A thorn by any other name would hurt just as deep, or whatever the saying is.
~~~
Greg Lestrade would say Sherlock Holmes was always the smartest in the room. Whether at 221B or Scotland Yard, no ordinary person ever came close to compete with his...
Hurrying down the steps, you made sure to double-check that you had closed the gallery correctly, locks and all. As you make your way to the main road, your eyes glance up from your phone after Sherlock tells you not to eat dinner just yet. His behaviour was becoming odd, and with only one hour to get rid of your work clothes and get to his, it wasn't out of the ordinary for you to be rushing around for a cab.
But instead of a cab, you were met with a sleek black car, none other than Jim rolling down the window. "Two million,"
You were caught heavily off guard, "what?"
"Two million for this job, get in," he unlocks the door and slides over. You doubt Jim would know you were rushing to get to Sherlock's, so you simply ask how long it would take. "Not long, why? Are you in a rush?" He looks you up and down, and Sebastian rolls the divider window down.
"Come on, it's gonna be fun," he smiles while Jim looks at you expectedly.
"No, no rush," you shake your head, "I'm just tired from work," hoping the yawn you let out will throw him off.
"Will it affect your work?" He continues to eye in suspicion at your behaviour. Maybe Sherlock wasn't the only one acting odd.
"No." You say sternly, changing into an all-black uniform Jim had made for you. It was lined with a protective material, like many of Jim's clothing. Stab and bulletproof, it was a godsend when he presented it. Though, like most of your clothes, Jim made sure your closet was full and safe. God forbid someone hurt you. God help the person who does.
"Perfect," he seemed still seemed slightly upset at the events that had gone down, but you two were never the type of friends to hug it out. "Here's the file,"
~~~
Sherlock stood at the door. 7 pm exactly, waiting for your arrival with an excited smile on his face. He could just imagine the wait you'd light up at the sight of it all.
Fairy lights illuminated the very tidy living room. Mrs Hudson had helped him all day to clean it top to bottom despite his dismay at the dusting. The tv had been put on the floor in front of a finally upright fort. Pillows were plush against the back of the couch, blankets were layering to make the floor more cushioned, and a few more were folded to the side. A wooden tray was littered with your favourite snacks and drinks, as well as a takeout dinner, which slowly got colder.
Colder and colder the food became. The brown paper bag had now become soggy from the steam when it first arrived. His smile became crestfallen as the minutes turned the clock towards 7:30.
He moved towards the window, looking at the falling snow. Each flake covered the window sill, turning into a mountain of doubt and disappointment. His shoes clicked along the wooden floors in concern, stopping when he saw John standing there with a sympathetic look.
"There must be something keeping her at the gallery," he mumbles, turning back to grab his violin.
"She'll be here," John promises, but his words are empty. Optimism was never Sherlock's forte, but every silver sliver had piled onto a single time, 7 pm when he would have finally felt the comfort of a friend beyond John.
Banter and enjoyment like he had when you showed up at his doorstep yesterday. Not a text, no call, and he assumed the worst. Closer to 8, John offered to go to your flat after his messages weren't answered; the gallery would be next on his agenda.
Sherlock knew it was none of that. His gut had simply said you were late. You were on your way. That's all it was.
But time passed, and his anxious thoughts grew. From 8 pm to 9 pm, the food had gone bad. Both portions were abandoned in the trash as he lost his appetite.
"No luck," John sprints up the stairs, "I'm going to check the gallery," he watched his friend stare out the frosted glass, stoic face plastered. "I'll be back,"
"Do you think she forgot?" He asks his friend, feeling his pessimism sink in.
"No, I'm sure Y/n just got caught up in work with that exhibition," John started to feel the lies between his assurance. "You know-"
"Yes..." he tilts his head down, "if you do see her, make sure she's okay," Sherlock couldn't bother with his high hopes anymore, walking to his room.
~~~
"Shit," you adjust your bag, opening the building door and running up the stairs. "Hey, Sherlock, sorry I'm- oh, John," the blogger spins to you with a conflicted look of anger and relief. "Where's Sherlock?"
"In his room," he folds his arms, "are you okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, just caught up at work," you take a few deep breaths, "how's the case?"
John gave a pitiful laugh. "There's no case," he nods his head to the living room where the pillow fort had just suddenly given up. Supports fell backwards against the couch, sheet lightly laying on the pillows underneath.
Your eyes widen in realisation. Bricks suddenly collapse on your heart, suffocating in guilt as you venture further to see the takeaway on the kitchen counter and snacks just by the TV. "He... did all this?"
"All this for you, Y/n," John sighs, dropping his coat on the hanger. "I know you were busy at work, but maybe a message could have been nice?" he sits down in his chair, "he thought you forgot,"
"Forgot?" your heart plummeted to your stomach, "you think I could-" but you didn't need to finish your sentence as he nodded for you to go to Sherlock's room. Creaking floorboards of your shame follow until the door is met with a gentle knock. "Sherlock?"
The door swings open. Sherlock, with relieved eyes, greeted you, "Y/n,"
"I didn't forget, I promise," you start, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to be so late, and I know I should have called or sent a text, but-"
"Are you okay?" He interrupts, the nod you give letting more relief flood, "Alright, that's all that matters,"
"You're not mad?" you were dumbfounded.
"A little upset, in all honesty," he didn't seem to show it, but his quiet and monotone voice was more than enough to tell you that. "I suspect work?"
"Work," you admit, "I really am sorry, I didn't know you had prepared all this, I thought it was just a case,"
"A mistake on my end," he admits, letting his eyes fall to the floor, "but I forgive you, it's not too big of a deal,"
"I think it is," you counter, tilting your head, "if you still want, we could watch a movie?"
Sherlock looked up, finally forming a smile, "that would be nice,"
~~~
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At least there was a happy conclusion
(Also for clarification, when I said "the end is near" in my last A/N I meant like end of the world cuz Sherlock was being nice not end of the book lol we still have a far way to go)
