heart-shaped box ➵ sherlock x reader

chapter 3

 It was four in the morning. Y/n was tied to a bridge in Japan, red ropes, arms-above-the-head style. It would be sorta hot if it wasn't in the midst of a life-threatening event.

"Hey, Sherlock?" You yelled to the other side of the bridge, where Sherlock was tied.

"Yes?"

"I have a class at 8."

"No worries. We'll be good and out of here long before then." He shouted back, worming around in his binds. Yeah. I'm gonna have to cancel for today.

For some reason, the yakuza was after him. After Sherlock. You'd inquired, but he didn't really explain it that well and you were instead exerting your mental energy trying to figure out how you could get a Sausage McMuffin as soon as possible.

A voice appeared over the bend of the bridge. Some random-ass yakuza lady. "Nice morning, isn't it, Sherlock?" She stepped closer, toying with a handgun. "You know what I hate about movie villains? About books, TV?" The woman arrived dead in the middle of the bridge and stopped, looking between the two of you. "They waste so much time monologuing, talking about and explaining their plans, when they could just be doing them."

She raised her gun and shot you in the leg.

Oh.

Fuck.

Oh my god.

You heard Sherlock yell something. The sounds around you started to warp as your body was consumed with the feeling in your leg.

"Bullet to the femoral vein." She continued. "Death will occur within minutes. Enjoy watching your little friend bleed out. I would love to stay and chat with you, Sherlock, but you arrived at a time painfully inconvenient for me. We'll meet again, later."

She stepped away, and your vision faded to black.

***

It was warm. Quiet.

You opened your eyes. There were tree branches above you, with light slipping between the cracks, falling beside you in puddles.

Despite the sunshine, there was no sun. Only an even, white sheet of overcast sky.

Slowly, you stood up. Leaves crunched. Your head and your leg had quieted to a dull throb.

I'm in the forest?

You noticed something buried in the ground—a wheel of barbed wire. No, two wheels. Two wheels. One was just a few feet behind its partner, laid static among the rotting leaves.

And a fig tree.

The barbed wire was wound around the trunk, around the branches, twisting, gouging into the bark. Above, dried flower petals took the place of leaves, and rose heads of fruit buds. A single fig hung off the anemic spindles.

"Take it."

You whipped around. There was a brown horse meeting your gaze—those big, smart horse eyes, heavy with eyelashes, and a white opal embedded in the center of the snout.

Woah. Just like Lil Uzi Vert.

"The fig." It reaffirmed. "Take it."

"I don't know," You returned your gaze to the fig. "I don't know where I am."

No response. The horse had vanished.

I guess...

It can't hurt, right?

You thought for another minute.

The world cut out.

***

Your eyes were closed, but you heard John's voice first. The memory of the forest, of the soft warmth and the gentle wind, was still imprinted on your senses.

"I'm telling you. Vitals, everything is stable."

"Don't be stupid." Sherlock. "Of course I know that. Blood transfusions have a one in 350,000 chance of..." He trailed off. Shit. He knows I'm awake.

"A one in what chance of what?" John urged.

"Never mind."

"Of what?"

"Nothing."

You opened your eyes to Sherlock throwing his coat on.

"Are you talking about the West Nile Virus?" John insisted, fixated on Sherlock as he fluffed up the collar on his coat. "The chance? Uh, Sherlock—oh, y/n. How are you feeling?" He paused for a moment, reconsidering his words, and made a gesture towards you. "Don't worry about West Nile Virus. He's just fear-mongering."

"What?" You said quietly, absorbing your surroundings. Hospital. Japanese signage. Evening.

"Okay, forget everything we said. How are you?"

"Wait, shit!" You shot up off the bed and made an attempt to get up. All the blood rushed from your head, temporarily stunning you as your vision greyed out. Oh, fuck. I can't move my leg. It hurts like a bitch. Ow. Fuck.

Sherlock and John both tried to grab you as you slid onto the floor, but neither were quick enough.

It was the first time Sherlock had put his hands on you. They were rough. You looked at him in slow motion, past the little sparks and stars, past the dull haze. Your eyes locked with his.

He'd only touched you for a few seconds—just enough to help you up, on your upper arm—before he released you. His hands had this underlying strength, somehow, from years of doing God-knows-what. Causing trouble, making enemies. Despite it, they held you with a kind of pleasantly surprising gentleness. You ran through a few silent prayers as the serotonin molecules fired off in your brain.

Fuck. I'm attracted to him.

"Oh, God. Are you okay?" John finished returning you to the hospital bed as your head reeled.

"What time is it?" You winced, your leg igniting into pain with attempted use. "I had a class today. I had two."

"It's 7 p.m." Sherlock said blankly. "I'm sure your students will have survived."

"I have class tomorrow. I'm in Japan."

"Astute observation." He stared you down, his face cold.

"Sherlock, stop." Thanks, John. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Uh...shot in the leg?"

"Right." John lowered himself into an adjacent seat while Sherlock loomed, brooding. "Lucky for you, I was already close when I heard the gunshot. I was able to get a tourniquet on pretty quickly. And, doubly lucky, it looks like you moved slightly before the bullet hit you. That, or the aim was off. Something happened. It just barely missed your femoral artery." He shrugged. "Lots of blood gone, of course—you needed a transfusion—but you should be able to make a decent recovery."