(Incandescent)...Multifandom Imagines

Catchup for Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes:

How they react to you flinching during an argument:

When you flinch, Sherlock freezes mid-rant, the words still hovering in the air as he processes the barely perceptible movement you couldn't quite hide. His piercing gaze, sharp and often unnervingly cold, softens in an instant. Sherlock Holmes, master of deduction, suddenly finds himself staring at the consequences of his quick, relentless intellect and intensity, the rippling effect of his cutting remarks. Thoughts flash through his mind, analyzing, dissecting—every memory of times you laughed at his jests, shrugged off his harsh tones, even praised his honesty for its unvarnished truth. But here, now, your reaction isn't something he can solve, dismiss, or put away with logic; it's raw, human, and powerful. His mind rapidly replays his words, assessing the weight of each one, and he realizes his tendency to treat arguments as puzzles, a battle of wits to be won, rather than moments where you both lay your emotions bare. Guilt—an unfamiliar sensation for him—clutches him, realizing that, in his fervor to be right, he's lost sight of something precious. He takes a small, deliberate step back, reining in his intensity, as he quietly begins to untangle his thoughts, sifting through them with newfound care. He makes a mental note, a vow almost, to change, to soften for you in these moments, because you are worth infinitely more than any clever retort or triumph of reason. Even as he clings to his pride, his resolve to handle conflict differently for your sake remains steadfast, a silent promise to never make you feel that way again.

How they react to you having a nightmare:

Sherlock isn't exactly accustomed to comforting anyone, let alone navigating the intricacies of nightmares, but when he hears the faint, startled gasp of your breath beside him in the middle of the night, his mind stirs to life. The room is dark, but his eyes immediately find you as you turn, shifting with uneasy sleep. "What was it?" he asks, voice soft but direct, as if you're on the brink of a deduction. You try to downplay it, brushing it off as 'just a nightmare,' but he catches the way your hand clenches the sheet and pulls you closer, his fingertips brushing yours. "I could tell; you're more tense than usual. Do you want to talk about it?" he persists, the analytical tone melting into something softer, a side of Sherlock he rarely shows anyone else. You shake your head, but he's not letting it go. "Was it... something you couldn't control?" he prompts, ever aware of your discomfort with things out of your grasp. You nod slowly, and he squeezes your hand, something tender flickering across his face. "Fear is a perfectly reasonable reaction to the unknown," he admits, almost reluctantly. "But remember that whatever happened in your mind, it's not reality." When he feels you relax, his hand leaves yours, only for him to lean in closer, his voice a low murmur against your ear. "And if anything tries to find you here, well... it'll have to go through me first." His words are logical yet oddly comforting, and as he shifts beside you, hand resting protectively over yours, sleep becomes easier.

How you sleep:

He doesn't sleep on a normal schedule, so if you catch him at bedtime, you've often already nodded off while he's still reading case notes or hastily scribbling in a notebook. You might wake up to find him sitting up in bed, papers scattered around him, fingers tapping absent-mindedly on his thigh, and you'd realize he's been up for hours analyzing a case or some obscure theory. But the rare nights when he settles down with you, there's a certain careful tenderness to him, as though he's aware of how fragile this shared moment is. He's not the type to wrap his arms around you or tangle himself into you; instead, he'll lie close, almost parallel, your shoulders barely touching, his breathing slow and rhythmic, an anchor of warmth and grounding. His proximity speaks volumes more than any words or gestures would. Sherlock is both present and distant, his mind flitting through mysteries even as his hand might rest, gently, on the edge of your shoulder, as if trying to tether himself to something stable, something real.