Heavenly Holmes • Sherlock x Reader

16 • alive

When I open my eyes again, I find that I'm still lying in bed with Sherlock.

His arms are draped around me from behind, and I can hear his gentle, cool breaths hitting the surface of my neck periodically. I stare at the window by the bed and admire the white outside. The dull, white, six-o'clock sky. It looks like it's about to rain, but I know it won't. It's that kind of day. Dull and dreary. The color of William's eyes when he laughs. Like a storm that's waiting for you to start it.

Any second.

I push myself up slowly from Sherlock's loose embrace. I sit and rub my eyes tiredly, the bags under my eyes sore from all of the crying of hours before. My head heavy, but there's no headache yet. I feel colder in the absence of Sherlock's arms around me, as the low temperature of the room bites at my skin. My shoulders tense, and I can't believe in myself anymore.

I can't believe I took the lives of innocent people... 

And Sherlock still wants to protect me. 

I can't believe I'm still alive. 

"Y/N." 

His voice is light like the air, as I feel him sit up tiredly and rub his eyes.  I turn to face him. He blinks at me slightly, before beginning to read me with his calculative gaze. His eyes are pale in palor, appearing lifeless and exuding death. My heart skips a beat and I finally feel everything that I have been holding in come up in my throat. I push myself off of the bed and stumble my way quickly over to the bathroom. 

I throw up into the toilet violently, wrenching everything within me out of my system. Oh, how I wish I could just vomit away everything I have done. To somehow purge myself of the horrific things my hands had committed. What had I done? Why had I done it? I want it all to go away.

My throat is stinging by the time I finish throwing up. I stood up from the floor and made my way groggily over to the sink. I rinsed my mouth and splashed some water onto my hideous face, as the tears threatened to sting my eyes once again. My eyes were shadowed by the dark circles that loomed just atop my cheeks, spread across like a graveyard of misery across my face. Sherlock was behind me the whole time, rubbing gentle circles on my back with the palm of his hand to calm me down.

He is silent. 

And he knows that keeping quiet is just as sickening as me killing those women.

He knows hiding what I've done is wrong. 

"You have to tell Lestrade." 

He clenches his jaw and stares at me blankly in response to what I had just said, in a silent refusal of what I was asserting him to do. 

I bite my quivering lip as I turn away from him and quickly walk across the room to find his phone. I pick it up from the bed and he walks after me quickly. I start to dial Lestrade's number, but before he can pick up, Sherlock yanks me by my arm and snatches the phone out of my hand roughly. He takes it and throws it onto the floor so that it shatters into pieces. He lets go of me and still stares at me with that unreadable, emotionless gaze. 

I feel my eyes go blurry with the flood of tears that ensue. I sniff and grab my coat, in an attempt to leave the flat, but Sherlock steps in front of me. I wipe my eyes and glare at him:

"Move."

No reply.

"Move, Sherlock!" I cry, the tears rolling down my cheeks, as I try to push him out of the way. 

But he still doesn't budge. 

"I have to tell Lestrade what I did...I can't live like this anymore..."  My voice cracks.

He grabs my elbows and squeezes them tightly, his hands are so cold against my freezing skin. But colder is his icy gaze that locks onto mine with unmoving resolve. For the first time in a very long time, I cannot tell what he is feeling. If anything at all, he seems stiffly unmoving and robotic. Like we first met.  

"I will not lose you again." He says, his voice clear and concise. 

"Sherlock, I-"  My emotions, contrastingly kicked in like a tidal wave, my throat burned and my voice shook with random nervous stilts that prevented me from speaking cohesively like he was: "I don't even remember killing those girls!"  I sob, my hands aimlessly in the air as he did not move his tight hold on my elbows.

"I know you don't." He says firmly, "Y/N, I know you are not capable of anything like tha-"

"It doesn't matter what you know!"  I become animated in my anger and push him off of me: "What if it happens again? What if I hurt you?" 

"You are not going to hurt me, Y/N." He says loudly, but firmly. 

I stop crying and just stare at him for the remaining seconds, waiting for him to speak again:

"I have an idea." He says softly, "I just need you to give me time to work with you."

I sigh and cross my arms, holding them close to my chest. I wanted to just run out of the flat then and there and tell Lestrade everything, but I remembered that Sherlock was the reason I was here, out of Sherrinford. He was the reason I was alive. The reason for William. He was the reason for everything:

"Okay- but, Sherlock I don't have any track of time myself. I killed people, in some sick, subconscious-hallucinogenic way that I barely recall." My voice cracked.

"I know." He says, still not facing me. He brings a hand to his forehead and exhales deeply "I cannot let you very far from my sight." 

He rubs his forehead for a little before closing his eyes for a brief moment. Then, when I see his face again, it is still stoic and void of any emotion. He continues to appear completely focused:

"First, we need to find out who was visiting you at Sherrinford." 

"What?" I blurt out in confusion, "Sherlock I was locked in there alone, I-"

"How would you know?" He cut me off.

I didn't say anything, instead opting to trust his line of thought and listen to him. He pauses and stares into my eyes for a reaction, waiting for an objection, and when he can see that I am willing  to listen, he continues:

"You told me you were in a trance-like state with someone who claimed to love you. Correct?"

"Yes."

"Tell me more about what happened." He said gently.

"He would call me his lover. He took me to these strange places and would sometimes talk to me or scream. He had no sense of real identity, telling me that his name was Sherrinford or Klaus."

"Sherrinford?" Sherlock furrows his brows, "but that's the prison's name."

"Yes," I pause "It was Sherrinford or...Klaus Holmes."

Sherlock's face pales, and I swallow dryly, fidgeting with my fingers. It had been a while since I'd seen him like this, so focused and deep in thought. Connecting dots and realizing something that probably wasn't good.

I bite my lip before speaking quietly:

"We should probably call Mycrof-"

"Yes."