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Chapter Text

Your name has echoed through my mind

And I just think you should, think you should know

That nothing safe is worth the drive

And I would follow you, follow you home

- Treacherous by Taylor Swift

The girl upstairs was in her early twenties. Uncut hair, blazing eyes, strong accent. Had moved from a different country relatively recently. Quiet and reserved. No friends or family that visited. Worked from home. Liked animals a lot. Liked distracting music that sometimes floated through the ceiling when 221B was quiet. Kept her head down, but once when her eyes met his on the stairwell, he caught a flash of humour, sarcasm, a whole vivid personality kept under cover.

He didn’t bother think about her too much. She was just another person in the billions of people that surrounded him, whether he wanted it or not.

Until the first time she did It.

He heard her feet on the stairs, slow and steady. Halfway down, it abruptly stopped. No going back up, no going back down.

Just stopped.

She was standing halfway down the stairs.

Sherlock stared at the wall, confused. Why would she even do that?

Just then he realised what the answer to the case was - hollow walls, of course - and forgot.

Except for every evening for the next week, when he heard her repeat the same thing.

Sherlock decided to plan an observational attack.

****

John was going out on a date the next day. After the door shut, Sherlock turned to the mirror and smoothed his hair, thinking over his plan.

Then he just waited.

Six-thirty. Six-thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three.

Footsteps, soft and tentative. They stopped.

****

You leaned your shoulder against the wall and flicked your book open. Your eyes found the last line of text you remembered reading.

The moments who make us who we are.

Smiling to yourself, you propped your chin on your hand and began to read.

The door below you slammed open. You didn’t look up. Sherlock Holmes going in or out in a whirlwind of scarf and coat and flashing eyes was to be expected.

But there was no accompanying hustle. Just silence. So you looked up, holding your book tightly in both hands.

“Hello?”

Sherlock stood below you, arms crossed, one foot planted on the bottom step. He looked handsome in that light, you noted abstractedly. “You’re reading.”

“I…yeah…?” You blinked.

“Why can’t you read in your flat?”

You held the book tight to your chest. “Well, I could…” You noticed Sherlock’s eyes roaming across the cover. His lip curled. “The Creeping Shadow. Never heard of it.”

When you didn’t answer, he cocked his head. “Why don’t you read in your flat? Why are you reading on the stairs?”

You bit your lip. The truth was, you didn’t especially know why. You weren’t used to being held accountable for your whims. That made them, as whims went, rather pointless. So you closed your book and looked down at him.

A bit older than you. Handsome, very - but kind of annoying-looking, especially with that arrogant smirk playing around his mouth, like he found you ridiculous. Luckily, you’d heard enough about him from Mrs Hudson to never take to heart what he thought of you. Of course he’d find you ridiculous. You were at opposite ends of the personality spectrum.

“...Lonely.”

“I’m sorry?” You met his eyes. They were narrowed. You looked away.

“And socially inept.”

You bit harder on your upper lip. “Not socially inept,” you corrected. “Just socially cautious around London people, cause you lot are all damn unfriendly. Where I’m from, banter is…easy. With someone you don’t know. And here people treat you like you’re scum for being chatty. So, you know. Gotta rein it in.”

Sherlock was just staring at you. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. You frowned. Had you just…oh. You’d interrupted his ‘deducing’.

“Finds it hard to make eye contact. Lonely. That’s why you’re sitting on the stairs, isn’t it - to be close to other people, rather than being shut in your flat. Homesick. Nostalgic. Prejudiced against Londoners.”

You let out a little laugh at that.

“Not interested in attraction.”

Your eyes flew to his in shock. He smirked. “I saw you inspect me, but you clearly think my personality leaves a lot to be desired, therefore you’re not attracted to me. It makes a refreshing change.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. “Oh my god. You’re…you’re awful.”

“So I’ve been told.” He crossed his arms and came up a few steps. “You reading on the stairs is preventing me from going to my mind palace. Come.”

You stood warily. “Come where?”

“With me.” He grabbed your arm, snatching the book from your hand, and pulled you down the stairs and into 221B Baker Street.

You looked around, blinking at the musty, rather messy flat. There was a strong hint of cologne and you wrinkled your nose.

“John’s. Gone on a date. Waste of time, but he didn’t want to hear it,” Sherlock said shortly. He sat heavily in an armchair and tossed your book to the sofa opposite. “Don’t look in the fridge unless you like severed fingers for dinner, and don’t make any loud noises.”

You hugged yourself, standing in the centre of the room. He looked at you and sighed impatiently. “What?”

“Well…what am I doing here?”

“Reading. Like you were doing on the stairs. This way, you get to have company and I can go to my mind palace undisturbed.” He paused. ”I’d have sent you down to Mrs Hudson but she’s out for the evening too. And you’re stubborn, so if I told you to go back up to your flat, you would have disobeyed.”

You shook your head, a small smile breaking through. “Okay. Do you even know my name?”

“Of course I do,” he said, closing his eyes. “Y/N Y/L/N. Twenty-three years old; author, recently emigrated - not through choice. No friends here, as of yet; and no hobbies except wandering in the streets and people-watching. Claustrophobic. Incurably imaginative.” He wrinkled his nose at the last word and you let out a surprised breath of a laugh.

He waved his hand. “Well, sit down.”

You took the book and retreated to the wall by the window, stretching your legs in front of you. His eyes shot open. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve always liked sitting in unorthodox places,” you said simply. “Didn’t you deduct that?” you added cheekily.

He shook his head. “Shush.”

****

That was how your acquaintance began. You became as much a part of the flat as the armchair Sherlock sat in; whether or not John was there, you always were, a book or notebook or phone with you, stretched on the floor or curled in a chair. Little by little, you made friends with the hot- tempered ex-army doctor, introducing him to the world of Harry Potter and declaring him an undoubted Gryffindor. Sherlock was there for most of your conversations, listening as you went on and on about the Hogwarts Houses and how you were a Slytherin.

“What are their qualities?” John had asked.

“Cunning. Sly. Deceptive,” you’d answered with a little smile.

Sherlock had taken a sip of his tea to hide the smirk that wanted to grow.

****

It took a few months. A few months of whirlwind drama, of cases solved and unsolved. Of sirens screaming at all hours, and of seeing Sherlock emerge beaten up but undefeated. Of gradually getting closer to him. You refused to take anything he ever said to heart. You liked him too much for that. So while you had in-jokes and banter and realised you had matching senses of humour, you ignored his snide comments, his deductions. You couldn’t change him, make him more self aware. You could only harden your heart, pretend that the jabs he poked in your direction weren’t as sharp as thorns.

****

One night as you drove home in a cab, you rested your forehead against the cold glass. A dog had died. It was entirely unrelated to the case. It had run in front of a car while you were walking down the street. Died instantly.

And knowing that a woman had died hadn’t shattered you. But that had.

You didn’t think you’d spend time with your two housemates today. You were going to go upstairs, curl into a ball and stare at the back of your sofa.

You heard a rustle beside you, and realised that Sherlock had moved from the other seat to the middle one. His shoulder pressed quietly against yours as he looked past your head to the dark streets outside. When you looked up at him, orange shards of light played across his face. He was looking at you.

You gave him a faint smile and looked down at your touching knees instead. You wished you could tip your head the other way and press it to his shoulder. Wished he’d just give you a hug. John’s hugs were good, they were solid and comforting…but you couldn’t help feeling a hug from Sherlock might be more nuanced, more what you needed right now.

The cab rolled to a stop and you drew your coat tighter around you and jumped into the cold night before you could do something crazy like ask him for an embrace and irrevocably ruin everything.

Vulnerable and Sherlock’s company didn’t go together.

****

That, those few months of cases and sitting on Sherlock’s floor and being swept around in the wake of his Belstaff and his deductions, that had been the calm before the storm. Your first book was published. It was well received. Sherlock actually read it. His only comment had been, “You’ve unloaded a lot of emotional baggage into this.”

You’d become even closer, in a way; playing board games when John was there - and in his absence, more ridiculous battles: Blind Man’s Bluff, Truth or Dare, drinking games using rhubarb juice, which neither of you could stand. Sometimes you napped on his rug like a cat, sometimes he joined you, lying there staring at the ceiling and muttering nonsense until you poked him, told him to shut up because you were trying to brainstorm.

Then the Moriarty games started.

You screwed up your face as you ran up the stairs. You had to get there in time. Had to, had to, had to. You’d overheard on the radio earpiece he had connected to Mycroft, what he was planning. He was going to kill himself, just like Moriarty.

You had to stop him.

Because you loved the goddamn fool.

You’d known it for perhaps the entire eight months since that first time he invited you down; ever since you’d had that brief embrace with him on the stairs, that awful evening when you’d come in drenched, tears mingling with the rainwater on your face, and seen him waiting with your book, dog-eared and thumbed-through, in his hands, gentle words spilling from his lips - just for once.

You really did love him. You wanted him to love you. You were not going to let him kill himself.

One last set of stairs. Your lungs burning and your throat seizing up as you flung yourself bodily through the double doors, through the last door, out into the suddenly cold air and onto the hospital roof.

A bang! greeted you. You slammed your hands to your ears and watched in horror as Moriarty’s body crumpled to the floor.

Then you looked around and met Sherlock’s bright blue eyes.

****

Sherlock tore his eyes away from Moriarty’s body. It should have ended here.

But if he didn’t jump, then everyone he cared about would die. Mrs Hudson, Molly, John, Mary.

You.

He’d have to pretend to be dead long enough to destabilise the remnants of Moriarty’s gang.

He didn’t want this at all.

He swore as he saw you barrel onto the roof. You were gasping, sweating, hair stuck to your forehead and your coat half-zipped. You looked at Moriarty with a little oh and then turned to him, your chest heaving.

He didn’t like the feeling that was growing in his chest.

Didn’t like knowing he was going to have to lie and break your heart.

****

You curled your hands into fists. “Sherlock. Don’t jump,” you said, forcing yourself to be calm. You took a step forward. He took a step back.

“Don’t!” you said desperately.

“Don’t come any closer, then,” he said flatly.

“Please don’t do this,” you begged, feeling tears rise in your eyes. “Don’t. He’s dead.”

“And everyone I care about will be too unless I die. He arranged it like that.” Sherlock crossed his arms. “I have forty seconds.”

You held out your own. You were breathing too quickly, and your vision was going black. You were acting for dear life. For Sherlock’s dear life. “Hug?”

He looked you up and down. “You plan to drag me to safety and jump yourself in my place in some delusional self-sacrifice,” he deduced without a hint of emotion. “So I think not.”

You laughed raggedly. “Oh God. You can’t jump.”

“I plan to, in thirty-four seconds.”

A dam broke within you. You took a small step forward, ignoring the dead body that lay inches away from you.

“You can’t!” you screamed across the gap between you. “You can’t do this! Not to me, not to any of us. DON’T do it, or I swear to God, Sherlock, I’ll…I’ll…”

“You’ll what? I’ll be dead.”

“I’ll resurrect you just so I can kill you!”

His mouth flickered. “Well, that would be interesting. I’ll look forward to it.”

You saw red. Not passionate red. The kind of dull red that was black tinged and hopeless. Like how you’d felt when you’d realised you’d have to leave your home. The exact same feeling.

Sherlock was your home.

Oh God.

You hadn’t even told him you loved him!

Sherlock had been stepping steadily backwards to the very edge.

“Don’t!” you said, your voice breaking. “Please don’t. I’ll do it, I’ll go in your place, I’m not scared of death, I-”

Sherlock was smiling at you. Kindly. The way he did on the rare occasions he indulged your chatter about things he didn’t care of.

“I’m glad to have known you,” he said simply. “You’re terribly ordinary, but just a little more interesting than my other acquaintances.”

“No - no, Sherlock, I -” You swallowed harshly, eyes wide.

Sherlock winked at you. You took a snapshot of him as he was, all bravado and scarf and curls blowing in breeze, handsome, unconquerable, looking at you with affection clear in his gorgeous eyes.

A car door slammed, the sound carrying up on the wind.

Then John’s voice… “SHERLOCK! Get down from there, you idiot-”

He spread his arms.

Then he fell.

You screamed, running to the edge. Time seemed to melt around you as you stared over the edge at Sherlock’s crumpled body on the pavement.

John was running through the crowd to his side. People were everywhere. You swayed on the brink, tears streaming down your face.

No no no.

You saw Moriarty’s body in your peripheral vision and ran for the door, screaming swear words.

****

You’d stabbed the wrong lift button. Car level, rather than ground level. You didn’t bother to get back in the lift. What good would it do? He was dead. You didn’t want to see his body battered and broken.

You slid down the dirty wall, pulled your knees up to your chest, and stared with burning eyes at the parked cars. You just wanted to die.

You didn’t even want to exist.

You’d never got to tell him you loved him. The bloody bastard had jumped before you could force the words out.

The place was empty. Everyone would be outside, horrified about Sherlock’s death.

And you…

Oh my god.

He’s dead.

You gripped your head tight and shook it. You felt like you were going to go crazy. Maybe you should. Anything to not feel bursting like this.

Footsteps, loud and clear.

You lifted your eyes.

You’d gone crazy.

Walking horizontally in front of you, head down. Scarf and coat and curls. Sherlock Holmes. Unhurt. Undead.

You sprung to your feet, unable to hold back the gasp that ripped itself from your throat.

He turned.

Saw you.

Froze.

You stared across the parking lot at him. Your head swam. You swayed back against the wall.

Sherlock looked around indecisively, and then hurried over to you.

“Go away,” you croaked. “You’re dead. I…I…I’m hallucinating. Go away!”

“Not a very nice thing to say to somebody you’re willing to die for.” Sherlock braced you, hands on your shoulders. He was solid and warm. You gaped in his face.

“You died,” you said weakly.

“I pretended to have died.” Sherlock’s little smirk faded. “Listen to me. You cannot tell anyone you saw me. I’m vanishing for a while - long enough to destabilise Moriarty’s gangs. Don’t tell anyone. Not even John. Do you understand?”

You reached up and covered his hands with your own. “No.” You swallowed. “Don’t.”

“You said this earlier. Haven’t you realised I will anyway?”

“Where are you going?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Irrelevant. You weren’t supposed to see me. What are you doing down here?”

“Accident,” you forced out. Sherlock’s thumb came to your face, brushing away a bead of blood from your lower lip. You belatedly felt the sting. You must have bitten it at some point. You closed her eyes for a moment at his touch, then opened them. “Sherlock.”

“I have to go,” he said flatly, starting to pull away.

“Wait!” You grabbed his arm. “Don’t. I’m - I want to come too.”

His jaw dropped and his gaze snapped to yours.

“I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want to be alone. I’ve got nothing tying me here - I can go around the world, I’ll help you, just please - I thought I’d lost you, and I can’t lose you again,” you said desperately, feeling like you were going to vomit with the heavy intensity of your words. You met his eyes. “Please!”

Sherlock just stared at you for a long, long moment. Then he growled, and yanked you away from the wall. “Come on.”

He ushered you quickly across the parking lot. “I’m getting out of the country,” he told you in a hushed voice as they half-jogged towards the barriers. “Mycroft has arranged a flight. Y/N - you weren’t meant to follow me to the roof. Or be here. I was trying to keep you out of this.”

“I’m stubborn,” was all you could say. “Does that mean…I’m going with you?”

Sherlock just lengthened his stride. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Now hurry up.”

****

Two hours later, they were on a French train. It was cold and rattly. You shivered, arms hugging your midriff. You were still in your dirty clothes from yesterday, absolutely exhausted and shell-shocked. Sherlock was breathing, alive, next to you. You thought you’d lost him. Now you were going to gallivant around the world with him while everyone else thought he - and probably you - were dead.

Your head dropped forward. You were so incredibly worn out.

And cold.

And hungry.

But so relieved too.

Sherlock shifted beside you in the narrow bench. A moment later, his coat was draped across both of them. You smiled your thanks, tucking the warm material against your bare arms. He carefully brushed your hair out of the way of the buttons.

You could feel the hard ridge of your phone in your back jeans pocket. With that, you could access everything you’d had on your laptop. You’d lose your clothes, and books and belongings…but you had your work at least and your photos and memories.

And you had Sherlock. Right next to you, living and breathing.

“I…believe I should thank you,” he said quietly, just as you were about to nod off. You wanted to cuddle into him, but you didn’t think you should without permission.

“Huh?” you asked sleepily. His forearm twitched against your side.

“When you…offered to go in my place.”

“Oh…” You yawned.

“Thank you.” He twined his foot around your leg, warmth emanating through the thin fabric of your trousers.

“You’re welcome,” you mumbled. “Thanks for bringing me along.” You finally gave into the urge and laid your head on his shoulder. He was warm and solid, after all. And you were so tired.

Sherlock made an amused noise in the back of his throat and lifted his arm, winding it around your shoulders and pulling you close. You sighed, nuzzling closer and listening to his heartbeat. You felt him rest his head on yours and breathe slowly and deeply against your hair.

“I hope you considered how you’ll have to put up with me,” he said.

You were too sleepy to consider your answer carefully. “Alive, thanks, not dead.”

You fell asleep to the sound of his chuckles.

Chapter Text

This is me praying that
This was the very first page
Not where the story line ends
My thoughts will echo your name
Until I see you again

- Enchanted by Taylor Swift

This was the slow kind of waking, one inch at a time, pulled up from an exhausted sleep into foggy consciousness. Your eyes were sore. You’d been crying, then; you had a mild headache, so not too much. You didn’t feel a wave of depression - so you were okay, it was okay.

Clack-clack-clack.

The train.

Sherlock.

Keeping your breathing even, you took stock of where you were. Uncomfortable, stiff and aching all over.

Warm, though. Your face was pressed into a firm shoulder. Sherlock’s shoulder, clad in a thin white shirt. His coat was spread across you still. At some point in your sleep you’d wound both arms around his midriff, and his spare hand was resting on your knee. His face was buried in your neck.

He was still breathing, deep and slow. Too deep. Too slow.

You opened your eye a little and saw blackness. It was dark, then. The train had picked up speed.

Sherlock was still motionless.

Carefully, you began to pull back. Immediately, he sat up, loosening his grip around your shoulders.

“Sleep well?”

His voice was completely clear and wide awake.

“You didn’t sleep at all.”

“No.”

“You must be tired.” You pushed the coat away and stood, stretching. Further down the carriage there was a tiny orange lamp, flickering continually. Sherlock watched you flex your arms without blinking.

“I’ll sleep when this is over.” He looked past you at the doors. He was too alert, too wound up….and his gaze flicked back to you. He clenched his jaw as you straightened from touching your toes. “Sit down. This is supposed to be an empty carriage. If Moriarty’s henchmen see…”

“Ah. Sorry.” You sat beside him. He tucked the coat around you again and relaxed minutely.

You sat silently, replaying the events of yesterday; your terror when you’d thought he’d died, your relief that made you beg to go with him and ended with you in an empty train speeding through…through where, even? Some part of Europe…

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“A safehouse in Germany.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “It should take a few more hours. Mycroft was very prompt in arranging this train.”

Another silence.

Your mind was being disobedient. It was in a state of chaos, tipping you every which way. You stared into the dark until your eyes burned, playing snippets of songs in your head, focusing on the texture of Sherlock’s coat between your fingers…

“What will be happening in London?” you asked when your thoughts grew too oppressive.

Sherlock placed his hand on his knee, fingers outstretched so the tips brushed your leg. “My death will be proclaimed across the country. No doubt I will be given a posthumous award of some sort. Mycroft has arranged a funeral for both you and me-”

“Me?”

Sherlock shifted slightly so he was facing you. “Yes, you. Do you really think your disappearance would go unnoted? Your death has been faked too. Mycroft texted me when you were sleeping. You were chasing Moriarty’s second-in-command through the hospital, out for blood after having watched me jump. You were killed in the parking lot, and the henchman got away.”

You stared blankly at him. Sherlock’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Didn’t you even consider that John might wonder where you were?”

“I…no…?” You shook your head. “Oh wow. I’m dead.”

“You and me both.”

Sherlock turned away. “Once the fanfare has died down, we - you and I - will go out of hiding and begin to dissemble Moriarty’s leftovers.”

“I feel kinda sorry for John. Actually, very sorry. He must be destroyed.”

“We’ll see him again one day, no doubt.”

“Maybe…and he’s gonna be so furious and hurt. We might make it worse if we just saunter up to him in the future and go ‘hey we’re not dead, how’s life treating you?’”

“Perhaps initially,” Sherlock conceded. “Logically, he should be pleased that his current mourning turned out to be unnecessary.”

“But he doesn’t know that. He has no idea about any of this.”

“Neither would you, if things had gone to plan.”

You chewed your lip. “I’m sorry.”

“For making an impulsive and stupid request that I, even more impulsively and stupidly, granted?”

“Well, I think I’ve caused additional trouble and I…I don’t know how much help I’ll be - I mean, I’m hardly a stealth sleuth.”

“Nor is John, and he managed fine.” Sherlock patted your knee. “I don’t intend on dragging you into danger. Though you may need to learn how to fire a gun.”

“Okay.” You nodded. Sherlock’s hand stayed on your knee.

“I’m so glad I spotted you,” you said quietly after a while, looking straight ahead into the dusk. “I’d be heartbroken if I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock shifted uneasily. “Well. Metaphorically. Not physically.”

“Obviously,” you said. “I don’t and I won’t regret it - not even if I end up dead.” You swallowed. “Okay, sappiness is finished now.”

Sherlock brightened. “On the upside, we can watch our own funerals on television live-stream - or mine at least - and get Mycroft to send us pictures of our graves.”

You turned to him. “You’re an absolute menace.”

There was silence for a long time. As the train went on, you tried to dissect your feelings. Relief. Sadness…nostalgia? There was so much to process…over the past few weeks, terror after terror, believing Sherlock was going to die every other minute. And, in the back of your mind, the words hovered that you’d never choked out.

I love you!

You hadn’t said it then and you might never say it now.

He was sitting right next to you, pressed to your from shoulder to knee, slightly slumped so his chin was level with your shoulder. His coat was around you both, a cosy cocoon of safety.

“Play music.”

You jerked, startled. “What?”

“My mind…” Sherlock twitched irritably. “I can’t stop thinking. I need a distraction. Play music. I don’t care what.”

You fished your phone out of her pocket and dimmed the bright screen. You clicked on your playlist, scrolling through frequent songs. Sherlock propped his chin on your shoulder and stared down at the selection with you, silent.

You wanted something loud and determined to remind yourself you were still alive, still fighting, but on the other hand, a song like Message In A Bottle or Shake It Off would be far too jarring in this eerily silent train, and Sherlock would probably scoff at it. You froze, staring at a list of titles. Sherlock was still leaning on you, unspeaking, watchful.

He could’ve requested violin music.

He was trying to tell you you could play what you wanted.

You clicked your thumb firmly on Enchanted and turned the sound down low.

There I was again tonight, forcing laughter, faking smiles…Same old tired lonely place You placed the phone on your lap and tipped your cheek so it rested against the side of his face. You both sat motionless.

Clack-clack-clack.

Walls of insincerity, shifting eyes and vacancy vanished when I saw your face - all I can say is it was enchanting to meet you

Sherlock’s body had relaxed. You couldn’t see if his eyes were closed or not. You hoped they were.

Across the room, your silhouette starts to make its way to me…The playful conversation starts, counter all your quick remarks - like passing notes in secrecy…and it was enchanting to meet you, all I can say is I was enchanted to meet you…

“Is your mind any quieter?” you asked softly.

“Mm,” was your only reply. “Not a waltz, but it’ll do.”

“When was the last time you slept…or ate?” You kept your voice quiet.

“Can’t remember. A few days.” The detective stiffened. “Are you hungry?”

“A little. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be dead.”

“You must be wiped out if that’s the best form of wit you’ve got.”

Sherlock rumbled a chuckle and fell silent.

The lingering question kept me up, 2 a.m., who do you love? I wonder 'til I'm wide awake, and now I'm pacing back and forth…

When the song came to an end, Sherlock reached out, fiddling with your phone. You’d let him see the code - you didn’t have anything to hide, after all. He pressed replay and slumped back against you, winding one arm around your midriff. You placed your hands on his knee and bit back a smile.

Enchanted as a lullaby for none less but the great Sherlock Holmes. Who’d have thought?

“I’m not sleeping.” He must have read your mind.

“Okay,” you said, a hint of a smile in your voice.

“I’m not. I have to stay awake until we get to our destination…we will be jumping off a moving train, after all. We cannot be groggy for that.”

“We’ll be…oh, never mind. I trust you,” you said resignedly.

I’ll spend forever wondering if you knew that I was enchanted to meet you…

He didn’t say it back. But given that he was sprawled across you, letting you see his vulnerable side like this…well, it was obvious.

You smiled into the dark and, closing your eyes, matched your breathing to his.

Chapter Text

For you, I would cross the line

I would waste my time

I would lose my mind

They say, "She's gone too far this time"

- Don’t Blame Me by Taylor Swift

When it went wrong, it went wrong fast, you thought wryly to yourself as you lay on the floor and stopped trying to swallow the blood that kept bubbling up in your mouth.

Wonder if I’ll ever come off the adrenaline high.

****

“Have you got your gun?” Sherlock hissed as you rounded the old warehouse.

“Yep,” you whispered, putting a hand to your green bomber jacket. You could feel the hard outline against your thudding heart.

“Whatever happens - listen to me,” Sherlock carried on, guiding you up the path. “Is your earpiece on?”

“Yes.” Your voice was a soft whisper in the utterly quiet night.

“We’re only looking for the memory stick. Once we get it, we get out.”

“I know,” you huffed at last, glancing up at him. His hand was on your back, leading you towards the steel door. “This is my third mission, Sherlock!”

“And I’ve done this numberless times - and can still make mistakes,” he countered, kneeling by the door. “These are dangerous people. They won’t hesitate to shoot you. Or me.” A pause. “Of course, they may think that wasting bullets on ghosts is futile.”

“Why didn’t we dress up as ghosts then?”

Sherlock looked up at you just long enough to roll his eyes. In the faint starlight, they were nearly all black, with just the lightest hints of ice blue in the corners.

There was a click. The door unlocked. Sherlock stood, gloved hand gripping your forearm. He pulled you forward, near enough to whisper, “Be careful.”

Then the door swung in and you were over the threshold.

****

“Got it.”

Sherlock’s voice was hard and curt. He tucked it inside his coat pocket.

You turned, walking slowly across the room to him, scanning the area around you as you trod. Sherlock had praised you for your instincts before; when he’d been training you. It was one of the few compliments that had come without a backhanded comment. With this thought in mind, you looked up at him, barely three metres from him.

His eyes were fixed over your head. At the doorway behind you.

You froze. His eyes flicked to yours.

“Come here,” he said quietly, so softly you lipread it.

Your hand went to your inside pocket, ready to grab your gun. As you moved your foot-

“Don’t move.”

Red laser lights flashed on Sherlock’s chest. The room was suddenly brightly lit. You stayed completely still, heart hammering in your chest, fingers still loosely grasping the zip of your jacket.

Fight, flight or freeze?

Well…you always freeze anyway. So that you can work out what’s best.

Get the gun out and fire?

Make a run for it?

Turn with your hands up?

You turned slowly, keeping your hands down but splayed open.

Three men stood in the doorway, rifles trained on you both.

“What are you doing here?” the first asked, in a heavy accent. Italian. Mafia boss.

“Don’t be stupid.” Another voice. A fourth man, pushing through to the front. “They want the hard drive, that’s the only valuable thing stored in this shitty -” His voice cut off as he looked at Sherlock. “You!”

“I’m honestly surprised you recognised me. I’m not wearing the hat.”

“Dying was too mundane for you, was it?” The fourth man prowled nearer. “And I see John Watson’s gone for a little change of looks.”

You looked at him blankly.

“Did he take the stick?” the first man asked, hurrying over to the desk and looking-

And holding up an identical stick.

A replacement.

Your eyes tracked his movements, trying to appear disappointed, watchful. You were letting yourself feel emotion. Not until you got out of here - or died for real, whichever.

The fourth man, the clear boss, was stalking closer, looking at them appraisingly. “Hmm. How nice that I get to say I killed both Holmes and his sidekick. For real this time.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said blithely behind her, and he sounded closer - he was closer, you realised with a little jolt, he was pressing against your back, his hand slowly travelling between your shoulder blades, hidden to the other men - “I’m quite hard to kill, as it turns out. Your superior tried and failed.”

You kept yourself stiff, ready to run or duck or-

“But if I put a bullet through your head,” the fourth man said, smiling greasily, and holding a gun in his hand suddenly “I think that should kill you quite decently.”

Sherlock shrugged, his shoulders bumping yours. “Maybe, maybe. You’re welcome to try.”

“Boss, he’s getting closer to her,” one of the up-till-now silent thugs began.

The man looked between you, realised the truth of that - raised his gun, pointing it at you, and you recoiled instinctively, pressing back into Sherlock -

His hand snaked past your neck and grabbed your gun, wrenching it out and firing at random into the room. Your ears rang and your eyes shut instinctively as another shot echoed past your head. Sherlock had grabbed you, yanking you behind him and firing again. Someone was screaming. You couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears and your own pounding heartbeat. Wildly, looking around-

That man’s going to shoot Sherlock!

You barrelled out from behind him, smacking the man’s arm down, and twisting, grappling for the gun. It went off, smashing a TV screen. The man’s face was gritted, he was cursing - trying to trip you, you kneed him as hard as you could, overbalanced, and you went down, rolling. Your hearing was starting to return, and you could hear Sherlock shouting -

The gun went off again and this time it ripped through the underside of your ridiculously baggy coat sleeves. The man suddenly dropped it, rolling away - it must be empty. You staggered to your feet, just in time for Sherlock to grab you and shove you towards the doors at the other end of the room.

“Run!” he yelled.

Another round of bullets, a machine gun this time, spattering the walls. Sherlock slammed the door behind them, his hand grasping yours as you ran down the corridor. An alarm started to whirl around above you.

Round the corner. A guard was running towards them. Sherlock raised your gun and shot him in the kneecap. He collapsed, howling…you ran on.

Exit just there, just ahead of you.

****

Looking back, maybe that was where it all went batshit crazy.

You tripped. You didn’t know why. Not on anything. Your leg just gave way and you collapsed, sprawling face first on the concrete ground. Your vision filled with stars and you distantly heard a cracking sound.

Sherlock had dropped your hand and staggered, turning back to see-

Just as a glass wall slammed down between you.

Terrified, you rolled to your feet, bracing yourself against the wall.

“Turn away!” Sherlock shouted and you winced. You were still wearing the earphones. He raised the gun, gesturing madly. You nodded, turning and bringing your arms up over your face.

Bang!

“Ah - fuck! It’s no good - it’s bulletproof,” Sherlock said desperately. His voice was breathless. “Why did you have to fall?”

“Dammit - now, really?” you tried to say, but all that came out was a gurgle and you choked, belatedly realising your mouth was full of blood.

I’ve lost a tooth!

Hunching over, you gagged as blood poured from your swollen lip and missing tooth.

“Y/N! Face me, you idiot - what’s wrong?” Sherlock’s voice had started to rise. Not only that but you could hear footsteps and if they caught you you’d be shot dead instantly.

You spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. Looking around, you saw a corridor to your left. It was dark and empty. Without looking over your shoulder, you stood, swaying against the wall for a second, then made a bolt for it.

“Y/N!” Sherlock’s shout echoed painfully through your ear.

“Get - out!” you managed between painful, bloody gasps. “Just get out!”

You carried on running, weaving at random through corridors. “I’ll go out another way, I just-”

“Listen to me-” Sherlock’s voice was strained, like he was running. “Keep heading east. I’ll go round and unlock a door on the east side of the bui-”

“Like I know which way’s ea - shit!” You fell again, rolling painfully. Your leg struck a metal shelf and you bit hard on your already burst lip as the glass jars on it vibrated loudly.

“Y/N?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet.

“...fine,” you whispered, putting a hand to your earphone, wishing it would turn into a Portkey and whizz you to him. “God, Sherlock, I don’t know where I am, let alone how to-”

“Okay, just find somewhere to hide and stay quiet, I’ll come back in and ge-”

“Like hell you will!” Back on your feet, moving quietly and as fast as you could, you hissed the words under your breath. “Don’t you dare come back in here - I’ll find my way out, just-”

“Y/N, I-”

“For god’s sake, you don’t always have to be the hero!”

A pause. You spat more blood out and carried on. This part of the warehouse was utterly dark and deserted. You were still on the ground floor, at least.

“I’m not a hero, I’m a high-functioning sociopath-”

“With an obsessive need to save somebody?” You rolled your eyes.

“Don’t roll your eyes. It’s unnecessary. You need them for looking around.”

“How did you know….?”

“I deduced.”

“Oh…you’re a pain in the…” You stopped, pressing yourself to the wall. “There’s a room ahead with a couple of people in it…I can hear voices…both men.” You shut up as you edged closer, trailing the wall with your bloodstained fingerprints.

“Don’t do anything,” Sherlock hissed lowly.

You didn’t reply, watching the men through the crack in the door. Harmless boffins, probably unarmed, without bodyguards.

Steel doors with an old FIRE-EXIT sign above at far end.

There’s a way out that way.

“Y/N…” Sherlock’s voice was tense.

You’d made up your mind. “I’m gonna dash through,” you murmured under your breath.

You could see Sherlock’s unimpressed face. Keeping it in your mind’s eye, you gurgled blood out of your mouth as quietly as you could, took a slow deep breath, and broke from the wall and straight through the double doors.

The men gasped and looked up. One pointed, screaming in Italian.

The other hit a button on the desk.

You wrestled with the iron bar on the fire door. C’mon c’mon…forced it open. Another alarm, whirring. Another dark corridor. Just how big was this warehouse? Running, running, running - shouts behind, but no pursuers. Good…

“You’re not even armed!” That was Sherlock, clearly seething and trying to hold himself back from shouting.

“Well - you’ve got my gun!” you countered breathlessly, swinging to your left and then seeing, a pair of steel doors at the end. “Yes - got an exit-”

“Where?” he snapped.

“Dunno - steel doors exactly like the ones we came through-” You hit one with your full force, gasping as your body impacted. Backing up, you braced yourself to hit it again. Sherlock was still talking.

“I’m trying to circle the building and I haven’t seen any similar doors to those ones yet-”

It burst open with a rusty squeak as you came at it again. You staggered into the night, a bloodstained smile on your face and then-

“Oh God.” You looked around. “I’m in some kind of internal courtyard.”

Shutting the door behind you, you stuck to the shadows. “What kind of a labyrinth is this place?” you said furiously, looking around for another door.

“Y/N- just…”

“Just what?!” you snapped, far too loudly. There was a rustle from overgrown bushes. The whole place was abandoned.

Sherlock never had a chance to answer. With an electric hiss, floodlights lit the courtyard and picked you out immediately.

You turned, forcing yourself to keep moving and not freeze up. A window, adjacent to you. A rock, by your boot. Pick rock. Hurl it. Shatter glass. Arm over head, pull cuff over other hand. Through window.

Gunshots ringing behind you.

Heavy footsteps.

Haring down yet another dark corridor. There were cobwebs everywhere, getting entangled in your hair. Spiders could be roaming over you right now. And Italy could have tarantulas.

Irrelevant!

But you weren’t Sherlock and you couldn’t compartmentalise completely. It was a wonder you’d got this far even, but the adrenaline was swiftly turning into a molten layer of panic.

Sherlock was speaking in your ear but it was a meaningless jumble, your boots ringing on the ancient floor as you made turns at random, your breath becoming a high whine-

Smash!

You fell again. Your head hit a metal grill on the floor and you went slack.

****

“Y/N! Y/N!”

“Ohhh,” you whimpered, rolling over, onto your back. What had happened? Where were you?

“Y/N!”

Your earpiece.

Sherlock.

“What happened? Have you been caught? Answer me!” Sherlock sounded frantic.

“Huh…” You gagged at the thick blood filling your mouth. “My leg…”

It hurt. Everything hurt, but your leg and mouth especially. Your forehead was swollen where you’d hit it.

“Why on earth are you incapable of just telling me what is going on?”

This corridor was completely dark. When you lifted your hand to your hair, you felt the cobwebs.

That filled you with panic again.

“No…” you groaned, sitting up and pulling your knees to your chest. “Oh God.”

Stuck here forever. Just Sherlock’s voice. Judging you. Just the spiders and the gunmen out to kill you. Lost and trapped.

You’re never getting out.

You whimpered, burying your head between your palms. Your breath came quicker and faster. It was like a nightmare.

If only it was a nightmare. It was all too real.

“Y/N!”

You wanted to rip the earpiece out. Be done with the little bit of hope his voice kept giving you and succumb to your fate. Wanted to find the gunmen and beg them to shoot you. Dying was your only hope. You wanted it now. Anything than being like this, helpless and alone and in the dark, with his voice echoing through your ear like he was standing right beside you.

You just wanted to be alone and curl up and get away-

You slowly raised your hand to the earpiece-

“Don’t do that.” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly utterly calm. “Keep it in.”

“Fucker…” you mumbled. But you dropped your hand.

Didn’t stop the panic though.

“Now, listen to me.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Panicking is for the weak. I don’t believe you’re weak. Not that weak anyway. So just…focus on my voice.”

Not working…

Spiders-

One brushed over your hand and you barely swallowed a scream.

Keep quiet in case they hear you!

They’ll blow your brains out!

“Y/N…” His voice was deep. “Think. What do you like about…about…”

Some part of your brain was laughing. Sherlock talking you down from a panic attack. Sure to be amusing…

“What colour is my voice?”

Huh?

You blinked, eyes wide. “Your…your voice?”

You sounded awful, slurry and accent thickened with blood that you no longer bothered to spit out.

“My voice. Visualize it.”

“Um…maybe…maybe a green…dark or…”

“And dogs.” Sherlock brushed off your answer. “You likes dogs, right?”

“Yes…love them…”

“I had a Red Setter as a child-”

“Irish Setter,” you corrected, swallowing heavily.

“Sorry?”

“Irish Setter. No such thing as a Red Setter. File that away in your - ouch!” Your leg had suddenly twinged with redhot, lancing pain. You shuffled to sit against the wall, slumping your head against it with a little thunk.

“What do I do?” you asked, feeling terror rise again. “I am so lost…I have no idea which way to go, and-”

“Never mind that.” Sherlock’s voice was firm. “Can you see or hear anyone?”

“No…”

“Good, then don’t worry about that for the moment. Tell me about the kind of dog you’re going to get when we go back to Baker Street.”

“I…what?”

“You’ll get a dog, of course; Mrs Hudson doesn’t mind well behaved pets - that’s why she let me keep John - and I like dogs too, so I’ll dogsit whenever you’re busy.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Okay.”

“I promise not to accidentally shoot it…or, or do experiments on it.”

“Right.”

“So tell me…” Sherlock’s voice became a little bit breathless. “What dog would you get?”

“A rescue.” You closed your eyes, lightly massaging your tender temple. Your eyebrow was bleeding. “An intelligent dog. Alsation, maybe. One that I’d trust with my life. The kind that is better than most humans. A boy, this time.”

Shouldn’t you be, like, escaping?

“Sherlock, what should I-”

“Shush.” A pause. “Listen to my breathing. Just copy me.”

He breathed in and out loudly. You let the raspy, static-ky sound fill your ears, then followed suit, similarly loud because of your mouth. After two minutes, Sherlock stopped. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

“Are you any calmer?”

“A little bit.”

“Can you stand?”

You nodded, then realised he couldn’t see you and hummed instead.

“Good. Go down the adjoining corridor on your right. I’ve worked out where you are. You’re in a different warehouse now; an unused one, that would be why there’s so many…well.”

“Do you have a secret camera on me?” you mumbled, taking an unsteady step away from the wall.

“No. Just deductions. Don’t run. Your leg’s clearly injured.”

“Yes boss.” You limped down the corridor. “Where are you?”

“Outside your warehouse. At the end of the corridor there’s a window. I’ve broken the glass already. You’re going to have to jump.”

“Jump…but I’m on the ground floor.” You paused for a moment, trying to stop the retching.

“At some point during your hurtle through the corridors, you went up a flight.”

“I…oh God, did I? How d’you know if I don’t?”

“Heard your footsteps change rhythm. Besides the point.”

You stared at the grimy patch of light at the far end. “Oh God,” youu said again, feeling the adrenaline pick up again, your heart playing wildly inside your chest till it almost hurt.

“Good luck,” you heard him say, and then you made yourself run, dragging your injured leg with you, and up, onto the sill, and over and down.

The moon had come out.

****

So there you were, spread-eagled on the ground, gasping for breath, absolutely winded. You pulled your knees up to your chest and just stared at the sky.

Ugh…

You retched at last, turning your head to the side to heave blood. You felt absolutely exhausted, the adrenaline going as fast as it’d came. The long grass lay crumpled around you.

“Y/N?”

You could hear the voice in both ears. Groggily, you lifted your head.

Sherlock was hurrying towards you. “Quickly, can you stand?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, rolling to your knees. Then - “Ah!”

That really did hurt.

Sherlock put his arm around your shoulders and pulled you up. “Come on, come on. Mycroft’s got a car waiting outside.”

“Long reach, huh?” you tried to joke, but then you felt your vision go black and gasped in shock. Sherlock squeezed your shoulder. “Come on, not far - quicker -”

You passed out just before you got to the road.

****

Next thing you knew, you were lying on the sofa in your hotel room.

“Awkward sneaking you in past the reception,” Sherlock’s voice remarked. You raised your head. He was sitting in the armchair opposite, tossing the little hard-drive up in the air, again and again. “For all intents and purposes, you look like a cor-”

Cold, hot, icy, burning, panic overwhelmed you. You half toppled off the sofa. Sherlock made a surprised noise and moved to catch you. The world was moving too fast - too slow. You sprang up, nearly fell. Sheer grit alone kept you going, and you bolted for the bathroom. Too unsteady to turn and lock it, you shoved the door shut and sunk down, back against it.

Your mouth hurt. Dried blood caked your lips and cheeks. Dried blood ran down your nose, from where your eyebrow was cut. Your jeans were torn and slashed, and there was a bullet hole in your coat sleeve that you were still wearing.

Cobwebs everywhere.

Nails torn and bleeding.

No no no!

The dark. The men. The lost. The guns.

Spiders.

Falling, helpless, knowing you couldn’t get up again.

The bathroom was dark.

Dark dark dark.

You let out a gasp and clapped your hands over your face. Finger brushed the earphone. You yanked it out.

Wait.

Dried blood ran down the sides of both your ears.

From the gunshots.

How do you know you aren’t really dead?

“No!” you screamed aloud.

“Y/N!” Sherlock was knocking on the door.

“Go away!” you yelled.

Silence.

You suddenly felt awful. It was all your fault. All your bloody fault, not his at all. He’d stuck around to save you. You were nothing but a burden, a horrible burden that - that endangered him and bothered him and-

You moaned into your palms, embarrassed and terrified and still so panicked-

Your tooth is missing!

You probed the empty place with your tongue and let out another gasp.

A thump on the door behind you. You stiffened.

When Sherlock spoke, his voice sounded level with your head. He was sitting, then.

“It’s okay.”

You didn’t say anything.

“John tells me - told me - emotions are…complex. And they do seem to be - and you always feel so much of them.” A pause. “You did a lot of emotional shutdown in there. Not feeling, not caring, just thinking…acting. It was good. But now you have to feel it all at once. In an avalanche. Am I right?”

“I…I don’t know.” Your voice was tiny.

“You were brave.”

You ground her jaw, disregarding the pain. It’s no good. Tears streamed down your face and you shook with a silent sob.

You heard Sherlock sigh. “May I come in?”

“I’m…I’m a mess…”

“I don’t care about aesthetics.”

You shifted aside, letting him push the door open. He came in and flicked on the light, and then knelt in front of you.

“You know…” your voice kept breaking. “For a sociopath, you’re quite bloody nice to me.”

Sherlock stood abruptly. “Unfortunately. It’s quite hard to be horrible to you.”

More tears streamed down your face. He grabbed a flannel from the shelf and wet it under the tap before kneeling again, dabbing at your eyebrow lightly. You winced at the sting, clamping back a sob.

Sherlock suddenly froze. You followed his eyeline to the gaping bullet hole in your jacket sleeve.

“Are you shot?” he demanded suddenly, grabbing at your arm and feeling it through the fabric.

“No!” You tried to pull back, but your body refused to obey properly. “Near miss, it was in the first room, that Mafia guy-”

Sherlock’s eyes had returned to yours. His pupils were small, his irises icy blue and…and hard.

“When you launched yourself at him to stop him shooting me,” he said flatly. “A stupid risk that you took. When will people learn-” He started dabbing your face again, roughly - “that I’m not worth it?”

You tipped your head away. “Sherlock…” Your voice was a whisper.

Oh yeah. Wind this up by crying.

Sherlock’s touch went a little gentler. He reached up, cupping your jaw, and carefully peered into your mouth.

“Bleeding’s stopped. Tooth’s gone, I’m afraid. This is where it would be useful to have John around - to actually fix you up.”

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on your hands on your lap as Sherlock carried on cleaning the blood off your face.

“You did this to me once, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” you began, “not every day I see you look like you’ve just lost a pub brawl.”

Sherlock wet the flannel again, picked up your hand, applying a little pressure to your nails to scrape the blood off. He tapped his own nail against your chipped nail varnish absently. You watched, feeling tears well again.

This time you couldn’t hold back the sob.

Sherlock glanced up at you as you burst into tears. “What’s wrong? Have I hurt-”

“No, I’m just so sorry and thankful and - and - oh, thank God you’re alive,” you wept, and without thinking, you launched your arms around his neck and hugged him.

You’d cuddled together for hours under his coat on that train, but physical affection was not your thing usually. You felt Sherlock freeze beneath your touch, then lift a damp hand and pat your back awkwardly.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, into your ear, only this time it was actually him, not an earphone substitute. You clutched hard onto the fabric of his coat around his shoulders, shaking with sobs. “It’s okay. We’ll get out of this - we’ll go home and you’ll get your rescue dog.”

“And you’ll dogsit whenever I need a break,” you reminded him tearfully. “And we’ll go on walks together and you’ll drive me mad by deducting other dogs’ owners when I’m trying to do chitchat with them.”

You heard the smile in Sherlock’s voice as he patted your back again and started to pull away. “Yes, I will. We will.”

Chapter Text

You come around and the armor falls

Pierce the room like a cannonball

Now all we know is don't let go

We are alone, just you and me

- State Of Grace by Taylor Swift

Cold. Yet hot. Shifting restlessly, not opening your eyes. It was probably time to get up…time to get up…get up…but there was no strength in your eyelids and you felt like absolute shit. You kicked your leg out of the duvet, half rolled over, and fell back into an uneasy sleep.

****

Some time later, you jerked awake as your door clicked shut. You’d…you’d left it ajar, hadn’t you? Now it was fully shut…you finally opened your eyes, and felt a little jab of shock. It was fully light.

Your head rolled to read the digital clock on your bedside table. In horribly bold numbering, it read, 11.08.

“Huh,” you mumbled to yourself, and finally tried to sit up.

Sweaty. Shivering. Sore throat. Blocked nose. Stuffed ears. Slightly queasy.

Definitely ill.

You wondered vaguely if Sherlock would notice, or if this was too near to emotional states for him to realise. You kicked the duvet off and swung your legs out of bed.

Dizzy. Very cold, suddenly, but you didn’t like the feeling of your dressing gown as you shrugged it on. You wished you had your old, fluffy, huge grubby white one that made you feel like a polar bear. You wished you were somewhere you called home. Wish wish wish. A sudden longing for creature comforts, for familiarity, made you feel like you were about to cry. Hanging your head, you shuffled into the living room.

Sherlock was sitting in the armchair, facing away, hands steepled beneath his chin. You made your way to the sofa, curled up in the corner and pulled your knees to your chest, battling with all your various ailments.

“You slept in a long time. I thought you’d been abducted,” Sherlock said abruptly. You lifted your head to find him staring straight at you, eyes cold and hard.

“Whisked off by aliens,” you began, and then winced at your raspy voice. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer. You felt like you were going to throw up.

“Red-rimmed eyes. Unusual disorderliness in appearance. Flushed cheeks. Hoarse voice. Stuffed breathing. Breathless when standing. Evidently tired, despite your long lie-in.” Sherlock stood, looking like he was going to approach you. “You’re ill.”

“I…” You shook your head, standing as well, grabbing onto the sofa arm to stop yourself swaying. “I’m gonna have a shower; see what that does.”

You ducked past him and into the bathroom.

****

The shower made you marginally better….until it came to putting on your jeans. You couldn’t handle the idea of standing and balancing on one leg that long. Groaning, you sat against the wall, wet hair dripping down your back, and just stared at the swirls of steam in the air around you.

There was a rap on the door. “Y/N?”

“Yeah?” you managed.

“Just checking you haven’t died.” Silence. But you thought he might still be hovering. With another sigh, you inched your jeans on while still sitting. Standing gingerly, you towelled off your hair, opened the door - he was right there as you’d thought, looking a little startled as you appeared - and curled back up on the sofa with your blanket.

Sherlock sat down again. The room was silent for a long while. You tried to not swallow, or breathe, or in fact do anything except just…just…not complain and not feel sorry for yourself and-

“Y/N?”

You looked up. Sherlock was staring at you. Again.

“Hmm?”

“You’re not eating anything.”

You looked down at your hands.

“Do you want something?”

You shook your head.

“The one time that John could be useful…” Sherlock shook his head. “And he’s on a different continent.”

You couldn’t be bothered to correct him. You were too utterly miserable.

Silence again. When you glanced up, Sherlock was still staring at you, scrutinising. You didn’t have the energy to deal with him.

****

You must have dozed off, because when you woke up, you felt even worse. Pushing your forehead onto your knees, you glanced sideways through your lank hair. Sherlock wasn’t in his chair. You took advantage of your solitude to let out a low, unhappy whine, coughing at the end. You were thirsty and hungry but any intake of anything would probably make you vomit…you let out another moan and sat up, scrubbing at your eyes.

Sherlock was standing in the doorway, staring at you.

You didn’t even have the strength to be embarrassed. You just buried your face again.

A dip in the sofa. Sherlock was sitting near to you. “You’re boring when you’re ill.”

You sighed irritably. “I know I am,” you said in a low voice, trying not exacerbate your nausea.

“Do you…” A long pause. “Need anything? Medicine? Food?”

“No, I’m just gonna sit and wallow in self-pity.” You lifted your head enough to meet his eyes. “That’s about all I can manage, mentally.”

Sherlock sighed, took out his phone, started texting. You hid your face again, biting back a smile. He was still on the sofa.

****

A while later, you felt more alive, enough to get your own phone and play music. One headphone in, one out, as usual. It was late afternoon now, nearly evening. The sun was setting. You wished you could go to the window and see the view. Of Poland…

Sherlock was still on your sofa, staring off into space. Every now and again he let out a curt sigh. You peered through your hands at him, curious.

Sometimes when they were alone, Sherlock seemed big - taking up every inch of space, with her desperately trying to claim some room of your own. He commanded every eye, every ear, was awe-striking and handsome and dashing and generally intimidating.

Now wasn’t one of those times. Now he just seemed like anyone else - bored, a little disgruntled, lost in melancholic thoughts.

And now I’m standing here, hoping this gets to you…

In one movement, Sherlock reached over and pulled the headphone cable out of your phone.

You blinked at him, the headphone still dangling from your ear. The music filled the room suddenly, bouncing off every available surface.

“That’s the second time - oh, ouch, god,” you broke off to swallow painfully.

I wish I, could fl-y-y

I’d pick you up, and we’d go back in time-

Sherlock stared grumpily at you. “Your taste in music is appalling.”

You just widened your eyes, trying to convey annoyance. He smirked and looked straight ahead again, as The Very First Night played.

Take me away, take me away, take me away, to you, to you…

With a long sigh,you stretched out your legs to the floor and rolled your neck. You were so hungry and yet still at risk of vomiting. What good was anything?

Sherlock reached over, fiddling with your phone. You let him. Then the bars of a familiar song began to play and you smiled to yourself.

Here I was again tonight…

Enchanted.

Tentatively, Sherlock scooted across the sofa to you and placed his hand on your knee. You tilted your head until it rested on his shoulder.

I was enchanted to meet you…

Chapter Text

Is it cool that I said all that?
Is it chill that you're in my head?
'Cause I know that it's delicate
(Yeah, I want you)

- Delicate by Taylor Swift

“I don’t know why people like me - granted, I can only think of four or five who do, but-”

“Oh, shut up. I like you.” You jigged your knee restlessly, looking up at him as the tram swerved around a corner. “D’you want me to tell you why?”

He looked vaguely curious. “Yes.”

“Because you’re clever, obviously - but you’re kind, and caring, even if you don’t think you are. You’re loyal, you’re passionate about what you do…but you’re oh-so-immature.” His eyes widened at that, and you laughed. “Yeah, you’re incredibly human. You’re the first person I ever met who didn’t think I was ridiculous for loving my fictional worlds that came with children’s books or for liking to play pranks on people. You put up with me when I felt like no one else would. And then you wondered why I liked you so much. I like the way you eat my baking without realising you do, or absently hum my songs these days without realising you are. I like that you just say what you think, even if it does cut straight to the bone sometimes. I like how absolutely humble you are, even when you’re being arrogant. You’re…you’re refreshing. You’re refreshingly different, like, like a sea breeze. You read my book, took it for granted that you were expected to. I like that you didn’t care when I turned up at that fancy restaurant in my shirt and jeans. I like that you didn’t care when I never wore make-up and was at that club looking like something the cat dragged out. I like that you don’t judge me. You stopped shooting the wall that day when I freaked out because I was scared. You stopped me having a panic attack on the Tube. You let me become a part of your life, you let me lie on your carpet and read when I was lonely. You let me be your friend. And sometimes it feels like you can read my mind, like you can hear all the things I’m not saying cause it’d shock everyone else. I like that you know what it feels like to have an awful sense of humour that crops up at the wrong time. Or that when it really matters, you can put all the shattered pieces of my life back together. Jumping off a moving train hand-in-hand, and still feel safe…That’s what I like about you.” You cleared your throat, realising that Sherlock’s mouth was slightly open and he was staring at you. “Er. Yeah. Sorry.”

Sherlock blinked, still staring at you. You flushed, looking down at your hands. Why did you do that?

“This is our stop,” he said, jumping up. “Come on.”

You got up, grinding your jaw as they stepped off the tram. You watched it depart, wishing you could take back everything you’d just said.

You walked in silence for a while. You noticed Sherlock glancing at you. Eventually, he touched your elbow.

“What?”

“You look like the other people here.”

She frowned at the people walking past. “Do I?”

“You sound nothing like them. But your clothes. Your mannerisms…your nose, as well.”

“Well, I am ancestrally European too.”

Sherlock sounded annoyed when he answered. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I am, though. I’m whatever I want to be.”

This time when Sherlock touched your arm, he looped his own through it. “And that’s one of the reasons why I like you.”

Chapter Text

What a shame

Didn't wanna be the one that got away, yeah

Big mistake, you broke the sweetest promise

That you never should have made

- Babe by Taylor Swift

You were trying. You’d been trying so hard.

One wrong step and you staggered, dropping your plate and flinging your hands out blindly to break your fall. Sherlock looked up sharply as you collapsed in front of him, pulling your injured leg to your chest with a gasp. The plate shattered and the sandwich landed on the floor.

Oh, your leg was sore. Why was it so sore? Why did it still hurt so much and give way randomly? It had been months since that awful night in the warehouse. Two Secret Services doctors had said there was nothing wrong with it. But then why…?

And your sandwich was ruined…the plate broken. Ruefully, you glanced up, just in time to see Sherlock staring at you with undisguised loathing. The self-deprecating smile on your lips faded away and your eyes widened as you looked back, shocked.

“Why are you always so clumsy?” Sherlock hissed, leaning forward in his chair. You scooted backwards, not taking your eyes off him, the way you would with an aggressive dog. “Why can’t you just balance on two legs like every other person does?”

“Sherlock, I-”

“I was in my mind palace! I nearly had it!” He waved his arms in the air - “the solution, I nearly had it, and then you’re there like an elephant, crashing and galumphing and being a waste of space!”

Your throat and eyes burned. You got to your feet unsteadily, head down, and picked up the three shards of plate and the limp, horrible looking sandwich. Crossed the room to the bin. Sherlock wasn’t done yet.

“You can’t even run fast enough to get away, you’ve no clue what you’re doing, and here you are, thinking you’re my sidekick, thinking you’re being helpful…when really you’re being a waste of space!” Sherlock was standing now, glaring across the room at her.

“Sherlock, don’t,” you said softly.

The look in those eyes. Like hatred. Like he hated you. Didn’t want you around.

Well, of course he didn’t. You’d self-invited yourself, hadn’t you?

“Don’t bother to delude yourself. This isn’t one of your fantasy adventures. I’m not the hero and you’re not the sidekick; we’re not destabilizing the world evil. We’re stuck in Poland doing nothing while you heal because of your own stupidity - and I’m stuck with you!” He growled the last few words at you.

Your eyes burnt with tears. You didn’t know how to react.

“And now you’ll turn on the waterworks and expect me to forgive you. Well, this time there’s no John railing at me and no reason why I need to keep you happy with me. How unfortunate for you.” He waved a hand around. “Cry then; it doesn’t affect me, I’m not-”

“Enough.”

You walked forward and snatched your phone off the lounge table. “I wonder, all those times you said stuff that hurt me and I forgave you cause I thought you didn’t realise - did you know what you were doing?”

You spun on your heel, grabbed your jacket off the hook, fished for the key inside. “Don’t bother answer that. I don’t want to know.” You hung the key on the vacated hook, pulled your jacket on.

Was out the door.

Pulled it shut quietly behind you and set off along the balcony before you could even think about what you’d just done.

****

Some time later you found yourself sitting in a busy park, staring at the people going past, arms hugging your midriff.

Walking out. Well, a pretty stupid thing to do…but you’d done it.

Well then.

If he hated you, he wouldn’t worry too much about you. You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment.

Sad really. But to be expected.

He’d blown up at you about nothing. It made sense then, that he had been feeling like this for a while. For a sociopath he’d done well. You sighed again, rubbing your hand over your face. You were done feeling like a waste of space. Tomorrow you were going back to your home; dead-or-not be damned, you were going to wave goodbye to London and Europe and everything and everyone you’d ever known and go back to your long-missed home.

****

Sherlock tried to ignore the guilt building rapidly inside him by solving the case, but by the time he emerged from his mind palace, he realised it was dark.

Very dark and very quiet.

You were nowhere to be seen.

Still outside?

Where were you?

He stood bolt upright, swaying at the sudden change of position. You couldn’t get back in, you had left your keys. Well, you were stubborn, you’d walked out assuming it was for good.

Where could you be?

What if her leg gave way on the stairwell, brother mine?

“Shut up, Mycroft,” he growled into the flat.

He reached for his phone, activating your locator. You were a good three miles away. His eyebrow shot up. The dot was moving down a street, away from their flat. Wherever you were going, you weren’t coming back.

He sighed, reaching for his own coat. Time to track down his errant sidekick.

****

You finally sat on a deserted beach opposite a closed bakery and shut your eyes. You were so tired. So exhausted. So…so done.

“Y/N?”

You crossed your arms and ignored him. Of course. He’d try to find you. You didn’t want to be found. Not by him at any rate.

“Y/N.”

“Go away.” You didn’t open your eyes.

“Look at me.”

“Go and throw yourself off a rooftop for real. Don’t talk to me.” You cracked an eye open. Sherlock was on the bench next to you, looking as blank and Sherlock-y as usual.

“We have to ta-”

You got up and strode off without looking back. Distantly, you heard him curse and smirked to yourself. He followed you.

“Y/N- I didn’t mean it - I just-”

“I meant it when I said don’t talk to me.” Your smirk had vanished, and now all you felt was anger again.

“I’m sorry!” he blurted, sounding slightly desperate as he fell into stride with you.

“Really? What are you sorry for?” You increased your pace.

“Could we please stop and talk?”

“No.” You folded your arms and cut across his path, crossing the road. “How did you find me?”

He tapped his pocket where he kept his phone. You huffed, took out your own phone, and disabled the locator. You could practically hear his incredulous eye-roll.You didn’t care.

“I like you,” he said suddenly.

You didn’t stop. “Well, that’s nice for you.”

“I like you and I’m sorry I said all of that-”

“Do you even know how to be sorry?”

He sounded annoyed. “Of course I-”

“Do you?” You spun on your heel to face him. “So sorry that it makes you feel like you’re bleeding inside, like you’ll die if you can’t staunch it? So sorry that you’d do anything and give everything to make it better? To wish you could go back in time and - ah, shit!”

Your leg gave way and you fell forward, groaning, trying to find your balance.

Sherlock grabbed you, stepping in swiftly to keep you upright. You were going to shove him back, going to carry on shouting, when…

His hand slid through your hair, thumb brushing under your ear softly. Your heart picked up at the strange act and you lifted your head, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

You sighed. “And?”

He looked puzzled. “And what?”

“What do you want from me? Cause I’ll leave, I’ll go if that what’s you want…if I’m such a waste of space.”

His eyes widened. The glow of the streetlight cast shadows on his face. “No, I don’t want you to go! I didn’t mean any of that.” He wrapped his arm around your waist, turning you in the opposite direction. “Come back to the flat.” A pause. “Please.”

“Well…since you asked so nicely…” You let out a long sigh. “Okay.”

He kept you pulled in against his side, taking quite a bit of your unsteady weight as you walked.

You closed your eyes for a moment. Strange how you could be both trusting and wary of the man at your side; hate him and love him…

“Don’t walk with your eyes shut.”

Yep. Hate him. Love him. You smiled as you opened your eyes, suddenly exhausted. “Right you are, Holmes.”

Chapter Text

I have this thing where I get older, but just never wiser

Midnights become my afternoons

When my depression works the graveyard shift, all of the people

I've ghosted stand there in the room

- Anti-Hero by Taylor Swift

You were awoken by your bedroom door slamming open.

You sat up in a twist of bedsheets, your heart thundering against your ribs as you shoved your hair out of your eyes. “Sher-”

He was crossing the room, in his pyjamas, breathing hard and eyes wide. You didn’t have time to get his name fully out before he had grabbed you, kneeling on the bed as he pulled you into his arms.

His heartbeat, right under your ear, was deafeningly loud and fast. You could hear his breathing, too quick, too ragged. His hands roamed across your back, your hair, desperately. Then he pushed away, cupping your face, fingers deftly finding your pulse point at your neck.

What’s going on?

“Are you all right?” he asked, voice gravelly.

“Yes!” You frowned. “Are you - are you-”

He leaned forward and placed a kiss on your forehead.

Your eyes shut at the prolonged contact as you desperately hoped you weren’t blushing. He straightened, hands rubbing over your back absently.

You looked up at him. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, staring instead down at your chin.

“Sherlock?”

He shook his head.

Nightmare.

A nightmare where something happened to you.

You reached up, pushing the curls out of his eyes. “Hey. It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s not real.”

Sherlock let out a low sigh, hands dropping from your face. You gave him a little smile. “We’re safe, see? It’s okay. It will be fine.” You placed both hands on his shoulders. “I’m right here. You’re not alone.”

Sherlock nodded curtly, finally meeting your eyes. His expression was blank, but his eyes gave it all away - he was still terrified. Still half-asleep.

“Okay?” You rubbed your thumbs across his shoulders. “It’s okay, Sherlock.”

“Do you have any other words at this time of night?”

“No snark.” You pulled back your cover. “Get in.”

He raised an eyebrow. You raised a finger and tapped his brow lightly. “Just listen for once. Nightmare equals cuddles. No matter how unmanly it might seem to you.”

With a long sigh, Sherlock slid in beside you. You ran your hand down his shoulder repetitively, wondering what else you could say. “Moriarty didn’t win,” you said softly. He tensed under your touch. “He’d never have won. We’re safe, everyone’s safe - it’s going to be just fine. It’ll be…” You thought for a moment. “Golden, that’s it. It’ll be golden, like a sunset. The end of an epic tale. That you won.”

“You’re even more ridiculous half-asleep.”

“Remember. Golden.”

“Golden - or g-ol-l-den?” He mimicked your accent. You smacked his shoulder very lightly.

“Golden. Lucky clovers and golden violins and heroic tales - waves on the shore, and strong winds, and every shade of yellow you can imagine…and throwing stones into the sea, watching stormy waves burst over a wall…and screaming into the wind knowing no one can hear, not knowing which way is up or down…”

Sherlock’s breathing was evening out. You closed your eyes and pressed yourself in closer. “Goodnight, Sherlock. Remember…it’ll be okay.”

Chapter Text

I want to drive away with you

I want your complications too

I want your dreary Mondays

Wrap your arms around me, baby boy

- Paper Rings by Taylor Swift

“Sherlock - don’t do it. Please, please don’t.”

Sherlock just smiled at you, that gentle crease between his eyebrows thrown into high contrast by the strong sunlight.

“Don’t!” you yelled, and suddenly you were on the pavement, screaming as he fell, trying to run but it was like moving in slow-motion through treacle. He hit the pavement with a wet splat and your limbs suddenly worked again, you ran to him, kneeling by his side, watching the blood seep through the fabric of your jeans, his ice-blue eyes lifeless.

“Sherlock,” you tried to say but couldn’t.

You woke with a start, flailing and gasping. You sat bolt upright.

Forehead sweaty, tears running down flushed cheeks, convulsive swallowing. Probably hadn’t been screaming aloud.

You knew one thing. You had to get out of this horrible bed. You knew where you wanted to go - you wanted to curl up behind Sherlock, press your face to his back and convince yourself he was real. But unfortunately, you didn’t have that kind of luxury. Sighing, you pulled your jacket around your shoulders and padded out into the lounge. You hadn’t got used to this flat yet. You sunk down onto the sofa, wincing as it squeaked, and just stared into space for a few minutes. There was a glow of silver moonlight streaming through the bare window.

The flat was dingy. They were in…Romania? You didn’t know. You were tired. Your mouth was salty from the chips last night - you smiled to yourself as you remembered trying to catch the chips Sherlock had tossed across the sofa to you. The more time you spent with him, the easier it got; especially now you had another book you were focusing on. You often spent hours just sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, staring into space - each visiting your respective minds. You might not have a mind palace, but as you’d once told Sherlock, your mind was wholly your own, and you loved it for the chaotic, wonderful jumble that it was.

A sound of a cleared throat. You jerked, twisting your head to look back at the bedroom doorways. Sherlock was standing in his, eyebrow raised, arms crossed, terrible case of bed-head.

“A nightmare,” he said flatly. “One about me, judging by the way you’re looking at me like you’re checking I’m real - I am, just to reassure you. Don’t want to sleep alone, therefore thought you’d bed down in the communal room.” He tilted his head. “I wouldn’t advise it. You’ll catch lice.”

You jumped off the sofa. “You are joking.”

A ghost of a smile. “Perhaps.”

You looked warily at the old couch. “You’ve put me off.”

“I meant to.” Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and held out his wrist. You stared at it uncomprehendingly. “My pulse,” he said in explanation. “I’m alive.”

Slowly, your pressed your fingers to his wrist. It was warm. His heartbeat thudded beneath your soft touch, steady and reassuring. “I’m glad, by the way…that you are.”

You gave him a wan smile as you dropped your hand. “Sorry to wake you. I thought I was being quiet.” You shuffled over to the chair and pulled your knees up to your chest, pressing your forehead against them.

Sherlock seemed annoyed with your dismissal. “You’re not going back to bed?”

“No…”

“You should.”

But there might be monsters under the bed.

“I’m fine here,” was all you said, to your knees.

Sherlock sighed. You jumped in surprise. He was right there next to you, all dark hair and large hands and beautiful eyes, looking at you with clear exasperation. “You’re not going to ruin a rare good night’s sleep for me, Y/N. That would be selfish. Come on.”

He pulled you out of the chair and across to your bedroom. You frowned, trying to think up a reason why you wanted to stay up that wouldn’t sound childish and that he wouldn’t see through immediately - but then it was too late. He dropped your hand, giving you a light push towards your bed. You bit your lip.

“No, Sherlock, I need to-”

“Liar. Come on, Y/N, get in bed.”

You watched in astonishment as he pulled back the cover - and then got in and scooted over, looking up at you expectantly.

Slowly, biting your lip anxiously, you joined him. “Sherlock, I don’t want to wake you up again, I-”

“Stop talking.” His voice was very low as he placed his hand by his head on the pillow. “You did this for me. I can do it back. Can’t I?” He frowned, uncertain. “Or is this breaking a social rule-”

You laughed, finally relaxing. You pulled the cover up to your nose. “Honestly, I wouldn’t know - and I wouldn’t care. Social rules are my weak spot.” You smiled at him, carefully twisting your legs around under the sheet. “Thank you.”

In response, he scooted his legs forward. You blinked. “Your feet are frozen.”

“Are they?”

You rolled your eyes and pressed your feet and legs to his, trying to warm him up. His face softened - so close to yours, so near. “Goodnight.”

“Morning,” you mumbled, and tipped your head forward until your temple touched his knuckles.

****

That was the start of you sleeping together whenever one of you had a nightmare - or were staying in hotels or motels, to ‘save expense’. Secretly, you relished it, knowing that Sherlock was safe next to you, that you were safe with him. You used to lull yourself to sleep with his long, slow strong breaths, convincing yourself you were going to be okay in the end. And of course, it helped fuel your whole ‘being-in-love’ with him bit.

Returning to Baker Street threw you off-kilter, especially after the disastrous meeting with John. He had been so angry he could barely look at you, flinching away from your outstretched hand and steadfastly ignoring your tearful apologies.

As you stood on the threshold of 221B, looking up the stairs to the now-occupied, once-yours flat above, you bit your lip.

“It’ll be okay,” Sherlock said, surprisingly gentle, as he passed behind you. “Come on.”

You stepped in together, your hand finding his.

It was dusty, it was unlived-in, it was…alien, oh-so-familiar, heart-wrenching in ways you didn’t know could exist. Sherlock snapped on the light with his spare hand. You stood together, pressed together, looking around warily.

“It looks so…abandoned,” you whispered eventually, watching dust motes fly past the little chandelier.

Sherlock’s fingers tightened around yours. “Well. Come on. Better go to bed.”

You turned, looking up at him. “How’s your eye?”

A grimace. “Painful. I deserved it, though. At least he didn’t punch you.”

“I think he knew I was about to kick him between the legs for what he did to you.” An exchanged smile. “The moustache is a shocker, isn’t it?”

Sherlock broke into a grin. “He’s going to shave it off.”

“Or Mary will for him…I like her, she seems really nice.” You dropped his hand and crossed the room to the sofa, brushing the back of it with your hand. “I’m…I…I don’t even know what I am.”

“Tired, hormonal, headachy, jetlagged, over-emotional, feeling rejected and out-of-place,” Sherlock reeled off behind you in that deep baritone. You glanced over your shoulder, eyebrow raised. “You’re actually right.”

“I always am.”

Another weary smile. “Right. You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m back. I’m ready to go back into my old life. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”

“PI.”

“Not PI. Consulting detective.”

“Have it your own way, PI.” You started towards John’s room, then looked back at him. He was still standing by the door. “Sherlock…”

He broke out of his trance, going to the blind and yanking it down. “Goodnight. Sweet dreams.”

****

You recognised your clothes and belongings poking out of clumsily-packed boxes in John’s room, but you were far too tired to deal with that, so you just pulled on your big t-shirt and joggers and curled up on top of the duvet, staring at the ceiling and listening to the cars on the road outside.

You couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t even bring yourself to flick the light off. You were scared to shut your eyelids. Scared of what, you didn’t know. But after two years of turmoil, change, danger…with Sherlock, his eyes and voice and dry humour being your only constant, you weren’t ready to come back to a time when it was him and John, and you in the flat upstairs alone.

Nope…not ready at all.

Not ready to ever see the rooftop he’d flung himself off, where he’d nearly died. You swallowed convulsively, sitting up and pulling your knees to your chest.

You didn’t know…you honestly didn’t…if you properly loved him or not. You knew you’d die for him, do anything for him. You were under no illusions as to what kind of person he was, but at the same time - you just got him. It got easier, knowing him inside-out like your favourite, ancient navy cardigan that had come from home and been everywhere with you.

All around the world.

And here you were again in London and you weren’t ready, weren’t ready, really weren’t.

Not to being the girl next door, forced to try and fit your feelings for Sherlock into a box that wasn’t just ‘Sherlock’.

Grinding your teeth, you tried to calm down. But all you could hear was your own scream as Sherlock flung himself off the roof and Moriarty lay crumpled by your feet…his blood on your boots-

You didn’t realise you’d got off the bed until you were outside Sherlock’s door. You stopped with your hand raised.

“You can come in.”

Swallowing, you pushed it open lightly. “Sorry…I just…” You shook your head. “Sorry.”

Sherlock was sitting on the bed, hand tapping lightly on his knee. “Are you okay?”

You looked up at his dressing mirror opposite and sighed. Your eyes were bloodshot, your lip swollen from your excessive biting, and your forehead was scrunched into a frown. Sherlock was watching you.

“Not really.”

“What do you want?” The question was curt. You took him in - restless, uneasy, forcing an air of nonchalance. You took a step forward.

“...can I?”

Sherlock’s answer was to move aside. You sunk onto the bed by his side and stared across the room, ignoring the butterflies in your stomach. This was Sherlock’s room. Before it had always just been beds and bedrooms - but this was Sherlock’s room and you’d only ever been in here twice before.

The room was plunged into darkness and you jumped in surprise.

“Sorry, were you not expecting that?” Sherlock’s voice was playful. You rolled your eyes in the dark and scooted down till you lay on your back, still above the duvet, staring at the ceiling.

“Mrs Hudson’s going to think she’s seeing ghosts tomorrow morning.”

“She does believe in them. She used to practise the ouija board.”

You grinned. “Deduction or story?”

“Both, unfortunately.”

A long silence.

“You know,” Sherlock’s voice was contemplative. “I might have a nightmare tonight.”

“Hmm?”

“Yeah. About The Moustache.”

You snorted loudly and clapped your hand over your mouth. “It’s RAF, isn’t it?”

“Must be odd to kiss him.”

“Oh, did you wanna?”

He shoved you lightly. “Don’t be facetious. I meant from Mary’s perspective.”

“Yeah. Bristly. Walrus-y. Takes her back to 1942.”

Another silence. His hand reached for yours, gently clasped in the space between you.

“It’ll go back to normal,” he said quietly.

“It’ll be okay,” you completed the mantra. “Night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight.” A moment. “If people start looking at me funny, I’ll assume it’s because I’ve picked up your accent.”

“Oh? And not because you’ve returned from the Other Side?”

A shared laugh, and finally, you fell asleep.

Chapter Text

I think he did it, but I just can't prove it
No, no body, no crime
But I ain't letting up until the day I die
No, no
- no body no crime by Taylor Swift

It was midday. There was a helicopter hovering in the street outside. There were squadrons of police cars. There were heavy boots marching up the stairs to 221B.

You pushed your chair back from your desk and ran down the stairs in your socked feet. You hadn’t heard anything from downstairs. It had been deathly quiet - such a bad metaphor, your brain scolded you - and you had actually been enjoying that feel of separated company, knowing he was just below you. Moving into your old flat had been rather surreal; you’d stayed in 221B for a couple of weeks, but then Mrs Hudson gave the tenants in your flat notice, and John had moved back in, and so here you were ever since, pretending nothing’d happened.

So why was the police here, anyway? Was he in trouble?

You heard Lestrade’s voice ring out in exasperation and stopped in the doorway, bracing herself against the door-frame.

“You have to learn the difference between a real emergency and-” The police detective stopped, waving his phone around.

“It is an emergency!” Sherlock exclaimed, standing up and moving into your line of sight. His hair was practically standing on end.

“Holmes, I don’t know how to explain this to you-”

Sherlock caught sight of you. He looked briefly confused, before his gaze flicked to your feet and he nodded once to himself. You gave him a questioning glance, and the corner of his mouth ticked up. You ignored your heartbeat as it thudded suddenly.

“How on earth am I supposed to write a best man’s speech-”

Lestrade looked ready to shoot Sherlock. You seized your moment, stepping quietly into the room. “Hey - why’s there a helicopter outside?”

Lestrade spun to face you. “Who are - oh. Sorry. Y/N, am I right?”

“Yep. Nice to see you again.” You smiled sweetly. “Have you come to arrest Sherlock?”

Lestrade growled. Behind him, Sherlock turned away to hide a grin. You clasped your hands behind your back and smiled again at Lestrade.

“He texted me that it was an emergency,” Lestrade grit out. “And he just wants help writing a goddamn speech. I’ll have a field day explaining this to my boss!” he added to Sherlock. “Are you even listening to me, Holmes?”

“Unfortunately. I am deleting every single thing you say as you say it, if that helps.”

You shook your head, unable to disguise your laugh. “My God, Sherlock, you nearly deserve to be arrested.”

Lestrade suddenly turned back to you, eyes manic. You blinked in surprise. “Aren’t you a writer? Wrote that book a few years ago - Sherlock was telling me…”

“I’m…an author, yeah. Sherlock, did you rea-”

“-Holmes, why in hot hell didn’t you ask her for help before asking me?!”

Sherlock looked at you, head on one side. “You know, Gerald, that never crossed my mind. Quite a good idea of yours. So mundane, though.”

Lestrade’s face went red. You shook your head slowly. “Okay. Okay.” You held up your hands. “Look - I’ll handle him. Greg,” you added, with a pacifying smile.

“She remembers my name, see, it isn’t that hard! Girl,” Lestrade added, clapping you on the shoulder as he marched past you to the door, “you deserve a medal for dealing with him on a regular basis.”

Halfway out the door, he squinted back at Sherlock. “Don’t do this again.”

Sherlock peered out the window at the helicopter with mild interest. “You know, flying one of those might be quite intellectually stimulating.”

Lestrade’s exasperated growl echoed up the stairwell.

You mirrored his pose as he turned back to you. For a moment you were just smirking at each other in the now silent and empty room.

You were the first to laugh, but it was close.

****

You were uncomfortable. It was nobody’s fault really, but you felt like you didn’t belong in your own skin. Like the jeans and jumper that you’d worn in Amsterdam didn’t fit the girl who was pretending to sit here and read the Jane Eyre that had belonged to yet another girl, once upon a time.

Mary and John, lovey-dovey on the sofa. Sherlock in his chair, and you, on the floor, but not in the corner, but leaning against the side of his chair. Still uncomfortable with the baleful glares she caught John giving you and Sherlock.

Sherlock cleared his throat and jumped to his feet. “Come on, Y/N.”

“What?” You looked around. “Where?”

“A case?” Mary asked.

“No,” Sherlock replied curtly. He was already at the door, coat on, holding out your jacket. “Come on Y/N.”

Slightly bewildered, you pocketed your phone, closed your book without bothering to mark the page, and joined him at the door.

You shrugged your jacket on. He was already holding the door open.

“When will you be back?” John asked.

Sherlock waved a hand carelessly. “Sometime tonight.”

You ducked past him. He followed you onto the landing, pulling the door closed with a firm click.

“Where are we actually going?” you muttered as you clattered down the stairs.

“Chips.” Sherlock pulled his scarf around his neck and opened the main door for you.

“Okay.” A nod. “Yep. Chips. Excellent.”

****

The wedding shenanigans weren’t over yet. A few days later you heard violin music playing up through your floor, but it wasn’t from Sherlock’s violin. It was from speakers, because you could feel the vibrations when you laid your palm on the wooden panes. You tiptoed down the stairs and looked at the closed door. You wanted to knock.

You did.

“It’s unlocked!” you heard Sherlock call. You pushed it open. “I thought you’d come down,” he carried on, voice echoing. “You’re too curious.”

“Didn’t they tell you what becomes of curious minds?” you sung back, turning the corner and -

“Don’t look so stunned,” Sherlock said, in the same moment as John shook his head and ducked out of Sherlock’s arms. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

You raised your eyebrow. “It looks to me like you’re being taught how to dance in prep for your wedding? If you think it looks like anything else then…guilty conscience.”

Sherlock met your eyes over John’s head and gave you a mischievous grin. You rolled your eyes back.

“Well, I, yeah. Good point,” John conceded. He flung himself into an armchair. “I’m done for now.”

Sherlock stood alone, swaying slightly to the music. “That’s a relief, frankly. You’re terribly hopeless at dancing.”

“You’re too tall!”

“I’m not too tall. I can’t help that you’re titchy.”

You laughed, leaning against the kitchen door-frame. “Who says romance is dead?”

John glared. “Subject change,” he said forcefully. “How’s the new book?”

“Got a new chapter in. Toning down the fancifulness…I want it to stay kinda real,” you said, biting your lower lip. “I’m sick of rereading the bloody thing though, so I’m just powering ahead.”

“It will never be real,” Sherlock said absently, turning away to fiddle with the speakers. “Fiction and fantasies, and in fact vivid imaginations, are a coping mechanism for the weak who can’t deal with real life.”

You stared speechlessly at his back. John started to get out of his chair, mouth open in outrage, but you shook your head frantically, begging with your eyes for him to not say anything.

Did Sherlock even realise he’d just insulted who you were?

“I suppose sentiment is still a chemical defunct found in the losing side?” you asked quietly. “Well, if the losing side are the majority, aren’t we the winners?”

Sherlock turned, but you spun away, filling the kettle in order to have something to do.

You felt angry enough to shout at him. But what good would it do? He’d just shitted on everyone you liked, admired, dead or alive. Including yourself. He wouldn’t understand. And showing more emotion would make the situation worse. Sighing, you flicked the kettle on.

During those two years, he hadn’t been like this. He’d been more considerate. You’d hoped he had moved past that inability to be sensitive. He’d done well - but returning to London had eradicated all that. It felt like dealing with him from the beginning, all over again. He liked your writing. He understood how your daydreams were a way of escape. It was one of the things you told him you liked about him, oh-so-long ago.

But now…

When you eventually turned, Sherlock was standing behind you, hand held out.

You blinked.

“Will you dance?” he asked.

You frowned, looking between his hand and eyes. His face looked…almost apologetic? Behind, John was smirking as he tapped keys on his laptop.

“I don’t know how to dance,” you said.

“Well, does that matter? No one is here to see, except John, and he doesn’t count.”

You shook your head, laughing, then took his hand. “If I’m dancing to this with you,” you said as Sherlock pulled you into the main area and spun you, “then one day you’re dancing to a song of my choice in my style.”

Sherlock looked down at you. Your eyes met glacial blue.

I’ll spend forever wondering if you knew I was enchanted to meet you.

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

You swallowed as his hand brushed against your lower back. “Could be either.”

“A promise then.” He dipped you, making you laugh. All at once, the kettle steamed and turned off. Immediately, he let you go, hurrying across to the stereo and turning it off. You were left alone in the centre of the room, frowning at his back.

“How’d I do as a dance student?” you asked tentatively.

“Oh, awfully,” he replied casually. “I honestly can’t say whether you or John is worse.”

221B was filled with laughter as John tossed a toffee Quality Street across the room at him.

****

In hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have been so surprised. It might have been a year since your last collapse - but your leg was still damaged in some way.

You put your key in the door and twisted. You saw John and Mary on the couch; Sherlock at the window, turning to look at you. “Hi,” you began automatically. Sherlock didn’t say anything, starting to look back at the window, hands clasped neatly behind his back-

You took a step back, grabbing for the grocery bag you’d put down-

Felt your leg give way and gasped-

Grabbed blindly at nothing-

And fell down the narrow seventeen wooden steps.

~

“...Y/N! Y/N, wake up!”

“Ugh,” you managed, opening an eye.

The first thing you saw was Sherlock’s face, very close to yours. He was kneeling, his fingers pressed against your pulse point on your neck. You just lay there, blankly watching his gritted exhales flutter his curls. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“None, bastard,” you said hoarsely, trying to roll away.

Sherlock looked at his own hand in surprise. “Oh.”

“Sherlock, move aside-” that was John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You can examine her from there - it’s just her leg.”

“Just her leg?”

You flinched at the glare Sherlock turned on you. “Didn’t you tell him about your leg?”

“Oh, shurrup everyone,” you announced and managed to sit up, leaning against the wall. You winced at the pounding sensation in your forehead. “Yeah, I should’ve told you, John, I guess.” Sherlock helped you stand and Mary offered her arm as support. “Listen up, guys - it involves a stormy night, a warehouse, and Sherlock being cocky…”

****

You’d started going to a pub on the outskirts of Marylebone. You got a hot chocolate and listened to familiar accents, talking to people from your homeland. The barkeeper, an Irishman called Eamonn, always had time to spare for a chat with you. Today was no different. Pulling down your hood and shaking out your wet hair, you settled in for a warming drink, watching people come and go with interest. Eamonn was busy - he’d promised to bring you up to speed with local gossip later - so you propped an elbow on the bar, facing the door. Your drink was too hot so you sucked on a marshmallow and watched two old ladies laugh together in the corner.

The door opened, and in came John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, shaking rain from their coats.

You blinked. Since neither of them looked around when they entered, you assumed they weren’t looking for you. In fact…

It’s the stag night.

Seriously? It’s just the two of them?

You remembered Sherlock explaining gravely about the pub-crawl he had planned to do - of places where they’d found a…found a…oh.

A body…

You turned your back to them, taking a sip of hot chocolate. Way to pierce your mood. They’d found a body in this locality. Was nowhere sacred?

At the far end of the bar, you heard Eamonn say, “What can I get ye, lads?”

“Two plain Guinnesses, please. Serve them in these,” you heard Sherlock’s voice say crisply.

You couldn’t help it. You glanced to the side curiously.

Two chemical measuring beakers.

The laugh that wanted to explode out of you would have been undignified, drawn the whole pub’s attention to you, and made Sherlock aware of your presence, so you clamped your jaw down on the edge of your cup, blowing little bubbles into the cream with your huffed exhales of giggles.

It was just so Sherlock. So endearingly Sherlock. You heard him pay for the drinks and heard his footsteps ring on the flagstones until he was next to you.

“Hello.”

Slowly, you placed your cup down, imagined ironing your face out firmly, and turned to him, expression blank. “Hiya.”

He looked at your drink, then at you. “You come here normally,” he stated flatly. “You’re as comfortable here as I’ve ever seen you in social settings. You know people here, and you’re not afraid to know new people. You never drink alcohol.”

“And you,” you said with a small smile, “are not even drunk.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I told you I wouldn’t be.”

“Yeah…but I kinda thought, you know, John might want to get drunk.”

Sherlock looked down at the frothing beakers he was holding.

“I like your goblets. Very science-fiction-y.” You wrapped your leg around your stool and then unwrapped it idly. The movement caught Sherlock’s eye and he took an abrupt step back, motioning with his head. “John’s…over there somewhere.”

You waved. John was looking between you with a curious expression.

“Do you want to join us?”

At that, you laughed. “No. Stag-night - just for boys. Off you go, Sherlock, back to your Best Man duties.” You leaned in. “You didn’t find a body right here in the pub, did you?” you whispered into his ear. You didn’t know why you did it. Maybe the mere presence of alcohol was making you daring.

Sherlock looked up at you, ice-blue eyes sharp and unfathomable. “Just down the street, in an alley.” His voice had dropped to match yours, making the moment far more intense than you’d intended.

Nodding awkwardly, you sat straight, suddenly unable to look anywhere but him. “Right. Good. Don’t want this retreat spoilt. Off you go. Have a good night. Let loose!” you called after him, and he rolled his eyes.

Why had you even done that?

You know why.

Shut up…

You love him.

And so what if I do?

He’ll tear you apart and scorn you.

Oh well.

When he sat down, he was facing you across the bar. After a few moments, his eyes flicked up and met your passing gaze. He held his drink to his mouth for a moment, looking like he was toasting you.

You gave a wan smile back and turned away.

Fifteen minutes later, as you scrolled through your phone, John tapped you on the shoulder. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you said, smiling automatically. “How’s it going?”

John rolled his eyes and held up an empty beaker. “I’m getting a proper alcoholic drink this time. Spiked with more alcohol. I’ll get Sherlock drunk if it’s the last thing I do.”

You determinedly didn’t glance over your shoulder. “I dare you.”

John nodded. “I’m on a mission.”

As he walked back to their table, you zipped your coat up, winked goodbye to Eamonn, and left the pub.

Chapter Text

And you'd come back
And when I felt like I was an old cardigan
Under someone's bed
You put me on and said I was your favorite

- cardigan by Taylor Swift

A few days later, Sherlock burst into your flat when you were cooking dinner.

“Oh do come in. I’m completely available. How are you? I’m fine thank you,” you said without heat, automatically bringing up a second plate and dishing mashed potato onto it.

Sherlock ignored you. “John said you’re not coming to the wedding.”

“Mmm,” you answered non-committally. “That’s right.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “Why not? You’ve gotten an invite.”

“I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

You didn’t say anything.

He stepped around the island to frown at you. “You’re lying. You’re not busy.”

“Get out of my way.” You shooed him away from the fridge. “I’m allowed to decline an invitation, Sherlock.”

“But then I’m going alone,” he protested.

“I wasn’t aware we were even going together,” you teased, wiping your hands with kitchen towel. You balled it up and threw it towards the bin. It missed.

“I knew you’d miss it,” Sherlock said smugly. “You’re at too much of a right angle from it.”

“Twat.”

He leaned against your counter, looking tall, dark, handsome and quite immature. He was actually pouting. “You know, Mary has said all the guests can put in a song request.”

“And that’s supposed to entice me how…?”

“If you come, I’ll let you have my song pick too.”

You drank a glass of water. You shook your head as you swallowed. “Tempting. But no.”

“If you don’t go, I’m not going.”

“No. Don’t be a toddler.”

“Why can’t you pronounce the ‘e’ in toddler?”

“Why would I? Here.”

He stared at the plate of food, frowning. “I don’t need to eat.”

“Well, I do. Sit.” You sat down and looked across the island at him. “Or stand, whatever.” You softened your voice. “I’m not going, Sherlock. I don’t want to.”

“And not because you’re socially anxious, because you feel deficient, or because you dislike Mary or John.” Sherlock tapped his chin with his fork, getting mashed potato on it. “Hmm. So. A reason you’re not telling me…”

You sighed, tipping your head back. “Okay. Stop Sherlocking and just eat.” You tapped your chin. Sherlock looked at you blankly.

“Mash, here,” you explained.

He nodded and reluctantly took a seat. “What would you want in exchange for coming to the wedding?”

You pursed your lips. “Absolutely nothing. Cause I’m not going.”

Anyway, Janine’ll be there. And you’ll be standing with her. So no. Not going.

The way he smiles at her…

I’m not doing it to myself.

I don’t even know if I’m still properly friends with the idiot.

Sherlock leaned across the table, locking eyes with you. You chewed a forkful of mash, meeting his gaze fearlessly. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears and rain sliding down the window outside. It was just you and him, in the flat, alone,like you had been so many times before. If you leaned up and kissed him…no one would ever know. What would his lips taste of? Mash? Or something else? Tea?

Sherlock’s voice was jarringly loud., breaking into your blazing thoughts. “Y/N. Go with me.”

“No,” you said flatly and looked down at your food.

He scowled and ate his own plate in silence. After a while, he said quietly, “I don’t know what song to request.”

You smiled slowly. “What about no body no crime?”

He frowned. “Don’t know it.”

“You wouldn’t. It’s a kind of slow-dancing song and about friendship…and murder.” You played it. As the opening bars swelled, sounding like sirens, his mouth twitched.

Your gazes met and you burst out laughing.

****

The night of the wedding, you were sitting on the stairs reading. It had been a long time since you’d done that; years, now. More than three years.

No words were going into your mind, though; all you could think of was the influx of memories of Sherlock Holmes; and how you were really uncertain whether he was your friend or not - as classified by societal norms. You’d never even had a real friend, not properly. He didn’t count, you decided - because he was Sherlock, and who went round the world, assassinating and exposing villainous people, with just a friend?

You’d finished writing your second book earlier. It wasn’t the ending you’d planned. Or the ending you’d wanted. It had just happened, sweeping you away in a rush of bittersweet memories, of salt and frost and dancing sunbeams and cold silver moonlight rays. Your hand fiddled with your necklace absently.

Your book was finished.

Thank goodness.

Now here you were, sitting like a loner on the cold stairwell watching the words blur on the page.

Is Sherlock dancing with that pretty Irish bridesmaid - Janine?

Did he choose the Taylor Swift song?

Why didn’t you go?

You know damn well why.

Because this day four years ago you’d just left your home.

Dunno if you’ll ever go back.

Maybe music might be better than trying to read…

But your hand didn’t go to your phone.

You closed your eyes. John was a friend.So was Molly, and Greg - Mary might be, too. Certainly friendly anyway.

But Sherlock was an enigma. You could share a laugh and bicker…but you had to lock away your deeper feelings, your emotions, around him, just be oh-so-casual. Especially now, when you were afraid because you were in far too-

The front door opened with a melancholy creak. You sat straight, peering into the lobby.

Sherlock.

He was moving so slowly. He carefully locked the door behind him, unwound his scarf and laid it on the banister. He turned, treading up the stairs.

He hadn’t seen you. His collar was up, obscuring all his face except his hair and a flicker of blue eye.

He looked cold. It must be frosty outside. He let out a long sigh and pulled his collar down, rubbing his hair as he turned the corner in the stairs.

On the landing, he looked up at your door. His gaze slowly travelled down the stairs until they landed on you, sitting there.

You gave a little smile. He smiled grimly back and dropped his hand from his doorknob, walking up the stairs and wedging himself on the step next to you before you had a chance to react. You shifted over, giving him more space.

He looked sad.

You caught a whiff of perfume from his coat and deliberately unclenched your jaw.

“Hey,” you whispered very quietly. You had never seen him look like this.

“Hello.”

You wanted to ask if he was okay. But obviously he wasn’t. You closed your book and reached around him to put it on the step above you.

“[book title],” he said. “A non-fictional book, but one that you value highly enough to read again.”

“Mmm.” You glanced sideways at him. “Cold out?”

“Icy. I walked.” Distractedly, he looked at your rolled up sleeves. Your forearms were goose-bumped. “You’re cold too.”

“A little bit - a blast from the door,” you began. But he was shuffling an arm out of his coat, and then he draped it around you, pulling you close. You stiffened in surprise as he let out a heavy sigh and rested his head on yours.

Not knowing what else to do, you placed your hand on his knee and moulded into his frame. It reminded you of that first, long, shell-shocked train ride.“You left early.”

He didn’t respond to that. You sat in silence a long while.

“They’re happy,” he said at last, very softly. “They’re the kind of happy I didn’t use to believe existed.”

“I’m happy for them,” you said, equally quietly. “I…Sherlock, are you okay?”

“Why didn’t you come?” he asked, blowing your question off.

“I…” You took a deep breath. “Emigrated in a dire situation four years ago, and honestly, I wasn’t in the mood to be celebrating that anniversary. I’m sorry I didn’t come.” You tried for a light tone. “I know it wasn’t as amazing as it could have been without me there.”

“Nonsense.” Sherlock lifted his head but kept his arm around you. “You missed my excellent speech and exhibition of violin skills; I solved a murder, I paired Janine off with a young man, and I horrified nearly all the guests with my musical choice - thanks to you.”

You snorted into the back of your hand, determinedly ignoring your suddenly uplifted heart. He paired Janine off. “What did I miss?”

“I just told you.”

Shaking your head, you looked sideways at him. “Did you have a good time?”

“No.” He shook his head adamantly, but nevertheless, he seemed to have cheered up. “I left early to see what you were doing. That’s how uninteresting it was.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t tell John that.”

He sprung up, leaving you suddenly feeling cold. “He’s heard far worse from me. Come downstairs. I’ll tell you how I prevented a murder.”

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, a few mistakes ago
I was in your sights, you got me alone
You found me, you found me, you found me, e-e-e-e
I guess you didn't care and I guess I liked that

- I Knew You Were Trouble by Taylor Swift

Just one time, maybe the moment’s right

It’s only ten to eight when you stand in the kitchen, humming under your breath as you make another cup of hot chocolate, dodging nimbly around the microscope and the remnants of Sherlock’s experiment. When you remember him leaving the flat with those beakers in his hands, you have to bite back a smile.

It’s 8.05 and I see two headlights….

You hear the door open and stiffen reflexively, hand going to your top pocket where your pocket knife still resides. Then you hear John’s voice and relax.

Then stiffen again, using your senses. His - their - voices are slurred; there’s a strong scent of beer and their movements sound clumsy - they’re drunk.

“...no, listen, Sherlock, it’s a really simple game, it’s like this, you see-”

You place your spoon in the sink quietly.

“Yes, yes John, I’ll be back-” and then Sherlock slips into the kitchen, holding his beakers. He puts them in the sink with only a curt nod to you.

“Had a good boys’ night out, then?” you ask, taking a sip of hot chocolate. Cradling the drink between your palms, you look at him as he stands straight, hands behind his back - not obviously drunk, except for the way his eyes are glassy and he keeps swaying a little uncertainly.

“Very - hic - enjoyable, thank you,” he says gravely. “I have an international reputation.”

You put your drink down so you can rub froth away from your mouth - and perhaps smother a smile. He’s a gentlemanly drunk. How Sherlock-y.

“You do?”

“I…I can’t remember what it’s for.”

“Clown-for-hire,” you say, utterly serious.

Sherlock surprises you with the bark of laughter that escapes. “You’re funny.” You smile in response. “You’re…you’re…” Sherlock waves a hand vaguely. “Witty? Clever - yes, smart.”

Your smile dies. Oh no. Drunken compliments. You glance at the door behind him, wondering if you can sidestep and get out before he-

“Thank you.”

Your eyes dart back to his. “For what?”

When did he step closer? Uneasily, you swallowed.

“Thank you,” he repeats, then frowns. “For what…I don’t know…” He looks puzzled for a second, then nods confidently, face set with resolution. “Ah yes. For being you.”

Another step, and his arms were suddenly around you, and you blinked in surprise as he engulfed you in a bear hug. “Loyal - wonderful - Y/N,” he’s breathing into your hair, and you feel tears rise in your eyes at this display of affection. Gently, you disengage, pulling back and straightening your jumper. “Well, thank you for being you,” you say through a wavering voice. You flash him a tremulous smile, pat him on the arm, and slips past him into the lounge. John is mumbling to himself as he writes on a scrap of paper, tongue stuck out with concentration. He doesn’t even notice when you grab your jacket and go down the stairs.

****

You don’t mention it, in the aftermath of the boys’ arrest. But you know he remembers, because he’s Sherlock Holmes, and you’re Y/N, and he’ll remember something like that.

*

And I'm yours, but you're not mine

In the hectic rush of the Wedding^TM, and Janine, and your rush of feelings about all of that, and Sherlock getting high, Sherlock being banished and sent away to die, Sherlock returning after Moriarty, the little fucker, invaded every screen in the UK - you didn’t have much of a chance to customise your new room. You’re about to change that, now you have a moment of peace.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock’s deep voice pierces the quietude of 221B as you shake your damp hair over your shoulder and pull your hoodie over your head.

“Shopping!” you say brightly. “Accessory and ornament shopping, specifically.” Boots in hand, you pull them on and then glance up. “Wanna come?”

Never in a million years do you expect him to pause, nod, and then stand to shrug his coat around his shoulders.

You descend the stairs in a clatter of boots and emerge into the blustery, sunny autumn day. Sherlock walks in a straight line down the pavement, and you try to stay next to him - but it’s hard when there’s people everywhere. After an old woman practically buffets you into the road, you grab Sherlock’s forearm and roll your eyes when he looks at you. He smirks in response - and just for a moment, you allow yourself to imagine, this is just the start of something more.

*

You know I love my hometown

In the shop, you wander and browse, your attention caught by this or that. A bauble, a little plaque that says Death Is But The Next Great Adventure…a flag, a coaster that says Fucker, Use This For Your Fuckin’ Coffee…you smiled over all these things. Eventually you pick up a cushion embroidered with your flag, and walk across the shop to snag a Harry Potter Slytherin bedspread. Sherlock follows in your wake, bemusement etched onto his pale, angular face.

“Do you normally shop like this?”

“I’m customising my room.” You grab an owl - the purpose of it was to tie to the bottom of your blind and you’d fallen in love with its exasperated expression, it looked like John. You shoot a look over your shoulder. “I’m actually surprised you haven’t complained yet.”

Sherlock pouts. “You don’t think much of me.”

A sudden halt between you. Despite your filled hands, you bump your elbow against his gently.

“No, that’s not true,” you say softly, utterly sincere. His eyes shift away and he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I actually think less,” you add quickly, and turned on your heel, marching to the checkout as he laughs.

*

It must be exhausting always rooting for the antihero

Your room now looks like a mixture of your old flat and something else, something that’s the new you. The same goes for your clothes. You can’t pretend you’re the same innocent girl you were. You’ve killed, for God’s sake. You know how to handle a gun. You’ve stabbed, fought, broke bones, even bit someone in the upper arm. You’ve got blood on your hands…it’ll never go.

And yet for all that, you’re not entirely sorry for the change. Sometimes when you stand at your window watching the light play across the rooftops opposite, you murmur “All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.” You knew Sherlock heard you at least once, and probably one day he’ll question you about that, but at the time he was silent on the sofa behind you.

But as you lay on your bed and watched the candle you’d lit - something heavily scented of spices and cake, a little Christmassy, very homely - throw minute shadows across your dresser, you know that you’ll never be the girl you were again. And Sherlock will never be the man he was again.

But you changed together.

*

We need love, but all we want is danger

One habit you keep up is the walking. You forgot how good it was, how freeing to walk down a street unafraid of being recognised, snatched, tortured, killed.

You weren’t planning on going out for a walk on the coldest night in London. But your mind wouldn’t settle, songs and ideas and memories and fears and nightmares and hopes and goals bouncing around like buzzing flies. It spread like an itch, and when you feel ready to start pacing your tiny room, you make up your mind. You hurry into the main room, where Sherlock is tapping away at his phone, sprawled on the sofa. He doesn’t look up as you pocket your own phone where it lies on the table. You grab your coat, pull it on and zip it up, shove your feet into your boots, take your keys from the hook, glancing over at him - he’s still unaware of your existence, so you swing around, unlatching the door and you’re out, down the stairs and on the street within seconds.

You hadn’t anticipated that heady rush of freedom. You didn’t know you’d needed that - to go out, without him, without him knowing where or why - to be an adult and not needing to answer to anyone. Like how you used to be when you first arrived here. The sting of adrenaline takes away the sting of the cold, and by the time you realise your nose is red and frozen, you’re halfway down the street, humming a tune cheerfully.

The thoughts are quiet now. You plug in your headphones, play New Romantics and hum along as you stride quickly and at random.

*

Oh, 'cause it's gravity, oh, keeping you with me

You end up walking to Primrose Hill. You stand at the top, watching the landscape - cityscape? - until it blurs with your watering eyes. Hands shoved in your pockets, you just watch the people around you, watch the dogs that are few and far between.

When you walk back, you’re no longer mentally in London at all. You’re home, and the concrete pavement is actually paved with stone, and you can smell fresh pine and salt on the air. You stop outside the door of 221B and look at it for a little while, thinking.

Home? Home? Home?

Home is where the heart is.

And yet - your heart still belonged to you, because Sherlock didn’t want it.

What drivel are you thinking?

You’re twenty-five.

Oh, twenty-five years old - how were you to know?

Dancing With Hands Tied might be a classic favourite of yours - and ridiculously apt for this situation.

You’re not dependent on him for anything. Not anything he can’t give you.

But I love him. I do love him.

Well - that’s your problem. But you can still respect yourself, whatever comes.

Your hands ghost over the lettering, your breath a plume in the cold air. Would this ever feel like your home? Could London ever be the place you loved with all your heart, that you felt glad to come back to?

No. But you know what? You can dance through avalanches with Sherlock - and you have done for the past two years. And if your Headquarters is where he is, then that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

You fish for your keys with numb fingers. As you glance up, you realise belatedly that Sherlock is at the window, violin in hand, and must have seen you dithering.

Yet when you go into the flat and make yourself a cup of warm hot chocolate, he doesn’t comment, and you realise he won’t, as you look over at his unobtrusive curly head as he plucks the violin gently. Your heart swells with unruly affection.

This is what it is to co-exist.

This is what it is to love.

*

I'm reaching for you, terrified

It’s a sunny afternoon in October when he goes out, saying curtly he’ll be back later. Left to your own devices, you decide to make some gingerbread men. The kitchen is mercifully clear of experiments and quite spick and span, so you nip out to the shop, get your ingredients, come back and gets to baking.

It’s cloudy. Not like you care. You’ve got no plans to go out right now. Certain that you’re alone in the flat, you allow yourself to wonder what he’s up to - hmm, a case maybe…

You don’t feel hurt he didn’t invite you. Because, you know, you’re just flatmates now, and you’re not actually any kind of police official.

Like Sherlock cares.

Your phone is charging in your bedroom so you sing to fill the utter silence. Otherwise the only noise is your irregular clinking and thuds of baking, and the tick-tick of the clock in the lounge. (Mary gave you the clock - it has a harp in the centre and you love it to bits. Sherlock is less impressed. But it’s your, plural, flat now and he does think it’s handy to have a clock to point at when clients are taking a long time.)

These days I’m restless, work days are endless…

You sing loudly, full-volumed, spinning through the kitchen to grab a grater, chopping chocolate to melt, humming-

“Because you could be the one I love, and I could be the one you dream o-o-of…”

Utterly lost in siphoning the now-melted chocolate over the gingerbread men, you carry on singing to yourself - allowing yourself a wry smile at the temporary idea that it’s Sherlock you’re singing to.

A message in a bottle is all I can do, and now I’m standing here hoping it gets to you.

What would you write in a message in a bottle to Sherlock?

I love you…it’s awful, but it is what it is. Please don’t push me away because of it.

Sighing, you lick your thumb clean of chocolate. Daydreams were always nice while they lasted. But inevitably they always shattered - sometimes gently, like waking up from a warm sleep on a winter’s night. But mostly, they burst like a pale bubble tinged with rose-pink on the edges.

*

I'd write this in the sky

The song ends in your head and you start humming the opening bars of a next song.

I drive down different roads but they all lead back to you.

Half the tray done, you shove your hair behind your ear. “Not trying to fall in love but we did like children running,” you sing, quite loudly. “No one knows how much I miss you!”

At last, you step back from the completed tray of gingerbread men, your hands coated in chocolate, satisfied with your work. You’d take a couple down to Mrs Hudson - and save some for John and Mary…

“I wish I could fly-y-y…” You turn to wash your hands, and then jump back, gasping in shock. “Fucking hell!”

Sherlock’s leaning against the side of the door, holding a box, just looking at you with his head on one side. But there was something in his eyes. You blink, biting your lower lip as you glance down at your chocolate-coated fingers.

Oh god he’s going to laugh at you.

“How long have you been there?” you ask futilely, turning the tap on.

Sherlock comes into the room, setting down the box and laying his coat over a chair. “A few minutes. I didn’t know you sung.”

“I don’t.”

“Really? The evidence I have collected suggests the opposite.”

“I thought you were out!” You splash water on your cheeks to try and cool them.

Sherlock gives you an odd little smile. It’s crooked and very…fond? “Why should that make a difference?”

Well, now you were thrown. “Because I…I don’t know - I just - ugh - just shut up and eat this.” You shove a gingerbread man at him. He bites its head off with a crunch and a raised eyebrow, getting chocolate over his lower lip in the process.

“What’s that?” you ask with a barely-contained laugh, pointing at the box.

A swallow. “A collection of scalps and nails. For decomposition experiments. I think there’ll be room in the freezer for your biscuits.”

You look at him, raising your own eyebrow. “Sounds like a health and safety PR nightmare.”

And just like you’re laughing and all your embarrassment vanishes like the rest of the gingerbread man he promptly eats.

*

And it's fine to fake it 'til you make it…'Til you do, 'til it's true

Sherlock has a client the next day and John’s on the case with him. You retreat to your room and read, getting lost in a world until the words are dark shapes on a dark page. Your eyelids start to feel heavy and you yawn. When you look up you realise it’s dark. It’s been hours.

Wearily, you put your book aside, then lie down on the floor and flick on a song on your phone. You cross your hands on your chest, watching the orange streetlight above your window upside-down.

I’m unglued - thanks to you.

This is an utterly reflective mood you’re in.

“Like snow on the beach, weird but fucking beautiful,” you say, rather than sing. “Stars by the pocketful…”

A quiet knock on the door. “Y/N?”

“Come in.”

Sherlock opens the door enough to see your feet, then pushes it open more in alarm. When he sees your face, his own clears. He doesn’t switch the light on. You just look at each other, him backlit by the hall lamp, your with the orange shadows playing across your face - dancing in your eyes, and for a moment you feel like you’re in a church. A moment too waxen, too finely woven, to break.

Sherlock taps your socked foot with his own and the moment breaks softly, a pillowed fall into normalcy.

I searched ‘aurora borealis green’

“Indulging whims?”

“Yeah.”

A nod. “I’ve got something for you.”

A parcel. He makes a tossing motion, and you screw up your face. “Is it heavy?”

“A little. In hindsight-” He bends and gives it. “Here. John would be proud of me.”

“That’s nice, darling,” you joke, sitting up. “Why’d I have a gift anyway?”

“I got it when we went shopping before - I was going to wait until Christmas.”

“So why d’you change your mind?”

Sherlock crouches beside you. “Shall I take it back?”

“No. No,” you repeat as he reaches playfully for it. Smiling, you pull the paper off - and it unfurls into your hands, shimmering, iridescent, blue - green - gold - crimson - amber. Seaglass and coarse tan rope, a piece of craft right there in your palms.

You bite on your lower lip to hold back your gasp. “Oh, it’s beautiful - what is it?” You hold it up, watching it unravel. It was as long as your elbow-to-wrist. “Where did you get it from?”

“That shop we went to.”

“But - did you go back and-”

“No, I got it that day.”

“How? You tagged after me the whole time!”

“Did I, though?” His voice is smug. You roll your eyes. “Showoff. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Well - I thought it was required. Mary got you a home-warming present.”

Can this be a real thing? Can it?

“It’s not required at all,” you let your smile grow as you turned the trinket this way and that, admiring the play of the light. “Only really nice people do that.” You look up, but Sherlock’s not there.

“Sher - hey!”

He’s standing over your bedside table, flicking through your album. It had been one of the few things recovered from your flat before the other tenants moved in, and you knew John had looked through it before packing it into a box. He’d apologised to you. You hadn’t minded. But Sherlock-

“You’re a nosy git,” you tell him mildly, standing, still playing gently with the ornament. He’d sat on the edge of your bed, peering at the photos that caught his fancy. They were just of places, and people, and a few here and there of you. You hear him chuckle lowly at one that you suspects is of you flinging a rock into the marshland, teeth gritted as you shouted out a enemy’s name.

Then he goes still.

Uh oh.

“There’s one of me in here.”

“There’s actually several of you in there.”

“But I don’t remember this.” He slides the photo out to inspect it closer. You step up to see.

Uh fecking oh.

At some point during the heightened suspense of Moriarty’s game, you’d been coming down the stairs and fiddling with your phone, stopping when you heard raised voices. Peering around the corner, you’d seen Sherlock on the landing, collar raised, in profile, hair mussed and donned coat and scarf, hands waving as he tried to shout Lestrade down. You hadn’t realised you’d taken the picture when you tried to stop a video from playing loudly, and when you realised later on, you had to keep it. It was too utterly Sherlock.

Now you feel stupid.

“Sorry.”

“Why?” Sherlock puts the photo back in its place and slams the album shut. “I have you entirely memorised in my mind palace. You’re entitled to a secret picture of me.”

Snow On The Beach was playing again. It must be on repeat.

Flying in a dream, stars by the pocketful-

Sherlock finally seems to notice the song. “You really do like music.” He suddenly bows his head awkwardly. “Well. I won’t disturb you any longer. Later.” He makes to duck past you, but you grab his elbow as he steps past. “Wait, Sherlock-”

You wanting me - tonight seems impossible.

“Well?”

“Thank you,” you say - and without thinking, you reach up and kisses his cheek. He smells of chemistry acids and faded cologne and a little bit of shampoo. You ignore the fluttering in your belly. “You’re a good person, Sherlock.”

He clears his throat. “I…I…well.”

Snow on the beach, weird but fucking beautiful…

His eyes were so beautiful in the weird orange glow from outside. Your hand is still loosely around his arm as you stare up at him, suddenly unable to breathe.

“You’re a good person,” he says at last. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering.

I’m afraid to speak, afraid to jinx it.

“Woo-oo! Anyone home?”

You jump apart as if you’d been caught doing something illicit. Sherlock turns and stumbles out of your room, calling nonsense to Mrs Hudson.

Are we falling like snow on the beach - weird but so fucking beautiful.

You stare at the trinket in your hands for a second longer before breathlessly laughing and switching your light on viciously.

*

Flash forward and we’re taking on the world together

This dough required a really good, extended pummelling. You yanked the chair opposite Sherlock out with your hand and sat down with a sigh, rolling first one shoulder, then the other.

It was pouring rain outside. John was busy doing baby-preparation stuff. Sherlock was amusing himself by playing with blood samples. You were making a foccacia.

Everyone’s different.

Aside from a grunt when you’d first entered, Sherlock had acted as if you hadn’t existed. He looked a bit frazzled, and you decided to play songs inside your head rather than aloud. If he’d heard when you’d accidentally sung a few lines aloud softly - hold on, I’m gonna make it now, hold on, never turn back - he hadn’t reacted.

He still wasn’t reacting to you, intent on his microscope, but when you settled into your chair and knuckled the dough firmer, you felt his foot wind around your leg beneath the table. You smiled at your floury hands and carried on working in silence.

When the dough was finished, you slid it along the table, covered it and pulled out your phone. If you were unwilling to move away from the pressure of his leg around yours, well, whose business was that except hers?

“When are you getting your dog?”

You looked up, startled. “Sorry?”

“Your dog,” he enunciated, shooting you a sharp ice-blue glance. “You said you’d get a dog when we came back. Are you still planning on that?”

You tilted your head. “Hmm. I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. You put your chin in your hand and stared across the table at his curls.

“If I had a dog, you’d have to be responsible. No letting it out, no letting it escape. No experimentation. Nothing.”

Now Sherlock looked up. “I’m a sociopath, not a psychopath.”

“There are details, nuances that you’d have to commit to your brain palace,” you carried on. “What to feed it, what not to feed it - you’d never be allowed to shoot the wall when it’s in the room, or even in the flat, honestly.”

Sherlock put his slide away and sat up, meeting your gaze fully. “I wouldn’t. Details committed. Where’s the nearest dog shelter?”

“Well - Battersea - but-”

“Well, come on, let’s go!”

You tugged on his leg as he shifted to stand. “Sherlock, a dog is not an impulsive thing - I’m not getting one today.”

Sherlock pouted, eyes drifting to the pendant on your shirt. “You’re so boring.”

“But for whatever reason, you like me.” You sighed. “Do you really want a dog in the flat? And be honest.”

Sherlock looked you straight in the eyes. “Yes. I do.”

A long pause. “If it’s your dog.”

You smiled and stood, grabbing your bowl of dough as he cleared up his slides. “Well, I’ll think about it. Maybe we’ll go next week.”

*

I was screaming long live that look on your face

Three days later, you were buzzing with puppy-cipation. You combed your wet hair into some semblance of neatness and hurried into the lounge.

“C’mon curly-locks, it’s time to get a dog!”

Sherlock was in his armchair, texting rapidly. He held up a long finger. “One sec.” Then he sat bolt upright and stared at you. “Dog? Right now?”

“Yeah!” You practically bounced on the spot. “You coming?” You bit your lip, coat half on. “You…you haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

But a grin was slowly spreading across Sherlock’s face. You watched, enraptured and confused, as his eyes lit up and crinkled. He looked like a little boy. You smiled back, feeding off his enthusiasm.

His phone rang. He rolled his eyes and answered.

“No, Lestrade, I don’t care. No, I’m busy. Well - maybe later. What? No. You’re so infantile, Gregor.” He hung up, tossed his phone aside and grabbed his coat. “What are you waiting for?” he asked you as he pulled the door open-

Revealing John’s startled face as he held up a hand to knock.

“Hello, Sher-”

“No time, no time,” Sherlock announced, grabbing your hand and pushing you past John. “We’re off to get a dog.”

You would remember John’s priceless expression forever. Through choked laughs, you shouted up the stairs, “Don’t worry ‘bout it! And there’s cookies in the fridge!”

Then Sherlock hustled you through the door and was yelling for a taxi.

*

This is the golden age of something good and right and real

Two hours later, Sherlock was disgruntled.

You’d been vetted - he’d nearly failed the test, but you’d passed - and now you were looking for a dog. And you hadn’t found one you’d wanted with all your heart yet. Plenty you’d liked, pitied - you did want them all - but not that one.

“Why can’t you just pick one?” Sherlock whined, staring at a Golden Retriever that was sleeping in the back of its kennel.

“I can’t. It won’t work like that for me,” you tried to explain. “Just solve a case with Lestrade.”

“I left my phone at home!”

You rolled your eyes at his petulant scowl and tugged lightly on his scarf. “Behave.”

He narrowed his eyes, looking at your hand. “You don’t need a dog. You’ve got me.”

“You have a point.” Just as you were about to ask him to please just cooperate or go home, you heard a bark from the next aisle.

You knew. Somehow, you wanted to see that dog.

You dropped his scarf, spinning and hurrying to the corner. There, two kennels down - standing at the door.

Your mind supplied you with details quickly.

Adolescent male Alsation cross. Highly intelligent, confrontationally fearless, and absolutely stunning. And friendly.

The moment the dog spotted you, he gave a short wag of his tail and barked again.

That bark was like saying, Hey, we’ve met at last. Like, You and I, we’re a team.

You’d felt that moment before. To feel it again was…something.

Smiling, you went up to the gate. “Hi.” You read the tag. “Scott. Hey, you’re handsome.” Kneeling, you put your fingers through the mesh. He licked them, tail wagging, and you inspected him again.

Amber eyes, clear and that precise shade of orange-brown, like fire dipped in molten gold. He met your gaze and cocked his head. You didn’t realise your eyes had filled with tears until the dog whined with concern.

“Excuse me,” you heard Sherlock call. “We want this dog.”

Looking up, you tried to smile. “How - how did you know I-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I didn’t even have to deduct. It’s painfully obvious.” He knelt beside you, studying Scott, as a volunteer hurried up to them. In an undertone, deep voice near your ear.“Do you think we can teach him to bite Lestrade?”

“Sherlock!”

*

The pictures and the plans we made, yeah

Scott had been abandoned. For all that, he was a brave, obedient, wonderful dog - with the most goofy, loving interior. You had owned him for all of a week, and you were utterly smitten. Sherlock was too, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Scott slept on your bed - and when you’d had a nightmare, waking up sobbing, and Sherlock had slipped in to comfort you, you’d all slept together in a warm, cosy heap.

It was the promise you’d both made, that you’d both kept, you realised one evening, as you painted your nails. Your dog lay asleep at your feet, and your Sherlock laid on the couch, staring at the ceiling as you exchanged bits of meaningless conversation.

What about your promises, promises?

You used to wonder if Sherlock liked you, if he was even capable of that. But now you knew. He was and he did. For whatever reason, he really did like you, enough to even abstain from shooting the wall when Scott was in the flat.

And if you loved him, well, that was just your own problem.

*

I never want to see you walk away

Sherlock stared at his phone screen for a long while. Tit-for-tat was fair play, in his opinion. While you were out with Mary, doing whatever it was that women did alone, he stared at the picture he had.

You, in the kitchen doorway. Your hair was wild around your face like you’d been caught in a crosswind, and your eyes sparkled as you smiled at whatever drivel Mrs Hudson had been saying. One hip was leaning against the doorframe, your spare hand reaching up to adjust your burgundy rollneck. Her jeans were covered in floury handprints. He scrolled in to see the smear of green ink around your thumb.

By your side, standing, ears pricked forward and looking straight at the camera - Scott. His gaze was steady, with a hint of dangerous questioning as he looked the phone over suspiciously. His amber eyes blazed in the sun and he looked far older than his eight months.

Sherlock looked over his screen at the dog lying sleepily on the sunspot beneath the window. He wondered why Scott had reacted so intensely to the sound of your voice.

“We both fell for a girl with an interesting accent, didn’t we, boy?” he said. Scott lifted his head and wagged his tail cursorily. Sherlock smiled wryly. “Lucky for us she has the heart and patience to put up with us,” he murmured, clicking on his text feed.

*

This is how the world works

In his office, Mycroft smiled smugly. He’d known that two years of close proximity to his friendly neighbour-turned-friend would eventually affect his little brother. He smirked again and pressed the rewind button on the black-and-white, grainy camera footage.

Oh brother mine. You are just lucky you are not competing for the girl’s affections with the dog.

Chapter Text

Spinning like a girl in a brand new dress

We had this big wide city all to ourselves 

We blocked the noise with the sound of 'I need you'

And for the first time I had something to lose

- Holy Ground by Taylor Swift

When they found you, you were gagged and could only moan - angrily, desperately, painfully. It was Sherlock who gently pried the cloth out of your mouth, and it was Sherlock who stayed kneeling in front of you, checking you for injuries. He murmured them over his shoulder to John - who, she realised belatedly, wore a shock blanket and was pale as a ghost. “…black eye, bleeding lip, bruises on neck and left shoulder…”

You closed your eyes and let his voice wash over you. When his fingers ran across the back of your head, checking for lumps, you noticed his hands were shaking and looked up, mouth opening - trying to talk, but instead you retched at the phantom feel of the gag.

Sherlock’s hands dropped to your shoulders. “Don’t try to talk yet,” he said. “That sensation will wear off in a few minutes.” A momentary pause. “Are you okay?”

Tears formed in the backs of your eyes. You looked down. Never, ever, would you tell him how Eurus had mocked you for being in love with Sherlock. How the fear that he was going to die had made you realise as you lay in the dark, gagged and bounded, that you loved him so much. So now, with tears threatening to roll down your grimy cheeks, you met his gaze again, and just nodded once. His hands tightened briefly, and it struck you how much emotion there was on his face, and how unhidden it was.

After that, there was so much going on - helicopters, cars with sirens and ambulances and secret service vans, and so many people, doctors, trying to assess you and shining lights in your eyes, making you wince - you kept your eyes on Sherlock throughout. He looked so tired and…like he’d realised something, or done something.

When Mycroft’s agents came to take you ‘where you could rest’, you craned your head for him - but he’d vanished. Suddenly utterly exhausted, you slid into the back of the car whose door they held open and fell asleep on the ride back to London.

****

A luxury five-star hotel. A minibar filled with snacks. A digital clock that read 02.17. you, curled on the couch with several bars of chocolatey treats and a bottle of water. Scott, sleeping lightly on the rug beneath you. Mrs Hudson had got him out before the flat exploded, and you knew you’d be in the landlady’s debt forever more.

Bare footsteps padding across the room. Sherlock, entering from the adjoining door where he and John were sharing a double-bedded suite.

He helped himself to a Yorkie without a word, then sat on the other end of the couch, mirroring your position.

You didn’t know what to say. Not ‘did I wake you’, because you’d been here for hours. Not ‘how are you feeling’, because you didn’t think he could find a way to explain what he’d been through. In the end, you settled for just holding your granola bar aloft in a silent toast, and taking a tentative bite of it, softening the oats in your mouth.

Sherlock returned your toast, and bit a chunk out of his Yorkie. After he’d swallowed, he looked up.

“I read your report to Donovan.”

“Okay.” A nod. Good, you wouldn’t have to explain why you’d followed them, how you’d ended up beaten around and trussed like a chicken in a dungeon of some sort in Sherrinford.

“Did you read my report?”

No.

“I…meant to,” you offered.

He smiled thinly. “I can’t blame you for wanting to forget about it. It was nightmareish.” A shuddering breath. “I’m…I…I can’t express how glad I am that you’re alive.” He clenched his jaw. “I don’t know how to find the words…I’m sorry, I’m thankful, I…I…I love you.” He looked frustrated. “I just can’t say them.”

You closed your eyes against the pain that blossomed in your heart. “Oh Sherlock.” You reached your hand between you and he grabbed at it like a lifeline. For one long moment he stared at you, and you thought he was going to pull you close, really close, onto his lap and bridge that final distance.

He snatched a Twirl off your lap, and you bit back an outraged laugh and smacked his knuckles.

****

It was at some point in the aftermath of everything, when 221b was being repaired, and once again your possessions were entirely reduced to your phone with the contents of your laptop, the clothes you wore - with your pendant - and Scott; that you decided, you had a substantial bank account. You were going to take advantage of that, and go home for a while.

You needed to find your equilibrium. Little by little, being around Sherlock had eroded your identity, made your sense of you-ness crooked. When every waking moment was danger and death and adrenaline, when he was your North Star that you gravitated to like a compass.

You had nothing to pack, and sleeping on Molly’s floor - with Sherlock - wasn’t glamorous.

But how on earth did you broach that to Sherlock? Especially since he was barely around, here there and everywhere doing anything but staying put.

The buzzing in his head must have been loud…and you couldn’t blame him. But on the night before your journey, you knew you had to tell him.

Strange, how two weeks of growing apart had made you feel so needy, unwanted, and yet desperate for freedom.

You jumped up and hurried into Molly’s lounge the instant you heard him enter. “Sherlock, can I-”

“One minute,” he said, stabbing at his phone. “Mycroft’s a dickhead…”

“Sherlock, I-”

“Honestly, Y/N, have a little patience,” he tutted, not looking up.

You rolled your eyes and leaned a hip against the kitchen doorframe. “Fine…I’m waiting.”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Your hair was still wet from the shower. It dripped unpleasantly down your back, causing your t-shirt to stick. You pulled a hoodie over your shoulders, a new one…a sort of molten red that Molly had convinced you to buy.

Sherlock was now taking a call. You rolled your eyes, suddenly huffy, and stood abruptly from your perch on the sofa arm.

“I’m going to have a holiday,” you announced, and walked off.

“Good idea!” Sherlock called after you, just before he answered. “Oh, hello Anthea - I want Mycroft-”

 Shrugging, you went into Molly’s spare room to collect your sleeping bag. Scott was lying on it protectively. He looked up at you with those amber eyes, head cocked, and you smiled wanly, kneeling to pat him. “Guess it’s you and me, boy.”

That night, as you helped Molly dish out fish and chips for all of them - John and Rosie included - Molly nudged your side. “All prepared for tomorrow?”

“Oh - yep.” You nodded. “Gotta get up early, especially with the Wolf in tow. Good thing trains accept dogs these days.”

“Well, he’s such a well-behaved boy. Look how he is with Toby.”

“He acts like Toby’s respectful nephew,” you laughed, popping a chip in your mouth. “Here, Sherlock, that’s your portion.”

He took it from you distractedly, twisting to look up at you. “Do you want onion rings?”

“No.” A frown. “Thank you.”

“Rosie, don’t - John, watch out,” Molly called, just as Rosie grabbed the vinegared chips and stuck one in her mouth, pouting and whining at the sour taste. John pried it out of her grasp, shaking his head mildly.

“What trains?” Sherlock asked abruptly, just as you sat next to him.

“Sorry?”

“You’re taking a train tomorrow.”

“Well, I did say I was going on holiday,” you reminded him, biting into your burger.

He waved a chip dismissively. “I thought you meant ‘bugger off with all the policemen’.”

You couldn’t bite back your smile. “Yeah, well.”

“Where you going?” John asked, trying to stop Rosie from upending her drink.

“Home.”

“It’s not repaired yet,” Sherlock said, frowning, just as John nodded. “Very nice. Long journey, though.”

You could see the comprehension dawn on Sherlock’s face. “You mean your old home. You’re going to a different country.”

You exchanged a look with Molly and looked away, trying to stifle a laugh. “Yes, Sherlock. But not exactly the other side of the planet.” Two chips together. “I tried to tell you earlier, but you were busy.”

“Well, I didn’t know you were going to go gallivanting off to another country!”

“I’m only going for two weeks.”

“Two weeks!” Sherlock’s hands clenched on the table. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You caught a look between John and Molly and sighed, taking a sip of water. “I did and I am.” His face was still thunderous. Exasperated, you forced a smile. “I’m excited, you know…don’t shit on that. It’s been nearly five years. I never ever meant to be away that long.”

They all knew why that was. The reason was sitting in angry silence next to you.

His jaw was stiff and his eyes flashing. You felt a mixed surge of annoyance and pity. “I am coming back, curly-locks.”

John spluttered on his drink, and you tried to smirk at Sherlock, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes, instead reaching for his phone and stabbing viciously at the screen.

Molly sighed softly.

“Okay.” The atmosphere utterly ruined, you stood, grabbing a few chips from your plate. “Come on, Sherlock.”

He ignored you.

You plucked the phone from his grasp and put it in the centre of the table. “C’mon. I need to have a word with you.”

You stalked off, hearing the soft, “Better talk to her, mate,” from John, and the sharp scrape of his chair.

He followed you down the hall into the spare room where Scott was still sleeping. You fed the chips to your dog, one by one. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed.

“So you’re taking him.”

“Yes, Scott goes with me.” You winced at the steely note in your voice, and sighed. “Sorry. I’m kinda wound up.”

When you looked up, you noticed how wound up Sherlock looked too - like a spring pulled far too tight.

“I should have told you…I suppose…but anyway, it’s only two weeks. I made my mind up when I realised I’ve no luggage, a bit of money, and I’m just couchsurfing until Baker Street’s fixed.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. You huffed heavily and stood.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Not a plea or even a confession. A petulant statement.

You suddenly felt angry. “Tough shit. I’m going.”

He flashed you a dark glare. “I’ve heard.” He stood, going to the door. “Enjoy your visit home.” The words were spat out venomously.

You grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He looked ready to snarl an insult at you. You cut him off. “No. Don’t do that. Don’t make me angry - just tell me! Why are you so worked up about this?”

He yanked his arm away. “I. Am. Not. Worked. Up.”

“Oh, you really want me to deduct your emotional state? Really? Cause I won’t sugar-coat it!”

“I don’t have an emotional state!”

“I think you’ve got separation anxiety issues, scared something’ll happen to me or I’ll choose to stay, I think you’re annoyed that London isn’t my home, and I think - in fact, I know - you’re annoyed I haven’t asked you for permission or consulted you way before this.” A heavy breath. “Maybe you’re angry you’re not the centre of my universe, huh?”

Sherlock just glared at you, speechless.

“No denials?”

“I have better things to be doing than wasting my time on this!” He pulled the door open.

You rolled your eyes. “Sure. This is beneath me as well.”

Sherlock stormed into the kitchen, grabbed his phone from the table, and marched out of the flat.

Molly and John looked at you questioningly.

You groaned, grabbed your now cold chips, and tossed them in the bin. “Yeah, I may have made a bad situation even worse.”

***

“It’s not your fault,” John told you as he prepared to leave, an hour later. “Sherlock’s been acting protective of us all since the whole Eurus incident. He’ll come around.”

“I could probably have been nicer,” you said with a weary smile.

“Sherlock doesn’t require niceness. Sometimes I think he forgets that we’re functioning, intelligent, capable adults…except Rosie here.”

“Hey, Rosie’s wisest of all,” you joked, bopping the toddler on the nose lightly.

“I’ll talk to him,” John carried on. “Though I think you do a better job with that. You…you get on well with him, Y/N.”

You blinked. “Well. I’m his friend.”

John just smiled. “Enjoy your holiday. Goodnight.”

****

He didn’t return that night. The next morning, it felt exactly like a normal early walk with Scott; no luggage, nothing to suggest it was any different - except you had twenty minutes to walk to the station…and then hours ahead of you…to do absolutely nothing…

There were people around, so many people getting to work, and you kept your head down, avoiding eyelines. At home she wouldn’t have to worry about catching people’s eye…but right now…

With this mindset, it was actually Scott who saw Sherlock first, wagging his tail frantically.

You glanced up as he drew to a stop. He was unshaven and looked weary.

“Hey,” you said. “Can’t stop, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll walk you to the station.” He turned and fell into step with you.

“Where did you spend the night?”

“Mrs Hudson’s hotel couch. Not a five star one.”

“Yeah, I deduced that.”

A shared chuckle. He took a deep breath, flipping his collar over his face. “I…feel an apology may be required.”

The station was just down the next street. You let your steps shorten a little. “It’s okay.”

“I’m glad you’re going back to your - what was your phrase? True love landscape?”

“You remembered!”

“Don’t sound so pleased. I just forgot to delete it.” It was impossible to tell, but he was probably smiling beneath that collar.

“How did you even know when my train was or that I’d walk?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “I deducted it. Elementary.”

There was the station. You had five minutes. You came to a stop, biting your lip and looking up at Sherlock. He smiled - but it looked forced.

“I’m gonna pester you with texts the entire time, any spare second I get,” you decided impulsively.

Sherlock knelt to fuss over Scott. “Do what you must.”

“Is that a dare…cause I will.”

Sherlock stood with a last ruffle of your dog’s ears. “I don’t dare people. I can challenge you, if you prefer.”

You laughed, then. “Same thing, pedant.”

“I’m sorry?”

You gently stepped around Scott and flung your arms around him as tight as you could. He let out a little ‘oof’, but hugged you back gently. You swore he inhaled the scent of your bitter shampoo before he stepped back and patted your hand.

“Stay safe,” he said solemnly.

“Well, don’t you dare die while I’m away,” you said.

A smirk. “You have two minutes and fourteen seconds until your train leaves. But it will leave a minute early, so perhaps you’d better-”

“Damn you Holmes!” You turned and ran into the station, Scott loping at your side, laughing as you went.

****

He was right, the fecker. As you sat down and pulled out your headphones, ready for a long ride, you clicked on your texts and typed quickly.

The pestering starts now.

****

The holiday passed uneventfully, a long, beautiful, wonderful bath of bliss and peace, interpersed with constant texts to one S.H who didn’t seem to know how to let go. Then again, you were the one sending pictures and telling him anything and everything that popped into her mind.

I’m bored. SH.

Look at this view, I’m just sitting on a rock, staring at the waves…you’d be bored even if you were here.

I can sense the sentimentality. SH.

Where’s Scott? SH.

He’s digging in the sand like a puppy…evidence.

Good lord, he looks ridiculous. SH.

Sherlock.

Yes? SH.

I know who I’m texting. Stop signing it off.

You might momentarily forget. SH.

I couldn’t deprive you of that. SH.

You’re barely making sense!

Only two more days and then you’ll catch my fever. SH.

Interminable boredom?

There aren’t even walls to shoot at. SH.

****

One night he texts you late, when you’re exhausted from talking, walking, eating and generally living in a way that, for the first twenty-one years of your life, had been normal. When you squinted at your phone, you realised you fell asleep at your chair. Yawning, you checked the time - 1.07.

The text read simply, Y/N?

You called him before you could think about what you were doing.

He answered before the first ring finished. “Hello. Y/N.”

Post-nightmare.

“Hi.” Somehow, despite your sleepiness and the first time you’d ever confronted this situation without being able to just soothe him with your touch, you knew what to do.

“Did I tell you about how much I hate sand on my socks?” you asked conversationally, getting up.

“No.”

“Yeah, well, I do. Sorry for the ruckus…that door needs oiling. I fell asleep at the table. So tired. Hey, Scott - jump up. Now I’m just going to collapse on my bed cause pyjamas are for weaklings.”

A soft chuckle from the other end. You let your smile permeate your voice. “Pillows though, pillows are for everyone.”

You kept on talking until you too felt sleepy to continue, and Sherlock bid you goodnight with such a soft voice. When the call clicked off, you wondered if in another universe, he would’ve whispered “I love you” like that too.

****

Sherlock sees three things immediately different about you when you step off the train with Scott at your side, squinting against the bright sun. The first is how you’re carrying yourself, like you rediscovered your confidence. What was it you’d let slip on one sleepy late night call? My identity…yes, you look like the Y/N he first met, except far more sure of yourself. Scott at your side, you weave through the crowd, hair pulled off your face and that little smile playing around your lips, like when you’re holding a joke close to your chest. Your pendant sparkles brightly. After two weeks interacting with you virtually or in his mind palace, he suddenly can’t even move to let you know where he is, so he just stands there and waits, mind working too fast yet not at all.

Eventually you spot him and wave cheerily. Scott yanks you over, and Sherlock bends to greet him so he can try and solve the conundrum of what he’s actually supposed to do, to greet you. He picks up on your reinforced accent instantly, so jarringly thick that he blinks, taken aback, as you laughingly tell Scott off - and kneels too.

Your proximity is suddenly shocking, all perfume and bitter shampoo and bright, bright smile, your eyes glowing in the sunshine. “Curlylocks, don’t I get a hug?” you ask, but you’re still kneeling, and all Sherlock manages is a swallow of emotion as he takes you in. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed you.

“You get chips, and a hug from John by proxy.”

“Oh Sherlock, you’re so naive.” As he stands, you throw your arms around him, laughing. Where did all your good humour come from? You’ve been travelling for ages but you don’t look jaded, just happy. “I never thought I’d be glad to see London again…and I’m not,” you add, letting go, “but hey, I’m delighted to see you.”

“Enchanted,” he corrected. On your train ride back, you’d listened to a playlist together in real-time. He’d selected Enchanted.

You grin. “I was enchanted to meet you,” you actually sing as you walk out of the station. “Not as much as you’re constantly enchanted with me, though. C’mon, curlylocks. Where to?”

“John is renting a temporary flat near Baker Street.”

“That’s grand,” you nod. You fall into stride with him easily, and he suddenly realised just how much he missed you…

And just how glad he is that she’s back.

And he might not be able to tell you yet, with all the words at his disposal; maybe he can’t explain how you’re so utterly important to him-

But he’s getting there, and he knows, you’ll wait for him. Once, ages ago, he heard you sing a song about messages in a bottle, and he knows what he’d write on his. Thank you for everything. I love you.

He doesn’t know if you love him like that or if you ever could. You feel everything important, he knows; tenderness, you definitely love him in some way. You’ve told him that before.

He doesn’t know what kind of love.

But when he sees you smile at him without adding words, when he sees your eyes rake him hungrily like you’re checking he’s real, he decides it’s not absolutely impossible.

But you have time. Time, together.