A Dangerous Disadvantage
[NSFW Sherlock Holmes RP Account]
[Will RP with anyone of any fandom]
[Mun and Muse are of age]

M!A Status: None


The second he heard that bass, gorgeous voice over the phone Nick almost collapsed. No one could copy such a voice, it wasn’t possible. And yet his husband was dead. He’d made sure, seen it with his own eyes and felt the dead, cold skin beneath his hands. Such facts could not be changed, but that voice in his ear had altered his realty on more than one occasion, had transformed his entire life.

Nick’s grip on the phone tightened as he heard the undeniably true details of their history. He’d never told anyone about that moment, about his past with anorexia or how he’d finally admitted to loving Sherlock. The only people that knew about such scenes were Sherlock and himself. And since he obviously wasn’t the one telling himself the story…

"Oh god," he whispered softly, his voice choking off at the end.

Sherlock. His beautiful, perfect Sherlock. Alive and speaking to him. Vaguely Nick wondered if perhaps he’d been killed, maybe by one of Eric’s bodyguards, and he was currently in the afterlife. It would make sense, and at that point the Grimm wouldn’t have dared to complain about being dead. As long as Sherlock was with him.

Feeling the other man’s gaze on him, Nick slowly looked up. Eric had the barest of smiles on his lips, perhaps amused by the current events being performed in front of him. Swallowing thickly, Nick closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d almost killed this man. In cold blood. Taken the life of an innocent man who hadn’t done anything personal to harm him, at least not in that specific situation. He’d be a killer, a murderer. The monster all of the Wesen Community assumed him to be. A monster.

"I’ll…I’ll be right there," Nick murmured, before hanging up the phone, not being able to say much more. The Grimm and Eric looked at each other then, connecting gazes that had changed in only a matter of minutes. Slowly, Nick lowered the gun. His shoulders sagged, exhausted and no where mentally or emotionally stable any longer. Eric quirked up his lips into a smirk.

Life seemed to be on pause, an unspoken language being said between them. Nick couldn’t translate it, but he somehow knew what the other was saying to him. Gingerly, almost hesitantly, Nick moved away from the man and walked towards the door in the hall.

"Have a good day, Mister Burkhardt," Eric called right before he left the door. Nick didn’t dare stop at the words, just kept walking. As if life itself was being drained out of him.


Nick had never driven to Monroe’s so fast his life. He’d gone over every speed limit and ran a light or five, barely missing a few cars sometimes. It didn’t matter. He needed to see. See if Sherlock truly was alive and well and very much still his husband. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered if he’d made up the voice on the phone in his head, as a way to cope. Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past himself at this point.

Parking the car, the detective swiftly got out and ran to the front door. It was thankfully unlocked, otherwise Nick would have broken it down, not willing to wait. Slamming the door open, the Grimm ran into house but stopped cold as soon as he entered the living room.

Sherlock. Sitting on the couch. Bandages on wrists. Some blood still on his skin.




Nick didn’t hesitated. He went over to the couch, his movements now almost frozen. His hands were shaking, body no where near alright. The second he stood before Sherlock, he sank ungracefully to the ground on his knees. His head laid down on Sherlock’s lap, hands not even able to to reach up and touch his husband. It was too much. All too much.

"I thought I lost you…" he said brokenly, barely above a whispered.

And with that, Nick cried.

Monroe forced Sherlock to sit down when the phone went dead. Sherlock obeyed because he knew that Nick was on his way there. Monroe fussed over his injuries, wrapping them, and fretting about how bruised he was. He knew Monroe was just trying to keep himself busy. His hands shook when he bandaged Sherlock’s wrists, and put ice on the huge bruise blooming on the side of Sherlock’s face. He was as unsteady in the entire situation as Nick had seemed to be. And could Sherlock blame him? Both of them had thought Sherlock was dead. And now he was sitting down on Monroe’s sofa, saying nothing.

Sherlock was the only one who seemed indifferent. Not because he was indifferent. No. Because if he allowed himself, he would be as angry and upset as Monroe was. Sherlock never allowed his emotions to rule him, not in a situation like this. And when Nick got there, Sherlock would have to be stable, because he was sure that Nick wouldn’t be.

When Monroe finally went to the kitchen to make tea, Sherlock felt he could relax a little. He glanced at the clock religiously, wondering if Nick had believed Sherlock. Wondering if he had gone through with the execution anyway.

But then there was the sound of a car door closing, and Nick was there, standing before him, looking white. Dark circles lingered under his eyes, and he looked sick. Sicker than Sherlock had ever seen him.

Keeping himself still, and waiting, Sherlock watched as Nick lowered himself to his knees, and then pressed his face into Sherlock’s lap. Closing his eyes, Sherlock decided that seeing Nick cry was not something he was prepared to endure.

Monroe came to the door of the kitchen, but didn’t advance. He just watched, as if he was expecting one or both of them to simply implode. Sherlock looked ahead of him, keeping himself in check before he looked down at Nick’s dark head rested in his lap.

Slowly, Sherlock lowered himself to the floor, long legs easily sitting astride Nick’s bent legs. Sherlock’s arms wrapped around Nick’s chest, and wordlessly, he gathered Nick in close to him, protectively, angrily. Sherlock was holding Nick because he knew Nick needed it. Because he loved Nick. But his eyes were cool, deadly.

He would kill the man who had done this to Nick.

Sean Renard would pay.



"Mr. Sherlock Holmes."


"Aren’t you glad to see me again?"

Should I be?



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Monroe was obedient, but he seemed distracted by Sherlock’s injuries. Perhaps even a bit frightened by what he thought was a dead man. Sherlock had now been dead twice in his life, and had come back both times. The first time by his own design, this time not even remotely. He was getting annoyed at being manipulated by others. First Jim, and now Renard. Sherlock would kill him with his bare hands, whether it was right or not. Sherlock was injured, dizzy, bleeding, but he was determined to keep Nick from doing anything that he would seriously regret. If what Monroe had blurted in the last ten minutes was any indication, Nick was about to do something that he would regret forever.

So the Blutbad fumbled with his mobile phone, dialing as Sherlock wetted down a flannel and wiped away blood from his face and arms. His clothes were torn, he was bruised, and battered. He had thought that his wrist was broken, but enough trial and error had told him it was only sprained. It hurt like hell, but it was nothing to Sherlock, who hated pain, but had a remarkably high tolerance for it.

Behind him, he heard Monroe talking on the phone. Silence, then more talking. Then, suddenly, he was hissing Sherlock’s name, bringing the phone to him. Sherlock turned to look at him over his shoulder.

"Take it, Sherlock," Monroe hissed, and Sherlock took the Blackberry from the other man.

Swallowing, Sherlock put it to his ear. He didn’t even get a chance to speak before Nick was talking. His voice didn’t sound right. Sherlock had heard Nick angry before. This wasn’t it. This was fury, and anguish all wrapped up together. It was the most terrible sound Sherlock had ever heard, and he never wanted Nick to sound that way again.

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock turned away from Monroe. He was quiet for a long time, leaning on the counter to catch his breath. He was still panting a little from all the running he had done to get there as quickly as possible.

Glancing at Monroe, who must have sense Sherlock wanted space and moved away, Sherlock pressed the phone more fully to his ear.

"I was angry," his said, his voice as even as he could keep it. "Because you had relapsed into anorexia. I believe you thought I was going to leave you over it." Sherlock wet his lips. "You never meant to tell me, but you did. And you’re quite fortunate I felt the same way, because you were acting like an idiot."

Sherlock’s words held no venom, no judgment. Nick knew him. Knew his voice. Better than anyone. Had heard it in all of its varying emotional states. All its states of emotional, physical, and sexual duress. Nick could have picked his voice out of a hundred voices speaking all at once. Just as Sherlock could pick Nick’s eyes out a thousand pairs of blue ones exactly the same. They knew one another. Whatever happened, Nick would know Sherlock wasn’t an imposter.

"Nick," he said. "I’m here. Whatever you’re doing, whatever Renard has talked you into doing, don’t. Come here to me. The rest is superfluous.”

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