Your Hidden Strength
BBC Sherlock : Oneshot
Sherlock x Reader
Word Count: 5999
Warnings: Kidnapping/held hostage... a reigniting love for Benedict Cumberbatch. I’m obsessed with keeping writing true to character, hopefully this is accurate
DID YOU KNOW THEY TOOK SHERLOCK OFF NETFLIX - those bastards
Request: This is just from my own head 😊
A/N: Sherlock seems indifferent to the hired housekeeper, but when she goes missing his life is thrown upside down
She straightened out the chaos. She was very good at that. Making whatever disaster was in the flat a controlled chaos.
She placed a bulletin above the couch, pinning Sherlock’s papers in some kind of order. The table was decluttered, placed in dated files and hidden in a small organizer. His laptop was plugged in to charge, as he always forgot, and she tucked away yesterday’s newspaper. She had a library of boxes downstairs to hold all the newspapers as Sherlock normally required them at some point or another.
She dusted the bookshelves and vacuumed the rug so no one would trip over the bunches Sherlock normally made running around the apartment. She washed and returned the pillows he’d toss out the window in a rage. She would also treat the coffee stains and cigarette burns he’d leave behind.
She polished the skull and swept out the chimney. She replaced his old toothbrush and refilled the toilet paper under the sink. She put the bills on the counter and bought groceries. The violin was returned to its case before he could snap the bow like he did the last time a case struggled to make developments.
She convinced Sherlock to purchase a second fridge to home all of his strange experiments. She gifted him a thermometer and ph gauge for it when he did. Currently she was in the kitchen, brewing some tea and disinfecting all of his scientific equipment.
Goggles and gloves on, she sanitized beakers and petri dishes. A drying rack already held glass stirring sticks and pipets.
“Hoo hoo.” Mrs. Hudson walked in with a tin of biscuits, “These are fresh from the shop, dear.”
(Y/N) pointed towards a cookie jar, “Just place them in there, thanks.” She continued scrubbing at a bottle that previously held a handful of cow tongue.
“You’ve really outdone yourself this week, (Y/N),” Mrs. Hudson said, moving to see the coat rack adorning Sherlock’s collection of scarves and gloves. “Did you iron these?”
“Of course,” (Y/N) said, shrugging her shoulders, “It’s my job after all.”
“But they’re scarves, (Y/N),” she said with a creased brow, “You know you don’t have to do everything up here. John can help.”
(Y/N) took her gloves off and went to wipe down the microscope, “In their line of work, it’s easier to have all these mundane things taken cared of. Even John – when he’s not chasing Sherlock he’s up late at the hospital.”
“I know dear, but you’re working yourself to death.”
“I’ve given myself a certain caliber that the boys are now used to, so I must maintain that upkeep.”
There was another swing of the door, “I honestly don’t know what we’d do without you, (Y/N).”
“John!” (Y/N) said in greeting, “Sorry, covered in bleach.” She ran over and kissed his cheek in passing, “Sherlock was keeping a rather unpleasant bacteria in the fridge.”
John gave her a slightly disgusted look, “Please tell me it was in his fridge.”
She nodded, holding in a laugh, “I’ll tell you one thing – being your housekeeper has never been boring.”
“I’m just glad it isn’t me anymore. I mean, I was never their housekeeper,” Mrs. Hudson said, crossing her arms and sighing, “It’s a miracle Sherlock hasn’t scared you off yet. He can be a bit of a handful though a real sweetheart.”
John rolled his eyes, falling into his armchair, “I’ve yet to see that side of him.” He looked around, “(Y/N), where is…”
She suddenly appeared and handed him the days newspaper.
“Ah, thank you.”
“And you’ve gotten a few emails about the blog – I flagged the ones you’ll need to respond to but the others I sent information on updates and comments.”
John shook his head, “You really are remarkable, (Y/N). How do you manage it?”
(Y/N) shrugged, returning to the kitchen to finish the tea. “I enjoy it. I get to see all the amazing things you do without the danger.”
“You know we couldn’t do all those amazing things without you,” John said, ever the conscientious one. He knew she wasn’t thanked enough for all she did, especially by his flat mate.
She shook her head, pouring a cuppa, “You did long before I came along.”
Mrs. Hudson gratefully took a saucer and sipped, “I’m going to have to give you a discount on this months rent. I haven’t had to deal with a single mishap from this flat since you’ve arrived. You remember when Sherlock put those holes in my wall?”
(Y/N) smiled to herself, knowing those holes were still there behind the bulletin she put up.
“We’ll give you a big Christmas tip this year,” John turned a page of his paper.
“That’s very kind of you,” (Y/N) said sweetly, placing a cup of tea on John’s side table. Made just the way he liked it.
“I should get back to the telly, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, placing her own tea down. “My show should be on.” She walked out the door and ran into someone, “Good afternoon, Sherlock.”
The tall man came stalking into the flat, throwing his suit jacket onto the couch. He went straight for the window and stared out onto the street. He reached with his left hand and found his laptop exactly where it was always placed.
He held it in one hand and typed with the other. John wiggled his nose disconcertingly at Sherlock’s silent entry. (Y/N) made her way to move Sherlock’s jacket from the couch and to the back of his chair.
“Afternoon,” John muttered behind his paper.
Sherlock remained silent, scrolling through his laptop. (Y/N) placed a cuppa on the desk, as well as a mug of black coffee, two sugars. She sometimes couldn’t tell what he was exactly in the mood for.
He slammed the computer shut, tossing it onto the table and reaching for the coffee.
(Y/N) made a mental note – he was thinking, strained, and in need of some adrenaline from the caffeine.
“Hand me my phone, John.”
(Y/N) came behind his shoulder and slipped him the phone she kept in her pocket from cleaning his room. She removed the teacup and began to drink it herself.
Sherlock barely acknowledged her as she finally took a seat in the kitchen.
“You’ve made your move,” he muttered.
She turned towards him and smiled, sipping her drink. Sherlock was looking at the chess set that was resting behind his armchair. He pondered for a mere five seconds before replying in boredom.
“Checkmate in six.” He repositioned one of his knights as he glanced her way.
She trailed her eyes up and raised her tea to him, “We’ll see.”
“You cleaned?” He was quickly entering the kitchen, grabbing the drying beakers.
“Disinfected and ready for use,” she said confidently.
He didn’t seem to have anything to prove wrong about the work. He simply nodded and glanced at his experiment fridge.
“You’ve taken the eyes from the microwave.”
“And wrote down the observations, times, and discoloration,” she lifted a clipboard near the teapot. “Biopsies are on glass slides and next to the microscope.”
If he was impressed he didn’t say so. Though when Sherlock remained silent it was normally a good thing; as soon as he opened his mouth it was normally an insult or something to make him seem better than everyone else.
“I figured you were up all night. You take too many nicotine patches, you know.”
“It’s a four patch problem.” His hands were behind his back, voice monotoned.
She crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap, “Must be serious then.”
“String of murders along west end, actors on stage taking their last bow. Each death different and strange. One strangled with blue curtains, another stabbed with a peacock feather quill, another crushed by a falling sandbag, and the last falling from the set and breaking their neck.”
“I’ve always loved going to the theatre.”
Sherlock ignored her silly retort, and it made her smile. “The connection is of course obvious.”
John piped up from the living room, “That they’re all actors?”
“That those deaths are related to theatre myths.” (Y/N) smirked but did nothing more than drink her tea.
Sherlock gave her a muted look, “Yes. They’re all related to some kind of bad luck brought about by myth and legend. Wearing blue is traditionally unlucky on stage, unless you pair it with silver. Peacock feathers were seen as possessing the evil eye and seeing them while performing would doom the production. Sandbags came from the catwalks, and they’re normally released by signal of a whistle, so whistling while performing is bad luck and could result in a fatal accident. And finally the broken neck. The theatre was performing the Shakespeare play Macbeth, which is a notoriously unlucky show – if you say the name while in rehearsal you jinx it.”
“Did someone say, ‘good luck’ instead of ‘break a leg’? Because that’s very unlucky as well.”
Sherlock looked at her with mild annoyance, “Regardless I’ve been attempting to find another connection in the past three days.” He pulled at his curly head, “And all I’ve seen is completely separate stories and separate lives. No same director, chorus, or choreographer. There weren’t any secret love affairs or major relationships between members of the cast. Even the technicians are singular and separate. The audience has to be the key but so far I haven’t found a single ticket purchased by the same person for all four shows.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out – you always do,” she said, rising from the kitchen table. “Be sure to update me. I don’t want to be unlucky going to see a show this weekend.”
“But… but it’s the performers that are being murdered.”
“Joke, Sherlock,” she mused, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget to swab John’s mouth for that phone bacteria experiment.”
John choked, “What?”
“Kidding,” she laughed, “Twice in one day. I’m on a roll.” And she left the flat to spend time in her own room for a change. She shared the main floor with Mrs. Hudson, helping her with shop things from time to time.
Sherlock took a deep breath, rubbing his eyes hard. He went back for his armchair, planting himself and downing the rest of his coffee.
“You don’t give her the time of day.”
“Sorry?”
“(Y/N),” John said, “She does quite literally everything around here and you don’t so much as acknowledge it.”
Sherlock appeared genuinely confused, “What does she do again?”
“For God’s sake, Sherlock,” John folded his newspaper and put a hand to his temple. “She’s been housekeeping here for over six months.”
“Then isn’t it a sign of a good housekeeper for me not to notice change in the flat?”
John pursed his lips, “But she’s also acting as a secretary, scientist, and therapist. The least you could do is say she’s doing a good job.”
“She knows she’s doing a good job,” Sherlock retorted, “I don’t complain about it, do I?” He began to twiddle his fingers along his chair.
John noticed and attempted to remain inconspicuous, “Case running slow?”
Sherlock jutted his jaw and clacked his tongue. “It’s running fine.”
“Sure,” John put a finger to his lips, “You want to consult the police?”
“Idiots.”
He hopped up and started pacing, reaching for the mantlepiece and finding his torch right where it always was. He fiddled with the trigger, a small blue flame emitting from the tip.
“Let’s not set the curtains on fire,” John said cautiously. He tried to sit still, thinking about what Sherlock would be itching for next.
The detective paced, playing with the torch, “It doesn’t make any sense. The people… the actors… the audiences. What connects them? The profession? Not theatres or shows. Theatres. Where are they? West End. What is it about West End? It’s not that difficult to sneak into the back of a playhouse – many performers and technicians are running in and out. Someone off the street? Security cameras? Mycroft.”
“Your brother? You’re not roping him into a routine serial like this?”
“I need to see everything from the outside just as much as the inside. The first two victims smoked – perhaps in the back alleyway? Lured the killer in by accident? Who else wanders West End? Homeless network. I need something. Something… something,” Sherlock flared his torch, “Get me something!”
John sighed, “I’ve got another shift at the hospital; I can’t go with you to…”
“No, I need some and you have some. Give it to me.” He was dangerously close to setting his own hair on fire.
“Not having a breakthrough isn’t enough cause to give up, Sherlock. You’ve been doing really well.” He probably shouldn’t have mentioned that Sherlock was struggling with the case – damaging his ego. “Don’t stop now.”
Sherlock dropped his torch with a clunk to the ground. He observed John’s demeanor for a few seconds before rolling his eyes. “Perfect. You’ve given my secret stash to (Y/N).”
“What?” John scoffed, slightly unnerved, “Why would I do that?”
Sherlock went for the stairs, “Last thing you haven’t tried.”
The lanky man tromped towards the main floor, pushing into Mrs. Hudson’s apartment. The old woman was washing dishes in the sink, startled by his appearance and splashing bubbles all down her front.
Sherlock ignored her cries of accusation to rap on (Y/N)’s bedroom door. When she didn’t answer within three seconds, he yelled for her.
“(Y/N)! I know you’re in there. Flats by the door, crisps on the countertop, and your purse is open with your emergency feminine hygiene products stuffed inside, meaning you have no intention of going out tonight with…”
Her door flew open. She looked exasperated, “What is it Sherlock?”
He took a short, aggravated breath, “I need some. Get me my stash.”
She folded her arms, “No.”
Sherlock scratched the back of his head in a twitchy act of frustration. “Please.”
“If that was genuine, maybe.”
He clenched his teeth, “You know where everything is in the apartment. You then must also know that I have a complete arsenal at my disposal, most in that second fridge you forced me to buy…”
“I cleaned out that bacteria this morning.”
Sherlock paused, an almost tangible fury building in him, “I have other weapons other than biological.”
“Harpoon tucked away, scalpel kit locked up, and gun unloaded and somewhere John deems safe.”
He was almost shaking uncontrollably.
“Are you really threatening me just to get a high?” She folded her arms. “I always figured you thought higher of me.”
“Sentiment,” his voice was poisoned. “Was always your greatest weakness.”
She frowned, nodding her head. She jabbed a finger into his chest, pushing him away slightly. “Cold and calculating. Always been your greatest weakness.”
Sherlock turned away, cheek twitching from containing his next insult. (Y/N) almost sneaked a smile, seeing the restraint. He was holding back for her benefit – so he did think higher of her than he let on.
“Come on,” she pulled on his arm, urging him into her room and onto the bed. He practically flopped onto it, “Explain.”
He looked at her with a stone gaze.
“You like to talk, and I am willingly giving you the floor. Speak.”
“I’m going to the theatre – would you like to come?”
She took a deep sigh, eyeing him with barely contained disappointment. “Why me?”
“John is upset with me for some reason and won’t leave his position at the hospital. Nobody at Scotland Yard is competent enough to keep up with me. I know you are always willing to help a friend…”
“I don’t do cases, Sherlock – you know that.”
“And I know one of your premenstrual symptoms is seeking out comfort and something to feign off the loneliness…”
“Oi!”
“If you’re not going to surrender the stash, the least you can do is indulge me in some distraction.”
She watched as he slowly tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. His eyes seemed to lighten in a pleading look.
It made her sigh heavily through her nose, “You’re doing that on purpose.”
“Is it working?”
“You think we’ll run across the killer?”
He stood straight, hands behind his back, “There’s always a possibility. It is the scene of the crime. We are looking for more evidence.” It was like he already knew her answer – the subtle smile on his face was very telling.
She tapped her foot, chewing the inside of her cheek. “If I’m adding detective to the list I’m going to need a pay raise.”
“I’ll buy you lunch.” He was already out her door and jogging to get his coat off the back of his armchair.
(Y/N) was in the hall, wrapping a long striped scarf around her neck, letting it taper down her front. A knitted hat with a bauble on top fit snug on her head, making her look incredibly cheerful and innocent.
Sherlock made these observations, seeing her cheeks tinted pink without them having gone out in the cold yet. Embarrassed? Flushed? Overheating?
Why would she be blushing?
“You’re sure we won’t get into any trouble?”
Sherlock led the way out to hail a cab. “All the murders took place during performance hours and seeing as it’s still daylight, I wouldn’t expect to run into anyone planning to kill at the moment. They’re well-thought crimes that don’t require the need to stick around the scene. This killer waits until the opening number.”
She sighed, feeling the notebook and pen she stashed into her pocket. “I’ve got to be back to do the wash and prep the roast.”
“What must it be like to work with such mundane things like laundry and dinner?”
He didn’t look at her as he said it, but she felt a little hitch in her chest. No matter how resilient she became to Sherlock’s jabs and infuriating habits, there were still times he could hurt her feelings.
“It’s worth it to know it helps you save people and solve all those cases.”
“Helps me?” Sherlock scoffed. “What about household chores helps me do my job?”
She refrained from lashing out, “If what I do is so utterly useless in helping you solve cases, then why am I with you now?”
“Because John can’t be.”
(Y/N), the two of them now sitting in a cab, looked out the window and remained silent. She could barely feel Sherlock eyeing her and making deductions about her shift of mood.
“I think better when I talk out loud. It attracts less attention when I have someone to speak to.”
She knew he was trying to figure out why she was suddenly upset. He was oblivious to things such as that.
“I’m glad I’m just a substitute John.”
They rode on in relative silence until Sherlock decided it was boring to try and deduce her feelings. He then rambled on about the logistics of the case, attempting to bring about some sudden revelation. (Y/N) went along with it, merely nodding and apologizing to passersby that Sherlock harassed.
They arrived at West End, (Y/N) following Sherlock as he led the scavenge for more evidence.
And, you know… that’s about all that she could remember happening.
~~~
Sherlock awoke with a mingling sense of something being wrong. He did not believe in gut feelings without proper evidence, so he chose to ignore it. He went about his usual routine and found a few socks short in his drawer index. It made his forehead crease as he also noticed the minimal number of dress shirts in his closet.
They must all be in the wash.
He went to the bathroom, finding his shampoo almost empty and not a refill in sight. He almost slipped on the soap scum as he trudged his way out, even more upset by the fact he had to go searching for a towel as there were none hanging on the rack.
A half hour later he walked into the living room and felt something even more off-putting. An old mug of coffee sat on his side table, leaving a brown ring on the wood. His laptop was open and upon hitting a few keys he found it dead. His coat was not on the back of his armchair, and he had to actually look for it.
Clutter was obscuring the desk and piling on the bookshelves, the last two newspapers thrown onto the ground. The kitchen was a proper sight, a broken beaker shattered in the sink and dirty dishes on the table. The kettle needed cleaning and smelled of cold, sitting tea.
He couldn’t find his phone, he had to actually go to the street to get the newspaper, there wasn’t a readymade breakfast waiting for him, he couldn’t scroll on his computer, even his skull was found in John’s chair and not on the mantlepiece.
It even took him ten minutes to find his violin which he had shoved under his bed the night before for some reason.
He played it with agitated fingers. Why did it feel as though everything was hindering him that morning?
Then he looked sideways and saw the chess set below the window. He recalled the last move he made on it, the positions of the other pieces not making a countermove in response. He put his instrument down, attempting to deduce.
His foot nudged something on the ground, and he saw his torch. The one he had thrown to the floor two days previous. One and one made two. Sherlock stood straight.
(Y/N)?
It made sense; the last they spoke she mentioned doing the wash and cooking dinner. That explained his lack of clothing. The clutter and all around mess of the flat meant she hadn’t been there to clean in at least a day. She hadn’t made her next move on the chess board.
Footsteps on the stairs had him unexpectedly hopeful, but the heaviness of the step and the uneven footing told him it was John. The doctor came in tiredly, holding his lower back and blinking blearily.
Sherlock frowned, “You came upstairs.”
“Yes, I did,” John said mockingly, “You never cease to amaze me with those deductions, Sherlock.”
The detective didn’t move an inch, “I mean, you came from outside.”
“Yeah, I just took a cab over.”
“You spent the night somewhere else.” Sherlock said it like a question, but it was merely him thinking aloud. “By the state of the bags under your eyes and the stiff back, it was a couch and not a bed.”
John hobbled towards his chair, rolling the skull off and giving it a peculiar look. “Had a few too many drinks with Stanford yesterday. He offered the couch and I just passed out.” He gave a slight laugh, “Did you not notice I was gone all day again?”
Sherlock swallowed hard but he tried not to show his struggle. “Did you see (Y/N) at all?”
“No,” John said, looking around for his newspaper, “The last I saw her was Saturday when she made tea and cleaned out your fridge.”
Sherlock bowed his head in a curt nod.
John suddenly had a realization, observing the general uncleanliness around him. “And now it’s Monday and you haven’t seen her at all?”
“I’ve just noticed right before you walked in.”
“Christ, Sherlock,” John muttered, rising again, “(Y/N) is one of the most organized and pleasant people I know. She wouldn’t just skip a day of work and not let us know. It took you over a day to notice that she wasn’t around?”
Sherlock knew he ought to feel ashamed of himself and he was close to forcing himself to feel it. (Y/N) had been nothing but helpful since he first met her. He never found any sort of disappointment or qualms with her.
And he was starting to recognize the impact of having her around.
His eyes began to wander, mind working on a theory. The last they spoke was when they ventured to West End. She had been fidgety and nervous on the scene, and he did nothing to reassure her like he should have.
He didn’t buy her that lunch like he should have. He didn’t thank her for spending her afternoon with him like he should have. And he didn’t walk her home afterwards like he should have.
When did he last see her? They wandered backstage with the props and costumes and that’s when he noticed a clue. A clue that led him all the way down to Scotland Yard to solve the case in front of the detective inspector.
He didn’t remember her being there.
“I left her at the theatre,” he mumbled.
John tilted his head, listening with a growing sense of worry. “You left her?”
“The case…” Sherlock muttered, “There was a development in the case, and I had to get to Lestraude.”
“I see,” John sighed, “You know you did something similar to me when we first met. Left me at that pink woman crime scene.”
But Sherlock was suddenly running down the stairs and towards the main flat. He barged into the shop, startling Mrs. Hudson as he always did.
“Where’s (Y/N)?” He marched to her bedroom, throwing it open and pinpointing any signs that she returned to the flat after the theatre. The bed was unslept in.
“(Y/N), dear?” Mrs. Hudson said, a hand to her chest, “I haven’t seen her in a few days.” She came to the bedroom doorway. “She told me she’d take the tube up to see her family this weekend. I figured she left while I was out.”
Sherlock frowned, stalking the flat for any other evidence, “Are you absolutely sure that’s where she is?”
“I don’t know,” the landlady said, confused. “Sherlock, what’s this about? Is (Y/N) all right?”
“That’s something I’d like to know as well,” John made it down, “I’d like to know whether or not I have to knock some common sense into that blockhead of yours.”
Sherlock tried to ignore him, a familiar pang of loneliness eating at him. Common sense. Sometimes being a calculated genius was quite lonely. If he allowed himself, he could wallow in his solitude – normally he chose to shut that part of himself off.
John was trying to get his friend to feel something – feel guilty – and Sherlock knew it.
“Where else could she be?” Mrs. Hudson said with added worry.
“You were at West End,” John said accusingly.
But Sherlock held up a hand, “I caught the killer; he’s been arrested. There’s no way she fell victim.”
“Then why else would she go missing at West End?”
Sherlock recalled their last conversation again. ‘I’ve got to be back to do the wash and prep the roast.’
He eyes widened and he darted for the fridge, yanking the door open to find a raw roast sitting upon a platter on the shelf.
“Oh, she was going to make a lovely Sunday dinner with that,” Mrs. Hudson remembered, “She wanted all of us to have a sit down together.”
“Why would she visit family over the weekend when she planned to make dinner for Sunday?” Sherlock crouched so he was eyelevel with the roast.
John shifted his weight, fisting his hands at his sides, “And why has Sunday come and gone with that roast still uncooked? She’s missing, isn’t she?”
Sherlock kept his face placid, though his teeth clenched. He reached for the platter, turning it around slowly.
And on the back of the raw meat was the blank side of a polaroid stuck to the roast by means of a knife. The picture read in all caps.
“MISS ME?”
Something extinguished within Sherlock. John muttered something like “Oh, God,” behind him. Mrs. Hudson gasped.
Sherlock – Sherlock was furious. Livid. Positively feral.
He leapt to his feet, taking the polaroid with him. The frontside held the picture. One with (Y/N) tied to a post, looking terrified and tearstained. He kept the picture from Mrs. Hudson, throwing it at John as he walked out.
Yes, Sherlock was furious. Furious with himself.
But he was going to project that onto Moriarty.
“Where is she?” John called out, stumbling from the apartment after Sherlock. “God, alone with Moriarty for two days,” he whispered, “I hope she’s… she must be…”
Sherlock heard a slight ringing in his ears, frustrated at the feeling of panic that was happening quite out of his own control. His poorly contained fury was slipping through in the way his hands shook and his voice came out in a menacing growl.
“Tied to a wooden post that is obviously a beam giving support to the ceiling. In the right corner you see a window positioned at the top of the wall, so she must be in a sort of basement. In the background you can see a washer and dryer, so the basement of a house then.” He was trying to talk as quickly as his mind was going. “AH! Why are cabs deciding to be sparse now of all times?”
John was hearing the edge of Sherlock’s tone, triumphant in having him feel some kind of repercussion of his fault. But John also took pity on his friend – this was not Sherlock’s air of expertise – he couldn’t fully grasp the magnitude of what (Y/N) must be going through.
But Sherlock understood the logistics. Kidnapping, statistics, trauma – he understood the research. (Y/N) was hurt and in danger because of his negligence.
Why did he feel so strongly about her safety? Because (Y/N) was a piece of his life that he couldn’t let escape. She was one of his friends. And he had very few of those. Perhaps he should tell her that sometime.
“Behind the laundry hamper is a collection of photographs and though it’s hard to make out details, they’re obviously pictures of a family. So a family house. In the hamper on the counter you can see (Y/N)’s scarf and hat, as if she were to do the washing, that suggests possession of the machines. And finally above the cabinetry you can see a decal on the wall that says est. in 1987. The kind of decal people put in their house to remind them of meaningful dates – so what’s so meaningful of 1987? (Y/N) once told me her parents waited three years to have kids after they were married, and (Y/N) being the oldest and born in the year 1990 would mean that her parents married in 1987 – their family was established in 1987.”
Sherlock gave up finding a cab and began at a run to find the nearest underground. They’ll need the tube. John attempted to match the pace, simultaneously listening to Sherlock’s speedy explanation.
“(Y/N) did in fact visit family this weekend. Just not of her own volition.”
“When did you discuss the waiting period of her parents having kids?”
“We were discussing Anderson and his failing marriage.”
~~~
It was all a cruel joke. She was left alone in that basement as a warning. Minimal physical harm was done to her. Moriarty dangled her like a worm on a hook just for his own amusement.
He wanted to see Sherlock squirm.
And Sherlock hated that his nemesis was figuring out his attachment to (Y/N). It seemed like only a few hours before Sherlock had come to the realization himself.
They had barged into the basement, (Y/N) sobbing and choking on a gag. John ran for her while Sherlock seethed, searching for anything he could deduce.
(Y/N) stood shakily, grappling for John, who held her tightly, “I’ve got you. You’re all right. You’re safe now.”
Sherlock refrained from spitting how much of a lie that was. He rounded the entire floor, mind reeling as he growled in frustration. He stalked back and grabbed (Y/N)’s shoulders.
“Sherlock,” John reprimanded. “Leave the poor girl alone.”
The detective shook her slightly, “Where is he? When was the last you saw him? Did he tell you anything?”
“Sherlock,” John repeated, “She’s been through an ordeal…” his voice raised, “the least you can do is show some common courtesy and leave her be!”
“Get out.”
“Sorry?”
Sherlock pointed at the stone stairs, “Phone Lestraude and we’ll meet you up there.”
John was hesitant, looking towards (Y/N) for some kind of confirmation it was all right. But she was shivering, teary eyed, and silent. Another scathing look from Sherlock sent him away.
After a pause, Sherlock swallowed, sighing heavily. His grip on her shoulders never wavered, “(Y/N).” His voice had fallen incredibly gentle, and there was something about his flat expression that hinted at emotion.
“Sh-Sherlock…”
He pursed his lips at the tremble of her voice. He knew what he should do next. He’d seen plenty of similar interactions in colleagues and mass media. But he couldn’t help but feel awkward as he tried to pursue a comforting action.
It was not his first instinct. But another instinct ruled over that now. The health and protection of (Y/N).
He moved to pull her closer to him and he found that she was immediately grateful. She practically fell into his chest, holding onto the lapels of his coat. She quivered in his hold, doing her best to staunch the tears.
Bless her, he thought, she didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.
“It’s all right,” he whispered deep. “I’ve got you.” He said the words because he knew they were the right things to say. But he quickly realized that he believed it too. She was safe with him.
She took a shuddering breath, sinking further as he experimentally wrapped his arms around her tightly. His brow creased as he examined the peculiar comfort he was experiencing himself.
“It was horrible, Sherlock,” she said thickly, “I was so scared.”
He closed his eyes, hushing her with a hand to her head. “It’s over now – I’m not going to let anything like that happen to you again.” He could feel his curious mind itching to begin the search for Moriarty.
But he reigned it in as (Y/N) needed him.
She strangely smiled a watery smile, pulling away. “Who knew you’d be good at hugs.”
He contorted his brow, “I’m familiar with the act of hugging. It’s easy to perform. Arms around the waist – child’s play.”
“It was nice, thank you.” She had a knowing smile on her blotchy face, as if she knew he couldn’t fake the comfort they both felt from the hug.
Now that made him feel awkward and vulnerable. “Well, then – enough of that. You ready to go home?”
“You sure you’re not going to leave me behind again?”
Sherlock clenched his gloved hands; his shoulders tensed. “I… I should apologize for that.”
She nodded slowly, still shaking but relatively rosier than before. “Make it good.”
“(Y/N)… I honestly and wholeheartedly apologize for my abhorrent behavior in abandoning you on that street. Had I known you were in any real danger I would have never… I – well, please will you come home? John is utter rubbish at cleaning up after himself and I can’t concentrate on my work without you there.”
“Without me there?” she whispered, red eyes clearly brighter.
“To housekeep.”
She snickered, her voice hoarse, “Is it me or did you just confess that I – the simple housekeeper – am a key element to you solving your cases?”
Sherlock gave her a willing smile, “Don’t go around saying that to John – he’ll think I’ve gone soft.”
“I won’t… for a pay raise.”
He let out a short laugh, “I’ll buy you lunch.”
“You better this time,” she stumbled backward in her shared laughter and found herself weak at the knees. Sherlock grasped her arm and placed it firmly through his.
“Best you stay near me until you’re sorted.”
She leaned into him as they made their way towards the increasingly louder police sirens. He may or may not have put his free hand over hers.
“Sentiment,” she said mockingly, “Was always your hidden strength.”
He sighed heavily, “You tend to bring it out in me.”
~~~
Tag List:
@caswinchester2000 @aria253264 @bippity-boppity-boopa @kaqua
Remember to check out my tag list so you’re updated when a fic you like is posted on my blog! Tag List