Oh hi!
I've got an idea, can you do something like the reader is mad at Sherlock and won't talk to him and he is doing something like drugging himself or taking excessive work load that's basically killing him and reader sees no choice but to go back to him? It's inspired by The lying detective episode obviously.
🍄 Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader
🍄 Genre: Angst/Fluff
🍄 Summary: When Sherlock makes a grave mistake, can he come back from his error or has he lost you forever?
🍄 Word Count: 1824
🍄 Abbreviations: N/A
🍄 Warnings: Canon drug use by Sherlock
🍄 Note: Sorry this took so long to get here, I hope this is what you were looking for Anon!
He hadn’t meant it. Surely he hadn’t. Then again it was Sherlock. Did he ever actually think about his actions before doing them or did they just happen without thought of the fallout. Your life had hung in the balance as you had been used as a pawn. A pawn in one of his cases. As if your life had meant nothing to him, you were just a means to an end. Even now looking into his eyes, the fire burning in yours, there was no remorse, no regret.
“You are clearly overreacting to a situation that was completely in my control-”
“I don’t care if it was in your ‘control’ Sherlock. You put my life in danger!” you argued back angrily. “Do you not understand that? If one thing, just one, had gone wrong, I could have died.”
“But you didn’t die.” He responded flatly, with no ounce of emotion in his tone. It was almost as if he hadn’t heard what you had said. As if he hadn’t comprehended the severity of the situation. Or he simply didn’t care. A thought that shattered your heart into a million pieces.
“Is that seriously all you have to say?” you asked, voice now taking on a broken tone. “You don’t care do you? What would you have done if I had drunk it? If I had drunk that poison?” you waited. Waited for a reasonable answer, an answer that showed he cared. An answer that proved he actually felt something for your life.
“But you didn’t. I controlled it. And if you had, by some miraculous idiocy on your part. Then you wouldn’t be having this erratic display of emotions that are clearly unnecessary.” You blinked. Idiocy. Your idiocy. Not his. Not his mistake. Not a reasonable mistake on his part. No. Your idiocy. You had no words. Nothing you could think of in your mind that could explain the rush of emotions swimming through you. To describe the hurt, the pain, the heartbreak at his words.
“Right,” you whispered. Your eyes brimmed as you silently grabbed your bag, stuffing your phone into the side pocket and grabbing your keys from the table. Your body turned towards the door, not bothering to take a second glance at the man you had spent four years loving with every fiber of your being. Not bothering to answer his call as he shouted down the stairs of 221B asking where you were going. Not bothering to reply to John as you passed him in the doorway asking you if everything was okay. Your feet moved on autopilot. Your phone buzzed in your bag as you walked.
You had walked for hours, going nowhere specific, with no end goal in mind. Your tears had since dried against your cheeks, your skin flushed from the cold. You hadn’t checked your phone, you knew that the texts and calls had come from John, you doubted any were from Sherlock. As he has explained quite clearly, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Your feet fell to a stop as you stared at the figure in front of you. His eyes, usually cold, held a warmth of understanding as he looked at you, his fingertips twisting the umbrella in circles.
“What did my dear brother do this time?” The light smirk on his lips was just for show. You had known Mycroft long enough to recognise his facade. Despite being the ‘ice man’ Mycroft had come to like you. You were his favourite goldfish in a pond of goldfish.
“He could’ve killed me.”
Weeks. Radio silence. He knew Mycroft had something to do with it. He knew that Mycroft had covered your tracks somehow. You weren’t answering his texts, his calls. You weren’t at your apartment. Your landlord had said something about a suitcase and leaving late in the evening. You were still paying the rent but you weren’t there. He had tried your work next. An extended leave of absence. John had been badgering you about taking some time off for a while, you had been saving up your holiday days since you had started at the library, that seemed to have paid off now you wanted to disappear.
He knew going to Mycroft would be futile. He should have known that Mycroft was helping you in some way. ‘She’s safe.’ That's all he said. He knew where you were. He knew and he wouldn’t tell Sherlock, no matter how much he asked.
He didn’t know when the smoking started again, he couldn’t pinpoint it with his hazy mind, the cocktail of drugs dulling the loud voices in his head. Dulling the memory of the argument. Sherlock had been over the argument exactly twenty-three times since you walked out and he realised you were missing. Each time left him just as confused as the last. Why were you so upset? You had been in the firing line on numerous cases, some worse than this. So why did this upset you so much?
“Because this time, she wasn’t complicit in your act.” The tone of his brother's droning voice echoed behind him. “It seems you have finally pushed away the one person who could stand your games without being affected. How does that feel, Sherlock, knowing Y/N is gone?” Sherlock twisted angrily only to find an empty doorway. “Must feel agonising knowing you don’t know where she is and I do.” He spun back towards the windows, the voice moving with every breath. But again, there was nothing. Sherlock stood, pacing, his eyes darting across every corner of the room. “You lost her. Sherlock. Now you’re all alone. Again. In a world full of goldfish who can’t stand you.” Sherlock whipped back and forth as the voice continued to taunt him.
Finally his hands grasped the cup that had sat on the mantlepiece. The milky coffee had turned an awful green colour, with fur growing steadily on the surface. He hurled the cup against the wall with a loud smash, mouldy coffee spreading across the sofa. His hands grabbed anything within reach, hurling it at the voice wherever it moved.
The banging and crashing echoed through 221B, so loud that Sherlock didn’t even hear his flatmate speaking on the phone urgently.
‘He needs you.’ The words spun around your mind continuously on the ride to 221B. You hadn’t hesitated. You hadn’t argued. You hadn’t reminded Mycroft of the hurt Sherlock had caused you. You just moved. Just as you had that night. Just as you did whenever he needed you. Your heart couldn’t take ignoring him when he was in need. Was he an idiot? Yes. Had he hurt you unimaginably? Yes. Did you love him? Yes. You hadn’t answered John’s texts telling you how Sherlock was beside himself, you hadn’t answered Mrs Hudson, or Molly or Lestrade. But Mycroft. Mycroft always believed in some ways he was above Sherlock. There was no denying that Mycroft often enjoyed teasing and taunting Sherlock. And if he asked you to help his brother, then there was something seriously wrong.
The cab had arrived at Baker Street in the late evening, the lights in 221B still on despite the time. Mycroft’s car sat outside the home of your detective, the front door open as he stood in the doorway, his eyes waiting for your arrival. The second the cab stopped, the shouting echoed down onto the street. Your feet sped forwards taking you up the stairs, you didn’t listen to Mycroft as he tried to explain. You didn’t stop when you found John standing outside the door of 221B using the slab of wood as a shield. Another smash. A crash. A shout.
You nudged John aside, despite his protests, and pushed the door of the flat open. The flat you had once called home, a safe place after a case, a place for you and Sherlock to talk about his cases, was now reduced to rubble. You dreaded to think what Mrs Hudson would say if she saw it. You assumed she hadn’t since the light under the door of her flat was still off. She has spent the weekend on a holiday with her friends.
Your eyes scanned the mess for your detective. His chest heaved his eyes frantic, his hand reaching for whatever was in reach. His gentle curls which usually framed his face, stuck in all directions. It broke your heart all over again.
“What did you take?” Your voice seemed to cut through whatever was happening in his mind, his eyes finding you.
“Y-You, you’re not here-”
“What did you take, Sherlock?” When he didn’t answer, you stepped closer, your hands reaching for his, and gently prying his grip off of the controller which was already damaged, you knew this wasn’t the first time the controller was being launched across the flat. The mirror had a massive crack in it and you didn’t have the time to count all of the different breakages and smashes filling the place.
The second your skin touched his, he snapped. His chest slowing, his eyes focusing on you.
“I’m here, right here with you, okay?” you spoke slowly and softly. “What did you take?”
His hand fumbled with the corner of his pocket and you slipped the folded paper out, eyes breaking their gaze from his for a moment as you scanned the list. You reached back and handed it to John and Mycroft who had joined him in the doorway. You guided Sherlock to the coffee stained sofa, sitting him on the corner. “When did you take it?”
“L-Lunch.” he mumbled. “The voices wouldn’t stop-” His body slumped forwards, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as you balanced his weight.
“John, could you take him whil-”
“No, no!” Sherlock tightened his grip on your hands. “Stay.” You nodded.
“John, could you grab me the Naloxone? It should be in the second drawer of the right nightstand.” You instructed with a smile.
“I’m not leaving, okay?”
“I-I sorry,” Sherlock mumbled against your shoulder. “I hurt you. I nearly- sorry.” You knew it wasn’t perfect, you knew it wasn’t an ideal apology. But it was Sherlock. It didn’t matter how he said it, as long as he said it. He didn’t apologise. It wasn’t like him. So he meant it. But as John returned with the Naloxone shot, you forgave him. As you cleaned up the flat whilst he slept on the couch, you continued returning to him as he reached out in his sleep. Because he meant it. No one else would forgive him like you did, because no one else knew and loved him like you did.
He still had some groveling to do, but he’d do it in his own way. When he was sober, when he knew what was real. And you’d forgive him. Because he was your detective. He made mistakes, he made errors but you’d love him through them.
