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REECE SHEARSMITH as D.S. SEAN STONE Chasing Shadows - S01E01 (Only Connect: Part 1)
watched chasing shadows (2014) and fell in love with ds sean stone ❤️🩹
Beneath the Surface
Sean Stone (Chasing Shadows) x f!Reader
AO3 link here
Summary: Your growing involvement in the case challenges Sean in ways he refuses to name.
Warnings: Mentions of sexual arousal, violence
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Chapter Fifteen - Crossing Lines
It’s meant to be a nothing lead - the friend of a friend of a missing girl. Late teens, nervous, barely coherent when the desk sergeant first brought her in. Said she might’ve seen something. Sean had already dismissed it in his head by the time she sat down.
You’re the one who asks to speak to her alone first.
“She’s anxious,” you say softly. “Don’t overwhelm her.”
Sean doesn’t argue, just watches from the observation room. Watches as the girl fidgets, pulls at her sleeves, avoids your eyes - until you change your approach. Gentle. No clipboard. No script. Just a tone shift. Body language mirrored. Calm.
And then she starts to talk. Not just talk - she gives a name. A place. A specific night.
You don’t flinch when she cries halfway through the sentence. You don’t rush her. You keep your voice low, your expression steady. That inherent kindness in your eyes that never falters. Sean always liked that.
He watches all of it - not with cold analysis - with… something else. And when you step out twenty minutes later, notes in hand, you find him waiting by the door.
You bite your lip, raising a brow. “Well?”
He doesn’t speak for a second, just studies your face.
Then he says - clipped, but sincere, “Good work. That was… extremely well-handled.”
You blink. “Thanks,” you say, careful not to smile too much.
But he isn’t finished. Not quite.
“Mirroring her posture, the breathing, the pauses - that was textbook. Better than textbook. You adapted in real time.”
You tilt your head. “You were watching that closely?”
He looks away, almost irritated. “Of course I was. It’s my job.”
You let the moment hang. And then - because you can’t help yourself - “Are you saying you’re impressed?”
“No.”
But he is.
His chest is too tight. His pulse a little too loud in his ears. That feeling - the uncomfortable one - has returned. A strange rush of warmth he hates. It isn’t professional. It certainly isn’t helpful. But it’s there.
You walk beside him toward the main hall, reading over the girl’s statement again, already back in work mode.
He glances at you out of the corner of his eye - and it happens again. That sharp, silent beat of admiration.
He clears his throat and turns away.
“You’ll lead the follow-up interview,” he says flatly.
You look up, surprised. “Really?”
“You earned it.”
You lead the next one.
Sean stands behind the mirror, arms crossed, eyes sharp. The man on the other side of the glass - the older cousin of the girl from this morning - is jumpy, defensive. History with the police. Not afraid to lash out verbally.
You don’t flinch.
You’re calm, clear, disarming. Every question delivered with precise pressure. Not too hard, not too soft. You let him talk himself into a corner - and then you quietly close the trap.
Name. Vehicle. Location.
When he raises his voice, leaning forward, too far, too suddenly, Sean’s body reacts before his brain does.
He steps forward. Hand on the door.
But you don’t even blink.
“I’d sit down if I were you,” you say coolly. “Unless you’d like this to become a different kind of conversation.”
The man hesitates. Sits. Backs off.
Sean doesn’t open the door.
He stays just behind the glass. Watching. Feeling something like pride thudding in his chest, and something sharper underneath.
When the interview ends and you step into the corridor, he’s already waiting.
“You kept control.”
You tilt your head. “You doubted I would?”
“No,” he says after a beat. “I didn’t.”
You don’t notice the way he looks at you then - how his gaze lingers just a second too long on the flush in your cheeks, the way you loosen your collar as you walk beside him, the way you mutter something under your breath about the vending machine being out of chocolate bars.
You don’t see how fast he looks away.
In the break room, you sit across from each other at the long table. You’re reading. Sean’s pretending to read. File open, but untouched.
You take a sip of lukewarm coffee. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m thinking.”
You raise a brow. “Must be serious. You haven’t insulted me all day.”
He looks up, and there’s the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. Then it’s gone.
When he gets home that day, Stone’s flat is spotless, thanks to Adele. The radio is off. The hallway light buzzes faintly. His bookshelf sits in perfect order, untouched. No movement. No mess. No noise.
Exactly how he likes it.
But tonight, something presses against the edges of it. Unwelcome. It creeps in through the seams - a strange, hovering presence he can’t swat away.
He sits on the edge of the sofa with a file open. He isn’t reading. He isn’t even thinking properly.
He’s remembering the way you leaned forward during that interview earlier. The calm command in your voice. The flash of concentration in your eyes. The moment you’d asked if he was impressed.
And he had been.
Now the silence feels wrong. Heavy.
He tells himself it’s because the case needs more attention. That he misses your insight. Your instinct.
That’s a lie.
He misses you.
The sound of your footsteps pacing in the hallway. The way you mutter when a machine jams. Your messy handwriting in the margins of the statement sheets.
It makes his stomach turn.
You’re too young.
The thought lands like a slap.
His expression darkens, disgust curling low in his gut. He shuts the file. Pushes it away like it might accuse him of something.
This isn’t allowed. He doesn’t need this.
And yet here he is - alone, in the flat he once loved for its quiet, thinking about the last person in the world he should be thinking about.
He stares into the dark for a long time.
On Monday, he doesn’t speak to you. Not really.
He nods when you arrive. Doesn’t even look at the coffee you got him. Gives you the basics for the morning brief. Doesn’t look at you for more than a second at a time. No usual dry remarks. No “fix your posture” or “you’ve written this like it’s a bloody poem.”
Just clinical, clipped instructions.
Retreat.
You notice, of course. But you don’t ask. Which is worse; your silence leaves too much space for his thoughts.
A case changes it.
A young woman reported missing from a station three boroughs over. Her last known location matches a scrap of information from your earlier interview. You and Stone check out a block of flats in Brixton.
It’s supposed to be routine.
It isn’t.
The man who answers the door isn’t who you expected. He gets hostile fast. Tries to shut the door. You step forward instinctively - and Sean grabs your sleeve before you cross the threshold.
“No.”
Just that. One word. Sharp. Flat. But his hand stays on your arm too long. You glance down at it, then back up at him.
His expression had shifted. Tight. Edged.
You realise, in that moment, how close to losing control he really is.
You take a paid day off on Tuesday to catch up on some paperwork.
Sean stands at the front counter, frowning.
“Where’s the file for the Brixton flat? Witness cross-reference, missing links-“
Sergeant Wainwright looks up from his computer. “Went home with (L/N).”
He blinks. “She what?”
“Took it home last night. Said she wanted to cross-check it against her notes. She’s off today, though.”
Sean doesn’t speak for a moment.
Then, “Give me her address.”
He regrets that the moment he gets to your door.
But he rings anyway.
He isn’t sure what he expected. A hoodie. Joggers. Maybe a dressing gown.
Not this.
You answer in a pair of tiny sleep shorts and a fitted, tank top - cotton, casual, innocent - but it hits him like a punch to the gut.
His brain blanks. Entirely.
Is this how most men feel all the time?
You blink, surprised. “Sean?”
He swallows, looking everywhere but at your legs. Your chest. Oh god.
“You took the Brixton case file home.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.” You step back, instinctively. “Do you want to come in?”
He hesitates. Then steps inside.
Your place is small, lived-in. Lots of plants. A cinnamon scented candle burns away on the mantle. A kettle clicks off in the background. You move to grab the file from the coffee table, completely unaware of the crisis unfolding in Sean’s chest.
He stares - not at your body. Well, not just at your body. But at how casual you are. Comfortable. Unfiltered. The kind of close that isn’t earned, just natural.
You’re killing him.
You hand him the file. “Here.”
He takes it. Careful not to touch your fingers. Careful not to feel anything else.
But your voice is so gentle when you ask, “Is everything alright?”
He looks up, and for a moment - just a breath - something cracks in his eyes. Something raw.
He looks away quickly.
“Yes. Just… wanted the file.”
“Right.”
Silence.
Then you smile faintly. “You look like you want to run out of here at full speed.”
He blinks. “Not quite.”
You watch him. Patient.
He steps back toward the door. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
And then - almost too soft to hear, “You can come by again, you know. If you need anything.”
He freezes for half a second. Then nods, not looking back as he leaves - but the heat in his chest doesn’t cool for hours.
After a heavily distracted day at work, he locks the door to his flat behind him with a click that echoes louder than it should.
He drops the file on the dining table, standing there, frozen still. For several seconds, he doesn’t move.
It isn’t the case he was thinking about. It’s you. It’s always you.
More specifically; it’s the way you looked when you opened the door. Bare legs, clothes hugging your body tightly. The softness of skin he’d never seen before. Not in that context. Not in any context.
You looked casual. Tired. Familiar with yourself in a way that made something in his chest tug hard.
And it infuriates him.
The smooth curve of your thigh as you bent down to grab the file. The glimpse of your shoulder when your tank top strap slipped slightly. The relaxed way you carried yourself, unburdened by rank or restraint.
It hadn’t even been suggestive - which makes him feel a hundred times worse for the thoughts rushing through his head right now.
He pours a glass of water but leaves it untouched, then finally sits down at the table and opens the file. He reads the same paragraph six times without absorbing a single word.
His jaw clenches.
The thought comes back again. Obsessive. Punishing. You’re sharp, competent, focused, and so young compared to the callouses on his life. Compared to the damage he’d already done to himself by choosing this job, this isolation, this version of existence.
This should be simple.
This isn’t him.
But he’s a man. And you’re a woman.
More than that, you’re kind. You give him space. Patience. Grace he doesn’t deserve.
And your body - Christ.
He pushes the file away and stands abruptly, pacing once. Twice. Runs a hand down his face like he could physically wipe the thoughts away.
But your image stays.
He doesn’t sleep well.
When you’re back at work, you greet Stone with your usual soft “Morning,” holding a coffee cup in one hand and a Tesco meal deal sandwich in the other.
He just nods. No smile. No acknowledgement.
When you sit beside him for the morning brief, he subtly shifts his chair away.
When you make a small joke under your breath about the new recruit misfiling a report, he doesn’t even glance at you.
He’s stiff, closed off, unreadable - except to you. You notice the clenched jaw, the rigid silence, the way he avoids your eyes.
You choose not to call him out. You just work.
But in the record room, almost like a rom-com gone wrong, you both reach for a folder at the same time.
Your fingers brush, and he pulls his hand back like he’s touched fire.
You freeze, startled by the suddenness of it.
“I’ll get it,” he says - too quickly, too sharply.
You lower your hand. Let him.
Silence.
He doesn’t look at you, but the tension in his posture is clear.
“I didn’t mean to-“ you start.
“It’s fine,” he cuts in, avoiding your eyes.
You study his profile. “You’re acting like I’ve done something wrong.”
“No,” he says, still not meeting your gaze. “You haven’t. I have.”
That surprises you. Not the words - the fact that he said them out loud.
Then, without explanation, he turns and walks away, file in hand.
You stand in the quiet for a few seconds longer, heart heavier than you want to admit.
A few hours later, two constables are bickering in the corridor - someone had misplaced the updated Brixton logs.
You aren’t involved. You’re at your desk, headphones on, sorting surveillance timestamps.
Sean passes through on his way to the briefing room - and pauses when he hears your name.
“…Yeah, but she hasn’t even been here that long. She shouldn’t be taking those files home-“
“She only got the info ‘cause the bloke liked her-“
Sean stops walking.
Turns.
“Excuse me?”
Both constables freeze.
He steps forward.
“If you have a complaint about DC (L/N)’s methods, you bring it to me. If you’re insinuating she compromised the integrity of a case, say it directly. Otherwise-“ his voice drops, sharp as a blade “-don’t speak her name if it’s just to belittle the work you weren’t smart enough to do yourselves.”
He walks off without waiting for a reply.
What he doesn’t know is that you’d taken off your headphones barely thirty seconds earlier. Enough to hear all of it. Enough to feel the breath catch in your throat.
You don’t say anything. Not then. Not later.
But that afternoon, when you pass him in the corridor, you hand him the updated logs with a brief nod and a soft, neutral “Here you go, sir.”
You say it so casually. So simply. Handing him the log sheet like it was nothing - but the word hits him like a body blow.
Sir.
Are you genuinely trying to kill him?
He looks down at the paper, unable to register a word on it.
You turn, walking back to your desk, leaving him there, standing still. His hands clench the edge of the folder harder than necessary.
It sounded so natural.
And suddenly he isn’t thinking about the Brixton logs. He’s thinking about your voice in his ear, softer. About the image of you in those tiny shorts. Saying sir in that same voice.
His stomach turns. He hates the thought. Hates the heat pooling low in his body. Hates that he has no right.
He buries himself in paperwork the rest of the day.
shite little doodle of DS sean stone from chasing shadows
Very important screenshots
just watched Nine Lives Kat for this first time and as someone obsessed with all things fictional detective it’s safe to say i LOVED it. plus, as someome who simultaneously has a soft spot for sean stone from chasing shadows but also thought the writing of that show left A LOT to be desired, is there anyone out there who i can scream to about how extra meta this ep was in that context?! cause i fear i’m about to go insane. pls and thank you
Advent Calendar Day 2
Quite The Coincidence
Sean Stone (Chasing Shadows) x gn!reader
Warnings: none
Synopsis: Sean has a surprise for the reader :)
A/N: Enjoy!
Masterlist
