Taking a heavy sigh, you stared at the red and blue lights. Flashing against the walls, illuminating the darkness. Two police officers came in your sight. A man cuffed between them. He slowly turned his head to you, curling up a grin. Making you exhale with a shudder as he got carried away. Reaching the police car.
Head bowed down to push him into the backseat. Moving your arms over yourself in an embrace, you felt a presence at your side. – “Are you okay?” – turning your head slightly to Joan at your side. Humming in response with a few nods. She came laying her head down on your shoulder, taking a hold of your arm. – “I’m so sorry.” – she whispered knowing how you must feel.
Her comment made you lower your gaze, numbly. The police car drove off as you saw him through the window. His gaze still clear on you. Grimacing joyfully at his achievements. At his achievement of having deceived you.
Unable to look more at him, you turned your head away. Eyes closing to withhold your tears. Tears for how ridiculous and ashamed you felt. Ashamed that he had found a way to get close. Too close. You thought you knew him. It all started out as a helpless neighbour. Then it became familiars to friends.
He had woven a way in your life without knowing his true intentions of background. Unaware of the fact that he was out for a reckoning. Sizzling like a snake just to find a moment to strike. Countless of other women he had already kidnapped and tortured. If it wasn’t for Sherlock, you might have been next.
Wiping your cheeks, Joan moved her head up from your little movement. – “I’m alright.” – you reminded her once more. Turning around as your gaze fell upon him. Sherlock Holmes. Something unreadable in his expression.
It made Joan look between the two of you. Taking a deep breath, he approached you. Curling up a saddened smile, you readied yourself for an embrace. Arms already opening a bit till they lowered. Struck by another reality.
Sherlock’s expression hardened as he removed his hand from his pocket. – “I can’t believe you!” – he called out, making you flutter taken back by his words. – “Have you truly become that blind by a guy? So blind that you couldn’t even deduct his intentions.” – he shouted out, waving his hand around in accusations.
“If it wasn’t for me smelling his intentions from a mile away, you’d be looking a lot less nice as you do now!” – his words firing at you like bullets. – “Sherlock.” – Joan said seeing how this was not helping right now.
Sherlock threw his hand up to her for silence. – “Well it was almost over, you know.” – Sherlock began once more. – “O-our little family unit. You, me, Joan!” – he shuddered out. Lip quivering that tiny bit as you noticed the change in his eyes. More saddened than ever. – “I know.” – you responded lowly, batting your gaze down.
Sherlock shifted the weight on his feet. – “We’re supposed to be partners!” – his words shouting at you. Blaming you for not noticing it. For not telling him. For not seeking comfort. – “I know.” – was the only response you could give him. – “I can’t believe you have been this stupid, Y/n!” – his final words making you swallow hard.
Lifting your head up with tears in your eyes. – “Yes, I have been stupid!” – you shouted back. – “I am the things you accuse me off. Stupid, blind, clueless and I should be ashamed of myself, but believe me Sherlock I am!”
Joan stared with wide eyes back at you. Then at Sherlock, seeing him tense his jaw. Trying to hide his true emotions. – “I…I can’t be around someone this clueless.” – he mumbled to himself, turning away to pinch his nose bridge. – “Don’t say that.” – Joan said touching
Sherlock by his arm, but he just shrugged her touch away. Sniffing loud, you searched your pockets, trying to withhold a sob. Sherlock turned his head curious hearing the dangling of keys. Eyes slightly widening when you held your keys up.
The keys to the apartment you shared. – “Then don’t.” – you spoke taking a step forwards. Slapping your keys in his hand. Urging him to take them. The keys nearly falling out of his hand, making him stumble to keep a hold of them before dropping to the ground.
“Y/n… please… Sherlock didn’t meant it…” – her head went with a glare at him. – “Did you Sherlock?” – keeping her glare on him to think before he speaks. – “I did.” – he responded without a second thought. Joan closed her eyes with a heavy sigh.
You knew enough, turning on your heel. Taking off in the night, leaving your once known partners alone. Joan came up to his face, making him jump out of his skin. – “You know not everything is about you, you know that right?” – she told him.
“Because congratulations Holmes, you just broke up our little family unit as you so love to call it.” – Joan left with those words, giving him something to think about. Sherlock stared a bit into the distance before following her back to the apartment.
Joan sighed loud at the scenery. Sherlock sitting in silence, staring at the dangling keys between his fingers. Your keys. – “Stop being stubborn and call her back.” – Joan told him, having enough of his contemplating. – “No…” – Sherlock muttered out, not tearing his gaze away from the keys.
It made Joan sigh even louder to let him know how ridiculous he was being. – “You are being ridiculous.” – she said, throwing a shirt at him. It made him jump up. – “I am not!” – he shouted back. Expression stern and grumpily. Having heard something he didn’t like.
With a huff, he pulled his shirt a bit more down, taking his leave. Joan rolled her eyes at him. Sherlock slowed his pace nearing your door. Touching the cuffs on his sleeve to occupy himself thoughtfully. Brows slightly furrowed, contemplating about you. Something missing ever since you left.
Clearing his throat, he moved further, going towards his room. Closing the door behind him. Pulling his chair back as he came sitting at his desk. Pulling the folder a bit closer to him. Reading the first few lines of the police report with a smile. – “Y/n would love this.” – he spoke to himself.
When he caught himself smiling, he quickly cleared his throat. Letting his smile falter. – “It was not I that got themselves manipulated.” – he scoffed out, crossing his arms. Puffing loud, he tried to make himself feel better by acting a bit cocky. That something like that would’ve never happened with him.
When the sun was setting knocked Joan at his door. – “What do you want for diner?” – she asked on the other side of the door. Sherlock got up, opening the door. – “What does Y/n want?” – he blurted out as his eyes suddenly widened. Joan quirked her brow up.
“I…I…I mean whatever you want.” – he quickly tried to recover, but Joan was already smiling. – “Just call her. You missing her is starting to get a bit annoying.” – she gave him a little shove to get it in his head. Sherlock cleared his throat. – “I…I don’t miss her.” – he responded.
“Uh-hu.” – Joan said unbelieving. – “So constantly looking at her door, beginning a conversation to her when she is not here is not missing her?” – she explained further, needing him to understand just how much he missed he. – “I..I don’t do that.” – Sherlock called out, his voice going a pitch higher.
“Your voice pitched.” – Joan pointed out. – “It… it did not.” – he deepened his voice with a little clearance. Joan rolled with her eyes, taking out her phone. – “Call her!” – making it clear to him.
Sherlock swallowed nervously when Joan shoved her phone closer to him. He shakingly accepted it. – “Be honest with her, Sherlock.” – she finished, taking her leave. Sherlock stared down at the phone before dialling your number. Waiting for your answer. “Hello Joan.” Hearing your voice made him close his eyes with a warm sigh. – “Hello Y/n.” – he spoke.
There was a silence at the other end as he knew you were caught by surprise. – “I…I’d like to see you if you allow me.” – he continued, hoping you would agree. Another pause, making him fear the worst. – “Fine…” – you agreed with soft sigh. Sherlock asked you to come to the apartment. Joan took her leave, wanting to give the two of you some privacy.
Sherlock waited patiently for you. Taking a deep breath when the door opened. Curling up a tiny smile at the sight of you. – “You wanted to see me.” – you said stepping closer to him. – “Yes… and I very much like you to listen to me.” – he began. – “Sherlock, I think I have enough of your blaming.” – you interrupted him.
“No-no-no wait, listen to me Y/n.” – he quickly jumped in, not wanting you to leave. You gestured at him to continue, crossing your arms. – “I… I know I tend to make things all about me. Speak before I think. I shouldn’t have acted that way. I should’ve comforted you instead.” – he went further, nervously fumbling with his hands.
“We both know that isn’t like you.” – you responded, turning away from him. Sherlock moved forwards, grabbing you by your elbow to keep you in place. – “I was a dick. I tend to say the wrong things whenever I don’t know how to deal with it.” – he called out, pulling you towards him. – “I’ve been wrong again, wrong. I…I’m sorry…” – he let out taking you by your other elbow as well.
Staring deeply at you. – “I…I… Joan wants me to admit that I have missed you… and to be truthful I have. I have missed you Y/n. Very much.” – you blinked surprised when he pushed a stray of hair behind your ear. – “I’m sorry…please forgive me and come back… for I can’t fantom not having you by my side.” – he breathed out letting his touch go down your cheek to your chin.
Shuddering out a breath at his touch. Sherlock took another step closer to you. – “Please… come home.” – he wanted nothing more. You curled up a smile, touching his shoulder as you brought your head closer to him. Leaving a caring kiss against his cheek. Leaning a bit back, your gaze got caught with his. His breath hot on yours. Gaze falling lower with a yearning. Sucking in a breath, you felt compelled. Before you knew it, his lips were on yours. Kissing you deeply.
Breaking the kiss off, Sherlock took a step back with a clearance of his throat. – “Not a word to Joan about this.” – he said making you laugh loud.
@linguini17 asked for a 'Joan sick fic' for today's @comfy-vember prompt 'cool wet cloth', so here's a little something for the Elementary fans out there!
Set some time early on in their partnership, <1k words, rated G, Gen - Joan & Sherlock friendship, no warnings apply.
Summary: Joan wakes up feeling like death warmed over, sick with a horrid head cold. She's ready to suffer through it alone, but Sherlock is being surprisingly supportive!
On Ao3 • all Novemver fics • prompt me!
I don't have an Elementary fandom tag list yet, do let me know if you want to be notified when I post more!
A Borrowed Grief (1395 words) by Topaz_Eyes
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Elementary (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Joan Watson
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson
Additional Tags: Friendship/Love, Major Illness, Mentions of Cancer, Hospital, anticipatory grief, Grief/Mourning, Heartfelt Conversations, 3sf 2026, three sentence ficathon, Prompt Fic, Angst
Series: Part 37 of Three Sentence Ficathon Stories
Summary: He was not acquainted with the concept of mourning a loved one still alive.
That was all. No questions sharpened into concern.
She rose with quiet ease and crossed the room in near silence. Her hand hovered in his line of sight, not sudden, just steady, before it settled on his cheek.
A hundred instincts flared at once: to step back, to snap, to disappear into logic. But he stood there and let it happen. Let her touch the raw, sea-stung version of himself, the one with no defences left.
Her thumb brushed through the coarse edge of his beard, where dried salt still clung to skin. The whirring sound of it, that small, soft friction, stirred something in him. He hadn't known there were tears left.
“Let me help you,” she whispered, almost inaudible.
He closed his eyes and gave a slight nod. He desired nothing more than that. It was surrender, not permission. Thought had slipped from him hours ago. All that remained was this hollow ache — this ache, and her .
Her fingers brushed the collar of his coat, gentle but sure. She didn’t pull, just guided, slow and certain, the fabric slipping from his shoulders.
She hung his coat over the hook, neat and deliberate.
It shouldn’t have caught him. It was only a gesture, domestic and undemanding. But her nearness, her silence, the precise, gentle way she didn’t ask,
It undid him.
He lowered his gaze, blinking hard as heat pricked at the corners of his eyes, untimely and utterly beyond his control.
He stood motionless before her, just for a beat. Then his shoulders dipped.
Not much. Just a tilt forward, slow and graceless, until his forehead came to rest against her shoulder. Not clinging, not holding. Just leaning.
His breath hitched. Once. Then again. Her scent filled his senses, but not even that could hold everything in.
“It… hurts,” he muttered — choked and wrecked, not really meaning to say it aloud.
Her hand rose instinctively, steady against the small of his back. The contact made his muscles tense and then suddenly slacken, as if he could finally stop holding himself together.
“I know,” she whispered.
He stayed there, breathing shallow. Then pulled back, not meeting her eyes.
“I walked,” he said, voice low. “Meant to come home sooner.” A pause, thick. “Didn’t.”
She shook her head, her raven black hair moving with the movement, “That’s all right.”
“I don’t…” The words came slowly, scraped raw. “I went to a meeting, but… I didn’t want to talk. Not then.”
She nodded once. “Do you want to now?”
He hesitated. The question lingered between them; open, patient. After a beat:
“…A little.”
Watson gave him that sad smile, the one she saved for moments like this, when she saw something in him he hadn’t yet admitted to himself. It always felt as if she could look straight through to his soul. If he believed in that sort of codswallop.
Her hand, still at the small of his back, steady and warm, guided him toward the library and the fire that had been burning for some time. He sank into the armchair nearest the flames, a sudden cold sweat prickling at his collar, one that had nothing to do with temperature.
She sat beside him and adjusted her leg under her, wincing slightly as she muttered something under her breath; he only caught the words “bloody hip”. A moment later, she was composed again, but he noticed.
They sat by the fire, the last embers glowing low. She had made tea for him, which had long since cooled. Still, he sipped, as if the warmth mattered less than the ritual.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Continue reading on Fanfiction and Wattpad as well.
Hello, guys, I decided (kinda on my own, no need to say thank you!) to make a make a masterlist or all my works.
Yeah, you're scared, me too.
Anyway, if you want to be tagged for any work, send an ask. If you have a request, I take them, send an ask (if you read one of my stories, then you'll have an idea of what I write, and it'll be all easier!)
Prompt: Sherlock Holmes and you are engaged through work, but end up in an experiment that Sherlock hadn’t tried in many, many years: love.
This is gonna be a little series i work on, on the side. I just love Sherlock a lot and he’s too adorable and I need to write him b/c it makes me happy. I hope you guys enjoy! I hope even if you don’t watch the show, maybe give this a read?? I had a lot of fun with it. Or just watch Elementary. Do it. <3
“What happened to you?” You had left your work untouched, moved several meetings around, left your A.D.A. despising your very existence after you left a dozen texts and emails asking her to take over your work for tomorrow, and left complete utter hell in your wake to come here, and all Sherlock did was blink at you, as he sat bloodied and bruised on a hospital bed. His back with angry red and purple marred against his tanned skin, his profile disfigured with scratches and cuts, and his face stuck thoroughly in his phone. He didn’t bother to look up, as he remained intent on his search. Joan whispered a hello, excusing herself to grab a cup of coffee, but more to escape the proceeding conversation
“I thought it was quite obvious,” His voice was monotone as per usual. “I was roughed up by some of Maria Gutierrez’s relatives.” You bit back a smart reply, remembering the time he was going through at the moment, deciding words were a bad choice. So instead, as he shut his phone off, you pried the device from his fingers, and placed your hands gently, splaying your fingers against his bare shoulders, pressing your forehead to his. His eyes shut, as if he was trying to avoid your stare, avoid giving you all of the secrets he had hidden away for so long in that mind of his, as if he was afraid your look would utterly break him. “You are much better at physical comfort than Watson is, she practically pushed me out the door to get to this hospital. Waste of time,” He added, eye opening to make sure she hadn’t returned, but then you couldn’t hide the fear in your eyes. “I’m fine, Y/N.”
You couldn’t seem to catch your breath, as your fingers shifted to rest upon his cheeks instead, gliding slowly over his injuries, as if he would break apart if you pressed any harder. “I was so worried. Joan called and said you got beat up and were in the hospital, I didn’t even think, I just cam-“
His lips pressed to your own, or rather, an effective method of rendering one speechless Sherlock would say, except he couldn’t, as his lips moved against your own. His emotions were present in the kiss: passion, warmth, but especially pain. And he was more than willing to use you to numb the pain, you were the only drug of choice he had been willing to subject himself to since his rehabilitation, from both drugs and romantic attachments, and you were more than willing to do it. But his lips were a moment away, as he whispered. “Why did you come?”
“I was worried, Sherlock,” You murmured, as his breath sent shivers up your spine, trying to conceal your own pants. “Joan calls me and tells me you’re in the hospital, what did you want me to do? I thought you told –”
“She only called because I hadn’t told her.” He whispered, the words were warm against your lips, but seemed to only freeze your heart to the point of shattering. “about us. She had figured you would have wanted to know.”
“Oh.” Your cheeks flushed, taking a step back, unable to meet his gaze any longer. Figures, he hadn’t wanted you here. It was just a mistake. Just like your relationship with him. You had warned yourself against falling for him, especially after you had spurned his sexual advances, but you had thought he had changed, that he had grown. And he had, but not enough. For either of you. “I should go.”
“Yes, it seems that would be best,” He replied, words mostly whisper at this point, as you gathered up your things, allowing the silence to drape around the two of you, as you stepped away from him, and the feelings tacked alongside him. “Please,” he made you pause. “don’t inform Watson of our mutual separation. I would like to be the one to tell her. I will be speaking to her presently.”
“Mutual,” You repeated, a nag of a sigh wanting to exhale from your chest, but you wouldn’t allow it. Though you were sure he noticed. “Of course. Goodbye Sherlock.”
And to think, it had all began with a stupid phone call.
“What do you know about human trafficking rings from New York to El Salvador?” You stopped in your tracks in the middle of a crowded courthouse, much to several other’s disgruntlement, as they brushed past you. “I know the line is clear in the courthouse, and it can’t possibly be the signal in my own home.”
“Who is this?” You held your head as you made your way over to a bench, and though the British accent and sheer, almost startling arrogance hadn’t given it away, his next remark sent a throbbing pain through your head, which only confirmed your suspicions.
“I suppose your apparent confusion about who I am stems from the fact that you did not enter my contact information into your mobile device when I painstakingly handed it to you to be sure that you received it. Or you could have lost or deleted it, both of which are viable options.” And you sighed, the only thing you could do when a man such as the one who decided to ring you that early morning did.
“Sherlock Holmes, I should’ve known from the first grating word left your mouth.” You murmured, half hoping he would hear, and he did, then remarking after a moment’s pause:
“Now, I’m sure you deleted that contact information,” He then quickly moved onto other matters, asking several prying questions about your time heading up a Federal Task Force for the U.S. Attorney’s office regarding human trafficking from South America. “Don’t bother denying your involvement in the task force, I know you declined to state your involvement, not wishing for the fame and cry to run for political office that would go along with it, which was, I dare I say, admirable on your part, but that doesn’t dissuade me from inquiring.”
“Holmes, I –”
“I believe I have some information you will find interesting as well, regarding several of the cases you’ve been assigned to prosecute, especially against the drug cartels and in particular, the K.K.K.” You paused in consideration, which he took as an opportunity to run his mouth yet again. “All of which will be made available to you if you meet me for dinner tonight at my place.”
His place? Ay, there’s the rub. “Your place? Holmes, if this is you trying to get me in bed, I told you –”
“I assure you, Ms. L/N, this is not an attempt at bedding you, this is merely a mutual exchange of information that will benefit us both. You made it quite clear the last time I tried to persuade you into a more physical relationship, and I would not dishonor your decision,” You weren’t going to get off this call, unless you agreed, were you? So, you did, reluctantly and right as you were about to hang up, Holmes stopped you. “And, Y/N,” dropping all pretext of formality. “my offer was one of the standing sort.” Click.
And so, you had arrived at the doorstep of Sherlock Holmes’ brownstone. You frowned at the door, as you would at the consulting detective. A brilliant, but irritating man, who had little regard for those around him, and viewed his own intellect as exceptional. And though it was, there was one type of intelligence he would never excel at: emotional. You had sat beside him when you worked a case with Scotland Yard as he broke apart a defense witness’s alibi, but reduced her to tears in the process, only for him to offer her a box of tissues and excuse himself from the room. But even so, he had saved your case, put several rapists and murderers away, and saved you the hassle of a trial. So the least you could do was accompany him to the drink he offered you, and the two of you sat, quietly discussing the case in the corner of a mostly empty bar, and though his fingers did graze you once or twice, you hadn’t thought anything of it. But then you couldn’t seem to break his gaze, though you couldn’t bear to look away, though you had done it several times over. There was something there you couldn’t quite discern, an emotion, a longing, and suddenly, as his lips brushed yours and your mind was filled with only the taste of his alcohol ridden lips, the smell of ash wood and leather, and a distinct sense of pleasure. And as he pulled away, his smile made your heart skip exactly two beats, continuing to flip and twirl, as he got to his feet, holding a hand for you to come with him. None of his brash words necessary. But you knew the end to that story, and the end was the same as the one here: Sherlock was not interested in any romantic entanglements, but you were. Simple as that.
But nothing was that simple when it came to Sherlock Holmes. You learnt that as you knocked on his door that day, to reveal several mannequins laid on the floor, one of which who’s hand was currently in his hand. “Oh good, I thought your house would be as strange as your methods are.” You brushed past him. “Looks like you aren’t the only deductionist around.”
Your eyes scanned the room, as you were careful to step over the mannequins, before settling yourself on the sofa, as he stood before you, raising an eyebrow. “You aren’t going to ask?”
You shrugged, making yourself comfortable. “I figure it has to do something with your case, if you are going to explain why bother asking?”
“All good things…” He trailed off, before turning and walking off in the opposite direction through the foyer. When he didn’t come back, you rose to your feet, following after him. “My question to you still stands, you know, I need to know about the taskforce you were on, and what truths you fathomed from the investigation.”
“And my reply is,” You called after him, after going down a set of stairs turning the corner, “why?” You paused, as you found yourself with a set table, complete with white tablecloth, and an impressive spread for dinner set before you. “What is this?”
“My compensation for dinner, along with the information you want, of course,” He offered a smug smile, noting your shocked expression with all the subtly he could muster, before turning his head back to the pots. “I thought you might as well get something out of this trip.”
“Something besides sex, you mean?” Taking the glass of water he offered to you gratefully, as he sat at one corner of the table closer than you would have liked. His gaze was intense as he sat, tilting his head as he sipped.
“It’s funny how you keep bringing up fornication, when you are the one who doesn’t want it,” He leaned in on his elbow. “and my deduction is that you do, based on that and other evidence.” He added, making you raise your brow.
“What other evidence?”
And he moved away, as listed things: “The way you speak, you treat me like I’m odious, but you do that to conceal your emotions, a defense mechanism, you should know all about those, you are an expert in the field of psychology, after all,” You opened your mouth to retort, but he went on, placing his hand over yours. “The way you react to my touch: hesitation,” Just as the word left his mouth, your hand slipped from his. “See there? You retracted a bit too late, the thought crossed your mind, and a decision was made,” Your eyes narrowed, and he leaned in close once again, and you could almost feel the words as they came off his lips. “Ah, yes, and your eyes are of particular note,”
“Why?” And his hand came up to rest upon your cheek, and you did not shy away this time, you did not hesitate, as your fingers curled around his own, but you couldn’t find the heart in you to wrench them off.
“Because they are absolutely, without a doubt, beautiful,” He murmured, using his hand to draw his lips to your own. And you broke it a moment later, a smile playing across the same lips he had warmed with his own.
“That’s not relevant to the case at hand,” But Sherlock only shrugged, his thumb rubbing back and forth across the top of your cheekbone.
“What can I say? It got you to kiss me, didn’t it?” You laughed, before moving his hand away from you, and returning to your sitting position. He looked slightly bemused at your suddenly professional appearance, though his eyes still skimmed your now smudged lips with some satisfaction, but disappointment still ran rampant.
“This can’t happen, Sherlock, as I told you before, I don’t do this,” You gestured between him and you, “without strings. I can’t do that. And you can’t do with them.”
“But, Y/N, how do you know if you never really tried?” And you considered it.
“Because I know it wouldn’t make me happy,” You said softly, “and I’ve had too many heartbreaks do anything that did otherwise.” But he only shook his head, his tossed aside hand, coming to rest upon your cheek yet again.
“But, Y/N, what you fail to understand is, I wasn’t referring to you.”
And you slowly understood in that moment, something you were unable to accomplish in London: his methods, his idiosyncrasies, his behavior, you could grasp, but Sherlock always remained just out of reach. But right now, he wasn’t, for the first time, he was in your hands, and his were on your body, and your mouth was on his. And even after, as the two of you got down to work, his lips still pressing butterfly kisses to your shoulders, you remarked: “It’s a good thing this case is much stronger than your last,” which only led to another re-presentation of the evidence, until you proclaimed a mistrial.
And, as you drifted off into the arms of sleep, another quite familiar lover, for the first time you thought you understood: the feeling was mutual, and finally the relationship was too.
For a time.
“Stay,” You mumbled to him, as he shifted to move out of bed, your sleepy grasp an anchor of temptation that kept Sherlock Holmes glued to his spot. And how he longed to stay, to learn more of the sounds that could leave your lips, the new trails he had yet to make down your body, and the sensations he could elicit for the both of you. His mind already raced with the sheer, number of possibilities of what to touch, what to do, and what to feel, especially as your hand dipped under his wrinkled boxers, thumbing at the hem. “Sherlock, please?”
“I have to go, love,” He informed you rather matter of factly, trying to keep the lust at bay with the thought of the consultation at hand. Captain Gregson had only called him into consult, a curious and rare incident indeed, as he often wanted Watson nearby to deal with his so-called “tantrums,” and he hoped to sate his curiosities upon arrival. “The Captain doesn’t like to be kept waiting, particularly not by me.” Even so, his will was crumbling, as you rose from the bed, letting the covers slip off, and he was ready to sate his appetite instead, the Captain could wait, but you only kissed his cheek, hopping off the bed.
“I’ll make you breakfast then, I have a case of my own to handle this morning,” And to your obvious surprise, his hand caught you by the wrist, pulling you back onto the bed, and he was perched on top, and you weren’t displeased with his actions, especially as his lips brushed your burning skin, charting a new course down your neck. “Sherlock, what about work?”
“They can wait,” His lips nipped at your collarbone, as his fingers simultaneously traveled quite some ways lower. “This cannot.” You gasped beautifully, back arching upwards into his touch, and his ego was thoroughly stroked. And as he noted your response, filing it away for future, both proximate and long-term use. And in that moment, he paused, to take in the sight of you: your skin flushed under his touch, your smile full and grinning, and your eyes, as they fluttered open were indescribable, filled with an emotions words could not begin to approach, but one word could: love.
You were in love with him.
And that gave him pause, much longer than he could justify in this moment. “Sherlock?” He blinked, before pressing a quick peck to your lips.
“I have to go,” He pulled on his clothes, keeping his eyes fixated toward the door, unable to meet your eyes once again. This feeling, your feelings, he didn’t understand, he hadn’t felt it in a long while, and he didn’t have a clue whether he wanted to. Or if he actually could anymore. “No time for breakfast. Work is for the weary after all.” He spared you once last look, only to see your lips curl and shake your head as if he had done something endearing rather than insulting.
“I’ll see you for dinner tonight,” And he was out the door, his mind not flush with details of crimes, but details of you. Your body language, your voice, and that look. You had asked him to stay, but did it mean something more than just for the morning? If he had stayed that morning, then he would stay the next, and the next, and perhaps then, he would stay forever. Forever. Was there any word more terrifyingly existential? Would that be so terrible? That was what a relationship was, was it not?
But the more pertinent question remained: were the feelings mutual? And for one of the first times in his life, Sherlock Holmes didn’t know the answer, but he did know this to be a fact: staying was the one thing he had never learned to do, and after that morning, he wasn’t sure he could.
(I tagged who liked/commented my original post here, or those who were taggable <3 I’ll only be doing this for this first part, just let me know if you want me to continue tagging you in future installments!)
