#sherlockfanfic

[raki-fallfallingfallenfall-2]

Idiots in love. Come follow me on Instagram for more johnlock : )

[eclectic-confusion]

Top Surgery - John x FtM!Reader

Hey y'all. I want to take a moment to say a huge THANK YOU to everyone who's interacted with this fic so far, especially over the unplanned hiatus it went through. My life's taken a couple of unexpected turns lately, but I'm happy to say that I'm now in a stable place both physically and mentally, so I'll be able to update more frequently! And I'm incredibly appreciative for all the kind words you guys have been sending my way <3 you're the best!

Also - I GOT MY FIRST REQUEST!!! JQNDJQOQNDHDOQNQLSPFJRB!!! I'm gonna continue writing Neighbors after this, but OH GOLLY GOSH AM I EXCITED!!!

I got this request on AO3 from the user xXFrankenHeartXx:

"You said that you take requests so. What about John taking care of the reader after they finally get a double mastectomy they've been saving up for. I can just imagine him being so gentle and the reader being so happy to see their chest for the first time after it's done."

Neighbors - Sherlock x FtM!Reader

AO3 and Wattpad links

Word Count: 1833

Chapter: 1/1

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Top Surgery

TW: surgery mention, transphobia mention, minor violence, injury, blood mention

~Reader POV~

John had been nothing but kind, caring, and supportive since you'd started dating almost three years ago, and your top surgery was no different. He'd stayed by your side through it all; the countless appointments, the financial struggle, all your worries and fear...he'd even told Sherlock he couldn't go on as many cases so he could stay home and help you recover (which resulted in Sherlock bringing as many cases home as he could, but you didn't mind; it was a nice distraction).

It'd been a month since your surgery, and today you'd finally be able to remove the compression wrap. You knew you'd have to re-wrap your chest in gauze afterwards, but the excitement of seeing your flat, male-sculpted chest for the first time was the only thing on your mind.

"Can we do it now? Pretty please?" You asked, giving John your very best puppy dog eyes.

"No, love. The doctor said we should remove everything in the evening so you can lay down afterwards, since you'll probably be in a bit of pain." John smiled sympathetically as he recited the same answer he'd been giving you all day. You sighed dramatically, your head rolling back against the pillows stacked behind you.

John had insisted you rest for most of the day, to save your energy for tonight. Your recovery had been going smoothly, but it was taking a lot longer than you'd expected to be able to move your arms normally again. You could handle small motions like grabbing a drink off the bedside table, or messing around on your phone; but extending your arms more than a few inches away from your body was almost impossible. The doctor said that after you took off the compression wrap you could start daily stretches to further your recovery, which was another reason you were so eager for tonight.

And John, being the loving and caring boyfriend he is, never made you feel like a burden, even though you constantly needed his help. Tonight he'd even gone so far as to build you a pillow throne on your shared bed, and rent a bunch of movies for you to watch together to celebrate.

"Would cuddling make the wait a little more bearable?" John asked, eyes shining as he grinned at you.

Cuddling hadn't been easy since the surgery; one wrong move or shift could send a bolt of pain through your body at any moment. Since snuggling was your favorite way to relax, going a whole month without it was absolute torture.

"You're lifting the cuddle ban?" You asked with wide, hopeful eyes. John chuckled,

"Yes, I'm lifting the cuddle ban."

"YES!" You cheered. "Snuggles!!!"

John scooted over and carefully positioned you in front of him, so your back was against his chest. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close, resting his head on your shoulder.

"Better?"

"Much, much better." You sighed, melting into John's touch, putting your arms over his. "I missed this so much."

"Me too, love." He whispered, burying his face in your neck. "Me too."

Being in John's arms made the rest of the world fade away, your focus drawn only to the man beside you.

The man who'd never once dead-named or misgendered you.

The man who'd fought those that disrespected you.

The man who loved you as wholeheartedly as you loved him.

As you relaxed, your mind drifted to the memory of the day you and John met...

The hustle and bustle of London nightlife echoed around you as you stood in front of The Yard Bar, a popular date destination for gay men. You hated bars, but since your friend, Shelley, had set up this date for you, you hadn't had much of a choice.

Shelley was a sweet, hardworking woman; you two had clicked almost instantly when you were put on the same team for a project at work. She'd been trying to set you up on a blind date for a while now, but you'd always been (understandably) reluctant. However, this time Shelley had sworn that if you went on this date, she'd never try and set you up for one again. You knew she'd stick to her word, so you agreed, eager to stop her never-ending texts about guys who'd be "Just perfect for you!".

"(Y/N)?" You jumped at the deep voice, whirling around to see a tall, burly man with short ginger hair and square glasses standing behind you. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm Ronald." He said, chuckling.

"I'm (Y/N). Oh, but I guess you already knew that..." You smiled awkwardly as a deep blush spread across your face. "It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you, too. I like your outfit."

"Oh, thanks!" You replied, your grin becoming more genuine. You'd chosen a pair of black jeans, black converse, and a long-sleeved black button-up shirt with an embroidered cat peeking out of the pocket.

"Yea, it's always nice to meet a woman who isn't afraid to dress the way she wants."

"I'm actually trans male, so I use he/him pronouns." The response rolled off your tongue with practiced ease; a result of the constant misgendering you endured since you were rather...well-endowed.

"Huh?" A look of confusion crossed Ronald's face before he let out a small huff. "Oh, you're serious about that? I thought Shelley was joking when she told me you were transgendered or whatever."

"She was most certainly not joking." You retorted, your tone taking a more serious edge. "I'm a man." Ronald continued laughing, your declaration falling on deaf ears. "Is that funny to you?"

"Hey now, chill girlie," He said, holding up a hand as he caught his breath. You felt your blood boiling as he spoke, "You were born a girl, weren't you? It's not like you can change DNA."

"My gender is not a joke. I. Am. A. Man." You seethed, ready to put this jackass in his place. "If this is how you treat people - women, men, or otherwise - then you don't deserve another second of my time." With that, you turned and started to storm away, but before you could go more than a few steps you felt a hand wrap around your wrist.

"Where do you think you're going, bitch?" Ronald asked, yanking hard on your arm; nearly making you fall. "This date isn't over yet."

"Let go!" You yelled, pushing and punching him with all your might. Ronald just tightened his grip on your wrist, making you wince.

Just as you were about to scream for help, someone's fist connected with Ronald's face, causing him to lose his hold on you and spin away, clutching his now-bleeding nose.

"That's no way to treat someone, let alone a date! Now fuck off!" The mystery savior said. Ronald scampered off without another word, like a dog with it's tail between it's legs.

You looked over and saw a well-built man with short, blonde hair and a brown bomber jacket rubbing his wrist idly as he watched your would-be date run for the hills.

"Are you alright?" He asked, turning to you.

"Oh, um, yea. Yea, I should be fine. Thank you for that." The man chuckled, shaking his head lightly.

"No problem. I'm John, by the way. John Watson." He said, extending his hand.

"I'm (Y/F/N)." You reached out and noticed that your wrist was bright red, and the adrenaline of the past few moments was being replaced with pain. "Oh gosh..."

"May I?" He asked, gesturing to your injury. "I'm a doctor."

"Oh, um...sure." John held your wrist gently, poking it here and there, eliciting small hisses of pain from you.

"Well, it's not broken or sprained, but you'll have a nasty bruise. I'd suggest keeping it iced as often as you can to help with the swelling."

"Thanks." You said with a soft smile. "I best go home and get some ice, then."

"Er, well, actually..." John started, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, um - I have ice at my flat. And we could order in?"

"Are you trying to sweep me off my feet, Mr. Hero?" You smirked, seeing John blush.

"Maybe."

You were so lost in thought that you didn't notice your phone beeping. John reached over, shutting off the alarm you'd set in anticipation for the night's events and pulling you from your trance as he started getting up, but your hand on his arm made him pause.

"(Y/N)? You okay?"

"Yea, just...I love you." You smiled softly. John returned your smile and leaned it, catching your lips in a tender kiss that made your heart skip a beat.

"I love you too." The two of you made your way to the bathroom, grinning like love-struck teenagers.

"Okay Dr. Watson, what do I need to do?" You asked, nudging John playfully. He rolled his eyes at you, grabbing a pair of scissors.

"I just need you to hold your arms up away from the bandages so I can cut them off without the risk of cutting you." You faced the mirror and stretched your arms up as far as you could without pain.

"Is this good enough?"

"Uh..." John trailed off, the look on his face answering your question.

"This is gonna hurt, isn't it?"

"Sorry love." You sighed, taking a moment to gather your courage.

"Alright. Can you help me?" John nodded, setting the scissors down and standing in front you, putting his hands under your arms.

"Deep breaths, love." Your breath stuttered a few times as John guided your arms up, but the pain was manageable. "Stay right there, I promise I'll be quick." You screwed your eyes shut, focusing on your breathing as a deep ache stirred in your chest and shoulders, causing tears to prick the corners of your eyes. After what felt like thousands of snips and cuts, the wrappings fell away from your body and you let your arms fall as well.

"Owwww..." You moaned, leaning on John for support. He held you close, rubbing a soothing hand across your back and whispering softly about how tough you were, and how well you handled everything.

"Do you wanna look in the mirror?" He asked after a moment. "We can lay down afterwards and I'll get us some ice cream." You giggled softly, nodding.

"Let's see the damage." You lifted your head as John moved to your side, his arm around your shoulders. A gasp escaped your lips as your eyes fell on your reflection. The skin was red and tender; a long, large scar revealing the path the scalpel had taken. But it was flat. Completely flat. You felt the tears return as you ran a hand carefully over your chest. "I...i-it's...wow..." You stuttered, at a loss for words. Glancing over to John's reflection you saw that he, too, was crying.

"You're as beautiful as ever, (Y/N)."

Taglist: @wilfordisdaddy

[hayloohooman]

Cure for Boredom (a Sherlock fanfiction)

Gregory Lestrade sat at his desk, head in his hands. He’d been on his feet all day and he finally had a chance to sit down. The past week had been intense. There had been more cases in the space of this one week than Lestrade usually had to deal with in a month. The cases themselves had been more or less straightforward. He hadn’t had to call in Sherlock Holmes yet. That was a whole other issue. Sooner or later, Sherlock would be showing up demanding a case, and Lestrade wasn’t sure he could deal with that right now. He loved Sherlock, but he could be a right pain in the backside sometimes.

Sure enough, Sherlock turned up about fifteen minutes into Lestrade’s break. He had his gloved hands in his coat pocket and looked at Lestrade with an expression of frustration. Lestrade just looked up at him from his chair, feet up on the desk, eating his sandwich and not even bothering to grace Sherlock’s presence with a hello. “Bored” Sherlock said simply. Lestrade nodded. “Good for you” Lestrade replied. “I’m not”. Sherlock grunted. “Any interesting cases?” Sherlock asked. “I wouldn’t say interesting. Many… many cases. Nothing that would suit you though” “I’m willing to take any case, any case at all. Otherwise I’m going to have to find an alternative source of stimulation”. Sherlock was obviously referring to his drug habits. “Don’t you dare” Lestrade replied sternly. “Find me something then!” Sherlock demanded, flopping down into a chair and fixing Lestrade with his gaze. Lestrade sighed, breathing deeply. “Sherlock… this is the first break I’ve had today. I’ve been on my feet for ten hours at least. Is there really not anything else you could do to entertain yourself? What’s John up to at the moment?” “He’s taken Rosie to playgroup” “Well surely you could go along with them?” “I did consider it. John said people would talk though” “Yeah, well… people do little else don’t they?”. Lestrade sighed again, wishing he could just fall asleep and get away from the pressures of the day. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t know what you want me to do. I can’t magic a case out of thin air. You can look through my paperwork if you like. I’ve got plenty of work that needs to be done, but it’s really not anything that you’d consider stimulating”. Sherlock flicked through Lestrade’s paperwork, tossing it aside, letting the paper drop to the floor, creating a mess. “Boring… boring… boring… what is wrong with criminals nowadays? They’re so predictable. It’s the same thing over and over again” “Makes my job easier” Lestrade muttered. He was starting to feel oddly unwell. He reckoned it was the stress. Too much work and not enough sleep. He could really, really do with a lie down. He looked at the mess on the floor and it made him feel worse. “Sherlock, I really don’t appreciate you coming in here and giving me more work to do. And now you’ve completely messed up my paperwork” Lestrade said weakly. Sherlock went to reply and then looked up, noticing Lestrade’s considerably paling complexion. He narrowed his eyes. “Are you feeling quite alright Graham?” Sherlock asked. “It’s Greg” Lestrade mumbled. “Greg. Are you feeling alright?” “No”. Sherlock dropped what he was doing and knelt in front of Lestrade, taking his wrist in his hand. “You’re pulse is slow, eyes unfocused, you’re sweating, you’re getting paler every second. I believe I’m right in saying you’re about to faint?” “Great deduction”. Sherlock wasted no time in assisting Lestrade onto the floor when he saw his eyes fluttering. “Greg?” Sherlock asked worriedly. Sherlock didn’t usually feel such emotions as worry, but Lestrade was his friend, though he wouldn’t be in a hurry to admit it. “Greg, can you hear me?”. Sherlock remembered how to do the recovery position from the times that he had seen John perform it. He checked for breathing and a pulse. Lestrade’s pulse was still slow, and his breathing was slightly gasping. Sherlock felt for a temperature and found a cold sweat on Lestrade’s forehead. “Lestrade, talk to me” Sherlock found himself pleading. He shook Lestrade and got no response. Sherlock got up and went to the door of Lestrade’s office. There was no one around but he still called for help. When no one responded, he hurried back to Lestrade’s side, kneeling and checking his breathing again. Lestrade shivered slightly and Sherlock squeezed his shoulder. “Greg? It’s Sherlock. You know? Your favourite high functioning sociopath? The amateur detective that’s always showing you and your colleagues up?”. Greg groaned weakly, coming round. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re alright” Sherlock said comfortingly, patting Lestrade’s shoulder awkwardly. “Sherlock?” Greg asked croakily. “I’m here”. “Water” Lestrade muttered and Sherlock grabbed the half empty bottle from Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade sipped at the water, Sherlock supporting him to sit up. “You haven’t been getting anywhere near enough sleep. You’re incredibly overworked, working overtime, it’s been a much busier week than you’re used to. This is your first break of the day” Sherlock said quietly. “Brilliant… brilliant deductions. I literally told you half of that” Lestrade said sarcastically. Sherlock huffed slightly. “I wasn’t deducing… All of that was obvious… I’m… apologising. I shouldn’t have put any more pressure on you. I’m sorry”. Lestrade stared at Sherlock. “It’s… it’s okay” “It’s not okay. You passed out. You need to go home. I’ll call a cab”. Lestrade nodded, not finding any strength to argue.  

Sherlock went with Lestrade in the taxi. Lestrade lived alone since his divorce from his wife and Sherlock was still concerned at how woozy Lestrade seemed. When they got in Lestrade flopped down on the sofa and Sherlock made him a cup of sugary tea. “This should help you feel a bit better” Sherlock said, handing Lestrade the tea and sitting down on the sofa beside him. “Thank you” Lestrade replied, surprised at how considerate Sherlock was being. “I really am sorry for my behaviour earlier” Sherlock said softly. Lestrade shrugged. “I’d rather have you bugging me at work than overdosing on cocaine” “Well. You certainly gave me a scare. That was enough to distract me from the boredom for a bit” Sherlock chuckled. “Don’t ever do that to me again though” he added, his tone serious. Lestrade smiled. “I think I should stay here with you tonight. Just to make sure you’re alright” Sherlock said. Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “It’s like you’ve had a complete personality transplant” Lestrade said, only half joking. Sherlock blushed. “Yes, well, like I said, you scared me”. Lestrade looked at Sherlock fondly and put his arm around him. “You’re a good man Sherlock Holmes”. Sherlock didn’t usually hug people, but he put his arms around Lestrade and rested his forehead on his shoulder. “Full of surprises today, aren’t you mate?” Lestrade laughed. Sherlock hummed in response. Lestrade gave Sherlock a squeeze and then they sat back on the sofa, drinking their tea and enjoying each other’s company.

[sherlockfansusa]

John Watson reflects on how he first met Sherlock, while the two ready for a Christmas break. Another beautiful tale by mydogwatson. Art by gorrybear at  https://gorrybear.deviantart.com --- Learn more at https://sherlockfansusa.net/2020/01/13/two-georgian-gentlemen-a-tale/ #sherlockfandom #sherlockfan #sherlockfanfiction #sherlockfanfic #sherlockart #sherlockstories #sherlockian #sherlockbbc #sherlockholmesbbc #johnwatsonbbc #victoriansherlock #johnlocked #johnlockforever #johnlockedit #johnlock https://www.instagram.com/p/B7gxlnZl88a/?igshid=1vkj0c4rt95iv

[hpswl-cumbercookie]

Shattered

"Mary was gone. The baby had been someone else’s, a stranger. John was finally coming home, and yet he was coming home changed."

In episode 86 of @threepatchpodcast they did a modified drunk canon about the Gay Pilot. At one point someone mentioned that John doesn’t have his RAMC mug in the pilot, instead he has a black one. It occurred to me, in keeping with the theme of the pilot taking a much darker route for John, that that black mug was just another little piece to signify that he is in a very bad place. He’s literally drinking darkness, there is no light. So then it occured to me that, what if, in a frustrated rage over the losses associated with his military service, and in this dark place, the he smashes the RAMC mug to bits. This is the result.

[kissing2cousins]

Lestat just wants Sherlock to admit he loves him...through benign torture. A funny comic for Vamplock: The Middle in Archive of our Own by kissing2cousins #vamplock #vamplockA03 #vamplockau #vampirecronicles #annericevampires #lestat #lestatdelioncourt #sherlock #sherlockbbc #sherlockholmes #bbcsherlockholmes #sherlocklestat #kissing2cousinsao3 #archiveofourown #ao3 #sherlockfanficau #sherlockfanfic #sherlockfanart https://www.instagram.com/p/BuEuosQAm13/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=12dt9d9wg4wsw

[kindsofpineapple]

I need more Sherlock on my page 😩 thinking about writing a smut or fluff later 🤔

[simplysherlockfanfic]

The study of a haunted mind: two

Read Part One here

A TAB period Spin-off of Connection  

(Connection)Reader x Sherlock

Word Count: 4481

Upon our departure, the fog had filled the streets but there was still no sign of the storms I had been waiting for. The only rumble came from the train and then our carriage. The fog had thickened the further we headed away from London, the cold seeped inside me causing the ache to grow substantially more inconvenient.

I was bothered by the cold, the fog, and the feeling that something was coming. An itch that maybe it wasn’t a storm but something worse. I stared out the window at the passing countryside or the shadows of it along the long winding lane of clay and tried to force the pain from my mind.

Victoria tapped my hand and produced a small vial from a hidden pocket in her trousers. “Sherlock gave me this. I think he was right. Again.”

I glanced at the vial before meeting her gaze, “just what is that?” I recalled their whispered conversation before the men took their leave, Sherlock sharing some of his thoughts from what he had gained from the letter he received. The look of her patient but concealed annoyance with him always amused me.  

“One of his concoctions. He said it has the same quality of pain relief from Laudanum or Morphine but it wouldn’t have the side effects that would slow you down, only dull the pain. I suspect he diluted whatever it is enough that you will still be clear headed. You can drink it.”

I lifted the small vial from her fingers. “Must I drink it all?”

She shrugged craning her neck to look out the small window, “I suppose you could take however much you’d like. Maybe test a bit and see how you feel, but quickly. We’re drawing near. I can see a farmhouse.”

I looked out her window and studied the large ancient structure with a long new addition that stretched out to the right giving it an L shape. The carriage jostled us and Victoria braced me against the seat before the back wheels hit the hole. I yanked the stopper from the vial and splashed about half of its contents on my tongue swallowing quickly.

Victoria’s brow hiked up but she only smirked and looked back toward the window.

By the time we stopped in front of the manor, my ache was gone. I stepped from the carriage without a single wince but still kept my cane in hand. No need to be pushing the bounds when I couldn’t be sure how long the relief would last.

We climbed the few stone stairs and I noticed a divot in which my cane struck. It rested in the O of a name carved in the last step, Hurlstone. A sense of familiarity swept through me.

“Hullo!” We were greeted at the door by Robert Ferguson, the man of the house. His sunken frame filled the doorway, once a great athlete, John had told me, but he was far from his prime today. “Mrs. Doyle, Mrs. Watson,” He stepped back and directed us inside, “I am so glad to see your journey was safe. Dreadful evening out there. I can not believe Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson allowed it but he was very adamant that you could help me.”

Victoria responded and I walked into a very large central room filled with such an amalgamation of the owners that called it home; from the original farmer to the latest addition to the household, the Peruvian lady we’d been asked to assist. I was drawn to the South American items that adorned the wall feeling once again something I couldn’t quite reach. I had seen similar weapons before but they had no American origin whatsoever, a few were Arabic and some Indian. Sherlock had studied them for cases years ago and yet they had strangely stuck in my mind.

Something flickered off one of the hanging utensils and the odor of decay filled the space. A horrid clicking resounded in my head and all I could see were gray walls and ceiling. A building pressure against my ankles, hips, and wrists and then more clicking. The vision hit so suddenly, my lungs ached for oxygen they no longer had.

“Oh, Daddy!” A child’s voice broke me from the trance and I sucked in a gasp as quietly as I could manage.

I shook the image from my mind and turned, breathing deeply with each item my gaze fell upon. A pale, flaxen haired boy, older than I imagined from the cry, had his arms wrapped around Ferguson’s neck as he enthusiastically greeted his father. It reminded me of William and Rosie, the way they latch onto us in greeting but this boy could be no younger than fourteen.

Ferguson introduced us to his son Jack and the boy looked at each of us with something akin to suspicion. His blue eyes sparked something within me, a memory, another feeling of a static charge and distant rumble.

“The famous detective has a partner?” A crooked grin stole over his face for the barest of moments and a gleam in his eye shook me.

I turned away, something about the boy chilled me and I walked over to the fire analyzing the stone work and the iron grate in front. I wondered if maybe Sherlock hadn’t tested the dosage he had given me and the drug was indeed playing tricks on my mind. My eye caught on sixteen hundred and seven chiseled in the middle slab about halfway up the back wall of the fireplace. A date that seemed wrong, another fact that felt out of place.

“I will call for the nurse to bring the baby and check on my wife for any change,” Ferguson remarked.

“If you could inform her that we would like to speak with her,” Victoria responded, her mind still secure in our purpose. She moved to the Peruvian woman’s collection on the wall, studying the weapons and other items, her fingers running over something like a dart or small arrowhead.

The boy hobbled over to the fireplace drawing up close to me and I took a step to the side. He kept his face turned away but it still nagged at me. The look in his eye, the cruel crook of his mouth, it was like a taunt of a past I couldn't yet touch.

He reached out toward the fire and I almost pulled him back before he flicked his wrist, throwing a handful of dust into the flames. The fire sparked and a brief puff of smoke spiraled up. The word ash came to mind and I tried to recall what Sherlock had spoken of it over the years. He would certainly be able to recall information from the look, the smell, the flame’s reaction and be able to identify it from those few clues.

“Jack, do you like your sibling?” Victoria asked but her voice was so very far away.

My head spun with Sherlock’s voice in a state I had only heard once, for God’s sake, control the pain. For William, for me. Stay, y/n, I beg of you. Stay.

The laughter echoed around the high vaulted chamber and a prickling began at the base of my skull. The temperature rose and yet the chill in my blood remained.

I closed my eyes to shake the memory that fought for control. Cold hands and hard eyes, the dark underground cavern flashed and the constant dipping echoed around me. Icy fingers wrapped around my neck, James so loved your neck.

I emerged, shaking the memory briskly, and fixed my eyes on Jack or what used to be Jack. He stood with his back, no longer curved but ramrod straight, to the fire. His childish clothes were gone, replaced with a fine suit. Dark slicked back hair in place of the fair, short cut.

He turned and I gasped, “Jay!”

That smile I couldn't place before complete with smoldering brown eyes. “Did you enjoy the game I left for you?”

“Impossible.” I stepped back glancing toward the stairs hoping no one else would approach. Someone was supposed to come, we were supposed to talk to someone, the reason we were here.

He pulled a small pistol from his suit jacket and pointed it at my chest, “this is the end, though I loathe it this way. Not really my style but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

A scream pierced the air and I was shoved to the side crashing to the ground before the blast of the pistol echoed in the chamber. I slammed into a wall then rolled to my back patting myself down searching for the hole, the blood, but then I saw her, lying not that far from me. “Mary.”

Mary was staring at me, her hand reaching for me.

“No!” I scrambled across the floor, “just hold on.” I searched her dress and found the warm stain growing on the front of her bodice.

“You’ll take… care of them… for me.”

I shook my head desperately trying to clear my vision. “No. No, you… you will. These bullets aren’t that…”

“We both know he didn’t bring bullets from this time.”

“What do you… Mary, you’re in shock.”

“You need to go, before he wakes. It won't be long now. Take care of them. Make sure they’re loved.”

“Mary!”

“Oh, Mary!” His mocking scream bounced off stone walls.

I whipped around and he stood there dominating the room in his perfectly pressed suit with that smirk I couldn't bear. “You’re dead! You’d never survive that fall. That cliff is far too steep.”

“Oh, love. We both know things are never as they seeeem.” He snaked that last word out, his smile sickening but the poison affecting his sight.

Poison. I trusted the intuition. He was blinking rapidly and his eyes roamed far too much.

Mary must have had the dart she had been studying still in her hand… No, not Mary. I turned and covered my mouth. Victoria lay sprawled on the ground, her eyes staring blankly at the far wall. I knelt down beside her and pulled her eyelids down. I thought of William and Rosamund, of Sherlock and John. Oh god, John.

I swallowed the pain, the shock, the panic, and pushed to my feet, my eyes never leaving James Moriarty. He was swaying and I only had one chance of getting past him. I bolted toward him lowering my shoulder and slammed into him with every ounce of pressure I had gained from the speed.

We tumbled to the ground with a resounding crack. He grabbed his head and I scrambled up to my feet once again ignoring my hip that throbbed with atrocious pain. I continued on with gritted teeth. I needed a weapon, something that would stop him, but I didn’t have the slightest idea of where to find one.

The first room I came upon, I dashed inside and closed the door. I turned and found rows of tables filled with pots, plants, and dirt. I was in a greenhouse. In trying to rush, I had locked myself in without a hope of a weapon. Could the poison have come from a plant? What exactly were they growing in here?

I moved along the rows of green plants with pops of different colors from leaves to petals. I found a small pair of shears and grabbed them.

“What are you going to do with those?”

I spun and grabbed my chest, “curse you! You gave me such a fright!”

Mary smiled, “did you really think I’d come here without precautions?” She opened her blouse and pulled out some sort of blood soaked padding. “Sorry, I couldn’t let them know it was all fake. Bullet proof vest with blood packets. One of our latest bits of testing but it worked like a charm. Mycroft will be delighted.”

I cleared my throat and tried regulating my breathing again. “The constable should be here by now.”

We turned at the loud crash behind us. James Moriarty’s face was pressed against the large window in the door. I didn’t recall it being there before but I had maneuvered through the various rows of plants, I could be turned around and that was simply a different entry. His eyes were fixed on us, his pupils so constricted they were mere black slits in a sea of white.

“He's gone mad,” Mary cried.

“He was always mad.”

“Well, the poison is only helping him on his way then.”

“But what of the baby and the parents?” I held the shears in front of me but knew they would stand no chance against his pistol.

“He only wants us. Well, you. It was only ever you and Sherlock. You must go.”

“But where? He's blocking the only exit.”

Mary turned and moved further into the room that proved longer than I originally judged. “This will do nicely.” She gripped the edge of a table and looked up, her eyes fixed upon a tilted panel of glass above us. “If we pull that rope free, maybe lift another table onto that one, you could climb out.”

“Are you insane?”

“No, but he is and if he gets in here, he will not stop until you are no longer breathing.” Her eyes were pinned to mine and she vibrated with determination.

“Fine.” We walked to a neighboring table and each took an end then lifted it over to the one below the open panel of glass. It took a good bit of strength, something I was very quickly running out of, but we finally placed it on top. Mary boosted me up and followed behind me.

She pulled a small pistol from her trousers and shot the bracket holding the rope against the ceiling rafter. It swung down and she grabbed it then held it out to me. “You need to make it out that window. We don’t have another choice.” I took the rope and she knelt down then got on her hands as well, “step up then move as fast as you can.”

Another shot rang out along with shattering glass. I gripped the rope and stepped on her back then ascended. My head spun with each scream of my wrist and ankles but I had to get out the window knowing our time to escape was far too quickly closing.

Sweat burned in my eyes but I finally reached the edge of the glass, the rigid frame dug into my gloved hands. I ignored it and pulled up thinking of William and Sherlock.

Control the pain!

I stood carefully, keeping my weight on the metal frame that held the panes of glass in place and worried that Moriarty would simply shoot through the glass and kill us both. Mary made quick work of the rope and rolled out the open window. She moved so easily along the roof until she reached the side. “Go on, you first.”

I leaned over and eyed the drain pipe she tilted her head toward. My heart was beating in my throat, my arms and legs screaming, but I had to get down and hope we could get the upper hand before Moriarty came round.

When I made it to the grass Mary’s voice followed me, “tell them I still love them.”

I called up to her, “Mary! Come on, let's not dawdle.” I glanced around then looked up. “What are you doing?”

As I stared at the top of the drain pipe waiting for her leg to come over the side, the air seemed to shimmer. A pale face appeared above me, dark hair and red lips, she eclipsed my vision. Don't worry. We women must stick together. Her warm lips pressed against mine.

“It may not have killed me but it did hurt quite a lot.”

I whipped around at my friend’s voice, “Victoria?” My head was spinning, my lips tingling. Something wasn't right.

“Yes?” She looked at me as if I’d gone mad.

“You…” I glanced inside the greenhouse then back up to the drain pipe feeling numb. “You were shot.” I realized I was touching my lips and needed no further convincing that I indeed had gone mad.

“Well, yes, I thought that was clear. These vests may stop the bullet from penetrating the skin but there's not much to stop the force that propels them.”

“But how..?” I stumbled and she rushed over to catch me.

“Alright, now. You must've gotten nicked. Damn poison, who the hell keeps that in their home?”

“I think…” My vision wavered and my stomach churned.

“It's okay, the constable is here. They're speaking with Jack. It's a miracle you got out, the boy was practically foaming at the mouth.”

“No, it's… it's Moriarty. He was…”

“Shh… shh, darling. It's okay.” She turned and shouted, “we need a doctor!”

“Mary…” My head, my tongue, everything was too heavy and my body ached far more than before. The fog around the house seemed to have lifted, but not the one in my head. “Get Mary.”

I awoke with sunlight in my eyes. I rolled over, my hip shrieking at the movement, and had to lay on my back to get my breath back. I could smell his aftershave and knew before I scanned the room that I was in our bed at Baker Street. But I was alone.

I got up gingerly and pulled on the housecoat Sherlock had presented to me only a year ago. I still preferred his old one but it had to be cleaned at times.

I walked into the kitchen wondering if Sherlock and John were successful in their endeavors before asking the same of mine. How much of what happened was real and how much was tainted by either the vial Sherlock had made for me or whatever had been thrown into the fire?

My body suddenly relaxed and yet turned on, an electric current that always lit up my senses whenever he was present. I never bothered to figure out whether it was my brain or body that recognized him first because it didn't matter.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair plucking at the strings of his violin with a splendid fire crackling beside him. He smiled, his eyes assessing and watching my every step toward him. He placed the violin down with care on the table next to him and proffered his hand.

I took it and he pulled me toward him, guiding me to sit on his lap. His left hand rested gently on my hip, “how are you feeling?”

“Confused. What did you put in that concoction?”

“It's a mixture of cannabis and acetylsalicylic acid.”

I fidgeted with the tie for my housecoat and his right hand brushed my cheek before touching my jaw and turning my gaze back to his. “Would you like to discuss the case?”

“Mine or yours?”

“The one that is causing you such distress.”

I stared into his keen gaze seeping concern and curiosity. I took his hand and traced the lines on his palm wondering how much Victoria told him, how much I had actually said aloud. “Mary was there. And Moriarty.” I glanced up at him but there was no judgment, nor the humor I half expected at such an impossible utterance. “One moment he was a fifteen-year-old boy but then he threw some kind of ash in the fire and changed before my eyes.”

“Ash? There are a few ashes when burned that cause hallucinogenic effects and with you already using…” he stared off ahead of us, no doubt viewing his catalog then shook his head. “Even if it was a hallucinogen, it was only a dream, my love.”

“But, I remember… the constable, even Victoria said they didn’t understand how I climbed up without help. Mary was there, she helped me lift the table, get the rope, and I climbed on her back. Without her, I wouldn't have gotten out. James… Jack would have reached me.”

“You are the one who always regales me with the power of the mind. Adrenaline you spoke of that caused a mother to lift unimaginable weight to save her child. You were saving three actually, well maybe four. I find Watson quite childish at times.”

“Moriarty shot Victoria but I saw Mary.”

“You simply saw the same... what did you call it, psychosis?” I nodded, “you saw the familiar pattern and the poison altered him just as it did Victoria. There was no pistol but his darts.”

I looked down at our hands again. “Right.”

His fingers brushed over the scar on the left side of my neck, “it's still not as bad as what my blood did to you. Maybe I shouldn't let you go off on these cases. Maybe I should lock you in here and never chance losing you again.” His fingers caressed my cheek moving slowly over to my lips, “selfish and horrible. Some say I'm very cold hearted, maybe I could do it. Bar you in my castle and never release you.”

I kissed his fingers as they lingered on my lips, “you are a man of many things but cold hearted is certainly not one of them.”

He stared at my lips then finally met my gaze, “things are never as they seem.”

“What?” I blinked with an icy hand of fear skittering down my spine.

“Are you okay?” His face swam into focus and I could see his eyes but I couldn't draw a breath, like something was sitting on my chest.

“Y/n! Open your eyes! Look at me!”

The entire room flickered becoming fuzzy and unfocused. I tried shaking my head but it didn't work or help. Sherlock’s hair once slicked back was now curly and loose, his four piece suit replaced by a black coat. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to focus on breathing.

“William!” I croaked as I opened my eyes to an empty sitting room. I was standing in front of the fireplace no longer warm but empty and cold. The room was dark with only dull gray light seeping through the end of the curtains.

“I told you things are not as they seem.” Moriarty stepped into the unnatural light and I noticed the subtle changes in the room.

“No! You're dead! You shot yourself!”

He grinned, “and just where do your ghosts lie, my love?” His laughter chilled me, “does it thrill you to know I live where your parents do? Where sweet, skilled Mary does?” Suddenly, he was in my face, his eyes dilated and insane. “I'm right where I wanted to be. With you forever. Sherlock too, the cherry on top. I've saturated every inch of your life.”

“We’ve got a pulse.”

His eyes sparkled, “they're going to take you back to a place where the ghosts don't get to save you.”

“No, but it's a place that's rid of you, you sonofabitch!” I clenched my fists at my side. Sherlock’s voice echoed, it was only a dream, my love. “And since this is my dream,” I closed my eyes and thought of the room where I took Shelly, imagined the windows then pictured the roof of St. Bart’s just outside.

When I opened my eyes, he was stumbling backward. “What is this?”

“Y/n! Breathe!” Sherlock’s voice was blaring, shaking the room I conjured from memory.

I smiled, “if you want to live on in here then you'll stay right where I want you. Where we beat you.” I turned, opened the door, and ran out as he screamed my name.

Another jolt to my chest and I choked on pure oxygen, blinking rapidly and groaning from the burning brightness.

“Dear god,” John released a sigh of relief.

“Deep breaths, that's it.”

My mind was too fuzzy, “William?” I whispered.

There was a pause and beeping at my side was like a pike axe to my skull.

“Will is fine. He and Rosie are with my parents.”

I tried to push up on my elbows but strong hands held me down, “it's best not to move right now, Mrs..?” The unfamiliar voice trailed off.

“Please don't call me madam.”

“We’re going to transport you to the hospital.”

I jerked, squeezing my eyes closed. Nightmares and pain burst in my head. Sherlock grabbed my hand, his fingers painting soothing strokes down my forearm, “just to check you over. Where does it hurt?”

I thought of the ache in my hip but it wasn't there. I was just stiff, drained, and foggy.

“The building's clear. How is she?”

“Victoria?” I peered toward the voice and she frowned. Her red hair pulled back, her black raid gear meant to discourage and intimidate rather than flatter her figure. I thought she looked amazing.

“Are you okay?”

Pain lanced through my head when I tried nodding. “Just my head. I feel heavy. Did you see her? Did you see Mary?”

Sherlock and John shared a glance. Sherlock’s voice was so soft I could barely make out what he was saying to them. “The... drug she used on me.”

“Did you ever figure out what it was?” John was agitated. I wanted with everything in me to soothe him.

“Your vial, mixture of cannabis and acetylsalicylic acid,” I mumbled but they all just stared at me.

“My vial?” Sherlock asked.

I stopped myself from nodding, “like Laudanum but no horrid side effects.”

“What?” John looked fairly panicked and I reviewed my wording searching for what would cause him worry.

Sherlock tilted his head as he eyed me, “Laudanum was a popular drug of choice, a pain reliever in the early eighteen hundreds but found to be very dangerous. Acetylsalicylic acid is…”

“I know what Aspirin is,” John snapped but it lacked any real punch.

“Nineteen hundred... and one,” I muttered but it felt wrong. I closed my eyes and Sherlock took my hand again.

“Things will clear up once the drugs are out of your system.”

The bed I was on began to move and my stomach clenched. I groaned, “I just want to go home.” Screw whoever was listening, I didn't care. “Husband, please take me home.”

There was whispering, some of it with harsh tones as I continued moving. Something thick and hot swelled in my throat, my heavy heartbeat kicked into an abnormal rhythm, and my nerves couldn’t seem to settle between the burn of fire and ice along my veins. That annoying beeping pierced my head and then his hand was on mine again, his fingers lacing us together.

“I’m here. I’m not letting you go.” The heat of his hand and the promise in his voice spread through me like a salve on a gaping wound. I supposed that’s what I was.

Mercifully, sleep pulled me under once again.

TBC