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Sherlock x Reader - Arrogance and a Typewriter

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Sorry if it seems a bit rushed.  Also, John does have a limp in this.  Had to rewatch Sherlock to jog my memory, so I wrote John with a limp.  Oh well.
[F/n] - first name, [L/n] - last name
[H/l] - hair length, [H/c] - hair color, [E/c] - eye color, [F/c] - favorite color, [F/s] - favorite scent
      A new case had opened for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.  Some college students have been committing suicide, all of them seemed to take an interest in Psychology, but none of them seemed to be linked to each other.  Different colleges, different backgrounds, and none had friends that could link them with each other.  But Sherlock was sure to find the thin link that escaped others eyes in the shadows, as he usually did.
      Their current victim, Percy [L/n], was a twenty three year old college student.  Top of his class, straight A’s, and seemingly popular amongst classmates.  Especially the female kind.  But Sherlock paid no heed to that, for now.  For now, he thought it be best to talk to the mans older sister.  A woman by the name of [F/n] [L/n].  Apparently her and Percy had been very close, and was the last person Percy had contacted before his “suicide.”  And luck behold Sherlock, the person who just moved into the room above his and John’s just so happened to be [F/n].

      “Now, you two be nice to young [F/n],” Mrs. Hudson scolded them as she lead the way, “[F/n] is a… well, shy girl.  She doesn’t like being bothered, and is probably mortified that her best friend has committed suicide.”
      Shy?  No.  Antisocial, she wants to be alone.  Privacy is her new best friend, she’s not going to be happy with us butting into her life. Sherlock thought.  This is going to be quite interesting.
      “Mrs. Hudson, it was her brother who—” John attempted to speak.
      “I know, darling.  But those two were closer than two peas in a pod.” Mrs. Hudson informed him, knocking on the door.  There was silence.
      “Perhaps she is not home?” John suggested.
      “I doubt it.  Earlier I had heard typing.  She’s home, does not want to talk to us, but she is in fact here.” Sherlock concluded, knocking on the door himself.
      “Perhaps we should just leave her be.  Poor dear.” Mrs. Hudson sighed.
      “Miss. [L/n], I know you’re in there, I just need a word.” Sherlock’s voice rose in volume.
      “Sherlock, maybe Mrs. Hudson is right, give the girl some time to grieve.”
      “The time it takes for her to calm down, there could be three more murders.”
      Just then, the door flew open.  Sherlock studied the girl quickly.  Her [e/c] eyes were bloodshot, cheeks stained red from, no doubt, the tears that had been shed.  Her [h/l] [h/c] hair wasn’t very messy, but it had obviously not been combed.  She wasn’t married, yet she had a mark on her ring finger.  Her hand was twitching slightly, considering the typing he had heard, he concluded that she had been typing quite quickly, and was still trying to come down from that typing high.  She wore no makeup, and was wearing a(n) [f/c] button up shirt with black slacks and mitch matched socks.  Her knuckles were a furious red, probably from punching something, though he heard nothing in the walls earlier, probably had a punching bag.  She didn’t look sad, no, she looked annoyed.
      “What could you possibly want?” The woman didn’t snap, but a tone of irritation was clear.  Sherlock could visibly see how tired she was, no matter how hard she was trying to hide it.
      “Ah, you must be Miss. [L/n].”
      “Just [F/n], thanks.  No, I reiterate my last question, what do you want?”
      “We just wish to ask you a few questions about what happened to your brother.” John intervened, holding out his hand.  “I’m John Watson, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes.”
      “I’d say pleasure to meet you, but under these circumstances, you can understand why I’m not pleased in the least.  Well, you didn’t go away when I didn’t answer the first time, might as well come in.  I don’t apologize for the mess, considering you two arrived unexpectedly.  Have a nice day, Mrs. Hudson.”
      Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he entered the apartment.  Papers and books were littered everywhere, some papers torn to shreds, dishes remained unclean in the sink, a punching bag hung from the ceiling, the fireplace was burning (spite it being twenty degrees celsius outside) and Sherlock could see some papers turning into ash in said fireplace.  The window was open, and a typewriter was placed on a table near the window, a cd player laying next to the typewriter.
      “Not pleased with your writing, Miss. [L/n]?”
      “I told you to call me [F/n], Holmes.  And that’s none of your concern.”
      “Well, it seems to me that you have been comparing your works to others, and are frustrated that you have not been able to live up to your standards.”
      “Get to the point and leave.” [F/n] sighed, running a hand through her hair.
      “[F/n], do you have any idea why your brother would do this?” John asked gently.
      “Take a seat, John.” [F/n] said.  “Standing around can’t be good for that limp.”
      John looked a bit surprise, but gladly took a seat on the couch.
      “Holmes, you look antsy, go ahead and look around if you want.”
      “You’re avoiding the question, Miss—”
      “[F/n]!  For a so called genius, you sure don’t want to listen.” [F/n]’s annoyance was growing.
      “We just want to help, [F/n].” John insisted.
      [F/n] was silent, looking out the window.  After awhile, she let out a sigh.  “My brother wouldn’t kill himself.  Someone had to have made him do it.”
      Sherlock allowed John to keep up the conversation, as he was too busy looking around.  A broken picture frame lay across the room, underneath a pile of papers.  Carefully, he slid the papers aside, noticing the gleam of shattered glass.  It was a picture of [F/n] and her family.  In the picture was her, Percy, and their supposed parents.  Sherlock picked up the broken frame.  In the picture, Percy was smiling, but Sherlock could see worry in his eyes.
      He was hiding something. Sherlock hummed.
      “My parents and my brother didn’t get along.” [F/n] informed Sherlock, not even bothering to turn around.  Sherlock looked over his shoulder to her, surprised that she knew what he was even looking at.  “Well, more specifically, he and our stepfather.”
      “What was your brother hiding, [F/n]?”
      “How should I know?” [F/n] suddenly become defensive, spinning around to glare at Sherlock.  Sherlock merely stood up straight, brushing off his jacket.
      “You and your brother were best friends, you two told each other everything.  For example, you told your brother that your fiancé had been cheating on you.  Which is why you called off the engagement, and are no longer wearing the ring.”
      [F/n] rubbed said ring finger, still glaring at him.
      “Your brother seemed to be popular with the woman, yet the last person he had dated was in high school.  He and your stepfather didn’t get along.  In that picture, your stepfather wore a necklace with a cross on it, Christian or Catholic?”
      “Christian.” [F/n] crossed her arms.  “You seem to know everything, why do you even need to ask me questions if you already know the answers?”
      “Merely for confirmation.”
      “Well, let me answer the question that you haven’t asked yet.  Yes, my brother is gay.  And no, I don’t mean wasn’t, just because he’s dead doesn’t mean his angel is suddenly heterosexual.”
      “Perhaps your brother was hiding his depression from you?” John suggested.
      “NO!  That’s not possible!  My brother told me everything!” [F/n] spat angrily.
      “How are you certain about that?” Sherlock inquired.  “For all you know, he could have killed himself because he was sick of your stepfather hurting him.  He might have been hiding everything from you.”
      “That’s not fucking possible!  My brother doesn’t give a damn what that asshole thought of him!  He only ever cared what I thought!  He wouldn’t have killed himself, he wouldn’t have been so fucking selfish!” In a blur of rage, [F/n] punched the hanging bag, angry tears threatening to fall.
      “I agree with you, Miss. [L/n].  Your brother did not kill himself.  But I do believe you are hiding something us.” Sherlock’s tone was stern.  “You are doubting yourself, you are afraid that your brother didn’t trust you enough to tell you something.  But for now, you need to tell us everything you know.”
      “Well, I know that Eli Whitney made the cotton gin.  I know that my brother was too focused in his studies to date anyone.  I know that my writing is shit compared to others—”
      “Miss. [L/n], sarcasm will get you no where.  If you answer the questions, we will leave you to your writing sooner.”
      “Fine, I know for a fact that my brother was actually flirting with one of the other victims, Nikolai Kurski.  I know that our stepfather sent him to a redemption camp, or whatever they’re bloody called, to “beat the gay out of him,” but in fact countered it because that’s where he met said victim.  I figured that these victims were all sent to this camp, and the killer is probably a counselor, or actually someone who went there with them.  No leave, before you tip my temper over the edge, making me throw the typewriter at you.”
      “Unleashing your anger, although healthy, can’t be very helpful when around others.  You don’t have many friends, do you, Miss. [L/n]?”
      “Okay, Sherlock, let’s leave.  [F/n], I am deeply sorry for the intrusion, and you have my regards.” John intervened, sensing that [F/n] wasn’t too happy with Sherlock’s words.
      “It’s definitely better for Holmes’s physical health if you escort him far away from me, John.  Good day.” [F/n] hissed before sitting at the desk, putting in her headphones.  John rushed to get Sherlock out of the furious woman’s apartment.
      “Arrogant prick.” Sherlock heard [F/n] mutter, before John shut that door behind him.
      “What was that all about?” John snapped.  “You might have been observing, but was it really helpful to anger the one person who seems to know what’s going on?”
      “Of course it is.  Her anger will turn to herself once more, and she will inform you of some more information that she remembers, once her anger has cooled down a bit.”
      “How do you know she won’t inform you?”
      “If she does, it will probably be a message written on the typewriter.  While still inside the typewriter.  I get the vibe that she’s not a big fan of me.”
      “I wonder why.”

      [F/n]’s hunch had been correct.  All of the victims had been sent to the same camp.  Sherlock had been going through some papers of the camp, when he heard the familiar sounds of the typewriter.  He had grown used to the sound of the old machine at work.  Occasionally the sound would stop, only to begin once more.  Sherlock came to the conclusion that she was either stuck, or had gone to do something else.  [F/n] truly was a strange woman.  But Mrs. Hudson obviously liked her, because she had given him and John an earful the next day for upsetting Miss. [L/n].
      “That is abnormal.”  Sherlock muttered.  [F/n] had stopped typing longer than usual.  She followed a strict schedule,  and this was most unlike her schedule.  “Well, best stop by to see if she’s remembered anything.”
      Sherlock knew it wasn’t smart for him to visit the young lady, but John was currently out, and Mrs. Hudson most definitely wouldn’t talk to her for him.  And besides, Sherlock loved a challenge, and that’s thee exact description for the short tempered writer.
      “Miss. [L/n], are you quite alright?” Sherlock knocked on the door.  No answer.  “Miss. [L/n], I heard you typing not too long ago, so how about you drop these childish games and answer me?”
      “What do you bloody want?” [F/n] asked angrily as the door swung open.
      “Answers.” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.  She was pretty much wearing the same clothes as yesterday, only a different colored button up, and this one had no sleeves.  The mitch matched socks were also different colors.
      “Well I don’t bloody have them, no if you don’t mind.” [F/n] attempted to close the door, but Sherlock stopped it.
      “Miss. [L/n], I am aware that you loathe my very existence, but please, let’s be civil about this.  I just want to help.”
      “… I don’t loathe you.  I just detest your attitude.” [F/n] muttered.  “Fine, come in, ask what you please, but if I throw my typewriter at you, it’s your own damn fault.”
      “Is that your favorite threat, or can’t a writer think of anything a bit more creative?” Sherlock inquired as he stepped in.  He almost thought he had entered a different apartment.  The entire place was cleaned up, the fireplace not on, and all the windows open.
      “I’m not a writer, Holmes.”
      “You write, do you not?”
      “Well, I’m not an author.  My writing is too shite to be sent to a publisher.  Now, get to the questions so you can leave.”
      “Perhaps if you stop comparing yourself to others?”
      “How can I not?  J.K. Rowling, George R.R. Martin, J.R.R Tolkien, all of these brilliant authors, and here I am.  Pathetically attempting an impossible task!”
      “Being published is not impossible.  Stephenie Meyer got published.”
      “Well, it’s impossible for me.  My writing isn’t good enough.  I know you didn’t just come uninvited to ask about my writing, now get to the point.”
      “You are quite observant.”
      “No, I just have common sense.”
      “Indeed.” Sherlock mumbled, making himself comfortable on one of her chairs.  “Did you know anyone else from the camp your brother went to?”
      “I don’t even know the name.  My stepfather made it a point to make sure I didn’t know.”
      “He was afraid you’d pull your brother out.”
      “There was nothing wrong with him!  Love shouldn’t be a bloody crime!” [F/n] snapped.  “It should only be a crime if you kill the innocent for it.”
      “Miss. [L/n], think hard.  Your brother was found in his living room.  There was no sign of a struggle, and he died from an overdose of pills.  You write mystery murders, what do you think happened?”
      “How should I—”
      “Think of your characters.  What do you think happened?  Make a scenario.”
      “… The… the victim had to know the assailant.”
      “Enough to take drugs?”
      “No.  The victim was smart, never touched drugs in his life, and was happy with his life.”
      “So why did he take the pills?”
      “… The assailant must have slipped them in his drink when he wasn’t looking.”
      “But the empty bottle was in the victims hands.”
      “Which hand?”
      “Right.”
      “No, the victim was a lefty.  It was placed there.”
      “No other fingerprints, other than the victims?”
      “Gloves, obviously.  The killer went to the camp with Percy, he wasn’t a counselor, he was another camper.  One who was, quote on quote, cured of his homosexuality.  The other victims didn’t get to finish, because the camp was shut down.  The killer is angered, and disgusted, by this.  He wants to cure them.”
      Sherlock smirked.  “Now, tell me again how you aren’t attentive, and that you can’t think of a plot for the life of you.”
      “I never said that.”
      “Miss. [L/n], I’m Sherlock Holmes.  You don’t need to tell me anything, I already know.”
      “Oh?  If you already bloody know, then why are you here asking questions!?  You could be looking into other campers—”
      “I already have.  John is off locating the suspects.”
      “I reiterate my last point, why are you here?”
      Sherlock shrugged.  “You weren’t typing.  I was merely helping with your writers block.”

      “Sherlock, you’re sporting quite the bump.  What happened?” John asked, concern as obvious as day.  Sherlock merely smiled, placing an icepack onto the rather large bump on his forehead.
      “Ah, well, Miss. [L/n] threw a dictionary at my head.”
      “What!?”
      “I presume it was because the book was closer than her typewriter.”

      The case had been solved, and Sherlock was bored out of his mind.  He didn’t feel like playing the violin, and no new case interested him enough.  The familiar sound of typing was unheard, for [F/n] had gone off somewhere.  It didn’t suit him well that there was silence.  Not even the lovely cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson had made for him calmed him.  He couldn’t stop wondering why [F/n] was off schedule.  It was driving him mad, but Mrs. Hudson had made it a point to nag him not to bother the poor girl again.
      “Sherlock, did you know [F/n] published?” John asked as he walked in.
      “I figured she would send in.  Didn’t think it would be that soon, I’m pleasantly surprised.”
      “Sherlock Holmes, being surprised?”
      “That woman is the poster child of a challenge.”
      “Well, she thanks you for inspiration.” John set the book down, in front of Sherlock.  “You should read it.  I’ve only read the first three chapters, but I think you’ll enjoy one of the characters.”
      “Which one?”
      “The arrogant prick.  Lives next door to the main character, who hates him, but he keeps bothering her.  He’s slowly forcing his way into the antisocial main characters life, much to her distain.  Sound familiar?”

      “I hate to admit it, but I’ve become used to your intrusions.” [F/n]’s voice came from behind Sherlock, who was waiting in front of her door.  He didn’t bother to knock, although he knew she had gone out, he wasn’t going to wait in his room for her.  She wouldn’t come to him, for she knew that he knew that she would never go to his apartment, because she knew that he would invade her personal space.  She was carrying quite a few grocery bags, and was struggling to get the key out of her pocket.
      “Would you like some help there, Miss. [L/n]?”
      “From you?  No way in Hell.” [F/n] muttered, managing to get the door open.  “Well, don’t just stand there like a vampyre.  Get your butt in here and get on with the questions.”
      Sherlock did just that, shutting the door behind him.  “I quite enjoyed your latest novel.”
      “You already read it?  What was your favorite part?”
      “The part where you thanked me for the inspiration.  I also favor your characters love interest.”
      “Which one?”
      “The ‘arrogant prick of a neighbor, who had eyes like a hawk, and a tendency of entering her room uninvited.’  I wonder whom you gave you the idea of that character?
      “Don’t know.  But I have a knack of making my characters like people I know.  The main character is obviously me, the serial killer is my ex fiancé, I can’t really remember who I based that love interest in.”
      “Perhaps it was John?”
      “Well, he is quite the looker, now isn’t he?  Might have been an even better love interest.  Damn, I should have thought of that.” [F/n] muttered.
      “Are you going to be writing your next book anytime soon?”
      “I was thinking of making it into a series, to be honest.  Sort of like Nancy Drew.”
      “Well, I’m going to have to hurry to catch up, now won’t I?”
      [F/n] let out a short laugh, smiling at him.  “You didn’t read the bloody thing, did you?”
      “Not yet, John informed me that you thanked me, and that was an arrogant neighbor forcing his way into this woman’s life.  I put the pieces together, as usual.”
      “That explains why you got the detail wrong.  He doesn’t force his way in, he’s quite polite actually.  But it pisses the main character off that he’s always right, and is always knocking at her door trying to get answers.  Nosey prick, to be honest.”
      Sherlock let out his own short laugh, settling down on the chair.  [F/n] merely sat on the couch.  He noticed quite a few things.  Her hair had been brushed, and the lighting was perfect enough to reflect off of it.  Like an angel.  Her eyes, once filled with unfiltered rage, were now lighthearted, gleaming.  The ring mark was gone from her finger, her knuckles no longer red.  She was’t tense and defensive, instead, she was relaxed and open.  Sherlock quite liked this new change.  He also could smell the faint scent of [f/s].  Whether it was her conditioner or perfume, Sherlock found himself not caring.  A small smile graced itself on his face.  It was quiet, but peaceful.  [F/n] truly did brighten a room when she was in a good mood.  Her attitude seemed to control the atmosphere of a room.
      “Oh, and next time you want to enter my apartment, just text me so I know that I’m going to have company.” [F/n] suddenly broke Sherlock’s train of thought.
      “I don’t have your number.”
      “You’re Sherlock Bloody Holmes, I’m sure you’ll figure it out somehow.”
      “Miss. [L/n], if you have the mindset that I think you’re getting at right now, then you are playing at a very dangerous game.”
      “What’s the fun of a game if there isn’t a bit of danger in it?  Besides, it’s high time I get over my ex fiancé, don’t you agree?”
      “Indeed.  If that’s the case, would you like to go out for dinner tonight, [F/n]?”
      “Thought you’d never ask.”
      “Good, because you still haven’t told me.”
      “Told you what?”
      “Everything.” Sherlock smiled.
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I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote this, but I'm happy I did.  I quite enjoyed it, actually.
Sherlock belongs to; Arthur Conan Doyle
This story belongs to me; :iconrandom-x-readers:Random-x-Readers
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shikafan1000's avatar
*sighs in content* This just... Makes me SO happy...