Waiting (Sherlock x Reader)

CONTENT WARNING: THERE IS MENTION OF RAPE IN THIS STORY. IT'S NOT GRAPHIC, JUST PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT IT, REALLY, BUT IF YOU AREN'T COMFORTABLE WITH THAT, PLEASE DO NOT READ ON.

BBC SHERLOCK, JOHN WATSON, AND MRS. HUDSON BELONG TO *GASP* BBC. ORIGINAL CHARACTERS BY SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE. ALSO, FOR THE ONE REAL DUDE NAMED THOMAS GRANGER, SORRY I CALLED YOU A RAPIST. NOT ALL GUYS NAMED THOMAS AND/OR GRANGER ARE RAPISTS.


“(Name), would you make some tea?” Sherlock called. He was laying on the ratty couch in his flat, thinking. He was always thinking about something, but today his mind darted about, trying to settle on one thing. Any one thing would do, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t had a case in two days, and his brain was already growing deadly restless.

“(Name), tea!” he repeated, a little louder. You were his flatmate, John’s, closest cousin, and you were staying with him and Sherlock at 221B Baker Street for a while as you looked for your own flat. You’d been in the shower for over twenty minutes. You’d come home in the middle of the day and immediately gone to the bathroom.

Sherlock had taken a liking to you for your brazen attitude and sarcastic wit, more of a liking than he cared to admit. Sometimes, when you entered a room his heart sped up and had the compulsion to fix his hair, which he never cared about before. You were his kryptonite.

Suddenly, the shower stopped. Sherlock sighed with relief; you must’ve heard his command finally and were now here to deliver the much needed beverage. Unfortunately, after another ten minutes, the tea had still not arrived.

Sherlock sighed again, this time in annoyance. Now he would have to get up and fetch you to make the tea himself. As he approached you room, he began to hear noises: the unmistakable sound of crying from behind your door. Curious, he knocked and called your name. You didn’t reply, but the crying stopped.

Normally, Sherlock would have shrugged it off and gone about his day, but he had a feeling that the door needed to be opened.

So he did. The door was unlocked and swung open at his command. He found you curled up in a ball on your bed, wrapped in only a towel, your clothes abandoned on the floor. You didn’t look up. You couldn’t. You didn’t want him to see you like this, weak and cowering.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sherlock probed harshly, walking to your side. He stopped his march when you burst out in a fresh fit of sobs.

He had no idea how to deal with a situation like this. Defuse a bomb? Fine. Debate a serial killer? No problem. Comfort a woman in pain? Absolutely clueless. He stood there like a moron, watching your half-naked form quake in agony, choking on air in a furious rush for breath.

Sherlock made an effort to console you by placing a bony hand on your shoulder, but you only shrieked in horror and scrambled to the other side of the bed to continue your weeping.

Concluding that he would get no answers from you, he began to analyze the room.

It was messy, which wasn’t new, but the clothes tossed hurriedly on the floor was. You always tried to get them to a hamper to make laundry day easier. There was only one set of clothes strewn about the room, so it was safe to assume that it was the same outfit you’d worn back to the flat.

Your skin was rubbed pink and raw, every inch of you from what he could see had been cleaned. You weren’t prone to bouts of OCD, so that had something to do with the day’s earlier events as well.

It dawned on him then.

Last night you’d attended a party. You didn’t usually attend such functions, but a friend who went to a local university had insisted. You came home late, so you probably woke up in an unfamiliar area. You woke up, rushed home, felt the need to scrub every nook and cranny of your body, and were now in the fetal position on your bed, blubbering uncontrollably.  

“Who did it?” Sherlock snapped at you. You probably would have appreciated some gentleness, considering what you’d just been through, but tact wasn’t going to gain answers. “Who raped you?”

“I-I don’t know!” you wailed in between sobs. “I don’t remember anything!”

“You shouldn’t have showered,” Sherlock scolded. “You washed off any and all traces of who did this.”

“I didn’t want to have any of him on me,” you whimpered. “I didn’t want to feel his dirt on my skin or smell him in my hair!”

“You were probably drugged,” Sherlock deduced. “That’s why you can’t remember anything. Rohypnol, most likely. I have to take a blood sample to see if there are any traces left.”

He left you to get a syringe. Though he didn’t show it, he was reeling. He was frightened and angry for you at the same time. He couldn’t imagine how violated you must have felt, how contaminated. That must be why you wanted to wash every sign of the night before off you, so that you could be once again unblemished and pure. But of course, it wasn’t that simple.

He was about to return to you with his syringe, but saw the teapot on the stove and decided to put some on before reentering the room.

You had stopped crying and were now just sitting on your bed, looking blank and vacant. Sherlock had never seen you as anything other than happy and smiling, or steeled and ready. He had never seen you as anything but strong, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see you any other way.

Sherlock approached you slowly this time, clearing his throat to make his presence known. Without looking up you stuck out one arm and he took it firmly, instantly locating the vein and sticking the needle in. You hated needles--he knew you hated needles--but you didn’t flinch as the blood was drawn and the extra droplets were wiped away.

This disturbed Sherlock greatly. There were certain things he counted on in this world, including Mrs. Hudson’s morning tea, John’s faux normalcy, and your hopeless protests against pointy things being stabbed into your body.

“And you don’t remember anything?” Sherlock asked.

“Only flashes,” you droned duly, as if you were in a trance. “I remember his hands on my breasts, hot breaths on my neck. It hurt. Nothing else.”

Sherlock nearly split his knuckles open clenching his fists. The idea of someone doing that to you at all urked him, the idea that someone did it against your will infuriated him.

“What’s the last thing you remember before the party?” Sherlock continued, hiding his emotion with expert poise.

“I went to the party with my friend and got soda, because I was the designated driver. I didn’t see anyone suspicious, mostly frat girls and a few guys. He must have but the drugs in my soda, because drinking it is the last thing I remember from last night. I woke up this morning in one of the girls’ room and I knew.”

“You knew?” Sherlock questioned doubtfully. “How could you know when you don’t remember anything?”

“Some things you just know, Sherlock,” you snapped at him. It was almost comforting to see you angry instead of numb, but when he finally saw your eyes he saw the unmistakable loss and breaking in them. Something inside you had cracked, and Sherlock had no inkling of how to fix it.

He set the syringe on the bedside table and took a seat beside you. You were still only dressed in a towel, and even Sherlock had to admit to the awkwardness of sitting with a naked woman, but this was coming from a man who appeared at Buckingham Palace in a bed sheet and nothing else.

He was going to say something insightful and soothing, but the teapot in the kitchen whistled and he got up to fetch it. When he returned with the tea you still hadn’t moved.

“Here,” he said, offering you a cup. You took it cautiously and took a delicate sip.

“You made tea,” you observed.

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s bloody awful.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it, it was good to see you back even if it was for a brief moment. You returned to your idle expression. Noticing the pain creep back into your eyes Sherlock sunk once again. It burned him how much his happiness depended on yours.

“I’m going to find out who did this to you, (Name). I promise you that,” he swore solemnly. You only nodded and sipped at the tea.

🔎🔎🔎🔎🔎

It had taken just over three days to track down the man who raped you. It had been harder than Sherlock anticipated purely because he was distracted by you.

You had regained a semblance of your old self, but were still a mere husk. Occasionally you made a joking remark or snorted at something you found amusing, but it was like living with someone under anesthesia. You were a walking zombie.

“John, come with me,” Sherlock commanded of his friend.

“Sure, where are we going?” John asked, rising from his chair and preparing to leave.

“To catch a rapist,” Sherlock announced. You were back at work and had no idea the effort Sherlock had put into this case. Days of restless thought and investigation. John saw the process and knew how much Sherlock was obsessed with the new case, but Sherlock had refused to tell his friend what case it was. You hadn’t told your cousin about it either, and the poor man was subject to both your and Sherlock’s insanity without even knowing why.

“So that’s the big mystery case you’ve been working on?” John deduced. “A rape?”

“Yes.”

“So...why wouldn’t you tell me what you were doing?”

“I was busy.”

“Sherlock, we live together. All you had to do was open your mouth and say ‘I’m working on a rape case’.”

“I was busy.”

John rolled his eyes. He was used to this treatment, but that didn’t make it any less irritating.

The two men took a cab to the university campus and, more specifically, to the largest frat house on the campus. It was made of sandy brick and covered in forested ivy.

“Is this where the rapist lives? At the university?”

“Yes.”

They entered the dorm, led by Sherlock. He went straight to dorm 212, on the second floor and rapped on it fiercely.

“Thomas Granger!” he called through the door.

It swung open to reveal a muscular blonde man in a football jersey and sneakers.

“What do you want?” Thomas drawled, as if he was bored.

“I believe you raped a young woman four nights ago at party,” Sherlock said calmly. “She’s my friend and his cousin,” He nodded at John, who gawked at Sherlock. “If you get down on your knees and beg for mercy now, you may survive this encounter.”

“(Name) was raped?” John squawked.

“What are you talking about?” Thomas said, though he was clearly lying. A smug smile even dared to pass his lips.

“This guy raped (Name)?” John asked Sherlock.

“Yes, John, do keep up.”

John smiled emptily and shook his head, before abruptly swinging his fist into Thomas’ face. Wordlessly, John and Sherlock beat Thomas Granger into a bloody pulp. They punched him, kicked him, and otherwise mutilated him until the man couldn’t physically bring himself to move.

John stopped at that point, but Sherlock wasn’t done. He grabbed Thomas by the collar and dragged his crumpled body to the window.

“Sherlock,” John warned.

He threw open the window and dangled Thomas by his legs outside it, gazing down at the beaten man with nothing but contempt. He felt nothing but hatred for this vile creature, and wanted nothing more than to avenge you by making him pay.

He thought of you. He thought of finding you with dry, red skin, cowering, weeping, in so much pain that you recoiled from your closest friends and family because of Thomas Granger. You deserved to have him die. You deserved to be clean.

“Sherlock, she wouldn’t want you to do this, this is going too far. I know you love her but--”

“What?”

Sherlock turned to face John, Thomas still swaying in the wind outside his dorm room.

“Please, Sherlock,” John scoffed, his earlier tension erased. “You’re so obvious, it’s a wonder she doesn’t see it, too. Mrs. Hudson and I have a bet going on which one of you will make the first move.”

“Who are you betting on?”

“You, but only because (Name) isn’t the type to approach you first. I think you make her nervous, if you can imagine it.”

“No,” Sherlock scoffed. “I would have known if (Name)...” He paused to run through your usual demeanor around him. A little skittish and clumsy, but overall normal. It was possible...

“Now do you get it?” John sighed, seeing the bewildered expression on his friends face. “Put the ass down--and I don't mean the way you do with a dog, Sherlock. We’ll a get a few pictures for the scrapbook and take our leave without serious charges.”

In a daze, Sherlock flung Thomas safely onto his floor, meriting only a pained moan from the disgusting man. True to his word, John got a few photographs of the wounded boy and on the way back called LeStrade, telling him that there was a rapist at the university.

When they got home, you were already there, fixing tea in the kitchen. You had a fake smile plastered to your face when you heard the men come in, but when you saw John and his look of sympathy and sorrow, you didn’t bother, allowing your features to drop to their natural state.

As you stirred your tea you said quietly to Sherlock, “You told him, didn’t you?”

“I needed his help with something,” he replied simply, thinking about what John had said about you two being obvious. It didn’t seem obvious to him.

“(Name), you should have told me from the start, I could’ve helped!” John insisted gently, moving toward you. When he reached out to touch you, you flinched away. You hadn’t let anyone touch you since that day, and now John knew why. The realization depressed him greatly.

You kept your eyes on the tea, stirring it much more than was necessary.

Sherlock cleared his throat softly and said, “I found the man that raped you.”

You stiffened at the proclamation, but Sherlock continued.

“His name was Thomas Granger, and he was a student at the university. He attended the party you and your friend did and slipped rohypnol into your drink, placing you in a vulnerable state in which he could easily--”

You slammed the spoon you’d been stirring with down on the counter, cutting him off mid-explanation.

“I don’t want to know, Sherlock,” you growled. You leaned heavily on the counter and hung your head, hiding your face, but Sherlock could tell that you were crying silently. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

“You mean you don’t remember what happened?” John said, warranting an eye roll from Sherlock.

“You really are slow today, aren’t you John?” he snapped.

Abruptly, you left, rushing to your room, abandoning your tea on the counter. The two men stared at each other for a minute, before John muttered something about going out, and left the flat. Sherlock was left alone in the kitchen, staring at your rapidly cooling tea.

He had anticipated your discomfort, but he also expected a little gratitude. Relief at least, but you were the same. You weren’t back to normal as you should have been.

He followed you to your room, listening outside the door for any telltale noise, but he heard nothing. Suddenly he feared the worst. What if bringing up the rape had sent you over the edge and you were in there right now, hanging from a noose, your lovely neck craned in a way that was undeniably wrong.

“(Name)!” he cried, bursting into the room fiercely, panicking. He let out a reprieved sigh upon seeing your incredulous expression perched atop your very much in-tact neck.

“Um, sorry,” he said, feeling quite embarrassed at his display. To his horror, he even felt a light blush rising to his cheeks, but he quickly fought it down. “I was afraid you'd done something stupid.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” you said, still looking at him as if he were a time-traveler. The Great Sherlock Holmes did not panic, he hardly showed visible emotions at all.

After an awkward break, Sherlock said, “Me and John got pictures of Thomas Granger after we beat him.”

“You beat him?” you questioned.

“Yes.”

“Bad?”

“Yes.”

“How bad?”

“John had to stop me from tossing him out a window.”

You smiled and nodded. Sherlock almost burst out laughing, he was so glad to see your smile again, your real smile, not the fake one you paraded around in to fool people. The one you wore when you honestly had something to smile about.

“Do you want to see the pictures?” he asked you. You shook your head, the smile slowly fading off your lips.

“May I sit down?” he asked. You nodded and he did. The smile was gone off your lips completely now, but he could still see the amused glitter in your eye.

Ah, your lips. He often thought about them. Sometimes in abstract form, just floating around in a dense sea of nothingness, sometimes a dream he had where you kissed cinematically in the rain for what seemed like hours.

Sherlock now knew that a kiss with you now was much more than it had been a week ago. There would always be the touch of a malicious stranger entangled with his own. He could never just be with you. Thomas Granger would have to be there too; he had left his mark on you.

He took a seat next to you, close enough where he could have touched you, but only if you allowed it.

“John and Mrs. Hudson have a bet going on about us,” he revealed to you, avoiding your gaze.

“About what?”

“Which one of us will make the first move on the other,” he laughed.

“Seriously?” you laughed back.

“Yes.”

“So,” you said cautiously. “Are you going to make the first move one me?”

Your words weren’t flirtatious, they were genuine. Almost nervous. That’s what Sherlock was afraid of: you being afraid of him. If he was going to do this, he had to do it right. You were not the type he could afford to be brash and rude with about this. You were too important.

“No, I’m not,” he told you firmly. At your cocked head and confused frown he elaborated. “You are going to approach me.”

“Why?”

“I’ve...never done anything like this,” he admitted. “And you’ve been through too much to rush in. Whenever you know you’re ready, I will be.”

Still not looking at you, Sherlock stood stiffly and left your room, leaving you smiling shyly on your bed, knowing that when the time came, he would be waiting for you. Knowing that when the time came, you could reclaim the touch that you so deserved with the man that you loved so dearly.