. You recognized the bestiary he bought from Curio Killed the Cat; the burgundy and gold binding was striking against all his monochrome textbooks. There were a few papers poking out from the aged pages, printouts of something furry and familiar. Before you could get a better look, Stiles bustled past you, doing a quick but rather poor job of hiding his dirty laundry under his bed and behind his closet door. 

Stiles was slightly out of breath when he finished, dropping onto the foot of his bed, “So…you stalkin’ me now?” 

You rested your hip against his desk and hummed, “Seemed only fair.” 

“Well,” his face split into a bright, infuriating grin, “I am flattered.”

“Shut up.” His grin widened, and you rolled your eyes, glaring at your bowed reflection in a chrome lamp on the edge of his desk. It was in grave need of a good dusting, along with most of the room. “You’re literally my only option.”

“So, you’re sayin’ I’m the one.” Stiles’s smirk was audible, and you sputtered. 

Your ears were unnaturally hot, and so was the back of your neck. You meant to groan, wanted him to know just how unamusing you found him, but your throat failed you. Your complaint came out airy, huffy, and it trembled against your soft palate. Truthfully, it sounded awfully similar to a whine; you scowled at the sound and squeezed your books tighter to your chest, “I’m leaving. Right now. I’ve reached my maximum capacity for bullshit.” 

Long fingers circled around your wrist before you could go too far. They were blistering against your cool skin, but a shiver shuddered through your arm all the way to your skull. 

“Don’t go,” Stiles hummed softly, close enough to warm the shell of your ear. “I owe you one, remember?” 

You braved a look at him through your lashes, and he was smiling at you again; this one was nervous. He had forgotten, it seemed, to let go of your wrist until now. Stiles sat back down on his bed, and you absently brushed your fingers over the lingering sensation of his fingertips. 

“Right,” you looked around the room and chewed on your bottom lip, “so…what was that whole thing with Derek Hale?”

Stiles paused. You could feel him watching you, studying you like one of his puzzles. “He needed a ride.”

You set your books on his desk, and Stiles nodded towards the chair in front of him. You hesitated before sitting down, feeling a bit like you were giving up the battlefield high ground, “You’re like…friends, then?”

“Absolutely not.” If the emphatic denial wasn’t enough to convince you, the violent shake of his head was telling enough. “Kind of wish he was dead, actually. It would solve so many problems.”

“So you don’t actually know him that well,” you murmured, sinking into the chair with all your hopes and plans. 

Stiles’s neck craned as he studied your face, “Why?” You just looked at him, keeping your face impassive, and his eyes went a little buggy. “I know he looks dreamy, but that would be nothing but a nightmare for everyone involved. Trust me.”

Your face twisted, lips curling around the unsavory taste in your mouth. “I don’t—what was wrong with him yesterday?”

Stiles didn’t look entirely convinced, but skepticism did look a lot like concern. “Stomach bug.”

You rolled your eyes. It would’ve made you laugh under any other circumstance, but you didn’t feel much like laughing now. You’d been a tick away from the edge ever since you realized that Lydia had been this close to being butchered by that thing. 

Your fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles straining, “I’m not an idiot, okay. I know there’s something weird going on.” You looked up from your lap with sharp eyes, but if he looked a little closer, he’d see the desperation underneath, “And I know you know something about it.”

Stiles swallowed hard and twisted his fingers together, “I’m actually known for knowing nothing about anything. Ever.” 

He flinched when you stood up abruptly. The chair rolled back into his desk and sent a few pencils to the floor. You glared at them, like they did it on purpose just to spite you, and your glower drifted towards the glint of citrine and garnet on the corner of his desk. “This.” You picked up the bestiary and tried to shake it in front of his face, but it was too heavy to do your frustration justice, “Why did you buy this?”

His eyes, miraculously, grew rounder, “I told you. D—”

“N’ D, I know, but I looked into it. This is real; it’s transcribed from a real Ancient Greek text.”

“...I like authenticity.” Stiles shrugged towards his fidgeting hands, “I take my craft seriously.”

Scoffing, you dropped the book on top of his bed, “So you’re saying you believe the whole mountain lion theory?” 

“Well, obviously no—”

“Then what do you believe?” Your chest seethed with quick shallow breaths as you paced from one side of his room to the other, “Because I was looking through this genealogy line, and the Hales have been here before Beacon Hills was even Beacon Hills, and there’s a pattern of—hold on.” 

You snatched Maggie’s journal off of his desk and flipped it open to the Hale family tree, bookmarked with the thick stack of county death reports you’d printed out. “Look, there’s a series of premature, violent deaths in their line directly after a series of animal attacks on the town, and then all of it just stopped a few generations before Derek’s mom became the head of the pa—”

You didn’t know when Stiles stood up, but he was in front of you now, stopping you in your tracks. He brushed his fingers through his short crop of hair and shook his head, “Hold on, okay. Take a breath—”

You didn’t hear him, not really. Truthfully, you didn’t even notice that he’d started talking. You shoved the pages closer to his face, and all your words rushed past your lips in one carved out breath, “And then it all started again after Laura Hale was killed, and she was found with wolf fibers on her body—”

Stiles’s brows flew towards his hairline, “How do you kno—”

“She became the head of the family after Talia died, right?” Your hair was as wild as your eyes after a series of urgent tugging, and you prayed to all the mythical gods in every game you’d ever played that you sounded saner than you looked. They might actually exist, after all. Who's to say that Selûne didn't exist in a world where werewolves did? “‘Cause she’s the oldest living, fully conscious relative, and then immediately after she's killed, the animal attacks start up again, like she was keeping something in-check.”

“Slow down.” Stiles gripped your shoulders. You were closer than either of you realized until you looked up and your noses were almost touching. He swallowed thickly and let go of you after a moment, taking a step back, “A couple of days ago you thought this was all bullshit.”

You chewed on your lip and your indecision, looking for something in his face. You didn’t know what, but you were pretty sure you found it when his mouth furrowed into a concerned frown. It was for you, you realized, not because of you. That was…a rarity in your life as of late. You didn’t hate it. 

Sighing, you pulled your phone out of your jacket pocket and opened the video from Lydia’s phone. “A couple of days ago I hadn't seen this,” you mumbled, shoving the phone into his hand.

Stiles looked at you for a moment longer and then pressed play. His face was unreadable, save for the small flinch when the beast shattered the store window, and you hated it. “Where did you get this?” Stiles finally said quietly. His voice was low and infected with something dire. 

You rifled through your papers, something to keep your hands busy and your eyes off of the dark look on Stiles’s face, “Someone sent it to Lydia—it was a blocked number, so don’t ask who.”

“Did she—”

“I deleted it before she could.�� 

Neither of you needed to say it; you both knew Lydia was clinging to sanity by the skin of her perfect teeth. She couldn’t see the proof that the monster under her bed was real. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

“Good.” Stiles rubbed a hand over his face, looking so much older than sixteen, and he flickered his gaze to your face, “You can’t show this to anyone. You know that, right?”

“Besides Scott,” you retorted dryly.

Stiles almost smiled. There was a ghost of one hiding in the corners of his mouth, but it faded before it could materialize. “Believe me, he really doesn’t need any more proof. Delete it.” 

He sighed at your scowl and tried again, “Please delete it.”

You shook your head and grabbed your phone from his hands, “Not until you tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything.” Stiles held up his hands and took a careful step towards you, “Really. I know as much as you do.”

You stared at him. You weren't sure if you were a good judge of character. You’d like to think you were, but it wasn’t like you spent a lot of time around other people. Even before you got trapped in your head, you really only had one friend, and you used to think you’d be friends with her for the rest of your lives. Maybe longer. 

You’d been wrong before. You didn’t want to be wrong again.

Stiles reached for your hand, and you let him lace your fingers together. “I know how you feel. It sucks, and it’s kind of exciting, but mostly freakin’ terrifying—and all you need to know is that it’s going to be okay. Okay?”

Your chin jerked in a rigid little nod. You softened slightly when he squeezed your hand. He wasn’t telling you everything; you were almost 100% certain of that, but you were also pretty sure he wasn’t lying. That was enough for you. For now. 

“The file room,” you said quietly.

Stiles’s lips drew together into a little pucker, “What?”

“The evidence room with all the files,” you looked up at him, and the ember of hope was stoked in your eyes, “there’s probably more there.”

He bit down on his cheek, “I don’t know—”

You folded her arms over her chest, chin lifting in defiance, “You promised.”

Stiles sighed and ran his hand over his head. His smile was a little affectionate thing. He sighed and shook his head, “I promised.”

“Well, alright then.” Your shoulders relaxed, and you sat back down in his desk chair, “Middle of the night break-in, it’s a date.”

[padfootdaredmetoo]

Romance, fluff, hurt/comfort, and the occasional heartbreak.

Peaky Blinders, Sherlock, Tangerine, Wade Wilson, Peter Parker, Marauders

Peaky Blinders

Kidnapped - Tommy Shelby X Reader - Pt. 2

Reader gets taken and Tommy does everything he can to get her back - kidnapping, torture / hurt /comfort confession of feelings

Arthur Shelby X OC Joey Request - Catching feelings / hurt / comfort

Falling Hard - Tommy Shelby X Pregnant Reader

She falls off the horse - Rated G, Cute fluffiness, Worried Tommy

Meet Cute - Tommy Shelby X Reader

 Proper courting, Rated G, Tommy falls for reader at a party

Domestic - Tommy Shelby X Wife Reader

 Cooking, Baking, Slight hurt comfort, Tommy being a good dad, kids being little, just lots of fluffy goodness

Self-Defense - Tommy Shelby X Reader

He defends her but she can defend herself - Teen for violence Hurt / Comfort

Girls Outing - Tommy X Wife Reader

Attempted Murder, mild description of attempted sexual assault, Murder, Tommy Comforts reader, Hurt / Comfort

Time Travel - Tommy Shelby x X-Men Reader

 Rated Teen for extreme heart break, time travel, romance, X-Men themes

The One That Got Away - Tommy Shelby X Reader

Hurt and pain. Charlie gets kidnapped and Reader has to make a difficult choice

Campbell - Tommy X Reader Wife - Pt 2.

She’s beaten by Campbell and eventually talks - Mature content - Reader is beaten badly and miscarries. Tommy comforts her.

Stay Home - Tommy X Wife Reader

He doesn’t want her to work while pregnant.

Heart Broken - Tommy Shelby X Reader

You just got broken up with - Fluff, Comfort Tommy

First Wizarding War - Tommy Shelby X Reader (HP crossover)

Reader gets attacked, falling in love, pre war, then post war follow up

Protecting What's His - Tommy Shelby X Pregnant Wife Reader

When someone breaks into the house Tommy has to protect what’s his - violence, shock / panic is described. Fluff at the end & kissing

Scarlet Witch - Tommy X Magic Reader

She has kept her powers hidden but Tommy and the family find out! Reader saves the day with her magical abilities.

Sold Down the River - Tommy Shelby X Reader

Reader gets sold to Tommy Shelby by her fiancé. Her and her baby have to adjust to arrow house

Animal Shelter - Tommy Shelby X Reader -- Pt.2

When Tommy gets Charlie a dog from the pound he doesn’t expect to take the bubbly worker home as well.

The One That Almost Got Away - Tommy Shelby X Reader

Tommy and the reader play hard to get until Polly puts and end to things. Drama, trust issues, happy ending, Polly to the rescue.

The Doctor - Shelby Sister X Alfie Solomons

he reader is underappreciated so she leaves and begins her own life. After becoming a doctor she falls back to her family and finds out that not all things are lost. Mending her heart she also finds her way back to a long lost love…..

Kisses - Finn Shelby X Reader

The one where the reader ends up with a marked up neck, the family is determined to find the culprit only to find out it was one of their own.

The Witch - Tommy Shelby X Reader

 The reader is a witch who can tell the future but she definitely did not see him coming.

Childhood Bestie - Tommy Shelby X Reader

Even though he married Grace true love never dies - even when you almost do 

Mean Boyfriend - Finn Shelby X Orphaned Reader

The Reader happens to have a mean boyfriend. Good thing the Shelby’s have a strict *no mean boyfriends allowed* rule at the garrison.

The Smallest Blinder - Tommy Shelby X Reader

The boys hate having to watch over her, but more often than not she’s the one that saves the day 

Quiet Working Girl - Tommy Shelby X Reader

Reader is hired on to work at the Garrison, and Tommy takes an interest in her. When things start to fall apart, she’s the first person he suspects. He makes a right mess of things again, but this time he’s not so sure if he can fix it.

Cold - Tommy Shelby x Reader

Head cannons about a woman who never smiles and how the Shelby family would interact with her.

Ambition - Tommy Shelby X Reader

The reader always wanted a big life and so did Tommy. Promises were made and the reader comes to cash in

Sickness - Tommy Shelby X Lizzie Shelby

Lizzie makes a difficult decision to hide her diagnosis from Tommy. She goes off on her own much like he does, when word reaches him of Lizzie’s illness he has to find a way to make peace with her before it’s too late.

Spellbound - Marauders Reader X Tommy Shelby - Series

The reader leaves the magical world - not knowing what else to do she sees an advert for a bartender. Having worked at Three Broom Sticks she figured it couldn’t be that different. Falling for her boss and getting sucked into the complicated crime underworld of Birmingham was not a part of her plan

I Can Fight - John Shelby X Reader

Having been in a toxic relationship she learns what it means to be with John Shelby.

Languages Expert - Tommy Shelby X Reader

The boys assume Tommy only keeps the reader around because she’s pretty to look at. when a deal starts to go sideways they quickly learn the importance of having a language expert

Lunch Dates - Tommy Shelby X Reader

with limited time and lots of stress you decide to take a breath and get some lunch with your husband.

Rejected - Tommy Shelby X Reader

The reader isn’t interested in what Tommy has going on

The Kindest Blinder - Tommy Shelby X Reader Wife

Tommy’s wife isn’t what people expect. Her soft kindness is visible to anyone that see’s her. She’d do anything for her family, but when she’s pushed to the limit a different side of her shows.

Grace - Tommy Shelby x Reader

When she showed up to reclaim the love of her life, she wasn’t expecting you to be there.

Pregnant? - Tommy X Reader

The reader doesn’t realize she’s pregnant and a big surprise awaits the family 

Mr. Brightside - Tommy X Reader

Tommy realizes his feelings for you, too bad he’s too late and you’ve already found a guy.

Bad Habits - Tommy Shelby X Lizzie Shelby

Tommy struggles with his drinking thankfully Lizzie is always around to help.

The Mark of a Kiss - Sherlock's Sister X Tommy Shelby

Sherlock's other sister solves a mystery involving the notorious Tommy Shelby

Come on Barbie - Tommy Shelby x Reader

Thomas sits back and wonders how his girl manages her crazy lifestyle.

I've Got My Eye on You - Tommy Shelby X Reader

A traumatic event has left the reader with one eye and an emotionless appearance. Captivated by her beauty and voice Tommy tries to get to know her better

Sherlock - Enola Holmes

The Mystery of the Shelby Sister - Sherlock X Peaky Sister Reader

Sherlock tries his best to ignore his neighbor but when Enola gets attached it becomes increasingly difficult.  Extras - Big Kiss

Tangerine - Bullet Train

Angst - Tan X Reader

Things go from bad to worse leaving you two very far apart…

Geralt of Rivia

Surprises - Geralt X Reader

Geralt of Riva finds out you are pregnant with his baby 

Wade Wilson & Peter Parker

Tired - Hurt & Comfort

Trusted - Hurt & Comfort / Seeing his face for the first time

No Powers - SpideyPool

The Amazing Panic Attack - SpideyPool

Peter has a panic attack after saving someone that looks like Gwen. After being MIA Wade comes to find him, and after a whole lot of comfort, their relationship takes a new direction.

Marauders

Head Cannons

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter Twenty

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Twenty: Eastern Wind

Summary: Sherlock, John, and (Y/N) go right to the source of their problems. Mycroft is displeased.

            Mycroft gasped as the film he was watching flickered. Interspersed with the images was an old family tape of him and Sherlock at the beach. He smiled lightly as he saw himself and Sherlock hugging. It fell.

            “I’m back” flashed across the screen in red. Then, the film burned, leaving a blotchy screen in front of Mycroft. He stood and walked to the door. He tried the handle, and it wouldn’t budge.

            “Mycroft,” whispered a soft voice. Footsteps ran across the floor above him, echoing into the room. The door creaked open, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

            He stepped out.

            Wham!

            He jumped when the door slammed closed. He looked down the hall, and the lights flickered. Carefully, Mycroft picked up his umbrella and unsheathed the sword hidden within. He walked down the dark hall, and a shadow passed by, making him pause.

            “Mycroft,” whispered the voice again, and a childlike figure stood at the end of the hall.

            Mycroft advanced on the figure, sword raised. He arrived in front of it, but it was just a mannequin. He tsked.

            “Why don’t you come out and show yourself?” he said, looking around himself. “I don’t have time for this.”

            “We have time, brother dear,” responded the child. “All the time in the world.

            A figure ran up the stairs, and Mycroft raced after them. He wasn’t fast enough, and there was no one on the floor he stopped at.

            “Mycroft,” sang the voice playfully.

            “Who are you?” demanded Mycroft.

            “You know who,” said the voice.

            Mycroft shook his head. “Impossible.”

            “Nothing’s impossible.” The lights flickered. “You of all people know that.” They laughed. “Coming to get you~ There’s an east wind coming. Coming to get you.”

            “You can’t have got out! You can’t!” said Mycroft.

            A clown leaned out of a room, and Mycroft blinked. It stepped out and looked at him. It took a sword from a suit of armor and raised it. Mycroft raised his sword. Then, he took a handkerchief, pulled the blade off his sword, and raised his gun. He pulled the trigger.

            An empty click echoed in the silence.

            “No use, Mycroft,” said the sing-song voice. “There’s no defense and nowhere to hide.”

            The clown screamed and ran at Mycroft, who gasped and ran down the stairs. He ran as fast as he could to the doors, but they were locked, keeping him trapped within. Mycroft looked around wildly. The clown was gone, but a shadow was crossing the windows. It passed to a doorway and stepped into the room.

            “Sherlock!” called Mycroft. “Help me.”

            Sherlock put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The lights switched on. The clown and little girl figure stepped out, revealing two people that owed Sherlock favors.

            “Experiment completed,” said Sherlock. “Conclusion, I have a sister.”

            Mycroft stared at Sherlock, breathing heavily. “This was you? All of this was you?”

            “ ‘No use, Mycroft.’ ” The voice sounded again as (Y/N) stepped out beside Sherlock and waved. They had been the voice. “Conclusion two, Eurus has apparently been incarcerated from an early age in a secure institution controlled by Mycroft Holmes.”

            “Why would you do this?” Mycroft ran his hands over his face, stressed. “This pantomime? Why?!”

            “Conclusion three,” said Sherlock. “You are terrified of her.”

            “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. None at all,” said Mycroft.

            “New information.” John stepped out of another hall. “She’s out.”

            “That’s not possible,” said Mycroft.

            “It’s more than possible, she was John’s therapist,” said Sherlock.

            “And the Faith Smith who visited Sherlock,” said (Y/N).

            “Shot me during a session,” said John.

            “With a tranquilizer, fortunately,” said (Y/N).

            “Still had ten minutes to go,” tsked John.

            “Well, we’ll see about a refund,” said Sherlock. He and (Y/N) walked down so that the whole group was on the same level. He looked at the actors. “Right, you two, Wiggins has got your money by the gate, don’t spend it all in one place.” The actors gave a thumbs up and headed out. Sherlock looked at Mycroft. “Oh, I hope we didn’t spoil your enjoyment of the movie.”

            “You’re just leaving?” said Mycroft incredulously.

            “Oh, we’re not staying here,” said Sherlock. “Eurus is coming, and, uh, someone’s disabled all your security. Sleep well!”

            “(Y/N), why would he do that to me?” said Mycroft as they went to the door. “That was insane.”

            “Someone convinced us that you wouldn’t tell the truth unless you were actually wetting yourself,” said (Y/N).

            “Someone?” repeated Mycroft.

            “Probably me,” said John, walking to the door with (Y/N) as they smirked.

            “So that’s it, is it? You’re just going,” said Mycroft.

            “Well, don’t worry,” said John. “There’s a place for people like you, the desperate, the terrified, the ones with nowhere else to run.”

            “What place?” said Mycroft coldly.

            “221B Baker Street,” said (Y/N), smirking.

            “See you in the morning,” said John. “If there’s a queue, join it.”

            “For God’s sake, this is not one of your idiot cases!” spat Mycroft.

            John pointed at a window. “You might want to close that window. There’s an east wind coming.”

l

            (Y/N) leaned back on their couch, Sherlock sat in his chair, and John folded his hands in his chair. All of them looked at Mycroft, who hovered beside the client chair.

            “You have to sit in the chair,” said Mrs. Hudson from the doorway. “They won’t talk to you unless you sit in the chair. It’s the rules.”

            “I’m not a client,” said Mycroft.

            “Then get out,” said Sherlock.

            Mycroft put his hands up in exhausted defeat and sat down. He looked back at Mrs. Hudson. “She’s not gonna stay there, is she?”

            (Y/N) liked how Mrs. Hudson was the true power in this household.

            Sherlock nodded to Mrs. Hudson, and she looked at Mycroft. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

            “Thank you,” said Mycroft.

            “The kettle’s over there.” She pointed, turned around, and walked away.

            John, Sherlock, and (Y/N) all grinned.

            “So, what happens now? Are you going to make deductions?” said Mycroft condescendingly.

            “You’re gonna tell the truth, Mycroft, pure and simple,” said Mycroft.

            “Who was it that said, ‘Truth is rarely pure and never simple?’ ” said Mycroft.

            “Don’t know, don’t care,” said (Y/N).

            Sherlock looked at Mycroft. “So there were three of us. I know that now. You, me…and Eurus. A sister I can’t remember. Interesting name, Eurus. It’s Greek, isn’t it?”

            “Mm, yeah, uh, literally the god of the east wind,” said John.

            “Seems she got the best name,” said (Y/N).

            “ ‘The east wind is coming, Sherlock,’ ” said Sherlock. “You used that to scare me. Whenever there’s trouble, you say that. I say that, now. (Y/N) says it. But it goes back to you using it to scare me. A reference to my sister meant danger.”

            “No,” said Mycroft.

            “You turned my sister into a ghost story,” said Sherlock.

            “Of course I didn’t,” said Mycroft. “I monitored you.”

            “You what?” said John.

            “Memories can resurface. Wounds can reopen,” said Mycroft. “The roads we walk have demons beneath.” He looked at Sherlock. “And yours have been waiting for a very long time. I never bullied you. I used, at discrete intervals, potential trigger words to update myself as to your mental condition. I was looking after you.”

            “Why can’t I remember her?” said Sherlock.

            “This is a private matter,” said Mycroft, glancing at John. His gaze didn’t go to (Y/N) at all. They were a Holmes, and he knew Sherlock wouldn’t budge with them.

            “John stays,” said (Y/N).

            “This is family,” said Mycroft.

            “That’s why he stays,” said Sherlock fiercely.

            Mycroft leaned back.

            John cleared his throat. “So there were three Holmes kids. What was the age gap?”

            “Seven years between myself and Sherlock, one year between Sherlock and Eurus,” said Mycroft.

            “Middle child, explains a lot,” said John, looking at Sherlock. He looked at Mycroft. “So, did she have it, too?”

            “Have what?” said Mycroft.

            “The deduction thing,” said John.

            “ ‘The deduction thing.’ ” Mycroft mocked John.

            John scoffed. “Yes.”

            “More than you can know,” said Mycroft.

            “Enlighten us,” said (Y/N) sharply, tired of the vagueness.

            “You realize I’m the smart one,” said Mycroft, gesturing between himself and Sherlock.

            (Y/N) rolled their eyes. Mycroft still hadn’t put them on the board, so they were exhausted with these announcements.

            “As you never cease to announce,” said Sherlock.

            “But Eurus, she was incandescent, even then,” said Mycroft. “Our abilities were professionally assessed more than once. I was remarkable. But Eurus was described as an era-defining genius beyond Newton.”

            “Then why don’t I remember her?” said Sherlock.

            “You do remember her, in a way,” said Mycroft. “Every choice you’ve made, every path you’ve ever taken, the man you are today, is your memory of Eurus.” He looked at (Y/N). “In fact, adopting them was the greatest surprise to me. I would have thought you’d avoid intelligent children. And people. And caring. But you didn’t.”

            (Y/N) just stared back at him evenly.

            “Eurus was different from the beginning,” said Mycroft, returning to the story proper. “She knew things she should never have known as if she were somehow aware of truths beyond the normal scope.” He paused and looked back.

            “What’s wrong?” said John.

            “Sorry. The memories are disturbing,” said Mycroft.

            “What do you mean? Examples,” said Sherlock.

            “They found her with a knife once,” said Mycroft. “She seemed to be cutting herself. Mother and Father were terrified. They thought it was a suicide attempt. When I asked Eurus what she was doing, she said, ‘I wanted to see how my muscles worked.’ ”

            “Jesus,” breathed John.

            (Y/N) furrowed their brow.

            “So I asked her if she felt pain,” continued Mycroft. “And she said, ‘Which one’s pain?’ ”

            So she doesn’t feel emotions. Or doesn’t understand them. Or can’t. (Y/N) felt a bit bad for Eurus. No amount of intelligence could make up for loneliness once it set in. (Y/N) had felt that way in the children’s home they lived in before Sherlock found them. They had been smart, sure, but they had lacked someone who understood them or tried to care.

            Obviously, something had gone wrong and Eurus had become dangerous, but (Y/N) could separate disliking someone’s actions and understanding what led to them. Explanations weren’t excuses; they were facts.

            “Then what happened?” said Sherlock.

            “Musgrave,” said Mycroft. “The ancestral home where there was always honey for tea. And Sherlock played among the funny gravestones.”

            “Funny how?” said John.

            “They weren’t real. The dates were all wrong,” said Mycroft. “An architectural joke which fascinated Sherlock.”

            “Who will find me, deep down below the old beech tree, help, succor me now, the east winds blow,” murmured Sherlock as a vague memory of a song popped into his head.

            “The east winds blow,” said Mycroft with him.

            “Sixteen by six,” said Sherlock.

            “And under we go,” finished Mycroft. Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion, and Mycroft looked at him worriedly. “You’re starting to remember.”

            “Fragments,” said Sherlock. “Redbeard.”

            “Redbeard?” said John.

            “He was my dog,” said Sherlock.

            “Eurus took Redbeard and locked him up somewhere no one could find him,” said Mycroft. “And she refused to say where he was. She’d only repeat that song. Her little ritual. We begged and begged her to tell us where he was. She said, ‘The song is the answer.’ But the song made no sense.”

            “What happened to Redbeard?” asked Sherlock.

            “We never found him,” said Mycroft. “But she started calling him ‘drowned Redbeard,’ so we made our assumptions. Sherlock was traumatized. Natural, I suppose. He was, in the early days, an emotional child. But after that he was different, as though he’d changed. Never spoke of it again. In time, he seemed to forget that Eurus had ever even existed.”

            “How could he forget? She was living in the same house,” said John.

            (Y/N) looked at Mycroft’s gaze. “Unless she wasn’t.”

            Mycroft nodded. “They took her away.”

            “Why?” said John. “You don’t lock up a child because a dog goes missing.”

            Mycroft’s gaze flicked to Sherlock before returning to look at John. (Y/N) furrowed their brow. “Quite so,” he said. “It was what happened immediately afterwards. She set fire to the house intentionally. The entire thing burned down. After that, our sister had to be taken away. She had endangered, knowingly, all our lives.”

            “Where?” said Sherlock.

            “Oh, some suitable place, or so everybody thought,” said Mycroft. “Not suitable enough, however. She died there.”

            “How?” said John.

            “She started another fire, one which she did not survive,” said Mycroft.

            “You’re lying,” said (Y/N).

            “Yes,” said Mycroft. “It is also kindness. This is the story I told our parents to spare them further pain and to account for the absence of an identifiable body.”

            “And no doubt to prevent their further interference,” said Sherlock.

            “That too, of course,” said Mycroft. “The depth of Eurus’s psychosis and the extent of her abilities couldn’t hope to be contained in any ordinary institution. Uncle Rudi took care of things.”

            “Where is she, Mycroft? Where is our sister?” said Sherlock.

            “There is a place called Sherrinford, an island,” said Mycroft. “It’s a secure and very secret installation whose sole purpose is to contain what we call ‘The Uncontainables.” The demons beneath the road, this is where we trap them. Sherrinford is more than a prison or an asylum. It is a fortress built to keep the rest of the world safe from what is inside it. Heaven may be a fantasy for the credulous and afraid. But I can give you a map reference for Hell. That’s where our sister has been since early childhood. She hasn’t left, not for a single day. Whoever you both meant, it can’t have been her.”

            Crash!

            A window shattered, and they all rose.

            “I that am lost. Oh who will find me?” sang a woman’s voice. “Deep down below the old beech tree.” A drone lifted into the air from the ground. “Help, succor me now. The east winds blow. Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go.”

            “Keep back,” said Mycroft as the drone approached. “Keep as still as you can.”

            “What is it?” said John.

            “A drone,” said (Y/N) as it floated down in the middle of the four.

            “Yeah, I can see that. What’s it carrying?” said John.

            “A type of grenade?” (Y/N) glanced at Mycroft.

            “It’s a DX-707,” said Mycroft, staring warily at it. “I’ve authorized the purchase of quite a number of these. Colloquially, it is known as the ‘patience grenade.’ ” The drone landed in the middle of them.

            “ ‘Patience?’ ” said John.

            “The motion sensor is activated,” said Mycroft. “If any of us move, the grenade will detonate.”

            “How powerful?” said Sherlock, eyes worriedly going to (Y/N), his kid.

            “It’ll certainly destroy this flat and kill anyone in it,” said Mycroft. “Assuming walls of reasonable strength, your neighbors should be safe, but as it’s landed on the floor, I am moved to wonder if the café below is open.”

          �� “It’s closed Sunday mornings,” said (Y/N), thankful for that at least.

            “What about Mrs. Hudson?” said John.

            They could hear her vacuuming below.

            “Going by her usual routine, I estimate she has another two minutes left,” said Sherlock.

            “She keeps her vacuum cleaner at the back of the flat,” said John.

            “So?” said Mycroft.

            “So, safer there, when she’s putting it away,” said John. “We have to move eventually. We should do it when she’s safest.”

            “When the vacuum stops, give her eight seconds to get to the back of the flat,” said (Y/N).

            “Is eight seconds enough?” said John.

            “I made a timetable of her habits, once,” said (Y/N). “I was bored. I’m glad now.”

            “What’s the trigger response time?” said Sherlock. “Once we’re mobile, how long before detonation?”

            “We have a maximum of three seconds to vacate the blast radius,” said Mycroft.

            “John and I will take the windows,” said Sherlock. “Grab (Y/N) and get down the stairs. Help Mrs. Hudson, too.”

            “Me?” said Mycroft.

            “You’re closer, and if you get out and my kid is hurt, I’ll kill you myself,” said Sherlock.

            “Understood,” said Mycroft.

            (Y/N) glanced worriedly at Sherlock, and he looked back at them firmly, telling them with his eyes to focus.

            “She’s moving to the back,” said John as the sound of the vacuum moved farther away.

            “I estimate we have a minute left. Is a phone call possible?” said Sherlock.

            “Phone call?” said Mycroft.

            “John has a daughter. He may wish to say goodbye. My child is here,” said Sherlock.

            “I’m sorry, Dr. Watson, any movement will set off the grenade. I hope you understand,” said Mycroft.

            “Oscar Wilde,” said John.

            “What?” said Mycroft.

            “He said, ‘The truth is rarely pure and never simple,’ ” said John. “It’s from The Importance of Being Earnest. We did it in school.”

            “So did we, now I recall,” said Mycroft. “I was Lady Bracknell.”

            (Y/N) smiled in amusement. At least if they died there it would be with family and a smile.

            “Yeah. You were great,” said Sherlock.

            “You really think so?” said Mycroft.

            “Yes, I really do,” said Sherlock.

            “Well, it’s good to know,” said Mycroft softly. “I’ve always wondered.”

            The hum of the vacuum stopped.

            “Good luck,” said Sherlock softly as eight seconds ticked by. “I love you.” He looked at (Y/N).

            “I love you, Dad,” said (Y/N).

            “Three, two…one.”

            John and Sherlock ran for the windows. (Y/N) and Mycroft ran for the stairs, Mycroft pushing them towards it.

            Boom!

            221B exploded.

Taglist:

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Warnings = **

x teen!reader / x child!reader / x daughter!reader / x gn!reader / x reader / x sibling!reader / son!reader / romantic!reader / ftm!reader / mtf!reader

I don’t own Sherlock or any of the characters in Marvel , I only own the imagines that I have created in tumblr or wattpad.

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Being Sherlock Holmes protege/child** - Sherlock taking a liking to you and decides that he wants you as his protege - Sherlock Holmes x teen!reader

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Take Care

Sherlock and Mycroft x little sister!reader, John x teen!reader

Requested by Anonymous

Synopsis: you get a startling diagnosis that turns everyone around you overprotective

Warnings: cancer, mentions of death (no actual death)

“She…she has what?”

John looked up from his newspaper at the sound of Sherlock’s distress. He had picked up a call from Mycroft and answered with the usual bored disdain, but after listening for a moment he had sat up rigid in his chair.

“I see,” Sherlock went on. “I’ll be right over, I…oh. Yes, alright.”

“What was that all about?” John asked as Sherlock put the phone down. After a moment, John thought he wasn’t going to answer, but finally he spoke, his voice dazed.

“What? Oh, Y/N, she’s…Mycroft is bringing her over for a bit.”

“Is she alright?” John asked hesitantly.

“I…no. I don’t know,”

“Sherlock this is ridiculous, what’s wrong? You’re worrying me.”

You had become quite the regular at Baker Street, sleeping over there almost as much as you stayed with Mycroft, your legal guardian.

“Y/N…she has cancer.”

“She what?” Surely he had heard wrong.

“Mycroft took her in for an appointment, routine check up, that’s all, but…” Sherlock swallowed, and didn’t finish.

“How…I mean…” John wasn’t sure how to ask about the severity.

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock said finally. “Mycroft didn’t say much.”

“Hey Sherlock!” To say Sherlock was surprised when you came bounding into 221B like nothing was wrong would be a severe understatement.

“Hello,” he greeted hollowly. You stepped past him to bring your bag to your room, and Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft.

“She knows?” He asked quietly, and Mycroft nodded.

“I believe she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“How bad is it?”

“They said they aren’t sure about the outcome. They want to start treatments as soon as possible, and it all depends on how she responds to it. All we can do is make sure she gets enough rest and water between visits for now.”

“Alright,” Sherlock sighed. “Then we do all we can do.”

…

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You looked up at Sherlock with a frown.

“Just for a walk.”

“No you’re not,” he responded. “It’s time you took a nap.”

“Gee grandma, you first,” you scoffed.

“Y/N, don’t be like that,” John insisted.

“You guys really aren’t gonna let me take a walk?” You glared at the two men, who didn’t waver an inch. “Fine,” you groaned, brushing past them to your room and closing the door.

…

“Drink.”

“I’ve had like four glasses of water today Mycroft, I’m not thirsty.”

Mycroft gestured to the glass in front of you insistently. You rolled your eyes and took a sip.

“Finish that, and then you should take a nap.”

“I’m fine.”

“He’s right,” Sherlock chimed in from the sofa.

“Since when do you two agree on anything?” You scoffed.

“Since now.”

You glared at Mycroft.

“You can’t lay off for one afternoon?”

“No.”

“Ok, I’ll nap on one condition; you let me go to Christie’s later, she wanted to study together.”

“You’ll take a nap either way,” Mycroft responded.

“Wanna bet?” You challenged.

“No, because I don’t have to. You’ll do as you’re told.”

“John, a little help?”

“Don’t look at me,” John raised his hands. “I’m with them.”

“Could you guys stop treating me like this for two seconds?” Your tone rose with your anger.

“Like what?” Mycroft’s resolve hadn’t changed.

“Like I’m an invalid!” You shoved past your brothers and slammed the door to your room.

…

“She won’t answer.”

“I know that,” Sherlock griped at his older brother.

“Should we pick the lock?”

“She’d kill us.”

“Well, she’s worrying me, she’s been in there for a while,” Mycroft pulled out a lock pick and got to work.

When the lock clicked, he called out a warning.

“We’re coming in if you don’t open this door!”

Silence.

Mycroft pushed open the door, and sighed in relief when he saw you on your bed, a book in your lap and headphones in your ears. You looked up in disgust.

“Privacy much?” You growled as you pulled your headphones out of your ears.

“You’ve been in here for too long, and you wouldn’t answer when we knocked,” Mycroft insisted.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?”

“Because we need to talk,” Sherlock came to stand by your bed.

“About what?”

“About ‘how we treat you’,” Mycroft sighed.

“Alright, talk.”

“You know why we do it,” Sherlock insisted.

“Yeah, because you’re nosy control freaks.”

“Because we’re worried,” Mycroft corrected.

“You shouldn’t be.”

“That’s a load of crap,” everyone turned in surprise when John entered the room. “You know full well why they’re scared, and you are too. There’s not much we can do, alright? The only things we can do is make sure you get your rest in between treatments, and try our best to take care of you. So that’s what we’re doing.”

You were silent for a long moment.

“I-I just…” the tears in your eyes were perhaps the most surprising because it was the first time your family had seen you cry since the news came. “I don’t want to spend what could be my last few months just…resting. Wasting time, relaxing, and-and-“

“Hey,” the sternness in Mycroft’s tone shut you up immediately. “These aren’t your last few months. That’s what we’re trying to ensure by keeping you rested, and able to fight this.”

“We’re not letting you die, understand?” Sherlock lowered himself to meet your gaze.

“Ok,” you choked, and you were relieved when John stepped forwards and pulled you into his arms.

“You’re going to be ok,” he promised.

You smiled.

“Thank you.”

[companionjones]

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Key -A story with an indent immediately under another story is a sequel. 📬 =Request // 🌧️=Angst // 📱=Fake Text // ☁️=Fluff // ☔️=Hurt/Comfort // 📚=Series // 📝=Short // 🔥=Smut

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

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

Universe: Sherlock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah? Is something happening?” John asked. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that door rigged?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Not my gif

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

[shinyasahalo]

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