𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨

Two Weeks Before

Y/n moved over the threshold, stepping out from the thunderous weather outside and into the safe sanctuary of 221b. Her senses were met with a cloud of warmth and the scent of nutmeg and cinnamon- Mrs Hudson was baking yet another batch of biscuits. It seemed that no matter the circumstance, their landlady always found an excuse to bake. Granted, her sweet treats were always exceedingly delicious and were welcomed by the two people upstairs. 

Smiling, Y/n lugged the three large plastic bags up the wooden stairs, huffing and puffing with each step. 

She pushed through the door of her flat, almost to the point of exhaustion. Her smile fell as she turned to face the kitchen and saw her roommate unmoved from his stiff position at the counter. 

Her brow began to furrow as she removed her snow-dusted scarf and coat, draping them over the sofa before she walked over to the kitchen-turned-laboratory. She sighed, watching his frozen stature. 

His back was bent inelegantly, his stomach awkwardly pressed against the sharp corner of the marble worktop, along with his elbows. His brow was creased and his eyebrows sank deep above his crystal glasz eyes, staring deep into the eyepiece of his microscope, only moving to quickly flick the focus dials and rotate the lenses.  

"Sherlock, you haven't moved since before I left," Y/n sighed, crossing her arms. He stayed silent, ignoring her statement- he hadn't moved, that was blatantly obvious. What did she want, a medal for her inexplicable skills of deduction? Instead, he pressed his nose closer to the black cylinder, narrowing in on platelets beneath the glass. 

"That was three hours ago, Sherlock."

Again, another ruthless and supernatural deduction.  

Exhaling dramatically through his nose, Sherlock continued to flick the adjustments, refusing to open his mouth for silly little humans who thought moving would prove to be an important and scientific advancement in the field of criminology. Although, it was about the most impressive thing Scotland Yard could do. 

"Sherlock," Y/n repeated again, annoyance weaving through her vocal chords. 

Flick.   

"Sherlock!" 

Flick, flick.

"Sherlock!" 

Disgruntled, Sherlock slammed his palm onto the worktop, shooting his head up to glare at the short person who stood before him. "What?" His voice was rough and low. 

Y/n scoffed, unfolding her arms and stepping closer. "What do you mean 'what'?"

"I mean, I'm asking you to directly specify the exact reason and explanation of your excessive barking and shouting, as to state your intention to communicate with me," he rambled, lowering his head back down. 

"You need to move, you pompous cabbage. Have you eaten anything in the last five hours?" 

He didn't move and only spoke in a hushed growl, "you said you'd been gone three hours."

"Yes, well in the two hours before I left you'd been like this."

"So then if you knew that I hadn't eaten anything in those two hours, why ask had I eaten anything in the last five? You should have asked if I had eaten anything in the previous three, while you were gone. To which I would then answer, no, I have not."

Desperately fighting the urge to hit him over the head with a potato, Y/n walked towards the fridge, "Sherlock, you need to eat somethi- holy shit, is that a severed foot? Jeez!" 

"Eating food will not increase my ability to examine a microscope, so I don't need to eat. And yes, that is a severed foot. Obviously. You've seen them before, I always put them in there."

"It's on my cake!" Y/n screeched, her cheeks flushed a burning red. 

Sherlock huffed as he slid out the thin sheets of glass from the clips, holding it up in the thin sliver of sunlight that streamed through the gap in the curtains. "Cake isn't that important," he muttered, studying the splatter of blood. 

With the force of an earthquake, Y/n slammed the fridge door, rattling the surrounding cutlery and equipment. She spun towards him, folding her arms and shifted her weight into her left foot as she tapped it impatiently. 

Uh-oh, Sherlock thought, I am in trouble. Whatever you do, don't say something stupid. Apologise or walk over and give her a hug or smile and offer to make dinner. But instead, what slipped out his mouth were six little words that put him in mortal peril;

"Don't be childish and irrational, Y/n."

He bit his lip as soon as the words slipped out, desperately needing to backpedal. But it was too late, for Y/n's eyebrows were raised in the I beg your pardon? position. 

"Get up, Sherlock."

Slipping the sheets of glass back under the clips, he swallowed, "why?"

"Because we're about to have our first fight as romantic companions."