heart-shaped box ➵ sherlock x reader

chapter 1

Note: the gender of the reader is not specified and no reader pronouns are ever used; however, there are a few implied feminine characteristics (like references to being shorter than Sherlock, etc., etc.). I also did not re-read this after I produced it (I am embarrassed of what I've become and have choicely decided not to think very critically about my actions) so please forgive any strangeness.

Sherlock. The Holmes one.

How he had weaseled his way into the Figurative Art Convention was beyond you. He didn't seem to remember brushing elbows with you in Naples last year—but you remembered him.

Which, of course, was a shame, because it would certainly be to his advantage right now.

"You're Jess Lane's brother?" You reaffirmed, having met Jess Lane, the artist, and knowing him to be an only child.

"Yes. It's imperative that we speak. Urgent."

"Right." You pretended to glance at the clock across the hallway. "You can come with me."

"Oh, no, that's not necessary. You can just tell me, and I'll show myself there." He interrupted, sliding in front of you. Clearly, his quest went beyond simply talking to Jess, and whatever it was, you weren't going to hand it to him. "No need to bother yourself. I imagine you have other things to be doing."

"You're going to need administrative authorization. There's a key card." You lied.

"Ah." He gave a curt nod of feigned understanding. "Well, if you insist. Show the way the way..." You watched his eyes glance down at your staff name tag. "Professor l/n."

Silently, you started towards one of the storage rooms—the one you helped jam all the spare fold-up tables into before the convention started. No way in Hell is this bitch fucking up more of my shit.

"Pretty young for a professor." He quipped.

"Went for my masters right out of undergrad."

"And what brings you here?"

"Money." The pseudo-niceness as he mined you for information was getting on your nerves. "I mean, a lot of fine arts professors also have a studio practice. They're paying me to be a panelist, and to help with some of the setup."

"I see." You rounded a corner, with him trailing at your side.

You were waiting for something to tip him off—something that indicated that you weren't taking him even remotely where he wanted to go—but it never did.

"This is technically a storage room, but it's the quickest way to the hallway we want." You said, shuffling through your key ring as he looked on, antsy, impatient. A few moments passed, and the door was unlocked, opening up to a dark room littered with tables. You flicked the lights on. Looks just like I left it.

As soon as both of his feet passed through the doorway, you threw the door shut, knowing it would automatically lock from the outside. Custodial staff would have to get you out later, but for now, you had Sherlock Holmes exactly where you wanted him.

"You don't remember me?" You watched him go for the door handle—it didn't budge. His demeanor went cold as he flipped back around to face you.

"What the Hell is your problem?"

"What the Hell is my problem?" The audacity. "My problem? You're the one that fucked up my solo show in Italy. In Naples, at the Morpond gallery. You destroyed years' worth of my work when you lit the building on fire. Do you have any fucking idea how much time and money and grief you cost me?"

"Oh." There was a brief flash of recollection as he looked past you. "That rings a bell, actually."

"Yeah, oh, does it?"

"So, this is your great dastardly revenge scheme?" He gestured his arms around, irritated. "You're locking me in a storage closet?"

"Yes. It absolutely is. I'm not going to give you the chance to destroy this convention and fuck everything up."

He stepped closer to you. Only now, you became aware that he was much taller; he towered almost half a foot above your head.

"Give me the key."

"I don't have one." You resisted the compulsion to smile. You were totally getting off on how pissed he was.

"Don't be stupid."

"I don't." You shrugged. "We'll get out of here at eleven tonight, when they put the tables for the last panel away."

He scoffed, backing away and pacing a few steps. "No phone on you, I take it? No pager, walkie-talkie, carrier pigeon, anything?"

"Nope."

"Great." Silently, he looked you up and down. It was probably the first time he'd given your person any genuine contemplation. "Bloody great. Quite unprofessional behavior, for a professor, don't you think? Unbecoming?"

"Tenured. I can be as unprofessional as I want."

"Tenured professor of what?

"Painting."

He collapsed against the wall, arms crossed, sliding down into a sitting position. "Painting."

You could tell by the way it came out of his mouth—with that twinge of contempt—that he was one of those people. He had a marginal understanding of the arts and its place within society: to him, it was a useless pursuit. It was something that hinged on feeling and intuition rather than the cerebral.

Which, whatever. He was wrong, you were content with your life choices, and this Skyrim elf-looking motherfucker was successfully disallowed from doing harm for the remainder of the day.