Lynn₊⊹

she/her 18!

[thewifeofmanybbgs]

My name is Reader, and I'm about to enter the dih zone..

[sequestered-jester]

Hellboy x reader (who loves cute trinkets) hc’s + ficlet <3

(Side note: idk if ‘librarian in the big ass BPRD library’ is a real position in universe, but it will be today! Also- idk if you can even really call most of this headcanons- but ohhhh weeelll xo)

(Also I’m sorry if I butchered HB and/or the English language, it’s past midnight and I’m tired and delirious—)

• Ordinarily, the library was of little interest to Hellboy; he really only went in if he needed to, and the former librarian may as well have been part of the furnishings— but that was before you.

• His mission at the time was a particularly extreme haunting, and to figure out the cause, some sleuthing needed to be done… He needed some old occultist texts, well, some copies of some old occultist texts— after all, the real stuff was too ancient and delicate (and cursed) to keep around people.

• So, to the library he went— with a singular purpose, fully intending to get outta there and back on the job asap… but something threw him for an unexpected loop: a new librarian. It’s unusual to see fresh faces at the bureau; hell- he’s sure your former must’ve worked there going on 30 odd years, so seeing you was a surprise, to say the least.

• The first thing that really caught his attention was the state of your desk, seeing as you’d completely covered it in.. well, crap, as far as he was concerned— small stuffed animals and hyper-cute figures, trinkets of all kinds, toys— you’ve got a couple little... things he’s pretty sure are Hello Kitty? Maybe? He didn’t look down on it necessarily, but like... is that allowed?

• The second thing that caught his attention was the way you smiled at him; it was instant, easy—you didn’t hesitate… Nor did you hesitate in speaking to him “Hello! What can I help you with?”

• After getting what he needed, he found himself compelled to spark up some sort of conversation with you, why? Well, you were new— and certainly… intriguing…

• “So- what happened to, uh...” he gestured vaguely around you, and you took a second to work out what he was getting at “Oh! Mr. Volkov? He retired, great guy. I’m really happy for him!”

• Well, you certainly have a sunny workplace disposition— “Right, well- that’s good...” there was a brief moment of silence between the two of you before he gave you a nod “Thanks... ‘Preciate it”

• Over the course of the next few weeks, Big Red finds himself popping into the library more and more frequently. At first, he lies to himself, telling himself he’s trying to turn over a new leaf and really apply himself to increasing his knowledge of the paranormal, not wanting to always rely on Abe for it— yada yada blah blah, it’s all a racket, though— in reality, he just wants excuses to see you.

• You’re just so normal about him, so nice to him… That might seem like a low bar, but you have to remember, 95% of the people around him are afraid of him on some level, either treating him like this volatile, ticking time bomb or looking at him like he’s a one-man freak show… but with you? It’s different…

• The small talk you two share soon graduates into actual conversation, dare he say, banter, and he even becomes comfortable enough to joke around with you… not in his normal dry, defensive way either—

• He tells himself that his budding workplace crush on you is nothing more than that— you’re cute, you’re nice to chat with, you’re... so sweet…but that’s it! Unfortunately though, he realizes he’s in tremendously deep shit when one day, while laughing at one of his stories, you put your hand on his arm… It’s a small gesture; you do it so casually… but it’s enough to set his pulse racing, and when it happens, he practically has to clench every muscle in his body to keep his tail from wagging too obviously.

• Needless to say, this whole kerfuffle has made him very antsy— even more than usual, so, to clear his head, he breaches containment to go on a little unauthorized ‘patrol’ of the city. While jumping from rooftop to rooftop, he spots something out of place on the block below.. Nestled between a cafe and a bookstore, is a little stand absolutely overflowing with stuffed animals— it’s glaringly pastel against the otherwise dull surroundings, and the sight is nearly enough to give him a migraine, but…

Looking up from your work, you see Hellboy striding your way. “Hey you” you lilt, flashing him a broad, genuine smile.

“Hey,” he replies, closing the distance between you. He stands in front of your desk, the fingers of his right hand twitching at his side, a lifelong nervous habit you hear before you see, stone scraping faintly “I… gotcha somthin’”

“…You.. did?” Got you something? That’s the last thing you expected to hear— and he barely gives you time to process the news before reaching into his coat, pulling out a very obviously bootleg Sanrio plush— you’re fairly certain it’s supposed to be My Melody, but the eyes are way too far apart, and her little ears are two completely different sizes…

You take it in your hands, looking it over— it really is comical, but you don’t laugh; you’re too busy processing how sweet of a gesture this is… You turn your attention back to Hellboy. “I don’t know what to say-“

He shrugs “S’just a stuffed animal. I know you like all that cutesy crap...” he’s trying to act nonchalant, but it’s exceedingly difficult when you’re looking at him like he hung the damn moon over a stupid toy— but then, it’s more than that… and you both know it…

Your lips pull upward into a sly grin, and you hug the plushie to your chest “Sooo… you realize this means I’m gonna be hoping for a gift every time you go out now, right?” You tease, batting your eyes exaggeratedly at him.

He scoffs, tail flicking behind him, unable to hold back a smirk. “Don’t count on it...”

[lostecho815]

*in the voice of Jeb Bush* please kiss

[cekshephard]

kateclaires cheerleaders au come to me...

[thoughtfullyfloatingpizza]

Molly Hooper moodboard

[cowboylikehopee]

finn after realising the duffers and shawn levy had him checking out noah everyday over the course of 10 years for no apparent reason

[darjeelingbyers]

[greghousescane]

𝓕ATHER 𝓕IGURE ♡

˚ 𝜗ৎ father figure ❪jim moriarty❫

ongoing

❝ doubt is just the door before devotion.❞

━ 𝖎𝖓 𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖈𝖍 ,

the youngest watson follows her brother to baker street, and accidentally discovers that some devils wear collars, adapt too easily, and smile too kindly.

; JIM MORIARTY X FEM!OC

; © greghousescane 2025

cross posted on wattpad — @/-REALMRSHOUSE

ao3 — realmrshouse

MATERLIST

-𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈

i | the soldier, the sister, and the sleuth

ii | tea in the trenches

iii | the yard

iv | a stranger in the house of god coming soon

[renx01]

Out of Sight - Part 19

Summary: Moriarty is your boss. After he helped you out of a precarious situation when you were still a minor, you started working for him. Now, he has a new job for you. Get close to the Holmes brothers to keep an eye on them for him. Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Reader & Jim Moriarty/Reader Fandom: BBC Sherlock Word count: 2252 words

Masterlist AO3

‘You need to snap out of it.’

You’re staring at yourself in the mirror, hands clenching around the edge of the sink. You’d be meeting with Jim in less than an hour and you are a mess. Having just gotten out of the shower, your hair is still wet, water dripping onto your face while your towel is tied around your hips. For some reason, the cold calculated person you were before this particular mission seems to have vanished to some extent and it frustrates you to say the least. You’re fully aware of the implications of this attachment—the problems it causes for how well you’re able to function; no, execute your mission. How well you’re able to do the one thing you’re good at. First, you run a hand through your hair, then over your face. ‘For fuck’s sake.’ Your voice is quiet. ‘Get it together. Be Spike.’ After letting out a harsh breath, you slap a bottle off of the counter and walk out, to your bedroom, to get dressed; realise your hair is still wet; return to the bathroom to dry it; and then go back to your bedroom once it’s done. 

Getting dressed is a silent affair. Black long-sleeve, black fisherman's jumper over top; the one pair of light-washed jeans you own, straight leg; and a pair of black, low, doc martens. You push your bed up and reveal your weapons arsenal to yourself. Handgun goes in the back of your jeans, knife in your left sock. You look over your weapons again, then decide that it’s unlikely you’ll be needing much more, and put your bed back down. You stand back up and grab a black bomber jacket and a black scarf, putting them on before grabbing your keys, wallet, and phones and leaving. You put in your earbuds once outside and start walking to the tube at a brisk pace.

You meet Jim in the Waterstones at Piccadilly, hating absolutely every single minute you spend there. It’s crowded, loud, and for some reason there is a weird smell at the back of the second floor; near the philosophy section. The fifth floor is where you meet him, in the foreign language section. He’s there already, flipping through a French language copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. ‘Bit dramatic, that book.’ You murmur as you trail your hand over the spines of the books in front of you. ‘Hmmm, perhaps.’ He replies, his Irish accent immediately noticeable. ‘There’re no cameras in the back office. The code is 1 2 3 4.’ Jim murmurs before walking in the direction of the office. Of course, you cannot follow immediately, as that would be too obvious, so, you walk around for a bit; checking books, reading the backs, and flipping through; before eventually making a round and slipping into the back office.

Jim’s sitting in the office chair, typing on his phone. ‘Ah, you’re here.’ He sends out a text before getting up. ‘Right, Spikey.’ His eyes focus on you. ‘You called me while incredibly drunk at New Year’s.’ You can feel heat creeping up your neck and to your ears. Shame. Shame on you for getting drunk; for not being as sharp as usual; for not being his perfect weapon. ‘You don’t remember.’ He states as if it’s a well known fact. And he’s right. You don’t remember why you’d called him; what you’d said to him. ‘Correct.’ Your reply is curt, to the point. He sighs, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. ‘I’ll be honest, I’m disappointed. And I don’t like being disappointed.’ He sighs. ‘I’m used to you being better than this.’ He steps forward, and despite his not very tall stature, it does intimidate you. ‘Spike, I’ll be up front with you, because you’re one of my favourites.’ He pauses, his tone lowering when he continues. ‘I need you to be good and let go of this little crisis of conscience, got it?’ ‘Yes Jim.’ You reply shamefully, eyes turned downwards. ‘Hey, hey, look at me.’ He says, slapping your cheek lightly before grabbing your chin. You listen, your gaze meeting his almost immediately. 

‘I need you to remember who you are.’ He hisses. ‘You’re mine, Spike. Mine.’ There’s a pause before he continues. ‘You’d be nothing without me. I made you. So act like it, will you?’ You haven’t seen this side of him in a long time, especially not towards you. Yet, you understand this is likely what you needed. He’s doing this for your own good. And so, you comply; nodding slightly and murmuring an ‘I understand, Jim. I’ll be better.’. And he corrects you. ‘Better is not enough.’ ‘Sorry, I’ll be good, Jim.’

There’s a moment of tense silence before he murmurs a ‘good’. You expect him to immediately step back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you towards him and presses his lips to yours. Against your better judgement, you kiss him back and let him deepen it. His hand moves from your chin to the back of your neck before he turns you and pushes you against the desk. Not sure what to do with your hands, you grab hold of his waist. Fingers further pushing into the fabric of his coat when he pushes himself between your thighs. Tongues grazing past teeth before entangling with each other, hands grabbing at the clothes you’re both wearing. He pushes your bomber jacket off your shoulders before his hands find themselves beneath your jumper. They graze past the gun sticking out of the back of your jeans. ‘Naughty.’ He murmurs before kissing you again. With every movement, with every murmur, it’s as if he’s trying to claim—no, reclaim—you. 

The desk beneath you is uncomfortable, the edges starting to become harsh and painful against your bottom. You’re about to pull away and say something when you hear voices coming towards the office. ‘Shit.’ Jim murmurs and you swiftly put your jacket back on, make sure your clothes sit right again and walk to the door, listening to get a better idea of what is happening outside. Jim, meanwhile, is fixing how he looks, making sure it’s presentable enough. After a moment, you’re quite sure the people outside have left for a moment, saying something about having to check something downstairs for a bit. So, you signal to Jim that the coast is clear. He nods and approaches, but before he opens the door to leave, he gives you one last deep kiss; hand gripping your jacket. After letting go, he swiftly slips out the door, leaving you behind, stunned.

The walk back to the apartment is spent blasting music into your ears, trying to distract yourself from what had just happened. You cannot have this distract you; quite the opposite, you’ll have to use this to refocus. Recalibrate. And so, the thirty minutes that encapsulate your walk back home functions as a way for you to do so. There’s a drizzle pouring down as you’re walking, so by the time you arrive back, you’re soaked. Just as you’re about to open the door, it swings open and Sherlock rushes out, just about knocking you over. ‘Ah, Charlie, there you are.’ He says, setting you straight again. John arrives moments later. ‘Good afternoon.’ The doctor greets you with a small smile before he realises you’re drenched. ‘You ought to get inside quickly, you’ll catch a cold if you don’t.’ ‘I’m aware.’ You murmur before starting to move past them. Sherlock, however, momentarily stops you in your tracks. ‘You’re distraught.’ He observes and you ignore him, moving into the doorway. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ When you glance back as you’re walking back inside, you see how the consulting detective glances at the doctor and how the doctor silently tells him to stay quiet and not comment any further. So, he does, and the door shuts before he can say anything else.

John, being the sort of man he is, worries about the situation, and so, decides to go check on you that evening, after having finished up another case with Sherlock. The detective himself is currently occupied doing an experiment John would rather not be involved with. You’d just been making dinner when he knocked on your door, and you’d been quite surprised at his arrival, yet you let him in and hand him a cup of tea. 

You also offer him food, and he gladly accepts, muttering something about Sherlock’s experiment being quite smelly. So, you set the small kitchen table for two before finishing up the simple vegetarian stir fry you had been preparing when he knocked on your door. It’s pretty simple, just some soba noodles, firm tofu, bok choi, chinese cabbage, paprika, cucumber, ginger, garlic, soy sauce, sesame oil, and a homemade spice blend. The pan is set onto the table before you also grab two glasses of cold water and join John. ‘I hope you like stir fry.’ You put some onto John’s plate before your own. ‘I do.’ He replies and takes a bite. ‘Oh this is good.’ The doctor perks up, positively surprised by its flavour. ‘Thanks.’ You turn to your own plate, slowly eating. 

Honestly, you don’t quite have the energy for this, however, you do appreciate the gesture of him coming over. It does help that he starts off by going into the case he and Sherlock had worked on today in detail after only a single question regarding it. 

You nod and ask follow-up questions at the right moments, putting him at ease. Unfortunately for you, after about an hour and after having done the dishes, he still hadn’t forgotten the reason why he stopped by in the first place. ‘You seemed upset earlier today.’ John starts off, his eyes scanning your face for any signs that could help him understand. ‘It’s nothing.’ You reply, trying to do so casually. ‘I just… something came up.’ Your eyes dart away, breaking the eye contact he was trying to hold. ‘Look, I’m aware that we don’t know each other very well, but I’m here for you if you need anyone to talk to.’ His voice is sincere, honest, and kind. The exact opposite of what you are used to. People in the circles you usually traverse are the exact opposite. Any moment of weakness is used against you, with it not only being able to hurt you, but also proving fatal to some. The only person you would truly trust with your actual thoughts and feelings is Sebastian, yet with the relationship between you and Jim having changed and him not knowing about it, you feel that you cannot speak to him regarding this issue. So, perhaps, you could tell John to some extent. Perhaps he would understand. And so, against your better judgement, you do open up a little to him while still leaving out certain key details.

‘I’m in a bit of a conundrum, I must admit.’ You say quietly and his ears seem to perk up. He’s sitting across from you at the kitchen table, eyes soft, face empathetic. He’s silently inviting you to talk, to get it off your chest. ‘As you know, I’ve been seeing someone,’ your voice is quiet, soft, perhaps even vulnerable, ‘and while it has been… well it has been quite lovely, there are things that—well I just don’t really know what to do.’ Your gaze is focused on your hands, which lay folded on the table in front of you. It’s clear you’re not used to talking about your feelings to say the least. ‘Well… I mean if it’s an issue with the person, perhaps you should talk to them.’ John suggests kindly. ‘That’s the thing, it’s not the person’s fault. It’s just.. I’m the problem.’ ‘How are you the problem? I feel you’re a very kind person who tries to do their best.’ 

You let out a dry laugh at his comment. Kind. How wrong he really is. You lie, manipulate, and kill. ‘I—I just think that perhaps—’ you stop yourself momentarily, ‘there’s someone from my past… who I might have feelings for.’ Your admittance is reluctant and you don’t dare look at him. So, he reaches over the table and takes your hands in his. ‘Hey, look at me…’ His voice is soft, as if he understands. Your gaze meets his after a moment of silence. ‘It’s very human to doubt. To maybe even have feelings for someone else—at least to some extent. I mean, of all people, I’d know what that’s like.’ That catches your attention, despite the situation you’re in and how you’ve been feeling. 

Instantly, your brain switches on and you compartmentalise your own feelings so you can use this. ‘Do you want to talk about it…?’ You squeeze his hands for a moment. To your surprise, he agrees and starts talking. ‘As you know, I’ve had a few girlfriends over the past few months.’ ‘You mean Sarah and… what’s her name? Jeanette?’ He gives a nod, confirming the fact. ‘Yes, well… they both broke up with me for the same reason.’ He pauses. ‘And sometimes, I think they might be right—that they might be right about me having feelings for Sherlock.’

There’s a pregnant pause. One you barely dare to interrupt, and yet you do.

‘You know it’s alright to have feelings for him, right?’ You try to sound empathetic, kind, and inviting. ‘I know.’ He sounds defensive at first before another, quieter, ‘I know’ follows.

Hello! So... I meant to finish up a Mycroft one-shot first, but... this kinda just flowed out and I prefer posting once I'm done rather than keeping people waiting... Will be working on the one-shot again today, though, so hopefully there'll be one early next week!

Also! Johnlock maybe? Who knows... Spike and John trying to give each other advice is like the blind leading the blind lol

Taglist: @h-malacus @thegirlwhosimpstoomuch @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @briars-glenn @kitkat333334

[star-girl-05]

MINE

Jim Moriarty x Reader

~★~❤︎~✦~

‘But you can call me Jim 💕✨’

‘Why are you at Hospital?’ you stare at the text, confusion all over your face. The first being who the hell is texting you?, and how did they know where you are? You look around the room for anyone out of place. Finding nothing you turn back to your phone. 

‘Who is this?’ your phone dings with a text almost instantly.

‘It’s Moriarty, Love’ you visibly freeze. ‘But you can call me Jim 💕✨’

You have so many questions yet you're asking, ‘Why are you texting me?’ 

‘I saw you were at hospital, I thought I was going to have to kill someone’ 

‘What the hell do you mean by that? How did you know I was at the hospital anyway?’ you stare at your phone this is the first time he hasn’t texted you back instantly. 

‘I always keep an eye on my assets’, is he implying what you think he is? ‘Your mine, afterall can’t let anyone hurt you’ Your eyes widen almost comically. Jim Moriarty, self proclaimed villain just told you were his. How are you supposed to respond to that? You’ve only met him a handful of times, half of them with Sherlock, and you would not describe them as ‘friendly’. So where on earth did he get the idea that you fancied him. 

‘I’m not yours’ it should be obvious to him that you would never date him. Yet here you are rejecting him over text.

‘You are, you just don’t know it yet’ you don’t text back just pocketing your phone. Trying to forget the conversation ever happened, especially when Sherlock comes dragging you away. 

He was just messing around, trying to get in your head. At least that's what you tell yourself. Until you return home and find a large bouquet and a card. 

To My Love,  Im deadly Serious your MINE Yours, Jim Moriarty

[noah-wyles]

diva down

[ballard96]

[jonesybird]

i've got this thing where i always get into ships because i go 'haha what if they were in love' as a joke and then an hour later it's my otp and i devour fanart and fanfic like i've been starved and kept in a basement for decades

[myiliterallyhavenolifegoals]

sherlock & co firmly establishing sherlock as a gay man before introducing irene adler is one of the sexiest things this podcast has ever done. bbc sh*rlock found dead in miami ❤️

[the-bedheaded-league]

Sherlock Holmes is truly every woman’s greatest fantasy: a sexist man gets humiliated by a woman much smarter than him and he responds by having a ton of respect for her and never being sexist ever again.

[damewitharod]

you can’t convince me that they didn’t get married and raise aaron together after the show ended

[catbayunthestoryteller]

hi cat!!! Halloween is over so that means it’s CHRISTMAS SEASON!!! I was wondering if you could do a fic that’s Sherlock x reader where Sherlock invites the reader (girlfriend/partner) to come with him to his parents’ house for Christmas for the first time and yk all the Holmes would be giving Sherlock a hard time bc this is the first time he’s ever dated anyone- I just think it would be so cute ☺️ Mycroft would be so over it too LMAO maybe a little smut at the end but if not that’s fine. Also DONT feel pressured to do this at all you can ignore it if you please ik you’re busy ❤️❤️ sending lots of love your way cat and I hope you’re doing well! (I hope I worded everything well and you understand the ask bc I feel like I sort of ramble 😅)

The case of...Oh, Happy Christmas

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!reader

You weren’t entirely sure how Sherlock wanted you to react when he said it.

“My mum,” he announced abruptly while reorganizing his experiment table, “wants you to come for Christmas.”

You stared at him. “Your mother?”

He refused to meet your eyes, shifting a beaker half an inch to the left. “Yes. She insisted on meeting you. Apparently my failure to produce a girlfriend by my age” he waved a hand vaguely, “ is a ‘growing concern’.”

You tried not to laugh. “So this is…a welfare check?”

“A ridiculous one,” he said stiffly. “But they’ll be insufferable if I refuse.”

You weren’t sure if that meant he wanted you to come or not, until you noticed the pink creeping up the back of his neck.

So you’d gone.

And now you were standing in front of a pretty Sussex cottage, while Sherlock glowered at the front door like it owed him money.

“Sherlock,” you murmured. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

“I’m considering it,” he replied.

“Too late!” chirped a voice, his mother’s, because she had excellent timing and zero respect for her son’s dramatic brooding.

“Oh, there you are!” she beamed, pulling Sherlock into a hug he endured like a hostage. Then she pulled back and lightly patted his cheeks. “Still no body fat on you. Honestly, you’re all angles.”

“Mummy,” he said through gritted teeth.

“And you,” she said, turning to you with delighted curiosity, “are the miracle. Come in!”

You stepped inside the warm house, smelling of cloves, firewood, and the faint chaos of two academic retirees, and Sherlock’s mother immediately looped her arm through yours.

“Now, tell me,” she said brightly. “How did you do it?”

“Do what?” you asked.

“Catch him.” She gestured vaguely at her son. “He’s like trying to hold onto a startled stork.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “This was a mistake.”

“Oh, hush,” she said.

In the sitting room, Mycroft was already waiting like a disappointed headmaster.

He didn’t even stand. He just looked up and said, “So it’s true. Someone is willingly dating him.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. “Behave.”

“Why?” Mycroft took a sip of tea. “It’s Christmas.”

You smiled politely. “It’s nice to meet you, Mycroft.”

He looked at you properly then, eyes assessing in a way that made you understand immediately how Sherlock’s mind had been honed. “Likewise,” he said after a beat. “You must be a very patient woman.”

Sherlock muttered, “Stop evaluating my partner like I’ve brought home a new prototype.”

“That depends,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Is she?”

Before Sherlock could respond, Mycroft waved a hand and reached for a plate of biscuits. “Either way, since you've found someone who talks sense into you...”

Sherlock blinked. “She doesn’t...”

“Yes, she does,” Mycroft said, handing you the plate as if entrusting national security. “Thank you for your service.”

You choked on a laugh. Sherlock looked betrayed.

Dinner was loud in a way Sherlock privately claimed to hate but kept secretly smiling through.

It began harmlessly enough, until his mother brought out the photo albums.

“Oh no,” Sherlock said immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Yes,” his mother said, flipping to a page with gleeful vengeance. “Look, look, this was his first chemistry set. He was seven.”

You leaned over. The picture was of small, curly-haired Sherlock wearing safety goggles ten sizes too big, holding something smoking.

“What did you blow up?” you asked gently.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said.

“He set fire to the hydrangeas,” his mother supplied.

“They were boring!” Sherlock protested.

Mycroft didn’t even look up. “Some things never change.”

Sherlock glared. “You stole my Christmas chocolates for years.”

“You hid them in predictable places.”

“I was a child.”

“You were a Holmes,” Mycroft corrected.

You started laughing so hard you nearly knocked your water over.

Sherlock pointed at you. “Stop encouraging them.”

But he was smiling in that small, rare way, like someone quietly basking.

After dinner, Sherlock turned to you with a strained expression. “We’re leaving at dawn.”

“You are not,” his mother scolded. “You are staying for presents.”

“He hates presents,” Mycroft called from the other room.

“I do not,” Sherlock snapped.

“You returned my gift twice.”

“It was a GPS tracker, Mycroft!”

“For your safety.”

“You threw it at me.”

You looked between them, trying not to laugh.

Sherlock sighed dramatically. “This is torture.”

But he didn’t let go of your hand.

Later, in the guest room, you found Sherlock staring out the window at the softly falling snow.

He looked…peaceful. Contemplative. As though he’d allowed himself to exhale for the first time all day.

“You survived,” he said when you approached.

“That’s my line,” you murmured, slipping your arms around his waist.

He rested his forehead against yours. “They like you.”

“I like them.”

He groaned. “Why."

“Because they love you,” you said simply. “And because you lose all your sharp edges around them.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” you whispered. “And it’s very adorable.”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t let them hear that word.”

“Adorable?”

He flinched. “Exactly.”

You laughed into his chest.

From down the hall, Mycroft’s voice drifted faintly:

“Do stop flirting. Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Sherlock scowled at the wall. “I am poisoning his tea tomorrow.”

“You’re not.”

“I could.”

You kissed him, shutting him up. He softened instantly, hands sliding up your back, breath warm against your jaw.

When you pulled back, he murmured, “Thank you for coming.”

“For Christmas? Or for surviving the Holmes family hazing ritual?”

“For both,” he said quietly.

Snowfall glowed outside like dusted silver. Sherlock pulled you close, his chin resting on your hair, and you felt him relax fully for the first time.

A boyish, secret smile tugged at him.

His first holiday with a partner.

His first Christmas he genuinely wanted to remember.

And despite the chaos, the teasing, the embarrassment...He was happy. With Sherlock Holmes, that was a rare and extraordinary thing.