Sherlock x Reader

Rock, paper, scissors.

"I suggest we play a highly sophisticated game which involves coordination and quick thinking to decide," you suggested. You saw both of them look confused for a moment before Sherlock realised what you were on about.

"Oh, I love a good game of rock, paper, scissors. How about it, John?"

"No, absolutely not!"

"Oh whyyy?" You didn't see what was wrong with your idea. It was perfectly valid and mature.

"Because we should know better than to make divisions based on children's games!" You completely disagreed but John looked like he was going to murder someone so it was probably better to agree with him. So you sighed dramatically and said,

"Fine, what do you think we should do, then?" John looked like he was about to say something but was interrupted by Sherlock getting up and walking into the kitchen, claiming he was bored. Of course he was.

"Well, I think that we should assign a bed to whoever needs it most. So ______, you definitely need to take a bed because of your multiple injuries-" You started to protest but were silenced by the look on John's face. "And then... One of us will take the bed upstairs. You shouldn't worry about it, we'll sort it out." You agreed, grudgingly, and looked around the flat. Every other time you'd been here, you hadn't had much time to look around at anything, thanks to Mrs Hudson's constant chatting. But it was definitely cleaner here. You vaguely remembered the first time you were here and oh, it was just so messy! You didn't classify yourself as a very tidy person, but you did like some order. You were just about to get up to go into the kitchen, when you were interrupted by none other than Mrs Hudson!

"Sherlock, you have a client! And this one's very anxious to see you." You thought that you should really go right now, and let John and Sherlock do all the deducting stuff but you were kept where you were by Sherlock's hand on your shoulder. You couldn't say no to that, could you? And then Mrs Hudson brought in a shaking and sweating man in. Apparently he wanted to find out who killed his wife but he seemed to get his story muddled around. First, he was with her when some men mugged them and killed her, then he was at home when he heard the news that his wife had been killed. The story made no sense! He was hiding something, and it seemed like he wanted to put the blame on someone, someone other than... Oh, now you got it. The man left after saying for the sixteenth time (you counted) that he wasn't guilty and Sherlock stood up abruptly and pointed at John.

"Theory?" John looked at him in disbelief and replied,

"Isn't that your job, Sherlock? Showing off?" Sherlock shook his head and sighed, and then pointed to you.

"______, theory?" You thought about it. Your idea couldn't be that bad and you weren't a "consulting detective" like he was.

"I think that the husband killed his wife. Judging from the fact that he decided to consult you and was clearly shaken about the event, I'd say he didn't do it on purpose. Maybe his mood changed abruptly and he snapped." There was a brief silence, and then Sherlock smiled.

"At least someone is thinking today. Yes, ______, you were right. Of course, it's only the overall picture, but you're right." Really? This was brilliant! You managed to show him that you could think, and maybe he'd realise that it wasn't so boring in your head. But he knew that. He must've known, otherwise why would he like you?

The rest of the day was spent in moderate silence. The only thing you did was go downstairs to your flat and get some of your stuff. It actually surprised you to see how much black stuff you owned. Shirts, jeans, hoodies. Eyeliner, eyeshadow. You did have some stuff in other colours, but it was mostly dark blue and red. Oh well. Again, Sherlock had to help you going up and down the stairs but you made him wait outside as you packed up some clothes, makeup and your laptop. To be honest, it was just an average day in 221 Baker Street, except you were staying with the people in the flat above you. Until it was time to go to bed. John and Sherlock went out for chips and brought you your share, since it was best that you didn't exert yourself too much. It annoyed you, but that annoyance was quenched by the savoury taste of chips. And then you all played Operation until about midnight. You were barely keeping your eyes open, and even Sherlock was drifting off. John went upstairs, yawning out a 'goodnight' and you went to Sherlock's bedroom. He looked like he'd fallen asleep on the sofa, so you literally tiptoed so as to not wake him. You had brushed your teeth, gotten changed and were lying in his bed playing Angry Birds on your phone when you heard sounds. Footsteps. Must be Sherlock, you thought but teen paranoia came back and you pulled the covers up past your head. Well, it's better to be safe than sorry! ... But what help would the sheets give, really? None at all. You had to overcome this irrational fear! You knew that you were the only one in the room. Sherlock probably just got up to go to the bathroom. You breathed in deeply and out again, and pulled the covers down.

Sherlock.

You almost certainly would have cried out if he hasn't quickly shushed you and brought his hand up to stroke your hair. You could literally feel your heart beating frantically as you tried to calm down.

"Why are you so afraid of the dark, ______" he asked, whispering. His low voice soothed you, and you could think more clearly.

"Why don't you tell me? Just do some of your deducting stuff and you'll find out. You always do."

"Not with you. Do you want to know why I find you interesting?" Of course you did! You nodded and he continued. "I can't deduce how you feel. You close yourself off. I can know all about your life but never know how you truly feel. Most people are easy to read, they're like an open book. And some are trickier but still give their emotions away. But you... It's like you want to keep it that way. But you know what, ______?" You sighed.

"What, Sherlock?"

"I will figure you out. You are the one puzzle. The real challenge." He'd brought his hand down to just below your jaw and leaned in, like he was going to kiss you. And stopped. He pulled away and walked to the door. It was hard to see in the light but you were sure that his face had gone back to his usual, blank mask. No real smile or sadness.

"Goodnight, ______." And he left. You were alone again. But you weren't. You knew he liked you. Not to what extent, but you knew he did. Why couldn't he show it?! Well, you'd be like him. Until he could show what he was actually feeling, you would make his 'one puzzle' the most difficult he would have to solve.

You fell asleep with a smirk on your face.