SherlockxReader One Shots/Imagines/preferences REQUESTS CLOSED!!

SherlockxReader: Hatred

God! That man made you want to scream. Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut for once in his life? Then again, at least you knew about (S/N)'s relationship... Maybe Sherlock wasn't too bad, however poor his news delivery was.

Snap out of it! You need a place to stay so you didn't become a murderer of handsome consulting detectives tonight. Maybe James could help...

You called up your old friend James. Fortunately, he said that he had a spare room you could stay in for the night and asked no questions. You were lucky to have him.

When you'd appeared at the doorsteps of James' house, he led you to your bedroom and said he'd make dinner soon.

"You don't have to do that," you told him. "I'm pretty tired. I'll probably just go to bed. Thanks, though." Not a lie. You were exhausted.

"Suit yourself," James replied, before leaving you to do your own thing.

You smiled a little before changing and plopping on the bed. As soon as your head hit the pillow, you were fast asleep.

Sherlock missed you so much that night.

He knew he screwed up badly. He'd pressed all the right buttons to drive you crazy. Then again, it was better that you knew rather than to find out in a dramatic fashion later.

The entire night he thought you'd come back and he'd be able to apologize for once. But you never did. And that made him worry.

He would pace and mutter and tug on his perfect curly locks. At one point he even considered looking for the drug stash, but he knew that you wouldn't like that.

Then again, you didn't like him at all. For good reason, too. He was an ass and every time he talked to her he just...couldn't help it. He needed some way to push away the *shudder* sentimental feelings he was getting whenever he would see your beautiful smile or when your eyes would light up whenever your favorite show was on or--

And there go the feelings again, dammit. The fluttering and giddiness that filled him up. It could almost make him sick.

The door opened and he nearly touched the ceiling with his head. He looked over with wide eyes to see none other than...

John. How disappointing.

Sherlock slumped back into his chair of sorrow and John rolled his eyes. "(Y/N)it's at a friend's house so you can stop worrying."

"Who said I was worrying?" The curly haired detective then proceeded to chew off a bit of nail from his thumb that he had missed before.

"Please, Sherlock, it's written all over your face! Just...tell her you like her already, dear God."

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead, he clasped his hands together in prayer position and ignored all of space, time, and reality (all we need now is power, soul, and mind, right?). He entered his Mind Palace...

You tromped up the stairs, soaking wet. Damn that puddle...and that bloody cab that couldn't watch the road. The flat was silent, thankfully, so you entered to see Sherlock sitting in prayer position on his chair. Seeing him made your blood boil, head spin, and stomach flutter.