Dark Secrets (Sherlock x Reader)

And So It Begins

You stood in front of your childhood home, the tall building looming over you like a scene from a horror film. The building had stood there for over a century and the red bricks had begun to crumble and wear down. The garden was unkempt and full of weed and trash.

It looked like the house had been abandoned for a while, but it had only been two weeks since your father died. You knew why it looked this way, though. Your father was never one for cleaning or gardening. Both your parents usually left that up to you. When your mother died and you eventually left home, the house slowly became a ruin.

You took a deep breath, clenching the key in your fist. ''We should get started. We've wasted a lot of time already.''

''Are you sure you're ready for this, (Y/N)?'' Sherlock asked.

His doubts about your involvement in the case had only grown the day before. After seeing your father's body, you had freaked out back at the hotel. Sherlock had attempted to calm you down, but you were in too much of a shock to notice. Seeing his body had made the situation even more real to you. There was no way you could deny what had happened anymore.

Over the course of the night, all you could think of was him. The image was burnt onto your retina. You'd hardly slept, dreading what you'd see when your eyes were shut.

You shook your head. ''I don't think I'll ever be prepared enough to do this, but we have a case to solve. I'm just going to suck it up and get it over with. I want justice, Sherlock.''

Sherlock knew better than to argue right now, so he simply nodded and followed you inside. 

You twisted the key and pushed the door open, its creaking echoing through the empty hall.

Your hand trailed the old, peeling wallpaper as you slowly made your way inside. Memories filled your head as you made your way through the hall. Good memories, but mostly bad ones.

You felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness as you remembered your childhood spent in this home. You remembered the arguments, the slamming of doors, the lonely and scary nights when your parents were off someplace for work. You also remembered the meals your grandpa cooked in the kitchen, the books you read with him in bed when your parents had gone, and the sound of laughter when your grandpa watched his favourite shows on the telly.

A hand on your shoulder snapped you out of your daze.

''Are you alright?'' Sherlock asked softly. ''You were so lost in thought, you didn't hear me call your name.''

''Oh,'' you simply said. ''Yeah, I'm okay. Just memories.''

''Do you want to talk about it?''

You shook your head. ''We have a case to solve. That's why we're here.'' You entered the living room where the police had dropped off everything they had found in your father's storage room. They had put all evidence in boxes and sealed them. You were given the ok to open them and analyse their content since you and Sherlock were leading the investigation now.

Sherlock took out a pocket knife and cut open a box. He quickly stopped and looked at you. ''Are you okay with me going through his stuff?''

''Sure. I need your help looking at the evidence.''

He nodded and went back to work.

Together, you opened all boxes in the living area, taking out and checking every last item you found. Nothing you came across was useful.

Several hours later, you had searched most of the rooms in the house, coming up with nothing valuable.

You wiped your hands on your jeans and sat down on your old bed. ''This is hopeless. We haven't found anything of use to us yet.''

''Are there any other rooms we haven't checked?'' Sherlock asked.

''The attic, but it's sealed off. There's nothing there, never was.'' Then you remembered. ''No, wait! Ignore what I just said.'' You ran off somewhere, leaving Sherlock in your dusty old bedroom.

He soon followed you and found you standing in front of a large, oak wood door. ''What room is this?''

''My father's study,'' you answered. ''I was never allowed in here as a child nor was my mother. It was absolutely forbidden territory. My dad spent most of his time here when he was home. He always kept the door locked and the key hidden.''

Seeing it, made you remember the place well. You remembered how defensive your father was of this room. Out of curiosity, you had tried to break in once. When your father caught you red-handed, you received the worst punishment of your life. After that, you never tried again, but it always lingered in your mind.

You kicked the door. It didn't budge. ''Damnit!'' you cussed.

''Let me try,'' Sherlock offered. He gave the door a few kicks, but again, it didn't budge.

You sighed. ''I need to know what's in there.''

''Do you have a bobby pin or something?'' Sherlock asked, panting.

You felt around the pockets of your coat. ''I have a paperclip.''

He took the paperclip from you, bent it, and crouched down in front of the lock. He wiggled it around until the door opened with a soft click. ''Got it!''

You pushed the door open, light seeping into the room. It was a small place with no windows. The only furniture inside was a black wooden desk, a red carpet, and a small table in the corner.

Dust flew around as you stepped on the carpet. It looked like the study hadn't been entered in months.

Sherlock had taken out his magnifying glass and was inspecting the carpet.

You sauntered over to the desk and checked the drawers, they were locked. ''Locked drawers always have something to hide,'' you mumbled. You placed your foot against the desk and pulled as hard as you could.

You stumbled as the lock broke, the drawer falling on the floor. Files and papers were scattered around. Picking them up, you took a closer look.

Two of the files contained various contracts, papers describing business deals, stacks of unpaid bills, and forms. The other pile, however, caught your interest more. All papers in it were proof of payment exchanges between two parties. You recognised one as your father, but the other name was unfamiliar to you. This person had deposited large sums of money over the years into a bank account you didn't know your dad had.

Growing up, your family experienced severe money issues due to your father's gambling and drinking problems. Your parents were in huge debt, so you believed. The file proved otherwise. Your father was loaded.

But who was the person giving him the money? And what did your dad do to earn it?

''Sherlock, come look at this.''

He got up and took the file from your hand, skimming through it. His face fell. ''I'm afraid this case has just put us in a lot of danger,'' he said softly.

You looked at him quizzically. ''What do you mean?''

He pointed at the unfamiliar name. ''I've come across this man before. He is one of the most dangerous criminals I've faced so far. He rarely shows his face, not many people know what the looks like. He hires other people to do his dirty work while he gets all the profit. He's a relentless psychopath.''

''How do you know all this?''

''As I said, I've faced him before. Never in person, but indirectly. I've dealt with many cases that I suspect he had something to do with. I could never prove it or find leads. He works meticulously.''

''So this is probably all evidence we'll find of his involvement?''

''I highly doubt we'll find something else.''

''There's no way he's not responsible for my dad's murder. It can't be anyone but him, this is all the proof we need.''

''It'll be extremely hard to find this man, if not impossible. This case won't be easy, but it'll be very, very dangerous.''

You stared at the name on the papers. ''Jim Moriarty,'' you mumbled. ''What does this mean for our case?''

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his forehead. ''Trouble. It means trouble. A lot of it.''