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It was a little after midnight when you were awoken by the persistent knocking from your front door.
Yawning heavily, You shuffled your way lethargically across the small living room towards the front door. “Just a moment.” you muttered under your breath, too exhausted to shout.
Of all the things You were expecting from the other side of the door, Sherlock Holmes, beat up and bloody, leaning his entire weight against your door wasn’t one of them.
“Mr. Holmes?” You gasped as the man stumbled forward once the door was opened.
“Y/N.” He rasped weakly.
Out of instinct, You grabbed onto Sherlock’s arm and pulled him inside your home and then closed the door. With quick steps, You lead him towards the beat up couch, being mindful of his injuries.
Sherlock sighed in contempt as You slowly pushed him to sit down. His eyes closed, his breathing heavy, sweat and blood glistening against his skin.
“Medical supplies.” You blurted. “I need some medical supplies.” Methodically, You rushed down the stairs to your apothecary where You kept a small medical bag in case of emergencies. Making sure that every item You needed was in the bag, You took the stairs two steps at a time and hastily dropped the bag next to the couch where Sherlock was clearly in pain but refused to let out even a single groan of discomfort. He didn’t even clench his teeth or tighten his jaw as You applied alcohol to his open wounds, cleaning up the terrible looking cuts.
Eyebrows furrowed in concern at how unnaturally silent Sherlock was, wondering if this was something he taught himself or something Sherlock was forced to learn.
It didn’t take long to tend to Sherlock’s wounds. Despite the concerning amount of blood, his cuts were actually quite shallow. Putting away the medical bag, You took one final look at Sherlock before making your way to the restroom to clean up. When You returned, Sherlock was lying uncomfortably on his side, his neck tilted at an odd angle.
Glancing at the wall clock, You sighed at the hand pointing at just half past two in the morning.
Ever so gently, You lifted Sherlock’s head to sit on the couch. Then, ever so slowly, lowered his head onto your lap.
“Sherlock,” You called weakly, voice shaking in slight fear, “What happened?”
This wasn’t the first time that you’ve seen Sherlock beat up. You've seen him in a much worse state than this but this was the first time that he showed up to your house unannounced in the dead of the night instead of being dragged to the hospital by his sister, Enola. Chewing on your lips, You feared that something might have happened to Enola.
“Is Enola….” You whispered, not being able to finish your question. Too afraid of the answer Sherlock might utter.
“She’s fine.” Sherlock sighs, eyes close in contempt, seemingly forgetting how terribly injured he was.
Relief washed over You like cold water during London’s heatwave.
“Then what happened?”
Sherlock said nothing.
Of course he wouldn’t reply to your question, he never did. Sherlock always made sure to not involve You with his line of work, refusing to talk about his cases in case someone might come after You for revenge.
“Please?” You soothingly ran your fingers through his curly black locks, knowing the calming effects it had on him. Maybe if You soothe him enough, Sherlock would lower his guard and tell You what had happened to him.
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock saw right through your little trick.
“I have met my match.” Sherlock begins. “A mind as brilliant as my own challenged me. It was invigorating. It reminded me of when I solved a case for the first time.” He then went on to explain how his case was connected to Enola’s own case and how this seemingly brilliant foe managed to put Sherlock in such a wounded state.
Your fingers didn’t stop running through Sherlock’s hair as You listened to his tale, huffing and gasping when Sherlock informed You how he was beaten on his back with a wooden plank but not to worry because he knew You had the right balm to lessen the bruise on his back but that was a task for the morning as he was quite content resting his head on your lap.
The nerve!
It was a good thing that Sherlock was officially courting You and had requested your parents’ permission for your hand because had it been someone else, You would have not tolerated such carelessness. Not to say that Sherlock’s disregard for his safety will continue after being married.
Sherlock’s speech began to slur.
Once his muscles grew lax, you knew that he was in a deep state of sleep, something extremely rare for the talented detective.
Glancing down, You took in his slumbering face, memorizing his handsome features; the soft beauty marks scattered about and the tiny little pores on his skin.
No one had said that being a detective was an easy career. And with Sherlock showing up to your house in the middle of the night taught You how dangerous some of his cases were, that one day Sherlock wouldn’t come home to You.
Sherlock needed someone with him during his missions, especially when he is consumed by an enigmatic case. Someone who would protect him, whose mind is just as brilliant, someone he could trust.
Perhaps it was time to listen to Enola’s advice of Sherlock having a flatmate. Just until you two were wed.
On the morrow, You wrote to Enola of your concerns and wishes.