The Return
Hello! Back from a very long hiatus. Sorry to those who actually still read what I write; school this year has kicked my ass. Big time. And I just got some very very disappointing news from my schools, so that has me down. But what better way to get all my emotions out than to write, right? Recently back on my Sherlock bullshit so here’s a nice Sherlock x Reader fic! Hope you enjoy and as always requests are always welcome!
Spoiler alert: this is somewhere after the Reichenbach Fall, after ‘someone’ jumps but pretend the other ‘someone’ doesn’t shoot himself
Pairing: Sherlock x Reader
Word Count: 2,689
Warnings: Violence, language
Mentions (this is new! any other character mentioned in the story will show up here!): Sherlock, Moriarty, Lestrade, (Mycroft? a little?)
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The light stung your eyes. A headache pounded against your skull, begging to release the pressure built up inside. A night out wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered, but it may have been what the therapist had in mind. Even though all the alcohol in the world wasn’t able to clear the memories that clawed their way through your mind: the memories of your American agent past. The best thing to happen to you was a bullet to the skull during a mission in Russia. That lead to the pronunciation of your death, and therefore your permanent removal from the foreign intelligence program. You were mixed up with some English agents at the time, who managed to fly you into London where you found the company of similar individuals. A new name, a new life, a new beginning. But the memories, the scars across your mind, the stains of murder and American secrets still plastered themselves across the most visible parts of your psyche.
The night out was a cover, albeit a terrible one. You caught wind of a small Russian group’s who claimed to have meddled in the American elections, and they decided to rendezvous with a local intelligence at a bar outside of London. You showed up, got drunk, and kicked ass, effectively. Four agents would be dead by the morning, and the fifth was in a coma with a broken spine. But they slipped something in one of your (many) drinks, and knocked you out before you could get rid of the fifth completely. One of Sherlock’s homeless network found you, after the bartender kicked you out, and phoned John, who picked you up and took you back to the flat.
“The pub, really?”
“What are you talking about.” It wasn’t a question; you knew what was coming.
“Are you kidding me? My homeless network found you on the streets screaming about Russ-” he went quiet, realization spreading across his face. “You didn’t.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, filling a cup of water from the tap and sitting down.
“That whole time you spent away in America, it was about this, wasn’t it? You got involved with the investigation of the American election. You found out too much before you got shot - that’s why you got shot - but you just couldn’t go on without sharing the information.” he shook his head. “You went back, to finish the investigation, didn’t you?”
You crossed your arms and looked away. He turned away from you, you could tell his blood was beginning to boil. “You went to America, a place that you were heavily involved in government intelligence work until your “death,” and you went back?” He scoffed.
“You need to relax, Sherlock, I’m a big girl. I handled it. Twice, actually.”
“You lied to me!” He screamed whipping around.
“Excuse me?” You stood up.
“You could’ve gotten yourself killed, do you understand that? Just because you wanted to prove how clever you are!”
You shook your head. “I don’t want to hear it, Sherlock, not from you, of all fucking people, no. Don’t you play this game with me.” You hissed, your voice low.
“I’m not playing anymore.” He countered.
“You fucking hypocrite. Mr high and mighty, what, you’re a saint now? Don’t even try to lecture me about “proving how clever I am”. I can’t even begin to count the times you almost killed yourself, or someone else, because you needed to show off!”
He scoffed.
“And let me guess now you’re too clever to do something you were told not to do? Too clever to make a mistake in your life? Too clever to tell a lie to avoid the problems that’d come with the truth? I’m not sure, but I think I know a few people who would disagree with that!” You looked straight into his eyes, your face inches from his.
“I did it to protect them! What you did was completely ridiculous! You could’ve gotten yourself killed, and you could’ve compromised the security of the United States government, do you understand that?!” He grabbed you by the shoulders.
You smacked them away. “I know who I am, I know what I’m capable of! I didn’t tell you because I didn’t need to! I don’t need your permission, and I don’t need to be babysat!” You spat. “And I wasn’t trying to prove how clever I was, I was trying to help the fucking country!”
You’ve never seen him more angry. Had you not known him, you’d think he was about to kill you. His breathing was heavy, his eyes wide and his face twisted in fury. You felt his muscles tense. Suddenly, his expression turned to one of confusion. He looked to the side of your head, then to the window. He swung you around, pinning you against the wall.
“What-” you tried to push him off angrily.
“Vatican cameos.” He whispered.
You pulled the gun from the sling in your hip and didn’t say another word. You looked around, eyes wide and alert.
A shatter of glass, the impact. Sherlock fell to the floor.
“No!” You cried. You tried to process what had just happened. “Sherlock, sherlock, can you hear me?”
A second bullet flew through the window, striking your side. You felt the impact, but didn’t feel the pain. Your heart was pounding, your adrenaline skyrocketed. Sherlock wasn’t speaking, but he was conscious. Your dragged him into the bathroom, the closest room in the flat without windows, where you tore off his shirt to reveal the bullet wound. It ripped through his right shoulder, travelling six inches into his back and exiting. You found the box of tampons you kept at the flat and pushed one into the entrance and one in the exit to plug the bleeding. You took a wadded up washcloth and applied pressure, wrapping awkwardly with an ace bandage. It wasn’t pretty, or nearly enough, but it would keep him alive. You called lestrade.
“Greg,” he answered. It sounded as if he had food in his mouth.
Your breathing was labored. “Lestrade, Sherlock’s been shot.”
“What? What happened?”
“We’re at the flat I have - I have something of a trauma bandage on him, but it tore through his shoulder, I don’t know what’s going to happen, please. It was a sniper, I don’t know - I don’t know who or where they were. You have to be safe too.”
“Help is on the way just keep pressure on that wound! Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you lied. You pulled your shirt up to reveal the blood flowing from your side. It was dark red. Not an artery. That was good. No exit wound. Also good. “Please just hurry.” You hung up to the phone and took another tampon and another piece of ace bandage, plugging the entrance hole and wrapping it around yourself. Then you returned pressure to Sherlock’s shoulder. You pulled him up into your lap as you laid on the floor, blood staining the white tile around you. You kept your gun loaded and in hand, ready for the sniper to show his face.
Within minutes the door was broken down. Armed officers entered with paramedics, followed by Lestrade. You lowered your gun and took a deep breath. They collected Sherlock as Lestrade helped you to your feet. You swayed a bit, clutching your side.
“You alright?” he asked, helping to stabilize you.
“Yea, yea I’m fine, just stiff, from sitting there.”
“Right. Well, there was no sign of the shooter. Still got men looking but I wouldn’t keep my hopes up, given the circumstances.”
You nodded, and followed him down the stairs. You took a seat in the ambulance with Sherlock, clutching his hand.
At the hospital, you followed the EMT’s as they rushed him into the ER. Suddenly, you fell to the ground. Your skin flushed.
“My God,” Lestrade fell to your side. “I didn’t know you were shot too!”
Nurses rushed over to you, pulling you onto a bed before taking you into an ER as well. You blacked out as you watched Sherlock disappear down the hallway.
-
As you came to, you found yourself in a dark room. You pulled up your papery gown and felt the sterile dressing of a proper bandage taped to your side. You went under and got patched up already. A small note stuck to your side table drew your attention.
“Room 221. B. Operating theater.”
A wicked smiley face grinned across the bottom of the note. Luckily, Lestrade brought your coat into the room for when you woke up, and you still had your gun inside the pocket. You took it with you, hiding it as best you could as you took a walk into the hall. None of the nurses were around, but that was probably planned. You found your way to room 221B. It was the operating theater, facing the room in which Sherlock laid, cut open, surrounded by doctors trying to put his shattered shoulder blade back together. A man stood beside the glass, watching the doctors work.
“Fitting, isn’t it? The room number. I planned that, you know.” Moriarty grinned as he turned to you. “Do put the gun down, please, I’m not in the mood for dying right now.”
Your gaze was unwavering, your finger resting on the trigger. He rolled his eyes and turned back to the glass. “I have one too you know,” he said as he pulled a gun from his pocket. “Or, at least Sherlock did. Sorry about that, again.” He tilted his head to Sherlock. “That wasn’t meant for him. It was meant for you! Collateral damage, I’m afraid, he got in the way. But it seemed to work out fine because we got to you anyway. That’s the problem with you.” He walked towards you. “You’d be the best spy, the best shot, hell you’d even be the best doctor I’d have ever seen, what, with your skill set?” You lowered the gun, listening. “I know you. I’ve been following you. You do great work, really, I know a good murder when I see one and let me tell you,” he whistled. “You impress me. Thought about hiring you for a couple of my jobs but you have ‘morals.’ What a waste. Whatever you want to be, you’d excel, if you were like the rest of them. But you’re not like the rest of them, the other spies, the other assassins. You’ve got emotions.” He went back to Sherlock. “No one else did. They had families but it was just for show. We killed their wives, or husbands-” He paused to look at you, then down at Sherlock’s handgun. “or kids. They didn’t even bat an eye they just scurried away from us to save themselves because they didn’t care. But not you. You cared a little too much for the wrong person. Funny, people like you don’t usually fall for people like Sherlock.” he looked back at the window, laughing. “And look! Seems like he “fell” for you too!”
You pulled your gun on him again, and without skipping a beat, he followed suit.
“Uh uh ah,” he shook his head. “I’d be more careful if I were you.” He whispered, “I have eyes everywhere.”
A nurse in the operating room dropped a small syringe from his sleeve, exposing it. You lowered the gun, and he slipped the syringe back up his arm, out of sight.
“There. Isn’t this nicer? It’s safer, I think. Guns are just so violent.” He spun it in his fingers. “Too much to clean up. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”
“Then why’d you hire a sniper to camp outside our flat?”
“Because it wasn’t me behind the trigger.”
“Does that put your mind at ease then? You’re still the one ordering the kill. You’ve still got blood on your hands, the blood of the innocent. God isn’t that easy to fool.”
“You, my dear, are far from innocent,” he hissed. “You’ve gotten too comfortable, with your lifestyle. You’re in my way.”
“No, you’re in mine.” You aimed the gun, and he raised his hand.
“Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Why not?” Your voice was slow, your words calculated.
“Because every advance you make on me, another one of your people go down. I’ll start with the nurses.” He tucked in his thumb. A bullet. Down. “Still don’t believe me? Here, I’ll do it again.” His pointer finger. Another bullet. Another nurse. The doctors looked on in horror. They grasped at the doors, trying to claw their way out, but they were trapped.
“You stop coming at me, (Y/N), and I’ll stop shooting them.”
You put the gun down again. Angry tears stung at your eyes.
“Good,” he said, lowering his hand. “I do hate killing people, you know. But it’s often the only way to get someone to listen.
“What do you want?” you cried.
“I told you what I want I want you out of my way.”
Without thinking, you pouncing on him, like a crazed animal. You rained on him a flurry of punches, effectively battering his face. Your gun sat just beyond your reach, so you took the fight to it. You pressed your knee against his throat, reached for the gun, and aimed it at his face, three inches away from his nose.
“No, no no no,” Moriarty whined. “I knew it, I knew emotions would - would get the best of you.” His breathing became labored. “You’re so predictable, so agonizingly normal.
“Emotion. Is not. A. Weakness,” you growled, firing a bullet into his left subclavian artery. You didn’t want to kill him; he wasn’t lucky enough for that. You needed him immobile. He’d pass out before long due to blood loss, but hopefully it was calculated well enough that he would be able to pull through, in time for questioning, and for capturing. The nurses and doctors who remained huddled in the corner of the room. Seeing you, one stepped forward, pager held tightly in a shaky hand. You took it, and read the message displayed.
SNIPER HANDLED. DEAL W NURSE. -MH
You looked around, and shot the man with the syringe before he could take another step. Then you rushed to Sherlock’s bedside. He was still unconscious, and his vitals were suddenly dropping.
“I know this is a lot to ask after what just happened, but I need you to help him.” You asked. Without hesitation, the doctors gathered back around him.
“Can you guarantee the safety of the rest of my team?” The doctor stepped forward, her eyes full of fear, but determined.
“Yes.”
She nodded, and returned to him, barking orders at her staff as if nothing had ever happened. Tears began to fill your eyes as you watched the heart rate monitor flat line.
“Sherlock?! Sherlock!” You fell at his side, grasping his limp hand as nurses surrounded you, trying to help him. Lestrade rushed in with his team. He pulled you away, your face twisting in anguish as the nurses filled in the gap you left, blocking your view. He sat you in the hall and held you for a while. Tears still rushed down your face.
-
You don’t even remember falling asleep, but you remember waking up in your hospital bed, beside Sherlock’s.
Your heart began to race. You glanced at his vitals monitor, and everything seemed to be fine. He was still sleeping, but that didn’t stop you from hopping out of your bed and rushing to his. You were careful to avoid his shoulder, which was now carefully cleaned and wrapped. You crawled into bed beside him, and rested your head on his chest. Slowly, and ever so gently, his arm wrapped around you, and pulled you in closer.
You let out a small laugh before wrapping your arm across his chest, and burying your head closer into him.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked.
“Thank you,” you replied, closing your eyes.
“I didn’t even say what for.”
“Consider it blanketing. You’ve got a clean slate, Sherlock Holmes.”
