I think we can all agree that Sherlock isn't the most dialled-in at the beginning of your relationship
He hasn't really done anything like this before. All he knows is that it makes him happy to see you happy.
It starts off with little things, like him noticing how widely you smile when he brings you flowers, or pulls out your chair for you when you go out to dinner.
Once you've been together for a while, he asks for you to share your location with him. He only ever checks it when he knows you're on your way to his flat. You've never connected the dots as to how he always manages to be stirring the milk into your tea and handing it to you the second you walk through his front door.
Memorising your routine is a piece of cake for Sherlock Holmes. He knows what hours you work, how often you get your nails done, where you get your coffee from.
You've been together for just under a year when you go to pay after your nail appointment, only to be told that the appointment has been paid for in advance (you've never paid for your nails since because they are always paid for in advance now)
You barely ever have to get yourself coffee any more, because Sherlock meets you at your door every morning as you're leaving for work, delivering you coffee and a kiss.
Getting the tube? Not on Sherlock's watch. He's either ordering you a taxi, or he's hopping in a taxi himself to come and pick you up, even if it takes twice as long.
The bouquet of flowers which lives on your kitchen table is replaced without you seeing just before it begins to wilt.
One of your makeup/skincare products is running low? you open your bathroom cabinet and a replacement has appeared overnight.
If you mention that you like the look of something or would like to try something, you can guarantee it's showing up in your apartment within the next few days.
Essentially, Sherlock uses his talent for observation to ensure that you never want for anything because you're his girl, and his girl deserves everything she wants and more.
~~~
This came to me in a dream and I immediately had to write it down lol
Mycroft: It’s due to the presence of humus and iron oxides, which absorb certain wavelengths of light and reflect others, resulting in the perception of the colour brown.
Little Y/N: Why does it have iron in it?
Mycroft: Because iron is one of the most abundant elements on Earth, formed in the cores of stars and distributed throughout the planet during its formation.
Little Y/N: Why were there stars?
Mycroft: Gravitational collapse of interstellar gas clouds. An inevitable consequence of fundamental physics.
Little Y/N: Why is there physics?
Mycroft: Because the universe is governed by a set of consistent, quantifiable laws. We don't know why the laws themselves exist, only that they do. It is a brute fact. Can we stop now?
Little Y/N: Why?
Mycroft: Because my work requires a level of concentration that is incompatible with a relentless deconstruction of causal reality.
Little Y/N: But why do you have to concentrate?
Mycroft: Sherlock. Make it stop.
Sherlock: *Sipping his tea* Oh, I don't know, it's fascinating. I think they might actually short-circuit your brain.
Summary: You swore you didn't do anything to betray your husband, but then what about all the evidence?
For years, your marriage to Mycroft Holmes had been steady, tender, and extraordinary.
You had worked so hard to build a life far away from the world.
Mycroft had once told you that your honesty was the greatest thing you had ever given him. You believed him.
Then the evidence appeared.
Anonymous intelligence files. Bank transfers. Secret meetings.
A burner phone found in your jewellery box.
Emails between you and a known foreign agent. Every document airtight and convincing. Enough to accuse you of espionage. Enough to destroy everything.
You were taken into a private facility.
No officers, no interrogators, no observers. Just your husband.
The room was silent.
A single lamp lit the table where you sat with your cuffs resting heavily against the cold surface.
Hours had passed without a sound. No guards. No analysts. Only the weight of accusations hanging over you like a storm.
The door opened.
Mycroft stepped in.
He carried a file thick enough to crush you.
His face was controlled, but cracked around the edges. The tension in his jaw was unlike anything you had seen in the years you had been married to him.
He sat across from you, opened the file and spoke without greeting.
“Explain this,” he said, pushing a photograph across the table.
It showed you meeting with a known foreign agent in a dark alley. You felt sick.
“Mycroft, that is not me.”
His eyes lifted to yours, colder than you had ever known them.
“It is your coat. Your posture. Your hair pinned in your usual manner.”
“It is not me,” you repeated, voice cracking.
He slid a bank statement next.
Large sums wired to an offshore account under your maiden name.
“Mycroft, listen to me.”
“No. You will listen,” he snapped.
The sharpness in his voice sliced through you. He never raised his voice. Not with strangers. Not with staff. Certainly not with you.
Your chest tightened with panic.
“Mycroft, I never touched those accounts, I swear it.”
“And how precisely am I meant to believe that?” He leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the table, voice strained. “Tell me why there are encrypted emails from you to a foreign operative. Tell me why there is a burner phone with your fingerprint on it. Tell me why all of this evidence paints you as a traitor.”
“Because someone is framing me,” you whispered.
“Who? Your past is not as dead as you would like to believe. Perhaps one of the delightful men you once swindled has returned for a favour.”
You flinched hard.
“You know I left that life behind.”
His voice came down, quiet and devastating.
“Did you?”
Tears blurred your vision.
“Mycroft, I love you. I would never betray you. I would never betray this country.”
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked almost pained. Then he forced himself back into composure.
“Everything here says otherwise.”
You felt your heart fracture. This was not anger. This was hurt wrapped in logic.
“Mycroft, please. Look at me. Do you honestly believe I could do this?”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. But before he could speak, the door burst open.
Sherlock walked in holding a coffee cup.
“You absolute idiots. Honestly, this is embarrassing for both of you.”
Mycroft’s expression iced over.
“Sherlock, this is classified.”
“Yes, classified stupidity. I had to intervene.”
Sherlock grabbed the folders from the table and started sorting through them with a dramatic flourish.
“Right, first of all, that photograph. Not her. Shadow length is wrong for the timestamp. Also, the woman is two centimetres taller.”
He tossed it aside and grabbed the bank statements.
“These transfers? Fabricated. The formatting is from an older banking software. Mycroft, you should have spotted that.”
Mycroft stiffened. “Sherlock-”
“Do not interrupt me while I am saving your marriage.”
Sherlock moved to the emails. “These were written by someone mimicking her style poorly. The comma placement is wrong, and she never uses the Oxford comma. Also, the encryption key was generated using an outdated algorithm. Very amateur.”
He then pulled out the burner phone.
“And this delightful object. Look at the dust. It is from the north side of your flat. Except she never sets things down on that shelf because she hates the colour of the wallpaper behind it.” Sherlock gave a self-satisfied shrug. “Obvious.”
You blinked.
“How did you even know that?”
“Mycroft never shuts up about you,” Sherlock replied without looking up. “It is actually quite nauseating.”
Mycroft shot him a murderous glare.
Sherlock continued.
“So, the culprit is clearly someone from her past. I already found him. I sent Lestrade an address, and now he is making the arrest.” He dusted off his hands as if finishing a simple chore. “You are welcome.”
Silence filled the room.
Sherlock stared between the two of you. Then he sighed loudly.
“Well? One of you apologise and the other one cry or kiss or whatever it is you two do. I am bored.”
He simply stood up and left.
The door clicked closed.
Mycroft did not speak immediately. He stared at the evidence strewn across the table, each piece now exposed as a lie. Slowly, he looked at you.
Your eyes were red. His eyes were filled with something else, regret.
“My love,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”
The apology hit you harder than the accusations. You broke, sobs shaking your shoulders.
He stood, walked around the table and knelt beside you.
Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman of Whitehall, knelt at your feet and took your shaking hands.
“I should have trusted you. I should have remembered who you are rather than what the evidence suggested.”
“You hurt me,” you whispered.
“And I will spend the rest of my life making amends for it.”
You leaned forward, forehead touching his.
His hands cupped your cheeks gently.
“I love you, nothing will ever change that.”
You let out a trembling breath. “I love you too.”
He helped you stand and pulled you into his arms. You clung to him as though he could anchor the world.
In truth, he always had.
In the hallway outside, Sherlock’s voice echoed.
“Finally. Took you long enough.”
You both ignored him.
Mycroft pressed a kiss to your temple and held you close, a silent vow settling between you. This would not break you.
It would not even dent you.
If anything, it proved something Mycroft had never admitted aloud.
Warnings: Rated R. This content is intended for readers ages 18 years and older. Minors, do not interact.
Contains: Established relationship. GN!Reader.
Summary: You and Sherlock had been dating for a while, and you both thought that your affections for each other were fairly obvious. However, when John found you slipping out of Sherlock's bedroom one morning, you realized there were several people he neglected to inform.
Sherlock is your boyfriend. This is a fact that you know. And you’re pretty sure that he knows it, too.
What you never realized before was that you two were the only people in Sherlock’s life who knew. You always thought it was fairly obvious to those around you. You were at Sherlock’s flat constantly. He always had you near him, even if he was never one for public displays of affection. And besides, John was Sherlock’s flatmate and best friend. Surely Sherlock had at least explained it to him, right?
Now, though, you found yourself trapped between Sherlock’s bedroom door and the washroom in your pajamas with John, of all people, staring at you as if he’d never seen you in his life.
You stood there, frozen, wearing only the most comfortable oversized t-shirt you own and a pair of shorts that were much too short for anyone but Sherlock to see you in. It felt like several minutes passed, though it was only a few seconds.
“Y/N?” John asked, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What–what are you doing here?” he asks, not exactly sure how else to respond to the situation.
“I stayed over,” you answered, as if it should have been obvious. But the wayJohn was looking at you felt like he was trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle. “I’m sorry, what are you confused about?” you asked, gently tugging your shirt down to try and cover a little more of yourself.
John didn’t answer. He only shook his head, as if to try and clear the thoughts from his brain. “Nothing,” he said, realizing that everything about the situation is pretty much obvious. You had stayed the night, of course, but the part that he couldn’t get over was the fact that you obviously slept with Sherlock.
You blinked again to try and refocus yourself, and you slipped into the washroom, locking yourself inside and leaning against the closed door for some kind of support. Why was John looking at you as if you’d sprouted an extra head? Was he angry that you’d stayed over? Did Sherlock not tell him you were staying over? You didn’t think it mattered that much, but you supposed it was a likely explanation.
After taking care of your business in the bathroom, you quickly slipped back into Sherlock’s bedroom to try and work out what had just happened in the kitchen.
“Does John not know about me and you?” you asked after shutting yourself in the bedroom with Sherlock.
Sherlock, in the midst of dressing himself, answers, “If he doesn’t, it’s his own fault.”
You blinked a couple of times and sighed. “Did you ever tell him?”
Sherlock turned to face you, tucking his shirt into his trousers. His brows were furrowed, his head tilted slightly in apparent confusion. “Why would I?” he asked, as if that should have been the logical response for both of you.
You rubbed your temples for a moment. “Because he’s your flatmate,” you explained, your arms now crossed over your chest. “Because he’s your friend, and he deserves to know.”
“And he would know, if he actually paid attention to his surroundings,” Sherlock said, almost with a bitterness toward John, even though you knew it wasn’t real. He moved now to put on his suit jacket, looking sharp as always.
You sat on the bed and rubbed your eyes for a moment, trying to wrap your head around Sherlock’s unwillingness to actually come clean about your relationship. “So… you didn’t tell him out of… what, spite?” you asked, not exactly angry or frustrated, but just trying to understand Sherlock’s reasoning for not wanting to say anything to John.
“No,” Sherlock answered, as if it should have been obvious all along. “I simply didn’t think I would need to spell it out for him.”
With that, Sherlock opened the bedroom door to go to his usual spot in the lounge. John was sitting in his armchair, as per usual, reading something. “So…” John said, his tone slightly teasing, though not in a way that Sherlock would usually pick up on. “You and Y/N?”
Sherlock, from his own armchair, answers, “You really need to start paying attention.”
Summary: Sherlock may repress Redbeard's memory, but the pain lingers all the same. When Y/N brings home a stray, all those feelings come crashing down. hurt/comfort! domestic fluff! sherlock is a dog dad!
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋆｡𖦹°‧★
────────⊳⋆⊲────────
Sherlock sat cross-legged on his armchair, breathing in his Sunday morning. Usually, he would be sleuthing around the city, shoes slick from the blood trail he'd been following.
Instead, he warmed his feet by the fireplace. The only grisly scenes he had access to were the ones written in black and white on the morning paper. He would tire of his inactivity soon enough, but for now, he felt balanced.
"Sherlock!"
The door to the flat burst open, and the sound of his name echoed along with it. Y/N, home from the market.
He listened to the rustle of her damp coat and the jingle of keys.Though his back was turned, his hand turned up in greeting. "You're earlier than I expected. Did you find what you needed at the shops?"
"In a manner of speaking, I did. Give me just a minute!"
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicion aroused. He peered over the armchair, but she had already disappeared into the bedroom. He stood and crossed the lounge.
Just as he neared the door, Y/N slipped out and shot him a smile. She blocked his view of the bedroom, one hand clutched at the knob behind her back.
"Let's cut to the chase," he suggested. "What don't you want me to know?
"I'll tell you. But first, I need your word that you won't be upset. Can you promise me that?"
Sherlock crossed his arms. "No."
"Promise me then that you'll keep an open mind.
"I'll make an attempt."
"Alright, that's a start. Well, I visited the market today."
"Right."
"We needed groceries."
"Yes, you've said as much." As soon as the words were spoken, Sherlock glanced backward to the kitchen table. "I don't see any groceries," he observed.
"I was getting to that."
"Yes, well, accelerate the process, darling." He felt a headache nearing.
A loud thud sounded behind the door. Sherlock rubbed his temples, a picture forming.
"The weather was particularly cold today," she continued. "Flurries were coming down hard, and I suspect there'll be a snowstorm tonight. Did you hear about that?"
Sherlock eased closer and took Y/N by the shoulders. "Put me out of my misery and say the words. What in heaven's name are you keeping from me?"
She straightened his dressing robe and tried to think of how best to carry on. "I was halfway to the shop when I found something abandoned on the sidewalk. From the state of it, it had been outside in the cold for a long while." She tucked her lip between her teeth and met Sherlock's eyes. "I brought it home with me."
Sherlock knit his brows. "Brought it home with you?" Y/N didn't reply. Instead, she stepped aside, letting him discover what he had already deduced. Twisting the doorknob, Sherlock let out an indignant scoff, his suspicions confirmed.
A small dog wagged its tail from atop the bed. Its black coat was slick with melted snow, and so, it tossed and turned on the sheets. As soon as it saw Sherlock, the dog barked excitedly, flashing a small pink tongue in greeting.
Y/N slipped through the doorway and hopped up beside it. The dog rolled onto her lap, and she scratched beneath its neck.
Sherlock stared hard at the pair, girl and dog, unenthused.
"Surprise! I was thinking he could move in with us," she said.
Sherlock sat down on the bed and observed the animal. It had tan paws and long scruffy hair. It was certainly endearing. The dog stared back at him with wide eyes and a wagging tail.
"He's a keeper, isn't he?" Y/N laughed.
Sherlock thought long and hard about the question. He remembered his own youth and felt a pang in his chest. He had a dog once, had loved it and had lost it. He didn't want to face the pain a second time.
"Absolutely not," he decided.
Before Y/N could intervene, Sherlock cradled the dog into his arms and made quick steps out the flat, down the staircase, and to the front entrance. Gently, he layed it on the stone steps outside. "I'm sorry, old friend," he said, "this is no place for you. Run along now." He shut the door behind him, trying to forget the unknowing happiness in the creature's eyes.
Y/N's frantic steps halted just behind him. "I cannot believe you just did that," she said, hurt. She stood behind him, shaking her head.
"You don't understand," he began, but before he could explain, she turned away, hurrying back up the stairs. Sherlock sunk down to the floor and leaned his head against the wall. He suddenly wished that his day had remained slow-paced.
With nothing left to do, he decided to fetch his coat and retrieve the groceries that Y/N hadn't. He arranged his scarf and gloves against the howling wind. A snowstorm was indeed on its way. "I imagine he's found another bleeding heart to take him in for the night," he said aloud, trying to reassure himself. He let the words settle, but still, they sounded hollow.
Sherlock scrubbed a hand down his face. A harsh wind blew against his coat collar. He felt unwell, frigid from a cold that had nothing to do with the weather.
He had only reached the pavement when a small blur bolted between his legs. Sherlock looked down and breathed a sigh of relief.
"I was hoping to find you somewhere along the way." He lowered himself on one knee and caught the little black dog in his arms. Its fur was peppered in snowflakes, but still its tail wagged, ready to play.
"I had a friend like you once," Sherlock laughed, moving his hand to tap its padded nose. He looked up at the overcast clouds. "He's someplace else now. Redbeard was his name. I think you would have liked him."
Sherlock stood up, surprised to find the dog still in his arms. He tucked it gently into his coat and scoffed when a long nose popped out and sniffed his jaw.
Sherlock studied the dog, and his lips tightened into a pained smile. The animal's warm breath tickled his neck until Sherlock felt the first tear glide down his cheek. "I almost forgot how good it felt," he whispered. Sherlock looked down and kissed its smooth head tenderly. "Thank you for reminding me."
The door creaked when Sherlock stepped back inside the flat. The fireplace was still going, and Y/N appeared, clearly unimpressed.
Sherlock didn’t speak right away. He unwrapped the dog from his coat, its small frame warm against his chest. “He found me,” Sherlock said quietly.
Y/N’s face softened.
“I tried to leave him,” he murmured, “but he came back." He looked down at the dog, who blinked up at him with those same trusting eyes. Snow clung to its whiskers. "It seems he's decided to stay."
Y/N’s hand brushed his arm, but Sherlock couldn't say more. He didn't mention the memory of a different dog, from another life, who had taught him that love could be both salvation and ruin.
He had lost once, and it had hollowed him. But this creature, shivering, stubborn, and impossibly alive, had crawled into the hollow and made a home of it. Sherlock glanced at Y/N, who seemed to hear the parts he never said aloud.
“He can stay,” he said at last. The dog nestled between them, and Sherlock let his hand rest on its back, feeling the soft rise and fall of its breath.
────────⊳⋆⊲────────
Returning to my roots. My dog makes his first cameo in my fics. Oh my gosh, I love him. ❤️
Thanks for reading. Give me a heads up if you'd like to be tagged for any requests!
I've got an idea, can you do something like the reader is mad at Sherlock and won't talk to him and he is doing something like drugging himself or taking excessive work load that's basically killing him and reader sees no choice but to go back to him? It's inspired by The lying detective episode obviously.
🍄 Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader
🍄 Genre: Angst/Fluff
🍄 Summary: When Sherlock makes a grave mistake, can he come back from his error or has he lost you forever?
🍄 Word Count: 1824
🍄 Abbreviations: N/A
🍄 Warnings: Canon drug use by Sherlock
🍄 Note: Sorry this took so long to get here, I hope this is what you were looking for Anon!
He hadn’t meant it. Surely he hadn’t. Then again it was Sherlock. Did he ever actually think about his actions before doing them or did they just happen without thought of the fallout. Your life had hung in the balance as you had been used as a pawn. A pawn in one of his cases. As if your life had meant nothing to him, you were just a means to an end. Even now looking into his eyes, the fire burning in yours, there was no remorse, no regret.
“You are clearly overreacting to a situation that was completely in my control-”
“I don’t care if it was in your ‘control’ Sherlock. You put my life in danger!” you argued back angrily. “Do you not understand that? If one thing, just one, had gone wrong, I could have died.”
“But you didn’t die.” He responded flatly, with no ounce of emotion in his tone. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard what you had said. As if he hadn’t comprehended the severity of the situation. Or he simply didn’t care. A thought that shattered your heart into a million pieces.
“Is that seriously all you have to say?” you asked, voice now taking on a broken tone. “You don’t care do you? What would you have done if I had drunk it? If I had drunk that poison?” you waited. Waited for a reasonable answer, an answer that showed he cared. An answer that proved he actually felt something for your life.
“But you didn’t. I controlled it. And if you had, by some miraculous idiocy on your part. Then you wouldn’t be having this erratic display of emotions that are clearly unnecessary.” You blinked. Idiocy. Your idiocy. Not his. Not his mistake. Not a reasonable mistake on his part. No. Your idiocy. You had no words. Nothing you could think of in your mind that could explain the rush of emotions swimming through you. To describe the hurt, the pain, the heartbreak at his words.
“Right,” you whispered. Your eyes brimmed as you silently grabbed your bag, stuffing your phone into the side pocket and grabbing your keys from the table. Your body turned towards the door, not bothering to take a second glance at the man you had spent four years loving with every fiber of your being. Not bothering to answer his call as he shouted down the stairs of 221B asking where you were going. Not bothering to reply to John as you passed him in the doorway asking you if everything was okay. Your feet moved on autopilot. Your phone buzzed in your bag as you walked.
You had walked for hours, going nowhere specific, with no end goal in mind. Your tears had since dried against your cheeks, your skin flushed from the cold. You hadn’t checked your phone, you knew that the texts and calls had come from John, you doubted any were from Sherlock. As he has explained quite clearly, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Your feet fell to a stop as you stared at the figure in front of you. His eyes, usually cold, held a warmth of understanding as he looked at you, his fingertips twisting the umbrella in circles.
“What did my dear brother do this time?” The light smirk on his lips was just for show. You had known Mycroft long enough to recognise his facade. Despite being the ‘ice man’ Mycroft had come to like you. You were his favourite goldfish in a pond of goldfish.
“He could’ve killed me.”
Weeks. Radio silence. He knew Mycroft had something to do with it. He knew that Mycroft had covered your tracks somehow. You weren’t answering his texts, his calls. You weren’t at your apartment. Your landlord had said something about a suitcase and leaving late in the evening. You were still paying the rent but you weren’t there. He had tried your work next. An extended leave of absence. John had been badgering you about taking some time off for a while, you had been saving up your holiday days since you had started at the library, that seemed to have paid off now you wanted to disappear.
He knew going to Mycroft would be futile. He should have known that Mycroft was helping you in some way. ‘She’s safe.’ That's all he said. He knew where you were. He knew and he wouldn’t tell Sherlock, no matter how much he asked.
He didn’t know when the smoking started again, he couldn’t pinpoint it with his hazy mind, the cocktail of drugs dulling the loud voices in his head. Dulling the memory of the argument. Sherlock had been over the argument exactly twenty-three times since you walked out and he realised you were missing. Each time left him just as confused as the last. Why were you so upset? You had been in the firing line on numerous cases, some worse than this. So why did this upset you so much?
“Because this time, she wasn’t complicit in your act.” The tone of his brother's droning voice echoed behind him. “It seems you have finally pushed away the one person who could stand your games without being affected. How does that feel, Sherlock, knowing Y/N is gone?” Sherlock twisted angrily only to find an empty doorway. “Must feel agonising knowing you don’t know where she is and I do.” He spun back towards the windows, the voice moving with every breath. But again, there was nothing. Sherlock stood, pacing, his eyes darting across every corner of the room. “You lost her. Sherlock. Now you’re all alone. Again. In a world full of goldfish who can’t stand you.” Sherlock whipped back and forth as the voice continued to taunt him.
Finally his hands grasped the cup that had sat on the mantlepiece. The milky coffee had turned an awful green colour, with fur growing steadily on the surface. He hurled the cup against the wall with a loud smash, mouldy coffee spreading across the sofa. His hands grabbed anything within reach, hurling it at the voice wherever it moved.
The banging and crashing echoed through 221B, so loud that Sherlock didn’t even hear his flatmate speaking on the phone urgently.
‘He needs you.’ The words spun around your mind continuously on the ride to 221B. You hadn’t hesitated. You hadn’t argued. You hadn’t reminded Mycroft of the hurt Sherlock had caused you. You just moved. Just as you had that night. Just as you did whenever he needed you. Your heart couldn’t take ignoring him when he was in need. Was he an idiot? Yes. Had he hurt you unimaginably? Yes. Did you love him? Yes. You hadn’t answered John’s texts telling you how Sherlock was beside himself, you hadn’t answered Mrs Hudson, or Molly or Lestrade. But Mycroft. Mycroft always believed in some ways he was above Sherlock. There was no denying that Mycroft often enjoyed teasing and taunting Sherlock. And if he asked you to help his brother, then there was something seriously wrong.
The cab had arrived at Baker Street in the late evening, the lights in 221B still on despite the time. Mycroft’s car sat outside the home of your detective, the front door open as he stood in the doorway, his eyes waiting for your arrival. The second the cab stopped, the shouting echoed down onto the street. Your feet sped forwards taking you up the stairs, you didn’t listen to Mycroft as he tried to explain. You didn’t stop when you found John standing outside the door of 221B using the slab of wood as a shield. Another smash. A crash. A shout.
You nudged John aside, despite his protests, and pushed the door of the flat open. The flat you had once called home, a safe place after a case, a place for you and Sherlock to talk about his cases, was now reduced to rubble. You dreaded to think what Mrs Hudson would say if she saw it. You assumed she hadn’t since the light under the door of her flat was still off. She has spent the weekend on a holiday with her friends.
Your eyes scanned the mess for your detective. His chest heaved his eyes frantic, his hand reaching for whatever was in reach. His gentle curls which usually framed his face, stuck in all directions. It broke your heart all over again.
“What did you take?” Your voice seemed to cut through whatever was happening in his mind, his eyes finding you.
“Y-You, you’re not here-”
“What did you take, Sherlock?” When he didn’t answer, you stepped closer, your hands reaching for his, and gently prying his grip off of the controller which was already damaged, you knew this wasn’t the first time the controller was being launched across the flat. The mirror had a massive crack in it and you didn’t have the time to count all of the different breakages and smashes filling the place.
The second your skin touched his, he snapped. His chest slowing, his eyes focusing on you.
“I’m here, right here with you, okay?” you spoke slowly and softly. “What did you take?”
His hand fumbled with the corner of his pocket and you slipped the folded paper out, eyes breaking their gaze from his for a moment as you scanned the list. You reached back and handed it to John and Mycroft who had joined him in the doorway. You guided Sherlock to the coffee stained sofa, sitting him on the corner. “When did you take it?”
“L-Lunch.” he mumbled. “The voices wouldn’t stop-” His body slumped forwards, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as you balanced his weight.
“John, could you take him whil-”
“No, no!” Sherlock tightened his grip on your hands. “Stay.” You nodded.
“John, could you grab me the Naloxone? It should be in the second drawer of the right nightstand.” You instructed with a smile.
“I’m not leaving, okay?”
“I-I sorry,” Sherlock mumbled against your shoulder. “I hurt you. I nearly- sorry.” You knew it wasn’t perfect, you knew it wasn’t an ideal apology. But it was Sherlock. It didn’t matter how he said it, as long as he said it. He didn’t apologise. It wasn’t like him. So he meant it. But as John returned with the Naloxone shot, you forgave him. As you cleaned up the flat whilst he slept on the couch, you continued returning to him as he reached out in his sleep. Because he meant it. No one else would forgive him like you did, because no one else knew and loved him like you did.
He still had some groveling to do, but he’d do it in his own way. When he was sober, when he knew what was real. And you’d forgive him. Because he was your detective. He made mistakes, he made errors but you’d love him through them.
Imagine being Sherlock’s hired babysitter that confuses John:
To say John was confused by your presence in Sherlock’s flat was an understatement: “Why did you need me to be your flat mate when she’s here?”
John honestly couldn’t believe this guy who he found beating a corpse with a belt had such a pretty girl at his side like you.
Were you Sherlock’s sister? No, you looked nothing alike. His friend? No, he already knew Sherlock was foreign to the word friend. Maybe a lover? Who was John kidding:
Y/N *causally painting her nails*: “I’m basically paid to sleep with Sherlock.”
*John chokes on his tea and Sherlock pinches his nose in annoyance.*
Sherlock: “Do not phrase it like that. She simply refuses to sleep in her own bed.”
Y/N: “Well no one is forcing you to sleep beside me.”
Sherlock: “What am I to do? Move you? Carry you to bed?”
Y/N: “A gentleman would.”
Sherlock *with a ghost of a smile*: “I am no gentleman.”
Y/N: “I can tell.”
See unlike John when Mycroft came to you with the offer to spy on Sherlock for him you didn’t hesitant to accept the offer yet you also didn’t hesitant to inform Sherlock that were spying on him for money (sometimes that money was split between the both of you when you thought Sherlock’s experiments were interesting).
However, you did have a side for a fashion company which Sherlock called you dull for and that resulted in a designer heel being thrown at him.
Seeing your relationship with Sherlock confused many, not just John, because of how much your personalities clashed with each other.
You were fiery and Sherlock was icy, you were one of the only people to melt the ice around his heart and he was the one of the only people to tame your flames without getting burned.
It was the little things John noticed about you two like how you just knew the way Sherlock took his tea and how Sherlock refused anyone to make his tea but you:
*you come out of the kitchen with a cup of tea and place it in Sherlock’s open hands, brushing your fingers over his.*
Sherlock *inhaling the scent with a content hum*: “Did you poison my tea?”
Y/N *narrowed eyes*: “I can take it back and give it to John.”
Sherlock: “Don’t be so dramatic.” *proceeds to drink your tea happily*
There was also the way Sherlock allowed you to sit in his chair or at least the handle of it:
*Sherlock resting his elbow on your plush thigh.*
Sherlock: “Must you sit so close to me? The couch is empty.”
Y/N: “Is me being this close bugging you, Sherlock?” *Sherlock looking into your eyes like you were testing each other. Talking in your minds that excluded John who sat across you*
Sherlock: “…I’ll allow it.”
John noticed that Sherlock gave into very easily and he never figured out if it was just because you were pretty (which he knew Sherlock did not care about such things) or because it was smarter and less harder to just let you have your way.
However, what John was still trying to work out was if you and Sherlock were actually in a lover stage.
There was definitely something like sexual tension there as he had overheard Sherlock calling you a “brat” and you responded with a cheeky “come spank me then” which was John’s cue to go to the store for milk.
Then he remembered you mentioning you “sleep” with Sherlock and his curiosity got the best of him to see check on Sherlock in his room where he found you both thankfully in your night wear yet you were asleep on your stomach and Sherlock was on his side. (You were separated but John took note that your faces were turned to each other and if he looked over your sleeping form he could see your hands interlocked with each other.)
It frustrated John but he couldn’t confront the both of you since you would most likely laugh in his face, so he went to Mycroft who rolled his eyes at the thought of you two together: “I don’t care how (Y/N) gets information from my brother. If they want to continue their experiment then it’s out of my hands.”
Secretly, the reason both John and even Mycroft were keeping a watchful eye on yours and Sherlock’s affections was because they enjoyed your company far more than Sherlock’s (they did want him screwing up their chances of having you in their as a friend and employee).
To be fair they should be more worried about Sherlock’s survival as he didn’t know what would kill him first: his fondness for you or your temper when he ate the last piece of cake in the fridge.
It’s not Sherlock’s fault he thought you were at your most amusing when you were enraged with him.
