𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐎𝐧𝐞

'It is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all.'

Up until this very moment, Sherlock Holmes thought nothing of Mr Alfred Lord Tennyson's melodramatic and orthodox romanticism. And the passing remarks that did whip through his beautiful mind when the quote wandered in, contained nothing other than scepticism and mockery. Because, as the rest of humanity failed to realise, love and sentiment were weaknesses- the unambiguous and abstract Achilles' heel of the human mind, a failed mutation in evolution. 

But then, Mr Holmes began to wonder, if this was surely true, then why did his dear old-roommate John Watson save him time after time, when it would have been far easier to just leave? Sentiment. And why did Mr Holmes feel so attached and devoted to his closest friend Y/n L/n? Love. 

As he sat in his wrinkled shirt and unruly nest of tangled brown curls, his glasz eyes gazed over Y/n. He studied her pale skin and fragile body, examining every inch of her skin as if he were to never see her again. From the top of her unbrushed, messy locks of hair to her still feet under the thin-knit blanket, he memorised her every detail, every rise and fall of her chest, every minuscule flinch of her eyelids. Even in the stillness of her undisturbed slumber, Sherlock's heart palpitated with the growing compassion and awe- for she never ceased to glow with the ethereal beauty that had captivated both his mind and heart. 

Sherlock swallowed the dark thoughts that begin to rise once more, crushing them down into the pits of despair where they birthed from. But as his fears quenched, so did his hopes- for you can't have one without the other, it seemed. 

His warm hand softly brushed against her still one, caressing her pallid skin beneath his own. Still just as cold as before. 

He silently sighed, despairing himself for falling in love. 

Like a fairy tale prince, he gingerly leant over her frozen frame and touched his lips across her forehead, like all the times he had done before and the times he wished he had. For only once the sun has set do the flowers realise how badly they need it, to grow.  

Before the emotion swallowed him, Sherlock shut his eyes, sealing the thick tears behind his lids. 

Mycroft had warned him, berated him- love was a dangerous substance, only the strongest could resist. Fall into the temptation and you will be rewarded with only pain and destruction. Sherlock had refused to believe it, if there was one thing he knew, it was that Y/n would never hurt him. For she loved him and needed him as much as she needed the air to breath. 

Even now, sat in this seat, watching her frail breaths and her closed eyes, Sherlock could still not convince himself that she would leave. She would stay, like she always did, for him, because she had to. 

She had to.

Because no matter what happened, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to regret the last three years. Together they could prove Mycroft wrong, showing that love is not a weakness nor a fault, but a privilege, a weapon stronger than time itself.

She just needed to wake up.