So I’ve just finished Young Sherlock (which is 100% my new hyperfixation) and I really, really need some x reader fics that revolve around these three. Sherlock, Moriarty, Mycroft… I’ll take all of them to be honest
Summary: You can't quite understand Mycroft's newfound hostility toward you.
Warnings: Mycroft being a misogynistic prick.
Word count: 1,941
Author's note: I fear this is more about Mycroft than Sherlock... but, oh well. Also, props to anyone who can find the slight hunger games reference
Masterlist
When Sherlock suggested courtship, you hesitated. You weren’t sure why—you absolutely adored him and had thought of being courted by him before—but something didn’t sit right. You accepted despite that, assuring yourself it was silly nervousness. The feeling disappeared during those first few weeks of courting.
That is, until Sherlock and you were invited out by Mycroft. At the restaurant, things were cordial so long as Mycroft was engaged by the various patrons he intentionally associated himself with for their social connections.
Then the entrée arrived, and things became tense.
“I don’t expect you to understand the nuances of politics,” Mycroft said to you, dabbing politely at his mouth and mustache, “as anyone in your standing ought to be more concerned about the household. However, I do believe even your opinion is valid on the subject of these upstart ‘women’s rights’ proponents.”
You stared at him, unsure you had heard correctly. He had never insulted you before—and never so directly. Sherlock exchanged a glance with you as you fought to find words. “I suppose that women deserve some say, given that they make up half the population. Their needs matter, too.”
“What would you ever need outside a home?” Mycroft snorted and sipped from his champagne flute.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock warned.
You placed a hand on Sherlock’s sleeve. “Perhaps I should return home.”
“Indeed,” Mycroft mumbled into his glass. “It is your domain.”
You fought hot tears as you rode in the hansom back to your family home. You had known the Holmes brothers for years, and not once had Mycroft ever been hostile or oppositional to you. He had sometimes chafed against your ideas, but sparring over ideologies was different than direct ad hominem attacks.
“Mycroft was inebriated,” Sherlock explained as he walked you to the door.
You knew that wasn’t true. If anything, Mycroft had barely been tipsy. You appreciated Sherlock’s effort, however, and rewarded him with a soft kiss on his lips before entering your family home and crying quietly in your bedroom.
You convinced yourself that Mycroft perhaps had been feeling poorly or combative due to problems in his political life, but all hope of that was dashed when you saw him again and he flung a few choice snide remarks in your direction. Appalled to be treated so unusually by someone you had once considered a friend, you withdrew into yourself, distancing yourself from him.
That seemed only to incentivize him to attack you more savagely each time he saw you.
“Enola will be there,” Sherlock assured you as he helped you into your coat.
“That’s good,” you mumbled. Anxiety coursed through you at being in Mycroft’s presence once again. Dinner was being held at his home, and only family, including you, were expected. Without the safety of a public outing — one where a public spectacle would tarnish Mycroft’s reputation — you were sure to be subjugated to even more ridicule than usual.
You refused to ask Sherlock to keep his brother in check. The last thing you wanted was to cause unnecessary strife between the brothers.
So you straightened your shoulders and proceeded to the dinner in faux high spirits.
Seeing Enola did brighten your evening at first, at least. She was full of brilliant energy that dazzled you whenever you saw her. For someone so young, she was vibrant and overwhelmingly intelligent. You expected nothing less from a Holmes, though she did seem the smartest of the three.
She eased the tension between you and Holmes brothers merely by virtue of being herself. The conversation momentarily turned somber when she brought it to the subject of their absent mother, a topic that easily engaged Mycroft’s displeasure, but it wasn’t long before Mycroft turned his sights on you.
“Perhaps you have some illustrious insights into our mother’s fickle nature,” he began.
“I couldn’t say,” you answered.
“No? Surely you two are similar birds of a feather.”
A frown tugged at your mouth. “In what way?”
“You being a female of the species…with your fickle natures. You chose at your own whims and with complete disregard for any other’s consequence.”
Before you could answer, Enola leaned forward, her young face furrowing. “Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“No? But I’m a ‘female of the species’.”
“Hardly,” he scoffed, and he swept a sharp glance over her, tutting at her less-than-ladylike appearance.
“You can’t talk to her that way!” you scold Mycroft, despite yourself.
“I can talk to her in any way I deem fit! I am the man of this house.”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.
“I’m sorry, can the lady’s fragile constitution not withstand truth?” Mycroft looked at you pointedly.
The muscle in your jaw jumped as you clenched your teeth, your hand tight around your fork. You couldn’t tell if you were going to scream at him or burst into tears, your whole body vibrating with emotion.
“What is your problem?” Enola cried.
“I am merely highlighting the problems inherent in the women of this era—”
Enola slammed her knife into the table, making the glassware rattle. Mycroft stared at her in horror.
“That is imported!”
You pushed yourself away from the table with a mumbled excuse. Hastening from the room, you stopped in the entryway to the house, trembling.
Sherlock’s distinctive tread approached you. Steeling yourself, you tried to put on at the very least a neutral, unaffected expression.
“I apologise for his behaviour,” he said.
Shaking your head, you stared down at the lush carpet runner lining the length of the hallway. “I don’t understand. Why is he so… changed?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Have you asked him?” the question slipped out before you could stop it. “No, don’t do that. I don’t want to cause any more harm.”
“Harm? You’ve done nothing.” his hand moves to rest against your cheek, thumb rubbing against your cheekbone as if to sooth you.
“Clearly I’ve done something.” finally you look up at him, the tiredness evident in your eyes.
“He’s jealous of you and Sherlock,” Enola called from down the hallway.
You stilled. Jealousy? Why hadn’t that occurred to you?
The pieces clicked into place. Of course he was jealous. Mycroft had been the one you were closer to as children, always together, running about in the gardens and spending endless days in the kitchens together. He may not have possessed his younger brother’s nerve to court you — not yet, at least — but he had to have been planning on it, surely. That much you gleaned from a quick catalog of your memories leading up to Sherlock’s overtures. Now that he was no longer a viable candidate, overshadowed yet again by his younger brother, he was lashing out.
You pressed a hand to your mouth. “Sherlock…”
“It isn’t your concern nor your fault,” he answered immediately. “Mycroft will have to adjust, or I will resolve the issue.”
“I don’t want to be the source of—”
“He is acting like a child,” Sherlock looked at you pointedly, holding your chin in his soft grip, “and therefore he is deserving of punishment.”
Enola snorted down the hall.
“But Sherlock…”
“He insulted you. Greater men require less to defend a lady’s honor.”
Passing a hand delicately over your face, you sighed. “This isn’t what I wanted.”
“What’s a little enmity between siblings? Enola and Mycroft already don’t get along.”
“That’s right,” Enola agreed.
“Another sibling shouldn’t be too catastrophic to him.”
“Alright,” you whispered. “But- may I speak with him first?”
“Absolutely.” Sherlock answers reluctantly.
Slowly you re-enter the dining room, careful not to disturb the quiet that has now blanketed the room, emphasised with the soft crackle of burning logs in the fireplace. Mycroft still sits in his chair — the head of the table, the head of the household — yet his body is slumped, the weight of his own thoughts crushing him beneath them. He hasn't heard your steps nor seen your shadow approaching from behind him.
“Would you have done it?” At the sound of your voice Mycroft’s body goes taught and straight, as if a string has just been pulled from his head, like a marionette. He doesn’t turn.
“Done what?” he snaps back.
“If Sherlock hadn’t done so first, would you have asked that we courted each other?”
His head turns at that.
“Yes.”
With that one simple word you are reminded of the hesitation you first felt when Sherlock asked you, all those months ago — of the weary feeling. It was for Mycroft. You two had always been the close ones, your entire childhoods were spent together. Sherlock was always the ‘odd-one-out’ for lack of a better word, while you and Mycroft spent your days in the park, he was hauled up in his room pouring over old cases of newspaper clippings. You had no idea when one was traded for the other, when Mycroft became Sherlock — maybe when Mycroft began spending more time at the library than in the park or when Sherlock realised the importance of things other than solving a case.
“Then-” it seems awful even to ask it, but you do, “Then why didn't you?”
“Because-” he now stands, “because I never stood a chance!”
“A chance against what?” you ask incredulously, “There was never anything in your way!”
“Your father-”
“My father? That is absolutely ridiculous, my father has loved you since you were in diapers — if anything, it is Sherlock he has something against!”
“There were other men who-”
“How dare you insinuate that of me?” Now it was becoming clear, Mycroft never had any intention of admitting he was late purely of his own fault, “That I entertain the minds of every man I meet? I never even had a caller before Sherlock!”
“If you'd have just waited…” he whispers.
“Waited?” you blood boils at the audacity, and you stride up to him, “How many more days…? How many more months…? How many more years? Were twenty two not enough for you?” your voice softens, taking pity on the solemn face he now wears, “He asked me properly, there were no other prospects.”
The words seem to anger him as his face shifts, and he finally looks at you, “No, he’s my brother, the entitled bastard gets everything, why should he get you?”
“Because for once I was finally being looked at. Because he didn't demand that I make a fool out of myself for his attention. Because I finally had a chance to silence the voices calling me a future spinstress, and for once I decided to be selfish. Because for once I was finally being seen and I liked who he saw. Because I love him!” you all but shout it at him, surprising even yourself at the confession. The tension in the room settles in the silence and when it seems Mycroft has nothing left to say, you turn to leave.
“What about- me?”
Your feet stop beneath you, “No.” a whisper, as he takes slow steps towards you. His body is warm against your back as he leans in, reaching a hand up to stroke your cheek, you recoil away from the touch
“No, you're- you're being mean—”
“I love you.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Would you have waited, had you known I was there waiting for you?”
Your confidence overtakes you, “Would you have spared me from the demeaning insults you deem necessary to pellet me with? Or would I have had to find out later, when I had no escape, just what kind of man your emotions mold you into?”
The room grows silent without any rebuttal from Mycroft, unable to configure a pitying response. Slowly you nod, taking the absence of an answer as confirmation.
I think we can all agree that Sherlock isn't the most dialled-in at the beginning of your relationship
He hasn't really done anything like this before. All he knows is that it makes him happy to see you happy.
It starts off with little things, like him noticing how widely you smile when he brings you flowers, or pulls out your chair for you when you go out to dinner.
Once you've been together for a while, he asks for you to share your location with him. He only ever checks it when he knows you're on your way to his flat. You've never connected the dots as to how he always manages to be stirring the milk into your tea and handing it to you the second you walk through his front door.
Memorising your routine is a piece of cake for Sherlock Holmes. He knows what hours you work, how often you get your nails done, where you get your coffee from.
You've been together for just under a year when you go to pay after your nail appointment, only to be told that the appointment has been paid for in advance (you've never paid for your nails since because they are always paid for in advance now)
You barely ever have to get yourself coffee any more, because Sherlock meets you at your door every morning as you're leaving for work, delivering you coffee and a kiss.
Getting the tube? Not on Sherlock's watch. He's either ordering you a taxi, or he's hopping in a taxi himself to come and pick you up, even if it takes twice as long.
The bouquet of flowers which lives on your kitchen table is replaced without you seeing just before it begins to wilt.
One of your makeup/skincare products is running low? you open your bathroom cabinet and a replacement has appeared overnight.
If you mention that you like the look of something or would like to try something, you can guarantee it's showing up in your apartment within the next few days.
Essentially, Sherlock uses his talent for observation to ensure that you never want for anything because you're his girl, and his girl deserves everything she wants and more.
~~~
This came to me in a dream and I immediately had to write it down lol
The case of interference and possible future in-laws
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!reader
You’d cleaned.
You’d actually cleaned.
Which, for someone who ran a tight ship on most days, meant you’d spent four hours rearranging throw pillows, restocking the refrigerator with non-alcoholic beverages, and hiding every potentially unexplainable thing in your flat, including a framed photo of Sherlock that, to your horror, had ended up on your nightstand at some point.
You shoved it in a drawer. Just in time.
The buzzer rang.
Your mother had arrived.
She came in like a gust of judgmental air: tall, elegant, trench coat crisp despite the drizzle, and smelling faintly of expensive perfume and disapproval.
“This country,” she declared immediately, brushing rain off her sleeves. “Why do you live here? It’s so gray. Have you considered Madrid, Barcelona? Or the south of France? People smile there.”
You took her coat and resisted the urge to scream. “Hello to you, too.”
“And London. Everything costs twice what it should. Honestly, you’re not twenty anymore. Why aren’t you somewhere sensible?”
“I have a good job,” you said patiently, leading her into the kitchen.
“Some remote, vague, hush-hush ‘research work’,” she sniffed. “I’m beginning to think you’ve joined a cult.”
You passed her tea. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it? You haven’t posted anything on social media in a year.”
You blinked. “I never used social media much.”
“Exactly,” she said, like that proved her point.
The plan had been simple: one polite afternoon. No surprises. No murders. No uninvited detectives.
So when your front door clicked open without warning twenty minutes later, your blood froze.
You turned slowly. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Buckingham Palace,” Sherlock said, as if that explained everything.
He breezed into the room, entirely Sherlock: coat dripping rain, scarf misaligned, eyes glinting. “A diplomat collapsed in the Green Drawing Room. Cyanide. Royal panic. I thought you’d want to see the architecture up close.”
You gestured wildly toward the kitchen. “My mother is here. I told you not to come!”
“She’ll like this one,” he said, brushing past you. “Big case. Red carpets. National security.”
"SHE THINKS I HAVE A NORMAL LIFE", you whisper-yelled after him.
Too late. She appeared in the doorway, cup of tea in hand, watching Sherlock with a narrowed gaze. Then she looked at you. Then back to him.
Her expression shifted. Subtly, but catastrophically.
“Oh,” she said. “This is why you never tell me about your personal life.”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
Sherlock, unfazed, extended a hand. “Sherlock Holmes. It’s lovely to meet you.”
She shook it, eyeing him like a cross between a customs officer and a Victorian chaperone. “Holmes? Like...the Mycroft Holmes connected to the Cabinet Office?”
“Elder brother,” Sherlock replied smoothly, peeling off his gloves.
Your mother blinked. “And you? Are you a civil servant?”
Sherlock gave a faint, self-effacing smile that you had never seen before. “I do consult. Some work for the government. Some for the police. Nothing terribly glamorous.”
“She’s mentioned a consulting partner,” your mother mused. “Never by name. But you…live near here?”
“Baker Street.”
“Do your parents live in London?”
“Our family home is in Sussex. We don’t use it often.”
She tilted her head. You could practically hear her thoughts: “So...your work is sensitive, you come and go as you please, your family has money, and you’re clearly close enough that she lets you walk into her flat unannounced.”
You opened your mouth. Still nothing.
Sherlock smiled, genuinely, and turned to you.
“Shall we?”
You swallowed. “Where are we going?”
“Buckingham Palace.”
You laughed weakly. “Of course we are.”
Your mother didn’t stop smiling the entire time you were gone.
Later, when the case had been solved (mislabelled antique poison, unintentional overdose, the royal corgis completely innocent), and Sherlock had deposited you safely back at your flat, he hung around awkwardly by your bookshelf, glancing at your hands.
“You haven’t said thank you,” he said.
“I haven’t decided if I’m thankful.”
“You mother now believes I’m your long-term partner.”
“Because you let her assume that!”
“She was going to assume something,” Sherlock replied. “I chose the version that made you look discerning.”
You exhaled, rubbing your temples. “She’s already planning next Christmas. You realize that, right? She thinks I’m finally settling down.”
Sherlock looked at you.
“What?”
“Are we not together?”
You stared. “What?”
“You said she assumed we were. But…aren’t we?”
You blinked. “Sherlock. We’ve never defined anything.”
He tilted his head. “I spend most of my time with you. I bring you food. You have a toothbrush at Baker Street.”
You spluttered. “You have a key to my flat!”
“And I use it. Regularly.”
“That’s not the same as dating!”
“Then define dating.”
You opened your mouth. Paused. Closed it again.
“…Sherlock, are you seeing anyone else?”
“No. That would be inefficient.”
You looked at him long and hard. “Do you want to see other people?”
He looked slightly offended. “Do you?”
“No!”
“Then what exactly are we debating?”
You ran a hand down your face. “I don’t know! I just...there was no conversation! There was no…moment!”
“Is now the moment?”
You blinked at him.
He blinked back.
Then he stepped forward and kissed you. Just once. Direct. Crisp. Like punctuation.
You wobbled slightly.
“Well,” you muttered. “That certainly makes it harder to argue.”
Sherlock adjusted your coat collar with precise, unnecessary care. “I’ll inform your mother we’re exclusive.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Too late. She invited me to Sunday brunch.”
You groaned. “What have I done?”
He smiled.
“Something permanent, apparently.”
You didn’t sleep that night.
Sherlock did. Like a cat. Or a monarch who had, with minimal effort, conquered a small country.
You sat propped in bed beside him: sweater on, laptop closed, tea untouched, staring into the abyss of implications. Your mother thought you were in a serious, respectable relationship. Sherlock thought you were already dating. And you, like an idiot, had just let it happen.
Had you initiated this? Was it the pastries? The brushing-his-coat-off-for-him moments? The "stay over if you want" said casually, like you weren’t pining?
Sherlock stirred once, turned toward you, curled a hand beneath his pillow, and then fell back into the stillness of dreamless sleep.
You watched him for a moment, exasperated and fond in equal measure.
“Of course you sleep well,” you muttered.
The next morning, he was at your kitchen table with the newspaper folded open and a bowl of something granola-adjacent in front of him.
“Good morning, girlfriend,” he said flatly, like he was testing the word for mouth-feel.
You paused mid-step. “Don’t.”
He flipped the page. “Should I use a different term?”
“Let’s not label anything in the first twelve hours. I’m still deciding if I hallucinated all this.”
“You didn’t. I have your mother’s brunch address in my phone.”
You yanked it from his hands. “Give me that.”
“She also asked if I was planning on proposing.”
You made a wounded sound. “I was a normal person until you walked into my flat.”
He sipped his tea. “That’s demonstrably false.”
Three days passed before the next contact from your mother. She sent an email. It was suspiciously brief.
"Darling,
I know I give you a hard time about your choices, but Sherlock seems like an exceptional man.
I can see you’re happy.
If you’d rather not do Sunday, I understand. Just send photos sometime.
Mum"
Photos.
Plural.
You looked at Sherlock. “We need to stage a fake date.”
He blinked. “Didn’t we do that at the palace?”
“No, no. We need something cute. Park bench. Sandwiches. One of us laughing at a pun.”
“I don’t laugh.”
“Then I’ll laugh. You’ll smirk.”
“I don’t smirk.”
“You literally smirked just now.”
The staged “date” ended up being shockingly unstaged.
Sherlock was investigating a botched kidnapping in Hyde Park, and you tagged along for what you insisted was not romantic, but he stopped midway to buy you a ridiculous iced coffee (“You said you hadn’t slept well. You don't need to faint to prove a point”) and a passerby took a candid of you sitting on the edge of a fountain, Sherlock beside you, pointing at something in your lap like it was either a clue or a rare moth.
It was your half-melted coffee.
He was attempting to deduce the flavor by smell.
You didn’t laugh. You giggled, which was worse.
The photo made your mother cry.
Apparently she’d been worried you’d die alone in a library.
By the end of the week, it was official. Not because either of you had said anything, but because he answered a text from Lestrade with, “Can’t. With my girlfriend.”
You saw it over his shoulder.
“Wait. You told Lestrade?”
“Yes.”
“Before me?”
Sherlock blinked. “You were present when I used the term.”
“I thought we were being vague.”
He gave a helpless sort of shrug. “The definition of dating is two people agreeing to prioritize each other. I already did. I thought you had too.”
You stared at him. “Sherlock. You bought me a toothbrush. Before our first kiss.”
“You don’t like mint.”
“That’s not the point.”
That weekend, he turned up at your flat with a package.
You narrowed your eyes. “What is it?”
“A formal gift. To mark our relationship.”
You stared. “Did you…wrap this?”
He hesitated. “No.”
Inside was a leather-bound book of obscure crime scene illustrations from the 19th century, annotated by hand, by him, with observations in blue ink.
It was beautiful. Brilliant. Deranged. It might as well have been a ring.
You sat down. “Sherlock.”
“Yes?”
“This is a terrible precedent.”
He sat beside you. “I expect something equally thoughtful in return.”
You side-eyed him. “What would that even be? Human teeth?”
He looked intrigued. “Only if they’re real.”
Later, lying on your sofa, legs tangled under a shared blanket, you finally asked the question that had lingered in your chest since the night he kissed you.
“So…when did you know?”
He didn’t even look up from the book he was holding. “That I was in love with you?”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
He turned a page. “You brought me tea once. During a case. I hadn’t eaten in twenty hours. You said you’d kill me yourself if I didn’t take a break.”
“That was months ago.”
“I found it endearing.”
You were quiet for a beat.
“I was going to tell you eventually,” he added.
“When?”
“When I solved the case and didn’t die. Or on your birthday. Whichever came first.”
You laughed, genuine and helpless.
Sherlock looked over at you then, soft and curious. “Are you glad it’s me?”
You met his eyes.
“Are you?”
He blinked. “Of course. There was no alternative.”
Mycroft: It’s due to the presence of humus and iron oxides, which absorb certain wavelengths of light and reflect others, resulting in the perception of the colour brown.
Little Y/N: Why does it have iron in it?
Mycroft: Because iron is one of the most abundant elements on Earth, formed in the cores of stars and distributed throughout the planet during its formation.
Little Y/N: Why were there stars?
Mycroft: Gravitational collapse of interstellar gas clouds. An inevitable consequence of fundamental physics.
Little Y/N: Why is there physics?
Mycroft: Because the universe is governed by a set of consistent, quantifiable laws. We don't know why the laws themselves exist, only that they do. It is a brute fact. Can we stop now?
Little Y/N: Why?
Mycroft: Because my work requires a level of concentration that is incompatible with a relentless deconstruction of causal reality.
Little Y/N: But why do you have to concentrate?
Mycroft: Sherlock. Make it stop.
Sherlock: *Sipping his tea* Oh, I don't know, it's fascinating. I think they might actually short-circuit your brain.
Request: James gets badly hurt during an investigation, coming close to his end. With prompt 36. "Don't try to charm your way out of this." "...So you think I'm charming?"Ft. Concerned Sherlock/Trio Vibes for @ih8books
Notes: Not cannon compliant and not medically accurate
Warnings: blood, gun violence
Word Count: 6k Holy Moly this one... sorry for the length
-----
In the chaos, I stumbled to my feet, snapping my head around, trying to find my friends. The wind had picked up, and there was a light rain, border lining on sleet coming down, making it even harder to see and make sense of the area. The scene was dark and chaotic, people screaming, gunshots firing, dust clouds kicked up from the ground.
In my searching, I turned and saw James across the courtyard, almost mirroring me exactly. I sighed in relief, but the feeling didn't last. I heard another gunshot but this time, James flinched, stepping back like he'd been shoved.
My breath caught in my throat, and I froze on the spot. I watched his hand race to his stomach, holding it as he winced in pain, slowly looking down at his hand. His face paled and his cheeks puffed out, trying to catch his breath. He stared at his hand with an expression I'd never seen on him, a blanket of shock and confusion.
His name was ripped violently from my throat like I had no say in the matter, "James!".
His head snapped up as I screamed, finding me in the chaos. He shuddered and held out his bloodied hand, warning me to stay back, to come no closer to the danger. I saw the blood leaking through his shirt and confidently ignored his warning.
I ran as fast as I could, no plan in mind. Ignoring the dangers around, I bolted, wanting nothing more than to be closer to him, to make sure he was safer in the danger.
I reached him just as his knees buckled, and he began to fall to the ground. His knees hit the ground as I put my hands on him, trying to keep him upright. Despite my efforts, I couldn't hold up his body weight, and he fell backwards to the ground, landing painfully into the dust. Still, my hands never left him, fussing around, grabbing onto his vest despite their tremor.
"James-" I started but was promptly cut off by his croaking, pained voice.
"You-" he winced, "-need to go," he choked, his accent sounding thicker in his distress.
I shook my head before he even finished speaking and sniffed back tears I never noticed were falling. "Not a chance, just- just hold on," I demanded, eyes glued to the blood on his shirt. I mentally slapped myself for panicking and quickly put pressure on the wound, pressing my hands down.
James jerked, tossing his head back into the ground as he cried out at the added pain. His hands shot to my own, holding my wrists as he braced against the pain, hissing through gritted teeth. "You can't stay! It's not safe-" he insisted, cutting himself off with grunts of pain.
"James, I'm not leaving you!" I ignored his protests, trying to keep a level head and shut out all the noise. It proved impossible when a single sound distracted me more than any of the others. A chill went down my spine as I heard footsteps approaching me slowly.
I closed my eyes tightly before looking behind me to see the gunman approaching, adjusting his eyes in the dark as he reloaded his revolver. With pleading eyes, I watched him and shook my head as reality set in. I felt James shove weakly at my hands, "Please- run!" He shouted, snapping me back into reality.
Quickly, I turned back to James, meeting his pleading eyes before looking away and covered his body with my own, practically hugging him close as every muscle in my body trembled.
"No no no, don't you dare!" James shouted, too weak to shove me off. "You need to go!" His pleading voice was strained but unsuccessful in convincing me to leave.
I shook my head against his chest "I'm sorry, James," I whimpered.
I heard a 'click' and my arms tightened around James, shielding him as best I could despite my stature and trembling limbs. My breath hitched in my throat, tears blurring my vision; I was desperate, terrified, but refused to move.
But instead of feeling any pain, I heard distant gunfire and a body fall limp to the ground as siren began to echo throughout the street.
A trembling breath left my lips as I pushed myself to a kneeling position, sitting up to see the gunman lying dead on the floor. I pried my eyes away from the sight and and moved to put pressure back on James' would, hands shaking.
"That was incredibly- ah! Stupid," he scolded, looking pained and almost betrayed. "Please, I'm begging you, get somewhere safe."
I opened my mouth to reply but saw his eyes drop and lost any words I had queued. Instead, I sat up a little taller and shouted, voice suddenly hoarse, "SHERLOCK!"
The distant wail of sirens grew louder, practically drowning out my voice. James had given up on his pleading and was instead putting his energy into squeezing his hand over mine. The hands that currently had his blood seeping through my fingers. His breaths came shallow and uneven; his face drained of colour.
Then, a familiar voice cut through the chaos, "Here." Sherlock appeared at my side, dropping to his knees beside me, his sharp eyes scanning the scene before him with deductive intensity. "What happened?"
James groaned weakly beneath us, his eyelids fluttering. Sherlock's jaw tightened as he waited for an answer.
"He was shot-i" I suddenly noticed how weak and pathetic my voice sounded but now wasn't the time to care about my dignity. "Shit- I don't know if I'm doing this right."
Sherlock wiped out a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over my hands, letting me move to press it down. "You're doing perfectly," he assured, but we shared a look of concern when James didn't flinch at the added pressure.
Instead, his hand reached up weakly to gingerly wipe my tears. His hand only made it halfway before falling limp. "Don't cry, Darling," he murmured, his voice hoarse and laboured.
"You're going to be okay," I demanded, panicking when I saw blood through the handkerchief. "I won't let you die-I swear you're going to be okay," I rambled, repeating the words more to myself than to Jim.
James chuckled weakly, the sound exhaling as more of a pained gasp. "You're...awfully optimistic," he breathed, his eyes found mine with a hint of amusement despite the severity of the situation. "Not...very...logical."
"Stop it," I scolded. "You're going to be fine." i wiped my teary cheek with my shoulder before looking to Sherlock, who was hovering, eyes darting around for help.
James smirked faintly, his eyelids fluttering as he fought to keep his gaze focused. "Bossy," he murmured, amusement threading through his strained voice. His fingers twitched weakly against mine, losing grip. "But I... suppose I like that."
"Enough flirting, James," Sherlock butted in, moving to crouch behind his head, "You're in no state." In a quick, messy motion, he hoisted James from under his arms, pulling him to his feet. James cried out in pain, loudly, uncharacteristically. He was always loud, but everything else about how he was presented made me deeply uncomfortable.
James attempted to stifle a groan as Sherlock forced him to his feet; pain etched across his face as each movement aggravated his injury.
"Easy, easy," he grunted weakly, clinging to Sherlock's arm as much as his fading strength would allow. "Bloody hell, that hurts." His head dipped back before lulling forward, gritting his teeth. His eyes caught side of his wound, and he quickly shut his eyes. In fear or disgust, I didn't know.
I flinched at every sound he made but didn't give up. I looped an arm around my shoulders, and we worked tirelessly to get him somewhere safe. Despite the height differences, we managed to load him onto a cart and soon, back to our abode.
Once we were finally safe inside, we lay him out on a table where we could assess his injury. He was hardly coherent, practically unconscious aside from his pained quips. With every word, the sweat gathered on his brow, and his head seemed less steady, bobbing around as we moved him quickly.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock called, gathering an array of medical supplies, haphazardly.
His brother stormed into the room, his face getting redder as he saw the sight before him, reprimanding and scolding the two of us over our pleas for help. "WHAT HAVE THE LOT OF YOU GOT YOURSELVES INTO NOW? YOU CAN NOT BE LEFT ALONE WITHOUT CAUSING A PUBLIC SPECTACLE-"
I crossed the room to gather water and bandages, jerking abruptly with an outstretched arm. I looked back to see James still holding my hand, subconsciously not letting go. "MYCROFT PLEASE!" I shouted.
His eyes snapped to mine, seeing the pleading tears I was biting back as I tried to save my...friend. He cursed to himself and retrieved the items I was moving towards, storming back to help despite his mumbled cursing and lecturing.
The three of us worked on James' injury together, trying to find a solution.
Jame’s lips quivered, his eyes glazed over with pain. He tried to muster a smirk, but it was weak, strained. "Don't...don't look so worried, darling. I'll...I'll be fine."
My hands never left his wound, not even when Sherlock nudged me, ready to take over working on his injury. I didn’t notice his presences at first, too engrossed in James’ wellbeing. Sherlock nudged me again, firmer this time, his voice sharp with urgency. "Move. Now."
Mycroft stepped in, gently but firmly pulling my hands away from James' wound as Sherlock took over. He cursed to himself before turning and lifting a flat fire poker that had been burning in the nearby fire.
James stiffened at the sight. His eyes widened as Sherlock lifted the glowing-hot metal plate from the fire, its edges glowing faintly orange. His usual confidence wavered, replaced by a flicker of apprehension, a strangely foreign look for him. "Oh, there’s no need for that." he shuffled nervously at what was to come.
I swallowed, hard at the sight, grimacing at the thought.
Mycroft stiffened and moved to press his hands firmly down on Jame’s shoulders to keep him still in the impending doom.
Sherlock approached with the red-hot metal plate, prepared to cauterize James' wound, “Would you prefer to bleed out instead?” he asked harshly, feeling a nausea rush over him.
James tensed and dropped his head back, cursing to himself, fear and trepidation flickering across his face. He gritted his teeth as he caught a glimpse of the metal plate in Sherlock's hand, the heat from the fire still radiating from the surface. He tried to protest; his voice laced with apprehension. "No need- no, really! There's no need-"
But his protestations were cut off by the quick, firm tone of Sherlock's voice. "There's no time for anything else,” he insisted. “It's this or risk an infection," he stated bluntly, his gaze unwavering.
I stepped forward and grabbed James hands, to which he quickly held them tight in his own. "He must, James," I insisted, trying to even out the quiver in my voice. "He has to, okay?"
James grimaced at the thought of the pain that was to come, but he trusted us implicitly. He nodded, his grip on my hands tightening in anticipation. "Okay. Alright," he murmured through clenched teeth. He looked up at Sherlock, his expression a mixture of resignation and courage. "Do it," he nodded. "Just get it over with."
Sherlock's movements were confident and determined, his focus solely on the task at hand. He pressed the hot metal plate against the wound, and the air filled with the sickening sizzle of flesh meeting metal.
James cried out, unable to hold back the anguish that wracked his body. His grip on my hands tightened painfully, his head digging backwards as sweat poured down his face.
I hissed in pain and bent at the knees, dropping my head to my chest as he squeezed my hands so hard I thought they might break. He was in too much pain to have any control over the fact, and I sorely underestimated his grip strength. I bit my lip to keep quiet and recollected myself, trying to ignore the smell of burning flesh.
Mycroft called my name softly, checking on me as he forced Jame’s to stay on his back, but I hardly heard him, choosing to instead focus on staying steady for James.
Sherlock held the plate for a few more excruciating seconds before finally pulling it away, his expression grim. "It's done," he said quietly, dropping the poker on the ground, looking at it in distain. "This should stop the bleeding."
James slumped back against the table, his breathing ragged and guttural. His grip on my hands loosened slightly and I couldn’t help but gasp softly in relief. His face was twisted into a grimace, sweat glistening on his brow. "God...damn it," he rasped, his voice strained. "That was...bloody awful."
I slipped a hand from his hold and shook it out beside me, hoping the pain would subside. A barely audible whimper escaped his lips as I slipped my hand away. I brought the hand to his cheek. "I know, I know it was," I rubbed my thumb back and forth, gently on his cheek. It was an intimate act considering our usual dynamic, but one that happened subconsciously. Mycroft and Sherlock shared a look but said nothing about it. "James? Are- are you alright?" I coaxed.
His eyes fluttered, and he fought to stay conscious, his body tensing as if it hurt to breathe. His words slurred and it made my heart race in fear as he clung to the edge of consciousness. "Not...not planning...on going...anywhere," he muttered weakly. "Not...leaving...you. Not yet"
“You must stay awake, dear boy,” Mycroft chimed in, releasing his hold. His tone carried no real authority, just concern for the people around him. He looked to his brother, who was still staring into the fire, rethinking and fixating on everything he’d done, making sure they were all the right decisions.
James managed a faint nod, his face taut with pain. He knew he had to fight off the urge to sleep, even as his body fought against him. "Trying...not to," he breathed, his eyes fluttering. "But...God...everything spinning"
I watched Jame’s eyes turn glassy before fluttering shut. "James? James!" I worried, trying to keep him awake. His eyes drooped shut, face leaning into my hand as his head went limp, brow relaxing as he lost consciousness
I flinched at the sight and let his hand go, moving to act. Whether I was going to shake him or slap him, I didn’t know. Sherlock quickly grabbed my shoulder, holding me back from either. He shook his head silently, his expression stern. "Let him rest. He needs it.”
“Sherlock is right,” Mycroft stated, folding his hands behind his back, maintaining his usual demeaner. “I will send for a real doctor,” he promised before taking his leave, but not before glancing over us one last time.
I paused and collected myself, noting his steady breathing. I sniffled and wiped the tears from my cheek, unknowingly smearing his blood across my face.
Sherlock watched silently as I struggled to compose myself, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. His brows furrowed as he watched the blood smear across my cheek, a stark reminder of the situation. He looked me up and down, there was blood on my cheek, hands, lap, dress, you name it.
"Here," he offered quietly, fetching a cloth from his coat and gently dabbing at my cheek to clean the smears away. "You're covered in more of his blood than he is."
I looked up at him before taking his cloth and wiping my cheek, harder than I needed to. I looked down at my hands and dress for the first time before turning quickly and running over to the water bowl, frantically trying to clean off the blood, the realization of the situation hitting me fully.
He understood that seeing the blood, James' blood, was difficult, to say the least. "Easy," he murmured, moving to stand beside me, his voice surprisingly gentle. "It's alright. Let me…let me help." He gently took the cloth from my trembling hands, carefully taking over the task of cleaning the blood off my hands.
I stilled, trying not to cry, but let him help. "Thank you" I mumbled out, feeling a small warmth in my chest at the aid from my best friend.
Sherlock nodded silently, focused on the task at hand. "Of course," he murmured, continuing to clean the bloodstains from my skin with gentle, practiced motions.
His eyes flickered upward, scanning over my face. I was grateful that he didn’t mention the tears, and for once, he didn't tease. Instead, he simply continued in his ministrations.
"For helping, too." I added. “I shouldn't have panicked so much," I cursed myself, thinking about the time it took before I started to apply pressure on the wound. My heart was heavy with guilt, it felt weighed down with tar. If my panic and hesitation costed James, his life… I don’t know what I would do with myself.
Sherlock paused, his gaze briefly shifting to check on James, who was still unconscious on the table nearby. "I would have panicked too. You handled yourself admirably. You may have saved his life."
I followed his gaze and ignored his words, "We should make him more comfortable," I insisted, taking my hands out of the water, moving abruptly to return to James' side.
Sherlock kept his grip on my hands and tugged me back to sit down by the water basin. "In a moment," he scolded. "You need to take care of yourself -"
"I didn't get shot-" I argued with a bitter tone in my voice before Sherlock interrupted, our usual rhythm of conversing.
"You are not breathing properly." He said firmly, eyes furrowing as he continued to scold me.
I took note of my erratic breaths, the very ones bringing a pain to my chest that I hadn't noticed until now. I held my breath for a moment to steady myself before gasping softly and catching my breath as it evened out. In all the chaos, I hadn't noticed the change or the pain it was causing in my lungs.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "See?" He noted smugly, to which I promptly rolled my eyes. He lifted my hands from the water and inspected them carefully. Once he was satisfied that there was no more blood, he let my hand fall to my lap and stood, towering over me. "You're still covered in blood," he reminded me sternly, his gaze flickering over my dirtied dress and trembling hands. "And you're shaking."
"Yes, thank you." I snapped, feeling insecure under his watchful eye.
"He’s stable for now," he continued, ignoring my bitter tone. "Let Mycroft and I handle him."
I stood up and straightened out my shoulders, trying to stand taller, ready to argue. "I am fine enough to help -"
His tone softened just slightly. "Go change. Wash up. You're no help to anyone if you're in shock."
"I'm not in shock," I argued, fighting a battle with my nerves to stop shaking but seeing James laying unconscious, my whole body wanted to seize up. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream, I wanted to double over and vomit. But more than anything, I wanted to go back in time and find him faster.
A hint of concern flitted across Sherlock’s eyes for a moment before his expression softened and he moved completely out of character. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to his chest. Despite the foreign behaviour, it was almost instinctive to hug him back and bury my face into his chest.
"Don't argue," he stated firmly, resting his chin on my head. "You're in no state to be tending to James right now. Let us handle it, dear-" he cut himself off, swallowing hard. It wouldn't have been the first time Sherlock accidentally called me his sister, but I chose to ignore the fact to not cause him any embarrassment. Instead, I nodded and loosened my grip around him.
Slowly, he let me go and I stepped back, keeping my gaze to the ground, determined to stop crying. "I'll be quick," I insisted.
Sherlock watched as I later returned, now in fresh clothes and looking marginally better. He gave a nod of approval, knowing I was stubborn enough to not be deterred.
Between the two of us, we managed to clean and patch James' wound while he wasn’t awake to feel it. We changed him from his bloodied clothes to a nightshirt and move him to a more comfortable bed. Every move made my hands twitch and ache after being crushed but I powered through, regardless.
Sherlock's gaze flickered between James and I, noting my discomfort without mentioning it out loud.
When we were finally done, I slumped into a chair beside the bed, catching my breath after the tormenting day. My eyes immediately glued themselves to James, trailing over his soft face. He looked like he was asleep, like he wasn’t in pain, like I hadn’t failed him today.
In my hypnosis, I hadn’t noticed Sherlock excusing himself, to shortly return, alerting me by a hand on my shoulder. I flinched and looked up to se him placing a bowl of snow and a cloth beside me. His gaze briefly flickering toward my hands, bruised lightly from James' earlier grip.
"You should take care of yourself too," he finally murmured, his tone gruff but not unkind. "No use in both of you being out of commission."
I smiled softly and took the bowl into my lap. “You should go rest" I said softly, icing my hands.
Sherlock hesitated, his gaze lingering on James, still unconscious but stable, before flicking back to you. "But don't think I won't notice if you neglect your own injuries in favour of hovering over him."
“I’m not hovering,” I defended but was promptly cut off.
“Right, and I suppose you won’t spend the night by his side?” He replied, rocking back on his heels.
“What are you implying, Sherlock?” My eyes narrowed, refusing to accept any teasing or analysis.
He shrugged innocently and turned on his heel, striding toward the door, “Nothing at all.” He paused just before exiting, glancing back one last time. "I’ll leave the two of you be.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone with James, the quiet settling over the room like a heavy blanket. The silence of the room was broken only by the soft sound of James' steady breathing and the occasional creak of the house settling. The hours passed slowly, but exhaustion eventually came. I set the bowl aside and rested my head in my arms on the side of the bed, my cheek pressed near James' still hand.
James slowly stirred awake, his blurry vision gradually clearing. The pain from his injury made it difficult to focus, but he was conscious enough to register a presence beside him. He turned his head weakly. The sight before him, slumped over the bed, head resting by his hand, pulled a weak smile to his lips. Despite the pain, he reached out…
I felt a soft touch brushing against my arm before softly brushing my nose. I twitched, nearly sneezing as I shook my head instinctively, sitting up abruptly. Sense only came to me when I heard a deep chuckle and looked up to see James, smiling like a tom cat.
"James" I breathed in relief, pulling my chair closer. "Are you alright? Can you breathe? How do you feel?" despite my rambling, my shoulders visibly relaxed as I saw him awake.
James chuckled weakly, the fondness in his expression was unmistakable. "Like I've been shot," he quipped dryly, though his voice lacked its usual vigour.
I almost flinched at his joke. "That's not funny" I breathed, trying to tell myself to say anything else.
James frowned, instantly regretting his attempt at humour. "You're right, darling, I'm sorry," he murmured, his tone genuine.
His gaze softened as he tried to read my face. His hand twitched again, reaching out for yours, a silent plea for reassurance.
I cleared my throat and stood, ignoring his hand that reached out. Instead, I turned to grab the bowl of water and gently pressed the cloth in before dabbing it gently along his forehead.
James closed his eyes as the cool cloth touched his forehead, a low sigh of relief falling from his lips. The gesture, so tender, so caring, made his heart ache with a mix of affection and guilt. Still, he couldn't help but tease again, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Using the opportunity to dote on me while I'm injured, darling?" he murmured, his tone light despite the underlying pain. "Careful, if someone sees they might think you actually like me"
"Don't try to charm your way out of this," I scolded, still gently caring for him, trying to maintain my anger.
He only smirked, unmoving as he watched my eyes, waiting patiently to catch their attention. "So, you think I'm charming?" He teased, voice hoarse and croaking through his accent.
I sent him a glare and set the bowl to the side. “I think you’re a thorn in my side,” I mumbled, the ground suddenly capturing my attention.
"Oh please,” he breathed, “you almost look cross with me." He spoke in a light-hearted tone, but his face carried concern.
"I am cross with you," I stated plainly, sitting back in my chair, crossing my arms. “You nearly- I had to- “I bit my cheek and looked away, not wanting to cry any more. Despite my words, I was deeply relieved to have him in a state to argue with again.
His expression softened and he tried to sit up slightly, stopping when I shot him a warning look. “You know, I have half a mind to be quite cross with you too,” He proposed, voice confident and studious.
“Me?” I spat, sitting up, taking his bait as usual. “What for?”
James had no interest in keeping his beaming smile subtle, enjoying any time he could rile me up. “I recall telling you to be safe, to run,” he recalled in a playfully scolding tone.
I scoffed, leaning my elbows in the side of his bed, resting my head in my hands. “You’re delusional if you think I would ever leave you in that state,” I mumbled.
“Oh? Really? Why pray tell, is that?” he inquired, relishing in his usual smugness.
I couldn’t find it in myself to reply in turn. I felt the lump in my throat, my eyes and nose stung and I stood quickly, turning my back to him. He reached out and winced as he caught my hand before I could step away.
He watched as I wiped my cheeks, the sight of distress paining him more than his injury. “Don’t- Please…” He pleaded, a tone I was unfamiliar with. “I know you’re mad but please- don’t go where I can’t follow.”
I sniffled and exhaled, stepping back to sit down again, letting him keep his hold on my hand. I hesitated to look at him again, knowing I looked a mess. When I finally did, he wasn’t looking at me but at my hands.
“Did I play a part in this?” he asked dimly, inspecting my bruised hands with a remorseful look blanketing his face.
“One can hardly blame you,” I reasoned, flexing my fingers his hands. “You were in a terrible amount of pain.”
“You made it so bearable,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to-“
“James, it’s okay,” I insisted, “a small price to pay for your comfort.”
He shook his head before looking up, locking eyes with me. I was never able to look away when he had me here. “I don’t ever want you to suffer, especially not for my benefit.” He spoke confidently, like he was disgusted by the concept.
I scoffed, “Then don’t go getting yourself shot!” I rushed, the words falling from my lips before I could stop them. “I don’t know what I would do with myself if you…”
“Hey- I’m still here, in one piece,” he assured, softly brushing his thumb along my hands, “Though admittedly this piece is a little more hole ridden than usual.”
I scrunched my nose, trying not to laugh at his poor attempt at a joke, turning away to hide the helpless smile. “You aren’t funny,” I mumbled, though you could hear the smile in my voice.
He tilted his head to follow my eyeline, laughing softly in victory, “ahhhh, that’s quite the stance to hold while you’re trying desperately not to laugh at me.”
I shook my head in denial, still looking away as a smile crept onto my face, “You’re impossible.”
He ‘tsked’ softly, “I only want to see you smile,” he defended. “After all, you saved my life, in quite the heroic fashion.”
I scoffed and turned back to him. “Hardly,” I bit my lip. “It was quite pathetic,” I breathed, recalling my earlier panicking.
“Believe me, I understand,” he coaxed, still holding my hands gently. “If the roles were reversed, I would be inconsolable. I’d be furious, terrified and yes- crying.”
“Well,” I smiled, mostly from exhaustion, “when I get shot, we can test that theory.”
“Oh no,” he shook his head, “Let’s not explore that. One bullet between the two of us is enough.”
“One is far too many,” I shuddered, keeping my eyes on the floor. “My heart could hardly take that.” I said so softly, it was barely heard.
“Love?” He ducked to catch my eyes, “Are you really okay?”
I smiled bitterly and took a deep breath before continuing. “My heart is still aching in my chest,” I confessed. “It hurt so badly-“
James’ expression softened and he swallowed hard, looking longingly and almost… hopeful? He brough my hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to my knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere. I swear.” He promised. “I have far too many plans with you,”
“What?” I sat up straighter, attention spotlighting him as he laughed at my abrupt reaction.
“C’mon,” he coaxed softly, gesturing for me to move closer. “C’mon. You look positively exhausted and your touch is practically a pain killer, darling.”
I stopped, frozen in my seat. “You want me to…?” I began, trailing off as he chuckled lowly and nodded. Slowly, I stood up but instead of laying down, I rounded the bed to sit by his uninjured side.
He noted my reluctance and added, still smiling his cocky smile, “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable-“
“You’re not-“I interrupted.
“You just seemed quite content,” he recalled, “curled up by my side earlier.”
I felt my face heat up. Between his words and commanding smile, I was weak to his charm, but I had endless fight when it came to James. “You should rest,” I encouraged, but made no movement to leave.
His eyes softened, adopting the yearning look once again that I’d only been introduced to today. “Please, love. I just want you closer.”
My breath hitched, hearing his words and I was halted, practically frozen to the floor as I took in the scene before me. I felt my knuckled tingle, over the space he kissed, and I knew I was going to give in. I nodded and watched his shoulders untense as I did.
Carefully, I slid under the blanket and cuddled into his side, resting my head on his chest where I could hear is heart. He wasted no time in wrapping his arm around my side and pulling me close to his side. I felt him exhale and his entire body relaxed at the touch.
Despite the unfamiliarity of the situation, I felt comfortable and couldn’t imagine myself anywhere else in this moment. “Don’t move, you could hurt yourself,” I warned before looking up at him. “Is this okay?”
I noticed just how close our faces were. I could practically count every subtle freckle on his face and strangely, the thought didn’t seem terribly unappealing.
“This is far more than okay,” he assured, breathing deeper by the second. “Just don’t let go,” he said, again in the pleading tone that turned my resolve to dust.
“James Moriarty, if you keep speaking like that, I might start to think you have feeling for me,” I hummed, feeling safe again in our dynamic of picking on the other whenever it entertained us.
I felt his chest rumble as he laughed. His arm pulled me in tighter “Oh, is that all I had to do?” he said softly, before adding. “And what if I did?” he inquired.
I scoffed a laugh, shutting my eyes as I layed against his chest, “I would be deeply annoyed that it took you getting shot to say something.”
There was a pause before he spoke again, quieter this time. “I had a plan,” he confessed and every nerve in my body stilled. “One that doesn’t involve gunshot wounds...”
He moved his other hand to rest under my chin, tilting it up until I was looking up at him. My breath hitched in my throat, making no move to stop him. I couldn't help but glance down at his lips as he spoke, deeper than his usual tone.
“Though I suppose this works just as well,” he concluded, lowering himself to press his lips to mine, soft and achingly tender. I gasped into his lips and kissed him deeper, bringing my hand to his cheek. A soft whimper escaped his lips as my hand pressed against his skin. The pain from his injury, faded into the background.
When he pulled away, not rushing a second, we both had to catch our breath. A smile broke onto my face, and I sat up more to kiss his cheek, then his nose and his other cheek, peppering kisses around his face until I was satisfied.
I sat back only for a moment to admire his smiling face, “You’re quite thorough,” he laughed, a blush now visible on his face, “Is it your intention to make me blush like a schoolboy?” he asked, laughing at himself.
I shrugged, keeping close, letting the smile sneak onto my face, “I’m only trying to soothe your pains,” I justified softly, biting my lip as I admired the pink glow on his cheeks.
His bashful smile softened as he watched me, taking in every detail of my face, “You’re far too good for me,” he whispered.
I shrugged and kissed behind his ear, “I think we’re just right”, I replied before peppering around his neck and jaw.
He couldn’t help but laugh softly, his shoulder rising reflectively to defend himself. “You’re a menace,” he growled playfully, wrapping an arm around me, drawing me closer. I settled into his side, relaxing for a moment as we caught our breath. He let out a content sigh. “Comfortable?” he asked, bringing a hand up to stroke my hairline.
“Very much,” I replied, sleep evident in my voice.
I felt him chuckle, deep in his chest, “you should rest, you’ve exhausted yourself doting on me.”
I look up, too tired to move my body, “and if I want to keep kissing you instead?”
James beamed at the idea, his smile nearly hurting his cheeks. He kissed my lips softly before pressing a kiss to my forehead. “There’ll be time for that once you’re rested,” he teased. “For now, rest.”
I yawned, nodding before tucking my face down into his chest, snuggling in subconsciously. “Will you wake me if you need anything?” I asked softly.
A fond smile tugged at Jame’s lips. He knew the concern was genuine and it warmed his heart every time he heard it. “Of course,” he assured. “If I need anything, I’ll wake you. But for now, please get some sleep.”
James has intended to stay awake and relish in the touch, but despite his best efforts, he was powerless. The exhaustion set in and the soothing soft snores, gentle touch and pleasant scents soon conspired against him, lulling him into peaceful slumber.
His arms tightened around me, even in his sleep, keeping me close. In the quiet darkness, his breaths evened out, matching the rhythm of my own as we found comfort in each other’s touch.
Sherlock (BBC) characters being on the receiving end of (physical) affection.
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Includes characters in order: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Moriarty, Molly, Irene.
warnings: none
contents: romantic?, fluff, gn! reader, (mild) implementation of my own headcanons, set in a time period where you are close with the characters already
A/N: Hello to all the still-existing Sherlock fans! (Incase y'all haven't been fully wiped out by the meteor) This is my first ever work revolving it and I'm glad to be able to have published. A little fretful about it, haha. But enjoy!
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SHERLOCK HOLMES
Our first individual is a peculiar one indeed!
Anything involving his curls would likely have him respond blankly, he won't voice out discomfort depending on the setting but he will ask you what you want from him (moment of confusion). Through this, You may learn that he neglects it on most occasions. You'll find that it's.. quite tangled. I mean, You can't solve cases while doing meticulous haircare rituals at the same time now can you?
Body parts such as his hands are a hit or miss, it really does vary on the circumstances and includes hugging, snuggling up to him, etc. For the most part, Sherlock voices dislike of touches because it displays him being vulnerable, implying that his guard is down. But catch him in a certain mood and you'll find him leaning into your affections.
His neck is an erogenous zone weakspot overall. Only touch it if you wish for a visceral reaction. (like a yelp) How fun!
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JOHN WATSON
For a former soldier who has served in a ruthless war, this guy is a sweetheart.
Oh? You want to hold his hand? Sure! You want to hug him? He will pull you in for the most loving bear hug you've ever had the fortune of experiencing. You're not the only one who has fun! He'll suprise you too either with quick cheek kisses or hand holding.
In short, John is down for anything so long as it's saved for appropiate situations and/or settings (Unlike Sherlock who struggles to read the room). If you want to go beyond just those actions, you might want to behave first until the two of you get home.
What? I'm talking about spooning and the like! Get your mind out of the gutter. >:(
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MYCROFT HOLMES
(I do not find enough gifs of this glorious man!)
Following in the footsteps of his brother, Mycroft is neutral. He doesn't reciprocrate. He watches you cling to him with a 'hmph' before making an attempt to brush you off (gently).
But.
Deep down.
He is internally screaming.
You don't take down the carefully-constructed, well-woven facade of his especially with just one hug. Or do you? Well, Mycroft has been lonely more than he likes to let on. The daily company of British government figures and work does little if not nothing to soothe. Even with his efforts of doing menial tasks at home, the yearning doesn't stop nagging from the back of his mind.
The hug did something to him so keep going. Maybe he'll budge and let you inches nearer than the distance you would always maintain. This even raises the possibility of holding hands with the great and stoic Mycroft Holmes.
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JIM MORIARTY
Oh now you're just being adorable! Grabbing at him like that... But just so you know, If it were anyone else then they would've been found (spare the gruesome details) out of this world.
Moriarty doesn't mind. Not at all. Seeing someone get so forward with him is a breath of fresh air from the meek, shrunken figures he's used to seeing.
He took that moment as his Go-sign, now he'll be trying to get you to sit in his lap every chance he can get. You're his extra boost of focus, right next to boredom and raging hatred. And in this close proximity, he can say to you his snarky remarks and puns about his targets. (And you have to like it)
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MOLLY HOOPER
(she's so cutee)
Molly can't believe it, atleast for herself. She can't recall the last time anyone has this been interested in her enough to perform such acts.
Needless to say, she's into it and is over the moon. She'll be returning your affections back to you in no time! She merely needed that little push into confidence.
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IRENE ADLER
This woman here knows all about touching, alright.
The problem being, she's not used to genuine relationships outside the bedroom. So gentle caresses and cheek kisses ironically fluster her to an extent. But she'll catch up, as she learns quickly.
So, she does a bit of toying; Irene would wear a new color of lipstick everyday, and everytime, she leaves a kiss mark on different parts of your body. Good luck trying to get rid of the ones on more visible areas, or don't. She may or may not give you another.
