Observers- BBC Sherlock x Reader Chpt. 5

It was only a couple of hours before John looked up from his computer to find you dozed off, pencil in hand, the activities of the day finally catching up with you. He slid the sketchbook off your lap, glancing briefly at your work – an array of sketches of him, Mrs. Hudson, the head, and quite a few of Sherlock – before setting it and the pencil on the table beside you.


You stirred when he did, groggily mumbling, “Just let me sleep here,” as you pulled yourself into a ball around your hand and shifted to rest your head on the arm of the chair.

“You could take my room,” John offered, to which you grunted and rolled so your back was to him.

He gave a half-smile; ever since you were a kid, you had liked to sleep curled up in an armchair. You felt safe in the small space. He covered you with a blanket and went to bed himself, leaving you in his chair and Sherlock on the couch with his eyes closed.

Once John was gone, his eyes snapped open and he examined you carefully before standing to quietly pick up your sketchbook and settle into his chair. He opened it carefully, taking note of the date, location, and name scribbled in the front.


You had started this particular one fairly recently – about six months earlier in Paris. Logically, that meant that there were many more of these books filled with countless sketches. He began to flip through it.

There were pages upon pages of Parisian architecture and people you’d likely drawn while watching the crowds. Every few pages there were doodles – just swirls, little cartoons, or vines – which either took up the entire page or only an empty corner of something bigger. Then there were sketches of John, drawn, he assumed, from memory, as he looked much younger. Many of the pages, he noticed, had small notes in the corner – things you needed to remember or things you’d observed.

Sherlock came to a series of sketches, loose and unformed, though still distinctly him, just before he reached the sketches from the Wellington Arch. He looked over these carefully. You must have stopped to draw him after you’d left.

In the corner, there was a line of almost illegible notes that read, “Sherlock Holmes. Cheeky. Arrogant. Genius. Intriguing. Caring perhaps. Further study required.” He smirked at your crude observations before flipping to your most recent sketches and his eyes widened a little.

Despite having been drawn with your non-dominant hand, they didn’t lack in quality at all and a good portion of them were of him. Your written notes may have been simplistic, but the drawings you put down on paper relayed a much deeper understanding. Each time the lines were simple, varying in thickness and pressure, but every single one revealed details about him that he hadn’t believed others able to see.

Maybe it wasn’t that others could see it, he reasoned as he examined an image of him smirking, maybe it was just that you could see it. He also noted there were positions and expressions within the pages he was sure you’d never actually seen from him, yet they didn’t look forced or unnatural. He glanced up at your sleeping form with narrowed eyes and wondered, how did you do it?

It was obvious your brain couldn’t compare to his, but then, whose could? Besides Mycroft’s and that was something he’d never admit. You shifted slightly in your sleep to pull the blanket tighter around you and he decided that you were worth keeping around. At least until he figured you out more completely.

When John got up the next morning, he found Sherlock watching you from his chair and you still asleep, your breathing soft.

“That’s creepy you know.”

John’s voice rang out through the apartment at its normal level, you weren’t a morning person or a light sleeper, so he assumed it wouldn’t wake you. Turns out he was wrong, as Sherlock shot him a glare and you bolted up from the chair, tumbling to the floor before bouncing to your feet.

You kept your eyes scrunched shut as you cringed slightly and words tumbled out, “I’m so sorry! I must have overslept. I’ll make breakfast right away. Please don’t be angry.”

“Why would I be angry, Squeak?” John asked, tilting his head worriedly.

Your eyes shot open and you glanced around, remembering where you were, mumbling, “Oh, right. London,” before turning to give your brother a sheepish grin. “Sorry, John. I just got a little disoriented. Now that I’m up, breakfast sounds like a fantastic idea.”

You rushed past him to the kitchen to avoid any further questions, calling over your shoulder, “Are you eating, Sherlock, or is this a brain day?”

John had told you how he rarely ate.

“No case. I’ll eat.”

You were opening cupboards when you heard his answer and found them to be quite empty, shaking your head disapprovingly. You had expected it, to some extent, but still.

“I’ll have to go to the shop first,” you announced, going to the door and pulling on your jacket.

John finally had a chance to get a word in, offering, “You don’t have to make breakfast or go to the store, (F/n). I can do it.”

You just gave him a small smile, pulling open the door. “We both know that I’m a better cook and that you hate the chip and pin machines. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“You don’t even know where the store is,” John said as you dashed down the stairs.

“Down the street and to the left,” you called, ducking your head back around the corner to catch his quizzical look. You smirked as you left, explaining, “Cab rides are useful in many more ways than getting from point a to b. Laterz!”

He just stood there looking at the empty space where you had been seconds ago, lost in his thoughts, before wondering aloud to himself, “What has gotten into her? She never gets up early. I used to have to steal her blankets for her to get up and get to school on time and even then she was never properly awake till noon.”

“People change, John,” Sherlock offered lamely, trying to stay true to his promise to you despite the new wave of observations he now had. It was proving quite difficult and he found himself wondering why he felt a need to keep his promise at all. He frowned and decided that it was because he wanted more time to figure you out, to study you, before John inevitably found out and things got complicated. It was for himself and not you that he did it. Yes. That was it.

John gaped at him before narrowing his eyes. “That’s all you have to say? Where’s the long list of observations and deductions?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes convincingly, sighing, “Not worth my time.”

John sighed, thinking, ‘Of course, he was just being an arrogant bastard, as usual,’ and went back to his morning routine as he continued to wonder about you.

Sherlock gave the slightest of smirks over having tricked John’s simple mind into believing him. He had his moments and he wasn’t totally oblivious like most of the populace, but he could so easily miss the reality of a situation.

In truth, Sherlock was just as intrigued with you as you were with him. It seemed the more he ascertained about you, the more questions he had. And he needed those questions answered.