Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Holmes Family Reunion ((Final) Part 17)

Over the last few days, the wind rushing over the hills has swept Y/N's chest clean and knotted her hair. Wading through thick grass and leaping over brooks has set her slow blood pumping, and Mrs Holmes' fresh vegetables have tipped her ears red and set her skin alight with a healthy glow.

Y/N sighs sadly as she slots her wash bag into her suitcase.

She doesn't seem to realise she's doing it, breaths of air being taken in and held, her lungs trying to drink as much of the clean breeze as they can before returning to the soupy London smog.

On the opposite side of the bed, Sherlock methodologically folds a pair of jeans Y/N never knew he owned.

Something has put colour into his pale cheeks too---although she's not sure if it's entirely down to the countryside.

Taking up her own pair of grass-stained trousers, she folds them, then again, then again, the fabric not squashing down into the neat little square she's aiming for.

It's always easier to pack to go somewhere, Y/N muses. Straight from her chest of drawers, everything fits in uniform, evenly folded shapes.

Packing things away after a holiday is much harder; her case never seems to zip up right, as if each jumper, each well-thumbed book, each dress and swimsuit has gotten memories caught in their thread, swelling them up to twice their size.

Y/N takes her watch and hair ties off her temporary night table, then notices the fat leather book remaining, the marker a mere few millimetres into its tower of pages. She holds it up, hovering it questioningly over her open case. "Do you really think your mum won't mind us borrowing Anna Karenina?"

"Yeah, she won't mind, she'll be happy it's being read." The ghost of a smirk twitches Sherlock's lip. "...When we've finished it, maybe I could show you my Great Gatsby?"

Y/N looks at him, surprised and, sure enough, finds a boyish twinkle in his eyes. Slyly, she returns it. "Okay...then, after that, we could explore my Secret Garden?"

Delighted that she'd caught onto his little game, Sherlock zips his case up, throwing her a shameless, dark grin that makes her knees a little weak. "Then, perhaps I could show you a picture of my Dorian grey?"

"If you do, I might just let you scale my Wuthering Heights."

He snorts, then frowns thoughtfully. "...There's got to be something in Moby Dick, right?"

"Well, I think it's more likely that Moby Dick will go into something."

They giggle, the sound bouncing around the low-ceilinged little room, getting absorbed by the thick rugs and floral, patterned wallpaper.

As it pitters out, leaving nothing but the whisper of the trees and the chattering of bird song, something clouds Sherlock's eyes.

Y/N steps around to his side of the bed and places a concerned hand on his arm---to tether him in case he's gotten lost in his head. Giving it a squeeze to show him the way back:

"What's wrong?"

He presses his lips into a reassuring smile. "I'm okay. It's just odd, really, but I sort of...had a moment where I didn't want to go home."

He's turned to the window, his eyes passing over the green fields and lofty skies.

The honeysuckle taps on the window pane in the morning breeze, which had changed direction in the night, bringing with it the sappy smell of pine trees from the woods across the field. The rain, although violent and torrential, has all but dried out and left the leaves and flowers a little bruised but brighter and more radiant than ever, the sun illuminating the golden wheat and shimmering white poplar. The air is heavy with the sweetness of wet soil, and a proud male pheasant scours the lawn for worms with his harem of speckled females, unbothered by the clatter of Mrs Holmes preparing breakfast in the kitchen.