Relationship: Sherlock Holmes x fem!watson sibling!reader
Warnings: soft sherlock, fluff, comfort, longing, and adoration
Summary: You gift your partner, Sherlock, with a new scarf as you notice his old one has grown rather frayed. Touched by the gesture, Sherlock shows his appreciation.
All writings belong to me @bakerstreethound (Do NOT claim, copy, repost, or translate my works to other sites. I only publish here and on A03 under the same username)
Word Count: 880
Note: Hello lovelies! I wrote this fic as part of @fluffbruary as I hope to get my writing muscles working again. I have missed writing, especially for my beloved detective. I hope you enjoy! Graphic by @firefly-graphics Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
Sherlock huffs in annoyance as John slams the door behind them, not bothering to take off his coat or scarf before promptly depositing himself in his beloved chair. John follows suit, taking the time to place his coat upon his chair before easing into the familiar comfort of it.
“Well, so much for that lead.”
“Utterly dull,” Sherlock replies, offering nothing else to continue the conversation.
“Okay I will see myself out until you adjust your attitude,” John quips, shaking his head before grabbing his belongings. A glimmer of red catches his attention, stopping him in his task. On the side table by the couch resides a box with a shiny red bow. How he did not notice before, he was unsure, but it probably had something to do with the argument Sherlock started on the way home. Still, despite Sherlock running him ragged, he smiles to himself, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
“It appears someone has a secret admirer.”
Sherlock scoffs, ruffling his curls and sinking further into the chair, paying no mind to the commentary.
“I wonder who on earth it could be. Has to be someone gracious enough like me to put up with your attitude.”
“Was it that obvious, John? I worked hard to make it look nice,” you smile, emerging from the kitchen to wrap your brother in a hug. John returns it in kind, squeezing you tight, if only to make you squeal. He missed seeing you the past few weeks, as you are often hidden away in the library at work late in the evenings.
“Hey! That’s not fair. You cannot keep doing that.”
“What, I can’t show affection to my little sister?”
“I find it insufferable,” Sherlock adds.
“No one asked for your opinion, darling!” You shoot Sherlock with one of your winning smiles which quickly shuts him up and sends you and John laughing.
“He’s been wound up all day. Do you think you can handle him? I promised Mrs. Hudson I would spend time with her this evening if I did not have babysitting duties.”
You chuckle. “John, while I appreciate your concern, I am sure I can handle my partner quite well. I can persuade him into pleasantness somehow.”
“I can still hear you,” Sherlock chimes in again.
“We know!” You and John shout in sync, sending you into a fit of giggles until you both gasp for air. John clamors down the stairs choking on another laugh. When the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat shuts, you make your way back through the living room, met with Sherlock staring at the gift you left for him.
“So this is what John was joking about.”
You glance over at him, amused by his intense expression. You swear for a fraction of a moment his cheek twitches, either in annoyance or anxiety, but you cannot decipher which. You nod to him in encouragement, offering him a smile. “It’s for you, yes. If you don’t want to open it now that is quite alright.”
He swallows. “I want to.”
You smile, settling yourself on the couch and motioning for him to join you. He settles next to you with little hesitation, the box cradled in his hands, his knee bumping yours as he adjusts and gets comfortable.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he all but whispers, his Adam's apple bobbling while he shakes the box.
You lean into him, squeezing his bicep in reassurance. “I wanted to.”
The corner of his mouth tilts at the gesture and he leans in to press a kiss to your temple before focusing his attention on the box, carefully undoing the bow and tearing through the wrapping paper and opening it. A flash of blue offsets the white tissue paper the gift is nestled in and Sherlock carefully takes the navy fabric from the box, marveling at the texture and warmth of the length of soft material he deduces is a scarf.
It is almost an exact replica of his favorite one that is all but frayed and rough around the edges. He could not fathom replacing it, but here you are handing him a new one that must have taken months of searching. He was certain the company had stopped producing them years ago.
“How did you-?” he asks, eyes wide as he rubs the scarf between his fingers, relishing the familiar texture of the fabric.
“Is it all right? I know you like the fabric a certain way and the color I was sure they got it right for you.” You bite your lip, hoping you don’t sound stupid.
He carefully sets the scarf back in the box, reverently before turning to you, cupping your face in his hands. Your hand moves from his bicep, and you inch closer, feeling the warmth of him, the slight hitch in his breath before he tucks a stray hair behind your ear, whispering a “thank you” which has you melting into him, and before long, drowning in a kiss.
You respond in kind, deepening it, his hands falling to your waist holding you as close as he can. For he does not want to forget this moment, nor does he want to forget you for giving him a gift so precious.
okay so I was looking for a graphic with all the prompts for #fluffbruary and couldn't find one. so I made one myself!! @fluffbruary I hope that's alright 🥰🌈 hope to see loads of fluffy fics in february, and hopefully I'll get around to writing a bit too 💖✨
That's right — February is over, but the fluff goes on. We've adopted the 14th of every month into Fluffbruary to spread the fluff around the year.
We have a little theme going ... and it's wide open for seeding, watering, and harvesting fluff of all kinds.
All fandoms, and all ships or no ships--wherever there's loving-kindness and a bit of respite there is fluff! Tag @fluffbruary so we can reblog you, and reblog @fluffbruary to seed the fluff to the four tumblr winds.
Jacob Seresin was never quiet. Not at the breakfast table, not in the hangar, not even in the dead of night when he’d roll over and pull you closer and murmur something half-conscious and completely unintelligible into your hair. Silence and Jake Seresin went together about as well as humility did — which was to say, not at all.
So when his side of the bed went cold before seven on a Saturday — no alarm, no reason — you reached out, found nothing but rumpled sheets, and cracked one eye open.
You found him in the kitchen. Leaning against the counter in his boxers and an old Navy tee, the stenciling on the chest so faded it was barely legible anymore, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright. He wasn’t on his phone. He wasn’t doing anything. He was just standing there, staring into the middle distance like it had personally offended him.
“Hey,” you said from the doorway, voice still rough with sleep.
He looked up.
His eyes were glassy. His skin — usually golden, sun-warm — was a shade too pale, and there were shadows beneath his eyes that hadn’t been there when you’d fallen asleep tangled together at midnight.
“Hey, baby,” he said.
Except it came out low and wrecked, scraped raw, like someone had taken sandpaper to his vocal cords somewhere between midnight and now.
You stared at him.
He stared back, clearly hoping you wouldn’t comment on it.
“…What happened to your voice?”
“Nothin’.” He took a sip of coffee, swallowed, and you watched him try very hard not to visibly react to whatever that felt like going down. “I’m fine.”
“You sound like you swallowed gravel.”
“I sound great. I always sound great.”
“Jake.”
“I’m fine.”
You crossed the kitchen and pressed the back of your hand to his forehead before he could lean away. He went very still — the way he always did when he was pretending he didn’t want to be taken care of, holding himself rigid and dignified while doing absolutely nothing to actually stop you.
His skin was burning.
“You’re hot,” you said.
He blinked. Even glassy-eyed and barely upright, something flickered across his face. “Finally,” he rasped. “Four years and you’re just now saying it.”
“I’m saying you have a fever, Jake.”
“You can say both.”
“I’m not saying both.” You pressed your wrist to his cheek this time, and he leaned into it slightly — just barely, involuntarily, like his body made the decision before his pride could intervene. “You’re burning up. How long have you felt like this?”
A pause. A long one.
“…Since maybe two.”
“Two in the morning?” You pulled back to look at him properly. “You’ve been up since two in the morning?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged one shoulder, then immediately looked like he regretted it. “Throat was bothering me. Didn’t want to wake you.”
You looked at him — this insufferably confident man standing in your kitchen in his worn-out t-shirt, quietly running a fever since two in the morning so you could sleep — and felt something enormous and exasperated and tender move through you all at once.
“You know,” you said, keeping your voice very even, “when we moved in together, I was under the impression that included the part where you tell me when something’s wrong.”
He had the decency to look at least somewhat sheepish. “It’s just a sore throat.”
“It’s a fever and a sore throat and you’ve been standing in the kitchen alone for God knows how long instead of waking me up.”
“You looked peaceful.”
“Jake.”
“You did! You make this little…” he gestured vaguely at his own face. “thing when you sleep. I didn’t want to mess with that.”
You stared at him for a long moment.
“Sit down,” you said finally.
“I really don’t need to—”
“Couch. Now. Please.”
He went.
Getting him horizontal took four minutes of low-grade negotiation. Getting the blanket over him took another two, because he kept insisting he wasn’t cold right up until the moment the fleece settled over him and he went visibly, immediately still — eyes closing briefly like he hadn’t realized how much he needed it.
You didn’t say anything about that.
You got him a glass of water, set it on the coffee table, and disappeared into the bathroom to excavate the medicine cabinet. It took a minute. Your apartment had the particular pharmaceutical chaos of two people who both insisted they’d organize it eventually.
“We have ibuprofen,” you called, “and some throat lozenges — Jake, when did we buy these?”
“Which ones?”
“The honey lemon ones.”
A pause. “…Last winter, maybe?”
“Which winter?”
Silence.
“They’re probably fine,” he said.
“That is not a reassuring answer.” You emerged with the ibuprofen and a glass of water and found him exactly where you’d left him — flat on his back, blanket pulled up to his chest, staring at the ceiling with the vaguely aggrieved expression of a man whose body was refusing to cooperate with his self-image.
You handed him the pills. He took them without a word of protest, which told you everything about how bad he actually felt.
“Thank you,” he said. Quieter than usual. Rough at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the usual morning-voice.
“Don’t thank me yet. We’re having a conversation later about telling me these things.” You sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing him. “Does it hurt to swallow?”
“A little.”
“A little meaning a little, or a little meaning you’ve been white-knuckling it since two a.m. and don’t want to admit it?”
The look he gave you was deeply aggrieved and answered the question completely.
“Okay,” you said. “I’m going to make you tea. Honey, no sugar. And you’re going to lie there and do nothing, which I know is going to be very difficult for you—”
“I can help—”
“Jake. You are not helping. You are sick.”
“I’m barely sick.”
“You have a fever and you winced swallowing water. You are banned from helping.” You stood, squeezed his ankle through the blanket. “Rest. I mean it.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. Then he settled back into the cushions with the long-suffering exhale of a man who knew when he was outmatched.
“Fine,” he said, in that wrecked, gravelly voice. “Fine.”
You made the tea. Then, because you were already in the kitchen and it wasn’t that much more effort, you put a pot of water on for soup and started pulling things from the fridge.
You could hear the TV come on in the living room — low volume, something he wasn’t really watching, just the sound of it — and something about that made your chest feel full in a way you couldn’t entirely explain. The quiet domesticity of it. Him on the couch, you in the kitchen, a Saturday morning that looked nothing like you’d planned and somehow felt completely right anyway.
You brought him the tea. He was on his back with one arm over his face, and he moved it when he heard you coming, blinking up at you with those glassy green eyes.
“Here.” You set it on the coffee table within easy reach. “Let it cool a little first.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” You sat down on the edge of the couch — which left approximately no room — and he shifted without being asked, moving until his head was in your lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, like he’d been doing it for years. Which, to be fair, he had.
Your hand found his hair automatically.
He exhaled slowly, and you felt some of the tension leave him.
“I really didn’t want to wake you,” he said, after a moment.
“I know.”
“You’ve had a long week.”
“So have you.” You combed your fingers gently through his hair, and he made a sound that was almost embarrassingly content for someone still trying to maintain any dignity. “Jake. Next time — you wake me up. Okay? That’s not negotiable.”
A pause.
“Okay,” he said quietly. No deflection. No joke. Just okay.
You looked down at him. His eyes were half-closed, the careful performance of being fine completely dissolved now, and he looked younger like this. Softer. All that easy, practiced confidence melted down into something unguarded and real.
“Try to sleep,” you said.
“Soup first.”
“Soup’s not ready yet.”
“I can smell it from here.”
“It needs another twenty minutes.”
He cracked one eye open. “What kind?”
“Chicken and rice.”
Both eyes opened. He looked up at you with an expression that was so openly, helplessly pleased that it almost made you laugh; this decorated Naval aviator, undone by the prospect of homemade soup on a Saturday morning.
“You’re making that from scratch?” he said.
“It’s not complicated.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“Jake. I know.”
He was quiet for a moment. His hand found the hem of your sleeve and held onto it loosely, the way he sometimes did when he was falling asleep — like he wanted the anchor.
“Hey,” he said eventually, voice low and rough and completely sincere in the way he only ever let himself be when he was too tired to be anything else. “I really lucked out with you. You know that?”
You looked down at him.
“Get some sleep, Seresin.”
His mouth curved. Slow and crooked. “Yes ma’am,” he murmured, and his eyes slid shut, and within minutes his breathing had evened out into something deep and slow.
You sat there in the quiet of your apartment, his head warm and heavy in your lap, the soup simmering softly in the kitchen, the TV murmuring low in the background.
