-The Sequel to A Study In Pink [Reader Insert] (SherlockxReader) -

    (Note: The Story is more of a Reader Insert than specifically a SherlockxReader. The relationship with the reader and Sherlock will be developed over multiple stories)

     You were talking with your aunt in 221C when you heard it. A rather obnoxious struggle coming from upstairs. Poor Mrs. Hudson was terribly frightened. "Oh! (Y/N), please, can you call the police!?" she yelped. 

     Of course, you didn't. 

     Instead, you made your way upstairs to find the source of the ruckus. To no one's surprise, Sherlock Holmes was the source. He was grappling with a man in a turban and traditional battle dress. 

     "Think you could help instead of just standing there!?" Sherlock cried out when he saw you. The man tackled him and pinned Sherlock down. He sent out a silver sword toward Holmes's face! You flew forward with impeccable speed and grabbed the tip of the sword, while also giving the attacker a push. You pulled the sword away from Sherlock's throat but cut your left hand in the process. 

     "Thanks!" Sherlock grunted. He launched the intruder off with a shove and they fell to the ground, punching and kicking each other- the sword out of reach two feet away.

     You casually inched around the fighting men and picked up the sword just as Sherlock had him pinned. You struck a dramatic pose and brought the sword to the attacker's face- right between his eyes- in one fluid motion. The man stopped his fighting, but no words were ever given the opportunity to be passed, because Sherlock punched him in the face right there and then. 

     It took a while for the two of you to stuff the unconscious body in Sherlock's closet, but you got the job done. "Care to tell me what that was about?" you asked once the job was done.

     "Nope."

     "Right then." You plopped down on the couch in front of the door and started to inspect the cut you'd gotten from the sword. It stung.

      You decided to distract your mind from the pain. "Er, Sherlock, next time you decide to have a row with some stranger, try to keep it down, will you? Aunt Hudson was terrified."

      "Apologies," Sherlock said shortly. He was sitting at his chair, a book in his face. But he looked up to see the cut on your hand and frowned. Sherlock set down the black book and stood up. "You need help with that?" he asked.

      You covered the cut with your other hand. "Nope. It's fine." 

     But Sherlock pressed on. He said, "You should wrap it up. I have some medical bandages here-" 

    "Yeah, I'll can just go downstairs and use my aunt's first aid kit; it's fine." 

    But Sherlock stopped you by placing his hand on your right arm which reached for the door handle. You felt a shiver race up your arm on the contact. "No, I've got some here," he insisted. 

    Your expression hardened and you pulled your arm from his grasp. "Sherlock. I'm fine. Just leave me alone."

     He froze, eyes meeting yours. Bluish gray this time, you noted. His confused gaze was searching your face. Sherlock didn't understand why you were being so touchy. And it didn't help that his ability to interpret human emotions was less than ideal.

    That was sort of your problem, too. Your inability to interpret emotions, yes. Most importantly, your own. The way you felt when Sherlock took your arm... it frustrate you to no end that your body betrayed your mindset.

     Finally, he slowly drew his hand away, and you opened the door with your good hand.

    But standing right before the door, hand reached out like he'd been about to open it, was Doctor John Hamish Watson. Your best friend. If he was really your friend. He was certainly the closest thing you had out of your few close acquaintances, which included Mycroft- Sherlock's much more mature brother- and Molly Hooper.

     He entered the room looking hassled. "I just had a row in the shop!" he announced, completely ignoring the tense atmosphere in the room. "With the chip and pin machine!"

     You sighed. "You had a row... with the pin machine?"

      John plopped down on his chair. "Well, sort of. I stood there and shouted abuse at it. Has anyone got cash?"

     Sherlock nodded toward his wallet on the kitchen table. "Take my card."

     You watched as John gratefully took the wallet. "So," he said, "Has anyone else been doing anything productive- anything at all? Or have you two been gossiping all morning?"

      That really ruffled your trench coat. You made a sour face at John. "Actually, Sherlock and I just-"

     "JUST gossiped, exactly as you said!" Sherlock interrupted, standing up in a rush and looking at you meaningfully. You got the message. Not a word.

     John gave Sherlock a weird look, but didn't ask further questions about that. He did, however, notice you covering your hand. Watson frowned. "Did you get hurt, (Y/N)?" he asked. 

    "No. Well, yes, but no. It's fine."

      "Show me," he ordered, taking on a soldiery tone. Sherlock smirked. 

     Reluctantly, you revealed the gash in your palm. Your hand was smeared red with blood.

     "Oh, for- How'd you get that?" John asked, shaking his head and heading over to a cabinet in the kitchen. He pulled out a roll of white cloth or something.

     "Aunt Hudson dropped a glass and I cut myself cleaning it up," you lied. 

     "A bit of glass did that?" He asked in disbelief. You simply nodded as he started to wrap the cloth around your cut, not willing to argue with John. You knew him too well from your soldier days to attempt such a thing.

     Meanwhile Sherlock was opening and reading something on his laptop.

      He stood up suddenly just as John finished with the wound which had started to throb uncomfortably. Probably painfully as well, though if it did you didn't notice. "I need to go to the bank!" Sherlock announced.

     Yes, hello, author here. Feels weird calling myself an author. Fangirl here. No, that's stupid. Writer here.

       That works.

     Writer here. So I'll have the next chapter out soon. See ya!