Sherlock-x-Reader: Without You, There Can Be No Me

Sherlock-x-Reader: Without You, There Can Be No Me  

You were visibly shaking, as you slowly walked up the rickety old staircase of 221B Baker Street, and stood before the now dreaded apartment door. You lifted one of your hands to tentatively knock, but stopped before your knuckles met with the hard wooden surface.

You took several deep breaths as you felt your anxiety triple, and fought the overwhelming feelings that were now rising in your chest.

It had been a whole week since you'd nearly jumped off the bridge, and ever since then you’d been avoiding Baker Street and its residents. Not out of spite or anything like that . . . it was more out of embarrassment and the prospect of facing a certain detective who had seen you in such a moment of weakness. 

If it had been anyone else, you wouldn’t have cared about appearances. But it wasn't just anybody who had talked you out of falling to your death. . .

. . . It had been Sherlock Holmes.

What would he think of you now? He'd never been overly warm or welcoming to you- well, usually he deemed your actions amusing and entertaining. But having seen you in such an incredibly altering situation, might have changed things permanently. Would the great detective act the same? Or would he be different? That was the question.

You were walking into a battle to face an altogether horrifying foe: the unknown.

The thought terrified you as you stood shaking on the doormat, and you would have liked nothing better than to run back down the stairs and take a taxi back to own your flat. If it wasn't for John’s worried phone calls and messages over the last handful of days, you wouldn’t have thought twice about retreating. But here you were, and here you’d stay. . . Well at least, until you'd put John’s worries to rest.

With a final wordless prayer to the cosmos, you lifted your shaking hand once more and knocked upon the paint-chipped door. You waited for several long moments, before you repeated the action . . . and then again. 

No movement from inside, and no answer. 

After a minute more of waiting you were about to turn away and forget about the whole thing, when you heard a voice call out from within.

"Enter." 

At the all too familiar voice, your fight or flight instincts kicked into overdrive, but slowly and resolutely, you reached for the knob and let yourself into the flat.

You entered with hesitant steps and forced yourself to close the door behind you before giving yourself the chance to observe your surroundings. You knew that it was a chicken-hearted thing to do, but at this point you were lucky to have set foot in 221B, let alone do it the brave way.  

As your (e/c) eyes grew accustomed to the somewhat dark main room, you noticed that the flat was a mess- as per usual. But you completely ignored the excess items littering the living space; for it was the figure that lounged on the far side of the room that captured your full attention, making your mouth hang open in a most unflattering way.

There, lying upon the couch, shrouded in what looked to be a white bed-sheet, amidst countless maps and documents, was Sherlock. His eyes were closed; and with his hands steepled thoughtfully under his chin, and his legs crossed at the ankles he was quite the sight. Though it was a most assured fact, that if the man hadn't crossed his legs in such a way, you most likely would have seen everything he had to offer.

You stood; gaping for several minutes before Sherlock spoke, startling you out of your somewhat treacherous mindset.

“Could you hand me my phone?”

“Ummm. . .” You glanced around the cluttered room. “Where is it?”

“Mantelpiece,” was the simple reply, and you hesitantly made your way over to the fireplace. Once you had spotted it, you grabbed his phone and then moved to take it back to him.

Sherlock's eyes were still closed as you came to stand next to the couch, but before you could place it near him or say a word; his piercing light blue eyes snapped open to regard you.

He held out his hand expectantly, and you- fumbling slightly- placed the phone into it.

Both of you were silent as Sherlock typed out a brief text message and sent it to the unknown recipient. Then . . . he was staring at you again.

"John’s not in," he said.

Apparently, he had already figured out why you had paid Baker Street a visit. Not overly surprising, when you thought about whom it was you were talking to.

You nodded. “Yeah, I figured as much.”

You fell silent- not quite sure what else to say- but you shouldn't have worried. For Sherlock- after gazing at your face for several more seconds, let his eyes drift down to your shaky, pale hands, and instantly broke the silence.  

“You shouldn't fear me, (F/n). I doubt such a ridiculous thing is considered healthy.”

You froze, and your jaw clenched. “What? I’m not afraid of you, Sher-”

Sherlock closed his eyes once more, and sighed in annoyance, interrupting your argument.

“Don’t deny it. You have too many things working against you: your hands, for starters.”

His fast paced deductions made your stomach churn, but it was too late now. You’d opened the door, and he was in.

"They’re shaking," he continued firmly. "Your face is pale which can be directly pinpointed to severe anxiety, and there’s concealer under your eyes: hiding black circles due to lack of sleep. Also, your shirt is wrinkled from when you crinkled it with your hands. I’d say two minutes before you knocked. A nervous gesture that you tend to do when you’re worried about something personal such as friends, your love-life, etc. . . . And then, there’s your shoes.”

You internally screamed as he picked your appearance apart, but took it with a straight face. You had prepared for this- well as much as anyone could prepare to be analyzed by Sherlock Holmes- and you would stand your ground even if it killed you.

“What about my shoes,” you asked cautiously.

Sherlock’s lips quirked into a thin smile.

“They don’t match.”

You instantly looked down and felt a blush creep to your cheeks. He wasn't lying . . . you were wearing two different kinds of shoes: a sneaker and a house-slipper, one white and red, the other overly fuzzy and yellow. . . You groaned aloud in embarrassment, and would have been completely lost to your blunder if it wasn't for Sherlock’s deep voice interrupting your thoughts. But it wasn't necessarily his voice that caught your attention, but rather the inquisitive note laced to it.

“You've never been skittish around me before. . . In fact, you've always been curious in my presence. What changed?”

You looked at him in disbelief. Was he being serious, or did he truly not know?

"I’m not afraid of you, Sherlock," you argued sincerely. "I’m just ashamed, because you . . . saw me."

“I saw you?” He seemed incredulous.

“Yes, you saw me- last week. . . Like that. . .”

“Like what?”

His confusion and annoyance was obvious, and you felt your heart drop. He'd be the death of you, one way or another. . . consequences and feelings be damned.

“The bridge, Sherlock,” you clarified, after a moment of mental preparation. "I'm . . . I’m embarrassed that you had to be with me in one of my darker moments. . . I never wanted you to see me in such a sorry state of mind.”

Sherlock was silent, but you knew he was paying close attention to you, from the way his blue eyes were focused.

So, you continued.

“Ever since John introduced me to you, I've wanted to earn your respect- a seemingly impossible task,” you admitted as your eyes began to grow wet. “I doubted it would ever happen, but I wanted it all the same. . . And now . . .  And now I know that I’ll never be able to.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment before he probed; voice gentle but invasive all the same.

“What evidence do you have that suggests such a claim?”

Now it was your turn to be incredulous. Your eyebrow rose and a loud, unladylike snort escaped you. "I don’t need evidence when I already know something to be true, Sherlock."

Sherlock immediately snorted right back at you, though you noted that his sounded dignified and somehow. . .  seductive. . . - unlike yours had.

“Why do people always suit facts to theories, instead of theories to facts?” The detective wanted to know. “Placing belief in something without the proper proof is a deceptive practice, (F/n); one that often leads to more headache than necessary.”

You felt wistfulness rise in your chest as you shook your head violently. You knew that you should probably just keep your mouth shut and walk away. But as you once more were trapped by Sherlock’s cold hard logic you couldn't help but lash out.

“Screw the facts!” You cried out, making the detective cock his head to the side. “You don’t respect anyone! . . . Well, I think you respect John and perhaps your brother Mycroft- in an abstract, unorthodox sort of way- but it’s not something you give easily, if at all!”

You were crying now, but nothing could stop the torrent of emotion.

“I knew the chances of you respecting me were slim in the beginning, because I’m not smart or particularly special. I’m not a doctor like John, or a deduction playmate to you like your brother. I’m simple! I enjoy simple things, Sherlock! Like seeing people smile and finding reasons to laugh when I’ve been dealt a hard hand by life. . .”

You hung your head sorrowfully as you finished, “My chances were already bad, but now I'm positive I’ll never impress you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Tell me why,” Sherlock hissed impatiently, making you jump.

The detective's eyes were bright and his fingers were flexing restlessly as he swung his feet to land on the carpeted floor- moving into a bold sitting position. The white bed-sheet fitting his form like a toga of doom, moving silently with him to gracefully rest once more in an almost regal position. It was quite strange, utterly terrifying, and horrifically attractive.

"Facts, (F/n), for pity sake! TELL ME FACTS!" He snarled viciously, his lips drawing up over his teeth like a wolf readying itself to bite. "Stop chomping your gums like a meaningless impersonator, and give me something to work with! TELL. ME. WHY!”

As he barked at you, your dam broke and you erupted in your full despair and anger. A volcano of pent up emotions boiling over, just as they had on the bridge . . . But somehow it was stronger this time. . . Somehow it felt. . . better.

“I NEARLY KILLED MYSELF, YOU INCONSIDERATE MORON!!! WHAT BETTER REASON DO YOU NEED!?” You yelled back at him ferociously, your voice coming out far too loud in the secluded living room. “You respect life- you constantly try to save it by solving mysteries and murder cases- whether you like that part of your job or not! And I almost threw mine AWAY!”

You moved the palms of your hands up to cover your eyes, ashamed as the truth of the matter reached the surface.

“I know you’ll never respect me because you had to help me, Sherlock . . . I’m nothing more than another client on a list . . . and you didn't even get paid.”

"You were never a client, (F/n)," Sherlock said calmly from where he sat on the couch, pulling his sheet more comfortably around his lithe form; his sudden, momentary outburst all but forgotten. "And you would have found a way to save yourself even if I hadn't been there."

“I don’t believe that,” you whispered, with a sorrowful shake of your head. “I’m not that strong. . . I never have been.”

“It’s not about strength,” Sherlock stated easily. “You've always had the means and incentive to help yourself, (F/n). I merely pushed the needed information back where it belonged: before your weary, disheartened eyes.”

You took at a shaky breath as his light blue eyes met your (e/c) ones, and felt your heart skip as he gave you the same smile he’d donned on the bridge when he'd told you that someone loved you. That same look of affection.

“You never wanted to die, (F/n).” He spoke softly, as if to soothe you, and you choked silently, as the tears slid down your pale face. “You just wanted the pain to stop.”

Your hands were shaking more violently now, than they had when you'd first entered the flat, but you accepted it. Where you had first dreaded Sherlock’s deductions of your character upon entering 221B, you now welcomed it. You basked in it. 

“Y-Yes.”

“You wanted to be free of your confines,” Sherlock continued gently. “To enjoy life and all it has to offer. But you felt trapped, so you stood at the edge of a bridge to try to put some meaning back into your life.”

“Yes,” you said again, for it was all true. Every word was dead on the money, and you were grateful for it. "I wanted to feel something other than disappointment and isolation. I wanted to be whole." 

Sherlock gazed at you for a whole minute before he slowly rose from his seat on the couch. As always, he towered over your smaller form, but you didn't feel intimidated. Not when his eyes- for once- looked so warm.  Their usual iceberg blue was melting into a free-flowing ocean tide of intent cerulean; swirling around you and through you.

“You are whole, (F/n)," he chided in a whisper. "And you proved that you loved your life, by not giving into a petty end. You saved yourself.”

Deep down, as you stood so close to the strange detective, you knew that he was right. The thought made you feel tingly and happy- startling you. For you'd never felt anything like it in your entire life. 

Hesitantly and with more than a touch of nervousness, you slowly raised your right hand up to rest on Sherlock’s chiseled cheek, and graced him a grateful smile.

“I might have saved myself,” you consented lovingly. “But the information you gave me, Sherlock Holmes, helped me to do so . . . Without you, there would be no me.”

Sherlock raised his own hand, and placed his palm against yours, firmly holding your hand to his face. Your eyes met with his stunning, all-seeing blue, and you felt your heart flip in your chest. The moment was beautiful and open, like final scene in a majestic play, and both you and the great detective delved deep into it. 

Vibrant lights, colors, and sounds. Little details never seen before or after. And more endorphin's than you thought you could handle. 

It was glorious! 

Then after an unknown amount of time had passed- Sherlock, hand still holding yours, leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours as he whispered two words that made the dull ache in the back of your heart disappear completely. And though it was far from an eternal love declaration, you knew that for the man standing before you; it was the closest he could muster. And thus, it was enough.

“I know.”

Then, Sherlock closed the distance between you, and softly placed his lips upon your own. Sealing the unspoken deal you both had just made, with the perfection equation. For without one, there could be no other, and because of this you were no longer lost.