Undiscovered Love
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x reader
Summary: When Sherlock realizes he loves you.
Warnings: no use of y/n yearning, assault, handsy guy, horrible use of French (ignore me), let me know if I missed any.
Word Count: 3.3k
a/n: (at the end)
(Series masterlist)
Sherlock's love is loud and absurdly obvious to everyone but himself. Unlike James, Sherlock's love creeps up on him; he'd never even know it was there unless something forces him to. It's like watching the sun rise and only realizing the stars were there once they’re gone. Even with deducing skills as practically unmatched as his, he seems to miss all the signs laid out before him. And maybe it's because he loves in a way so uniquely him that it sometimes passes right over his head. He simply doesn't pick up on how he subconsciously memorizes your entire schedule and adapts his life to revolve around you, or how he finds a way to bring you up in every conversation he has. He can't seem to realize that all of his actions point to a man in love.
What makes Sherlock's love so unique is that anybody, everybody could tell him he had fallen in deep, and he would simply call the notion absurd and press on as if nothing had been mentioned. And love, for Sherlock, isn't something that can be forced.His love for his mother and brother was something that came as simple as breathing, even if the love itself was anything but. Yet if he tries to love someone, it never works. In the past, he's tried to form that connection, but he always gets lost in the 'what am I supposed to be feeling?' So every interaction came with mind-boggling exhaustion and confusion. By the end of each of those occurrences, he was ready to give up on the prospect of love altogether.
"Where is James?" Your voice rings like church bells in Sherlock's ears. He turns with an expectant smile on his face. His straight posture somehow gets even sharper as his body comes to face you fully.
"In his dormitory, I assume, or some place similar," Sherlock says easily as though it should be obvious to everyone.
"Why? Was he not meeting us here too?" You glance around, almost trying to will him into existence. There is no sign of him, but still the flicker of hope to just peek a glance at his obnoxious grin is shrinking into a breath of smoke.
"Yes, he was. But his obligations to his academic endeavors took priority today." Sherlock answers, brushing the fabric draped over his shoulder straight. "He has an exam in two days that he's studying for."
"Oh, I see." There is no way to hide the disappointment that befalls your expression. Sherlock picks up on it too, and it sends a flaring pulse of annoyance to his temples. He is quick to change the subject away from James, back towards himself and the day he has planned.
"Well, on another note," Sherlock steers your attention toward the carriage awaiting you both at the end of the cobblestone street. "We have much to do, and no time to spare dwelling on James' whereabouts."
"I suppose you're right." You deflate slightly, letting Sherlock lead you away from Oxford's tall, impressively intimidating buildings.
"I'm most always right," Sherlock states, taking the lead toward the brougham. It is nicer than those he usually frequents. But then Sherlock only travels by horse and carriage when with family.
"Sure you are." You mutter, folding your arms over your chest and trudging after him. The roll of your eyes is not lost on Sherlock, but he pays it no mind as he continues to the end of the street.
Sherlock makes it to the brougham before you do, and he's quick to climb the step to open the door for you. You wonder if his oddly posh manners come from a true place of respect or possibly his upbringing. Though there's no way to tell if both factors have led you to this moment, Sherlock standing above you, hand out to offer help you up, and a warm look passing over his face as you take his hand and he pulls you inside.
You flatten your overskirt while Sherlock climbs in after you. He takes the seat next to you with a soft grunt before leaning out the window and calling to the driver the destination.
"Where are we going? What did you say?" You lean over him as if, when you get closer to the window, someone might say it again so you can hear. Sherlock leans back with a humorous huff as you lean before him.
"Into town. A new book shop has opened, and I think we'd both find it rather interesting to browse."
"Perchance is this bookstore we are headed for the same bookstore that is rumored to be running an underground brothel?"
“What? No.” Sherlock doesn't need to scoff for you to understand that he wants you to think he believes the notion to be ridiculous.
“And what business does Sherlock Holmes have in a brothel?” You push on anyway, slyly smiling at him from your spot next to him.
“None." He rolls back his shoulders and readjusts his cap. "Aside from a rather inciting missing persons case.”
"Ahh, I see." You laugh and roll your eyes.
The store smells of old paper and deep oak with fleeting hints of lavender from the open door at the back of the shop. The bell atop the door rings as Sherlock pushes it open for you. Immediately, your eyes are pulled toward the rolling ladder against the far left wall and the beautifully bound books behind it.
Sherlock nods at you to take a closer look as he goes to speak with the man behind the counter on the right wall. The man can't be bothered to look up as Sherlock approaches, much more interested in something resting in his lap. The man can't be older than forty and no younger than thirty. The first thing that catches Sherlock's attention is the wrinkles in the haggard waistcoat and his mustache, far too showy, it's become ineffectual and lost the power that one like Sherlock's brother Mycroft holds.
"Good morning, Sir." Sherlock greets, one of his hands coming up to rest along the wooden countertop. The man still doesn't look up, and now Sherlock can see why. In his lap sits a book marked up like a married woman the morning after her husband leaves town for the weekend. Sherlock clears his throat. But still no response.
Meanwhile, your fingers trace the spines of the books. Some are clearly old, others vibrantly unheard of. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Madame Bovary, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Don Quixote, The Odyssey, Inferno, and an outrageous amount of other selections pull your eyes every which way. But your attention catches as your gaze brushes past a deep green leather binding, horizontal notches along the spine, and gold print reading Hamlet.
Before you can stop yourself, you let out an audible noise of thrill. Sherlock turns abruptly, and with his gaze, the man behind the counters follows. Sherlock feels the shift behind him, and his head whips around. Irritation growing between his eyes, Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but the man beats him to it.
"Hello, Madame. Do you need any assistance?" His voice is deep and smooth like caramel and chocolate perfectly melted together. His accent was an odd blend of French and English, one that flows past your ear gracefully and sends odd, unwelcome sensations through you.
“Oh, sorry.” Your voice comes out meek, and you unintentionally bump the shelf behind you with surprise at your tone. "I um—" You clear your throat and straighten yourself out in the blink of an eye. "I'm fine, thank you."
The book on his lap is snapped closed as though two seconds ago it wasn't completely captivating him. Sherlock feels a rush of distaste rise up his throat as the man steps out from behind the counter.
"Well then, sir, if you please. I have some questions about—" The man discards Sherlock without even the faintest glance of his eye or attention and approaches you with a practiced air of faux benevolence. The sudden unease Sherlock was no doubt expressing physically, if the troubled glance you shoot his way is any indication, begins to also affect his vocal cords. They seem to be temporarily frozen in sheer bewilderment.
"Are you sure you're alright?" He smiles, and it seems to grace his face as easily as James' smirks do his. But there is something about this man that flares your nervous system. "The book did not bite you, did it?"
"I—no—" You look down at the book before moving to quickly put it back on the shelf where you found it.
"I promise they are not snappy with our usual customers." The man moves to stand just in front of you. Not close enough that the proximity, if you were to call it out, would cause a social scandal, but not far enough that the musk of him isn't invading your senses. Sherlock takes a step forward, even if his voice is failing him, his body knows what it can do; James didn't teach him to fight for nothing.
"But then again, you are not the usual customer. We are rarely graced with ladies quite so magnifique as you, madame." The heat that floods your face startles you. You've never had someone you are so unacquainted with speak to you so plainly.
Before you can think to respond, he steps closer. If you were in your right mind, you would have said something, but the debonair he possesses catches you far too off guard. His hand reaches out to yours, and you can feel the heat of it burning through the fabric of your skirts and brushing against your groin with too much pressure for it to be a mistake. You inhale sharply as it happens, but the moment is over before you can move to speak.
Sherlock catches it and instantly reaches out for the man's wrist. The air stills in the shop as Sherlock's takes a step between you two. Sherlock’s hand makes contact with the man's clothed wrist. In an instant, the man drops his hold on you, and you take a step back.
"Please refrain from touching her again, Sir." Sherlock's tone leaves no room for agreement. The man's eyes flash with both annoyance and unease before he snatches his hand back towards his body.
There is an uncomfortable beat as Sherlock stands defensively in front of you. The meaning behind the croaking sound of you clearing your throat does not go over Sherlock's head. In fact, the sound tied with your anxious posture makes his eyes twitch with anger.
In an instant, the man's demeanor shifts. A smile plasters once again over his face as he takes on his charming disposition as if nothing had happened. But the twitch in his finger as he bows gives away his own uneasiness. He doesn't want to stir up any trouble that might get him into something he can not get himself out of. And he clearly underestimated Sherlock's willingness to defend you.
"Louis de la Rivière, at your pleasure and service." He bows before you, trying to take back an ounce of respectfulness he previously had that he is able to. But it does not ease you or Sherlock at all. "And, your name, Miss?" Your name falls from your lips almost involuntarily, purely out of courtesy.
"Well, if you need any assistance at all, Miss Willborn, I'm more than happy to oblige." Louis is all smiles as he rises from his bent position, but his voice is laced with undertones of annoyance.
"I'm in no need of any help. Thank you, Mr Rivière." You speak in the most definitive tone you can muster. You can tell that it sets Louis' temper off even more. His charm is something that plain as day seldom fails him. He just lowers his head slightly and glances at Sherlock, whose still unmoving gaze is burning holes into the man's skull.
Louis cautiously steps back from the pair of you, attempting to make the retreat behind the safety of the counter as nonchalantly as he possibly can. His footsteps are dull thuds against the carpeted floor, but they seem to be the only sound you can focus on.
It is not a second later after Louis sits in his chair with the same book open behind the counter that Sherlock is guiding you towards the exit of the shop. His touch is like a breath of relief. And without a thought, you let him walk you out of the shop and down the street out of sight from the peering windows of the book shop.
"Are you alright?" His voice is gentle, cautious. His hand is propped in mid-air. His fingers are itching to brush your arm, comfort you in the way he knows only touch can, but his mind is willing him to mind your boundaries, mind your sensitivities as you mind his.
After a moment, you nod, reorienting yourself. Sherlock, still unsure of your truthfulness, keeps his focus on you. Your hand, shaking slightly with adrenaline, reaches out toward Sherlock to steady yourself. Your hand meets his forearm, and Sherlock adjusts to your weight without a word. His breath catches slightly as he watches you calm yourself.
"I'm fine." You mutter out, eyes fluttering closed as you take steady inhales. "That was just—uncomfortable." He nods, his eyes now wandering to the street, busy with pedestrians and students alike, bustling with carriages and horse-drawn wagons all rushing off someplace far and important.
"Oh—Sherlock the underground brothel. I'm sorry—"
"No, that doesn't matter. But you do." Sherlock feels an undeniable pit of worry growing in his gut.
"I shouldn't have brought you along with me." Sherlock's voice comes out quiet, but you catch it. You also catch the crease between his brow and the angry tint in his eye.
"Stop. None of that." You huff out, shaking your head profusely.
"If I had just not listened to my own mind—ooh, how it loves to have ideas, ones that are often so very counterintuitive of what I wish to achieve—none of this would have happened," Sherlock begins to rant. It is only then that Sherlock meets your eyes to argue against his favor. "If James were here, he wouldn't have let that happen—"
"Well, James is busy, remember?" You point out, breaking him out of his own head. "In no situation is that your fault."
"No. No—no. You don't understand. I—" He stumbles over his own words. "James is not busy. He could have been here if I hadn't deliberately neglected to tell him I invited you out today." His tone starts off strong, blazing like a wildfire, but by the time he reaches the last word, it's nothing more than a small flame of passion. You lose his eyes as he grits his teeth and turns his head away.
"You—didn't tell him?" Your brain has yet to reach any point past confusion. Your hand releases its hold on his arm as you try to understand. You can't emotionally wrap your head around it until you intellectually wrap your head around it.
"I thought, childishly, that I could get away with spending the day alone with you." He speaks it as if he were in confession. The bowed head of shame and posture that screams regret.
You aren't sure if you should be angry or flattered. The three of you are infrequently away from each other when on outings. It's not typical for two to split off from the group. Rather, you all seem to do everything together with little complaint about it aside from the occasional snide banter. Though it is not so uncommon an occurrence because the number of them can be counted on one pair of hands.
What strikes you as unusual is Sherlock deliberately keeping information from James about both your whereabouts. It is a possibility that if he had told James, James would have intentionally come along anyway. Which that thought too strikes you as slightly odd. Nevertheless, Sherlock withheld knowledge from James for you. The same James who is one of yours and Sherlock's closest friends. And for that, you conclude that you're flattered, even if a little perplexed.
"Sherlock," You sigh, stepping closer to try and catch his eyes again.
"I never intended for this to happen. I only wanted—" He stops himself mid-sentence, eyes wide, staring off into the distance as though something has dawned on him. He takes a shaky breath in before he turns to face you completely.
"I only wished that you might enjoy yourself." It passes from his lips as his face twists into the concrete look of acceptance. Acceptance of what? You had no idea. But then again, how could you? How could you know that the flaring anger that arose in him, which was stamped out by crumbling guilt, had made way for tantalizing consciousness of his own psyche?
The daunting realization of his own feelings for you seemed almost impossible, but somehow, at the same time, unmistakably true. He hadn't noticed them before now, and that was the most astonishing. But now that his brain has latched onto these facts, the signs in front of him couldn't be clearer. He is in love. Deep, all-consuming, faithful, unforgiving, warm, breathtaking, love.
And it isn't the kind of love he recognizes by putting the pieces of his own subconscious actions together, but it's something he feels deep in his chest. A thudding behind his heart, a ripple beneath his skin at just the brush of your hand against his. No longer is his mind pestered by what love is socially expected to be. Instead, there is an overriding feeling of care and need to know you inside and out. A need to dissect your every thought and be able to read your mind before you've even made up your mind. His love is a gut-wrenching promise of devotion and steadfastness.
"I apologize." Sherlock consoles as mortified bile crawls up his throat. "Sincerely."
The brief pause of silence scares him more than anything. His fists clench as he prepares for the worst. Curses against his name, a fist to his face, or perhaps the wish to never see him again. Somehow, the ladder feels the most painful to think about.
"And I forgive you, Sherlock." You speak so softly to him that it sends cracks in his stone disposition of taking full responsibility. "I don't blame you for anything that's happened. I couldn't."
"But it is my fault. You don't have to pretend that it's not for my sake." Sherlock rebuts, almost upset that you are not angrier with him. "I can take it. I can take the blame."
"Sherlock." You take hold of his arm now, instantly grabbing all his attention. "If I don't blame you, then there is no one left to blame you, so logically speaking, it's not your fault. Only his."
Sherlock takes a moment to think about it. He knows that if he were to point out the holes in your argument, you'll only get irritable, but he also can't let himself get away without even a little scolding.
"And you can't blame yourself because I forbid it." You add, now moving to sling your arm through his.
"You can't—"
"I additionally forbid any more debate on the matter." You decide, beginning to trek down the cobblestone street, even further away from the book shop. Still a bit frazzled by the whole encounter, you lean against Sherlock, and he holds steady as you both walk.
You both know that it will have to be discussed later. The slight tremor in your walk was evidence enough for Sherlock to see through your feigned unbothered attitude. He tries to continue talking about it, but you cut in before he can and go on a ramble about the book you had found with green leather binding. The topic change really is more of a distraction for you both. But Sherlock can't find it in himself to linger on the subject any longer.
"As you wish," Sherlock replies, his heart fluttering slightly as his side brushes yours just slightly.
a/n: Thanks for reading! I promise im working on other stuff, this summer is just very busy and stressful so bear with me. And please feel free to send in requests!
