Sherlock Imagines

Apology, maybe? (Sherlockxreader)

I need to get at least one JohnxReader before my next Sherlock one... Geez. Anyways, this prompt was brought to you by the genius mind if quietsheriarty prompt is; Imagine Sherlock actually making you dinner. Then I added some angst because I'm a sadistic being. Enjoy! Wait-Also; Warning: slight trigger warning, mainly to do with bullying, nothing more, just brings back bad memories for me, so I thought I'd make sure your all okay and safe.

"Hey Sherls!" You bounded into your flat. Today has been amazing. The cute barista at Speedy's asked you out, not that you were actually interested, but you figured it'd be fun, and help get your mind off of your handsome flat mate. His eyes scanned you, trying to deduce what had you in such a cheerful mood.
"Barista gave you his number? That's all? Wow, I really thought you were more of an individual than that." He looked back down to what he was doing. He had an attitude for a few days now, it had started at Speedy's. You both met John there, and you casually slipped the Barista your number. Sherlock thought this was completely succumbing to the goldfish mind set, and said he'd expected more from you, so you'd been ignoring his rude sneers. None of it had gone so far as to be emotionally harmful, but they didn't exactly give you a warm, fluffy feeling either.
"Actually, that isn't all. He asked me out, you know, on a date, because SOMEONE'S INTERESTED IN ME!" You squealed a bit, proud to finally be able to say that. Everyone at school a few years had made sure you thought no one ever would take a liking to you, but here was this handsome stranger, asking you, of all the pretty girls in the café, out!
"Call me a goldfish, a sheep, I don't care! Nothing's going to ruin my mood!" You rushed into your room to get ready, blissfully unaware of the fragile glass, that pumped to give him life and would only stop when he died, breaking in Sherlock. He'd never tell you how he truly felt, after all the nagging you about having a crush on a barista here, even 'Jim from IT' (which he had every right to) there, he couldn't tell you. He wouldn't. You'd take him for a fool, a goldfish like all the previous men to fall into your web, you never knowing you were the spider. You never knew it, but a lot of people truly had their sights set on you. Sherlock couldn't blame them, your sparkling, h/l h/c hair, that you always felt went to war with itself, even though it was truly dancing to the beat of your steps. The e/c pools that reflected one's soul right back to them, and hypnotized the seer as they stared into your florescent gaze. But what he loved most about you was your willingness to speak out. You never held your tongue, not even when dealing with Moriarty. You were shy as a newborn kitten when first meeting people, but had no problem walking up to a stranger who just did something you were against, and telling them off. Sherlock couldn't help it. Any man would be lucky to have you, and he thought maybe if he kept telling himself you weren't as special as he believed, that maybe it would cut off the ties you had made in his mind. Of course this plan had yet to bear any real fruit. He continued to work on the Moriarty case, trying to solve how he was alive, but so far it was to no avail. The knocks, all same length and very hard. Male. Probably the barista from the café. He got up, and opened the door, unsurprised to the (use a description of your boyfriend/crush) standing before. Sherlock groaned, slightly annoyed.
"I suppose you should come in." He moved out of the way so Ebban could slide through the door. He looked around slightly, unaware of Sherlock deducing him. Sherlock shut the door gingerly, refusing to alert you of the man's presence.
"Get rid of it. It will be of no use to you tonight, I can swear by that." Sherlock strode to his laptop, as the barista narrowed his eyes in confusion.
"Wha' do ya mean?" His charming Australian accent echoed in the lounge room. Sherlock stood up, and moved towards him, towering over the man.
"I mean the condom in your pocket. Y/n is much classier than that, and you should show her more respect. She isn't here for your amuse-" he was cut off to the sound of your heels clicking on the hard oak floor boards, and both men looked to you, who was slightly flabbergasted. Sherlock looked you over, finally deciding that he knew he would ever forget you. Your f/c sundress held tightly until your waist, were it sprouted out, flowing beautifully just above your knees. The black lace tights went perfect with the black and white heels. Your purse hung across your body. Your locks twisted into a complex bun, with a few curled strands hanging in front of your ears. Both men were about to compliment you on your appearance, but you spoke first.
"Sherlock, what's going on here?" You looked to your friend, the emotionless machine that you couldn't help loving, even in his worst moments. Like the time he harpooned the pig. It was odd, and a little frightening, but you loved the smile it brought to his face.
"Nothing, Darling. Just chatting." Ebban tried to offer an arm, which you refused to accept. He looked slightly hurt, taken aback, even, but simply waited instead of speaking out.
"No. I didn't ask you. I asked Sherlock, I trust him completely. Now. Sherlock, what's going on here?" You stated bluntly, the same way he always loved. He didn't know whether to hurt you with the truth, or let you believe sweet lies. He hated seeing you hurt, despised it. When he found out you had been bullied, he had Mycroft track them down, and he showed you how pitiful they'd become. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to see you smile, but he had never had to make a decision quite like this before.
"He was planning on sleeping with you tonight. I told him not to get his hopes up." Sherlock avoided meeting your gaze. Anger boiled inside of you, flushing through each nerve in your body. You snapped your gaze to Ebban, rage present in your eyes.
"Just because I'm a woman, doesn't mean you get to make the assumption is sleep with a sorry bag of puss, such as yourself, that thinks women are their play things. Now, get the hell out of my flat." Your voice was sharp, and tone calm, and it even sent chills through Sherlock
"I'm the sorry bag of puss?" Ebban retaliated as he opened the door to leave, "I'm not the one who relies on my flat mate to get me through the day. Try not being such a whore, and people'll respect you more." He slammed the door shut behind him. His words echoed in your head, same as all those times in High school. Tears pricked your eyes, and after a few minutes of painful silence, you ran out of the flat, needing to clear your head. Sherlock tried to stop you, but he was too late. You were gone. You spent nearly an hour and a half walking through the London streets, uncaring to where you were, before you ended up right back at your flat's door, the knock hanging slightly at a diagonal. You smiled at Sherlock's secret message that no one ever understood as they passed, and began to move up the creaking planks to the flat's main door. The smell of (favorite food) blanketed the air. Was Mrs. Hudson really cooking at this hour? Maybe she'd let you steal some, since your dinner plans went up in shambles. You unlocked the flat door, pushing it open lightly. You knew Sherlock was on a case, and didn't want to disturb him. That's why what you saw, or rather, didn't see, it was so odd. You looked around the lounge, finding it vacant of any life.
"Sherls?" You shut the door behind you, waiting to defend yourself from an unforeseen attacker. You set your bag down, glancing at your reflection. Your makeup wasn't that messed up, benefit of being crappy at doing eyeliner, but the once intricate bun was nothing more than a loose, messy clump on the back of your head. You sighed, disappointed at how this day had taken such turns. You heard footsteps clambering in the hallway, and you readied for attack. What you got was unexpected. Sherlock stood in front of you, deflecting the blow from your elbow, in his purple button up, and a plain pair of black slacks. A lot nicer than the night gown he had been wearing previously. He smirked at your clueless reaction.
"You're late, you know." His eyes dazzled, and you slowly moved your arm to allow it to relax. Why was he talking about?
"Uh, sorry, what?" You scanned the surroundings for anything you could've missed, realizing that the delectable scent had been coming from your flat.
"Dinner. It's my apology." He escorted you to the kitchen table that had been previously full of corpse parts, but now had a white table cloth and two places set.
"An apology? What for?" You asked as he pulled out a chair. He motioned for you to sit, and when you just stared at him, not understanding what the heck he thought he was doing, he opted to take your shoulders and force you into the chair.
"For ruining your evening." He said as he began dishing out dinner. His tone was sad, and it broke your heart. Since when did Sherlock feel remorse?
"Sherlock, you were protecting my best interests. I should be thanking you!" You insisted, and instead of feeling this entire thing was pointless (as you expected him to) he smiled.
"Then have dinner with me." He sat down, and looked at you with a genuine smile, something so characteristically out of character for Sherlock, it almost scared you.
"Why would you want to have dinner with me? Seems rather pointless, isn't Moriarty alive? A lot more entertaining than a goldfish if you ask me." You tried to question his motives, but he simply smiled down to the table instead to answering. He began to eat, and knowing you'd get nothing from him, you did too. It was really good, and you didn't expect Sherlock to be able to cook.
"You asked why I'd spend time doing this instead of hunting for Moriarty, correct?" He looked back up to you, and you were slightly shocked at his sudden willingness to provide information. You nodded gently.
"You claimed that you were a goldfish, but tell me, what goldfish would consider chasing down a criminal genius more entertaining than dinner with the woman I love?"