𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐚 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 || 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ⵊⵊ

'*•.¸♡ Warehouse ♡¸.•*'
*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

The ride to Mycroft's can be more entertaining. Sherlock, lost in his 'mind palace,' stares off into the distance. You, with your cheek resting on your hand, watch London's ordinary people go about their day, as Sherlock would say. The scene is unremarkable until you spot a man you have seen outside your flat. With his chocolate eyes, meticulously combed hair, and a Westwood suit, he is an average-looking man who would blend into the London crowd. What caught your attention was the knowing grin on his face when your eyes met.

He doesn't scare you. He intrigues you. He seems to want you to notice him. He follows the path of Mycroft's sleek car, positioning himself at an angle only you can see. But why? He can't possibly know who you are... but what if he does? Would it be such a terrible thing?

You have two more encounters with him before you arrive at an old warehouse.

Mycroft's 'assistant' looks up from the phone she's been glued to the entire ride. "2nd floor back ri–"

"Corner, yes, I know," Sherlock interrupts, swinging open his door. "Let's go, Y/n." He slides out of the car, fixes his coat, and pauses by the front of the car.

You roll your eyes at the order, considering that's all he tells you. You open the door—carefully—before stepping out. A soft blanket of snow covers the road—beautiful to look at, not so much to walk in as you were wearing Sherlock's boots. You march to Sherlock, the boots flopping with every step.

"Today, Y/n."

You snap your head at him, your jaw clenched. "If I had the right size shoe, I could walk faster!" you retort, your voice laced with frustration.

Sherlock scoffs, turning away from you. You roll your eyes, but continue trekking through the thick snow. Your hand clasps onto Sherlock's shoulder once you have reached him.

"Carry me."

Sherlock faces you with his eyebrows furrowed. "Pardon?"

"You heard me. I'm not stomping all the way there," you explain before whispering, "Plus, the longer we stand out here, the more likely it is that someone'll see me." You step back with a smirk, knowing he has to do what you asked.

Sherlock groans, clenching his fists at the sky before turning to you. "Get on." He squats to the ground, allowing you to latch onto his back. You hop on, causing a grunt to leave his chest. "This was easier when you were still a child," he mumbles, pushing up from the ground.

"You're three years older...get over it."

"Mycroft is in for a real treat," Sherlock mutters as you approach the door. "Get off." He squats down again, allowing you to jump off.

"Maybe I wouldn't be such a bloody burden if you let me live a normal life!" You snap as your feet hit the cement. "I'm 29, for God's sake!" You shove past Sherlock into the abandoned warehouse. It was dingy, rusted metal throughout; rats found a home in the pipes, and the floors were cracking under the weight of the failing architecture. You continue to venture further as you wait for Sherlock until a silhouette of a man, shrouded in mystery, comes into your vision. It isn't Mycroft. The man is of shorter stature, appearing to have more hair, and is not leaning on a cane or umbrella.

You should have stopped; you should have turned back to find your brothers, but something was drawing you to the unknown man. You slowly approach him as he does the same, but when the light reflects off his face, you halt, now frozen in what you believe is fear. The tension in the air was palpable as the unknown man closes the distance between you.