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In Love Or Something >> Sherlock Holmes X Reader

Title: In Love Or Something

Paring: Sherlock Holmes X Reader

Warnings: fluff, angst, Sherlock is an asshole and a sweetheart but he's also like a coin, if you flip him you're not sure which side of that equation you'll get, cutesy.

Spoilers: yes!!! for the new season 4, which I finally watched!! Huzzah!

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There was an idea that writers could just pick up a pen, and whenever they wished, the words would come forth. That idea was, sadly, just an idea, and ever the mundane human you were, there was nothing that could make it get any better. Tea did nothing. Meditation, well, that was out of the question. You stayed in the room above the flat of the Sherlock Holmes, asshole supreme, and, notorious noisy man. Whenever your fingers would poise to write the fictional story you were destined to (or taught to, after five years spent at a very expensive university where you studied novels and deconstructed them to buggery), the tall man would shoot the wall, would call your name, would bang the door on his way out to solve a crime.

You see, the was your plight. Middleclass, female. Owner of a diploma in the arts, or really, a fancy paper that failed to get you into a publishing house two years ago when you graduated with honours. Your uncle, a policeman at the Scotland Yard knew you were soon to be penniless and had no problems shaking up anywhere until you found a job, and pulled strings to allow you to stay in the spare room in 221B Baker street, prime real estate in London. Well, that was a month ago. You now worked as Sherlock Holmes' new Watson, since the other man could not run around to corpses and crime scenes after becoming the primary caregiver of his daughter.

But your story...!

"_________, I need you to look at something," Sherlock called your name, that baritone tenor getting to your nerves like tears when gas comes.

You barely grit your teeth, and pushing the computer from your lap, you march down the stairs to see what's wrong in the land of Holmes. Sherlock stands in the middle of the lounge room, holding his head like it's a football, or perhaps, on fire. He's wearing pyjamas, yet, it's after ten o'clock on a Tuesday and he's usually elbows-deep in a bag of thumbs from Molly Hooper or finding someone's amnesiac step-grandmother.

"Yeah?" You ask, hands upon hips akimbo. "Don't tell me you need an idiot's perspective on something."

He releases his hands from his head, giving you a small smile. "You're not an idiot..." He goes to protest.

You raise a brow at his claim. "Just last week you yelled it at me before I went to bed. And threw a slipper at me." You say bluntly, staring him directly in the eyes. "So, what is it? I'm not telling you where your cigarettes are."

His eyes look bleary, come to see it, and there's a slight stumble in his step when he moves back to sit in his favourite chair. He's not using, you're on him like a hound about that, and there's no way he's drunk, he absolutely loathes day-drinking when the days of the week don't begin with an S. You're not an idiot, he's right, but even an idiot could see that Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire, was –

"You're sick." You say.

He goes to protest, "No, I'm not," he exclaims, wincing at his own tone. "I – I didn't call you down here to mother me, I need a hand on – on –," he repeats the word once more, and then, sneezes into his pyjama sleeve. "How am I sick?"

You shake your head, moving toward the kitchen. It's a mess, as always, but some of it is your mess, so you do not complain. You flick the kettle on, and tidying up the dirty dishes into some semblance of a pile, you ruminate on how Sherlock got sick. "It could be because of that time you went out and didn't bring an umbrella, you know, the night when all the taxis were on strike," you call out, pulling down two mugs and tea bags. "...or that night when you didn't bring your coat and we went into the sewer to follow a lead on foot," you gag at the memory, remembering how cold it was underground, and how lucky you were for wearing one of Uncle Greg's knitted jumpers. "Or –,"