This book may have Imagine, Preferences, and one shot.
Don't trust the tittle!
WARNING
SOME chapter might have : ANGST, SMUTT, FLUFF , DEATH, BLOOD, DEPRESSED, SELF HARM, FIGHTING. AND MORE!
Also, the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for Sherloc...
Summary: Sherlock has never had many friends, but everyone knows he’d do anything for the ones he does have. No one knows that the friend he’s lost help him deal with the ones he still has.Or maybe ‘friend’ isn’t quite the right word for it.
Sherlock x dead reader..
Warning ⚠ : angst, death, sad, hurt, memories,
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It was getting bad again. Even Mycroft was starting to worry about him, and he knew he needed to do something before his brother did.
So there he was, sitting in his usual chair, waiting for the right time.. He made sure no one would bother him, he said he'd needed space and nowadays people tended to listen.
He closed his eyes, hands in their usual place against his lips, and opened them again slowly, making sure she had enough time to show up. She always showed up when he needed her most.
And there she was, just as he expected. In all her (h/c)-haired and (e/c)-eyed glory. She was wearing her favorite coat. He wondered if it was cold in the apartment. He'd have to turn the heat up later. She smiled softly and knowingly at him, an act, in itself, he knew only he got to see.
"What mess have you got yourself into now, Sherlock Holmes?" she said, words coming out of her lips like a long lost melody. He'd missed having her around.
"The case. (y/n), saying it's rough would be putting it lightly." he gestured to the mess of papers on the table and walls. She moved away from her place near the fireplace towards the mess.
"At least you keep things more organised in your head then in your hands." she mumbled, shuffling the papers around so she got a look at them all. He watched her as she moved. She really hadn't changed, for that he was grateful. She let out a hum, stepping away from the papered mess to go and sit across from him in John's chair, another knowing look flashing through her eyes.
"What? You solved it already?" he asked, leaning forwards as she did the same.
"You know I have." she almost laughed. He let out a deep sigh, leaning back in his chair to rub his hands across his temples.
"I wish, so very much, that you could tell me." he said dramatically. She did laugh at that.that.
"You and l both know that l know the answer because you do. There's no more pieces of the puzzle, everything you need to know is in your mind, everything you need to know is in these papers. These documents and photographs." she started, moving forwards to rest a hand on his knee to get him to look at her. It worked.
"The only reason I know how to solve the case is because in your mind you do too." They looked at each other, her expectantly, him almost blankly. Then, Iike she flicked a switch in his mind, he knew. He knew how the killer did it, and he knew how they were going to do if again.
"(y/n), you are my genius!" she lent back in John's chair with a smirk.
"One might say I'm better than these drugs of yours, huh?" her smirk turned to a smug smile as he stood and lent over her, arms leaning either side of her seated form.
"I know many a people that'd agree with you, if they knew you still existed." he said, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.
"At least I still exist to you." she hummed as he stood up straight, pulling her up with him.
"I still love you." he said, cradling her head in his hands.
"l know. You don't need to tell me. Especially since I know your every thought." she chuckled, and he couldn't help but crack a grin. "Now put me back, John's about to come in." she said, pressing a fleeting kiss to his jaw as he looked at her with soft eyes, not really wanting the moment to end, even though he had a murderer to catch .
"So, 'just a friend’?" John said, entering rather abruptly and obviously having heard or seen most of the interaction between Sherlock and '(y/n)' .
Sherlock blinked. She was gone and he was still in his chair, however his hands were no longer in their typical prayer position, typical of him when he entered his mind-palace. Instead his hands were delicately cradling the skull that usually resides on the mantle above the fireplace.
"Now you mention it," Sherlock started, shooting to stand and placing the skull gently back down on her usual pile of books. They were her favorite.
"Maybe 'friend' wasn't quite the right word to use."
