Multifandom Oneshots

Sherlock Holmes x Reader

You're laying in bed, trying to sleep, but your phone keeps ringing. You had looked at it once, but when you saw it was Sherlock, you had laid back down.
You love him, but Lord was he a handful.
You glare at your phone, willing it to shut up. It stops, and you sigh in relief. Your throat's sore, and your nose is stuffy. You had barely slept at all last night.
It starts ringing again, and you pick it up. "What?" You demand.
"Good morning." Sherlock says in his brisk, down to business voice. "Sleep well? I take it you aren't busy." He says excitedly, "There's been a murder. I'm going to text you an address, and I need you to meet me there. Bye." He says, and the phone clicks off.
"My God." You mumble as you climb out of bed. "Must people constantly be getting their dumbasses murdered? Would it kill them to give me a rest?"
An hour later, you're at the address Sherlock texted you. You duck under the police tape.
"Hey!" A voice calls. "You can't go--"
"Sod off, dumbass." You tell Anderson, and keep walking.
You follow the voices and wind up in a dank room. Sherlock's kneeling beside a dead body, looking completely in his element. He looks up when you walk in. "You look terrible." He says bluntly, and turns back to the body. "His--"
"Yes, I'm sure I do. I have a terrible cold and got woken up at six in the morning after three hours of sleep." You snap. "Was there not anybody else you could have worked with? John? Sally?"
"John's preoccupied, and everybody else is unbearably stupid. So no, there's nobody else I could have worked with." Sherlock doesn't look up from the corpse. "He has no ID on him--"
"His name's Daniel Jones." You say. "He manages the bank three blocks over. Married with two kids."
Everyone looks at you, eyebrows raised, thinking you've been spending far too much time with Sherlock.
"We went to high school together." You say. "Get back to work."
Relieved, everybody turns back to their work. Sherlock gives a nod. "Okay. He was carrying a brief case, which must have had his ID--"
"No." You interrupt. "He left it at his home. He was involved in drugs. He was making a trade."
Everyone stares at you again.
"I've done research. We just have to find out who he was buying from, and that's who killed him."
Sherlock stood quickly, pulling his gloves off and dropping them on the floor. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect!" He says and walks over to you, grabbing your upper arms and kissing you. You had begun to protest, since you were sick, but he didn't heed your warning. "Beautifully done. Shall we?" He grabs your hand and pulls you out.
"I'm sick, Sherlock. You'll get a cold."
"I'll be fine." He says. Famous last words.
"Where are you going, Holmes?" Somebody calls after you.
"To find a killer!" He says excitedly.

Naturally, you're woken the next morning to a phone call as well. You look at it to see John calling. "Hey." You say as you pick up, feeling much less irritable, and much better, than yesterday.
"Sherlock's sick." He says.
"I told him so." You sigh.
"And I'm not going to take care of him."
"Neither am I."
"Oh, yes you are. You got him sick, you're gonna suffer through it."
"It isn't my fault."
"You wanna skip town?" He says with a laugh.
You sigh again. "I'll go over there."
"Thank you." He says.
"Yeah. Sure. See you."
"Bye."
You go over to 221B Baker Street to see Sherlock sitting at his computer, wrapped in a blanket, hair ruffled. "Good morning." You smile sweetly.
"You got me sick." He says childishly.
"You poor thing."
"I know who the killer is."
"Have you told Lestrade?"
"Yes. They picked him up."
"All right. Want me to make soup?"
"Yes please."
You open the fridge, and close it again. "Sherlock?" You ask uncertainly, going back to him.
"Yes, Y/N?"
"There's a head in the fridge."
"Yes, I'm aware." He doesn't look away from the screen.
You nod, not wanting to question it, and go back to the kitchen.
"Sherlock?" You say again, truly curious about the head.
"Yes, Y/N? Spit it out."
"Never mind." You shake your head and make the soup.
"Sherlock?" You ask again over soup.
"Yes, Y/N?" He eats his soup contentedly.
"Do you love me?"
"Pardon?" He looks up at you.
"Do you love me? You don't act like you love anybody--"
"I have feelings just as anybody else does. I'm just better at hiding them than most." He says shortly.
"So tell me you love me. I know you do."
"How?"
"I've picked up a few things working with you. One of them is how to read people." You smile a bit.
"Yes, I love you." He admits.
"So why don't you say it?"
"Because I'm a freak."
"You aren't a freak, Sherlock."
"You're the only one who hasn't called me that."
"John--"
"John thinks it all the time. You're the only one who hasn't."
"You aren't a freak, Sherlock. I admire your intelligence."
"Thank you. And I yours."