orphicreveries

[orphicreveries]

Murder on The Thorne Estate (Sherlock Holmes x reader)

I’ve never posted before, so im sorry if this is bad, buutttt, if this does okays, I wanted to maybe continue this and evolve their relationship into a lil romance. (Also, ik I said it was “x reader” but there is no mention of y/n bc I kind of gave the reader a name)

Warnings: mention of blood, cannibalism, smut later? If continued?

In the heart of Victorian England, Isadora Thorne stood by the window of her grand yet cold home, watching the world pass by with a growing sense of dread. Married to Gregory Thorne, an older man of wealth and social standing, her life should have been the envy of many. Yet, beneath the gilded surface, there lay a dark and chilling secret, one she had only just uncovered.

It had been a quiet afternoon when Isadora stumbled upon the horror that would change everything. Gregory had left for his office, and while wandering the house, Isadora ventured into her husbands study, a rotten stench filling the room, she inched closer…

Closer…

And to her absolute horror, hidden beneath a loose floorboard were the ghastly remains of a mutilated body, half-consumed, gnawed at with ferocity. The realization struck her like a physical blow: she was living with a cannibal, and the very man she shared a bed with was a murderer.

Her heart raced, her mind struggled to make sense of the nightmare unfolding before her. Isadora had to act normal—Gregory would return soon, and if he suspected she knew his secret, her life could be next. She buried the terror deep within her, carrying on with their daily routine, but inside, she was unraveling, quickly, yet so torturously slowly.

As days passed, the tension between them became unbearable. Gregory was a perceptive man, and it wasn’t long before he grew suspicious of Isadora’s nervous glances and stiff responses. One evening, during a quiet dinner, his glowering eyes staring at her. Her nervous fidgeting seemed to be adding to his pleasure.

"You know, don’t you?" he whispered, a wicked grin on his face.

Isadora’s breath hitched. She nervously steps out of her seat and slowly backs away, whilst attempting to think of an answer. But before she could respond, Gregory lunged at her with murderous intent. In the ensuing struggle, Isadora managed to grab a fireplace poker. With a desperate swing, she struck him in his thigh, slicing through his femoral artery, sending him crashing into the nearby bookcase, blood spurting all over the carpets, as well as her nightgown and face. The impact and blood loss was fatal, Isadora stood frozen, horrified by what she had done—yet relieved it was over.

The next morning, Isadora awoke in a cold sweat, apprehensive of what might happen. When had she even pulled herself to bed? The bloodstained nightdress clung to her damp skin as she replayed the previous night’s events, what had she done? She sprung out of bed with the decision that she will not be locked up for this. The authorities would not believe her if she revealed Gregory’s cannibalistic tendencies, as far as they’re concerned, cannibalism is a myth. They’ll think she’s crazy and have her sent to an asylum.

Simple minded men.

She gets to work, devising a plan, she would have to play the part of a shaken wife who had awoken to the murder of her husband.

She begins with crime scene, she meticulously wipes the fingerprints from the fireplace poker, and carefully ruffles the house around, gathering dirt from the garden, making it appear tracked in, flipping chaises and dropping books around the shelf. Spreading his blood around the floor where his body lay. Next she takes the dress she adorned at supper and some of the houses belongings and burns them. She burns her dress because Gregory’s blood is all over it, she burns the belongings in order to stage a violent burglary.

She begins to practice her part, practicing her tone of voice, her story, her alibi, when to cry and when to choke off sentences with her sobs.

She was ready.

She dresses herself, ensuring her cheeks look tear streaked, her eyes slightly red, her whole character seemingly less put together than usual. She catches a carriage to the police station and tells her story. She’s sent home, the detective will show up and question her, she needs to be faultless in her performance.

She is pacing through her home, waiting for the authorities to show up, they do, 5 police men and…no detective? “He’ll be here shortly” one of the policemen assures her, Airheads, she thinks.

She’ll have to gain their trust, be on their side, she needs to sell her sweet, distressed recently widowed young lady act.

“Would you like some tea” she quietly sniffles to the police officers. “Oh no, you poor thing, been through so much already, you just relax and calm down for when Holmes comes to look through the scene, he’ll probably want to ask some questions”

Holmes? Why are they putting Sherlock Holmes on this case, she thought. Her thoughts were racing at a million per second, he’ll be sure to see right through me, he’s like a human lie detector, im completely screwed, she feels herself internally crumbling.

“N-no I insist, have some tea, please I need something to get my mind off of…the incident.” she nervously utters.

Just as she begins making the tea, Sherlock Holmes strides in, all serious face, cane in hand, and broad shoulders, he would be quite handsome, had his personality been less sour and entitled. “Let’s get started shall we” he says in his earnest baritone. He scans the room and begins prodding things with his cane “where’s the wife?“ he questions. “In the kitchen”, a police officer known as James answers. Sherlock walks with intent toward the kitchen where Isadora is nervously trying to get herself together.

“Sherlock Holmes” he holds his not even surprisingly large hand out to her, “Isadora, Thorne- Blackwood is my maiden name because, well he’s dead now I suppose”

oh good god I’ve already fucked it up, that did in no way sound like I was mourning my dead husband, what the hell Isadora?

Sherlock eyes her suspiciously. Which is when she realises his hand is still there in mid air, she awkwardly takes his hand. “Nice to meet you Mr Holmes”

“I’ve got some questions for you” Sherlock says.

“So I’ve heard” Isadora deadpans, “well I’m sort of occupied in this moment” she says, gesturing to the tea she was making.

“Well I’ve things I must attend to, so I’m almost certain you’ll be able to brew your tea on a different occasion.”

The nerve of this man, who does he think he is, walking into my house all high and mighty, telling me what I should do and when to do it, thought Isadora.

Isadora sighs deeply and gives Sherlock a strained smile, “How about we come to a concurrence, Mr Holmes, I’ll answer your questions…after I brew my tea, you can investigate the house whilst I do so, because frankly, I will not allow the tragedy of my husbands death to disrupt my morning activities” His putrid temperament is making it exceedingly difficult to stay in character, thought Isadora.

Sherlock looked almost sour, he loathed being told what to do, “very well, Ms Blackwood.”

He began poking through things, scanning over areas, calculating, it seemed.

Isadora on the other end stood over her stovetop, anxiously brewing her tea. When she glanced at him going upstairs into Mr Thornes study,

Oh Jesus Christ Lord above, there are blood soaked, gnawed at, butchered bodies under that man’s floorboards, and if Sherlock is as good as they say he is, he is absolutely going to find the defiled remnants of what was once a human being. Why didn’t I dispose of it? I should have, but I was too busy moulding the crime scene. Fuck.

Isadoras thoughts began to race, trying to think of what she might say to him, should he find the grotesque scene.

“Have you concluded your daily activities” Sherlocks bored voice cut through her turmoil,

when did he get back?

“well obviously not, I haven’t drank the tea yet, have I?”

“Drink it whilst I question you, it cannot wait”

“Fine.” she sighs

“Fine.” He counters, not really certain what he was countering

Isadora leads Sherlock to the drawing room, “I’d prefer it if we could continue this discussion in the study” isadora stiffens. “Why? these sorts of conversations are meant to be had in the drawing room.” “So you often have to answer questions about your husband’s murders?” Sherlock inquired with a small smile.

“Humorous” she lets out a dry laugh. “Let us proceed to Gregory’s study then”

The walk to the study was excruciating, Isadora was slowly unraveling, what would she say if he brought up the cannibalised bodies?

They sit in opposite chairs infront of the desk. Sherlock watches her intently, as though he were dissecting her every twitch. “Remarkably poised, aren’t you? Some would be quite undone after such an ordeal.”

Isadora holds his gaze “Not all of us choose to crumble in the face of misfortune. I’ve learned resilience is often a woman’s only armour.”

“Resilience, yes, in all situations I suppose” Sherlock nods slowly , not breaking eye contact “Though you must have heard something, a scuffle, a struggle, a scream of pain before inevitable death” he pokes half humorously, half serious.

Isadoras eyebrows raised in surprise “are you accusing me? Because as you’ve seen, our home is rather large, I was asleep. On the third floor, he was down there. On the first floor. Being speared by some deranged madman.” She holds eye contact, only breaking for a second at the mention of her husband being speared.

“But still, no footprints, broken windows or signs of forced entry” Sherlock pressed

“Maybe had you stopped and thought that the culprit may have followed him through the front door-“ isadora started “I had thought of that, but as previously stated, no footprints” Sherlock interrupted.

Wait, no footprints? Isadora couldve sworn she had crafted fake footprints…the policemen must have tracked over them.

“Criminals are evolving, Jack the Ripper is out there and you’re here, were you not apart of that case?, if you were really that brilliant, shouldn’t you have caught him by now, instead of being his pen pal and allowing him to write you love letters about the prostitutes he murdered that inevitably end up in the newspaper-“

“You’re deflecting”

“I am doing no such thing, I am merely questioning your expertise” Isadora countered.

“The truth always has a way of revealing itself, you’d do well to remember that” Sherlock says solemnly, his gaze narrowing slightly

I’d do well to remember- who does this man think he is? Thought Isadora.

“And I do hope you find it, Mr Holmes, for his sake” Isadora nods at him, feigning innocence, with a soft, sad smile.

“I shall see you Mr Holmes. Please, do not hesitate to write to me, should you need anything with regard to your case”

“Farewell, Ms Blackwood” Sherlock says whilst nodding at Isadora, before leaving

What an odd man, thought Isadora.

What a peculiar female, thought Sherlock, as he walked through the gates of the manor.

She would be quite attractive, had she not been a possible murder and cannibal suspect.