𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞

It was November. Cold, rainy, murky- not that it was unusual for Britain, of course. But it seemed much colder than the norm- it was as if the weather had decided to obtain pathetic fallacy, to reflect the chilly atmosphere of both the physical interior and the residents of 221B Baker Street.

And why was 221B Baker Street chilly?

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" Y/n screeched, anger boiling her blood. Her small hands were clenched into tight fists and her bottom lip trembled. Sherlock usually loved it when her lip quivered (although he never showed it- in fact, he acted as if he were completely unaware of this habituality) but when the full name is being used, there is no time for adoration. Instead, he cringed, slowly making his way out from his bedroom- he knew the exact cause of his flat mate's distress.

As he moved into the dark living area, Sherlock peered at his flatmate and noticed that she wasn't wearing the same basic black trousers, thin navy blazer or shiny platforms. He also realised that her hair had been pulled into a loose messy ponytail, instead of the usual sleek style, and there was no biro placed lightly behind her delicate ear. This was very strange, as she never returned from work looking this unkempt. Every day after every shift, y/n returned, looking tired, yes, but still neat and tidy with every strand of wavy hair in tight formation. Never, not even once, had she came home in loose jeans, oxfords and a faded blouse. He liked it though, she was effortlessly pretty. Sherlock's cheeks burned.

Y/n was the first girl that Sherlock had ever really been attracted to. Of course, there was The Woman, but that was different- it was new and rushed and short. Whereas Y/n was...familiar. She was warm and soft and beautiful. When she first stepped over the threshold twenty-three months ago, to fill the role of the flatmate after John moved in with Mary, Sherlock had instantly been pulled towards her. She had intrigued him, and he felt scared at first, but after a few weeks, he really felt connected with her. Like she had always been there. Or like she was always supposed to be there. With him. He had talked to John about it- how he felt. And it was clear, that just six months in, he was already in love with her. And it was everything about her- the way her left shoe lace was always undone, the way her pale cheeks flushed pink, how she squealed lightly when she was happy. Or even just the way she looked at him. Or the way she burned when she was angry...

Her ears pricked at the sound of his cautious foot steps moving closer. She turned, her face a dark canvas and her eyes glowing with hot red anger. Sherlock's gaze fell to her lips (causing butterflies to burst within his stomach) and noticed that they were pulled inwards, which she always seemed to do when cortisol rushed through her bloodstream.

"Uh-oh,"  he thought, "I'm in deep trouble..."

Y/n's anger burned as she glared at Sherlock, taking in his expression. He looked rather guilty.

Y/n began to spit through gritted teeth:

"Sherlock- why the hell is there blood all over my sofa." He began to open his mouth, "and why in God's freaking name," she cut him off before he could speak, "is Mr Shawdot's half-decapitated body strewn across the freaking kitchen counter!"

Y/n's normally-pale face was burning crimson.

Sherlock wanted to answer back with his usual sarcastic and superior manner, but when it came to y/n, he had always been a little kinder, a little more considerate and a bit more cautious- because although she was only 5' 2", y/n had a rather fiery temper and could be, well, rather feisty. Sherlock often thought of her as a lion cub- cute and cuddly, but down-right dangerous. So, instead, he spoke calmly:

"Well, there is blood on your sofa because I borrowed-"

"Stole," y/n interrupted, foot tapping impatiently. Sherlock sighed,

"Right, I stole several bags of blood from St Bart's because I wanted to experiment with plasmas and platelets, but it went a bit wrong, and I ended up deducing that if I wanted to experiment with blood, then using blood bags was not the best way to do so. And then I thought about using a corpse, and then I realised that there were more experiments that I could do with the blood of the deceased. So Molly graciously lent me Mr Shawdot's corpse, as he's only been gone a couple hours."

Y/n stood there, horrified. For one, she didn't know about their neighbour's passing in the first place, so it was even more of a shock to see his corpse than it could have been, had she been notified.

"Sherlock! That's-," y/n had started to gag, as the sly stench of deceased flesh and blood began to waft up her nose. Her cheeks flushed even darker, and Sherlock thought she looked a little bit like a tiny raspberry (which was silly, because raspberries were small anyway, so the idea that one could be a small raspberry would suggest they still shopped in the child's section for clothes. Which y/n did.)

Sherlock then made the mistake of letting a smirk creep onto his angled face.

Y/n lurched, blood boiling, "oh, so you think this is funny!"

"Not that it's funny, no, but I just don't understand why you are so angry."

"You don't-," Y/n screeched, pulling her hands into claws and throwing them into the air, as if she were daring God to smite her down. Sherlock chuckled.

"I am so furious because you are so blatantly disrespectful! That man, that poor, kind man, is now laying strewn across our kitchen counter, where we freaking eat and prepare our food by the way, with half an arm and entire organs missing! If he wanted to be treated like that after death, he would have had his body donated to the nearest secondary school! This is just-"

Sherlock began to open his mouth, desperately trying to hide a smile-

"And not only is there a half-dead corpse splayed across our table top, but my sofa is now ruined. It's now soaked in blood, which I will not be able to clean- Sherlock, that was a brand new sofa! I could barely afford it in the first place and now that- oh my Lord, there is no way I could even afford to get that cleaned, let alone buy another one, I can't affor-"

Sherlock's smile began to waver as y/n's voice trailed off and he watched her pale hand reach up and press against her forehead. He continued to gaze at her, watching her eyes as they squeezed tightly shut, as if they were trying to block out the world.

He continued to watch her as her hands moved up to her scalp, digging her fingers into her roots. She then swiftly removed her hair band, causing her soft hair to flow in a smooth wave to her shoulders.

Sherlock's heart fluttered as the evening sun threw a gold beam over y/n, surrounding her in an ethereal glow. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.

Just as he was debating moving closer, she turned to him, eyes red, still burning with anger.

"Clean this all up. Now."