Title: My Dear Melancholy…
BBC’s Sherlock x Fem!OC
Do not steal or repost. Please and thanx. 🥀
Summery: Sherlock has changed. He’s no longer the man he once was, rather a shell of a man who has become lost. Mrs. Hudson has mostly given up on trying to help him, having realized the man she once knew was now the man she barely recognized. He’s been alone for quite some time. And he’s grown used to it. But one day, Sherlock meets someone. Someone who might be the one to bring him out of that shell he’s locked himself away in.
Head Canon: John doesn’t forgive Sherlock for the unfortunate and untimely death of Mary Watson.
Part One Warnings: Mentions of death. Experiences of depression. Mental health struggles and tribulations. Undiagnosed ED. Angst. Low self worth.
They’d met when he was out on a case. A very rare occasion these days. He hadn’t been taking cases anymore, not like he used to.
She was a Paramedic on the scene, an ambulance having been called for obvious reasons. People don’t usually go unscathed when they’re involved in bringing down a dangerous criminal. Sherlock had been hit, beaten really, by the criminal. Thankfully, he managed to use his gun he was hiding in the waistband of his trousers, shooting him in the leg. Four police cars arrived at the scene, along with two ambulances. A separate team of paramedics was ordered to take the criminal to the hospital, police officers cramming in the ambulance on stand by.
She was the paramedic who looked over Sherlock. Patched him up and made conversation with him. She could see he wasn’t much of a talker. He seemed quite preoccupied. Which was understandable. He had just been beaten up. She set the orange blanket on his shoulders, and as she was cleaning up his face, she made sure not to hurt him in the process. She paid attention to him. She asked him questions, gauging his mental state, finding it unaffected by the beating he took. His personality was quiet, maybe a little dark.
Nonetheless, She cleaned his wounds and made sure she did all she could to make him comfortable.
And there was just something so calming about the way she handled him. She calmed the storm that had been quietly raging in him for 8 months. And the way she spoke to him, not like he was a job, but a human being, who deserved kindness, and apparently, gentleness. He looked up at her, and realized she had been talking to him, he didn’t hear a word she said, so he shook his head questioningly. She repeated herself, and asked him if he got himself into situations like this often, saying she saw old scars similar to the ones his new wounds would eventually turn into. He told her it came with the job, but apparently she didn’t like that answer, because she looked at him almost scoldingly, and told him that he shouldn’t put himself in danger like that. He just looked at her. And looked back down at his shoes.
She could tell he wasn’t very talkative. Clearly he was a quiet person. And he seemed a bit sad. He didn’t say much, but his expression and tone spoke volume. And his eyes, and the sudden break of eye contact that would happen quite frequently when she initiated it. He spoke some, and they found they got along well, and he quite liked the way she spoke to him. And she appreciated the warmth he emitted, especially since it was cold outside. He liked her hands, and the way she put him back together. She liked how she didn’t really mind putting him back together. She found him interesting, and his demeanor slightly concerning. Either way, they became acquainted very quickly.
When she was checking for any overlooked injuries, she ran her hands through his hair, and about his face, and around the skin of his neck. She then cleaned the blood out of the stubble he was growing. He tried his best not to lean into her. When she was done, and announced him safe to go home, He gave her a thankful look, and did just that.
His life had become quiet, slow. He took a case now and again, but not for his own pleasure, never for his own pleasure. Only out of obligation, whenever Scotland Yard needed him, which wasn’t often anymore. He didn’t do a whole lot. He barely payed bills, extremely thankful for the kindness of Mrs. Hudson, and her letting him stay despite his significant decrease in income.
The only aspect of his life he could be proud of, was the fact that he hadn’t turned to drugs. But he wasn’t proud. He wasn’t the proud and haughty man he used to be. He was in fact the opposite. He wouldn’t admit it to himself, but in reality, he was drowning in self loathing.
He was taking less care of himself nowadays. Becoming quite thin, practically wasting away. He knew he wasn’t well, but he tried his best to ignore it. He ignored the tears that would fall without his permission. He ignored the the empty and hallow feeling, along with the growling and gnawing, coming from his stomach. He payed no attention to the bags under his eyes when Mrs. Hudson pointed them out in her concerned and defeated voice she only ever found herself using with Sherlock. He refused to even think about what led him here in the first place. He couldn’t do much about the guilt he felt, and the way it was the only thing that sat in his stomach most days. He ignored the loneliness. He did all he could to ignore the bad dreams that occurred on the nights he managed to sleep.
And he had some how almost convinced himself he was alright. At least on the surface. If he just stayed above the surface, he could still breathe.
And, despite all of this, he’d also become kinder. He saw that change in himself. And he was slightly baffled by it. But, how could he really be surprised. He’d changed so much, that even he didn’t recognize himself.
Days had gone by since his last case, and also since he last stepped foot outside 221b Baker Street. He almost never had the reason to. And he had been subconsciously punishing himself for “killing John Watson’s wife”. He found no reason to do much of anything. The one person he once had for companionship now believing him to be a monster. And Sherlock wasn’t sure he himself could disagree.
As he got out of the cab, having come back from buying cigarettes, and walked toward his front door, he was pleasantly surprised to see the familiar face from a week ago, the woman who patched him up at the crime scene. She saw him and smiled. She explained to him how she worked at the Cafe, Speedy’s, below the flat Sherlock explained he lived in. But only when she wasn’t on call. She was vibrant and sweet and smiley. She was warm. And kind. So, so kind. And she made the air around him seemingly easier to breathe. He just looked at her as she talked. Watching the way she used her hands to emphasize what she was saying, the way her face made lines around her mouth when she smiled. And he liked her voice. She talked in a soft, raspy voice, her cadence like a beautiful melody. And before Sherlock could tell himself he was being melodramatic, and after he had built up just enough courage, he offered her up for tea. She kindly accepted.
He put the kettle on, and she made herself at home. He was glad he at least had enough dignity left to keep himself and his apartment decent. He had no idea he was going to make the impulsive decision of inviting someone in his home. Ever.
But he did today. And as they sat there and sipped their tea, she talked, and he listened. He quite liked it that way. She still saw the same quietness in him from the night she met him. And he was quite still too. His eye contact was slightly better, but when he did break it, he looked down or away. He seemed tethered to whatever was causing his distance. But again, she didn’t mind.
She had asked him a few questions, and he politely answered. She saw his violin in the corner of his living room, asked if he played. He told her he didn’t much anymore. And she asked him why, and he came up with a lie to cover the real reason. The real reason being the fact that he just didn’t have it in him. He couldn’t.
She didn’t mention how she played the same instrument, but she did tell him she wanted to hear him play sometime. He looked at her, surprised at her mention of the future and the aspect of him being in hers. And when she was on her way out the door, she further surprised him by suggesting they do this again.
He said he’d like that.