The Storm- Sherlock x Reader Oneshot

You sighed happily you as gazed out of 221B’s window, watching the black, angry-looking storm clouds hang over the earth. “It’s going to storm tonight, I just know it. Don’t you reckon?” you say, your (e/c) eyes twinkling with anticipation.

No answer followed, so you turning around from your seat on the windowsill, raising an eyebrow to your boyfriend. “Sherlock? Don’t you think it’s going to storm tonight?”

He didn’t answer; he just continued to sit on his chair, hands in a praying position underneath his chin, the slightest of frowns touching his handsome features. You gave a light chuckle at him; he pulled the most adorable facial expression when he was gallivanting around in that brilliant mind of his, in fact, you had taken a picture of it once – against his will, of course – and had set as the background for all of your technological devices. He absolutely detested it when you referred to him as “adorable” or a “cutie-patootie” and got particularly flustered when you did. But flustered Sherlock was way more adorable than thinking Sherlock, so you made sure to do it as much as possible.

You padded over to where he was seated and flopped onto his lap, giving an amused hum when his lips pursed, a question that you would gleefully answer. You leant up to his face and pressed a kiss to his lips, tangling a hand in his curly locks as you did so. He cocked his head to the side and returned it, moving his hands from under his chin in favour to wrap around you waist. You pulled away before the kiss could grow deeper, leaning your forehead against his and smiling at him. “Well? What do you think?” you asked, moving so that your head was resting in the crook of his long neck.

“About what, (F/n)?” he murmured, his delightfully baritone voice rumbling through your body as he spoke.

“The clouds. It looks like it’s going to storm later on tonight.”

You felt him stiffened underneath you when you said this, him picking you up gently and plopping you on his seat so that he could wander over to the window. You watched him curiously as he peered out of the window, wondering why he was acting so strangely. “Nimbostratus clouds are hanging low and heavy in the sky, there is a distinct drop in the air pressure and the humidity is significantly higher than the normal levels. All of these factors lead to the assumption that a storm is imminent,” he deduced, his voice full of disdain.

“I love it when you talk science to me,” you hummed, walking over to him and intertwining your hand with his.

But pulled his hand out of your grip and walked over to the couch, slumping into it and pulling his knees up to his chest so that his head could rest upon them. Frowning, you followed him to the couch, sitting beside him and wrapping your arms around his shoulders with concern. “Sherlock? What’s up?”

“Nothing…  I just need to go to my Mind Palace…” he muttered, covering his face with his hands, letting out a shaky breath.

Something was most definitely wrong with him, but you knew that he would tell you when he was ready. Until then, it was better to let him deal in his own way. “Okay, sweetie,” you say, kissing the top of his head tenderly, leaving him to do whatever it was he was doing.

He remained in that exact position for hours only shifting to lie down in a tight ball when the rain started. It was a storm, as predicted, and the rain was so hard that it sounded like hail was pelting the pavement outside. It was only a matter of time before the lightning started, and as much as you wanted to stay up and watch it, you were simply exhausted and would be in an absolutely foul if you didn’t sleep for at least eight hours. You padded out of the bathroom in, dressed in your nightwear, and into the living room to where Sherlock was still curled up on the couch. His breathing was very erratic, his arms curled over his head protectively and forehead was licked with sweat, he would utter the odd word, perhaps in an attempt to calm himself down. You felt so sorry for him, but you knew in your heart that you wouldn’t be able to do anything; you couldn’t reach into his mind an erase whatever was troubling him.

Deciding to leave him be, you walked to the bedroom you both shared, leaving the door slightly ajar in case he decided to come to bed later on in the night. You nestled into the covers of the double bed, missing the familiar warmth that was usually at your side. It was impossible to comfortable without it, without the option snuggling up to your detective. You gave a frustrated sigh tossing the sheets of your body just as there was a flash of lightning followed by the rumbling of thunder. The door was thrown open immediately after, revealing Sherlock’s tense form. He darted into the room and into the bed, wrapping his shaking arms around you, burying his head in your neck. “Sherlock? Sherlock, what’s the matter?” you asked hurriedly, worry lacing your words.

There was another clap of lightning and thunder, causing him to whimper and snap his hands up to cover his ears. ‘Oh my God,’ you thought, connecting the dots. ‘He an astraphobic. Poor thing…’ You embraced his trembling form as tightly as you could, whispering sweet things in his ear. “Hush now, shhh, it’s alright, I’ve got you…”

But to no avail. His panic grew with each lightning strike; you even feel the rapid beating of his heart resonating from his heaving chest. The storm lasted for hours and only stopped after the third, maybe the forth, but by then you had lost all concept of time. The only thing that you could focus on was Sherlock, to relieve him of his pain. Thankfully, the storm had now receded into a light shower, nigh even detectible. It took a long time, but he eventually calmed down, pulling away from you so he could lie on his back, sighing with relief. “Are you alright?” you asked, sitting up and stroking his defined cheek lovingly.

“That would depend on your definition of the word,” he managed, his voice still holding elements of fear. “I suppose an explanation is in order?”

“Only if you feel comfortable.”

“Of course I’m comfortable with you, (F/n),” he says, giving you a weak smile. “When I was a child, my parents were often away from home, leaving Mycroft the one to care for me. He was good, for the most part, but would often wave his authority over me. One night in particular, I grew tired of his games and fought with him, and lost spectacularly. As punishment, he locked me outside of the house, proclaiming that a night outside would allow me to think about what I had done wrong. Unfortunately, a severe thunderstorm had been forecast for that night, with me right in the middle of it. I was trapped, searching blind in the storm for some form of shelter and got terribly lost doing so. Mycroft, to his credit, attempted to find, but the storm was far too ferocious. And to this day, the intense fear that I felt that night rears its ugly head whenever there is a storm. A wound on my mind that refuses to heal over. And my brother blames himself this injury and carries around an umbrella to not only remind him of the storm, but to symbolise the guilt that he carries daily because of what he did.”

He let out an unsteady sigh and lifted his gaze to you. “I have lived with this phobia for a long time and yet I still haven’t the faintest how to deal with it. Please do not think less of me because of this ridiculous mental tick.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” you say, pressing a light kiss to his lips. “Of course I don’t think less of you. Loving someone means that you will care for them despite all of their odd quirks, despite of all of their insecurities. I know how hard it is for you to open up like this, to express your weaknesses, so thank you for being honest with me. If we work together, I’m sure that we can tackle it, providing that is what you would want to do.”

He gazed up at you, his iridescent eyes full of affection. “I’d like that, (F/n). I’d like that very much.”