Black Spoon

The blog of a girl who used to spend all her time reading fanfiction that grew into an adult who now writes it , She/her, (18+), Masterlist

[blackspoon99]

Masterlist

Sherlock x Female! Reader

One-Shots:

In the Name of Science

A Night at the Theater (Halloween Fic)

Series: 

You Told Me So: 

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3 | Pt 4 | Pt 5 | Pt 6 | Pt 7 | Pt 8 | Pt 9 | Pt 10 

The Empty Hearse:

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3 | Pt 4 | Pt 5 | Pt 6

The Sign of Three: 

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3 | Pt 4 | Pt 5

His Last Vow:

Pt.1  Pt. 2 (In progress)

[blackspoon99]

So happy you're back!! And very excited about your work ❤️‍🩹

Thank you so much!! 💖💖💖

[blackspoon99]

His Last Vow Pt. 2

Sherlock x Female! Reader

TW: Strong Language, Mild Violence, Magnussen in general

This is a continuation of my BBC Sherlock Season 3 reader insert work. I previously wrote one for The Empty Hearse and one for The Sign of Three. You don’t have to read them to understand this fic, but it would definitely help with the details! Both are linked on my masterlist if you’re interested in reading them as well! 

His Last Vow Pt. 1

8:15 am

John was a good friend. He could tell when it was best to push you no further. He also didn’t try to follow you when you needed some time alone. John knew you well enough to know that you didn’t appreciate persistence. 

As you ducked around the corner of the block, you noticed John had gone back inside. You got on the tube with a floaty feeling in your head. The absence of tears and the dehydration left you feeling spent and empty. The tube station was not crowded. It was still too early for most people to be heading to work. You felt uneasy without the mindless chatter and white noise. 

A train pulled into the station and slowed to a stop. You caught a glimpse of your own reflection in the tinted glass of the doors just before they opened. You were shocked by the gaunt contours of your face and the unfamiliar look in your eyes. This sobering moment brought you back to consciousness and you suddenly became aware of your breathing again. 

When you got home, you felt numb. Exhaustion was spreading through your body and making your limbs feel heavy. Reluctantly, you moped to the bathroom and turned on the shower. In the mirror, you stared at your dark circles and contemplated calling in sick. After a minute of back and forth, you ultimately decided that having nothing to do would be worse.

Once you got to work, unfortunately, you were the only one working that day. You would have appreciated the company. Your usual co-worker was a chatty young woman who loved to tell you stories about her shockingly colorful private life. She didn’t care much for mysteries and cases and never asked you about Sherlock Holmes. 

After a few hours of numbing your thoughts with seemingly pointless tasks, you decided that since the store wasn’t busy, you didn’t have to be either. You strolled the shelves, running your fingertips over the spines of the books until you found the Jane Austen section. You decided you didn’t even have the energy or will to read something new. With your index finger, you pulled out a copy of Mansfield Park and returned to the register.  

5:48 pm

The rest of the workday was quiet. It had turned out to be a bit of a gloomy day. You figured the rain may have driven the usual bookstore dwellers back into the comfort of their homes. There were a few shoppers here and there, not many of them needing any special kind of assistance. 

In a few short hours, you managed to read nearly the entire book. It was close to the end of your shift, and you wanted to finish the book before you went home. You’d decided long ago that reading books that you didn’t pay for was just an innocent perk of the job, just as long as you didn’t take them home with you later. 

The only question was what you would do to occupy your mind once your shift ended. You had to think of something or otherwise, you’d have to think about- 

Across the shop, the doorbell chimed with the opening of the door, interrupting the thought. You lifted your gaze just above the pages to see the last person you’d wanted to come by. 

“Sherlock,” you said flatly. “What are you doing here?” 

He approached the register. As he stepped into the light of the shop, you noticed he looked more or less back to normal. He’d showered, shaved, and swapped the soiled sweatshirt for his usual tailored suit. The only evidence of his escapades were the deep bags under his eyes. They seemingly matched yours. You wondered if he’d care more about himself if he saw what his carelessness did to everyone else. 

“Have you forgotten already? Magnussen. John’s already been briefed and you’re falling behind. I’m just here to catch you up.” 

“Haven’t spoken to me in weeks and suddenly you urgently need me involved in a case?” You avoided eye contact by looking down at your book and turning a page. 

This was a rather inconvenient time for Sherlock to pick up his habit of dropping by your work whenever he felt like it. 

“A case that somehow led to a night’s stay in a crack den?” you continued without looking up. As soon as you spoke, you realized that Sherlock likely assumed you were angry at him because of where he slept last night. In reality, your anger was more than partly concerned with where Janine had spent the night. 

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair “A case involving such a sensitive matter has required meticulous planning and large amounts of time laying the groundwork—” 

“I wasn’t asking to hear the justification. It may come as a surprise, but for once, I’m not interested.” You put the book down with much more force than you meant to. When you looked up, Sherlock was much closer to the desk than he had been a second ago. 

“Oh really?” he asked smugly, leaning in slightly. 

“What makes you think I’ll be interested in every case you come across? Maybe I could use a break from you after this morning. Not to mention, I really am quite busy at the moment.” 

“Oh, are you?” Sherlock asked. He reached behind the register and dangled the book by his gloved hand. You took the book back, unamused. 

“Come on, this isn’t like you. The Y/n I know would prefer to solve cases rather than read about them.” Your eyes flicked up to his. “Just hear what I have to say. I’m sure I can make you interested.” 

“You’re full of confidence today, aren’t you?” Your tone was dripping with sarcasm.

“I do have a pretty stellar track record though, don’t I?” 

You sighed. “Fine. But don’t take this as forgiveness for the bullshit you pulled this morning.” At least you could pretend you were angry at Sherlock for a non-selfish reason. You felt a sudden wave of shame at the thought that you were angry at Sherlock for doing something that should have made him happy. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Come on, isn’t your favorite cafe just across the street?” You didn’t answer. “I know you only have approximately...” He leaned down to check his watch “8 minutes until the end of your shift.” 

“Fine. I’ll just meet you there, I have to close up first.” “No.” He stated plainly.

“No?”

“I’ll go with you, I insist.” 

“I really don’t see—” 

“Please.” You were stunned. Sherlock had used that word with such urgency and pleading very few times since you’d known him. “Forgive me if I am not confident in your ability to make our appointments.” 

“Alright,” you replied quietly. You stared down at the register. Your cheeks burned slightly as you remembered he must be referring to how the last time you left the bookstore on your way to meet Sherlock, you’d nearly been kindling for a massive bonfire. “I’ll get my bag.” 

Sherlock waited for you as you quickly closed up the shop. The rain poured outside. You cursed under your breath, realizing you didn’t have an umbrella. You and Sherlock walked outside. As you pulled your keys out to lock the door, Sherlock shielded you from the rain with the side of his coat. Despite everything, he could be quite the gentleman. 

Thankfully, your destination wasn’t far. When Sherlock saw a break in the traffic, he grabbed your hand and jogged across the street, under the awning, and into the café. In the few moments you had been outside, the heavy rain had soaked your hair.

The café was quiet and dim in the low light of the rain and you shivered slightly in the air conditioning. You walked over to the closest table, right by the large window of the storefront. 

You took off your damp coat and draped it over the back of the chair. You and Sherlock were the only people in the café. With no other customers, the only sounds were the faint buzzing of the fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of dishes and cookware in the kitchen. After you sat down, Sherlock was quiet for a moment. It was almost as if both of you were waiting for the other to speak. You fidgeted in your seat and frowned at the realization that this was the first time you felt uncomfortable in a moment of silence between you and Sherlock. 

A woman suddenly materialized at the edge of the table and asked what you would like to order. Sherlock ordered a coffee, black with 2 sugars and you elected to order a hot cup of tea. The waitress returned with your drinks and then flatly informed you that they were closing in 30 minutes. 

Sherlock had paid for you both before you could even reach for your wallet. He was being suspiciously kind today. You decided trying to analyze the intentions of his actions was exhausting and futile. 

Across the table, Sherlock stirred his coffee. “Now, Magnussen. Magnussen is like a shark – it’s the only way I can describe him.” 

He then abruptly stopped stirring his coffee and put his forearms down on the table, leaning forward. “Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, Y/n – stood up close to the glass? Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes ... That’s what he is.” Sherlock spoke with deep sincerity, his eyes staring directly into yours. “I’ve dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen.” 

You furrowed your brow and took a sip of tea. Despite the clear importance of the information Sherlock was giving you, your mind wandered. Your gaze shifted to the circle-shaped stain of coffee on his paper napkin. You wondered how long Sherlock had been seeing Janine. If that was why he had been ignoring you. You then wondered if she made him happy... 

“You may know Magnussen as a newspaper owner, but he’s so much more than that. He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power. I’m not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail... Y/n, are you listening?” 

Your eyes snapped up. “Yes, sorry. I’m just a bit distracted. Eyes like a shark, wealth and power.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He looked directly at you. There was a second painful moment of silence as he made eye contact with you. “Did you go into my bedroom?” 

Some of your tea leaped out of your cup as you abruptly put it down on the table with a sharp clank. Your face immediately heated up. “What?” you asked, stunned. 

“Did you go into my bedroom?” He repeated. 

“Well, no,” you said, avoiding eye contact. Sherlock’s jaw visibly relaxed. “But, uhm, what was in the bedroom came out and spoke to me and John.” 

“Oh.” Now it was Sherlock’s turn to take a keen interest in his coffee. 

“So, you’re seeing Janine now.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“It was meant to be a surprise.”

 “It was.”

“Y/n-”

“And you’re ... happy?” 

“Yes...I am that…” There was a long pause, “…happy.” 

You nodded thoughtfully. This was a nightmare. You never expected Sherlock to bring up his relationship with Janine, even indirectly. You awkwardly looked out the window at the busy street outside. You idly played with the neckline of your sweater, running your finger over your collarbone. Through all of your fidgeting, he never took his eyes off you. 

You turned to look back at him. “That’s all I need to know, that you’re happy.” You had said the word ‘happy’ so many times, it was starting to sound funny. Happy. Happ-y. Happy.

Change the subject now, your mind screamed. You cleared your throat and took another sip of tea. “So, the case?” 

“Er, right,” Sherlock said, clasping his hands on the table. “Magnussen has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge.”

As he moved on, you felt relieved of the tension in your shoulders that you didn't realize you here holding.

“Its name ...” He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket and held up the screen. “... is Appledore.” 

On the screen was a photo of an extravagant mansion in the countryside. The exterior was made mostly of glass with sloping hills surrounding the property. “Wow,” you said under your breath. 

“It is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world, the Alexandrian Library of secrets and scandals – and none of it is on a computer. He’s smart – computers can be hacked. It’s all on hard copy in vaults underneath that house; and as long as it is, the personal freedom of anyone you’ve ever met is a fantasy.” 

You frowned. You found it hard to believe such a man could exist. From the sound of it and Mycroft’s reaction to the very mention of his name, Magnussen had his hand in several of the world’s most influential governments. “What does he want?” you asked. 

“Power. Control. He keeps people in his back pocket just in case they may one day be useful. And he certainly seems to get his use out of my dear brother.” 

You could only imagine the shit he must have on Mycroft. “So, it seems. What do you want with him?” You had a feeling in the pit of your stomach that Sherlock shouldn’t be getting involved with a man like this. You remembered the years of his fascination with Jim Moriarty and how you’d lost him for 2 years in the end. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s the case? What’s all this for?” 

“I have been contacted by a person of high political standing who wishes for me to retrieve something from Magnussen’s collection.” 

“And who might that be?” 

“Lady Elizabeth Smallwood.” 

You nodded. Lady Smallwood was a prominent member of parliament. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t dying to know what Magnussen had on her. Across the table, Sherlock pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. “Would you look at the time? We’d better be going.” 

“What? Where?” you asked, slightly startled. “I haven’t even finished my tea.” 

Sherlock threw on his coat and pulled his leather gloves out of his pocket. “Quick stop at the flat, then we have an appointment.” 

“I’m sorry, we? I haven’t agreed to help.” 

Sherlock ignored you and headed out the door. He leaned his head back through the doorway. “Well, are you coming?” 

You sighed and pulled on your coat. You followed Sherlock, leaving behind a half-full cup of tea, still steaming on the café table. 

———————————

You and Sherlock took a cab to Baker Street. The reason you decided to go along with Sherlock no matter how you thought you were feeling was a selfish one. 

With anyone else, you’d have already decided it wasn’t worth it. But to you, Sherlock was more than just someone you loved. He was your hobby, your passion, the foundation of life’s excitement, and he was the simple belief that you had the potential to be invaluable, to do something important with your life. 

You wondered how you ever lived your life before you met him. In short, you were still here because of the simple fact that you weren’t willing to give up the feeling. Maybe one day, you'd learn to adjust your expectations.

Taking a deep breath, you followed Sherlock through the front door. As soon as you arrived, Mrs. Hudson scurried out from her flat on the main floor. She looked anxious, her brow furrowed. 

“Sherlock, there’s someone waiting for you upstairs,” she said, her voice quivering slightly.

“Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?” you asked. She looked terrified. 

Before she could answer, Sherlock began walking up the stairs, pulling you with him by the sleeve of your coat. 

When you reached the top of the stairs, you saw two large armed men blocking the open doorway. Personal security? No wonder Mrs. Hudson had looked so frightened. You thought back to the last time there had been strange armed men in Baker Street.

Sherlock approached them and raised his arms. “Please,” he said cordially as one of the men began to pat him down. 

The other security guard approached you, and you reluctantly allowed him to frisk you for weapons. Once you and Sherlock had been cleared and the armed bodyguards stepped to the side, you saw an unfamiliar man making himself comfortable in Sherlock’s chair. This must be Magnussen. 

Sherlock approached him. “I understood we were meeting at your office.” 

“This is my office,” Magnussen said gesturing to the room. “Well, it is now.” He stood up and walked over to Sherlock’s desk. With one hand, he fanned out the papers neatly stacked by the window. 

At first, you couldn’t believe this was the man Sherlock had described. He had a softer speaking voice, a clear presence, but nothing that came off as initially threatening. He wasn't big or tall and was older than you’d expected. Everything about this man seemed confident but unassuming. 

That was until he shifted his gaze to you. “Ah, how rude of me. This must be the lovely Miss Y/n. I’ve just read so much about you.” He took a few steps toward you. Read? Where would he have read anything about you? Due to your own preference, you weren’t often included much in John’s blog posts. He moved closer until he was right in front of you. He extended his hand out to you. You looked up into his eyes and immediately felt your stomach lurch. Now you saw that Sherlock’s description had been spot on. His pupils were large and vacant with nothing behind them, exactly like a shark.

When you didn't give him your hand, he reached out and forcefully grabbed your wrist. His strong grip caused you to cry out in shock. Sherlock took a step forward. Magnussen suddenly relaxed his hold and tenderly lifted your hand to his face. He brought your hand to his mouth and gently kissed your knuckles. You fought the urge to gag as you felt his damp lips brush your hand. Your nose crinkled slightly in disgust. 

He chuckled at your reaction and dropped your hand. It was like he could smell your discomfort. Sherlock crossed the room and physically put himself between you and Magnussen.

“Mr. Magnussen,” Sherlock started, “I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband’s letters. Some time ago you ... put pressure on her concerning those letters.” Magnussen didn’t seem to be paying attention at all. He wandered to the bookshelf, running his hands across the spines. “She would like those letters back.” 

Finally, he turned around to look in the direction of you and Sherlock. “Obviously, the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind-”

Magnussen abruptly let out a snort of amusement and looked from you to Sherlock. “Something, I said?” asked Sherlock, clearly agitated. 

“Sorry, I was reading,” said Magnussen. He adjusted his glasses. “There’s rather a lot.” 

Again what was he reading? 

Magnussen turned to look at Sherlock. “Redbeard,” he said plainly. Sherlock blinked a few times, shock written on his face. "Sorry. You were probably talking?”

"I was trying to explain that I’ve been asked to act on behalf of ..."

Ignoring him, Magnussen turned to one of his guards. "Bathroom?"

"Along from the kitchen, sir" he replied. 

"Okay," Magnussen acknowledged. 

"I’ve been asked to negotiate the return of those letters," Sherlock continued, firmer this time. "I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents..."

"Is it like the rest of the flat?" Magnussen addressed his security again. 

"Sir?"

"The bathroom?"

"Er, yes, sir."

"Maybe not, then."

You were stunned. You had never been in a situation where Sherlock could not maintain control of a room. He could out-wit and out-speak anyone you had met. You had seen him squeeze information and even involuntary confessions from some of the world's most intelligent criminals for years. And yet, this man was walking all over him. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?”

"Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I like her." Magnussen sat down in Sherlock's chair and smiled, patting the arms. 

"Mr. Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock repeated. 

"She’s English, with a spine." He moved to put his feet on the coffee table, kicking off books and papers. You could see Sherlock frown out of the corner of your eye. "the best thing about the English: you’re so domesticated. All standing around, apologizing..." He stood up again and wandered over to the fireplace.  "... keeping your little heads down." 

You thought you heard him unzipping his pants. "You can do what you like here. No one’s ever going to stop you. A nation of herbivores." He glanced over his shoulder. Much to your disgust, you could hear him urinating into the fireplace. "I’ve interests all over the world but, er, everything starts in England. If it works here, I’ll try it in a real country." 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he zipped up his pants and turned to the security guard. The guard handed him a wet wipe. "The United Kingdom, huh? Petri dish to the Western world." he wiped his hands and discarded the wipe onto the floor.

He walked over to Sherlock. "Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need those letters, so I’m keeping them."

He walked past Sherlock and over to you. "Goodbye," he said with a wink as he passed. He paused in the doorway "Anyway ..." He opened his jacket and pulled out some folded papers to show Sherlock. "... they’re funny."

Magnussen and his guards walked down the stairs and out the door.

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

A/N:

Yikes guys its been a minute. Sorry about that. I'm still here though and I am determined to finish this story whether anyone is still reading or not :) ! It's the first thing I have written in years so hopefully it's not too bad!

[imagine221bmoved]

Y/N: I know nobody asked for my opinion...

Sherlock: And yet you're talking.

Y/N: ...but I agree with Sherlock.

Sherlock: Let's hear them out.

[blackspoon99]

Please these are so funny

[imagine221bmoved]

Y/N: I sort of did something and I need some advice, but I don’t want any judgement or criticism.

Sherlock: And you came to me?

[imagine221bmoved]

Sherlock: Hello, Y/N.

Y/N: Hey, Sherlock.

Sherlock: I thought you might be impressed that I remembered your name.

Y/N: Well, it's sort of a basic human expectation I have after meeting someone a number of times.

Sherlock: It's something I've been working on.

Y/N: ...Meeting basic human expectations?

[nixxie-pic]

Happy New Year from (A very cheery, honestly!) Sherlock!

[bbcsherlock]

happy new year here are all my stag night uquiz caps to start 2022 <3

[northernbookworm]

Happy New Year! 

[blackspoon99]

His Last Vow Pt.1

Sherlock x Female! Reader

TW: Drug Use, Strong Language, Mild Violence

This is a continuation of my BBC Sherlock Season 3 reader insert work. I previously wrote one for The Empty Hearse and one for The Sign of Three. You don’t have to read them to understand this fic, but it would definitely help with the details! Both are linked below if you’re interested in reading them as well! 

The Empty Hearse Pt. 1

The Sign of Three Pt. 1

5:47 am  

You were harshly torn from your last 2 hours of sleep by the familiar sound of your ringtone. You tore off your eye mask and looked at the caller ID. The flash of light momentarily blinded you as you tried to make out the name.

John. He wouldn’t be calling so early if it weren’t important. You lifted the phone to your ear and answered.

“Hello…” your voice came out scratchy and uneven.

“Y/n? Yeah, hello it’s John”

“I can see that John,” you groaned. “I have caller ID.”

“Right, ‘course. Well, I think you should come meet me at St. Bart’s.”

“St. Bart’s? Is everything alright? It isn’t Mary, is it?” You threw the covers off you and swung your legs over the edge of your bed. It had been a few weeks after John and Mary got married and John and Mary were expecting a daughter.

“No no, Mary’s just fine,”

“Hello, Y/n! I’m here,” Mary interjected.

“Uh actually, it’s Sherlock.” Your stomach sank. “Before you worry, he’s alright, just a twat.”

“What’s that wanker got up to now? He’d better bloody be okay with the way he’s been acting.” Ever since the wedding, you hadn’t seen much of Sherlock. He’d recently shut out nearly everyone. You’d even dropped by, but Mrs. Hudson said he hadn’t been home much lately. You had even mentioned it to John, but he was too busy with his own life to be worrying constantly about Sherlock.

Sherlock’s voice came over the phone. “I can hear you, you know.”

“Sherlock, what have you done?”

“Y/n—” John cut you off. “I think you’d better just meet us there.” John then hung up on you. You took a deep breath and placed your feet on the cold floor. Of course, St. Bart’s would be the first place you’d seen Sherlock since the wedding. Even though John assured you Sherlock was alright, you were still worried. He’d been noticeably absent the past few weeks. In all the time you’d known him, you’d never gone this long without seeing him. Even if you didn’t stop by Baker Street, he’d just appear at your work or even in your flat on occasion. The first week, you assumed he was still moping after the wedding, but it had been nearly a month now.

You walked over to the bathroom mirror. You brushed your teeth and washed your face. You decided it wasn’t worth attempting to deal with your hair. You also didn’t bother getting dressed. You walked over to your dresser and rummaged around for your thick wool socks. You then pulled the nearest available shoes over them and grabbed a jacket. Then you were out the door.

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

As soon as you walked into St. Bart’s the first thing you noticed was the smell. Horrifically, the smell was coming from Sherlock. He looked like a wreck. He was wearing a dirty sweatsuit and soiled trainers. His facial hair was patchy and overgrown, and his skin looked sickly and yellow. John, Molly, and Sherlock were bickering when you walked in.

“Ah, Y/n’s here! Just lovely.” Sherlock said, sarcastically.

“John?” you asked, “What’s happened?”

“What’s happened is we’ve just discovered Sherlock in an active crack den.” He snapped, pointing over at Sherlock.

You stormed over to Sherlock, prepared to do or say…something, but Sherlock interjected before you could speak.

“Y/n! You look tired. Clearly, I’ve disrupted your beauty sleep. Or maybe you look tired because you’ve had not one, but two unsuccessful first dates in the last 2 weeks.”

You bit your lip and swallowed your anger. You didn’t want to hear the bullshit about how he knew that just from looking at you. You turned to Molly. “He’s high, isn’t he? He’s always mean when he’s high.” You shifted your gaze back to Sherlock.

Molly handed you her clipboard. You skimmed his lab results but stopped reading after the third narcotic on the list. Your lower lip trembled in rage. You calmly handed the clipboard back to Molly. Then in one, quick, impulsive motion, you delivered a back-handed slap to the right side of Sherlock’s face. His face jerked to the side from the force, and he brought one hand to his cheekbone. He scoffed.

“Molly already slapped me.”

“Clearly it wasn’t enough. What were you thinking Sherlock? You’ve been avoiding me for weeks; Mrs. Hudson says you haven’t been ‘round the flat much.” A man playing around with the glassware caught your eye. The goofy-looking man looked almost as bad as Sherlock. He appeared to be playing with a graduated cylinder as if it were an airplane. “Okay, who the fuck is that?” you asked no one in particular.

“They call me the wig,” the man replied.

“No, they don’t” replied Sherlock. How did Sherlock know this man?

“Well, they-they call me Wiggy.”

“Nope.”

“Fine. It’s Bill. Bill Wiggins.”

“Right,” you started. “So, where’d you find him?”

“Me and Shezza go way back,” Wiggins replied.

You looked to Sherlock. “Shezza?” you asked in complete disbelief.

“I was undercover,” mumbled Sherlock.

“Yeah, Sherlock Holmes was undercover in a crack den,” John snapped. “And for some unknown reason, we’re giving everyone a ride home.” He then looked to Mary who shrugged.

Wiggins pointed to John. “He broke my arm.”

“Sprained it,” clarified John.

“You did what?” interjected Mary.

“Lovely, just lovely,” you interrupted. “How could you do this, Sherlock? You promised it wouldn’t happen again.”

“Oh, relax it’s for a case.”

“Oh! It’s for a case!” you exclaimed sarcastically, “It’s alright everyone. Sherlock’s just done this for a case, so everything’s just fine.”

“A ca... What kind of case would need you doing this?” John interjected.

“I might as well ask you why you’ve started cycling to work,” said Sherlock.

“No. We’re not playing this game,” John said sternly.

“Quite recently, I’d say. You’re very determined about it.”

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” you scolded. “No one wants to hear it. Can’t you see we care about you?”

The brief moment of silence that followed was interrupted by a text alert from Sherlock’s phone.

“Ah! Finally,” Sherlock exclaimed.

“Finally? What?” asked Molly.

“Good news, excellent news!”

“Pardon?” you asked.

“There’s every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on.” Sherlock began to leave the room, typing on his phone. “Excuse me for a moment.”

You turned to John but elected not to speak. Everyone in the room exchanged a few glances before turning to follow him.

“Thank you, Molly. I’m sorry for all the trouble,” you said on the way out.

“I’m sorry too, Y/n,” she replied.

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

John and Mary had decided you and John ought to sober him up and keep watch over the next few hours. Mary decided to drive home separately while you and John dragged Sherlock into a cab to Baker Street.

The three of you were squished in the back of the cab and you were snug between John and Sherlock. You were still seething. You stared straight ahead, trying not to look at him. Embarrassingly, you couldn’t figure out if you were angry at Sherlock more for the drugs or for the weeks of avoiding you. It was somewhat humiliating how much of your time and energy went into thinking about Sherlock Holmes. You were even more ashamed that you were obviously in love with someone who was currently high on narcotics and smelled like piss. Eventually, Sherlock broke the silence.

“You’ve heard of Charles Augustus Magnussen, of course.”

“Yeah. Owns some newspapers – ones I don’t read,” replied John.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Sherlock looking down at you, waiting for your response.

“You reek, Sherlock, you know that?” you said bitterly, ignoring his question.

He rolled his eyes. “Hang on, weren’t there other people?” Sherlock asked, looking confused.

“Mary’s taking the boys home; Y/n and I are taking you home. We did discuss it.”

“People were talking, none of them me. I must have filtered.”

“Not surprised,” you mumbled.

The cab slowly pulled over in front of the flat.

“What is my brother doing here?” Sherlock leaped out of the cab and stormed to the front door. You climbed out onto the curb and went after him.

“I guess I’ll just pay then,” said John.

You shot him a sympathetic look. “I’ll get the next one.”

Sherlock walked up to the door and pointed angrily at the door. “He’s straightened the knocker. He always corrects it. He’s OCD. Doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”

Sherlock walked up to the door and paused before shifting the knocker back to its usual crooked orientation.

“Why’d you do that?” asked John

“Do what?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

You followed John and Sherlock through the door. Sure enough, Mycroft was waiting for the three of you in the foyer. He stood there dressed to the nines in his usual stiff suit, despite the early hour. He leaned casually against the banister with a smug look plastered across his face. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at him. Your relationship with Mycroft was… complicated. Pleasant and warm were certainly not the first words that came to mind. Civil maybe?

“Well, then Sherlock, back on the sauce?” He asked.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock spat.

“I phoned him,” John clarified.

“The siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy – though, in many ways, cross-dressing would have been a wiser path for you,” Mycroft jeered.

“You phoned him?” Sherlock asked with a look of betrayal.

“Of course, he phoned him,” you interjected.

“Ah, hello there Y/n. You look well.” Mycroft said with a hint of amusement. A clear and cheap jab at your disheveled appearance.

“I did leave in a bit of a hurry. Sorry, I didn’t dress for the occasion,” you replied sarcastically.

“Yes, of course not,” he replied snidely. Mycroft then turned to Sherlock. “Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?”

“We?” Sherlock asked.

With nearly perfect comedic timing you heard a familiar voice ring down from upstairs.

“Mr. Holmes?” Anderson. You thought it was rather funny how the once shrewd critic of Sherlock and overall thorn in your side now politely addressed him as “Mr. Holmes”.

“For GODS SAKE!” Sherlock yelled furiously. He shoved past Mycroft and stormed up the stairs.

You, Mycroft, and John followed him up the stairs and into the kitchen.

“Anderson.” Sherlock sneered. Anderson had two unfamiliar people with him: a woman helping Anderson and a man sitting in Sherlock’s chair. No doubt members of the odd Sherlock Holmes fan club he started after Sherlock’s “death”. Before Sherlock returned from beyond the grave, you had found Anderson’s little club to be unsettling and sad. Now it was rather amusing.

“Sorry, Sherlock but it’s for your own good.”

“So that’s him?” the woman asked, fascinated. “I thought he’d be taller.”

Sherlock sneered and slammed his keys on the table. He stormed over to his chair, frightening the meek man sitting in it enough to make him practically run away.

“Hello, Phillip,” you said kindly, walking into the kitchen.

“Hello, Y/n. Nice to see you.”

You smiled and gave a polite nod. Across the flat, Sherlock pulled his hood over his head and flopped into his chair sideways, laying in fetal position.

“Some members of your little fan club,” Started Mycroft. “Do be polite. They’re entirely trustworthy and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat.” You let out a brief chuckle. Sherlock groaned and closed his eyes. “You’re a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can’t afford a drug habit.”

Sherlock reluctantly opened his eyes. “Well, I do not have a drug habit.”

“So, it would seem,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Hey, what happened to my chair?” asked John. You then noticed the shockingly large gap between Sherlock’s chair and the kitchen. It was funny, the flat seemed empty without it. Was it possible Sherlock couldn’t bear to look at it in John’s absence?

“It was blocking my view to the kitchen,” Sherlock said plainly. Nevermind.

“Well, it’s good to be missed,” John said curtly.

“Well, you were gone. I saw an opportunity.”

“Actually, you saw the kitchen,” you quipped. John shot you a look, indicating that he was not amused.

Mycroft turned to Anderson and his posse. “What have you found so far? Clearly nothing.”

“There’s nothing to find,” Sherlock insisted. Funnily enough, you weren’t convinced.

Mycroft suddenly raised an eyebrow and turned around towards the back of the flat. “Your bedroom door is shut. You haven’t been home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?”

At Mycroft’s words, Sherlock lifted his head from the arm of his chair. Mycroft walked over to Sherlock’s door and reached for the handle.

“Okay stop! Just stop.” You sensed desperation in his tone. What could he be hiding? “Point made.”

Mycroft reached for the handle, turned it, but did not open it. He slowly dropped his hand and returned to the living room.

“Have to phone our parents, of course, in Oklahoma. Won’t be the first time that your substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line-dancing.”

Sherlock finally stood up from his chair. “This is not what you think. This is for a case.”

“What case could possibly justify this?”

Sherlock’s face darkened as he spoke. “Magnussen.” With that single word, the smile dropped from Mycroft’s face. “Charles Augustus Magnussen.” Mycroft sighed briefly, then turned on his heel to address the people in the kitchen.

“That name you think you may have just heard – you were mistaken. If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you – on behalf of the British security services – that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don’t reply – just look frightened and scuttle.”

Anderson and his group followed his instructions and swiftly left the flat. Mycroft turned back to face you and John. “I hope I won’t have to threaten you as well.”

You let out a curt laugh and looked over at John.

“Well, I think we’d all find that embarrassing.” John cracked. Sherlock let out a snort and a genuine laugh.

“Magnussen is not your business,” Mycroft said sternly.

“Oh, so he’s yours,” said Sherlock.

“You may consider him under my protection.”

“I consider you under his thumb.”

Mycroft shook his head sternly. “If you go against Magnussen, you will find yourself going against me.”

“Okay. I’ll let you know if I notice,” Sherlock said nonchalantly. He then strolled over to the kitchen, swinging his arms as he walked. “Er, what was I going to say? Oh, yeah. Bye-bye.” Sherlock turned to open the door and pointed to the stairs. Mycroft slowly walked over to him.

“Unwise, brother mine,” he taunted.

Sherlock suddenly grabbed Mycroft’s wrist, pinned his arm behind his back, and slammed him face-first against the wall. Mycroft cried out in pain.

“Sherlock!” you yelled and rushed over.

“Brother mine,” Sherlock hissed, breathing heavily. “Don’t appall me when I’m high.”

“Mycroft,” John said softly behind you, “Don’t say another word. Just go. He could snap you in two, and right now I am slightly worried that he might.”

Your eyes flickered over to Sherlock’s face. His face was contorted in anger and his breaths were ragged. Mycroft wrenched himself from Sherlock’s grip and Sherlock turned and walked back to the living room.

“Don’t speak, just leave,” John said, sternly.

Without a word, you reached down to hand Mycroft his umbrella. He snatched it from your hand and left, cradling his arm. You shook your head disapprovingly and walked back over to Sherlock. You supposed Mycroft did have it coming after all these years.

John cleared his throat. “Er, Magnussen?”

“What time is it?” asked Sherlock, ignoring the question.

“About eight,” you said. If it really was eight, you’d have to leave for work soon.

“I need a bath,” Sherlock said and began to head for the bathroom.

“Is this really for a case?” you asked him.

“Yes”

“Well, what sort of case?”

“One too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in,” Sherlock said over his shoulder.

“Are you trying to put us off?” asked John.

“No, I’m trying to recruit you.” Sherlock then disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door. “And stay out of my bedroom!” he yelled from inside the bathroom. After he closed the door, you heard the sound of water running. You suddenly felt how exhausted you were. You flopped down in Sherlock’s chair and rested your head on your hand.

“This seems uncomfortably similar to the old days, doesn’t it John?” John scoffed, then smiled, nodding in agreement.

“What do you think, should we see what’s in Sherlock’s bedroom?” He asked.

You laughed. “I don’t think I would dare. Besides, after everything that’s happened this morning, I’m not sure I can handle anything else.”

“That I agree with, although I don’t know if I can resist the temptation”

“By the way, there’s something I don’t understand. When you found him, how did you know to look for him?”

“I didn’t actually. I was looking for someone else.”

“Do you know a lot of people with drug problems?”

“Neighbor’s son. His mother, Kate, came to our flat in bits. So, I went to go collect her son, and I found him there.”

“I see married life hasn’t changed you much.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well. Most people would have called the police. Not John Watson, though. Storming into crack dens, spraining junkies’ arms.”

John chuckled and shook his head.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“How is married life? I feel like you’ve sort of been absent lately.”

“It’s been… different. Most of the time it’s wonderful. Slower, quieter, but wonderful.” He looked over to you. “Y/n, I’m sorry I haven’t called… in a while. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain, it’s just been an adjustment since the honeymoon and—”

“It’s alright John. I just want to know you’re alright and happy, and it seems you are.” You smiled at him. “Speaking of the wedding, look. Sherlock’s got your wedding invitation on the mantel. Sort of sweet.”

You got up and walked over to the mantle to inspect it. As you walked closer, you noticed something peeking out from behind the invitation. It was a flower neatly pressed in a gold frame. To your shock, it appeared to be the yellow lily you gave him at the wedding. You smiled to yourself as you felt your heart rate pick up. Hold on a moment. He gave that to Janine, didn’t he? How did he get it back? Why was it framed now?

To your left, you heard a door open. Your heart dropped straight down to your stomach when you saw Janine emerging from Sherlock’s bedroom wearing nothing but one of his button-downs.

“Oh, John, Y/n, hi.”

“Janine?” John asked. In your shock, you were utterly speechless. All words were lost to you.

“Sorry, not dressed yet. Has everybody gone? I heard shouting.”

“Uh yeah.” John croaked out.

“Sounded like an argument. Was it Mike?”

“Mike?” asked John in disbelief.

“Mike, yeah. His brother, Mike. They’re always fighting.”

“Mycroft?”

“Do people actually call him that?”

“They do,” John said awkwardly. Janine walked past him and into the kitchen. John turned his gaze to you with a concerned expression. Your feet were still rooted to the spot as you anxiously tugged on the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

“Huh! Oh, could you be a love and put some coffee on?” asked Janine.

“Yeah okay,” said John without taking his eyes off you.

“Where’s Sherl?”

“Sherl…” John whispered under his breath in complete exasperation. “He’s just having a bath. I’m sure he’ll be out in a minute.”

“Oh, like he ever is,” said Janine. She then walked back towards Sherlock’s bedroom but instead went straight into the bathroom. “Morning! Room for a little one?”

You then heard Sherlock’s voice. “Morning” Followed by giggling. John was still starring at the bathroom door. You rushed out the door before he could see you. As you hurried down the stairs you felt a wave of nausea followed by light-headedness. You needed air quickly. As you stumbled through the foyer, Mrs. Hudson stepped in front of you and said something to you. Whatever it was, it didn’t process. You stepped around her and rushed out the door.

The sudden rush of cool air was sobering. The shock and disorientation then turned abruptly to heartbreak. Your stomach felt heavy as you felt tears begin to accumulate in your eyes. This couldn’t be happening.

“Y/n!” It was John. He followed you out onto the sidewalk and put his hand on your shoulder. “Are you alright?”

You walked a few feet away, just out of reach, and turned to face him. “I think you know I’m not, John.” He paused, unsure of what to say to console you. “How could he let me find out this way?”

“He’s Sherlock, he doesn’t think. I don’t think he realizes—”

“That’s the problem, John! All this time, I assumed he didn’t want…that he wasn’t interested in…” You reached up and hurriedly wiped the stray tears spilling from your eyes away with your sleeve. “This just proves that he was always capable of being with someone else, just that he didn’t want that with me.”  

“I know he cares about you, Y/n. I’m, frankly just as shocked as you. I’d always thought he…” John cleared his throat instead of finishing his sentence. You had a few guesses about what he could have meant to say.

You crossed your arms over your chest and took a few deep breaths. You looked up at the sky and blinked stray tears away. “It’s not enough John. Because… I love him.”

“I know.” He said quietly.

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

A/N: Hello! So it’s been a while... sorry about that! I just graduated college and finally finished my thesis! I’ve got a lot more time on my hands now that I am applying for jobs, so hopefully I will be able to update more frequently! Thanks for sticking with this story and this blog! Much love!

Taglist:  @the-chaotic-cow @amoeebaa @scorpios-echos @sad-bitch-h0ur @drifting-away-in-space @that-thing-in-the-graveyard @starryeddie @libsybum

[cumberbuddy]

Unseen Sherlock promo photo. 

[hellooteapots-deactivated201905]

[jennchecks]

Take my card.

[intemperata]

[wojewoda-z]

i will never stop reblogging this. 

[cumberbuddy]

The best gif set of 2012, HANDS DOWN. 

[lyrangalia]

God save the Queen.

[sp1llwayz-deactivated20251105]

PAHAHHA THIS MADE MY DAY

[benedict-1976]

[mr-inva]

Mornings at 221B Baker Street :

John : Good morning

Sherlock : What do you mean ?

Sherlock : Do you wish me a good morning ?

Sherlock : Or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it to be or not ?

Sherlock : Or that you feel good this morning ?

Sherlock : Or that it is a morning to be good on ?

John : I was just hoping you'd say it back and I can have my coffee in peace-

[stars-bean]

Over the Garden Wall (2014)

[blackspoon99]

Happy Halloween to all my followers! I hope you ate some candy or watched a spooky movie today <3

[blackspoon99]

A Night at the Theater

Sherlock x Female! Reader

Halloween Special 

TW: Fighting, Near-Death Experience, Mentions of Murder 

Masterlist

A/N: This fic heavily references Macbeth, so if you are unfamiliar, here’s a link if you want a brief plot summary: https://www.shakespeare.org.uk/explore-shakespeare/shakespedia/shakespeares-plays/macbeth/?gclid=CjwKCAjw2vOLBhBPEiwAjEeK9iW79c8ZMqs_KOz0bCq1tipDrKUrHcdEree1tJ1jj42S-BJEC7k6HBoCMWsQAvD_BwE

Hands down, Halloween was your favorite holiday. You especially loved Halloween in London. The cool air, the warm drinks, and the spooky history. The moment you felt a chill in the air at the end of the blistering heat of summer, you were your truest self. Not everyone felt the way you did. Your boyfriend, Sherlock for one. Imagine trying to get Sherlock Holmes to dress up in a Halloween costume.

You walked through the door of Sherlock’s Baker Street flat, grocery bags in hand. Sherlock and his flatmate John usually couldn’t be bothered to buy food. Despite your constant reminders, Sherlock often let the fridge go empty without even noticing. Eventually, you just took it upon yourself to shop for them once a week. Struggling with the bags, you walked up the stairs and eased the door open with your shoulder.

“Hello Sherlock,” you called, walking into the kitchen. Sherlock was seated by the windows, staring intently at his laptop. His posture was slightly hunched over, and he was still wearing his pajamas. His hair was disheveled, and he had deep purple under eye circles and bloodshot eyes. Those were clear signs he’d been sitting in that exact spot for a while. You weren’t even surprised when he gave no response. You placed the heavy paper bags onto the kitchen table and moved to hang up your coat by the door.

Sherlock made no indication that he even recognized your presence. You calmly walked behind him and leaned down to kiss him gently on the cheek. He flinched slightly, startled, and looked at you over his shoulder.

“I said, hello, darling,” you repeated softly into his ear. You leaned back and smiled at him.

“Not now, I’m working,” he said, giving you a look that made your knees weak.

“When aren’t you?” you said, fake pouting. “Have you thought about what I asked you?”

“I didn’t need to think about it. I’m not going to Lestrade’s Halloween party.”

“Come on, Sherlock, he invites us every year, and besides, now that we’re… together I thought you might want to come with me this time.”

“Oh god—” he stood up from his chair, walked to the kitchen, and started going through the grocery bags. You followed him.

“Oh, but I’ve already bought our costumes,” you teased. “And you’d look so great in the policeman’s costume I found. It’s got a little hat and everything.” Sherlock side-eyed you, horrified, trying to tell if you were serious. You immediately started laughing when you saw his face. “Relax, I’m only joking. However, it wouldn’t kill you to stop in and say hello.”

Sherlock snatched an apple from the brown paper bag. “Darling, I’m afraid I disagree,” he said, inspecting it. He tossed it up in the air and caught it before taking a bite. “Besides, I already have plans for us that night.” He turned on his heel and walked straight back to his chair.

You sighed and walked back into the living room behind him. “Okay, I’m intrigued. Tell me more.” You sat yourself down across from him at the table by the window. Sherlock took another bite of his apple and tossed you a newspaper. The headline read “A Shakespearean Tragedy Come to Life: Actor Slain Mid-performance”

“Actor Harry Wells was stabbed to death with what was supposed to be a fake dagger during the assassination scene of Caesar. Several actors on stage, no one saw a thing. Killer disguised himself as a cast member and no one seemed to notice.”

“Now that’s what I call method acting.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at your wordplay. “It’s going to happen again, and I think I know where and when. In short: we’ve got a date at the theater.”

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

7:00 pm, Halloween night

Sherlock had predicted the next murder would happen during the annual masquerade performance of Macbeth on Halloween night. It was a long-held tradition at the Theatre Royal Drury Lane, London’s most haunted theater and opera house. You’d always wanted to go to this event, and you were inappropriately excited about sneaking backstage.

You met Sherlock at his flat and the two of you headed over to the theater. Once you arrived in the cover of darkness, people were beginning to enter the theater through the front entrance. All of them were dressed in costume, as was tradition for the event. It sort of made you wish Sherlock would dress up with you one Halloween. Well, there was always next year. You’d wear him down eventually. Sherlock approached the ticket box.

“Two tickets listed under Holmes, please”

“Ah, yes, there you are. Holmes, party of two. Enjoy the performance.”

“Oh, we will,” he said with a smirk. You nudged him.

“Could you be any more suspicious?” You asked with a smile. He winked at you and offered his arm to escort you inside. As you walked into the main hall, you were in complete awe. Marble columns and dramatic arches lined the hallway. The lights were dimmed, and the room was filled with lit floor candelabras. You looked up towards the high ceiling and saw three-dimensional projected silver specters drifting across. “Wow,” you said in amazement. Sherlock pulled you back to reality with a gentle tug on your wrist.

“Come on, it's time,” he said and gestured towards the theater. Amongst all the activity, you and Sherlock easily slipped into a side door and made your way backstage. You crept through the labyrinth of hallways until you could hear the distant noise of the actors getting ready to perform. You leaned your head around the corner to see actors rushing around dressed in medieval costumes, each with a mask obscuring most or all of their faces. You turned back to Sherlock, and he pointed to a room across the hall labeled “Costume Storage”.

You nodded at him and quietly rushed towards the door, hoping no one would catch you. You swiftly threw open the door and Sherlock hastily shut it behind you once he’d made it in. You looked across the room and saw racks of clothing, trunks of accessories, and old stage sets all clustered together in a small, cluttered room.

“Now what?” You asked Sherlock.

“We blend in.”

You nodded, still unsure of what his plan actually could be. You browsed through the costume racks, looking for anything appropriate for a masked performance of Macbeth. You found a scarlet off-the-shoulder chemise dress and an un-boned corset belt. You threw the loose-fitting chemise over your head and secured the corset around your waist to fit the garment to your body. Now you just needed a mask. You turned to rummage through a small trunk of accessories and finally spotted a red mask to complete your costume.

You peeked over the clothing rack. Sherlock had removed his wool coat and blazer and he just wore his purple dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and his black dress pants. He wore a black mask with gold trim that obscured the top half of his face. He stood, looking in a floor-length mirror, securing a prop rapier to his right hip.

“So, this is what it takes for you to wear a Halloween costume?” you asked, emerging from behind the clothing rack.

“It’s not a costume, it’s a disguise—” He stopped abruptly when he turned to look at you. You immediately fell silent as your tongue felt as if it were glued to the roof of your mouth. Even from behind the mask, you still felt the full impact of the way he was looking at you. You blushed and lifted your mask to your face. “Allow me,” Sherlock said as he moved behind you. You held the mask to your face. He slowly secured the black ribbon of the mask behind your head.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“You’re welcome,” he said, his low voice echoing in the quiet room. He finished tying the knot and slowly dropped his hand. He lingered for a moment at the nape of your neck. He then abruptly removed his hand, as if he had just become aware of what he was doing, and awkwardly cleared his throat.

You finally broke the silence “What’s the plan? This is Macbeth. There are about six murders. The killer could strike during any of them.”

“I’ve determined that the only way to catch the murderer is to watch the actors closely. I’ll be able to spot which one has the real sword and catch him before he makes it on stage.”

“So do we just wait in the wings and keep an eye out when the murder scenes are coming up?”

“More or less.”

“Well, I appreciate the honesty.”

“We shouldn’t stick together; we would draw more attention to ourselves that way. You stay to the left wings, find a corner, and watch the actors closely. I’ll be on the right wing. Tell me if you see anything out of order. If you think you spot our man, do not engage with him. Text me immediately. When it comes down to it, let me handle it.” He had genuine concern in his voice, so you reluctantly agreed.

“Okay, I will. Be careful, Sherlock.”

“You as well.”

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

You and Sherlock silently left the storage room and went your separate ways. As you made your way to the left wing, an actor raced past you, trying to make it to opening places. Much to your surprise, in all the chaos before a play, no one even noticed an unfamiliar masked woman wandering around backstage. As you walked, you felt the buzzing energy of the moment before the performance. Three women dressed as the witches walked past you, going over their lines for the iconic Act IV scene

“Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot.”  

“Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”

You weaved through frantic actors, crew members dressed in all black, and a very flustered woman with a headset and a clipboard. You even saw the two actors playing Macbeth and Macduff blocking out the stage combat for the final duel where Macbeth meets his end.

You finally made it to the wings and found a dark corner where you were unlikely to be noticed. You could see the entire stage across. The sound of audience chatter was audible even through the closed thick velvet curtain. You looked over to the right wing, hoping to spot Sherlock backstage. Through the shadows, you could barely make out his silhouette, watching intently and waiting.

As if on cue, the lights backstage and onstage immediately switched off and the curtain began to rise slowly. You felt a jolt of nervous energy as the audience cheered and applauded. With all the excitement, you’d almost forgotten you were there to prevent a murder.

The lights gradually went back up as the three witches walked onto the stage. They wore floor-length scarlet hoods that completely obscured their faces. Once they reached the cauldron at the center of the stage, they lifted their hoods and began the first scene.

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

You watched intently all the way through acts one through four, communicating discretely with Sherlock. Nothing had happened yet, and the tension was slowly building. You got the creeping feeling the murder would happen at the very end, at Macbeth’s end. You watched as the actors began to play out the storming of Macbeth’s castle. You watched anxiously as prop weapons clashed in a hurricane of stage fighting. You received a text from Sherlock, almost as if he sensed your nerves.

Not yet. You’ll know when it’s time.

Why was it that he never just gave you the whole explanation? Eventually, the play moved into the eighth scene of the fifth act. The moment you’d been anxiously anticipating.

MACBETH:

With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed. Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born.

MACDUFF

Despair thy charm, And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee — Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripped.

The man playing Macduff raised his rapier to initiate the final duel scene. This had to be it. Why hadn’t Sherlock said anything?

Suddenly, from the right wing, Sherlock raced onto the stage and pulled the actor playing Macbeth by the back of his shirt and threw him off the stage. The actor playing Macduff cried out in a rage and attempted to strike Sherlock. He reached up and blocked it, using his prop rapier. Suddenly, Sherlock was using a prop in a real sword fight.

Sherlock blocked the man’s attacks with expertise. Among many other things, your boyfriend just happened to be a master fencer. Although everything seemed to be heading in Sherlock’s favor, your whole body was screaming at you to move, to intervene. The only thing holding you back was your promise to Sherlock not to get involved.

Your heart dropped as you watched Sherlock lose his footing as the actor threw him to the ground. You watched the masked man playing Macduff raise his rapier above his head, aiming to strike Sherlock.

Without thinking, you ran onstage towards the man and threw yourself at his back. You leapt on top of him and tried to wrestle the rapier from his hand. The man spun to the left, his arms flailing, trying to throw you off. The audience members laughed, assuming it to be a part of the production somehow.

Suddenly, he threw his upper body forward and flipped you over his head and onto the stage floor. The air left your lungs as your back made impact with the hard wood. You let out an inaudible groan of pain. You looked up and saw the man standing over you menacingly, his eyes seemingly glowing behind his mask. He once again raised his rapier over his head to strike.

Before he could follow through, Sherlock struck him over the head with the hilt of his prop. The man collapsed to the ground, his weapon landing beside you with a clang. Your chest heaved up and down as you tried to get your breathing under control. You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked up at Sherlock.

He extended his hand down to you. You took it and he pulled you to your feet and held you tightly to him. Your head spun slightly as you got your bearings. The audience cheered in amusement. You spotted who you assumed was the director shoving past audience members trying to yell over the crowd. You looked up at Sherlock with pure relief, thankful he was alright. The stage manager emerged from the wings and barked “Close the damn curtain!”. The curtain dropped abruptly from the ceiling and landed with a thud.

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

In the aftermath, it was quite difficult to explain to the theater staff why the two of you had stormed the stage mid-performance and assaulted one of the actors. Once the police had arrived and confiscated the weapon, you and Sherlock finally were relieved from answering questions.

The man had used the masked performance as an opportunity to knock out the original actor playing Macduff and take his place before the duel without anyone noticing. Unfortunately for him, Sherlock noticed. Once he came to in handcuffs, Sherlock approached him, snatched off his mask, and addressed him by name.

“James Hughes. Thrown out of the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art for dealing and using illegal drugs five years ago.” He turned to the officers “Since the end of his short prison sentence, James has been making the rounds and getting revenge on the man who reported him, and a few other classmates he chose to blame. He made his first hit last week. Harry Wells: the student who reported him to the dean.”

Hughes scowled and looked away. “They deserved it. They ruined my career and now they get to play the leading roles? The croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.”

“Thespians,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“I believe you have your man, detectives.” He turned to you. “Shall we?”

You nodded him and followed him off the stage and back through the hallways. As soon as you were out of sight, he grabbed your hand to stop you. He then immediately leaned down and kissed you. After he eventually pulled away, you stood there stunned. Sherlock never opted for public displays of affection. Emphasis on the public aspect. To your confusion, he looked upset with you.

“I thought I told you not to intervene under any circumstances. You could have been killed.”

“I wasn’t going to stand idly by when you’re in trouble. I understand you’re concerned, but you can’t expect me to just sit and watch.” Sherlock frowned. “You were there to save me, and I was there to save you. That’s what we do. I’m safe as long as I’m with you.”

“In that case, I suppose the only logical way to ensure your safety is to always be by your side.”

“I can live with that.”

You strolled through the hallways and into the main hall.

“This was fun,” you started. “I will say, this was a really great date. Good luck topping this one.”

He chuckled. “It doesn’t have to be over.”

You tilted your head in confusion. Sherlock looked down to check his watch then looked back at you. “Look at that. You know, if we head over now, we could still make it to Lestrade’s party.”

You looked up at him in shock. “Did you hit your head when he knocked you over?”

“Come on, let’s make his night. Besides, we’re already in costume.” He pulled his mask out of his pocket and put it back over his face.

A huge smile stretched across your face as you reached down to hold his hand. Sherlock Holmes did have his moments.

“Really? You mean it?” you asked.

“I will admit,” he said with a smile, “This costume is really growing on me.”

“You do look quite handsome,” you agreed.

“Actually, I was talking about yours.”

Your eyes widened and you playfully pushed him away.

A/N: Hello! So sorry for the extended absence. This fic was partially inspired by my new favorite book: If We Were Villains. DW there’s no spoilers in here. Also fun fact, Benedict Cumberbatch went to the London Academy for Music and Dramatic Art so I had to put that in here. Anyways, I wish you a very spooky Halloween!