SOCIOPATH'S ROMANCE // Sherlock Holmes x Reader

A.N: This chapter is - You'll see...

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"D'you get the picture?", Greg asked, looking at the backseat pair from his rearview mirror. John stuck out his tongue as he took several choice photos before stowing it away with a victorious chuckle. 

In the leather backseat, Sherlock had his arms wrapped around Y/n who leaned completely into him, almost clinging in her sleep. They were protective arms, warning off all dangers of the woman cradled in his embrace against his faint, thumping chest. 

"Of course I did, mate."

Greg grinned happily, "That means Mycroft owes me." 

The car changed highways, to a small regional one, announcing their near arrival in the English town. 

John's eyes ogled and his entire face was hanging wide open. To say he was shell-shocked was gentle to say the least. 

John Watson was absolutely gobsmacked Mycroft Holmes could be in n his little brother's sentimental shenanigans. That did not sound like the prim and proper British government at all! 

"Mycroft's in on this too?" 

"Apparently it's some sort of 'monitering' for Sherlock." 

"Huh.", the blogger replied before pondering briefly and admitting,  "I don't buy it." 

Lestrade shrugged, "Who does? Come on let's wake these two logs."

He switched on the radio to the loudest possible volume and just based on the title, he knew it was going to be hilarious with a capital 'H'. He simply loved annoying Sherlock.  

"SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT! WHAT YOU REALLY REALLY WANT!" 

"BLOODY HELL!", Y/n and Sherlock bellowed in unison, jumping suddenly awake. Neither knew of what had happened for the past hour or so of the trip, and truthfully were none the wiser concerning their somewhat magnetic subconsciouses. "Where's the skull?", Sherlock breathed out, panicked. 

Greg changed the radio back to some boring debate concerning politics and the prime minister, like every single day on British radio. 

"You're in a car, Sherlock.", Y/n sighed, picking out from her purse a small hand-held mirror and checking her reflection in it. Her hair wasn't frayed in the slightest and solely touched up on her lip gloss, sliding smoothly and shinily across her lips. 

. 。・゜✭・.・✫゜・。.

"Welcome to York, folks!", Greg finally chirped, pulling into the city. 

Y/n had absolutely no words. It was absolutely gorgeous. They drove down cemented streets that ran through red bricked lanes, crossed a glittering river and passed by thousands of facades and buildings who looked softly ancient. York kind of seemed like a time capsule, keeping bits and bobs of the past just as prettily as before. Every brick, every sign exhuded history whose temptation simply nudged at a fascinated Y/n. 

York, even in the night with a few stars piercing through, conserved an ancient beauty. 

After ten minutes or so, Lestrade pulled into a parking lot with barely a few cars still being kept between the faded white lines.

"Alright we're staying a week here, for the murders okay?" He begun explaining, pulling out maps. "We'll be staying at the Euston Hotel." He circled on each one in red the location who apparently was only two streets down. "If we do this well, we'll have the weekend to sightsee and walk around."