Sherlock One-shots

Quiche (Sherlock)

In which Sherlock asks you for something and you completely mishear him.

WARNINGS: Cruddy writing, terrible humor, Sherlock being a bean, John being an overprotective bro

Being in the same house as Sherlock Holmes was interesting, to say the least. 

You traveled to London to catch up with your brother, John, only to find him neck deep in detective crime shit (A rabbit hole you somehow got yourself into) and rooming with Sherlock Holmes. 

It was pretty wild. 

You and John shared a bedroom, being siblings, you were comfortable with it. And if John ever needed space, you were happy to sleep on the couch. 

Only to be awakened by Sherlock at four in the morning, playing his violin. He played it well, that much was a blessing, but could he maybe wait until the sun was up? Apparently not.

Not only was there an excessive amount of violin playing, but there was no food in the flat. None. Nada. The fridge had toes and a severed head inside it, and the cupboard held other mysterious items you didn't even want to touch.

That's why you'd gone grocery shopping to the store just down the street. You came back with at least six bags, full of eating essentials. You were starting to lose feeling in your fingers.

You kicked the door of 221B closed behind you, took a deep breath, and began trudging up the stairs. With a huff, you threw the bag over the last step and brushed the hair out of your eyes.

Sherlock was standing behind his chair, violin in hand, facing the window. The morning light framed him, making him seem angelic, dare you to say attractive?

You shook your head and set to work with unloading the goods. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing with this hand in the fridge? It's going to contaminate the rest of the food if I don't get rid of it." Sherlock didn't even turn around.

"Don't you dare throw it out, [Y/N]."

"I will if it poisons the chicken."

"I don't care about the chicken, the experiment is important."

"Can the experiment go in the freezer?" He sighed.

"Fine." 

"Thanks, at least now I can take some comfort in not getting food poisoning." Sherlock scoffed and you rolled your eyes and placed the chicken breasts in the fridge. 

Once everything had been unloaded, placed in its correct environment, you set to making a pot of tea. Mrs. Hudson came along, offering to help, which you gladly accepted. You and the old landlady chatted for a while, mostly about family. 

The kettle whistled and you poured both of you a cup of boiling water. Mrs. Hudson left, thanked you for the tea, and carried her cup downstairs to her room. 

You retreated to the couch, against the wall plastered floor to ceiling with crime notes, images, and bullet holes. All from Sherlock. The book you grabbed from the table in front of you was one you'd been reading for the past few days. It was certainly on your top five list. 

You weren't sure how much time passed, but you'd gone through one-hundred pages and two cups of tea. Sherlock interrupted the zone you'd put yourself in.

"[Y/N] are you up for a quickie?" You choked on the tea you'd tried to take a sip of, spewing it all over the carpet. Sherlock didn't even look up, just continued to gaze into his closed eyelids, hands placed together in a false prayer.