His Great Game (Sherlock x Reader)

Chapter 38: I Pray the Lord my Soul to Keep

(Your POV)

The world is spinning. I lay on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling as the room blurs around me. This can't be real. I take deep breaths. In, and out. In, out. It helps a little as I feel my senses coming back to me. John is still on the phone and I lay there dreading what he might be hearing from the other end. In, out. In, out.

After a lifetime that must've only been a few seconds, John signs and ends the call. "So, you still got some friends on the force," he says to Sherlock. "It's Lestrade." I sit up straight, anxiously awaiting the verdict. But what he said next was far less than comforting. "Says they're all coming over here right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs: every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."

I groan and drop my head into my hands. "Great," I mumble. "Just great." I peek through my fingers to find that Sherlock is still sitting at his desk unmoved, pretending not to have heard a word John just said. My eyes narrow in annoyance. A little show of emotion never killed anyone, Sherlock.

Truthfully, I was getting even more sick and tired of his attitude as the days went on. I couldn't tell what was wrong with him, and John and Mycroft didn't seem to have a clue either. Now calmed down, I let out an overly dramatic sigh which earns me a split-second glance in my direction from Sherlock before he returns to... well, whatever it is he's doing. But it's that very glance, that brief acknowledgement of my existence, that I knew was something Sherlock wouldn't bother to give other people. I smile to myself. My Sherlock is still in there somewhere.

"Ooh-ooh!" Mrs. Hudson peeks back in with her customary greeting and an oddly familiar parcel in her hand. She senses the thickening tension in the room, almost tangible now. "Am I interrupting something? Some chap delivered a parcel. I forgot. Marked 'Perishable' – I had to sign for it." She hands it to John, and all three of us immediately recognize the seal. "Funny name. German! Like the fairytales..."

The sight of the seal sets Sherlock into action and he springs up, staring at the parcel as if he wanted to murder it. I stand from my seat on the sofa to get a better look as John opens it. He pulls out a less-than-favorable looking gingerbread man. I cock my head in curiosity. Just like the others. But my stomach drops as I hear the approaching police sirens.

"Burnt to a crisp." There's an edge to Sherlock's words, as if he knew what was about to happen. There's a pounding on the door. I hear Lestrade yelling, and John rushes off down the stairs. I hear him yelling too.

But I don't hear them, not really. I'm too busy studying the man before me. The one I fell in love with. I study his sad, blue eyes that look like they're on some other world and the ebony curls that he's running his hands through. He's defeated, I can tell. Crushed by the weight of all that is happening right now and all that could happen to his name, his pride, his dignity. And yet he stands tall, doing everything he can to keep that information from the outside world. But I can tell. I see him.

In a split second, I make my decision. I rush over to him and wrap him in the tightest hug I can manage, tilting my chin to look up at him. He stiffens for a moment but relaxes a little, wrapping one arm around me and the other in my hair. I see something glimmer in his eyes behind all the sadness, but I can't figure out what it is. Yet he still says nothing.

"Sherlock..." my voice pleads for recognition.

He looks at me for a moment and leans forward. Ever so gently, as if afraid he might break me, he places a lingering kiss on my forehead. I instantly melt into the warmth and musk that I had been missing so dearly. "(Y/n)."

"I'm going with you."

At the sound of those words, Sherlock pulls back from me, alarmed. I instantly miss his embrace. "No, you're not."

I cross my arms and stare back at him, eyebrow cocked. Nobody on this Earth could stop me. "Yes, I am." I realize my words are a touch harsh, so I soften a little. "Sherlock, you don't have to do this alone." Anxiety wells up in him and I see a panic flash across his face for just a moment, and then it's gone.

No response.

I sigh and walk over to the desk, picking up his scarf. I turn to him and gingerly tie is around his neck, the soft fabric running through my hands. Sherlock watches me in disbelief as though he might cry at any moment. I finish and let my fingers graze over the gold key hanging around his neck where it still stayed every day. With my other hand I touch my own silver key. Where you go, I go... I flip his over to the back to see the engraving I loved so dearly. "Forever." I whisper it to myself. Sighing, I look up at the love of my life to see a single tear rolling down his perfect cheek. I wipe it away. "Forever." I repeat, gazing into his eyes for one last moment. "Get your coat."

Not a moment after, Lestrade barges in with his group of lackeys. "Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

I take a deep breath as Sherlock stands very still, not even resisting the officer who's slapping cuffs onto him. "He's not resisting!" John's indignant voice pops up and I can tell he's on the verge of fury.

"It's alright, John." Sherlock spares me a knowing glance.

"He's not resisting. No, it's not all right. This is ridiculous!"

"Get him downstairs now." Lestrade orders the officer who has completely cuffed Sherlock. He spins him round and begins to march him out the door.

"Greg." My voice halts everyone in the room. I stare at Lestrade fiercely, trying to remember that he was just doing his job. "You have to take me too."

He looks at me, his eyes pleading for me to stop talking. I know he doesn't want to do this- he's like a father to me and he knows it. His voice is barely a whisper. "(Y/n)..."

I stop him there. "IF Sherlock had committed any sort of crime, you know damn well I'd be the one to know about it."

John's eyes widen in panic. "(Y/n), don't-" I raise up a hand to stop him.

"Greg." This time, my voice is accusing. Come on now, work with me here.

He runs a hand through his silver hair and draws in a long breath. "Fine." He gestures at the policeman holding Sherlock and he unlocks one of the cuffs and grabs my arm, cuffing my wrist. I wince at the cold, sharp edges. Not exactly the kind you'd use in the bedroom. I look down to see that my left hand and Sherlock's right are cuffed together, and I reach over ever so slightly, taking his hand in mine.

He gives me a grateful look and something glimmers in those perfect eyes. This time, it's obvious. It's love.

"Into battle." He whispers, and the policeman promptly gives us a light shove towards the stairs.

Hands still clasped tightly, we march down the steps in unison, chins up and heads held high. Straight past Donovan. Straight past Anderson. Straight past every policeman and woman and cop car in the street. We ignore the few onlookers that are beginning to crowd around the scene in the cold night air, desperate to get in on whatever spectacle was unfolding. I can tell that Sherlock already has something up his sleeve.

We know we're about to be publicly shamed, our reputations ruined, Moriarty's plan set into action. We know. But we don't care.

We have each other. And for now, that's all we need.