When a vacancy opens for a decent flat in central London, and for such a good price, who are you to decline it?
While expecting a peaceful living arrangement to develop paintings for the gallery you work for, instead you're dragged into unexpected...
Street lights started to grow more scarce along the roads. London miles back, he hadn't stopped driving for the past hour. One of three, he didn't exactly need to sleep... he has spent longer without food. This road he knew all too well regardless of the darkness so it was an easy drive.
Eventually, he caught himself unable to stop glancing every so often to the reclined passenger seat, your figure curled into the leather. While the road stayed quiet, his mind didn't stop buzzing with life, not understanding the growing feeling in his chest.
His stomach churned and tightened; was he sick? Was he going to be sick?
That thought was forced to the back of his head when he saw you shiver a little. It was as if it was second nature for him to slow down, using an indicator to come to a halt. He leans over and lays his coat over, despite the slight tinge from the smoke earlier all it needed to do was keep you warm.
As for John? Well the layers of clothing seemed to keep him warm anyways. Sherlock used his thumb to wipe away a small bit of dirt from your cheek, moving it away just was you stirred. "Sherlock?" you mumble, "what's wrong?"
"Just... needed a little break," he fixes the coat further up as it slipped. "Go back to sleep, another two hours."
You merely nod, taking his hand in yours and keeping it in your hold until drifted into a dreamless sleep. His hand fell with yours, laying under the coat and on your leg. Two skips of his heart was still a mystery while he pulled back onto the road, driving at a steady speed. His thumb rubbed over your thigh mindlessly, acting as a small distraction to steady his head for the next two hours.
He made sure to assure your disoriented mind no matter how many times you woke up in confusion. That he was there. That it was all okay.
~~~
Dead silent in the night, the car finally stopped at a small cottage. This finally woke both you and John up, the blogger drowsy from his drool-filled sleep and you muttering swears for an absent Anna to let you have five more minutes of rest.
Sherlock closed the car door gently, walking to your side and manoeuvring you into his arms. John, fatigued in slight, stumbles out with a small stretch, looking to the house with now wide eyes, understanding what the safe-house was.
Sherlock's parent's home.
"Sherlock... is this safe?" he whispers.
"The safest place I know," obviously he didn't understand what John meant. His focus was on you, bringing you through the door which his mother opened the moment she heard the car.
"Get in, get in," she hurries while Mr Holmes runs to the car in his slippers, unloading all the items. "First time Sherlock brings a woman home and it's just another case," she clicks her tongue.
"She's not 'another case'," the detective mutters, walking up the stairs while you clung onto him unknowingly. The two parents give a certain look to each other, Mrs Holmes following her son upstairs. His old room was instinct, he pushed it open with his elbow and foot to then quickly lay you on the bed.
He was never one for pop-culture. So where adult magazines and beach-babe lifeguard posters would have been was maps and tables of all sorts. Old school books were stacked on one shelf, another for his notes, and another for mere entertainment. He enjoyed the occasional book, but what space was left was filled with small trinkets, miniature models of prototype inventions and even an old microscope. It was his very first microscope, and favourite gift... until that painting you left for him.
He hated to admit an object, and nearly mocking reminder remained his favourite.
Resting you on the plain pillows and duvet, coloured beige and blue at most, he tossed his coat to the corner while moving you under the covers. "Sherlock?" you question again, just like every time you woke up.
"I'm here," he rubs his thumb over your knuckles.
"Where are we?" you peer around, unable to process your surroundings.
"My room," he whispers, trying to lull you back to sleep. "Mrs Hudson told us the telly was too loud... and you have work tomorrow," tricking you in this state was the only way to get you to sleep, and it almost gave him a tinge of nostalgia to say these words.
"That woman has super hearing, I swear," you chuckle.
"Careful, she might hear you," he teases, making sure the pillows were fluffed up
You then hold his hand, "I'm sorry for taking your bed... I can-"
"Don't worry," he made sure you didn't get up, pushing back your tussled hair, "I'll just bin the take out and then I'll join you, okay?" his features soften at your small nod. Kissing your forehead gently, he waited until your eyes sealed shut. Then your intertwined hands felt one last kiss before he stood up.
Mrs Holmes could feel her heart shatter. She didn't know what this was, what had happened, who you were. She knew one thing, despite never seeing Sherlock in that state. She knew when someone was in love.
~~~
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