Sherlock x Reader: Time of the Month

“(Y/N), are you coming? Lestrade is expecting us at the crime scene,” you boyfriend spouted as he furiously put on his coat and scarf. You, on the other hand, were lying face down on the couch with a hot-water bottle held to your stomach. Your head felt like it was splitting in two and you wished you could just sleep for a week with no interruptions. You looked up at him wearily and waved him off.

“You go on without me, Sherlock. I’m going to take a rain check on this one,” you sighed, curling yourself into a ball. He looked over at you in concern and, forgetting about the case for the time being, sat down next to you on the couch. He placed a hand on your back and started rubbing small circles against your arm.

“Are you ill?” he asked, genuine concern and sincerity lacing his voice.

“Nothing I haven’t dealt with before,” you groaned, but sighed at the small relief he was bringing you. A look of realization crossed his face, though you didn’t see it, and he felt stupid that he hadn’t figured it out before that moment.

“I take it you’re on your monthly cycle?”

“Ding-ding-ding we have a winner,” you moan sarcastically. Your eyes widened at your own tone and you turned over to face him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” you sighed, hoping he wouldn’t react badly.

“I understand, well I don’t truly understand, but I understand the mechanics behind what you are experiencing. Your estrogen levels have dropped significantly and due to the release of prostaglandin your reproductive organs begin to spasm to-,” he babbled, but you quickly put your finger to his lips before he could go into further detail.

“Sherlock, I know how a period works. I’m a woman, I’ve been doing this for years,” you sighed, holding the hot-water bottle closer to your abdomen in attempt to relieve some of the discomfort. He gave you a soft look before standing up.

“Right then, I’m going to inform Graham that I won’t be joining him at the crime scene,” he said, quickly typing out a text.

“You mean Greg,” you said shaking your head; it was a simple name, how he forgot it so frequently amazed you. “And why aren’t you going? If it’s because of me forget it, I can take care of myself. I know you haven’t had a good case in a few days and you’re beginning to get antsy,” you said, pulling yourself into a sitting position and repeating the same circular motions on his back.

“Don’t try and convince me to go, I should care of you if I can; besides, he gave me a description of the scene and it didn’t catch my interest anyways,” he said, groaning in frustration at the letdown of an uneventful case that would do nothing for him. You held back a smile and flopped back down on the couch. “What can I do for you at the moment?”

“Could you get me some Advil and a glass of water, please? Oh and would you mind also reheating this?” you asked, handing him the cooling bottle. He hummed a yes and walked into the kitchen. You grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped yourself like a burrito and curled up. Sherlock came back in and held back a quiet laugh at your state. He didn’t like seeing you in any form of pain or discomfort, but he couldn’t help but smile at your cocooned form on the couch with your (h/c) hair sticking out.

“The Advil and water that you requested,” he said holding them out to you. You unfurled yourself from your makeshift wrap and gladly took the medicine and accepted the reheated water bottle. He sat down by your head and you scooted up to rest your head in his lap. He picked up a book that he had begun to read recently and began to stroke your hair which began to lull you to sleep. You were on the brink of unconsciousness when a horrid feeling began to fester in your stomach.

“Oh no,” you groaned quietly before shooting off Sherlock’s lap and bolting to the bathroom. You heard him walking in behind you as you heaved over the toilet, emptying the contents of your stomach. He held your hair away from your face and rubbed your back. Helping you stand when you were finished, he waited until you were done brushing your teeth to leave. You began to walk back to the living room when he stopped you.

“(Y/N), I would advise that you go to bed instead of back to the couch, I would think you would feel more comfortable there,” he said softly, taking you by the shoulders and leading you back to the bedroom. “I’ll be back in a moment, just going to grab something. You change into something comfortable,” he said, kissing your forehead before leaving the room. You shook your head; normally he was never this… compassionate? Was that the right word? You shrugged it off and happily accepted the ‘more human than normal’ Sherlock, and changed into a pair of sweats and a baggy t-shirt. You crawled into bed just as Sherlock came back in. He changed out of his suit and into his boxers and white undershirt before climbing into bed with you.

“I reheated the hot-water bottle for you, and since you threw up before your body would have begun to absorb any of the Advil I brought you another one. I also brought some crackers in case you wanted to eat something light,” he said, handing both items to you and setting the sleeve of crackers in the table. You smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” you hummed, pressing a second quick kiss to his cheek again. You downed the Advil, praying that it would stay in your stomach this time round. You sighed and pressed the bottle to your stomach and sighed in relief.

“Is it really that bad as women make it out to be?” he asked, not in a skeptical way, he was genuinely curious. You nodded your head.

“Sherlock, our bodies go through this for five days every month for around forty-five years. During that we have to deal with our uterus's essentially ripping themselves apart, dealing with what is essentially mild labor because of cramps, and don’t even get me started on the emotional toil it takes out on you. All that and more, and we’re expected to continue on functioning normally like nothing’s wrong,” you sighed. He looked downright horrified at your description. He knew all the technical aspects of what happened, but actually hearing the realistic, brutal version made him feel much more compassionate of your situation. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you close.

“Well, right now sleep would be the best thing to give yourself; you’re visibly worn out, and you’ll feel better once you wake up,” he said softly, kissing your temple. You nodded and closed your eyes, burying your head against his chest and letting out a tired sigh. He turned to switch off the light and slid down in the bed so the he was flat, allowing you to let you rest your head against his chest comfortably. You curled yourself into a ball, wrapping an arm around your midsection, and whimpered quietly at the movement.

“Are you alright?” he whispered.

“Yeah, just cramps,” you replied just as quietly. He kissed your forehead and started drawing swirls and shapes against your back. He began humming a tune which you quickly realized was one of his own compositions that he knew you loved. You could feel yourself slip into unconsciousness, this time without interruption, and welcomed it. Sherlock noted our change in breathing and relaxed, but continued to draw patterns against your skin, finding it calming himself.

“Sleep well, darling,” he whispered in the dark, allowing his eyes to close as he held you close.