𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨

It had taken Sherlock an extra twenty-five minutes then it should have been to clear everything up, as he kept looking over at y/n, gently watching her.

She was curled up on Sherlock's dark chair, her knees pulled in towards her body and her arms folded against her torso. He had mainly been watching her light eyes- she had not broken contact with the television for a second, yet it seemed as if she wasn't really watching it. She wasn't making the usual expressions- the slight lift in her eyebrows or the squinting of her eyes or the pursing of her lips.

It was as if she was day dreaming. Except Sherlock knew she wasn't, for she didn't have the bright glow in her eyes. Instead, they were cold and emotionless. Something was wrong.

He cleared his throat, "I've finished now, y/n. Am I starting dinner?"

She flinched at the sound of his voice, but didn't turn around.

"Y/n?" Sherlock called louder, ready to throw his sponge at her head, grinning. He was hoping to start one of their classic sponge-and-foam-fights.

It had been seven months since y/n first moved in, and they had gone on many cases together- Sherlock loved her eagerness.

They were in the morgue, examining the body of an alcoholic's, when y/n turned around sharply and accidently walked into a large bowl of soapy and bubbly water, drenching her in foam and Luke-warm liquid. Sherlock then burst into uncontrollable laughter, filling y/n's ears with a delightful sound that she both adored and hated at the same time. Because he was laughing at her. So, she did what any sensible, level-headed adult would do- she picked up the huge sponge and threw it at him, hitting him right in the face and drenching his clothes. And of course, in retaliation, Sherlock also sensibly threw the sponge at her, and the fight continued, until Molly walked in to see them on the floor, in dripping heaps, unable to refrain their laughter. And that was the day that Sherlock finally accepted the truth- he was irrevocably and unconditionally in love with her.

Sponge-and-foam-fights became a tradition from then on.

But as y/n slowly stood up from the chair, Sherlock's arm lowered along side his eyebrows.

Her movements were slow and heavy, as if she were dragging chains and weights with her. She brushed past Sherlock, barely looking at him, but not before he gently grabbed hold of her wrist.

"Y/n, something's wrong. What is it?"

She looked up at him, into his eyes. They were filled with concern, light and warm. They made her heart flutter.

"Nothing's wrong, Sherlock." And that confirmed his deductions. For normally, her voice was soft and light, warm and kind. She would always smile brightly, like his own personal ray of sunshine.

But her voice was cold and dead. It seemed that she was icy both inside and out. This was the first time that Sherlock had ever seen her so...unlike herself.

"Y/n, I know that's not true-"

"We're having that leftover lasagne for dinner. With steamed vegetables. It won't take long." Y/n cut in, ending the conversation.

He stood for a second, his arms aching to reach out and hug her, but he restrained them and moved towards his chair, to gaze lifelessly at the television.

He listened to her movements- the opening of the fridge and the rustling of the bags. He heard the lid of glass tub come off, then the loud cutlery draw. He grinned, as Y/n had begun to search for something, rather noisily, with no luck. He could hear her huffing and sighing and muttering. Eventually,

"Sherlock! Do you know where the big knife is?"

He jumped, then automatically answered with the resounding no, which was then met with an even louder sigh from y/n.

"Great. Guess I'll have to cut vegetables with a fork," he heard her mutter, before she moved to the sink.

He heard her scream.

And then he realised where the big knife was.