Height- Sherlock x Reader

You were a genuinely cheerful, and friendly person.  You were funny, outgoing, and polite.  However, all of this could change in a split second if someone commented on your height.  You were short compared to most of your friends, though your family told you that your height was average.  If it was so average, then why was everyone taller than you!?  Something that annoyed you greatly was tall people who acted high and mighty.  So basically, tall, egotistical bastards.  So imagine your dread when you met Sherlock.  He was nearly a whole foot taller than you!  It just wasn't fair.  Before meeting, you had heard that he was egotistical to begin with, so you figured you wouldn't like him because he was the two things you despised.  However, he had yet to comment on your height.

        Yet.  You were still on the look out, though.  You may be friends, but you knew you weren't safe from teasing.  Maybe he knew better, after seeing what happened to John.  He was so overjoyed that he was finally "noticeably taller than someone who wasn't a child".  Boy, was he in for it.  Not only did you glare at him for a week, but that week, things had gone wrong constantly.  There was never any jam, tea, or milk.  His favorite sweater; missing.  He seemed to never have enough money money in his pocket for the cab.  And, somehow, every time he took a shower, the water was ice cold.  Thus, you were on guard.  Not knowing if he'd learned his lesson through John, or if he was just waiting.

        At the moment, you were with Sherlock in 221B.  Suddenly, he plucked a cigarette from the top shelf of the book case and lit it.  "Sherloooocckkkk," you groaned, "You know that's not good for you!"  He rolls his eyes, releasing a puff of smoke.  "Your point?" he asks jadedly.  "It's not good for the people around you, either.  Not that you probably don't already know that..." you mumble the last part to yourself.  "You'll be fine!" he huffs.  You scoff in return, "What if I get cancer? Hmm? Then what?"  He rolls his eyes once again, "(Y/N), there's only a 20 to 30 percent chance that will happen."

        "So?  There's still a chance!" you counter.  He looks at you, his eyes saying that he really didn't care.  He muttered something under his breath before turning back to the window.  "William Sherlock Scott Holmes!  Care to repeat?" you call in your mom voice.  He sighs, turning back to you.  "I said what are you going to do about it?" he challenges.  Oh, so he wants to play on thin ice, does he?  You rise from your, well John's, chair slowly.  "I could do a lot about it actually, if you were really to go that far," you dangerously drawl.  You glare at him, ready to strike if he dare comment on your height.  Hell, even Mrs. Hudson had said something about, politely though, so you let it slide.  He smirks, "You can't even reach it.  You're only how tall, (Y/N)?  Oh right, 5'1".  That's not very tall.  I'm sure you get many comments on it."  As your glare grows stronger, his grin widens.  "Why you little-" and with that, you swept him off his feet.  Quite literally.  You legitimately swept his feet out from under him.  He falls to the ground with a thud, the air knocked out of him.  You chuckle, thinking of a tree as he fell.  You stalk towards him, squishing the cigarette under your shoe as you stare down at him.

        "If that hurt, trust me.  I can do a lot more," you threaten.  He looks up at you somewhat shocked.  You study him, but when he showed no signs of movement, you shrug.  Swiftly, you pull a chair to the bookshelf, and standing up on it in order to reach the cigarette box.  You hop down from the chair and over to the window.  "Look, Sherlock," you giggle evilly as you toss the box out the window.  You stand over him again, a large, closed eyed smile smack on your face.  "No. Fucking. Smoking," you say as sweetly as possible.  He doesn't say anything, but stares.  Suddenly, you find yourself filled with worry.  You didn't give him a concussion, did you?  Eyebrows furrowed, you kneel down next to him.  "Sherlock, dear, are you alright?" you ask worriedly.

        You bend over slightly more to check his breathing, which was fine.  As you do so, you feel the pulse in his neck, which was beating erratically.  You sit up once more, keeping you fingers on his pulse.  "Sherlock?" you call out.  Without a word, he gets up, a walks out the room, into his bedroom.  Alright, then?  You push yourself up into a standing position, dusting yourself off.  You stare at where he was in confusion.  What just happened?  Did you break Sherlock Holmes?  You hear the door creak open again, and turn just in time to see Sherlock heading straight towards you.  Without warning, his arms are around your waist as he dips you down, lips meeting yours.  What? Is? Happening?  Downstairs, the door opens.  "Sherlock?" John calls.  Slowly, you return to a standing position, him still leaning over you until he releases you.  He chuckles a bit, before turning around.  "Coming, John!"  He picks up his coat and wraps his scarf around his neck.

        "Laters, (Y/N).  Have a criminal to catch," he throws a wink your way before leaving the room.  You stand in the center, still in shock.  Your eyes wide, mouth agape.  You could still taste his lips, feel them even.  Where did that come from?  Did he like you?  Did you like him?  You guess so, seeing as you felt butterflies in your stomach as a grin etched across your face.  Maybe once he came back from the case, you might just have to return the favor?