hey theree, i was wondering if i could request a prompt fic of dialogues A16 and A14 for enola!doctor watson x gender neutral reader, please? thank you!
Summary: When Sherlock assigns you and Watson to go through an abandoned house at the outskirts of Whitechapel, Watson doesn't like everything he's required to do.
Prompts: A14. “Wow, a great idea, but I’d rather die.” + A16. “I’m trash, just not that kind of trash.”
NOT TRASH
Autumn had fallen over London, and with it, foggy mornings. Maybe you were weird but it was rather pleasant most of the time, streets looked beautiful when they were shrouded in the natural white curtain. But this morning was not one of those, when danger could lurk in the fog.
And the worse thing was that this morning, Sherlock sent you to look through the abandoned house at the outskirts of Whitechapel, as he suspected it could be kept as a hiding place for the suspect.
And that house looked downright cursed in the morning fog, you could almost see demons standing in every window. Watson looked beside you, looking at the window up and down, side to side, before shaking his head violently.
"Walking into that house, a great idea," he said, "but I'd rather die."
"Watson."
"I mean it. I would rather die right here, on this actually quite pleasant stretch of cobblestone, than walk into that house."
"It's the only lead we have."
"Then we have no leads," he said, "and I am going home to a nice fire and a book that does not involve me being murdered by the man we are after.”
You ignored him, squeezing the strap of your bag tighter against your shoulder, and forced yourself to walk towards the house, ignore the feeling of being watched by a thousand pairs of eyes.
—
The house was not empty, though you did know to expect that. It was used as a hideout, possibly for more criminals than just the man you were chasing. Maybe this could even be a jackpot, a dozen cases solved at once.
But right now, as you heard a group of men approaching, solving a jackpot had to wait. You had to hide, and even though you really didn’t want to, the trash cart at the back alley behind the house seemed to be your only option. You jumped in, having Watson stare at you in disbelief once you looked back at him.
"Get in!"
"Absolutely not."
"John."
"I have a medical degree," he said, putting his hand in front of his face to dampen the smell, "I did not train for years to end my career face-down in a rubbish cart—"
You reached up and grabbed his coat.
"Some claim I'm trash, not a real doctor," he continued, even as he let you pull him half over the edge, "but I draw the line—I am not—I refuse to be that kind of trash—"
"Get in the van, Watson!"
He grumbled, glancing over his shoulder one last time before very reluctantly letting you help him inside, scrunching his face in disdain once the smell hit him, and you closed the lid.
“This was not what I was talking about when I told you I wanted romantic time alone,” he muttered, and you almost laughed, before stifling a cough.
“If we make it to that dinner tonight, promise me you won’t order fish,” you whispered, glancing accusingly at one of the trash bags that leaked out something slimy. “I don’t think this smell leaves anytime soon.”
He had pulled his coat over his mouth and nose now, just nodding as you listened the steps approaching and passing, laughing.
As soon as the voices faded away to the distance, you both scrambled out, coughing and gasping for air.
“No,” Watson got out after a moment of coughing. “I don’t think I will ever eat fish again.”
“Good,” you replied after a bit of gagging. “Because I don’t think I can handle it.”
He looked at you, eyes red from watering so much. “Another hiding place next time. Please. I’d even rather get caught than go back there.”
You agreed even when you didn’t say it, and turned your eyes back to the house. “Maybe the house is actually empty now? Or at least it has fewer people inside. We just need to find Maurice Wilkins’ room and find the evidence. Sherlock can handle the rest.”
He sighed and nodded, still a little reluctant but still following you, your date later at the evening in his mind — the first time in months you both had time for one. Of course before that, you’d both take a very long shower, and hopefully be able to scrub the smell of foul fish off your skins.
---
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ENOLA HOLMES REQUEST: May I please ask for some headcanons of what dating John Watson would include, please? Thank you! ☺️
A/N: Sorry for being a bit late with this, this morning I discovered my og headcanons for this kinda lost their route and they never got to the dating part, I was pretty tired when writing them... so I just rewrote them.
DATING JOHN WATSON:
You work as Sherlock’s accountant, so you met John soon after he moved in with Sherlock
And he immediately fell for you
He’s extremely bad at hiding his feelings
He tries to ne subtle, but he just turns into a bumbling fool
You clearly like him too, but John wouldn’t listen to anyone pointing it out (or denies it being possible)
So Sherlock nudges him and you together a little
And Enola also takes a part in arranging you two together in situations where you just had to spend time together
Eventually working on cases together led into a kiss, though indirectly
It happened because you almost died when a person Sherlock was investigating tried to blow up his office while you were inside
(The explosion was much smaller than he had planned, fortunately, but it gave John a heart attack he wouldn’t have recovered from if the worst happened)
You returned his feelings, and a relationship finally started blooming after months of dancing around each other
He’s very much a romantic
Flowers, dinner dates, picnics… whatever your heart desires, he does his best to make it true
Because of you being Sherlock’s accountant, you see each other a lot even if you have a lot of work, and the relationship won’t die out because of forced lack of communication
(He still sends you love letters sometimes by mail, even if he saw you on that same day)
Despite being affectionate to the ends of the Earth, he does know how to keep his distance, and it isn’t like he’s all over you and needing your touch all the time
He just loves showing affection and see you smile when he succeeds in surprising you with something
The poor man hasn’t had luck in love before, so finding someone like you is a blessing he’d treasure for as long as he’d have it, whether the time will be short or long
And you feel the same way about him — John is truly a kind of person you can’t find many of.
---
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Spoiler alert for HSOS!! Can we get hcs for what happens after each ending with the HSOS characters. If that's too much then can we just get hcs for that one ending where we run away with James?
HSoS ; beyond the mystery.
SPOILERS!!
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!
Masterlist
Also, because my greed is biblical I’m leaving little sprinkles of the 4 wanting to be together again too
Sherlock , John , Irene
• if you stayed you’d be with all three . It’s an odd dynamic with Irene only really being with romantically and sexually involved with you (she has a weird tension thing going on with Sherlock and her and John are just friends.) and Sherlock and John being well. Them.
• I feel like you’d live with John and Sherlock. The two still (technically) have separate rooms but that’s more because Sherlock has a lot of his work and stuff in his room but he mostly stays with you and John in his room
• they’d love to let you tag along on adventures too!
• John would be more reluctant and keeps you close when yous do go, his hand subconsciously falling to hold your hip as he pulls you close
• Sherlock loves to take you on cases however AND random things he wants to take you on random things he wishes to investigate. He hood your hand tight as he talks your ear off
• Irene and her luxury however whenever you go over to stay at hers you are treated like you’re gods gift to the world.
• you’ve made her feel so alive so she wants to give you all she can
• expect a lot of nice dates perfectly curated to you. Like if you like a certain artist? Expect the best seats at their next show. You like a certain type of food? Expect to be sat in the best restaurant that serves that food. Wanna go to a country? Your flight is tomorrow!
• all three of them share you fairly but the best nights are the ones you all spend together.
• late evenings going to the cinema, early mornings with you resting on Johns shoulder as the other three discuss a case , afternoons spent in a park
• its love.
• also they are searching for moriarty too. Each of them have feelings for him one sense or another and they know that you had feelings for him too.
James
• in the middle of nowhere yous have settled down
• part of him feels a sense of guilt that you have upheaved your life and moved with him and only him giving up all you’ve known
• however, it’s not like he has nothing
• you have a perfect picturesque life and in rbe small village yous live near you have found community..a nice small family in a sense.
• even though he has more than enough money to live off for the rest of your lives he still gets a job, something small like working in a shop or such. Just soemthing that’s inconspicuous and keeps his mind occupied while being small
• he makes sure you have no material wants
• you see a different side to him too
• the bags leave from his eyes , the sorrow from his shoulder and the heaviness from his heart
• he’s happier , so much happier
• he’s even more open , telling you things that weren’t necessarily a secret but it was too heavy for his heart to say at first
• he alwyas makes sure to let you know that you don’t have to stay with him. He loves you enough to let you he free
• but each time you reassure him that you choose him he can’t help but hold you close
• he does wonder and plans to talk to you about maybe. Just maybe. Getting a burner phone to even just say hello to the others once. Him and Sherlock had that heated tension filled rivalry. He still wants to push John around and him and Irene were good friends!)
Christmas is supposed to be the time of sharing — if only you hadn't shared your secret with John
cw: Angst, hurt/comfort, war mentioned, battlefields mentioned
AN: this is a re-upload from one of my first works on ao3 which was probably around 4 years ago. My love for BBC John never changed though, him and Tim Canterbury from the office will remain my one true loves of my life
A fleeing memory
London begins preparing for Christmas before John notices it happening.
It starts quietly—white lights strung across shop windows, evergreen wreaths hung at bus stops, the smell of roasted chestnuts drifting through the cold air. The city does this every year, dresses itself up in warmth and cheer like it hasn’t already broken a thousand hearts.
Normally, John keeps his head down through it. Christmas has always felt like something meant for other people—families, couples, lives that don’t fracture under pressure. But this year, something is different.
This year, you’re there.
You’ve been seeing each other long enough that the word seeing doesn’t quite fit anymore. You don’t talk about labels; you never needed to. Things simply… settled. Your toothbrush appeared in his bathroom without discussion. Your jumper found a permanent home draped over the back of his chair. You learned how he took his tea, and he learned how you liked the windows cracked open at night, even in winter.
John never thought he’d get used to it—someone else existing in his space without feeling like an intrusion—but he does. Quickly. Too quickly.
Sometimes he catches himself watching you in moments you don’t notice. Standing barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as you wash dishes. Curled into the sofa with a book, brow furrowed in concentration. Laughing at something stupid on television, head tipped back, eyes bright.
Those moments scare him more than anything else.
Because they feel permanent.
“You’re staring again,” you say one evening, glancing up from your mug.
John blinks, caught. “Sorry.”
You smile softly, not unkind. “You look like you’re memorising me.”
He laughs it off, but the truth sits heavy in his chest. He is memorising you. Storing details away like rations, like proof that this—whatever this is—is real. That it’s happening. That it’s his.
The thought feels dangerous.
The closer Christmas creeps, the more domestic everything becomes. You help him decorate the flat, even though he insists it’s unnecessary. A small tree in the corner, slightly crooked. A string of lights hung unevenly across the window.
“It’s charming,” you insist when he grimaces.
“It’s a fire hazard.”
You grin. “Festive.”
John watches the lights flicker on for the first time, warm and soft, casting gentle shadows across the room. The flat looks different like this. Softer. Almost… hopeful.
Something twists painfully in his chest.
For a moment—just a moment—he lets himself imagine this lasting. Another Christmas. Another year. You still here, still laughing, still taking up space beside him.
It feels like tempting fate.
He starts making plans without meaning to. Suggesting you cook together. Asking what kind of Christmas films you like. Mentioning January offhandedly, casually, like it doesn’t matter.
Every time, there’s a pause.
You cover it well. A smile that comes a second too late. A change of subject. A quiet “we’ll see” that leaves a strange ache behind.
John notices. He always notices.
“You alright?” he asks one night as you sit together on the sofa, your head resting against his shoulder.
“Of course,” you say quickly.
Too quickly.
He doesn’t push. He rarely does. The army taught him when to hold his tongue, and life taught him that asking questions doesn’t always bring answers you can survive.
Still, something feels… off.
It’s subtle. The way you don’t linger as long anymore. The way you go quiet when he mentions the future, even jokingly. The way you sometimes look at him like you’re already grieving.
The first real crack comes in early December.
You’re meant to stay the night, but you don’t. You hesitate by the door, keys in hand, eyes distant.
“I should go,” you say.
“Oh. Alright,” John replies, forcing a smile. “Everything okay?”
“Yes,” you lie.
He watches you leave, a knot forming in his stomach that doesn’t loosen all night.
Two days later, he overhears the phone call.
It’s accidental. He’s coming back from the kitchen, mug in hand, when he hears your voice from the bedroom—low, tense.
“I know,” you say. “I just… I haven’t told him yet.”
John freezes.
His pulse roars in his ears. He doesn’t hear the rest. He doesn’t need to.
That night, when you return to the living room, he’s sitting exactly where he was before. You smile at him, tentative.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he replies.
There’s a question sitting on his tongue. A hundred of them. He swallows them all.
The days after that are strained in a way neither of you acknowledge. You still touch him—your hand brushing his arm, your lips finding his—but it feels fragile now. Like glass.
John starts sleeping lighter. Waking up before dawn, staring at the ceiling, the weight of impending loss pressing down on him.
He’s felt this before.
That sense of something good slipping through his fingers, inevitable and unstoppable. The war taught him that happiness doesn’t linger. That you don’t get to keep the things that matter.
Still, he lets himself hope.
He buys you a Christmas present anyway. Something small but thoughtful, wrapped carefully and hidden away in a drawer. He tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a gift.
The breakup happens on a Tuesday.
The sky is grey, heavy with unshed snow. You sit across from him on the sofa, hands folded tightly in your lap. You won’t meet his eyes.
John already knows.
“I didn’t want to do this like this,” you begin.
His heart sinks. “Like what?”
“Right before Christmas.”
There it is.
He exhales slowly, steadying himself. “What’s going on?”
You finally look at him, eyes wet, expression torn. “I’m leaving.”
The words hit harder than he expects. He’s been bracing for them, but they still knock the breath from his lungs.
“Leaving,” he repeats quietly.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon. After Christmas.”
Something cold spreads through his chest.
“You were going to wait,” he says. It’s not an accusation. Just a fact.
“I didn’t want to ruin it.”
He almost laughs at that. Almost.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
You tell him. Another country. Another life. Something you’ve wanted long before him.
“I love you,” you say quickly, desperately. “This doesn’t change that.”
John stares at you for a long moment.
He believes you.
That’s the worst part.
“I can’t stay,” you continue. “I can’t be the person who resents giving something up. You deserve more than that.”
He nods once, stiffly.
“Right,” he says.
Silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whisper.
“I know.”
And he does. He knows. You’re not cruel. You’re not careless. You’re just choosing something else.
And John has always known how this ends.
He stands, moving automatically, and retrieves the gift he bought you. He presses it into your hands without ceremony.
“Merry Christmas,” he says.
You break then, tears spilling over as you clutch it to your chest. “John…”
“It’s alright,” he says, though it very much isn’t.
You leave not long after, your footsteps echoing down the stairwell like gunfire.
John stands in the doorway long after it closes.
The flat is unbearably quiet.
Christmas lights flicker softly, casting warm colors that suddenly feel wrong—too bright, too hopeful for a room that’s just lost its heart.
John sinks onto the sofa, staring at the empty space beside him.
The season presses on outside, uncaring.
And for the first time since Afghanistan, he feels it creeping back in—that sense of being alone in a world that keeps moving without him, color draining slowly from everything he touches.
Christmas comes anyway.
John half-expects the world to pause out of courtesy, to give him a moment to catch his breath, but it doesn’t. London keeps moving, loud and lit and mercilessly alive. Buses rumble past. People laugh. Bells ring. Somewhere down the street, someone is singing off-key and joyfully, and the sound crawls under John’s skin like an insult.
He doesn’t sleep much after you leave.
The flat feels wrong at night—too quiet, too still. Every small sound startles him awake: the radiator clicking, the hum of traffic, the distant echo of footsteps on the pavement below. His body stays tense, wired like it’s waiting for something bad to happen.
Maybe it already has.
He wakes on Christmas Eve before dawn, heart pounding, disoriented for a few long seconds. For one stupid, hopeful moment, he reaches out toward the other side of the bed.
Cold sheets.
Reality settles back over him like ash.
He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. His chest feels tight, hollowed out, as if something vital has been scooped from inside him and taken with you. He stares at the wall across from the bed, watching faint grey light seep through the curtains.
This feeling—this emptiness—is familiar.
It reminds him of Kabul. Of hospital tents and long, sleepless nights. Of coming back to London and feeling like he’d arrived on the wrong planet, everything too bright and loud and meaningless.
He hadn’t expected to feel that way again.
He drags himself out of bed and makes tea he barely tastes. The flat looks unchanged, but everything feels different. Your mug is still in the cupboard. Your coat still hangs by the door. Your presence lingers like a ghost he can’t quite bring himself to banish.
He doesn’t remove the Christmas decorations.
He can’t.
Christmas Eve passes slowly. John tries to distract himself—tidying the flat, reorganising drawers, anything that gives his hands something to do. He finds your jumper folded in the spare drawer, and that’s when it really hits him.
The grief isn’t loud.
It’s crushing.
He sinks down onto the bed, the jumper clenched in his hands, breathing unevenly. He presses it to his face before he can stop himself, inhaling the faint trace of your scent that still clings to it.
His chest aches. His eyes burn.
He doesn’t cry—not properly. He hasn’t ever been very good at that. The pain just settles deep inside him, heavy and relentless, like a wound that never quite healed.
That night, he dreams of Afghanistan.
Of sand and gunfire and heat. Of walking through streets where he doesn’t understand the language, doesn’t belong. He wakes with his heart racing, disoriented and shaking, the echo of explosions still ringing in his ears.
It takes him a moment to remember where he is.
London. Christmas. Alone.
Christmas Day dawns grey and cold.
John doesn’t bother changing out of his pyjamas. He sits on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the floor, listening to the muffled sounds of celebration drifting in from outside. Laughter. Music. Life.
He feels like a stranger in it.
Eventually, he forces himself up and makes breakfast he doesn’t eat. The television murmurs in the background, cheerful presenters talking about festive traditions and family gatherings. He switches it off.
Silence is worse, but at least it’s honest.
He picks up his phone more times than he can count.
Your name sits there, bright and tempting. He imagines texting you something simple—Merry Christmas. He imagines you reading it in another country, in another life, smiling sadly and replying with kindness.
He puts the phone down.
He learned a long time ago that reaching out doesn’t always bring comfort. Sometimes it just makes the distance sharper.
By midday, the walls feel like they’re closing in. John pulls on his coat and steps outside, letting the cold bite into his skin. The streets are busy, full of colour and movement. Christmas lights glow against the darkening sky, reds and golds blurring together.
He barely sees them.
The city feels washed out, drained of saturation, like someone’s turned the world down to grey. Faces pass him by—happy, laughing, oblivious—and he feels utterly disconnected from all of it.
This is how it felt when he came back from the war.
Surrounded by people, utterly alone.
He walks aimlessly, not really sure where he’s going. His feet carry him past familiar streets, past places he and you once went together. The café where you first laughed at one of his terrible jokes. The corner shop where you argued playfully over which biscuits to buy.
Each memory is a small, sharp cut.
He stops walking when he realises he’s standing outside a pub, its windows glowing warmly, packed with people. For a moment, he considers going in—ordering a drink, pretending he’s just another man enjoying Christmas.
He can’t do it.
He turns away and keeps walking.
By the time he makes it back to the flat, it’s dark. The Christmas lights inside flicker weakly, casting soft patterns across the walls. They look wrong now. Mocking.
John sinks onto the sofa, coat still on, and stares at the empty space beside him.
This is where you used to sit. Curled into the corner, feet tucked beneath you, head resting against his shoulder. He can almost feel the weight of you there, warm and familiar.
Almost.
He exhales slowly, deeply.
He survived Afghanistan.
He survived coming back to a city that felt alien and cruel. He survived nights filled with gunfire and days filled with nothing at all.
He’ll survive this too.
But as he sits there, alone in the dim light, he realises something that hurts more than he expected: survival isn’t enough anymore.
You showed him colour again. Warmth. The possibility of a life that wasn’t just endured, but lived. And now it’s gone, and everything feels duller for having known it.
The days after Christmas blur together.
John goes back to work. He smiles when he’s supposed to. He answers questions. He does his job well, because that’s what he’s always done. No one looks too closely. No one notices the way his eyes seem a little emptier, the way his laughter never quite reaches them.
At night, he comes home to a flat that still smells faintly like you.
He doesn’t take your coat down.
Weeks pass. The Christmas decorations come down around the city, but John leaves his up longer than necessary. When he finally takes the lights down, the flat feels even more barren than before.
One evening, as January settles in cold and relentless, he stands by the window and looks out over the street below. The world keeps moving. People hurry past, wrapped in scarves and coats, their lives full of things he no longer has.
For the first time in a long while, John feels that old, familiar sense of displacement.
Like he doesn’t quite belong anywhere.
Like he’s walking through a life that’s no longer his.
He turns away from the window and switches off the light.
The room plunges into darkness, stripped of warmth and colour, and John stands there for a moment longer before sitting down in the quiet.
Alone again.
Just like when he first came back from the war—alive, breathing, and utterly disconnected from the world around him, wondering when everything lost its colour and whether it will ever come back.
