Heavenly Holmes • Sherlock x Reader

13 • easy

A/N: Hi babes! I'm back! Since it has been a while, I recommend you read a chapter or two before this one to refresh your beautiful brains! Aside from that small note, enjoy~~

"Excellent. I will see you again next week." My therapist says, as he shuts his notebook and stands up to escort me out.

I rise from my seat and walk away by myself before he can reach me. I shut the door behind me and step out into the cold. Sherlock is waiting for me near the sidewalk like a looming shadow. His lips crack into a smile and his dimples deepen when he sees me.

"How was it?" He approaches me, his hands in his trench coat pockets and his hair a little bit of a mess.

I feel my chest tighten. It was the worst. They asked me questions about what I saw and would take notes when I couldn't explain it. It was as if every little bit of movement or action was being judged at every minute and every second. When they look at me they see my uneasiness and distrust towards them, and they use that to determine my state of my mind. 

It's not fair at all.

"It was good."

I know he can tell with just one glance into my eyes but I lie anyway. 

"Y/N-" He tries to say, but his phone buzzes in his pocket. He grunts, rolling his eyes as he reaches into the pocket of his trench coat to answer his phone with frustration:

"I told you never to call me again, that's what texting is for-"

He pauses silently when he is cut off by a loud Lestrade, who speaks hurriedly.

I watch as Sherlock's jaw tightens and he gives me a quick glance before his teeth sink into his lower lip. He suppresses a smile that is slightly different from the one he had given me earlier. His eyes glitter under the streetlights and his  skin is illuminated by the red and green streetlights as the creases of his mouth begin to wrinkle excitedly. If only he looked that excited when he talked to me. 

He murmurs a simple 'I'll be there' into the phone before putting it away and turning to gaze at me, a look of contemplation evident in his expression:

"I have to go. I'll get you a cab home and-"

"Is it another body?" I ask rhetorically. 

"No....yes..."

"I wanna come along too." I plead, grabbing his arm again and hugging it tightly.

"Y/N...your therapist told me strictly to keep you away from incidents like this..." He groans.

"You're lucky I'm even agreeing to see my therapist. Now let's go."

_____

"Evening." Lestrade says with dry lips. He is drained when he greets us, and his dark eyes narrow to my presence as he gives Sherlock a questioning look as to why I am here. Sherlock ignores him and walks towards the body of the victim. He crouches and stares at the bag that has been placed over top of it. I can already tell it's a woman from the size of the bag, and the thought of an active serial murderer sinks my heart for some reason. 

I flash a tasteless smile towards Lestrade before I push past him and rush over to crouch next to Sherlock. He carefully unzips the bag to reveal a young girl. Her skin still held some pigment that indicated the body was just freshly killed a few hours ago. Her mascara was smeared and seemed to have rolled down her cheeks. My chest tightens the longer I stare at her. She was so young, perhaps still in university?

"There aren't any visible signs of struggle. But she was clearly crying and conscious while he killed her." Lestrade mentions, as Sherlock quietly examines her face and carefully checks under her tongue.

"She was poisoned," Sherlock says "her mouth is fermenting quickly, and her tongue is about to dissolve."

"Hmm..." Lestrade hums in discontent.

"She was probably drugged first. There are no visible signs of struggle. The killer kept her slightly conscious but not physically capable to be of any threat, which is why she was crying. It was all she could do." Sherlock continues, "This tells us he's someone who is not as strong as he appears to seem. He preys on young girls because they are easy. To capture. To kill. And to lift into the fantasies that he likes to exhibit them as." 

"A couple found her sitting on the branch of a pine tree out back in the woods there. I had the team bring her down for closer examination. Do you really think its the same killer?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock unzips the body bag further down her body to reveal the baby blue floral dress she was wearing. There are no spots of blood anywhere. She is horrifically pristine in every way, like the other victim, and it is as if our culprit was aiming to maintain her youth and cleanliness. I decide to say something before they start to think I am shocked:

"I'm quite sure it's the same killer. He is naturally preserving the beauty of his victims by exhibiting them in plain sight. Perhaps to inject them back into society. He knows the places people walk by and see every day are the most obscure."

"He is also quite frail." Sherlock adds, earning confused looks from both Lestrade and I.

He simply stares at us and bites his lip, before pointing to the body again:

"Look at the scabs on her Achilles tendon. She was clearly being dragged and it seems that the culprit struggled to get her to the top of the tree, so he settled for a branch. He was too weak to get her all the way to the top, the same way he was too weak to physically fight her to death and had to use drugs." 

"What makes you think he was trying to get her to the top of the tree?" Lestrade asks.

There is brief pause of silence, and Sherlock stares off into the distant woods. His eyes are still and I can tell he's made a connection when his entire expression changes and his face pales an unhealthy color. He almost looks ill at the thought of the connection he just made in his mind, which only makes everyone around him more curious. He opens his mouth to speak. His lips quiver very faintly but I catch it:

"It was a miscalculation. Forget it. Forget everything I've said."

"Wait-" Lestrade tries to interrupt knowing very well that Sherlock had just made a connection, but Sherlock talks over him before he can even begin to inquire.

"The culprit would have had to commit the murder from this afternoon to this evening a few hours ago. Get an alibi on all the witnesses and text them to me tomorrow." Sherlock says, grabbing my hand and quickly leaving the crime scene before any more questions were asked.

We walk along the block towards Baker Street, and he is silent the entire time. His mind is elsewhere and I begin to feel like he forgot I was walking next to him, still holding his hand:

"Sherlock." I call his name and he instantly turns his head to look at me.

"Yes?" He answers softly, stopping in his steps to look at me.

I halt with him and squeeze his hand that I was still holding:

"What happened back there? You're usually never wrong about an in depth deduction like that."

"Well, I was wrong this time. Let's just go home, Y/N." He says quickly.

"But..." I trail off with slight curiosity.

He sighs, taking both of my hands and giving them a squeeze while he glares at me playfully:

"I just want to lie down in bed and hold you in my arms the entire night."

"Again?" I raise my eyebrows.

"Until my arms fall off." He replies seriously, his expression still cold.

I blink at him, contemplating whether or not I should let him. Especially with how mean and grumpy he looks right now. But I am not even given a chance to decide when he suddenly leans in and presses his lips onto my own. 

He always gets what he wants.