Sherlock x reader
Title: I don't know (part 2)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, you
Warnings: none
Word Count: idk I'll add it in later soz
Sherlock jolted awaked, pushing himself off the couch with his arms, but still remained seated – too weak to get up. You finished tying your hair back/pushing it back, coat and scarf off; you were ready to tend to the poorly detective who was sweating off his shirt and frantically looking around. “Well, John visited. Checked up on you, he says it’s just the flu. Nothing a good day inside and a bowl of nice soup can’t fix.” You grinned. “But until then, you’re stuck with me. Sorry.” You chuckled. He intently stared at you. “Make-up done. Best jewellery on. Hair done. Nice dress. By any chance, did you have a date?” Sherlock frowned. “Well planned on having a date, lovely guy from the library. But then the case came up and I did not want to miss that! Ditched the poor fellow with an apology and a rushed kiss on the cheek.” You played with your fingers and looked away. “Liar.” “What?” “You played with your fingers, an unusual trait of yours that’s displayed only when you lie, you broke eye contact with me – natural tendencies of humans when they lie. And why ‘did not’ all of a sudden why not ‘didn’t’? You didn’t use the contraction form of did not, another common sign of lying.” He coughed. “So, the truth please. Why didn’t you go on that date?” “Smartass, if you can figure all that out, you should know why.” You crossed your arms, his face was blank. You exhaled, rubbing your temples, “you, Sherlock, you. I can’t just leave you like this.” You hinted at his not so good state and headed into the kitchen, ready to prepare some soup for the ungrateful bastard. Sherlock remained unmoving, unsure of the reason. Typically he would think until he reached a conclusion as to why he felt just a tinge of happiness but it was just so damn hot, he couldn’t focus. He lugged to the windows and pushed it open, sighing at the cool breeze that danced around his sweat slick skin, the sun was hiding away; emitting colours of beauty and warmth as it gradually sunk from the skyline. The colours mingled with each other so naturally in shades of azure, honey and deep yellow, the scene soft on the eyes and gentle to the heart. He rested his body on the side of the wall, still looking at the beautiful sight in front of him. “Sherlock? What’s up?” You chimed your voice soft and mellow, in hopes of not alarming him. You stepped closer to him, mimicking his actions and leaning on the wall, but facing him. He turned his head to look at you; he took in the beautiful sight in front of him. A bead of sweat trickled down his sharp check bones and down to his neck prominent neck, you grabbed a towel nearby and wiped his face and neck. His dishevelled curly hair lay flat on his head, he was breathing more heavily than usual, his shirt practically clinging onto every crease of his thin yet muscular body. “Hot in here, isn’t it?” He sulked. A frown was etched into your face, “take your shirt off,” you demanded bluntly. “Why exactly?” “Bloody hell Sherlock, you’re complaining that it’s hot while your sweating like you’ve ran a marathon, and that high fever isn’t exactly helping you and… pit stains.” He remained stoic as he started to open his buttons. His hands moved like a drunken snail, unexpectedly and rather slowly. You huffed in annoyance and pushed his hands away, quickly working away at the buttons and then slipping it off his warm body. “Here.” You handed him the towel and placed the shirt down. “You can wipe yourself clean right. Okay.” You shoved the cloth in his hands without a response and rushed to the kitchen. Sherlock stood there frozen, again experiencing these odd emotions and sensations. To him, every accidently touch of your hands and his chest seemed to leave his heart clenching and stomach moving. To him, ever button hastily undone was the pace of his racing heart. To him, every breath you took was every breath you took from him, leaving him breathless. He traced the path of your hands with the towel, imagining it was you who was delicately patting his rising and falling chest. He caught himself getting lost in these emotions and feelings - and it scared him, these things don’t happen to Sherlock Holmes, that was his theory and it was wrong. He hated being wrong. He threw the towel on the chair, muttering profanities under his breath as he stomped away to his bedroom, locking it behind him. “Sherlock? Oi?” You stopped your actions and instantly pursued his direction sensing something was wrong, halting at the locked door, you knocked softly. “What’s wrong?” No reply. “Come on, Sherlock, tell me.” No response. “Please?” Nothing. You sighed and slumped down on his chair, inhaling that comforting scent of his, closing your eyes. “Please.” You whispered.