[CONTAINS SMUT!] ❗️18+❗️
~~~
Being the youngest Holmes was always quite the journey, especially when you didn't want to show off your talents, maybe even lack of such. Compared to your brothers you were always the 'dumb' one. The teachers saw it, yo...
Jim walked in back from a meeting with blood, just a single drop, on his shoe causing him to stab a knife right through his chair. He had been agitated because his work for the past decade had come crumbling down. No, his life had come crumbling down all because he thought he could love. All because he thought he deserved love.
The leather couch by the fire sent a whirr of memories flashing by, he closed his eyes at the sight.
"You've been home for an hour and not once have you kissed me," Jim huffed from his chair as you looked up from your book, your body having landed on the couch wanting to merely be in his presence.
"You're so clingy, Jimmy,"
"I'm aware, and don't care," he whines quietly. "What could possibly be more interesting than me?"
"Everything," you answer quickly, sarcasm laced on your tongue.
"We'll see about that," he jumped over the back so he lay behind you on the couch. Just as usual, kisses started to cover the back of your head as he mumbled affectionate words. "I love you so much, my darling,"
He snapped his head to the side and away from the memory, catching sight of a pile of gifts with his name written all over it. His hand reached down and picked the smallest box.
To: My best dressed idiot
From: Y/n x
Apparently you had the same idea as him... Of course! Sebastian was talking with you while he talked with Molly.
A silver band with nothing but a black engraved crown on the top, the inside having small writing saying 'Her Devil in Westwood'.
He loved that nickname without a single doubt in his mind. As he was the king of the damned, you were his queen, there to keep him in check, to show him the good despite how much he knew it would skew his reputation.
The 'her' of the words made his stomach churn, thinking it must have been something he ate instead of the obvious regret.
Jim never regretted anything, but saying what he did... he regretted the moment those words left his mouth because for once in his life he didn't think before speaking which led to this.
He was yours... until he spoke. He was yours until he ended it. He was yours until he walked away without looking back despite how much he wanted to.
Why didn't he look back? Because, if he did he would run back into your arms and beg for forgiveness.
~~~
Sherlock got his first case after Christmas and it had Moriarty written all over it. He took the file out and scanned over the scene before knocking you out of your focus on the crappy show you were focusing on. Something called Love Island.
"Come on,"
"I'm not in the mood, Sherlock," you murmur.
"Come on, I'll buy you chocolate, plus the victim was an artist," he pleads, throwing his coat on. "And please change into something other than joggers and an oversized shirt,"
"Why? I have no one to dress up for," you stand up, fitting your fuzzy socked feet into slippers.
"Y/n Calixta Enola Holmes, you are a respectable woman and shouldn't ever feel that the reason to dress up is for someone other than yourself, so get something nice on,"
"Wouldn't want to embarrass my big brother," you nudge him in the gut causing a groan of annoyance to exit him.
~~~
"Hey, freak and super freak,"
"Hey, bitch," you salute, fitting on gloves.
"Heard you got in a relationship," she blocks you from entering the scene—an open art studio. "Heard your freak of a brother messed it up,"
"Don't-" John started.
"I don't care how you found and I don't care to continue this convo, so if I may," Ducking under the tape, Sherlock shot a glare to Donovan.
"I heard from Mycroft, I'm sorry," Lestrade mumbles giving you the victim's report.
"Don't be, Sherlock was right anyways, he said it himself too," you kneel down. "He never loved me,"
"Who could ever love you?" Donovan laughs, handing orders around.
"Shut up, Donovan," Sherlock stepped forward as you ignored the comments thrown at you. "Don't belittle my sister,"
"Oh, but you agree don't you? You cause them to break up, didn't you?"
"He pointed out the obvious," you stand up and walk through the piles of empty paint cans, tubes of dried oils and matte stiff brushes.
"I'm still confused how anyone could stand dating you for more than a week," she laughs as your gloved hands flicked through sketch books.
Lowering your eye lids to a half hooded gaze at the works it was obvious this artists took from the romantics. It was surrealist, very dream like but every composition was a romantic scene between two.
"I want the most recent work,"
John handed you the art journal as Lestrade got some boys to take out a giant canvas and place it on the easel.
It was two people with their faces in one another's hand, the world burning behind them as they stared endlessly with nothing but the love they shared in their eyes. The man held an apple in his a hand, holding it up high, a crown carved into the skin. The woman wore a ring, a single ring which looked too familiar.
The woman looked nothing like you, her hair wasn't the same colour or style as yours, and the man had blonde hair with deep green eyes. Personality spoken through each stroke was enough to know who this represented...
Digging your hand into your pocket you pulled out the promise ring your refused to let go of, and hold it to the painting. "You knew this was him," you turned the ring up to Sherlock.
"Y/n, I just-"
"Are you trying to make me regret it more?!" You scream suddenly. "I miss him every fucking day and you take me to one of his scenes? Part of the game between you and him?!"
John tried to intervene, "Y/n, calm down,"
"NO! I'm not going to stay fucking calm because this... is... just... sick," you breath out each bit. "Fuck you, Sherlock, you are honestly the worst brother on planet earth..." Sherlock's heart broke at your hissed words. "And fuck you, Jim, I fucking loved you, and you tell me you never did, killing me would have hurt a lot fucking less," holding the ring up to wherever he could be watching from, you threw it down as it clattered along untouched canvas.
Storming off after tying your coat tighter around you, every officer on the scene watched you. Lestrade and John look to Sherlock, eyes telling him to fix it.
~~~
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I can't believe my comfort character is a mass murdering Psychopath
Also I'm tempted to just never release the end of this because I'm just evil like that.
