Work Text:
Pardon the way that I stare
There’s nothing else to compare
But if you feel like I feel
Please let me know that it’s real
I love you baby, and if it’s quite alright
I need you, baby, to warm a lonely night
I wanna hold you so much
At long last love has arrived
You’re just too good to be true
Can’t take my eyes off of you
-Can’t Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli
ONE
“STOP!”
You’ve stopped automatically, as have a lot of the people around you. When commanded to halt all movement, by a baritone voice belonging to somebody who clearly doesn’t spend all their time barking out orders from a fast-moving treadmill, then you stop. Obviously.
Except if you’re a criminal, of course.
It’s a little side-road, pedestrianised now, but still with the tarmac and faded white lines, just on the outskirts of Soho, lined with takeaway restaurants. Clocks have just struck one, and it’s busy with people grabbing a swift lunch. You’re one of those culprits, but unlike most around you, you’re on your way to grab lunch.
You look around.
A man is tearing through the crowd, zigzagging wildly. Does he think he’s under fire, or something? Shit, he isn’t, is he? He’s red-faced, skinny, with a receding hairline so rapid you can almost see it happening, and there’s enormous sweat patches across his too-baggy t-shirt. He comes through the crowd at an angle, in your direction, and then switches tack and dashes down a tiny alley between two grubby brick buildings.
You drop your tote bag and chase him.
No one should ever let themselves be cornered. Not unless they have a hostage with them. Idiot. A whiff of garlic and diced carrot assaults your nostrils, blown out from the silver fans high above. At the end of the alley is a series of bins and black bin-sacks. And another wall. If your criminal is clever enough, he can jump onto a sack, then a bin, and over the wall, easy as anything. It’s what you’d do.
You put on a burst of speed. His ancient trainers are flapping at each heel. There’s pounding footsteps close behind you - you realise - just as you throw yourself forward and hurtle into the wall, with the man as a convenient vertical crash-mat.
You both fall. You’re kneeling on his back, a knee against him. “Hands behind your back,” you say breathlessly, grabbing at his wrists. A shadow falls over you; the original pursuer. “That’s what they say for real arrests, right? Not just on the TV shows? I’ve always wanted to-”
You look up, and your words peter out. Your smile becomes fixed in place.
It’s a…man. He’s tall. He’s wearing a long blue coat. And his hair is ruffled from running, but he barely seems out of breath. That’s all you can really notice, because most of your braincells have just died.
(That, you later discover, is a common occurrence when Sherlock Holmes looks at you. Nothing too surprising there.)
He drops to his knees beside you, grabbing the wrists of the man you’ve unofficially arrested. “Check his pockets,” he orders.
“Are you-” You swallow. Work, brain, work. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes. Obviously. Check his pockets. Right one first.”
He rolls the man partially onto his side and you, awkwardly and trying not to make eye-contact (easy enough, his eyes are closed) delve into the pocket of his too-tight, too-unwashed jeans. There’s a hard little object. Your thumb grazes the bottom, and you immediately recognise it.
“A USB stick?”
“Yup. Excellent.” The second man holds out his hand, effectively flipping the other guy back onto his belly again. “Here. Do you still have your phone, or was it in that bag you decided to abandon and allow to become a trip-hazard?”
“I, uh. I’ve got my phone, yeah.”
“Dial this number. Don’t have my phone, I left it with John.” He reels out a mobile number.
“Who am I calling?” you ask tentatively, glancing up before you press CALL.
“Gary Lestrade,” the man replies. “Scotland Yard detective. I’ve just caught him a blossoming serial killer, and this,” he throws up the USB and catches it one-handed, “contains all the evidence.”
Right before you press CALL, you frown across the serial killer’s sweaty back at him. “I think you meant I just caught your serial killer for this Gary Lestrade. Cause you were doing a pretty shit job of it.”
*
You’re left standing around once the police have arrived. They arrest him properly. Someone, a female officer with curly hair, brings you your tote-bag and asks you a few questions. Gary Lestrade oversees stuff, taping off the alley and having conversations with the Coated Arrogant Man (C.A.M, as you dub him) that seem stressful enough to give him a migraine later.
Every time you glance over, wondering if you’re allowed to just duck under the tape and leave - your lunch will be over now, you’re going to be late, you’re not actually a criminal, you haven’t done anything wrong - you meet C.A.M’s eyes. He’s watching you, over Lestrade’s shoulder, with something between boredom and curiosity.
Much like what you feel, right now.
He may, also, be the reason you’re staying. Not that you’d admit it. Not even in a court. But there’s something compelling about him, and he’s the one looking at you.
The serial killer, who seems to be holding back tears, is shoved into a patrol car. C.A.M finishes off his conversation and wanders over to you.
“I’m Sherlock Holmes.”
You blink. That’s a pretty unusual name. “Is that made up? Like, your spy nom de plume or something? Like 007?”
He rolls his eyes. They’re fascinating. The clearest blue you’ve ever seen. You’re sure if you could see them up close, there'd be tiny flecks of silver in there.
“No. I simply have parents with a shocking lack of taste. It’s a cross I have to bear. You should really watch less TV dramas.”
He’s too right for you to be offended. “Maybe. I’m Y/N, by the way. Y/N Y/L/N.”
He shakes your hand. His hand is larger, surprisingly warm - he looks like he should be a cold person, with cold fingers. “Happy birthday.”
You stare at him. “How did you-?”
“The same way that I know you have just decided to call in sick for the rest of your workday, and that you have nobody to celebrate this apparently important milestone of your life. Birthdays are just over-commercialised nonsense. Much like Valentines’ day, or Christmas.” A flash of genuine pain crosses Sherlock Holmes’ face. “Or Black Friday discounts-”
You laugh despite yourself, taking your hand back. “Oh. That sounds like you have unprocessed trauma, right there.”
“My landlady,” he offers as an explanation. “You would get on with her. You have several things in common.”
“Do I want to know how you know? And what things?”
“I deduce things.” Sherlock Holmes tilts his head. “A taste for the homely and simple; a fondness for red velvet cake with far too much cream cheese filling; and, me.”
You blink at him. He gives you a smile like a squirrel that just tried an expresso for the first time in their life.
“Care to get some chips?”
****
TWO
“Where the hell are we going?”
“Baker Street.”
“No, I meant - why?”
“Oh,” Sherlock says, with impressive calmness for someone lugging a small suitcase of your clothes, that he’d broken into your flat (illegally) to pack; “that’s because you’re going to stay there until this whole bomber business is over.”
“I - No. No, I’m not.”
“You are.” Sherlock grabs your arm and pulls you across the pavement. “Taxi!”
Once ensconced in the taxi, with your bag lying across the middle seat, you resume the argument. It’s a cold winter’s day and you’re without your scarf, which seems like a bad life choice now. Sherlock is slightly flustered. You’ve known him for almost a year now; watched him rise through fame and bad choices and exciting, morbid, terrible cases. You’ve met his new flatmate a few times; met his landlady. You could say, quite easily, that you’re Sherlock Holmes’s friend. However, there are limits to friendship. And this is one of them.
“I’m not going to just stay at your flat. That’s completely ridiculous.”
“It would be more ridiculous to be ambushed, kidnapped, and blown up with Semtex,” Sherlock counters, tapping gloved fingers on his knee.
Annoyingly, there’s no good retort for that.
“Is that even likely?” you settle for.
“Is that - Yes. Yes, it is quite likely. Who’s to say that the bomber will stick with impersonal targets, people I have no emotional connection to? He will likely up the stakes. Make the game more difficult. And as such…” Sherlock shrugs. “The next move is clearly to target people I know. Care about.”
“You…care about me?” The words feel strange on your tongue. Fuzzy and like cyanide; like marzipan.
Sherlock spares you an incredulous glance. “Enough to not want you strapped into a Semtex coat and babbling nonsense to me at all hours of day and night, yes.”
“You’re such a charmer.”
He brushes that off. “I’ll find the bomber soon enough; it shouldn’t be very long. You can look after Mrs Hudson. John will be fine, he’ll be with me. You should make a passable flatmate, as long as you do not disturb my dust.”
You bury your head in your hands. “I sometimes wish I’d never caught that guy for you.”
“You didn’t catch him for me. And no you don’t.”
*
Have you eaten.
Sherlock.
EAT.
I haven’t seen you eat for about thirty-six hours.
I know you’re ignoring me deliberately.
You ass.
If you are going to insult me, at least use British terminology. SH.
You bloody prick.
Any better?
Yes. SH.
I am in a café. SH.
Don’t lie to me, you British twat.
I am not lying. SH.
[Picture sent.]
Is that Speedy’s?
Yes. And that is a full English breakfast, half-eaten. SH.
Sherlock, do you think I’m a complete idiot? I know that’s John’s.
Hmm. SH.
E.A.T. Before I come down there and MAKE you.
I will eat once I have finished the case. SH.
Ohmygod…
I will eat within the next five hours. SH.
Is that an acceptable compromise? SH.
Not really.
I won’t get a better deal, will I
No. SH.
Okay, I’ll take it.
I’m shaking your hand.
Deal. SH.
*
“I have a gift for you,” Sherlock announces, three days into your vacation at Baker Street. He passes you a long, narrow box; about the length of a book; the width of a small lightbulb. “Careful opening it.”
“It’s not Semtex, is it?” That seems to be the general theme, these days.
He scoffs. “I’d be more original than that.”
You pull the plain brown paper off the box and lift the lid up.
It’s a knife. A knife to be thrown, specifically. You’d told Sherlock. You were surprised he’d even remembered.
“Are you planning for me to throw this at any potential assailants?”
“Yes,” Sherlock says simply. “Yes, I am. John has my gun. Mrs Hudson has a taser. There are handcuffs in the salad drawer of the fridge. Always best to be prepared.”
You’re still smiling as you examine it closer. It’s not boring. It’s a metallic sheen, catching in the light, blue and purple and yellow, colour-changing every time the box shifts slightly. “This is actually gorgeous, Sherlock. You’ve gotten my Christmas present early.”
He scoffs slightly.
“I’m not going to even want to throw this at someone. It’s too nice. It needs, like, its own holster; a name; an Instagram page…Ever wiping blood off this would be a travesty-” You’re still chatting, laughing a bit, genuinely delighted by the sleek weapon Sherlock’s just gifted to you, when you glance up.
He’s just…looking at you.
Curiously, like he’s trying to understand the happiness he’s given you. Almost affectionate, like he’s happy you’re happy; your joy is infectious, spreading to him, and spreading back, a positive loop.
He’s looking at you like he’s truly glad you’re there, and you don’t know what to do with that.
Random song lyrics float through your mind in a cacophony of delirium caused solely by the fact that Sherlock Holmes is looking at you. (Years later, you occasionally wonder how you didn’t grab his lapels right there and pull him down and kiss him. It wasn’t until Sherlock pointed out that you were holding a knife at the time, that you realised.)
That’s the moment when you fall for him.
It’s a long way down.
I can’t help it if you look like an angel
Like a child when our eyes meet
And I never saw you coming
And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars
You left me no choice but to stay here forever
Never met no one like you before
When you hold me, it holds me together
Years ago we were just inside
Can I go where you go?
****
THREE
“I washed my hands of us, at the club,” you sing, doing small shoulder-movements as you move around the kitchen. You don’t think it’ll wake Sherlock up, if you play music on your phone; once Sherlock’s out, John once told you, he’s out. No amount of poking him with a pencil wakes him up again. Even if you were to shout ‘GINGER-NUTS!’ in his face, he’d only mumble something about not wanting a knighthood.
(You really wished John had videoed all these various little affectionate experiments he’d tried on his flatmate.)
Anyway, here you are, letting yourself into 221b - Sherlock never wanted the key back, and almost seemed offended when you held it out to him - and making yourself breakfast. Well, making Sherlock breakfast too. But you’ll have to go shopping, because your own fridge is practically empty apart from a pair of corn on the cobs, and Sherlock’s fridge, thanks to John and Mrs Hudson, is currently well-stocked.
Bacon sizzles in the frying pan. You grab the bread and reach past the kettle for the teabags.
“I find the artefacts, cried over a hat, cursed the space that I needed, I trace the evidence, make it make some sense why the wound is still bleeding - you were the one that I loved, don’t need another metaphor, it’s simple enough, a wrinkle in time like the crease by your eyes…this is why they shouldn’t kill off the main guy - dammit.” You hiss, in sync with the bacon. You’ve put the temperature up too high. Does Sherlock still have tomatoes left? And some horseradish-
“Dreams, of your hair and your stare, and sense of belief, in the good in the world, you once believed in me - and I held you, and I felt you, for a while - aha.” He does have tomatoes. And horseradish. And there’s not even a single human appendage in here. You grin into the white depths of the fridge. This day is getting off to a brilliant start.
“To take me awaayyyyyyyy-” You resist the urge to belt the note out at top volume, standing up and grabbing a chopping board. “Oh my, love is a lie, shit my friends say to get me by - it hits different, it hits different this time…catastrophic blues, moving on was always easy for me to do, it hits different, it hits different cause it’s you-”
“This,” Sherlock Holmes declares irritably from somewhere behind you, “is hell. Or Wembley Stadium.”
“Morning to you too! You’re welcome for the luxury breakfast I’m making you.”
“Making yourself.”
“God, can’t you at least pretend not to see straight through all my lies?”
You hear him think about it for a moment. “No.” In your peripheral vision, he goes over to your phone.
“Don’t you dare mess with my-”
Meet me at midnight-
“What is a lavender haze?” he enquires, sounding deeply unhappy.
“A haze where you’re safe from the world and their shitty expectations, and you’re just in this little purple bubble with your loved one,” you surmise helpfully.
You can feel Sherlock staring at you. “That is not a real thing.”
“How would you know? You’ve never been in love.”
And you don’t really read into my melancholia
I’ve been under scrutiny (yeah oh yeah)
You handle it beautifully (yeah oh yeah)
All this shit is new to me-
“Yeah oh yeah,” you sing along, heartfelt, slicing the tomatoes neatly.
“And have you?” Sherlock asks. Challengingly.
“What? Ever been in love? I-” You glance up at him, and then stop abruptly.
He’s clotheless. That isn’t a word, but it’s what your bewildered brain throws at you. Not naked, per se, but wrapped in a sheet. His bedsheet, your brain chirps helpfully.
You stare at him for a moment. His hair is incredibly messy. There’s a smudge of dried sleep caked to his cheek. Most of his chest is exposed, and the sheet trails behind him like a bad bridal train.
He arches an eyebrow. “Problem?”
“Can you please put some clothes on?”
“No.”
You take a deep, martyred breath. You need to check the bacon, but that involves walking in his direction. It’s much safer to go the other way and grab some plates. “And why not?”
I feel the lavender haze creeping up on me
Surreal, I’m damned if I do give a damn what people say
No deal, the 1950s shit they want from me
I just wanna stay in my lavender haze
“Why not?” he counters.
You take another deep breath and look at him. He stares back defiantly. Slowly, you let your gaze trail down his chest. It takes a great deal of strength to let your lip curl in sardonic amusement as you turn back and grab the loaf of sliced, limp white bread. “Because you look like a bad statute of a Greek God.”
“Don’t care.” Now he’s audibly pouting.
Get it off your chest
“See?”
“See what?” You wrinkle your nose in confusion. You really need to rescue the bacon now, before it burns beyond salvation.
“Even your precious song recommends getting things off your chest, such as, for example, clothes.”
“I don’t know why you sound like you’ve won the argument, Sherlock. You haven’t.” You point a fork at the phone, enunciating the words. “Get it off my desk.”
At that moment, his stomach rumbles. Loudly.
“And get something into your stomach, apparently.” You shake your head. “You’re a fully-grown man. Why can’t you eat like one?”
You mutter to yourself, half-affectionate and half-miffed, as Lavender Haze finishes and the familiar guitar of I Can See You begins. Sandwiches; bread; seasoning; salad; bacon. Sherlock stands back against the table, annoyingly dramatic without even trying, and lets you work.
And what would you do, baby, if you only knew-
You finish the first sandwich, cut it neatly in a triangle, palm over the knife-blade to make it even, and glance up.
Sherlock’s watching you carefully. Not your face, even. Just, all of you, as a whole, all your movements, the tiny tapping of your foot on the floor, the hair you tuck impatiently behind your ear, the way you push a fork further from the counter’s edge.
That I can see you?
****
FOUR
“Alright,” you whisper into your phone. “I’m at the bottom of the stairs. I can’t hear much from up above.” You tilt the phone slightly, pointing at the blue coat hung on the hook, behind you. “He’s in, though. Aaand if I keep standing around here he might get suspicious, so I’m just gonna add the details quickly and then go up.” You lower your phone and switch the phone camera, so that the two round paper bowls in the crook of your left arm, covered with clear plastic lids, are visible. The lids are blurry with condensation. The phone still got a good image of the meal inside; chickpeas and vegetables, deceptively delicious-looking.
“Looks nice, doesn’t it?” You flick the camera back, so the screen is filled with your grinning face. Outside, rain lashes against the front door with a fury that will be eclipsed by Sherlock’s. “This is going to be such a viral video. There’s going to be memes made of this, I already know it.” You wave. “This, Sherlock, is the beginning of the Deerstalker Detective’s downfall.”
A noise. Upstairs. You freeze, eyes wide, glancing up. What if he somehow knows-
(You’ll have to edit this momentary loss of superiority out, later.)
“And I know it’s not quite April 1st, still March 31st,” you whisper, “but where these babies are from, it’s already April. So, it counts.” You lean in really close to the camera, a shit-eating grin spreading irrepressibly. “Happy April Fool’s, Sherlock.”
With that you end the video and head upstairs, shoving your phone into your pocket.
“I bring gifts,” you call as you enter. Sherlock’s curled up in his armchair, knees pulled to his chest, wrapped in his dressing-robe. The curtains are still open, streaked with rain and red lights of traffic.
He lifts his head like a hungry dog and sniffs the air.
“You walked.”
“I wrestled with my umbrella until it opened itself and saved myself the fare of a taxi, yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Chickpeas.”
His eyes light up at that. Last time the two of you had takeaway, you had something similar to this; he’d devoured his portion like a starving Siberian Husky.
You grab two forks from the kitchen and hand him the top bowl and a fork.
“Can I sit?” you ask, pointing at the opposite armchair.
“Please. Be my guest.”
“John’s out?”
“On a date.” Sherlock shakes his head, prying the lid open. You grab the blanket from the back of the chair and drape it over your knees, positioning your phone at the top. “It will end in disaster.”
“And meanwhile, us happy singles are having a cosy night in with some of the most appetizing-smelling food in London.” You hold your fork up in a toast. “Here’s to us.”
Sherlock smiles reluctantly and lays the plastic lid aside. You feign interest in your phone, clicking the video on to start filming.
He sniffs the food, hums approvingly, and loads up his fork with the most balanced pyramid of chickpeas you’ve ever seen.
You watch, eyes wide, as he sticks the fork straight in his mouth and barely swallows. He must really be hungry.
One second. Two seconds. Three. His fork is already back amongst the chickpeas, delving for more, when-
“Aaargh.” Both hands fly to his throat. He starts coughing, with increasing bewilderment. “It’s- It was-”
“What’s happening?” you ask, leaping to your feet. “Are you having anaphylactic shock? Ohmygod, are you allergic to chickpeas?” He stands too, hunched over and gagging, and you rescue the bowl just before it upends over the rug. “Do I need to call a cab? An ambulance? Sherlock-”
“S-s-spice,” he gargles.
“Spice? It’s- What?”
He straightens. His eyes are watering, and his cheeks are flushing red. “Water,” he gasps, and looks around maniacally. His gaze lands on the streaked windows and for a moment you think he’s literally going to stick his head out and start lapping at the rain like a madman.
He stumbles into the kitchen with an inelegant flare of his robe, grasping clumsily at a glass, switching the tap on. You grab your phone from the armchair where you’d left it, face-up (praying it would’ve caught something) and point it at his back. You can already imagine the hilarious captions you could put here.
Sherlock downs the water in one movement; fills the glass up again; tips his head back like he’s trying to pressure-wash his sinuses. You’re shaking with silent laughter.
Then he turns.
You can’t lower the phone quick enough.
For one long moment you stare at each other. His face is bright red. He could’ve just been standing on his head for about five hours. His eyes, still watering, narrow. He looks between your badly-restrained amusement and the phone.
“It was on purpose.” A baritone? Not any more. He sounds like a squeaky kid in choir, experiencing an entire classful’s puberty at once.
You bite the insides of your cheeks. “Ye-es?”
“What was it.”
“Chillies.” Sherlock’s spice-tolerance is usually pretty impressive, considering he’s a white British bloke who grew up on jam roly-poly and boarding-school cabbages. You’ve seen him eat curries without needing water, when everyone around him, even you, would be taking sips of cold drinks at regular intervals. But no one can unexpectedly face a chilli like this. Especially not when you’d asked the guy to put in extra spice.
Sherlock stares at you. “Chillies.” His voice is completely flat.
You can’t even pretend you’re not filming, at this point. You raise the phone shamelessly. At least if he murders you, there’ll be some kind of evidence. Maybe the chilli will have fried the bit of his brain that would urge him to delete the evidence. “Yeah. Snake chillies. It was a, um, what’s the term? That’s it. A social experiment. A trial. You like experiments, Sherlock,” you cajole, “right? It’s all good?”
Sherlock stares at you. “All. Good. You put chillies in my food-”
“Technically I didn’t, I just ordered something from the menu - I may have requested they put some extra cajun in, but hey! I-”
“-And you expect it to be ‘all good’?” Sherlock seems to have more to say on the matter, but at that moment he burps. The rush of chilli comes back up his throat. You’re amazed he doesn’t breathe fire. He turns, grabbing at the glass and nearly knocking it to the floor, refilling it.
“Stop laughing,” he hisses, halfway through.
You can’t help it. Oh, this is gonna be so epic. You’re going to have such fun editing this. You need to find an edgy song for the background, too. Maybe something by Red Hot Chilli Peppers. And a little dancing deerstalker for the top corner-
“Stop laughing!” Sherlock turns on you with annoyance. It just makes you laugh more.
“Or what? You gonna make me eat it?” you snort helplessly.
Sherlock rubs his throat. Did the spiciness permeate through his skin? “Why are you filming this? If you think I’m going to let you show anyone-”
“Uh oh.” You grab your coat. “And that is my cue to leave! See ya!”
“Y/N-” He starts towards you.
You grab three of the chickpeas from his open bowl. (Note to self, you think, do not touch your eyes for at least six business years.) He halts. Still recording, you edge towards the door. He takes two infuriated steps closer. You flick a chickpea expertly. He flinches back with a badly-suppressed whimper. You throw the last two over your shoulder for good luck, and bolt out the door and down the stairs, giddy with laughter.
On the street outside, waiting for a cab in the rain, you glance up and see him at the window. Watching you through the nets, unaware that he’s silhouetted by the light and clearly visible.
The expression on his face is softer than you would’ve expected.
Or maybe he’s just about to pass out from too much chilli-ness.
****
FIVE
It’s a bad night. That’s what he tells you. It’s a ‘danger night’, and he says it with all the gritted-teeth reluctance of someone who knows full well that a relapse will end with a visit to the dentist when a flatmate (John Watson) punches someone’s (Sherlock Holmes’) lights out.
He’s soaked to the bone, his coat meekly dripping water when he removes it. The rain’s been pouring for hours, and he’s apparently walked. You know that the death of Irene Adler changed him, he hasn’t been acting the same since. All you can do is take the coat and offer a towel in exchange; he dries off his curls vigorously and then you give him a blanket, and he wraps it around himself like he’s a victim of shock.
You’d be lying if you said you really knew what to do. But there’s three main options: to treat him with the manner of an untrained therapist; to tie him to the sofa and not let him move; or to just…act normal. Like he was just a friend dropping by for dinner. Which you’re currently making, while your phone plays music on the counter; it’s not the first time you’ve been in situations like this.
Pasta, with fresh vegetables and spices and the nicest tomatoes you’ve ever had.
End Game plays cheerily from your phone, sounding too tinny. You’re expecting Sherlock to ask you to turn it off, but he doesn’t.
You so dope, don’t overdose-
You wince a bit and hope that he didn’t hear that.
Sherlock sits down at your kitchen island, blanket still wrapped around him, and interlaces his hands in front of him and watches you intently. You attempt to act very ordinary. You’re horribly aware that one move, and he might be out into the rain and off to make horrible decisions.
What’s he done today? Solved a few cases, nothing more exciting than a five. John’s out on yet another date that will be destined to fail. Mrs Hudson has declared war on the new neighbours across the road and has brought several bottles of air freshener, for nefarious purposes. Lestrade is splitting up with his wife. Again. Nobody should ever get married. It was a pointless existence.
I don’t wanna miss you, like the other girls do
I don’t wanna hurt you, I just wanna be
Drinking on a beach, with you all over me…
“I can see you didn’t miss your calling as a couples’ counsellor,” you joke, adding some feta.
He scoffs. “A waste of money. Essentially attempting to change people’s personalities to make them compatible. All that does is harbour festering resentment.”
“You’re such a pessimist.” You get a second bowl down.
The song switches. You drain the pasta, steam rising from the sink, the colander.
Cause I’m a real tough kid, I can handle my shit
They said ‘babe you’ve gotta fake it till you make it’
And I did
Lights, camera, bitch smile, even when you wanna die
In stilettos for miles
He said he’d love me for all time
But that time was quite short
Thunder booms, ripples through you as acutely as if you were standing in the centre of an earthquake. You resist the urge to look out the window for lightning.
“I’m not eating.”
You sigh, martyred. “Yes, you are.”
Sherlock looks like a sulky hedgehog, his curls sticking up in spikes. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” You clink a fork meaningfully. He glares.
You sit opposite and start eating. It’s good, even if you do say so yourself. Molly had recommended a new flavour of sauce, and it’s delicious. The tomatoes could be straight from an afterlife. You forgot to turn the music off and it plays on, muted by the growling thunder and the lashing rain and the clink of your cutlery.
Memorising him was easy as knowing all the words to your old favourite song
Fighting with him was like trying to solve a crossword, and realising there’s no right answer
Slowly, reluctantly, and avoiding your gaze (like if you can’t see him, he can’t see you) Sherlock picks up his fork, and eats.
You smile triumphantly around a piece of pasta.
There’s something incredibly therapeutic about people eating in silence together. You’ve always found it. And with Sherlock opposite, slowly devouring the food you’ve made him, you can’t help but wonder if he feels it too.
*
“No, he’s an arsehole. He’s a troubled arsehole and I want to slap him.”
“Who cares about his emotional troubles? He is perfectly functional.”
“See, this is the difference between us. I want to poke him with my knife.”
“He would use his taser on you.”
You roll your eyes. “Can’t you have some faith in my aggression?”
“Oh,” Sherlock says comfortably, “plenty. Never mind. He rather reminds me of the American who held me at gunpoint at Irene Adler’s, anyway.”
You’re slightly offended now on Tim Bradford’s behalf. “I think he gets better.”
Sherlock snorts. “It’s a TV show. Of course he does. Watchers wouldn’t come back if he got worse.”
*
“She is so brilliant. She is literally so brilliant and I love her so much.”
“She is fictional.”
“You’re an impossible killjoy, did anyone ever tell you?”
“I am being realistic.”
“We’re watching a TV show. We don’t need to be realistic - what. Why are you giving me the ‘Jawwnnnn you’re, like, so dummmbbb’ look.”
“That is the point I just made.”
“Whatever. Can’t we just agree that Lucy Chen is awesome?”
“...Hmph.”
*
“Jackson West was clearly gay. I’m surprised you did not see that from the start.”
“Well, okay Mr I Know Everything, but I didn’t see it, mainly because I was wondering if him and Lucy were a cause of jealousy for Nolan-”
“Spare me the trivia of your thoughts on possible fictional relationships that didn’t happen. Please.”
“Nope! You see, what I thought was, there could be this whole plot-”
*
“Why are they all confused about who the murderer is? It’s apparent. It’s - mmph - Y/N - take your - mmphhhhh - hand off my-”
“No. Don’t you dare tell me who the murderer is, I want to find out naturally-”
“Each of these episodes follows exactly the same idealistic structure. Knowing who the murderer is in this one episode will not spoil-”
“Yeah it will. I know what you’re like, Sherlock. You’re- Why are you hugging me.”
“You’re warm.”
“I…What was I saying?”
“Criticising me.”
“Oh yeah, thanks. You’re just trying to show off. You want my attention. Amirite?”
“...”
*
You fall asleep on the sofa halfway through the fourth consecutive episode of The Rookie; you fall asleep on Sherlock’s shoulder, to the sound of his deductions and with the whoa whoa themetune playing in your subconscious, and vaguely hope that you don’t drool onto his purple shirt.
You regain consciousness when the TV goes silent. There’s an arm under your knees, another behind your neck. You’re lifted up. Sherlock’s still cold from his meander in the pouring rain.
“Sorry,” you slur, trying to pry your eyes open. The thunder’s apparently stopped, but there’s still the lashing sound of rain on the windows when Sherlock carries you into your silent bedroom. It smells of the fresh laundry on the chair that you forgot to put away.
He puts you down. You do some incoherent movements that assist him at tucking the duvet over yourself. He straightens. Turns to leave.
Looks down, when your hand latches onto his sleeve. Looks at you, waiting, patient, so calm now, utterly unlike the man he was when he turned up tonight on your doorstep, the herald of a storm.
“Stay,” you mumble. “Don’t, go-”
“I was going to sleep on your sofa.”
“No. Stay.”
You feel him considering it for a moment. “You’re not drunk,” he muses, “so I suppose you’re - somewhat - in your right mind.”
“Hmm. Here.” You pat the bed imperially. “Now.”
He snorts. Then lies down. Slides cautiously in beside you. Some sleepy part of your brain wonders if he’s ever shared a bed with someone else.
You turn into him, resting your forehead against his arm. Strangely, for someone who attracts danger, attention, fame, like he does, he feels so safe. Like a home.
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” you whisper, and you think he hears you, even over the midnight rain.
Your name, forever the name on my lips
So I’ll watch your life in pictures like I used to watch you sleep…
Your head restarts the song just as you drift off.
I still remember the look on your face
Lit through the darkness at 1.58…
****
PLUS ONE
You grip onto the phone until your knuckles tingle, your heartbeat pounding through your fingertips. His voice is so calm, buzzing directly into your ear, and with every second that comes, the impending doom, the thirteen possibilities and the fourteenth that ends with a gravestone and a dead man underneath your feet, the dead man you love, fuck-
“Sherlock-”
He stops talking at the urgency in your voice, cuts off midway through a word, an explanation of what is going to happen.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Alright.” His tone is cautious. “I don’t have much time. John has just left. Moriarty is on the roof and-”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes.”
You take a deep breath. He must be able to hear it, through the phone. Closing your eyes. Imagining him, his eyes, his face, the lines of his cheekbones, the look he gives you sometimes, studying you under lines of straight lashes and a clear, icy-blue gaze.
We always say the things we mean the most at the end. When we run out of time and we can’t pretend anymore. Thank you. Goodbye. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
“I love you.”
A pause. A moment of silence, like honouring the fallen.
You panic even more, if that’s even possible. “I love you,” you say again, through clenched teeth, “I just, I needed to say it, I know it’s stupid, I know it’s-”
“Y/N.” Sherlock’s voice is perfectly even. “It’s going to be okay.”
You laugh, a broken sound. “No, don’t start, I’m the one who needs to be comforting you, being the strong one, not-”
“You are always strong.” You hear a squeak, like he’s stood up from a chair. The chair in the morgue, you know it by heart. “And it will be alright. We - Mycroft and I, we have planned for every eventuality.”
You nod a few times, blinking back tears. “Okay.”
His voice is even softer. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
*
You’re waiting.
It’s the carpark of St Barts, a grim dismal place, and the only new thing, the only thing in full possession of all its faculties, is the black car beside you. Low. Sleek. Powerful. The driver has a handgun and white gloves, and you’re standing by the open back door, listening to the hum of the engine as your fingers curl into sweaty palms.
He walks into view without the sway of his coat. Head down, shoulders up, brisk, not wanting to be noticed. He stops, a few metres away.
“I look like a dead man.” He hasn’t looked up yet.
“You’re not, you’re-”
“Y/N. I look like a dead man.”
You realise it’s a warning. He lifts his face, and he is, he is a dead man, red dashed over his face, his forehead, around his eyes, running in rivulets from his mouth. His eyes are white in contrast, and even when he blinks, he seems to be staring.
You flinch back. How could you not.
And then you’re stepping forward, wrapping your arms around him with a desperation that should be over now, and the fake blood glistens, gets on your hair. He holds you with a ferocity that a dead man should not have; dead men should not be able to use their biceps. He does. You take several deep breaths. He smells like fear and faded traces of cologne and the weirdly-sweet tang of fake blood and the ground. A pavement. The pavement he was meant to hit.
“I’m so glad,” you’re mumbling into his shirt. “I’m so glad, I’m so glad, I’m-”
He pulls back. Hooks a finger under your chin and peers into your face for a moment. He should look absolutely horrific. Repulsive. But you stare back at him, breathless and tearful, and his chapped, bloodstained lips quirk up.
The kiss is perfectly proper. It’s tentative, almost experimental, and when he lets you go he swipes his thumb under your lip, a strange mirroring of brushing away lipstick. There’s a smear of red on the side of his nail.
He climbs into the car first and you slide in afterwards, clinging to his coat-sleeve. The moment the door slams, the car pulls away, the driver’s white hands sliding across the black wheel. The lights play through the tinted windows, and everything is a muted hum.
You watch Sherlock shift slightly. You watch him reach for his seatbelt. You watch him cautiously rub a trace of fake blood away from his eye. You watch him check his watch. You watch him look out the window as the car pulls into the daylight, the outside world. You realise your hand is still outstretched over the middle seat, holding onto his cuff. You glance down momentarily, and then back up again, watching his face.
Except this time, he’s looking directly back at you.
Sherlock Holmes told you once he doesn’t believe in miracles. There’s a delicious irony to that, a tang like his chapped lips on yours. A miracle doesn’t believe in itself. Can’t see what a gift it is, a work of art, a brilliance contained in the shape of an impossible man, death-defying, gravity-defying, a man who you realise is also, always, in ways you can’t comprehend, yours.
A miracle doesn’t believe in himself.
But you do.