Work Text:
Time, curious time
Gave me no compasses, gave me no signs
Were there clues I didn't see?
Something wrapped all of my past mistakes in barbed wire
Chains around my demons
Wool to brave the seasons
One single thread of gold tied me to you
Time, wondrous time
Gave me the blues and then purple-pink skies
And isn't it just so pretty to think
All along there was some invisible string
Tying you to me?
- invisible string by Taylor Swift
ONE
Sherlock Holmes was an unusual kind of bastard. I’d been around long enough to say to have the authority to make that kind of a statement, and mean it. Whenever we went anywhere together, I always had to do damage-control, extinguishing the buildings he (metaphorically) (that is, usually metaphorically) set on fire.
The first time I met him, I was on a train, reading a cosy murder-mystery with a hint of slowburn between the protagonist (amateur detective) and one of the prime suspects. Chatter; laughter; the whroom of the rails beneath us - it all faded into a white noise.
Then the imaginary snap of wood in a fireplace and the scent of too many lavender candles got rudely replaced by the train, as the man I was sitting next to suddenly plucked my battered book out of my hands.
He’d flipped the book, read the back, arched an eyebrow (all the while, I was bristling with a mix of outrage and wariness), told me who the murderer was, and handed it back to me with a quirk of his lips.
He was right, of course.
(It was the protagonist, the amateur detective.)
Once I knew Sherlock better, I’d wondered why he had even been on a train. As it turned out, he had been incognito. Unfortunately for him, he picked up a lifelong friend. Five years later, here I was, still reading murder-mysteries and still buzzing around him like an annoying little bee.
Well, if I was a bee, Sherlock was a wasp. His brother, Mycroft, was very obviously a drone.
*
The knock on the door came at ten past ten one rainy July evening. I hesitated before opening the door, obviously.
“It’s me,” came a voice from the other side. “Sherlock.”
I grinned, unlocking the door. “That’s not my name.” He rolled his eyes. “Hey, I’m glad to see you.” It’d been a while, now. Almost a year. Since he’d got that new flatmate - John Watson, I’d met him once, and he seemed really nice - I hadn’t seen much of Sherlock. Not in person, anyway. There’d been plenty of pictures of him on the news lately.
“No deerstalker?” I grinned a bit more as Sherlock stepped inside.
“Don’t make jokes,” he grumbled. “God, why does everyone always make such appalling jokes.”
“We can’t all be geniuses. Oh, no, you’re soaking. Did you walk from Baker Street?” I lived a good bit away, and Sherlock’s coat hung limply off him, dripping onto my doormat.
He ran a hand through his limp curls. “I didn’t come from Baker Street. I was meeting with Mycroft.”
“Is there an international crisis?” I checked the door was locked again - it wasn’t an especially nice area, where I lived - and then tried to work out what course of action to take first.
Sherlock laughed shortly. “Yes. Of course. When is it not.”
“I dunno. Maybe when it’s a domestic crisis. Which it is, right now.” I held out my hands. He blinked and furrowed his brow at me.
“Coat.”
“Oh.” He sighed, peeling it off. “Also, there’s a woman in my flat. In my bed, specifically. Going back there would currently be…uncomfortable.”
“A woman? What, like, Mrs Hudson?”
“No. Younger.”
“Have you got a girlfriend, Sherlock?”
“No,” he bit out. I took his coat into the little kitchen and spread it out along the backs of two chairs, wondering if it could possibly dry before he needed to leave. “No, Irene Adler is…most definitely not a girlfriend.”
“He that doth protest too much.” I smiled at his low growl. “Sorry, I’ll stop teasing you. Go get a towel.”
“I’m sorry?”
“For your hair. Aren’t you meant to be a genius or something? There’s towels in the airing cupboard. Door next to the bathroom one.”
I flicked the kettle on, and then reached for a stripy beige and navy-blue cup. It matched Sherlock’s two dressing-gowns, which was why I’d originally got it for him. In the reflection of the dark window behind the sink, I watched Sherlock come into the room, rubbing a towel over his head.
“You should really shut your curtains,” he remarked.
“Why? I like the dark. Seeing the street-lights. Cars. Whatever. And it saves me having to open them in the morning.”
“Reduces the risk of snipers.”
I snorted. “I’m a little nobody, Sherlock; no one wants to kill me. Not with a sniper gun, anyway. Maybe there’s a few lads out there who want to strangle me for cheating on darts’ night, down the pub, but they’re my friends.”
I turned to face him, leaning back against the counter. Sherlock was smirking. “How did you cheat at darts?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Fair. I’m staying the night, by the way. The Woman will probably be gone in the morning.”
“Whoever that woman is, you don’t seem to like her much.”
Sherlock rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. “She is…not to my taste as companions go.”
The kettle clicked off, steam fogging up the little metallic base. I poured two cups of tea - black for him, sweet and milky for me. “So you’re famous, these days.”
“Hmmph. Do you read the blog?”
“Blog?”
“Oh, good, you don’t. Finally, someone doesn’t. Thank you.”
“Oh, John’s blog?” I grinned cheekily. “I thought you meant someone else’s one. Yeah, I do read that. He’s got a way with words.”
“He has a talent for choosing terrible titles,” Sherlock grumbled, following me back into the lounge. The logo of my TV company danced, multi-coloured, across the screen in its paused mode. Sherlock settled down, pulling an extra cushion behind him; I went back to the airing-cupboard to get another blanket. This one was old, fleecy and green and unbearably soft. I threw it over Sherlock’s legs, unfurling it as I sat down too, pulling it across my knees.
“Do you mind being famous?” I asked curiously, cradling my tea between my hands. “You always look absolutely furious in the paps’ photos.”
“Who doesn’t,” Sherlock muttered. “I have more cases. Though few of them are interesting. Being busy keeps me from being high, so I suppose that’s good.”
“Yeah, I’d say so.” I’d been there to watch Sherlock careering through a relapse, shortly before he moved into Baker Street. It hadn’t been pretty.
Sherlock was watching me think, steam spiralling past his weird-shaped nose. “Although relapse is always an imminent thing for me.”
“Oh,” I said, a bit helplessly. “I’m sorry.”
“Why? You don’t inject me with the lethal fluids.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Anyway! What were you watching?”
I tilted my head with a wry smile. “Murder-mysteries. Poirot. I have a crush on Captain Hastings.”
Sherlock’s mouth opened. Shut. Then he nodded. “Play it. I don’t mind.”
“If you’re sure. Are you okay, by the way?”
“Sorry?”
I hesitated. “Well, I meant are you still frozen, but…Are you okay, full-stop? I read that stuff about, you know, the court case, and Moriarty…”
“I’m aware. You texted me.”
“Well, now I’m wondering if I should have done a bit more. Been a bit more helpful. Are you okay?”
Sherlock sighed. “’Okay’ is an ambiguous term. I am here, drinking tea, alive. That is ‘okay’ for me. I am ‘okay’, right now.”
“Alright.” I reached for the remote. “If you’re sure. I don’t mind talking.”
“I don’t need to talk.”
I smiled at the TV. “Thought not.” You wouldn’t be Sherlock Holmes if you went in for mushy feelings.
Sherlock didn’t speak much as the film played. He got up once to use the toilet and return his mug to the kitchen. When he sat down again, he was much closer to me. I was curled up against the sofa arm, legs pulled beneath me. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, then stretched his feet out and stuck his head on my lap, rearranging the blanket so that it somehow covered me, and all of him, without suffocating his face.
I raised my eyebrow at him. The effect was probably lost, since I was looking down. “Hey.”
His lips quirked in that brief, typical little acknowledgement of amusement. “Hello. I am tired, Y/N. In the past few days, I have been injected with an unknown, somewhat lethal fluid, held at gunpoint, punched by my best friend - at my own behest, admittedly - been attacked by a riding crop wielded by a woman otherwise naked, except she was wearing my coat - The same woman now occupying my flat - and dealt with my brother, the ridiculous journalists and photographers, and memorised a new type of ash.”
I fast-forwarded through all the very ‘!!!’ things he’d said, and nodded. “So you’re tired, then.”
Another quirk. “Yes.”
“Do you want me to turn the TV off? I can just read. Or like, if you need space to sleep…”
“No, no.” Sherlock shifted slightly, and closed his eyes. “Watch your appalling movie. Captain Hastings is an utterly boring man, and the plot is laughably-”
“Shh, I don’t want it spoiled-”
“You’ve already read the book-”
“Yeah, but they butcher the plot so much that it could well be a different outcome.”
A third quirk. “True. I reserve the right to say ‘I knew all along’ at the end.”
“You always know,” I said fondly, and pressed PLAY.
Sherlock’s head was a comfortable warm weight on my legs. It reminded me of my grandmother’s cat - a huge ginger tom; he’d always chosen to sit on my lap on cold evenings. It had been a mutually enjoyed activity. He’d purr whenever I stroked him, slow-blinking up at me with those beautiful amber eyes.
Without thinking, my hand shifted from the sofa arm and lay on Sherlock’s head.
When my fingers met slightly damp curls instead of silky ginger fur, I blinked. Looked down, opening my mouth to apologize - but Sherlock’s eyes were shut, and his expression was peaceful. Slowly, I carded my fingers through his hair, fluffing it up lightly.
“Mm,” he said, wriggling slightly. “That feels nice.”
I smiled to myself, running my hand through his hair slowly, again and again. It was quite therapeutic, actually. I’d always had an obsessive need to fiddle with things when I was sitting down; it was why so many sofa blankets ended up frayed at the edges.
The film ended. The next one on the DVD started. I glanced over at the clock behind the front door. Nearly midnight. Well, I wasn’t tired, and Sherlock was weighing me down, anyway. It was Friday. I didn’t need to be up early tomorrow.
Before I looked back at the TV, my gaze flicked down to Sherlock, my fingers still lightly playing with his now dry, and incredibly mussed, hair. His eyes were open, surprisingly, fixed on my face with a soft, sleepy expression.
I smiled at him. “I’m surprised you’re not purring,” I teased, voice quiet, before I turned the volume down a bit.
****
TWO
Don’t ask me how I broke my wrist. It’s a long story involving pizza pockets in the frozen aisle of Tesco, a mad rush, a slippery floor, and a pen tucked behind my ear that I tried to grab when I felt it slipping out. Anyway, I broke my right wrist, and it wasn’t until the next morning, when I was trying to get ready for work, that I realised what a huge flipping problem I had.
Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t get time off work, because that week was all just meetings; no admin required. A young school-work-experience intern had been assigned to me, to basically be my PA. I wondered, glumly, if they’d mind having to type up all my shitty memos.
There was a knock on my door. I put the hairbrush down gratefully and went to answer it, thereupon stumbling across a brand new problem. The key was on the righthand side. Because of how the wall, and my coat-hooks, were set, opening it with my left hand was a complete hassle.
I groaned, trying not to bump my arm into anything while I clumsily manoeuvred my left arm around. The motor-skills of my left fingers were basically nil. “Sorry!” I called through the door. “Having a bit of trouble!”
“I usually find turning the key to be helpful,” a crisp voice replied.
I rolled my eyes. “Idiot.” My momentary outrage fuelled me into opening the door. I stepped back, letting the sunlight in. Sherlock’s mouth was open, halfway through formulating something glib. Then his eyes widened.
“You’ve sprained - no, broken - your wrist. How? When did that happen? Why didn’t you tell me? Good God, how are you even functioning?”
“Wow, charming. It was last night.”
“What happened?” he repeated, squinting at the sling like it held all the secrets to the universe.
“Please don’t deduce it. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
He gave a little smirk. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” His gaze travelled slowly over me, taking in my slightly dishevelled clothes and my majorly dishevelled hair.
“You’re going to work?”
“Yeah.” I groaned. “Well, if I can make my hair look presentable.”
“Are you on painkillers?”
I blinked at the non sequitur. Sherlock stepped in, shutting the door behind him. “I mean, I’ve got them, yeah. It hurts pretty badly whenever I knock it on anything.”
“Clumsy oaf,” Sherlock said, with a hint of affection.
“I’m not an oaf.”
“I beg your pardon. Clumsy pixie.”
I laughed at that. Then I noticed he’d put his hand lightly on my left elbow, steering me into my bedroom.
“What are we doing here?”
“Sit.” He pointed at the small stool in front of my desk, where I had propped a mirror.
“...Oh-kay.” I watched his hand come over my shoulder, snatching up my abandoned hairbrush. In three deft movements, he’d achieved what it would have taken me fifteen minutes, and a whole lot of cussing, to achieve; brushing my hair out neatly.
I met his gaze in the mirror. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem.”
“What are you doing here? Do you need something?”
He flapped his hand. “I wanted gingernuts. Irrelevant.”
“Gingernuts?”
“Yes, you always keep a stock of them on hand. I was passing by. Well, I wasn’t really. On the other side of town. But I really wanted some.”
“They sell ginger biscuits in pretty much each and every of the thousands of shops in London, Sherlock.”
He smiled slightly, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “They aren’t artisanly stale and tasting of nutmeg, though. The way I like them to be. Now-” He snapped to business, fixing my gaze in the glass with a laser-sharp focus. “What style?”
“Sorry?”
“Hairstyle! Obviously. What do you want? Don’t just say a braid, that’s boring.”
“I…I’m rushing now, Sherlock. If - if you want to do my hair, just…a braid, please.”
He sighed. “Boring.” Regardless, his hands were sweeping through my hair, separating it, pulling it back into three neat sections, far more quickly than I could ever hope to achieve.
“The pizza pockets weren’t worth it,” he added casually.
I groaned. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s embarrassing. It’s so embarrassing. At least if you broke a bone, it’d be, like, you had vanquished some fearsome gun-toting madman archenemy.”
He laughed. “I have broken a bone once. Not telling you how. It was far more embarrassing than your mishap.”
“Oh. Now my curiosity is piqued. Will you tell me?” I tried to bat my eyelashes. Sherlock was hyperfocused on plaiting my hair, so he didn’t notice. “Please?”
“No.”
“Aww.”
“I need a ribbon.”
I hesitated. “There should be some on the edge of the bathroom sink.”
Sherlock sighed. “Do. Not. Move.”
He straightened, going to the bathroom. I waited, trying to stay very still. It was good for my wrist, anyway.
He came back. Tied off the braid. Put a hand on my shoulder. “There you go. Take a cab to work, it’ll be faster. I’ll take it as well and then carry on. I need to go to Scotland Yard.”
He went out of the room while I stood up. When I emerged, he was crunching on gingernuts and holding out my coat.
*
He was there the next morning, ten minutes earlier than he’d been, the day before.
“Hey,” I said. I’d worked out how to open the door now. Sherlock pushed past me. “Hairbrush,” he said perfunctorily.
My mouth slowly opened, then closed. “Have you come all the way here to do my hair?” I demanded.
“Yes,” he said, like this should be obvious. “Come on.”
This time he didn’t ask me what style I wanted. I watched in the mirror, half-aghast and half-amused, as he swept up my hair into the kind of hairstyle that I’d never normally waste time on. How he knew to do it, I have no idea. Why he wanted to do it, I don’t know, either. He smirked to himself when he stood back, knowing he’d done a good job.
We shared a cab again. Before I slid out, Sherlock turned his head to me, fingers steepled under his chin. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he called. “I’ll be earlier, so be prepared, won’t you? I’ve got a more elaborate style.”
I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. “Oh, Sherlock.” I shut the door.
*
So that was the way we continued, for seven days. One morning he put so many pins in my hair, I wondered how the hell I’d get them all out. I’d either have to shower, and run the risk of one going down the drain, or sleep with them poking into my head. Or so I thought, until Sherlock turned up that evening with takeaway, brushing my hair out neatly before he let me eat the pizza he’d brought (“I would have brought Chinese, but I couldn’t bear the agony of watching you trying to use a fork with your left hand.”)
On the eighth day, he was a whirlwind of energy, biting out curt responses, tapping his fingers impatiently on the middle seat of the cab. A case. On the ninth day, he arrived with John in tow, who looked utterly bewildered when he saw me.
“Oh - hey, John,” I said sheepishly.
“You’ve met,” Sherlock said impatiently. “No need for pleasantries. Y/N, bedroom, now. I’m in a rush.”
John’s eyes darted between us, mouth agape. I started to explain, but Sherlock put his hand on my back, propelling me into my room.
“Hair-dryer!Where’s your hair-dryer?” Sherlock tutted. “Honestly, Y/N, your hair is sopping wet!”
“Well, I couldn’t tie it back successfully when I showered, could I?”
He launched himself out to retrieve my hair-dryer. I heard John: “Mate - what’s going on - I thought this was Mrs Madison’s house - Why are you-”
“Shush, John, no time.” Then he was back.
“So…big case?” I ventured as he plugged the hair-dryer in.
“Yes. Serial killer with a fetish for livers. Sit straight.”
“...Ewww.” My response was lost as he switched the hair-dryer on.
That had to be a record-breaker. My hair was dry, and in a pristine updo, within ten minutes. Sherlock urged me back into the lounge, where John was scratching his head and looking sceptical. Then the three of us were in a taxi. John kept giving me sideways glances. After a while, he began giving Sherlock very, very sly little looks.
Sherlock was oblivious.
****
THREE
Greg Lestrade was one of my best friends in the whole universe. We’d met through Sherlock, obviously. After that, we kept meeting. We both had a love for weird shit, and terrible dad jokes. Also, we liked sharing Sherlock anecdotes.
I liked Sally Donovan, too. She had a sharp tongue, but we were mutually kind to one another, and I think she thought that if someone normal like me could actually befriend Sherlock, he couldn’t be all that bad.
Anyway, it was Sunday afternoon. The streets were sun-lit, dappled shadows playing through the roadside trees. People were mowing the lawns outside their suburban houses.
My phone buzzed, and I reached for it, flexing my right wrist gleefully. It had healed perfectly. Being able to brush my own hair properly again was a true luxury, the kind that they don’t talk about.
Need your help. Baker Street. SH.
Sorry, Sherlock. I’m busy. I’m on a bus. Can it wait?
No. SH.
It’ll have to. I’m really sorry. I’ve arranged to meet Greg. What is it?
Who’s Greg? SH.
You should know. You introduced us.
I don’t know any Gregs. SH.
Greg Lestrade.
Oh. Him. Why are you meeting him? SH.
Because he’s my friend. What did you want me for?
It doesn’t matter. SH.
Oh dear. He was definitely sulking. I could feel the pout even through the pixels of my phone screen.
A minute later:
Enjoy your date with Gavin. SH.
I blinked. Why on earth would he think it was a date? I was going to correct him, but then I realised I’d arrived at my stop.
After separating from his wife, Greg had moved into a top-storey flat in a converted set of little Victorian houses. It was nice. He’d opened the front window, and it smelt of fresh paint and warm cookies. They were premade from frozen dough, but I appreciated the effort.
He appreciated my effort. “It’s been driving me nuts,” he groaned, scrubbing a hand over his head. “Look at it, the little bastard. Wants to beat me. I’m a DI for Scotland Yard, but it’s an Ikea bookshelf that beats me. Donovan was laughing her head off.”
I swallowed the last bite of my cookie. “Well, it’s not beating me. Where’s your screwdrivers?”
He showed me. I read through the instructions’ leaflet a few times, narrowed my eyes at the flatpack lying in a mess on his floor, and got to work, Greg kneeling opposite me, holding a piece steady while I stuck little pegs in the sides.
My phone buzzed. It was lying on the floor next to me, playing music, so I glanced down.
Molly can do the job better, anyway. SH.
“Bad news?” Greg asked, seeing my face.
“Just Sherlock trying to…be petty, I suppose.” I banged a peg in with unnecessary violence and then felt a bit better. “You know what he’s like, he wants everyone on demand, at his beck and call.”
“God, yeah, doesn’t he just.” Greg chuckled.
Buzz.
Y/N. SH.
I ignored it.
Buzz.
Stop making out with Gaylord. SH.
We put two sides of the bookshelf together.
Buzz.
He clearly isn’t good husband material. SH.
I took a deep breath, now immensely offended on Greg’s behalf.
“Being out of line, is he?” Greg asked sympathetically.
“Mm.” I searched Spotify for a good song, and pressed on Raise Your Glass. “Let’s get the party started, Greg.”
“Right in all the wrong ways?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
I grinned back. “Why so serious?”
“We’ll never be anything but dirty nitty-gritty little freaks.”
“Damn right.”
The bookshelf was mostly assembled, and we were halfway through Fucking Perfect, when there was a knock on the door. Which, by the way, was not the ‘exterior’ front door.
“Can I answer it?” I asked. “I think it’ll be Sherlock.”
Greg sighed. “Be my guest. I just need a loo break.” We stood up, surveying the haphazard shelf. “We’re gonna beat you,” he said solemnly.
I pulled the door open. As expected, Sherlock was standing there, hands tucked into his coat pockets, expression annoyed.
“Sherlock,” I said.
“Y/N.” He was surveying me critically.
“You were being difficult.”
“Me? You were ignoring my texts!”
I sighed. “I’m busy.”
Sherlock nodded. “Hanging out with Gerry, yes.” He stepped in past me, much to my building annoyance.
Greg came back into the lounge. “Hey, Sherlock.”
“A bookshelf.” Sherlock’s lip curled. “Building a bookshelf? That’s all?”
“Well, what did you think we were doing?” Greg asked, looking puzzled. I widened my eyes at Sherlock threateningly. Don’t you fucking dare, Sherlock. Be. Nice.
Sherlock looked at me, then away. He suddenly resembled a penitent little child. “I’m…sorry,” he mumbled to my collarbone.
Behind him, Greg was openly gaping in bafflement.
“Yeah, you probably should be.” I relented when Sherlock peeked up through his unruly curls at me. “Greg, can I offer him a cookie?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Do you want a cookie?”
“No. But thank you.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Would…you like some help?”
Is this actually Sherlock? Greg mouthed at me.
I smiled at both of them. “You’ve arrived at the perfect moment, Sherlock. We can’t finish it. The instructions are…it’s like reading another language. Can you help us?”
Sherlock practically puffed up like a porcupine. “Well,” he drawled, “since you asked so nicely…”
Greg rubbed his nose, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, thanks, mate. It was….Yeah. Getting really difficult. Yeah.” He grabbed a cookie and stuffed it in his mouth, trying to subdue his giggles.
Sherlock knelt, peering at the open instructions. He peered a bit more, brow scrunching up. Then he grabbed it up, rifling frantically through the booklet, looking wildly back and forth between the constructed thing and the terrible designs on the paper.
“This is…”
“It’s Ikea.”
“This is appalling.”
“See my above comment.”
“Even John could do better than this.”
“Ooh, burn.” I leant back against the counter alongside Greg, picking up my own second cookie. “It’s like cracking a code.”
Sherlock flashed a sharp glance up at us. “Don’t be so annoying. It’s distracting me.”
“Annoying?” Greg and I looked at each other. “How?”
Sherlock mimed us stepping away from each other. “Be a bit professional.”
“Says the man who’s been bested by Ikea instructions.” I smiled at him. He rolled his eyes.
I went to the bathroom myself, after a few minutes. Once the cistern had stopped bubbling as it refilled, and I was washing my hands at the sink, I heard Greg’s voice.
“You’re being a brat.”
“...no, I’m not.”
“You’re being a jealous, cowardly brat.”
There wasn’t a reply. I stepped back out, chewing my lip. Sherlock was glaring savagely at the bookshelf. Greg was rolling a glass of water between his palms.
I knelt by Sherlock. “I think this goes here.”
“You’re right.”
I preened.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Sherlock added with a faint smirk, bumping his shoulder against mine as he reached for the screwdriver. “Someone has to be right occasionally, if it isn’t me. But it’s a rare happening.”
****
FOUR
It was a quiet Friday in September when Sherlock turned up at my flat.
“Good evening,” I said cheerfully, letting him in. “You stink of cologne, by the way.”
“Yes, I didn’t think it was a good idea, but John always sprays it on himself, so…” Sherlock seemed distracted, looking around. “Have you had dinner yet?”
“Nope. I only just got home. Do you want takeaway?”
“No.” Sherlock took off towards my bedroom. I hurried after him. In the three milliseconds that it took me to arrive, he’d somehow located the light-switch and opened my wardrobe. I blinked, watching as he clinked through my hangers.
“Er…I don’t think any of that’s in your size.”
“Pfft, not funny.” Sherlock pushed past yet another oversized sweater. “For God’s sake, girl, don’t you have anything fancy in here?”
“Define fancy.” I grinned. “Maybe my tatty hoodies are the very definition of chic in some parallel universe.”
“John is a catwalk model then,” Sherlock shot back. He hesitated, hand touching a pale gold dress I’d almost forgotten about. “No, too much,” he decided aloud, and carried on rifling through my clothes.
I sat on the end of the bed. “Anyway, what are you doing?”
“Aha.” Sherlock pulled out a dark purple dress. It gathered up at the waist, falling out into a pleated skirt. It was pretty, but I’d never especially had a chance to wear it. Sherlock held it up, surveying it, before throwing it down on the bed beside me.
“Sherlock, I want some answers.”
“This,” he hummed, now extracting a pale cream cardigan. “And…” His hand strayed toward my underwear drawer.
I stood up, crossing my arms. “Stop right there, Holmes.”
He sighed and dropped his arm, turning to me. “Fine, you can choose that, I suppose. Don’t wear heels, you’re too much of a liability in them. You have five minutes. I will do your hair.”
“We’re…going out?”
“Obviously.”
“For…a case?”
“No. Dinner.”
*
It was the sort of posh restaurant that people like me really didn’t belong in. Sherlock, with his posh clothes and snooty weird-shaped nose, fitted right in. But even with my sleek hairdo and semi-fancy clothes, I still felt like an interloper.
I pushed my napkin around uneasily. “I feel like an imposter.”
“They serve chips.”
There was a tiny Yankee candle between us. I resisted the urge to set my napkin on fire. “Do they call them that, though?”
“Perhaps they call them thinly-sliced-oil-fried-posh-potatoes,” Sherlock reeled off, rapid-fire.
I laughed. He smirked. A geeky young waiter in a baggy tux arrived with a bottle of wine and poured my glass first. He turned to Sherlock, and gasped, and nearly dropped the bottle.
I reached up, grabbing the base of the bottle before he poured it all over Sherlock’s lap.
“Oh no!” The boy’s ears reddened. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. Sir. Er - Sir - Sherlock Holmes?”
Sherlock looked up, arching a scathing eyebrow. I could see the verbal flaying, right on the edge of his tongue.
“Sherlock.” His eyes snapped to me. “Don’t.” The boy was looking at me now, too, mortified. “It’s okay,” I added. “He’s just a bit of an arsehole sometimes. He is clever, though.”
Sherlock pressed his lips together. “Thank you, Y/N, for your glowing commendation.”
With shaking hands, the boy poured Sherlock’s drink. “I’m…a huge admirer,” he stuttered.
“Of course you are. Read the tabloids, do you?”
“No, Sherlock.” They both looked at me again.
“No, I…I read your blog.”
“Not mine. It’s John’s.”
“No…the…Science of Deduction? The ashes?” the boy offered.
Sherlock pulled a mildly impressed face. Encouraged, the boy rushed on. “I went round all my friends, all the people I knew who smoked, and tried to identify their cigarettes using your methods.”
“And?”
“Well, it worked, mostly, sir. I need to practise, though.”
Sherlock’s face screwed up into a reluctant smile. “Practise makes perfect. Except for those who are born exceptional. Or for those who are simply born a failure; they’ll never be perfect, no matter how much they practise.”
“It’s too long for him to print on a t-shirt, Sherlock.”
Sherlock snorted. “Fine. How about this.” He glanced up at the starstruck waiter. “Not bad.”
The boy blushed crimson and practically skipped off.
*
The food was very, very good. Sherlock was…surprisingly nice. He actually asked me questions about my current obsession, which was The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins. And he pretended not to know what happened - or maybe he didn’t. The Moonstone had a good plot twist, after all; and someone like Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t necessarily see it coming.
At the end of dessert, when I was thankful that my dress didn’t have any kind of corset, and Sherlock had undone his top shirt button and looked like he was actually succumbing to digestion for once, he cleared his throat.
“Thank you.”
“Oh. For what? You’re welcome, anyway.”
“Just…” Sherlock chewed the inside of his mouth. “Thank you.”
He leaned forward, picking up the salt-shaker. He glanced around; there was a young couple smiling at each other at the nearest table, but no one else was around. “Watch this.” He ground a bit of salt onto the candle. The flame flickered, then turned blue-tinged at the edges. I sucked in a breath, watching the green-blue glow.
“Oh, that’s gorgeous.”
I looked up, smiling, and met his eyes over the little flame.
“Science,” he said quietly.
****
FIVE
I got flu in October. Of course. Being hale and healthy was all wonderful until you weren’t. Plus, it was my coworker who went to some kind of rowdy hen-night and then gave it to me. I tried not to be too begrudging.
The first day, I managed to function. The second day I was a barely human wreck. The third day I mostly stayed in bed. The fourth day I wanted to die.
Can you give me a cool epitaph if I don’t make it, please?
I’m coming over. SH.
I winced. Then winced again, because wincing made my sinuses hurt. Not a very good idea, Sherlock.
On my way. SH.
I’ll use the key you keep under your doormat. SH.
I thought I should probably get up and try to make myself look a bit presentable. Wash my face. Brush my hair. Probably I’d just die on the toilet, and then Sherlock would really struggle to come up with a cool epitaph for me.
Sherlock took quite a long time, for him. I half-assumed he’d just found a case or something more entertaining. I was nearly asleep when I heard the door opening.
Sherlock came straight to my bedroom doorway, just as I was struggling to sit up. He raised an eyebrow as he looked at me. “You’re a disaster.”
“I know,” I moaned. “Internally, as well.” Then I had to pause to hack my lungs out. After that, I noticed the two carrier bags dangling from Sherlock’s hands. My throat was too itchy to speak, so I just sort of flapped my hand at them.
“Ah, yes.” Sherlock stepped in, putting them on my bed. “Supplies.” He took a box of Thorntons’ chocolate from the first bag; my stomach rumbled rebelliously. “Wasn’t sure which flavour box you’d want. Ill people have different tastes.” A second box landed on top of the first, followed by a third. Then there was a box of Lindt, followed by Black Magic, followed by Dairy Milk.
I stared at the six boxes of chocolate at the end of my bed, trying to work out what hallucination I was experiencing now.
Sherlock kept talking. “Your medicine supply is utterly appalling, so I brought this - And this is supposed to be good as well. John recommended this. My parents always gave me this - and this - and Mrs Hudson thought this would be good - Molly swore by these tablets; and the man in the chemist thought this should do the trick, and then I saw these in the supermarket…”
I counted. “Fifteen boxes of medicine?” I croaked.
“By the sounds of it, you’re going to need all of them. And now…” Like a conjurer, Sherlock shoved his arm to the bottom of the first bag, whipping out... “I thought you might need entertainment - once you start getting better - so…”
It was a slingshot.
“And in here…” He turned to the second bag. “A book - cheap romance, terrible for the mind, possibly good for the soul, if Mrs Hudson is to be believed - and soup - and more soup - another soup - fourth flavour of soup, it has a food award of some sort. Bread. Soap? Don’t even remember getting that. Must be relevant somehow. And…my Cluedo set.” He flattened both bags and smiled triumphantly at me, spreading his hands.
I blinked slowly at him. “’M ill,” I grumbled. “Congrats. I think I’m delirious.”
“I’ll…” Sherlock looked at the haphazard pile of items on my bed. “I’ll pack this away and…heat you up some soup. Any preference of flavour?”
“No, I can’t even taste anything.”
“I’ll see which has the most calories, then. Calories are important, or so John says.”
“Can you bring me water, please?”
“Yep.” He gathered up an armful of stuff.
I reached down, snagging a box of Thornton’s before he could take it away.
*
He ended up sitting in my bed, two boxes of chocolate between us - he was a fan of Black Magic - watching Jeremy Kyle reruns. He’d dragged the TV in, dragged my desk in front of my bed, and generally been far too energetic. It should have been annoying. Somehow, it galvanised me into feeling human. I managed to consume soup, bread, water and chocolate, and not even feel too nauseous.
Ironically, Sherlock hadn’t thought to buy tissues. But I had enough toilet paper and kitchen towel to get me through. One of his carrier bags had been repurposed into a bin, rapidly filling with used tissues.
Being ill was to be an eyesore. Perhaps that could be my epitaph.
“This is so craaap,” I grumbled, after one too many episodes of Jeremy Kyle.
Sherlock, sitting upright next to me, legs stretched out on the duvet, shrugged. “Fun to deduce. Sometimes. Mostly predictable. I’ve seen this episode before.”
“Please can we watch something else?”
“Sure.” He grabbed the remote, and a chocolate, and flicked through the channels. “GPs Behind Closed Doors. Oh, this could be fun. Let’s see what John really gets up to.” He flicked a querying glance at me. When I smiled, he smiled back and let the episode play.
*
It was evening now, and Sherlock was still here. Texting rapidly on his phone now; the TV was off, and the curtains were closed, and we’d finished two boxes of chocolate between us. Maybe it was the medicine, or the company, or the food, but I felt so much better.
With that, however, came a smidge of guilt.
“I’m sorry.”
Sherlock’s fingers stilled, but he didn’t look up. “What for?”
“Well…wasting your time, I guess.” I stopped to cough. “You could be…out. Solving stuff.”
“I am solving stuff. Why else do you think I’m texting?”
“I mean…instead of…Today must have been boring.”
Sherlock sighed, then put his phone down and looked at me. Over the hours, he’d gradually slid down, so he was almost lying down now. I’d scooted closer now that the chocolate boxes were gone.
“As is glaringly obvious, you are clearly my favourite person in the world-”
“What?”
Sherlock widened his eyes impatiently. “Clearly-”
“No, Sherlock, that’s not clear.” I coughed, then sniffed. “What - how?”
“You are the only person I interact with without having any ulterior motives or contractual obligations-”
“John,” I croaked.
“Flatmate. Lestrade, colleague of a sorts. Mycroft, brother - unfortunately. Molly, again, a colleague. Mrs Hudson, landlady.” Sherlock ticked them off. “Can’t think of anyone else. I have no obligation to speak to you, but I choose to. Therefore, favourite person. It’s very simple.”
I blinked at him slowly. “Oh. That’s sweet. I think I’d cry if I wasn’t ill. I like you, too.”
He cleared his throat, glancing away. “Therefore, taking care of you when you are ill is not - a burden, or boring, for me. Besides, today has been…revelatory.”
“The Cluedo?”
He smirked. “Yes. Playing Cluedo with you when you are ill is…”
“An experience?”
“Yes.”
We both grinned. Then I yawned.
Sherlock’s eyes softened. “You should sleep.”
I took a deep breath, trying to either be brave and say goodbye, or be brave and-
“I’m not leaving,” he added flatly.
I sagged with unspoken relief. “Okay.”
“If the texting doesn’t disturb you, I will continue, though. I’m not tired.”
“It doesn’t. It’s…kind of nice.”
He got up; switched off the light; came back to bed, sliding his legs under the duvet this time. The room was just lit up by the white glare from his phone. I yawned, wriggling around a bit more, ending up with my forehead half-pressed against his midriff.
“’Night,” I mumbled. “Thank you, Sh’lock.”
“Goodnight,” he said crisply. Then he patted my shoulder.
I fell asleep to the clicking sounds of rapid-fire texting.
*
I woke up in the middle of the night feeling much better. Well, if you didn’t include the sandpapered throat, or the fact that my left nostril was completely glued up, or that my eyes were sore.
Sherlock had gone to sleep. I was on my other side, and he was curled up behind me, one arm slung over my waist. Our fingers were interlinked, my fingers surprisingly tight against his. I could feel the slow inhale and exhale of his chest against my back.
I liked seeing this side of Sherlock. The gentle, quiet, ordinary-ish side. The Sherlock that threw chocolates into his mouth and almost always missed; the Sherlock that liked to cuddle, and eat, and watch TV, and play games. I didn’t know how many other people saw this Sherlock, but I was guessing that it wasn’t many. People always said Sherlock was a rude heartless bastard that didn’t understand emotion - and he was, oh he totally was, but not always. He was considerate of my feelings, of what I wanted. Sometimes he would look at me and smile, like he was relieved I was there. People just needed to give him a chance; then they’d find the real, nice Sherlock lurking beneath.
I moved slightly. Sherlock shifted a bit, nuzzling closer against my shoulder. Did he…oh, he snored a bit, snuffling like a big-jowled puppy. I smiled into the darkness. That was adorable.
Still smiling, I fell asleep again.
****
PLUS ONE
Come to Baker Street. SH.
I read the text as I was heading out of work, and mentally shrugged to myself. Why not? Baker Street was closer, anyway.
I walked some of the way. Every shopfront I passed was stuffed with red flowers, pink boxes of chocolate, teddy bears with heart-shaped eyes. It was a bit overwhelming. Almost everyone I knew didn’t put a lot of faith into Valentine’s Day. Obviously people in the world did, or there wouldn’t be the commercial market, but I felt very removed from the whole thing.
I met Mrs Hudson on the exterior doorstep; she smiled and patted my arm conspirationally. I headed upstairs. I could hear Sherlock and John talking in low voices.
“Hey, boys,” I said cheerfully. “Hey, John, you look dapper.” He’d been standing at the window. I hugged him, then turned to Sherlock, who was buried in his armchair. “Well, boy.”
He huffed. “Chips?”
“Chips.” I put the packets down on the table. “The saltiest chips you can buy in London, the way you like them.”
His lips quirked at both corners. “Thank you.”
“Thanks, Y/N,” John added. “You’re brilliant, you are.”
I gave them both a smile. “I endeavour to please. So, Sherlock?”
He stuffed a few brooding chips in his mouth. “So, hypothetically…”
“Oh, God.”
“If I went away for…well, forever. How would you feel?”
My eyes widened. “Are you going away forever?”
“I did say hypothetically,” he reminded me.
Behind me, John sighed and sat on the sofa with his chips.
“Well, I’d be upset. Obviously.” I frowned, trying to push away the growing worry. “What’s going on? Is something wrong? It’s not Moriarty again, is it?”
“Only upset?” Sherlock glared at me.
I baulked. “Yeah, upset. And…I mean…forever is, well, forever. So, I suppose I’d be mourning you, as well.”
“Hmpf.” Sherlock glowered at his chips. I’d clearly given the wrong answer, but I had no idea how.
“...Should I be happy?” I asked tentatively.
John snorted.
“Shut up, John.”
“Sherlock, please can you talk to me,” I said, sitting on the arm of the opposite armchair. He was picking sulkily at his chips now. “I’m worried.”
“Well done, Sherlock,” John added.
“I told you to shut up, John.”
“Sherlock-”
“Upset. Mourning. Wonderful!” Sherlock grumbled, putting his packet of chips aside. “Is that all!”
“What the hell else am I meant to feel, in this hypothetical situation!”
I didn’t want to be mad at him, but also, I was tired, a bit headachy, and not especially in the mood to deal with him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he retorted mockingly.
“You’re acting like a child-”
“Oh, I am? I’m the one-”
“Stop it.” We both looked up. John stood, crossing his arms. “Look, Y/N,” he added, raising his eyebrows at me. “Sherlock’s in love with you.”
Blood rushed in my ears. The armchair suffered a minor earthquake, or so it felt. The floor turned to lava.
“Whu?”
“Yeah.” John nodded, looking between us. Sherlock was glaring, disgruntled. Also…was he…blushing?
“What.”
John sighed, martyred. “Look. He’s nice to you. He’s not that nice to everyone, you know.”
Oh, I…kind of thought he was.
“He’s very nice to you. He stares at you. You must have noticed it. He’d move heaven, earth and the British government for you. He smiles at all your jokes like a daft little puppy-”
“John-”
“He hardly ever talked about you when I first met him, so you were clearly special. He’s jealous whenever you spend time with another man. God knows what he’d do if you ever got a different romantic partner. He’s…he’s almost normal around you, Y/N.” John threw his hands up in exasperation. “And now he’s decided to confess, because it’s Valentine’s, but because he’s Sherlock Holmes, he’s made a pig-headed mess of it and I’ve had to step in. This, Y/N,” he waved his hand at a glowering Sherlock, “is Sherlock Holmes, the in-love edition. All yours, every smitten inch. I wanted to write a blog post about it, but-”
“Oh, for God’s sake, John-”
“Anyway,” John continued, grinning now, utterly unrepentant. “I’ll leave you to it.” He sauntered to the door, grabbed his coat, winked at me, and left.
I almost wanted to run after him.
A pretty uncomfortable silence descended.
I stared at my shoes, doing some very fast thinking. Was I really that much of an idiot? What the hell was all this? Could Sherlock really be…smitten? In love? With me?
I turned to him. He was glaring at his knees.
“Was he right?”
“John is very rarely a deductive genius,” he bit out, “but when it comes to matters of the heart he is…somewhat better equipped.”
I took a deep breath, then stood. The room swayed a bit around me. I perched on the arm of Sherlock’s chair, my heart racing painfully.
“So…he was right?”
Sherlock wouldn’t look at me.
“Though…we are…almost…kind of…in a relationship already, just a little bit, aren’t we?” I continued, mostly thinking aloud. He has a key to my flat now. We hang out all the time. We have no physical boundaries. I pet his hair like a cat. Sometimes he just arrives to put my hair in a fancy updo for no reason whatsoever. We have in-jokes. We go places together and I do damage-control when he’s being awful and he tells people off when I’m too nice to them.
“Well,” Sherlock grouched, “I don’t think there’s much left to do to fulfil all the requirements. It’s all fairly obvious.”
Yes, if you’re a genius.
I inhaled; cologne and odd chemical mixtures and the scent of whatever aloe vera shampoo he used on his (currently, very fluffy and bed-headed) hair. My smile was small, but present in my voice.
“Well, there are some things left to do.”
He looked up sharply at that, glacial blue eyes meeting mine. I reached out and put my hand on his cheek. Warm skin. Mostly smooth. A little bit bristly. Sharp cheekbone, curved along the bottom of my fingers. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
Then he reached up, entwining both arms around my waist, pulling me down onto his lap. I studied his face, only inches away from it.
“In love with me, mm?”
His lips twitched briefly. “Yes. I thought it was obvious.”
“Maybe it was, but not for me.” I grinned self-effacingly. “I’m an idiot.”
“A special kind of idiot.”
“An idiot that is realising she may…possibly…overwhelmingly…be in love with you.”
A grin split Sherlock’s face, his eyes unbearably soft. He opened his mouth, changed his mind, leant forward, and kissed me.
It wasn’t the sort of kiss you ever forget. If kisses could be a disease, this kiss was a deadly plague. Not the kind you ever recover from.
He pulled back, cradling my jaw. “Mine?”
“Us,” I repeated.
He nodded. “Us.” Then he kissed me again.
“Happy Valentine’s,” I whispered.