No Shit, Sherlock

Detective (L/n)

My eyes open slowly, adjusting to the brightness of the room. Looking around, I see that Sherlock is gone. Did I dream of last night? I stand up, cringing at the violent headache. I walk out of the room to see Sherlock in the kitchen. Cooking?

"Good morning," he says, his voice deep and husky.

How can he be so seductive without even trying? All he's done is said good morning and I can already feel my body burning.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks.

"Yes," my voice is hoarse, but not in a sexy way.

My stomach churns, this is the worst hangover I've ever had. I make my way to the bathroom, as nonchalantly as possible. Once the door is close I immediately start puking into the toilet. I'll never touch a bottle of whiskey again.

Once I'm done in the bathroom I slowly make my way out to see Sherlock sitting at a table, two plates of food resting on it. He gestures for me to sit at the opposite end of the table, "I made breakfast."

I sit down and stare at the food. "I didn't know you could cook."

"I'm the world's greatest detective and you think I can't cook?"

"I assumed that you ate out everyday."

He nods, "I do, but today I felt like cooking."

"Thank you."

He nods again, and the two of us eat in silence.

~~°°••°°~~

"Thank you for everything," I say.

He tilts his head, I've noticed that he does it when he's curious. Like a puppy.

"Will your mother be back tonight?"

"No, she'll be gone for a while," I reply.

He puts the clean dishes away, "And what about Enola?"

"Her and Tewkesbury will be attending another meeting tonight."

"And what about Timothée?" he asks.

I roll my eyes, "You say his name like it hurts you to do so. He'll be attending the same meeting."

"John will be gone again tonight," he says.

He stares at the ground for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. I try to see what he's looking at, but find nothing. Then, he suddenly speaks, "You could spend the night here again. So you don't have to be alone."

My eyes widen. "Only if you don't mind."

I try to be nonchalant, act like it's not a big deal to me. And most importantly, ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

"I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't okay with it," he says smoothly.

I nod, causing my head to hurt even more. "Oh, right. Well, I'll have to go to my place to get spare clothes then."

He throws a coat on and grabs mine, holding it out to me. "Let's go."

He helps me into my coat and the two of us start our journey to my house. The sky is a gloomy gray, and the wind carries a sharp chill. Sherlock walks beside me, greeting anyone that speaks to him. A few women glare at me, and I of course smile in return.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock nods, "Good morning, Mr. Smith."

The older man walks over to us, Sherlock stops and I do the same.

"And who is this beautiful young lady?"

"(Y/n), she's a friend of mine."

The old man smiles brightly, "Good to see that he has company. I worry about him being on his own."