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#protective sherlock

musingsofmyown · 2 years

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Imagine this:

There's a string of murders and Sherlock is called on all of them because of the bizarre nature of them. They travel up to (insert place that's north of London b/c I'm not gonna pretend to be an expert on the UK) and get connected hotel rooms.

As they get evidence, the adjoining room (kitchenette and mini lounge area) becomes a sort of hub of operations. Though one day, they decide to take a much needed break (this is over the course of two weeks) and they went their separate ways, John stuck with Sherlock obviously.

Lestrade comes back to the hotel room and Sherlock gets furious with him for what seems to be no reason whatsoever.

John tries to stop him but Sherlock literally pushes John out of the way (just enough to create space, not push to the floor, that would be cruel) while he still has Lestrade pinned to the wall.

"No, I am not moving until Greg provides a sufficient explanation,"The name is dripping from his lips like venom,"Spill or I'm not continuing the case and you can kiss your reputation goodbye."

He used Lestrade's actual name, so he was being dead serious.

(more under the cut!!!! I promise this gets good, it really shows the Greg/john friendship I adore)

((It's also super long- whooopsie daisy))

"Sherlock I have no clue what the hell you're on about!" Greg has his hands gripping the detective's wrists, just in case he decides to strangle him.

"You smell like him."

John pauses, takes a silent noseful of the air around them. He catches it; it's a dark, rich, smell. Something you couldn't just pick up at the store,"Hold on, I recognise that-"

"Okay!" He slumps, Sherlock letting go of his lapels and standing back,"Okay, I went out to see your brother-"

"And?"

"And we- uh,"A bright blush becomes very prominent on Greg's face.

"You're dating my brother! Greg Lestrade you disgust me!" Sherlock seems absolutely scandalised.

John looks at Lestrade, clearly offended,"And you never told me? I'm your mate, Greg! We meet up almost every week for drinks and you haven't mentioned it once-"

"I was afraid you'd tell him!"

"I would've made a bet with you to see how long it took him to figure it out-" John starts to chuckle while Sherlock is literally frozen,"You alright Sherlo-"

"You... I can see..." His eyes flicker all over Greg's body, then made a gagging sound,"Oh god you- you had sex with him, oh god I need a shower."

John and Greg watch the dumbfounded man walk into his room.

"So, how long-"

"Two years-"

"Really?!"

They burst out into laughter

yada yada they talk for a while about the Holmes boys and this and that. Then Sherlock comes back out, dressed in his pyjamas and asks John to leave the room. The doctor eventually does when Sherlock promises not to murder Greg.

"I... apologise for my actions earlier,"he adjusts in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position despite every nerve in his body being on fire.

"It's alright kid."

"I just want to... tell you something about Mycroft,"He puts on a small half-grin,"I love him so very much, Lestrade. He and I used to be the best of friends when we were younger. Even now we have our good times. I worry about him.

"You are, probably, well aware that we Holmeses do not take care of ourselves, and frankly, I must commend you on your effect on my brother. He's looked healthier. He's happy. I have no choice but to thank you for pulling him out of that pit I had been trying for years to save him from.

"But I also will warn you,"The room turns dark, his gaze sharpening, cutting into Greg's very soul,"If you even think about breaking my brother's heart, or hurting him in any way. Your body will not be found. You will cease to exist, and any trace of your very essence will be obliterated and expunged from every record that has ever seen your name. Am I clear?"

omg I love this hehehehe

If there's anything similar or like, just the protective Sherlock trope with mystrade, please please tag meeeeeeeeee

#mystrade fanfic #mystrade fic idea #sherlock holmes #john watson #bbc sherlock #fic ideas #fanfiction #protective sherlock #greg and john are friends #aspens musings

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writingwife-83 · 2 years

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Ok so @mizjoely just posted a teaser and now that made me want to post one lol. Im working on this (I think) one shot for sherlolly based on this post and partly thanks to the nudge that @therealbucky05 gave me when seeing my reblog. 😉 I don’t have a title yet, but I can say it’s set in the Victorian era. Here’s what I have…

Sherlock strolled down the lane, whistling as he loosened his necktie. He promised himself for the hundredth time that one day soon he’d make his way to London and be done with the countryside and the quiet luncheons with his parents and the peaceful towns with not a thing for anyone to complain about besides how the vegetable garden was coming in or the exorbitant prices at the general store. Nothing out of the ordinary. In other words, boring.

As he rounded a corner in the lane, a figure caught his eye sitting on a rock by the pond.

Molly Hooper.

Sherlock almost turned on his heels and went another way. He and Molly may have grown up together, but they weren’t always on the best of terms. If he were honest, it was mostly because nobody else seemed to hold him accountable in the way that she did. It was rather infuriating. She always seemed unmoved by how much he was showing off or how impressed everyone else was at his brilliance. She refused to put up with the behavior that others had simply come to expect…and yet she was also maddeningly kind to him in the process.

Sometimes he found himself avoiding her because he preferred to forgo the possibility that she’d see right through him and dissect the thoughts and feelings he was doing a quite heroic job of ignoring. That included the nagging discomfort he’d begun to feel in her presence a few years before. They weren’t children anymore, and there was something about that which troubled him, though he couldn’t say exactly what.

There was a very particular reason why Sherlock stopped himself from taking another path on that sunny afternoon, and that was because in addition seeing her sitting there, he heard something.

Molly was crying.

Stay tuned for more hopefully soon! 👀

#sherlolly #fic teaser #victorian au #protective Sherlock #I have another WIP I need to work on #but this trope just hit me right #it’ll probably just be a one shot #but honestly who knows #I’m winging it lol

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chrispineisagoddess · 1 year

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[Johnlock]

Reassurance

By TheEmcee

One of my favorites cause.. it’s comforting despite insecure John :,)

Read here

#Johnlock #Johnlock Fanfiction #Fanfiction #Sherlock x John #Insecure John #Protective Sherlock

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tempestaurora · 1 year

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giving sherlock holmes a little sister is the best thing to happen to his character in the last century

#sorry bbc sherlock you did it wrong #give the man someone to love and protect but also let fly free #enola holmes #enola holmes 2 #sherlock holmes #talk

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wizardlyghost · 5 months

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so funny to me that moriarty paints an enormous and exquisite oil portrait of joan from memory, has joan's other nemesis murdered for daring to intrude on her territory, and joan has the audacity to tell sherlock "the difference between you and me is she's not in love with me". girl, there is no heterosexual explanation for what is happening here.

#joan: *defeats moriarty*#jaime: that's hot. *adds the third ever name to her 'under my protection' list*#sherlock holmes joan watson and jaime moriarty as an ot3 is a terrifying and fascinating prospect #if all three of them were to live in the same house they'd either kill each other or solve every murder in new york history in like a week #i do enjoy the idea tho. the three of them living in the brownstone with jaime's daughter and kitty (sherlock and watson's daughter)#happily and chaotically ever after #elementary

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strawberrywinter4 · 1 month

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Unleash

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Rated: Mature

Tags: BAMF John Watson, Protective John Watson, Doctor John Watson, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Dark Themes, Case Fic, Sherlock Holmes Whump, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Drugs, Drugging, John Watson to the Rescue, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, First Kiss, Kissing, Rough Kissing

Sherlock touches John’s arm briefly and John’s attention goes back to him instantly. His hand grips Sherlock’s form, bringing him impossibly closer. John presses their heads together, his voice coming to a whisper. “Everything will be okay, darling. I promise. Just hang in there for me. Stay awake.” Darling was on instinct. Really, it’s the only thing that grounds John. Sherlock’s anguished eyes meet John again, though it seems like he’s struggling to do just that.

Read here on ao3.

Tags: @a-victorian-girl @jolieblack @whatnext2020 @helloliriels @colourfulwatson @totallysilvergirl @ninasnakie @thegildedbee @whodwantmeasaflatmate @with-a-ghost-mr-holmes @sherlocknjohn221b @jawnn-watson @blogstandbygo @lisbeth-kk @holmesianlove @7-percent @itsonlytext @chinike @peanitbear @mary-johnlocked @bakerstreetbe @curlyjohnlock @keirgreeneyes @ceceliajupe @ghostofnuggetspast @dw91165 @demonboycrowley

(Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged or wouldn’t like to be tagged.)

Omg, I finally finished it! Thanks to all who encouraged me with BAMF John. It meant so much🥰

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a-freemaniac · 5 months

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Sherlock. John.

Sherlock and John.

Moodboards.

Happy Monday 💜

@a-victorian-girl @discordantwords @rey-jake-therapist @jobooksncoffee @consultjohnwatson @totallysilvergirl @elldotsee @lisbeth-kk @bewitched-bullet @gaylilsherlock @whatnext2020 @tinchensblog @inevitably-johnlocked

#bbc sherlock #johnlock #john watson #sherlock holmes #fandom #sherlock loves john #johnlovessherlock #moodboard #london #tea #takeout #friendship #friends #lovers #protective #221b baker street

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lilies-are-azules · 10 months

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Okay, I don't want to be that person, but I notice that a lot of people tend to use the fact that Louis is Liam's biological brother to remark on his importance and the reason why Liam would "trust him more than anyone".

And... I highly doubt Liam would make this difference with his brothers. Especially when the Manga (and LNs) constantly remind us that BOTH Albert and Louis are his brothers, and their bonds are stronger than blood.

Yes, he overprotected Louis and didn't want him to die with him (or even kill people), but he also did this with Albert at the end.

Remember that the "original" Moriarty plan, was meant to end with the three of them dying, but it changed because Liam is too good to let his brothers die with him.

In conclusion, let's try to use less the "because he is his biological brother" because it feels a little like biological>adoptive when that's not the case here.

#yuumori #yuukoku no moriarty #moriarty the patriot #louis james moriarty #william james moriarty #if you ask me i think Louis would do this difference #But thats because he is the only character with a positive biological relationship #(well Sherlock too but this is not about him)#also let's be honest even tho Liam loves Louis he didn't trust him everything #but not because he didn't trust in Louis but because he wanted to protect him #idk if you get it but its basically what the Baskerville arc explained #I was reading fics and i noticed this and i was a little ugh so i came to vent ahjsjsjs #i should be studying

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cupidford · 14 days

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Honeybee Heart by OffYourBird

Johnlock Love Letters #2338

At Sherlock’s funeral, John finds a note in his suit pocket that changes everything.

#johnlock #jl3 #johnlock-art #johnlockloveletters #<5k #Honeybee Heart #OffYOurBird #post trf #trf fix it #angst #healing #Happy Ending #asexual sherlock #romantic friendship #epistolary #protective John #grief/mourning #grieving John #queer platonic relationship

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rustys-lodge · 8 months

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His ward Pt 2 (choice 1)

Summary : After your little fight with Sherlock, you decide not to leave. Sherlock treats you right.

Warnings : Just floofers

A/N : A special thanks to @fatherlesschild2 for encouraging my ass to write these two. It's been a while ❤ @czheythebard @bunny24sstuff It's here again ahahah ❤

Part 1 Part 2(choice 1)

---

"If." Sherlock's voice filled the room again. "you do step out of that door, the consequences of that will be solely your responsibility to bear." The softness in his voice sent chills down your spine, as behind it hid a dark pitch that...You weren't sure you wanted to hear again.

With two fingers slightly curved around the door handle, your eyes darted from handle to Sherlock....You reconsidered....You removed your hand from the handle...And your lip started quivering against your will.

Your brother approached you, slowly, and stopping an arm away. An arm away because he brings it out, offering his hand for you to hold.

You hesitated for a moment, rethinking your decision. But you needed him just as much as he needed you.

As a wave of sleepiness hit you, you took it as a sign to take the help that's being offered to you. So you slowly reached for his hand. And before you even knew it, you were wrapped up in his arms.

"What are you doing, Sherlock." You protested, pushing your body away from him. But he didn't let go, didn't tighten his grip either. "Sherlock, let go of m-"

"I will find her, I promise you."

Why did he have to bring her up....

"Okay, let go o-"

"Y/n, just..." His voice low and shaky, Sherlock sounds unsure. Not unsure in a hesitant manner. It sounded like the emotional kind of uncertainty. Like he wanted to be there, he just....He just didn't know how to do that! And frankly, neither did you. And you'd praise him for trying but...But it was getting harder and harder to...move your muscles. Your whole body was slowly weighing down on you...As well as...As well as your eyes.

"Alright !" The man almost shouted, sudden enthusiasm flooding his voice. And as he pulled away, he dragged you over to the couch. "How about-" He gently pushed you down. "You sit and rest and I make us some tea."

"No" You contested, attempting to get up, causing him to push you down again. "Uh-I need to clean your mess of a hou-"

"No." Sherlock bent down to wrap your legs in his arm, turning you to lay you down completely on the couch.

Oh....Your back ached a bit before relief washed over. Feels nice... And sudden warmth...Sherlock set a blanket over you.

"When was the last time you washed this...It feels...Filthy." You opened your eyes only to find yourself staring into Sherlock's. Who happened to be leaning over you.

"You're filthy." He objected and you gasped, squinting your eyes at him.

"You're filthy !!" You isnulted him back.

"You look like hell."

"Your breath smells like hell."

"You...You-" Your brother huffed. "You know, I should punish right now for speaking to your older brother in this manner."

You scoffed.

"I have the right to do that, you know. You are my wa-"

You sigh. "Say I'm your ward again and I'll jump off of this bloody window."

Sherlock chuckled at your reaction, tipping his head downward.

"Alright, rest now."

You smiled back, nodding as you found sudden interest in the ceiling. You'd look elsewhere but your eyes felt heavy over your eyes...

Shifting into a more comfortable position, you decided to rest your eyes until Sherlock came back. Yeah...Staying wasn't to bad of an idea.

----

Aii, hope everyone likes this as much as i did. I found myself the scenes as well ahah. Yall enjoy. ❤❤❤🌹🌹🌹

#sherlock holmes #sherlock fandom #enola and sherlock #enola holmes #sherlock holmes x sister!reader #sherlock holmes fic #sherlock imagine #sister x brothers #protective brother #sister!reader #writing prompts #sherlock holmes x sister reader #henry cavil x y/n #henry cavil x reader

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gregorovitch-adler · 7 months

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Clock

John stifled a yawn with the back of his hand as he checked the time on the classroom clock. Half past twelve. Fifteen more minutes of this dreadful lecture till the afternoon break.

The topic going on in the class was not so hard, besides Year 13 meant you had to cover up most of the topics on your own, anyway. John could not bring himself to listen to the lecture today.

John looked around at the other students instead. To be honest, he was looking for one specific person in that room.

There he was. Sitting in the last row, but paying full attention - staring at the teacher like a hawk. John had been admiring this guy's looks - dense, black curls; sea-green eyes, and those sharp cheekbones - and his intelligence for quite some time.

The name was Sherlock Holmes.

John had not stopped thinking about that bloke ever since he'd guessed some other student's personal life correctly in an attempt to tell them off. Deduction, as he would rather call it.

He had been trying to get to know Sherlock in person and to talk to him properly - instead of just nodding in his direction as a greeting like he used to do, every morning.

John was not sure what he would even talk about. Sherlock seemed so closed off, heading straight to the library during the afternoon break every day. John did not want to make an arse of himself trying to talk to him.

He realised he was staring, so he looked away quickly and pretended to pay attention again.

After a few minutes, the bell rang, followed by the teacher muttering some words to the TA before leaving the class.

The class began to chatter, as everyone slowly made their way to leave.

Suddenly, someone across the room turned around to face Sherlock in the last row. "Hey, Holmes!"

Sherlock looked up from his book at that guy.

"Nobody gives a shit about your Tobacco ash list," he said, and his friends burst out laughing. "Seriously, quit blogging. Your website is embarrassing enough already." Another fit of laughter from his group.

John furrowed his brows and clenched his fist on his left side. Strange that he did not know much about Sherlock, but felt like standing up for him anyway.

"At least I don't have to juggle three girlfriends every single day."

A complete silence erupted among that friend group.

"What's he talking about?" asked a girl from the group to that arse. Probably one of the girlfriends.

He ignored her as he marched his way to the last row to approach Sherlock. "Say that again." The guy slammed his massive fists on the desk.

John turned around and went to that row too.

"I think he was loud and clear the first time," said John as he stood beside Sherlock, staring daggers at the other guy.

"Oh, so the fake genius has got himself a pet!" the bloke exclaimed and walked up close to John, practically towering over him.

John was waiting for one move from the side of that guy. Just one. This would all be over in a minute.

"I haven't," said Sherlock and walked close to the guy, invading his personal space. "Though I would think twice before doing anything I regret if I were you." His low voice had dropped even more to a dangerous tone. "Especially if I were sleeping with one of the teachers for a better score like you are, currently."

This made the guy back off. "You didn't - you can't possibly know that!"

"You didn't even bother changing your perfume," said Sherlock and brushed past that guy, his long legs taking him to the classroom door swiftly. He stopped short in the doorway and turned around to look at John with his eyebrows raised.

John quickly collected his things and left the room; ignoring the other guy and leaving him behind.

Sherlock and John walked out of the class, and John tried to suppress a smile.

"Where are we going?" John asked, trying to match Sherlock's pace.

"I am going to the library."

"I can join you."

"Why?"

"You can tell me about the Tobacco ash."

Sherlock stopped in the tracks to face John properly. John had slowed down as well.

Sherlock gave John an intense look as if trying to look into his soul.

John was physically unable to look away.

"In that case, I expect you to listen to every single thing I have to say. Try to react properly instead of just staring at me." The corner of his heart-shaped mouth quirked up.

John cleared his throat and nodded before looking away for a moment. "Let's go, shall we? We don't have much time."

"Come on, then," said Sherlock, and they began to walk again in the direction of the library.

Not sure why, but John felt as if his day had become at least a hundred times better.

***

Sherlock September Challenge.

Prompt Clock by @onesmallfamily

Tags: @helloliriels @topsyturvy-turtely @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @gaylilsherlock @missdeliadili @curlyjohnlock @lookingforlifeoutthere @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @peanitbear .

#johnlock #bbc sherlock #john watson #sherlock holmes #sherlock x john #sherlock holmes/john watson #30 days of sherlock september 2023 #prompt: clock #onesmallfamily #fluff #teen! lock au #secondary school au #ficlet #new ficlet #fic writing #sherlockian #sherlock headcanon #protective! john

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ten-cent-sleuth · 6 months

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A Galling Yoke, Part 12

<- Prev | Next ->

for the “Where did this come from?” square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 4.1k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen

Baker Street, despite the sun lowering towards the horizon, was awake and moving when you stepped foot on it. A chill breeze blew through you, pricking at your already numbed face. Almost there, you tried to reassure yourself, with as much success as you tried warming up by chafing your frozen hands against your frozen shoulders.

Even when you got to Sherlock’s building, however, reassurance was not at hand. You knocked, and his landlady graciously let you enter and stay by his door—apparently, he had given her a note weeks ago that anyone bearing your name was to be let into the building—but he was not at home. Still. Sitting on the landing outside his flat and folding into yourself was the most rest and comfort you’d experienced in… Well, you didn’t know how long. And it was warm. So very warm…

You were aware of how rudely you’d been awoken before you were aware that you’d dozed off.

“Your ladyship!” shouted a voice as the attached hand jostled you. “You must wake, now!”

You glared up at the blurry face before you. “Must I, ma’am?” You blinked a few times. “That is—sir… Sherlock?”

The crease in his brow collapsed, like dead weight plunging to the floor. “My lady,” he breathed. “You terrorised me. You were shivering, and your skin was ice cold—do you not know that you cannot sleep when you are too cold, lest you never—?” He broke off, but you nodded in understanding.

“I have been walking outside for hours.”

You had meant to comfort him by offering up an explanation for why you were so cold, but he only looked more alarmed. “Hours?” he said. “It has been snowing all—how—why—?”

Your eyes widened as you remembered exactly why. “Oh, Sherlock,” you exclaimed, lurching to your feet. “I have uncovered— That is, I have— Oh dear, I feel rather strange of a sudden…”

Blood rushing to your head, you stumbled a little and would have fallen down the staircase if Sherlock did not catch you and heft you back up.

“Forgive me,” you mumbled. Held close to his body heat, you felt drowsier than ever. “For this, and for the thing…the thing a few days ago…the things I said. Forgive me, Sherlock—Mr Holmes.”

“My lady…”

With a hum, you nuzzled into his chest. This already felt like forgiveness.

But then the soft support you were leaning against stiffened. “Your ladyship. Where did this come from?”

“Hmm? Ow!”

However gently, he had touched your scalp, and you realised suddenly that the area was stinging. Your hands flew up to prod at the tender skin as your memory rewound a bit and recalled your abductor striking you in the head hard enough to knock you out cold.

“Well, sir—”

“And these?” interrupted Sherlock, grabbing your wrists with one hand and turning them over to his sight. “Where did these burns come from? What has happened to you?”

Begrudgingly, you leaned away from him to get a better look at what had him so vexed. “Oh,” you mumbled: your palms were bright red and blistering. When had that happened? “Oh, right.”

“Who did this to you?” he growled.

“Ah, you see, the burns I actually gave myself—”

“What?”

“—but they were necessary! In all likelihood, I turned out much better than he.” You paused as your own words sunk in. You had left that man to die. What if he actually had?

But Sherlock interrupted such thoughts with a waspish, “He?” Shrewd eyes scanned you up and down, darkening with every statement that followed. “Your hair is an utter mess. Your dress is askew—your skirt is torn— Who is ‘he’?”

“I… I know not,” you admitted. “But I believe he is the hitman who was hired by—that is, who killed my husband. He was at Cable Street, summoned, I believe, by Mrs Kinley. And I was at Cable Street because…” Wait, should you explain the familial connection between the nurse and the hitman first? You pressed the back of your hand to your brow; your temples were starting to throb. “Forgive me, Mr Holmes. I am finding it rather difficult to think.”

Sherlock scowled at that but did not hesitate to move both of you to his door and to unlock it. “I shall get a fire going.” His fingers tightened around your arm where they had been heretofore guiding you gently forward, and you understood with a regretful cringe that he was thinking of—as you were—the last time you had been around the hearth in his flat. Still, a fire sounded divine.

He carefully lowered you into the seat nearest to the iron panel, and as you watched him start the fire, you felt your heart melt first. You had missed him. You had missed him terribly, and you couldn’t believe he would still speak to you—welcome you into his home, even. Unfortunately, little beyond your heart did much melting.

The cold had seeped through your clothes, leaving them damp and rigid, and into your skin, sinking down every layer to the bone marrow. You shivered as you watched the flames begin their dance.

And then a fluffy weight fell around your shoulders. You looked up and met Sherlock’s stormy gaze.

“I suspect you have caught a chill, my lady,” he said. “If the fire warms you not within the next few minutes, you shall require a hot bath.”

Your cheeks alone warmed a little at that.

“In any case,” he continued, “you ought to change out of those wet clothes, though it should not hurt to give you those few minutes to regain some strength.” He looked away, ostensibly to grab another blanket for your lap. “You may use that time to tell me what has occurred.”

Eyes lowered, you recounted your sudden realisation about Mrs Kinley, your visit to Miss Algar’s flat, your abduction, and your escape. You skipped over the details of your ordeal, partly because you were depleted of any energy to explain, partly because you didn’t want to voice them at all. Your audience seemed to know much was missing from your narration, but after a long look, he only gave you a nod instead of a barrage of questions.

“It was good of you to check in on them,” he murmured, brushing aside some hair stuck to your clammy forehead—absentmindedly, his gaze far away. “Even if Mrs Kinley is indeed family to the hitman, she may still be exploited—and endangered, along with Miss Algar—should she have been unaware all this time of his intentions. He may have merely told her to keep him apprised, without explaining his involvement, which would explain her chariness.”

You were halfway through a nod when a sneeze ripped through you.

Sherlock frowned. “We best get you out of those wet clothes and into bed. I ought to have some old articles of clothing somewhere for you to use.”

“Oh, that is not necessary, sir,” you stammered. “Simply hail a cab for me—I can pay, of course—and I shall return to Voss House—”

“No.”

“Mr Holmes, I cannot impose—”

“It shall not happen!”

You straightened in your seat, shoulders tensing. Sherlock groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

“I meant not to be…domineering,” he said. “But I would not want you in a hackney right now: it is dark and cold, you are ill and injured. Besides, am I not to assume that you came here…for a reason?”

He and you looked at each other for a long, open moment.

You let your shoulders drop. “You are correct, of course,” you said. “Only, I want not to be a burden while you visit with Mrs Kinley and…”

The shake of his head was so unyielding that you immediately fell silent.

“I shall not see her until Monday—or whenever you are well again.”

Your eyes widened. “But— But the case—”

“I care not for the case,” he said, quietly, intensely. “I have not worked on it for days, my lady, not since—” He pursed his lips for a beat. “Not exactly, at any rate. After my last few deductions, I made up my mind. I think there are certain crimes which the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private revenge. No, it’s no use arguing. My sympathies are with he who was moved to kill rather than with he who was killed, and I would not handle this case. I shall return to Cable Street to see to Miss Algar’s security, and that is all.”

You stared up at him, caught completely off guard.

He looked down to consider the floorboards. “Of course, we shall have to deal with the hitman somehow. I have very limited sympathy for him.” He looked up, regarding your burns for a second before meeting your eyes. “However, we may worry about that on the morrow. Are you able to stand, my lady?”

“I believe so.”

He helped you to his bedroom, which made your head numb and your extremities cold all over again—you had never been in a gentleman’s chambers before, not even Edmund’s—and as he turned to exit and search for dry clothing to lend, you grabbed his wrist.

He stopped in his tracks.

“I… I apologise.” You let go of him, and while his muscles relaxed, his eyes crinkled in reaction. Not knowing what that meant, you brushed it aside. “Would you please send Voss House a note? My staff should not be made to worry about me.”

“Of course.” He paused. “Of course, that would be necessary. I ought to have thought of that.”

You blinked, and he was gone before you could ask him about his abnormal behaviour.

He came back with the clothes and, permitting you to change in privacy, left to send off the note. Alone, you allowed yourself to bask in the feeling of wearing Sherlock’s sleepwear old, worn, and warm. Long after you had returned these to him, you would carry that feeling, you knew.

After blowing out the candle, you got into bed and pulled the covers close, but when Sherlock came in, he did not hesitate to tuck you in even more snugly.

“I…thank you,” you whispered into the dark. “You do much, sir, and I really do regret the burden I…”

“Shh,” he replied, and you wished you could see where he was. He sounded close, but the dark could distort perception into either nightmare or fantasy.

As he bustled about the room, ensuring the windows were shut firmly and starting another fire in this fireplace, you started to drift off. The last thing you were aware enough to be sure of was his whispering, “You are never a burden, little petal.”

Your slumber was deep and restorative for the first few hours but soon transitioned into fitfulness. Chills wracked your physical frame while fever dreams wreaked havoc on your mental one, and your only relief was the caring touch of Sherlock’s apt fingers. Whether it was wiping your sweat and hair out of uncomfortable nooks or coaxing you to sip some water with prods to your chin, his touch was your anchor. Sometimes, the back of his hand on your forehead was the only snatch of the tangible world that you could get past the blurred outlines of your ailing state.

At a certain point, the mental fog thickened: during the night—at least, you assumed, though that assumption was merely based on the fact you had been sleeping—you had jerked awake with a whimper, grasping at your leg. You had heard Sherlock’s voice, but your brain tuned it out in favour of blaring at you make it stop make it stop make it stop.

“Hurts,” you’d gasped between jabs of pain around, under, and out of your right knee. You were speaking to yourself, and to anyone who’d listen, and to anyone who wouldn’t. “Hurts s’much. Please, please…”

He had said something. You couldn’t make out the words, but the soothing undertones had lulled you into trusting silence long enough for him to creak across the floorboards and vanish out the door. You’d stumbled, dizzy, into half-consciousness by the time he returned.

“Petal. My dear, open those darling eyes for me, I know you can.”

Though you’d swatted at his prodding hands with irked mutters, you’d opened your eyes.

He had tipped his head at you, grinning. “Very good. I thank you, my lady. Now, I have retrieved something for your pain. Open up.”

“What is it? I do not like laudanum—it is vile,” you had tried to say, but your tongue had felt too heavy, your throat too sticky. Instead, you had shaken your head as vehemently as your vertigo would allow.

He had sat on the bed and rubbed your arm up and down. “Please, do not distress yourself, petal. You are in pain, and it may get worse.”

Shuddering, you had recalled the last time you’d had a bad flare-up. It had left you bedridden for over a day, and it hadn’t been as provoked as this one surely had.

“Do you trust me?” he had whispered.

You had trembled with fatigue, depleted by the simple tasks of keeping your eyelids up and keeping your head above the waves of agony crashing over you. You hadn’t had energy to spare for talking, but you had wanted the words out. “Unreservedly,” you’d croaked. “No matter what.”

His smile had been tender then, and you had opened your mouth to accept whatever medicine he had procured, pungently bitter laudanum or not. Arm around your shoulders, he had helped you sit up and swallow it down. But he hadn’t let go even after that. Usually, when your knee acted up and started affecting your whole body, anybody else’s touch—even presence in the room—felt too much, but right then, with the illness and anguish caused by your recent ordeal, you had felt entirely cosy and right curled up against Sherlock’s chest. Just this once.

“It shall take a few minutes to take effect,” he’d said softly, his warm breath skimming over your skin.

“Mhmm.”

“Until it does, I wished to… I needed to…to clarify a fact…”

You’d hummed, prompting.

“Your leg. This injury, this pain of yours… It is Sulyard’s doing? If not for him, you would not be suffering right now?”

You’d hesitated, then opted to at least give him, if not an expounding answer, a small nod. Surely Sherlock could piece—had pieced—together the details: an argument, a raging husband, a smack, a stumble, a trip, a fall down the stairs.

The full force of those details had resounded in Sherlock’s timbre as he’d growled, “It is almost a shame that he is already dead, for I would gladly skin him now—but only almost, as I cannot repine the betterment of the world in his absence.”

You had buried your smile in his chest. As the medicine—or whatever it was—had started to take effect, you had found the strength to tell him, “’M so glad you’ve returned t’me, Sherlock…” You didn’t catch his reply.

That was the only moment you could recall with any clarity. Though there were more instances of almost-consciousness—you might have even heard the murmur of conversation at some point—the next time you were lucid, you could tell from the stiffness in your back and the grime caked on your skin that at least a couple of days had passed. With a groan, you shifted around on the bed to take stock of your poor vessel for this mortal coil.

Craning your neck this way and that on your pillow, you noted your head was still stuffed heavy and throbbing dully, though no longer fuzzy. Tensing and testing the muscles in your feet, your calves, and your thighs, you could tell your legs were sore and likely would be for some time, but they weren’t so irate with you anymore. Lifting your arms to stretch them, you found them unwieldy but that was no surprise—

What was, however, were the cloths wrapped securely around your hands. You held one close to your face, wheezing, “What on Earth…?”

Your mouth snapped shut as a groan—this one not yours—and the creaking of wood sounded throughout the room. Achingly sitting up, you spotted Sherlock sleeping—and fast awakening—in a chair too small for his wide frame.

Gracious. Has he been here the whole time?

He blinked his eyes open, and you blurted out, “Forgive me, sir; I did not mean to disturb you.”

“I do wish you would stop the constant apologies.”

“Forgi—” You bit your lip. “Ah, that is… Good morning?”

Disgruntlement cleared the lingering sleepiness on his face. “I would argue that it is more of a miraculous one.”

It was your turn to blink slowly. You opened your mouth to apologise for whatever you had apparently done to cause his poor mood, but remembered his rebuke in time. He did not wait for you to come up with something else to say.

“Your condition deteriorated abruptly yesterday,” he informed you grimly. “Your fever broke just as abruptly in the night, so I suppose it was a simple matter of getting worse before getting better, but I cannot… I could not…” Heaving a deep exhale, he veered to his feet. “I demand to know, your ladyship, why you went to Cable Street without me.”

Again, you blinked. That’s what his heartfelt speech led to? “I… I had been caught up in the urgency, I suppose, but I also… At the time, that is, I also thought of it as my burden to bear.”

Your voice had shrunk as you went on, and Sherlock’s next words were just as quiet.

“This could have all been avoided if I had been with you.”

You swallowed. “Yes. It had been reckless to go alone. And you, specifically, I should not have kept out of the investigation, even if it would have been difficult to approach you about it after, well…after. It is no excuse.”

He neither agreed nor countered, stalking over to the fire to stoke it halfheartedly.

“Indeed, sir…,” you ventured, fiddling with the blanket, “I am surprised by the lengths to which you would go to care for me after all I have put you through, emotionally and professionally.”

“I am not,” he said, though he spoke more to the fireplace than to you. “I ought to be, surely. Surprise or confusion or censure—any of those would be natural in response to such illogical choices on my part. But no, what is natural to me in this instant—as natural as breathing, as blinking—is to want you to be safe and healthy, and more than that, to ensure that I see to it that you are safe and healthy.”

He still didn’t face you, but you couldn’t begrudge him his having his back to you, as that was the only way you could muster the courage to say—

“You are not angry, then, sir?”

His shoulders went rigid, then dropped. “After we last…parted ways, I realised you had known all along a potential motive for Sulyard’s death and never shared it. Of course, I was angry—furious, really.”

Your bottom lip wobbled. “Oh.”

“But then—” Slowly, he turned around and walked towards the bed. “Then, I realised you had not been actively undermining the case, not until that day. Which meant you had not known all along a potential motive, which meant it had not even occurred to you that the victim’s abusiveness would be a motive, which meant…”

Close enough to touch, now, Sherlock’s clouded gaze was as clear to you as his deductions were to him.

He sat down gingerly beside you. Which meant you hadn’t even thought your pain was that important.

You let out a shaky breath. Which meant you hadn’t even thought anyone would’ve cared enough to do something about it.

He cupped your cheek and caressed it with the pad of his thumb. Which meant you hadn’t even thought—

“I am sorry,” you choked out.

“My lady…”

“I am sorry I did not tell you about Edmund. Even if it were not the motive, it was pertinent to the case and I— I—”

“Do not be,” he said, his voice firm and grave even as he brushed aside your tears with utmost tenderness. “Do not be. You were right, darling. This is your life. Nobody—not even the closest companion, or the cleverest—is entitled to that.”

You leaned forward, dipping your head down. “You were right, too. Behind society’s and others’ expectations, I have hidden what is difficult to show—to share.” Mrs Rogers’s face flashed in your mind, and then Eudoria’s. “But I…I know not how to stop. I know not how to be the girl you knew, who could be free with her heart and let you in. Not anymore, I fear.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You need not. Indeed, in the past few days, I have realised that despite how I have changed and how you have changed—or due to it—you have not shut me out. I may have been wrong for forcing my way into your private information, but I stand by my belief that I know you. I do know things about you that matter; I was only mistaken in what, precisely, that means.”

Your own voice echoed in your head: You know naught what matters! Shame suffused your cheeks to recall the impetuous harshness with which you’d treated your oldest friend, but still… You could no longer blame him for not knowing you beyond his deductions—it was you who struggled with pushing him away, after all—but the fact remained that he didn’t know you beyond his deductions…right?

Using his thumb now to trace your jaw, he said, “To know you completely does not mean seeing what no one else can see. What you have endured is not who you are. To know you completely means seeing what no one else cares to see.

“I see your sweeping compassion in how you care for Pashbroke, Mrs Rogers, Enola, even Miss Algar. I see your quiet intelligence in how you manipulated your kidnapper so that you could escape, just as you controlled the conversation with Lady Brindon and Dr Crawford.

“I know your character, your values, your scent.”

You stopped breathing, his other hand clasping over yours as they trembled in your lap.

“I can envision how your hips and arms move when you walk, as clearly as I can envision how you would react in any given situation, as clearly as—”

“Sherlock.”

“As clearly as I can envision how at home the taste of you makes me feel.” His lips brushed against yours, tantalising your every sense, your very blood.

The contact was feather-light, a whisper of a kiss, yet it knocked your world completely off its axis. You were left spinning, dizzy, as he eased away.

“You are still the girl I knew,” he breathed into your space. “To know you completely is not a matter of deduction, but of devotion.”

Both of his hands moved to frame your face, leaving yours to tremble all the more freely now. As he drew you closer, your thoughts scrambled for justification. Surely now, surely if, surely with—?

But no. Now that you had gotten the hitman involved, there was only one way to end this without any more bloodshed: to close the case.

Clenching one hand into a fist in your lap, you lifted the other to hold Sherlock back. “We should not… I cannot…”

The hurt in his eyes nearly did you in.

“There are aspects of this case that you do not—cannot—understand,” you whispered. “Sherlock…I still plan to turn myself in.”

For some reason, that seemed to assuage some of his pain. “I see.” He paused before clapping his hands together. “Well then, I am in the mood for a walk.”

You gaped. “A w— What?”

“A walk,” he said, rather cheerily for a gentleman whose advances had just been rebuffed yet again, as he climbed to his feet. “Not far, of course, but you mentioned some weeks ago that light exercise is better for your knee than sedentariness.”

He held out his arm, and through your bemusement, you managed to grab onto it and be pulled up. “I did mention that,” you said, dazed. What was going on?

Slowly but steadily, Sherlock led you to the armoire for a robe, out of the bedroom, across the hallway, into the living room—

You froze. “Is that…?” You strained your ears to confirm that the banging and puttering-about noises were coming from this flat’s kitchen. “Is somebody else here, Sherlock?”

Before the detective could answer, an exclamation came from whoever had evidently heard you speak. Then, there were rushing footsteps, and in ran Viscount of Pashbroke, The Right Honourable William Voss.

Sorry for the extended wait with this one, but hey, it’s the longest part so far! Which I did not expect at all from my outline lol. THIS chapter beat the tearoom and the art gallery and the kidnapping scenes? Okay. xD Thank you for reading. Sickfic stuff is not my forté, so feedback is always welcome!

Taglist [comment below if you’d like to be added!]: @theyaremorethanjustfictional @wonderlandfandomkingdom

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #henry cavill sherlock x reader #protective sherlock holmes #x reader sickfic #henry cavill fanfiction #enola holmes #a galling yoke #the dimensions of fandom

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